Abstract
This article considers an unlikely source for non-militarized approaches to disrupting war and other forms of violence: fighters themselves. How can engaging with fighters/former fighters realize novel forms of violence/war disruption across various contexts, and what are the barriers to and implications of such engagement? Fighters’ exit from their armed organizations can be a source of violence/war disruption in two ways: first, through the sheer act of leaving and thereby diminishing the fighting capability of an armed organization, and, second, through using their credibility as former fighters to engage in activism to influence other current fighters, as well as the broader public, to refuse participation in or support for violence/war. Examining the work of “credible messengers,” “formers,” and anti-war veterans to disrupt street violence, extremist violence, and wartime violence, respectively, reveals surprising commonalities among them, as well as strikingly different reactions to their respective forms of disengagement/refusal and the policies they require.
Introduction
Two weeks after publishing his detailed and damning personal account of the Russian invasion of Ukraine and shortly before leaving his country, Russian soldier Pavel Filatyev sat down with a journalist: “I don’t see justice in this war. I don’t see truth here… I am not afraid to fight in war. But I need to feel justice, to understand that what I’m doing is right” (Roth and Sauer, 2022). His loss of faith in the justice of the Russian cause, twinned with the despicable conditions and poor planning of the Russian military, amid other grievances, led him to a breaking point: “I simply can’t stay quiet any longer” (Roth and Sauer, 2022).
Filatyev’s process of discernment and ultimately act of protest against the war—along with the acts of military refusal1 (including desertion) of many of his fellow soldiers (Cortright, 2022)—reveal a largely untapped, and even counterintuitive, resource for disrupting2 war: soldiers themselves. In contrast to more common, militarized responses to military violence, the set of responses that this insight could generate would see the individuals involved in war’s violence—particularly on the opponent side—not as the problem that needs to be eliminated through further violence, but as a resource for disabling violence, particularly through their ability to desert, defect, or otherwise refuse to serve and then to take on new roles as anti-war activists. Such an approach starts from the premise that willing agents are necessary to the mobilization of collective violence; without them, the most plentiful military hardware does not function and becomes meaningless (Jackson and Dexter, 2014). It also requires a reorientation in relation to fighters, seeing them not as a monolithic, static, unthinking bloc but rather as reflexive, gendered individuals3 with often unmet human needs. Despite the promise of such an approach, however, it has not been given the serious attention required to make it a full-throated, viable strategy for disrupting war.
With this in mind, this article addresses the following question: How can engaging with fighters/former fighters4 realize novel forms of violence/war disruption across various contexts, and what are the barriers to and implications of these forms of engagement? Exploring this sort of engagement with fighters/former fighters in a range of violent contexts, I argue that fighters’ exit from their armed organizations can be a source of violence disruption in two ways: first, through directly diminishing the fighting capability of these armed organizations, and, second, through a turn to proactive anti-violence/anti-war activism5 that leverages their lived experience and credibility as former fighters to influence other current fighters and the broader community to withdraw support for violence/war. In the discussion that follows, I intentionally examine a seemingly incongruous range of violent contexts in the contemporary U.S.—gang-/clique-related street violence, extremist violence, and wartime violence—to understand how disengagement/refusal6 and the turn to anti-violence/anti-war activism function in each of these cases. Noticing the similarities in fighters’/former fighters’ experiences and approaches to activism across these contexts but then the disparate responses to their disengagement/refusal—namely, celebrated in the case of street violence and extremist violence but mostly7 denigrated in the case of wartime violence—reveals a fundamental question worth asking: Why isn’t disengagement/refusal understood and treated the same across these contexts and unequivocally celebrated? I suggest that it is a deep attachment to militarism, especially in the U.S., that precludes celebrating all forms of disengagement/refusal equally, ultimately hindering the ability of military refusal to become a viable strategy for disrupting war. Nonetheless, there are ways forward to encourage disengagement/refusal in the service of war disruption despite the substantial challenge posed by militarism.
Before proceeding, a few clarifications. First, when I speak of the war-disruption potential of military refusal, there are two possible levels to my meaning: the more mainstream desire to diminish the adversary’s military capability through encouraging military refusal among their soldiers and the more radical desire to dismantle the capacity of any and all countries—including one’s own—to wage war. Either reading of the argument is fine—but it will soon become apparent that I see the first task as ultimately entailing some willingness to countenance the second. To be more specific, if the U.S. wishes to encourage military refusal among Russian soldiers in order to disrupt the Russian invasion of Ukraine, then it is going to have to be willing to face the implications for—and maybe even facilitate—military refusal among U.S service members. Furthermore, my argument here is not dependent on objective judgments about the legitimacy or illegitimacy of specific wars; the reader interested in the first task above will make their own judgments on these matters to determine whose military violence should be disabled, and the reader interested in the second, more radical task will likely reject the premise altogether of a clear distinction between legitimate and illegitimate war. That said, as noted below, perceptions of a war’s legitimacy will likely shape how widespread military refusal may become in any particular context (Richard, 2022) or how concerned a government “should” be about the possible impact on military capability.
Finally, some notes on terminology: Readers will notice that I use twin terms (especially “disengagement/refusal” and “violence/war”) throughout the article. I necessarily do so when referring collectively to all three violent contexts, as even nearly equivalent concepts across them entail some differences. For instance, “disengagement/refusal” is used as short-hand for the act of leaving, ending participation in, or refusing to serve in an armed organization, whether a street organization, an extremist organization, or the military. “Disengagement,” a term from the violent extremism literature that is basically synonymous with “desistance” in the criminology literature (Glazzard, 2022), is used with reference to street violence and extremist violence, whereas “refusal” (Zehfuss, 2019) is used with reference to military violence. A key difference between these near-equivalent terms has to do with the way participation, and therefore also refusal to serve, in the military is more highly codified and legally controlled than in contexts of street violence or extremist violence (even if participation there, too, is codified in its own way). Therefore, “refusal” may capture a slightly wider span of behavior including conscientious objection or draft resistance prior to joining the military—a form of behavior that may have no equivalent in the other contexts where there is no legal requirement to join and therefore no category of activity for resisting that legal requirement. The reason for the twin terms “violence/war” is more self-evident, as “war” only pertains to the military context, whereas “violence” is the more inclusive, appropriate term pertaining to the other two contexts (and sometimes used in reference to all three).
The Dual Violence-Disruption Functions of Disengagement/Refusal
Directly Diminishing Fighting Capability
A typical response to collective violence is to use return violence to protect or defend one’s own group, community, or country, the assumption being that only violence can stop violence. This thinking stems from two related sources: First, the idea that collective violence operates similarly to violence between two people, where the use of violence against an attacker could actually physically disable them (through injury or death), thereby ending the attack (Wallace, 2017). Or, second, the idea that violence is somehow more decisive than other forms of action due to its immediate physical effects, which are often mistaken for effectiveness with regards to broader political or security-related goals (Howes, 2009). In fact, the ability of “our” violence to effectively end the opponent’s violence in the case of war or other collective violence (as opposed to interpersonal violence) depends on the reaction of the rest of the opponent group (those not killed) to that violence and any destruction it may have wrought on their fighters, weaponry, or other equipment or infrastructure—whether it diminishes or reinforces their will to continue fighting, even with limited military capability (Howes, 2009). In other words, the broader effects of collective violence (beyond injury, death, and physical damage)—including actual protection and/or defense—are not automatic or certain. Actually, due to the strong impulse to defend one’s reputation, not to mention one’s masculine credentials, experiencing violence-induced losses often creates the opposite reaction from that intended: rather than being deterred, the opponent may double-down on their own military strategy to prove that the losses were worth it and that they will not back down or be “pushed around” (Dafoe, Hatz and Zhang, 2021), further escalating violence.
