Tag Archives: Kate Laverty

The Peace Line with Kate Laverty: Peace in ordinary soil, the Moral Imagination

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The Beloved Community:

Growing peace in ordinary soil

There are words that sound too grand for ordinary days.
The Beloved Community might be one of them.

It has a kind of cathedral weight to it — words fit for marble halls, not corner shops or youth centres. Yet, beneath its grandeur lies something startlingly simple: a vision of a world where no one is disposable, where conflict becomes the doorway to understanding, and where love is not sentimental but deliberate — muscular, determined, unembarrassed.

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. dreamed of the Beloved Community not as utopia, but as practice — a social order built from compassion, truth, and courage. He wrote that it is “a type of love that seeks nothing in return,” and that peace is not the absence of tension, but “the presence of justice.” In his words, we find both the ache and the architecture of nonviolence: a love that refuses to give up on anyone, and a justice that restores instead of punishes.

In communities like ours — shaped by history, heartache, and fierce resilience — these words must find new clothing. We might not speak easily of “the Beloved Community,” but we know what it feels like. It feels like the kettle always on, like laughter rising from the back of a youth club, like someone remembering your lost loved one’s name. It feels like sitting in the same room with someone you once feared, and realising your humanity is shared.

To cultivate this kind of community is not romantic work. It is patient, splintered, soil-under-the-fingernails work. It asks us to practice what peace scholar John Paul Lederach calls “the moral imagination” — the capacity to see beyond what is, into what might yet be healed. It means asking, even in small ways: What would it look like if we met one another with gentleness instead of suspicion?

Grassroots peacebuilding is where this vision takes root — not in grand statements, but in the quiet rearranging of how we live together. Conflict is not exiled but transformed. As one of King’s followers, Bernard LaFayette, wrote: “Nonviolence is a way of life for courageous people.” That courage is not loud. It’s the soft defiance of hope in a world that still believes in retribution.

To live toward it is to believe that peace can bloom in unpromising ground. That love, even when bruised, can keep loving. That we can be repairers, not repeaters, of harm.

The Moral Imagination and the sea

I am sitting on Kilclief beach on a small outcrop of land, feet buried in the sand, as the dawn light spills across the sky. I’ve been here a while. The tide hums its restless hymn, reshaping the edges of the world in small, deliberate gestures. It is a lesson in transformation, in patience, in possibility.

This, I think, is what John Paul Lederach meant by the moral imagination: the audacity to see beyond violence into the fragile outline of what could be healed. It is not a flight from the real, but a deeper rooting in it — the ability, as he writes, “to imagine ourselves in a web of relationships that includes our enemies.” It is an unsettling invitation, this imagining — one that requires us to face truth without losing hope, to look at wounds without surrendering to despair.

On the sand, I pick up a piece of sea glass — once sharp, now softened by time and tide. The sea has performed its quiet alchemy: turning brokenness into translucence. To imagine peace is not to deny pain; it is to transform it. It invites a restless tenderness, a refusal to accept that cycles of harm are the whole story.

The sea helps me think in wider circles. It stretches my moral muscles beyond immediacy, reminding me that all boundaries are porous. That peace is not a fixed state but a rhythm — a give and take, a reaching out, a coming home.

So I sit, and I listen to the tide’s long breathing. The wind tastes of elsewhere. The waves have touched a thousand unseen shores. To stand here is to remember that our local work — the youth group, the garden, the kitchen table conversations, the women’s group, men’s group, art group, exercise classes — is part of something vaster: a tide of human repair moving quietly beneath the noise.

At Forthspring, our work is a daily reimagining of community where conflict once stood. The moral imagination asks us to see not just what is broken, but what is possible when we choose relationship over reaction. It calls us to hold truth and hope in the same hand. When I look out to the horizon, I think of Lederach’s gentle insistence that “the moral imagination is not born from abstract theory, but from lived encounter.” We know better than most that imagination rooted in relationship can move mountains.

Peace work, like the sea, requires endurance and wonder. It is repetitive, tidal work — forgiving, rebuilding, beginning again. Yet each act of courage, each conversation that crosses a line, each child who learns another way to belong, reshapes the shoreline of our common life.

