In 2025, the Visualising War and Peace project is seeking funding to establish the first ever Ancient Peace Studies Network (APSN). Below, you can read our vision for this network.

Alice König, 5th January 2025

‘…we need to regard peace, not war, as the Glorious Art which demands our attention.’

John Gittings, The Glorious Art of Peace: Paths to Peace in a New Age of War, Oxford 2012

Our ability to build peace is determined by how well we understand what it means to different people in diverse contexts. At present, most of us are far more ‘literate’ in war than peace, thanks in part to the influence that ancient Mediterranean war-storytelling has long had, via both military history and popular culture. By building a team of peace researchers with expertise in different ancient cultures, the Ancient Peace Studies Network will not only transform ancient peace studies; it will also contribute to modern peace studies and wider contemporary peace literacy.

THE PROBLEM: The study of antiquity is dominated by warfare; by contrast, ancient ideas of peace and approaches to peacebuilding have received little attention. Compounding this, there has been a tendency amongst the few studies that exist to follow the lead of a narrow range of elite, war-oriented sources, and thus to focus on highly privileged, geopolitical and militarising understandings and activities (see e.g. contributions in Moloney/Williams 2017; Raaflaub 2007, 2016; de Souza/France 2008; Clark/Turner 2018; Ager 2020 is unusual in looking beyond military contexts, but still focuses on elite perspectives). 

In his Res Gestae (a record of his ‘Achievements’), the emperor Augustus presented the ‘peace’ he claimed to have conferred on the Roman world as victory, pacification, securitisation and colonisation (Cornwell 2017). Peacebuilding, he insisted, was the work of powerful leaders; and its goals were Roman protection, enrichment and hegemony. Such macro-political, top-down, self-interested and violent ideas of peace and peacebuilding are visible in many other settings around the ancient Mediterranean world, from monuments to coins, military manuals to epic poetry. 

In focusing on them, modern scholarship has helped to reinforce and perpetuate ancient habits of visualising peace that reflected the interests of the powerful few, not the wider experiences of populations at large. As a result, we understand very little of the wide-ranging, intergenerational impacts of war’s aftermath on ordinary people and local communities in different ancient contexts; of the day-to-day work that civilians must have undertaken to find ‘pockets of peace’ amid conflict; of the adaptations that those displaced by war must have made; the challenges that victims of wartime rape likely faced in patriarchal societies; or the absence of anything amounting to ‘peace’ for those enslaved during conquest. 

That is not to say that none of these kinds of peace-searching or peace-making were present in antiquity; rather, they were not part of the dominant discourses of peace and peacebuilding that gained traction then, and they have remained marginalised ever since. Because they mirrored the concerns of people in power, these dominant discourses had a profound impact on real-world events and individual lives; however, they offer only superficial insights into a much more diverse history of how peace was envisioned, experienced, sought, lost, and re-made by ordinary people in ‘bottom-up’ ways, in different periods and places across antiquity. 

The visions of peace promoted by the likes of Augustus have shaped later (not just ancient) conceptions and approaches. If we do not look beyond them, it is not only our understanding of antiquity that risks being limited but also our modern peace imaginaries.

OBJECTIVES: As developments in modern peace studies have underlined, attention to grassroots contexts is vital for sustainable peacebuilding, because it brings top-down, geopolitical theories into dialogue with personal experiences (Mac Ginty 2010, 2014, Paffenholz 2015, Lee 2021). Our hypothesis is that, if we can excavate a more inclusive picture of ground-level understandings and approaches across diverse ancient communities, we can write a new history of ancient peace and peacebuilding that will be field-changing in three transdisciplinary ways: 

(1) it will accelerate a much-needed de-militarisation of ancient-world scholarship, revolutionising ancient conflict studies in particular by de-centering battle/soldiering and foregrounding the slow, hard labour of everyday peacebuilding; 

(2) it will transform ancient peace studies by developing rigorous new methodologies for reconstructing non-elite conceptions and experiences across different contexts; 

(3) it will contribute to modern peace studies, both by offering a more diverse, people-centred ‘prequel’ to the study of peacebuilding in later times, and by focusing attention on the roles played by narrative and discourse in shaping how peace was/is conceived and made. 

A fundamental premise of my prior research on ‘visualising war’ is that stories are world-building: narratives of conflict not only reflect reality (up to a point); they also help to shape it by influencing how we think, feel and behave, both as individuals and societies (König 2025a, 2025b). In focusing attention on what photojournalist Tim Hetherington called the ‘feedback loop’ between narrative and reality (Gilks 2023), our collective work within the APSN will shed new light on how and why some habits of visualising – and therefore pursuing – peace became particularly dominant across the ancient world (with long-lasting legacies); and it will also contribute new insights into the complex interrelationship between representation and reality that are relevant for our understanding and building of peace today.

APPROACH: The interdisciplinary breadth of the APSN enables us to research diverse experiences and discourses of peace all around the ancient world, from the 9^th c. BCE to the 6^th c. CE. While some published scholarship has juxtaposed different forms and ideas of peace and peacebuilding from across antiquity (e.g. Raaflaub 2016), there has been no systematic study either of their diachronic evolution or their cross-cultural interplay. Building on methodologies for tracing cross-cultural interactions advanced in König/Langlands/Uden 2020, and drawing on a much wider range of textual, visual and material sources than has been examined to date, our network members will not only uncover how peace was imagined and pursued in a range of individual ancient communities; via comparative analysis of evidence from e.g. ancient Assyria to Roman Britain, Ptolemaic Egypt to late-antique Gaul, the Kingdom of Judah to early-Christian Ethiopia, we will pose new questions about the ever-shifting dialogue between local and transcultural habits of visualising, making and keeping peace.

Although grassroots experiences of war’s aftermath and post-conflict recovery are less easily discernible for antiquity than, e.g., the politics of treaty-making or triumphal traditions, they can be reconstructed both by reading against the grain of elite-oriented sources, and by bringing an array of ancient evidence into dialogue with recent developments in modern peace studies, applying knowledge and approaches from contemporary research in novel ways to ancient history. Methodologically, we take inspiration from recently-developed techniques for exploring popular culture and subaltern voices in antiquity (e.g. Grig 2017; Moss 2021); from decolonising and feminist approaches in International Relations (e.g. Te Maihāroa/Ligaliga/Devere 2022; Wibben 2011; Henry 2024); research on ‘bottom-up’, ‘local’, ‘everyday’ peace/peacebuilding in the 21^st century (e.g. Mac Ginty 2021; Ejdus 2021); and recent innovations in speculative history (McWatters 2016) and ‘critical fabulation’ (Hartman 2008) which have re-animated the voices and experiences of people previously written out of mainstream histories (e.g. Barker 2018; Haynes 2019). 

Blending emic and etic approaches (i.e. understandings from within antiquity and perspectives beyond it), our research also draws on modern case studies to shed new light on ancient lives. For instance, by bringing Livy’s History of Romeinto dialogue with first-hand testimonies by victims of wartime rape and forced displacement in Bosnia, Iraq and Sudan, or by reading Josephus’ account of the Jewish Wars alongside Black and slave histories of the American civil war, we can (1) identify some of the voices which our ancient sources have ignored or erased; (2) map significant differences as well as overlaps between ancient and modern articulations of peace and peacebuilding across different contexts; and (3) expand our understanding of the everyday kinds of ‘peace processes’ that ordinary people likely engaged in around the ancient Mediterranean as they tried to resolve, recover from or prevent conflict, such as private memorial practices or the emergence of local networks of practical and moral support.

Our research is also informed by theories of intertextuality and interdiscursivity pioneered by the University of St Andrews’ Literary Interactions project (https://arts.st-andrews.ac.uk/literaryinteractions/) and recent Visualising War publications (https://arts.st-andrews.ac.uk/visualising-war/). In particular, we draw on recent theorising about the role played by intertextuality in cementing and propagating particularly dominant discourses of conflict that structure and govern our daily lives (König 2025a). By analysing not only individual texts but also the cumulative interplay between them, we can better understand both the emergence of influential peace imaginaries and also their real-world ramifications: for instance the implications for both men and women of ancient representations of peace as seductively female; how military and civilian lives were impacted by the normalisation of conflict as a default state; what influence recurring links between peace and plunder had on modes of conflict resolution; and how win-lose conceptualisations of one person’s victory as another’s defeat impacted people near and far from different centres of power. 

Drawing also on methodologies for analysing the ‘feedback loop’ between narrative and reality (König 2025b), this discourse-focused research connects to ‘the narrative turn’ in modern conflict studies and to emerging work on the potential of peace storytelling to drive positive change (e.g. Cobb 2013; Simmons 2024). This will lead not only to an enhanced understanding of the real-world legacies of ancient discourses of peace but also to increased awareness of the relationship between the peace/war stories we tell and the worlds we build (or destroy) in the 21^st century. 

OUTCOMES: Rather than setting out with a pre-determined definition of ‘peace’, our research and outputs are designed to uncover and illuminate the diversity of ways in which it was understood, depicted and forged in different contexts around the ancient world, raising questions in the process about contemporary visualisations. To this end, APSN members will co-author a book entitled New Visions of Ancient Peace. Structured around 100 concise analyses of different articulations of peace and peacebuilding – personal and political, near and far from the battlefield – the book will juxtapose well-known visions (as seen in e.g. propagandistic speeches or victory celebrations) with less familiar material (e.g. discussions of conflict resolution in domestic/civilian settings, or funerary art that reveals aspects of post-conflict recovery), amplifying unheard voices and placing everyday experiences alongside geopolitical discourses. 

This collaborative project will promote knowledge-exchange across the network and help us to address a wider set of shared research questions, for instance: (1) how variable social status impacted ancient conceptions and experiences of peace/peacebuilding; (2) how prevailing habits of visualising peace informed everyday life, and vice versa; and (3) how local and transcultural discourses of peace interacted and evolved over time. As well as revolutionising ancient peace studies, it will supply modern peace studies with a transformative ‘deep history’ of concepts and approaches that have informed visualisations of peace and methods of peacebuilding ever since; and it will bring ancient and modern peace imaginaries into dialogue in ways that centre and promote care for ordinary people’s lives. 

In short, the establishment of an Ancient Peace Studies Network represents a watershed moment for ancient peace (and war) studies, both methodologically and conceptually. The collaborative research planned under its aegis will make it impossible in future to ignore non-elite experiences; amplify the diversity of ways in which peace was visualised and built across different cultures and contexts in antiquity; illuminate the complex, dialogic relationship between ancient discourses of peace and lived realities; and demonstrate the transformative potential of new peace-storytelling that foregrounds ordinary people’s lives.

References

• Ager ed. (2020) A Cultural History of Peace in Antiquity, Bloomsbury
• Barker 2018, The Silence of the Girls, Penguin
• Basham (2020) ‘Everyday modalities of militarization: beyond unidirectional, state-centric, and simplistic accounts of state violence’, Critical Military Studies 10(2), 142-6
• Beier (2011) ‘Everyday zones of militarization’, in Beier ed. The Militarization of Childhood: Thinking beyond the Global South, New York (Palgrave Macmillan): 1–15
• Clark & Turner eds. (2018) Brill’s Companion to Military Defeat in Ancient Mediterranean Society, Leiden.
• Cobb (2013) Speaking of Violence: The Politics and Poetics of Narrative in Conflict Resolution, OUP
• De Souza & France eds. (2008) War and Peace in Ancient and Medieval History, Cambridge
• Ejdus (2021) ‘Revisiting the Local Turn in Peacebuilding’ in Kustermans, Sauer & Segaert, eds. A Requiem for Peacebuilding? Palgrave Macmillan
• Fry & Souillac (2022) ‘Indigenous Approaches to Peacemaking’ in Mac Ginty & Wanis-St. John eds. Contemporary Peacemaking, Palgrave Macmillan.
• Gittings (2012) The Glorious Art of Peace: Paths to Peace in a New Age of War, Oxford.
• Grig (2017) Popular Culture in the Ancient World, CUP
• Hartman, S. (2008) ‘Venus in Two Acts’, Small Axe 26 (12.2), 1-14
• Haynes (2019) A Thousand Ships, Pan Macmillan
• König 2025a ‘(Inter)visualising War’, König & Wiater eds. Visualising War across the Ancient Mediterranean: interplay between conflict narratives in different media and genres, Routledge.
• König (2025b) ‘War Stories are World-Building: Tracing the Feedback Loop between Narrative and Reality, from antiquity to today’; König & Wiater (eds.) Visualising War across the Ancient Mediterranean, Routledge.
• Mac Ginty, R. (2021), Everyday Peace: How so-called ordinary people can disrupt conflict, Oxford
• McWatters (2016) ‘Speculation, history, speculative history’, Accounting History Review 26.1, 1-4.
• Moloney & Williams eds. (2017) Peace and Reconciliation in the Classical World, Routledge.
• Moss (2021), ‘Between the Lines: Looking for the Contributions of Enslaved Literate Laborers in a Second Century Text (P. Berol. 11632)’, Studies in Late Antiquity, 5. 3, 432-452. 
• Raaflaub ed. (2007) War and Peace in the Ancient World, Blackwell Publishers. 
• Raaflaub ed. (2016) Peace in the Ancient World: Concepts and Theories, John Wiley & Sons.
• Simmons (2024) Narrating Peace: how to tell a conflict story, Routledge
• Te Maihāroa, Ligaliga & Devere (2022) Decolonising Peace and Conflict Studies through Indigenous Research, Palgrave Macmillan.
• Wibben (2011) Feminist Security Studies: A Narrative Approach, Routledge.

Dr Alice König has recently secured funding from the Institute for Classical Studies and the University of St Andrews’ Impact and Innovation Fund to collaborate for a second time with professional theatre company NMT Automatics. Their previous collaboration (also involving the School of Classics’ Centre for the Public Understanding of Greek and Roman Drama) led to the development of a play called Tempus Fugit: Troy and Us. In that play, NMTA deployed the figures of Hector and Andromache from Homer’s epic poem The Iliad to explore contemporary British military culture and the legacy of the UK’s involvement in the 2001-2021 war in Afghanistan.^[i] The ancient and modern narratives that make up the plot interact with each other in ways that question past and present habits of visualising war (as action-packed, thrilling, necessary, purposeful, fulfilling) and women (as home-makers, naïve spectators, patient, impotent, peripheral). More broadly, Tempus Fugit invites audiences and fellow-storytellers to consider what the (re)telling of old and new conflict stories can do for us: it can reinforce cliches and embed received worldviews, or it can make us more critical consumers and narrators, alert not only to the powerful influence that dominant narrative traditions have had over time but also to narrative’s power to visualise things differently, driving alternative kinds of decision-making and behaviours.  