Given the failures, or at least unreliability, of violence as a tool for protection or defense in the face of violence on a collective scale, it is worth exploring more innovative approaches for disrupting violence. One such approach is to look inside the “black box” of the opponent side and notice those fighting for it. As Jackson and Dexter (2014) argue, the mobilization of collective violence depends not just on the material structural conditions for violence but also on the existence of willing agents to carry out violence (and the discursive conditions that make their participation meaningful). As the old Vietnam War-era saying goes, “Suppose they gave a war and nobody came?” (Keyes, 1966) Although this sentiment comes across as naïve at first, it seems less so when one considers the harsh punishments most militaries mete out for desertion (Maishman, 2022; FindLaw, 2016), as well as the tightly regulated boundaries states maintain around who can gain conscientious objection (co) status and for what reasons (Zehfuss, 2019). Both sets of policies are meant to ensure that military capability not be undermined by too many soldiers leaving a state’s military ranks, suggesting that a collective exodus from these ranks—not to mention the symbolic power of such an exodus—would in fact profoundly threaten a state’s ability to wage war. Indeed, the U.S. war in Vietnam provides an example of a war that ended largely due to an anti-war movement energized by the coordinated efforts of soldiers and would-be soldiers to make themselves unavailable to the military, whether through desertion, draft resistance, or conscientious objection (Zunes and Laird, 2010; Fantina, 2006).
Therefore, while fighters’ disengagement/refusal poses a real threat to fighting capacity, this very potential means that significant barriers are in place to deter such action. These range (depending on national context and type of armed organization) from formal deterrents like legal repercussions, loss of socio-economic benefits, imprisonment, or even violent retribution to broader socio-cultural pressures like conformity and commitment to fellow fighters (Zehfuss, 2019), coordination challenges, or adherence to particular expectations of masculinity (Goldstein, 2001; Hart and Stough-Hunter, 2017)—all of which make it more difficult to leave.
The fact that some fighters still choose to disengage/refuse even in the face of these barriers indicates the intensity of their motivation to do so. Such motivation can often be precipitated by cracks or inconsistencies that form in one’s ideology or identity, themselves brought on by combat experiences that unsettle one’s sense of self, interactions with the “enemy” that challenge one’s preconceptions about them, or exposure to counter-narratives that reinterpret one’s actions in a new, less savory light (Gutmann and Lutz, 2010; Hart and Stough-Hunter, 2017; Horgan, 2009; Wallace, 2017)—along with other “push” and “pull” factors unrelated to the violence itself, like disillusionment, exhaustion, family responsibilities, or the formation of new social connections beyond the armed organization (Altier, Thoroughgood and Horgan, 2014).
As successful disengagement/refusal requires not only motivation but also sufficient capability to leave (Albrecht and Ohl, 2016; Koehler et al., 2016), the barriers in place may nonetheless prove insurmountable for some. This suggests that many more fighters may want—but do not see—a way out, drawing attention to the need for policy and activism that can reach and support these fighters in order to realize the potential of this violence/war disruption strategy.
In a wartime context, state/international policy could be critical to enhancing the capability of soldiers to refuse military service by decreasing the costs of doing so. Several scholars have proposed ideas in the context of Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, from offering deserting Russian soldiers asylum (Somin, 2022) to offering them EU citizenship and $100,000 (Caplan, 2022). One political theorist has developed a more general proposal, with greater negative consequences for the aggressor in war: “For every war, the United Nations, or any relevant international and neutral organisation, should set up camps around the conflict area that would welcome deserting soldiers of any of the belligerent sides, who would be able to get the passport of their choice and a cash grant” (Richard, 2022). Despite the real potential here for a new approach to disrupting wartime violence on a global scale (including the potential to immediately diminish Russian military capability in Ukraine), many states (including the U.S.) have not yet taken even the bare minimum8 of these measures. In fact, in the wake of Russia’s reinstatement of a partial draft, with masses of military-age Russians attempting to flee the country to evade military service, some neighboring countries have even made it more difficult for them to enter (Cortright, 2022). The reasons for this hesitation will be explored further below, but for now the important point is that state/international policy is not currently robust enough to realize the potential of military refusal as a war disruption strategy.
Engaging in Lived-Experience Activism to Influence Current Fighters and the Broader Public
Without the heft of state/international policy behind efforts to realize the war-disruption potential of military refusal, the role of former fighters as activists takes on greater importance. Their special status garnered from lived experience enables them to nurture both the motivation and the capability of current fighters to refuse further participation in war, while also influencing the broader public to reconsider their support for war. To better understand the potential of this form of activism, I will first examine the work of so-called “credible messengers” and “formers” in response to gang/clique-related street violence and extremist violence, respectively, before comparing their activism to that of anti-war veterans in response to wartime violence. My empirical focus here is the contemporary work of these activists within a U.S. context9—a context shaped by the persistent structural and direct violence of racism, as well as by a military and public accustomed to fighting wars abroad rather than on its own shores. The former helps explain not only the existence of far-right violent extremist organizations but also the intergenerational trauma, severe inequality, and disenfranchisement and neglect faced by many minoritized communities in the U.S., to which violent street organizations can be a response.10 The latter reveals the distinctiveness of U.S. warfare insofar as it is rarely experienced as immediately defensive, making it more susceptible to charges of imperialism and illegitimacy.
For each of these anti-violence/anti-war activist spaces, I explore the work of the most prominent organizations in them that draw on the lived experience of former fighters—Cure Violence, Life After Hate, and then Veterans for Peace, Courage to Resist, and About Face: Veterans Against the War—examining the various organizational documents and resources available on their websites, along with first-hand accounts, news articles, and academic research on their work.
Notably, the first two approaches to violence disruption examined below treat participation in violence as emerging from the frustration—or rather perverse fulfillment—of basic human needs (especially for identity, belonging, and meaning, but also for livelihood), as well as from a normative context or ideological framework that legitimizes violence, often through particular norms of masculinity (Baird, 2012; Dier and Baldwin, 2022; Ferguson and McAuley, 2021; Ndhlovu and Tanga, 2021). This starting point opens the possibility of interacting with current “fighters” on a human level through relationship-building and compassion rather than through the use of force (as traditional policing, military counter-terrorism, or even some anti-fascist activism would propose)—a form of engagement and influence most effectively realized by “credible messengers” and “formers” who are well positioned to gain access to and build trust with current “fighters.”
