The 1 to 2 billion poorest in the world, who don't have food for

Host: The sun was sinking over the corrugated rooftops of a small village in Southeast Asia. Children ran barefoot across the dusty path, their laughter blending with the hum of an old radio playing a distant song about hope. The air smelled of smoke and wet soil. In a tiny roadside café, lit by a flickering neon bulb, Jack and Jeeny sat opposite each other — two silhouettes framed by the orange dusk.

Jack’s grey eyes were fixed on the small television in the corner, where a news anchor spoke of economic growth and global markets. Jeeny stirred her tea, the steam curling like ghosts between them.

Jeeny: “Hans Rosling once said, ‘The 1 to 2 billion poorest in the world, who don't have food for the day, suffer from the worst disease: globalization deficiency.’”
She paused, her voice soft but steady. “It’s tragic, isn’t it? That being left out of the world’s progress is the most silent disease of all.”

Jack: (leaning back, his tone measured) “Tragic, maybe. But inevitable. Globalization’s not charity, Jeeny — it’s competition. The world doesn’t slow down for those who can’t keep up.”

Host: The fan above them turned lazily, scattering dust across the dim light. A truck rumbled by, shaking the glasses on the counter. Jeeny looked at him, her eyes reflecting both anger and sadness.

Jeeny: “You say that like it’s some law of nature. But isn’t globalization made by people — by systems we designed? If it’s man-made, can’t it also be remade to include those left behind?”

Jack: “Remade by who? Governments that can barely keep their lights on? NGOs drowning in bureaucracy? The market moves where profit leads, not pity.”

Jeeny: “And yet, people die because of that profit logic. In Africa, children starve while multinational companies export their land’s crops. That’s not ‘inevitable,’ Jack. That’s designed cruelty.”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly, like a violin string held too tight. Jack looked down at his hands, tracing the rim of his glass, his jaw tightening.

Jack: “You think I don’t see it? I’ve been there — in refugee camps, in slums. I’ve seen people with smartphones but no clean water. But Jeeny, if globalization didn’t reach them, at least they’re connected now. A generation ago, they didn’t even have a voice.”

Jeeny: “A voice that no one listens to is just an echo, Jack. Connection isn’t equality. Having Facebook doesn’t fill a stomach.”

Jack: (raising his eyebrows) “So what’s your solution? Shut down capitalism? Redistribute everything until everyone’s equally miserable?”

Jeeny: “No. Build better systems. Strengthen civil societies, as Rosling said. Support governments that serve their people, not foreign banks. Isn’t that the point? Not to destroy globalization — but to make it humane.”

Host: Outside, a monsoon wind began to rise. The trees swayed, and the first drops of rain tapped against the tin roof. The air thickened, full of the smell of earth and storm. The debate deepened.

Jack: “Humane globalization? That’s an oxymoron. The system’s designed to optimize efficiency, not ethics. You start regulating morality, and the machine breaks.”

Jeeny: (leaning forward) “Then maybe the machine should break. What’s the point of efficiency if it leaves billions starving? The Industrial Revolution was efficient too — and it filled factories with children. Progress without conscience isn’t progress, Jack. It’s madness.”

Host: Her words hit like thunderclaps, echoing under the metal roof. Jack didn’t respond immediately. His face was half-lit by the streetlight, half-swallowed by shadow — a man caught between reason and remorse.

Jack: “You talk about conscience like it can be engineered. But tell me — how do you feed a billion people without creating dependency? How do you lift a nation without corruption swallowing the aid?”

Jeeny: “By trusting people, not just systems. Look at Bangladesh — microfinance gave women their independence. Or Rwanda — rebuilding after genocide, driven by civic unity, not outside saviors. Good civil societies are the backbone Rosling spoke of. When people are empowered locally, globalization becomes a bridge, not a wall.”

Jack: “Bridges cost money, Jeeny. And money flows to where it multiplies, not where it stagnates. Investors don’t bet on empathy.”

Jeeny: “But leaders do. Mandela, Gandhi — they changed history not with wealth, but with will. And when the poor see hope, they fight for themselves. Isn’t that what globalization should inspire — the freedom to participate, not just to watch?”

Host: The rain intensified, drowning the street noise. Inside, only their voices remained — sharp, brittle, clashing like steel on stone.

Jack: (his voice lower now) “You think the world owes fairness. It doesn’t. The universe doesn’t deal in justice, Jeeny. The rich didn’t steal globalization — they built it.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. They built the rules — and then called it merit. Globalization isn’t a meritocracy; it’s geography and luck disguised as destiny. A child born in Sierra Leone never even gets to roll the dice.”

Jack: (with a bitter smile) “And yet, some make it out. Look at the entrepreneurs in Nairobi’s tech scene, or the farmers in India using drones now. They didn’t wait for handouts.”

Jeeny: “Yes — some. But you mistake exceptions for the rule. You point to sparks and ignore the darkness around them. The billions left behind aren’t lazy, Jack — they’re locked out.”

Host: The rain softened, turning into a gentle drizzle. The light flickered, casting their faces in alternating shadow and glow, like two sides of the same truth.

Jeeny: “When Rosling said ‘globalization deficiency,’ he meant it like a disease — something that spreads because we refuse to treat it. We have the medicine: education, infrastructure, fair trade. We just don’t prescribe it.”

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe because it’s not profitable to cure it.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Then the disease isn’t poverty, Jack. It’s indifference.”

Host: Silence filled the room — heavy, human, raw. The storm outside became a whisper, like the world holding its breath. Jack rubbed his temples, his eyes distant, as if replaying every face he had seen in the field — every child, every empty bowl.

Jack: “You know… once, in Haiti, I met a boy who’d built a radio out of scrap metal. Said he wanted to ‘hear the world.’ I remember thinking — how cruel that he can hear it, but not be part of it.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “That’s exactly it, Jack. Globalization should be more than noise. It should be music everyone gets to dance to.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “Maybe the melody’s broken. But maybe you’re right — it doesn’t have to be.”

Host: The lights steadied. The rain stopped. The sky outside glowed with the first hint of dawn, washing the streets in silver. Jeeny reached for her cup, now cold, but her eyes warm.

Jeeny: “If the disease is exclusion, then the cure isn’t charity — it’s inclusion. Not giving people leftovers, but giving them seats at the table.”

Jack: “And maybe teaching them to build their own table.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: A quiet understanding passed between them — fragile, but real. The neon bulb flickered once more, then held steady. The world outside was waking — vendors opening stalls, children running through puddles, buses coughing to life.

In that small café, two people sat surrounded by the hum of humanity, both realizing that globalization, like all human creations, was neither angel nor monster — just a mirror.

Host: As the sun rose, its light caught the steam rising from Jeeny’s cup — a small, beautiful illusion of warmth. Jack watched it fade and murmured, half to himself:

Jack: “Maybe Rosling was right. The worst thing isn’t being poor… it’s being invisible.”

Jeeny: “Then let’s make them seen, Jack.”

Host: Outside, the first school bell rang. The village came alive. Somewhere, far away, the world turned — still unequal, still imperfect, but for a moment, within that café, there was a glimpse of something vast and rare: hope.