The equal right of all citizens to health, education, work, food

Host: The evening sun sank behind the old Havana skyline, gilding the sea in molten orange and gold. The faint rhythm of a distant guitar drifted from an open balcony, weaving through the humid air like a memory that refused to end. Seagulls wheeled lazily above the Malecon, their cries mixing with the soft rumble of waves against the wall.

Host: On the worn seaside promenade, Jack leaned against the rail, a thin cigar between his fingers, watching the horizon where the sun kissed the ocean. Beside him, Jeeny sat on the edge of the wall, her feet swinging slightly above the stone, her dress catching the breeze. Behind them, the city pulsed — alive, cracked, stubborn, and beautiful.

Host: The light painted their faces in shades of gold and shadow, as if the dying day itself were debating what it meant to be free.

Jeeny: (softly) “Fidel Castro once said, ‘The equal right of all citizens to health, education, work, food, security, culture, science, and wellbeing — that is, the same rights we proclaimed when we began our struggle, in addition to those which emerge from our dreams of justice and equality for all inhabitants of our world — is what I wish for all.’”

Jack: (lets out a low breath of smoke) “Sounds like a manifesto written on sunset paper.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Or a prayer written in blood.”

Jack: “You think he meant it? Or was it just another speech for the crowd?”

Jeeny: “That depends on what kind of faith you think revolutions run on — words or conviction.”

Host: A gust of wind lifted the cigar smoke, carrying it out to sea like an offering. The faint sound of a car horn echoed from the narrow streets behind them, followed by laughter — loud, human, imperfect.

Jack: “He said ‘equal right for all.’ Big words. But the world’s full of men who said the same and left everyone hungrier.”

Jeeny: “True. But he didn’t wish for wealth. He wished for balance — health, work, food, education. Basic things that should never have to be dreams.”

Jack: “You call that balance? Sounds like a wish made from the top of a tower.”

Jeeny: “No. A wish made from a battlefield.”

Jack: (glancing at her) “You admire him.”

Jeeny: “I admire the idea — not the idol. The idea that equality isn’t luxury. It’s survival.”

Host: The waves hit the wall with rhythm — a steady percussion, as if the sea itself was keeping time with the debate. A group of kids played soccer in the street behind them, their bare feet sending the ball echoing against the old stones.

Jack: “It’s a beautiful thought, sure — a world where everyone eats, learns, and works with dignity. But the problem with ideals is that they never walk the same roads as reality.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why they have to be repeated. Every generation needs its impossible sentence.”

Jack: (grinning) “You think we’ve earned the right to dream of equality after everything we’ve done?”

Jeeny: “No one earns that right. We inherit it — the same way we inherit injustice. The only question is what we do with it once it’s in our hands.”

Host: The sky dimmed to a deep violet, the first stars trembling above the horizon. The air smelled of salt, smoke, and the faint sweetness of fried plantains from a nearby stall.

Jack: “I grew up believing in fairness — the kind they teach in school. But the older I got, the more I realized fairness isn’t natural. You have to build it. And people are lazy builders.”

Jeeny: “Then the dreamers have to keep building, even when no one else does.”

Jack: (sighs) “You sound like a revolutionary.”

Jeeny: “Only if believing in dignity counts as rebellion.”

Host: The light flickered across the sea, turning the water into glassy streaks of gold and black. A fisherman walked by, dragging his net — his hands worn, his eyes patient. Jeeny watched him, then turned back to Jack.

Jeeny: “You see him? He’s the reason those words matter. Health. Work. Food. He’s the reason people like Castro spoke in absolutes — because poverty doesn’t wait for moderation.”

Jack: “And yet absolutes always cost someone something. History’s full of good intentions buried under revolutions that went too far.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But isn’t it also full of indifference that didn’t go far enough?”

Host: Silence. The question lingered, heavy and soft, like the evening heat.

Jack: (after a pause) “You ever wonder if humanity’s problem is that it wants justice without sacrifice?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe the problem is we keep letting the same few define what justice means.”

Jack: “You think justice can be shared?”

Jeeny: “It has to be. Or it isn’t justice.”

Host: A faint breeze brushed her hair, lifting strands that caught the fading light. Jack studied her — her conviction quiet but fierce, her tone like the slow strike of a match.

Jack: “You believe equality is possible, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “I believe it’s necessary.”

Jack: “But you know it’ll never be perfect.”

Jeeny: “It doesn’t need to be perfect. It just needs to be pursued.”

Host: The last light of the sun finally disappeared beneath the horizon, leaving only the silver reflection of the moon on the sea. The city came alive behind them — music, laughter, the chatter of voices rising into the humid night.

Jack: (softly) “You know, for all his contradictions, I think Castro wanted the same thing every great leader wants — to be remembered for trying to give the world what it deserves.”

Jeeny: “And to be forgiven for what it cost to try.”

Host: The sound of the waves deepened, like a pulse. The camera drifted slowly around them — two figures in silhouette, framed by the light of Havana and the dark of the ocean.

Jeeny: “The equal right to live fully — to learn, to eat, to create — it’s not political, Jack. It’s human. It’s the most radical and simple truth there is.”

Jack: (quietly) “And yet, we still make people beg for it.”

Jeeny: “That’s why the wish still matters. Even from flawed men. Even from forgotten revolutions.”

Host: A long pause. The wind carried a line of laughter from the nearby street — a group of old men playing dominoes, arguing about baseball, their joy unbroken by time.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the paradox of equality — the dream never ends, because the work never finishes.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s the point. Equality isn’t a destination, Jack. It’s a practice.”

Host: The sea roared once more, and the moonlight spilled across the waves — pure, democratic light touching every ripple the same.

Host: Jack exhaled, tossing what remained of his cigar into the sea. It hissed and vanished.

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You really think we’ll get there someday? A world like the one he wished for?”

Jeeny: “Not in one lifetime. But maybe in the ones we inspire.”

Host: She slid off the wall, her feet touching the stone, and looked out toward the horizon — eyes steady, hopeful, unafraid.

Host: Jack joined her, their silhouettes framed against the glowing water. For a moment, they were quiet — listening to the world breathe, as if waiting for its answer.

Host: Then Jeeny spoke again, her voice almost a whisper, carried on the salt wind:

Jeeny: “Justice isn’t a dream, Jack. It’s a duty. And maybe that’s what he meant all along.”

Host: The camera pulled back slowly — the ocean vast, the city humming, two small figures standing at the edge of history.

Host: Above them, the night sky stretched wide — infinite, equal, and full of light meant for everyone.