General Introduction Sean Martin

Peace cannot be kept by force; it can only be achieved by understanding. —Albert Einstein

There is no such thing as defeat in non-violence. —César Chavez

Before embarking on a philosophical excursion through the literature of peace and nonviolence, it is worth a little time and effort to acquaint ourselves with the key terms we’ll be working with. Much of the work of philosophy concerns the examination and analysis of conceptual terms. In some cases, the analysis of a basic terms constitutes the central focus of an entire disciplinary subject of philosophy. For example, epistemology is principally the study of the concept, “knowledge.” The questions addressed therein include, “What is the nature and scope of knowledge?”; “How do we distinguish justified beliefs from mere opinion?” and the like. Likewise, entire treatises are dedicated to an understanding of complex conceptual terms such as justice, being, beauty, love, truth, etc. When we employ such terms casually in our daily lives, we generally assume some common or conventional understanding. But when we stop to reflect on exactly what we mean when we use a term such as justice or knowledge, matters quickly become less familiar. The history of philosophy is, in large part, an attempt to develop methods for addressing such problems.

Consider, for example, what the authors of the above quotes might mean by the terms “peace” and “nonviolence” respectively. Certainly, their meaning wouldn’t appear obvious to many. Some would find it puzzling to think that peace could not be kept by force, as it is quite typical for communities to refer to their (generally armed) local police as “peace officers” charged with “keeping the peace.” Further, it is often assumed that a strong military is precisely what is required if a nation wishes to remain at peace, both in its domestic affairs as well as with its neighbors. Peace, in this sense, is exactly the sort of thing that is presumed to be kept by force. So, what could Einstein mean? And Chavez’ claim will seem even more puzzling to many. How could it be that nonviolence is impervious to failure? Is it not obvious that mild and gentle people, whether pursuing a just cause or simply minding their own business, are often struck down by those who employ violent means? If so, isn’t it clear that his claim is patently false? Yet we’ve been led to believe that Albert Einstein and César Chavez are not foolish and frivolous individuals. To the contrary, they are widely revered as champions of justice and truth. So, what could they mean by the words they choose?

What is Nonviolence?

The term, “nonviolence,” has a rich and dynamic etymology. As is often the case with complex conceptual terms, it is difficult to define nonviolence by reference to any clear set of essential (i.e. necessary or sufficient) properties. The term has variously been employed as a negative or positive concept, as a reference to tactics or to principles, as explicit or covert, as a reflection of social group strategy or individual ideal, and so on. This leads the author to suggest that it is probably best not to think of nonviolence as a single notion, but instead to consider the term as referencing a group of concepts that are connected by what the 20th Century philosophy Ludwig Wittgenstein referred to as a “family resemblance.”1 That is, the various ways the term nonviolence is (or has been) used, share some overlapping relations or similarities that render general reference to the term meaningful without requiring adherence to (or even allowing for) a rigid, essential, and universal set of criteria.

With this in mind, one approach that seems promising is to start by examining the various ways people actually use the term “nonviolence,” or the related concept “non-violence,” in describing human behavior.2 In doing so, we may discover there are common criteria across these many uses. Or, it is possible that the uses of the term are conflicting or even mutually exclusive. In any case, such a survey will serve as a useful starting point in our effort to analyze and deliberate on how best to employ the term, “nonviolence,” effectively.

Negative nonviolence (or non-violence)

For many who are unfamiliar with the history and literature of nonviolence, their initial associations with the term is exclusively negative, i.e. emphasizing the absence of the decidedly active business of violence. This is a reflection of the terms etymology, where the “non” in nonviolence is derived from the Latin root denoting “not” or an “absence of.” A negative definition, unlike a positive definition which seeks to explain what a concept entails, references properties or criteria that the concept excludes. In other words, it tells us what a term does not denote or reference. A simple example might be the term “bald,” which is best understood as describing a dearth of hair. In this sense, the surface of the moon is “nonviolent.” Consequently, nonviolence signifies for many a form of passivity, where the term connotes a deficiency, namely that whatever is being described lacks positive characteristics (in this case, violence).

Though use of the negative sense of nonviolence is often neutral (i.e. not inherently derogatory) or even appropriate, associations with apathy, weakness, cowardice, and indifference often accompany this limited understanding of the term. So, for instance, a society may entail significant injustice and oppression, but if (e.g. due to fear of punishment) none are resisting violently, then the population of said society may be described as “nonviolent.” For clarity, many authors reserve the hyphenated version of the term, i.e. “non-violence,” to underscore their intent to limit reference to this negative sense. But when advocates use the term, they typically mean something more. They mean to denote an attitude or principled (usually conscious) rejection of violence that goes beyond a passive lacking. In such instances, the term is best understood as a renunciation of, or a refusal to, engage in violence.

Understanding nonviolence in this manner inevitably raises the question, “What does it mean to refuse to engage in violence?” That is, before grasping this modified, albeit still negative, understanding of the term, we are faced with the need to analyze “violence.” Before we proceed, however, it is worth noting a potential problem arises in approaching the concept of nonviolence in this manner. We risk privileging the concept of violence in our assessment of nonviolence, potentially reinforcing common misconceptions of the term and obscuring the dynamic and active senses nonviolence invokes for those who study and practice nonviolence in its positive and/or principled forms. Acknowledging this, it is the opinion of this author that this risk is a necessary step to fully grasping the concept of nonviolence. The repudiation of violence is, after all, among the basic criteria of nonviolence even in its positive senses. It is imperative, however, that we remain mindful that this criterion is by no means sufficient. Thus, I ask the reader to keep this in mind as we pursue this question of the meaning of violence.

Thus, there is a distinct and meaningful sense in which nonviolence can, and often is, expressed negatively by those who intentionally commit themselves to nonviolence. But in doing so, such proponents by no means intend to identify nonviolence with passivity or the mere absence of violence. As noted above, this sense is not purely negative, i.e. it is not exclusively identified with what nonviolence is not. Instead, such proponents emphasize the active repudiation, or principled refusal, of any resort to violence. In this oppositional or defiant sense, the term nonviolence is defined as a disposition or character trait that is divergent from or opposed to violent actions. This nonviolence (as opposed to the above-mentioned “non-violence”) demands a courageous and purposeful renunciation of violence and so is near the cusp of being classified a positive sense of nonviolence.

To make plain this modified version of the negative sense of nonviolence, an historical illustration might prove useful. Consider the case of Rosa Parks, whose refusal to comply with a command she found to be unjust and morally odious, acted (or rather, actively refused to act) in a manner that cannot be fairly characterized as passive. In fact, she was not alone when she was ordered to vacate her seat on that bus in Montgomery, Alabama. Others who complied with the order, i.e. those who relinquished their seats to white passengers, would appear to be more active to an observer who was ignorant of the context. They were physically doing something, moving their bodies, while Parks did not move. However, their conformity to a repugnant and discriminatory status quo is decidedly more passive in the relevant sense. Compliance with the command in this case constitutes a passive acceptance of, and grants legitimacy to, an insidious structural form of racism and violence. This description is not meant to abuse or shame those individuals who, unlike Parks, complied with the order. The sanctions for noncompliance were severe and the pervasive structural violence towards nonconformity with this and so many similar commands are designed to make compliance seem natural or nearly so. The underlying fear inspired by countless acts of brutality towards members of an oppressed group makes such behavior seem entirely prudent and rational. Participants in such a context become entirely myopic to the underlying oppression unfolding, unable to recognize that violence is taking place. This makes Parks’ reaction all the more impressive. Her relatively motionless defiance, this seemingly simple and innocuous behavior, was an active and courageous repudiation of what had become an omnipresent system of brutal and dehumanizing violence.

