Justice is never given; it is exacted and the struggle must be

Host: The evening air was thick with the smell of iron and rain. The factory stood in silhouette, its broken windows reflecting the last amber streaks of sunlight. A whistle sounded in the distance — long, mournful, like the echo of something forgotten yet still aching to be heard.

Inside the empty canteen, the fluorescent lights buzzed softly. Jack sat by the window, his hands stained with grease, his jacket hanging loosely off his shoulders. Across from him, Jeeny — in her worn coat, her hair damp from the drizzle — was scrolling through a news article on her phone. Her brows furrowed, her lips pressed together.

A quote flickered on her screen, glowing faintly in the dim light:

"Justice is never given; it is exacted... and the struggle must be continuous, for freedom is never a final fact..." — A. Philip Randolph.

Jeeny: (softly, but with quiet fire) “A. Philip Randolph said that justice is never given — it’s exacted. And that freedom is not final, but a process. Do you believe that, Jack?”

Jack: (leans back, lighting a cigarette, eyes reflecting the flame) “I believe people love big words when they’ve forgotten what they cost. ‘Struggle,’ ‘freedom,’ ‘justice’ — easy to say. Harder to live. You can’t exact justice without taking it from someone else.”

Jeeny: (leans forward, her tone tightening) “That’s the language of power, not progress. Justice doesn’t steal — it restores. It’s not about taking from someone, it’s about giving everyone their due. Randolph fought for that — unions, civil rights, dignity for working people.”

Host: The smoke curled through the light, drifting like a ghost between them. Outside, the wind rattled the metal shutters, and the city hummed with distant engines, the heartbeat of an exhausted civilization still grinding forward.

Jack: “You talk about struggle like it’s a religion. But you forget what it does to people. It breaks them. You think those men out there,” (he gestures toward the factory floor) “want another fight? They’ve been fighting their whole lives — for jobs, for food, for a little peace. They’re tired. And no speech about ‘evolving freedom’ is going to put dinner on their table.”

Jeeny: (her eyes flash) “You think justice comes without exhaustion? Without sacrifice? The people who walked in Randolph’s marches — they were tired too. Tired of waiting. Tired of breathing the air of someone else’s freedom. But they kept walking.”

Host: The rain began again — slow drops that traced long lines down the window, each one catching the orange light from the streetlamps outside. Jack tapped his ashtray, the embers glowing red, tiny stars burning out in silence.

Jack: “And what did it get them? Another law, another promise, another reform that looks good on paper but bleeds out in practice. Every generation fights the same damn war. You said it yourself — the struggle must be continuous. Maybe that’s the point: it never ends. Maybe freedom’s just a carrot they dangle so people keep marching.”

Jeeny: (quietly, almost whispering) “No, Jack. Freedom isn’t a carrot — it’s a horizon. You walk not because you’ll reach it, but because every step changes the ground you stand on.”

Jack: “That’s poetry, Jeeny. Not policy.”

Jeeny: “It’s both. Poetry moves the human soul; policy just tries to catch up. Without the dream, the law is dead. Without struggle, justice sleeps.”

Host: The silence between them grew dense, filled with the hum of the fridge, the drip of a leaky pipe, and the steady rain outside — a rhythm as old as the human heart’s longing for fairness.

Jack: (staring into the dark) “You know, when I was a kid, my mother used to march with the union. I remember her boots, the sound they made on the pavement. I thought she was walking for glory. But she was walking for rent money. And she still came home to empty cupboards. Justice didn’t fill them.”

Jeeny: (her voice softens) “Maybe not that night. But her footsteps joined millions of others. They made laws that stopped children from working in those same factories. They built weekends, living wages, safety standards. She didn’t see all of it, Jack — but she helped build it. That’s what Randolph meant. Freedom isn’t a final fact — it’s a process, one brick at a time.”

Host: A faint smile crossed Jack’s face, bitter and fragile, like ash still warm from an old fire. He rubbed his hands together, the grease leaving dark streaks that looked almost like war paint.

Jack: “So you’re saying we just keep fighting — forever?”

Jeeny: “I’m saying the fight is what keeps us free. Every time we demand fairness — for workers, for women, for people who’ve been silenced — we push humanity one inch higher. That’s what Randolph saw. Freedom isn’t static — it breathes, it expands, it stumbles forward.”

Jack: (snorts softly) “You make it sound noble. But sometimes it feels like we’re just bleeding on the same ground, generation after generation.”

Jeeny: (leans closer, eyes glinting) “Then maybe it’s sacred ground. Every struggle leaves something behind — courage, memory, hope. The world doesn’t move because of victories, Jack. It moves because of persistence.”

Host: A train horn wailed in the distance, its sound rolling across the valley like a lament. Jack’s eyes softened, and for a moment, he seemed to look past the window, past the rain, to something larger — something that still might be worth believing in.

Jack: “You ever wonder, Jeeny, what happens when the fight becomes who we are? What if we don’t know how to live without an enemy?”

Jeeny: (pauses) “Then we fight for peace. For art. For kindness. The struggle isn’t always against someone — sometimes it’s within us. The next level Randolph spoke of — higher human, social, political, even spiritual — it’s not about war. It’s about evolution.”

Jack: (nods slowly) “Evolution through exhaustion.”

Jeeny: “No. Evolution through endurance.”

Host: The lights flickered, and for a brief moment, the room dimmed, leaving only the faint glow of Jack’s cigarette and the reflection of Jeeny’s face in the window. She looked out — at the street, the factory, the workers leaving with heads bowed, their jackets soaked, their hands scarred but still moving.

Jeeny: (softly) “You see them? Every one of them is an argument for justice. Every tired step they take says, ‘we deserve better.’ That’s what Randolph meant — justice is never given. It’s taken, piece by piece, from the hands of complacency.”

Jack: (after a pause) “And when they stop walking?”

Jeeny: “Then the world stops moving.”

Host: The rain stopped suddenly. The air felt cleansed, the night strangely still. A streetlight flickered, illuminating the puddles outside — tiny mirrors reflecting the factory’s broken windows, turning them into shards of light.

Jack stood, slipping on his coat, his expression unreadable.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right, Jeeny. Maybe the fight never ends. Maybe that’s what makes it worth living for.”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “Not maybe, Jack. Definitely. Because justice isn’t a gift — it’s a demand. And freedom isn’t a destination — it’s a journey.”

Host: They stepped out into the cool night, the air filled with the smell of wet earth and machine oil. Above them, the factory lights flickered, then dimmed — one by one — until only the streetlamps remained, standing like quiet sentinels over the empty street.

As they walked away, their footsteps echoed — two rhythms blending into one — carrying the ancient cadence of struggle, of hope, of the endless human will to climb higher, even when the summit vanishes into the clouds.

And somewhere beyond the dark horizon, justice — raw, unfinished, alive — waited, not as a gift to be given, but as a truth to be earned, again and again.