Peace doesn’t necessarily mean justice.

Justice doesn’t always lead to peace.

We see this again and again from geopolitics to local community meetings. Conflict, war, devastation, followed by “negotiated” solutions. Peacebuilding is prioritized while justice-seeking is sidelined.

This dynamic doesn’t just play out on the global stage. It shows up in local spaces too, especially within diasporic communities, where internal peace is often prioritized over justice, even if it means silencing or oppressing our own.

I’m a science grad, not a social justice warrior. I don’t always know the right words, the revered theorists, or the latest terms. My advocacy work comes from something more basic: witnessing. Who has power? Who is harmed?

It’s convenient to point fingers at harmful external forces like the greedy developer wanting to build a luxury condo in a low-income heritage neighbourhood, or the historical wrongs committed by governments against people of colour. 

It’s trendy. It’s easy. You’ll find sympathy. Politicians know they’ll score points for saying sorry. People get swept up by the excitement, the memetic momentum, the addictive energy. They join rallies, raise signs, give speeches.

Justice!

they cry.

We want justice!

But when justice starts asking questions closer to home, when it means confronting the revered elder, the close friend, the big donor, the identity-building institution, the grassroots organization “doing good work”, suddenly, peace becomes the higher calling.

Elders who support gentrification remain platformed by the very communities they harm. Community organizers evade accountability by stonewalling critics and gatekeeping resources, supported by boards and hoards of friends. Festivals that appropriate marginalized cultures continue receiving funding, boosting organizers’ social clout at the expense of those appropriated. Even calling out a high-profile community event for being homophobic is dismissed as “airing dirty laundry.”

And when you ask for justice or mere accountability, you’re told: Stop being divisive. There are “bigger” fights to fight. We must “unify”, they say, not divide.

But what they’re really saying is: We prefer peace over justice, comfort over accountability.

It’s ironic. To outsiders, they perform justice. They evoke its language to stroke white guilt. They’re quick to call out injustices in other communities, but rarely their own. They project the appearance of “community unity” when it’s convenient, because white society expects diasporas to be unified forces of colour, when that reality never exists. White people have political parties and “democracies” to institutionalize their divisions, while communities of colour are expected to be one.

So, as model minorities, diasporic communities comply. Not out of harmony, but to secure settler legitimacy. They choose peace and stability over justice and equity, because they’ve learned what maintains their power within the community, and what keeps them palatable to power outside of it.

They want power to shift internally, but not the foundation of power to change fundamentally. They seek equilibrium, not transformation—just swapping players without rewriting the rules.

This peace comes at a cost. The most marginalized pay the price, becoming even more invisibilized, silenced, and unheard.

Even more telling, those who the community once relied on to fight loudly against external injustices are chastised when their critiques turn inward. They’re viewed as liabilities who divide when that same spirit of resistance once celebrated now unsettles internal complacency. They’re told to wait, slow down, be gentle, as if time and pleasantries will heal injustices. Seeking justice within is condemned as a betrayal of trust.

There’s a saying in Chinese: 

飛鳥盡 良弓藏 狡兔死 走狗烹

“When all the birds are shot, the fine arrow is put away. When the rabbit is killed, the hunting dog is cooked.”

The coercion of silence from within can be more damaging than direct oppression from the outside. It’s erasure by peer pressure.

Sure, there could be a veneer of peace. But communities that ignore their own internal oppressions, and choose to do without justice and reconciliation, will fracture from within. Like a thousand tiny spider veins slowly spreading until the glass finally shatters. 

But what if there was another way? What if diasporic communities, the societies within societies, could model a world where justice and peace can coexist? Where internal reckoning isn’t feared, but embraced as a path to equity? What if, instead of performing unity, we practiced integrity? What if justice began at home, and grew outward from there?

All it takes is reflection and introspection. A willingness to examine one’s own privileges, even among the marginalized. To invite respectful dialogue and engage with it openly. To share power with the marginalized, rather than align with the oppressor or retreat into silence. To question those who hold power internally, not to tone-police, blame, or punish those calling for responsibility. Sometimes, it’s as simple as saying sorry, and following through with accountability.

Keeping peace shouldn’t be the foundation for trust within communities. Working toward justice should be.

From international negotiations to grassroots organizing in diasporic spaces, one truth holds: peace without justice is peace destined to fracture.

If we truly want peace in our communities, we must begin with an honest and urgent reckoning of the injustices within them.