So if people have an opportunity for a decent job, a decent

Host: The border winds whispered across the barren valley, carrying with them the scent of dust, iron, and desperation. The sun was sinking low, bleeding its last light across the horizon — a molten line dividing one nation from another. The fence that split the land stretched endlessly in both directions, a scar drawn by human fear and longing.

Jack and Jeeny stood near it — two shadows against the amber glow, watching as a group of weary migrants moved slowly in the distance, their silhouettes swaying like ghosts between worlds.

The air was dry. The silence, heavy. Somewhere, a dog barked, far away. Somewhere else, a child coughed.

And over this fragile landscape, Nayib Bukele’s words seemed to hang in the wind like a plea written in light:

“So if people have an opportunity for a decent job, a decent education, a decent health care system and security, I know that forceful migration will be reduced to zero.”

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, I’ve crossed borders that didn’t exist on maps. Lines made of hunger. Of hope. Of fear.”

Jeeny: “And every one of those lines begins the same way — with neglect.”

Host: The wind picked up, tossing grains of sand into the air. The sound of them hitting the metal fence was soft — like rain that had forgotten how to bless.

Jack: “Bukele’s right, in theory. If people had stability, they wouldn’t run. But theory doesn’t build homes, doesn’t fill stomachs. Opportunity’s a luxury for those who still have choices.”

Jeeny: “Opportunity isn’t luxury, Jack. It’s justice. When a man leaves his home, it’s not ambition — it’s survival. Nobody walks miles with a child in their arms for adventure.”

Jack: “No, they walk because the system failed them. Failed to feed, failed to educate, failed to protect. You fix those, you fix migration. But good luck selling that to governments who profit off cheap labor and closed doors.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the sickness — not the movement of people, but the paralysis of power. You can’t blame the river for flowing when the source is poisoned.”

Host: The light faded, leaving the sky a bruised purple. The first stars appeared — faint, uncertain — like tiny witnesses to the endless struggle below.

Jack: “You sound idealistic again. You think jobs, schools, hospitals, and safety nets will erase centuries of inequality?”

Jeeny: “Not erase — heal. Slowly, imperfectly. But yes, I believe in healing. Because every mother who stays, every child who learns, every worker who’s paid fairly — that’s one less soul forced to wander.”

Jack: “Forced migration — it’s such a polite phrase for tragedy. You ever seen what’s left of a person after a desert crossing? After detention? After they realize home no longer exists anywhere?”

Jeeny: “I have. And I’ve also seen what’s left of a country when its people leave — empty towns, hollow laughter, broken dreams. Migration doesn’t just move people; it drains nations of their heartbeat.”

Host: The night deepened, the fence casting long shadows across the dirt. A flickering lamp post buzzed weakly, its light trembling like a dying hope.

Jack: “Bukele’s a politician. His words sound noble, but power always sounds noble when it needs applause.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But even truth from a politician is still truth. If we fixed what pushes people out, borders would stop being walls — they’d become windows.”

Jack: “Windows don’t stop bullets.”

Jeeny: “Neither do fences.”

Host: Jack turned, his face carved by fatigue and conviction. The light caught the sharp lines of his expression — the look of a man who’d seen too much of both suffering and policy.

Jack: “You know, it’s strange. We call it migration like it’s movement — but it’s really loss. Loss of roots, of names, of belonging. We measure it in statistics, but it’s made of faces.”

Jeeny: “And those faces are mirrors, Jack. They show us what humanity costs when compassion is optional.”

Jack: “You think compassion builds economies?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because economies are people — not numbers. If you invest in their dignity, the returns last generations.”

Host: A faint sound came from beyond the fence — laughter. A child’s laugh, pure and short-lived. Both of them turned toward it instinctively, eyes meeting through the wire’s reflection of starlight.

Jack: “You ever think borders are just scars we refuse to let heal?”

Jeeny: “They’re worse — they’re wounds we keep reopening. We treat migration like invasion instead of confession. It’s the world’s way of saying, something is wrong at the root.”

Jack: “And the root is inequality.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Inequality, neglect, greed. We feed bombs instead of children, fund walls instead of wells. Then we call the refugees ungrateful for wanting more than misery.”

Host: The wind shifted again, colder now, carrying the scent of distant fires — cooking smoke, perhaps, or something less kind.

Jack: “You know, Bukele believes zero migration is possible. That’s naïve. Migration’s been part of humanity since we stood upright. What matters isn’t stopping it — it’s making it voluntary.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Migration is nature — forceful migration is failure. The day people can stay home and still have dignity, that’s the day borders become irrelevant.”

Jack: “And yet, home is where governments forget their people most.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe governments need to remember that borders don’t protect nations — people do. Healthy, educated, safe people.”

Jack: “Health, education, security… the usual sermon. You really think that’s enough to stop someone from running?”

Jeeny: “It’s the only thing that ever will.”

Host: The stars burned brighter now, the desert unfolding into an ocean of silence. A pair of boots — worn, torn — lay abandoned by the fence, one half-buried in the sand. Jeeny noticed them and knelt, brushing the dirt away.

Jeeny: “You see these? They belonged to someone who believed tomorrow was worth walking toward. Maybe that’s all migration ever is — hope with blisters.”

Jack: “Or desperation with a compass.”

Jeeny: “Maybe both. But if hope ever dies, the fences won’t stop the flood.”

Jack: “Then what do we do, Jeeny? You talk like it’s simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not simple. It’s human. Start with decency — decent work, decent schools, decent care. That’s all Bukele meant. Decency is the antidote to despair.”

Jack: “You think decency can rebuild a world this broken?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s the only thing that ever has.”

Host: The camera widened, the fence stretching infinitely across the frame — a thin, cruel horizon between suffering and survival. The lights of a border patrol car flashed far off, then disappeared, leaving only the hum of wind and the shimmer of stars.

Jack and Jeeny stood side by side, silent now, the moonlight catching the wire between them — a glimmering thread of both separation and connection.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, every empire builds walls. But it’s always the people who pay for them — in bodies, in dreams.”

Jeeny: “And every time, the same truth returns — you can’t wall in dignity, and you can’t wall out need.”

Host: The night wind softened, the stars pulsed, and somewhere in the dark, a new dawn waited behind the horizon.

And in that fragile stillness, Bukele’s words found their meaning not as a policy, but as a prophecy —

That when people have purpose, they don’t need to flee.
That when education replaces ignorance, hope takes root.
That when health replaces hunger, nations heal.
And that when security means compassion, not control —
then borders won’t need guards,
because no one will be running anymore.

The camera lingered on the empty boots by the fence —
symbols of journeys no one should be forced to take —
as the first light of morning spilled over the desert,
turning every grain of dust into something briefly, painfully beautiful.