This illustration shows that the concept of violence is not limited to the immediate use of physical force. Though violence, in any relevant sense, would imply the infliction of harm and/or destructive force, it is clear that the term is used to demarcate a wide range of real and potential injuries that may, or may not, be the intended referent of a given speaker. In other words, as we unpack the variety of ways that the term “violence” is used, we’ll discover that some who embrace nonviolence are inclined to reject some, but not all, forms of nonviolence. Thus, negative nonviolence cannot be reduced to the simple refusal to employ brute force on those perceived to be either enemies or subjects. In this narrow regard, all the parties involved in the conflict on that Montgomery bus acted more or less nonviolently. But only by disregarding certain, albeit less overt, injuries can one describe the imposition of, and compliance with, the system of Jim Crow mores as nonviolent. Thus, if we are to understand the full sense of the term, we must consider an array of possible senses on the term nonviolence be characterized as either unqualified or qualified.

Unqualified nonviolence requires the repudiation of any and all forms of violence. This posture is perhaps best represented by the ascetic virtues of Jainism (discussed in chapter 3 of this volume) who avoid and lament injury even to the most “subtle beings.”3 Though there are very important and influential proponents of unqualified nonviolence (sometimes coined absolute principled nonviolence) there are relatively few who would argue that violence is never justified under any circumstances. Even Mohandas Gandhi counseled that violence in the pursuit of justice is preferable to cowardice (and sometimes may even be required, albeit in very limited instances, as necessary to protect innocents). However, Gandhi and others who acknowledge the difficulty in sustaining unqualified or absolute nonviolence, often express the view that absolute nonviolence is nevertheless an ideal worth pursuing. The difficulty, as Tolstoy, Gandhi and other nonviolentists point out (see chapter 4) is that we are often too hasty and insufficiently imaginative in determining whether and to what extent a situation requires violence, thereby missing an opportunity to discover or invent a nonviolent resoluton. It is often a matter of convenience, prejudice and ignorance that sustains our view that violence is necessary in this or that circumstance, and so we should (under this view) continue to strive to expand the sphere of nonviolence both in our behaviors and our thoughts.

The majority of nonviolentists adopt (in practice if not in conviction) some variation of qualified nonviolence. For instance, one may renounce physical violence (the use of physical force to coerce or cause injury, death or destruction to bodies, such as in the overt cases of rape, murder, torture or war) while not necessarily renouncing psychological violence (causing, sometimes severe, psychological harm) or structural violence (where institutional social conditions such as poverty, racism, sexism, homophobia, economic coercion etc. lead to harm) or even violence toward property (such as sabotage, theft, vandalism, or otherwise depriving an opponent of resources to which they may have some claim, whether legal or otherwise). Whereas an unqualified negative definition of nonviolence would involve the renunciation of all forms of violence, a qualified definition would renounce some but not all violence.

There are myriad ways in which such qualifications can be expressed. For example, the most basic sense in which the term “nonviolence” is used entails the repudiation of physical violence. But even the renunciation of this form of violence may be further qualified by identifying legitimate or illegitimate uses of physical force. That is, one may claim to be a proponent of nonviolence while recognizing the moral permissibility of the use of physical force to uphold just laws or otherwise secure peace (e.g. as exercised by a legitimate political authority). In other words, it is sometimes difficult to distinguish the question of whether an act is “violent” from the moral and political question of whether the “violence” in question is “justified.” For those who qualify nonviolence in this manner, they may deny that the legitimate use of physical force is violence at all.

Some important thinkers in the literature we examine in the volume draw a sharp distinction between violence employed in the pursuit of justice (e.g. as employed by a legitimate legal authority such as a police force or military engaged in a democratically sanctioned or otherwise legitimate campaign or action, or a campaign against an illegitimate and unjust regime) and violence performed for illicit or immoral purposes (e.g. during a criminal act motivated by self-interest or in suppressing a justified resistance movement in order to preserve illegitimate power). As an example, Henry David Thoreau, though an inspiration for many nonviolentists including Gandhi and Martin Luther King, Jr., was a vocal supporter of John Brown’s raid on the U.S. arsenal at Harper’s Fairy.4 In his view, the cause of the abolition of slavery justified violence. And, of course, many (such as Thoreau) who generally oppose the maintenance and use of a standing army, would readily accept that violence is sometimes necessary to combat an especially great evil (e.g. in suppressing a murderous criminal or defeating a belligerent government such as Hitler’s fascist regime). In this sense, Thoreau is rightly considered a nonviolentist in regard to the Mexican-American war (which he deemed to be unjust).5 And yet, he could not be characterized as an unqualified nonviolentists, even insofar as physical force is concerned. Others would renounce the use of physical violence in any instance and may claim further that no conceivable use of violence (physical or otherwise) is justified or legitimate.

Consider psychological violence which entails a form of harm that is not typically understood to require physical force.6 This form of violence, which sometimes accompanies and is often obscured by physical violence, is distinguished by the kinds of harms it imposes on the recipient. The verbal abuse of children may be a paradigmatic case in point. A child’s psychological well-being and development may be profoundly damaged and/or distorted by such violence, though they may suffer no visible wounds that physical abuse would entail. Threats, lies, social intimidation or even seemingly innocuous acts such as impatience which don’t necessarily employ the use of physical force can, nonetheless, impose profound damage on the recipient and actor alike. In fact, as James Gilligan makes clear (in chapter one of this volume) psychological violence sometimes entails more severe and permanent harm than does physical violence.

Some other forms of qualified nonviolence reflect distinctions as to whether the violence in question is other-directed or self-directed (e.g. in suicide, drug abuse, etc.). And, some qualify violence by a more or less narrow definition of the moral community. For example, in the renunciation of violence one may, for example, renounce violence towards some species but not others, they may renounce life forms in general but not that directed at inorganic objects, and so on. So, we have only scratched the surface of this distinction between qualified and unqualified nonviolence. The ways in which negative nonviolence may be qualified is, perhaps irreducibly, diverse.

Positive nonviolence

We may now turn to positive definitions which characterize nonviolence as modes of action or states of being that facilitate the ends of securing justice and/or conditions in which persons (and in many instances, other beings) may peacefully flourish. In each case, positive nonviolence involves overt actions (i.e. doing something). Beginning in the 19th century, and contining throug the abolition and suffrage movements in the U.S. and Britain, for example, the preferred term for such active nonviolence was Passive Resistance. This political form of nonviolence is most associated with an act of dissent or a refusal to comply with (or acquiesce to) the directives of an unjust demand or system. As such, it is often manifested in the form of a principle that demands one do something, even if this something is a refusal to do what one is expected to do, in particular, when such expectations imply engaging in violence or providing support for violence (whether overt, indirect, or systemic). The example of Rosa Parks, discussed above, is a case in point. Other examples include (but are by no means limited to) a refusal to comply with an order of conscription for military service, or a refusal to pay war taxes. In each case, it is an act of dissent towards what is seen to be an illegitimate authority. The refusal to comply with the demands of a discriminatory and unjust policy cannot be branded as passivity or merely a lack of action, but is more accurately characterized as an active repudiation of a systemic violence perpetuated against, typically, oppressed groups.7 Passive Resistance is, however, a term that most contemporary nonviolentists have deemed potentially misleading and so many have abandoned its use entirely. The historical importance of those movements which adopted the term warrant its study, but at least since Mohandas Gandhi abandoned it,8 most agree that new and more clear terminology is needed. Following Thoreau, many refer to such positive nonviolence as civil disobedience or civil resistance.9 But even these terms are inadequate to the task of emphasizing the active initiative nonviolentist engage in.

