On a royal birthday every house must fly a flag, or the owner

Host: The winter sky over the old city was pale and unfeeling — the color of ash and forgotten paper. The streets were narrow, cobbled, slick with melted snow, and every building wore a flag, fluttering weakly in the cold wind.
They were everywhere — windows, balconies, shops, churches — all draped in the same royal emblem, the same fabric, the same imposed fervor.

From the small apartment above a quiet street, Jack and Jeeny watched the procession below — a long line of soldiers, banners, and obedient cheers. The sound of the crowd reached them as a dull hum, more duty than devotion.

Jeeny’s breath clouded the window. She wiped a small circle in the glass to see more clearly.

Jeeny: “Mary Antin once wrote, ‘On a royal birthday every house must fly a flag, or the owner would be dragged to a police station and be fined twenty-five rubles.’”

Jack: (bitterly) “Ah yes, patriotism by decree. Loyalty at twenty-five rubles a head.”

Host: His voice was low, gravelly — like someone who’d tasted too much of obedience and found it bitter. The light from the window fell across his face, tracing the deep lines of cynicism that had settled there.

Jeeny: “Still, it’s strange, isn’t it? How something meant to symbolize unity can so easily become a weapon.”

Jack: “It always does. When you force people to celebrate, you’re not creating pride — you’re killing it.”

Host: Outside, the flags danced with the wind, an accidental choreography of submission. The street below was filled with people — smiling, clapping, pretending. A theater of allegiance.

Jeeny: “Do you think they pretend out of fear or habit?”

Jack: “Does it matter? Whether you kneel by choice or by fear, your knees ache just the same.”

Jeeny: “But Antin’s line — it’s not just about Russia. It’s about all of us, isn’t it? Every system, every country that confuses compliance for patriotism.”

Jack: “Exactly. We’re still flying flags, Jeeny. They’ve just changed color.”

Host: A cold wind rattled the window. Somewhere in the distance, a band began to play — brass instruments blaring a royal anthem that sounded too triumphant for the weather.

Jeeny: “It’s easy to think of them — those people down there — as cowards. But maybe flying the flag isn’t always surrender. Sometimes it’s survival.”

Jack: (turning toward her) “Survival can look like complicity.”

Jeeny: “And resistance can look like silence. Maybe not everyone needs to shout to dissent.”

Host: She said it softly, almost as if to herself. Her eyes stayed on the window — on the people, the flags, the motion. Jack followed her gaze, watching the uniformity ripple through the crowd.

Jack: “You know what scares me more than tyranny? How easily it becomes tradition.”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s how power works — it disguises itself as ritual.”

Jack: “You raise a flag every year, sing a song, repeat the words they gave you. At first it’s forced. Then it becomes habit. Eventually, you forget who wrote the anthem.”

Host: The band’s music echoed through the narrow street, bouncing between the walls until it felt like the whole world was made of hollow sound.

Jeeny: “Do you think people even realize they’re performing?”

Jack: “Maybe they don’t want to. There’s comfort in choreography. It’s easier to follow the steps than question the dance.”

Host: A small child below tugged at his father’s sleeve, pointing to the flag above their window. The father smiled, proud, unaware of the irony that fluttered over him.

Jeeny: “Antin’s line wasn’t just observation, though. It was resistance. A quiet rebellion through memory. She was saying: I remember the cost of obedience.”

Jack: (quietly) “And we’re saying: we’ve learned to pay it willingly.”

Host: The room fell silent for a moment, the only sound the creak of old wood and the distant murmur of the city. Jeeny turned from the window, facing Jack now, her expression grave but alive.

Jeeny: “You know, every empire — every government — claims it wants loyalty. But what it really wants is choreography. Order without thought.”

Jack: “And the price of thought is still twenty-five rubles — or worse.”

Jeeny: “But thought is what turns flags into fabric again.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly, the kind of smile that carried more grief than humor.

Jack: “You sound like a revolutionary.”

Jeeny: “No. Just someone who refuses to confuse patriotism with obedience. Real love of country — of anything — means wanting it to be honest, not holy.”

Host: Outside, a soldier walked past with a stack of extra flags, knocking on doors that didn’t have one displayed. A woman opened her window, took a flag, and hung it with trembling hands.

Jack: “Look at her. She’s terrified of being fined, maybe arrested. But she’s also terrified of standing out. That’s the cruel part of conformity — it punishes both defiance and difference.”

Jeeny: “And yet, without difference, there’s no progress. The flag means nothing if it silences the people it’s meant to represent.”

Jack: “Maybe one day we’ll have flags that fly for individuality instead of authority.”

Jeeny: “Maybe we already do — they just don’t come with governments attached.”

Host: The rain eased. The street below gleamed wet, reflecting the red and gold of the banners above it. The parade had passed, leaving behind the faint smell of smoke and the echo of rehearsed cheer.

Jeeny walked to the window and opened it slightly. The cold air rushed in, sharp and honest.

She reached up, unhooked the small flag that hung outside their own window, and set it down gently on the table between them.

Jeeny: “It’s just cloth, Jack. Only meaning gives it power.”

Jack: “And taking it down doesn’t erase that power?”

Jeeny: “No. But it reminds us that the power was never in the fabric — it was in the fear.”

Host: Jack looked at the flag — its colors faded, its threads frayed — and for the first time, it seemed small. A piece of history unstitched from its myth.

Jack: “Funny, isn’t it? They can fine you for not flying it. But they can’t make you believe in it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You can force hands, but not hearts.”

Host: The wind caught the edge of the flag, making it flutter slightly where it lay — one last breath of defiance.

Outside, the last echoes of the parade faded into distance. The city, washed by rain and routine, exhaled.

And in that quiet, as the candles flickered and the world returned to itself, the two of them stood — neither royal nor rebellious, just human — realizing that sometimes the smallest act of freedom is simply to stop pretending.

And that even in a world of flags and fines, there remains one invincible rebellion:
the choice not to worship what you’re told to love.