Value your freedom or you will lose it, teaches history. 'Don't

Host: The café was nearly empty, the rain outside smudging the city lights into trembling colors — reds, blues, and golds bleeding into one another like memories on wet paper. The clock above the counter ticked without hurry, each sound like a reminder that time was watching.

Jack sat in his usual corner, his laptop open but untouched. Beside it, a half-finished espresso had gone cold. Jeeny sat across from him, a newspaper folded neatly between her hands, her eyes sharp but tired — the kind of tired that comes not from lack of sleep, but from caring too much in a world that rarely listens.

Outside, the rain whispered against the glass like a warning nobody wanted to hear.

Jeeny spoke first, quietly but with the edge of conviction.
Jeeny: “Richard Stallman once said, ‘Value your freedom or you will lose it, teaches history. “Don’t bother us with politics,” respond those who don’t want to learn.’”

Jack: “Sounds about right. People love the idea of freedom — until they have to do something to protect it.”

Jeeny: “Or until it inconveniences them. Freedom’s like oxygen. Nobody notices it until it’s gone.”

Jack: “And even then, they blame the weather.”

Host: Jack’s voice carried a low amusement, but there was something heavy beneath it — a kind of weary realism that only comes from watching ideals rot under fluorescent light. The steam from the coffee machine hissed behind them, like a faint echo of anger.

Jeeny: “What do you think Stallman meant? Political apathy? Or something deeper?”

Jack: “Both. He was talking about technology, but it applies everywhere. Every time people say, ‘Don’t bother me with politics,’ they’re really saying, ‘Let someone else decide how I live.’”

Jeeny: “And that’s how control starts — quietly, politely. With disinterest.”

Jack: “Exactly. Tyranny doesn’t always kick down the door. Sometimes it just asks if you’d like faster Wi-Fi in exchange for your privacy.”

Host: A flash of lightning outside cast their reflections on the window — distorted, doubled, fading. The thunder came seconds later, soft but certain.

Jeeny leaned forward, elbows on the table.
Jeeny: “But isn’t it exhausting, Jack? Constant vigilance? Always questioning, always doubting? Most people just want to live — not fight every invisible war.”

Jack: “That’s the trap. That’s how you lose it. Every empire falls not by invasion, but by indifference.”

Jeeny: “You think we’re there now?”

Jack: “We’ve been there for years. We just built prettier prisons. Ones with screens and subscription plans.”

Host: The rain intensified, running in sheets down the glass. Outside, a man in a hood crossed the street — his shadow warped by the light, his face unseen.

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

Jack: “No. I just stopped expecting them to read the fine print of their own contracts.”

Jeeny: “You mean democracy’s contract?”

Jack: “Exactly. Freedom’s clause is participation. You stop showing up, and it stops existing.”

Jeeny: “But people are scared. Politics feels like poison now — corrupt, manipulative. Maybe they step back to protect themselves.”

Jack: “And in doing so, they give the poison more room to spread.”

Host: The café door opened briefly; a gust of cold air rushed in, carrying the scent of wet asphalt. A young couple entered, laughing, shaking off their umbrellas — their voices bright, careless, alive. They ordered sweet drinks and never noticed the posters on the wall about the city’s new surveillance law.

Jack watched them for a moment.
Jack: “See that? That’s the face of modern freedom — smiling, scrolling, unbothered. They think liberty is permanent because they’ve never seen it die.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s unfair. They grew up believing the world was already free.”

Jack: “Then history failed to teach them.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe we failed to listen.”

Host: Her voice softened, but her eyes didn’t. They held a quiet defiance — a flame that refused to go out even as the wind pressed harder against the windows.

Jeeny: “Do you ever think we’ve made freedom too abstract? Like a slogan instead of a responsibility?”

Jack: “Completely. It’s branding now. Politicians sell it, companies package it, people wear it on t-shirts. Nobody lives it.”

Jeeny: “Then what does it mean to live it?”

Jack: “To question. To dissent. To care, even when it’s easier not to. Freedom’s not the right to say what you want — it’s the duty to keep saying it when no one wants to hear it.”

Jeeny: “That’s costly.”

Jack: “So is silence.”

Host: The light above their table flickered once — briefly dimming the world, then returning with a pale glow that made the room feel smaller, more intimate.

Jeeny: “You sound like Stallman himself. Except you’re less idealistic.”

Jack: “Idealism’s expensive. He believed in digital freedom — open software, open knowledge. I believe in something older: open eyes.”

Jeeny: “And yet most people prefer comfort over clarity.”

Jack: “Of course they do. Clarity comes with responsibility.”

Host: A bus passed, spraying water onto the sidewalk, blurring the reflections of streetlights into something resembling a broken flag.

Jeeny: “But maybe freedom isn’t something everyone wants. Maybe it’s like fire — beautiful, dangerous, demanding respect.”

Jack: “Or maybe people want the warmth without the burn.”

Jeeny: “And history shows — the moment they stop tending it, someone else takes the match.”

Host: A moment of stillness — the kind that sits heavy in the chest. Jack looked at her, a faint smile forming despite the gravity of the talk.

Jack: “You ever notice how every generation thinks they’re too civilized to repeat the past?”

Jeeny: “And every generation proves they’re not.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s why freedom has to be fought for again and again. Not because we forget how — but because we forget why.”

Jeeny: “The why is simple. Dignity. Choice. Humanity.”

Jack: “And yet people will trade all three for convenience.”

Jeeny: “Until the cost shows up at their door.”

Host: The rain eased, turning to a mist that hung in the air like an unfinished sentence. The couple in the corner left, laughter trailing behind them like perfume.

Jack closed his laptop finally, staring into the faint reflection of himself in the screen.
Jack: “Maybe Stallman’s warning wasn’t just political. Maybe it was personal. Every time you choose numbness over awareness, comfort over conviction — you lose a piece of your freedom.”

Jeeny: “That’s true. Freedom dies quietly — not with a bang, but with a shrug.”

Jack: “And the shrug is what kills nations.”

Host: Jeeny smiled sadly, the kind of smile that knows too much about hope and heartbreak.
Jeeny: “Then maybe the only real patriotism left is paying attention.”

Jack: “And the only rebellion — caring.”

Host: The clock ticked to midnight. The rain had stopped. The city outside glowed faintly under the streetlights, slick and silent.

Jack and Jeeny sat for a moment longer, the weight of history — and humanity — between them. Then Jack stood, pulled on his coat, and looked at her.

Jack: “You coming?”

Jeeny: “Yeah. Someone’s got to keep an eye on the fire.”

Host: They stepped out into the night, their footsteps echoing against the wet pavement. The air was cold but alive — the kind of cold that wakes you up, that reminds you you’re still part of something worth saving.

And as they walked beneath the dim glow of the streetlights, the world — indifferent yet listening — seemed to whisper Berlin’s and Stallman’s shared warning through the rain-soaked streets:

Freedom isn’t kept by the powerful.
It’s kept by those who refuse to stop caring.

And in that small act — walking, watching, remembering —
they remained free.