You have invited me to speak on a subject which eludes the modern use of certain English terms. Violence now lurks in many key words of the English language. John F. Kennedy could wage war on poverty; pacifists now plan strategies (literally, war plans) for peace. In this language, currently shaped for aggression, I must talk to you about the recovery of a true sense of peace, while bearing in mind always that I know nothing about your vernacular tongue. Therefore, each word I speak today will remind me of the difficulty of putting peace into words. To me, it seems that each people’s peace is as distinct as each people’s poetry. Hence, the translation of peace is a task as arduous as the translation of poetry.

Peace has a different meaning for each epoch and for each culture area. This is a point on which Professor Takeshi Ishida has written. And, as he reminds us, within each culture area peace means something different both at the center and on the margins. At the center, the emphasis is on ‘peace keeping’; on the margin, people hope to be ‘left in peace.’ During three so-called Development Decades, the latter meaning, people’s peace, has lost out. This is my main thesis: under the cover of ‘development,’ a worldwide war has been waged against people’s peace. In developed areas today, not much is left of the people’s peace. I believe that limits to economic development, originating at the grass roots, are the principal condition for people to recover their peace.

Culture has always given meaning to peace. Each ethnos — people, community, culture — has been mirrored, symbolically expressed and reinforced by its own ethos — myth, law, goddess, ideal — of peace. Peace is as vernacular as speech. In the examples chosen by Professor Ishida, this correspondence between ethnos and ethos appears with great clarity. Take the Jews; look at the Jewish patriarch when he raises his arms in blessing over his family and flock. He invokes shalom, which we translate as peace. He sees shalom as grace, flowing from heaven, ‘like oil dripping through the beard of Aaron the forefather.’ For the Semitic father, peace is the blessing of justice which the one true God pours over the twelve tribes of recently settled shepherds.

To the Jew, the angel announces shalom, not the Roman pax. Roman peace means something utterly different. When the Roman governor raises the ensign of his legion to ram it into the soil of Palestine, he does not look toward heaven. He faces a far-off city; he imposes its law and its order. There is nothing in common between shalom and this pax romana, though both exist in the same place and time.

In our time, both have faded. Shalom has retired into a privatized realm of religion, and pax has invaded the world as ‘peace’ — paix, pace. Through two thousand years of use by governing élites, pax has become a polemical catchall. The term was exploited by Constantine to turn the cross into ideology. Charlemagne utilized it to justify the genocide of the Saxons. Pax was the term employed by Innocent III to subject the sword to the cross. In modern times, leaders manipulate it to put the party in control of the army. Spoken by both St Francis and Clemenceau, pax has now lost the boundaries of its meaning. It has become a sectarian and proselytizing term, whether used by the establishment or by dissidents, whether its legitimacy is claimed by the East or the West.

The idea of pax has a colorful history, in spite of the fact that little research has been done on it. Historians have been more occupied filling library shelves with treatises on war and its techniques. Huo’ping and Shanti seem to have meanings today which are not unlike those of the past. But between them there is a gulf; they are not comparable at all. The Huo’ping of the Chinese means smooth, tranquil harmony within the hierarchy of the heavens, while the Shanti of the Indians refers primarily to intimate, personal, cosmic, non-hierarchic awakening. In short, there is no ‘identity’ in peace.

In its concrete sense, peace places the ‘I’ within the corresponding ‘we’. But in each language area, this correspondence is different. Peace fixes the meaning of the first person plural. By defining the form of the exclusive ‘we’ (the kami of the Malay languages), peace is the base on which the inclusive ‘we’ (the kita) of the Malay languages comes naturally to most speakers around the Pacific. It is a grammatical difference utterly foreign to Europe, and completely lacking in Western pax. Modern Europe’s undifferentiated ‘we’ is semantically aggressive. Therefore, Asian research cannot be too wary of pax, which has no respect for kita, the Adat. Here in the Far East it should be easier than in the West to base peace research on what ought perhaps to be its fundamental axiom: war tends to make cultures alike whereas peace is that condition under which each culture flowers in its own incomparable way. From this it follows that peace cannot be exported; it is inevitably corrupted by transfer, its attempted export means war. When peace research neglects this ethnological truism, it turns into a technology of peace keeping: either degraded into some kind of moral rearmament, or perverted into the negative polemology (war science) of the high brass and their computer games.

