The Chinese government wants me to say that for many centuries

Host: The room was small, dimly lit, and smelled faintly of tea leaves and old paper. Rain slid lazily down the window, tracing slow lines over the foggy glass. Outside, neon lights from a nearby street flickered in the puddles, painting brief reflections of red and blue on the walls.

Jack sat by the window, a cigarette burning between his fingers, the smoke curling like a restless ghost above his head. Jeeny sat across from him at the low table, her hands folded around a chipped ceramic cup. The sound of distant traffic hummed beneath the rain, soft and constant — the kind of sound that made words feel heavier when they finally came.

Jeeny: “I read something today. The Dalai Lama said, ‘The Chinese government wants me to say that for many centuries Tibet has been part of China. Even if I make that statement, many people would just laugh. And my statement will not change past history. History is history.’”

Host: Jack exhaled a long stream of smoke, watching it dissolve into the air like something too tired to fight. His eyes, grey and unreadable, flickered toward Jeeny.

Jack: “History, huh? That’s a dangerous word. Everyone thinks they own it.”

Jeeny: “He’s not talking about ownership. He’s talking about truth — about how truth doesn’t bend just because power demands it.”

Jack: “Truth.” he almost laughs “Truth is a luxury, Jeeny. The winners write it, the rest read it.”

Host: The rain outside grew heavier, beating harder against the windowpane, as if the sky itself wanted to join their argument.

Jeeny: “That’s exactly the point. The Dalai Lama was told to repeat a story he didn’t believe, just to make it sound official. But he refused. Because he knows — the truth might be buried, but it never dies.”

Jack: “You think history cares about what’s true? Look around. Whole empires were built on lies. The British called colonization ‘civilization.’ The Soviets called oppression ‘liberation.’ And every flag draped over a grave said it was for glory. People rewrite truth until it fits their purpose — then call it history.”

Jeeny: “And yet, history always comes back to haunt those who distort it. Look at apartheid. Decades of justifying cruelty — and then, one day, the truth stood in front of the world, undeniable. You can twist facts, but you can’t change what happened.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his chair creaking under his weight, his face shadowed by the half-burnt cigarette. The light flickered above them, trembling like an uncertain heartbeat.

Jack: “You really believe truth wins in the end?”

Jeeny: “I do. Because truth doesn’t need to win. It just is. That’s what the Dalai Lama meant. You can deny it, you can erase it, you can punish anyone who speaks it — but it still exists, quietly, like a mountain under fog.”

Host: Jack’s eyes softened, though his voice remained edged.

Jack: “Mountains can erode, Jeeny. History does too. You think people will remember Tibet in a hundred years? Or the Uyghurs? Or the Rohingya? People forget faster than governments can rewrite.”

Jeeny: “People forget facts, maybe. But not the feeling of injustice. The human heart remembers even when the mind can’t. That’s why every time oppression rises, resistance follows. The same story, different century.”

Host: The rain slowed. A few drops lingered on the glass, catching the city light like tiny broken stars. Jack stubbed out his cigarette, the faint sizzle filling the silence between them.

Jack: “So what’s truth worth, then, if it can’t protect people? The monks in Tibet — they believed in truth. And where did that get them? Silence. Exile. Disappearance.”

Jeeny: quietly “Sometimes truth doesn’t protect you. Sometimes you protect truth.”

Host: Jack looked at her, something unspoken flickering across his face — a recognition, perhaps, of the weight in her words.

Jack: “You talk like truth’s a religion.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. The only one left that can’t be corrupted. You don’t pray to it for reward — you serve it because without it, we become ghosts pretending to be human.”

Host: The wind pushed gently against the window, making it rattle. Somewhere outside, a dog barked, a car splashed through a puddle, and life went on — indifferent, continuous.

Jack: “But truth isn’t clean. It’s not some glowing light we follow. It’s messy. Subjective. You call it truth, I call it perspective. Maybe the Dalai Lama believes Tibet was never China’s, but history’s filled with shifting lines, old maps, and older grudges. Who decides which version survives?”

Jeeny: “Not the one with the most guns. The one that carries the most conscience.”

Jack: sharply “Conscience doesn’t build nations.”

Jeeny: “No. But it saves souls.”

Host: For a long moment, they both sat in silence. The lamp flickered again, then steadied. Jack’s fingers traced the rim of his cup, his mind far away — perhaps among the ghosts of old wars and the weight of unspoken histories.

Jack: “You know, when I was a reporter, I covered protests in Hong Kong. I saw kids holding signs saying ‘Truth is not a crime.’ They believed that. I admired it — but I also knew how fragile it was. When the tear gas came, truth didn’t shield them. Helmets did. And even then, they fell.”

Jeeny: “But their truth lives on. That’s what you don’t see. Those images, those cries — they became part of history. You can silence voices, Jack, but you can’t silence what they meant. Every time someone speaks the truth knowing it might cost them — history changes, even if only a little.”

Host: Jack’s eyes met hers. The rain outside had stopped completely, and in the stillness, the city’s heartbeat could be heard — faint, rhythmic, alive.

Jack: “You always find hope in the ruins, don’t you?”

Jeeny: softly, but firmly “Because ruins are proof that something once stood. That’s what truth is — the ruins of lies. The Dalai Lama isn’t fighting China. He’s fighting time. He’s reminding the world that no empire, no decree, no rewritten textbook can erase what truly happened.”

Jack: “But time erases everything, eventually.”

Jeeny: “Not everything. The human spirit remembers what matters. The same way water remembers its source, even when it’s been through rivers, pipes, and storms. That’s why people still whisper forbidden names, still tell banned stories. Truth doesn’t vanish; it adapts.”

Host: A beam of faint light broke through the clouds, slipping through the window and landing across their faces. It turned Jeeny’s eyes into small fires — steady, alive.

Jack: “Maybe truth isn’t history, then. Maybe it’s the courage to keep telling it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The rain had stopped completely now. Outside, the city glistened under a fresh coat of wet light. A street vendor pulled his cart out from under a canopy, a small act of continuation — like history itself refusing to pause.

Jack stood, walked to the window, and stared out at the world.

Jack: “You know… maybe the Dalai Lama’s right. Statements don’t change history. But silence — silence lets lies become it.”

Jeeny: “And that’s why some truths are worth suffering for.”

Host: The camera pulled back. Two figures, one standing, one seated, surrounded by the quiet hum of a city that had seen too many truths buried and too many lies crowned.

The faint light from the street caught the edge of the table, reflecting briefly like a flame before fading.

And in that fading glow, the truth lingered — simple, stubborn, eternal:

History can be rewritten, but never undone. The truth waits — patient, undefeated.