To abandon facts is to abandon freedom. If nothing is true, then

Host:
The newsroom was quiet, unnaturally quiet — that late hour when only the lights above the desks still hummed, and the walls seemed to listen. Computer screens glowed in the half-dark, casting a pale blue tint over the papers, the coffee mugs, the endless drafts of headlines that would never make it to print.

Outside, the city’s pulse was muted, skyscrapers blinking like slow thoughts in the fog. Inside, the air smelled of old ink and anxious electricity, the scent of a world trying to hold onto something real.

Jack stood near the window, sleeves rolled up, eyes reflecting the pale glow of his monitor. He looked like a man on the verge of revelation or collapse. Jeeny sat at the desk behind him, surrounded by open notebooks and crumpled pages, her fingers tapping absently on the keyboard — searching for a rhythm to truth.

Jeeny: “Timothy Snyder said — ‘To abandon facts is to abandon freedom. If nothing is true, then all is spectacle.’”
Jack: [turning slowly] “Yeah. And I think we already crossed that line.”
Jeeny: “You mean the age of truth?”
Jack: “No — the age of belief. We replaced truth with opinion and called it democracy.”
Jeeny: “Or comfort. People don’t want the truth, Jack. They want validation.”
Jack: “And validation’s cheap. You can buy it by the click.”
Jeeny: “That’s what he meant by ‘spectacle,’ isn’t it? When facts lose meaning, reality becomes theater.”
Jack: “And we’re all the audience — applauding our own blindness.”

Host:
A phone buzzed somewhere on a desk, lighting up for a moment before fading. The air conditioning hummed softly — a sterile, steady sound that made the silence feel even heavier. Jeeny leaned back in her chair, staring at the ceiling, her voice carrying both exhaustion and conviction.

Jeeny: “Snyder was warning us — facts aren’t just information; they’re oxygen. Without them, a society suffocates.”
Jack: “And yet we keep lighting fires — every headline, every outrage, every lie.”
Jeeny: “Because chaos sells.”
Jack: “And clarity doesn’t.”
Jeeny: “You sound cynical.”
Jack: “I’m realistic. We built an economy of emotion, not reason. Truth can’t compete with performance.”
Jeeny: [quietly] “Then freedom becomes choreography.”
Jack: [turning toward her] “Exactly. When truth dies, liberty doesn’t vanish overnight — it just turns into spectacle. We’re free to watch, not to think.”

Host:
A gust of wind rattled the window, carrying the faint sound of sirens below — the city, still alive in its noise, still pretending to know what’s real.

Jeeny stood, walking slowly toward the window beside him. The glow of their screens reflected faintly in the glass, two digital ghosts staring out at the analog night.

Jeeny: “You know, it’s terrifying — this idea that freedom depends on truth. We always thought it depended on will.”
Jack: “Will without truth is manipulation. You can rally people with lies; history proves that.”
Jeeny: “Hitler, Stalin, Goebbels — they all replaced fact with narrative.”
Jack: “Exactly. Snyder’s a historian. He saw how propaganda erodes reality, one distortion at a time.”
Jeeny: “And we think we’re too advanced to fall for it.”
Jack: [bitter laugh] “We fall for it faster — just prettier now, packaged with hashtags and high production value.”
Jeeny: “So truth didn’t disappear — it got rebranded.”
Jack: “Into content.”

Host:
The fluorescent light flickered, buzzing faintly. The walls felt tighter, as if the conversation itself had drawn them in. Jack poured himself a cup of cold coffee, then stopped, staring at the surface — that murky reflection of fatigue and conscience.

Jeeny: “You know what I hate most? How we’ve made truth subjective. As if it’s just another flavor.”
Jack: “‘My truth, your truth.’ As if gravity negotiates.”
Jeeny: “And yet, that phrase comforts people — it gives illusion of agency.”
Jack: “Illusion is the enemy of agency. When everything is true, nothing is accountable.”
Jeeny: “And that’s when freedom dissolves.”
Jack: “Exactly. A free society isn’t one where everyone believes what they want. It’s one where they agree on what’s real.”
Jeeny: “But how do you defend reality when people prefer fiction?”
Jack: “By refusing to perform. By refusing to turn truth into theater.”

Host:
A train rumbled beneath the building, the vibration trembling through the floor like an uneasy heartbeat. Jeeny rested her hand on the window, eyes tracing the blurred reflection of her face.

Jeeny: “You ever think we’re complicit? As journalists, I mean. We chase the emotional headline. We amplify spectacle.”
Jack: “We’re caught in the algorithm. The louder the lie, the wider the reach.”
Jeeny: “And silence gets buried.”
Jack: “Truth doesn’t trend.”
Jeeny: “But it survives.”
Jack: “Barely.”
Jeeny: “No — stubbornly. Truth doesn’t die, Jack. It waits.”
Jack: “For what?”
Jeeny: “For someone brave enough to stop performing.”
Jack: [meeting her gaze] “Then maybe that’s our job — to remember how to whisper when everyone’s shouting.”

Host:
The rain began again, light against the glass, the kind of rain that sounds like typewriter keys — soft, deliberate, alive. The world outside blurred further, becoming abstraction: shapes, colors, illusions of movement.

Jack: “You know, Snyder’s quote — it’s not just warning, it’s indictment. He’s saying truth and freedom are twins. Kill one, the other bleeds out.”
Jeeny: “And the spectacle becomes the funeral.”
Jack: “Yes. But people will still clap. They always clap for their own destruction if it’s well-produced.”
Jeeny: “That’s what scares me most — how entertainment replaced evidence.”
Jack: “Because it’s easier to feel righteous than to be right.”
Jeeny: “You think we can turn it back?”
Jack: “No. But we can remember what it looked like before it broke.”

Host:
Lightning flashed faintly, illuminating their reflections — two figures blurred against the glass, outlines dissolving into the city’s endless mirror.

Jeeny turned to him, her voice softer now, but edged with defiance.

Jeeny: “Then we keep reporting. Keep writing. Even when no one listens.”
Jack: “Especially then.”
Jeeny: “You really think words still matter?”
Jack: “They always have. Every lie in history needed silence to survive.”
Jeeny: “And truth?”
Jack: “Truth just needs endurance.”
Jeeny: “So maybe facts are our form of rebellion.”
Jack: “No — our form of love. Love for what’s real.”

Host:
The rain eased, leaving streaks of water down the window that caught the faint reflection of city lights — a living, weeping mirror.

Jeeny returned to her desk, typing quietly now. Her words moved across the screen like a heartbeat restored. Jack stood still, watching her, his eyes carrying something between admiration and fatigue — the look of a man who knows the battle never ends but still shows up to fight.

And as the last storm cloud drifted past the skyline,
the truth of Timothy Snyder’s words hung in the air like quiet thunder —

that truth is not luxury,
it is structure.
It is the invisible spine of freedom,
the foundation without which all liberty collapses into spectacle.

When fact becomes optional,
freedom becomes ornamental.
And every lie — however entertaining —
tightens the noose of illusion.

For a world that abandons truth
may keep its lights bright,
its screens loud,
its applause endless —

but its soul will flicker,
and its freedom
will be nothing
but a beautifully lit cage.

And in that darkness,
those who still believe in truth
will not shout —
they will write,
they will whisper,
they will remember —

until fact
becomes
freedom
again.