International Peace Day – Monday, September 21, 2026 – University of Rhode Island, Kingston, RI
Center for Nonviolence & Peace Studies – Promoting peace and a global beloved community through nonviolence – International Day of Peace
September 21, 2024, 10:00 AM – 2:00 PM – URI Quad, Kingston, RI
What Is PEACE?
If there is peace…
- What will I feel?
- What will I see?
- What will I hear?
- How will I speak?
- How will I treat others?
- Will everyone feel safe?
- Will everyone belong?
- Will there be kindness?
- Will there be justice?
- Will there be forgiveness?
- Will there be hope?
- Will there be love?
How will I know when there is peace?
Westerly Friends Joined Maya Parker and Her Parents – Winner of the Peace Essay Contest – May 13, 2026
Maya read her peace essay to grateful group of Friends
Where I Return
The ocean neighboring my town is never as calm as it appears. Even on muted days, when the surface stretches out smooth and gray, there is always something moving underneath—currents shifting, tides pulling, waves forming far beyond what I can follow. Growing up along the coast of the Ocean State, in a small town called Westerly, the water has always been more than just a backdrop. It’s a part of our everyday life—the early morning fog that rolls in over the shore and bleeds into the forests, the pungent salt that lingers in the air, the way the town seems to breathe differently in the summer when the beaches fill and warmth spreads, and then exhale in the harsher, colder months when everything slows down again, and snow makes its return. Places like Misquamicut, Weekapaug, and Watch Hill, have shaped the way I interpret the world, showing me how movement and stillness can exist simultaneously. I used to anticipate that peace intended serenity, an idea that’s soft and undisturbed. But the ocean has shown me otherwise. Peace is not the absence of motion or conflict; it is the ability to exist within it without being consumed.
I’ve learned this not in dramatic moments, but in small ones—standing on the cold sand in the fall or winter, when the beaches are empty and the wind is sharp enough to make everything feel more honest and bare. And the times when the ferris wheel at SpringFest stopped right at the perfect moment just so I could get a perfect view of the waves in golden hour. There have been moments where I’ve gone to the lookouts overwhelmed, my thoughts loud and twisted, expecting the ocean to somehow bring reassurance. It never does, at least not in the moment. The waves continue their steady rhythm, indifferent to whatever I’ve brought with me. And yet, over time, something shifts. Not the ocean, but myself. I begin to understand its momentum and move with it, to grasp that peace isn’t something given to me—it’s something I choose to return to, again and again, and it’s a sort of cure that many people in this town refer to as well.
As I’ve committed myself to putting more thought into this way of thinking, I have begun to see its impact not just within myself, but throughout Westerly. I’ve come to acknowledge that everyone has these bad days misunderstandings with friends and family, moments of stress, the bipolar change of weather—they seem to no longer be pulling anyone under as easily when the thought of peace has become more practiced everyday. With being such a small town, where interactions are constant and connections run deep, small choices carry surprisingly big weight. By choosing patience over reaction and empathy over assumption, I’ve been able to contribute to a sense of trust and contentment that extends beyond a single moment, and seeing that slight change in others as well brings warmth. Like the ocean slowly shaping the shoreline, these actions may seem subtle, but overtime they help create a community where people feel more heard, more respected, and more willing to offer that same understanding to others.
This apprehension has created the way I work to make peace real in my own life and in my community. I now appreciate that peace is not about avoiding conflict or forcing everything to be smooth, and okay. Like the ocean, it requires patience, awareness, and a willingness to sit with discomfort instead of running from it. It is something I practice in the way I listen, the way I respond, and the way I show up for the people around me and put myself out there. When disagreements happen, I try not to react suddenly, but to pause and think—like the tide pulling back—so I can respond with intention and fluency rather than raw emotion. Within this small town, it means choosing deep, thoughtful understanding over speculation, even in everyday interactions that might otherwise be overlooked. I’ve been taught that peace is not built through grand gestures, but through consistency; through choosing kindness when it’s inconvenient, through staying present when it would be easier to withdraw, and through recognizing that every action, despite it being consequential, has the potential to ripple outward. In this manner, peace and tranquility becomes something active and ongoing, a beautiful marriage between people and the sea, something I return to time and time again—just like the ocean itself.
Bridget Moix, General Secretary, FCNL
“As Quakers, we reject the false choice between security and human dignity.
True safety cannot be built through fear, cruelty or unchecked power.
Lasting security comes from thriving communities, functioning institutions, economic opportunity and respect for human rights.”
Link to Bridget Moix Article – Religion News Service