Building Peace in Turbulent Times: Architecture, Memory, and the Legacy of Conflict

St Peter's Seminary Alter, Cardross, Scotland

Text and Image By Frazer Macdonald Hay

In a world where conflicts persist in regions like Ukraine, Gaza, and Sudan, and where aid budgets are being reduced amid rising geopolitical tensions, the concept of peacebuilding can seem distant. The foundations of liberal democratic peace feel increasingly fragile in the face of trade wars and shifting global alliances.

Yet, it is precisely in these challenging times that reimagining peacebuilding becomes crucial. How do we rebuild not just structures, but trust, memory, and a sense of place in communities scarred by violence?

Over the past decade, working at the intersection of architecture, heritage, and post-conflict recovery, I've grappled with these questions. From war-damaged sites in Mosul to consultations in Iraq's fractured towns, I've witnessed firsthand how the built environment carries both the scars of conflict and the potential for healing.

This article explores the evolving role of architecture in peacebuilding, especially when traditional approaches are under strain. It delves into how the built environment can serve as a medium for memory, dialogue, and transformation, even amidst the uncertainties of our current global landscape.

The Legacy of Liberal Peacebuilding

Liberal peacebuilding—despite criticism—remains the dominant global approach to post-conflict recovery. It aims to address not only political and economic structures, but the social wounds between neighbours and communities divided by identity, ideology, or history.

As Maynard wrote in 1997, these processes often unfold “in the wake of destroyed infrastructure and indeterminable psychological damage.” And yet, as violence threatens to return in many fragile states, there’s renewed urgency around the tools and symbols that can help societies hold together.

Symbolic Conflict and the Power of Place

Modern conflicts—what some call “New Wars”—are often driven by identity and symbolism. Kalyvas characterises them as contests of ethnic belonging; Hirst describes war not just as destruction, but as narrative. War tells people who they are, where they belong, and why they must fight.

After war ends, these symbolic battles continue—in memory, in meaning, and in the built environment.

Architecture in Times of Violence

Architecture is deeply entangled with conflict. It can act as:

• An instrument of violence—like segregation walls or internment camps.

• A response to violence—seen in refugee camps, field clinics, or informal shelters.

• A register of violence—in ruins, abandoned buildings, or spaces left to decay.

It is this final category—architecture as register—that has most shaped my work. These spaces do more than reflect history; they remember it. And increasingly, they are being reimagined to support peace.

Architecture as a Peacebuilding Tool

Because architecture is visible, durable, and symbolic, it can serve as a powerful medium for peacebuilding. Scholars like Driessen and Rapoport argue that the built environment shapes behaviour and reflects ideology. In that way, architecture becomes a language—a way to communicate values without words.

In my practice, I’ve seen how built spaces can help people bear witness to trauma, honour resilience, and begin to reimagine shared futures. Schmitt writes that architecture “works through trauma,” while Berger and Wong describe ruins as “new witnesses,” helping to pass on difficult histories to new generations.

The Fragility and Power of Memory

But memory is never simple. It is personal, contested, and often political. A single building can mean pride for one group and pain for another.

Bevan reminds us that architecture prompts memory, but doesn’t fix it in place—meanings shift over time. Lowenthal argues that memory is deeply individual: “We can no more share a memory than we can share pain.” And yet, societies continue to anchor their histories in built forms—museums, plaques, ruins, and reimagined spaces.

Controlling Memory, Controlling the Future

The politics of memory are fraught. As Berger and Wong note, “violence renders memories difficult.” Triumph for one group can mean devastation for another. And those in power often shape what is remembered—and what is forgotten.

Orwell captured this chillingly in 1984:

“Who controls the past controls the future. Who controls the present controls the past.”

This is why architectural work in post-conflict contexts must be done with empathy, care, and a deep awareness of competing narratives.

Reclaiming and Reimagining the Past

The adaptive reuse of buildings offers a powerful way to reclaim the past—without erasing its complexity. I’ve seen this in my own work, where communities choose not to demolish ruins, but to reinterpret them. Not to forget, but to reframe.

We see this at scale in projects like Berlin’s Reichstag, redesigned by Norman Foster as a beacon of democratic resurgence. Or in smaller gestures, like Bunker 599 in the Netherlands, where a WWII fortification has been cut open—inviting people to walk through and reflect on its layered history.

These projects remind us that architecture is not only functional—it is emotional, symbolic, and capable of transformation.

Looking Forward: Memory as a Tool for Peace

Navigating memory in post-conflict settings is never easy. But it is necessary.

As Brewer notes, “the convergence of memory, nationalism and ethnic violence often constitutes an ‘unholy trinity’.” Yet memory can also be a pivotal force for peace—if approached with honesty, inclusion, and care.

When architecture is used to reflect, acknowledge, and adapt, it can help rebuild not just walls, but trust. It can restore a sense of place, belonging, and hope.

As McDowell and Braniff argue:

“Peace processes must look to the past... and construct (or deconstruct) it in such a way as to allow society to move forward.”