Of all our dreams today there is none more important - or so hard

Host: The night air was thick with the smell of salt and diesel, drifting from the harbor where ships rested like tired beasts under the ghostly light of the moon. The city slept beyond, its distant hum like a heartbeat muffled by fog. A single bench sat at the edge of the pier, paint peeling, metal cold from the evening wind. There, Jack sat — coat collar raised, hands deep in his pockets, a cigarette burning slow between his fingers. Across from him stood Jeeny, her hair blown wild, her eyes dark with thought, watching the water’s slow pulse against the wood.

Host: Behind them, the distant bells of the harbor clock tower marked the hour, each chime falling like echoes of some forgotten promise.

Jeeny: “You know, Lester B. Pearson once said — ‘Of all our dreams today there is none more important—or so hard to realize—than that of peace in the world. May we never lose our faith in it or our resolve to do everything that can be done to convert it one day into reality.’”
Her voice was steady, but her hands trembled slightly as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Sometimes I think we’ve forgotten what peace even feels like.”

Jack: He exhaled, smoke trailing into the night like a sigh. “Peace?” he said, half-smiling, half-weary. “Peace is a word politicians sell and soldiers bury. It’s not that we’ve forgotten it — it’s that we never really had it.”

Host: The wind rose, lifting a few scraps of paper along the pier, their edges fluttering like wounded wings before they fell again. The sea shimmered, black and restless, like the mind of a world that couldn’t sleep.

Jeeny: “You always reduce everything to ashes, Jack. Don’t you ever believe that peace is possible? That people can choose compassion over power?”

Jack: “People want peace the way they want heaven — as long as someone else dies to make it happen.”
He flicked the ash from his cigarette, watching it fall like a small ember into the dark water. “Look at history, Jeeny. Every so-called peace we’ve had was just the quiet between wars.”

Jeeny: “And yet, every time, we still try. After every war, every loss, humanity rebuilds. Doesn’t that count for something?”
Her eyes flashed, bright, unyielding. “After World War II, they built the United Nations. Pearson himself helped create the first peacekeeping mission during the Suez Crisis — when the world was on the edge of chaos. He believed in peace enough to act.”

Jack: “And yet, decades later, we still have wars — in Ukraine, Gaza, Sudan — you name it. Maybe peacekeeping is just a polite word for managed conflict.”

Host: The pier creaked, the wood groaning softly under the weight of the tide. Distant horns from ships called out, their echoes like voices of lost sailors, haunting the horizon. The smoke from Jack’s cigarette twisted in the air, a delicate ghost caught in the wind’s indecision.

Jeeny: “You can’t measure peace by the absence of war. You measure it by the presence of justice. That’s what Pearson meant. He wasn’t naïve — he knew it would take generations. But he also knew it wouldn’t happen if we gave up believing.”

Jack: “Belief doesn’t stop bullets.”
He turned, his grey eyes cold, reflecting the moonlight. “You can’t reason peace into existence. People fight because it works — it gets them what they want. You think dictators stop because of belief?”

Jeeny: “Then what’s the alternative? Cynicism? Surrender? You think giving up on peace makes the world safer?”
She stepped closer, rain now beginning to drizzle, soft drops catching on her lashes. “Faith isn’t the denial of pain, Jack. It’s the refusal to let pain be the only truth.”

Host: A flash of lightning split the sky, illuminating the harbor for a breathless second — the ships, the ropes, the wet boards, and the two figures standing like statues carved from opposite beliefs.

Jack: “Faith is the reason wars start in the first place. Everyone’s fighting for what they believe in. Maybe peace comes when people stop believing so damn much.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. War starts when belief loses its heart — when faith becomes ego, not empathy. Pearson’s peacekeeping wasn’t blind faith; it was organized compassion. It was action. That’s the difference.”

Host: The rain began to fall harder, streaking the pier with silver lines. Thunder murmured in the distance, like a slow, angry drum. Jack didn’t move, the drops sliding down his cheek, blending with something almost unseen — the hint of a tear, maybe.

Jack: “You talk about compassion like it’s a weapon. But it’s fragile, Jeeny. It breaks too easily. The world’s not built for kind people.”

Jeeny: “And yet, they’re the ones who keep it from collapsing. Every ceasefire, every treaty, every mother who forgives — that’s peace too. It’s not grand. It’s human.”

Jack: “But it never lasts.”

Jeeny: “Nothing does. But that doesn’t make it worthless. Even temporary peace saves lives — gives children another sunrise. Isn’t that worth something?”

Host: The light from the harbor office flickered, casting their shadows long across the pier. Water pooled around their feet, mirroring their faces, blurring them together — like two versions of the same soul, one tired, one hopeful.

Jack: “You think peace is built on hope. I think it’s built on exhaustion — people get tired of killing, that’s all.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it starts with exhaustion. But it’s hope that rebuilds the world after. Look at Hiroshima — look how Japan rose, not with vengeance, but with discipline and art and progress. That’s peace, Jack — rebuilt from ashes.”

Jack: He fell silent for a long time, the sound of rain now gentle, steady. “You always find beauty in ruins, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “Because ruins prove we can rebuild.”

Host: The storm began to soften, drifting into a hushed drizzle. The moonlight broke through the clouds, spilling over the harbor like a promise barely kept. The water shimmered, silver, alive again.

Jack: “You know… maybe peace isn’t something we achieve. Maybe it’s something we keep chasing — just to remind ourselves we’re still human.”

Jeeny: She smiled faintly, the kind of smile that forgives, not argues.* “Exactly. The dream itself keeps us human. Even if we never reach it.”

Host: They stood together, silent, watching the ripples spread across the water — tiny, persistent, unafraid. The world was still wounded, still fighting, but in that moment, the harbor felt like a truce — fragile, fleeting, but real.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what Pearson meant — not that peace is possible, but that giving up on it isn’t.”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she whispered. “Because peace doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to begin.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back slowly, rising above the harbor, capturing the two figures — one skeptic, one believer — both bathed in the silver quiet after the storm. The world beyond still flickered with unrest, but here, on this pier, there was a different silence — not the silence of defeat, but of resolve.

And as the wind softened, and the first light of dawn began to touch the horizon, the sea seemed to breathe again, as if whispering to the sleeping world —
that peace, however distant, still waited to be recognized.