There are nations, where people live in captivity, fear and

Host: The night air carried the scent of rain and iron, the kind of cold that clung to skin and memory alike. In the distance, the faint echo of a train whistle cut through the dark, a sound both mournful and defiant. The city beyond the hill was a map of flickering lights, glowing faintly beneath a heavy sky—a world still awake, still bound, still believing in its own myths of freedom.

Host: Jack and Jeeny sat on the steps of an old monument, its marble cracked, its inscription faded by time and weather. A single candle burned between them, trembling in the wind. Around them, the square was empty, silent, as if history itself were holding its breath.

Host: Jeeny held a small notebook, her fingers tracing its worn edges before she began to read. Her voice—soft but unwavering—broke the silence like a match against darkness.

Jeeny: reading “‘There are nations, where people live in captivity, fear and silence. I believe, one day from prison camps and torture cells and from exile the leaders of freedom will emerge. The world should stand with those oppressed people until the day of their freedom finally arrives.’ —Tsakhiagiin Elbegdorj.”

Jack: after a pause “Sounds like faith disguised as prophecy.”

Jeeny: “Or prophecy disguised as courage.”

Jack: “He’s talking about hope. But hope’s a dangerous word, Jeeny. It gives people just enough strength to keep suffering.”

Jeeny: looking up at the sky “No. It gives them enough strength to keep fighting.”

Jack: “And how many of them die waiting for that freedom he’s talking about?”

Jeeny: “Maybe too many. But without belief, no one would survive the wait.”

Host: The candle flame bent low in the wind, its light catching the faint scars on Jack’s hands—small reminders of battles unseen but deeply felt.

Jack: “You really think leaders can emerge from prison cells?”

Jeeny: “History proves it. Mandela did. Václav Havel did. Even Elbegdorj himself did—from the ashes of censorship and fear.”

Jack: “Yeah, but for every Mandela, there’s a thousand nameless ones—buried under the same ground they fought to free.”

Jeeny: “And yet it’s the nameless who make freedom possible. They’re the soil the leaders grow from.”

Jack: bitterly “That’s poetic, Jeeny. But it’s not comforting.”

Jeeny: “It’s not meant to be. Freedom never is.”

Host: A rumble of thunder rolled low across the sky. The candlelight flickered, stretching their shadows across the cracked steps.

Jack: “He said ‘the world should stand with them.’ That’s the part I don’t believe. The world doesn’t stand with anyone unless it benefits from doing so.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes it does. Look at Ukraine, South Africa, Myanmar—voices rise when people refuse to be silent anymore.”

Jack: “And yet the camps still exist. The prisons still fill. The dictators still smile for cameras and shake hands at summits.”

Jeeny: “Because change is slow, not absent. The world turns, even when it groans.”

Jack: “You think words like his can actually change anything?”

Jeeny: “Words are the beginning of every revolution. Before a wall falls, someone has to name it.”

Host: Her eyes caught the light, gleaming like tiny embers—alive, defiant, unafraid. Jack looked at her the way a cynic looks at faith: half admiration, half grief.

Jack: “You ever wonder why silence is the first tool of tyrants?”

Jeeny: “Because silence is obedience, Jack. It’s easier to rule a quiet world.”

Jack: “And yet silence can also be survival.”

Jeeny: “True. But survival without voice isn’t living—it’s existing.”

Jack: “Tell that to someone sitting in a cell with a gun to their head.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly who Elbegdorj was talking to. He wasn’t writing to the comfortable. He was reminding the imprisoned that their pain has witnesses.”

Jack: quietly “Witnesses. But not rescuers.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not yet.”

Host: The rain began, soft and steady, a thin curtain between them and the empty street beyond. The candle hissed, its flame shuddering but not dying.

Jack: “I used to think freedom was just the absence of chains.”

Jeeny: “It’s more than that. It’s the presence of dignity. Of self.”

Jack: “And when that’s taken?”

Jeeny: “You rebuild it. Even in the dark. Even when no one’s watching.”

Jack: “You make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: “It isn’t. But it’s necessary.”

Host: The rain fell harder now, washing over the monument’s face, blurring the carved letters into unreadable shapes. It was as if history itself were weeping quietly in the background.

Jack: “You know what I think? Freedom isn’t a destination. It’s a rebellion that never ends.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly why it matters. Because it requires us to keep earning it.”

Jack: “But how long can people fight before the world starts listening?”

Jeeny: “As long as it takes. Because the alternative is silence—and silence is death long before the body stops breathing.”

Host: The lightning flashed, illuminating her face for a split second—strong, solemn, almost prophetic. The storm had arrived, but she didn’t flinch.

Jack: after a long silence “You really believe someone can rise from a prison and still lead with mercy?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because they’ve already met their worst enemy—the fear inside themselves.”

Jack: “And when they come out, what if they find the world hasn’t changed?”

Jeeny: “Then they change it anyway. That’s what freedom demands: defiance, even when it’s hopeless.”

Jack: softly “You sound like someone who’s seen captivity.”

Jeeny: “We all have, Jack. Some of us just build prettier cages.”

Host: The rain softened, the candle flame steadied, and the monument’s cracks glistened with water—like veins of light running through stone.

Jack: “Maybe Elbegdorj was right. Maybe the next leaders won’t come from boardrooms or elections—but from the ashes.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because oppression forges character the way fire forges steel.”

Jack: “And yet, I can’t help thinking—how much suffering is too much before it breaks the spirit instead of shaping it?”

Jeeny: “That’s the paradox, isn’t it? Tyranny teaches resilience—but only at an unbearable price.”

Jack: “So the world should stand with them, he said. But what does that even mean anymore?”

Jeeny: “It means refusing indifference. It means speaking when silence is easier. It means remembering names the news forgets.”

Host: A gust of wind swept past, threatening the flame once more. Jeeny cupped her hand around it, shielding it gently. The small circle of light trembled but survived.

Jack: watching her hand “That’s what it looks like, doesn’t it? The world standing with the oppressed—one person guarding a tiny flame in the storm.”

Jeeny: “Yes. It looks small. But it’s everything.”

Jack: nods slowly “One day, from the prison camps and exile…”

Jeeny: “...the leaders of freedom will emerge.”

Host: Their voices overlapped on that last line—not as repetition, but as affirmation. The rain eased, the sky clearing faintly at the horizon. A thin line of dawn appeared—faint, tentative, but unmistakable.

Host: The candle burned low, yet its flame still glowed against the damp air, casting two shadows on the stone wall—one sharp, one soft.

Host: And as the first light of morning broke over the monument, the wind carried the faintest echo of a promise—the whisper of those still unheard, still enduring, still waiting for their freedom’s dawn to finally arrive.