We need to give the Iraqis a chance to build their own future. It

Host: The desert stretched endlessly beneath a bronze sky, shimmering with the mirage of heat and memory. The sun was sinking, painting the horizon in layers of red and ash. A faint wind stirred the dust, carrying whispers — the kind that sounded like ghosts retelling old wars.

Two figures sat near the edge of a half-collapsed school building, its walls still scarred by bullets and time. Jack, his boots caked with sand, leaned against a cracked pillar. His face, bronzed and lined, carried the quiet fatigue of a man who had seen too much truth too soon. Jeeny sat across from him on a low concrete step, her hair tied back with a torn scarf, her eyes heavy but alive.

The air smelled faintly of gunpowder and hope, two things that never seemed to leave this land.

Jeeny: “Barbara Boxer once said, ‘We need to give the Iraqis a chance to build their own future. It should be in their hands. It must be in their hands. That is what democracy is all about. We can teach it, we can explain it, but they must want it enough to make it work for them.’”

Jack: sighs, staring at the horizon “Yeah. I remember that speech. Everyone wanted to give them a chance — as long as it fit neatly into our timetable.”

Host: The wind blew harder now, sending a swirl of dust between them. The sunlight fractured, dancing across Jack’s tired eyes.

Jeeny: “She was right, though. No one can force freedom. You can deliver it like a gift, but they still have to open it themselves.”

Jack: “Funny thing about gifts. They usually come with a bill later.”

Jeeny: “You think democracy’s a bill?”

Jack: smirking faintly “No. It’s a brand. We export it, package it, sell it to the world like it’s the only model worth buying. But try telling a man who’s buried three sons in the same war that his vote is freedom.”

Host: The heat shimmered over the broken concrete, and the air trembled between them. In the distance, a call to prayer rose faintly from the village — the sound of faith clinging to the ruins.

Jeeny: “You’re cynical because you saw it firsthand. But doesn’t that make it more real? You saw people risk their lives to vote — not for money, not for glory, but for a voice.”

Jack: “I saw them lose that voice too. The ones who believed most ended up silenced the quickest.”

Jeeny: softly “But you can’t measure democracy by how quickly it blooms. Sometimes it’s a seed buried under grief.”

Jack: “You ever plant a seed in sand?”

Jeeny: “You underestimate the strength of roots.”

Host: A long silence fell. The sun dipped lower, painting their faces in amber and sorrow. Somewhere, a child’s laughter echoed faintly — fragile, distant, disbelieving.

Jack: “When I was stationed here, I used to talk to this old shopkeeper in Baghdad. He’d lost everything — family, home, shop. Still, he’d open every morning, put three dates on his counter, and say, ‘For the children who will rebuild this place.’ He didn’t believe in democracy. He believed in survival.”

Jeeny: “And survival is where democracy starts. Not in ballots — in the belief that tomorrow is still worth fighting for.”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly, but not from weakness — from the sheer weight of conviction. Jack looked at her for a moment, then down at his hands, rough and scarred.

Jack: “You make it sound poetic. But poetry doesn’t rebuild cities.”

Jeeny: “No. But it rebuilds spirit. You can’t have one without the other.”

Host: The light faded further, the sky turning to indigo. A convoy rumbled faintly in the distance — trucks, headlights flickering like fireflies across the endless flat.

Jack: “You ever wonder if we made things worse? If democracy’s just another word for someone else’s chaos?”

Jeeny: “Maybe sometimes. But I also think giving people the power to choose is never the wrong thing — even if they stumble with it at first.”

Jack: “Choice is dangerous, Jeeny. When people taste it for the first time, they either build something new or burn down everything old.”

Jeeny: “And both are part of rebirth.”

Host: The wind carried her words away, scattering them into the vast silence of the desert. The world around them glowed faintly, as if caught between dusk and memory.

Jack: “You know what I realized? You can teach democracy, fund it, fight for it — but you can’t give people what they don’t yet believe they deserve.”

Jeeny: “That’s why Boxer said it must be in their hands. Because only the people living the pain can shape what healing looks like.”

Host: Jack leaned back, closing his eyes briefly. His face was illuminated by the last dying thread of sunlight, a faint line of gold across his brow.

Jack: “You ever think democracy isn’t natural? Maybe it’s like trying to plant an oak in a desert. Some places just aren’t ready for it.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. I think democracy is natural — but trauma isn’t. When people are broken long enough, they forget what freedom feels like. Our mistake was thinking we could give it back to them like a souvenir.”

Jack: “So what should we have done instead?”

Jeeny: “Listened.”

Host: The word hung in the air, simple and devastating. The wind stopped, and for a heartbeat the desert was utterly still — a silence vast enough to swallow regret.

Jack: quietly “You think it’s too late for them?”

Jeeny: “Not if they still believe tomorrow belongs to them. It’s never too late for a people to find their own rhythm — even if they’ve borrowed the melody for too long.”

Host: The first stars began to appear, trembling faintly in the bruised sky. Jack looked up, his eyes catching their reflection — small, flickering, defiant.

Jack: “You always talk like hope’s renewable.”

Jeeny: smiles faintly “It is — as long as there’s breath left to argue for it.”

Host: He laughed softly, the sound half relief, half exhaustion. The desert air grew cooler now. The heat had broken, leaving only the ache of what had been said and what couldn’t yet be fixed.

Jack: “Maybe democracy isn’t something we can teach. Maybe it’s something we can only remind people they already had once — before fear took it away.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not a gift from one nation to another. It’s a memory, waiting to be remembered.”

Host: The moon rose, pale and solemn, casting their shadows long across the sand. Behind them, the ruins of the school stood like a monument — not to failure, but to possibility.

Jack picked up a small stone, turned it in his hand, and placed it gently on the broken wall beside him — a quiet act of faith.

Jeeny watched him, her eyes glimmering with the reflection of the moon.

Jeeny: “You know, Boxer was right — democracy can be explained, but it can’t be imposed. The hardest freedom is the one you have to build yourself.”

Jack: “And the hardest truth is learning when to step back and let them.”

Host: The camera pulled away slowly, rising above them. The two figures shrank against the vast sea of sand — small, human, enduring. The sound of the wind returned, whispering through the wreckage, carrying with it the faint echo of prayer, of language, of resilience.

And as the scene faded, the words lingered —

That freedom cannot be delivered by force,
only offered in faith.

And only when a people’s hands reach out to claim it — scarred, trembling, determined —
does democracy begin to live.