The history of all countries shows that the working class

Host:
The factory loomed like an iron cathedral, its chimneys rising into the night, spilling smoke that dissolved into the stars. Inside, the air was thick with oil, sweat, and the hum of machines that never seemed to sleep. Rows of windows, grime-streaked and glowing faintly from within, flickered like ghostly lanterns of labor.

The floor trembled under the weight of industry — a thousand tiny vibrations from the gears, motors, and hands that kept the world’s pulse steady.

Amidst the shadows, Jack and Jeeny stood near a row of silent conveyor belts, the night shift long gone. Their voices echoed softly through the vast hall, where once the workers’ chants had filled the air.

Pinned to the wall behind them was a torn poster, half-hidden by dust and time, bearing the words of Vladimir Lenin:
"The history of all countries shows that the working class exclusively by its own effort is able to develop only trade-union consciousness."

Jack: staring at the poster, voice low and even You know, he wasn’t wrong. Left to itself, the working class fights for wages, not for revolution. It’s instinct, not ideology.

Jeeny: softly, eyes scanning the vast emptiness of the factory Maybe that’s because hunger doesn’t have time for theory, Jack. When you’re fighting to survive, you don’t dream of systems, you dream of bread.

Jack: nods, his tone sharp Exactly. That’s why Lenin said awareness must come from outside. The intellectuals, the party, the leaders — they carry the idea the workers can’t reach alone.

Jeeny: turns to him, her voice quiet but fierce Or maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe the intellectuals build ideologies, but the workers live the truth.

Host:
A faint hum echoed from somewhere deep in the factory — the last machine cooling, the sound like a mechanical sigh. The lights flickered, washing the concrete in cold yellow light.

Dust floated through the air like ash, catching on the edges of broken windows. The room seemed alive with the memory of all who had worked there — all the hands that had built everything and owned nothing.

Jack: crossing his arms, his voice firm That’s romantic, Jeeny. But it’s not true. Without structure, organization, they’re just fragments. Anger without direction dies. Revolutions need architects.

Jeeny: takes a slow breath Maybe. But direction without heart kills too. Every revolution that forgot the human face ended in the same tyranny it tried to escape.

Jack: coldly The human face doesn’t feed the machine. The system does. And someone has to control it — better the collective mind than the greedy hand.

Jeeny: eyes narrowing, her voice trembles between anger and sorrow And who decides who the “collective mind” is, Jack? Who gives them that right? Every time we’ve tried to build equality by force, we’ve built obedience instead.

Host:
Her voice echoed, bouncing off the walls, swallowed by the silence. Somewhere far off, the wind whistled through a broken pane, the sound like a lament for the vanished workers.

Jack’s jaw tightened. His hands flexed unconsciously, like someone who had spent his life holding things that eventually broke.

Jack: softly So what, then? You want a revolution without leaders? Change without conflict? That’s just another utopia — a fairy tale told by those who never had to get their hands dirty.

Jeeny: steps closer, her voice steady No. I want a revolution that starts in the heart, not the head. One that grows from dignity, not doctrine.

Jack: bitterly Dignity doesn’t topple empires.

Jeeny: quietly But it’s the only thing that can build one worth living in.

Host:
The lights dimmed, casting their faces in half-shadow. For a moment, it felt like the entire factory was listening — its rusted bones aching with the memory of the voices that once believed they could change the world.

Outside, a train horn wailed — a long, distant cry that seemed to slice through both space and time.

Jack: after a pause You really think people can awaken on their own? That without leaders, without theory, they’ll just… rise?

Jeeny: nods I think they already have. Not through books, but through living. Every act of kindness, every refusal to break, every small insistence on being seen — that’s resistance. Consciousness doesn’t have to shout. It can breathe quietly, and still move mountains.

Jack: looks at her, his tone softer now That’s beautiful, Jeeny. But it’s not history.

Jeeny: smiles faintly Then maybe it’s what comes after history.

Host:
A faint rumble from outside — thunder, or maybe the sound of a freight train carrying steel to the next city. The sound merged with the wind, the rain, and the echo of their voices, until it was impossible to tell what was natural and what was memory.

The factory, once a symbol of progress, now stood as a monument to struggle — a place where ideology and humanity had once collided.

Jack: quietly Lenin believed the workers needed to be taught their own freedom. That left alone, they’d only fight for comfort, not for change.

Jeeny: gently And maybe that’s okay. Maybe not everyone needs to burn the world to feel free. Maybe comfort, safety, peace — those are the real revolutions now.

Jack: looking at the machines, whispering But peace without justice is just another kind of silence.

Jeeny: nods slowly Then maybe justice isn’t something we take. Maybe it’s something we build, one life, one voice, one act at a time.

Host:
The rain outside turned to mist, its sound softer, almost forgiving. A beam of light broke through a crack in the roof, catching the dust that hung between them, turning it into a galaxy of golden motes.

In that fragile light, the past seemed to speak — not through Lenin, not through leaders, but through the millions who had lifted, built, carried, and dreamed.

Jack: after a long pause Maybe he was right — maybe the workers can only build trade unions, not revolutions.

Jeeny: whispering Maybe that’s enough. Maybe trade unions were the first revolution — not of governments, but of dignity.

Jack: smiles faintly, his voice softened You always find the light in the cracks, don’t you?

Jeeny: smiling back Someone has to. Otherwise, history just repeats in the dark.

Host:
The camera would have pulled back then — the two figures, small beneath the vast arches of industry, surrounded by silence, machines, and the ghosts of progress.

The rain slowed, the light widened, and the factory floor glowed faintly — not with the fire of revolution, but with something gentler: the quiet persistence of those who build, endure, and believe.

And as the scene faded, Lenin’s words remained — not as a prophecy, but as a question still echoing across time:

Can the human spirit, unaided and unled,
ever rise beyond the union of survival,
to the revolution of compassion?

Fade out.