The Peace Line with Kate Laverty: Nonviolence and Drug-Related Intimidation

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Towards healing, not fear:

A nonviolent response to

Drug-Related Intimidation (DRI)

The newly published Drug-Related Intimidation in Northern Ireland report https://www.endingtheharm.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/10/Drug-related-Intimidation-Report-Tagged.pdf lays bare a wound at the heart of our communities. It describes “a deeply corrosive force… that undermines safety, exploits vulnerability, and perpetuates cycles of fear, addiction, and criminality.” Those words, from Justice Minister Naomi Long, set the tone for a sobering but necessary piece of work.

The report’s findings are stark: intimidation linked to drugs affects every layer of society — “young people, women, families, professionals, and entire communities” — and has become normalised in ways that silence victims and blur the lines between those who cause harm and those who endure it. It shows how fear isolates, how debt becomes coercion, and how shame and stigma push people further from help.

As a nonviolent organisation rooted in peacebuilding, Forthspring’s response begins with listening. Nonviolence, as we understand it, is not the absence of conflict but the presence of justice, dialogue, and relationship. The report itself points towards this, calling for “a collaborative approach… underpinned by partnership working and service coordination” (p. 67). It recognises that policing “may only be part of such an approach,” and that community-based mediation and restorative responses must also be explored.

This is precisely where Forthspring’s ethos and experience lie. Our peacebuilding and youth work emerge from a conviction that cycles of violence can be interrupted by connection — by rebuilding trust, offering safe spaces, and meeting fear with care rather than control. The report’s recommendation for “safe spaces where people can share their experiences without judgement” (p. 44) echoes our daily practice. We have long seen that people heal in community, not isolation.

In the tradition of Kingian Nonviolence, we hold that “nonviolence is not a method for cowards; it does resist.” (Martin Luther King Jr., Stride Toward Freedom). Resistance, in this context, means building systems that honour dignity over domination — transforming relationships rather than destroying them. Our work embodies what Dr. King called “the refusal to cooperate with evil combined with the willingness to suffer for good.”

The report’s proposed public health model for response — integrating justice, health, and community — aligns closely with our approach. It calls for “the improved and purposive coordination of existing community-based interventions” (p. 67) and a trauma-informed, person-centred model that recognises social determinants of harm. In essence, it reframes drug-related intimidation as a public health issue rather than simply a criminal one.

This is a crucial step. When addiction, poverty, and fear meet, coercion flourishes. But as the report wisely notes, “partnership working demands thorough engagement and clear roles and responsibilities” (p. 67). That is, we cannot outsource compassion to the justice system alone. Community organisations — especially those of us embedded in local relationships — must be resourced and trusted to build the kind of relational safety that punitive systems cannot.

But without sustained investment in community groups — particularly those empowering and working with young people — such transformation cannot take root. Nonviolence requires infrastructure: safe spaces, skilled facilitators, and trusted relationships built over years. When funding is fragile, so too is hope. If we want lasting change, we must match our moral commitment with material support, ensuring that local organisations have the stability to nurture resilience and renewal.

At Forthspring, we will respond by deepening our nonviolent practice:

  • continuing to create safe, nonjudgmental spaces for young people and families under pressure;

  • investing in restorative dialogue that addresses harm without replicating it;

  • and strengthening our gardening, arts, and wellbeing programmes that reconnect people with dignity, belonging, and hope.

These reflect what peace scholar John Paul Lederach describes as “the moral imagination” — the ability “to stay grounded in the real while believing in the possibility of the unexpected and the transformative.” For us, that means nurturing community gardens where neighbours once stood apart, offering young people creative alternatives to despair, and modelling the slow, patient work of reconciliation.

Our work teaches us daily that violence — including the silent violence of intimidation — thrives where people feel powerless. The antidote is empowerment: community confidence, meaningful work, and relationships that model compassion over coercion. As the report notes, “further options for supporting recovery, rehabilitation and desistance need to be explored… providing meaningful and purposeful activity” (p. 66).

There is a wider societal responsibility here, too. The report reveals that “many victims of DRI struggle with navigating the wider service landscape… fearful and isolated, trusting very few services” (p. 67). If we wish to end intimidation, we must make help visible, accessible, and trustworthy. That means challenging stigma, reforming systems that retraumatise, and recognising community work as vital peace infrastructure.

As civil rights veteran Bernard LaFayette reminds us, “Nonviolence is a way of life for courageous people.” It is not about avoidance, but engagement; not silence, but truth spoken with compassion. For a society still shaped by its own history of fear and control, this report is a mirror. It asks whether we can face intimidation not with vengeance, but with courage and care. It invites us to build what Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. called the Beloved Community — where justice is restorative and peace is lived.

