Press freedom is not just about journalists, right? It's not just

Host: The rain had just stopped. The streets of Manila glistened under flickering streetlights, every puddle holding a broken reflection of the city above — billboards, tangled wires, neon promises. The air smelled of asphalt and aftermath.

A small coffee shop, tucked between a pharmacy and a pawnshop, glowed faintly with yellow light. Inside, the hum of a ceiling fan mingled with the soft crackle of an old radio. On the wall, a television flickered — muted — showing a headline about a new crackdown on “disinformation.”

Jack sat near the window, his sleeves rolled, a laptop open, and a half-empty mug beside him. Jeeny entered quietly, shaking off her umbrella, her eyes alert, her expression grave yet determined.

The rain outside had stopped, but something in the air — in the city — still trembled.

Jeeny: “Maria Ressa once said, ‘Press freedom is not just about journalists, right? It's not just about us, it's not just about me, it's not just about Rappler. Press freedom is... the foundation of every single right of every single Filipino to the truth, so that we can hold the powerful to account.’”

Jack: “Yeah, I’ve heard that one. Brave woman, but... truth these days? It’s like smoke. Everyone’s got their own version.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s exactly why her words matter — because we’ve started believing the truth is subjective.”

Host: The radio crackled, catching a brief snatch of news — ‘Journalist arrested in Quezon City for cyberlibel…’ before fading back into static. Jeeny’s eyes flicked toward it, then back to Jack.

Jeeny: “Every time a reporter gets silenced, it’s not just their voice that dies. It’s everyone’s right to know.”

Jack: “Come on, Jeeny. Most people don’t care. They just want food, jobs, safety. You think they lose sleep over freedom of the press?”

Jeeny: “They don’t — until it’s gone. Until someone they love disappears, or something terrible happens, and no one dares to ask why. That’s when it hits them: silence is the price of indifference.”

Host: Jack sighed, rubbing his temples, his eyes tired, lined with years of disappointment. The screen glow reflected off his face, cold and sterile.

Jack: “You sound idealistic. Truth doesn’t feed families. It doesn’t fix corruption. Half the time it just makes people angry.”

Jeeny: “Anger’s not the enemy, Jack. Apathy is.”

Host: The ceiling fan whirred above them, stirring the warm air. The waiter passed by quietly, placing a new pot of coffee between them. The smell rose — dark, bitter, alive.

Jack: “You know what truth does? It divides. Look at social media — everyone screaming, nobody listening. Maybe the world’s better off not knowing everything.”

Jeeny: “And who decides what’s everything? The powerful? The politicians? The corporations who sell lies dressed as news?”

Jack: “Maybe. But the truth is weaponized now. One wrong story and a life’s destroyed.”

Jeeny: “Then what’s the alternative? Silence? We tried that once. Remember the Martial Law years? The news stopped — and so did the heartbeat of the nation.”

Host: The lights flickered as a jeepney rumbled by outside, splashing through a puddle. The sound of the city seeped into the room — horns, voices, the distant echo of protest chants from a nearby plaza.

Jack: “You really think journalism can save a country?”

Jeeny: “Not by itself. But it’s the conscience of one. Without a free press, there’s no accountability, no justice, no truth to hold on to.”

Jack: “And yet, journalists lie too. They twist facts, chase clicks. You can’t tell me the media’s innocent.”

Jeeny: “They’re not. No one is. But a free press isn’t about being perfect — it’s about being allowed to question. To investigate. To try.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice grew sharper, passionate, echoing faintly against the walls. The rain began again — softly at first, then heavier, as though the sky itself wanted to join the argument.

Jeeny: “Maria Ressa stood against a regime with nothing but her words. She was arrested, humiliated, and still she said — ‘Hold the line.’ That’s not politics, Jack. That’s courage.”

Jack: “Courage doesn’t keep the lights on.”

Jeeny: “No, but it keeps the truth alive. And that’s worth more than light.”

Host: The thunder rolled in the distance — slow, deep, like a warning. Jack looked out the window, watching the rain smear the city lights into long streaks of gold and red. His reflection merged with the blurred headlines flashing on the muted TV.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I used to read the paper every morning. My dad and I would argue over the editorials. But after a while... I stopped. The stories all felt the same. Scandal, corruption, outrage. It didn’t change anything.”

Jeeny: “But it reminded you you could know. That’s the point — that you could.”

Jack: “And what if knowing just makes you helpless?”

Jeeny: “Then you resist the helplessness. You act. Even small acts — reading, questioning, sharing truth — that’s how it begins.”

Host: Jeeny’s fingers trembled slightly as she spoke. There was fire in her tone, but also fear — the kind that comes from loving something fragile, something always under threat.

Jack: “You talk like truth’s sacred.”

Jeeny: “It is. It’s the only thing left that can’t be bought — unless we stop defending it.”

Host: The rain softened, the thunder fading. The radio came alive again — the announcer’s voice breaking through static: “Protesters gather outside the Court of Appeals... calling for press freedom.”

Jeeny looked up, her eyes bright.

Jeeny: “See? Even when they’re silenced, people show up. Truth doesn’t die quietly.”

Jack: “Or maybe it just changes shape.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But it’s still there — under the lies, under the noise — waiting for someone to dig it out.”

Host: The clock above the counter ticked — slow, heavy. Jack closed his laptop, the blue glow fading from his face. For a moment, the only light came from the street, where people walked — umbrellas up, feet splashing through puddles, unknowing and yet part of something larger.

Jack: “So what do we do, Jeeny? Keep shouting into the storm?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because silence isn’t peace — it’s surrender.”

Host: She smiled faintly then, tired but luminous — the smile of someone who still believed shouting mattered. Jack looked at her for a long moment, then nodded, as though something inside him — something long quiet — had stirred awake.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the problem. We all stopped shouting.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time to start again.”

Host: The rain ended as suddenly as it began. The clouds parted, revealing a thin moon over the skyline — pale, defiant, unbroken. The city gleamed in its light — chaotic, flawed, alive.

Host: Jack and Jeeny sat there, two small figures against the tide of the world, surrounded by noise and truth and hope.

And somewhere, in the heartbeat of that restless city, the truth — though battered — still breathed.

Because freedom, like the press, only dies when people stop listening. And tonight, under the watch of a fragile moon, it was still very much alive.