Building on this collaboration, Dr König has embarked on a second project with NMTA to develop a play focused on peace and peacebuilding, designed to address gaps in our peace literacy, both ancient and modern. The best-known narratives and representations of peace to survive from antiquity have centered around relatively narrow, primarily top-down, militarising conceptions of conflict resolution and transition: the conquest and subjugation of one nation or leader by another, celebrations of victory that parade the defeat of one’s foe(s), the establishment of political treaties, alliances or ‘friendships’ between states or ruling powers, the triumphant return of celebrated warriors to welcoming homes and everlasting glory, and the building of official monuments and memorials to commemorate select people and events.^[ii]Scholarship has tended to perpetuate these storytelling habits, both in paying far less attention to ancient peace than war,^[iii] and in homing in on the discourses of peace most visible in our sources, which identify peacebuilding primarily as securitisation, as taking place almost exclusively within ‘high politics’, and as the work of a privileged, male elite.^[iv] By contrast, we see much less – both in our ancient sources and in modern analysis of Classical antiquity – of the long-term, intergenerational impacts of war’s aftermath on ordinary people and local communities, of personal struggles (with finances, housing, health and relationships) in the wake of armed violence, of the day-to-day work that civilians must have undertaken to find ‘pockets of peace’ during a long siege or after the immediate danger had passed, of the challenges that victims of wartime rape likely faced in patriarchal societies, of the adaptations that those displaced by conflict would have had to make, or indeed of the absence of anything amounting to ‘peace’ for those enslaved during conquest.^[v]

That is not to say that none of these manifestations of peace-searching or peace-making were present in antiquity; rather, they were not part of the dominant discourses of post-conflict transition that gained traction – discourses that figured peace as an end-goal (victory, subjugation, power, spoils) and as a state (ceasefire, security, luxury), rather than as a process or endeavour that involved collaborative work and whole communities. If we pay attention only to these dominant discourses, we are missing big gaps in ancient peace history; and so the key question becomes ‘how can we address those gaps and build a more comprehensive picture of ancient experiences, understandings and approaches – of how ordinary people conceptualised and managed peace’s absence, how they helped themselves and others recover and rebuild in conflict’s wake, and how they sought to protect themselves against future conflict or even worked to avoid it?’ Peace history has focused for far too long on the macro-politics that were driven and narrated by a handful of powerful men; it is time that we invested more effort in excavating a people’s history of peace across antiquity, and one way to do this is by bringing modern and ancient peace studies into dialogue with each other. This in turn has the potential to contribute to the ongoing development of modern peace theory and practice, by offering parallels and contrasts rooted in the deep past to think with in the present and for the future.

In the absence of much ancient source material for personal, local, everyday experiences of peace and peacebuilding, we have to turn to creative research methods, such as those deployed by novelists like Pat Barker and Natalie Haynes, who blend fictional storytelling with research into both ancient and modern experiences of conflict to foreground unheard voices and visualise what marginalised people’s experiences might have been. While difficult to do well (with ethical integrity, as well as methodological rigour and historical accuracy), this kind of ‘speculative history’ or ‘critical fabulation’ is a valuable tool in our toolbox, long honed by artists in the storytelling industry but also starting to gain more credibility within academia.^[vi] Up to a point, of course, all historiography is speculative: no matter how much evidence we have at our finger-tips, we inevitably end up second-guessing many aspects of the events we are trying to reconstruct.^[vii] When done more consciously and creatively, however, as a way to reconstruct aspects and voices of the past that we cannot otherwise bring to life, ‘speculative history’ involves the careful cross-fertilisation of (for instance) well-documented experiences from a range of modern peace processes with ancient source material that keeps us anchored in ancient contexts and cultures. In other words, speculative history involves the generation of instructive, intertextual dialogues between ancient and modern case studies, with the two informing each other – to the point where a plausibly authentic narrative about the past becomes not only possible but a positive new contribution, able to mitigate some of the biases and gaps in the histories we have been able to tell so far. Not all speculative history deploys obviously fictional storytelling methods, of course; but the turn to creative narrative forms (imaginary letters, autobiographies, dramas, and so on) is increasingly finding its way into classroom practice as a valuable historiographic exercise, as well as into collaborations between researchers and storytelling professionals.

Dr König’s new collaboration with NMTA aims to expand our understanding of both ancient and modern discourses of peace and peacebuilding by capitalising on the world-building potential of the performing arts. The play’s plot is still in development, but as NMTA envisage it, it will oscillate between ancient Greece and 1940s Crete, deploying the myth of the minotaur to explore – and critique – both ancient and modern conceptions of peace and peacebuilding. As well as putting ancient approaches to conflict resolution, post-conflict recovery and conflict prevention under the microscope (for instance, narratives of divine intervention, sacrificial rituals, costly appeasement strategies, ongoing othering and dehumanisation of ‘the enemy’, and regular recurrence to violence), it will incorporate and interrogate modern concepts and systems (from UN-led efforts and international justice processes to more local therapeutic work and theories of self-care) in order to prompt reflection on which practices have had what kinds of impacts in the past, and what we might advocate for or seek to invest in for the future. 

In short, while Tempus Fugit drew on ancient Greek myth to focus attention on past and present habits of visualising women and/in war (addressing a significant imbalance in war-storytelling), NMTA’s new play is designed to expand our peace literacy through a dialogue between ancient paradigms and modern theory and practice. One key goal is to help make peace and peacebuilding more visible in popular culture, a much-needed narrative corrective to the countless militarisms present in our everyday lives. If one were to type ‘war films’ into a search engine, hundreds would be listed; we have long-established traditions of war reporting and war art; and high street book shops routinely have ‘military history’ sections.^[viii] By contrast, representations and explorations of peace and peacebuilding are far less prominent: book stores rarely have ‘peace’ sections, there is no such genre as ‘peace films’, and while ‘peace art’, ‘peace photography’, and ‘peace reporting’ have gained more traction in recent years,^[ix] they are still vastly ‘out-gunned’ by more war-oriented alternatives. As with our ancient sources, this dearth of peace-storytelling is a distortion of reality; while war dominates most genres and media, peace has always been yearned for, sought, made and maintained in many different, ingenious, draining, improvised and painstaking ways; just less visibly and less audibly than our conflict narratives suggest. These gaps in our storytelling habits have real-world consequences, both for our general peace literacy and – following on from that – for our ability to make and sustain peace. A key premise at the heart of the Visualising War and Peace project is that stories are world-shaping. The goal of this drama collaboration is to tell a mix of ancient peace stories in ways that will prompt broader reflection on what peace means to people in different contexts and what different forms peacebuilding can take, from the personal to the political. 

References

Ager, S. ed. (2020) A Cultural History of Peace in Antiquity, Bloomsbury.

Clark, J.H. & Turner, B., eds. (2018) Brill’s Companion to Military Defeat in Ancient Mediterranean Society, Leiden

Consiglio, F., König, A. & Oberholzter, J. (2023) ‘Visualising Peace: A Virtual Museum’, E-International Relations: https://www.e-ir.info/2023/01/01/visualising-peace-a-virtual-museum/

Cornwell, H. (2017) Pax and the Politics of Peace, Oxford

De Souza, P. (2008) ‘Parta victoriis pax: Roman emperors as peacemakers’, in P. De Souza & J. France, eds (2008) War and Peace in Ancient and Medieval History, Cambridge, 76-106

Galtung, J. (1969) ‘Violence, Peace and Peace Research’, Journal of Peace Research 6.3, 167-191

Gittings, J. (2012) The Glorious Art of Peace: paths to peace in a new age of war, Oxford

Hartman, S. (2008) ‘Venus in Two Acts’, Small Axe 26 (12.2), 1-14.

McWatters, C.S. (2016) ‘Speculation, history, speculative history’, Accounting History Review 26.1, 1-4

Möller, F. (2019) Peace Photography, Springer Link

Moloney, E.P. & Williams, M.A. eds. (2017) Peace and Reconciliation in the Classical World, Routledge

Raaflaub, K.A. (2007) War and Peace in the Ancient World, Blackwell Publishers 

Raaflaub, K.A. (2009) ‘Conceptualizing and Theorizing Peace in Ancient Greece’, Transactions of the American Philological Association 139.2, 225-250

Raaflaub, K.A. (2016) Peace in the Ancient World: Concepts and Theories, John Wiley & Sons

Richmond, O. (2022) ‘Artpeace: validating power, mobilising resistance and imagining emancipation’, Journal of Resistance Studies 8.2, 74-110

Sordi, M. (1985) La pace nel mondo antico, Milan

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^[i] Dunne and D’Young developed Tempus Fugit with director Andres Velasquez and dramaturg Mairin O’Hagan, as they discuss in this Visualising War and Peace podcast: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YNqPqyXONBk. 

^[ii] I.e. ‘negative peace’ (the absence of war) not ‘positive peace’ (as defined in Galtung 1969). De Souza 2008 surveys these trends across the Roman Imperial period; contributions in Raaflaub 2016 cover ancient Egypt, India, China and Greece. 

^[iii] Moloney/Williams 2017: 1-2.

^[iv] Key contributions to ancient peace studies (several of which reinforce rather than bucking these trends) include Sordi 1985; Raaflaub 2007, 2009 and 2016a; Moloney/Williams 2017; Cornwell 2017; Ager 2020.

^[v] See contributions in Clark/Turner 2018 for some rare bottom-up as well as top-down analysis of experiences of defeat across antiquity.

^[vi] Hartman 2008 discusses the power of creative, arts-based approaches (‘critical fabulation’) to address the challenges of excavating slave histories, given ‘the violence of the archive and the way power is registered through absences and silences, the obliteration of lives, all the things that we could not know’..

^[vii] McWatters 2016.

^[viii] Gittings 2012: 5-6. It is this shortfall which the Visualising War and Peace project’s virtual Museum of Peace aims to address (https://peacemuseum.wp.st-andrews.ac.uk/mission-statement/); Consiglio/König/Oberholzter 2023.

^[ix] Richmond 2022; Möller 2019.

Alice König, October 2024

This blog connects to Alice König’s wider work on the forces that shape children’s habits of visualising war and peace, and the impact that young people’s voices can have in questioning, stretching and deepening adult conceptions of conflict. 

A Boy Builds a Cheetah

Tom Nalder, New Zealand^[1]

The boy was tired of conflict

so he built a cheetah.

To yellow fur he added dots,

so he could take shelter

and know warmth.

He added strong eyes,

so he could see danger.

He pasted on round, circular ears,

so he could hear the cheetah’s warnings.

He filled four legs with energy,

so he could escape with speed.

He striped half the tail,

so he could hold the rudder 

in tough times.

He built permanent claws

on paddy paws,

to help protect himself.

The boy rode the cheetah

into warzones, and stole

bombs, guns and despair.

The boy rode the cheetah

into borders, and let people

live where they needed to.

The boy rode the cheetah

to unhappy places, and left

baskets of peace and joy.

The cheetah ran so fast he flew,

and if you look carefully at the sky,

you will see a striped tail

and the sandals of a boy.

The boy’s cheetah is a product of war: it springs from an exhaustion with conflict. It is the legacy of militarism: it has eyes and ears attuned to threats, legs designed to outrun danger, and claws for self-protection. But it also dismantles and transcends armed violence, boldly and compassionately: it removes weapons from warzones, re-orders borders, gives peaceful gifts, and invites us to be similarly inspired. Can we follow? it asks. Can we go where the boy and his cheetah now soar – or at least raise our eyes in their direction?

Tom Nalder’s evocative poem combines two (seemingly paradoxical) phenomena which are visible throughout the archive of work submitted to Never Such Innocence’s annual competition by children from all around the world: first, a resistance to militarism that contains traces of militarisation; and second, a sense that resisting militarism is both a marginal position and an act of privilege. It takes super-human powers to rid the world of bombs and override anti-migration policies – powers which ordinary people (unlike magical creatures) do not typically possess. You might fly high in the process and become a symbol of hope that others can look up to; but you will be pushing at the boundaries of possibility, going out of this world – perhaps beyond sight. The boy and his cheetah are the exception, not the norm; in fact, they exist in a realm of fantasy, not reality. 

And yet that is the point: a child’s imagination (the author reveals^[2]) can take us to places we might not otherwise go. It can conjure shelter and warmth in the wake of violence; it can displace unhappiness with visions of peace and joy. While the super-powered cheetah might out-run us, we can follow in both boy and author’s footsteps by visualising an alternative to militarism – and, crucially, by not infantilising that alternative vision as ‘child’s play’. The author ends the poem by encouraging us to look skywards; not to lose sight of the striped tail that can steer us through tough times or the sandals of the boy who dreamt that tail/tale up. The cheetah is a product of war but also a metaphor for a different, more creative, visionary way of addressing conflict. The boy’s placement in the final stanza, nearly out of sight, reminds us how frequently unseen and unfollowed such blue-sky thinking can be; how marginalised it often is. 

Tom Nalder’s poem is just one of many submissions to Never Such Innocence (NSI)’s annual competition which can help us understand how young people both absorb and respond to the everyday militarisms in the world around them. As scholars like Catherine Lutz, Cynthia Enloe, and Marshall Beier (among others) have outlined, militarisation is ‘a discursive process, involving a shift in general societal beliefs and values in ways necessary to legitimise the use of force’.^[3] Or, in Laura Shepherd’s words, it brings about:

… a positive public disposition towards the military and towards militaristic ideas… A militarised society is one in which people have come to believe that a military solution to a problem is the best solution; it is the production of a set of ideas and beliefs about how the world works. Militarism is an ideology, a way of thinking about political issues that structures a society’s understanding of violence through a prism of acceptance of the use of force and the valorisation of military institutions. In short, militarism as an ideology works – as most ideologies do – to shape the parameters of what is considered to be ‘common sense’ in a society.^[4]

Crucially, as Victoria Basham underlines, militarisation is not ‘simply imposed on society unidirectionally’ by military institutions or the state.^[5] A host of different forces play a part, from memorial practices and war literature to educational curricula, museum spaces, tourist attractions and toys – forms of war-visualisation which not only reinforce each other but which encourage interaction with them on the part of consumers.^[6] It is through such interactions with everyday war-visualisations that militarisation becomes ‘embedded, embodied, emotional and woven into the fabric of our societies’, with the result that ‘war and preparing for it become desired and desirable in everyday life.’^[7] As Enloe stresses, ‘[m]ost of the people in the world who are militarized are not themselves in uniform. Most militarized people are civilians’.^[8]And militarisation goes well beyond merely socialising us into accepting armed violence as necessary and normal, as Laura Shepherd outlines:

…militarisation is linked not only to direct violence, as exercised by the police and military, but also to beliefs about other forms of political activity: the exercise of authority, the concept of legitimacy, and the experience of civilians. Militarism informs how we think of ourselves as citizens of a particular state, how we relate ourselves to formal politics, and how we engage with others both inside and outside our own territorial boundaries…^[9]

In short, militarisation structures a plethora of social, cultural and political encounters, shaping personal as well as collective identities, belief systems and behaviours well beyond obviously military spheres. As Enloe puts it, it is ‘driven deep down into the soil’, informing much more of our lives than we realise; and (in Beier and Tabak’s words) it can be ‘at its most potent when it recedes into the quotidian’.^[10]  

It would be wrong to imply that we are mere passive recipients of militarisation; on the contrary, we ourselves are active agents in the process – ‘subjects in the meaningmaking’ who interpret, sometimes resist, and often reproduce the militarising visualisations around us.^[11] As I discuss in a forthcoming article for a volume edited by Marshall Beier and Jana Tabak, on Militarism in the Lifeworlds of Children, the archive of works submitted to Never Such Innocence’s annual competition contains a wide array of young people’s responses to militarisation and everyday militarisms. One recurring theme is young people’s awareness that speaking out for an end or alternative to conflict (as distinct from simply lamenting conflict’s impacts) is a minority position, unlikely to gain traction with ‘the powers that be’. In their resistance, in other words, they reflect and sometimes reproduce a dominant worldview that understands militarism as the default mentality and adulthood as the necessary qualification for policymaking. However, they also disentangle their own voices from the narratives and registers of war/peace-storytelling which they have been socialised into and challenge us to rethink the complex (and often blurred) relationship between adults’ and children’s war-knowledge and input in conversations on conflict. Above all, through the diversity of their reflections, the voices in the NSI archive give us valuable practice in listening to and not homogenising a multiplicity of young people’s perspectives which respond to militarisms and militarisation in instructive, world-changing ways. 