At Forthspring, we stand with all who are working towards that vision. Nonviolence begins here: in listening, in tending the soil of community, and in choosing every day to answer fear not with silence, but with hope.

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Forthspring website is at https://www.forthspring.org/

The Peace Line – Digital nonviolence

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with Kate Laverty

Digital nonviolence: Responding to online hate without fuelling the fire

The interfaces are no longer just brick walls or painted peace lines—they are timelines, comment sections, and WhatsApp groups. In Belfast, as in so many places, the conflicts of the street are mirrored and magnified online. The click of the “share” button can escalate just as quickly as a clenched fist. A post can travel faster than a stone, and the damage can cut deeper.

We saw it this summer when young people in Ballymena were pushed to the front of riotous crowds. We have seen this recently in the wake of attacks in Connswater, Belfast, on the cars of delivery drivers. In both cases, the digital violence preceded and legitimised the physical. Hateful online comments did not just echo prejudice but gave it permission to grow.

Digital platforms are not neutral. The architecture of social media and digital surveillance can amplify division and restrict nonviolent action, creating environments where authoritarian or extremist messages gain traction. Constant use of electronic devices may impair the ability to take responsibility for conduct, manage one’s emotions, and develop strong bonds of empathy for others. Nonviolence in this space does not mean silence. Silence, in fact, can become complicity. It means choosing carefully how to respond so that we do not pour fuel on the fire. Digital nonviolence asks: What am I amplifying? Who benefits from my outrage? Whose humanity am I seeing—or refusing to see—when I respond?

Martin Luther King Jr. emphasised that nonviolence is not passive; it is active resistance to evil. It takes strength to respond with calm and understanding rather than a snarky comment or insult online. In my work, I underline the importance of seeking to win friendship and understanding, aiming for redemption and reconciliation rather than defeating individuals. In the digital realm, this means focusing on the issues and injustices at hand, not attacking the person delivering the message.

But the temptation to “clap back” is strong, especially for young people immersed in a culture of instant reaction. Yet the most powerful responses are often the ones that shift the rhythm instead of matching the beat. Sometimes that means calling out hate with humour, or choosing to spotlight kindness instead of cruelty. Sometimes it means refusing to repeat the words of hate, and instead telling the story of the people targeted.

Digital nonviolence is not only about restraining harmful responses—it can also be a powerful tool to amplify positive change. Online platforms allow individuals and communities to gain traction for causes rooted in justice, compassion, and empathy. Campaigns that spotlight human stories, mobilise volunteers, or share evidence-based solutions can create momentum without inciting anger or division.

Across the world, movements have shown how digital platforms can become instruments of nonviolent resistance. During the Arab Spring, activists in Tunisia and Egypt used Facebook and Twitter to organise peaceful demonstrations and document abuses in real time, proving that information itself can be a form of power. In the United States, the #BlackLivesMatter movement leveraged viral videos and hashtags to draw global attention to systemic injustice, turning outrage into education, advocacy, and solidarity without violence. Extinction Rebellion and digital feminist campaigns have demonstrated that online tools can coordinate lawful civil action, amplify marginalised voices, and foster international networks of support. Even under oppressive conditions, such as the pro-democracy protests in Hong Kong, encrypted messaging and online forums enabled citizens to mobilise safely and strategically.

Taken together, these examples illustrate that digital nonviolence is not passive—it is deliberate, creative, and deeply strategic, allowing communities to resist, organise, and build power without ever raising a fist. By carefully curating messages, using hashtags strategically, and engaging respectfully with audiences, nonviolent actors can turn the speed and reach of digital spaces into instruments of constructive influence. In this way, the internet becomes a stage for creative resistance, where attention is harnessed to lift voices rather than crush them.

In Belfast, community groups have already begun modelling this approach: highlighting solidarity vigils instead of hateful graffiti, amplifying the voices of young peacemakers instead of those stirring division, and teaching youth that “likes” are not worth the loss of dignity. Detached youth workers, when funded and supported, play a critical role here: standing in the gaps, reminding young people that what they post is part of who they are becoming and what they are creating for their community.

Digital nonviolence is not passive—it is creative resistance. As a nonviolent practitioner, my role is to bring awareness to this reality, to help young people recognise the structures that shape their digital behaviour, and to guide them toward choices that sustain empathy, justice, and human dignity.