The role of “credible messengers” in disrupting gang-/clique-related street violence
Cure Violence (cv) pioneered the public health approach to violence prevention in the U.S. and is still the most prominent organization11 advocating for this approach today, despite the existence of many other community violence intervention programs across the country (Dholakia & Gilbert, 2021). Founded in Chicago in 1999 under the name Ceasefire, cv understands violence as something that can be transmitted like a disease—and therefore should be treated as a public health concern rather than as a moral failing (cvg, N.d.a). The model comprises three elements: 1) direct intervention in and interruption of violence through the work of “violence interrupters” who closely monitor conflicts on the ground, leveraging their relationships and credibility to deescalate potentially violent situations, 2) support for “high-risk” individuals through the mentorship of “outreach workers” who build relationships with their mentees, meeting with them regularly, coaching them to make positive choices, and connecting them to resources, and 3) broader normative change at the community level through post-violence marches, sign campaigns, and other activities that demonstrate community opposition to violence. Those hired as violence interrupters and outreach workers generally bring lived experience to these roles, thereby acting as “credible messengers” (Butts et al., 2015). Drawing on this lived experience and the respect it grants them, they nurture both the motivation and capability of current “fighters” to disengage through modeling the possibility of other life paths and new forms of agency and masculinity, as well as by providing these youths with recognition, on-going mentoring, and access to needed resources.
Influencing current “fighters”
How are these violence interrupters and outreach workers able to successfully prevent violence in the short term but also nudge “high-risk” individuals away from violence for longer-term violence reduction? With regards to motivation, a first critical point is that many of these individuals report feeling stuck and express an inevitability around their participation in violent cliques or gangs—often following intergenerational patterns—with one such individual in Chicago noting: “You had to pick your side once you grew up. […] Once you enter the battlefield, it’s no turning back […] unless you’re moving out of town” (Cosey Gay, 2019, pp. 70-71). Accordingly, many who feel trapped in these cycles of violence are highly receptive to the presence of cv workers in their communities—whether to gain a momentary respite from micro-level security dilemmas entailed in tit-for-tat violence between groups12 or to find a longer-term pathway out of such activities. Therefore, even where proactive motivation to desist from violence or leave such organizations does not already exist, it is often relatively easy to cultivate.
To do so, violence interrupters and outreach workers demonstrate, first, that other realities are possible—primarily through the example of their own lives. The modeling they provide—drawing on their status as individuals who previously engaged in similar activities, with a reputation in the neighborhood that grants them a certain amount of respect (Cosey Gay, 2019)—shows up in both immediate violence interruption and longer-term mentorship work. For instance, when a violence interrupter shows up alongside another violence interrupter previously from an opposing gang or clique, their positive working relationship demonstrates that such a relationship is possible (Whitehill et al, 2013)—especially potent in a context characterized by a certain inevitability and fatalism around participation in violence, as it shows those currently involved that this on-going cycle of violence is not inevitable, that they have agency and can make different choices (Cosey Gay, 2019).
Similarly, considering the longer-term trajectory of their own lives, current “high-risk” youth may observe how outreach workers also “lived the life,” perhaps having even served prison time, and yet are now influential cv employees, earning an income and commanding a different kind of respect—providing evidence that such a future might be possible for them, too. The “lived experience” mentoring relationship (Blum, 2021) here enables outreach workers to build trust with their clients and expose them to a different set of norms with regards to masculinity and the use/non-use of violence. These norms are wrapped up with a new sense of agency that comes with knowing that alternative realities exist—and thus that other choices are possible. One client explicitly draws this connection between being a man and being capable of making one’s own decisions, noting that his outreach worker helped him realize: “I ain’t gotta do what everybody else doing. I can be my own man… at first, my mindset was a boy… Still messing around, woo, woo, doing little stupid stuff. I came to Cease Fire, they turned me into a young man by the end of the summer, for real, for real” (Cosey Gay, 2019, pp. 106-107). Providing other ways to demonstrate masculinity is no small thing when proving one’s masculinity is a strong motivating force for joining gang violence in the first place, especially for young men who may be at the margins of society and therefore struggle to find steady jobs and provide for their families—prime markers of manhood in many parts of the world (Baird, 2012; Krause, 2019; Ndhlovu and Tanga, 2021). In Cosey Gay’s (2019) interview data with cv clients and outreach workers in Chicago, it appears that this revised nonviolent conception of masculinity13 to which outreach workers endeavor to shift their clients is linked to strength through restraint and upholding one’s responsibilities, as well as thinking of the well-being of one’s family and broader community and one’s role in protecting them from violence. Turning to this new conception of masculine protection entailed in violence prevention work, one outreach worker reflects on his own change process: “…That used to hurt me more, to see the young guy layin’ in the casket, seein’ his mother, you know what I’m sayin’? I gotta do everything in my power, whatever I can do to prevent another mother from goin’ through this” (Cosey Gay, p. 95). Although moments like this one and the subtle reframing of masculinity accompanying them (which outreach workers can help cultivate) are critical to creating this strong internal motivation for change and newfound sense of agency, the broader community also plays an instrumental role in shaping the gender norms that young men wish to fulfill—and therefore whether they are motivated to behave violently or nonviolently (Krause, 2019).
“Lived experience” mentorship is clearly important to these processes, both providing exposure to a different set of norms that challenge the presumed value of violence and modeling alternative forms of agency and masculinity that garner respect in the same community. Due to their lived experience and reputation in the neighborhood, outreach workers are particularly adept at drawing on and leveraging the credibility and respect associated with a dominant set of norms within a particular context—norms valuing violence to which they previously adhered—in order to then subvert these in adopting a new set of norms (valuing strength through forbearance, nonviolent masculine protection, and so on). For instance, one outreach worker describes this move in his interactions with current “high-risk” youth:
They heard stories…I was a massive. The negative life, you know, that’s the stuff they glorify, so you remember all the negative things they’ve heard I’ve done or allegedly had done. That…still made my name relevant in the streets. It was easy for me to approach them…I used it as leverage, really. I used it as an opportunity to reach the[m] guys. I was able to use that to connect with them. Instead of coming home, glorifying it, you know. […] I kind of flipped it. I used it as a tool to see if we could restore, and establish rapport.
cosey gay, p. 88
This subversive use of the credibility accorded to participation in violence—drawing on one normative context to subvert it—is also evident in anti-war activism (Leitz, 2011), discussed below.
Along with the motivation provided by exposure to other realities and the desire to be associated with respected members of the community who embody alternative, attractive forms of agency and masculinity, there is an additional form of motivation for disengagement that outreach workers can provide: recognition. Cosey Gay (2019) notes how current outreach workers highlighted their desire to earn the trust of their mentors when they were in the midst of disengaging—and how that desire, along with their mentors’ recognition of their strengths and potential—motivated them to leave. This desire to earn trust and recognition was coupled with mentors’ persistence and tough love in holding them to their commitments to make the right choices and reminding them of the consequences of not doing so. The mentorship relationship here—constant checking in, being a sounding board when things are rough, reminding mentees of their desire to move in a new direction—provides a constant “mirror” function characteristic of other civilian approaches to protection and violence prevention (Wallace, 2023), ensuring that mentees act consistently with how they think of themselves and whom they want to be.
