Part of me believes that Beyonce and Jay-Z were naive when they

Host: The newsroom café was half-empty, lit in that gray, anxious light that seems to follow long debates. Outside, rain streaked across the tall windows, blurring the city into watercolor — towers dissolving into mist, people into silhouettes. Inside, the low murmur of journalists filled the air, their laptops glowing like small fires against the storm.

At a table near the back, Jack sat with his sleeves rolled up, the day’s paper folded in half beside his coffee. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her tea absently, her eyes focused on the headline in front of them — the one that had stirred both anger and introspection.

Jeeny: (quietly) “Mercedes Schlapp once said — ‘Part of me believes that Beyoncé and Jay-Z were naïve when they chose to celebrate their five-year wedding anniversary in Cuba. However, as the daughter of a former political prisoner in Cuba, I would argue that they should have known better than to travel to the island and support its repressive regime.’”

Jack: (leaning back) “You can almost feel the conflict in her words — that ‘part of me’ she’s fighting with. It’s not just politics. It’s memory.”

Jeeny: “Yes. It’s the ache of someone torn between empathy and anger. Between the hope that others understand and the pain of knowing they don’t.”

Jack: “That’s the curse of those who remember oppression — watching others turn your history into a postcard.”

Host: The sound of rain deepened, drumming on the glass like an old argument. The café smelled of espresso and ink — the scent of stories still being written.

Jeeny: “You know, people always talk about travel as freedom — exploration, adventure. But for some, travel carries ghosts. You don’t just visit a place; you walk through someone’s trauma.”

Jack: “And in Cuba, every dance, every cigar, every street mural — it’s layered with that tension. Joy built over control. Beauty built over pain.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And for Schlapp, Cuba isn’t an exotic destination. It’s an unfinished wound. Her anger isn’t about celebrities being careless — it’s about memory being disrespected.”

Host: The lights flickered slightly as thunder rolled outside. The rhythm of the rain turned faster, harder — as though the sky, too, had opinions.

Jack: “But is it fair to expect everyone to understand that pain? To carry someone else’s history in their choices?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But ignorance is a luxury — one the oppressed never had. And when you’ve inherited suffering, you start expecting awareness from those who can afford to ignore it.”

Jack: “That’s the hard truth of privilege, isn’t it? You can visit oppression like a museum, take photos, and leave before closing.”

Jeeny: “While others never leave at all.”

Host: The espresso machine hissed, a soft, angry sound in the background. Outside, the storm blurred the city into shadows, like a painting crying in slow motion.

Jack: “Still, I can see the other side too. Maybe Beyoncé and Jay-Z weren’t trying to endorse the system. Maybe they were trying to connect — to people, to culture, to music.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But when you’re a symbol, your footsteps echo louder. Intentions don’t excuse the impact.”

Jack: “So fame carries moral weight.”

Jeeny: “Always. When the world listens to you, silence becomes complicity.”

Host: Jack folded the paper closed, the front page showing the couple smiling under a Cuban sun. A picture so light, so careless — and beneath it, the weight of generations.

Jack: “You know, Schlapp’s words aren’t really about celebrity at all. They’re about remembrance — about the invisible cost of forgetting who still pays for paradise.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And about how beauty can deceive. Cuba looks like music and color, but for her, it’s a cage with murals on its walls.”

Jack: “That’s what’s haunting, isn’t it? The idea that one person’s vacation can be another person’s grief.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And yet, both are real. That’s what makes it so complicated.”

Host: The rain softened, the storm retreating into a hush that sounded almost like reflection. The café grew quieter — journalists typing slower, voices fading into the hum of contemplation.

Jack: “So what do we do with that kind of truth? The kind where both sides feel right — freedom on one hand, fidelity to pain on the other.”

Jeeny: “We hold it. Without simplifying it. We learn to live with discomfort — the way exiles do, the way descendants of revolution do.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what empathy is — not agreeing, just staying long enough to understand the wound.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And to stop walking through it like a tourist.”

Host: Jeeny took a slow sip of tea, her reflection caught in the café window — framed by rain, history, and the shimmer of neon signs outside. Jack watched her, then glanced again at the folded paper, its ink slightly smudged by condensation.

Jack: “You think Schlapp ever forgave them?”

Jeeny: (after a pause) “I think forgiveness isn’t the point. Awareness is. Some people don’t need an apology — they just need you to see what they can’t forget.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s what it means to ‘know better.’ Not guilt — just understanding.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Understanding that your choices echo — sometimes across oceans, sometimes across generations.”

Host: The rain had stopped, leaving the streets glistening with silver reflections. The café lights flickered warm against the glass.

Jack: “Funny how one anniversary trip became a mirror for an entire country’s pain.”

Jeeny: “History hides in the simplest gestures. In a song, a photo, a flight. And the ones who’ve lived it — they feel the tremor in every celebration.”

Jack: “So maybe the lesson isn’t about judgment. It’s about remembering that beauty and pain often share the same stage.”

Jeeny: “And that awareness is the only form of respect left when history’s still bleeding.”

Host: The camera would linger on the table — two cups, a folded paper, a faint reflection of rain drying from glass. The city beyond, calm now, breathing again.

And through that quiet, Mercedes Schlapp’s words would echo — not as condemnation, but as conscience:

That every act of innocence carries consequence,
that every paradise holds its prisoners,
and that true compassion
is not found in seeing the world’s beauty —
but in remembering who paid for it.

For empathy begins
where convenience ends —
and sometimes,
the greatest act of awareness
is simply choosing not to look away.