We have to struggle against the conservatives from all sides, not

Host: The conference hall was empty now — rows of chairs left in rigid lines, microphones still faintly humming, the scent of coffee and political exhaustion thick in the air. The great banner overhead — “THE FUTURE OF EUROPEAN UNITY” — hung slightly askew, as if tired of carrying the weight of its own optimism.

Outside, the city pulsed with neon and drizzle — a Europe both ancient and impatient. Inside, two figures remained: Jack, sitting on the stage edge, tie loosened, sleeves rolled, and Jeeny, standing near the podium, her notebook open to a single page bearing the night’s provocation:

“We have to struggle against the conservatives from all sides, not only the right-wingers, but also the left-wing conservatives who don’t want to change anything.” — Jacques Delors

Jeeny: “That’s the part people never talk about — the left-wing conservatives. Everyone thinks resistance to change only comes from one side.”

Jack: “Because it’s easier that way. It’s comfortable to have a villain — harder to admit your allies can also be afraid of movement.”

Host: The lights above flickered faintly, reflecting off the polished floor — cold light on colder truth. Jack leaned back on his hands, looking at the quote on her page like a confession he didn’t want to sign.

Jack: “Delors understood the irony of progress — that every ideology, once secure, turns into the thing it claimed to fight.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The left builds movements to change the world, and then spends decades protecting the ruins of its own revolutions.”

Jack: “Because change means risk. And after a while, everyone starts loving the safety of their own slogans.”

Host: The sound of distant traffic drifted in — muffled horns, the restless hum of a city that refused to sleep. Jeeny walked to the front row, closing her notebook with a soft snap.

Jeeny: “You know what’s strange? Both the right and left conservatives share the same fear — uncertainty. The left hides it behind bureaucracy, the right behind tradition. But it’s the same paralysis, dressed in different clothes.”

Jack: “Because fear of chaos doesn’t care about ideology. It only wants control.”

Jeeny: “Control and narrative. Every political tribe is a comfort zone — a place to worship your own righteousness.”

Jack: “And people call that conviction.”

Jeeny: “Conviction without curiosity is just another kind of dictatorship.”

Host: The air conditioning unit hummed on, its sterile noise cutting through the heaviness of their words. Jack rubbed his temple, his expression weary but engaged — the look of someone both cynical and hopeful enough to still care.

Jack: “So what do we do, Jeeny? Delors said ‘struggle.’ But against whom, really? Against the right-wingers clinging to the past, or the left-wingers embalming it?”

Jeeny: “Against both. Against everyone who confuses comfort with justice. Against every ideology that stops evolving the moment it gains followers.”

Jack: “That’s a lonely war.”

Jeeny: “It always is. Progress isn’t a march — it’s a tug of war between what we dream and what we fear losing.”

Host: She walked toward him now, her steps echoing faintly across the hollow space. The echo itself seemed to carry their dialogue into the rafters, where it tangled with ghosts of past debates and forgotten speeches.

Jeeny: “You know what’s even more dangerous than conservatism, Jack?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “Revolution without self-reflection. The kind that burns everything and calls it cleansing.”

Jack: “You sound like Orwell tonight.”

Jeeny: “And you sound tired.”

Jack: “I am. Because Delors was right — every generation thinks they’re fighting for progress, but half of them are just defending newer versions of the same old fear.”

Jeeny: “Fear of what?”

Jack: “Irrelevance. People cling to old systems — right or left — because it’s easier than reinventing meaning.”

Jeeny: “Then the true radical isn’t the one who destroys the system — it’s the one who questions it every day, even when it benefits them.”

Jack: “That kind of radicalism doesn’t get applause.”

Jeeny: “No. But it gets history’s respect.”

Host: The rain began again, slow and steady, tracing thin silver lines down the tall windows of the hall. The city lights beyond blurred into impressionist streaks — progress melting into reflection.

Jack: “You think Europe still listens to thinkers like Delors?”

Jeeny: “Not out loud. But his warning still haunts its corridors — that the danger isn’t just from the ones shouting ‘no,’ but from those whispering ‘later.’”

Jack: “Ah, the politics of postponement.”

Jeeny: “The most civilized kind of stagnation.”

Host: A low rumble of thunder echoed faintly in the distance — the kind that sounds less like a threat and more like memory.

Jeeny: “Every age builds its own walls. Some call them borders, others call them policies. The names change, but the fear’s the same.”

Jack: “And it’s always disguised as caution.”

Jeeny: “Or reason.”

Jack: “You think we’re doomed to this — the endless cycle of rebellion turning into preservation?”

Jeeny: “No. But we have to accept it’s part of the rhythm. Every revolution must also learn how to outgrow itself.”

Host: The rain grew heavier now, the sound soothing, like applause for their defiance. Jack stood, his silhouette outlined against the dim glow of the emergency lights.

Jack: “Delors saw both sides as mirrors — each afraid of what happens when reflection becomes action.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s our job — to keep breaking the mirror before it hardens into myth.”

Jack: “You think humanity ever stops fearing change?”

Jeeny: “No. But maybe we can teach it to evolve anyway. Change doesn’t ask for courage — it demands humility.”

Host: She stepped closer, her voice softer now — less debate, more prayer.

Jeeny: “We always talk about progress like it’s movement forward. But sometimes it’s about learning to bend — to admit when we’ve mistaken comfort for wisdom.”

Jack: “And when both sides forget that?”

Jeeny: “Then the middle must remember.”

Host: A silence settled between them — not empty, but full, like the pause between a heartbeat and the next. Outside, the city lights flickered faintly, casting patterns across the wet pavement below — a metaphor for both chaos and possibility.

Jack finally smiled, tired but genuine.

Jack: “You know, Delors should’ve added one more line to that quote.”

Jeeny: “What would it be?”

Jack: “That the hardest battle isn’t against the conservatives on the right or left — it’s against the one inside yourself.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: She closed her notebook, its pages whispering shut like the end of a sermon. Together, they stood at the doorway, the rainlight painting their faces in motion and reflection.

And as they stepped out into the trembling, uncertain night, Jacques Delors’s words followed them — not as a call to arms, but as a quiet, enduring warning:

that progress has no party,
that stagnation wears every color,
and that the true revolutionary
is the one who never stops questioning
the comfort of their own conviction.