Being motivated to disengage from street violence is not the same, however, as being able to do so. Outreach workers, therefore, also address the human needs of current “fighters,” particularly by providing access to resources like employment, education, drug treatment, or positive social activities (Butts et al, 2015; cvg, N.d.a). In this way, the needs for livelihood, belonging, and identity that participation in a street organization may have once provided can be met in other ways, facilitating disengagement. When it comes to the need for physical security, the benefits of leaving gangs/cliques are mostly self-evident, as it means not being actively caught up in escalatory spirals that could result in one’s own physical harm, imprisonment, or death. As one youth notes, even just getting a job had a positive impact on his sense of security: “the seven hours, five hours we working, man, them five hours we could be out here risking getting locked up. Them hours count man. You getting money without looking behind your back basically. You ain’t gang banging. You ain’t got no [ ] gun—you working man! You trying to do something positive” (Cosey Gay, 2019, p. 86). It is possible, however, that, despite clear gains for security from leaving a street organization, individuals may still hesitate or lack the capability to do so due to concerns over retaliation from their own group (who may enforce membership) or routine violence from their previous opponent group (due to a “sticky” gang/clique identity despite departure). Although the use of “credible messengers” helps, to the extent that those remaining in one’s own or the opposing group respect one’s decision to leave if it is under the guidance of someone with this credibility, CV still tries to mitigate these risks—and thereby facilitate disengagement—by providing resources and social supports that clients identify they need, including relocation assistance, if needed (Echolls, 2022).
Shaping community norms
Although much of cv’s work is focused on the individual and interpersonal levels, interrupting violence as it escalates and supporting individuals to disengage from gangs/cliques, a critical third component of its model is community norm change. It is important to note that community members may be divided in their opinions on particular gangs/cliques in their area, with some seeing them as protectors (against other gangs/cliques or the police) or even necessary political actors (who provide for them in a context of disenfranchisement or state neglect), and others seeing them as a threat (Barnes et al., 2023). By responding to every shooting event within the boundaries of a CV program area with a community-level denouncement of the violence, regularly distributing materials and organizing events, and engaging with a wide range of community organizations, CV workers promote nonviolent norms and “convey the message that violence is not acceptable” (cvg, N.d.a). This sort of broader normative change is critical because, as noted above, regular “civilians”/community members actually exercise enormous influence over whether individuals will embrace participation in violence, depending on whether violence is characterized in positive terms (as “tough,” “brave,” or “honorable”—often highly desirable masculinized attributes) or in less attractive terms (as “foolhardy,” “rash,” or even “weak”). Often, “fighters” are looking for acceptance and recognition within broader social groups. If the people around them (peers, girlfriends, siblings, uncles, and so on) look down upon rather than admiring their participation in violence, they are less likely to see it as an attractive option (Krause, 2019).
The role of “formers” in disrupting extremist violence
Life After Hate (lah) was founded in 2011 by former members of extremist (mostly far-right) organizations. The first organization of its kind in the U.S., it was modeled off various “Exit” organizations that already existed in Europe to support individuals in their disengagement from violent extremism, though its leadership by “formers” set it apart (Enzinna, 2018). Its mission is to help individuals leave extremist organizations and thereby to interrupt and prevent extremist violence, having worked with more than 500 individuals and families since its founding (Life After Hate, 2021). Although its intervention program—ExitUSA—is grounded in compassion (Life After Hate, N.d.), the organization is clear that this grounding does not mean condoning the violent or hateful behavior these individuals may have engaged in (Freeman-Woolpert, 2018; Westervelt, 2018). “Formers” and other staff focus on facilitating individuals’ capability to disengage—predominantly through supporting them as they contend with the disorientation of leaving extremist group membership and ideology behind and find new ways to fulfill their needs for identity, belonging, and meaning—but they also cultivate individuals’ motivation by modeling the possibility of exit and providing space for ideological questioning that may already be underway.
Influencing current “fighters”
The work of “formers”—the equivalent of “credible messengers” in disengaging-from-violent-extremism spaces—echoes the dynamics noted above, especially how “formers” can model what it looks like to leave violent extremism and show that it is possible. Because the violence of extremist groups, unlike that of typical street organizations, is driven by exclusionary ideology that dictates rigid racial or religious “us”/“them” categories, motivation for disengagement from these groups is often the result of exposure to counter-narratives, especially in the form of contact with targeted “out” groups that can profoundly challenge the stereotypes that animate violence. In fact, one of the most common sparks for the disengagement process is an interaction with—and especially undeserved empathy from—someone from one of those groups, an experience that can make the individual start to question the extremist ideology they have long been consuming.14 As former White Aryan Resistance member (and later lah co-founder) Tony McAleer notes, “there’s nothing more powerful—I know because it happened to me in my own life—than receiving compassion from someone who you don’t feel you deserve it from, someone from a community that you had dehumanized” (Westervelt, 2018). “Formers” can serve as “credible” sources for such counter-narratives as part of this process, since they share similar life experiences and are familiar with the extremist ideologies in question (Horgan 2009) but have also developed a different understanding through their own learning process and life experience disengaging. As cracks begin to form in a current “fighter’s” ideology—through perhaps surprising encounters with members of “out” groups, or maybe uncomfortable prodding from someone they respect—a “former” can be a sounding board to support them in pursuing the questions that may be lurking in the background. Accordingly, “formers” can fulfill a similar “mirror” function, helping “fighters” reinterpret their identities and actions and the coherence between them in light of new experiences and counter-narratives (Wallace, 2023).
But, although “formers” can play that role, lah is clear that its initial focus with individuals beginning to question their involvement in extremist organizations is not ideology but human needs. lah staff members will never directly “attack” the ideology in question but rather turn their attention first to the social dimension of disengagement and what each person needs to disengage. The primary task of “formers,” then (along with the mental health professionals with whom they work), is to facilitate an individual’s capability to disengage from violent extremism where at least incipient motivation already exists. As much as cracks might be appearing in one’s ideology through these various forms of exposure and reinterpretation, creating motivation to leave, an individual may still find it incredibly difficult to do so, especially due to psycho-social barriers. Scholars studying violent extremism, as well as “formers” themselves, have noted how the search for identity and group belonging (rather than prior commitment to ideology) is a central motivator for joining extremist groups (Ferguson and McAuley, 2021; Wilson, 2017). As such, the group bonds that form when one is a member—as well as the clear-cut ideology that comes with them—start to fulfill these human needs for identity, belonging, and meaning that may not have previously been met. Disengaging means taking away these sources of identity, belonging, and meaning and can leave one with a “void” (Wilson, 2017)—the prospect of which can be profoundly troubling, especially if someone has previously severed ties with all friends and family members outside of that group. Additionally, once an individual starts to reinterpret the violence they have perpetrated in a more negative light, new, difficult feelings can surface that may not have before when that violence was understood as justified (Ferguson and McAuley, 2021).
Here, again, is where the role of “formers” becomes so crucial: not only do they provide a model for the possibility of exit as well as serve as a sounding board for ideological questions that may be emerging (cultivating motivation), but they also constitute a new community to whom those exiting can belong, as well as a support system for working through the emotional and moral tumult that comes with reconsidering one’s past involvement in violent extremism (thereby facilitating capability by addressing human needs in the exit process) (Altier, Thoroughgood and Horgan, 2014; Horgan, 2009). For instance, lah describes how its staff (mostly “formers”) “talk openly about [their] own shame and guilt which in turn creates a safe space for [their] clients to do the same” (Life After Hate, 2021). McAleer talks about lah acting as a sort of “halfway house” for those in the process of disengagement, warding off the isolation that can be a key source of relapse into violent extremism (Wilson, 2017). In addition, a newfound commitment to helping others exit can provide a new source of meaning and purpose to those grasping for these, creating a sort of virtuous cycle of exiting the group under the mentorship of “formers” and then becoming a “former” who can then mentor others, and so on.
