We have learned - or at least we should have - that seeing

Host: The night was quiet, the kind of stillness that follows news too heavy to digest. The city outside was wrapped in fog, the streetlights blurred into pale halos of amber and white. Inside a dimly lit bar, smoke drifted like ghosts over half-empty glasses. The TV above the counter still flickered with images of conflict, crowds, and flags—another speech, another attack, another debate.
Jack sat in the corner booth, his jacket still damp from the rain, his eyes fixed on the screen but seeing far beyond it. Jeeny arrived quietly, her hair wet, her hands trembling slightly as she removed her coat. She sat opposite him, her gaze soft but unyielding.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How we keep talking about wars, about ‘them’ and ‘us’. As if we still believe there’s a way to win without understanding why we fight.”

Jack: (leaning forward, his voice low and gravelly) “Understanding why we fight doesn’t mean excusing what they do, Jeeny. That’s what Liz Kendall was talking about. Thinking it’s just a reaction to us—our politics, our culture, our mistakes—belittles what we’re up against. You can’t reason with an ideology that feeds on death.”

Host: A faint hum filled the room, the sound of a refrigerator, the distant siren, the soft beat of rain against the glass. Jeeny’s fingers traced a small circle on the table, like she was drawing thoughts into shape.

Jeeny: “But isn’t every ideology born from something, Jack? From anger, from humiliation, from loss? No one wakes up wanting to destroy the world. They grow into that. Maybe if we saw the roots instead of the fire, we’d find a way to stop it.”

Jack: “That’s the mistake, Jeeny. You think it’s about poverty, or politics, or despair. But it’s not. It’s about belief—a belief that their world must erase ours. You can’t ‘fix’ that with empathy. You have to confront it.”

Jeeny: “And confrontation has worked so far? Decades of it—and all it’s done is multiply the hate. Every drone strike, every headline, every child growing up in rubble... you think they don’t see us as the same monsters we see in them?”

Host: The light flickered as a train rumbled past outside, its shadow sliding over the window like a dark wave. Jack’s jaw tightened. He looked away, then back at her, his grey eyes hard but uncertain.

Jack: “So what? We just sit back and wait until another bomb goes off in a market? Another van drives into a crowd? You talk about compassion as if it’s armor. It’s not. It’s glass. And people die because we pretend the world can be healed with understanding.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not armor, but it’s the only thing that’s ever broken the cycle. Look at South Africa, Jack—decades of hatred, and yet Mandela chose forgiveness. Look at Northern Ireland—peace came not through more blood, but through listening. Even the deepest wounds can’t be bombed into silence.”

Host: The bartender turned off the TV, leaving only the soft buzz of the neon sign. The room seemed smaller now, the air denser. Jack took a long breath, his voice softening though the edge remained.

Jack: “You’re comparing apples and grenades, Jeeny. Those conflicts had room for compromise. Extremism doesn’t. These people don’t want dialogue. They want domination. And pretending it’s our fault—our foreign policy, our media, our mistakes—gives them power. It lets them define the battlefield.”

Jeeny: (her eyes glistening) “I’m not saying it’s all our fault. I’m saying it’s all our problem. When a fire spreads, you don’t argue about who struck the match—you fight the conditions that let it burn. Despair is their oxygen, Jack. Every injustice, every ignored cry, every village we bomb by mistake feeds it.”

Host: A pause. The clock on the wall ticked loud in the silence. The rain began again, harder now, rattling against the windows like distant gunfire.

Jack: “You think understanding a murderer stops him from killing?”

Jeeny: “No. But understanding why he kills might stop the next one.”

Host: The words hung heavy in the air, like smoke that refused to fade. Jack’s fingers drummed once on the table, then stilled. His face—once sharp with defiance—now softened into something closer to fatigue.

Jack: “You sound like the politicians who think the world runs on dialogue. I’ve seen what happens when dialogue meets a rifle. Iraq. Syria. Libya. We tried diplomacy, aid, democracy—and what did it bring? More chaos. More graves. Sometimes you have to accept that evil isn’t misunderstood. It’s chosen.”

Jeeny: “And yet every tyrant once thought they were righteous. Every extremist believes they’re the hero of their own story. Evil isn’t born—it’s taught, shaped, justified. If we stop asking why, we surrender the only weapon that makes us human.”

Host: Jack’s hand tightened around his glass, the liquid trembling slightly. The barlight caught the lines on his face, shadows deepening like scars.

Jack: “You talk like you’ve never seen what they do. You’ve never watched someone strap a bomb to themselves and walk into a crowd. I have. And I’m telling you—there’s no dialogue left in that moment. Only choice. Us or them.”

Jeeny: “I’ve seen the aftermath, Jack. I’ve held the mothers who lost their children. But I’ve also seen what happens when we become what we fight. Every time we choose fear over humanity, we help them win. That’s what Liz Kendall meant too, I think—not to hide, not to excuse—but to remember that our strength isn’t just in guns, but in grace.”

Host: The wind outside howled, pressing against the windows. For a moment, both of them sat in silence, staring at the reflection of themselves in the glass—two figures blurred into the same uncertain outline.

Jack: (softly) “Grace doesn’t stop a bullet.”

Jeeny: (whispering) “But bullets don’t build peace.”

Host: The silence cracked between them, not as anger but as realization—two truths, equally unbearable. Jack’s shoulders slumped, the fight in his voice dimming to something more human.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe understanding matters. But tell me, Jeeny—how do you look into that kind of darkness and not let it consume you?”

Jeeny: “By remembering there’s light, even if it’s faint. By believing that every act of kindness, every refusal to hate, is resistance. The world doesn’t change through fear—it changes when someone chooses to see beyond it.”

Host: Jack’s eyes fell to his hands, rough, scarred, shaking slightly. He let out a slow breath, as if releasing years of weight he no longer wanted to carry.

Jack: “You always make it sound so easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not easy. It’s necessary.”

Host: The rain eased, tapering to a soft drizzle. The streetlight outside flickered, then steadied, casting a warm glow through the window. Jack raised his glass, not in mockery this time, but in fragile respect.

Jack: “To not hiding, then. And to not becoming what we fear.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “To seeing the enemy as human—but never forgetting what humanity demands of us.”

Host: The bar fell into silence once more, but it was a different kind of silence—not of avoidance, but of fragile understanding. Outside, the fog began to lift, revealing the faint outlines of the city, still scarred, still standing.

The camera would linger there—two souls caught between light and shadow, between fear and faith—while the world outside waited for its next dawn.