That attitude that fighting is probably not fair, but you have to

Host: The night was dense with the quiet of confrontation — the kind that hums not in violence, but in principle. A small community hall stood at the edge of the city, its paint peeling, its walls covered in posters of marches and movements. The smell of coffee and sweat lingered in the air, mixed with the residue of too many passionate debates.

Jeeny sat on the wooden table, her posture straight, her eyes fierce — that particular fire of someone who believed that truth was not a matter of comfort. Jack leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his grey eyes tired but sharp.

Jeeny: “June Jordan once said, ‘That attitude that fighting is probably not fair, but you have to defend yourself anyway and damage the enemy, has been profoundly consequential as far as my political activism goes.’”

Host: The fluorescent light above them buzzed faintly, its flicker echoing the tension in the air. The words hung there — heavy, electric, unapologetically alive.

Jack: “That’s a dangerous philosophy, Jeeny. Fighting back is noble until it turns you into what you’re fighting against.”

Jeeny: “Only if you mistake self-defense for cruelty. Jordan wasn’t talking about vengeance — she was talking about necessity. When the world hits you, sometimes you either bruise or break.”

Jack: “Or you walk away.”

Jeeny: “And let the oppressor think he’s right?”

Host: Her voice rose, not in anger, but in conviction. Outside, the wind beat softly against the thin walls, a rhythm that matched the pulse of her words.

Jeeny: “She wasn’t glorifying violence, Jack. She was acknowledging survival — the moral paradox of having to fight a system built to crush you.”

Jack: “And you think fighting ‘the enemy,’ as she puts it, doesn’t corrupt the fighter?”

Jeeny: “No. It scars them. But sometimes scars are proof you refused to die quietly.”

Host: Jack moved closer, the wood creaking under his steps. His expression hardened — a reflection of realism sharpened by too many losses.

Jack: “You know what I’ve seen, Jeeny? Every revolution ends with someone else wearing the crown. Today’s liberator becomes tomorrow’s tyrant. The same fire that burns the chains burns the hands that wield it.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the point isn’t to win the crown, Jack. Maybe it’s to keep fighting so no one ever gets to wear it again.”

Host: Silence pressed between them — thick, unyielding, sacred. The poster behind them fluttered slightly in the wind, its slogan faded but defiant: “No justice, no peace.”

Jack: “And what about fairness? Jordan said it herself — fighting isn’t fair. Doesn’t that worry you? Doesn’t that mean you could justify anything, so long as you call it survival?”

Jeeny: “Fairness is a privilege of the comfortable. The oppressed don’t get the luxury of perfect ethics. They get to live or to kneel. That’s the reality she was naming — the grit behind morality.”

Jack: “So you’re saying ends justify means.”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying the means must evolve from the pain of the oppressed, not the convenience of the powerful.”

Host: The rain began to fall — light, hesitant — tapping against the windowpane like a metronome of restraint.

Jack: “You know, I used to believe in peaceful change. Debate, persuasion, dialogue. But now… I’m not sure anyone listens unless you shout loud enough to shake the walls.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you understand her now. June Jordan shouted because whispering didn’t move the system. Sometimes words need teeth.”

Host: Jeeny stood, the light catching her features — exhaustion mingled with quiet ferocity.

Jeeny: “Do you remember the protests in Ferguson, Jack? People said they were violent, destructive. But what no one said is that those people had been dying quietly for years. Silence had failed them.”

Jack: “So you justify the fire?”

Jeeny: “I understand the fire. That’s not the same thing.”

Host: Her tone softened, carrying a sorrow that lived beneath conviction — the sorrow of someone who believed that justice should never have to scream, yet always does.

Jack: “You ever wonder what fighting does to the soul?”

Jeeny: “It bruises it. But living oppressed erases it.”

Host: The light flickered again — an uncertain halo over their faces. Jack’s eyes darkened, his voice a low rumble.

Jack: “You sound like war is a duty.”

Jeeny: “No. War is the confession that peace was ignored.”

Host: A pause. The rain quickened, echoing against the tin roof like applause for the unspoken truth.

Jack: “You know, when Jordan says, ‘damage the enemy,’ it’s the word damage that gets me. It’s honest. It admits cost. But it also carries a warning — that we might all be enemies before it’s over.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why she calls it consequential. Because fighting back doesn’t make you pure — it just keeps you human.”

Host: Her words landed softly, the way truth does when it’s no longer trying to win. Jack turned away from the window, his reflection blurred by rain streaks.

Jack: “So maybe justice is never clean.”

Jeeny: “It isn’t. It’s born in mud and breath and blood and grace. But if we stop fighting because it’s not clean, then injustice wins because it’s easier.”

Host: She moved toward the table, her hand resting on an open notebook filled with her handwriting — ideas, sketches, slogans, the architecture of defiance.

Jeeny: “Do you know what I love most about June Jordan?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “She refused to make resistance sound romantic. She called it what it is — unfair, exhausting, but necessary. She loved peace enough to fight for it.”

Host: Jack nodded slowly, his eyes softer now, the lines of skepticism melting into thought.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the paradox, huh? To defend peace, you have to risk wounding the world again.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because peace isn’t the absence of wounds — it’s the courage to heal them.”

Host: The rain outside began to slow, each drop now deliberate, like time itself taking a breath. The hum of the fluorescent light faded beneath the rhythm of their shared stillness.

Jack picked up one of the posters from the table — “FREEDOM IS A VERB.” He stared at it for a long moment, then looked back at Jeeny.

Jack: “You know, I think I finally get it. Fighting back isn’t about hatred. It’s about not letting yourself disappear quietly.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Jack: “But it still hurts.”

Jeeny: “Everything real does.”

Host: She smiled — weary, but luminous — and turned toward the dark window. Outside, the city lights shimmered in puddles, reflections of both pain and persistence.

Jack stepped beside her, and together they watched the last drops of rain fall, tiny mirrors of their shared humanity.

Host: The camera would pull back — two silhouettes framed by dim light and shadows of protest posters, the echo of rain now fading into memory.

In that stillness, between conviction and compassion, one truth glowed like a faint ember refusing to die:

that fighting back may never be fair,
but it is the only language that injustice understands,
and sometimes, to defend the fragile peace of the human heart,
you must be willing to wound the world just enough
to wake it up.