Let's Face Facts - We Don't All Love Peace
I'm still curious. What is so funny about peace love and understanding?
The wailing woman on the far left, as Rubens wrote to a fellow painter in Florence, is l’infelice Europa: “the unfortunate Europe who, for so many years now, has suffered plunder, outrage and misery, which are so harmful to all that they need no further specification.”
Isn’t the need for peace obvious to all? Isn’t it the singular goal shared by all? Who wouldn’t want to give peace a chance?
To my ear, few songs sound angrier and more demanding than John Lennon singing Give Peace a Chance.
There’s an edge to John Lennon’s voice in Give Peace a Chance—a tension, a frustration that spills over the simple chorus. For all its gentle, almost nursery-rhyme simplicity, the song carries a sense of impatience, even a simmering anger. It’s as if, beneath the idealism, there’s a resentment that peace isn’t more readily embraced, that the world around him remains stubbornly violent and divided. It raises the question: could Lennon himself, the guru of the peace movement, have been deceiving others—or even himself—about what it really means to love peace?
Lennon was no stranger to anger. The same man who penned Imagine had a knack for fierce, biting lyrics, as seen in songs like Working Class Hero and Revolution. His life and art were filled with contradictions, and his public persona as a peace advocate didn’t erase the rage and volatility he carried. When he sings about giving peace a chance, it’s not in the serene tone of a monk in meditation but rather in the voice of someone who’s wrestling with the very idea he’s promoting, demanding that the world listen. It’s less a gentle invitation than a challenge hurled at a stubborn, unchanging world. It suggests that Lennon’s vision of peace wasn’t a tranquil acceptance but an active, even combative, pursuit—a war against war itself.
In that way, Lennon might embody the very complexity of our relationship with peace. Perhaps, like many of us, he found himself caught between the ideal of peace and the thrill, the urgency, of confrontation. The desire for a better world clashes with the frustration of knowing that such a world might never come without a fight. It’s a reminder that the human spirit is not wired solely for serenity. Even those who sing the loudest for peace may be driven by an undercurrent of struggle and a readiness to fight for what they believe in. It’s this tension that gives Lennon’s anthem its urgency, and it’s what makes Give Peace a Chance sound, at times, like a protest against the very idea that peace comes easily.
Redemption Closer To Home
Bob Marley was diagnosed with cancer in 1977, and it was during his sickness that he wrote “Redemption Song,” the final track on what would be his final album, Uprising. The song tells of a person abducted into slavery who is fighting for physical and mental freedom.
"Redemption Song" was directly inspired by a 1937 speech given by Black rights activist Marcus Garvey in Sydney, Nova Scotia. Garvey’s words, particularly his call for mental emancipation—"None but ourselves can free our minds"—became the foundation for Marley's powerful anthem. The speech, delivered to African Nova Scotians during Garvey's final tour, emphasized Black pride, Black nationalism, and self-reliance that would have to be fought for. The lyrics, like the speech, make that clear. It’s only in the title and the singing that the message is softened.
Redemption refers to the act of making amends, seeking forgiveness, or recovering from a fall from grace—whether moral, personal, or spiritual. For troubled young men, the theme of redemption resonates deeply because it offers a path toward reclaiming self-worth and purpose after hardship or mistakes. It provides hope for transformation and the chance to break free from cycles of failure or self-destruction.
Redemption narratives tap into the universal desire for second chances, allowing those who feel lost to imagine a way back to dignity and a renewed sense of identity. But redemption isn’t by definition about peace.
The Funny Thing About Peace, Love, and Understanding
When people come together and sing after a traumatic event, it’s often John Lennon’s “Imagine” or Bob Marley’s “Redemption Song” that are the chosen anthems. More recently Nick Lowe’s “(What’s So Funny ’Bout) Peace, Love, and Understanding” has joined such exalted company, the song’s plea for tolerance connecting widely.
It’s hard to name two songwriters more cynical and sarcastic than Nick Lowe and Elvis Costello, Costello was THE angry young man of new wave.
So, what did they want to express with this song?
Pretty much all the lyrics besides the title line are pessimistic and desperate - dark and violent.
Who Really Loves Peace?
The claim that "we all love peace" has become a near-universal refrain among politicians, diplomats, and citizens over the past half-century. Yet, this sentiment often rings hollow, more a polite fiction than a deep-seated conviction.
Regret over war, death, and suffering is not the same as loving peace.
Regret looks back, mourning the pain and loss that conflict brings, while a genuine love for peace looks forward, embracing the values that make harmony possible. Regret is reactive, arising after the horrors unfold, whereas a love for peace is proactive, rooted in a desire to avoid violence from the outset.
