The guardianship of the weaker sex has survived in the family law

Host: The factory was closing for the night. Its machines had fallen silent, leaving only the echo of their daily grind hanging in the air. Through the windows, the city glowed faintly, a grid of tired lights stretching beyond the smoke.

The canteen was nearly empty now. A few workers lingered over cold coffee and muted laughter. At a corner table, Jack sat with his back to the wall, sleeves rolled up, shirt stained faintly with oil and sweat. Jeeny sat across from him, her hair tied back, a faint smudge of grease on her cheek. She didn’t care to wipe it off. Her eyes, dark and alive, seemed to hold both exhaustion and fire.

Between them lay an old book, its spine cracked, its pages thin and yellowed. A passage was underlined in red:

“The guardianship of the weaker sex has survived in the family law which still states, ‘And he shall be your master.’” — Clara Zetkin.

Jack: (leaning back, lighting a cigarette) “Zetkin, huh? I’ve heard of her. A revolutionary. But that line—‘he shall be your master’—sounds like it belongs to another age.”

Jeeny: (calmly) “Does it? Look around, Jack. Maybe the words have changed, but the rules haven’t.”

Host: The light above them flickered, throwing long shadows on the table. Jack exhaled slowly, the smoke curling toward the ceiling like a tired spirit trying to escape the weight of the world.

Jack: “Come on, Jeeny. You’ve got the same job I do, same hours, same pay. No one’s anyone’s master here. Isn’t that proof we’ve moved past all that?”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “You think equality is about paychecks? That’s cute.”

Host: Her voice was soft, but it cut through the room like a blade hidden in silk.

Jeeny: “Tell me, when a woman raises her voice in a meeting, what happens?”

Jack: “Depends on the woman.”

Jeeny: “No, it doesn’t. It depends on the ears listening. You know it, Jack. You’ve seen it—when a man gets angry, he’s passionate. When a woman does, she’s emotional. That’s what Zetkin meant. The guardianship didn’t vanish—it just dressed itself in manners.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, elbows on the table, his grey eyes narrowing. He didn’t disagree, not fully, but he wasn’t ready to surrender either.

Jack: “I won’t argue there’s unfairness. But I think you’re exaggerating. The world’s changing. Women lead companies now. Run countries. The law says equal rights. That’s no small thing.”

Jeeny: “Laws don’t erase habits, Jack. A paper might say we’re free, but paper burns. The old code still whispers beneath every polite smile, every raised brow when a woman refuses to obey. Even in this factory—look at the promotion board. Tell me how many names up there belong to women.”

Host: Jack’s eyes flicked toward the corkboard by the door. He didn’t have to count. He already knew the answer.

Jack: “You’re right about that. But change takes time. It’s not about one sex mastering the other. It’s about balance. Harmony. Nature itself runs on that.”

Jeeny: “Nature? Nature doesn’t write laws that say who obeys whom. Men did that. And then they called it natural.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, trembling between anger and grief. A few workers glanced over, sensing the tension but not daring to interrupt.

Jack: (carefully) “Zetkin fought her war a century ago. You really think her fight’s still ours?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Because the war just changed uniforms. Look at the language we still use—‘strong men,’ ‘emotional women.’ Look at how people treat a mother who works late, or a father who stays home. The law of the master hasn’t vanished. It just hides better now.”

Host: Jack’s cigarette burned down to the filter, the ash dropping onto the table like a falling minute. He didn’t light another.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, my mother worked two jobs while my father drank himself into debt. She was tougher than any man I’ve ever met. But she still called him ‘head of the family.’ Out of habit, maybe. Or guilt. I used to hate that.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly what I mean. The guardianship isn’t just forced—it’s inherited. Generation by generation, women taught to serve, men taught to command. And both trapped in roles they didn’t choose.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the window, shaking a few loose flyers pinned to the wall. Outside, the streetlights flickered under a low, orange sky.

Jack: “So what’s the answer then? Tear down everything? Rewrite the whole story?”

Jeeny: “Yes. And not just rewrite it—live it differently. Because change written on walls means nothing until it’s lived in hearts.”

Jack: (shaking his head) “That sounds poetic. But people don’t work like that, Jeeny. Power isn’t surrendered willingly. You can’t just talk someone out of centuries of control.”

Jeeny: (firmly) “Then you take it. Like every freedom that ever mattered.”

Host: The air between them had grown dense now, vibrating with conviction and the quiet anger of generations.

Jack: “And what if it backfires? You turn rebellion into resentment. Look at what happened in revolutions—the oppressed become the oppressors. Power doesn’t change nature; it changes hands.”

Jeeny: “Then we learn to hold it differently. That’s the point. The goal isn’t to master men. It’s to destroy mastery altogether.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, then slowly relaxed. He looked at her, really looked this time—not as a woman speaking, but as someone carrying the echo of a truth too long ignored.

Jack: “You sound like Zetkin herself.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Maybe she just observed what’s still here. The guardianship never ended—it just found new rooms to hide in.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked, slow and uneven. Outside, a lone car passed, its headlights flashing briefly across the window, catching Jeeny’s face—and in that fleeting light, Jack saw not anger, but sorrow.

Jack: “You know… I used to think feminism was just noise. A fight long won. But I see now—it’s not about gender. It’s about dignity.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Exactly. It’s about unlearning obedience. For both of us.”

Host: They sat in silence for a while, the room empty except for the hum of an old refrigerator and the smell of cold coffee. Somewhere, far off, a factory whistle sounded its final note of the night.

Jeeny: “The sad part is, the phrase ‘he shall be your master’ wasn’t written by monsters. It was written by men who thought they were protecting us.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what makes it worse.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because the hand that holds you gently can still be the one that keeps you from moving.”

Host: The light above them buzzed once more before going out completely, leaving only the faint glow from the window. In that dimness, they both seemed smaller—and freer.

Jack: “So what now, Jeeny? How do we live in a world that still whispers the old command?”

Jeeny: “We speak louder. Not with hate—but with truth. Until even the whisper learns to listen.”

Host: Jack nodded, his expression unreadable, yet softened by something that looked like humility.

He reached for the book, tracing Zetkin’s underlined words with his thumb, then closed it gently.

Jack: “Maybe the world doesn’t need more masters or rebels. Maybe it just needs people brave enough to see each other as equals.”

Jeeny: (nodding) “That’s all Zetkin ever wanted.”

Host: Outside, the night began to clear, the first pale light of dawn pushing through the smoke. The machines would roar again soon, and the city would wake to its routines—but something, however small, had shifted between them.

As they stood to leave, their shadows stretched side by side across the floor—equal in height, equal in form, indistinguishable in the quiet light of beginning.

Host: And perhaps, for the first time, the ancient line—“he shall be your master”—trembled, as though it finally understood its own obsolescence.