Tom Nalder’s poem challenges us to follow their gaze – to look skywards and fix our eyes on a peace-bearing cheetah who has been conjured into this world by a child.

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^[1] This poem won the age 9-11 poetry category in Never Such Innocence’s 2019-20 competition, on the theme ‘The impact of conflict on communities’. Winning booklets for all of their annual competitions can be found here: https://www.neversuchinnocence.com/past-competitions.

^[2] I take my lead here from the author himself, aware of how important it is – if we are to take young voices seriously – not to romanticise or infantilise ‘imagination’ as a distinctively ‘childlike’ capability.

^[3] Lutz 2002: 723; also e.g. Enloe 2007; Beier 2011a.

^[4] Shepherd 2018: 209.

^[5] Basham 2020: 3. 

^[6] Beier/Tabak 2020: 283-6, esp. 285 on children’s cinema, aspects of play, militarized pedagogies, and wider socio-cultural phenomena such as war remembrance.

^[7] Basham 2020: 2-3.

^[8] Enloe 2004: 7.

^[9] Shepherd 2018: 210.

^[10] Enloe 2004: 220; Beier/Tabak 2020: 286.

^[11] Beier/Tabak 2020: 285-7 (reflecting specifically on children’s agency and resistance in the reproduction of militarism).

Alice König, June 2024

This blog connects to Alice König’s wider work on the forces that shape children’s habits of visualising war and peace, and the impact that young people’s voices can have in questioning, stretching and deepening adult conceptions of conflict. 

Our lives are saturated in narratives of war and peace from a very young age, and we are even socialised into particular habits of war-storytelling before we can talk. We see this, for instance, in Waad Al-Kateab’s acclaimed documentary film For Sama, released in 2019. Charting day-to-day life in Aleppo during the Syrian civil war, it focuses particularly on the director’s young daughter, a child born into a war zone. Early in the documentary, Sama’s family take shelter in the hospital where her father works, as bombs fall outside. One of the nurses says ‘Not to worry doctor, we’re strong, we’re resilient, we’re well-fortified!’ Sama babbles and her father jokes ‘She’s saying “Mum, why did you give birth to me? It’s been nothing but war since the day I was born.”’ Her mother then reflects: ‘But what a life I have brought you into… Will you ever forgive me?’ Before she has learned to speak for herself, Sama is not only experiencing the impacts of war first-hand; she is hearing other people talk about it, and her family are imagining what she might say about war if she could. She is being drawn into conversations on conflict while still infans (‘unspeaking’) and even imagined as a narrator in a communal process of war-story-sharing. 

Far too many children like Sama experience armed conflict directly, while others living in more peaceful places experience it primarily through storytelling. Inevitably, those in the latter category are particularly influenced by the stories they consume; but even those who grow up in war zones have their habits of visualising war and peace mediated by the extensive web of narratives that are told around them, in family reminiscences, in the press, in political debates, graffiti, popular songs, monumental spaces, playground and online games, cartoons, picture books, and other physical and digital media. As we consume more and more, these stories not only accumulate; they interact and cross-pollinate, dialoguing with each other in our heads and shaping our understanding of conflict through their interactions, not just individually. Intertextual meaning-making is not something that only happens in highly literary or artistic contexts, in other words; it is fundamental to how we learn about war (and peace) from day one. 

Aristophanes offers us a glimpse of what can follow from this in his comedy Peace. Although a fantastical story in many ways, the play engages with real-life events: it critiques war-mongering leaders who played key roles during the Peloponnesian War and looks ahead to the Peace of Nicias, a treaty signed in spring 421BC, shortly after the play’s first performance. Much of the action revolves around the struggle to free Peace from War’s bonds and make Athens and the surrounding countryside peaceful once more. As double celebrations get under way in the closing scenes (both for the arrival of Peace, and for the main character Trygaeus’ imminent wedding), some young boys appear on stage, singing songs. To Trygaeus’ disgust, one starts quoting epic-style verse with a distinctly martial theme: 

Trygaeus
As some young boys enter.
[1265] Ah! here come the guests, young folks from the table to take a pee; I fancy they also want to hum over what they will be singing presently. Hi! child! what do you reckon to sing? Stand there and give me the opening line.

Son of Lamachus
“Glory to the young warriors—”

Trygaeus
Oh! leave off about your young warriors, you little wretch; we are at peace and you are an idiot and a rascal.

Son of Lamachus
“The skirmish begins, the hollow bucklers clash against each other.”

Trygaeus
[1275] Bucklers! Leave me in peace with your bucklers.

Son of Lamachus
“And then there came groanings and shouts of victory.”

Trygaeus
Groanings! ah! by Bacchus! look out for yourself, you cursed squaller, if you start wearying us again with your groanings and hollow bucklers.

Son of Lamachus
Then what should I sing? Tell me what pleases you.

Trygaeus
[1280] “’Tis thus they feasted on the flesh of oxen,” or something similar, as, for instance, “Everything that could tickle the palate was placed on the table.”

Son of Lamachus
“’Tis thus they feasted on the flesh of oxen and, tired of warfare, unharnessed their foaming steeds.”

Trygaeus
That’s splendid; tired of warfare, they seat themselves at table; [1285] sing sing to us how they still go on eating after they are satiated.

Son of Lamachus
“The meal over, they girded themselves—”

Trygaeus
With good wine, no doubt?

Son of Lamachus
“—with armour and rushed forth from the towers, and a terrible shout arose.”

Trygaeus
Get you gone, you little scapegrace, you and your battles! You sing of nothing but warfare…

The boy’s failure to change his tune to a more peaceable topic not only provides comedy by infuriating Trygaeus; it also hints at a tragic irony underlying the play. It suggest that Peace may be a short-lived fantasy, a weird-and-wonderful idyll which does not have the same traction as its military/epic alternative, and that the Athenians of the next generation will likely revert to war. Why? Because at least some of Athens’ children are so immersed in powerful past narratives of conflict that this is all they can visualise, all they can sing. And songs are world-building, so the cycle goes on. Trygaeus himself writes the son of Lamachus off as an exception, a boy interested in martial verses because his father is a general; and he appeals instead to the son of Cleonymus to sing, commenting: ‘I am at least certain that he will not sing of battles, for his father is too careful a man.’ (1295) Nonetheless, Lamachus Junior’s iteration of well-known epic verses draws attention to the intergenerational transmission of martial mindsets and the perpetuation of martial storytelling into the future. In addition, as well as testifying to his own socialisation and saturation in martial narrative traditions, the boy’s quotation of (all-too) familiar war-and-glory verses alerts audience members to the intertextual construction of habits of visualising war which goes on all the time, in the everyday, and to its ongoing legacy into the future, as influential intertexts ripple on through successive generations. 

For some time now I have been working with experts in childhood studies and youth peacebuilding to explore young people’s habits of visualising war and peace, the forces that influence them, and the influence that they can have in turn on long-established patterns of thinking about conflict. As Marshall Beier, Jana Tabak and Helen Berents (among others) have taught me, our understanding of war has long been constructed in dialogue with our understanding of children; or – more precisely – with our ideas of ‘childhood’. Think of the media coverage that you have seen of recent wars, or the fundraising campaigns run by NGOs at work in conflict zones, or war-stories you have watched in cinemas or read in novels. A significant percentage of the war-images and war-storytelling that we consume centres around war’s impacts on children.^[i] This approach to visualising war tends to be very impactful because we invest particular value(s) in children, both as a group in need of special protection now and also as ‘becoming-adults’, the carriers of our future hopes and destiny.^[ii] As Kate McLoughlin stresses, war’s scale and impacts can be difficult to convey; children’s suffering can help ‘bring war home to us’.^[iii] While some children/childhoods in our war-storytelling are fictional, others are based on (appalling) reality. However, as Beier, Tabak and others have underlined, we tend to encounter all children and childhood in narratives of conflict at one step removed from young people’s individual, diverse, lived experience(s). No matter how ‘real’ they are, they often figure in the stories that we share as representative children; indeed, as an Imagined Child, endowed with all the attributes that we associate with childhood, such as innocence, vulnerability and (shattered) hope.^[iv] In other words, we not only use children to help us visualise (and sometimes fictionalise) war; war-storytelling also prompts us to visualise (and indeed fictionalise) childhood itself, often in infantilizing ways. 

Take Astyanax and Ascanius, as perhaps the most famous children to figure in – and help propel – ancient war storytelling. Astyanax’ characterisation in both Homer’s Iliad (6.400-485, 22.485-515) and Euripides’ Trojan Women, 709-98 (the two most extensive literary representations) oscillates between reductive images of a vulnerable infant and (doomed) visualisations of the adult he might (have) become. As a person, he receives relatively little attention in either text, while doing important narrative work in each – and in the wider storytelling tradition that surrounds them. When Hector meets Andromache on the walls of Troy in Iliad Book 6, their conversation revolves mostly around Andromache’s (valid and moving) concerns for herself. It is primarily Andromache that Hector had sought out (Il. 6.370-90); Astyanax is pictured as a babe in his nurse’s arms, carried along in his mother’s wake (6.372 and 399-401), and initially Hector only glances fondly at his son (6.404) while Andromache pours out her heart. In the conversation that follows, Andromache’s briefly refers reference to Astyanax (6.407-8) as ‘tender-minded infant’ (ἀταλάφρονα νήπιον); identified no longer by name but as Hector’s ‘beloved son’ (that is, as an extension of the father more than a being in his own right), the only characteristic attributed to him is extreme infancy. His youthful innocence is stressed further when, some fifty lines later, Hector famously scares him with the sight of his helmet (6.466-70). Shrinking back into his nurse’s arms (another infantilizing image), Astyanax’s misrecognition of his father and fear of the gleaming armour signals both lack of understanding and lack of appreciation for an epic military sight. Astyanax is thus marked (and fondly laughed at by both parents, 6.471) as ‘not-yet-grown’; their adult gaze underlines the fact that he has a lot still to learn, not least about war itself (or war as portrayed, with glittering weapons and dancing plumes, in Homeric-style narratives). The babe is then taken into his father’s arms and caressed, before being passed back to his mother’s breast (more bodily emphasis on his infancy, 6.483-5), which presents a moving picture to Hector. Astyanax’s youth combines with his mother’s feminine vulnerability to evoke pity with both internal and external audiences, as each contemplates the family’s wartime fate. 

This is not quite all that we see of Astyanax. As Hector dandles the child in his arms (6.475-80), he visualises his son’s (never-to-come) future: as another (better) Hector, a successor to his father in arms and political leadership, a blood-stained warrior who will make his mother proud, a future ruler of Troy. Here discourses of war and power intersect with discourses of gender and parenthood. The innocent infant momentarily becomes a military hero, realising his full potential. In other words, Astyanax features in the Iliad both as an Imagined Child and as an Adult-in-Waiting, two contrasting but equally constructed roles that facilitate wider war-storytelling. In neither guise is he fleshed out to any depth; the narrative is not interested in Astyanax himself, nor in the lived experiences of real children. (Indeed, Astyanax’ profound youth establishes him – and other ‘infants’ – as fundamentally lacking in experience, a classic example of adultism that deprives children of any meaningful input as stories are woven about them.) Instead it leverages and reinforces discourses of childhood – as a time of innocence, while being full of future possibility – to inject pathos and tragic irony into our visualisation of the Trojan war and its aftermath. Through certain (limited and limiting) ideas of childhood, the narrative succeeds in foregrounding certain aspects of war; and this (influential) war-storytelling in turn conditions our habits of visualising children.  

Astyanax is similarly objectified in Euripides’ Troades; especially at 725-39, where Talthybius treats his death as inevitable (because children-as-future-adults can embody potential threats), and visualises the child as a body even before he has been killed. In Andromache’s lament over her son’s impending fate (740-81), Astyanax figures both as an Imagined Child (tearful, clutching at his mother, uncomprehending but fearful, a powerless victim of adult violence) and as an Adult-in-Waiting (one who should have ruled over Asia). Above all, however, he is reduced from a person to a son; from an individual in his own right (who might have had thoughts, words, agency) to the product of Andromache and Hector’s marriage (745); from a living, breathing human to a war-sacrifice, a trade-off for other lives (743); and an opportunity for Andromache to vent her rage against Helen (766-773). For Hecuba too (790-798), Astyanax is above all a hook on which to hang her broader laments, for Hector, for Troy and for herself.  The child is a narrative device both for characters within the play and for its author Euripides, to render the horrors of war more visible and comprehensible. Ascanius, by contrast, has a more dynamic presence in Virgil’s Aeneid; but, crucially, not as a child. He gains voice and agency only as he grows into the adult warrior that Astyanax never became. He figures primarily as an Imagined Child in the epic’s opening books: puer Ascanius, parvus/pulcher Iulus, the object of his father’s love and care (1.645-660), and vulnerable to danger as Aeneas’ family flees Troy (2.552-78, 2.666-78, 2.710-747). As Aeneas’ young son, he is caressed fondly by Dido (4.84), visualised by her (and us) with all those endearing attributes that we associate with childhood. This is no accident; it is because Cupid (another Imagined Child, albeit of a very different sort) has taken his place (1.660-694). In a plot conceived by Venus to secure Dido’s compassion for Ascanius’ father, the child’s body is whisked away (sleeping sweetly in his grandmother’s divine arms) and his identity is appropriated and weaponised by Cupid to seduce Dido on Aeneas’ behalf. In other words, Ascanius-the-Child is (here at least) a fabricated phenomenon; more clearly even than in the Iliad and the Troades, Virgil’s narrative reveals not only the affective power of childhood in war-storytelling but also the way in which it gets instrumentalised by adults. 

That said, Ascanius ends up figuring in the Aeneid more as an adult himself than as an endearing, vulnerable child. The power that he will wield as Aeneas’ heir is underlined from the start, through Jupiter’s prophecy in Book 1 (1.67, recalled at e.g. 8.48, 8.629) and the flames that form a metaphorical crown around his head as his family flees Troy in Book 2 (2.710). We meet him as a Becoming Adult in Books 4 and 5: a youth transitioning into a man and a warrior, taking up hunting (4.156, 4.274) and leading a troupe of boys (5.549-673) en route to handling weapons in more serious settings. This journey culminates in Book 9 (9.256ff), as he emerges as a leader ‘old beyond his years’ and handling ‘the cares of a man’ (9.310-11: pulcher Iulus, ante annos animumque gerens curamque virilem), before engaging in his first major battle where this rite of passage is completed (9.590-9.671). Thereafter, he figures as Aeneas’ second in command (12.168), a Been Child who in his adulthood will sire many generations of future Romans. In weaving Ascanius’ story into the wider narrative of this Roman foundation myth, Virgil leans into discourses of childhood that figure it above all as a state-in-waiting ahead of fulfilment in adult form; and that fulfilment takes place through increasing, all-encompassing militarisation. Becoming Adult is made synonymous with Becoming a (successful) Warrior, and vice versa. Put another way, Virgil leans into discourses of war to reinforce and shape our understanding of the distinction between childhood and adulthood – in ways that inevitably socialise children (or Becoming Adults) to aspire to war as part of their ‘growing up’. In this text, as in so many war stories, the two discourses construct each other – and shape (as well as reflecting) their wider world.

