The grandeur and strength or our people and democracy are as big

Host:
The sun was setting over the mountains, its last light spilling through the dense forest like liquid fire. The trees stood tall — countless, silent, unyielding — each one swaying to the same invisible rhythm. From afar, they looked like a single body, alive and breathing. Up close, they were a million voices, each rooted in its own patch of earth, yet reaching toward one shared sky.

In the clearing, near the edge of the woods, stood Jack and Jeeny. The wind whispered through the branches above them, carrying the faint scent of pine and rain. Jack, tall and serious, leaned against a fallen log, his grey eyes searching the horizon. Jeeny, her dark hair stirred by the breeze, traced her hand along the bark of a nearby tree, her expression somewhere between wonder and grief.

At their feet, scrawled into the dirt with a stick, were the words of Chen Shui-bian, spoken in another time, but heavy with the same question that filled the air between them:
“The grandeur and strength of our people and democracy are as big as a forest.”

Jack:
(quietly)
Big as a forest, huh? It sounds nice — poetic. But forests aren’t just symbols of strength, Jeeny. They’re also full of decay. Rot, disease, things feeding off other things.

Jeeny:
And yet, they still grow, Jack. Even through fire, even after the storms. That’s what makes them powerful — not their perfection, but their resilience.

Jack:
(responding sharply)
Resilience, sure. But only because each tree is fighting for its own light. You talk like democracy is some kind of grand harmony. It’s not. It’s a constant struggle — each person reaching for their own piece of the sun.

Jeeny:
(smirking faintly)
And yet, without the others, no tree would survive. They need the roots of those around them — to hold the soil, to share the water. That’s what people forget, Jack. A forest isn’t made of individuals. It’s made of connections.

Host:
The wind picked up, shaking the leaves above their heads like a thousand quiet voices murmuring their agreement. Jack folded his arms, his jaw tightening, as if trying to resist the pull of her words.

Jack:
You talk about democracy like it’s nature — self-correcting, eternal. But look at us. Look at the world. Corruption, propaganda, division. We’ve turned democracy into a marketplace for lies.

Jeeny:
Maybe that’s because we’ve forgotten what a forest really is. It’s not about control. It’s about balance — everything feeding everything else. When one part dies, another grows. When one burns, new life pushes through the ashes.

Jack:
(leaning forward)
Balance? There’s no balance when the same roots that hold one tree upright are choking another. You think the system heals itself — but sometimes the rot goes too deep.

Jeeny:
(softly)
Then we replant, Jack. That’s what democracy means. It’s not about keeping every old tree standing — it’s about having the courage to plant new ones.

Host:
A faint sunbeam broke through the clouds, spilling across their faces. For a moment, both of them were bathed in gold, the forest around them glowing like a living cathedral.

Jack:
You really believe that, don’t you? That people — with all their greed, their fear, their selfishness — can somehow make something “as big as a forest”?

Jeeny:
I do. Because I’ve seen them do it — not in speeches or elections, but in small acts. A protestor sharing water with a stranger. A mother teaching her child to speak truth. A neighbor planting a tree where a wall once stood. Those are the roots of democracy.

Jack:
(nods, slowly)
Roots are deep, sure. But they’re also hidden. You can’t see them until the tree falls.

Jeeny:
And yet, they hold everything. You can’t see faith either, Jack. Or hope. But you’d be a fool to say they don’t exist.

Host:
The forest shifted, as though listening — a quiet, breathing presence around them. The light had turned a deep, burnished amber, and the air smelled of earth and possibility.

Jack:
You sound like one of those idealists. You think people are good at heart.

Jeeny:
No. I think people are capable of good — when they remember they belong to something bigger than themselves. That’s what Chen was trying to say, I think. A forest isn’t grand because each tree is strong — it’s grand because they all stand together.

Jack:
And yet, every forest needs pruning. Every democracy needs to tear out its dead roots.

Jeeny:
Yes. But not with hatred. With care. The way a gardener cuts so the rest can live.

Jack:
(looking down, thoughtful)
Care. That’s the part we’ve lost, isn’t it? We’ve got plenty of anger, plenty of slogans — but no care.

Jeeny:
Exactly. Democracy without care is just noise.

Host:
The wind calmed, replaced by a deep stillness, as if the whole forest were holding its breath. Jack’s voice softened, no longer laced with cynicism — just weariness.

Jack:
You know, when I was a kid, my father used to take me camping. He said the forest was a place where you could “hear yourself think.” But I never heard myself — only the noise.

Jeeny:
Maybe that’s because you were listening for the wrong sound. The forest doesn’t speak in words, Jack. It speaks in whispers, in the way the light moves through the leaves, in how the roots hold each other.

Jack:
(quietly)
So you’re saying democracy’s like that — not a system, but a rhythm.

Jeeny:
Yes. A rhythm of listening, of belonging, of balance. The kind that only works when everyone — even the smallest sapling — has its place in the song.

Host:
The sun slipped fully behind the mountains, and the forest turned into a sea of silhouettes, infinite and quiet. The first stars appeared — faint, trembling above the dark canopy.

Jack:
You know... maybe I’ve been looking at it wrong. Maybe democracy isn’t about strength at all. Maybe it’s about continuity — like the forest. You can’t destroy it all at once. You can burn it, cut it down, but it still finds a way to grow back.

Jeeny:
(smiling softly)
Exactly. Because its strength isn’t in its size — it’s in its roots, its memory, its ability to begin again.

Jack:
You make it sound eternal.

Jeeny:
Maybe it is — if we let it be. If we remember that every vote, every voice, every act of kindness is like planting one more seed.

Host:
The night air grew cool. A single firefly drifted between them, glowing softly for a heartbeat before disappearing into the dark. Jack looked up at the sky, then at Jeeny, his expression open, his old skepticism softened into something like peace.

Jack:
You’re right, Jeeny. A forest doesn’t stand because of one tree. It stands because they all lean on each other. Maybe that’s what democracy really is — the courage to stand together, even when it’s easier to fall apart.

Jeeny:
Yes. That’s the grandeur Chen saw — not in the power, but in the unity. The quiet, unstoppable strength of a people who refuse to be uprooted.

Host:
The wind returned, gentle, carrying the soft rustle of the forest — not chaos, but harmony.

And in that vast, breathing silence, the truth seemed clear: democracy, like the forest, is not a monument but a living thing — fragile, growing, infinite. Its grandeur is not in its height, but in its depth.

The stars shimmered above. The trees swayed in agreement.

And Jack and Jeeny stood quietly, side by side, their silhouettes dissolving into the endless green shadow of a people — vast, connected, alive.

Fade out.