The term now most commonly associated with modern political nonviolence is Direct Action. The term was initially adopted by the labor union, Industrial Workers of the World (or “Wobblies” 10) at the beginning of the 20th century to describe their efforts to win just compensation and working conditions. This positive form of nonviolence involves taking initiative, setting out to challenge an unjust state of affairs, often by disrupting the normal course of activity in a society. Martin Luther King, Jr., like those forerunners in the radical labor movement, often emphasized the need to employ direct action in order to create a situation of crisis and tension that could not be ignored by an oppressive power regime. When Joseph McNeill, Dianne Nash, John Lewis and others (involved in the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee or SNCC) set out to challenge the policy of segregated lunch counters in Nashville, Greensboro, and elsewhere, they were engaged in direct action. When Bayard Rustin and George Houser of the Congress of Racial Equality, or CORE, along with SNCC and other civil rights groups, embarked on the Freedom Rides which set out to confront the segregation of interstate bus travel, they were engaged in direct action. When Cesar Chavez and Dolores Huerta led farmworkers to strike and instituted a boycott on the table grape industry, they were engaged in a form of direct action. Such actions typically are employed to confront unjust political and economic conditions that stigmatize and oppress a power minority class. This has led some contemporary scholars, such as Gene Sharp and Robert Helvey, to prefer the term political defiance, especially in those contexts where direct action is employed in opposition to an established dictatorship or oppressive political regime.11

Gandhi sometimes referred to direct action and other such resistance techniques as an “obstructive program” where the aim was to dramatize conflict, expose injustice, and thereby create leverage and an opportunity for negotiation and redress. But for Gandhi, as well as many who have followed his example, the ultimate goal was a reconciliation with the opponent, where the community could be restructured in the interests of all parties. It is vital to address particular grievances, but this would be futile if the root causes of injustice were not also addressed. In order to achieve this, nonviolent movements must provide an avenue to both structural and personal transformation. To this end, it is not sufficient to merely be against something. Participants must engage activities and goals that empower and educate oppressed groups and show their comrades and adversaries alike the kind of future they believe in. The end goal, what King referred to as the “beloved community,” is a social framework where all people (whether the formerly oppressed or oppressors) have the opportunity to fulfill their full human potential.

Thus, in addition to advocating direct action, both Gandhi and King also advocated for the development of what Gandhi referred to as a constructive program. The aim of a constructive program is to build community, develop institutions and relationships that provide the means by which individuals can develop their potential and build relationships of mutual respect and care; and where communities may foster independence, self-sufficiency, and a basis of self-respect. As Gandhi and King saw it, the point of a nonviolent campaign is not simply to resist and banish an oppressive regime, but instead to develop a flourishing and prosperous society. History has revealed the importance of a constructive program in ensuring the success and continuation of a liberation movement. If members of the movement are to have a vision of a just and sustainable community, they must have opportunities to engage in productive efforts, building the capacity to govern and put into practice their democratic ideals once the resistance campaign has succeeded. Often, a constructive program may be employed even when a meaningful resistance campaign is not feasible. For instance, organizing a community to develop systems for public health, providing food, education, sanitation, and other necessities that are not provided by an oppressive regime is a crucial way of developing community and training a population to maintain continuity and discipline in the event that direct action in opposition to the regime becomes possible. Further, such constructive programs are crucial in empowering a citizenry as well as identifying and developing future leaders that may carry on the cause of a community in the event that a resistance effort is successful.

Some other important distinctions should be considered. To begin, we should distinguish the use of nonviolence as a tactic from nonviolence as a matter of principle. Some adhere to nonviolence because they think it is simply more effective than violence. One leading scholar of nonviolent tactics, Gene Sharp, contends that this is historically the most common view. Though embracing nonviolence as a way of life is valuable in maintaining a disciplined campaign of resistance, he argues, it is by no means necessary. Most successful nonviolent movements require a broad and diverse base of participants from all corners of society. To expect them all to endorse a similar personal philosophy, he argues, is neither realistic nor necessary.

Others, including Gandhi, Chavez, and King believe that genuine nonviolence must be adopted and held as a deeply personal commitment if it is to translate into meaningful cultural and political tranformation. The end goal of nonviolence is not merely the success of a political movement (though this is of vital importance). For proponents of principled nonviolence, nonviolence is a way of being and is fundamentally redemptive of both those who employ it as well as, potentially at least, those adversaries toward which it is aimed. Proponents of principled nonviolence argue that nonviolence must be adhered to regardless of the expected external effects it produces. But they also claim that any ends derived from nonviolent tactics will be only as deep and permanent as the means employed. Successful nonviolence, under this view, requires that one maintain their personal integrity by remaining nonviolent even when provoked or threatened by harm. This brings us to Chavez’ quote at the top of this introduction. Even if the stated goals of an individual or movement are not achieved, even if nonviolent resisters are injured, jailed, or even killed in adhering to a nonviolent standard, they still do not fail in the task that is of greatest significance to them, namely, maintaining nonviolence in their own actions and thoughts.

Some additional Distinctions

There is some consensus among theorists and activists alike that when participants of a movement are dedicated to principled nonviolence, this is highly complementary to the use of nonviolence as a political or social tactic. There is, however, a wide array of views regarding the extent to which this is so. This debate is at the core of philosophical study of nonviolence and entails epistemic, moral and empirical dimensions. For instance, there is a contentious discussion among nonviolentists as to whether it is meaningful to pursue Nonviolence as a mode of Personal Perfection without also pursuing Nonviolence as a Political or Social Tool. Though these are often complementary, they may be distinguished. One may, e.g. pursue internal peace and nonviolence through meditation or other forms of spiritual practice while remaining relatively unattached to the suffering of others. Some may pursue social justice through nonviolent techniques while paying little attention to their private inner conflicts, or even violence in their personal lives (e.g. in the home). The issue raised here is whether one may compartmentalize nonviolence, e.g. as private pursuit, in a manner that disregards one’s obligations and duties to others.

Another fundamental question in the discussion of nonviolence is whether the distinction between Direct Violence and Covert Violence is morally significant. Some actions that are not directly violent (e.g. a strike, boycott, embargo or hunger strike) are nonetheless potentially very harmful and/or coercive in nature. Barbara Deming, in her seminal essay, Revolution and Equilibrium (see chapter 6) addresses the question of just how far nonviolent methods may be pushed before they become violent. Walter Wink (chapter 3) considers the limits of legitimate protest as gauged by the degree of permissible harms such a protest might effect. The moral high-ground that many activists seek to gain through the use of nonviolent tactics must not obscure the real risks and consequences that result. Hence, one should not assume that renouncing direct forms of violence is necessarily morally superior to violence.

But does nonviolence “work?”

Nonviolence is fine as long as it works. —Malcolm X

If nonviolence is merely a moral platitude, then there is little to recommend in it. Thus, it is essential there be some standards by which we may measure its success and/or failures. That is, we must clarify what we mean in asserting that nonviolence “works.” There are a number of possible approaches we might examine. For one, the issue may have a purely practical dimension. The question of whether nonviolence works is really a question of how effective nonviolence is in achieving one’s stated goals. But, it should be noted that such an assessment is not meaningful if done in isolation. The question is not whether nonviolence works so much as whether it works better than or as well as violence in similar contexts. Such a comparative assessment is, at least in part, amenable to the empirical method. We’ll see that (in both chapters 1 and 6 of this volume) authors in the areas of psychology (e.g. James Gilligan) and sociology (e.g. Erica Chenoweth and Maria J. Stephan) have done extensive research on this question. In each case, they emphasize the necessity of clarifying the stated purposes of either nonviolent or violent methods (e.g. in law enforcement, public health, or civil resistance movements). These goals typically express the long-term interests of persons and social groups and so must consider myriad factors such as the fecundity and duration of results, both desired and otherwise. So, if a method shows promise in the short term (e.g. punishing or incarcerating a perpetrator) but fails to preserve the stated goals in the long-term (e.g. reducing criminal violence and recidivism) then such considerations must be weighed against the method’s perceived benefits. If a violent movement succeeds in dislodging an oppressive regime, but thereby creates a permanent fissure in the population where members of the “losing side” are non-cooperative or even hostile toward the incoming regime, then again, this would have to be weighed against the positive achievements of the movement.

