Peace, for many traditions, has been imagined as a final state. It is often described as a "natural" resting place for societies once violence, injustice, or oppression are overcome. Yet, if we begin from a humble free thinker's perspective of the world, which is impermanent, constructed, and often absurd, peace cannot be a final, essential state. It must be seen instead as a fragile, strategic, and continually reconstructed process.

Johan Galtung, one of the great founders of peace studies, offered a famous typology: Negative Peace (the absence of violence) and Positive Peace (the presence of just and equitable structures). Later expansions included ideas like Cultural Peace, Structural Peace, Direct Peace, and Ecological Peace. Each concept, while illuminating, still often carried the shadow of an essentialist dream: that peace could be stabilized, named, and known once and for all.

From more a critical lens, however, we must reinterpret these types of peace not as categories of permanent achievement but as strategic, fragile practices — constantly evolving, inevitably imperfect, and endlessly dialectical.

Let us rewalk Galtung’s typology through this lens:

1. Negative Peace: Traditionally, negative peace is defined simply as the absence of direct violence.
My understanding of negative peace is not a "true absence" — because tensions, exclusions, and suppressions continue invisibly even when open violence stops.
Thus, negative peace should be understood as a temporary silencing of manifest conflict, often sustained by fragile agreements, shared exhaustion, or precarious balances of fear.
It is a strategic ceasefire in the ongoing absurd dance of competing meanings and interests.
Negative peace is valuable, but always provisional: it should be seen as a breathing space, not an endpoint.

2. Positive peace: It is defined by Galtung as the presence of just social systems. To me, it resonates more with non-exclusive common good.
Yet, it must be reminded that no system of justice is ever "complete."
Every structure of peace inevitably creates new exclusions, new blind spots, and new tensions.
Positive peace, therefore, must be understood as an ongoing negotiation — a strategic, patient struggle to expand dignity, participation, and fairness across a field of inevitable imperfection. In this view, building positive peace is less like constructing a cathedral and more like tending a vast, unruly garden. It is always pruning, adjusting, resisting decay, and accepting partial failures without giving up the overall task.

3. Structural Peace: Galtung spoke of structural violence — the harm caused not by individuals, but by unjust systems.
Structural peace, therefore, aims at dismantling these injustices.
From constructivist realist perspective, structural peace is the endless work of unveiling hidden hierarchies, challenging rooted systems of oppression, and offering alternative structures that better approximate inclusion and dignity.
Yet because structures are dynamic, constantly recreated by discourse, culture, economics, and history, structural peace can never be "achieved" once and for all. It is a lifelong and generation-spanning dialectic: to unmask, resist, and rebuild.

4. Cultural Peace: It refers to a set of norms, symbols, and values that legitimize nonviolence and empathy.
But if cultures themselves are shifting, strategic constructions, then cultural peace is not a "thing" we install into society; it is an ongoing battle for narratives.
Thus, cultural peace may be understood as the strategic curation of meanings that protect human agency, diversity, and mutual respect even as dominant cultures try to simplify, essentialize, or weaponize identities for exclusionary purposes. Cultural peace is a contest over which myths of prevail. It requires constant storytelling, reimagining, and resisting reductive narratives.

5. Ecological Peace seeks a harmonious relationship between humans and their environment.
However, imagining "nature" as a pure, harmonious essence to which we must "return."
Nature itself is dynamic, sometimes violent, indifferent to human hopes.
Thus, ecological peace becomes the strategic cultivation of resilience — crafting human ways of life that respect impermanence, embrace ecological limits, and steward what can be stewarded, even knowing that perfect harmony is impossible.
It is a peace of stewardship, not mastery; a peace of humility before absurd but beautiful realities.

In this vision, peace is not a prize we win.

It is a practice, a discipline, a way of living inside the impermanent, may be tragic, yet constructed nature of human and social life.
It demands humility without nihilism; resilience without self-deception; creativity without utopianism.
Peace is not the absence of conflict or the achievement of final justice.
It is the art of sustaining moral and political friendship across irreducible differences.
It is the strategic defense of the fragile spaces where the non-exclusive common good might survive a little longer.
It is an act of profound confidence — not in any fixed metaphysical order — but in the possibility of continually choosing construction over destruction, dialogue over domination, solidarity over isolation, even when everything around us pushing otherwise.

