My faith is in my colleagues. And when I meet other writers

Host: The afternoon sun hung low behind a veil of dust and wind. It was one of those autumn days that carried a quiet, weary beauty — where the air smelled faintly of ink, paper, and the subtle burn of city exhaust. Inside an old printing press building, the kind that had seen decades of headlines and hands, the machines were silent now — just skeletons of a time when words still had weight.

Jack stood near the rusting linotype, his fingers running along the cold metal, tracing its forgotten grooves. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, and his eyes — those grey, unyielding eyes — were locked in thought. Jeeny was there too, sitting on an overturned crate, a worn notebook in her lap, the faint smudge of graphite on her fingertips.

Host: The light slanted through the dusty windows, breaking into shards that cut across their faces — half in shadow, half in glow. Outside, the distant hum of traffic carried like a memory of movement, of life beyond these old walls.

Jeeny spoke first, her voice soft but resonant, echoing slightly in the hollow space.
Jeeny: “Barry Lopez once said, ‘My faith is in my colleagues. And when I meet other writers, journalists, who've been doing this for a long time, trying to make us aware of what it is that we're living in, I put my faith in those people.’”

Jack looked up from the machine, his brow furrowing slightly.
Jack: “Faith in people? Dangerous bet. Even the best ones sell out eventually. Every journalist, every writer, has a price — comfort, approval, or survival.”

Jeeny closed her notebook, her eyes steady.
Jeeny: “That’s cynical, Jack. Lopez wasn’t talking about blind faith. He was talking about the kind of faith that grows in shared struggle — in those who still care about truth, even when it costs them.”

Jack: “Truth is expensive, Jeeny. Look around you — newspapers dying, journalists laid off, voices silenced. Faith won’t stop the printing press from rusting.”

Host: The wind pushed against the cracked windows, scattering a few forgotten pages across the floor. The sound of them scraping lightly against the concrete was like a whisper — a ghostly echo of what used to be.

Jeeny: “Maybe the press is dying, but the people aren’t. There are still those who write because they must, not because they’re paid. Lopez believed in them — in the souls who keep telling the truth even when no one’s listening.”

Jack: “Truth without audience is vanity. What’s the point of screaming into the void?”

Jeeny smiled faintly.
Jeeny: “Because someone might still hear. Because silence is worse.”

Host: Jack turned toward her, his eyes sharp, reflective. There was something heavier beneath his skepticism — the kind of weight that comes from disappointment, not disbelief.

Jack: “You talk like you still believe journalism can save us. Tell me, when’s the last time you read a headline that didn’t lie to sell?”

Jeeny: “It’s not the headlines that matter. It’s the people behind them — the ones still risking their lives to tell the stories no one wants to hear. Think about Marie Colvin, or Jamal Khashoggi. They weren’t in it for money or fame. They believed that truth was sacred. That’s the faith Lopez meant.”

Host: The light shifted again — a passing cloud dimmed the room. For a moment, everything felt still, almost reverent, as if even the dust had paused to listen.

Jack: “And where did that faith get them? Dead. Silenced. You call that noble; I call it tragic.”

Jeeny: “It’s both. But isn’t that what makes it human? Faith isn’t about guarantees, Jack. It’s about choosing to believe in something even when you know it might break your heart.”

Host: Jack’s hands tightened on the metal edge of the machine. He exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that carried both exhaustion and memory.

Jack: “I used to work with people like that, you know. Idealists. Writers who thought words could change the world. One of them — Mark — was fired for exposing corruption in a company that owned half the city. He believed truth mattered. The paper folded a year later. His story died with it.”

Jeeny: “But you remember him.”

Jack looked at her, startled.
Jeeny: “That’s the thing about people like Mark. They plant seeds they’ll never see grow. Faith isn’t in the outcome — it’s in the effort. Lopez’s kind of faith isn’t naïve. It’s endurance.”

Host: The air thickened, heavy with the dust of the past and the quiet pulse of understanding.

Jack: “You always find a way to make belief sound poetic. But tell me, Jeeny, how do you keep faith in people when history keeps proving the opposite?”

Jeeny: “Because history also proves resilience. Think of the journalists who uncovered Watergate. Or those who exposed apartheid’s horrors when it was dangerous to speak. They weren’t gods — just flawed, frightened people who still chose courage. That’s what I believe in.”

Host: Jack moved toward the window, his silhouette outlined against the fading light. He stared out at the distant skyline, the sun sinking behind the towers, spilling a faint orange glow over the city’s edges.

Jack: “Maybe I’ve just seen too much hypocrisy to believe in heroes anymore.”

Jeeny: “They’re not heroes. They’re humans. That’s the point. Faith in perfection is foolish, but faith in persistence — that’s what keeps the world from collapsing.”

Host: A faint rumble of thunder rolled in the distance. The air smelled of coming rain — the kind that cleanses, but also erases.

Jack: “Persistence doesn’t always win. Sometimes, the system eats the good ones alive.”

Jeeny: “And yet they keep writing. That’s what Lopez was talking about — that quiet defiance. When the world forgets how to care, some still whisper the truth anyway.”

Host: The first raindrops began to fall, tapping against the window, rhythmic and soft. Jack turned back, watching as Jeeny opened her notebook again, scribbling something in hurried, looping script.

Jack: “What are you writing?”

Jeeny: “Just a thought.”

Jack: “Let me guess — something about faith and persistence?”

Jeeny smiled. “Something about you.”

Jack: “Me?”

Jeeny: “You pretend not to believe, Jack, but you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t. You’re standing in the ruins of a press — touching it, remembering it. That’s not cynicism. That’s longing.”

Host: Jack froze, caught in the truth of her words. His eyes flicked to the old machines, the faded photographs on the walls, the ghosts of stories that once mattered.

Jack: “Maybe I just miss when words still meant something.”

Jeeny: “They still do. You just have to look in the right places. Lopez didn’t say he had faith in institutions — he had faith in people. The ones still fighting to make meaning in a world that forgets.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, sheets of silver falling beyond the window. Inside, it felt as if time had slowed — two figures standing in the echo of something larger than themselves.

Jack: “You think faith like that can survive today? With algorithms deciding what truth even means?”

Jeeny: “It has to. Because if it doesn’t, we lose everything. The moment we stop believing in each other — even a little — the whole idea of humanity collapses.”

Host: The light flickered one last time, reflecting in their eyes — one tired and searching, the other burning with quiet conviction.

Jack stepped closer to the linotype, ran his hand over it once more, then turned to Jeeny.
Jack: “Maybe faith isn’t about expecting people not to fail. Maybe it’s about believing they’ll still try again after they do.”

Jeeny nodded, her eyes soft, glistening.
Jeeny: “Exactly. Faith isn’t perfection. It’s persistence.”

Host: The rain eased, leaving the faint sound of dripping water echoing through the empty hall. Outside, the sky began to clear, the faintest sunlight breaking through — fragile, tentative, but real.

Jack: “You know, maybe Lopez was right after all. Maybe the world isn’t saved by saints or systems — just by the ones who keep writing anyway.”

Jeeny: “And the ones who keep believing they matter.”

Host: They stood there in the golden quiet — the dust dancing like old paper in the air — two small figures in a fading world of ink and faith. And for a fleeting, honest moment, the ruin didn’t feel like an ending.

It felt like a beginning.