Observe good faith and justice toward all nations. Cultivate

Host: The Capitol city lay under a pale winter dusk, its streets glistening after a brief rain, its monuments half-shrouded in the mist of history. Flags hung still, soaked, as if weary from too many promises made and broken.

Inside a quiet coffeehouse not far from the old courthouse, the air was thick with espresso, paper, and the low murmur of debate. It was the kind of place where ideals came to wrestle with reality — where dreams of justice were weighed against the costs of politics.

Jack sat in the corner booth, his coat draped over the seat, tie loosened, his face half-lit by the amber glow of the lamp. Across from him, Jeeny sat upright, her hands folded around a cup of tea, eyes warm and sharp — like an ember in the quiet heart of the storm.

Outside, the city hummed — restless, divided, alive.

Jeeny: “George Washington said, ‘Observe good faith and justice toward all nations. Cultivate peace and harmony with all.’” (She looked out the window, her voice low.) “It feels almost impossible now, doesn’t it?”

Jack: (leaning back) “Peace and harmony are good for speeches, Jeeny. But nations don’t survive on ideals. They survive on leverage. You can’t ‘cultivate’ peace when everyone’s holding a knife.”

Host: The rain outside began again — soft, rhythmic, a counterpoint to the rising tension inside.

Jeeny: “That’s exactly why Washington’s words matter. He wasn’t naïve, Jack. He’d just fought a brutal war. He knew what conflict costs. His peace wasn’t weakness — it was wisdom bought in blood.”

Jack: (grimly) “And yet every nation since has ignored him. Power corrupts faster than wisdom heals. Look at history — every time peace gets cultivated, someone comes along and tramples it for profit or pride.”

Jeeny: “That doesn’t make the effort worthless. The point isn’t whether it lasts — it’s whether we keep trying.”

Host: The light flickered slightly. Jack’s eyes, gray and sharp, caught the reflection of Jeeny’s steady gaze. The air between them thickened with unspoken conviction.

Jack: “You sound like one of those U.N. idealists — ‘world harmony,’ ‘global cooperation.’ The real world runs on interests, not ideals.”

Jeeny: “And what happens when interests replace conscience? Look around, Jack. Trade wars, sanctions, refugees — all born of nations forgetting justice in favor of gain. We’ve built empires, not communities.”

Jack: “Communities don’t survive without power. Ask history. The strong rule, the weak adapt — it’s the only constant.”

Jeeny: “Then what’s the point of civilization? To dress power in suits and call it progress?”

Host: Her voice cut through the air like the edge of glass — not angry, but clear, trembling with moral clarity. Jack didn’t answer immediately. His fingers drummed the table, slow and restless.

Jack: “You think Washington’s words apply today? The man was building a fragile republic. He wasn’t dealing with nukes, propaganda wars, or cyber espionage. The world’s too complicated now.”

Jeeny: “The world’s always been complicated. He wasn’t talking about politics, Jack — he was talking about character. ‘Good faith and justice’ aren’t strategies; they’re virtues. You can’t outsource them to diplomats.”

Host: The café door opened briefly, a gust of cold air sweeping in, carrying the scent of rain and streetlights. Two strangers entered, laughter spilling into the room for a moment — before fading again into the quiet.

Jack: “Virtues don’t win wars. They don’t stop tyrants.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not immediately. But they build the kind of trust that prevents wars from starting in the first place.”

Jack: (leaning forward, his tone hardening) “You trust too easily. You think the world runs on decency — it doesn’t. It runs on survival.”

Jeeny: “And survival without decency becomes conquest. You can’t build lasting peace on fear.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. A faint tremor crossed his hand — not of anger, but of thought, the way a soldier’s body remembers battles even after the war is over.

Jack: “You know what peace looks like to me? It’s a negotiation — two sides pretending to be civil until they’re strong enough to stop pretending.”

Jeeny: “That’s because you see peace as an agreement. Washington saw it as a discipline — something cultivated like a garden, every day, by choice.”

Host: A long silence stretched between them. The café’s clock ticked softly, measuring the slow unraveling of cynicism and faith.

Jack: (after a pause) “Cultivate peace… like a garden, huh? You ever tried gardening in a battlefield?”

Jeeny: “Every peacemaker has. Mandela did. Gandhi did. Lincoln did. Even Washington did. They all sowed in blood-soaked soil — and somehow, something grew.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes gleamed — not from tears, but from conviction, the kind that cuts through exhaustion like sunrise through fog. Jack looked at her — and for a brief second, something human softened behind the skepticism.

Jack: “You really believe nations can live by good faith?”

Jeeny: “I believe people can. And nations are nothing more than the sum of the people who lead them.”

Jack: “People lie. They betray. They choose greed over grace.”

Jeeny: “Yes — and yet, sometimes, they choose differently. Think of post-war Europe — after two world wars, nations rebuilt not for revenge, but for unity. The European Union wasn’t born from profit; it was born from exhaustion — from the realization that harmony costs less than hatred.”

Host: The rain had stopped again. The window glass was beaded with drops that caught the café’s light, scattering it into tiny reflections — fragments of truth, scattered but shining.

Jack: “And now that unity’s crumbling again. History’s a loop, Jeeny. The same lesson, unlearned.”

Jeeny: “Then we teach it again. That’s the duty of the living — to remind the world what peace looks like when it forgets.”

Host: The air grew still. The last patron left. The café owner wiped down the counter, glancing at them — two silhouettes caught in the quiet argument of conscience.

Jack: “So what do we do, then? Just keep believing? Keep trusting that ‘good faith’ will fix everything?”

Jeeny: “No. We practice it — even when no one else does. That’s what makes it powerful.”

Jack: “Practice peace in a world of chaos. You make it sound like prayer.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe peace is just another word for faith — in others, in justice, in ourselves.”

Host: Jack exhaled — a long, tired breath, the kind that carries both resignation and release. He looked out the window. The rain had left the city clean, quiet, reflective.

Jack: “You know, maybe you’re right. Maybe the only kind of strength that lasts is the kind that refuses to hate back.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “That’s the beginning of harmony.”

Host: The light above them dimmed, flickering like a candle on the edge of memory. The city’s hum outside grew distant, softer, as though the whole world had paused to listen.

Jack: “I guess Washington wasn’t talking about nations, after all. He was talking about us.”

Jeeny: “Always. Nations don’t have hearts, Jack — people do. And peace starts wherever one heart chooses not to fight.”

Host: The camera would pull back then — through the window, into the damp street, past the shining reflections of lights and faces and cars — the city alive again, uncertain but breathing.

The world was still divided. The storms would return. But in that small café, amid the remnants of rain and reason, two voices had agreed —

that peace isn’t found in treaties or flags,
but in the simple, stubborn act of choosing good faith
in a world that’s forgotten how.