No woman has to be a victim of physical abuse. Women have to feel

Host: The room was small and dimly lit, a faint orange glow from a dying lamp spilling over the peeling wallpaper. Rain tapped gently against the windowpane, the kind of soft rhythm that feels both comforting and unforgiving. A single chair sat overturned in the corner; a cracked mirror leaned against the wall, reflecting two figures seated on an old sofa — Jack and Jeeny.

The air smelled of dust, cold, and something faintly metallic — like the echo of what had happened before they arrived.

Jack’s coat was wet, his hands clasped tightly, knuckles white. Jeeny’s eyes were red, not from tears, but from anger held too long beneath the surface.

Jeeny: “Salma Hayek once said, ‘No woman has to be a victim of physical abuse. Women have to feel like they are not alone.’”

Jack: “A beautiful sentiment. But hard to believe when the world still turns its back.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly the point, Jack. It’s not about the world changing first — it’s about women realizing they have each other. That they’re not alone in the dark.”

Host: The lamp flickered, casting a broken halo of light across Jeeny’s face. She looked small, but her voice carried a kind of steel that even the shadows couldn’t soften.

Jack: “I’ve seen what that darkness looks like, Jeeny. My mother lived it. Every time she tried to stand, someone told her to sit. Every time she tried to speak, someone told her to stay quiet. She didn’t need solidarity — she needed escape.”

Jeeny: “Escape is solidarity, Jack. When a woman breaks free, she doesn’t just save herself — she lights the way for others to follow.”

Host: A car horn echoed outside, then faded into the distance. The silence that followed was heavy, thick, alive with unspoken truths.

Jack: “You talk like courage is contagious. But not everyone gets the luxury to fight. Some can’t afford to lose the roof over their heads, or the children in their arms. You can’t blame them for staying.”

Jeeny: “I don’t blame them. I blame the world that tells them it’s safer to stay broken than to risk being free.”

Host: The rain grew louder, striking the glass with restless urgency. Jeeny stood, her hands trembling, her eyes fierce.

Jeeny: “Do you know what happens when you tell a woman she’s alone? She starts to believe her pain is private. That her suffering is somehow personal, deserved. But abuse thrives in silence, Jack. It feeds on isolation. That’s why Hayek said what she did — the antidote to violence isn’t strength, it’s connection.”

Jack: “And what happens when the connection fails? When the people who are supposed to help turn their heads? The police, the courts — they all claim to care, but bureaucracy is colder than the fist that hits.”

Jeeny: “Then we rebuild care from the ground up. In voices, in whispers, in shelters. In women holding women. That’s how revolutions start — not with governments, but with gatherings.”

Host: The lamp gave one last flicker and went out. Only the light from the streetlamp outside remained, thin and golden, cutting through the dark like a small hope.

Jack: “You really think hope’s enough? Words don’t stop fists.”

Jeeny: “No, but they stop shame. And that’s the root of it all. You can’t fight what you think you deserve. You can only fight what you recognize as wrong.”

Host: Jack’s fingers tapped nervously against his leg. He looked down, exhaled slowly, as if releasing a memory he’d kept buried.

Jack: “My father used to say that hitting was a way of reminding someone who’s in charge. I never forgave him for that. But you know what’s worse? I never forgave myself for watching.”

Jeeny: “You were a child, Jack.”

Jack: “I was a witness. Sometimes that feels worse.”

Host: The rain softened, as if the world itself were listening, ashamed. The mirror across the room reflected their shadows — two figures in quiet confession.

Jeeny: “That’s why you’re wrong about solidarity. You think it’s abstract. But it’s not. It’s someone sitting next to you and saying, ‘You’re not insane. You’re not weak. You’re not alone.’ That moment — that human moment — it’s the first step out of the cage.”

Jack: “And what about the ones who never get that moment?”

Jeeny: “Then we fight until they do.”

Host: Her voice was steady now, but her eyes were wet. Jack watched her, the weight in his chest slowly shifting into something like recognition.

Jack: “You’ve seen it too, haven’t you?”

Jeeny: “I’ve lived it. Not the bruises, but the silence. My aunt stayed for ten years with a man who broke her in pieces so small she couldn’t remember what laughter sounded like. When she finally left, do you know what she said? ‘I didn’t leave because I got brave. I left because another woman held my hand and told me I could.’”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked, each second heavy as a heartbeat. The storm outside began to fade, leaving behind a soft hum of water dripping from the rooftops.

Jack: “You know, I used to think strength meant standing alone. But maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe strength is the hand that reaches out.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Isolation is what abusers want. They strip away every connection until the world feels like a locked room. Solidarity is the key.”

Host: A faint ray of morning light began to creep through the window, painting the edges of the room in pale gold. Dust danced in the beam, like small, tired stars.

Jack: “So what happens after they walk out that door? After they leave?”

Jeeny: “Then the real work begins. Rebuilding. Remembering. Learning how to exist without fear. It’s not instant. It’s slow, like dawn breaking after too long a night.”

Jack: “And the world — what’s its role?”

Jeeny: “To listen. To believe. To protect. But more than anything — to see. Because no one disappears faster than a woman who’s afraid.”

Host: Jack stood, walking toward the window, watching the rain ease into a mist. His reflection in the glass seemed older, heavier — but also quieter, as if something within him had been acknowledged.

Jack: “Salma Hayek was right. No woman has to be a victim. But for that to be true, the rest of us can’t be bystanders.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We don’t have to save anyone — just show up. That’s enough to break the spell of loneliness.”

Host: A bird’s song — faint, tentative — rose somewhere beyond the rain, the kind of fragile melody that only comes when the storm has passed. Jeeny smiled, her face catching the light, her hands relaxing.

Jack: “You know, maybe feeling not alone is the most revolutionary thing in the world.”

Jeeny: “It always has been.”

Host: The sunlight finally filled the room, warming the walls, melting the last of the shadows. The mirror, cracked but intact, reflected them both — scarred, silent, but still present.

And in that fragile morning glow, the truth hung between them, soft yet unbreakable:
that no one — not even in fear, not even in pain — should ever have to fight in the dark alone.