“Nonviolence” is suddenly becoming a trendy catchphrase—much like “revolution” was decades ago—but what does nonviolence really mean?
The question becomes urgent when we face crises like the genocide in Gaza today. What should we do? How do we respond effectively—not just emotionally?
Nonviolence is often misunderstood. It is not passive resistance, nor is it simply refusing to use physical force. It’s not about marching in the streets for cathartic release or retreating to the country to avoid chaotic city life. True nonviolence is a transformative proposal—a way to understand and address situations of violence at their roots.
Consider what made Gandhi, King, and Silo extraordinary: they didn’t just protest—they transformed their societies. There was a clear before-and-after effect from their work. Through mass nonviolent action, Gandhi made British control of India politically untenable. These leaders understood that nonviolence must be proactive, not reactive.
But while many people agree with nonviolence in principle, we often struggle when it comes to being actively nonviolent. What prevents us from following the path these leaders showed us?
To confront violence in the world, we must first confront it within ourselves. External violence is a projection of inner violence—of fear, contradiction, and frustration that accumulate and spill outward. In this light, perhaps the greatest obstacle to active nonviolence today is self-censorship. Indeed, it may be humanity’s most dangerous enemy, because the roots of violence aren’t out there—they live inside each of us.
The LGBTQ+ community’s struggle for freedom has fundamentally been a battle against self-censorship—learning not to stay in the closet. But most of us, in some way, still live in closets of our own: afraid to speak, act, or step forward. When we feel discriminated against, abandoned, isolated, exploited, or unrepresented, the first step toward giving a nonviolent response is getting out of our personal closet. That means reconnecting with ourselves—deciding who we want to be, what kind of society we want to live in, and acting in alignment with that vision.
We may succeed, or we may not. But the essence of a nonviolent act is the intention to transform a violent situation. Even if the impact is small, we refuse to surrender our humanity to the conditions within which we find ourselves. Submitting or becoming paralyzed by violence makes us feel weaker and increases our sense of personal incoherence.
Violent people, ironically, often appear to have less self-censorship, but it isn’t because they’re more free. It’s because they’re disconnected from themselves. There’s a rupture between what they feel, think, and do. This internal fragmentation allows them to act without questioning their own violence—they can inflict harm because they’ve shut down their internal sensitivity. True nonviolence requires the opposite: deep internal coherence, where thought, feeling, and action move together. That unity demands far more courage—and more work.
People often ask why I write so many articles. The truth is, I can’t stay silent. I’m fighting to overcome my own self-censorship. I’m also alarmed by how many people simply repeat mainstream narratives, as if we all attended the same school with the same teacher.
For years, I told myself others were better writers, more knowledgeable, better communicators. Sometimes, I was just lazy—wanting others to do the work. But confronting my self-censorship has become the fight of my life. Whether speaking publicly, writing, leading, organizing, or participating at work, I often preferred staying in the background, helping others I thought were “better” leaders. As time passes, however, it becomes harder to find leadership I can fully support. I’ve realized that I must step up myself—learning in the process, developing new abilities, and moving through fears so that I can make my full contribution.
We spend so much time looking for external enemies. But the real starting point is our own self-censorship—our fear of doing what we already know is right.
Self-censorship doesn’t just show up in our political or personal lives—it’s also embedded in how we relate to our emerging future. We often internalize fear-based narratives that tell us we’re powerless, that our contributions don’t matter, or that change is out of our hands. These stories reinforce passivity. Take the narrative that AI will replace humans. To me, it’s another form of self-censorship—a fear-driven story designed to paralyze, especially those with fewer resources. But this narrative doesn’t hold up to history. Too many people hold back from using AI because of misinformation or lack of confidence. For me, AI has been a powerful ally in overcoming self-censorship: it helps me write, think, express, and grow. Far from replacing me, it helps me become more fully myself—and maybe help transform the world in the process.
Overcoming self-censorship isn’t just my struggle—it might be yours too. True nonviolence begins inside—by choosing to live with coherence, speak with honesty, and act with purpose. Only then can we hope to change the violence we see in the world around us.
