The Era of Peacebuilding Has Not Ended. It Has Moved Home
Why the built environment matters in an age of deterrence
For much of the past three decades, Western governments believed that peace could be built. The language of international policy reflected that confidence. Democracy promotion, humanitarian assistance, institution building and post-conflict reconstruction became the dominant vocabulary of security. Architects, planners, conservationists and humanitarian organisations found themselves contributing to that ambition by rebuilding cities, restoring cultural heritage and helping fractured societies recover from violence.
I built my own career within that world. For more than twenty years I have worked in places emerging from conflict, exploring the relationship between architecture, cultural heritage and peacebuilding. Whether in Iraq, Ukraine or elsewhere, I found myself returning to one deceptively simple question: how do places help societies recover?
Today, however, the political vocabulary has changed.
Across Europe and North America, governments speak less about peacebuilding and more about deterrence. Defence budgets are rising. Borders are hardening. Critical infrastructure has become a national security priority. Civil preparedness has returned to political debate. The optimism that followed the end of the Cold War has given way to a far more uncertain geopolitical landscape.
For many working in international peacebuilding, this feels like the closing of a chapter.
I
believe it marks the beginning of another.
Not because peacebuilding has become irrelevant, but because many of its most important lessons have become necessary much closer to home.
The modern state has two equally important responsibilities. The first is obvious: to protect its citizens from external threats. Russia's invasion of Ukraine, increasing geopolitical competition, cyber attacks and threats to critical infrastructure demand serious responses. Defence matters. Borders matter. Supply chains matter. Every government has a duty to prepare.
The second responsibility is discussed far less often.
Governments must ensure that fear does not become the organising principle of everyday civic life.
This responsibility does not belong solely to politicians or military planners. It also belongs to architects, planners, conservationists, engineers, landscape designers, local authorities and communities themselves. It belongs to everyone involved in shaping the places where citizenship is quietly practised every day.
I first began to appreciate this while working in Ukraine.
After almost every air raid, I noticed the same remarkable pattern. People emerged from shelters, looked briefly at the sky, and then gravitated back towards one another. Cafés reopened. Libraries filled. Railway stations resumed their rhythm. Underpasses became marketplaces once again. Musicians played in public parks despite the possibility of another siren. Life was not returning because the danger had disappeared; it was returning because people instinctively sought the reassurance of shared civic life.
Kyiv's Independence Square perhaps illustrates this better than anywhere else. The square has become one of Europe's largest unofficial memorials. Thousands of flags commemorate those who have lost their lives defending Ukraine. Yet around this place of mourning, ordinary city life continues. Children play. Friends meet. Visitors linger. The square has become both a memorial and a living civic space. The city is not simply surviving; it is continually rebuilding confidence in itself.
Years earlier, standing among the ruins of Mosul following the defeat of ISIS, I witnessed something strikingly similar. Recovery did not begin when new buildings appeared. It began when people returned to familiar ones. Shops reopened. Streets regained their colour. Conversations resumed. Local organisations, such as the Mosul Heritage Foundation, understood that protecting heritage was never simply about preserving old buildings. It was about restoring civic confidence. Architecture was not the objective; it was the medium through which society recognised itself again.
These experiences changed the way I think about resilience.
Scotland is not Ukraine, nor is it post-conflict Iraq. Yet resilience is quietly practised here every day. I see it in East Lothian's coastal rowing clubs launching before dawn, in RNLI volunteers, Coastguard teams, harbour communities, libraries hosting conversations, conservation groups restoring coastlines and the countless local organisations that bring people together without attracting national attention.
These places matter because resilience is not something societies suddenly invent during emergencies.
It is something they quietly rehearse.
At the same time, I cannot ignore the warning signs around us. Communities are under economic pressure. Public services are stretched. Loneliness is increasing. Political differences are becoming more deeply entrenched. The cost of living has changed the way people experience their towns and cities, while many of the informal places where strangers once encountered one another have gradually disappeared.
Resilience is not only threatened by missiles.
Sometimes it is quietly eroded through isolation.
There is also a profound irony within modern security policy. As states become materially stronger, citizens often feel psychologically less secure. Walls, surveillance systems, barriers and visible security measures all communicate an unavoidable message: danger is close. Necessary though many of these measures undoubtedly are, they can also reinforce a culture of permanent vigilance.
This is not an argument against defence.
It is an argument for recognising that military resilience and civic resilience are different things.
A nation may possess formidable armed forces while simultaneously becoming socially fragile.
This is where the built environment becomes critically important.
Architecture is not simply physical infrastructure. It is psychological infrastructure. Roads connect regions. Ports move goods. Power stations provide energy. Military bases deter aggression. But libraries cultivate trust. Parks encourage coexistence.
Museums preserve shared memory. Schools shape citizenship. Community centres create belonging.
Each supports a different dimension of national resilience.
Some of the most thoughtful examples already exist. Around the Eiffel Tower, protective barriers have been integrated into the landscape through transparent bullet-resistant glass and carefully designed planting. Across London, benches, planters and public art increasingly perform the work of hostile vehicle protection while making public spaces feel more welcoming rather than more intimidating. Helsinki's celebrated Oodi Library was deliberately conceived as "the nation's living room", offering one of the few remaining indoor public spaces where anyone is welcome without the expectation of spending money.
These projects reveal something important.
Protection does not have to look like fear.
Security and openness are not opposites. Good design allows societies to remain both protected and confident.
For much of my career, I described my work as peacebuilding. Increasingly, I think that description has become too narrow. The questions facing democratic societies have changed. How do we remain confident during prolonged uncertainty? How do we strengthen national resilience without allowing fear to define public life? How do we prepare for insecurity while preserving the openness that makes liberal democracies worth defending?
These are not military questions alone.
They are questions of architecture, planning, conservation, education, landscape and place.
Perhaps the era of peacebuilding has not ended.
Perhaps it has simply moved home.
As governments invest billions in strengthening military capability, we should also be asking what kinds of places help citizens remain open, generous and confident during prolonged periods of uncertainty. Nations are defended not only by what stands at their borders, but by what happens inside them, in the schools, libraries, parks, museums, railway stations and neighbourhoods where democratic life is quietly practised every day.
The age of peacebuilding taught us how to rebuild societies after violence.
The age of deterrence may require us to answer an even more fundamental question.
What makes a society worth defending in the first place?
Frazer Hay is the founder of Uniform November, an independent consultancy working at the intersection of place, security and societal resilience. His work explores how architecture, heritage and the built environment shape recovery, identity and democratic resilience.
