Wars spring from unseen and generally insignificant causes, the

Host: The night was dense and quiet, except for the distant hum of the city, like a beast growling beneath its own breath. A single streetlight buzzed above a cracked bench, its light falling unevenly across the pavement, painting long shadows that stretched like ghosts of forgotten choices.

Beyond the alley, a faint sirensong echoed — somewhere, another argument, another outburst, another flame.

Jack sat on the bench, his jacket damp from the earlier rain, his hands clasped, knuckles white. Jeeny stood a few steps away, her umbrella half-broken, the wind toying with its bent spokes. The air smelled of ozone, metal, and old smoke.

Host: The world was on edge, and even the moonlight felt like it had been through something.

Jeeny: “Thucydides once said, ‘Wars spring from unseen and generally insignificant causes, the first outbreak being often but an explosion of anger.’ Funny how true that still feels, thousands of years later.”

Jack: “Yeah. It’s always anger, isn’t it? Always someone’s pride dressed up as justice.”

Host: He lit a cigarette, the small flame cutting through the dark for just a second before it was swallowed by shadow again.

Jeeny: “You think it’s just pride?”

Jack: “Pride, fear, humiliation — take your pick. Every war starts because someone felt small. They call it defense, liberation, honor. But underneath it’s just someone’s bruised ego.”

Jeeny: “That’s too simple. People don’t die by the millions because of bruised egos.”

Jack: “No? Look at 1914. One assassination — one man. Archduke Ferdinand. A gunshot in Sarajevo, and the whole world went up in flames. Fifty million lives for a moment of anger and a string of bad decisions.”

Host: The wind picked up, whispering through the alley, lifting scraps of paper and leaves that danced briefly before falling again.

Jeeny: “But that’s the point, isn’t it? It’s never really the assassination, or the border, or the speech. It’s the human heart behind it. Someone’s anger, someone’s fear. We like to call it politics, but it’s always emotion underneath.”

Jack: “Emotion’s overrated. It’s a matchstick in a room full of gas. Logic should be the extinguisher — but we never use it.”

Jeeny: “Because logic doesn’t win loyalty. Emotion does. People don’t fight for policies — they fight for what they feel is right. Even if it’s wrong.”

Host: A car passed slowly at the end of the street, its headlights slicing through the mist. The light briefly caught Jack’s face, revealing the quiet weariness there — the kind of fatigue that doesn’t come from lack of sleep, but from too much seeing.

Jack: “I covered a riot once. Small one. Started with a protest about food prices. Within an hour, there were flames, gunshots, bodies. No one remembered what they were angry about. Just anger itself. It spreads like a virus.”

Jeeny: “And yet, anger isn’t always wrong. Sometimes it’s the only language injustice understands. Would you call the civil rights marches anger? Or resistance?”

Jack: “Both. But there’s a difference between controlled fire and wildfire. Martin Luther King burned with purpose. The world burns with impulse.”

Host: The rain began again, soft at first, like an afterthought. It dappled the ground, darkening the pavement beneath their feet. Jeeny lowered her umbrella, letting the drops touch her hair, her face.

Jeeny: “Maybe Thucydides meant that — that anger isn’t the real cause, it’s just the spark. The real cause hides beneath it. The unseen, the unspoken. The things people refuse to admit.”

Jack: “Like what?”

Jeeny: “Like hunger. Or envy. Or loneliness. Wars aren’t born on battlefields — they’re born in hearts that feel unseen.”

Host: Jack took a slow drag from his cigarette, the glow brightening, then fading like a dying star.

Jack: “You make it sound poetic. But war isn’t poetry. It’s machinery. Greed disguised as destiny. Men at desks making maps bleed. You think it’s hearts? No. It’s hands — signing contracts, approving invasions, counting profits.”

Jeeny: “You think those hands aren’t driven by hearts? You think greed isn’t emotion? The only thing worse than anger is cold calculation — because it pretends to be reason while it kills.”

Host: Her voice trembled, not with fear, but with conviction. Jack looked up at her — the rain tracing faint lines down her cheeks that could have been tears.

Jack: “So what then? You think we’re doomed to it? To these explosions of anger, over and over?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not doomed. But unhealed. We never deal with the unseen causes, so we keep reliving them. Every war is just humanity’s therapy session gone wrong.”

Jack: bitterly “That’s optimistic — and tragic.”

Jeeny: “Optimism isn’t blindness, Jack. It’s choosing to believe we can learn. Even if history says otherwise.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, turning the streetlight’s glow into a trembling halo. The world seemed suspended — like it was holding its breath between anger and forgiveness.

Jack: “You ever think maybe anger’s necessary? Maybe it’s the only thing that ever forces change. People don’t revolt out of calm understanding. They revolt when they’re tired of being invisible.”

Jeeny: “Necessary, yes. But never pure. Anger can start the fire, but it can’t rebuild what it burns. That’s why Thucydides called it insignificant — because the emotion that starts a war is never as big as the destruction that follows.”

Host: The wind sighed again, pushing the rain sideways. Jack’s cigarette hissed as a drop landed on its ember, extinguishing it.

Jack: “You know something, Jeeny? Every time I read about a war, it’s always the same story — just new uniforms. It’s like we’re addicted to conflict.”

Jeeny: “We are. Because anger is easier than empathy. War is easier than understanding. To listen, to forgive — those take strength. Anger only takes a spark.”

Jack: “And yet, here we are, thousands of years later, still quoting a man who watched Athens burn and thought — maybe we’ll learn next time.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why his words matter. Because he knew we wouldn’t. But he hoped we might.”

Host: The rain began to fade again, softening, leaving behind the scent of wet earth and steam. A faint light appeared on the horizon — the first sign of dawn, pale and unassuming.

Jack: “You think we’ll ever stop? Stop turning small wounds into wars?”

Jeeny: “Only when we start seeing the wounds before they bleed. Before they become banners and borders. When anger meets empathy instead of echo.”

Host: Jack looked out toward the dim skyline, where the light met the remnants of night. His voice softened.

Jack: “Maybe that’s all Thucydides wanted to say — that the first explosion is never the real problem. It’s everything that went unseen before it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The world doesn’t fall apart from one shout. It falls apart from the silences that came before it.”

Host: The rain stopped entirely now. The streetlight flickered, then died, leaving only the faint glow of morning stretching its way through the mist.

Jeeny closed her umbrella. Jack stood, his coat dripping, his face half-shadowed, half-lit.

For a moment, neither spoke. The city was waking — slowly, cautiously, as if afraid of its own heartbeat.

Then Jeeny said, softly:
“Maybe peace isn’t the absence of war. Maybe it’s the courage to look before anger becomes fire.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s the only war worth fighting.”

Host: The light grew, spilling over the buildings, over the street, over the two figures standing in the quiet aftermath of understanding. The world, for that brief moment, seemed still — as if listening.

And in that fragile silence, older than empires, heavier than regret, Thucydides’ truth lingered —

Wars don’t begin with armies. They begin with hearts that forgot to listen before they burned.