Other material human needs may also constitute a barrier to leaving, insofar as those involved in violent extremism may worry that they will not be able to find employment or housing beyond their extremist circles. For example, once former Klansman Shane Johnson started having serious doubts about belonging to the kkk, he was struck by just how many obstacles there were to leaving: he “had no skills and no job, had $100 to his name, and was covered in white supremacist tattoos,” in addition to having a criminal record. Furthermore, he worried for his personal security: “If he turned his back on his family and crew [all involved in the kkk], they might try to kill him” (Enzinna 2018). Therefore, organizations like lah also help connect those disengaging to needed resources for making a life outside of violent extremism (Budge, 2021)—whether education, job training, drug/alcohol treatment, or mental health support—again, much like cv might for their clients.
Shaping community norms
It may be less evident how “formers” shape community norms, as it is harder to determine boundaries around the broader community to which an extremist organization belongs—unlike the clearer neighborhood boundaries in cv’s work. Nonetheless, there are a few initiatives seeking to address broader communities where violent extremism takes root. First, there are initiatives addressing online sources of extremist ideology, like lah’s #WECOUNTERHATE, where every time someone posts a racist or xenophobic comment on social media, it generates a donation to pro-refugee or anti-extremist organizations (and a comment announcing that donation).15 Second, a similar involuntary donation model has been used in “real world” spaces, where neo-Nazi marches are met with pledges to donate a certain amount of money to anti-extremist organizations for each meter walked (EXIT Deutschland, N.d.). Although these activities do not necessarily depend on the participation of “formers” in particular, there are ways in which the expertise of “formers” is especially useful in crafting such strategies to shift community norms. For instance, when lah was initially consulting with a creative agency about the types of messages to automatically generate in response to hate posts, several “formers” affiliated with the organization provided extremely useful feedback on some of the proposals (Enzinna, 2018). Finally, some “formers” who are far enough along in their own disengagement process speak publicly about their experiences, in order to reach a broader audience (e.g., Cure-pdx, 2022).
The role of anti-war veterans in disrupting war
Although these contexts provide fairly well-known examples of former “fighters” lending their credibility to efforts to disrupt violence—cultivating the motivation and capability of current “fighters” to leave and thereby presenting powerful alternatives to more militarized approaches to addressing street violence and extremist violence—we can also think of anti-war veterans performing a similar role in their efforts to disrupt war. Before examining the work of U.S. anti-war veterans, a few key distinctions: Although my focus is on the anti-war activism of soldiers who refused further military service (either by deserting or “going awol” [absent without leave] or by becoming co s), not all refusers become anti-war activists, and not all anti-war veterans were first refusers (as they may have completed their full terms of service). For now, the important point is that those veterans who do engage in anti-war activism (however they left the military) can claim lived experience—just as “credible messengers” and “formers” can—in doing so, influencing the type of impact they can have.
To examine the activism of U.S. anti-war veterans directed towards both current soldiers and the broader public, I will consider the work of a few organizations: Veterans for Peace (vfp), Courage to Resist (ctr), and About Face: Veterans Against the War. While there is a whole slate of U.S.-based veteran service organizations (e.g., Veterans of Foreign Wars or Disabled American Veterans) and veteran advocacy organizations (e.g., Common Defense or Concerned Veterans of America), the organizations examined here are among the most prominent veteran-led anti-war/anti-militarism organizations in the U.S. representing veterans from multiple wars. Most of those currently leading these organizations are veterans of the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, along with the Gulf War and Vietnam War—and therefore their anti-war perspectives and the salience of their anti-war activism for current soldiers and the broader public are both shaped by wars fought abroad that many understand as illegitimate, imperial wars of choice.
Influencing current “fighters”
All the organizations examined share a commitment to supporting “gi resisters”—for instance, vfp through providing information on the gi Rights Hotline, which counsels current service members considering desertion or co status (Veterans for Peace, N.d.); ctr through “striv[ing] to provide political, emotional, and material support to all military objectors critical of our government’s current policies of empire,” including raising funds for legal representation (Courage to Resist, N.d.). vfp also provides numerous online resources for alternatives to a military career (Veterans for Peace, N.d.), recognizing that the socio-economic benefits of military service constitute a major reason for staying—particularly when one’s military benefits may be pulled if one is dishonorably discharged. As such, the individual-level focus of these organizations seems to be on facilitating the capability of soldiers to refuse, with perhaps less focus on encouraging their motivation to do so.
That said, ctr does make available several podcast interviews with anti-war veterans—a resource that provides direct access to their lived experience for anyone currently in military service (Courage to Resist, N.d.). The organization therefore offers current fighters models of alternative pathways out of war, as well as counter-narratives that reinterpret the meaning of a particular war or war in general—both of which can spark motivation much like cv does through the modeling/mentorship of its outreach workers. Even simply discovering the existence of an anti-war veteran organization can provide motivation for refusing further participation in war by uncovering that such a (seemingly contradictory) “anti-war veteran” identity exists and is shared by others. Knowing that other soldiers have had similar doubts about their military service and have acted on them as a way to resolve disruptions in their identities sparked by participation in war (Hart and Stough-Hunter, 2017) makes such doubts and actions more thinkable for current soldiers. One veteran interviewed on ctr’s website, Hart Viges (2022), himself describes finding vfp in a Google search as a life-changing moment that made him realize there were other possibilities. But it is important to note that he was conducting a Google search in the first place; he was already having doubts about the war that led him to vfp, the discovery of which then served to further support his journey out. This process is remarkably similar to that found in the disengagement process from violent extremism, where individuals begin to have doubts on their own (emerging from wartime experiences and/or exposure to people who challenge their stereotypes or to counter-narratives that reinterpret their participation in violence—all of which bring to the surface inconsistencies between who they thought they were and what they found themselves doing [Gutmann and Lutz, 2010; Hart and Stough-Hunter, 2017]) and only then seek out support in working through those doubts, which then reinforces their motivation to turn away from violence/war. It is worth noting that these doubts may more readily surface—and be more readily cultivated by anti-war veterans—in wars that are widely viewed as illegitimate.
Masculinity enters the picture here, too, insofar as many soldiers (including non-males) may join the military, at least in part, to live up to standards of hegemonic masculinity and/or prove their masculine credentials—especially related to the logic of masculine protection of “defenseless” women and children at home (Enloe, 2016). In fact, one of the strongest barriers to exiting the military—even if one has significant doubts about the morality of a particular war—may be anxiety around appearing weak and cowardly (read: feminine). Therefore, to the extent that anti-war veterans can cultivate a different version of masculinity, they also make military refusal more appealing for others (Hart and Stough-Hunter, 2017).
Finally, anti-war veterans facilitate the capability of current soldiers to leave military service by providing a new community and sense of purpose (Hart and Stough-Hunter, 2017) to those considering military refusal, especially in the wake of such significant disruptions to their identities (and/or ideologies)—much as “formers” and “credible messengers” do.
