The general belief is that communists in the United Nations come

Host: The air was thick with the scent of dust and tobacco smoke. A dying fluorescent bulb buzzed overhead, flickering against the cracked walls of an old newsroom—the kind that hadn’t seen real headlines in years. Stacks of newspapers leaned like forgotten history along the walls, their headlines ghosts of conflicts long resolved and wounds still open.

Host: It was late—midnight, maybe—and the rain outside tapped rhythmically against the window like a slow, suspicious metronome.

Host: Jack sat behind the editor’s desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, eyes sharp and grey as cold iron. Across from him sat Jeeny, clutching a notepad, her posture tense, her curiosity restless. The desk lamp threw a circle of light between them—half illumination, half interrogation.

Host: The topic that had brought them there was old, controversial, and dangerous to touch:

“The general belief is that communists in the United Nations come only from the Iron Curtain countries, but this isn't so. We must remember that many of the representatives of free countries are members of the local Communist parties. If you add them all up, you will see they have an amazing degree of control.” — G. Edward Griffin

Host: The quote hung in the air like a charge—half accusation, half prophecy.

Jeeny: quietly “You really believe that? That they’re all just puppets—controlled from some invisible center?”

Jack: lighting a cigarette “Not all. Just enough to tilt the scale. Power never announces itself—it infiltrates.”

Jeeny: “You sound like a man who’s seen ghosts.”

Jack: “Maybe I have. Or maybe I’ve just learned to see the strings.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “And what are you, then? The puppeteer or the cynic?”

Jack: smoke curling from his lips “Both. Depending on the day.”

Host: The rain intensified, turning from a whisper to a drumbeat. Somewhere down the hall, an old clock chimed once, echoing through the empty building like a reminder that truth, too, was running late.

Jeeny: “You know, Griffin said this back in the Cold War. People were terrified—every shadow was a communist, every whisper was propaganda. Maybe paranoia just became a kind of faith.”

Jack: gruffly “Faith isn’t the problem. Blindness is. We like to think we live in ‘free countries,’ but freedom doesn’t mean purity. Every ideology finds its way into the cracks of democracy.”

Jeeny: “So, you’re saying corruption is universal.”

Jack: “No. I’m saying influence is. And influence is more dangerous than guns.”

Jeeny: “You sound like my father. He used to talk about infiltration too. ‘Ideas are the real viruses,’ he said. ‘You can’t shoot them, you can only catch them.’”

Jack: half-smiling “Smart man. Probably lonely.”

Jeeny: “He was.”

Host: The lamp flickered, throwing jagged shadows across the desk. The air between them was charged now—not with fear, but with something heavier: the weight of questioning what people believe in when belief itself feels compromised.

Jeeny: leaning forward “But what if Griffin was wrong? What if the fear of infiltration was more dangerous than infiltration itself?”

Jack: raising an eyebrow “You think paranoia’s worse than control?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Fear turns people into prisoners faster than politics ever could.”

Jack: exhaling “And naivety turns them into slaves.”

Jeeny: softly “Maybe. But isn’t it better to trust and risk betrayal than to distrust and lose humanity?”

Jack: staring at her “You’re quoting philosophy in a war for reality.”

Jeeny: “Because truth isn’t a weapon. It’s a mirror. And the first thing mirrors show us is our own fear.”

Host: The rain eased, but the sound of dripping water from the ceiling filled the silence between them. Jack’s cigarette burned low, the tip glowing like a dying ember.

Jeeny: “You really think the U.N. is compromised? That ‘control’ you’re talking about still exists?”

Jack: “The U.N., the markets, the media—it doesn’t matter. The structure always outgrows its soul. Look at history: every institution starts with an ideal, then rots under the weight of its own ambition. Communism, capitalism—doesn’t matter what you call it. The labels change, but the hunger stays the same.”

Jeeny: “So it’s not about ideology. It’s about power.”

Jack: nodding slowly “Exactly. The red flag, the blue flag—they’re all just colors painted over greed.”

Jeeny: “Then what’s left to believe in?”

Jack: quietly “The individual. The mind that questions both sides.”

Host: The lamp buzzed, dimmed, then flared again—an old light fighting to stay alive.

Jeeny: softly “You sound like you’ve stopped believing in people.”

Jack: “Not people. Systems.”

Jeeny: “But systems are built by people.”

Jack: bitter laugh “And corrupted by them. Power doesn’t attract the righteous—it attracts the clever.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you work for one of those systems.”

Jack: smiling grimly “Some of us fight the beast from inside the belly. Others write about it.”

Jeeny: looking at him steadily “And some of us just get swallowed.”

Host: The silence that followed was heavy, like smoke that refused to clear.

Jeeny: “You know what I think, Jack? Griffin wasn’t really talking about communism. He was talking about fear disguised as vigilance. Every era has its scapegoat—the communists, the immigrants, the algorithms. The names change, but the fear stays the same.”

Jack: studying her “You think fear’s a conspiracy too?”

Jeeny: gently “No. I think it’s a commodity. Someone’s always selling it.”

Jack: half-laughing “Then who’s buying?”

Jeeny: “All of us. Every time we choose suspicion over empathy.”

Host: The words landed softly, but they cut like truth does—quietly, deeply, with no need for volume.

Jack: after a long pause “Maybe you’re right. Maybe control doesn’t look like red flags and iron curtains anymore. Maybe it looks like endless noise—so much information that truth suffocates under its own weight.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “Control through confusion. That’s the new ideology.”

Jack: grimly “And it doesn’t need communists—it just needs apathy.”

Jeeny: “Then the revolution isn’t political anymore. It’s moral.”

Jack: quietly “And fought in silence.”

Host: The lamp flickered one last time, then went out, plunging them into the kind of darkness that feels deliberate. Outside, the rain had stopped; the city hummed like a machine running on secrets.

Host: Jeeny stood, closing her notebook. Jack looked out the window — the reflection of their faces overlapping with the lights of the sleeping world.

Jeeny: softly “So what now, Jack? What do we do with all this doubt?”

Jack: after a pause “We keep it. Doubt’s the last proof that we’re still free.”

Host: She smiled faintly — not with joy, but with understanding. They walked out together into the wet night, the sound of their footsteps merging with the whisper of the street.

Host: Behind them, the newsroom went still, its walls filled with yesterday’s headlines and tomorrow’s ghosts.

Host: And above the city — somewhere beyond the fog of ideology and fear — the stars burned quietly, impartial and eternal.

Host: Because power may control nations, and fear may steer men,
but the only thing no ideology can own
is the mind that keeps asking why.