The standards of comparison in such an assessment must be applied in a consistent manner. So, for example, if we are to consider the suffering, destruction, injury, or death of participants in a nonviolent struggle, then we should apply an identical standard on those who propose violence. We cannot consider a nonviolent effort to be a failure simply because participants were injured or killed, or where the “enemy” (often one that itself employs violence) suffered fewer casualties. For one, this would distort the goals and purposes of nonviolent action which oppose causing injury or death to an adversary. But also, doing so often entails an insidious double standard. During the great wars and conflicts of the 20th century, tens of millions of people (both combatants and civilians alike) lost their lives and property. The numbers run much higher if one includes in their calculation the indirect causes of death due to the economic and political decimation these conflicts wrought. So, for example, if one is to pronounce the Allied efforts against the Axis forces in WWII a “success,” then one cannot rightly condemn a nonviolent campaign a “failure,” simply because similar loss of life and property resulted. Gandhi famously promoted a nonviolent civil defense be developed to address a potential invasion by imperial Japan. His proposal was mocked in that the estimated millions of Indians would potentially lose their lives in such an effort.12 But when compared to the loss of life experienced in Russia and elsewhere in facing the Nazi threat, the estimate seems a relatively moderate one.

It is also sometimes proposed that nonviolence is only effective in the face of a more or less conciliatory rival. Gandhi’s struggles for Indian independence, the refrain goes, were addressed toward a relatively democratic and civilized opponent in the British, but if he were facing an adversary such as Hitler or Stalin, matters would surely have gone differently. Chenoweth and Stephans research seems to show, however, that the ruthlessness of the adversary is not a reliable indicator in predicting the success of nonviolent methods. And, it’s worth pointing out that the British were not entirely reluctant to employ ruthless tactics. For example, in 1919 during the Jallianwala Bagh massacre in Amritsar, the British army opened fire on nonviolent unarmed civilians, killing between 379-1000 and wounding thousands more.13 And though the use of lethal force in India was relatively restrained, the behavior of British forces in Kenya and elsewhere in the Empire, was far less so. The difference may be due to the fact that in Kenya, the resistance movement employed violence. And it’s noteworthy that nonviolent resistance was sometimes used effectively in the face of Nazi violence.14 But again, the comparisons must be made even-handedly. For example, it would be prudent to weigh the fallout of Indian independence in the years leading up to and following the partition of Pakistan (see Amartya Sen in chapter 6) The essential question, then, is not whether nonviolence works, but whether it works better than the violent alternatives.

Secondly, one may address the question from a standpoint of conceptual logic. Violence, as a technique and strategy, entails an explicit commitment to the use of destructive force. The aim of violence is to kill, injure, or otherwise subdue the opponent. Thus, in any instance of “success,” there is a logically necessary counterpart of “failure.” That is, in an encounter where opponents employ violence (what some would call a cooperative relationship of violence) the method can, at best, only succeed half the time. For example, violence may be said to have “worked” (in a decidedly imperfect way) for the Allied forces in WWII, but it also failed for the Axis forces. As William James points out (see chapter 1) there is a strong propensity of groups to selectively recall the full range of effects from violent conflicts. And if it is true that history is written by the victors, it is not surprising that war is memorialized and honored as a symbol of victory and honor. But it should be noted, that as often as not, there is no clear winner in violent conflicts and so the statistical effectiveness of the methods of violence seem even less impressive. The trouble is, in a manner related to the selective elevation of the positive recollection of “successful” violence, that such events tend to be downplayed and discouraged in public discourse. That is, the negative experiences of war are minimized (victims are silenced, realities officially denied) while the positive experiences are hyperbolized.15

Nonviolence, as a technique and strategy, to the contrary, does not seek to destroy the opponent. The method instead seeks, when possible, to redeem or transform the opponent. The purpose of nonviolence is to develop conditions where all participants in conflict ultimately have their needs and other real (as opposed to perceived) interests met. Thus, when King led a campaign to end racial discrimination in Birmingham, the goal was not to destroy the White elite of that community. There was no call to kill, purge, or otherwise harm those in the privileged class. The goal was, in addition to gaining basic respect and legal equality of members of the Black community, to relieve the adversary of a false sense of superiority that prevented them from living in truth and benefiting from productive cooperation with their formerly oppressed counterparts, etc. In this sense, nonviolence has an advantage over violence since, in a logically consistent manner, it has the logical potential to result in a “win-win” outcome where there are no losers.

Finally, the question of whether nonviolence works may be addressed as a matter of principle. If, for example, the primary goal in pursuing nonviolence is to refrain from committing violence, then the sorts of empirical comparisons noted above become largely moot. The measure of success in this case is not whether some political objective was achieved, but instead whether the practitioner of nonviolence maintained their moral integrity and commitment to nonviolence. Socrates (see chapter 2) is an early proponent of this standard of success. Though by any external standard it would be strange to say that Socrates succeeded in his defense against the charges he faced. He was, after all, convicted and executed. However, Socrates saw the political and legal standards to be secondary to his personal integrity, his commitment to truth and his duty to his fellow citizens. In refusing to engage in dishonest rhetorical strategies (e.g. begging forgiveness, parading his grieving wife and children before the jury, perjuring himself, or accepting a lesser punishment, etc.) he thereby protected something of far greater importance, namely his refusal to cause harm to others. And so, though many would say his nonviolent methods failed, there is a significant sense in which his methods worked, despite his ultimate execution. If, for example, we consider the profound contribution Socrates made to our present commitments to academic freedom, freedom of speech, freedom of conscience and religion, etc. then his defense was an epic success of no less significance than any battle victory one might conjure.

Means and ends?

Means and end are convertible terms in my philosophy of life. —Mohandas Gandhi

Much of the discussion in the previous section depends on a more rich understanding of the relationship between means and ends. For many of the most prominent advocates of nonviolence, Gandhi’s words express a foundational principle. Under this view, the notion that “the ends justify the means” constitutes a fundamental misunderstanding of both. The oft quoted peace activist and Quaker minister A.J. Muste put the matter thus, “There is no way to peace, peace is the way.” The basic idea behind such assertions is that the means we employ inevitably color the ends we reap. To take a fairly simple example, if two students receive the same high score on their Calculus exam, but one did so by diligent study while the other did so by cheating, it is clear that the results of the exam don’t reveal the whole story. Proponents of nonviolence tend to be skeptical of the benefits that violent shortcuts and other consequentialist calculations sometimes promise. This is clearly a matter of principle but it is sometimes a hypothesis that can be measured empirically. We know, for instance, that violence doesn’t only impact those towards whom it is aimed, but also affects the perpetrator and the society at large. David Grossman, in his seminal work, On Killing, and James Gilligan in his decades of research on violence, 16 document the often surprising effects such methods impose on both the psyches of those who use violence, as well as the cultures that promote violence as a reliable method to resolve conflict. And Erica Chenoweth and Maria J. Stephan document how even successful violent methods can undercut the ongoing effort to build a peaceful and functioning society in the aftermath of mass civil resistance.17 As Barbara Deming puts it, “The future—by whom will it be built? By all those whom the struggle has touched and marked.”18

To proponents of utilitarian thinking (where the promotion of happiness and freedom from suffering is the principle guide to assessing means) this line of reasoning seems less a refutation of consequentialist thinking than an oversimplification of it. It is important that the reader maintain a critical attitude toward the reasoning of even the most revered authors in this volume. Minimally, we should not assume an interpretation of their writings that would prove uncharitable upon careful scrutiny. In this vein, I’d suggest that the kind of ends-driven thinking that Gandhi, King, and so many others in the field of nonviolence condemn is not the reasoning that thoughtful consequentialists would recognize as their own. And, it’s difficult to articulate the thinking of Gandhi and King without taking note of the kinds of ends they would readily agree constitute a kind of test by which their means would be measured. Gandhi’s autobiography bears the title, An Autobiography: The Story of My Experiments with Truth. Throughout this text, he measures the success or failure of his “experiments” against an ideal of nonviolence that constitutes an end he thinks worth pursuing. When understood this way, it seems that a utilitarian such as Peter Singer and a deontological thinker like Mohandas Gandhi have more in common than might first be assumed. They are both committed to those dispositions and means which are likely to bring about ends that reflect the long-term rational interests of all sentient beings (e.g. the reduction of needless suffering). The principle, namely that ends are fundamentally shaped by the means used to achieve them, seems a point of agreement across their respective theoretical traditions.