Peacebuilding is more than signing treaties or rebuilding war-torn cities—it’s a dynamic, evolving process that seeks to heal societies, address injustices, and create lasting harmony. Imagine trying to mend a torn tapestry, weaving together threads of trust, justice, and hope. This journey began centuries ago with diplomatic agreements and has grown into a multidimensional effort that empowers communities, embraces diversity, and tackles the root causes of conflict. How did we get here, and what does peacebuilding mean today? Let’s explore its history, from the 17th century to the digital age, and reflect on how it shapes our world.

The Peace of Westphalia (1648)

The story of modern peacebuilding begins in 1648 with the Peace of Westphalia, a series of treaties that ended the brutal Thirty Years’ War in Europe. Picture a continent ravaged by religious and territorial conflicts, with millions dead and communities shattered. The treaties, signed in Münster and Osnabrück, introduced groundbreaking ideas: sovereignty, territorial integrity, and non-interference in state affairs. These principles aimed to balance power among states, preventing any single nation from dominating and reducing the risk of war.

Was this the birth of peacebuilding? In a way, yes—it was a bold attempt to stabilize a chaotic world through diplomacy. But it was also limited, focusing on state power rather than individual or community needs. Religious tolerance was conditional, and societal divisions lingered. Still, Westphalia laid a foundation for international relations, showing that dialogue could halt bloodshed.

Post-World War II Efforts

Fast-forward to 1945, when World War II left Europe and beyond in ruins. The scale of destruction—cities bombed, economies collapsed, millions displaced—demanded more than ceasefires. Peacebuilding took on new urgency, aiming not just to stop war but to prevent its return. The Marshall Plan (1947) was a cornerstone, channeling billions from the United States to rebuild European infrastructure, economies, and stability. Meanwhile, the Bretton Woods institutions—the International Monetary Fund (IMF) and World Bank—were established in 1944 to stabilize global finance and promote trade.

These efforts were ambitious, but not flawless. The Marshall Plan countered communism but sometimes fostered U.S. dependency, while Bretton Woods conditions sparked economic challenges in some nations. Yet, they marked a shift: peacebuilding became about economic and social stability, not just political agreements. Was this enough to heal a fractured world? Not entirely, and sometimes these institutions are part of the problems. But it was a step toward seeing peace as a foundation for cooperation.

The Universal Declaration of Human Rights (1948)

In 1948, the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (UDHR) emerged as a beacon of hope. Born from the ashes of genocide and war, the UDHR’s 30 articles declared that every person deserves dignity, equality, and freedom, regardless of borders or beliefs. Unlike Westphalia’s state-centric focus, the UDHR placed individuals at the heart of peace, linking human rights to global stability. How revolutionary was this? It challenged nations to prioritize justice and opportunity, not just power.

The UDHR inspired movements—from civil rights in the U.S. to anti-apartheid struggles in South Africa—but its implementation has faced hurdles. Economic inequality, discrimination, and authoritarianism persist, raising a question: Can peace exist without universal rights? The UDHR also sparked tension between state sovereignty and global standards, echoing Westphalia’s legacy. Despite challenges, its vision remains a cornerstone of peacebuilding, urging us to build societies where everyone thrives. Reflect: How do rights like education or safety shape peace in your life?

The Birth of Peacebuilding as a Discipline

Johan Galtung, a pioneer in peace research, introduced the term in 1975.  His work, including the Conflict Triangle and the concept of structural violence, emphasized that conflict has deep roots in attitudes, contradictions, and behaviors, and that hidden harms like poverty and discrimination fuel unrest. Galtung advocated for building societies based on justice and inclusion, not just stopping wars. John Paul Lederach expanded on this with his conflict transformation framework, using the iceberg analogy to illustrate that visible conflicts are often underpinned by deeper historical and relational issues. His Peacebuilding Pyramid highlighted the importance of leadership at different levels (top, middle, and grassroots), viewing middle-range leaders as crucial bridges. Lederach's framework also outlined four change processes (personal, relational, structural, and cultural) necessary for lasting peace. Elise Boulding added another essential dimension by advocating for the inclusion of women in peacebuilding, recognizing them as vital agents for reconciliation and community healing. Together, they and other thinkers transformed peacebuilding into a holistic process that goes beyond mere diplomatic solutions.

