With no education, you have neocolonialism instead of

Host:
The warehouse was nearly dark, its walls scarred by graffiti — old slogans, faded revolutions, echoes of voices that had once filled the space like thunder. A single bare bulb swung from the ceiling, casting slow, uncertain shadows that moved across the concrete floor like ghosts in dialogue.

Rain tapped lightly against the metal roof, and somewhere outside, the city hummed its endless night — the sound of machinery, of ambition, of hunger. Inside, there was only the low, steady breath of resistance, waiting to be named again.

At a table in the center, Jack sat, his sleeves rolled up, papers spread out — old reports, education plans, community proposals, all marked with red ink and disappointment. His face, lit by the trembling bulb, looked like a man carrying both hope and history — both heavier than they should be.

From the shadowed doorway, Jeeny appeared — hood pulled up, rain still glistening on her hair. She walked in quietly, the kind of quiet that precedes truth.

Jeeny: softly, her voice cutting through the stillness “Fred Hampton once said, ‘With no education, you have neocolonialism instead of colonialism, like you’ve got in Africa now and like you’ve got in Haiti. So what we’re talking about is there has to be an educational program. That’s very important.’”

She moved closer, her eyes locked on Jack’s, steady, defiant, alive. “He didn’t mean just classrooms, Jack. He meant consciousness. He meant awakening. He meant that the real revolution starts in the mind.”

Jack: looks up slowly, his voice rough but clear “And look what happened to him for saying that. Education — real education — scares power more than bullets ever could. Because a thinking people can’t be owned.”

Jeeny: nods, sitting opposite him “That’s exactly why they replaced the old colonizers with new ones — bankers, corporations, corrupt governments — all wrapped in progress, all selling dependency as development.”

Jack: leans back, tired “And education became their tool instead of their threat. They don’t chain your body anymore — they chain your mind. They teach obedience, not liberation.”

Jeeny: leans forward, her voice fierce but trembling “Then maybe it’s time we start teaching liberation again.”

Host:
The light flickered, and for a brief second, the room seemed to pulse — the shadows of their faces overlapping, the past and present colliding. Outside, thunder rolled, low and tired, like the sky itself remembering.

Jack: quietly “Education has become a language of the elite. They talk about reform, but they mean control. They talk about opportunity, but they mean ownership — of your labor, your thought, your future.”

Jeeny: eyes flashing “And the tragedy is that the people think they’re free. Neocolonialism isn’t chains; it’s choices rigged to look like freedom. You can vote, but only between the same ideas. You can work, but only for survival. You can learn — but only what keeps you compliant.”

Jack: nods, his tone dark “They call it globalization. They call it progress. But it’s the same empire — just digitized.”

Jeeny: leans back, her voice breaking slightly “That’s why Hampton called for education — not degrees, not institutions — but programs of awareness. He wasn’t talking about teaching people to get jobs. He was talking about teaching them to get free.”

Jack: his eyes narrow “Freedom can’t be standardized. That’s why real education terrifies the powerful — it produces people who can’t be predicted.”

Host:
The wind howled against the walls, making the metal sheets creak like old bones. The rain intensified, streaking down the windows, blurring the graffiti until every word became one word — resistance.

Jeeny: quietly, almost as a prayer “You know, Hampton was only twenty-one. Twenty-one — and he saw that schools could either be weapons or wounds.”

Jack: looks at her sharply “And what do we have now? Universities that sell dreams for debt. Governments that subsidize ignorance. Corporations that fund ‘learning initiatives’ that teach people how to obey faster.”

Jeeny: bitterly “And we still call it progress.”

Jack: softly, shaking his head “No. We call it peace. But it’s the kind of peace you get when everyone’s too tired or too frightened to fight anymore.”

Jeeny: leans forward again, her eyes burning now “Then education must become unrest again — the kind that shakes minds awake. The kind that demands you question not just who’s ruling you, but why you keep letting them.”

Host:
The light bulb flickered again, then steadied, glowing brighter than before — as if the room itself understood what had been said. The rain eased, replaced by the quiet drip of water leaking through the ceiling, falling rhythmically into a rusted bucket.

Jack: after a long silence, quietly “So what do we teach them, Jeeny? If the schools won’t, if the governments can’t — what’s left?”

Jeeny: softly but with fire “We teach them to see. To read the world, not just the words. To recognize the patterns — how every empire calls itself civilization, and every injustice hides behind law.”

Jack: leans in, voice trembling with conviction “We teach them that ignorance is the final colony — and that knowledge, once claimed, can’t be reoccupied.”

Jeeny: nods, almost smiling through the intensity “And maybe we teach them that revolution isn’t about violence — it’s about vision. It’s about changing the meaning of power, not just the people who hold it.”

Jack: softly, like an echo finding form “Education as emancipation.”

Jeeny: finishes the thought “Exactly. The classroom as a front line. The book as a weapon. The question as a rebellion.”

Host:
A silence settled, deep and electric. The rain stopped, leaving behind a world that felt briefly cleansed, as though even the night had learned something.

Jack stood, folding the papers slowly, his face softened but resolute — the fatigue replaced by focus. Jeeny watched him, her candlelit eyes full of purpose and pain — the dual currency of truth.

Jack: quietly “You know, maybe that’s what Hampton meant by education — not grades or grants, but the discipline of awakening. The courage to think when thinking is dangerous.”

Jeeny: smiles faintly “Then the revolution hasn’t died, Jack. It’s just been reading in the dark.”

Host:
Outside, the first light of dawn began to cut through the clouds, touching the graffiti with new color, revealing old slogans reborn — Power to the People, Freedom through Learning, The Mind is the First Weapon.

And as the light grew, Fred Hampton’s words seemed to move through the air like prophecy, clearer now, stronger:

that without education, freedom becomes a mirage,
liberation becomes a logo,
and revolutions become reruns of the same oppression,
just wearing different flags.

That the true fight
is not for land or labor,
but for language, for learning, for the right to know.

And that every mind awakened
is one chain broken —
each thought, a spark —
until the world itself
learns to think
for the first time.