It was an early morning in Porto Alegre, Brazil, when I stepped into a room filled with people from across the world—seventeen of us, from fifteen different countries.
Each carried their own history, their own wounds, and their own hopes. We had come together as Caux Scholars, not just to study conflict and justice, but to immerse ourselves in the lived realities of peacebuilding.
We didn’t know it then, but the next four weeks would reshape the way we saw the world—and ourselves.
One of the first lessons we learned was unsettling in its simplicity: peace is not the absence of violence, but the presence of understanding.
Yet, in a world that often mistakes silence for harmony, I wondered—can true peace ever exist? Or is it merely a fragile illusion, easily shattered by the weight of history?
That question followed us into every conversation, every exercise. In one particularly jarring session, we were asked to draw a picture of home—our safe space, our sanctuary. Just as we finished, our partners were instructed to destroy them.
Perhaps the answer lies in the stories we choose to tell, in the way we listen, in the courage to dream beyond the structures of today.
The collective gasp that filled the room was visceral. Some of us protested. Others sat in stunned silence, staring at the torn pieces of what once was. Then came the second instruction: rebuild. Not alone, but together.
That moment struck deep. Conflict is inevitable, but what defines us is how we respond to loss. Do we cling to what was taken from us, or do we create something new—perhaps even stronger—out of the wreckage?
Throughout the program, we didn’t just study theories of conflict; we confronted them.
Christopher Moore’s Conflict Wheel introduced us to the six root causes of disputes: data, relationships, structures, values, interests, and emotions. But more than charts and definitions, we saw these forces in action. We debated justice and diplomacy, challenged our biases, and examined our privileges.
We realized that behind every war, every uprising, every act of violence, there is an unhealed wound—a voice that has gone unheard for too long.
One afternoon, we watched The Insult, a film that laid bare how a single moment of misunderstanding can snowball into deep-seated hatred.
It was never just about the argument—it was about the weight of history pressing down on both sides.
That lesson stayed with me: conflict isn’t always about people; it’s about clashing narratives. And narratives are shaped by pain, memory, and identity.
But the most profound lessons came not from books or films, but from the people we met.
One day, we visited a marginalized community in Brazil, where systemic injustice wasn’t a theoretical debate—it was daily survival. Yet, amidst the struggle, there was resilience.
There was joy. There was an unwavering belief in the possibility of change.
As the program neared its end, I found myself reflecting on a truth I had once overlooked: the world is not divided into neat categories of right and wrong, peace and conflict.
The real work of peacebuilding happens in the gray spaces—in the discomfort, the contradictions, the conversations that force us to confront what we would rather ignore.
Now, the question lingers—what do we do with this knowledge? How do we carry these lessons beyond Porto Alegre, into our communities, our conversations, our choices?
Perhaps the answer lies in the stories we choose to tell, in the way we listen, in the courage to dream beyond the structures of today.
So, I ask you: what story will you tell? What seeds of peace will you plant? The path is not set. It is made by walking.
(Ishika Panta is Founder of Project Abhaya)
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