Let there be freedom for the Indians, wherever they may be in the

Host: The morning light broke over the highlands of Guatemala, spilling across the terraced hills like liquid gold. The mist still clung to the valleys, softening the outlines of the mountains and the cornfields. A distant drumbeat echoed from the village, carried on the wind, rhythmic and solemn — an old prayer for earth and freedom.

On a stone bench overlooking the fields, Jack sat, his notebook open, his pen idle. His grey eyes scanned the landscape — the patchwork of green and brown, the smoke rising from cooking fires, the children running barefoot through the dust. Across from him, Jeeny sat quietly, her hair braided, wearing a woven shawl of deep crimson and black. She was watching the horizon, her eyes bright but filled with a quiet ache.

Jack: “You know, I’ve been here three weeks, and I still can’t figure out what they’re fighting for. The war’s over, the soldiers are gone. But the people still live like it never ended.”

Jeeny: “Because it didn’t. Rigoberta Menchú said that as long as the Indian people are alive, there is a glow of hope — but it’s also a burden. Survival itself has become an act of resistance.”

Host: A gust of wind lifted the dust, swirling around their feet. Somewhere in the distance, a rooster crowed, followed by the bark of a dog, then the slow toll of a church bell. The village was waking, like a wounded body remembering its limbs.

Jack: “Hope is overrated. You can’t feed a child with it. You can’t build schools or roads with it. These people need infrastructure, not ideals.”

Jeeny: “And yet, it’s hope that made them build anything at all. You think a government gave them these fields? They reclaimed them. You think anyone taught them to read? They taught themselves. Their freedom isn’t in laws — it’s in their hands.”

Jack: “You’re romanticizing poverty, Jeeny. You call it freedom, I call it survival. They’re just trying to make it through another harvest.”

Jeeny: “No. They’re trying to make it through another erasure. Every language they speak, every story they tell, every seed they plant is a form of defiance. They’ve been told for five hundred years that their way of life is obsolete. But they’re still here.”

Host: The sun rose higher, burning away the mist, revealing the sharp lines of the mountain paths and the colorful shawls of women heading toward the fields. The air filled with the scent of corn tortillas and wood smoke.

Jack: “So what? They’ve been marginalized for centuries. What difference does one woman’s speech make? Or one quote on a wall?”

Jeeny: “Rigoberta Menchú’s words weren’t written for walls, Jack. They were a torch. For those who couldn’t speak, she spoke. And for those who had forgotten, she reminded them. When she said, ‘Let there be freedom for the Indians, wherever they may be,’ she wasn’t just talking about borders — she was talking about souls.”

Jack: “Souls don’t change politics.”

Jeeny: “No, but they outlast them.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, his hand gripping the pen. He looked toward a group of men working in the fields, their movements slow, deliberate, bodies bent under the weight of the day.

Jack: “You talk about freedom like it’s still possible. But what kind of freedom is this? They live under systems that barely recognize them. Half their children leave for the city or cross borders that don’t want them. What good is freedom if it’s invisible?”

Jeeny: “Freedom isn’t a gift, Jack. It’s a persistence. It’s not something you’re given; it’s something you live, every day, even when nobody sees it. You think Menchú didn’t know what invisibility felt like? Her family was burned alive. She wasn’t talking about comfort — she was talking about dignity.”

Host: A silence fell, long and heavy. The wind stirred the grass, and a hawk cut through the sky — its shadow sliding across the earth like a fleeting memory.

Jack: “I’m not denying what she fought for. I just think ideals without systems die fast. Freedom without food, justice without roads — they’re words. Pretty, but hollow.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the problem isn’t the words, but the way we measure their worth. You build a road and call it progress; they preserve a forest and call it life. You talk about productivity, they talk about balance. Which one sounds more human to you?”

Jack: “Balance doesn’t fill stomachs.”

Jeeny: “No. But it fills meaning. There’s more to life than consumption and output. Maybe the true concept of life, as Menchú said, is one where harmony matters as much as growth.”

Host: Jeeny leaned forward, her eyes glowing in the morning light, the reflection of the mountains trembling in her pupils. Jack looked away, exhaling, his skepticism softening into something closer to discomfort — or perhaps, recognition.

Jack: “You think the West can learn from that? From people who still live off the land, who barely have electricity?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because they remember what we’ve forgotten — that freedom isn’t about ownership, it’s about belonging. You can have ten cars, five screens, a corner office — and still be a slave to fear. But a woman planting maize in the hills knows what it means to live connected.”

Jack: “Connected to what?”

Jeeny: “To earth, to time, to ancestors, to the breath of things. When Menchú speaks of the Indians’ freedom as the world’s hope, she means that if they vanish, we lose that connection. We lose the last mirror of what being human truly means.”

Host: The drums had grown louder now — a ritual sound, deep and slow, echoing through the valley. The villagers had gathered near the church square, their voices rising in a song that had no language, only rhythm — ancient, defiant, alive.

Jack: “You’re saying their survival is symbolic. That they stand for something bigger.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Not symbolic. Essential. The way a tree is essential to the air. The way memory is essential to identity. When Menchú says their freedom keeps a glow of hope alive, she means that as long as they live, we still have a chance to remember what life is for.”

Jack: “And what if they lose that fight? What if modernization swallows everything? Their languages, their lands, their way of life?”

Jeeny: “Then the world goes blind. We’ll have glass towers and digital skies — but no roots. No soul. And the word freedom will just be noise.”

Host: Jack closed his notebook, the paper fluttering in the breeze, as if rejecting closure. He looked out over the terraces, now glowing green under the sunlight. A woman below was harvesting corn, her hands quick, her posture straight, her face calm.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe freedom isn’t just about laws or systems. Maybe it’s about endurance. The courage to keep existing when the world forgets you.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly what she meant. As long as they’re here, hope breathes. And as long as hope breathes, life has meaning.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the smell of earth and smoke. A child’s laughter rang out, sharp and clear, like a bell cutting through fog. Jeeny smiled, and even Jack — the skeptic — couldn’t help but smile back, quietly, as if something ancient had just touched him.

Jeeny: “Let there be freedom for them, Jack. Not because they need our pity — but because we need their light.”

Jack: “And maybe, through them, we can find our own.”

Host: The camera pulled back, rising above the hills, revealing the patchwork of fields, the smoke curling, the people moving like a living mosaic — a world still fighting, still breathing, still alive.

And as the drums continued, steady and unbroken, it felt as if the earth itself was whispering — a voice old as time, repeating Menchú’s prayer:

“As long as they are alive, hope will be alive — and with it, the true concept of life.”

FADE OUT.