There are countless examples of this in the 21^st century. While becoming a warrior is less often viewed as a positive rite of passage from childhood to adulthood today, involvement in military activity still gets figured as an inflection point along that journey, or as a way of distinguishing between ‘normal’ and ‘aberrant’ children/childhoods, or as an excuse to securitize youth.^[v] Young recruits to national armed forces have long been promised growth, experience and maturity, with their military learning journeys ‘making men [or women] of them’. The incongruity of ‘child-soldiering’, on the other hand, has led to the othering of many children involved, as young people who have ‘deviated’ from ‘childhood proper’ and who exist subsequently in a limbo where their identities as children and military-age-males are blurred.^[vi]Tomorrow’s adults – today’s youth – are frequently seen as a security risk, sometimes because they are at a transitional moment, maturing but not yet mature, and sometimes because of the full-grown threats that they may become. At the other end of the spectrum, children’s suffering (as forced migrants, sick or injured bodies, lives lost before they were lived) repeatedly gets foregrounded in news reports, NGO campaigns and political debates to shape how people have viewed and responded to (for instance) Hamas’ terror attacks on Israel on 7^th October 2023, and Israel’s sustained bombing of Gaza in the months that followed. Images of children – crying from hunger, lying with missing limbs in hospital beds, being buried in pitifully small shrouds as devasted relatives mourn them – play an important role in generating the kind of horror that might result in political change;^[vii] carefully deployed, their stories can help to shape – not just reflect – reality for the better. However, children’s regular representation as victims of conflict has negative as well as positive impacts. As Beier, Berents, Tabak and others have shown, our regular use of child victims in war-storytelling robs young people not only of their individuality but also of their voice, agency and political subjecthood, figuring them as passive objects not as agential contributors to local/global decision-making and change. Figuring them, in other words, as Mere Children.

This phenomenon is brilliantly explored in a poem by Catalina Taylor, entitled War Photograph, submitted to the NGO Never Such Innocence’s annual competition in 2019/20, when she was aged 16-18.^[viii] Offering stinging criticism of adult habits of visualising war through the objectification of (idealised, dead) children, it depicts a child younger than the author herself, an Imagined Child, with ‘soft cheeks and cherub curls, an image of youth’:

Soft cheeks and cherub curls,
An image of youth.

He surveys the scene,
Zooms in on her
One eyed teddy bear,
Her dust tinged lashes,

Kneels down. She is
Empty, unresponsive.
Suspended in a silence
Heavy with the echoes
Of screams.
She sees him in
Black and white.

Still, she stares into the lens,
Mind blank, eyes dark.

A series of cricket clicks
And he pushes off the ground,
Straight legged, hops
Back into his own life.
Lingers, with a pitying stare,
Murmurs of platitudes.

Her fragile hands shake;
Eyes fix on the back of his head
As he walks away,
Unaware that tomorrow
The whole world will glimpse her
Deserted in a sea of rubble,
Immortalised in colour.

Catalina Taylor, War Photograph
submitted in the 16-18 age category to NGO Never Such Innocence’s 2019/20 competition

As we watch the photographer lining up his shots, focusing on aspects that emphasise not just the dead girl’s young age but also her vulnerability and victimhood (the one-eyed bear evokes both a much-loved teddy and a war-damaged body, and her dust-tinged lashes help us picture pretty eyes forced shut through disfiguring destruction), we are confronted both with how romanticising and how exploitative this adult gaze can be. Unexpectedly, at the end of the third stanza, the inanimate girl turns her un-seeing but penetrating gaze on the photographer, staring back into the camera as he captures her on film. Her eyes remain fixed on the back of his head as he ‘hops back into his own life’; she is ‘unaware that tomorrow the whole world will glimpse her, deserted in a sea of rubble, immortalised in colour’, while the photographer does not realise that our vision has zoomed in on him. Despite staring blankly from a lifeless body, this girl’s eyes profoundly change not only how we view that photographer but (one would hope) how we might view future images of children in war zones, helping us to see the calculated objectification of their youth and suffering. 

This young person’s vision (and that of the poem’s young author) show us the reductive nature of the adult gaze. Contrast this with journalist Jonathan Head’s analysis of some of James Nachtwey’s award-winning photography. In a review that seems to relish the affective aesthetics of war-slain bodies (‘dusted with frost’, ‘arranged with the near-perfect balance of a classical paining’), Head picks out an image taken (or carefully curated) during the long-running civil war in El Salvador (1979-1992). He notes that the photograph ‘shows a military helicopter evacuating an injured soldier’ and then goes on: ‘But it is the three little girls crouching behind a tree in the foreground, their dresses of white, pink and pastel blue standing out in the orange dust, who give the image its haunting loveliness.’ The phrase ‘haunting loveliness’ should itself haunt us. Showing none of Catalina Taylor’s understanding of the reductive fetishization of ‘pretty young things’, set vulnerably and incongruously in war-torn landscapes, Head merely enjoys the narrative work that they are made to perform, as their youthful beauty and innocence render a military story more poignant and impactful. 

And yet it is reverential commentators like Jonathan Head – not incisive critics like Catalina Taylor – who influence our reading of narratives of war that are articulated via the bodies of children, because adulthood confers an authority that childhood is usually stripped of. Despite their multiple layers of expertise (through lived experience, critical observation and independent research), children are generally excluded from conversations on conflict, and much else besides. We may hear their weeping as background noise in a news report, often included without translation or subtitles; but it is invariably adults who speak to camera, over and for young people. Some of our motives in this regard are well-intentioned; children and young people are more vulnerable than most adults, and we have an obligation to protect as well as empower. However, our infantilization of young people – as characters in stories but not narrators themselves – also serves adult interests, not least in enabling us to continuing visualising war (and peace, and wider politics) in long-established, self-serving ways. This in turn keeps children in their place, and so it goes on. In short, our habits of imagining war not only intersect with but fundamentally condition our habits of imagining and approaching childhood, with the reverse formulation also true; and we are reluctant to cede any power to children themselves, who might destabilise both (arguably for the better). This is a problematic kind of interdiscursivity (or interdependency between discourses), with real-world consequences for current children and future worlds. War-storytelling via (reductive concepts of) childhood shapes how we visualise both war and children in a vicious cycle, with knock-on effects for how we structure our/their contemporary world(s) and determine our/their future(s).

Going forward, the Visualising War and Peace project aims to focus more attention both on the interdiscursivity of our war/peace storytelling and on the framing and reception of children’s voices on conflict, through ongoing dialogue with scholars and practitioners, including Never Such Innocence. Together with Rebecca Sutton and Jana Tabak, Alice König is editing a Collective Discussion for the journal of International Political Sociology, titled ‘The Adult Gaze: Looking Again at Children and Young People in Peace and Conflict’.

References:

• Beier, J.M. and Berents, H. eds., (2023) Children, Childhoods, and Global Politics, Policy Press, Bristol
• Beier, J. Marshall, and Jana Tabak. 2020. “Children, childhoods, and everyday militarisms.” Childhood27(3), 281-293
• Berents, Helen. 2020. “Politics, policy-making and the presence of images of suffering children.” International Affairs 96(3): 593-608
• Brocklehurst, H. 2006. Who’s afraid of children?: Children, conflict and international relations. Ashgate Publishing, Lt
• Hanson, Karl (2016), ‘Children’s participation and agency when they don’t ‘do the right thing’’, Childhood, 23(4), 471-475
• Hanson, Karl. 2017. “Embracing the past: ‘Been’, ‘being’ and ‘becoming’ children.” Childhood 24(3): 281-285
• McLoughlin, K. (2011) Authoring War: the literary representation of war from the Iliad to Iraq, Cambridge
• Tabak, J. (2020) The Child and the World: Child-Soldiers and the Claim for Progress, University of Georgia Press.
• Tabak, J. & Carvalho, L. (2018), ‘Responsibility to Protect the future: children on the move and the politics of becoming’, Global Responsibility to Protect, 10, 121-144

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^[i] Berents 2020.

^[ii] On ‘been’, ‘being’ and ‘becoming’ children, see Hanson 2017.

^[iii] McLoughlin 2011.

^[iv] On ‘Imagined Childhoods’, see esp. Beier & Berents 2023, Part 1.

^[v] E.g. Tabak 2020. 

^[vi] Tabak & Carvalho 2018.

^[vii] The winning photograph in the 2024 World Press Photo awards, taken by Mohammed Salem, shows a woman in Gaza holding the body of her dead niece. 

^[viii] https://indd.adobe.com/view/e7a08bca-705a-48fa-9089-c789e719c5aa.

How and Why We Should Listen To Young People’s Voices on Conflict 

Nik Perring | Never Such Innocence | Visualising War and Peace

Nik Perring is an author, screenwriter, and educator/facilitator of twenty years, who has worked extensively with:
Never Such Innocence who provide tools for children and young people (9-18) to reflect on the realities of war and conflict. They are nurturing the next generation of thinkers, leaders and peacebuilders through the arts, inspiring cultural exchange and dialogue, and amplifying the voices of children and young people all over the world.
Visualising War And Peace, who explore how war and peace get presented in art, text, film and music, and who study the ‘feedback loop’ between narrative and reality: how the tales we tell and the pictures we paint shape how we think, feel, make decisions and behave.

The Visualising War and Peace project is collaborating with Never Such Innocence and Nik Perring to explore the forces that shape children’s habits of thinking and talking about conflict, and to examine what impact young people can have on adult approaches when they are included in these important conversations. In the following essay, Nik reflects on the project.

Nik Perring: How and Why We Should Listen To Young People’s Voices on Conflict 

In this essay I’ll discuss how young people are affected by conflict; what their views are – how those views are shaped; and what we can do to listen. And, where we go wrong.

And why should we listen to young people’s views on conflict?

Because conflict affects young people.

Because they are our future and are a part of the solution…

Because, often, they need help in ways they’re unable to attain, or ask for, on their own.

The Teaching of Good Morals and How They Get Ignored

A key marker we use in our children’s emotional growth is their decision-making. Or rather, whether or not they choose to make what we would consider to be a ‘correct’ decision. 

Do they share their sweets when no adult is around to tell them they should? Are they kind when it would suit them best, in the moment, to be selfish? 

We spend hours instilling what we consider to be Sound Morals, and we give them those on our terms and in language they can understand.  Because peace, listening, and kindness are simple concepts, really. The books we read to them, and the TV shows we encourage them to watch, are often fables with a clear message: good people make kind and considered decisions, even if it might not benefit them – and those decisions will usually result in a greater good and, often, personal reward. The examples are too many to number – those morals are at the core of most of the content we produce for young people, be it Wall.E making it his duty to bring life back to earth and save his new friend; the Paw Patrol crew making good ethical and environmental decisions with others’ feelings front and centre – and any fairy tale. What we don’t universally encourage is that line of thinking in the wider adult world. 

At parents’ evenings a teacher will tell us what our children are like as people – they’re helpful; friendly; make others welcome and we take great pride in that, as well we should. Conversely, we view any sort of bullying, dominant behaviour, violence, or theft as behaviours to be addressed and corrected so our young people are able to grow into good adults. As adults – as parents and educators – we consider it a duty to tell our young people what’s right and wrong; they are the blank canvas we paint our own morals on.

What’s perverse is that the answers we need as adults – the solutions and resolutions and the good ideas, are oftentimes exactly what we have told our young people they should be. But we forget. Or ignore. If it works in the heat of the playground, why would it not work in any other setting? And if it wouldn’t work in the same way as, say,  kids arguing over a stolen Mars bar, or someone jumping the lunch queue, or dispute between adults over a pint of lager, or stolen bicycle, or territory – why bother teaching it in the first place? Are these lessons we teach not designed to be the simple foundations on which we build a correct way of dealing with the world?

The ‘Child’ as More Than a ‘Victim’.

As adults we are excellent at lazily categorising people. Our idea of ‘the child’ – especially in discussions around their welfare – when we don’t personally know them – is abstract and sloppy and often self-serving. Similarly, the idea of a ‘child as a victim’ is something used as a statistic at worst and, at best, something well-meaning after they have become that victim. But how do we separate the individual child from the ‘child’ as a collective? By seeing them as individuals, with voices (who are often saying the same thing).

Young people are affected by conflict. mainly:

As people in a conflict zone.

As people whose relations are in conflict zones.        

As people displaced by conflict.

As observers of conflict through the media.

Their relationship to what’s happening elsewhere in the world has never been closer; often it is the other side of a slim phone screen. Their opinions on conflict, historically, have come through an adult-filter: what we show them in textbooks; what is in the media and on the news – all filtered through government dispatches, policy, or media agenda. Now, we have real-time sharing of photographs and video by young people who are physically there. 

That exposure to those in areas of conflict becomes direct when they share classrooms with displaced people. Now, they are able to talk to people from Ukraine, or Sudan, Yemen and Syria, Afghanistan – and this gives them the opportunity for direct discourse in real-time, while doing what young people do – walking to class, waiting for the bus, eating lunch, in the playground, etc. Stories are shared. Empathy is generated. Opinions are formed by conversation. As conversation is the act of speaking and listening it isn’t solely those who are meeting these new people who benefit – those newer to the country are able to share their stories. 

In my experience, as an educator who has worked with young people (with Never Such Innocence)  from Yemen, Ukraine, Sudan, Armenia, Ethiopia, Syria, Kashmir, Pakistan, and Afghanistan, this also allows for those who’ve been displaced to find common ground with other displaced people – in a recent workshop in Darlington, young people from Ukraine discussed their experiences with young people from Sudan. While their experiences differed, they revelled in sharing many commonalities: first with each other, and then with the group. They were empowered by being heard. The teachers saw a connection and a new way of engaging. Moreover, in enabling discussion, neither groups of young people felt hampered by language – both spoke English as an additional language.

From Darlington: (Anon, Year 9 – from Sudan)

This is my normal now.

Some ask if I am a refugee.

Some ask where my home is on the map.

Some ask me to sit with them.

When I remember all that I lost, I try to remember all that I still have.

I breathe. I eat. I take time for myself.

I think of the friends I made along the way.

I think of the strength I found.

I am safe.

Someone listened.

Beyond that, there’s the shared experience of simply being a young person. When working with children from Afghanistan, their love of cricket was something shared with many from the UK. When working on a virtual poetry-sharing exchange with young people living on The Line of Control in Kashmir, and a school in Bradford, I saw bonds form over shared loves (exciting food, music, the importance of family) and concerns (global warming, pollution in the oceans) – illustrating to all involved how similar we really are, despite borders.

From Bradford (Anon, Year 6):

Come with me to the chippy and do lots of games and go to squirrel Park.

We don’t want you to feel helpless. 

We want you to know that some people out there care.

From Kashmir, in response:

It’s kind of you to welcome us!

I’d love to join you in your fun and feasting.

We will go together to the hills and catch butterflies.

I will give you walnuts, apricots and raspberries.

I will give you a place by the fire 

busy in gossips till midnight,

we will wake up together 

to watch the morning so bright.

The Importance of Listening

These Conversations on Conflict are vital.

