No human race is superior; no religious faith is inferior. All

Host: The city square was quiet at dusk, the last of the day’s light spilling like gold dust over the worn cobblestones. The fountain in the center trickled softly — a sound too gentle for a place that had known so many rallies, so many shouts, so many divided crowds.

A flag hung limp on its pole. Around it stood the statues of old statesmen — proud, silent, stone-faced relics of conviction. But tonight, no slogans, no chanting, no noise — just silence and the faint hum of traffic beyond the square.

Jack stood at the edge of the fountain, his reflection fractured in the rippling water. Jeeny sat on the steps nearby, her coat pulled tight against the evening chill, a small candle burning beside her — the kind of gesture that meant remembrance more than warmth.

Jeeny: “Elie Wiesel once said, ‘No human race is superior; no religious faith is inferior. All collective judgments are wrong. Only racists make them.’”

Jack: (quietly) “Wiesel knew the price of forgetting that truth. He’d seen what happens when the world starts sorting souls.”

Jeeny: “Yes. He lived through the proof that hatred begins in theory — in collective judgment — and ends in ash.”

Host: The flame beside Jeeny flickered as a breeze passed through. It danced uncertainly, but didn’t die. The streetlights blinked on, one by one, their glow stretching across the square like fragile threads of mercy.

Jack: “You know what’s terrifying? Collective judgment feels safe. It makes complexity simpler. It tells you who to fear, who to trust, who to blame. It’s comforting — right up until it burns everything down.”

Jeeny: “That’s why it survives. It masquerades as clarity. It turns fear into community.”

Jack: “And conscience into compliance.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The sound of church bells rang faintly from across the river — not solemn, not celebratory, just existing, as they always had.

Jeeny: “Wiesel’s words are both a warning and a plea. He wasn’t just talking about racism. He was talking about the human addiction to categories — how we label what we don’t understand.”

Jack: “We’d rather name something than know it.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And when we name it wrongly, we condemn it — and feel righteous doing it.”

Host: A small group of people passed by the square — tourists, perhaps, or locals heading home. One paused, looked at the candle beside Jeeny, and smiled faintly — uncertainly — before walking on.

Jack: “It’s strange. We build entire identities out of the illusion of superiority. Race, religion, class, gender — as if humanity can be ranked like medals.”

Jeeny: “Because hierarchy gives power a story. And stories are easier to worship than truth.”

Jack: “And harder to change.”

Jeeny: “But not impossible.”

Host: The sky deepened, the last color draining from the horizon until the city glowed silver and blue. Jeeny’s voice softened — the kind of softness that carried more strength than shouting ever could.

Jeeny: “Wiesel once said the opposite of love isn’t hate — it’s indifference. That’s why collective judgment is so dangerous. It doesn’t just hate some — it teaches the rest not to care.”

Jack: “Indifference — the quiet approval of cruelty.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because the moment you say they instead of we, you’ve already begun the separation.”

Jack: “And separation always needs an enemy.”

Jeeny: “Yes. To define itself.”

Host: Jack knelt beside the fountain, dipping his fingers into the cold water, watching the ripples distort the reflection of his face.

Jack: “I used to think prejudice was about ignorance. But it’s not — it’s about fear. Fear that if you strip away difference, you’ll find sameness. And sameness demands empathy.”

Jeeny: “Empathy terrifies those who need to feel superior. It’s hard to dominate someone you recognize as yourself.”

Jack: “That’s why racism needs distance. It can’t survive intimacy.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It dies the moment you listen.”

Host: The candle’s flame steadied again, glowing brighter against the encroaching dark. The sound of water and wind filled the space where the city’s usual noise had paused — a rare, sacred quiet.

Jack: “It’s strange how Wiesel could still speak of faith after what he saw. Still speak of equality, after witnessing the worst of humanity.”

Jeeny: “That’s what makes him extraordinary. He refused to let hatred be the final author of meaning. He didn’t believe in superiority — but he did believe in survival with dignity.”

Jack: “And in memory as resistance.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Memory as the antidote to judgment.”

Host: The streetlight above flickered, humming softly. The city seemed to breathe around them — weary, hopeful, human.

Jeeny: “You know, I think the heart of his quote lies in one word: wrong. All collective judgments are wrong — not just cruel, not just unfair — wrong. He’s making it moral, not political.”

Jack: “Because prejudice isn’t an opinion. It’s a failure of imagination.”

Jeeny: “And of courage. It takes courage to see people as individuals. It’s easier to join a crowd than to stand alone with empathy.”

Host: Jack looked at the candle, at its fragile persistence against the night.

Jack: “So what’s the answer? You can’t legislate empathy. You can’t outlaw hate.”

Jeeny: “No. But you can choose to refuse generalization. You can meet every human as if they’re the only one. That’s how change begins — one conversation at a time.”

Jack: “You make it sound so simple.”

Jeeny: “It is. And impossibly difficult.”

Host: The wind picked up, colder now, but the candle still burned. Jeeny reached out and shielded it with her hand, her palm glowing amber.

Jeeny: “That’s what Wiesel did his whole life — he shielded the fragile flame of decency from the storm of collective hatred. Not to protect it from dying, but to remind us it’s still there.”

Jack: “A single light against an empire of darkness.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And sometimes, that’s enough.”

Host: The church bells rang again, distant but sure. The city lights flickered on, and the fountain’s water shimmered gold beneath them.

And in that calm, Elie Wiesel’s words hung in the air — not as a lesson, but as a warning:

That superiority is the lie that kills nations.
That faith and race are not ladders but mirrors.
That collective judgment is the coward’s comfort,
and racism is not thought — it’s the absence of thought.

That to be human is not to belong to a group,
but to defend the dignity of all groups,
even — especially — the ones that are not your own.

Host: The candle’s flame trembled, then steadied once more.
Jack and Jeeny sat in silence, listening to the soft sound of the city breathing around them.

And though the night grew darker, the small light between them — fragile, human, defiant —
seemed, for a moment,
enough to keep the world
awake.