My attitude to peace is rather based on the Burmese definition of

Host: The evening sky was thick with monsoon clouds, their edges glowing like embers against a dying sun. A faint drizzle tapped against the windowpane of a small teahouse on the outskirts of Yangon. The streets were muddy, children ran barefoot, their laughter breaking through the hum of a distant market. Inside, cigarette smoke hung like a veil, curling lazily above wooden tables worn smooth by years of conversation.

Jack sat near the window, his grey eyes reflecting the last orange light. He tapped his finger on the table, the rhythm slow, almost irritated. Across from him, Jeeny cradled a cup of tea, her fingers pale against the porcelain, her eyes dark, soft, but piercing.

Host: There was a silence between them — the kind that holds both tension and truth. Then, Jeeny spoke, her voice like rain on old wood.

Jeeny: “Aung San Suu Kyi once said, ‘Peace isn’t just the end of violence — it’s the removal of everything that destroys peace: inequality, discrimination, poverty.’ I think that’s what people forget, Jack. Peace isn’t silence, it’s justice breathing.”

Jack: “That’s poetic, Jeeny. But the world doesn’t run on poetry. You can’t ‘remove’ all those things — inequality, poverty, discrimination — they’re constants of human nature. You remove one, another grows. It’s like trying to stop the ocean with your hands.”

Host: Jack’s voice was low, his eyes narrowed with a kind of tired reason. He sipped his tea, its steam rising between them like a thin wall.

Jeeny: “That’s exactly the problem, Jack. You think of peace as an impossible equation, not a living act. Inequality isn’t a law of nature; it’s a creation of people — and people can unmake it. Think of South Africa — apartheid ended because enough people believed peace demanded more than quiet streets. It demanded justice.”

Jack: “And what did that ‘justice’ bring, Jeeny? A new government, yes — but still poverty, still violence, still corruption. You can change the flag, not the hunger. You talk about peace like it’s a spiritual cure, but peace without power is just a dream.”

Host: A bus rumbled past outside, its headlights slicing through the mist. The light briefly washed over their faces — one hard, one hopeful.

Jeeny: “So what then? You’d rather live in a world where war ends but hatred lives on? That’s not peace, Jack — that’s just pausing the gunfire.”

Jack: “No, Jeeny. It’s realism. The only kind of peace that lasts is the kind people can afford. Tell me — how do you tell a starving man about ‘peace’? He doesn’t want equality; he wants food. You can’t moralize hunger.”

Jeeny: “But hunger is moral, Jack. It’s the moral failure of every system that says ‘it’s too complicated to fix.’ You think it’s practical to accept suffering — I think it’s cowardly.”

Host: Her words hung in the air like a strike of thunder. Jack leaned back, his jaw tightening, his eyes hardening into steel.

Jack: “Cowardly? You call facing the truth cowardly? I’ve seen wars, Jeeny. I’ve seen what happens when people think ideals alone can feed the world. I was in Iraq — a so-called ‘peacekeeping’ mission. We built schools, gave aid, talked about equality. And then a bomb went off. Peace doesn’t survive reality.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you’re still here talking about it. Maybe because some part of you still believes in it.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the window, raindrops spattering across the glass like small impacts. Jeeny looked down, her voice quieter, but steadier now.

Jeeny: “Peace isn’t about perfection, Jack. It’s about the effort to remove what destroys us — even if we never fully succeed. Every act of kindness, every law that defends the voiceless, every meal given to the hungry — that’s a piece of peace. You think in absolutes. I think in continuums.”

Jack: “Continuums don’t stop wars.”

Jeeny: “No, but they stop hearts from hardening. And maybe that’s where it begins.”

Host: The tea between them had gone cold. The clock on the wall ticked, each second like a drip of memory. Outside, the rain had grown heavier, a steady drumming against the roof.

Jack sighed, rubbing his temple. His voice softened.

Jack: “You really think removing things like discrimination or poverty is part of peace?”

Jeeny: “I don’t think — I know. Because peace isn’t just what happens after conflict. It’s what prevents conflict from being born. If you build a house on rotten wood, it collapses. Same with peace built on injustice.”

Jack: “So peace is social work now?”

Jeeny: “Peace is everything that keeps a child from crying because of what the world took from them.”

Host: The room grew quiet again, except for the sound of rain and the faint sizzle from the kitchen. Jack watched Jeeny, her face lit by a single yellow bulb, her eyes alive with something like faith.

Jack: “You sound like my mother. She used to say peace is when no one goes to bed angry. I told her that’s impossible. People always go to bed angry.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe peace begins when you stop believing that.”

Host: The words landed like a soft blow, and Jack’s expression shifted — the rigidness of his face cracking, just enough to reveal the man beneath the armor.

Jack: “Do you ever get tired of believing, Jeeny? Doesn’t it wear you down?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Every day. But I’d rather be tired from hoping than from giving up.”

Host: The silence that followed was different now — no longer charged, but wounded and honest. The rain softened, becoming a murmur, as if the sky itself were listening.

Jack: “You know… when I was in that camp in Mosul, a little girl handed me a flower. Her village had just burned down. She smiled anyway. Maybe that was peace, huh?”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s what I mean. Peace doesn’t live in governments or treaties. It lives in that girl. In every act that refuses to answer hate with hate.”

Host: Jeeny reached across the table, her hand resting lightly over Jack’s. For a moment, his eyes met hers — and something unspoken passed between them, fragile but true.

Jack: “Maybe Aung San Suu Kyi was right. Maybe peace isn’t the end of violence. Maybe it’s what survives it.”

Jeeny: “It’s what we build in its ashes.”

Host: The rain stopped. The streetlight outside flickered, then stabilized, casting a warm glow through the window. The air felt cleaner, as though the world had exhaled.

Jack smiled, barely, his voice almost a whisper.

Jack: “You win this one, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “There are no winners in peace, Jack. Only people who keep trying.”

Host: Outside, a child’s laughter rose again in the distance, pure and unbroken. Inside, two cups sat empty, and for the first time that night, neither of them reached for more words. They simply listened — to the quiet, to the world, to the fragile peace between them.

Host: And in that small, rain-washed corner of Yangon, peace wasn’t an idea — it was the presence of understanding, fragile, fleeting, but real.