Last spring, I found myself in a familiar yet deeply transformative space—John Paul Lederach’s MA class at the University of Notre Dame, Indiana, USA. It wasn’t just another class. For me, it was a return to the wellspring of my calling, a journey back to the heart of peacebuilding at a time I was beginning to question its very meaning in my life.
Each class began with a moment of reflection. Soft, instrumental music played in the background as we quietly journaled our thoughts. There were no instructions, no expectations—just space. In that silence, I listened—not only to what was around me, but to the quiet stirrings within. It was perhaps the most profound classroom experience I have ever had.
John Paul Lederach or JPL, as many call him, is known globally as a pioneer in conflict transformation. But what stood out to me wasn’t his academic brilliance; it was his humility, his storytelling, and the deep wisdom that flowed like a river through every word he spoke. His two-hour classes often felt like intimate fireside gatherings, where an elder shared stories drawn from the depth of human experience.
He spoke about encounters with people from war-torn countries, reflections from decades of peacebuilding work, and the ideas that had shaped his thinking. Some stories were already familiar from his writings; others were tender, deeply personal recollections he entrusted to us in the classroom. In those moments, he reminded me of the African elders back home in Kokwo, telling stories under the stars—stories not just meant to entertain, but to teach, heal, and remind us who we are.
Despite his stature, JPL never used “big” academic words to impress. He talked about real life—about people and pain, transformation and trust. His words landed softly but deeply, and often stayed with me long after class had ended.
He didn’t grade us hard, and he didn’t demand perfection. He welcomed us as we were. For me, that meant everything. In that classroom, I found my footing again, after months of feeling burnt out, disillusioned, and unsure whether peace work was still my calling. Sitting under his tutelage was like receiving the gentle reassurance I didn’t even know I needed: “You still belong here.”
I kept a journal throughout the course, as he encouraged us to do. Not for marks or for review, but as a practice of listening. “Listen to yourself,” he would say, “and then listen to others. That’s how peace begins.” In a world full of noise and reaction, that was a radical and deeply healing practice.
My journey with JPL didn’t begin in that Notre Dame classroom. I first met him in 1999, at a peacebuilding evaluation workshop in Nyeri, Kenya, organized by the Nairobi Peace Initiative and the National Council of Churches of Kenya (NCCK), where I served as a field officer. I was new to the work, full of questions and uncertainty, but his ideas resonated with me instantly.
Later that year, I met him again in Naivasha during a follow-up workshop. We didn’t speak much then, but I vividly remember his tribute to the late Rose Barmasai, our colleague and a remarkable peacebuilder, who had tragically died in a road accident while returning from a peace meeting in Baringo. Her death was a personal blow to JPL. She had been his student at the Summer Peacebuilding Institute (SPI) at Eastern Mennonite University, and a friend he deeply respected.
Years later, I read his reflections on those workshops in his book Moral Imagination: The Soul and Art of Peacebuilding, where he beautifully described “African time” based on our discussions in Kenya. That mention felt deeply personal, like our small moments had found their place in a larger story. The book was also dedicated to Rose Barmasi.
And now, more than a decade after those meetings, there I was—thirteen years later, sitting in DeBartolo Hall at Notre Dame, listening again to the same man whose words had once helped define my journey in peace work. He looked older, yes, but still full of life, still energized by the ideals we once shared across continents and time.
As I walked out of that classroom each week, I didn’t just carry notes or theories. I carried renewed faith in the work I had committed my life to. I had remembered who I was.
John Paul Lederach taught me that peace is not a project. It is a way of being. And for that, I will always be grateful.