The UN and An Agenda for Peace (1992)

The 1990s marked a turning point, as post-Cold War conflicts—ethnic wars, failed states—demanded new approaches. In 1992, UN Secretary-General Boutros Boutros-Ghali’s An Agenda for Peace defined peacebuilding as actions to stabilize post-conflict societies and prevent violence’s return. This led to the UN’s Peacebuilding Architecture in 2005, including the Peacebuilding Commission, Fund, and Support Office. These bodies coordinated global efforts, recognizing that unstable states threaten regional and global security.

Peacebuilding became a strategic priority, but also a way for nations to assert influence. Was it purely altruistic? Not always—geopolitical motives often played a role. Still, the UN’s framework formalized peacebuilding as a multidimensional effort, integrating diplomacy, development, and human rights.

A Multidimensional Approach

Today, peacebuilding is an expansive framework with interconnected dimensions, each addressing a facet of conflict and recovery:

• Peacekeeping: Since 1945, UN peacekeeping missions have deployed forces to maintain ceasefires and protect civilians, stabilizing conflict zones like those in the Congo or Mali. It’s a vital first step, but not a cure-all.
  
• Peacemaking: Diplomacy and mediation, as seen in the 1962 Cuban Missile Crisis, resolve disputes through dialogue, preventing escalation.
  
• Peacebuilding: Post-conflict reconstruction, like Rwanda’s post-1994 reconciliation efforts, rebuilds societies by healing divisions and fostering justice.
  
• Conflict Prevention: Early warning systems and diplomacy address tensions before they erupt, prioritizing proactive solutions.
  
• Disarmament: Initiatives like the Cold War’s SALT talks reduce weapons, lowering conflict risks.
  
• Human Rights: The UDHR’s legacy drives accountability for violations, ensuring peace rests on dignity.
  
• Development: The UN’s Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs), especially Goal 16, link peace to reducing poverty and inequality.
  
• Environmental Sustainability: Addressing resource conflicts and climate change, like water disputes, ensures ecological stability for peace.
  
• Gender and Peacebuilding: UN Resolution 1325 (2000) emphasizes women’s roles, supporting survivors of violence and empowering female leaders.
  
• Human Security: Focusing on individual well-being—livelihoods, health, education—ensures peace addresses community needs.
  

This multidimensional approach recognizes that peace requires more than ending violence; it demands equity, inclusion, and resilience.

Technology has transformed peacebuilding, offering new tools and challenges. Digital peacebuilding uses social media, data analytics, and AI to monitor conflicts, engage communities, and facilitate dialogue. For example, platforms like Facebook amplify peace messages but also spread disinformation. In regions with limited internet, like parts of Africa, mobile apps enable conflict reporting, though access gaps persist.

The digital age raises ethical questions: How do we prevent technology from deepening divides? Peacebuilders must balance innovation with equity, ensuring tools serve all communities.

Timeline of Peacebuilding Milestones
    1648: Peace of Westphalia establishes sovereignty, laying groundwork for diplomacy.
    1944–1947: Bretton Woods and Marshall Plan rebuild post-WWII economies.
    1945: UN founded to promote peace; peacekeeping begins.
    1948: UDHR links human rights to peace.
    1950s–60s: Peace research grows; Galtung and Boulding develop theories.
    1975: Galtung coins “peacebuilding.”
    1980s: Lederach introduces conflict transformation.
    1992: An Agenda for Peace formalizes peacebuilding.
    2000: UN Resolution 1325 highlights women’s roles.
    2005: UN Peacebuilding Architecture established.
    2010: SDGs integrate peace and development.
    2020s: Digital tools reshape peacebuilding amid ongoing conflicts.


The Future of Peacebuilding

Peacebuilding has evolved from state-centric treaties to a holistic process embracing individuals, communities, and global systems. Visionaries like Galtung, Lederach, and Boulding showed us that peace is active, not passive—a commitment to justice, inclusion, and transformation. Today’s challenges, from climate change to digital divides, demand continued innovation.

What’s your role in this journey? Peacebuilding isn’t just for diplomats—it starts with everyday actions: challenging biases, listening to others, or addressing local needs. As we build a future where peace is a way of life, consider: What small step can you take to foster peace in your world?

