The best migrant is the migrant who does not come.

Host: The train station was loud with silence — that kind of silence that grows between languages, between people who have nowhere left to go and those who refuse to see them. The air was thick with exhaust, damp coats, and waiting, the sound of a thousand small lives in transit.

A neon “Departures” sign flickered overhead, casting ghostly light across faces that did not belong to any one place — faces of hope and exhaustion, of survival in motion.
Near the far bench, Jack stood, hands deep in his jacket pockets, staring at the long line of travelers pressed together, each clutching a ticket that cost more than money.
Across from him, Jeeny watched quietly, her eyes heavy with empathy, a scarf drawn close around her throat.

The loudspeaker cracked to life with a voice that said nothing human — just times, numbers, destinations.

Jeeny: softly, almost to herself “Viktor Orbán once said — ‘The best migrant is the migrant who does not come.’”

Jack: grimly “That sounds like something you’d write on a border wall.”

Jeeny: gently “Or carve into a conscience, if you stopped believing people deserved better.”

Host: The wind pushed through the open doors, sharp and metallic. A child’s cry echoed faintly from somewhere behind the benches — not loud, but enough to remind them both what the word migrant actually meant.

Jack: bitterly “You know what gets me? Statements like that — they sound clean, logical, efficient. But they erase the dirt, the hunger, the grief that made people leave in the first place.”

Jeeny: “That’s what fear does. It sanitizes cruelty with reason.”

Jack: “You think he believes it, or it’s just politics?”

Jeeny: “Both. Fear disguised as pragmatism. People like him convince themselves that compassion is chaos. That empathy is weakness. And then they build fences out of numbers.”

Host: The sound of trains pulling in filled the station — the metal wheels screaming against the rails, the air trembling. Jack turned to look down the platform — where a group of migrants stood together, clutching bags too light for what they carried.

Jack: “Look at them. They’ve already lost home. And now they’re told they shouldn’t even exist in someone else’s story.”

Jeeny: “Because existing is inconvenient for the comfortable.”

Host: She walked toward the window, her reflection merging with the faces behind the glass, those who waited for permission to move.

Jeeny: “Do you know what’s strange, Jack? We celebrate migration when it’s birds. When it’s whales crossing oceans, or monarch butterflies tracing impossible paths. But when it’s people, suddenly it’s danger.”

Jack: nodding slowly “Maybe because birds don’t ask for food. They don’t challenge borders.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. They just move. Because life depends on movement. Migration isn’t a crime — it’s biology.”

Host: A pause — long enough for the echo of the departing train to fade. Jack walked over, stood beside her, his gray eyes reflecting the cold blue light.

Jack: “You think a man like Orbán ever stood in a station like this? Heard these silences?”

Jeeny: quietly “No. He stands in rooms built to keep the world out. And in rooms like that, fear sounds like wisdom.”

Jack: “So what do you do when power forgets what people look like?”

Jeeny: “You remind it.”

Host: The rain began outside, streaking the glass with thin silver lines — a blur that made all faces, all nations, one.

Jeeny: “You know, when he said ‘the best migrant is the one who does not come,’ what he really meant was — ‘The best suffering is the kind I don’t have to see.’”

Jack: softly “Out of sight, out of soul.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. But empathy isn’t optional. The world’s borders are drawn on paper, not on humanity.”

Host: A small boy pressed his hand against the window near them, tracing a fogged outline with his finger. His mother whispered to him in another language — words soft, but full of promise.

Jack watched them. His expression shifted — from frustration to something rawer.

Jack: “I used to think migration was about escape. But now I think it’s about courage. The courage to leave everything familiar for a chance at dignity.”

Jeeny: nodding “Yes. And the cruelty is in pretending that courage is the threat.”

Host: The intercom buzzed again, the next departure announced. The crowd stirred — motion, rustling coats, heavy bags lifted again.

Jeeny: “Every migrant carries two homes — the one they left and the one that hasn’t accepted them yet. Between those, they live in a kind of nowhere.”

Jack: “And we call that nowhere a policy.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because it’s easier to manage an idea than to face a human face.”

Host: Jack turned to her, his voice quieter now — the tone of someone who’d seen too much and finally decided to feel it.

Jack: “You know, history doesn’t remember who built the walls. Only who climbed them.”

Jeeny: “Or who tore them down.”

Host: The train whistle blew, low and mournful, rolling through the station like an old hymn. The two stood side by side as people began boarding — a sea of motion, hands gripping other hands, eyes carrying entire continents of memory.

Jeeny: softly “You know, Viktor Orbán’s quote isn’t just political. It’s spiritual. It’s the voice of every heart that’s forgotten mercy.”

Jack: “And mercy is what keeps us human.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Without it, we all become border guards of our own compassion.”

Host: The train began to move, slowly at first, then faster, the sound filling the cavernous hall. Jack watched it until it disappeared into the dark, then turned back to Jeeny.

Jack: quietly “You ever think about what it means to belong?”

Jeeny: “Every day. I think belonging isn’t a place. It’s the moment someone looks at you and doesn’t see a threat.”

Jack: “Then maybe that’s the world we should be building.”

Jeeny: softly “One without ‘best migrants.’ Just people.”

Host: The rain eased, the light from the streetlamps outside cutting through the wet glass like veins of gold. The two stood in silence, the faint warmth of humanity returning to the cold steel of the station.

Because Viktor Orbán was wrong —
the best migrant is not the one who does not come.
The best migrant is the one who survives.
The one who crosses deserts of despair and oceans of fear
to remind the rest of us what resilience looks like.

For migration is not invasion — it is testimony.
It is the proof that the human spirit refuses extinction.

And as Jack and Jeeny turned to leave,
their footsteps echoing against the tiled floor,
the last sound the station heard
was not departure —
but the quiet vow between them
that no one should ever have to prove their right
to exist.