We can best help you to prevent war not by repeating your words

Host: The rain had just ceased, leaving the city washed and silent, like a theatre after the final applause. The streetlights shimmered on the wet pavement, their reflections trembling like ghosts of forgotten dreams. Inside a small bookshop café, candles flickered against the windows, breathing faint shadows onto rows of worn books. The air was thick with the smell of coffee, paper, and something more—tension, perhaps, or the faint echo of a coming argument.

Jack sat near the window, his hands wrapped around a black cup, eyes fixed on the rain-slick street. His jaw was set, his posture precise, as if he were bracing for a verdict. Across from him, Jeeny leaned forward, her fingers tracing circles on the wooden table, her gaze soft yet unwavering.

Jeeny: “Virginia Woolf once said—‘We can best help you to prevent war not by repeating your words and following your methods but by finding new words and creating new methods.’”

Jack: (smirks) “New words and new methods, huh? Sounds like something idealists always say before the real world shuts them down.”

Host: The flame from the candle flickered sharply, as if it too bristled at Jack’s tone. Outside, a taxi splashed through a puddle, its sound slicing through the quiet like a knife.

Jeeny: “You think new words don’t matter? That language doesn’t change the way we fight—or the way we make peace?”

Jack: “I think wars aren’t fought with words. They’re fought with guns, oil, and money. And they’re prevented by power, not poetry.”

Jeeny: “But power without new language just repeats the same mistakes. The same slogans, the same excuses—‘freedom,’ ‘defense,’ ‘safety.’ They’ve all been used to justify killing.”

Host: Jack leaned back, exhaling smoke from his half-burned cigarette. The smoke coiled lazily above him, forming grey threads that merged with the dim light.

Jack: “You’re quoting Woolf like she was running the Pentagon. Words don’t stop bullets, Jeeny. Methods don’t stop greed. The League of Nations tried—‘collective security,’ ‘diplomatic understanding.’ What did it get them? World War II.”

Jeeny: “Because they didn’t find new words, Jack—they just dressed the old ones in better suits. They called it ‘security,’ but it was fear. They called it ‘defense,’ but it was dominance. Woolf was talking about imagination—the courage to invent peace the way we invent weapons.”

Host: Her voice rose slightly, a tremor of conviction threading through her words. Jack’s eyes narrowed, not in anger but in something closer to curiosity—a reluctant respect.

Jack: “Imagination doesn’t stop tanks. You can’t ‘invent’ your way out of a warlord’s ambition. Sometimes you have to meet force with force.”

Jeeny: “And where does that end? Every empire said the same. Rome did. Britain did. Even the United States did when it called Vietnam a ‘necessity.’ All they found was more graves and fewer dreams.”

Host: The rain began again, softly this time, tapping against the glass like hesitant applause. Jack turned his head, watching the blur of red and white lights outside.

Jack: “So what’s your solution? Write poems at the front lines? Paint peace signs on drones?”

Jeeny: “No. But we can change the way we speak about enemies. Every war begins with words that divide—‘us’ and ‘them,’ ‘good’ and ‘evil.’ If we learned to see the other side not as monsters but as mirrors, we might stop needing wars at all.”

Host: Jack gave a short, dry laugh, but his eyes softened, their steel melting into something quieter.

Jack: “You talk like Gandhi.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because he proved new methods could work. Salt marches, hunger strikes—those weren’t weapons of war. They were weapons of words and conscience.”

Jack: “And yet, even he was killed by someone who thought differently. Idealism gets people shot.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But so does silence. So does cynicism.”

Host: The air between them grew thick, almost visible, like smoke curling between unseen walls. The clock on the counter ticked louder now, marking each second with surgical precision.

Jeeny: “Tell me, Jack—what would you call progress, then? Building stronger bombs or stronger minds?”

Jack: (pauses) “Progress is survival. It’s keeping your people safe.”

Jeeny: “Safe from what? From death—or from change?”

Host: Jack’s hand froze mid-air, the cigarette burning close to his fingers. He didn’t move, but his face shifted slightly, a subtle fracture beneath his composed mask.

Jack: “You really think humanity can just talk its way out of violence? Look around you—history is written in blood, not ink.”

Jeeny: “But ink remembers what blood forgets. Ink tells the truth after the guns have lied.”

Host: The wind outside moaned softly, carrying the scent of rain and iron through the half-open window.

Jeeny: “Think of the women during World War I—Woolf’s time. They didn’t have armies, but they built networks, schools, journals. They created language for grief and resistance. They didn’t repeat the generals’ words; they created their own.”

Jack: “And yet the world kept burning.”

Jeeny: “Yes—but the ashes became soil. Someone had to speak new truths so the next generation could grow from them.”

Host: Jack rubbed his temples, the light catching the edge of his profile like a blade. The room seemed to contract, drawing both of them closer to some invisible center.

Jack: “Maybe I’m too tired to believe in new truths. Maybe I’ve seen too many promises buried under flags.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s why Woolf’s words matter. She wasn’t naïve—she was wounded. She’d seen the ruins of men’s wars and still dared to believe in creation over repetition.”

Host: For a long moment, only the rain spoke. The sound was steady, like breathing.

Jack: “So what you’re saying is—peace isn’t about avoiding war. It’s about reimagining what it means to fight.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Fighting doesn’t have to mean destroying. It can mean building. Creating. It can mean refusing to repeat what’s broken.”

Host: Jack nodded slowly, his fingers finally releasing the spent cigarette into the ashtray. The smoke curled upward like a final ghost leaving the room.

Jack: “You know, there’s something terrifying about what you’re saying. Because if new methods exist, it means we’ve been choosing the wrong ones all along.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what courage really is—admitting we’ve been wrong, and starting again with new words.”

Host: The clock struck nine. The rain softened to a gentle mist, the world outside blurred but strangely calm. Jack looked at Jeeny—not as an opponent, but as someone who had just handed him a key he didn’t know he was missing.

Jack: “New words, new methods. Maybe it’s not such a bad rebellion after all.”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “Rebellion is only dangerous when it’s silent.”

Host: The candle burned low, its flame shrinking but steady. The last of the smoke drifted away, leaving behind only the warmth of quiet understanding. Outside, the rain turned into a soft silver mist, and the city, once restless, seemed to breathe again.

Jeeny reached for her cup, Jack for his coat. For a moment, neither spoke. Then she whispered, almost to herself—

Jeeny: “Maybe peace begins when we stop repeating.”

Jack: “And start imagining.”

Host: The light caught their faces one last time—his lined with weariness, hers alive with faith—before the door opened, and they stepped into the night. The rain kissed their faces, as if the world itself was ready to begin again, with new words.