Most people think of peace as something obvious and naturally good — like sunshine after a storm. We are told it is the opposite of war, the absence of violence, a return to harmony. But what if peace isn't so simple? What if peace isn’t a permanent state, but a fragile, ever-changing process — full of contradictions, trade-offs, and unfinished work?

Across history, philosophers and religious teachers tried to explain what peace means. Ancient Greeks like Plato saw peace as inner balance — when the soul, and the city, were ruled by reason and virtue. Christians linked peace to God’s love and forgiveness. Buddhists spoke of peace as the end of suffering, reached through skillfulness, compassion and mindfulness. These ideas saw peace as a kind of spiritual perfection. Many ideas projected peace as something you could finally reach if you lived wisely.

During the Enlightenment, peace became a political project. Philosophers like Immanuel Kant imagined that if we built democratic countries, created fair laws, and formed international institutions, the world could enjoy something called "perpetual peace." Others, like the realists, were more skeptical. They believed peace was never permanent. Peace is only a pause in the struggle between powerful nations. To them, peace was just what happens when no one is strong enough to start a war.

In our time, ideas about peace have become more complex and sensitive to injustice. Critical thinkers say we can’t just talk about peace as stopping violence. We must also look at poverty, racism, and unequal systems that keep people powerless. Feminist movements remind us that peace often excludes women’s voices, and that peace in public might still mean violence in the home. Environmental thinkers say there is no real peace unless we also care for the Earth.

All of these ideas are helpful. But they still share a hidden assumption: that peace is something we can define once and for all — something pure and desirable, waiting to be discovered or installed.

But what if that’s not the case?

For the one that sees reality as both shaped by power and full of human-made meanings, peace is not a final answer or natural state. It is more like a negotiated moment between many forces: power and hope, fear and imagination, local truth and global ambition.

In this view, peace is not the end of conflict. In fact, conflict might be a sign of life, of people still caring, still fighting for dignity. Peace, then, isn’t the absence of struggle but is the quality of struggle: how inclusive it is, how fair, how much it respects human agency and dignity. If peace is only projected by control, that can sometimes mean silence, not because everyone is happy, but because people are afraid to speak. It’s peace without justice, order without freedom. What if systems are fair and strong. It sounds better but even that can be misleading. Because fairness, too, is not fixed. Systems that claim to be fair might still ignore certain voices. A stable peace in one place might mean oppression for another.

Peace is always someone’s story — and stories are made by people, shaped by culture, history, and politics. So we must ask: Who defines peace? Who benefits from it? Who is left out? A critical view of peace helps us stay humble. It reminds us that peace is always unfinished. It is something we must practice, rethink, and remake, again and again — not because peace is fake, but because it is real in a world that is constantly changing.

Even technology — which many say can help peace — is not neutral. Technology, in fact, is not good, bad or neutral. It depends on how we direct it. Social media can bring people together or tear them apart. Data can protect or surveil. Blockchain can support justice or reinforce exclusion. Digital tools are shaped by those who use them. They don’t bring peace by default. But with care and awareness, they can support local efforts, make power more visible, and tell better stories that include more voices and challenge the old hierarchies.

In the end, we should stop thinking of peace as something we finally “get to” a place we arrive at, then rest. Instead, peace is more like learning to walk a tightrope in the wind. It takes skill, balance, honesty, and constant adjustment. It is like we are on a boat in a river. Don't cling too much on the boat for it is just a vehicle but never ignore the river as well.

Real-deal peace isn’t about avoiding conflict at all costs. It’s about facing conflict with care. It’s about choosing construction over destruction, again and again. Peace in this world is not pure destination, but it can still be worthwhile trip. Not final, but still meaningful. It is not a but a practice. A fragile but brave human effort to hold things together just long enough for something better to grow.

We often picture peace like a signed paper, a big event with handshakes and cheering. We think of it happening in meeting rooms and official places. But real peace, the kind that truly helps and heals, doesn't start with signatures. It starts with regular people who choose to live together even when things are broken. And most often, this happens right where we live, in our communities.

