It's always the small people who change things. It's never the

Host: The city square was quiet now — an open scar of history paved over with cafés, glass towers, and the hum of new commerce. Yet the stones still remembered. Beneath them, echoes lingered — the footsteps of thousands, the chanting of freedom, the sound of walls cracking under human will.

It was autumn — cold, clean air, the kind that tastes of smoke and change. Jack and Jeeny sat on a bench facing a mural painted where the wall once stood — bright colors over gray concrete, graffiti reborn as art.

Host: The sky was pale, washed-out blue, but the past still burned vividly beneath it.

Jeeny: “Luc Besson once said, ‘It’s always the small people who change things. It’s never the politicians or the big guys. I mean, who pulled down the Berlin Wall? It was all the people in the streets. The specialists didn’t have a clue the day before.’”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “He’s right. Revolutions don’t start in offices — they start in kitchens, in bars, in whispers that grow teeth.”

Jeeny: “And courage doesn’t come from power. It comes from hunger — the kind that makes you say, enough.”

Jack: “The irony is, history never remembers the small people’s names. It just calls them ‘the crowd.’”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the beauty of it. Change doesn’t need fame. It just needs motion.”

Host: A breeze swept across the square, lifting a few fallen leaves and carrying them toward the mural — where someone had painted hands breaking chains. The air carried a faint metallic tang — the smell of iron and memory.

Jack: “You ever think about that night? November ’89. Thousands of people with nothing but songs and hope. No tanks, no guns. Just bodies — human walls collapsing stone ones.”

Jeeny: “And no one in power predicted it. That’s what Besson meant. The experts never see the quiet before the roar.”

Jack: “Because they don’t listen to the small voices — the ones that murmur before they shout.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every great change starts as a murmur. That’s the sound of people remembering they matter.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes tracing the lines of the mural. The paint glistened where sunlight struck it — red, gold, blue — the colors of defiance and rebirth.

Jack: “You know, it’s funny. Politicians claim credit for movements they never started. But when the people move, the ground shifts faster than any policy.”

Jeeny: “Because power is always reactive. It follows the current it used to resist.”

Jack: “Yeah. The Berlin Wall didn’t fall because someone signed a paper. It fell because millions stopped believing it was permanent.”

Jeeny: “Belief is the first hammer.”

Jack: (smiling) “Beautifully said.”

Host: The wind picked up, rustling through nearby flags. The air smelled faintly of smoke from a street vendor’s grill — the smell of ordinary life resuming, years after chaos.

Jeeny: “Besson’s point feels bigger than just Berlin. He’s talking about every moment in history when regular people refused to wait for permission.”

Jack: “Exactly. Rosa Parks didn’t wait. Gandhi didn’t wait. Those kids in Prague didn’t wait. Every wall, literal or invisible, has always been torn down from the bottom up.”

Jeeny: “Because the top never wants to dismantle the ladder it’s standing on.”

Jack: “And the bottom’s the only part that knows what the fall feels like.”

Host: A group of teenagers passed by, laughing, taking selfies in front of the mural — their joy unburdened by memory. The world moves on, but history watches quietly from beneath the laughter.

Jeeny: “You think the small people still have that power? Now? When everything’s digital and distracted?”

Jack: “Of course. It’s just moved online. Movements begin with hashtags now instead of handbills. But it’s the same human spark — the same refusal to stay quiet.”

Jeeny: “You really believe that?”

Jack: “Yeah. But the danger now is noise without purpose. Everyone’s shouting, but fewer are listening.”

Jeeny: “So maybe the next revolution won’t be loud. Maybe it’ll be silent — people refusing, resisting quietly, reshaping the system from within.”

Jack: “Silent revolutions. I like that. The kind that can’t be televised because they happen in how people choose to live.”

Jeeny: “Or choose not to obey.”

Host: A long silence followed, filled only by the whisper of the wind brushing across stone. Somewhere nearby, a street musician began playing a violin, slow and aching. The melody drifted through the air like remembrance.

Jack: “You know, the more I think about it, the more I realize how fragile power really is. It relies on belief — and the moment people stop believing, it evaporates.”

Jeeny: “Like a shadow when the sun rises.”

Jack: “Exactly. Fear is the darkness, and awareness is the dawn.”

Jeeny: “Then the small people are the sunrise.”

Host: He turned toward her — the corner of his mouth curved in that half-smile he wore when a truth struck deep.

Jack: “You’re poetic tonight.”

Jeeny: “No, just hopeful. Hope’s the one revolution that never ends.”

Host: The wind quieted. The violin fell silent. The last rays of sun struck the mural — and for a brief moment, it looked alive, the painted hands trembling in the light.

Jack: “You know, we talk about history like it’s made of dates and treaties. But really, it’s made of moments like this — small acts multiplied by millions.”

Jeeny: “The geometry of courage.”

Jack: “Yeah. Every great event — every fall of a wall, every shift of an empire — started with someone saying, ‘Why not?’”

Jeeny: “Or someone whispering, ‘Enough.’”

Host: They sat quietly then, watching the mural glow in the dying light. The square emptied, but the air felt full — full of unseen hands, unheard chants, unrecorded names.

Jeeny: “It’s funny. The specialists never have a clue until after it’s done. Then they call it inevitable.”

Jack: “History’s written by the surprised.”

Jeeny: “And remembered by the brave.”

Host: The first stars appeared — faint, patient, waiting their turn. The city lights blinked on, one by one. But the mural — bright and defiant — remained the only thing that didn’t fade with the night.

Host: And as they stood to leave, Luc Besson’s words reverberated across time and space — not as nostalgia, but as warning and hope:

Host: that change is never engineered by those in charge,
that power shifts when ordinary people stop asking for permission,
and that history belongs to those whose hands are dirty with courage.

Host: For every wall ever built — of concrete, fear, or silence —
falls not to strategy, but to the stubborn rhythm of human hearts,
rising together, untrained, uninvited, unstoppable.

Host: Because it was never the politicians.
Never the specialists.
It was always the people —
small, anonymous,
but infinite.