The Chinese leadership hoped that the world would soon forget the

Host: The night hung heavy over Beijing, as if the sky itself remembered what history tried to forget. A thin mist floated through the streets, carrying the ghosts of marching feet and the echoes of silenced voices. Lanterns glowed faintly along a narrow alley, their light quivering in the wind, like fragile memories refusing to die.

In a dim teahouse tucked behind a wooden gate, two figures sat in opposite corners of the same small table — Jack and Jeeny. Between them, a candle flickered, casting shadows that danced across the walls, as if shadows themselves were telling stories the world could no longer speak aloud.

Jeeny: softly “Tom Lantos once said, ‘The Chinese leadership hoped that the world would soon forget the Tiananmen Square massacre. Our job in Congress is to ensure that we never forget those who lost their lives...’”
Her voice trembled, the words hovering like a prayer in the air. “He was right, Jack. Forgetting is the last betrayal. When we forget, we kill them a second time.”

Jack: leans back, voice low, gravelly “And what do we do with remembering, Jeeny? We turn their pain into headlines, ceremonies, and hashtags. We wear it for a day, and then we move on. Memory has become a performance, not a duty.”

Host: The candlelight flickered, stretching their faces — one furrowed with skepticism, the other etched with grief. Outside, a distant siren wailed, its cry lost in the mist, like a voice trying to reach across time.

Jeeny: “But memory is all we have left. Those students — those dreamers — they believed in freedom. They stood in the square, unarmed, singing in the face of tanks. If we forget, Jack, we prove the oppressors were right — that fear can erase even the truth.”

Jack: “Truth doesn’t die when it’s forgotten, Jeeny. It dies when it’s used. When every politician, every speech, every movement claims the martyrs as their own. You think Lantos cared about those kids? He cared about America’s conscience. The dead become symbols, and symbols become weapons.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes narrowed, but her voice remained calm — tender, yet unyielding.
A drop of wax fell, hissing on the wood, as though the candle itself wept.

Jeeny: “Maybe he used his words as a weapon, Jack. But he used them to defend, not destroy. There’s a difference between weaponizing memory and protecting it. Those people in Tiananmen — they didn’t die for politics. They died for a dream that we still owe them.”

Jack: coldly “Dreams don’t pay debts, Jeeny. Governments bury dreams because reality doesn’t negotiate with idealists. The world didn’t forget Tiananmen — it chose to ignore it. Because trade deals and markets are easier than morality.”

Jeeny: “Then what’s the point of your realism, Jack, if it only teaches us to accept what’s unacceptable? The students at Tiananmen knew they might die, but they stood there anyway. That’s not naïve — that’s sacred.”

Host: The wind howled through the cracks in the door, rattling the teacups.
Jack’s hands tightened around his glass, his knuckles white. For a moment, he didn’t speak — only stared into the candle flame, his reflection trembling within it.

Jack: “Sacred... You use that word like it still means something. But the world isn’t a temple, Jeeny. It’s a marketplace. And even sacrifice has a price. Tiananmen, Syria, Ukraine, Gaza — the names change, the outcome doesn’t. The powerful remain, and the brave bleed.”

Jeeny: her voice breaks, barely a whisper “And what if the brave still believed it was worth it? What if dying for a dream is better than living in obedience? You talk about markets, but conscience isn’t for sale.”

Jack: “Conscience doesn’t feed a nation. It feeds the soul, sure — but the soul doesn’t build roads, or power cities. The Chinese leadership understood that. That’s why they survived. The students were right, but the government was effective.”

Jeeny: slams her hand on the table “Effective?! Effective in erasing their own children from history? In pretending their blood never soaked the ground? You call that survival — I call it amnesia disguised as strength!”

Host: The teahouse fell silent. The rain resumed, soft, steady, like mourning whispered by clouds.
Jack looked at Jeeny — her eyes glistening, her fists clenched, her breathing uneven. Something in his face softened, like ice cracking beneath a sudden thaw.

Jack: quietly “You think I don’t remember? I was there, Jeeny. Not in the square, but I watched — the tanks, the smoke, the people running. I was a teenager, staring at a television screen, thinking: how can the world just watch? And then... the next day, the news was gone. Vanished. As if nothing happened.”

Jeeny: softly now “That’s why we can’t let them disappear. Forgetting is what authoritarians count on. It’s how injustice survives. We owe those who stood there more than silence — we owe them remembrance.”

Host: A long breath passed between them. The flame wavered, casting a halo over their faces — sorrow on one, resolve on the other.

Jack: “You really think remembering can change anything?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because memory is rebellion. It keeps the truth alive, even when the world tries to bury it. Every generation that remembers Tiananmen — every voice that speaks their names — is a wound that refuses to heal until justice does.”

Jack: “So we just keep bleeding?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because healing without justice is forgetting. And forgetting, Jack... is forgiveness the guilty never earned.”

Host: Her words hung like smoke, thick and unforgiving. Jack lowered his gaze, tracing the grain of the table with his fingers, as though searching for meaning in its lines.

Outside, a breeze swept through the trees, shaking loose a single leaf, which fluttered down, silent and slow, landing against the windowpane — a symbol, fragile yet unyielding.

Jack: after a pause “Maybe you’re right. Maybe remembering is the only justice we can afford. We can’t rewrite the past, but we can refuse to erase it. That’s something, at least.”

Jeeny: “It’s more than something. It’s the beginning of truth. And truth, Jack, is the only revolution that can’t be crushed.”

Host: The candle burned lower, its flame steady now, as if reassured by their words. The rain had stopped, the air now clear, and the city lights flickered like distant stars.

In that moment, the past and present merged — the ghosts of Tiananmen standing silently beside them, watching, listening, forgiven but not forgotten.

And as the flame flickered out, only one truth remained in the darkness —
that memory is not a burden,
but a promise.
A promise to the dead,
that the living will still speak,
when the world would rather stay silent.