Our communities aren't perfect. They carry old hurts, memories, disagreements, and problems. But they are also the places where we learn to get along. It's where a child first understands what is fair, where neighbors begin to feel safe with each other, where hurt people can talk and be heard – not just as an idea, but looking each other in the eye.

What gives communities their quiet strength in building peace isn't big ideas or popular leaders. It's something much simpler: the steady, determined act of building connections that don't give up.

When there's conflict, who we are – our background, our faith, even how we talk – can be used to push people apart. But communities, when cared for, can become places where we see each other as human again. They remind us that the "other side" isn't just some scary thing, but could be a teacher, someone's grandma, or the person running the corner store. In these places, stories can do what politics often can't: they can soften hearts made hard by fear.

Communities can handle complicated feelings and different viewpoints. Everyone doesn't need to agree; they just need to show up and be part of things. Sharing a meal, doing local traditions, or helping fix something together – these are ways people remember what it feels like to belong. This kind of belonging isn't about being the same. It's about being involved.

One smart thing about communities is they can change. They aren't stuck. They grow and adapt with what people need, what they've been through, and how relationships change. When times are tough, they can step up – helping people understand each other, taking care of those in need, or being the first to offer kindness. Even a community that's been hurt can still find its wisdom to stop more violence, to rebuild trust when official systems fail.

But none of this happens by itself. Communities can also be pulled apart, made angry, and broken. That's why building peace in communities has to be done with purpose. It means listening more than judging. It means protecting people who speak uncomfortable truths. It means finding ways to hold each other accountable and offer forgiveness, even in small, everyday ways.

Sometimes, peace looks like a community meeting where people who were once against each other sit together and plan the next harvest. Sometimes, it looks like kids in the same classroom learning new stories about themselves and their neighbors. Sometimes, it's a group of young people cleaning up the streets after a protest. These aren't small things; they are powerful signs of strength and togetherness in our towns and neighborhoods.

Putting energy into communities isn't ignoring bigger politics. It's making politics real by connecting it to how people actually live. It's saying: if we want peace that lasts, we must practice it not just in government buildings, but also in shared kitchens, local meetings, and neighborhood gardens.

Communities show us that justice needs to be felt to feel real. They show us that being treated with respect is built not just through rules, but through how we relate to each other. And they teach us that peace isn't when everyone agrees – but when the connections between people are strong enough to handle disagreements.

In this way, communities don't just receive peace. They build it. They create peace not by making everyone the same, but by making room for differences – so that these differences can become part of the shared future we are building together.

It is a strange and almost embarrassing fact that most of us will live and die without ever having had a proper conversation with the majority of people who shape our lives.

The grocer who quietly keeps us fed. The bus driver who gets us to work. The construction worker who builds our homes and infrastructure.
The nurse's aide who cares for the elderly or sick in our communities. The librarian who curates knowledge and provides a community space. The protester we see in the street, whose cause we never quite took the time to understand. These are not enemies. But nor, for the most part, are they friends. They are something far more mysterious: strangers with whom we share a political destiny.

This is where the idea of political friendship becomes both unsettling and beautiful. For it asks us to reimagine friendship—not as affinity, not as affection, but as a deliberate commitment to strangers, made not out of sentiment, but out of respect for the conditions of peace.
Political friendship is not about liking each other. It is about staying with each other, especially when it would be easier not to.

The philosopher Aristotle, when he spoke of political friendship, did not mean brunch companions or holiday card lists. He meant something sterner, and more demanding: a commitment to the good of the other, because their good is tangled up with our own. He recognized that cities are not made of buildings or borders, but of relationships—fragile webs of trust, loyalty, and the will to keep going, together.

In our modern world, such trust can seem absurd. We are encouraged to find our tribe, to avoid difficult people, to block, unfriend, cancel. We are told that politics is war, and that strangers are threats to be managed, not companions to be befriended.

But peace (I mean the real deal peace) is not the absence of conflict. It is the presence of relationship, even among those who disagree. It is what happens when we look at the stranger across the table, not with suspicion, but with the difficult generosity of curiosity.
Political friendship begins when we agree to stay in the room.

Solidarity, then, is the emotional infrastructure that allows this kind of friendship to endure. It is what we practice when we show up for someone whose pain is not our own, but whose dignity matters to us nonetheless. It is what makes us march for the rights of workers we will never meet, or vote to protect refugees we may never see. It is not charity. It is not pity. It is the recognition that none of us can live well when others are abandoned.

