Non-violence is the article of faith.

Host: The night settled over the city like a velvet curtain, its streets glimmering with reflections of distant neon lights. A faint rain whispered against the windows of a small café tucked between two silent buildings. Inside, the air was heavy with the smell of coffee and memory. Steam curled upward like ghosts of old conversations.

Jack sat near the window, his grey eyes tracing the blurred silhouettes of passersby. He wore a dark coat, his hands wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug. Across from him, Jeeny leaned forward, her face lit softly by the flicker of a candle, her eyes alive with the quiet fire of conviction.

Jeeny: “Mahatma Gandhi once said, ‘Non-violence is the article of faith.’ It’s a belief, Jack — not just a strategy, but a way of being. It’s what keeps humanity from tearing itself apart.”

Jack: chuckles softly “Faith? That’s a dangerous word in this world, Jeeny. Faith doesn’t stop wars. Guns, policies, deterrents — those do. You think Gandhi’s non-violence would work now? In this century, with its drones, cyber wars, and greedy leaders?”

Host: The rain pressed harder against the glass, a rhythm like a heartbeat. Jeeny’s fingers trembled slightly as she lifted her cup, her reflection flickering in the candlelight.

Jeeny: “You talk like the world is a machine — that only force moves it. But look back, Jack. Gandhi’s faith in non-violence freed millions without a single bullet. The British Empire — the most powerful of its time — was brought to its knees by a man who refused to kill.”

Jack: “Freed? Or just replaced one master with another kind of tyranny — poverty, corruption, violence of a different color? Look around you. Protests, riots, wars — people still bleed. Non-violence might have won a battle, but it didn’t win human nature.”

Host: A pause hung in the air, long and heavy. The clock on the wall ticked with indifference, marking the seconds between ideals and reality.

Jeeny: “But it taught us something more enduring, Jack — that the soul has power beyond fear. You call it idealism; I call it courage. Martin Luther King Jr., Nelson Mandela — they carried the same faith. They changed hearts, not just laws.”

Jack: “Changed hearts? You think a man with a gun stops to feel love before he pulls the trigger? I’ve seen people — desperate, cornered — they’ll do anything to survive. Faith doesn’t feed a hungry child, Jeeny. It doesn’t protect a family from a bomb.”

Host: Jack’s voice was low but sharp, his words slicing through the soft music playing in the background. Jeeny’s eyes glistened — not from sadness, but from the resolve of someone who refuses to surrender her belief.

Jeeny: “Then maybe the problem isn’t that people have faith, Jack — maybe it’s that they’ve lost it. When fear takes the place of faith, violence becomes our language. Gandhi knew that. He believed the weak resort to violence, but it takes true strength to endure without it.”

Jack: leans forward, eyes narrowing “And how long do you endure? Until your home burns? Until your children starve? There’s a point where peace becomes submission. Gandhi could fast and march — but tell that to a Ukrainian mother hiding in a basement, or a child growing up under dictatorship. Should they just… believe harder?”

Host: The café grew quieter, as if even the walls were listening. The rain softened, leaving behind a thin mist on the window. Outside, the streetlights blinked like tired stars.

Jeeny: “No. They should resist — but not with hate. Non-violence doesn’t mean inaction. It means defiance with dignity. Gandhi said, ‘Non-violence is not the weapon of the weak; it is the weapon of the strong.’ Even when he was imprisoned, even when his followers were beaten, he chose to suffer rather than to hate.”

Jack: “And look what it cost him — his own life. Non-violence didn’t protect him from a bullet. That’s the truth, Jeeny. Sometimes, to preserve peace, you need to fight for it.”

Host: The flame of the candle shivered between them, as though caught between two winds. Jeeny’s gaze didn’t falter.

Jeeny: “And how long do you keep fighting, Jack? Until there’s nothing left but ashes? You think violence ends violence? History keeps proving otherwise. Every revolution that began with blood ended with chains.”

Jack: “And yet, every freedom we have came from those same revolutions. The American independence, the French uprising — they weren’t won by holding hands and praying for mercy. The world listens only when it’s forced to.”

Host: The tension between them grew — a palpable electricity. A waiter passed by, his steps hesitant, sensing the invisible storm. The candlelight flickered across Jack’s face, revealing the lines of weariness beneath his anger.

Jeeny: “Maybe, Jack, the world listens when it sees sacrifice, not violence. Gandhi didn’t need to shout; his silence was louder than guns. His faith became a mirror — showing humanity its own reflection.”

Jack: quietly “Faith… or illusion? Because after all that — the poverty, the division, the wars that followed — maybe his message died the moment people got what they wanted.”

Host: Jeeny looked at him for a long moment, her eyes softening. The anger melted into a quiet ache.

Jeeny: “Maybe it didn’t die, Jack. Maybe it just waits — in the hands of those who still believe. Every time someone forgives instead of retaliates, every time a child chooses to speak rather than strike, Gandhi’s faith breathes again. Isn’t that something worth keeping alive?”

Jack: sighs deeply, staring into his cup “You make it sound beautiful. But I’ve seen too much to believe in beauty without a cost.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the cost of peace is simply faith itself — the willingness to keep believing even when everything tells you not to.”

Host: Jack looked up. For a moment, his eyes softened — a rare vulnerability beneath his stoic mask. Outside, the rain had stopped. The streets glistened under the lamplight, like veins of silver threading through the darkness.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s not about whether non-violence wins or loses. Maybe it’s about not becoming the very thing you fight.”

Jeeny: smiles faintly “Exactly. The moment we choose violence, we surrender our humanity. But when we choose faith, even in a broken world, we keep a small piece of it alive.”

Host: The music shifted — a low, lingering melody that filled the room like a sigh. Jack leaned back, his shoulders easing, his eyes following the soft trail of smoke rising from the candle.

Jack: “Maybe Gandhi wasn’t naive. Maybe he just saw further than the rest of us.”

Jeeny: “He did. Because he believed that faith, not fear, is what defines a civilization.”

Host: The camera would pull back here — through the window, into the quiet night where the rain had finally given way to a faint glow of moonlight. Two souls, divided by reason and faith, sat in a small café, their words still echoing softly like the last notes of a forgotten song.

In that silence, there was no winner, no argument, no defeat — only the gentle understanding that in a world built on violence, even a small act of faith can be its own kind of victory.