The State is the altar of political freedom and, like the

Host: The city lay in smoke and amber light, the last sunset of autumn filtering through the cracks of abandoned buildings. A once-bustling square now stood silent, save for the faint hum of distant traffic and the flutter of tattered flags caught on wires. The air was thick — not with fire, but with the memory of it.

Jack sat on a broken bench, his coat draped over his shoulders, a newspaper folded beside him — headlines screaming of protests, reform bills, and “collateral damage.” Jeeny stood a few paces away, her hands wrapped around a paper cup of coffee, its steam curling upward like a ghost reluctant to rise.

Host: The wind carried the faint echo of chanting, maybe from another street, maybe from another time. Between them, an unspoken weariness — the kind that settles in when people have argued about freedom too long to know what it means anymore.

Jeeny: softly, almost reverently “Emma Goldman once said, ‘The State is the altar of political freedom and, like the religious altar, it is maintained for the purpose of human sacrifice.’”

Jack: dryly “That’s quite the sermon. Though I’m guessing she wasn’t talking about Sunday school.”

Host: Jack’s voice was heavy with sarcasm, but beneath it lay a kind of fatigue, the tone of someone who has seen too many causes die in their own flames.

Jeeny: “No. She was talking about how every system that claims to serve us ends up feeding on us. You build a State to protect people, and somehow, people become the fuel that keeps it alive.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But it’s not new. Every civilization runs on sacrifice — soldiers, workers, taxpayers. It’s the price of structure.”

Jeeny: “Structure or control? There’s a difference. When a man gives his life for something he believes in, that’s sacrifice. When the State takes it from him in the name of order, that’s murder dressed in paperwork.”

Host: The light shifted, catching the edge of a burned poster — a politician’s face, half torn, half smiling. Jack’s eyes lingered on it for a long moment, as though reading the ghost of a promise.

Jack: “You make it sound deliberate. As if every leader wakes up thinking, ‘Who can I sacrifice today?’ Most of them are just managing chaos. Without authority, Jeeny, society eats itself.”

Jeeny: “And with authority, it eats its young.” Her voice cracked just slightly, her hands tightening around the cup. “You think Goldman was exaggerating? Look around — we sacrifice the poor for profit, the innocent for stability, the truth for comfort.”

Jack: “You’re quoting scripture in a world that runs on survival. You think those in power can afford your morality? Freedom without force is just a slogan.”

Jeeny: “And force without freedom is just tyranny.”

Host: The air trembled with the clash of their words. A sirens wailed faintly in the distance, rising like a dirge. Jack stood, his shadow cutting across the concrete, his jaw tight.

Jack: “So what’s your alternative? Tear it all down? Anarchy in the name of purity? We tried that once — France, 1789. The guillotine sang, and freedom drowned in its own blood.”

Jeeny: “No. Not anarchy — awareness. The kind of awakening that makes people see what they’re offering to the altar. You think the French failed because they rebelled — but maybe they failed because they tried to build another State right after. Another god to kneel to.”

Jack: “And without a god, what do you have? Chaos. Wolves in the streets. Power doesn’t disappear, Jeeny — it just changes hands. Look at Russia. The Bolsheviks tore down one altar only to build another, bigger one. More sacrifices, more hymns, different priests.”

Jeeny: her eyes darkened, her voice steady “Maybe that’s because they never stopped believing someone had to rule. Goldman wasn’t against society — she was against the illusion that freedom could ever come from authority. The altar always demands blood, Jack. Always.”

Host: The wind grew harsher, rattling the metal gates nearby. A plastic banner whipped against a fence, its letters unreadable now, like a forgotten creed. The sky was dimming fast, turning the world the color of old iron.

Jack: “So what do you propose? A world without laws? Without police, without governments? People like to think they’re good, but they’re not. You take away the rules, and they’ll tear each other apart.”

Jeeny: “Because they’ve been trained to. Conditioned to think they can’t live without masters. But haven’t you ever wondered why every revolution feels the same? Why the flags change but the fear stays? It’s because we keep replacing belief in ourselves with belief in systems.”

Jack: “You sound like a dreamer.”

Jeeny: “You sound like a prisoner.”

Host: The silence that followed was sharp — the kind that cuts deeper than noise. Jack looked away, his hands buried in his pockets, his breath rising like faint smoke in the cold.

Jack: “You think I haven’t wanted to believe that? That people can govern themselves? I’ve seen what happens when they try. The powerful always rise — not because of the State, but because of human nature. We crave dominance. We need hierarchy. It’s how order survives.”

Jeeny: “Order or submission? There’s a difference. Maybe human nature isn’t the problem — maybe it’s what centuries of power have made it. We worship obedience because we’ve been punished for disobedience.”

Host: Her words landed softly, but they lingered like ashes in wind. Jack rubbed his temple, the muscles in his jaw tightening — not from anger, but from the old, weary ache of seeing too much truth in what he didn’t want to admit.

Jack: “You know what the real tragedy is? Even if you’re right — even if the altar’s built on blood — people still need it. They’d rather kneel than wander lost. The altar gives meaning, Jeeny. The sacrifice makes them feel chosen.”

Jeeny: quietly “And that’s the cruelty of it. That we call our own suffering sacred just to make it bearable.”

Host: The rain began again — slow, deliberate drops darkening the dust. The lights flickered on one by one across the square, their glow faint and trembling, like the last embers of belief.

Jack: “So what now? We tear it all down and start from scratch?”

Jeeny: “No. We start from within. Refuse to be sacrifices. Refuse to believe that freedom requires blood.”

Jack: after a long pause “And if the world doesn’t listen?”

Jeeny: “Then we whisper until it does. Every empire begins with a word — maybe every liberation does too.”

Host: For a moment, neither moved. The city hummed again, faint and distant — a machine of laws, hopes, and human bones still turning. Jack looked at Jeeny, and for the first time, his eyes carried something almost like reverence.

Jack: “You always make rebellion sound like prayer.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. The kind of prayer that doesn’t ask for mercy — just for truth.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — revealing the square, cracked and empty, the two figures standing like relics of a world still deciding what kind of god to serve. Above them, the rain blurred the lights until everything — state, citizen, altar, sacrifice — merged into one trembling reflection.

And in that reflection, perhaps, the faint outline of what Emma Goldman meant —
that every altar burns with the illusion of freedom,
until someone dares to step away from it.