Shaping societal norms
While veterans’ anti-war activism directed at current soldiers is critical to depleting the ranks of the military, affecting morale and military capability, and thereby changing leadership calculations about the viability of current or future war strategy, their broader anti-war activism aimed at influencing public opinion is just as critical. In fact, activism at this broader societal level may constitute a more significant share of activism for anti-war veterans than it does for either “formers” or “credible messengers,” as support for war is generally more widespread in the U.S. than support for either extremist violence or street violence, which tends to be concentrated among particular ideologies and/or groups. The broader activism of these organizations—beyond typical forms of anti-war protest one might expect—ranges from campaigns against police militarization to projects making amends in countries where the U.S. has fought, recognizing the connections between various forms of violence and militarism at home and abroad.
One particularly well-used method of activism is the speakers bureau (About Face, N.d.). Listening to a veteran speak out against war—whether at a school, church, or anti-war rally—can be a paradigm-shifting experience, opening up new possibilities for political thought and expression in civilians and soldiers alike by carving out space to occupy a position that is both pro-troop and anti-war (Leitz, 2011). Similarly, veterans working as counter-recruiters in high schools can constitute an especially potent form of activism. Viges (2022) mentions the thrill of doing counter-recruitment in the same space where military recruiters are working, knowing that he is “hitting the Military Industrial Complex at its key supply of human labor” when the kids he is talking to, who were just showing interest at the Army recruitment table nearby, say, “I don’t want to join anymore.”
In all this activism—particularly direct anti-war protest—these organizations draw on the veteran identity of their primary activists to leverage the special status veterans hold in U.S. society to influence the broader population. Leitz (2011) argues that veteran participation in the peace movement constitutes an “oppositional identity strategy,” whereby the movement draws on individuals whose identities would “normally” situate them on the opposing (pro-war) side in order to capitalize on their authority to claim mainstream values and discursive positions associated with that side. The power in such a strategy lies in their ability to claim these powerful mainstream values/discursive positions for the (peace) movement’s side, while reframing these in ways that support the movement’s goals. In peace/anti-war activism, this strategy entails reframing the mainstream values of patriotism and “support for the troops” as consistent with an anti-war position. Due to their lived experience of war, as well as their undeniable patriotic credentials through their own military service and sacrifice, veterans garner a level of respect and an authority to speak (and be listened to) that other anti-war activists do not enjoy with the general public (Leitz, 2011). Anti-war veterans will often dress or act in symbolically potent ways that highlight their military/veteran status—for instance, wearing military fatigues and/or calling out (revised) military cadences at anti-war demonstrations—in order to make their military credentials impossible to ignore and therefore their anti-war messages harder to refute (Leitz, 2011).
Discussion
It is notable how similar the situation of “fighters” (especially those considering disengagement/refusal) is across these three contexts. First and foremost, the fulfillment of human needs—whether material needs for income (and food and shelter) or non-material needs for identity, belonging, and purpose—motivates many of these “fighters” to join armed organizations in the first place. So does a desire to prove one’s masculinity through the “manliest” of contending masculinities—militarized masculinity (Goldstein, 2001). Likewise, once in the middle of their respective violent contexts, many “fighters” feel the same inevitability and lack of way out, whether they are involved in state militaries, street organizations, or violent extremist organizations: the duty to complete one’s contract, the obligation to stay for one’s comrades, the belief that one’s security depends on continued fighting once caught up in it (“either kill or be killed”), or even fear of punishment or retaliation from one’s own side for leaving. These structural—including discursive or normative—constraints serve a strong self-disciplining function, preventing departure from the “battlefield.” Additionally, the process whereby cracks and inconsistencies start forming in individuals’ identities and ideologies, as well as in the narratives they use to make sense of their participation in violence, leading them to reconsider this participation—all this is remarkably similar across contexts (despite obvious differences in the type and role of ideology). Often an opening is created for such reflection and reconsideration during “combat” experiences that for whatever reason do not fit expectations—where the person harmed is clearly a civilian or where the look in their eyes reflects back a different, less charitable interpretation of one’s behaviors (Gutmann and Lutz, 2010; Hart and Stough-Hunter, 2017; Enzinna, 2018). Finally, the common role of former “fighters” in this disengagement/refusal process is striking—as credible sources of reinterpretation and modeling, as well as of new community, identity, and purpose.
Despite these strong similarities across violent contexts, there are markedly divergent responses in the contemporary U.S.—in both attitude and policy—to encouraging disengagement from street violence or extremist violence, on the one hand, and encouraging military refusal, on the other. The first two of these—the work of “credible messengers” and “formers” to encourage others to disengage—while running counter to more mainstream militarized responses to street violence and violent extremism, have recently gained wider acceptance by and support among the broader public, as well as in policy circles. As racial justice protests surged in the U.S. in 2020 in the wake of George Floyd’s murder at the hands of Minneapolis police and municipalities were under enormous pressure to find alternatives to policing for ensuring community safety, especially amid rising homicide levels nation-wide, cv and similar community violence intervention organizations began receiving widespread attention and funding (cvg, 2020; Dholakia and Gilbert, 2021; MacGillis, 2023), including by the Biden-Harris Administration (The White House, 2021). For instance, in 2021, New York City received $20.5 million in federal funding for cv-related programs (City of New York, 2021), while, in 2022, a broader collection of community violence intervention organizations across the country received tens of millions of dollars in federal grants, partly funded by the Safer Communities Act (doj, 2022). Likewise, in the wake of “Charlottesville”—shorthand for the white supremacist rally in 2017 where counter-protester Heather Heyer was killed—and numerous acts of racist mass violence (including the Charleston church shooting in 2015 and the Pittsburgh synagogue shooting in 2018), lah also saw increased interest in its work (Jilani, 2017; Westervelt, 2018). After having survived on a “shoestring budget” for the first several years of its operation (Enzinna, 2018), in 2017, donations to lah rose from $32,000 to $800,000 (Enzinna, 2018), and, in 2020, it received a $750,000 grant from the U.S. Department of Homeland Security (Life After Hate, 2020). In other words, despite obvious differences in opinion across the country, from pro-police, “tough on crime” advocates on the Right who think rising violence must be met with a robust police response16 to anti-fascist activists on the Left who maintain that white supremacists need to be forcefully confronted in the streets, many in the U.S., including key federal agencies, are starting to celebrate these unconventional, non-militarized efforts to turn individuals away from their participation in violence.
At the same time, military refusal (especially desertion) is still largely denigrated in the contemporary U.S. As Fantina (2006) notes in his study of desertion throughout U.S. history, “[f]or many, the word ‘deserter’ is an insult, it conjures up thoughts of cowardice and treason and is considered a despicable label” (p. 223). Although it is intuitive17 that sympathy for desertion might increase with negative public sentiment towards particular wars, the allergy to the word itself, even among anti-war activists (Fantina, 2006) and those who have themselves deserted (Zehfuss, 2019), reveals a deep cultural reservoir of disapproval towards the act. In contrast to co status, which is framed more charitably in principled terms, desertion—often the only available course of action if co status is denied—tends to be viewed as self-serving cowardice, abandonment of one’s comrades, abrogation of one’s duty (Zehfuss, 2019). Furthermore, far from the federal funding bestowed on cv and lah’s disengagement work, the U.S. military’s punishment for desertion (FindLaw, 2016), indicates clear official opprobrium towards the act. Therefore, the same pull of conscience—or even simply desire to attend to other parts of one’s life—that is celebrated in the case of disengagement from street violence or extremist violence is not widely affirmed in the case of desertion, despite the similar circumstances in which these fighters find themselves—including the expectation to kill “enemy” fighters often around their same age and up against similar constraints or, even worse, unsuspecting civilians (whether intentionally targeted or not).