What is Peace?

Not everyone who uses the word “peace” wants peace with freedom and justice. Submission to cruel oppression and passive acquiescence to ruthless dictators who have perpetrated atrocities on hundreds of thousands of people is no real peace. Hitler often called for peace, by which he meant submission to his will. A dictators’ peace is often no more than the peace of the prison or of the grave. —Gene Sharp

"Peace" in military mouths today is a synonym for "war expected." The word has become a pure provocative, and no government wishing peace sincerely should allow it ever to be printed in a newspaper. Every up-to-date dictionary should say that "peace" and "war" mean the same thing, now in posse, now in actu. —William James

As with the term “nonviolence,” it is probably best to consider the concept of “peace” in all of its multifaceted variations before asserting any essential properties. Though I think William James probably goes too far, we must be mindful, as both he and Sharp make plain, that the intentions of any two given speakers are likely to eventually diverge, often in significant or even conflicting ways. As with nonviolence, peace may be understood to have both a negative and a positive sense.

Negative Peace

The most familiar use of the term denotes the absence of war, armed conflict, or violent civic unrest. When people promote the use of military force to promote peace, this is typically the sense they have in mind, namely, the cessation of violent hostilities by any means and regardless of other conditions. Typically, such ambitions are tempered by recognition that a lasting and genuine peace will require a “political solution.” Both Sharp and James (in the above quotes) are alluding to this basic idea. During the conflagration of the First World War, for example, many referred to that conflict as the “war to end all wars.” Such optimism expressed an almost nostalgic recollection of the so-called Pax Romana, a span of roughly 200 years just prior to the 3rd century CE, in which the absolute military dominance of the Roman Empire had successfully suppressed all significant internal revolt and maintained more or less static relations along its borders. But, as Sharp points out, this form of negative peace is not inherently preferable to war. Few, for example, would find passive acquiescence to a ruthless dictator to be tolerable. Most would prefer the risk of death in war to a guarantee of slavery in life.

Another common, and negative, use of the term is in reference to a condition of truce or stalemate between otherwise hostile contestants, or what political theorists call a modus vivendi. Unlike the conditions described above, such a peace is generally the result of a mutual recognition between competing parties that neither stands the prospect of decisive victory, or where each recognizes that the costs of continued violence exceeds what they are willing to endure. An especially vivid example of this kind of “peace” might be the so-called “Cold War” between the United States (along with its allies) and the Soviet Union, which began near the end of the Second World War and lasted until roughly 1991 (or, many might argue, continues to this day). Given the massive stockpiles of nuclear weapons possessed by each of these states, a policy of Mutually Assured Destruction (appropriately referred to by its acronym MAD) gradually developed and is credited by some political theorists with preventing a full- scale atomic war from occurring. But the tenuous nature of such a peace, along with the tension it implies and the resources it consumes, has led most writers to question its status a peace at all. Surely, James would agree with Immanuel Kant in noting that where parties make “secret reservation of the material for future war” there is no genuine peace.19

Similar things might be said of the more local or personal conceptions of negative peace. The absence of violent conflict in one’s own life is, in most instances, a welcomed condition compared to a life of constant fighting. As Thomas Hobbes rightly recounts in his deeply influential 17th century treatise, The Leviathan, rational human beings will suffer almost any governing authority, so long as doing so will secure for them a basic liberty from violent attack. But again, there is certainly much to be desired in life beyond the mere absence of violence. If one’s life is stifled by rigid social or psychological controls that prevent the exercise of their full capacities, if one is not permitted the exploration of their goals and pursue their conception of a good life, or even if one is burdened with maddening boredom or drudgery, then peace of this sort is a poor companion indeed. In fact, it is typically the case that those who cling to negative peace are the very one who suffer least at the hands of an unjust regime. The revulsion that oppressed and marginalized peoples feel toward a malignant regime is difficult for even sympathetic outsiders to comprehend. The contentment of those who are privileged by access to political and economic goods is often used as a political tool by the existing regime and constitutes a form of tacit support for an unjust status quo that divides a population and reinforces the fears and anxieties that prevent cooperation in the pursuit of justice. In such cases, a longing invariably develops among the disenfranchised for, at the very least some fundamental reform, but if necessary, full-scale revolution. Martin Luther King’s appeal in his Letter from a Birmingham Jail is a case in point:

I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro's great stumbling block in his stride toward freedom is not the White Citizen's Councileror the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate, who is more devoted to "order" than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice; who constantly says: "I agree with you in the goal you seek, but I cannot agree with your methods of direct action.”20

Positive Peace

In contrast, a positive peace is an essentially normative notion, entailing a vision of a society where justice and basic fairness prevails. Most theorists would sympathize with John Rawls’ definition: Positive peace is attained when all parties are “satisfied with the status quo for the right reasons.” Typically, the reasons cited include the establishment of a form of democratic order where the basic principles of liberty and equality reign over most matters of social import. Universal human rights are a common precondition cited (though there is wide disagreement of the specific content and extent such rights must encompass). Access to those primary goods needed to sustain health and develop ones potential and self-respect (e.g. food, housing, medical care, education, economic opportunity, social responsibility, rich relationships etc.) must be broadly distributed. Community, solidarity, and a culture of mutual trust and care are basic features of positive peace so understood.

Positive peace may also be conceived at the personal level, though the number and variety of such views make a survey of the sort I’ve offered here very difficult to accomplish. One common theme is that the term “peace” invokes serenity, calm or restfulness. Others emphasize enlightenment or redemption. The Christian tradition, for example, identifies positive peace with the concept of salvation or union with God. The Buddhist tradition emphasizes a commitment to meditative practice, or “being peace,” often associated with the concept of Nirvana, enlightenment, and nonattachment to “wrong perceptions,” self and suffering. In virtue ethics, peace is often construed as a harmonious balance of virtues such as humility, modesty, tolerance, generosity and mercy. There are clearly some overlapping criteria across these traditions. For example, the Dalai Lama’s definition, “peace is a state of tranquility founded on the deep sense of security that arises from mutual understanding, tolerance of others’ point of view, and respect for their rights,” is remarkably similar to that of a typical proponent of political liberalism. This is not to deny there are important differences between myriad conceptions of peace, but that those differences are not, generally speaking, mutually exclusive. Suffice it to say that there is ample room for exploration of the frontiers of peace.

Might I suggest?...

Now that we’ve explored some of the conceptual groundwork of the philosophy of peace and nonviolence, I ask the reader to entertain, what I believe is, a fairly modest suggestion: Namely, that genuine and lasting peace is attainable. I’d couple this suggestion with what I take to be an uncontroversial assumption, that such peace is desired by virtually all people (with the exception of very few eccentrics along with a tiny minority of those whose wealth and social status are directly linked to the subservience of others). And since peace is both possible and desirable, it is worth some time and effort to review what can be learned about the nature and causes of peace.

