As the bureaucrats argue over numbers in the capital, a different scene plays out in the slums. A crowd of ragged, worn peasants are packed into a small courtyard, emaciated statues looking up at the figure above. There are no grand stages, no banners. The speaker stands at the top of a flight of stairs, dressed in a worn coat, and looks down on the huddled masses. His people. As he speaks, he relies heavily on exaggerated hand gestures.
"There have been whispers in the senate, my friends. Some of my colleagues wish to limit the powers of the dictator. They fear that he will be ruthless; that he will destroy those who stand in his way, and seize full control of the government. They expect me to join in on their side, to limit his powers in 'defense of the people.' Do I care?"
He shakes his head.
"No. It matters little to me which bandit enslaves the people. While these petty politicians squabble for power, the people are starving. I care little for constitutions: I want food for the families of Estrella."
As his speech ramps up in intensity, the hand gestures become more and more aggressive.
"Mothers, count your sons. The war that won our people independence is hardly over, and already the generals clamor for another. Our people fought for freedom, not land. Watch as these thieves take your savings, your sons, and your freedoms, all to empower and enrich themselves. No more. We will not murder for our rulers. We will not march into foreign lands. We will feed our families, we will support our neighbors, and we will dream. We will dream of a world where there is no yoke on man's neck, a world of liberty, equality, and fraternity. We will dream of a world that is better for our children than it was for us: and that dream shall become reality."
The speech is short and sweet. As time passes, the weak, tired crowd is whipped into a frenzy, hanging on to his every word. Soon, it is over, and the senator is gone. But the dream remains.