The squandering of oil and gas is associated with one of the

Host: The rain fell in long, silver threads, whispering against the corrugated roof of an abandoned warehouse. Outside, the city slept under a blanket of fog, its lights bleeding weakly through the mist. Inside, two figures sat across a wooden table, illuminated by a flickering lamp that hummed like a dying insect.

The air was heavy — damp with the scent of rust, oil, and rain-soaked concrete. Jack leaned forward, elbows on the table, a cigarette burning between his fingers. His grey eyes reflected the lamplight, sharp and tired.

Jeeny sat opposite him, her hair wet and clinging to her face, her hands clasped tightly around a chipped mug of cooling tea. The smoke curled between them, thin as the distance that always lived there.

Jeeny: “Fidel Castro once said, ‘The squandering of oil and gas is associated with one of the greatest tragedies, not in the least resolved, which is suffered by humankind: climate change.’”

Jack: exhales slowly, watching the smoke rise “He wasn’t wrong. But coming from a man who ran a country on imported oil, it’s ironic.”

Host: The rain drummed harder against the roof. The lamp flickered again — as if hesitating.

Jeeny: “Ironic, maybe. But not untrue. You think hypocrisy cancels wisdom? He saw it coming — the addiction, the waste. We all did. And we all kept driving, flying, building.”

Jack: “Because that’s what people do. We move forward. Energy — oil, gas — it’s the fuel of civilization. You can’t condemn humanity for surviving.”

Jeeny: “Surviving? Or consuming? There’s a difference.”

Host: A gust of wind howled through a cracked window, and the lamp flame danced violently, throwing their shadows across the walls — two giants locked in moral battle.

Jack: “You sound like every activist with a guilt complex. The world runs on energy, Jeeny. You turn off the oil, and half the planet freezes. You cut gas, and economies collapse. How noble would your cause be if millions starved for it?”

Jeeny: “You always defend the system as if it’s sacred. But what good is survival when the world burns? When oceans rise, when crops fail, when children breathe poison?”

Jack: quietly, voice hard “You think I don’t see that? I do. Every day. But speeches won’t power hospitals or heat homes.”

Host: The rain softened — turning from fury to sorrow. The lamp steadied, its faint glow catching the tension between their faces.

Jeeny: “So you’d rather destroy the planet than change how we live?”

Jack: “I’d rather face reality than worship ideals. We can’t unmake modernity, Jeeny. The industrial age doesn’t go backward. You can’t power airplanes with windmills and goodwill.”

Jeeny: eyes narrowing “That’s not realism, Jack. That’s surrender disguised as logic. We could change if we wanted — if greed didn’t keep the wheels turning.”

Host: She rose suddenly, her chair scraping against the concrete with a harsh sound. The lamplight trembled on her face, revealing both fury and despair.

Jeeny: “Do you know how many people died in Pakistan’s floods last year? Or the heatwave in Canada — a country that never saw forty-nine degrees before? You call that progress?”

Jack: stands, slowly “You call that proof? Weather’s not morality. The planet’s changed before. Ice ages, droughts — the earth doesn’t need our permission to shift.”

Jeeny: “And yet this time, it’s us holding the match.”

Host: The storm outside seemed to echo her words — a sharp crack of thunder rolled over the city. The lamp dimmed, shadows deepening.

Jack: “You talk as if guilt will fix anything. What are you going to do — stop the world from breathing? Ban heat, engines, progress?”

Jeeny: “No. But we can stop pretending progress means destruction. The real tragedy isn’t oil — it’s indifference.”

Host: Her voice softened, trembling slightly as if the words carried a weight she could no longer bear.

Jeeny: “We worship the machine while the soil dies beneath it. The irony, Jack, is that oil isn’t life — it’s the memory of it. Fossilized forests, extinct creatures — that’s what keeps our lights on.”

Jack: pauses, looking at her “You really believe we can live without it?”

Jeeny: “Not easily. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe we were never meant to live this comfortably at the planet’s expense.”

Host: The lamp buzzed faintly, fighting against the dark. Jack took another drag from his cigarette, his expression unreadable — caught between skepticism and something quieter, almost regret.

Jack: “Comfort is the only thing most people have left, Jeeny. Take that away, and what do they have?”

Jeeny: “Hope. Dignity. The chance to build something sustainable — not just profitable. The poorest nations are paying for the richest ones’ comfort. Isn’t that the real theft?”

Host: Her words struck the silence like a hammer. Outside, the rain eased into a steady whisper, soft but unending.

Jack: “You think hope can run a power grid? You want to talk about theft — how about the jobs lost when oil collapses? The families who can’t feed themselves because some idealist wants to ‘save the planet’?”

Jeeny: “And what about the families who lose their homes to hurricanes that weren’t supposed to exist fifty years ago? Or the farmers watching their land turn to dust? Tell them about jobs.”

Host: The air between them thickened with anger — and truth. Each stood as if carved from opposing worlds, yet both trembling from the same unspoken grief.

Jack: voice breaking slightly “You think I don’t care? I do. But caring doesn’t build solutions. It builds guilt.”

Jeeny: “Maybe guilt is where change begins.”

Host: A silence fell, deep and electric. The lamp flickered again, struggling like a heartbeat. Jack’s hands shook as he crushed the cigarette into an ashtray, leaving a thin trail of smoke rising into the dim light.

Jack: quietly “You know, when I was a kid, my father worked at a refinery. He used to say, ‘This stuff — oil — it’s like blood. It keeps the world alive.’ He believed that. So did I. But now…”

Jeeny: “Now you wonder if it’s poison instead.”

Jack: nods, barely “Yeah.”

Host: The rain began again — softer now, like an apology. The lamplight trembled gently across their faces.

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s both. Maybe oil is blood — but it’s bleeding the wrong body.”

Host: The words hung in the air, tender and brutal all at once. Jack sank back into his chair, his eyes distant, the reflection of the lamp like a dying sun within them.

Jack: “You think it’s too late?”

Jeeny: “It’s never too late to stop making the same mistake. But it’s getting harder to pretend we don’t know what we’re doing.”

Host: The lamp flickered once more — then steadied, burning clean and still. Outside, the rain slowed to a drizzle.

Jack: “So what now? Plant trees and hope the CEOs have a conscience?”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “No. Live differently. Refuse excess. Teach others that the planet isn’t a resource — it’s a relationship.”

Host: He looked at her for a long moment, the sharpness in his eyes softening into something human — weary, perhaps even repentant.

Jack: “You make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: “It isn’t. But it starts small — like most revolutions do.”

Host: The rain stopped. A single drop fell from the roof into the puddle below, rippling outward in perfect circles. Jack leaned back, staring at it — the motion hypnotic, endless, fragile.

Jeeny: “We’ve spent a century feeding the fire. Maybe it’s time to learn how to live in the dark — until the light returns on its own.”

Host: The lamplight dimmed, as if listening. Jack reached over, extinguished the flame with a slow, deliberate motion. The room fell into shadow, illuminated only by the faint glow of the city beyond the fogged windows.

For a moment, there was only the sound of breathing — two hearts remembering the cost of warmth.

And in that quiet darkness, between resignation and hope, between logic and faith, they understood the truth Fidel Castro had once named:

The tragedy of oil was never its discovery — but our refusal to stop burning it once we knew what it was doing to the world.

The camera panned out, leaving the two figures silhouetted against the faint dawn light seeping through the window.

The rain had stopped. The earth waited.