Redemption is the process that connects the two - regret and peace.
Regret often follows in the wake of battle—after lives are lost and wounds linger. It’s a human response to the toll of war but doesn’t necessarily signal a commitment to peace; many regret the cost of war without questioning its necessity. Loving peace, by contrast, is about valuing coexistence, compromise, and understanding over the simplicity of conflict.
Regret and a love for peace may seem similar, but they diverge sharply. Regret can coexist with a willingness to fight again if deemed necessary. A love for peace, however, works to avoid reaching that point, focusing on building the conditions that make future violence unnecessary.
Our Long History of Violence and War
If we look at history, human societies have consistently glorified war over millennia, lionizing the idea of battle as a test of virtue, a crucible for national pride, and a means to achieve greater power, territory, and personal glory. From ancient Greece’s reverence for the warrior spirit to the medieval chivalric code, from the Napoleonic Wars to the world wars of the 20th century, the glory of battle and sacrifice for one's homeland was spoken of openly—and often, with a kind of grim, fervent pride.
We’re not better than those people. Or as different as some would like to imagine. We haven’t evolved. We, some of us, just found a new way of talking about things.
Historical candor about war’s allure points to a deep truth about human nature and society: conflict, for many, is not just a necessity but a source of meaning. War promises purpose, solidarity, and a stark clarity that peace often lacks. In battle, ideals like courage, loyalty, and sacrifice take on a heightened significance, as people fight not just for abstract ideals but for the very real sense of protecting family, friends, and a way of life. For many soldiers throughout history, the shared struggle in the trenches or on the battlefield forged bonds and a sense of purpose that everyday life could never replicate.
Listen again to Billy Bragg sing tender comrade. Even in this story, it wasn’t peace these men loved or longed for.
Is Peace Getting A Chance?
I love OUR WORLD IN DATA. It’s the best free source fro big picture data about the world that quickly takes you beyond the news cycle, propaganda, spin, and just the dumb stuff your friends say.
Looking at the news alone, it can be difficult to understand whether more or less people are dying as a result of war than in the past. One has to rely on statistics that are carefully collected so that they can be compared over time.
While every war is a tragedy, the data suggests that fewer people died in conflicts in recent decades than in most of the 20th century. Countries have also built more peaceful relations between and within them.
But this is not saying much given that we’re comparing our current time to a century with two world wars.
Violence in general has declined in our era in a way that’s hard to imagine from the perspective of anything that’s gone before. The graph above is deceptive in the sense that it does not capture the increase in global population over the time period. Violence is not in the top 10 causes of death worldwide. In Canada, you are more likely to die from diarrhea than violence.
It is possible to argue that, whether people want to give it a chance or not, we actually live in the most peaceful time in human history, where, in spite of the cross lights that flash across our news screens, more people live more peacefully than ever in human history.
https://ourworldindata.org/grapher/annual-number-of-deaths-by-cause
The Heart of The Matter
The road is long and the path is wide. Barrack Obama famously said progress does not happen in a straight line. Are we entering an unending world of peace? Has peace been on an unnoticed march toward the future all this time? Or is peace just a moment of respite between the wars that define who we are as humans and give us real purpose?
The perspective - that violence and war do have meaning and purpose - though brutal, has an honesty that our modern diplomatic doublespeak lacks. It acknowledges that the impulse toward conflict is as old as civilization itself, bound up in our sense of identity, loyalty, and survival.
In contrast, today’s language of peace often feels like a thin veneer over a world that is still deeply engaged in power struggles, territorial ambitions, ideological warfare, and, if we were being more honest, a love of battle itself - however misguided and naive.
The promises of peace serve as political currency—rhetorical commitments that seldom match the reality on the ground, whether in conflicts in the Middle East, Eastern Europe, or other hotspots. It’s easier to promise a love of peace than to face the fact that nations, like people, are often motivated by self-interest, competition, and the desire for dominance. For all the talk of human rights and diplomacy, military budgets swell, alliances shift toward aggression, and leaders use the specter of war to galvanize patriotism or consolidate power. It suggests that our embrace of peace is less about true belief and more about the constraints of the post-World War II global order, where overt imperial conquest is out of fashion but the desire for influence remains as potent as ever.
This tension between rhetoric and reality reveals a deeper contradiction in the human psyche: we long for the stability of peace, yet we are drawn to the excitement, clarity, and purpose that conflict provides. The modern narrative that casts peace as an absolute good overlooks this duality, replacing the raw complexity of our historical attitudes toward war with a simpler, less honest story. In more candid times, the willingness to die for one’s country or ideals was not seen as a failure to love peace but as an expression of a deeper set of values. It suggests that as long as nations exist, with borders to defend and identities to assert, maybe as long as people exist, the yearning for peace will coexist uneasily with a readiness to fight—whether we admit it or not.