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Forthspring website is at https://www.forthspring.org/

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The Peace Line with Kate Laverty: Atonement in Practice

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I listened to a mother tell her child he was being punished for failing to attend to her ‘because that’s what happens…’. It made me think of the retributive logic in society: punishment as justice, revenge as moral balance. And I wondered where it had come from. Why can’t we simply forgive? This was how I found myself studying atonement theology.

At the heart of nonviolent atonement theology lies a simple but revolutionary claim: God is not the author of violence, but its victim and healer. The cross is about exposing human violence, forgiving it, and transforming it through love. This view invites us into the presence of a God who refuses to return harm for harm.

As J. Denny Weaver puts it: “The narrative of Jesus does not depict God as a God of violence, but rather as a God who overcomes violence through suffering love.” The cross, then, is not the site of divine punishment, but divine solidarity—Jesus identifying fully with those crushed by injustice and inviting us to do the same. In this light, Jesus’ death is not payment demanded by God, but the consequence of human fear. What is revealed on the cross is not divine anger, but the depth of human violence—and the unshakable mercy of a God who forgives even while dying at our hands.

This understanding resonates deeply with the founding vision of Forthspring, born in west Belfast out of a longing for healing between communities scarred by sectarian violence. Forthspring’s mission—to bring Catholics and Protestants, families and youth, together across lines of suspicion—mirrors the essence of nonviolent atonement: not the erasure of difference, but the refusal to let difference justify violence.

These theological insights do not stand alone within Christianity. They resonate deeply with the wisdom of Islam, which frames God primarily as Ar-Rahman, Ar-Rahim—The Most Merciful, The Most Compassionate. “My mercy encompasses all things,” says God in the Qur’an (7:156). It is a view that calls both Muslims and Christians to reflect God’s mercy in the world—to build societies where justice heals rather than punishes.

While Buddhism has no doctrine of atonement, the Dhammapada teaches: “Hatred does not cease by hatred, but only by love; this is the eternal law” (verse 5). This is similar to Jesus’ prayer on the cross: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do” (Luke 23:34). Both voices—Jesus and the Buddha—refuse the logic of vengeance and instead offer a way to break the cycle of suffering.

Forthspring, working in a context of interreligious and intercommunity tension, offers space for these shared values to take root. Our work is not about denying religious difference, but harnessing the spiritual common ground that refuses violence in the name of God.

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. envisioned a world healed by love, not domination. His concept of the Beloved Community is where nonviolent atonement comes to life: a world where justice and mercy meet, where former enemies share tables, and where systems of harm are transformed into spaces of healing.

As King wrote, “At the centre of nonviolence stands the principle of love.” That love is not sentimental—it is courageous, rooted in the conviction that every person has inherent dignity, even the wrongdoer.

For those of us working in community, especially with youth affected by violence, the implications are urgent. At Forthspring, children are not taught to carry the burdens of the past, but to question them, transform them, and lay them down; adults model restorative justice rather than retribution; diverse faiths sit together in the shared conviction that peace is sacred, and violence is not inevitable.

The Peace Line with Kate Laverty: The Violence of Language – Microaggressions, Tone, and Dismissal

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We are delighted that Kate Laverty will be joining us as a regular columnist under the title ‘The Peace Line’ – this among other things relates or refers to the geographical location of her work based in Belfast. Welcome, Kate – Ed.

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Forgiveness is one of the most underappreciated forms of social glue — a quiet, resilient bond that holds relationships together in the face of rupture. This month, I was reminded that in youth work, our most dangerous moments are not always defined by obvious conflict or visible harm, but by the subtle and insidious violence we can do with our words.

In a moment of frustration, I spoke too quickly and with too much authority. I corrected before I connected. I forgot that the space I was in — the youth centre — belongs to the young people first. My presence there is not a right, but a privilege, one that must be exercised with humility and awareness.

This moment invited me to reflect on how language, though often taken for granted, can be a site of harm. As practitioners committed to nonviolence, we often focus on physical acts — what we do or do not do. But language, too, can wound. Microaggressions, dismissive tones, or the casual erosion of someone’s agency through a poorly chosen word — these are forms of violence that cannot be undone with good intentions alone.

Philosopher Judith Butler reminds us that “language sustains the body, but it can also threaten its life” (Excitable Speech, 1997). Words can be acts — performative in their consequences — especially when spoken from a position of authority. In youth work, the harm of language lies not only in what is said but in who is speaking and how power flows in that interaction.