As noted earlier, the academy has offered no shortage of opportunity to study violence and war. There seems to be no trouble convincing people that violence and war (despite their comparative infrequency) are permanent and necessary features of human life. It is a regrettable fact that much of our encounter with history is shaped by the descriptions of mass violence and war, where the interim periods (excepting mention of an occasional technological or scientific achievement) are deemed too mundane to mention. This complacent, even fatalistic, attitude toward violence, seems entirely understandable given our psychological makeup. Dramatic experiences and Images of violence have a notable impact on our imagination, creating the cognitive illusion that the occurrence of violence is far more pervasive and imminent than a sober examination of the evidence would support. When this is combined with systemic social conditioning, including exposure in education (in which I include commercial media and both corporate and government propaganda) the idea that violence is all around us becomes fixed in the collective imagination. And, when the very institutions that govern our daily lives (whether political, educational, economic, etc.) are entangled in production of weapons and the perpetuation of violence, it’s understandable that the reader maintains a healthy skepticism. Certainly the challenge of shifting perspectives on the prospect of peace is daunting. But let me be clear. My suggestion is not that peace is inevitable, nor even that it is necessarily superior in all cases, but only that the contrary, the belief that war and violence are inevitable, is open to rational scrutiny.

Now, if my suggestion that achieving genuine peace is possible doesn’t seem sufficiently outrageous, I’d add to it that peace can be (or conceivably, can only be) gained if resort to violence is reduced to a bare minimum. To begin, it is necessary to confront the insidious and self-fulfilling fatalism that claims war and violence is inevitable. Though conflict is likely a permanent, even necessary, feature of human life, the presence of conflict (whether between individuals, groups, or even nations) needn’t result in violence. That is, war and other violent strategies of conflict resolution are evitable aspects of human experience. An explicit supposition underlying this point is that human beings have a capacity for calculation, that is, even in moments of conflict they can decide whether to employ this or that method or strategy to address their needs. Secondly, the strategies and methods available to an individual or society will, in part, determine such decisions. As Margaret Mead points out, one can only employ the tools one knows.21 But, once provided with a fuller understanding of the information and alternative methods available, along with a supporting motivation in principle, passion, clarity of goals and behavioral conditioning, nonviolence will often (if not always) seem the better choice. It is in such instances, many monumental cases of which have occurred over the past century, that the power of nonviolence in establishing transformative structural conditions of a positive peace is demonstrated.

Though it would be a logical error to assume that a complex and abstract body (e.g. a social group or nation) will bear the characteristics of its parts (i.e. the individuals that populate it) it is clear from empirical observation that groups also have this capacity (or something analogous to it) to calculate and decide whether or not to employ the strategies and methods of violence. Chapter one of this volume offers evidence from the fields of anthropology, primatology, sociology and psychology of this capacity. When institutions are so ordered as to nurture and encourage disciplined and democratic calculation among its members, one can say without resort to hypostatization that their collective capacity is magnified. When institutions operate to suppress or undermine this capacity, it becomes stultified and ineffectual. So, if groups are provided the structural conditions needed to produce and entertain creative alternatives to violence (whether through the development of customs, policy or educational institutions) then nonviolence will often seem the superior choice in addressing conflict, and so violence will often be avoided. It is true that human beings often do choose to use violence to address conflict, but even in the absence of a principled commitment to nonviolence it is also the case (perhaps more often the case) that they choose (often in fundamentally similar circumstances) to refrain from violence, preferring alternative, less risky and more productive means of addressing their perceived long-term interests. And it is a common theme in the literature of nonviolence that the manner in which the methods of nonviolence is perceived by an adversary often contributes to this calculation. Given this capacity for rational calculation, my suggestion is that human beings, whether as individuals or groups, can choose nonviolent and inclusive resolutions to conflict and reject the recourse to enmity and violence. In any case, given the terrible costs of violence, it seems worth our time to study the matter and to make a deliberate effort to build on those conditions known to be conducive to the peaceful resolution of conflict.

This suggestion will likely strike many contemporary readers as fantastic or utopian. And, perhaps it is, to be fair, an overstatement. Just as it would be outrageous, even absurd, to assert that human beings are prone towards absolute violence, it is perhaps overly ambitious to aim toward an ideal of absolute nonviolence. Few doubt that aggression is an inherited biological capacity, and the finite capacity for calculation is inevitably limited by our ignorance, while the nature of conflict seems infinitely diverse. So, the suggestion of this essay may be mitigated by positing a time when violence is reduced to a small fraction of its present regularity and intensity. Recognition of our ignorance, in this case, needn’t serve as a source of pessimism, though, for (as Socrates and the Buddha assert) it is the conceit of knowledge and certainty that is often the source of violent conflict. Systemic sources of violence in particular, can, over time, be greatly reduced if we take care to study the matter and make necessary adjustments to the way in which we organize human affairs (e.g. politically, economically, etc.). There are sufficient examples to demonstrate the feasibility of reducing violence through the development and implementation of social inventions such as legal courts (e.g. in the place of trial by ordeal) or public policy (e.g. through the regulation of industrial waste or the restriction of weaponry and the intelligent implementation of welfare services) or international law (e.g. through treaties such as the Geneva Convention).

Still, I suspect most readers will be deeply skeptical of such a hypothesis. And, as a philosopher, this is well and good. As Jonathan Glover points out, though our species possesses a wellspring of human resources which generally function to restrain our worst behaviors, certain conditions can function to degrade these resources and reduce us to instruments of the most terrible kinds of atrocity. Though I argue here that there is no good reason to accept the cynical view that war and violence are a necessary part of human existence, it is also the case that there is no guarantee that peace will be achieved. Our perception of what is possible is shaped by our conception of human nature, our own personal experiences, conventional assumptions as shared through social modes of communication (most obviously in the mass media) along with our impressions derived from history or collective experience. Since we are not familiar with any place or period in which violence is absent,22 and since there is no obvious and indisputable indication that human society is on the verge of any epic shift in conduct, it is understandable that weighty doubts continue to exist. This text is an invitation to weigh the case for nonviolence, not a dogmatic treatise that takes comforting slogans for necessary truths.

Simply put, our experience is not as uniform as the conventional “wisdom” would predict. Each of us, unless we’ve had the great misfortune of living the entirety of our lives in conditions of extreme conflict and war, experiences mostly peaceful relations through the typical day. Certainly, most readers of this text will relate with this observation. When we honestly weigh the balance of our interactions with others, we’ll find that the vast majority of those interactions are benign or mutually beneficial, while some are even altruistic in nature. Even those who do experience violent conflict, even on a massive scale, report that the destruction and tragedy therein is often accompanied by an even more essential underlying sense of comradery and self-effacing commitment to, and compassion for, their partners in struggle. William James and Captain Paul Chapman are two authors presented in the first chapter of this text who place considerable emphasis on this fact. And the two essays by Martin Sanchez Jankowski and Philippe Bourgois, which address the phenomena of urban gang affiliation demonstrate that our assumptions regarding the nature, motives, and attitudes of people who engage in violence are far from providing a complete picture. Instead, what we find is a remarkable resilience and restraint evidenced among those who, given their structural conditions of poverty, racism, and exploitation might be expected to embody nothing but self-serving impulses of survival and indifference towards the suffering of others.

