Conflict and the Moral Imagination: Rethinking Peace with Lederach

Consider the iceberg: majestic, still, and deceptive. We see its tip, suspended above the waterline, and we mistake it for the whole. But the truth lies beneath—invisible, vast, and shaping everything above. The same, John Paul Lederach argues, can be said of conflict. What appears on the surface—political disagreements, economic competition, ethnic division—is only the final expression of deeper forces. These forces are historical, relational, structural, and often emotional.

To engage with conflict only at the surface is to treat symptoms while leaving causes untouched. And yet, how tempting it is to demand quick answers. Especially in political life, to reach quickly for resolution, we likely ask "What should we do now?" Lederach offers a different approach. He asks us to dwell in the question: What kind of future do we wish to make possible? It is, in essence, a moral question.

Lederach’s work does not merely concern conflict resolution—it concerns conflict transformation. The difference, though subtle in language, is profound in practice. Resolution seeks to end something; transformation seeks to begin something new. Resolution satisfies an immediate need; transformation asks us to imagine and build a future where the same conflict does not return.

At the heart of Lederach’s model is the Horizon of the Future—a vision not of temporary peace, but of changed relationships and renewed systems. To reach that horizon, he outlines four intertwined processes:

• Personal Change: No society can transform without its members undergoing personal reflection. Lederach urges us to confront our assumptions, soften our judgments, and remain open to being changed by what we hear.
• Relational Change: Conflict lives in relationships. To heal it, trust must be rebuilt—not through superficial gestures, but through sincere dialogue, recognition, and empathy.
• Structural Change: Many conflicts are kept alive by systems—economic, political, legal—that reward dominance and entrench inequality. These structures must evolve if peace is to be more than a pause between hostilities.
• Cultural Change: Beneath both individuals and institutions lies a culture: a shared sense of what is normal, acceptable, and valuable. Cultural transformation involves questioning the stories we tell about ourselves and others. Are they generous or fearful? Do they unify or divide?

These layers are not separate tasks, but overlapping journeys. Each supports and deepens the others, in what Lederach calls a web of interdependence.

Let us a different question. Who Builds Peace?
To move from theory to action, Lederach offers another helpful image: the Peacebuilding Pyramid, which reminds us that leadership is not the privilege of the powerful alone.

At the top, we find national figures—presidents, military leaders, and officials who negotiate treaties and ceasefires. Their reach is wide, but their grasp of the everyday texture of conflict is often limited.

At the bottom are grassroots actors—teachers, nurses, community organizers, youth leaders. Their power is quiet but profound, rooted in relationships and daily lived experience.

In the middle are those with the capacity to speak to both levels: religious leaders, academics, local influencers. This “middle-out” leadership is often the most creative and least recognized. They translate between spheres, bridging formal authority and human reality.

This distribution challenges the traditional idea that peace is made only by those in charge. Lederach reminds us that peace must be built from within, not imposed from above.

Now, let us shift our focus to Narrative and the Ethics of Memory.

If transformation requires a map, time is its compass. Lederach’s approach stretches across temporal dimensions: from emergency response, to institutional reform, to long-term cultural renewal. He asks us to balance the urgency of now with the patience of generational change.

Equally central is his insight into narrative. Every conflict is also a story—of identity, loss, injustice, and belonging. And not just one story, but many, often clashing. These stories live in memory: some personal, some passed down, some woven into national myths.

Lederach invites us to work with the past, not against it. This means recognizing pain without becoming imprisoned by it. It requires truth-telling, not as punishment, but as a path to dignity. The goal is not to erase painful histories, but to transform the meaning they hold—to let them serve as foundations for something more hopeful.

Lederach’s framework is not just a guide for diplomats or conflict specialists. It is a call to all of us—a call that is at once philosophical and profoundly practical.

It asks:

• Are we willing to listen, not just to words, but to the histories beneath them?
• Can we imagine futures not yet visible, and act in the present to bring them closer?
• Will we take responsibility, even for conflicts we did not cause, but live within?

These are moral questions. They concern justice, recognition, and the possibility of solidarity in a fragmented world.

Too often, we imagine peace as a treaty signed, a handshake captured, a conflict “resolved.” But Lederach helps us see it differently—as a practice, not a prize. Peace, like love or trust, must be tended daily. It is built in how we speak, how we listen, how we remember, and how we dream. The iceberg, then, becomes more than an image of danger—it becomes a symbol of depth. To build peace is to dive below the visible and work patiently with what lies beneath.

So we are left with one final question, both practical and philosophical:
What part will you play in the world you wish to see?