My presence is to instigate and incite the people for any change

Host: The wind howled through the empty streets of a forgotten district. Streetlights flickered like dying stars, casting broken shadows across the cracked pavement. A single neon sign buzzed over a small, dusty café, its letters half burned out: “Revolution Brew.” Inside, the air was thick with smoke, silence, and the scent of old coffee.

Jack sat near the window, his grey eyes cold, reflecting the city’s light like a mirror of steel. Jeeny sat across from him, her hands wrapped around a ceramic cup, steam curling like ghosts between them.

The radio played faintly — a voice speaking about movements, leaders, and change.

Host: And there, under the whisper of that voice, began a conversation that felt less like a talk, more like an awakening.

Jeeny: “Gaddafi once said, ‘My presence is to instigate and incite the people for any change they want, and for not having a change that they don't wish to do.’”

Jack: (leans back, a thin smile) “Yeah. Sounds like the kind of thing a man says when he wants to sound like a liberator while holding the chains himself.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s what a man says when he believes the people should be their own revolution.”

Jack: “Belief doesn’t make a dictator a democrat. He said he wanted to incite people — but he also controlled them. That’s not change; that’s manipulation wearing the mask of freedom.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes narrowed, the steam between them rising like a curtain. Outside, a motorbike screamed down the street, echoing like a shout in a desert.

Jeeny: “You’re always so quick to judge power as corruption, Jack. What if some people need to be provoked — to be woken up from apathy? Look around you.” (gestures at the window) “No one cares anymore. Everyone just scrolls and sighs. Who’s going to change anything if no one stirs them?”

Jack: “Provoking people is easy. Leading them without turning them into puppets — that’s the hard part. Remember the Arab Spring? People rose up for freedom, and what did they get? Civil wars, broken states, power vacuums. The fire of change burns fast, Jeeny, but it doesn’t always light the way.”

Jeeny: “But without that fire, nothing changes at all.”

Host: The light from a passing car cut across their faces, one half illuminated, one half in shadow — like two halves of a single truth.

Jack: “Tell me, do you think Gaddafi meant what he said? That he wanted people to decide their own fate?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not in practice. But in principle, yes. The idea — that a leader’s duty is to awaken, not to impose — that’s powerful.”

Jack: “An idea can be beautiful and dangerous at the same time. Hitler thought he was awakening Germany. Mao thought he was empowering peasants. Every tyrant starts by claiming he’s giving people what they want.”

Jeeny: “And every cynic starts by believing no one can be sincere.”

Host: The words landed like stones. The silence that followed had weight, as if the room itself had paused to listen.

Jeeny: “You talk about tyrants. But what about activists? Teachers? Artists? Don’t they ‘incite’ too? Aren’t they the spark that keeps the world from falling asleep?”

Jack: “Sure. But they don’t have armies behind them. They have paintbrushes and microphones. There’s a difference between an artist shaking souls and a general shaking nations.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But change — real change — needs both the voice and the action. You can’t paint your way out of poverty or tweet your way to justice.”

Jack: (leans forward) “And you can’t shoot your way to peace, Jeeny.”

Host: Their voices grew sharper. The rain began to fall, small at first, then steady, drumming against the window like a heartbeat.

Jeeny: “You always hide behind your logic, Jack. You analyze everything until nothing feels human anymore.”

Jack: “And you drown everything in emotion until reason can’t breathe.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Maybe. But the world dies when people stop feeling.”

Jack: “And it burns when they stop thinking.”

Host: The rain blurred the city, the lights melting into each other like dreams dissolving into night. For a moment, both of them just sat, their faces lit by the flicker of the neon sign.

Jeeny: “You know, when I was in college, there was this professor who told us about 1968 — the students in Paris, the protests, the art, the slogans. He said something I never forgot: ‘Revolution begins in the mind, not the streets.’ I think that’s what Gaddafi meant — even if he failed to live it.”

Jack: “He failed spectacularly. His ‘revolution’ became a family business. But fine — let’s say you’re right. Let’s say a leader’s job is to wake people up. How far can that go before it becomes control?”

Jeeny: “It becomes control the moment the people stop having a choice. But isn’t that the paradox of leadership? To lead, you must influence. And to influence, you must disturb.”

Jack: “So every disturbance is justified?”

Jeeny: “No. But every silence is dangerous.”

Host: The clock above the counter ticked, a slow, steady sound — like a metronome of their conflict.

Jack: “Do you ever think about what happens after the change? Everyone wants to tear down the old world, but no one knows how to build a new one. Libya, Egypt, Venezuela — they all wanted change. What they got was chaos.”

Jeeny: “Chaos is the soil of creation, Jack. You can’t plant order in stone. Something has to break for something else to grow.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But tell that to the kids who lost their homes, their families, their future. Chaos doesn’t just grow flowers, Jeeny. It grows graves.”

Jeeny: “And yet, from graves, we remember what was wrong.”

Host: The air thickened with tension — not of anger, but of understanding that refused to fully arrive.

Jeeny: “Maybe the quote isn’t about power at all. Maybe it’s about responsibility. A leader — or anyone with a voice — should ignite change only when people are ready, and protect them when they’re not.”

Jack: “You mean — to light fires when they need warmth, and stop them when they’d burn the house down.”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “Exactly.”

Host: Outside, the rain softened, turning into a mist that kissed the windows. The smoke in the café thinned, and the radio went quiet, leaving only the sound of their breathing.

Jack: “So maybe Gaddafi’s words were a confession. Maybe he knew what he was supposed to be, even if he couldn’t live up to it.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s what every human is — a contradiction between what we say and what we do.”

Jack: “Then perhaps the real revolution is honesty.”

Jeeny: “And courage.”

Jack: “To admit we don’t always know what change we want — or what it will cost.”

Jeeny: “But to try anyway.”

Host: The clock struck midnight. The neon light blinked once, then died, leaving only the faint glow of the street. Jack and Jeeny sat in that half-darkness, their faces calm now, their eyes reflecting something fragile — like hope rediscovered through disillusionment.

Outside, the rain finally stopped. The street shone, washed clean, waiting.

Host: And in that stillness, their words hung in the air — not as argument, but as understanding. For some changes, they realized, are not about power or revolt, but about the quiet courage to choose what must — and must not — change.

The city exhaled. The lights flickered back to life. And the night continued — not as an ending, but as a beginning.