There is no life to be found in violence. Every act of violence

Host: The warehouse was abandoned — a cathedral of rust, broken windows, and silence. The rain outside drummed against the corrugated roof, falling in slow, relentless rhythm. A single light bulb swung from a wire above, throwing fractured shadows on the cracked concrete floor. The air smelled faintly of iron, dust, and memory.

Host: Jack stood by one of the broken windows, his hands in his coat pockets, his eyes tracing the streaks of rain sliding down the glass. Across from him, Jeeny sat on a wooden crate, her dark hair damp, her gaze heavy with thought. Between them, lying on an old table, was a torn page from a book — the ink still legible despite the age, the name at the bottom unmistakable:

“There is no life to be found in violence. Every act of violence brings us closer to death. Whether it's the mundane violence we do to our bodies by overeating toxic food or drink or the extreme violence of child abuse, domestic warfare, life-threatening poverty, addiction, or state terrorism.”
— bell hooks

Host: The light above flickered once, twice — as if straining to stay alive under the weight of her truth.

Jack: “You know,” he said, his voice low, “she doesn’t leave any of us innocent in that line. Not one.”

Jeeny: “That’s the point,” she said softly. “Violence isn’t just bullets and fists. It’s everything we do that dulls our own humanity — the small, daily betrayals of care.”

Jack: “That’s a hard mirror to look into,” he said. “We like to believe violence is something out there — in wars, in prisons, on screens. But she’s saying it’s in here.” He touched his chest. “In what we choose not to protect.”

Jeeny: “Exactly,” she said. “We build empires of destruction one small habit at a time — cruelty to the body, apathy toward others, indifference to suffering. All of it feeds the same hunger.”

Host: The light bulb swayed slightly, creaking on its wire. The shadows on their faces moved like ghosts — the ghosts of choices, of excuses, of silence.

Jack: “She talks about overeating, addiction, poverty — those aren’t crimes. They’re symptoms.”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she said. “But symptoms we normalize. She’s not condemning the broken — she’s condemning the systems that keep breaking them. The violence of neglect is still violence.”

Jack: “And the violence of habit,” he said. “Of routine destruction.”

Jeeny: “Of pretending not to see,” she added.

Host: The rain grew heavier now, hammering the roof like applause from the heavens or judgment from something older.

Jack: “You think that’s why she calls it death?” he asked. “Every act of violence bringing us closer to it — not just physical death, but spiritual erosion?”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she said. “Because every time we harm, something living inside us dies. A little tenderness, a little awe. The capacity to be gentle erodes.”

Jack: “That’s terrifying,” he said.

Jeeny: “It should be,” she said. “We’ve turned violence into culture — entertainment, policy, even economy. We consume suffering like spectacle, and then we call it realism.”

Jack: “So what’s the alternative? Compassion? Love?”

Jeeny: “Not just love,” she said. “Awareness. Discipline. The courage to live without cruelty, even in a cruel world.”

Host: The light flickered again, bathing the space in brief darkness before returning.

Jack: “You make it sound like nonviolence is a kind of rebellion.”

Jeeny: “It is,” she said. “Because peace isn’t passive — it’s radical. It resists everything that profits from pain.”

Jack: “That’s what hooks meant, isn’t it?” he said. “That violence isn’t just what’s done with force — it’s what’s sustained by systems. The violence of poverty, of silence, of survival.”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she said. “She’s reminding us that violence wears disguises — convenience, entertainment, indifference. But beneath them all, it’s the same hunger for domination.”

Host: A pause settled — long, heavy, honest. The storm outside quieted slightly, leaving only the sound of the dripping roof.

Jack: “I keep thinking about the first line,” he said. “‘There is no life to be found in violence.’ You could spend your whole life trying to prove her wrong — and still fail.”

Jeeny: “Because she’s right,” she said. “Violence doesn’t create. It consumes. It might win wars or build empires, but it never gives life — only rearranges suffering.”

Jack: “Even the violence we do to ourselves,” he said softly. “Through exhaustion. Shame. Self-neglect. All forms of slow death.”

Jeeny: “And yet we glorify it,” she said bitterly. “We call it ambition. Productivity. Hustle.”

Host: He looked at her, something vulnerable flickering in his eyes. “You think peace is possible?” he asked.

Jeeny: “Not universally,” she said. “But personally. Peace isn’t a global condition — it’s a discipline of one’s own heart. If enough hearts practice it, maybe the world begins to echo.”

Jack: “You talk like peace is a craft.”

Jeeny: “It is,” she said. “Like art. It takes patience, humility, repetition. You learn not to destroy what you don’t understand.”

Host: The rain eased, becoming a whisper. The air in the room felt clearer now, as if her words had exorcised something unseen.

Jack: “You think that’s what she meant by ‘closer to death’?” he asked. “Not apocalypse — but a slow dying of empathy?”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she said. “Every act of violence — from a cruel word to a bomb — dulls the thread between us. And when that thread breaks, that’s the real death.”

Jack: “So survival isn’t enough.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said. “We have to live — and living means refusing to kill what’s beautiful, even in ourselves.”

Host: The camera slowly pulled back — the two of them sitting in the half-light, surrounded by shadow and rain, a tiny fire of compassion flickering between them.

Host: On the table, bell hooks’ words gleamed softly under the lone bulb — a benediction in prose:

“There is no life to be found in violence. Every act of violence brings us closer to death. Whether it's the mundane violence we do to our bodies by overeating toxic food or drink or the extreme violence of child abuse, domestic warfare, life-threatening poverty, addiction, or state terrorism.”

Host: And as the light finally steadied, the room grew still — not peaceful, but aware.

Host: Because every cruelty — large or small — unthreads the fabric of being. And every act of gentleness, no matter how quiet, is a rebellion against extinction. In a world addicted to violence, to choose tenderness is to stay alive.