Microaggressions are often unintentional, but their impact is cumulative. They function as small, repeated reminders of hierarchy, exclusion, or disrespect. A raised voice. A sarcastic tone. A public correction that ignores context. These subtle cues can strip young people of dignity, agency, and trust — even if spoken with the best of intentions. Derald Wing Sue, who has written extensively on microaggressions, emphasises their “invisibility” to the perpetrator and their emotional toxicity to the recipient. When repeated, they shape environments where young people feel diminished rather than empowered.

What I experienced was not a breakdown in behaviour, but a breakdown in presence. I forgot to listen before I spoke. I forgot to pause. And I forgot that leadership in youth work is not about control — it’s about invitation. It’s about standing with, not speaking over. As Marshall Rosenberg argues in his work on Nonviolent Communication (2003), we must distinguish between language that is life-alienating and that which is life-affirming. Language that diagnoses, demands, or labels can sever connection; language that listens, names needs, and offers presence can restore it.

In Paulo Freire’s Pedagogy of the Oppressed (1970), he describes the act of speaking with — rather than speaking to or about — as a form of liberation. Nonviolence, then, is not just a political principle; it is a relational discipline. It calls us to examine how our tone, timing, and temperament communicate either power or partnership. Language can either extend dignity or withdraw it. It can close down conversations or open up space for transformation.

In youth work, as in all human relationships, there is a sacred responsibility to speak with care. Our words must be guided by empathy, not ego. We must remain vigilant about how easily the tools of language — when untethered from reflection — can become instruments of harm.

This experience humbled me. But it also reminded me that language, like youth work itself, is never neutral. It either honours the humanity in the room or diminishes it. The true work of peace begins with how we speak, and whether our speech makes space for others to be fully seen. – – – – –

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Witness as a form of nonviolent resistance

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by Kate Laverty

Witness is one of the quietest, yet most powerful forms of nonviolent resistance. To witness is to stand present—to injustice, to suffering, to oppression—and refuse to look away. It is an act of moral courage that declares: “I see, I will not be silent, and I will not allow harm to happen unnoticed.” In a world where denial and distraction often shield systems of power from accountability, the simple act of being present becomes radical.

Witnessing has deep roots in civil rights movements, truth commissions, and protest traditions. From the silent vigils of the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo in Argentina to those who document state violence and systemic racism, witness serves not only to expose truth but to humanize it. It resists the erasure of lived experience, especially of those most marginalized, and demands that we reckon with it.

As a practice, witness involves listening with empathy, showing up in solidarity, and holding space for stories that are too often ignored. It does not demand control or impose solutions, but rather insists on the dignity of those suffering and the responsibility of those who can act.

In Northern Ireland, the legacy of witness can be seen in peace trails, remembrance vigils, and community storytelling initiatives that bridge divides. It creates pathways for reconciliation by fostering empathy and shared truth. 

We’re beginning our own community storytelling work in Forthspring Intercommunity Group, building on the Five Decades Project. And I’m learning, witness is not passive.  It disrupts silence. It holds power to account. It reminds the world that someone is watching, someone cares, and someone will remember. And in that remembering, injustice begins to lose its grip.

As a form of nonviolence, witness teaches us that presence matters. That showing up, with compassion and conviction, is a force for change. It is the first step in transforming pain into peace.  In a world where denial and distraction often shield systems of power from accountability, the simple act of being present becomes radical.

Youth workers know this intimately. In the face of genocide in Palestine, our ability to act has often felt limited. Donations to provide aid or extract families are necessary but ad hoc; they respond to crisis but don’t shift the underlying structures. What remains, consistently and insistently, is our witness. Bearing witness—through protest, through vigil, through conversation with young people—is sometimes the only tool we have to resist, to raise awareness, and to show unwavering solidarity.

Events like the IPSC Barclays Belfast protest (Saturdays, 11:00–13:00) and the Aldergrove (Belfast International Airport) Peace Vigil (Second Sunday of each month, 14:00–15:00) are more than symbolic. They are anchoring points in a brutal news cycle—reminders of our collective commitment to justice. These acts of public witness keep me focused. They reaffirm that being seen, standing still, and refusing silence is a form of protest that honours our value of nonviolence.

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Kate Laverty is director of Forthspring Intercommunity Group in Belfast. Contacts: director@forthspring.com and 07746984833

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Readings in Nonviolence: Nonviolence and climate change – Healing our relationship with the Earth

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by Kate Laverty

Nonviolence is often spoken of in the context of human conflict, but its scope is far broader. To live non-violently is to reject harm in all its forms—including the harm we inflict on the natural world.