Historically, young men have been the primary participants in war, both as soldiers and as the audience for war’s romantic ideals. This stems from a mix of physical capability, societal expectations, and the desire for glory, adventure, and a rite of passage. For many societies, from ancient Sparta to the European empires, military service has been tied to notions of masculinity and honor, with young men often drawn to the promise of status and recognition through combat.
Maybe the most important thing to keep in mind today, for those who do love peace is the plight of young men. For young men with poor prospects or those marginalized by social and political change, the military, and violence generally, have often offered a path to social mobility, steady income, or escape from limited prospects. This is still true today, where military recruitment campaigns in various countries target those with fewer economic opportunities. The allure of the uniform, the promise of training and education, and the sense of belonging to a larger cause have made war, and violence generally, attractive to those seeking a way out of otherwise stagnant lives.
Of Boys and Young Men
The current discussion surrounding boys and young men, including the writings of Richard Reeves, centers on a narrative of decline: young men struggling in school, disengaging from the workforce, and displaying alarming rates of loneliness, depression, and suicide. It paints a picture of a generation that feels beaten down, emasculated, and sidelined in a society that increasingly questions traditional forms of masculinity. But what if this narrative, while capturing real symptoms, overlooks a more primal, cyclical pattern of male behavior that could eventually manifest as a resurgence of aggression, defiance, and, potentially, violence?
Historically, the seeming passivity of young men has often been a prelude to upheaval. Societies throughout time have seen periods where young men appear docile, resigned, or beaten down, only to erupt in bursts of action when societal pressures reach a breaking point. The Roman historian Tacitus noted that the Germanic tribes were at peace, but only until they found a reason to make war. Even in more recent history, the economically marginalized youth of the 1920s, disillusioned by the economic devastation of the Great Depression, were quick to enlist in conflicts that offered them a sense of purpose, belonging, and a chance to assert their identity in ways that society could not otherwise offer.
Today’s generation of young men is grappling with an identity crisis. They are growing up in a world that has shifted away from many of the roles traditionally occupied by men. Education systems often favor behaviors that align more with social cooperation and compliance—traits where, statistically, girls have tended to outperform boys. Jobs that once offered a path to status and stability for young men have disappeared or shifted, while social narratives increasingly frame traditional masculinity as problematic or even harmful. In such a context, it’s easy to see how young men might lose a sense of direction or agency. The symptoms—withdrawal, despair, and resignation—appear like a kind of surrender. But is it truly surrender, or could it be a dangerous gathering of tension?
The Gathering Storm
There's an argument to be made that this withdrawal is not a permanent state but a kind of dormant phase. Like a smoldering fire waiting for a gust of wind, the alienation and frustration of young men could ignite when they find a common cause or rallying point. History is filled with examples where young men, feeling alienated or humiliated, found a narrative that gave them back a sense of power—often through conflict. This can take many forms: it might be nationalism, radical political movements, or religious fervor. It might be urban riots or a shift toward paramilitary or extremist ideologies that promise a sense of belonging, control, and direct action. These ideologies and movements often prey on the feelings of impotence and resentment that can build up during periods of disillusionment.
In many ways, the societal pressures today mirror those in times past: economic uncertainty, cultural change, and a sense that the world is leaving behind those who are struggling to adapt. When young men feel they have little to lose, they become prime candidates for movements that offer them a chance to regain their sense of importance, even through destruction. The rise of populist movements in Western countries and the allure of militant groups in other parts of the world suggest that the energy for this kind of resurgence is already bubbling beneath the surface. It's not that young men are inherently violent or aggressive, but that societal conditions can channel their frustration into forms of collective action that range from constructive to catastrophic.
So, if we consider the current malaise among young men as a precursor rather than an endpoint, it reframes the narrative. It suggests that this is not just a story of decline but of potential volatility. The sadness, isolation, and sense of loss that characterize the plight of many young men today could be the quiet before a storm. As history has shown, there’s a risk that when the underlying causes of discontent go unaddressed, a generation that seems defeated could transform into one that seeks to reclaim its agency through more dangerous means.
The implications of a smoldering generation of young men are significant.
It suggests that addressing the challenges young men face requires more than therapeutic approaches or interventions to boost academic performance. It requires providing pathways for young men to feel valuable, purposeful, and engaged in society. It means recognizing that a society cannot simply redefine masculinity without also offering new roles and narratives that resonate with young men. Otherwise, history might repeat itself, and the world could find itself facing a resurgence of the ancient energy that has driven generations of young men to assert themselves through conflict when they feel they have nothing else left.
