Sometimes the point isn't to make people believe a lie - it's to

Host: The rain fell in thin, silver lines against the window of a small apartment overlooking the city. Neon lights bled into the wet glass, their colors trembling like half-remembered dreams. The room was dim, filled with the faint buzz of a lamp, and the lingering scent of coffee gone cold. Jack sat by the window, smoke curling from his cigarette, his reflection fractured by raindrops. Jeeny stood a few feet away, her arms crossed, her eyes searching the darkness beyond him.

The quote had been written on a torn page pinned to the wall:
“Sometimes the point isn’t to make people believe a lie – it’s to make people fear the liar.” – Anne Applebaum.

The words hung between them like a quiet challenge neither wished to begin.

Jeeny: “You know what’s terrifying, Jack? It’s not just that people lie. It’s that they lie so loudly, so confidently, that the truth starts to tremble in fear.”

Jack: “No, Jeeny. What’s terrifying is how easily people follow. They don’t need to believe—they just need to obey. The lie becomes irrelevant. The liar becomes power.”

Host: Jack’s voice was low, almost a whisper, yet it carried the weight of something old, like the echo of disillusionment. His eyes stayed fixed on the city, where distant sirens cut through the rain.

Jeeny: “So you think fear is stronger than truth?”

Jack: “It always has been. Look around. Every dictator, every tyrant, every corporate boss who ever controlled people—none of them needed everyone to believe the story. They just needed people to flinch when they spoke.”

Host: Jeeny’s jaw tightened, her breathing slow. She stepped closer, the light from the lamp drawing a thin glow around her face.

Jeeny: “That’s exactly why it’s so dangerous, Jack. Because once people start to fear the liar, they surrender their own voices. They stop questioning. They let fear write the truth for them.”

Jack: “Maybe they should. Maybe that’s just nature. The strong command, the weak obey. You can’t run a society on trust. You need fear to keep people in line.”

Jeeny: “You sound like one of them.”

Jack: “No. I sound like someone who’s seen what happens when people believe too easily. You remember the propaganda in the late ’30s? People didn’t fear the liar enough—they believed him. And look what it cost.”

Host: The rain grew harder, striking the glass like a restless heartbeat. Jeeny’s silence lingered, her eyes flickering with the ghost of something—grief, perhaps, or anger restrained.

Jeeny: “You’re wrong, Jack. They didn’t just believe him—they feared him too. The fear kept them obedient, even when they knew the truth. Fear is what turned neighbors into traitors, what made people pretend they didn’t hear the screams next door.”

Jack: “So what, Jeeny? You think courage would have saved them? Fear is the currency of power. It’s the only one that never devalues.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we’re the bankers who keep it alive. Every time we stay silent, every time we let power go unchecked, we become the interest it earns.”

Host: A pause filled the room, thick and breathless. The smoke from Jack’s cigarette coiled toward the ceiling, twisting like a question that refused an answer.

Jack: “Idealism looks nice on paper, Jeeny. But people don’t want the truth. They want safety. They’ll accept the liar, even fear him, if it means someone else takes the burden of thinking.”

Jeeny: “And that’s where you’re wrong. People don’t want to fear. They just forget how not to. Fear is a habit. Courage is memory—and memory can be taught.”

Host: Her voice rose slightly, carrying the faint tremor of passion. The rainlight touched her eyes, making them gleam with a fragile fire.

Jack: “You can’t teach courage to someone who’s hungry, Jeeny. Or desperate. Or trying to survive. That’s what power knows—it doesn’t need to convince, just to threaten.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the real threat is when people like you stop believing they can resist.”

Host: Jack turned, his eyes sharp, his expression unreadable. The silence between them stretched, fragile as a wire.

Jack: “You talk about resistance like it’s poetry. But have you ever seen what happens when truth-tellers stand up? They disappear. They’re mocked, silenced, erased. Fear isn’t just what the liar gives—it’s what society rewards.”

Jeeny: “And yet, some still speak. Anne Applebaum did. Václav Havel did. Even when the state turned their words into targets, they spoke. Not because they weren’t afraid—but because they knew that silence is the liar’s ally.”

Host: The room seemed to contract with the tension, as if the walls themselves leaned in to listen.

Jack: “You think their courage changed anything?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Maybe not the world—but the conscience of those who listened. That’s where change begins. In the single moment when someone decides they fear silence more than the liar.”

Host: Jack’s cigarette burned to its end. He crushed it against the ashtray, the faint hiss echoing in the quiet. His eyes softened, just slightly, as though some invisible armor had cracked.

Jack: “You really think fear can be unlearned?”

Jeeny: “Not unlearned. Outlived. You outgrow it every time you choose to speak when it’s easier to be quiet. Every time you tell a child that fear isn’t their inheritance.”

Host: A single flash of lightning burst across the sky, illuminating their faces—his worn and shadowed, hers glowing with conviction.

Jack: “You always make it sound so simple.”

Jeeny: “It isn’t. But neither is despair.”

Host: The rain began to ease, the neon glow softening into something almost tender. Jeeny moved toward the window, resting her hand on the glass where droplets slid down like tiny truths dissolving into silence.

Jeeny: “You said people just want safety. Maybe that’s true. But real safety isn’t built on fear. It’s built on the belief that the liar’s voice isn’t the only one in the room.”

Jack: “And what if the liar’s voice is the loudest?”

Jeeny: “Then we whisper until the echo grows louder than the shout.”

Host: For a long moment, neither spoke. Only the faint hum of the city filled the void—cars passing below, a distant train, the muffled beat of life continuing beyond their small window of thought.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, maybe you’re right. Maybe the point isn’t to stop people from fearing the liar. Maybe it’s to remind them they don’t have to.”

Jeeny: “That’s all it takes to break the spell.”

Host: The lamp flickered once, casting a final wave of light across the room before dimming to a quiet glow. Jack leaned back, his face tired but peaceful. Jeeny smiled faintly, her reflection beside his in the window—two silhouettes framed by the last rain of the night.

Host: Outside, the city exhaled. The storm had passed, but the streets still shimmered with its memory—a reminder that even after fear, there remains the quiet courage of those who dare to look up.