As I water the plants in our community garden in Forthspring, and tenderly feed the olive trees from Palestine we’re keeping safe for our partners in Gairdin An Phobail, I am reminded that climate change, deforestation, pollution, and mass extinction are not merely environmental issues; they are forms of violence. They are violations of our sacred relationship with the Earth and with each other.

Pope Francis, in Laudato Si’, his landmark encyclical on the environment, writes:

“The earth herself, burdened and laid waste, is among the most abandoned and maltreated of our poor… We have forgotten that we ourselves are dust of the earth.”

His words call us to recognize ecological degradation not just as a crisis of the planet, but as a moral failure—a betrayal of our interconnectedness. In this light, ecological action becomes an act of nonviolence: a commitment to preserving life, honouring creation, and repairing harm.

Islamic perspectives also offer profound insight into this ethic of care. Renowned scholar and peace activist Maulana Wahiduddin Khan, a Muslim practitioner of nonviolence, taught:

“Violence begins when man sees himself as master, not servant, of the world.”

He urged Muslims to embrace rahma—compassion—as the lens through which to relate not just to other people, but to all living beings. In the Qur’an, humans are called khalifah—stewards of the Earth. Stewardship implies responsibility, humility, and restraint. It is a sacred trust, not a license to dominate or destroy. I am mindful of this as I stand with the loppers in in our community garden in Forthspring, preparing to prune back brambles which have overtaken the pathway – every cut must be intentional.

The violence we do to the environment mirrors the violence we allow in our societies: exploitation, neglect, and short-term thinking at the cost of long-term peace. The burning of fossil fuels, the razing of forests, the poisoning of waters—all stem from the same root causes as interpersonal violence: greed, disconnection, and disregard for life.

Practising nonviolence for the Earth

If we accept that ecological destruction is a form of violence, then we must also accept that ecological protection is a form of nonviolent resistance. The methodologies of nonviolence—well established in social justice movements—can guide our response to the climate crisis.

In Kingian Nonviolence, developed from the teachings of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., six core principles form the foundation of practice. Among them:

  • Nonviolence seeks to defeat injustice, not people

  • Nonviolence chooses love instead of hate

  • Nonviolence believes the universe is on the side of justice

These principles challenge us to confront the systemic roots of environmental harm—colonialism, capitalism, and extractivism—without turning to dehumanization or despair. They encourage creative, disciplined action: organizing, educating, lobbying, marching, blockading, and building alternative systems rooted in equity and care.

Nonviolence is not passive—it is active resistance rooted in moral courage. Movements like Extinction Rebellion, Fridays for Future, and countless Indigenous-led land protection campaigns are expressions of this active, compassionate resistance. They use tactics such as civil disobedience, symbolic protest, community organizing, and storytelling to call attention to the urgency of climate justice.

Another methodology—Gandhian Satyagraha (truth-force)—calls us to live in alignment with truth, even when it means sacrifice. For Gandhi, nonviolence was a way of life grounded in simplicity, humility, and service. Applied to climate change, it urges us to reduce our consumption, live closer to the Earth, and reject systems that thrive on domination and excess.

A revolutionary kindness

To practice nonviolence in the age of climate collapse is to live differently. It is to advocate for sustainable systems, to support climate justice movements, to hold corporations and governments accountable, and to make personal choices that reflect reverence for the Earth. It is also to listen—to indigenous wisdom, to frontline communities, and to young people crying out for a liveable future.

Thich Nhat Hanh, a Zen Buddhist monk and peace activist., wrote that “When we harm the Earth, we harm ourselves. The Earth is not just our environment. The Earth is us.”

The same forces that exploit the planet also exploit people. Environmental nonviolence is therefore deeply entwined with social justice.

And perhaps more than anything, nonviolence calls us to believe that healing is possible—not only between people, but between humanity and the Earth. By living with intention, compassion, and courage, we help craft a future rooted in justice and peace for all beings.

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As reported in Nonviolent News 328, Kate Laverty as director of Forthspring Intercommunity Group in Belfast is working for it to become the Nonviolence Institute in Northern Ireland. https://innatenonviolence.org/wp/2025/04/01/readings-in-nonviolence-nonviolence-and-plans-for-a-nonviolence-institute-in-belfast/ You can contact her at phone 07746984833 or email director@forthpsring.com