In the context of peacebuilding, these ideas are not luxuries. They are the raw material of a different variety of politics that knows that justice cannot be engineered without empathy, and that laws will not hold if they are not also held together by shared feeling. Political friendship among strangers is not a utopia. It is a strategy for survival. It is also a daily choice. It happens when a mother in a war-torn village shares food with a displaced neighbor. When an activist listens—truly listens—to someone who once fought for the other side. When a policymaker writes a law not to please her base, but to prevent the next cycle of violence.

These acts are not dramatic. But they are revolutionary.

And yet we should not be naive. Political friendship will not solve all conflicts. Solidarity will not dissolve all hate. But they will allow us to keep trying, without needing to erase our differences. They give us the courage to coexist without collapsing into silence or revenge.

We often imagine that peace will come from treaties, or reforms, or charismatic leaders. But it is just as likely to come from small, slow commitments: listening more than we speak. Admitting we were wrong. Refusing to humiliate. Defending the rights of those we do not understand. Practicing hospitality in our politics.

In this light, political friendship is not merely an ethical ideal. It is the daily miracle of a society still willing to hold itself together—one thread of solidarity at a time.

And perhaps, in this fractured world, the most radical act of all is to make friends with a stranger not because they are like us, but because they are not like us. And yet, we are willing to stand with them anyway.

In a world where nothing possesses a fixed essence, where identities are strategies rather than intrinsic truths, and where permanence is an illusion we cling to for comfort, peace cannot be understood in the traditional sense — as the stable, natural, or final state of society. Instead, peace must be seen as an ongoing, fragile, and strategic construction: an imperfect achievement that must constantly be remade, not an endpoint we can finally and fully arrive at.

Peace, in our view, is not an essence to be uncovered.

It is not the "natural" state of humanity, buried under layers of corruption and just waiting to be restored. There is no original "Eden" state to return to. Human beings, with all our conflicting desires, fears, and interpretations, have never known a time of pure peace. What we call peace has always been a constructed, negotiated, and contingent arrangement — a kind of ceasefire between endless contests of will, meaning, and power.

Thus, peace is an agreement to resist the worst possibilities of ourselves, even when those possibilities can never be fully eliminated.

In an impermanent world, peace is an impermanent project.

We cannot expect peace to "stay" once achieved. In fact, it has no foundation of permanence to stand on. It is always under threat from new fears, new grievances, new misunderstandings. This doesn't mean the struggle for peace is meaningless; it means peace is precious precisely because it is fragile. You may even think like a sand mandala, it must be built lovingly even as we know it will one day dissolve.

In this sense, the real commitment to peace is not a commitment to a static outcome, but a commitment to the repeated work of repairing, rebuilding, renegotiating, and reconciling.

In an absurd world, peace is a heroic absurdity.
If the universe has no intrinsic meaning, then creating peace is itself an act of existential defiance. To forge solidarity among beings condemned to loneliness; to offer goodwill in a cosmos indifferent to suffering — these are absurd acts, yet they are acts of immense dignity.

Peace is not justified because it fulfills a cosmic plan. It is justified because, even amidst absurdity, it is better to build fragile bridges than to revel in destruction.

Strategically, peace must be understood as a common good that requires construction and curation.
Since identities, interests, and even "the good" are not fixed, peace cannot rely on essential unity. It relies on strategic solidarity — a conscious, critical choice to cooperate, coexist, and forgive, despite recognizing that differences and conflicts will never completely disappear.

We temporarily and knowingly treat certain things as common for the sake of building peace — shared rights, shared rules, shared spaces — even though we know no identity, no belief, no state of affairs is ultimate.

In other words, we "pretend" certain truths for peace, not out of delusion, but out of wisdom. We agree, for example, that "human dignity" matters — not because dignity is written into the fabric of the universe, but because acting as if it is sacred makes possible a better, less cruel life together.

Therefore, peace in this context is:

• Constructed, not discovered.
• Maintained, not guaranteed.
• Strategically chosen, not naturally emerging.
• Grounded in goodwill, humility, and vigilance, not in any fixed order of things.
• An absurd yet noble endeavor that dignifies human existence.