Voices Waiting and Whispering
The rise of Trumpist and radically conservative politics in the United States, and to a lesser extent in Canada, has perplexed many liberal commentators. For those who see progress as the inevitable march toward a more inclusive and equitable society, the enthusiasm for a figure like Donald Trump—someone who champions a more combative, sometimes regressive form of politics—can seem like a stubborn refusal to accept the future. But this perspective misses something deeper. Beneath the surface, the appeal of this new conservatism is less about a yearning for the past and more about a struggle for agency—one that has its roots in the age-old impulses of defiance and rebellion, particularly among young men who feel left behind.
Over the past few decades, the story of young men has shifted dramatically. Once the natural inheritors of a social order that promised a stable job, a house, and a place in the community, many now find themselves adrift in a society that no longer offers those guarantees. The economic landscape has changed, and so too has the cultural one. The virtues that once defined masculinity—strength, independence, providing for a family—are often portrayed today as relics, out of step with a world that prizes adaptability, emotional openness, and social cooperation. It’s a shift that has left many young men feeling not only uncertain of their place but actively alienated, especially when they see their struggles framed as the side effects of a system that supposedly still benefits them.
In this context, the pull of Trumpist rhetoric—its bluntness, its defiance, its appeal to a raw, unpolished version of power—makes a different kind of sense. It offers a voice that speaks to the dissatisfaction that simmers under the surface, the sense that something has gone wrong. Trump’s style of politics is confrontational, even belligerent, and it is precisely this attitude that resonates with those who feel they have been told for too long to be silent, to accept, to adjust. He speaks in terms of battles, of “fighting back,” and of reclaiming something that has been taken away. And that narrative, whether one finds it misguided or not, taps into a spirit that has driven generations of disillusioned young men to push back against a world that feels indifferent to them.
The Burn it F$%^k’ing Down Crowd
I call it the burn it F$#^king Down Crowd. Men, so sour, bitter, and discouraged, that they imagine they might have better lives - more successful, respected, action-packed, and fun as a foot soldier in some sort of post-apocalyptic militia.
This spirit is not new; it is a recurring theme throughout history. Empires and nations have often seen their youth languish during times of peace and stability, only to erupt when conditions change. Nobody benefits from avoiding conflict. Bottled up it can explode. In the years before World War I, young men across Europe felt trapped in stifling societies that seemed to offer little purpose. They found a kind of grim clarity in the chaos of war, a way to break free from what they saw as a dull and meaningless existence. The interwar years in Germany saw something similar: economic hardship, a loss of national pride, and a generation that found purpose in the militaristic fervor of the Nazi regime. Of course, history doesn’t repeat itself perfectly - the saying goes history doesn’t repeat, but it rhymes. These echoes remind us that the need for agency, for action, for a sense of power, runs deep.
Today’s young men are not enlisting en masse for wars, but they are rallying behind political movements that promise to restore their sense of control. For many, supporting Trump or other far-right figures feels like a way to push back against a society that, in their view, has labeled them as the problem. It is a way to reclaim a voice that they feel has been dismissed. The more these movements are portrayed as beyond the pale by mainstream media and liberal commentators, the more they can feel like a forbidden but necessary act of resistance. Trump’s appeal is not just about his policies—many of which remain vague or inconsistent—but about the way he embodies a posture of defiance.
Liberals often frame this dynamic as a backlash—a resistance to progress, a clinging to old hierarchies. But that interpretation might miss the rawer, more elemental energy at work here. This is not merely nostalgia; it is a pilot light of defiance, a sense that for all the talk of progress, many have been left with a world where they feel invisible, dispensable. It’s a spirit that thrives in the voids left by economic precarity, cultural shifts, and the dismantling of traditional sources of identity. And while liberals may see this as an irrational reaction, it is a deeply human one—an instinct that surfaces when people feel that their backs are against the wall.
George Friedman, in his book THE NEXT 100 YEARS, brings into clarity the idea of historical cycles, suggesting that nations and empires rise and fall in patterns driven by predictable geopolitical forces. He argues that while specific events are unpredictable, broader trends—such as population growth, technological innovation, and shifting power dynamics—create recurring waves of conflict and dominance. These cycles are shaped by geographical advantages and limitations, as well as economic and military developments. History, in Friedman's view, repeats itself in certain structural ways, with different players but familiar themes of growth, decline, and renewal.
