It's extraordinary that revolutions taking place around the world

Host: The night was humid, the air thick with the glow of neon lights dripping across the wet asphalt. A small café clung to the corner of a narrow street in Berlin, its windows fogged by conversation and steam. The hum of laptops, the click of keyboards, the occasional burst of laughter from young travelers filled the room like static. Outside, rain traced silver veins across the city, reflecting the pulse of a thousand screens.

Jack sat in the corner, his grey eyes fixed on the screen of his phone, scrolling through a flood of images — crowds, protests, flames, flags. Across from him, Jeeny leaned forward, her fingers wrapped around a cup of coffee, the steam curling like a ghost between them.

Jeeny: “It’s extraordinary, isn’t it? How messages can now ignite movements, how a tweet, a video, a post can shake entire governments. Robbie Robertson was right — revolutions are being sparked by communication on the Internet.”

Jack: (smirking slightly) “Extraordinary? Maybe. Or just dangerous. A keyboard has become the new weapon, and people don’t even know who’s pulling the trigger.”

Host: A train passed in the distance, its rumble echoing through the walls. The light above them flickered, casting shadows across Jack’s face, sharp and almost metallic. Jeeny’s eyes held fire, but her voice stayed soft, like a storm trying to whisper.

Jeeny: “But Jack, isn’t that the point? Voices that were once silenced now have a stage. The Arab Spring, for example — ordinary people found courage through connection. They saw that they weren’t alone.”

Jack: “And look how that ended, Jeeny. Egypt, Syria, Libya — chaos, civil wars, power vacuums. The Internet didn’t bring freedom, it brought illusion. People believed they could change the world with a hashtag, but when the streets filled with blood, their Wi-Fi couldn’t save them.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, tapping against the windowpane like fingers impatient to interrupt. A motorbike roared past, leaving a trail of water and light. Jeeny’s expression tightened, but her eyes softened — she was listening, deeply, as if each word was a note in a melody she couldn’t yet resolve.

Jeeny: “Jack… maybe freedom has always been messy. You think revolutions were ever clean? The French Revolution, the American Revolution — they were bloody, chaotic, imperfect. But they started with communication, too — just slower. Pamphlets, speeches, letters carried across oceans. Now it’s just faster, louder, more alive.”

Jack: “Or more shallow. Back then, people read to understand. Now they scroll to feel. The Internet has turned revolution into performance. Everyone wants to be seen, not to change.”

Host: The steam from Jeeny’s coffee had died, but the tension hadn’t. It hung, thick and visible, between them. Outside, a crowd of young activists walked past with posters, their voices carried faintly through the rain — a chant, a rhythm, a digital echo made flesh.

Jeeny: “Isn’t being seen the beginning, though? People stand up when they realize others are watching. A camera can protect, Jack — it documents, it witnesses. Without videos, would anyone have believed what happened to George Floyd? The Internet didn’t just ignite — it illuminated.”

Jack: “And then what? Millions of posts, hashtags, outrage — until the next trend comes along. The Internet has the attention span of a child. It can start a fire, but it can’t keep it burning.”

Host: Jack’s voice grew rough, his fingers tapping the table like a drumbeat. Jeeny’s gaze was steady, unflinching. The rain softened, but the sound of distant sirens floated through the night.

Jeeny: “But that’s where you’re wrong. The fire doesn’t stay in the screen, Jack. It moves into hearts. You can’t measure a movement by how long it trends. You measure it by the lives it touches. The Internet doesn’t end the fight — it starts it.”

Jack: “Starts it, maybe. But who controls it? You think the revolutions are organic? Algorithms decide what you see. Corporations, governments, bots — they all play the game. The same platforms that liberate you are the ones that track you.”

Host: The room fell into silence. A waitress passed by, her tray shaking slightly, her eyes glancing at the news playing on a small television near the counter — protests in another city, smoke in the streets, people waving their phones like torches. The world, it seemed, was on fire again.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the price of connection. Every revolution has its tyrants, Jack — even digital ones. But I’ll still choose a world that speaks, that shares, that tries. Because silence… silence was the weapon of the old world.”

Jack: (pauses, looking at her) “And you think this new one is any better?”

Jeeny: “Not yet. But it’s awake.”

Host: For a moment, the sound of the rain became a metronome, marking the pace of their breathing. Jack leaned back, his eyes drifting toward the window. A group of students were huddled under a streetlight, their faces glowing from the screens they held up like lanterns. Their laughter, their words, their energy — it was raw, hopeful, unpredictable.

Jack: “You see them? That’s what I’m afraid of. They think they’re changing the world, but they’re just feeding the machine.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. They’re becoming the spark. Every generation has its language — theirs is digital, but it’s still human. Every click, every share, every word they write has a heartbeat behind it. You can’t reduce that to an algorithm.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled slightly, not from fear, but from feeling — like a note struck too deeply on an old piano. Jack’s eyes softened, his defenses cracking like glass under heat.

Jack: “Maybe… maybe I’m just tired of noise. Everyone shouting, no one listening.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s our next revolution — to listen.”

Host: The rain finally stopped. The city exhaled, its lights glimmering on wet streets like a mirror of stars. Jack’s phone buzzed — another notification, another headline — but he didn’t look. Jeeny smiled, a quiet, tender curve that reached her eyes.

Jeeny: “You know, Robbie Robertson once said those words before the world fully understood what they meant. Maybe we still don’t. But we’re living the revolution now — not just watching it.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s what’s so extraordinary — that it’s ours, whether we like it or not.”

Host: The camera pulled back, through the window, into the soft, shimmering streets. The neon lights bled into the puddles, distorting, dancing, reforming — like signals sent through a storm. In every reflection, there was a face, a screen, a story waiting to ignite.

And somewhere, in the infinite hum of the Internet, a new voice began to speak — softly, but with fire.