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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