The agricultural working people should be imbued with a

Host: The sky hung low and ashen over the wide fields of late autumn. The wind bent the dry stalks of corn in slow, whispering unison — a choir of brittle voices mourning the coming frost. A line of distant smoke rose from the horizon — a factory, perhaps, or the stubborn breath of a dying season.

At the edge of that field, beneath a crooked scarecrow and a single flickering lamp post, Jack and Jeeny sat on overturned crates, the remains of their shared meal still warm in its paper box. Behind them, a tractor rusted in silence, the emblem of an older dream now covered in dust.

In Jeeny’s hands, a printed quote — its language sharp, grand, and heavy with ideology:

"The agricultural working people should be imbued with a thoroughgoing faith in socialism and steadfast anti-imperialist and class consciousness so that they can regard our style of socialism as their life and soul, love it ardently, and fight staunchly against the imperialists' moves for ideological and cultural infiltration." — Kim Jong-un.

Jeeny read it aloud, her voice low, as though the land itself might be listening.

Jeeny: “It’s… frightening and fascinating, isn’t it? The idea of loving a system like it’s your soul.”

Jack gave a dry laugh, his eyes fixed on the horizon where the sun had sunk behind the distant hills.

Jack: “Fascinating, sure. Frightening, definitely. It’s a sermon disguised as politics — a demand for devotion, not belief.”

Jeeny: “You think faith and devotion are different?”

Jack: “Completely. Faith is born inside. Devotion can be beaten into you.”

Host: The wind caught a loose sheet of newspaper, dragging it across the dirt. The sound of distant machinery echoed faintly — rhythmic, unrelenting, like a heart that refuses to rest.

Jeeny: “Still, I can’t deny there’s a kind of poetry in it. ‘Regard socialism as your life and soul.’ That’s powerful, even if it’s terrifying.”

Jack: “Poetry is easy when you control the pen. Try writing freely under a regime like that. Faith becomes choreography — everyone moving to the same song, because silence costs too much.”

Jeeny: “But for the people — the farmers, the laborers — maybe it isn’t coercion. Maybe it’s survival through meaning. When you have nothing else, an ideology can feel like warmth.”

Jack: “That’s what propaganda is built for. Warmth. It feeds the spirit just long enough for the mind to go numb.”

Host: The lamp post above them flickered, its light catching in Jack’s grey eyes — tired, defiant, yet tinged with something almost like sorrow.

Jeeny: “You’re cynical, Jack. But don’t you think people need to believe in something bigger than themselves? Even if it’s flawed?”

Jack: “Need, yes. But belief shouldn’t be engineered. When the state tells you what your soul should look like, that’s not belief — that’s colonization of the heart.”

Jeeny: “But what about systems built on shared purpose? Isn’t that what we all long for? To belong, to work for something collective?”

Jack: “Not when belonging means erasing yourself. I’ve seen what that looks like. North Korea isn’t a collective — it’s a mirror maze. Every reflection is the leader’s face.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes darkened. She looked out at the fields, the barren rows stretching into nothing. Her voice softened, carrying an ache that didn’t quite fit the political weight of their words.

Jeeny: “My grandmother used to tell me stories about when the commune system began in China. Everyone worked the fields together — sang together. For a while, it did feel like faith. Like community. Until the hunger came.”

Jack: “Exactly. Ideology works until the stomach rebels.”

Jeeny: “But even then, people clung to the dream. That’s what’s tragic. They still believed, even when belief starved them.”

Host: The air grew colder. A thin mist began to rise from the soil. The world seemed to shrink around their small circle of light.

Jack: “That’s because faith, when twisted, becomes dependency. You don’t question it because it’s the only thing left standing.”

Jeeny: “You’re right. But tell me — how’s that different from capitalism? Isn’t the same faith demanded there too? Only this time, we call it freedom.”

Jack: “Touché. At least under capitalism, you’re free to lose your faith. Under totalitarianism, losing faith means losing your life.”

Host: The lamp above them buzzed, drawing a cloud of small insects that danced like sparks in the cold light. Jeeny’s hands trembled slightly as she folded the paper and set it aside.

Jeeny: “Maybe the danger isn’t in belief itself, but in the way we sanctify it. When systems — any system — become sacred, they stop serving people. People start serving them.”

Jack: “That’s the irony, isn’t it? Every ideology begins with liberation — and ends with obedience.”

Jeeny: “But what’s the alternative? A world with no shared ideal, no collective soul?”

Jack: “Maybe not no ideals — just ones we can argue with. Real faith doesn’t silence you; it makes you speak louder.”

Host: The wind howled suddenly, pulling at Jeeny’s hair, scattering the ashes from Jack’s cigarette into the night. In that instant, the field seemed alive again — a vast, breathing presence, caught between the ghosts of harvest and the silence of control.

Jeeny: “You know what scares me most about that quote?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “The way it ties love and war together. ‘Love socialism ardently. Fight staunchly.’ As if to love anything deeply, you must also hate something completely.”

Jack: “That’s the perfect formula for control. Make love indistinguishable from obedience. Then even kindness becomes ammunition.”

Host: The lamp dimmed once more, its glow weakening as the generator somewhere behind the field coughed and wheezed. The darkness that followed wasn’t hostile — just heavy, as though the earth itself were thinking.

Jeeny: “Maybe what we need is not faith in systems, but faith in each other. The kind that doesn’t require slogans.”

Jack: “The kind that doesn’t need an enemy to survive.”

Host: For a moment, they sat in silence — just two figures under a flickering light, surrounded by the endless breath of the land. Then Jeeny stood, brushing dirt from her coat.

Jeeny: “You know what I envy about farmers, though?”

Jack: “What’s that?”

Jeeny: “They plant seeds. Not ideologies. Just seeds. And somehow, that’s enough.”

Jack smiled faintly — a weary, human smile that had seen both the beauty and the burden of thought.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the real revolution — to plant, not preach.”

Host: The camera would linger then — the faint glow of the lamp, the field stretching beyond sight, and two shadows walking slowly into the mist.

Their conversation would fade beneath the hum of the wind, replaced by the soft rustle of dry leaves, the eternal rhythm of earth and hope.

Because in the end, faith — in socialism, in freedom, in anything — is only as pure as the hands that hold it.

And in that quiet field, under a dying light,
the only ideology left was this:
to be human, and to keep planting,
even in the dark.