As much as many of us18 in the U.S. might look down upon military refusal (especially desertion) among our own country’s troops, however, we often celebrate it among the ranks of other—particularly our adversaries’—militaries. Think of news stories about defections from the Syrian security forces during the Syrian uprising in 2011 or, more recently, in 2022, desertions among Russian troops invading Ukraine. But even in the case of the latter, where the U.S. and its allies have the most to gain from an increase in Russian desertions, there has been no meaningful implementation of policies like granting asylum to Russian deserters (or those fleeing the draft), providing them with transportation and living stipends, and so on (Dannenbaum, 2022). Ukraine itself is actually the main exception, insofar as it has used monetary and security incentives to induce Russian soldiers to surrender to Ukrainian forces, ensuring their safety (Cooper and Schmitt, 2022; Maishman, 2022). So, whereas the violence-disruption work of cv and lah have gained legitimacy, funding, and policy attention in recent years in the U.S., efforts to support military refusal have not, even when directed towards our adversaries.
Considering street violence, extremist violence, and wartime violence together reveals a fundamental question, then: why, given such striking similarities in the situations of these “fighters,” are there such divergent responses to their disengagement/refusal, in terms of both mainstream attitudes and policy support in the U.S.?
One tentative response resides in militarism—the extent to which military values and war-making and preparation dominate decision-making and permeate society—and the processes of militarization that reinforce it both materially and discursively (González, Gusterson and Houtman, 2019; Gusterson and Besteman, 2019; Lutz, 2022). Unlike the contexts of street violence and/or extremist violence, where “pro-violence” norms are limited to some individuals from a particular community or ideological group, the military—along with assumptions about the effectiveness, necessity, and valor of military violence that uphold it—enjoys widespread national support in the U.S. While militarism itself is not exceptional, the reach and character of U.S. militarism is, buttressed by some 800 military bases worldwide (Vine, 2020). The militarization of U.S. society is deep and wide—from the clothes we wear, the games we play, and the films we watch to the histories we teach, the economic dependencies of congressional districts, and the foreign policies of both major political parties (Enloe, 2016). In other words, efforts to encourage military refusal in the U.S. are up against much more substantial structural/discursive constraints than are efforts to encourage disengagement from street violence or extremist violence.19 Any suggestion that soldiers be able to freely leave the military whenever they wish not only threatens the military capability we think we need, but it also—more to the point—unsettles the ideology celebrating military service and sacrifice, inviting vociferous disapproval and denigration.
And this brings us back to the war-disruption policies not being pursued, despite their promise. If we were to support robust policies to facilitate military desertion among our adversaries, we would soon confront uncomfortable questions about why we would not support such measures—essentially, measures supporting individual freedom—back home. The U.S. may be particularly sensitive to this possibility, not only because of the prominence given to individual freedom in its national ethos, but also because the wars it usually fights—thousands of miles away in other countries—are vulnerable to charges of nonnecessity and imperialism, making its soldiers arguably more susceptible to doubts about their military purpose and therefore more open to leaving the service, whether for personal or anti-war reasons. In countries—like Ukraine right now—where the defensive nature of the war being fought is immediately apparent to its soldiers, and its legitimacy largely endorsed by the population, military refusal—though still possible and still punished (Melkozerova, 2023)—is less likely to be widespread enough to pose a serious threat to military capability. (This point perhaps explains Ukraine’s willingness to provide incentives to Russian soldiers to desert, as it has less to fear were Russia to do likewise.)
In short, militarism’s hold on our thinking—our uncritical reliance on military tools, our lack of imagination when it comes to alternative ways of realizing security, and therefore our concern that widespread military refusal could diminish our military capability—ultimately stymies our ability to access and fully exploit this potent tool for war disruption even in cases where our own or our allies’ defense or protection is at stake. If we wish to have this tool at our disposal to disrupt the violence of our adversaries, then we need to be ready to question our own fundamental attachment to militarism—and even be open to military refusal among our own armed forces.
How do we do this? How can military refusal be developed more fully as a viable war-disruption strategy, especially in light of the substantial obstacle posed by militarism? Barring the most obvious, and unlikely, course of action—that governments should loosen the penalties in place deterring military refusal in their own militaries, regardless of the perceived urgency or legitimacy of any particular war they may be fighting,20 and develop policies encouraging refusal in the ranks of their adversaries—I instead briefly sketch three elements of a way forward for civil society. First, it is critical to support and further amplify the activism of anti-war veterans, both ours and our adversaries’, not only to counter specific wars but also—perhaps counterintuitively (Leitz, 2011)—to weaken the hold of militarism. Many U.S. anti-war veteran organizations are animated by a radical critique of war and militarism, explicitly tracing the links between war abroad and militarism at home (Veterans for Peace, N.d.) and focused on depleting the military’s access to willing soldiers (Courage to Resist, N.d.). By leveraging their lived experience to question even putatively “good” uses of state violence, anti-war veterans take away from militarism its best arguments for being sustained—the idea that military action may sometimes be needed to do good. Furthermore, activism itself makes military refusal a more viable option for greater numbers of current “fighters” as it provides an antidote to the stigma often attached to military refusal (especially desertion) on its own. Whereas deserters may have to confront charges of selfishness and cowardice, military refusers’ mobilization as activists—who provide public reasons for their actions and speak out on behalf of their comrades—can help counter these attempts to represent them negatively (Zehfuss, 2019), while also assisting in their reconstruction of masculine identity through activism’s links to “courage, service to country, and responsibility” (Hart and Stough-Hunter, 2017).
Second, with state/international policy lacking, the potential role of civilians in encouraging military refusal becomes even more important. This includes efforts both to shape the normative context in our own communities, especially cultivating nonviolent norms of masculinity, and to heighten dilemmas faced by “enemy” soldiers through the use of nonviolent resistance, notably a mix of relationship-building and noncooperation (Bartkowski, 2015; Mouly, Hernández Delgado and Belén Garrido, 2019). Nonviolent resistance dramatically increases the unsettling contradictions faced by soldiers as they consider military commands against communities who oppose them but pose no physical threat to them, prompting them to openly question their missions (Kaplan, 2013). Here we come full circle to the very same types of catalysts that spark soldiers’ reconsideration of their participation in war—combat experiences that do not fit expectations and that lead to disruptions in their identities and ideologies (Gutmann and Lutz, 2010; Hart and Stough-Hunter, 2017). Anything civilians can do to intentionally create these catalyst experiences has the potential to ultimately encourage military refusal.