Peace remains unreal, merely an abstraction, unless it stands for an ethno-anthropological reality. But it would remain equally unreal if we did not attend to its historical dimension. Until quite recently, war could not totally destroy peace, could not penetrate all of its levels, because the continuation of war was based on the survival of the subsistence cultures which fed it. Traditional warfare depended on the continuation of people’s peace. Too many historians have neglected this fact; they make history appear as a tale of wars. This is clearly true of classical historians, who tend to report on the rise and fall of the powerful. Unfortunately, it is equally true for many of the newer historians who want to act as reporters from the camps of those who never made it, who want to tell the tales of the vanquished, to evoke the images of those who have disappeared. Too often these new historians are more interested in the violence than the peace of the poor. They primarily chronicle resistance, mutinies, insurgencies, riots of slaves, peasants, minorities, marginals; in more recent times, the class struggles of proletarians and the discrimination battles of women.

In comparison with the historians of power, the new historians of popular culture have a difficult task. Historians of élite cultures, of wars waged by armies, write about the centers of cultural areas. For their documentation they have monuments, decrees engraved in stone, commercial correspondence, the autobiographies of kings and the firm trails made by marching armies. Historians from the losing camp have no evidence of this kind. They report on subjects which often have been erased from the face of the earth, on people whose remains have been stamped out by their enemies, or blown away by the wind. The historians of peasantry and nomads, of village culture and home life, of women and infants, have few traces to examine. They must reconstruct the past from hunches, must be attentive to hints which they find in proverbs, riddles and songs. Often the only verbatim records left behind by the poor, especially women, are the responses made by witches and rogues under torture, statements recorded by the courts. Modern anthropological history (the history of popular cultures, l’histoire des mentalités) has had to develop techniques to make these odd remnants intelligible.

But this new history often tends to focus on war. It portrays the weak principally in their confrontations with those against whom they must defend themselves. It recounts stories of resistance and only by implication reports on the peace of the past. Conflict makes opponents comparable; it introduces simplicity into the past; it fosters the illusion that what has gone before can be related in twentieth-century uniquack. Thus war, which makes cultures alike, is all too often used by historians as the framework or skeleton of their narratives. Today there is a desperate need for the history of peace, a history infinitely more diverse than the story of war.

What is now designated as peace research very often lacks historical perspective. The subject of this research is ‘peace’ purged of its cultural and historical components. Paradoxically, peace was turned into an academic subject just when it had been reduced to a balance between sovereign, economic powers acting under the assumption of scarcity. Thus study is restricted to research on the least violent truce between competitors locked into a zero-sum game. Like searchlights, the concepts of this research focus on scarcity. But in the process of such research, the peaceful enjoyment of that which is not scarce, people’s peace, is left in a zone of deep shadow.

The assumption of scarcity is fundamental to economics, and formal economics is the study of values under this assumption. But scarcity, and therefore all that can be meaningfully analyzed by formal economics, has been of marginal importance in the lives of most people through most of history. The spread of scarcity into all aspects of life can be chronicled; it has occurred in European civilization since the Middle Ages. Under the expanding assumption of scarcity, peace acquired a new meaning, one without precedent anywhere but in Europe. Peace came to mean pax œconomica. Pax œconomica is a balance between formally ‘economic’ powers.

The history of this new reality deserves our attention. And the process through which pax œconomica monopolized the meaning of peace is especially important. This is the first meaning of peace to achieve worldwide acceptance. And such a monopoly ought to be deeply worrisome. Therefore, I want to contrast pax œconomica with its opposite and complement, popular peace.