But…

It feels as though we’ve presented our (adult) selves with a conflict of our own. Despite all the coaching, we don’t really want to listen to young people. Sometimes it’s because it doesn’t fit our own agenda; and we’re certainly used to knowing best. In order to best represent young people and their experiences, and offer them the care and protection they need (geographically, and emotionally) would it not be best to talk to them directly?

And better still: listen to what they have to say?        

We need to stop assuming we know best. We also need to accept that, in doing that, we are hiding ourselves from the truth and removing the opportunity to empower young people and give them the skills of confident communication.

I’ve worked with people from the age of three to people in their eighties in schools, universities, libraries, youth groups, looked after children, and with military families. In every instance, when a young person has been given the confidence to share their thoughts honestly (not by repeating what they might assume we want to hear) the adults involved have been surprised and delighted by their wisdom and intelligence. They have allowed young people to shape policy (they’ve spoken at Stormont; at The Houses of Parliament; to Base Commanders, and LEA stakeholders)  – it’s been an affecting, and effective, start – it’s just not quite on the level it’s needed.

There are other aspects to conversations as well – let’s not forget the primary reason for being an educator is to educate. In the classroom, we give young people the opportunity to ask difficult questions and have their own opinions tested. While working with young people who were writing responses to conflict in the DRC (with Visualising War and Peace and Never Such Innocence)  one young person assumed the reason for people fighting there was because they were black. They were able to discuss this with a photographer and a journalist, who’d spent many years there, and through that discussion were able to revaluate their own opinions. Those opportunities can shape a person’s outlook beyond the session and affect their relationship with conflict and unfamiliar people and cultures over a lifetime.

From the DRC session (Anon, Year 6):

And here’s how we’ll do it:

We’ll stop being greedy or stuck-up,

and we’ll stop showing unkindness to those we don’t know.

We will look war in the eye and say NO.

It can be our life’s work, it can be understanding.

We can all help because peace is with us

and without it we’d be lost.

I spent a week on a NATO base with Never Such Innocence, working with young people from Norway, the UK, Canada, and Germany, having conversations, and making work, around life as a child in the military family. There is a lot of movement within that community with many young people saying they felt they struggled leaving friends and finding new ones – it helped them realise they weren’t the only ones with that on their minds. It wasn’t solely their peers that agreed – teachers were able to join the conversation and show that they had felt those things as well – bringing down another barrier. 

The Benefits of Reading Before an Audience

It’s only when we are able to hear individual voices that we can listen to individual feelings. And that is precisely why we need to be working with young people in this instance – showing them their opinions matter, that their feelings are valid, and that we will give them both a voice and an audience; anything less is lip service and patronising. How else can we shape the conversation if we don’t allow all aspects, and all affected, a seat at the table? 

I mentioned earlier that some young people have had the opportunity to read their poetry and speeches in front of an audience. Sharing thoughts, feelings, and work in front of a class is an important skill to have and the (lack of) confidence to do that is a common barrier.  Speaking in front of an external audience, and working towards that, can shape lives: it’s aided people with anxiety issues, stammers, and shown a different path from the traditionally academic one that some have struggled to engage with; it’s also allowed people to flourish in front of their peers in ways none would have expected. The ability to share ideas and talk concisely in front of people are skills we need to thrive. And what better gift can we give – to anyone – than the gift of confidence?

And what is the point in engaging with young people if we don’t allow their voices to be heard beyond a classroom?

Students from the 2023 cohort of our undergraduate module ‘Visualising War and Peace in Antiquity’ have been putting their minds to some new research agenda for the study of ancient conceptions and discourses of peace. In the presentations below, three of them set out some reflections and suggestions for three different areas of study: Hellenistic inscriptions, women’s experiences of post-conflict recovery, and ancient peace rugs.

Martha Shillaker dives deep into women’s experiences of war and discusses the potential of ‘speculative history’ and ‘useful fiction’ for reconstructing the networks of care and mutual support that they may have developed as they tried to build both inner and interpersonal peace in the wake of conflict. She looks particularly at what we can learn from Greek tragedy about women’s experiences of the ‘return’ from war – underlining the concept of return as a fantasy (things do not ‘go back to normal’ or to some pre-war state), and what women particularly have to lose if (like Clytemnestra) they have acquired more power and freedom during their husband’s absence in a conflict. She offers sensible caveats about not mapping what we see in Greek tragedy onto Athenian reality, but she also rightly points out that these plays in all likelihood reflected issues of real relevance to their contemporary audiences. That opens the path to discussing more broadly what we can learn/study about ‘the home front’ in antiquity, women’s experiences of the aftermath of war, reconciliation, rehabilitation and more personal/local/everyday peace in the wake of ancient conflict. Her discussion underlines the extent to which that post-conflict period must be understood as a complex negotiation, even as a struggle; and this prompts us to wonder if we can find out more about what models of or approaches to reconciliation and rehabilitation prevailed in antiquity:

Elizabeth Walker discusses Hellenistic language and expressions of diplomacy in surviving inscriptions that record peace-making process. Underlining how formulaic this language tends to be, she draws attention to its emphasis on past relationships, future relationships, and present friendship – with euergetism, reciprocity and mutual benefit regularly stressed. She stresses the exclusively elite nature of this discourse, and the similar patterns when visualising relations between kinds and/or cities. Crucially, she looks critically at this language, discussing its world-building nature and its deceptive habits: such diplomatic language, she rightly argues, is a visualisation of future possibilities more than a reflection of reality. While not necessarily binding, it can bring into being certain modes of interaction; but just as often it papers over ongoing conflict and (especially) the needs/wishes of less privileged groups.

Elizabeth get us thinking hard about the political work that such diplomatic language does (serving certain agendas) and also how embedded and established such formulaic language can become – prompting us to wonder how coining new language might interrupt dominant narratives of diplomacy and peacemaking. The Romans, she argues, did not interrupt or innovate so much as appropriate and deploy diplomatic language which they felt would land well with Greek counterparts. This gets us thinking about the imposition of a perpetrator’s peace through diplomacy, and more broadly about the top-down nature of the inscriptions that survive. As well as discussing existing trends in scholarship, Elizabeth reflects on what the study of Hellenistic diplomatic inscriptions might offer to future peace studies, particularly highlighting the learning we can do about language as a political tool: 

David Calder draws on research into ancient and modern ‘war rugs’ to think about the kinds of weaving (now lost to history) that may have told narratives of both peace and conflict in antiquity; and he invites us to consider what we might visualise on an ancient peace rug if we were weaving one today. His creative approach helps us think through different, more grassroots methods of visualising peace across space and time. He offers some excellent analysis of ancient rug-making/weaving, underlining the scarcity of our sources but deploying speculative history to draw valuable inferences. He also introduces us to Afghan war rugs, and moves from analysis of them to sharing a world-building/peace-visualising project based around Afghan peace rugs. Blending this with what we know about aspects of ancient war and peace (both real and representational), he suggests a wonderful, creative and scholarly intervention based on the creation of an ancient peace rug:

This blog was researched and written by Visualising War and Peace student David Calder, School of Classics, University of St Andrews, November 2023. It compares the Christmas Truce of 1914 with an episode in Lucan’s epic poem The Civil War, where Lucan narrates a short-lived ceasefire to reflect on war as much as depict a pocket of peace.

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In Lucan’s epic De Bello Civile, the poet is naturally primarily concerned with the conflict between Julius Caesar and Magnus Pompey. Indeed, the various battles fought by the rivals and their forces provide many of the text’s climaxes. In book four however, between lines 168 and 210, Lucan presents a ‘pocket of peace’ when Caesar’s army faces Pompeian soldiers in Iberia. This moment is a profound example of a spontaneous ‘grassroots’ peace, where the cessation of hostilities came not as an order from above but arose naturally from interactions between individual combatants. Such ceasefires ultimately represent ‘negative’ peaces,^[i] which quickly return to violence, and indeed Lucan uses this primarily to emphasise the horror of the conflict in which they belong. A direct parallel can be drawn between Lucan’s ceasefire, and the well-known story of the Christmas truce during the First World War. By their comparison, it may be possible to identify commonalities between the two narratives of temporary peace. One effort here will be to describe the conditions required for the establishment of the two truces in order to understand how spontaneous ceasefires emerge. Examination of the Christmas truce as well as the truce in Lucan will also reveal the common factors that sustain them. There is no official story of the Christmas truce; instead it has become a subject of collective social history which has been often presented in a highly idealised manner.^[ii] By comparison with Lucan’s work, as well as recent scholarship critical of the myth of the truce, it is possible to see how the cultural memory of the brief ceasefire offers an image of peace which emphasises a pocket of peace in order to highlight the tragedy of the First World War. 

After the invasion of Belgium on the 4th of August 1914, the first stages of the war on the Western front were relatively mobile, with rapid German advances through Belgium, later successes at Charleroi and Mons, only halted at the Marne, 25 miles from Paris.^[iii] This war of manoeuvre was further exhibited in a series of outflanking attempts known as the ‘Race to the Sea’,^[iv] as both forces attempted to gain a superior position. The resultant battles were mutually costly for little gain, and by late November, exhaustion, and a lack of resources, encouraged both armies to develop highly defensive trench systems over the winter period.^[v] The prelude to Lucan’s ceasefire contains a similar race for position as Caesar chases after the Pompeians, fleeing to an escape, eventually pinning them in a stalemate after threatening their supply routes.^[vi]

There the two camps with low ramparts were pitched not far apart. When their eyes met, undimmed by distance, and they saw each other’s faces clearly, then the horror of civil war was unmasked. For a short time fear kept them silent, and they greeted their friends only by nodding their heads and waving their swords; but soon, when warm affection burst the bonds of discipline with stronger motives, the men ventured to climb over the palisade and stretch out eager hands for embraces. One hails a friend by name, another accosts a kinsman; the time spent in the same boyish pursuits recalls a face to memory; and he who had found no acquaintance among the foe was no true Roman. 

Lucan’s Civil War, 168-79^[vii]

The proximity of the defences immediately brings to mind the trenches of late 1914, where opposing lines would often be within hailing distances of each other, between which remarks would occasionally be exchanged.^[viii] In Lucan’s work the interaction is initially visual, but the recognition of family and friends prompts troops to head into the no-man’s land between the camps. The outbreak of the Christmas truce was naturally slower, as it was conducted between strangers, but the roots of fraternisation, and the unofficial ‘live and let live’ policy of the soldiers in some sectors began well in advance of Christmas.^[ix] This has been attributed to the short distances between them facilitating observation and habitual interactions.^[x] In the section above, common identity is also central to the unity of the enemies. Indeed, Lucan explicitly links the peace to Roman identity through his emphatic Nec Romanus erat  (‘Was not a Roman’, 179). The recognition of kinsmen and childhood friends is a powerful force to break the pseudospeciation required for violence.^[xi] The soldiers in the First World War, despite not sharing a nationality, have a common identity in so far as most of the combatants shared a common faith. Attention to this common identity was heightened at Christmas, evidenced by exchanges of shared carols and gifts between lines.^[xii] The detailed record of a soldier on the western front explicitly states the sense of commonality at Christmas — ‘Christmas Eve for both of us–something in common’.^[xiii] This ‘Horizontal Proximity’ was essential for the encouragement of non-violence,^[xiv] as soldiers after recognising the common Christianity from subsequent fraternisation could see common humanity, and separate the abstract enemy from the men opposite them.^[xv] Within this passage we can see that proximity, both physical and psychological, is constant in the establishment of pockets of peace in these narratives. Proximity without violence, in which combatants are forced to interact between strong defensive positions due to the breakdown of manoeuvre, plays a crucial role in inciting fraternisation. The recognition of shared identities is also fundamental in securing these spontaneous truces, as both national and religious horizontal proximities are recognised.

There was peace, and the men made friends and strolled about in either camp; they began friendly meals together and outpourings of blended wine, sitting on the hard ground; the fire burned on turf-built hearths; where they lay side by side, tales of the war went on through all the sleepless night—on what field they first fought, by what force of hand their javelin was launched. But while they boast of their brave actions and deny the truth of many tales, their friendship, alas! was renewed, which was all that Fortune desired, and all their future wickedness was made worse by their reconciliation. 

Lucan’s Civil War, 196-205

Lucan here gives a vision of peace, in which the two sets of opposing soldiers are presented sharing food, wine, and stories. Here again the common identity shared between soldiers is crucial, by sharing stories of their martial exploits they share their common experiences. This is a direct parallel to the soldiers of the Great War, who upon exiting their trenches in 1914, found an enemy experiencing the same hardships as themselves^[xvi] and traded food and souvenirs.^[xvii] While it is certain that many soldiers did empathise with their opponents, less commonly mentioned is that there was much mistrust between forces, with many wary of treachery, or that the ceasefire may be used for reconnaissance.^[xviii] The complex reality of the truce is here visible, that while it was a moment in which many took rest from war, it was widely accepted that the conflict was still ongoing. 

As mentioned above, Lucan’s primary purpose is to heighten the horror of the civil war by the soldier’s reconciliation. He explicitly states this, and by presaging the return to arms sandwiches this peace within war. Writing a century after the events, Lucan’s audience knows that this truce will not last, nor will it develop into a wider armistice, and so here he builds up the potential of peace merely to negate it. In his commentary on the fourth book of Lucan’s epic, Asso identifies his use of the imperfect pax erat (‘There was peace’, 196) as offering the possibility of peace, turning this moment into a missed opportunity emphasising the tragedy of the civil war.^[xix] As the myth of the Christmas truce emerged and solidified well after the conflict,^[xx] the idealising narrative of grassroots peace ultimately achieves the same effect as Lucan’s forecasts. The story of the truce encourages its audience to look back upon December 1914 as a moment of peace with the knowledge that three more Christmases would pass before the bloody conflict’s end.

The peace is broken in Lucan’s work by the return of the general, Petreius, who upon realising that the enemy had been allowed into his camp, reopens hostilities in brutal fashion: 

For when Petreius heard of the peaceful compact and saw that he and his forces had been sold, he armed his slaves for infamous warfare. Surrounded by this band, he hurled the unarmed enemy out of the camp, separated the embrace of friends by the sword, and shattered the peace with much shedding of blood. 

Lucan’s Civil War, 206-10

Initially the end of the peace is entirely top-down, with Petreius arming his ‘slaves’ (serving ones), to destroy the ceasefire, suggesting an element of compulsion in the return to conflict. However, Lucan later presents the same soldiers brutally turning on their erstwhile friends (243-52) with all the goodwill and friendship of the truce forgotten. The idealising narrative of the Christmas truce too suffers from the fact of its brevity. How could the soldiers after this day of fraternisation and the triumph of common humanity return to battle? Indeed, the end of the truce is often attributed to senior commanders and generals, and while these commanders did order the end of the truce, many of the soldiers were perfectly ready to return to arms, regarding the short break as nothing more than a brief respite from fighting.^[xxi] Indeed some of the interactions were not lamenting the war, or wishing that their generals could make peace, as Lucan commands his soldiers to enact (188), but confidently discussing their hope of victory.^[xxii] From this it is clear to see that the soldiers in this episode of the First World War, just as the Caesarians in Lucan, have often been presented as victims of the sudden return to conflict, when in reality the vast majority of them were complicit in the violence as Petreius’ forces were. 

