The oppressed, having internalized the image of the oppressor and

Host: The warehouse was dim, lit only by a few bare bulbs that hummed faintly against the wide, hollow silence. Rain drummed softly on the corrugated roof, a slow rhythm that mixed with the low hum of the city outside. The walls, stained with time and labor, bore traces of old murals—faded hands, broken chains, eyes half-closed in both dream and defeat.

In the center of the room stood a makeshift chalkboard, streaked with words and sketches from a workshop that had ended hours ago. The chairs were empty now—except for two.

Jack sat slouched in one of them, his sleeves rolled, his hands stained faintly with chalk and coffee. His grey eyes stared at the board as if the words there—freedom, fear, change—were alive and mocking him.

Across from him, Jeeny leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her hair loose, her expression sharp yet calm. Between them sat a single book—Paulo Freire’s Pedagogy of the Oppressed—its spine creased, its pages worn from being read by too many hands searching for answers.

Jeeny: “Paulo Freire once said, ‘The oppressed, having internalized the image of the oppressor and adopted his guidelines, are fearful of freedom.’”

Host: Her voice echoed faintly in the vast room, like truth thrown into an old cathedral—too big for comfort, too true to ignore.

Jack: (grimly) “That’s the most brutal kind of slavery. The kind that happens in your head.”

Jeeny: “It’s the only one that survives revolution.”

Jack: (looking up) “You think people want to be free, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “They say they do.”

Jack: “No. They want comfort. Freedom’s too expensive. You have to burn the rules that raised you, question the gods that fed you, and unlearn every lie you mistook for love.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “And most people can’t bear that kind of hunger.”

Host: The rain grew louder, a steady murmur against the roof—like the world whispering that it was listening.

Jack: “You know what Freire was really saying? That oppression doesn’t end when the master falls. It ends when the slave stops imitating him.”

Jeeny: “And that’s the hardest part. Because imitation feels like safety. It’s familiar. Even if it kills you.”

Jack: “Look around. Every movement starts with resistance and ends with hierarchy. Every rebellion turns into bureaucracy. It’s like we can’t help ourselves—we rebuild the same cages, just decorate them differently.”

Jeeny: “Because the cage feels like home after a while.”

Jack: “Exactly. That’s what I mean. The oppressed don’t fear chains—they fear chaos. Freedom means uncertainty, and uncertainty feels like death.”

Host: His words hung there, raw and electric, filling the air with the hum of something almost dangerous.

Jeeny: “You’re talking like you’ve given up on people.”

Jack: “No. I just stopped romanticizing them. Everyone wants to be saved, no one wants to transform.”

Jeeny: “But you can’t have one without the other. You can’t be free if you don’t want to change.”

Jack: “And you can’t change if you still see yourself through your enemy’s eyes.”

Host: The lightbulb above them flickered. For a moment, their faces shifted between shadow and flame—two souls caught between belief and disillusionment.

Jeeny: “You know what’s strange? Freire didn’t just mean politics. He meant education, love, identity. The way we’re trained to think small, to obey, to want permission before existing.”

Jack: “And the worst part? We think it’s virtue.”

Jeeny: “Yeah. We call submission discipline, and fear humility.”

Jack: “And then we teach it to our kids.”

Host: The rain softened, but the tension in the room didn’t. It coiled tighter, like a wire humming between two live poles.

Jack: (leaning back) “When I was a kid, my father used to say, ‘Keep your head down, don’t make noise, and you’ll survive.’ He meant well. But that’s the manual for staying enslaved.”

Jeeny: “He gave you the oppressor’s rules dressed as love.”

Jack: “Exactly. And I carried them like gospel. Took me years to realize survival isn’t living—it’s waiting to die slower.”

Jeeny: “That’s the tragedy, Jack. Oppression doesn’t need chains. It needs agreement.”

Host: Her eyes gleamed in the dim light, fierce with conviction. The air around her felt alive, like something in her had been waiting years to say this.

Jeeny: “Freire said the oppressed must reclaim their humanity through dialogue. That’s the cure. Not silence. Not rage. Dialogue.”

Jack: “You mean talking to your oppressor?”

Jeeny: “No. Talking to yourself. To the parts of you that learned to bow before they learned to stand.”

Host: He stared at her—silent, still—like the idea itself had struck him somewhere deep.

Jack: (after a pause) “You really think we can unlearn that? The fear? The imitation?”

Jeeny: “I think we must. Because if we don’t, every revolution becomes a rerun. Different flag, same tyranny.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “You sound like a philosopher.”

Jeeny: “No. Just someone tired of seeing people mistake obedience for peace.”

Host: The rain stopped altogether now. A deep, quiet stillness took over. Somewhere, far off, a siren wailed, distant and lonely.

Jack rose slowly from his chair, walked to the chalkboard, and picked up a piece of chalk. His hand trembled slightly as he wrote:

FREEDOM = UNLEARNING

He turned to her.

Jack: “You think that’s right?”

Jeeny: (nodding) “Add something.”

Jack: (writing) “UNLEARNING = PAIN.”

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) “Now you understand Freire.”

Host: They stood there, staring at the words—white chalk bleeding on black slate, truth against void.

Jeeny: “The oppressed don’t fear freedom because they don’t deserve it. They fear it because it’s lonely. There’s no master to blame when the cage door’s open.”

Jack: (quietly) “And no excuse to stay.”

Host: The lightbulb flickered again, then steadied. Jack placed the chalk down, his hands dusted white, like a man who’d handled something holy.

Jeeny: “So what now?”

Jack: “Now we go teach others what fear looks like when you name it.”

Jeeny: “And what it feels like when you walk past it.”

Host: The two of them stood in the doorway as dawn began to break — the light seeping through the high windows, washing the room in pale, fragile gold. The chalkboard behind them glowed faintly, the words stark and unflinching in the new light.

And outside, as the city woke, it seemed to whisper the same truth Freire had carried through every century:

That oppression ends not when the chains fall,
but when the mind refuses to wear them.

Because freedom is not granted,
it is remembered —
and every act of unlearning
is an act of rebirth.