The spirit of forgiveness should prevail, and there should be

Host: The parliament building stood in eerie stillness, long after the debates had ended. The chamber lights glowed low, painting long shadows over the empty seats where arguments had erupted only hours before. The air smelled faintly of sweat, paper, and compromise — that delicate blend of democracy and exhaustion.

Outside, rain began to fall over the city, soft and cold, washing away the slogans still clinging to the marble steps. The storm had quieted, but the tension remained — invisible, humming, alive.

In a nearby café across the street, Jack sat by the window, watching the rain streak the glass. His coat was soaked, but he didn’t seem to mind. He held a cup of black coffee in his hands, untouched, eyes unfocused — a man lost between frustration and reflection.

Across from him, Jeeny sat with her notebook open, the lamplight catching the side of her face — calm, composed, and listening, as always.

Jeeny: softly, her voice steady and deliberate
“Roy Bennett once said, ‘The spirit of forgiveness should prevail, and there should be tolerance and understanding among all political parties for us to move forward.’”

Jack: smirking faintly, his voice tired but sharp
“Forgiveness in politics. That’s like asking wolves to share the same meal without biting.”

Jeeny: smiling gently
“Maybe. But Bennett wasn’t naïve — he was brave. He knew forgiveness isn’t weakness. It’s the only thing that keeps the wolves from devouring the forest.”

Host: The rain fell harder, blurring the world beyond the window. Cars crawled through the mist, their headlights painting the streets like rivers of gold. Inside, the café hummed with quiet voices, but at their table, time slowed.

Jack: leaning forward, his voice rough with disbelief
“Tell that to the ones who’ve been betrayed, silenced, jailed. Forgiveness sounds noble until it’s your pain that needs to forgive.”

Jeeny: gently, with a quiet firmness
“True. But forgiveness isn’t forgetting. It’s releasing yourself from being ruled by vengeance. You can fight injustice without carrying its poison inside you.”

Jack: looking out the window, eyes narrowing
“Hard to release poison when it’s still being poured.”

Jeeny: softly
“Then forgiveness isn’t for them. It’s for you. It’s the act of saying — ‘You won’t control the way my soul moves.’”

Host: The light flickered above their table, the bulb trembling as if caught between brightness and burnout. A waiter passed by, refilling cups in silence. The sound of porcelain against wood was delicate, almost sacred.

Jack: after a pause, quieter now
“Bennett was a politician, wasn’t he? Zimbabwe, right?”

Jeeny: nodding slowly
“Yes. He fought against corruption, was imprisoned, exiled. Yet even after all that — he spoke of forgiveness. That’s not politics. That’s faith in humanity, disguised as policy.”

Jack: sighing, rubbing his forehead
“Maybe he was just tired of hate.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly
“Aren’t we all?”

Host: The rain softened, tapping lightly now — a gentler rhythm, like the heartbeat of reflection. Across the café, two men argued softly about the news, their tones tense but controlled — proof that disagreement could still live without violence.

Jack: quietly
“You think forgiveness can actually change anything? Or does it just make the good people easier to crush?”

Jeeny: firmly, her voice unwavering now
“No. Forgiveness isn’t surrender. It’s strategy. It breaks the cycle that keeps history repeating itself. Every revolution that forgets mercy becomes the tyranny it replaced.”

Jack: looking up, intrigued
“You mean — forgiveness as power?”

Jeeny: nodding slowly
“Yes. The strongest thing a person can do after being wounded is to rise without wounding back.”

Jack: after a long pause, quietly
“That sounds beautiful. But it’s hard to live.”

Jeeny: softly, her tone like a whisper of truth
“All real beauty is.”

Host: The rain stopped, leaving only the faint sound of dripping water from the café’s awning. The city seemed cleaner, quieter — a brief moment of clarity between storms.

Jack: leaning back, staring into his coffee
“Sometimes I wonder if politics killed forgiveness — if power and empathy can’t coexist anymore.”

Jeeny: shaking her head, gently
“No. Forgiveness isn’t dead. It’s just unfashionable. The loudest voices talk of victory, not virtue. But history remembers the ones who healed, not the ones who shouted.”

Jack: nodding slowly, his voice calmer now
“So forgiveness isn’t a sign of losing — it’s proof that we still know how to be human.”

Jeeny: smiling softly
“Exactly. And that’s why Bennett’s words still matter. Because they remind us that politics is temporary — but compassion is civilization.”

Host: The clouds began to part, a thin sliver of moonlight falling across the wet street. The reflection of the city shimmered in puddles, like broken mirrors learning to forgive themselves.

Jack: after a long silence
“You know… I used to think progress was about laws, systems, policies. But now I think it’s just people learning to listen without the need to win.”

Jeeny: quietly, smiling
“That’s progress. Not building taller walls, but longer tables.”

Host: The wind carried the smell of rain through the open door, mingling with the aroma of coffee and something gentler — the scent of calm after conflict.

And in that fragile peace, Roy Bennett’s words hung in the air — not as rhetoric, but as remedy:

That forgiveness is not a favor, but a foundation.
That tolerance is not weakness, but wisdom.
And that true progress begins the moment we choose understanding over vengeance.

Jeeny: softly, gathering her notebook
“Forgiveness isn’t about forgetting what happened. It’s about deciding what happens next.”

Jack: nodding, with quiet conviction now
“And maybe that’s the only way we ever move forward — by refusing to stay angry forever.”

Host: They stepped out into the night —
the pavement glistening, the air washed clean.
Across the street, the parliament dome glowed faintly, no longer a symbol of conflict, but of possibility.

And as they walked beneath the clearing sky,
forgiveness felt less like surrender — and more like dawn.