Above, the common factors behind these ceasefires have been established: the breakdown of manoeuvre, the construction of opposing defences between which soldiers interact, and this interaction leading to a spontaneous truce are all features shared by both narratives. By comparison with Lucan’s narrative the common understanding of the Christmas truce has been further explored. The truce is not a myth in so far as it did occur; however the subsequent story told of universal fraternity and peace is hardly an accurate depiction. While soldiers did interact congenially, even they were able to recognise the limited nature of the truce. In the Roman poet’s work his agenda is perfectly clear, and so his similarities with the Christmas truce reveal that many narratives of the ceasefire have the same aim, to emphasise the horror of war, rather than offering a true image of peace. 

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Bibliography

Ashworth, Tony. “Trench Warfare, 1914-1918: the live and let live system”. Pan Macmillan, (2000).

Asso, Paolo. “A Commentary on Lucan, De Bello Civili IV: Introduction, Edition, and Translation”. de Gruyter, (2010).

Bairnsfather B. “Bullets and billets”. London: Grant Richards. (1916).

Blom Crocker, Terri, ‘“The Legendary Christmas Truce”: The First World War, the Christmas Truce, and Social History, 1970–1989’, in The Christmas Truce: Myth, Memory, and the First World War (Lexington, KY, 2016; online edn, Kentucky Scholarship Online, 19 May 2016).

Lucan, “The civil war (Pharsalia)”. Trans. Duff, James D. Loeb (1928).

Feierabend, Ivo K., and Martina Klicperova-Baker. “Freedom and psychological proximity as preconditions of nonviolence: the social psychology of democratic peace.” South African Journal of Psychology 45, no. 4 (2015): pp564-577.

Galtung, J., Fischer, D. “Positive and Negative Peace”. In: Johan Galtung. SpringerBriefs on Pioneers in Science and Practice, vol 5. Springer, Berlin, Heidelberg (2013).

Gardner, Nikolas. ‘Command and Control in the “Great Retreat” of 1914: The Disintegration of the British Cavalry Division.’ The Journal of Military History 63, no. 1 (1999): pp29-54.

Jürgs M. Der kleine Frieden im Großen Krieg: Westfront 1914: Als Deutsche, Franzosen und Briten gemeinsam Weihnachten feierten. Munich: Random House. (2005).

Mang, R., Häusler, H. “Military Geoscientific Materials for Excursions to Theatres of First World War in France and Belgium.” In: Guth, P. (eds) Military Geoscience. Advances in Military Geosciences. Springer, Cham. (2020).

Saunders, Anthony. “Trench Warfare, 1850–1950.” Casemate Publishers, (2010).

Wiedemann, Nicolás JB, Miguel Pina e Cunha, and Stewart R. Clegg. “Rethinking resistance as an act of improvisation: Lessons from the 1914 Christmas truce.” Organization Studies 42, no. 4 (2021): pp615-635.

Weintraub, Stanley. “Silent night: the remarkable Christmas truce of 1914”. Simon and Schuster, (2014).

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^[i] Galtung & Fischer (2013) p. 173-4.

^[ii] Cf. Blom Crocker (2016) ch. 8 & 9.

^[iii] Gardner (1999) p. 29.

^[iv] Mang and Häusler (2020) p. 54.

^[v] Saunders (2010) p. 101-3.

^[vi] (157-167), Lucan omits the detail of the supplies (cf. Caesar, De Bel. Civ. 1.73), instead preferring to characterise Caesar as eager for battle.

^[vii] Trans. Duff (1928).

^[viii] Weintraub (2014) p. 3.

^[ix] Ashworth (2000) p. 24-6.

^[x] Wiedemann et al. (2021) p. 622.

^[xi] Feierabend and Klicperova-Baker (2015) p. 569.

^[xii] Wiedemann et al. (2021) p. 623.

^[xiii] Bairnsfather (1916) p. 70.

^[xiv] Feierabend and Klicperova-Baker (2015) p. 570.

^[xv] Wiedemann et al. (2021) p. 624.

^[xvi] Jürgs (2005) p. 117-8.

^[xvii] Blom Crocker (2016) p. 51.

^[xviii] Blom Crocker (2016) p. 55.

^[xix] Asso (2010) p. 152.

^[xx] Blom Crocker (2016) ch. 8 & 9.

^[xxi] Blom Crocker (2016) p. 49.

^[xxii] Blom Crocker (2016) p. 56.

This blog was researched and written by Visualising War and Peace student Martha Shillaker, School of Classics, University of St Andrews, November 2023. It discusses concepts of peace expressed in an ancient Athenian speech, On the Peace with Sparta, by politician Andocides.

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Un-common Peace: Peace in Andocides’s On the Peace with Sparta

Martha Shillaker

‘There is a wide difference between a peace and a truce.’^[i] This is a statement made by Athenian politician Andocides in his address, On the Peace with Sparta. The concept of ‘peace’ – and the reality that the word manifests itself as – has been, and continues to be, debated amongst thinkers and scholars. It is clear to most that peace is not just the absence of war; however, the extent to which peace is the absence of violence is still an area of discussion. In the last century, Peace theorist Johan Galtung popularised the concept of negative and positive peace, providing the vocabulary to discuss different understandings and situations that cannot be classified as war.^[ii] Despite being helpful framings, it is clear that peace is something that is far more ambiguous and complicated than these binary categories. It is important, in the analysis of case studies, to understand the complicated nature of waring and peaceful states. The interactions and narrative between these states define their understanding and visualisation of conflict resolution and peace-making. It is this relational concept that Söderström, Åkebo and Jarstad highlight in the presentation of their framework, ‘relational peace’, in Friends, Fellows and Foes: A New Framework.^[iii]

‘Relational Peace’  

The idea of peace as a relationship is not a unique or original idea. The concept that peace requires a bond is an idea that has stretched back to the beginning of peace treaties themselves. The ‘eternal treaty’ between the Hittites and Egyptians, for instance, is drowning in language of brotherhood.^[iv] Söderström et al. are, therefore, not presenting a revolutionary concept. Yet it is this fact that makes it appealing for the study of ancient peace-making. They present a framework which can be applied to peace based on the most tenuous of terms to a relationship of genuine brotherhood. There are three components, they propose, which define this peace: ‘behavioral interaction (deliberation, non-domination, and cooperation), subjective conditions (recognition and trust), and the idea of the relationship (fellowship or friendship).’^[v]

Relating ‘relational peace’

These modern concepts developed in International Relations studies can be beneficial to our understanding of ancient concepts and discussions of peace. Indeed, the speech by Andocides, On the Peace with Sparta, displays a peace that can be explored and understood to a greater extent through this framework of ‘relational peace’. This allows us to look beyond whether there is a state of violence and to the fundamental relationship that undermines these states of war and peace, providing an insight into ancient peace-making through the lens of a modern framework. 

It would take a lot more words and time to apply all three of the components to ‘relational peace’ to the relationship between Athens and Sparta during this period of time than this blog can manage. For that reason, using primarily the ‘behavorial interaction’ component of this framework, I intend to explore Andocides’s definition of peace and how it marks the changing perceptions in Grecian thought of peace during this period. 

On the Peace With Sparta

Andocides was a minor, and generally unsuccessful, Athenian politician in the 4^th c. BC. Around 392-1 BC, he was a member of an embassy sent to negotiate peace terms as part of the discussions of peace between Sparta and Athen during the Corinthian Wars.^[vi] This was one in a series of peace-talks between the two states occurring after the failed discussions at Sardis by Antalcidas.^[vii] It was during these discussions that On the Peace with Sparta was penned. The extent to which this presentation of peace is realistic is questionable as the majority of Andocides’s argument is focussed upon its merits, appealing primarily to the expressed concerns of the Athenians.^[viii] Neither does it display a peace that actually occurred. Indeed, it is not hard to conclude that this was not a successful discussion for peace, as Andocides was expelled from Athens after the rejection of these terms, and the war continued until its conclusion in 386 BC. Ultimately, this war famously ended with what became known as the ‘King’s Peace’ under the terms of the Persian king, and not in Athens’ favour. 

Although it did not result in peace, Andocides’ speech marks the beginning of a new perception of peace: koine eirene. It is in this speech that this term was first used: ‘you are negotiating today for the peace and independence of all Greeks alike.’^[ix] This developing concept of panhellenism moved from a concept of negative and temporary peace to a more permanent and positive peace. The framework of ‘relational peace’ allows us to understand these changes and how perceptions of peace developed from truce to positive peace. 

Deliberation  

Discussion and peace-talks, or deliberation as described by Söderström et al., were an essential form of ancient conflict-resolution. As displayed by even the existence of this text there was a desire between ancient states to mediate peace. What is uniquely presented in Andocides’ speech is not that a peace-talk occurred but rather the purpose and definition of peace: ‘A peace is a settlement of differences between equals.’^[x] The use of these peace talks presents a willingness to create narratives that are not dominated by that of conqueror and conquered. This narrative of equality is, as will be explored later, the defining characteristic of this new definition of peace.

It is not the existence of peace talks that are unique and display a difference in visualising peace but instead the language of equality that is present. It is this concept of ‘non-domination’ that signals a change in dialogue. 

Non-domination

Although there is no language of ‘brotherhood’ or friendship which we can see in other texts of peace, alongside the continuation and safety of democracy, equality – and its accompanying freedom – is a primary concern in the definition of peace. It is these qualities that differentiate between the concept of peace and truce. The concept of peace as a ‘settlement of differences between equals’ became a marker of the common peace.^[xi] This was unprecedented.^[xii]

Indeed, Andocides clarifies his definition of peace by contrasting the definition of truce: ‘a truce is the dictation of terms to the conquered by the conquerors after victory in war’.^[xiii] This definition may be obvious to the modern audience but previous to this (and also afterwards, as manifested in e.g. Augustus’ Pax Romana) peace was not synonymous in antiquity with concepts of justice. Andocides’ clarification between the concept of peace and truce was necessary. Previous relations between Athens and Sparta had been unfavourable to Athens. Indeed, the last peace between Athens and Sparta had resulted in the control of Athens under Spartan hegemony, a state that they had only just removed.^[xiv] Athenian understanding of Spartan peace was that of a ‘forced truce.’ Peace to them was the language of the victor and controller. Indeed, we can still see echoes of this in the speech: 

‘Under the truce Lemnos, Imbros, and Scyros remained in the possession of their occupants: under the peace they are to be ours.’^[xv]

The autonomy of these islands and their occupants would, arguably, be a just move; but it was undesirable for the Athenians. They still desired power over areas of Greece that they had conquered. Furthermore, the rejection of this peace displays somewhat a desire for this continuation of ‘truce’. Athens thought they could win, and being a conqueror was better than being equal. 

Despite this, it displays that there was a choice that had previously been unavailable. As this was a speech regarding the preliminary conditions of peace, the extent to which this would have worked out in practice is unknown. But it marks a development, an evolution in the visualisation of peace and conflict resolution in antiquity.  

Cooperation

Although this speech didn’t receive support, it displays the importance of cooperation in peace, both in context and in the terms presented. That this was the second of three peace treaties proposed during this war displays a willingness to deliberate but also adapt. The terms here are not presented in the same form as their last ‘peace’ with Sparta which Andocides describes as ‘a forced truce upon dictated terms’.^[xvi] In this treaty there are appeals to the desires of the Athenian government: democracy and the autonomy of Lemnos, Imbros, and Scyros. This ‘settlement of differences’ is one that places emphasis on the settlement. This transactional nature of peace, a characteristic of ancient peace-making, reflects the desires of the two states (or a least in this case of Sparta to Athens) to ‘make moves that benefit the other’, despite having different goals.^[xvii] The emphasis of Andocides on a previous ‘forced truce’ in comparison with their current consideration highlights autonomy and a lack (or lesser form) of coercion: a willingness from both parties. This would be a peace made of their own volition, between two equal states. 

Another characteristic of cooperation would be the developing nature of their relationship and the aligning of goals, ideally resulting in a lasting (or at least longer-lasting) peace. Although this may be reading into the gaps of this source, the lack of an end date to this peace indicates an intention for longer cooperation.  The lack of end date is a new revelation, reflecting this new attitude to peace. Previous to this, Greek treaties were not designed to last longer than an agreed time (if they even got to that point).  This can be seen in Aristophanes’ ‘peace-plays’. Aristophanes’ Peace, written just before the peace of Nicias (a peace which clearly indicates the lack of longevity, lasting only for 6 years rather than the intended 50), displays the desire for war amongst the younger generations.^[xviii]Although the narrative is focussed on this goal of achieving peace, the martial dreams of the young boys in this scene leave an understanding that this may only be a peace for this generation. Furthermore, we see in another play by Aristophanes, Acharnians, the peace treaty (hai spondai) made by Dikaiopolis is one that has an end date: He is given a choice of 5, 10 or 30 years.^[xix] This is not presumed to be a lasting relationship of peace. But this is not an attitude seen in Andocides’s speech:‘once we have made our sworn compact, we should abide by it.’^[xx] There is no mention of a timespan for this peace, rather an exhortation for consistency.

Incoming Common Peace

Ultimately, Andocides’s peace was no success story, but by analysing his speech through the framework of ‘relational peace’ we can see the seeds of a new understanding of peace, an era of koine eirene.  Although this is beneficial in viewing the new emphasis upon equality and longevity which would become two key characteristics of ‘common peace’, this speech only displays the theory, the ideal. It does not display the inner workings of this political thought which developed across the next century or so. As such, this leaves us with many questions to explore: To what extent did the King’s Peace reflect the peace that Andocides paints? Can panhellenism succeed through alliance rather than hegemony? Could peace really last in ancient Greece?

Bibliography 

Beckman, G. (1996). Hittite diplomatic texts. United States: Scholars Press.

Britannica, T. Editors of Encyclopaedia (2011, September 19). Andocides. Encyclopedia Britannica. https://www.britannica.com/biography/Andocides (accessed 1/11/2023)

Galtung, J. (1969). Violence, Peace, and Peace Research. Journal of Peace Research, 6(3), 167–191.

Hornblower, S. (2023, November 9). ancient Greek civilization. Encyclopedia Britannica.https://www.britannica.com/place/ancient-Greece (accessed 1/11/2013)

Hyland, J. O., (2017). Persian Interventions : The Achaemenid Empire, Athens, and Sparta, 450−386 BCE. Johns Hopkins University Press.

Newiger, H. (1996). War and peace in the comedy of Aristophanes. In E. Segal (eds.) Oxford Readings in Aristophanes.  United Kingdom: Oxford University Press.

Ryder, T. T. B. (1965). Koine Eirene; General Peace and Local Independence in Ancient Greece. United Kingdom: University of Hull.

Sealey, R. (2023). A History of the Greek City States, 700-338 B. C.. Berkeley: University of California Press. 

Söderström, J., Åkebo, M., & Jarstad, A.K. (2020). Friends, Fellows, and Foes: A New Framework for Studying Relational Peace. International Studies Review. 23. 3. 

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^[i] Andocides, On the Peace, 11.

^[ii] Galtung, 1969.

^[iii] Söderström et al., 2020.

^[iv] Beckman, 1996, no. 15.

^[v] Söderström et al., 2020, 486.

^[vi] Ryder, 1965, 32.

^[vii] Sealey, 2023, 394.

^[viii] Andocides, On the Peace., 1; Ryder, 1965, 33.

^[ix] Andocides, On the Peace., 17.

