On their own, tariff and trade barriers, if viewed as transitory

Host: The industrial park on the city’s edge hummed under a slate-gray sky. Smoke rose from distant stacks, curling into the cold air like fading intentions. The wind carried the sharp scent of metal and diesel, mingled with the ghost of old prosperity — the smell of factories that once built futures.

Host: Inside a small warehouse office, the light flickered — a fluorescent heartbeat over two cups of half-drunk coffee. Jeeny sat by the window, hands folded, watching forklifts move in slow, methodical lines. Across from her, Jack leaned against a dented filing cabinet, his tie loose, his eyes tired but sharp. The room was quiet except for the hum of the heater and the low murmur of an economics podcast playing faintly in the background.

Host: Michael Spence’s words drifted through the static of the broadcast:
“On their own, tariff and trade barriers, if viewed as transitory negotiating tactics, will not significantly change global investment patterns or the structure of global supply chains and employment.”

Jack: “There it is,” he muttered, turning off the radio. “The world’s too tangled for borders to matter anymore.”

Jeeny: “That’s not what he said, Jack.”

Jack: “Sure it is. Tariffs are theater. They make politicians look tough, but the factories don’t come back, the jobs don’t return, and the same products keep crossing the same oceans. You can’t tariff gravity.”

Jeeny: “But you can buy time with it,” she said gently. “Sometimes nations need breathing space — time to correct course, protect what’s fragile.”

Jack: “That’s like saying a dam will hold back the tide. The system’s bigger than the players now. Supply chains aren’t patriotic — they’re mathematical.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the window. Outside, a truck groaned as it reversed, headlights sweeping briefly across Jeeny’s face, catching the quiet tension there.

Jeeny: “You talk about systems like they’re untouchable gods. But they’re built by people — people who make choices.”

Jack: “No,” he said, shaking his head. “They’re built by incentives. You think a CEO moves production to Vietnam out of ideology? It’s cost, speed, risk. Change the numbers, not the slogans — that’s the only way the world moves.”

Jeeny: “So you’d rather measure everything in profit margins than in people’s lives?”

Jack: “No,” he replied softly, but firmly. “I’m saying people’s lives depend on understanding the math. Pretending that tariffs or flags or speeches can rebuild what automation and capital flight dismantled — that’s how you give false hope.”

Host: The heater clicked off. Silence filled the room, heavy and humming with unspoken frustration. Jeeny turned toward him, her voice quieter now.

Jeeny: “But hope — even false hope — can still keep people standing. You tell a factory worker in Ohio or a machinist in Shenzhen that markets will correct themselves someday — it doesn’t feed their kids. Tariffs might not change systems, but they remind the powerful that someone is still fighting for the powerless.”

Jack: “Or pretending to.”

Jeeny: “You’re cynical.”

Jack: “No — I’m realistic. Tariffs are like a match in a hurricane. They make light for a moment, then vanish.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes dropped to the table, where a newspaper lay open. A photo showed shuttered warehouses, “For Lease” signs, and empty parking lots.

Jeeny: “And yet people still strike matches,” she whispered.

Jack: “Because they’d rather see light than admit it’s dark.”

Host: For a long moment, neither spoke. The air in the office felt heavier, thick with truth neither could fully reject.

Jeeny: “You know, my father worked in a textile plant. When they moved production overseas, he didn’t talk for weeks. He said he felt like someone had stolen his hands. When politicians came later, promising tariffs, he listened. Not because he believed — but because someone finally spoke his language.”

Jack: “And what did he get for it?”

Jeeny: “A little pride. For a while, that mattered more than the paycheck.”

Host: Jack looked at her, his expression softening. The fluorescent light buzzed again, painting their faces in pale shadow and fatigue.

Jack: “Pride doesn’t pay the rent, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “Neither does despair.”

Host: The wind outside picked up, carrying the faint clang of metal — the sound of something breaking, or perhaps beginning.

Jack: “You really think we can untangle this mess? After fifty years of outsourcing, automation, and digital economies — you think we can go back to the way things were?”

Jeeny: “No,” she said. “But maybe we can go forward differently.”

Jack: “And how exactly?”

Jeeny: “By remembering that global isn’t the opposite of local — it’s the reflection of it. You can’t fix the system, but you can humanize it. Invest in education. In resilience. In dignity. If the economy won’t come home, then maybe we redefine what home means.”

Jack: “You talk like Spence with a soul.”

Jeeny: “And you talk like a machine that’s learned regret.”

Host: He laughed — quietly, tiredly. It wasn’t a mocking sound, but one tinged with understanding.

Jack: “Maybe that’s fair. Maybe I’ve seen too many promises made in press conferences and broken in factories.”

Jeeny: “And maybe I’ve seen too many people still waiting by the gate when the shift whistle never comes.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked past midnight. The warehouse floor below was empty now, except for a few flickering lights and the echo of machinery winding down.

Jack: “You know,” he said, “I sometimes think about that line — ‘the structure of global supply chains and employment.’ It’s so… bloodless. As if the whole world could be reduced to logistics. But every node on that chain — every ‘unit’ — is a person. Someone who dreams, eats, loves, breaks.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The system isn’t abstract. It’s human. And maybe that’s the problem — and the answer.”

Host: The heater came back on, humming low and steady. Warm air filled the room again, as if forgiving their silence.

Jeeny: “Spence was right. Tariffs alone won’t fix it. But nothing changes if we stop trying. The real barrier isn’t trade — it’s indifference.”

Jack: “And if indifference is the disease, what’s the cure?”

Jeeny: “Empathy with strategy.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth softening as he looked toward the dark factory windows.

Jack: “Empathy with strategy,” he repeated. “That’s a new one. Might even be worth exporting.”

Jeeny: “Start with yourself first,” she said, half-smiling.

Host: Outside, the snow began to fall — slow, deliberate, each flake catching the streetlight like a moment of grace descending from the gray.

Host: In the window’s reflection, the world looked divided — half inside, half out — just like the two of them: one believing the system ruled humanity, the other believing humanity could still rule the system.

Host: The camera pulls back — the office, the factory, the city — shrinking beneath the quiet drift of snow.

Host: And as the lights dim, Spence’s words seem to echo not as policy, but as prophecy: that no barrier, no tariff, no line on a map can change the course of humanity unless the people behind it choose to.

Host: The last image lingers — Jeeny’s hand resting on the windowpane, the snow melting against the glass — one small, defiant gesture in a world still learning that progress without compassion is just another form of distance.