We hold our heads high, despite the price we have paid, because

Host: The air was cold, heavy with the smell of coal dust and rain — a scent that belonged to Gdańsk, to memory, to struggle. The shipyard gates stood rusted but unbroken, their blue paint chipped by decades of storms. Someone had tied a white-and-red ribbon around the fence, faded but defiant.

It was evening. The wind came in off the Baltic, carrying with it the low hum of the city — distant traffic, church bells, and the ghosts of chanting crowds long gone.

Jack stood beneath the gate, collar turned up against the wind, staring at the bronze plaques on the wall — names engraved into history, names of those who had once shouted the unthinkable word: “Solidarność.”

Jeeny stood beside him, her gloved hands in her pockets, eyes tracing the memorial as if she could hear the echoes. Between them, written on the monument, carved deep and proud, were the words that had brought them here:

“We hold our heads high, despite the price we have paid, because freedom is priceless.”
— Lech Walesa

Jeeny: “It’s strange. Standing here, it’s quiet — too quiet for a place that once roared.”

Jack: “Quiet doesn’t mean empty. Some silences carry more sound than a crowd ever could.”

Jeeny: “You’ve been here before?”

Jack: “No. But I’ve seen this fight before — different flags, same bones.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the faint rattle of metal — somewhere nearby, a loose chain swayed, tapping rhythm into the night.

Jeeny: “You know, when Walesa said that... it wasn’t philosophy. It was survival.”

Jack: “Freedom always is. It’s romantic when you have it, brutal when you earn it.”

Jeeny: “And fragile when you forget it.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Host: He crouched slightly, brushing the base of the monument with his fingers, feeling the cold metal — the kind of cold that feels older than time.

Jack: “You ever think about how expensive freedom really is? Not in money, but in memory?”

Jeeny: “What do you mean?”

Jack: “People fight, people die, people rebuild. But then new generations come along, comfortable, safe — they forget the cost. The invoice fades. The debt doesn’t.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why leaders like Walesa matter. They remind us what blood sounds like when it demands justice.”

Jack: “And how many never got to speak again after shouting it.”

Host: A bus passed in the distance, its headlights momentarily painting their faces in silver. Jeeny watched as Jack’s breath fogged in the cold air, vanishing quickly, as though the sky itself refused to keep it.

Jeeny: “You know, it’s easy to talk about freedom in comfort. Harder when it’s taken from you. Harder still when you have to decide whether it’s worth dying for.”

Jack: “And yet people keep choosing it. Again and again, century after century. You’d think humanity would get tired of starting over.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what makes it holy — the willingness to pay for something you’ll never fully own.”

Jack: “Because freedom’s not ownership. It’s stewardship.”

Jeeny: “Beautifully said. You should’ve been a poet.”

Jack: “Poets usually end up on the wrong side of revolutions.”

Host: The rain began — soft at first, then steady, tracing silver down the bronze faces of the statues. The drops gathered in the engraved letters, filling the carved words with life again, as if even the weather refused to forget.

Jeeny: “You know, I read somewhere that during the strikes, they sang hymns between speeches. Faith and politics, hand in hand.”

Jack: “Faith and hunger, too. It’s easier to believe in freedom when you’ve got bread. It’s harder when you’re striking for it.”

Jeeny: “But they did.”

Jack: “They did. That’s what makes the words real. Not the victories — the sacrifice.”

Host: He looked up, his eyes reflecting the flicker of the streetlight, the weariness of a man who’s seen freedom from both sides — as promise and as punishment.

Jack: “You ever wonder if we’d have that courage? To give everything for something you can’t touch?”

Jeeny: “I think we already do, in smaller ways. Every time we speak truth to someone who doesn’t want to hear it. Every time we stand up when silence would be easier. Freedom isn’t always a revolution. Sometimes it’s a refusal.”

Jack: “A refusal to bow.”

Jeeny: “Yes. To despair, to power, to the lie that says you’re small.”

Host: The rain slowed, the wind carrying a soft rhythm against the metal gate. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell tolled once, echoing through the night.

Jack: “You know, Walesa once said he was just an electrician. But he rewired a nation.”

Jeeny: “That’s the thing about ordinary people. History underestimates them until they do something impossible.”

Jack: “And even then, it forgets them.”

Jeeny: “But not all. Some names — like these — stay.”

Jack: “Because they remind us that courage isn’t loud. It’s consistent.”

Host: Jeeny took off her glove and touched one of the names on the plaque — just one — as though choosing a single life to stand in for all. Her voice was barely above a whisper.

Jeeny: “You can feel it — the weight of it. The cost of saying no.”

Jack: “Yeah. And the grace of surviving it.”

Jeeny: “Freedom isn’t free. But neither is fear.”

Jack: “No. But one lets you sleep at night.”

Host: A moment of stillness followed — deep, reverent. The rain eased, the air clearing just enough to catch the faint reflection of the city lights in the puddles at their feet.

Jeeny: “You know, it’s strange. People chase comfort all their lives, but comfort never builds anything worth remembering. Freedom does.”

Jack: “And it always costs more than you think.”

Jeeny: “And still — we pay it.”

Jack: “Because not paying means living small.”

Jeeny: “And dying quietly.”

Host: He looked up one last time at the quote above them, its meaning older now, deeper, heavier — words written not in ink but in courage.

“We hold our heads high, despite the price we have paid, because freedom is priceless.”
— Lech Walesa

Because freedom is not luxury — it is labor.
Not comfort — but conviction.
It is the act of remembering when others forget,
and the refusal to lower your head, even when the weight of it hurts.

Host: As they walked away from the shipyard, the gate loomed behind them — tall, defiant, unbowed.
And in the echo of their footsteps, the old song of courage hummed again,
quietly, like something eternal:

“Freedom lives as long as someone is still willing to pay.”