^[x] Andocides, On the Peace., 11.

^[xi] Emphasis added; Andocides, On the Peace., 11.

^[xii] Ryder, 1965, 1.

^[xiii] Andocides, On the Peace., 12.

^[xiv] Andocides, On the Peace., 10.

^[xv] Andocides, On the Peace., 12.

^[xvi] Andocides, On the Peace., 12.

^[xvii] Söderström et al., 2020, 492.

^[xviii] Aristophanes, Peace, 1265-78.

^[xix] Aristophanes, Acharnians, 186-194; Newiger 1996 144.

^[xx] Andocides, On the Peace., 34.

This blog was researched and written by Visualising War and Peace student Elizabeth Walker; School of Classics, University of St Andrews, November 2023. It discusses Polybius’ synthesising, universalising approach to narrating war in his Histories.

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From the outset of his Histories, Polybius sets out the end goal of his work – to understand the growth of Roman imperial power: 

For who is so worthless or indolent as not to wish to know by what means and under what system of polity the Romans in less than fifty-three years have succeeded in subjecting nearly the whole inhabited world to their sole government — a thing unique in history? (1.1.5)

Polybius explains how the Romans’ have achieved this unrivalled hegemony, examining the different wars and conflicts that have facilitated the growth of this power as the substance of his discussion. Yet importantly, Polybius seeks to establish a fool proof way of uncovering this question and a reliable means of examining his material critically. In his eyes, this is done through a history with a stalwart theory that underpins it. As such, Polybius’ approach is consciously programmatic; he continually reemphasises and redefines certain conceptual frameworks which are intended to elucidate understanding of the multitude of wars, reflecting a concern with how to conceive of the enormous and unprecedented change the Romanisation of the world had brought about. This blog will explore how Polybius’ form of historiographic approach creates a particular understanding of war within his narrative, one that perhaps seeks and holds claim to being analytical and comprehensive in its analysis, but in fact demands a need for cohesion and explanatory rationality. This brushes over the more difficult aspects of war or provides generalised explanations for inconceivable phenomena. The relationship between Polybius’ historiography and war will therefore be examined through pertinent selections of his programmatic passages.

In the first of the two most significant programmatic passages (at the beginning of book 1 and 3 respectfully) Polybius makes clear that a significant overall purpose for his work is its practical application. Almost immediately in the introduction to the first book he incites his readers to recognise the practical value encoded in his work:

The soundest education and training for a life of active politics is the study of History, and that surest and indeed the only method of learning how to bear bravely the vicissitudes of fortune, is to recall the calamities of others. (1.1.2)

Whilst Polybius’ writing is not formulated with the same intention for instructive assistance for war as the exempla tradition in the military manuals of Frontinus, for example, he certainly makes clear that the reader’s examination of his subject matter (a discourse of war) is inherently didactic, and furthermore, relevant for the rather vaguely stated navigation of life more generally. Scholars debate whether Polybius intended a practical or moral teaching to be read in his material.^[i] Yet this seems a somewhat irrelevant particularity, since predominantly, any claim to didacticism aids prestige to Polybius’ project, stretching it beyond an academic exercise, and makes his work appeal to be read by a cross-section of readership groups. Polybius is appealing for its relevance to any elite man, not just politicians and those with military aspirations.^[ii] Furthermore, this appeal continues a notion witnessed in different writings across antiquity, that war is a phenomenon to be consumed by the reader. War as a concept held intellectual fascination for the ancient elite man, perceived as offering up an inexhaustible richness in what it could say about the elusive idea of ‘human nature’ more broadly, something which Polybius connects war as providing observations on consistently through his Histories.^[iii] Additionally, the fact that the ‘calamities of others’ is specifically mentioned suggests that ‘failure’ of wars should be of particular curiosity for Polybius’ reader. This reduction of the end of conflicts glosses over the impact of the aftermath and fallout of war, specifically the profound, widespread long-lasting repercussions that impact human lives. It implies that these cataclysmic reverberations of war can almost be made meaningful if they help Polybius’ reader ‘bear bravely the vicissitudes of fortune’. War is reduced to simply a cerebral concept to be utilised for self-development.

Additionally in this first programmatic statement in Book 1, specifically 1.4.7-11, Polybius lays out a clear intent to actively re-visualise wars of the past in a purposefully cohesive manner:

He indeed who believes that by studying isolated histories he can acquire a fairly just view of history as a whole, is, as it seems to me, much in the case of one, who, after having looked at the dissevered limbs of an animal once alive and beautiful, fancies he has been as good as an eyewitness of the creature itself in all its action and grace. For could anyone put the creature together on the spot, restoring its form and the comeliness of life, and then show it to the same man, I think he would quickly avow that he was formerly very far away from the truth and more like one in a dream. For we can get some idea of a whole from a part, but never knowledge or exact opinion. Special histories therefore contribute very little to the knowledge of the whole and conviction of its truth. It is only indeed by study of the interconnexion of all the particulars, their resemblances, and differences, that we are enabled at least to make a general survey, and thus derive both benefit and pleasure from history. (1.4.7-11)

Polybius uses a metaphor of an animal’s body as an ideologically poignant image by which he demonstrates how he perceives an adequate grasp of history can be attained. Polybius is inviting the reader to literally look at the substance of his text – wars – as constituent parts of a dead animal’s body that are incomplete in isolation, and only ‘alive’ once put together. It is notable that the Roman state was often conceived of as a ‘body’ by other writers, such as Cicero, with the idea of a defective body particularly being employed as a metaphor for political dysfunctionality.^[iv] Therefore, Polybius is perhaps interreacting with Roman imperialistic discourses, suggesting that the sum of wars produce meaning when under an imperial project. Moreover, as Wiater argues, Polybius is attributing aesthetic beauty and completeness to his own particular historical understanding of wars, emphasised that there is intellectual life in them when collated together.^[v] The imagery is certainly impactful and works effectively to portray individual wars (equivalent to dissected limbs) as holding more desirable value when they are synthesized together in a single conceptual understanding. Whilst this initially seems to encourage a generalising approach to the complexities of war, Tully argues that it is not reductive, offering that ‘Polybius is not detracting value from knowledge of single events and wars but emphasising the need for “overarching synthesis”’.^[vi] This interpretation recognises what Polybius intends, but the superimposition of a synthetic agenda is inherently not a neutral reproduction. Polybius’ overall aim for cohesion creates an environment that seeks to fit individual experiences of war into an overarching pre-established interpretation of what war is and retrospectively can be used for. This framework of understanding creates literary conditions which can swerve towards disregarding certain nuances that do not ‘fit’ or glossing over the ‘unexplainable’. In this way, for example, it has been argued by Walbank that Polybius at times resorts to the allusive concept of tychē (fortune) as a governing force for difficult explanations of war.^[vii] Whilst this is perhaps an overly critical interpretation of Polybius’ work (since he is highly invested in human causation^[viii]), there is definitely an argument that Polybius’ schematic approach provides an apt environment for overemphasising similarities between wars to provide a summative interpretation, inevitably overlooking differences and nuance. However, L.V. Pitcher particularly rebuts this, arguing that Polybius was highly aware of the complexity involved in the representation of war in the genre of history, wrestling with ‘methodological anxieties’.^[ix] Whilst Pitcher’s analysis is valid in attributing some awareness of nuance to Polybius, it does not address the fact that Polybius, in his employment of historiographic frameworks, is actively transforming and reconstructing wars to give them a new meaning altogether. 

Therefore, returning to the metaphor, it also illustrates the very paradox that comes with viewing war through a historical lens: the animal is indeed unable to be restored to life – the only way of experiencing that animal in its fullness was to see it when it was alive. As Cobley asserts ‘no discourse is able to recuperate the reals as such, different modes of representation connote reality differently’.^[x] As such, whilst Polybius does not deny the limits of accessing the past, it is fascinating that in some way he views his visualisation of war as getting as close as possible to a reality. He implies his history is almost able to resurrect the body of the metaphorical animal. In fact, Polybius even believes that a deeper and more analytical perspective on war will be generated as a result of his selective historical methods. Whilst the metaphor acknowledges history as a way of visualising war, it fails to recognise the bias that comes with any literary reconstruction (let alone a retrospective one) especially of such a complex phenomenon as war.

In book 3, Polybius gives further insight into how he sees the historian and reader’s agency and role in reconstructing the wars of the past. The historian is compared to a physician:

My object has not been to censure previous writers, but to rectify the ideas of students. For of what use to the sick is a physician who is ignorant of the causes of certain conditions of the body?… [he] will scarcely be likely to recommend proper treatment for the body… (3.7.4-6)

Polybius’ students are substituted for doctors who diagnose and then treat illnesses, explicitly placing the historian not as a removed third party, but as an active and authoritative participant in a restorative, or even corrective, process. Cobley reflects that ‘the traditional historian always acts as an external and retrospective mediator whose narrative is the outcome of carefully documented source material’.^[xi] However, Polybius’ idea of a historian seems to go beyond a ‘mediator’. The historian is the actor synthesizing the separate nature of the individual wars, and like a doctor, he is knowledgably initiating the dissection of his subject matter – transforming, not just observing. Likewise, Polybius does not hold neutrality; he is purposefully steering his material for a particular aim, which undeniably affects how wars are presented. He is laying out the material in a way so that a particular interpretation might be drawn – in this case, to map war onto his contemporary geopolitics and Greek self-definition. Analysing this analogy further, Polybius suggests that it is fundamental that a doctor-come-historian must draw on their pre-existing knowledge: a diagnosis cannot be done without a bedrock of accumulated expertise. Polybius openly advocates for the application of previous knowledge of wars onto other wars. Walbank argues that ‘historians have frequently been tempted to try to detect – and in practice this has usually meant being tempted to superimpose – some sort of pattern on the social and constitutional changes which constantly occur in history’.^[xii] Walbank’s statement certainly rings true for Polybius. In seeing cohesion as almost synonymous with finding a ‘truth’, or rather producing the most accurate account of history and perspective on the wars themselves, he searches for a universality that does not necessarily exist. Whilst this is not an inherently invaluable exercise, it leaves little space for the ‘inarticulacy’ that might come with war. As McLoughlin says, ‘inarticulacy, like silence itself, is an ethical-aesthetic response to the challenges of conveying conflict’.^[1] In Polybius’ desire to comprehend multiple wars so thoroughly as one cohesive whole, this in fact potentially leads to either a disregard for wars that don’t offer meaning or contribution to his project, absent voices and valuable perspectives being dismissed, or generalisation of factors. In this way, whilst Polybius promises a systematic depth of analysis, he often grasps at tropes for the representation of war, for example giving great significance to ‘outstanding’ men.^[2] Even if Polybius grants complex analysis to them, the onus being on a singular great man plays into a tradition of conceiving the outcome of wars as being fundamentally influenced by the genius or mistakes of an individual, when the reality is much more complex. These are tropes that he has inherited from earlier storytelling traditions, not just from his synthesis of history. In other words, narratives are shaping narratives which are helping to shape reality.

Overall, much can be deduced about Polybius’ approach to war from his approach to history as a discipline. Perhaps the visualisation of cohesion that Polybius advocates for is as a way of reconciling the enormity of the military impact Rome has had on the world. The change Polybius’ world had undergone through conflict needed to be shaped into something that made sense altogether, and furthermore, converted into useful knowledge. Polybius shows no interest in questioning conflict – it is a consistent norm in his worldview, and also a convenient vehicle for a complex academic discourse that aids him prestige as a writer. Polybius’ use of rigid historiographic methods blurs out space for uncomfortable conclusions or a more affective rendering of war.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY

Baronowski, Donald Walter. Polybius and Roman Imperialism (London: Bristol Classical Press, 2010)

Cobley, Evelyn. “Narrative Situation: Focalization and Voice” in Representing War: Form and Ideology in First World War Narratives (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1993) pp. 71-117

Eckstein, Arthur M. ‘The Act of Generalship as the imposition of Order’ in Moral Vision in The Histories of Polybius (Berkley, California: University of California Press, 1995) pp. 161-193

Engberg-Pedersen Anders. Empire of Chance: The Napoleonic Wars and the Disorder of Things (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 2015)

Hau, Lisa Irene. ‘Polybius’ in Moral History from Herodotus to Diodorus Siculus (sl: Edinburgh University Press, 2016) pp. 23-71

Longley, Georgina. “Thucydides, Polybius, and Human Nature” in Imperialism, Cultural Politics and Polybius edited by Christpher Smith and Liv Mariah Yarrow (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012) pp. 68-84

Marsden, Eric W. “Polybius as a military historian”, Entretiens sur l’Antiquité Classique 20 (1974): 269-301

McGing, Brian. Polybius’ Histories (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010)

McLoughlin Kate, Lara Feigel, and Nancy Martin, eds. Writing War, Writing Lives (London: Routledge, 2017)

McLoughlin, Kate. ‘War and words’ in War Writing (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009) pp. 15-24

McLoughlin, Kate. Authoring War (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011)

McLoughlin, Kate. The Cambridge Companion to War Writing (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010)

Miltsios, Nikos. “Introduction” In Leadership and Leaders in Polybius, IX-XVI (Berlin, Boston: DeGruyter, 2023) pp. ix-xv

Pitcher, L.V. ‘Classical war literature’ in The Cambridge Companion to War Writing (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010) pp. 71-80

Tully, John. ‘Ephorus, Polybius, and τὰ καθόλου γράφειν’ in Between Thucydides and Polybius: The Golden Age of Greek Historiography edited by Giovanni Parmeggiani (Cambridge, MA; London: Center for Hellenic Studies, 2014) pp. 163-174

Walbank, Frank. ‘Polybius and the past’ in Polybius, Rome and the Hellenistic World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002) pp.178-192

Walbank, Frank. Polybius (Berkley, California: University of California Press, 1972)

Walters, Brain. ‘The Republican Body Politic’ in The deaths of the Republic: imagery of the body politic in Ciceronian Rome (Oxford; New York: Oxford University Press, 2020) pp. 7-26

Wiater, Nicolas. “Politics, Aesthetics and Historical Explanation in Polybius I.” University of St Andrews. 15 Ocotber, 2013. https://arts.st-andrews.ac.uk/latehellenistic/5-politics-aesthetics-and-historical-explanation-in-polybius-i/index.html

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^[1] McLoughlin (2010) 17.

^[2] Miltsios (2023) ix.

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^[i] Hau (2016) 23.

^[ii] Marsden (1974) 284.

^[iii] Longley (2012) 69.

^[iv] Walters (2020) 15.

^[v] Wiater (2013).

^[vi] Tully (2014) 173.

^[vii] Walbank (2002) 182.

^[viii] Longley (2012) 68.

^[ix] Pitcher (2010) 76.

^[x] Cobley (1993) 79.

^[xi] Ibid.

^[xii] Walbank (2002) 181.

This blog was researched and written by Visualising War and Peace student David Calder; School of Classics, University of St Andrews, October 2023. It discusses alternative readings of ancient and modern images of ‘the departing soldier’, what they can tell us about culturally dominant habits of visualising conflict, and how myths and allusions to established narratives can be used both to sanitise and critique war.

