That feeds anger, and I mean when we went and at last thank

Host: The rain fell steadily across the cobblestone streets of Belfast, washing the day’s gray into a deeper, glistening quiet. The murals on the walls, bold with history, glowed faintly under the streetlights — faces of martyrs, words of hope, faded slogans still alive in the stone. The air was damp, but not heavy — like a world that had finally learned to breathe again after years of holding its breath.

In a small café off Falls Road, the windows fogged with warmth and the scent of strong coffee, Jack sat near the back, coat draped over his chair, his eyes tracing the raindrops sliding down the glass. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her tea absentmindedly, the spoon clinking in soft rhythm, her expression thoughtful — the kind of quiet only earned after long reflection.

Jeeny: “Clare Short once said, ‘That feeds anger, and I mean when we went and at last thank heavens got towards peace in Northern Ireland we went for justice within Northern Ireland as well as using security well, as well as a political settlement, but surely that is the lesson.’”

Jack: nodding slowly “Justice and peace — always two sides of the same brittle coin.”

Jeeny: “Except most people try to flip it — chasing peace first and pretending justice will catch up later.”

Jack: “And it never does. Not without scars.”

Host: The door chimed softly as someone entered, the sound of wet boots on the floorboards mixing with the faint hum of conversation. Outside, the rain kept falling, soft but relentless — the same way truth falls through history, washing away what refuses to change.

Jack: “You ever notice how the world calls it ‘peace’ once the guns stop, even if the wounds still bleed?”

Jeeny: “Because silence looks like peace from a distance.”

Jack: “Yeah. But Clare Short was right — you can’t build peace on silence. Only on justice.”

Jeeny: softly “Justice — that’s the dangerous word, isn’t it? Too heavy for politics, too slow for the wounded.”

Jack: “Because justice isn’t about revenge. It’s about restoration. And that’s not as dramatic. Doesn’t sell headlines.”

Host: The steam from their cups curled upward like memory, like prayers without direction. A few locals at the counter spoke in low voices — words of football, work, the ordinary — the sound of a people learning how to live normally again.

Jeeny: “You think we ever really learn that lesson? That you can’t force peace, only invite it?”

Jack: “Maybe we learn it, then forget it. Every generation starts over, thinking they can skip the hard part — skip forgiveness.”

Jeeny: “Forgiveness isn’t skipping, Jack. It’s choosing to keep walking even when your legs shake.”

Jack: leaning back, studying her face “You’ve got a poet’s definition for everything.”

Jeeny: “Only for the words people misuse.”

Host: The light outside dimmed, shifting from the pale gray of day into the deep blue of night. The city hummed quietly — not the hum of fear it once carried, but of survival.

Jack: “You know, what strikes me about Short’s words isn’t the politics. It’s the humility. That peace came because people stopped trying to win and started trying to listen.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Listening was the revolution.”

Jack: smiling faintly “And justice, the translation.”

Jeeny: “It wasn’t just about power-sharing or borders. It was about dignity — finally saying to each other, your grief counts too.”

Host: The rain softened, almost musical now. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell chimed, not mournful, just steady — like the heartbeat of a new world testing itself.

Jack: “Funny thing, though — even when peace arrives, it doesn’t erase anger. It just gives it something to grow into.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Into responsibility. Anger without purpose burns down. Anger with purpose rebuilds.”

Jack: quietly “You think justice is ever finished?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s a verb, not a verdict.”

Host: The waitress refilled their cups, smiling politely — her accent warm, her hands marked by labor. There was something grounding in that moment, the simple kindness of it. Peace in practice, not proclamation.

Jeeny: “What Short understood — and what too many forget — is that peace isn’t a treaty. It’s a habit.”

Jack: “A habit built on fairness, not fear.”

Jeeny: “Yes. On systems that don’t just prevent violence, but heal it. Otherwise, you’re just building quiet prisons instead of loud wars.”

Jack: sighing softly “You talk like you’ve seen it firsthand.”

Jeeny: gazing out the window “Not the same way this country did. But every place I’ve been — every heart I’ve known — has its own version of Northern Ireland inside it. A place where peace is trying to make friends with justice.”

Host: The rain stopped completely, leaving the world outside glistening — reflections of the streetlights rippling in the puddles. Jeeny’s voice lowered, thoughtful, her words carrying the weight of empathy.

Jeeny: “Short was right. The lesson wasn’t just about Ireland. It was about humanity. Every conflict — political, personal, even private — ends the same way: not when you overpower your enemy, but when you understand them.”

Jack: nodding slowly “And when you stop trying to be right long enough to be kind.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The sound of chairs scraping and the door opening again broke the stillness. Outside, the clouds were finally parting, revealing a thin sliver of moonlight above the old rooftops.

Jack: “You know, maybe peace doesn’t come from victory or compromise. Maybe it comes from exhaustion — from being too tired to hate.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It comes from courage — the courage to admit that hate never built anything worth keeping.”

Host: The moonlight glinted off the rain-slick street. Inside, the café glowed with warmth — small, unremarkable, but full of something sacred: normalcy. Two people talking, disagreeing gently, but listening.

Jack: softly “You think we ever stop needing second lessons in peace?”

Jeeny: smiling “Only when we stop mistaking silence for peace and comfort for justice.”

Host: Jack looked at her for a long moment, then turned toward the window. The reflection of the café light shimmered in the glass — two figures framed by peace’s quiet aftermath.

And as they sat there, the rain-drenched city breathing around them, Clare Short’s lesson rang as clearly as any sermon:

That peace is not the absence of conflict,
but the presence of fairness,
the courage to repair,
and the humility to begin again —
in nations, in neighborhoods,
and in the soft, stubborn corners of the human heart.