Solidarity is an attitude of resistance, I suppose, or it should

Host: The street was quiet, though not truly silent — the kind of stillness that hums with restraint, like a violin string stretched to the edge of breaking. A thin mist clung to the cobblestones, and a single streetlamp flickered above the entrance of a small, nearly-forgotten bookshop.

Inside, the air was thick with the smell of dust, old paper, and damp leather. Shelves leaned with the weight of unread books, and the rain outside traced thin lines of silver across the windowpanes.

Jack stood near the counter, his hands buried in his coat pockets, his eyes distant, grey like a storm that never ends. Jeeny sat cross-legged on a small wooden stool, her fingers tracing the spine of a worn copy of Letters to a Young Contrarian.

The radio, faint and crackling, murmured with a familiar, defiant voice — “Solidarity is an attitude of resistance, I suppose, or it should be.”

The voice faded, and in its wake, silence — heavy, deliberate, waiting.

Jack: “Hitchens always knew how to stir a pot. But he was wrong about one thing.”
He paused, lighting a cigarette, its glow reflecting off his eyes.
Jack (cont.): “Solidarity isn’t resistance anymore. It’s branding. Slogans. People ‘stand together’ as long as it trends. It’s not rebellion — it’s performance.”

Host: Jeeny lifted her gaze, her face calm but her eyes burning with quiet conviction.

Jeeny: “You think people can’t mean it just because it’s visible? Because they post about it?”

Jack: “I think if resistance comes with a hashtag, it’s already been sold.”

Jeeny: “That’s too easy, Jack. Maybe the methods changed — but the heart of it hasn’t. Solidarity is still an act of courage, even when it looks different.”

Jack: “Courage? You call reposting courage? Tell that to the workers in Gdańsk in 1980 — they knew what resistance meant. They risked prison, exile, death. Today, people think ‘standing with someone’ means typing three words and moving on to dinner.”

Host: Jeeny leaned forward, her hands clasped around her knees, the lamplight catching strands of her hair like fire in slow motion.

Jeeny: “And yet… those same words, even typed, have sparked revolutions. The Arab Spring started with messages online, not muskets. Sometimes words are enough to start something, even if they’re fragile.”

Jack: “And sometimes they’re just noise. The kind that makes us feel like we’ve done something — when really, we’ve done nothing.”

Host: The rain outside intensified, drumming against the glass like the pulse of an anxious heart.

Jeeny: “So what, Jack? We do nothing unless it costs us everything? Is that your measure of authenticity? You think resistance only matters if it burns the house down?”

Jack: “No — I think it only matters if it means something. If it changes something. We’ve become addicted to outrage without action. Solidarity has turned into sympathy’s ghost.”

Jeeny: “You’re confusing exhaustion with apathy. People still resist — quietly, daily. Nurses striking for fair pay, journalists exposing corruption, women marching for the right to be safe. You can’t call that performative.”

Jack: “Maybe not. But look how quickly the world forgets. Resistance has the shelf life of a news cycle.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the problem isn’t with solidarity — it’s with memory.”

Host: Jack’s expression shifted slightly, the edges of his cynicism softening. He looked toward the window, where the rainlight danced across the glass like tiny, trembling rebellions of its own.

Jack: “You really believe people still stand for each other like that?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because I’ve seen it. My mother used to work in a textile factory when I was little. When the machines broke down, management blamed the women. But one day, they all stopped — every single one of them. They stood together. They didn’t shout, didn’t break anything — they just refused to move. And that silence changed everything. That was solidarity.”

Host: Jack said nothing. The smoke from his cigarette rose slowly, curling around the lightbulb, as though even it wanted to listen.

Jack: “You’re saying resistance doesn’t need to shout.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes the strongest kind doesn’t. Sometimes resistance is just holding the line — for someone who can’t anymore.”

Jack: “Like standing next to someone at their breaking point?”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The rain softened, and the light from the streetlamp outside spilled through the window, turning the bookshop dust into floating, golden embers.

Jack: “Then what’s the line between solidarity and self-deception? Between standing with someone and just pretending we’re not alone?”

Jeeny: “The line’s thin — and maybe that’s the point. Solidarity isn’t about perfection; it’s about persistence. About staying even when the cause feels lost.”

Jack: “You make it sound sacred.”

Jeeny: “It is. Resistance born from love always is.”

Host: A quiet moment stretched — the kind where time slows and the heart catches itself mid-beat. Jack exhaled, long and low, like he was finally releasing something he’d carried too long.

Jack: “You know, I used to believe in that. When I was younger, we marched — thousands of us. It felt real then. Like we were part of something bigger. But when it fell apart… so did I.”

Jeeny: “And yet you’re still here, Jack. Still angry. Still caring enough to argue about it. That’s resistance, too.”

Host: The clock above the counter ticked — a small, stubborn sound in the room’s vast quiet.

Jack: “So what are you saying — that as long as one person refuses to give up, solidarity’s alive?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because solidarity isn’t a crowd, Jack. It’s a choice. A defiance of indifference. Even when it’s just two people in an empty bookstore, talking about not giving up.”

Host: The camera would linger now — on Jack’s face, lined with fatigue but slowly lit with something fragile, almost like hope. The smoke between them drifted upward, dissolving into the ceiling shadows.

Jack: “You sound like you think love and resistance are the same thing.”

Jeeny: “Aren’t they? Both mean standing beside someone when it costs you something.”

Host: Outside, the rain finally stopped. The streetlamp flickered once more, then steadied — its light unwavering now, resolute.

Jack: “You know, maybe Hitchens was right. Maybe solidarity should always be an act of resistance — not against power, but against despair.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because despair is what power feeds on. But when people stand together — even quietly — that’s how the world shifts.”

Host: The camera would rise slightly, showing the two figures framed in the bookshop’s warm light, surrounded by the stillness of words written long ago by others who resisted in their own ways.

Jack stubbed out his cigarette and looked toward Jeeny, the faintest trace of a smile breaking through.

Jack: “Then I guess we’re still resisting.”

Jeeny: “Always.”

Host: The scene closed with a slow pan toward the window, where the city reflected back — shimmering, weary, but alive. Somewhere in the distance, the faint sound of footsteps echoed — a reminder that even in the quietest corners, someone was still walking beside someone else.

And in that shared stillness, solidarity breathed — softly, defiantly, eternally.