When Peace Meant Simply Surviving

For a long time, I understood peace as the absence of chaos. No gun shots, no visible violence, no open confrontation. I believed peace was something structured, protected by laws, enforced by institutions, secured through order.

That understanding began to shift during my internship at the military tribunal.

My country has endured an ongoing crisis that has reshaped entire communities. Suspicion hangs in the air. In some areas, who you greet, who you talk to or who you live next to can determine whether you are seen as ordinary or dangerous and fear has become part of our daily lives.

As a pupil Magistrate, I entered that space believing firmly in the Power of the Law. I believed that strict enforcement maintained stability. In times of insecurity, rules must be respected. Citizens must report suspicious activities and the state must protect itself.

On paper, it all made sense.

Then I met the woman.

They were not militants. They were not strategists of rebellion. They were traders, girlfriends, wives, daughters, women who woke before the sunrise to cook food to sell by the roadside. Their days revolved around survival: preparing meals, bargaining with customers, calculating small profits, returning home before dark.

Some of them had sold food to men who were later identified as armed robbers or separatist fighters. Some were romantically involved with men whose affiliations they claimed not to know. Others simply lived in neighborhoods rumored to harbor armed groups.

They were prosecuted for Failure to Report.

Failure to Report.

The Law was clear. In conflict situations, withholding information can amount to complicity. Citizens are expected to alert authorities to suspicious behaviour. Legally, the obligation exists to protect national security.

But sitting in that courtroom, I watched something else unfold, something the law did not fully capture.

I saw women who were afraid.

Afraid of retaliation if they spoke. Afraid of being labeled informants. Afraid of losing the little income that sustained their families. Afraid of being caught between armed actors and state forces. In conflict affected communities, information is not neutral currency. It can cost a life.

Many of these women insisted they did not see themselves as participants in conflict. They saw themselves as neutral. Selling food to whoever came was not ideology it was survival. Refusing a customer in a volatile environment could invite suspicion or violence. Asking too many questions could be dangerous. Remaining silent often felt safer than speaking.

To them, peace was not a political concept. It was not about state security frameworks or legal obligations. Peace meant waking up, selling enough to feed their children, moving freely and returning home unharmed.

Peace meant survival.

But the crisis has altered that fragile definition. Routine interactions became potential evidence. Everyday transactions became suspicious associations. Neutrality was interpreted as silence, and silence as complicity.

I once heard the expression, ''The law is an ass''. It sounded exaggerated at the time. Yet in that courtroom including the adjournments, I began to understand its deeper warning: that rigid application of rules, without sensitivity to context, can produce outcomes that feel disconnected from lived realities.

The law demands reporting. But what happens when reporting exposes someone to harm? What happens when a woman fears that sharing information could result in retaliation against her children? What happens when economic vulnerability forces daily contact with actors she neither supports nor understands?

Does Justice consider fear?

Does security policy account for power imbalance?

In those moments, my understanding of peace shifted. I realized that peace is not sustained by enforcement alone. It requires trust. It requires protection. It requires systems that recognize the unequal burdens women carry in conflict settings.

Women in these communities occupy a precarious position. They are economically active selling, trading, providing. They are socially visible interacting with diverse actors daily. Yet they are politically vulnerable lacking the power to influence the very forces that shape their risk.

When legal obligations are applied without gender sensitive analysis, survival strategies can be criminalized. Silence can be misread. Fear can be ignored.

This does not mean the law should be abandoned. States have legitimate security concerns. Communities deserve protection from violence. But sustainable peace demands more than strict compliance; it demands context-aware enforcement and safe reporting mechanisms.

If women are expected to report suspicious activity, they must be protected when they do. If they are required to cooperate with authorities, they must trust that their cooperation will not endanger them. Protection systems must be accessible, confidential, and responsive to the realities of women’s lives.

Peace Building must therefore include:

• Community trust-building between civilians and security forces

• Gender-sensitive legal interpretation in conflict cases

• Economic empowerment programs that reduce women’s dependency on risky interactions

• Safe and anonymous reporting channels

• Protection guarantees for those who come forward.

Peace cannot exist where survival is criminalized.

My recent internship transformed me. I entered believing that peace was something imposed through order. I left understanding that peace must also be nurtured through empathy, protection, and inclusion.

Today, when I think of peace, I no longer think first of statutes or charges. I think of market stalls at dawn. I think of women stirring large pots over open fires. I think of their calculations and not profit, but of risk. Who can I sell to? What should I say? What must I not ask?

I think of how fragile safety can be.

True peace, I have learned, is not simply the absence of conflict. It is the presence of conditions that allow women to live, work, speak, and choose without fear of retaliation or wrongful suspicion.

For many women in conflict-affected communities, peace still means something painfully simple:

The ability to survive with dignity and return home safely at the end of the day.