Through basic science literacy, people can understand the policy

Host: The rain had just stopped, leaving a thin mist over the city’s rooftops. Neon signs flickered across the narrow street, their reflections rippling in the puddles. The coffee shop on the corner — small, warm, and slightly dim — hummed with a low murmur of voices and the clinking of cups. Outside, umbrellas dripped; inside, steam rose from porcelain.

Jack sat near the window, his grey eyes following the blurred shapes of cars passing. His fingers tapped against the table, impatient, his mind elsewhere. Jeeny entered, brushing rain from her hair, her face glowing faintly in the amber light. She smiled, but there was a quiet tension between them — the kind that lived in every silence of people who care too deeply yet disagree too fiercely.

Host: Between them, a newspaper lay folded open — a headline about science education and climate policy. The words sparked something that neither of them could ignore.

Jeeny: “James Murdoch once said — ‘Through basic science literacy, people can understand the policy choices we need to be making. Scientists are not necessarily the greatest communicators, but science and communication is one of the fundamentals we need to address. People are interested.’”

She sipped her coffee, her eyes steady on Jack. “Do you think he’s right?”

Jack: (his voice low, rough) “Partly. But it’s idealistic. People may be interested, Jeeny, but interest doesn’t mean understanding. The average person doesn’t have time for scientific nuance. They trust headlines, not peer-reviewed papers. You can’t build policy on wishful thinking.”

Host: The light shifted, catching the sharp line of Jack’s jaw. He looked like someone who had seen too many failed debates, too much noise drowning sense.

Jeeny: “Then what’s the alternative, Jack? Leave it all to the so-called experts? That’s exactly how we end up with detached governments, industries polluting, and people losing faith. Science is the bridge between what is true and what is possible — but only if it’s spoken in a language everyone can hear.”

Jack: “Spoken by whom? Scientists aren’t trained in persuasion. They’re trained to doubt, to test, to revise. Put them on television, and you get stammering and data charts. Meanwhile, the charlatan with the easy slogan wins every argument.”

Host: A faint thunder rolled far away. The glass rattled softly. Jeeny’s eyes darkened, but her voice remained calm — too calm, the kind of calm that hides anger and faith in equal measure.

Jeeny: “But that’s exactly the point. If science can’t communicate, then what’s the point of discovery at all? What good is truth if it stays locked in laboratories while the world burns? Remember when Carl Sagan said, ‘We live in a society exquisitely dependent on science and technology, in which hardly anyone knows anything about science and technology’? That was decades ago — and it’s still true.”

Jack: (leans forward) “Sagan was a romantic, Jeeny. Brilliant, sure — but naive. He believed that reason could conquer fear. But people don’t vote with reason; they vote with emotion, with tribe, with trust. You want to make them understand policy? Then don’t teach them the periodic table — teach them psychology.”

Host: The rain began again — a soft percussion against the windowpane. Jack’s reflection flickered beside Jeeny’s in the glass, two faces, two worlds.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve given up.”

Jack: “I’ve grown up. There’s a difference.”

Jeeny: “No — there’s a wall. You’ve built one. You keep saying people won’t understand, but have you ever tried to explain? Look at the COVID-19 pandemic — the scientists who did reach people, who spoke clearly and compassionately, saved millions. It wasn’t perfect, but communication did matter. The problem isn’t that people can’t understand; it’s that we underestimate their willingness to try.”

Host: Her voice trembled, not from anger, but from conviction — the kind that melts cynicism if you let it. Jack stared, his jaw tightening, his hands clenched.

Jack: “And yet, despite all that communication, despite all that clarity, people still believed conspiracy theories. They rejected vaccines, denied climate change, burned down 5G towers. What does that tell you? That logic loses to fear every time.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But fear is only powerful when truth is silent. You can’t fight ignorance by mocking it, Jack. You fight it by speaking — again and again — until it starts to sound like hope.”

Host: The wind pushed against the window, the rain streaking like threads of light. Jack’s eyes softened, though his tone remained sharp.

Jack: “You really think hope can fix misinformation? You think if we just talk enough, the lies disappear?”

Jeeny: “Not disappear. But lose their power. Think about the Apollo missions — when Kennedy told the nation we’d go to the moon, most people didn’t understand the physics. But they understood the dream. Science became a story — and everyone wanted to be part of it. That’s communication.”

Host: Jack paused, his fingers still. The memory of that era — black-and-white images of rockets, faces turned skyward — flickered in his mind.

Jack: (quietly) “You’re comparing policy to poetry.”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “Sometimes policy needs poetry. Otherwise, it’s just bureaucracy dressed as reason.”

Host: The air between them softened, like the first break in a long storm. Jack looked away, exhaling slowly, as if the weight of his logic had become too heavy.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I believed in all that. I thought science could save the world. Then I started working in environmental policy — saw how money twists data, how politicians cherry-pick facts, how even the smartest people can lie to themselves if the funding’s right. Science is clean; people aren’t.”

Jeeny: (gently) “That’s why communication matters. Because it’s not just data — it’s trust. The moment you stop talking, someone else will fill the silence. Usually someone louder. Usually someone wrong.”

Host: The clock ticked, slow and deliberate. The café’s lights flickered, turning the steam into a faint halo. Jack’s eyes met hers — tired, but alive again.

Jack: “So what — you want everyone to become a communicator? You want every scientist to take a PR course?”

Jeeny: “No. I want every scientist to remember they’re part of humanity, not above it. And every citizen to remember curiosity isn’t weakness. It’s power.”

Host: Her words lingered, floating in the quiet like embers refusing to die. Jack leaned back, studying her as if seeing her anew — not as an opponent, but as a mirror of what he once was.

Jack: (softly) “You might be right. Maybe I’ve been speaking to the wrong audience — or in the wrong language.”

Jeeny: “Then start again. Speak like a human, not a report. Let science breathe.”

Host: A small smile broke on his face — faint, reluctant, but real. The rain had stopped, and the neon lights outside glowed clearer.

Jack: “So communication isn’t just a tool — it’s the continuation of science itself.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Discovery is only half the miracle. The other half is being understood.”

Host: The camera pulls back. The streetlights shimmer, the puddles glint like glass shards, and from inside the café, two silhouettes sit close, the distance between them shrinking — not just physically, but in belief.

The rain has ended, but the world outside still waits, half asleep, half awake — a world that might yet listen, if someone dares to speak with both truth and heart.