In this light, the political turbulence in North America is less an anomaly and more a reawakening of something ancient. Young men have always been drawn to movements that promise a way to reclaim power, to assert themselves in a world that seems to demand their submission. What liberals might see as dangerous reactionism, these voters see as a way to be heard—to push back against a system that, for all its promises of equality and progress, has not made them feel any less disillusioned. Understanding this means recognizing that the current political landscape is not just a clash of ideologies but a clash of unmet needs and unspoken frustrations, ones that are unlikely to disappear until they are addressed with a seriousness that goes beyond rhetoric.
This insight doesn’t require agreeing with Trumpism, but it does mean recognizing that the fervor behind it is about more than policy points or sound bites. It’s about a generation—or at least a substantial portion of it—that is searching for a way to reassert its significance in a world that feels like it no longer has a place for them.
And unless the deeper drivers of this discontent are understood and engaged with, the political pendulum will continue to swing in ways that surprise those who thought that peace and progress had already won the day.
The Great and Quiet Divergence
The political divide between young men and women has become one of the most intriguing shifts in contemporary Western politics. Where once the under-30 demographic was considered a monolithic bloc of progressive idealism, the last decade has revealed a far more complex story—one where young women and men are diverging sharply in their political loyalties and priorities. It’s a shift that reflects the broader cultural currents reshaping society, exposing different sources of discontent and different visions for the future.
Young women, particularly in the United States, Canada, and much of Europe, have leaned firmly into progressive politics. They overwhelmingly back movements that prioritize social justice, gender equality, and climate action. Polls show that they vote for candidates who champion these causes and are more likely to participate in grassroots organizing around issues like reproductive rights, racial justice, and climate change. It’s not surprising, given that these issues often speak directly to their lived experiences and concerns. Many young women feel acutely aware of the inequalities they face in the workplace, in education, and in their personal lives, and progressive politics offers a framework that both validates these experiences and promises change.
Meanwhile, a different story is unfolding among many young men. While some still align with progressive values, a growing number have been drawn toward more conservative and populist movements. They’re turning to the right not necessarily out of nostalgia for old norms, but as a reaction against a culture they feel has pushed their concerns to the margins. For some, the progressive agenda, with its emphasis on identity politics and social equity, feels less like a rallying cry for justice and more like a critique of traditional masculinity. Many young men perceive a culture that celebrates empowerment for others while treating their own struggles with detachment or disdain, leading them to seek out political voices that reject this narrative. Figures like Donald Trump, for all their flaws, become symbols of defiance against a cultural order that these young men believe no longer speaks for them.
This divergence is especially visible in voting booths. Recent election data from the United States shows that young women overwhelmingly favored Democratic candidates, while young men were more likely to break for Republicans, including populist figures. This shift isn't just about partisanship—it’s about two different ways of seeing the world. For young women, politics is a means of advancing broader societal change, addressing systemic inequalities, and reimagining a fairer world. For many young men, particularly those disillusioned by economic precarity and shifting social norms, conservative and populist movements offer a chance to reclaim a sense of power and agency. It’s a kind of political awakening that feels more like a counter-revolution than a continuation of their progressive upbringing.
This divide between the political attitudes of young men and women suggests that the cultural conversations about gender and identity over the last decade haven’t simply advanced the ideals of progress—they’ve created a fault line. As young women embrace the language of progressivism with passion, many young men see it as a sign of a cultural shift that has left them behind. The result is a political landscape where gender doesn’t just shape the issues that matter to people but defines the kind of future they believe is worth fighting for. It’s a split that holds profound implications for the future of Western democracies, as both groups seek to shape a world that validates their own sense of fairness, justice, and belonging.
Barking Dogs Seldom Bite
A dog about to attack doesn't bark. Sometimes those who are truly preparing for action—especially aggressive or decisive action—often do so quietly, without fanfare or warning. It conveys the idea that those who make the most noise are not always the ones to watch out for; it's the quiet, the seemingly docile ones who may harbor the deepest intentions or the most potent readiness for action.
Ultimately, the silent surge of support for Trumpist politics and the radical conservatism that resonates with many young men is a reminder that beneath all our modern ideals lies an ancient, primal truth: not everyone loves peace. For thousands of years, the allure of battle, the call to arms, and the promise of a struggle that gives meaning have shaped human history as much as any yearning for harmony. It’s a force that stirs especially when people feel cornered, marginalized, or purposeless, and it can be ignited by a sense that the world is no longer offering the place or respect they believe they deserve. The disillusionment and defiance we see today, far from being an aberration, may be a resurgence of this old energy—a need for struggle and agency that has found its latest expression in the political battlefield.
In the absence of new roles and paths that truly resonate with them, many young men may turn, almost silently, to the language of conflict, rejecting the comforts of peace in favor of the purpose that, for better or worse, a fight can provide.