Third, the work of “credible messengers” and “formers” points to the radical potential of meeting human needs in efforts to disrupt violence. Developing robust non-military national service programs that provide the same range of socio-economic benefits as military service, as well as broader social safety nets that address basic human needs, depletes a key source of motivation for joining the military.21 Likewise, if a major barrier to exiting (or avoiding being drafted into) the military is a fear of losing benefits or an inability to meet these needs in other ways, particularly if escaping to another country, then gaining access to basic resources should enhance the capability of larger numbers of would-be deserters or draft evaders to thus refuse service—a move that, in the case of Russia, would significantly weaken its ability to wage war. This fulfillment of potential recruits’ or actual soldiers’ basic human needs outside the military effectively tests the voluntary nature of their military service, with implications for ethical arguments about war. The foundational distinction in just war theory between combatants and non-combatants (the former, but not the latter, a justifiable target in wartime) depends on the assumption that combatants have consented to take part in combat and have therefore given up some of their normal rights (to life, most critically), whereas non-combatants have not (Walzer, 1977). This distinction is critical to maintaining the otherwise tenuous distinction between “legitimate” war and “illegitimate” terrorism (considered abhorrent because it targets non-combatants) (Zehfuss, 2012). If this ethical distinction does not hold—if, in fact, there is nothing that meaningfully sets apart combatants from non-combatants because combatants are not actually fighting voluntarily—then neither does just war theory or any other moral argument that depends on this distinction to assuage concerns about wartime violence that “only” targets combatants. Yet, the validity of this distinction, not to mention a commitment to individual freedom, is not fully tested unless combatants have the ability to leave freely and have their needs met in other ways—and only then decide whether they wish to stay in (or join) the military.
Conclusion
We22 have not yet fully tapped current soldiers as resources for disrupting war. I have argued here that, rather than seeing “enemy” soldiers simply as threats to be eliminated with violence (an approach that usually only escalates wartime violence), we have much to gain by seeing them instead as embodied, gendered individuals with human needs—and even potentially as partners in war disruption. Those who decide to desert or otherwise refuse military service can serve a war-disruption function in two ways: first, by the sheer act of leaving and thereby diminishing the military capability of their armed forces, and, second, by using their credibility as former soldiers to engage in activism to influence other current soldiers, and the broader public, to refuse military service or withdraw support for (the) war. Examining the work of “credible messengers” and “formers” to disrupt street violence and extremist violence, respectively, reveals surprising commonalities in the ways former “fighters”—across these and military contexts—can support the disengagement/refusal process of current “fighters,” as well as spark broader normative change around particular forms of violence. Despite these similarities, however, it is striking how differently disengagement from street violence and/or extremist violence is viewed and treated as compared to military refusal. In the face of persistent militarism, largely responsible for this difference and for limiting the war-disruption potential of military refusal, we can still erode its influence and encourage military refusal by supporting and amplifying veterans’ anti-war activism, engaging in civilian-based forms of influence and resistance, and ensuring that would-be or actual soldiers are free to meet their human needs in other ways. Wars cannot continue without them.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank two anonymous reviewers, as well as participants at the bisa conference in Newcastle, UK, and the Responding to Violence seminar of the ias Spotlight Series on Pacifism and Nonviolence at Loughborough University, UK—both in June 2022—for questions and incisive feedback on earlier drafts of this article. Thanks, too, to Jack Amoureux, Michael Ferber, Catherine Lutz, and Maja Zehfuss for earlier conversations and inspiration from their own work on military refusal and veterans’ anti-war activism.
Notes
I borrow the terms “military refuser” and “military refusal” from Zehfuss (2019) and intend for them to include both desertion and conscientious objection, among other forms of refusal to serve.
I use the terms “violence disruption” and “war disruption” throughout to mean the potential of an activity to interfere with violent behavior in such a way that belligerents’ will or ability to use violence is diminished or disabled, creating an opening for other modes of conflict engagement. Like Mac Ginty’s (2022) concept of “conflict disruption,” “violence/war disruption” can be understood to involve “pausing or staunching violent conflict so as to allow pro-peace or pro-social processes to take root” (p. 40), but it focuses more intently on disrupting the violent means themselves than on engaging with and shifting the substantive dimensions of the conflict.
The discussion that follows focuses on the young men who make up the largest percentage of fighters in the armed organizations examined, including expectations around masculinity that shape their motivations to participate in or leave these organizations. Although individuals of other genders, including women, also participate in these armed organizations (though in smaller numbers), I do not have space here to adequately explore the distinct ways that gender norms and pressures shape their motivations and experiences.
I use the terms “fighters” and “former fighters” in this article as short-hand for individuals involved or previously involved in collective violence in a range of contexts (whether wartime violence, street violence, or extremist violence).
Disengagement and/or refusal does not then necessarily entail further anti-violence/war activism, although it often does (Zehfuss, 2019).
See terminological clarification of these twin terms further below.
As discussed below, military refusal, desertion especially, is usually only celebrated when it occurs on the side of one’s “enemies,” not in one’s own military forces.
States have a legal obligation to offer asylum to those fleeing participation in an illegal war (Dannenbaum, 2022).
Though similar forms of anti-violence/anti-war activism—whether in response to street violence, extremist violence, or wartime violence—also exist world-wide (see, for instance, cvg, N.d.b; EXIT Deutschland, N.d.; Latypova, 2022).
Globally speaking, the line between gangs/cliques engaged in “criminal violence” and rebel groups engaged in “political violence” may blur, insofar as both may serve a political function for disenfranchised groups (Barnes et al., 2023).
Studies conducted on CV program sites have found substantial reductions in gun violence (cvg, N.d.a; Delgado et al, 2017).
To keep tabs on conflicts, violence interrupters regularly patrol the neighborhood, maintain visibility, and talk to people, stepping in to deescalate conflicts when necessary by separating belligerents to cool down, working individually with each “side,” and/or directly mediating (Whitehill et al., 2013). Violence interrupters will sometimes also go to the hospital after a shooting to meet with friends and family members of gunshot victims to dissuade them from retaliating, right at the point when such plans may be forming (cvg, N.d.a).
Krause (2019) explores both “nonviolent masculinity” and “restrained violent masculinity” in her field research in Nigeria. The latter—a form of masculinity that confers influence on former fighters through “their previous reputation for extreme violence and their ability to control other men,” as well as their current relationship-building with previous opponents (p. 1491)—shows up in other aspects of “credible messengers’” work, noted below.
See the stories of Tony McAleer (Westervelt, 2018), Derek Black (Saslow, 2018), Angela King (Cole, 2019), and Christian Picciolini (Enzinna, 2018) as prominent examples.
See http://www.wecounterhate.com/, though this particular initiative is now defunct due to changes on Twitter that allow hiding previous comments.
Despite calls to defund the police in the wake of George Floyd’s murder and racial justice protests, 91 out of 109 police departments in the U.S. have actually increased their funding since 2019 (Manthey, 2022).
There is not, to my knowledge, any systematic study of public opinion towards military desertion in the U.S.
Unless otherwise noted, “we”/“us”/”our” here and below refer to U.S. Americans, though they can also largely be understood more expansively to mean, not inaccurately, anyone living in a country attached to military force as a means for pursuing political and security goals.
That said, militarism may also indirectly inform and strengthen street violence and extremist violence, insofar as “war” metaphors (e.g., “turf war” or “race war”) and related assertions about the need for armed defense/protection may be invoked in either context as a source of legitimacy.
Even in wars enjoying widespread legitimacy—like the U.S. in World War II or, again, Ukraine’s defense against Russia—there will be those who refuse to fight, but they will likely be fewer in number than in wars widely viewed as illegitimate, meaning their governments have less to “worry” about vis-à-vis impact on military capability.
The most common reason given for joining the U.S. Army is gaining educational benefits (Ramsberger & Bell, 2004).
Expansively understood (here and below) as concerned global citizens of any nationality.
References
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