But we needn’t take refuge in the observation that people who experience violence may, in spite of profound suffering, remain more or less humane. Research appears to demonstrate that violence, both large-scale and small, both within and between groups and nations, is actually, in contrast with representations in the media and political speeches, on an arc of steady decline.23 Violence looms large in our imagination precisely because it is so atypical and alarming. The selectivity of memory is well documented and so the inferences drawn therefrom should be held with some care. Similar observations can be made regarding our social experience. Though tension generally persists between nations and social groups (what some may consider a sort of violence in its own right24) such tension only occasionally breaks into extreme violence and war. For the most part, borders are respected (in principle if not always in fact) and cooperation in trade and international relations is more typical than the contrary. Yet the status quo, even in times of armed conflict, is not what security studies scholars refer to as total war, where indiscriminate violence is perceived as permissible against even civilian non- combatants.25 Even the most reckless and self-righteous individuals and groups tend to feel the need to at least rationalize the killing of innocents.

So, the suggestion I propose here is that a change in the behaviors and attitudes of the majority of human beings, as well as in the structural institutions that shape our social lives, is possible, if not probable. But the probability here is not one of a mere convergence of antecedents, but is instead dependent on the striving of people toward a known goal. Sometimes change becomes conceivable only when a new phenomenon is observed (e.g. new invention like the airplane, or a new innovation like an organ transplant or vaccine). Other times, change becomes conceivable upon a significant variation in moral thinking, where a practice that was previously accepted and widespread gradually becomes viewed as morally condemnable and socially unacceptable (e.g. as with the abolition of legal slavery, the attainment of women’s suffrage, or the recognition of marriage equality). Sometimes, change becomes conceivable only upon the perception of a desperate practical necessity resulting from an existential threat (e.g. in the face of catastrophic global climate change or the proliferation of nuclear arms). In each case, when a critical mass of determined people become committed to the idea that some solution must be found, change can occur quite rapidly and unexpectedly. And yet, the admittedly reserved optimism expressed in this essay should not restrain the sense of urgency such issues entail. The destructive capacity human beings have attained over the preceding century exceeds anything our species has faced in its relatively brief existence on this planet. A radical transformation is needed, and the time-frame for this change is alarmingly short. But as always, change must start somewhere, and with someone, and so in introducing others to the contents of this volume my hope is to inspire some part of the readers of this text to confront the prevailing fatalism of our time and embrace the challenge of considering the possibilities of a more hopeful future. I’d submit that the alternative is hardly more defensible.

Typically, significant social transformation is initiated by a small but determined group of principled and courageous individuals who are willing to defy the conventional wisdom of their time and social setting. Often, such change begins with limited but deeply symbolic acts that are perceived by many observers as trivial and ineffectual. Seminal illustrations of this include Gandhi’s famous salt satyagraha, where he lead a march of a gradually growing multitude to the sea to illegally produce salt in defiance of the British imposed monopoly, and the Montgomery bus boycott organized in part by Martin Luther King, Jr, and Ralph Abernathy and sparked by the civil resistance of Rosa parks. Usually, genuine and lasting change will not occur unless significant numbers of “ordinary” members of the population are motivated to join a movement for change. Any movement that hopes to succeed must speak to the lived experience and needs of a broad and representative cross-section of society. If meaningful and durable change is to occur, the deeply ingrained habits of people and social groups must be reformed or redirected, and these alternations must be embraced by some significant portion of the population and integrated in the very fabric of culture. When a nexus of social attitudes and social action emerges, profound moral progress may be achieved. This process is illustrated in many historical cases. The People Power movement which deposed the Marcos dictatorship in the Philippines, the democracy movement in Chile which displaced General Pinochet’s military junta, and the Solidarity movement in Poland that dislodged a pervasive Communist regime backed by the powerful Soviet Union, are just a few cases in point.26 The basic idea behind the process is eloquently captured by a parable peace activist and folk legend, Peter Seeger, often recounted, which he called the “Teaspoon Brigade”:

I know that there’s tens of millions of Americans that are absolutely furious at the way we seem to have money every year for guns and bombs and don’t have money for education, health and housing…and help to people who really need it. But, as Eisenhower said, the Military Industrialist Complex goes on and on and on. The Cold War is supposed to be over. What can you do about it? Nobody knows exactly…. I think it’s all one big crisis the human race faces. It’s a crisis of violence, of war, it’s a crisis of pollution, it’s a crisis of racism, sexism and poverty amidst plenty, and all these crises are tangled up with each other. I’ve sung for many different causes, but I think it’s all one cause.

There’s a story I’ve told for years about a big seesaw. At one end of the seesaw is a basket of rocks touched down on the ground. At the other end of the seesaw is a basket half-full of sand. And some of us got teaspoons and we’re trying to fill up that basket. Of course most people are laughing at us. “Ha! Don’t you see the sand’s leaking out of the basket as fast as you’re putting it in?” “Well,” we say, “that’s true. But we’re gettin’ more people with teaspoons all the time. Someday you’re gonna see this whole basket full of sand and that whole seesaw is gonna go ZOOP, just like that.” People will say, “Gee. How did it happen so suddenly?” Us and our goddamned teaspoons.27

Nonviolence and peace are ideals that individuals may follow either in the pursuit of, or independent of, broader social change. More often, such changes in the individual and society are reciprocal. In other words, it takes individuals committed to nonviolence to pursue experiments in living and public policies that foster justice and peace, and such policies in return tend to expand and nurture individuals in their own development. Similar to the agricultural arts, there is both a deliberate and an organic element to such transformations. In any case, any effort to effect peace in ourselves, our communities, our broader societies, or the world at large, will depend on developing the sorts of people who would populate such a world. Our aim, then, should be to present to the world an example of the sorts of people we would wish to be and wish others to be. We can learn much from the study of those who have done so before us, and we can, as each previous generation has done before, contribute new and lasting inventions of our own toward this end. With this in mind, I’ll close this introduction with a simple insight from Mohandas Gandhi:

We but mirror the world. All the tendencies present in the outer world are to be found in the world of our body. If we could change ourselves, the tendencies in the world would also change. As a man changes his own nature, so does the attitude of the world change towards him. This is the divine mystery supreme. A wonderful thing it is and the source of our happiness. We need not wait to see what others do.28

