When push comes to shove, people vote alone.

Host: The evening hung heavy over the city, the kind of night where the air feels thick with memory. A faint hum of traffic pulsed through the streets, and the sky—deep violet, nearly black—reflected in the rain-slick pavement. The coffee shop glowed like a lantern in the dark, its windows fogged from breath and steam.

Inside, Jack and Jeeny sat by the window, cups half-empty, silence stretched between them like an unspoken truce. A television above the counter murmured with the day’s election results—faces, numbers, promises flashing across the screen.

Host: Jack’s grey eyes flickered toward it, cold and unreadable. Jeeny, her hands wrapped around the mug, looked as if she were carrying the weight of the world in her gaze.

Between them, a folded paper slip lay on the table. On it was written the quote:

“When push comes to shove, people vote alone.” — Meles Zenawi

Jeeny: “That’s… harshly true, isn’t it? No matter what people say, when they’re in that booth, it’s just them and their conscience.”

Jack: “Conscience?” He smirked faintly. “You make it sound noble. It’s not conscience—it’s fear, self-interest, survival. People don’t vote for the good of the world, Jeeny. They vote for their own comfort.”

Host: His voice carried a low, almost cynical rhythm, like someone who had seen too much of politics to still believe in virtue. He took a slow sip of his coffee, the bitterness matching his tone.

Jeeny: “You think that’s all there is? Fear and self-interest?”

Jack: “What else could there be? Look at history. 1933—Germany. People didn’t vote for a tyrant because they wanted evil; they voted because they were desperate, afraid, hungry. When push came to shove, they didn’t choose morality; they chose survival. And millions paid for it.”

Jeeny: “And yet… some resisted. Some hid their neighbors, risked their lives. They voted with more than fear—they voted with soul. Isn’t that still proof that the individual can rise above themselves?”

Jack: “A handful, yes. But that’s the exception that proves the rule. Most people will always turn inward when the walls close in. They’ll whisper about justice, but mark their ballots for safety.”

Host: The rain began again, soft at first—just a whisper against the glass. Jeeny’s reflection trembled in the window beside Jack’s, two figures blurred by the wet light.

Jeeny: “You make it sound like humanity’s hopeless.”

Jack: “Not hopeless. Just human. The booth doesn’t lie. It’s the purest mirror we have. Strip away speeches, banners, ideals—what’s left is choice. And choice is always selfish at the core.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Choice is always personal. There’s a difference. Personal doesn’t always mean selfish. Sometimes it means painful. Sometimes it means lonely.”

Jack: “Lonely, yes. But don’t pretend loneliness makes it noble. A person might stand alone, but that doesn’t mean they’re right.”

Jeeny: “And yet, without that solitude, there’s no integrity. Think about it—Martin Luther King stood alone before crowds that hated him. Rosa Parks sat alone on that bus. Solitude doesn’t make you right, but it makes you responsible.”

Host: The lamplight caught the curve of Jeeny’s cheek, the soft tremor in her voice betraying something deeper than debate—faith. She leaned forward, eyes gleaming.

Jack: “And still, for every King, there are a thousand people who followed convenience instead of conviction. That’s what Zenawi meant. We live surrounded by crowds, but the final act—whether it’s voting, confessing, or standing up—is done in isolation. Alone. And alone, most of us crumble.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s because we’ve made ‘alone’ into something to fear. We raise children to believe belonging matters more than being true. But when you’re alone, when no one’s watching—that’s when you finally see who you are.”

Jack: “You talk like solitude is liberation. But I’ve seen solitude break people. Soldiers, refugees, kids abandoned by the system—they don’t become philosophers, Jeeny. They become ghosts.”

Jeeny: “You think I don’t know that? I work with them. I see those ghosts every day. But even then, even in pain, there’s a flicker of choice. Some still reach out, still choose compassion. Isn’t that a kind of vote, too?”

Jack: “A vote against the odds, maybe. But the odds usually win.”

Host: A sudden crash of thunder shook the windows, startling a few customers. The barista glanced up nervously. The storm outside mirrored the tension inside, thickening the air between every word.

Jeeny: “You don’t believe in people anymore, do you?”

Jack: “I believe in people—just not in their myths. We’ve built democracy on the fantasy that everyone’s guided by reason or morality. But when the ballot’s in their hand, it’s survival instinct that rules. They vote for whoever promises them bread, work, or safety. And honestly, can you blame them?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But doesn’t that prove the system’s failure, not theirs? When the world cornered them, they had nothing to lean on but their own fear.”

Jack: “Then maybe Zenawi was right for all the wrong reasons. Maybe we shouldn’t vote alone at all. Maybe that’s the problem—that we’ve turned politics into isolation instead of connection.”

Jeeny: softly “Exactly. The irony of democracy: it demands collective hope, but delivers private fear.”

Host: The rain intensified, turning the window into a veil of liquid glass. Lightning flashed, painting their faces in alternating light and shadow—truth and doubt dancing across the same canvas.

Jeeny: “What if we changed what it means to vote alone, Jack? What if it meant conscience instead of fear? Responsibility instead of comfort?”

Jack: “You’re talking about reprogramming the human soul.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not reprogramming—just reminding. Reminding people that solitude doesn’t erase solidarity.”

Host: For a long moment, neither spoke. The storm outside began to fade into a distant patter, like the slow beating of a patient heart.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I voted for a man who promised to change everything. He didn’t. I spent years hating myself for believing. Now, when I vote, I don’t think of the country. I think of my sister. My bills. My street. My own small world.”

Jeeny: “That’s still love, Jack. Just focused inward. Maybe that’s the point—you can’t vote for the world if you don’t feel rooted in it. Maybe the lonely booth isn’t a curse—it’s a test. To see what kind of love we choose.”

Jack: “Love.” He chuckled faintly. “You really believe love decides anything in politics?”

Jeeny: “It decides everything, Jack. Maybe not instantly. But every great change started with one person who chose love over fear. Isn’t that what Meles Zenawi meant? That in the end, you can’t hide behind the crowd—you must choose.”

Jack: quietly “And live with it.”

Host: The television fell silent. The results were in. Somewhere, the city cheered, and somewhere else, it wept. But in that small café, two souls sat suspended between belief and disillusionment, the storm having spent its fury.

Jeeny: “When push comes to shove, people vote alone. But maybe that’s not the tragedy—it’s the opportunity.”

Jack: “Opportunity?”

Jeeny: “Yes. To prove that even alone, we still remember each other.”

Host: A soft smile crossed her lips, and for the first time, Jack didn’t argue. He looked out the window at the flickering streetlights, their glow trembling on wet asphalt like fragile hope refusing to die.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what democracy really is, Jeeny. Not perfection. Just millions of solitary hearts trying, in their own scared ways, to keep believing in something bigger than themselves.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The solitude isn’t the end—it’s the beginning of responsibility.”

Host: The rain stopped, leaving the world washed and clean, the air sharp with clarity. The café light spilled across their table like a quiet benediction.

Host: “In that silence,” the narrator’s voice murmured, “they both understood what the quote had always meant. That the act of voting—like every act of conscience—isn’t about standing apart. It’s about daring to stand true, even when no one is watching.”

And outside, the city—newly washed, quietly humming—kept breathing, as if it, too, had voted for another chance at hope.