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The image of the departing soldier is an enduring and universal visualisation of war, present in many eras, and across various cultures (Fig. 1 and 2 above, & 3 below).^[i] The depictions of this moment in warfare focus upon the sacrifice of the soldier leaving his home and loved ones. Additionally, these images often present visualisations of the experience of war for those whom the soldiers leave behind. Versions of this image were frequently produced on Athenian vases in the late 6th and early 5th centuries, perhaps in response to the heightened conflict of the period.^[ii] While certain aspects of these images may be idealizing and anachronistic,^[iii] nevertheless they represent a lived experience of many families in Attica.^[iv]

In this blog, I will examine an amphora from the late 6th century, found in Vulci, Italy, depicting Hercules and the Erymanthian boar on one face (Fig. 4) and a narrative of a departing soldier on the other, which is the side this essay will primarily discuss (Fig. 5). This image contains five figures which are, from left to right, an old man with a sceptre commanding a bowman who wears a peaked cap, a hoplite in full armour looking to a female figure, and rightmost a hoplite looking back on the scene as he departs to the right. The narrative of this scene is fairly clear: the king, distinguished by the sceptre, orders the two soldiers to war, and as a result the hoplite must depart from the woman, who can be read as either mother or wife.^[v] As she is more of an object of grief in the scene, there is little to distinguish her and the narrative can be understood either way. Despite its apparent simplicity, this vase, like many ancient sources, is open to a variety of interpretations. By exploring this vase’s context and meaning, and comparing its imagery cross-culturally, we can seek to identify the messages of war it might present, and thereby encourage further investigation of both war and peace on Attic vases more generally.

One interpretation of the scene is that it visualises the idea of the heroic sacrifice. The centrally positioned hoplite is the focal point of the image, and his sacrifice provides the emotional conflict of the piece. The soldier’s struggle between duty and love is shown by his spear and body facing the ruler, but his head turned towards the woman. A repetition of this imagery is visible in post-Revolutionary French conscription artwork, for example the Départ de conscrit[s] by Desfeuilles of Nancy, 1818-1824,^[vi] which presents a narrative of the French conscription process. The picture shows, in a reversed order, the departure and return of a conscript. Here again, the internal battle between love and duty is externally visualised through the awkward posture of facing backwards while marching forwards.^[vii] This and other images of the same genre, designed to promote conscription, do not ignore the pain of separation caused by military service but instead present it as a highly positive, transformative event,^[viii] and a duty to be praised in 19th century France. 

Returning to the amphora, it is unlikely that the image is representing a mythical tale, as there is neither the inscriptions nor the imagery of myths seen on some other vases.^[ix] However, heroes on Attic vases are often portrayed as a hoplites, bearing the same arms.^[x] By contrast, the archer’s ‘cowardly’ bow,^[xi] peaked cap, and short tunic,^[xii] identifies him as an easterner.^[xiii] Whether he is friend or foe is unclear. Many scholars take the portrayal of eastern archers as a device by which the Hoplite is further heroised, as they identify the archer as a secondary character and a companion of heroes, who by their lower status elevate the importance of the central figure.^[xiv] At the likely time of this amphora’s creation however, the Persian empire was an increasingly significant threat to the city-states of Greece. The Athenian potters may have been presenting a narrative of war in which they reflect imagery of their contemporaneous enemies. We do not see any conflict between the Hoplite and the archer— indeed the date may be too early for scenes of open hostility such as the Eurymedon vase,^[xv] and the Athenians were at this point nominally at peace with the Achaemenids.^[xvi] However, the image does follow the conventions of Attic vase paintings in the depiction of easterners that presents them as inferior to the ‘noble’ Greek hoplite, and thereby contributes to the othering of a potential enemy. Finally, the vase may further heroise the subject by the inclusion on the reverse side of a mythical comparison. By presenting one of Hercules’ labours it emphasises the glory to be won by performing a difficult duty, essentially suggesting that by going to war the soldier becomes a hero like Hercules.^[xvii]  It is possible that Attic vases of this period display ‘recruitment’ images designed to encourage the departure to war, praising the heroic qualities of the hoplite, and presenting departure scenes as necessary to address existential threats to the state as they were in the 19th century French departure scenes. 

There is an alternative reading: the vase may have been attempting to portray a distinctly anti-war narrative, along with an anti-authoritarian message in response to the overthrow of the Peisistratids which occurred in 510 BCE. The figure of the king is presented as an old man who remains behind but sends the hoplite, in the prime of his life, away to war and potential death; if understood thus, this image potentially criticises authority and war. While the inclusion of the mythical story upon the reverse image may have a heroising effect, it may also identify the old king with Eurystheus— both are kings that send others away to do difficult tasks; and by featuring a scene where Eurystheus’ cowardice is pronounced, the vase invites this connection to be made to the otherwise anonymous king. This interpretation is further supported by the examples of two other departing hoplite vases, both suggested to also be the work of the Antimenes painter (Fig. 6).^[xviii]On these images, the old man holds a staff, or walking stick, not a sceptre. In most other vases of departing soldiers the old man is understood as the father.^[xix] This modification of the established figure may be a criticism of the recently deposed Hippias. Evidencing this point is difficult as only rough estimates for dates can be accepted and establishing a chronological timeline for the vases’ creation is likely impossible. However, the principal amphora under discussion here clearly represents a divergence from a common theme— it is apparently unique, at least in the oeuvre of the Antimenes painter, in its portrayal of the old man as a king. The archer may also become an Anti-Peisistratid symbol, as his inclusion may refer to the tyrannical dynasty’s use of mercenaries.^[xx]

Understanding the context in which Attic vases were used in Etruria is essential to explaining how they might visualise war. This is, however, far from simple, with many very different views presented in scholarship. Some sources argue that the Attic vases were quotidian, functional objects in Etruscan society.^[xxi] This may mean that they were objects that engaged in everyday militarisms, supporting a military culture by their omnipresence. Others have suggested that these vases were reserved for a specific funerary purpose.^[xxii] Indeed, most Attic vases that have survived were found in Etruscan tombs, and this is especially true of those found in Vulci, where a large tomb network was excavated in the 19th century. This casts some doubt on the heroic interpretation of the vase. The vase may have been selected for its image of the departing soldier, to furnish the tomb of a soldier. If so, it strikes a stark contrast with the image of the departing conscript of 19th century France. In the latter images, the soldier always returned, greatly improved by his service,^[xxiii]but the amphora presents no hint of return and has perhaps become a monument to the consequences of war with much of its nobility stripped away. If these suggestions are accepted, then it becomes far more reasonable to argue that this amphora presents a message that is both anti-authoritarian and anti-war.

The amphora also serves as an example of a wider question: whose understandings of war are being presented? By the end of the 6th century Athens, had cemented itself as a major power in the mediterranean and Athenian potters dominated their industry.^[xxiv] Consequently, Attic visualisations of life and attitudes became diffused throughout the ancient world.^[xxv] The perspective of Attic culture is visible in the figure of the eastern archer, which to an Etruscan must have been unfamiliar if not alien. Detailed studies of surviving artefacts show that, while the demands of the Etruscan market shaped the forms of Attic ceramics, the images presented upon them remained unaffected.^[xxvi]Therefore, the imagery of war presented on vases is likely a reflection of the Athenian painter’s experiences/worldview; and so identifying the status and inspirations of vase painters is essential to understanding the visualisations of war that they present. 

Mythological stories are frequently featured on vases, including this one. Their presence indicates a familiarity with both the Homeric epics and other myths. This appears to be where the Antimenes painter has drawn much of their source material from, since many of their works feature mythological stories. As a consequence of this, his discussion of war on this vase is moralised with a mythological parallel. Therefore, the painter’s moral view of war is limited to the preexisting parallels that can be drawn on; and their visualisation of war is a reflection of already established ideas surrounding war. The role of the woman on the amphora is notably passive, she is the object of the hoplite’s attention and does not take any action further than grieving. On other departure vases, the woman often arms the departing soldier, or pours a libation,^[xxvii] here the woman is simply left behind. The woman remaining behind is a common theme in most, if not all, departure images throughout history, showing the understood place of women in war, at home.^[xxviii] This results in a limited view of how war affects women. There is another potentally sanitizing element, too, reflective again of dominant habits of narrating and visualizing way. By the soldier’s exit, the vase implicitly presents the idea that war is fought in some third place and neither side’s home is threatened. This links to the concept of noncombatant immunity, central to a lot of war theory, which relies on warriors avoiding harm to civilians.^[xxix] Of course this is not the case in much ancient warfare, but the presentation of the war as distant and as the woman as passive results in a further heroising of the scene as the hoplite could be understood to be fighting in a ‘clean’ just war. 

By undertaking an analysis of this amphora it is possible to see that understanding departure scenes throughout history relies on understanding how the authors viewed the conflicts they present, and that involves digging into the atmospheric habits of visualizing war that surrounded (and were then reinforced) by them. In the case of Eisenstaedt’s Penn Station photographs, for example, it is almost impossible that the photographer wishes to portray an anti-war message. While the content of these photographs could be interpreted as highlighting the costs of war, given the context of Eisenstaedt’s own life,^[xxx] it can be considered with some certainty that his departure images were designed to highlight the heroism and sacrifice of the departing soldiers and the necessary pain of their loved ones. With the amphora we have no such context, and as a result the message of the vase remains a mystery. Despite the apparent contradiction of the two offered interpretations, both should be considered plausible, and perhaps mutually present; we do not have to choose between one or the other. While the vase undeniably presents war in a heroic light by juxtaposing the hoplite with Hercules, and by arming the hoplite in the same manner as mythological heroes presented on other vases, the variations made by the artist suggest a less conventional reading could also be legible. Both the historical and archaeological context of the vase invite is to wonder whether the amphora is critical of the injustice of tyranny and, as an extension of this, opposed to war. A key question then follows from this is: if that is the case, what kind of power might such subtle criticism have, given that it is embedded in more conventional visuals and storytelling that traditionally sanitise and celebrate war? 

Whatever the painter’s agenda, or the interpretations of the vase’s owners/viewers, it is clear how culturally embedded their own visions, understandings and habits of visualizing war are in dominant forms of storytelling. Much of how they visualised war comes from mythological traditions and thus severely limits the nuance in which they could visualise war. Their portrayal of the woman presents a historically consistent image of women in war as passive The departing soldier is not only a common theme on Attic vases, but features throughout history. Therefore, understanding how the scene is presented on this vase and throughout history, allows the reader to analyse contemporary images of departing soldiers and understand the messages they present.

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References

• Beazley, John Davidson. “The Antimenes Painter.” The Journal of Hellenic Studies 47, no. 1 (1927): pp63-92.
• Boardman, John. “The Greeks overseas: their early colonies and trade.” Thames and Hudson (1999).
• Bovon, Anne. La représentation des guerriers perses et la notion de Barbare dans la première moitié du Ve siècle. In: Bulletin de correspondance hellénique. Volume 87, livraison 2, (1963):pp579-602.
• Cooke, Miriam. Women and the war story. Univ of California Press, (1996)
• Ciment, James, and Thaddeus Russell, eds. “The Home Front Encyclopedia: United States, Britain, and Canada in World Wars I and II.” Vol. 1. Abc-clio, (2007)
• Gill, David WJ, and Michael J. Vickers. “They were expendable: Greek vases in the Etruscan tomb.” Revue des études anciennes 97, no. 1 (1995): pp225-249.
• Hölscher, Tonio. “Images of War in Greece and Rome: Between Military Practice, Public Memory, and Cultural Symbolism.” The Journal of Roman Studies 93 (2003): pp1–17.
• Hopkin, David M. “Sons and lovers: Popular images of the conscript, 1798–1870.” Modern & Contemporary France 9, no. 1 (2001): pp19-36.
• Ivantchik, Askold. “‘Scythian’ Archers on Archaic Attic Vases: Problems of Interpretation”, Ancient Civilizations from Scythia to Siberia 12, 3-4 (2006): pp197-271
• Matheson, Susan B.. “3. A Farewell with Arms: Departing Warriors on Athenian Vases” In Periklean Athens and Its Legacy: Problems and Perspectives edited by Judith M. Barringer and Jeffrey M. Hurwit, New York, USA: University of Texas Press, (2005): pp23-36.
• Miller, Margaret C. Athens and Persia in the fifth century BC: a study in cultural receptivity. Cambridge University Press, (1997)
• Osborne, Robin. “Why did Athenian pots appeal to the Etruscans?.” World Archaeology 33, no. 2 (2001): pp277-295.
• Singor, Henk W. “The military side of the Peisistratean tyranny.” In Peisistratos and the Tyranny, Brill, (2000): pp107-129.
• Smith, Amy. “Eurymedon and the Evolution of Political Personifications in the Early Classical Period.” The Journal of Hellenic Studies119 (1999): pp128–41.
• Spivey, Nigel. “Greek vases in Etruria.” American Journal of Archaeology 110, no. 4 (2006): pp659-661.
• Steiner, Ann. Reading greek vases. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, (2007)

(Fig 1): https://artuk.org/discover/artworks/the-soldiers-departure-102606

(Fig 2): https://collections.artsmia.org/art/37473/warrior-departing-for-a-battle-kobayashi-kiyochika

(Fig 3): https://www.life.com/history/true-romance-the-heartache-of-wartime-farewells-1943/

(Fig 4): https://www.britishmuseum.org/collection/object/G_1836-0224-95

(Fig 5): https://www.britishmuseum.org/collection/object/G_1836-0224-95

(Fig 6): https://www.britishmuseum.org/collection/object/G_1843-1103-81

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^[i] See George Morland’s The Soldiers Departure, Kobayashi Kiyochika’s ‘Warrior Departing for a Battle’, and Alfred Eisenstaedt’s Farewell to departing troops at New York’s Penn Station as culturally and temporally diverse examples.

^[ii] Matheson (2005) p. 23.

^[iii] Ivantchick (2006) p. 201.

^[iv] Matheson (2005) p. 23.

^[v] Matheson (2005) p. 26.

^[vi] Figured in Hopkin (2001) p. 25.

^[vii] Hopkin (2001) p. 23-5.

^[viii] Hopkin (2001) p. 35.

^[ix] Matheson (2005) p. 26-9.

^[x] Ivantchick (2006) p. 205, 202.

^[xi] Hölscher (2003) p. 10.

^[xii] Bovon (1963) p. 587-588.

^[xiii] For an extensive discussion of the identity of similar figures often identified as Scythian, see Ivantchick (2006).

^[xiv] Ivantchick (2006) p. 206.

^[xv] Cf. Smith (1999).

^[xvi] Sending envoys to the Persians in 507/6 BCE (Hdt. 5.73) and only deciding upon open hostility in 502/1 (Hdt 5.96) Miller (1997) p. 4.

^[xvii] Steiner (2007) p. 25.

^[xviii] The other not figured here is Wurzburg 103. Figured in Beazley (1927) p. 73

^[xix] Matheson (2005) p. 25

^[xx] Singor (2000) p.118.

^[xxi] Spivey (2006) p. 660.

^[xxii] Gill and Vickers (1995) p. 245.

^[xxiii] Cf. Hopkin (2001).

^[xxiv] Boardman (1999) p. 202.

^[xxv] Barringer (2001) p. 3.

^[xxvi] Cf. Osbourne (2001).

^[xxvii] Matheson (2005) p. 26.

^[xxviii] Cf. Cooke (1996).

^[xxix] Fiala (2008) p. 53.

^[xxx] Eisenstaedt and his family having fled from Nazi persecution of Jews, Ciment (2007) p. 585.