NOTES 1. The idea of family resemblances was initially used by Wittgenstein in his highly influential work, Philosophical Investigations. Though this approach to language has origins in earlier writers (e.g. Friedrich Nietzsche), it is Wittgenstein’s articulation of the idea, along with his concept of a “language game” that became a revolutionary force in modern philosophy. The basic idea is that a term can remain meaningful without being precisely defined according to the process of identifying essential and universal properties (as, e.g., in Plato’s works). 2. For the purposes of this introduction, I have chosen to exclude discussion of those senses of the term “nonviolent” or “violent” which apply to events that do not entail the moral behaviors of human (or otherwise rational and purposeful) beings. Thus, I exclude discussion the sense of the term implied by the sentences, “A violent storm struck the East Coast on Thursday;” “The shark struck with such violence that the seal had no opportunity to escape;” or “Frank woke at midnight to a bout of violent vomiting.” 3. Jainism is discussed in an article by I.C. Sharma, The Ethics of Jainism. Devout Jains avoid the killing of even those beings others consider “pests.” For instance, Jainism discourages the killing of insects, even those that threaten agricultural projects. Some Jains even council remorse for the killing of microbes (e.g. bacteria and viruses) that pose risks to the human body. Though we are unable to prevent our autoimmune responses to such beings, it is a matter of regret that our own bodily survival must be at the expense of other life forms. Most practitioners of Jainism do not, of course, consistently abide by such restrictions. However, the ideal espoused by the principle of nonviolence in Jainism is fairly close to an absolute repudiation of any violence whatsoever. 4. See: Thoreau, Henry David, A Plea for Captain John Brown, 1859 https://sniggle.net/TPL/index5.php?entry=johnbrown#plea29 5. See: Thoreau, Henry David, Civil Disobedience, http://thoreau.eserver.org/civil1.html 6. It’s important to note the limited sense in which the term psychological is distinct from physical. The author does not intend to disregard important issues that arise metaphysics (specifically those that are pertinent to the so-called mind/body problem). In distinguishing physical violence from psychological violence, I make no commitment to the dualistic view that asserts the mind and body are somehow distinct substances. Nor do I intend here to embrace a monist (specifically physicalist) view that asserts in one form or another that the mind is a part of the body, best understood in its physical relations. The use of the distinction here is intended to reflect the manner in which the terms “physical” and “psychological” are typically intended by member of the language community in questions. That is, the events and objects denoted by each term are assumed by most to be distinct, though there are certainly differences as to the precise things denoted by each term. 7. Mohandas Gandhi reports, in his autobiography, The Story of My Experiments With Truth, a similar episode. When arriving in South Africa on a commission to provide legal assistance to the expatriate Indian community there, he was forced off a passenger train for refusing to relinquish his first class seat, a section prohibited to people of color. 8. See the reading in this volume, “Satyagraha,” where Gandhi gives an account of his choice to abandon the term Passive Resistance. In addition to objecting to certain tactics and methods employed by suffragettes in England (e.g. breaking windows) Gandhi was concerned that the term invoked connotations of passivity and inaction which he was eager to distinguish from his own satyagraha movement. 9. Though the modern use of the term civil disobedience is most commonly associated with Thoreau’s essay of that name, the concept has ancient pedigree. In the 5th century B.C., Sophocles depicts the use of civil disobedience in the tragic account of Antigone who, in defiance of Creon, King of Thebes, buries her brother who is accused of treason and refused a proper funeral. Aristophanes depicts another example of civil disobedience in his comic play, Lysistrata, where the women of Athens and Sparta rebel against the men of their respective city states in opposition to the ongoing senseless violence of the Peloponnesian Wars by refusing sexual privileges to their husbands and occupying the Athenian treasury, thus denying the material means needed to sustain the military effort. 10. The IWW was a radical and militant advocate for workers’ rights that pioneered many of the tactics familiar in contemporary struggles against oppressive regimes and forces. Though the American Federation of Laborers (AFL) and Congress of Industrial Organizations (CIO) preferred to provide support on a trade by trade basis (e.g. in supporting auto workers as distinct from say, electrical workers), the IWW advocated for an inclusive union for all trade workers in opposition to the employer class. That said, the CIO and other labor groups recognized the value of many of the techniques developed by the IWW, including sit ins and strikes, as described in Saul Alinsky’s celebrated work on the CIO the leader, John L. Lewis, an Authorized Biography. 11. See, e.g., Sharp, Gene, From Dictatorship to Democracy, and Helvey, Robert, On Strategic Nonviolent Conflict: Thinking About the Fundamentals. 12. See, for example, Mohandas K. Gandhi, Nonviolence in Peace & War, Vol. I, Mahadev Desai, editor (Ahmedabad: Navajivan, 1962; orig. 1942), p. 217, “. . . the point . . . to consider is not how to avoid the extreme penalty, but how to behave so as to achieve the object in view” 13. Bipan Chandra etal, India's Struggle for Independence, Viking 1988, p.166 14. The Danish resistance to Nazi Occupation is well documented in Ackerman, Peter, and Jack DuVall. A Force More Powerful: A Century of Nonviolent Conflict. New York: St. Martin's, 2000. Whereas in Poland, which resisted the Nazi invasion militarily, suffered severe casualties with far less success. Many other examples exist to defy the common misconception that nonviolence is somehow ineffectual in the face of a determined and ruthless regime. 15. There are ample historical anecdotes of this phenomena to justify reference to the generalization made here. A fuller enumeration would be necessary to produce an argument to this end, but some positive illustrations will suffice to clarify my meaning. Consider the Vietnam War (or what the Vietnamese refer to as the “Resistance War against America” or the “American War”). Though the Vietnamese did succeed in their aim to expel an aggressive foreign military bent on imposing an unpopular dictatorship, it is difficult to describe the war as a “success” in the full sense given the millions of casualties and massive destruction of property they incurred. And it took decades for political leaders in the U.S.A. to even acknowledge that the conflict ended in failure, greatly hampering any attempt to give a full account of the costs of the war. Another example is provided by the refusal of the Turkish government to accept the decimation of Armenians at the hands of the Ottoman forces as a genocide. 16. See: Grossman, Dave. On Killing: The Psychological Cost of Learning to Kill in War and Society. Rev. ed. New York: Little, Brown, 2009. See also: Gilligan, James. Violence: Reflections on a National Epidemic. New York: Vintage, 1997. 17. Chenoweth, Erica, and Maria J. Stephan. Why Civil Resistance Works: The Strategic Logic of Nonviolent Conflict. New York: Columbia UP, 2011. 18. Deming, Barbra. Revolution and Equilibrium, New York, Grossman Publishers, 1971 19. Kant, Immanuel, “Perpetual Peace,” https://www.mtholyoke.edu/acad/intrel/kant/kant1.htm 20. King, Martin Luther, “Letter from a Birmingham Jail,” 1963. 21. See her essay in this work, War is Only an Invention, Not a Biological Necessity. 22. Ibid. Though, if Margaret Mead is correct, there have been social groups for which the practice, even the very concept, of war is entirely absent. 23. See, for example, Pinker, Steven, The Better Angels of Our Nature: Why Violence Has Declined, Viking, New York, 2011. 24. In the tradition of Thomas Hobbes, the great English social contract theorist of the 17th century, the concept of war included not simply the active violence we associate with the term, but also the very preparation for violence. There is a good deal of sense in this conceptual understanding in that the causes of events (like war) are often difficult to disjoin from any sensible understanding of those events. It would be strange, I’d suggest, to claim understanding of an illness like the Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome (AIDS) without addressing its proximate cause, the Human Immunodeficiency Virus (HIV). So too, the motivating antagonisms, along with the practical preparation for war and violence might also be considered as a unified concept. 25. It should be acknowledged that this concept of total war must not be minimized, for it has a long history in human conflict. Accounts are available as early as Biblical times (e.g. in Deuteronomy and Joshua where God is reported to have commanded genocide against the Canaanites). Certainly, in the modern period there has been a dramatic increase in the overt policy of total war. Just to take some examples from the history of war in the United States, during the Civil War, General Sherman’s “scorched earth” policies are a case in point. In the 20th century many examples can be found, including the use of crude aerial fire bombings over densely populated centers in Tokyo, Dresden, and of course the use of nuclear weapons in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. And, the rise of terrorism in the late 20th and early 21st centuries, where the explicit strategy of targeting civilians to effect maximum terror on whole populations, is a challenge that will likely persist for some time. 26. Each of these historical cases are described in Ackerman, Peter, and Jack DuVall. A Force More Powerful: A Century of Nonviolent Conflict. New York: St. Martin's, 2000. 27. Pete Seeger recounts this parable in the documentary, “An Act of Conscience,” a 1997 documentary film by Robbie Leppzer which follows tax resisters Randy Kehler and Betsy Corner. Clips from the film are available online at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aq5Ha0k5hQY Singer’s parable begins at 21:23. 28. Source: VOL 13, Ch 153, “General Knowledge About Health, Accidents: Snake-Bite;” Page 241, Indian Opinion, 9/8/1913, From The Collected Works of M.K.Gandhi; published by The Publications Division, New Delhi, India. The popular adage, “Be the change you wish to see in the world,” wrongly attributed to Gandhi (and re-printed on the bumper stickers of roughly every third Toyota Prius or Subaru Outback) was never actually uttered by Gandhi himself. See: http://www.gandhiserve.org/e/cwmg/cwmg.htm