We do need an attitude of leadership in our government which

Host: The hall smelled faintly of coffee, rain, and tired ambition. It was one of those community spaces that looked both temporary and eternal — fluorescent lights, folding chairs, and a hand-painted banner that read: “Regional Futures Forum.”

Outside, the rain drummed softly on the tin roof, a rhythm older than politics itself. Inside, a few dozen locals lingered after the speeches, voices low, their faces lined with both hope and the fatigue of repetition.

At the back of the hall, Jack and Jeeny stood near a long window, watching the crowd disperse. Beyond the glass stretched the empty main street of a small Western Australian town — a place forgotten by speed and overshadowed by skyscrapers three hundred kilometres away.

Jack: “He’s right, you know. Forrest.”

Jeeny: (raising an eyebrow) “Which part?”

Jack: “The part about leadership. About faith. ‘We need an attitude of leadership that demonstrates faith in major population centres outside of Perth.’ You could stretch that to mean every forgotten town in the world.”

Jeeny: “Faith,” she repeated softly. “Funny word to use in politics.”

Host: The lights above them flickered once, buzzing faintly. The sound of chairs scraping against the floor filled the pauses between sentences.

Jack: “Faith’s all these people have left, Jeeny. You think the government remembers places like this? They talk about the economy, about GDP, about growth — but none of that trickles past the city limits.”

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve started believing in slogans.”

Jack: “Not slogans. Survival.”

Host: His hands tightened around a folded sheet of paper — his notes from the meeting. The ink had begun to blur where the rain had touched it earlier.

Jeeny: “Faith is a beautiful thing until it becomes dependence. People here shouldn’t be waiting for faith from Perth — they should be building their own.”

Jack: “How? With what? Half their factories are gone, the train line’s rusted, and every young person with a degree leaves by twenty-five. What’s left to build with?”

Jeeny: “Belief.”

Jack: (laughing dryly) “That and a shovel?”

Jeeny: “That and each other.”

Host: Her voice was calm, but it carried the quiet defiance of someone who’d grown up watching cities eat their villages. The way she said “each other” made the air between them hum slightly — like the resonance of something truer than politics.

Jack: “You sound like a romantic. These towns need policy, not poetry.”

Jeeny: “Policy without heart is paperwork. And you can’t draft dignity into legislation, Jack.”

Host: Outside, a lone truck passed, its headlights sweeping briefly across the hall like a slow-moving comet.

Jack: “You think leadership is about emotion?”

Jeeny: “Leadership is emotion. It’s empathy with power. It’s faith made visible.”

Jack: “Faith made visible…” (he nodded slowly) “That’s what Forrest meant, then. Not blind faith — but presence. Showing up. Listening. Investing.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Faith that doesn’t look like pity.”

Host: The rain grew heavier now, falling like applause for something long overdue.

Jeeny: “You know what’s strange? Everyone talks about Perth like it’s the centre of the universe. But look at these people — they grow the food, mine the ore, run the trucks, keep the grid alive. The heart beats out here, Jack. The city just echoes it.”

Jack: “You make it sound holy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe every forgotten town is just waiting to be believed in again.”

Host: Jack turned to look at her. Her eyes caught the dull light — steady, reflective, alive.

Jack: “You really think faith and leadership are the same thing?”

Jeeny: “No. Leadership is the proof of faith.”

Jack: “And if the government never proves it?”

Jeeny: “Then someone else will. They always do.”

Host: Her words lingered — not angry, but certain. The kind of certainty that doesn’t shout; it builds.

Jack: “You ever wonder why politicians don’t come out here more?”

Jeeny: “Because mirrors don’t travel well. And places like this show them what they’ve forgotten to see.”

Jack: (smirking) “You’re wasted on art. You should run for parliament.”

Jeeny: “Only if I could run it from here.”

Host: The last of the locals had left. The hall was quiet now, save for the slow drip of water from the roof into a metal bucket near the stage.

Jack: “You think the people here still believe in government?”

Jeeny: “No. They believe in each other. That’s the start of any real nation.”

Jack: “But without leadership, it falls apart.”

Jeeny: “Maybe leadership isn’t someone above. Maybe it’s something between.”

Host: Jack’s gaze drifted back to the window. The rain had softened again, leaving the street slick with reflections — streetlights stretching like rivers of gold down the empty road.

Jeeny stepped beside him, her reflection merging with his in the glass.

Jeeny: “Faith isn’t given, Jack. It’s demonstrated. When leaders stop showing it, people have to start living it.”

Jack: “So you think change starts in places like this?”

Jeeny: “Where else could it?”

Host: A faint smile touched his lips — tired, but genuine. The kind that only comes when cynicism begins to surrender.

Jack: “You make me believe in things I shouldn’t.”

Jeeny: “No. I make you remember the things you stopped believing in.”

Host: Outside, the rain stopped completely. The night settled — vast, clean, and impossibly still.

Jack picked up his soaked notes and folded them once more, tucking them carefully into his coat.

Jack: “You know, Forrest was right. The problem isn’t that no one has faith. It’s that the wrong people stopped earning it.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the right ones need to start proving it.”

Host: The overhead lights buzzed, then dimmed — leaving them in soft half-light, like two souls standing between what is and what could be.

Jack looked at her, the faintest shadow of conviction forming in his weary eyes.

Jack: “Maybe leadership doesn’t start in Parliament after all.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said, her voice quiet, resolute. “It starts exactly where faith begins — in places like this.”

Host: The hall was still now, but not empty. The air carried a quiet electricity — the kind that hums before something new begins.

And as the night deepened over the small town, the forgotten lights of its main street glowed like stubborn constellations — proof that faith, once lit, can outshine even neglect.

Because true leadership, as Forrest once said,
isn’t about where power lives —
it’s about where belief still breathes.