There is no ageism or 'youthism' when it comes to freedom of

Host: The town square was soaked in the pale light of a late autumn morning — a place where words, not weapons, once shaped the future.
The air carried the chill of October and the distant murmur of people gathering — students, workers, elders — a crowd stitched together by curiosity and conviction.

A makeshift stage stood at the center, draped in flags, microphones glinting under the shy sun. The banners read: Public Forum: The Voice of the Citizen.

Off to the side, Jack, leaning against a pillar, adjusted his scarf and watched the crowd with cautious interest. Jeeny, a notepad in hand, stood beside him, her eyes tracing the faces — young and old, hopeful and weary — mingling like generations meeting for the first time.

Jeeny: “Jacques Parizeau once said, ‘There is no ageism or youthism when it comes to freedom of speech. We are all citizens.’”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “So, everyone gets a mic. No expiration date on opinions.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Democracy doesn’t check ID — it listens to everyone.”

Jack: “You’d think so. But look around — half the crowd’s young enough to hashtag every sentence, the other half thinks hashtags are communist propaganda.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “And both believe the other side is ruining the world. That’s why Parizeau’s line is so radical — he’s saying, citizenship is the bridge.”

Jack: “Yeah, but that bridge is crumbling. These days, age defines everything — who gets respect, who gets dismissed, who gets heard.”

Jeeny: “That’s not age — that’s ego. We confuse wisdom with memory and innovation with arrogance. But speech… speech is the great equalizer.”

Host: A young woman climbed onto the stage. Her voice trembled at first but grew stronger, echoing against the brick facades: “We demand action, not lectures. We’re tired of inheriting consequences we didn’t create.”
Applause followed — loud, passionate, messy. A few older voices booed, but most just watched, listening.

Jack: “See? There it is. The fracture line. The young speak like fire; the old listen like stone.”

Jeeny: “And both forget — they’re made of the same elements.”

Jack: “So how do you fix that?”

Jeeny: “By remembering what Parizeau meant — freedom of speech isn’t a privilege you earn by living longer or shouting louder. It’s a shared right, but also a shared responsibility.”

Jack: “You mean, it’s not just about the right to speak — it’s about the duty to listen.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And listening, Jack — that’s the hardest kind of speech.”

Host: The woman finished speaking. The next speaker, an elderly man in a tweed coat, approached the mic. His hands trembled slightly, but his voice was clear, resonant.

Old Man: “When I was your age, we fought for the right to protest. Now, we fight to be heard by the protesters.”

The crowd laughed softly, but there was warmth in it — a ripple of recognition across time.

Jack: “You see? That’s it. Same fight, different vocabulary.”

Jeeny: “That’s the beauty of democracy — it’s a dialogue between generations. And when it works, the melody doesn’t care about the age of the singers.”

Jack: “But the internet changed that tune. Everyone’s shouting into the void, trying to go viral instead of going truthful.”

Jeeny: “That’s why Parizeau’s words matter even more now. The right to speak doesn’t come with the right to drown others out.”

Host: A gust of wind moved through the square, scattering pamphlets and half-finished slogans. Somewhere, a street musician began strumming a guitar — soft, steady, grounding the chaos in rhythm.

Jeeny: “You know, Parizeau’s idea of citizenship wasn’t just legal. It was moral. He believed citizenship means equality in expression — that an 80-year-old protester and a 16-year-old activist stand on the same ground.”

Jack: “And yet, both sides talk like the other one doesn’t get it. The young think the old are obsolete; the old think the young are ungrateful.”

Jeeny: “Because both forget they’re temporary custodians of the same country.”

Jack: “You sound like a diplomat.”

Jeeny: “No — just someone tired of the noise.”

Host: The next speaker — a middle-aged teacher — spoke of her students, their anxiety, their brilliance, their impatience. The crowd quieted. Even the pigeons on the statues seemed to pause.

Jeeny: “You know what’s amazing? This — this mix of voices. That’s the real art of democracy. Not unanimity, but coexistence.”

Jack: “Yeah. We think freedom of speech means having the last word, but it’s really about making room for the next one.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And that’s what Parizeau was defending — the sacred space between generations where dialogue can happen.”

Host: The teacher finished. A young man in a hoodie took her place. His voice cracked, but his passion was undeniable.

Young Man: “You keep saying we’re the future, but the future doesn’t wait. We’re speaking now, because silence built this mess!”

Cheers. A few older folks nodded, slowly, the way people do when memory meets recognition.

Jack: (quietly) “You ever notice how courage sounds different depending on the decade?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But it’s courage all the same.”

Jack: “That’s what Parizeau meant by ‘we are all citizens.’ Not identical, but equal in the right to try.”

Jeeny: “To argue, to question, to dream — without permission.”

Host: The sun began to break through the clouds, spilling light across the crowd. Faces turned upward. The square glowed — young faces, wrinkled faces, all briefly lit by the same light.

Jack: “You think the world will ever get there? Real equality of voice?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not perfectly. But every time one person listens to another — really listens — we get a little closer.”

Jack: “So the revolution isn’t shouting louder.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s hearing clearer.”

Host: The applause rose again as the speakers finished, and the forum’s noise melted into laughter, debate, connection. The air felt lighter now — not because anyone had won, but because everyone had spoken.

Jeeny: “You know what’s beautiful? This — democracy as conversation, not combat.”

Jack: “You think Parizeau would’ve liked this?”

Jeeny: “He’d have called it progress. Not perfect, but human.”

Jack: “And human’s all we’ve got.”

Host: The banners rippled softly in the breeze. The stage emptied. The crowd began to disperse — still talking, still disagreeing, still citizens.

And in that vibrant disarray, Jacques Parizeau’s words seemed to hover like sunlight on glass:

That freedom of speech has no age,
that voice is not youth nor age, but courage,
and that the strength of a nation
is not in the harmony of its citizens,
but in their willingness to speak and listen as equals.

Host: Jeeny closed her notebook.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, maybe freedom isn’t about the right to say anything. Maybe it’s about the humility to know your voice matters — but it’s not the only one.”

Jack: (smiling) “Then maybe that’s what being a citizen really means.”

Host: The square emptied, the last echoes of conversation fading into the crisp air.
And for a moment, between the departing footsteps and the returning quiet,
the world felt closer —
young and old, past and present,
bound together not by agreement,
but by the shared, stubborn beauty of having a voice at all.