On one hand, it seems strange that a country that has suffered

“On one hand, it seems strange that a country that has suffered so much from violence and war would be debating if they want peace or not. But in Colombia, a part of society is deeply connected with the war as a means of making a living.” Thus spoke Ingrid Betancourt, a woman who herself endured captivity in the Colombian conflict, and whose words strike at the heart of one of humanity’s oldest paradoxes: that even when war has wounded a people, they may yet cling to it, for in its shadow they have built their lives. This is not a celebration of war, but a lament for its grip, its power to shape economies, loyalties, and identities, until even peace itself becomes a fearful prospect.

The meaning of Betancourt’s words lies in the recognition that war is not only destruction; it is also a system, a way of life, an engine that employs and sustains. In Colombia, decades of conflict between the government, guerrillas, and paramilitary groups carved deep scars into the land, but also created industries—arms, drugs, protection, smuggling—that fed families and built fortunes. To those far from the battlefield, it may seem unimaginable to question peace; yet to those entwined in the machinery of war, to lay down arms is to lay down livelihood. Thus, Betancourt unmasks the tragic knot: that some fear peace not for what it brings, but for what it takes away.

History offers us a mirror. In ancient Rome, after centuries of conquest, there were those who feared the end of expansion, for war was their wealth. Soldiers, merchants, even senators grew rich from the spoils of battle. When Augustus sought to bring the Pax Romana, some voices resisted, for they knew peace would end their flow of gold. Rome, like Colombia, revealed the truth that societies can grow so entangled with war that peace itself becomes a threat to their way of life. The paradox is not new; it is eternal.

Consider also the United States after the Civil War. Millions who had profited from slavery and war economies resisted reconstruction, for the peace that freed the enslaved also disrupted their own wealth. This resistance fueled decades of division and injustice. Here again, Betancourt’s words echo: peace is not simply an agreement or a treaty; it is a reshaping of society, a reordering of lives. And for those whose survival is tied to violence, that reshaping feels like ruin.

Yet Betancourt does not leave us in despair. Her statement is not only description, but warning: if peace is to take root, it must address not only the wounds of the heart, but also the hands that labor. To call for peace while leaving whole communities without purpose, without work, without bread, is to build a fragile peace that will soon crumble. True reconciliation demands more than silence of guns; it demands the building of new roads for survival, so that men no longer sell violence as their trade.

The lesson for us is deep: when seeking peace, whether in nations or in our own lives, we must remember that conflict often creates its own dependencies. Anger, rivalry, and hatred may become habits, even identities. To end them requires not only desire, but new ways of living, new ways of sustaining the self. This is as true in families and communities as it is in nations: if you ask a man to give up his battle, you must also offer him a way to live in peace.

Therefore, children of tomorrow, heed Betancourt’s wisdom. Do not be naïve in seeking peace, but neither be afraid of its price. Build it with care, with patience, with provision for those who have known nothing else. For peace is not simply the absence of war; it is the planting of new seeds where old fields have been scorched. And remember: a society may debate peace, but only when it learns to feed itself without war will peace endure.