War is something Arafat sends others to do for him. That is, the

Host: The night had teeth. A sharp, cold wind prowled through the broken alleys of an old city, one that had known too many flags and too little peace. The sky above was bruised with smoke, heavy with history.

In a deserted warehouse, where light dripped from a single flickering bulb, Jack sat at a rusted table, a half-empty glass beside a battered newspaper. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against a pillar, her dark eyes fixed on him like she was studying the shape of his silence.

From somewhere beyond the cracked windows, a faint echo of sirens wove through the darkness — reminders that the world outside still fought its endless little wars.

Jeeny: “Oriana Fallaci once said, ‘War is something Arafat sends others to do for him. That is, the poor souls who believe in him. This pompous incompetent caused the failure of the Camp David negotiations, Clinton’s mediation.’”

Jack: grunts “She didn’t pull punches, did she?”

Jeeny: “She never did. She saw war for what it was — theater, directed by cowards who never step on the stage.”

Jack: pours more whiskey “That’s the truth, all right. War’s always fought by those with the least to gain and the most to lose. It’s not about bravery anymore. It’s about manipulation.”

Jeeny: “Not anymore? It never was. Every general needs believers. Every tyrant needs hope to sell. And every peace talks ends with someone counting the dead.”

Host: The bulb above them flickered, buzzing faintly, throwing shadows that trembled across their faces. Jack’s jaw tightened as he stared at the glass — the reflection of flame dancing like a memory.

Jeeny’s voice softened, but her words cut clean.

Jeeny: “You agree with her, don’t you? That men like Arafat — and men like those who opposed him — play chess with human lives.”

Jack: “Chess implies strategy. Most of them don’t even deserve that word. It’s more like poker — bluffing, betting, bleeding. Except the chips are children and the currency’s grief.”

Jeeny: “But doesn’t that make us complicit, too? The ones who watch, who shrug, who move on after the headlines fade?”

Jack: “We’re all complicit, Jeeny. Every time we choose comfort over conscience, we feed the machine. We just like to pretend we’re clean because we don’t pull the trigger.”

Jeeny: quietly “And Fallaci — she pulled no triggers, but her words burned like napalm.”

Jack: nods slowly “Yeah. She was dangerous in a different way. She waged war on illusion.”

Host: Outside, the wind shifted. The distant rumble of thunder rolled through the air, deep and slow, like the world clearing its throat before it screams.

Inside, their silence was electric — charged with anger and awe, grief and understanding.

Jeeny: “You think she was right to single Arafat out?”

Jack: “He was a symbol. Not the only guilty man — just the one who embodied the disease. Every nation’s got its Arafat — leaders who use faith like currency, who turn belief into bullets.”

Jeeny: “But don’t you think belief itself can be sacred?”

Jack: looks up sharply “Belief? Sure. But it’s a loaded gun. In the wrong hands, it’s just another weapon of persuasion. You can kill with faith just as easily as with hate.”

Jeeny: “That’s too cynical.”

Jack: “It’s too human.”

Jeeny: “Then what’s left for the rest of us — the ones who still believe peace isn’t just propaganda?”

Jack: leans forward, his voice low, steady “Hope’s a beautiful lie, Jeeny. But it’s still a lie.”

Jeeny: eyes flashing “No. Hope’s not a lie — it’s a refusal. It’s saying ‘you haven’t won yet.’”

Host: The bulb buzzed louder, its light flickering wildly now, like a candle caught in wind. Jack’s face was half in shadow, half in flame — a man caught between conviction and exhaustion.

Jeeny stood straighter, her voice gathering heat like a rising tide.

Jeeny: “You always talk like humanity’s doomed — like idealism is naïve. But tell me, Jack: without belief, who stops men like Arafat? Who drags truth back into the room when power lies louder?”

Jack: sharply “Belief didn’t stop him, Jeeny — it built him! Millions followed him into despair because they wanted to believe someone would lead them home.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the problem isn’t belief. Maybe it’s who we choose to believe in.”

Jack: leans back, exhales smoke “And how would you fix that? Teach people to crave truth instead of comfort? Good luck. We’re a species addicted to false prophets.”

Jeeny: steps closer, her voice trembling but fierce “Then maybe the cure isn’t to stop believing — it’s to start believing differently. Not in leaders. In each other.”

Jack: “That’s poetry, not policy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe poetry’s the only thing left that hasn’t been corrupted.”

Host: The rain began to fall — soft at first, then heavier, hammering against the tin roof like a second heartbeat. The sound filled the silence between them, merging with the hum of the dying light.

A flash of lightning illuminated their faces — Jeeny’s wet with conviction, Jack’s etched with doubt.

Jack: quietly “You sound like you still have faith in us.”

Jeeny: “I have faith in what we could be. Even Fallaci — for all her fury — wrote because she believed words could still wound the powerful. That’s faith, Jack. That’s resistance.”

Jack: “And yet the wars go on.”

Jeeny: “So does the writing.”

Jack: a long pause “Maybe you’re right. Maybe she wasn’t just angry. Maybe she was heartbroken.”

Jeeny: softly “Aren’t they the same thing — when the world keeps killing what you love?”

Host: The rain softened, slowing to a hush. The flickering light steadied for a moment, casting one last pure glow across the table.

Jack reached for the newspaper again, smoothing it out, eyes falling on the photo — a black-and-white image of two men shaking hands in a garden, hope frozen midair.

Jack: “You know, I used to believe in diplomacy. In reason. In the idea that men could talk instead of bleed. But Fallaci was right — some men prefer the theater of war to the silence of peace. Because peace demands humility. And that’s a language power doesn’t speak.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s where we come in. The ones who still whisper peace, even when no one’s listening.”

Jack: looks at her, a faint, tired smile “Whispering in a hurricane.”

Jeeny: smiles back “But sometimes whispers echo farther than shouts.”

Host: The storm began to fade. The air grew still, heavy with the scent of wet concrete and ashes. The city exhaled — weary, but still standing.

Jack poured the last of the whiskey into two glasses. They clinked — a small, human sound in the vast silence of the world.

They didn’t drink to victory. They drank to endurance.

To truth.

To those who fought wars not with bullets, but with words.

And as the light finally died, leaving only the faint glow of the storm’s aftermath, their silhouettes blurred into one — two quiet witnesses in a world that never learns,
but sometimes, against all odds,
still dares to hope.