We are seated in a seminar room in Dushanbe with twenty-four Professors from eight universities across Tajikistan. I had just finished what I thought was quite an excellent presentation on the process of mediation when over tea Abdul, the only Professor in our group who knows some of the inner details of how the Tajiks negotiated while war raged and how they brought the Islamic movements into negotiation rather than isolating or trying to defeat them, draws me to a corner with a translator to tell me a story.
"I was asked by the government to approach and convince one of warlords, a key Mullah-Commander located in the mountains to enter negotiations," Abdul begins. "This was difficult if not impossible, because this Commander was considered a notorious criminal, and worse, he had killed one of my close friends." Abdul stops while the translator conveys the personal side of his challenge.
"When I first got to his camp the Commander said I had arrived late and it was time for prayers. So we went together and prayed. When we had finished, he said to me, 'How can a communist pray?'
'I am not a communist, my father was.' I responded.
Then he asked what I taught in the University. We soon discovered we were both interested in Philosophy and Sufism. We started talking Sufi poetry. Our meeting went from twenty minutes to two and half hours. In this part of the world you have to circle into Truth through stories."
In the hallway Abdul's gold capped teeth sparkle with a smile as he relays his message: "You see in Sufism there is an idea that discussion has no end."
His point well conveyed, the Professor picks up the story again.
"I kept going to visit him. We mostly talked poetry and philosophy. Little by little I asked him about ending the war. I wanted to persuade him to take the chance on putting down his weapons. After months of visits we finally had enough trust to speak truths and it all boiled down to one concern."
"The Commander said to me, 'If I put down my weapons and go to Dushanbe with you, can you guarantee my safety and life?'" The Tajik storyteller pauses with full sense of the moment. "My difficulty was that I could not guarantee his safety."
He waits for the translator to finish making sure I have understood the weight of his peacemaking dilemma and then concludes.
"So I told my philosopher warlord friend the truth, 'I cannot guarantee your safety.'"
In the hallway Professor Abdul swings his arm under mine and come to stand fully by my side to emphasize the answer he then gave the Commander.
"But I can guarantee this. I will go with you, side by side. And if you die I will die.'"
The hallway is totally quiet.
"That day the Commander agreed to meet the Government. Some weeks later we came down together from the mountains. When he first met with the Commission he told them, ' I have not come because of your Government. I have come for honor and respect of this Professor.'
"You see, my young American friend," Abdul taps my arm lightly, "this is Tajik mediation."
"I was asked by the government to approach and convince one of warlords, a key Mullah-Commander located in the mountains to enter negotiations," Abdul begins. "This was difficult if not impossible, because this Commander was considered a notorious criminal, and worse, he had killed one of my close friends." Abdul stops while the translator conveys the personal side of his challenge.
"When I first got to his camp the Commander said I had arrived late and it was time for prayers. So we went together and prayed. When we had finished, he said to me, 'How can a communist pray?'
'I am not a communist, my father was.' I responded.
Then he asked what I taught in the University. We soon discovered we were both interested in Philosophy and Sufism. We started talking Sufi poetry. Our meeting went from twenty minutes to two and half hours. In this part of the world you have to circle into Truth through stories."
In the hallway Abdul's gold capped teeth sparkle with a smile as he relays his message: "You see in Sufism there is an idea that discussion has no end."
His point well conveyed, the Professor picks up the story again.
"I kept going to visit him. We mostly talked poetry and philosophy. Little by little I asked him about ending the war. I wanted to persuade him to take the chance on putting down his weapons. After months of visits we finally had enough trust to speak truths and it all boiled down to one concern."
"The Commander said to me, 'If I put down my weapons and go to Dushanbe with you, can you guarantee my safety and life?'" The Tajik storyteller pauses with full sense of the moment. "My difficulty was that I could not guarantee his safety."
He waits for the translator to finish making sure I have understood the weight of his peacemaking dilemma and then concludes.
"So I told my philosopher warlord friend the truth, 'I cannot guarantee your safety.'"
In the hallway Professor Abdul swings his arm under mine and come to stand fully by my side to emphasize the answer he then gave the Commander.
"But I can guarantee this. I will go with you, side by side. And if you die I will die.'"
The hallway is totally quiet.
"That day the Commander agreed to meet the Government. Some weeks later we came down together from the mountains. When he first met with the Commission he told them, ' I have not come because of your Government. I have come for honor and respect of this Professor.'
"You see, my young American friend," Abdul taps my arm lightly, "this is Tajik mediation."
The Moral Imagination: The Art and Soul of Building Peace
By John Paul Lederach
Association of Conflict Resolution 2004 Annual Conference Keynote Presentation
Sacramento, September 30, 2004
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