Since the establishment of the United Nations, peace has been progressively linked with development. Previously this linkage had been unthinkable. The novelty of it can hardly be understood by people under forty. The curious situation is more easily intelligible for those who were, like myself, adults on January 10, 1949, the day President Harry Truman announced the Point Four Program. On that day most of us met the term ‘development’ for the first time in its present meaning. Until then we had used ‘development’ to refer to species, to real estate and to moves in chess. But since then it can refer to people, to countries and to economic strategies. And in less than a generation we were flooded with conflicting development theories. By now, however, most of them are merely curiosities for collectors. You may remember, with some embarrassment, how generous people were urged to make sacrifices for a succession of programs aimed at ‘raising per capita income,’ ‘catching up with the advanced countries,’ ‘overcoming dependencies.’ And you now wonder at the many things once deemed worthy of export: ‘achievement orientation,’ ‘atoms for peace,’ ‘jobs,’ ‘windmills’ and, currently, ‘alternative life styles’ and professionally supervised ‘self-help.’ Each of these theoretical incursions came in waves. One brought the self-styled pragmatists who emphasized enterprise, the other would-be politicians who relied on ‘conscientizing’ people into the foreign ideology. Both camps agreed on growth. Both advocated rising production and increased dependence on consumption. And each camp with its sect of experts, each assembly of saviors, always linked its own scheme for development to peace. Concrete peace, by thus being linked to development, became a partisan goal. And the pursuit of peace through development became the overarching unexaminable axiom. Anyone who opposed economic growth, not this kind or that, but economic growth as such, could be denounced as an enemy of peace. Even Gandhi was cast into the role of the fool, the romantic or the psychopath. And worse, his teachings were perverted into so-called non-violent strategies for development. His peace, too, was linked to growth. Khadi was redefined as a ‘commodity,’ and non-violence as an economic weapon. The assumption of the economist, that values are not worth protecting unless they are scarce, has turned pax œconomica into a threat to people’s peace.

The linkage of peace to development has made it difficult to challenge the latter. Let me suggest that such a challenge should now be the main task of peace research. And the fact that development means different things to different people is no obstacle. It means one thing to trans-national corporation executives, another to ministers of the Warsaw Pact, and something else again to the architects of the New International Economic Order. But the convergence of all parties on the need for development has given the notion a new status. This agreement has made development the condition for the pursuit of the nineteenth-century ideals of equality and democracy, with the proviso that these be restricted within the assumptions of scarcity. Under the disputes around the issue of ‘who gets what’ the unavoidable costs inherent in all development have been buried. But during the seventies one part of these costs has come to light. Some obvious ‘truths’ suddenly become controversial. Under the ecology label, the limits of resources, of tolerable poison and stress, become political issues. But the violent aggression against the environment’s utilization value has so far not been sufficiently disenterred. To expose the violence against subsistence which is implicit in all further growth, and which is veiled by pax œconomica, seems to me a prime task of radical peace research.

In both theory and practice all development means the transformation of subsistence-oriented cultures and their integration into an economic system. Development always entails the expansion of a formally economic sphere at the expense of subsistence-oriented activities. It means the progressive ‘disembedding’ of a sphere in which exchange takes place under the assumption of a zero-sum game. And this expansion proceeds at the cost of all other traditional forms of exchange.

Thus development always implies the propagation of scarcity-dependence on goods and services perceived as scarce. Development necessarily creates a milieu from which the conditions for subsistence activities have been eliminated in the process of making the milieu over into a resource for the production and circulation of commodities. Development thus inevitably means the imposition of pax œconomica at the cost of every form of popular peace.

To illustrate the opposition between people’s peace and pax œconomica, let me turn to the European Middle Ages. In so doing, I emphatically do not advocate a return to the past. I look at the past only to illustrate the dynamic opposition between two complementary forms of peace, both formally recognized. I explore the past rather than some social science theo...