The only violence was when these so-called 'freedom fighters'

Host: The sun hung low over the African savannah, burning the horizon with a light that felt both sacred and cruel. Dust drifted in the air — slow, heavy, shimmering — carrying with it the smell of dry grass and old blood. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. Somewhere closer, a child laughed, unaware of the weight the land carried.

The village was quiet now, long after the men with guns had passed through. The huts, made of clay and thatch, stood like memories — strong, but scarred. A few chickens scratched near the empty well. The world here had known too many words like freedom, too many promises written in ash.

Jack sat on a fallen log at the edge of the clearing, the last streaks of sunlight catching the dust on his boots. Jeeny stood nearby, her eyes scanning the land as if searching for ghosts. Between them, an old newspaper clipping fluttered in the wind — brittle, yellowed, bearing the words of a man long gone:

“The only violence was when these so-called 'freedom fighters' terrorized the poor Africans in the villages... They were told what to do and who to support.” — Ian Smith.

Jeeny: “He said that as if the story could be rewritten by who held the pen.”

Jack: “Every empire writes its own peace. And calls its resistance violence.”

Jeeny: “Do you believe him?”

Jack: “I believe he believed himself. That’s the danger of power — it convinces you that your comfort is righteousness.”

Jeeny: “So his truth was just convenience.”

Jack: “Truth always is when it has a uniform.”

Host: The wind stirred, rustling the tall grass, whispering over the bones of history. The sky turned red — that blood-colored light that comes when the day dies slow.

Jeeny: “He called them ‘so-called freedom fighters.’ You hear the contempt in that?”

Jack: “Yeah. The way people rename rebellion until it sounds criminal.”

Jeeny: “Terrorized the poor Africans in the villages, he said. As if oppression only counts when it wears the wrong color.”

Jack: “Or when it threatens your property line.”

Jeeny: “The arrogance of pretending to defend the same people you kept silent for decades.”

Jack: “That’s the colonial trick — to claim protection after the damage. To cry chaos while standing on the ashes you made.”

Host: A fire crackled between them now, small but steady. The smoke climbed into the dusk, carrying the scent of charred wood and memory.

Jeeny: “Do you think violence can ever be justified?”

Jack: “That depends on who writes the report.”

Jeeny: “No. I mean in truth. Not history’s version.”

Jack: “Then yes. Sometimes violence isn’t the crime — it’s the cost of waking up.”

Jeeny: “But what about the innocents? The villagers who were caught in between?”

Jack: “Every war leaves them behind. Every cause demands their sacrifice. That’s the tragedy of righteousness — it always needs someone else’s blood to prove itself.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe all revolutions are flawed.”

Jack: “They are. But so is silence.”

Host: The firelight flickered against their faces — one lit by reason, the other by conscience. Around them, the night thickened, filling the air with the hum of insects and the slow breath of the earth recovering from heat.

Jeeny: “When I read his words, I hear more than denial. I hear fear. The kind of fear that comes from watching control slip away.”

Jack: “Exactly. When the oppressed start naming their own freedom, the oppressor calls it chaos. It’s an old playbook. The British used it. The French. The Belgians. Every empire that dressed theft as stewardship.”

Jeeny: “So his quote wasn’t about the people. It was about his legacy.”

Jack: “Of course. People like Smith weren’t defending villages — they were defending history. Their version of it.”

Jeeny: “But history doesn’t belong to those who write it. It belongs to those who endure it.”

Jack: “Tell that to the victors.”

Jeeny: “I just did.”

Host: A pause — long, almost holy. The stars began to emerge, faint and fragile, like hope learning how to return. The land was listening now.

Jack: “You ever wonder how truth survives lies like that? How justice survives being rewritten?”

Jeeny: “It survives in memory. In the stories mothers tell their children when the soldiers are gone. In the songs the field workers hum when no one’s watching.”

Jack: “But memory fades.”

Jeeny: “Not when it’s sung. Music remembers what words forget.”

Jack: “You think forgiveness ever enters into it?”

Jeeny: “Forgiveness without justice is just surrender.”

Jack: “And justice without compassion?”

Jeeny: “Revenge.”

Host: The fire hissed softly as a gust of wind swept through the clearing. Jack stared into it, seeing not flame but reflection — the faces of men who justified cruelty, and the faces of those who rose to end it.

Jack: “I guess that’s what Smith never understood. That the people he called terrorists weren’t trying to destroy the country. They were trying to reclaim it.”

Jeeny: “To him, the land was something to own. To them, it was something to return to.”

Jack: “Ownership versus belonging.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And belonging always bleeds first.”

Host: The moonlight began to touch the horizon, washing the savannah in silver. The fire’s glow mingled with the moon’s calm — destruction and grace, side by side.

Jeeny: “You know, history loves to sanitize itself. It forgets that freedom was never born clean. It always crawled out of blood and contradiction.”

Jack: “And yet, every oppressor swears he was peaceful.”

Jeeny: “Because peace is easy when the other side can’t speak.”

Jack: “Until they do.”

Jeeny: “And then, the world calls it noise.”

Jack: “But noise, Jeeny… noise is where justice starts.”

Host: The camera panned out slowly — the fire a small circle of light in an ocean of darkness, the two figures sitting like witnesses to both history and consequence. The wind carried faint echoes — distant voices, languages once silenced, now softly returning.

And over it all, Ian Smith’s words lingered — brittle and hollow, like the shell of a lie that history had already outgrown.

Because time, as the land knows,
does not preserve the conqueror’s comfort,
only the truth’s endurance.

And in the end, it is not the freedom fighters who are remembered for their terror,
but the ones who mistook their own power
for peace.

Host: The fire dwindled, leaving only embers — red, breathing, alive.
Jeeny whispered, almost to the night itself:

Jeeny: “They called them terrorists. But every cry for freedom sounds violent to the ears of those who never had to beg for it.”

Jack looked out over the dark plains, where the wind sang through the grass — a hymn older than nations.

Jack: “Then maybe violence isn’t what breaks the world. Maybe it’s what finally wakes it.”

Host: And the camera held still, the flame flickering,
as if the land itself remembered —
and forgave nothing,
but understood everything.