In Conversation with Peace Strategist Sanam Naraghi Anderlini, Part One: The Foundations of Peacebuilding and Bridging Divides
Check out Sanam’s podcast series #IfYouWereinCharge
Sanam Naraghi Anderlini is the founder and CEO of the International Civil Society Action Network (ICAN) and leads the Women’s Alliance for Security Leadership (WASL), a coalition of women-led organizations across 40 countries dedicated to preventing violence and advancing peace, rights, and pluralism. Sanam has over two decades of experience as a peace strategist working globally on conflicts, violent extremism, and peacebuilding with civil society, governments, and the UN. Her academic contributions include teaching at Columbia University and holding an Andrew Mellon Fellowship at the University of Massachusetts, Amherst. She holds an MPhil from Cambridge University and is an Iranian-born UK and US citizen. She recently joined the advisory board of the Democracy and Belonging Forum.
Lara Habboub, the Communications Associate at the Democracy & Belonging Forum, recently spoke with Sanam about her impactful work as a peace strategist, highlighting the unique contributions of women in peacebuilding efforts and the valuable lessons learned from peace initiatives in the Global South.
The following is Part 1 of the interview. You can read Part 2 and Part 3 of this interview on our website.
Can you tell us a bit about your background and what led you to do the work you do today as a peace strategist?
I am Iranian by background—my family, both my parents, and everything. In a way, I could say that the reason I ended up doing this work is because, when I was 11, the Iranian revolution happened, and our family was scattered all over the world. You don’t realize it at the moment, but in the decades that followed, I came to understand that an event like that, which the world might see as a historic moment—something that very few people outside of Iran even remember—completely changed our lives. It was like one life ended and another began.
In my twenties, I realized how painful it is when your own country splits apart or experiences turmoil. This pain is multi-generational; even 40 years later, it still affects us all, including generations that weren’t even born at the time. I was driven by the desire to prevent others from experiencing this kind of trauma. I kept asking myself, “How can I stop others from going through what we went through?”
At that time, I was inspired by what was happening in South Africa with Mandela and Desmond Tutu, particularly the idea of conflict transformation. The fact that the apartheid regime had leaders who recognized that the future would either be a civil war or some kind of coming together and compromise was very inspirational. It made me believe that if reconciliation was possible there, it could be possible elsewhere too. This has shaped my narrative for a long time in terms of what is possible and why we need to find spaces for forgiveness, reconciliation, and looking to the future together.
Additionally, over time, I’ve come to realize that I come from a family that had served the country. I grew up with the idea that with great privilege comes great responsibility. So, if I have this privilege, what else can I do? How can I help others? So I’ve taken this mindset to an international scale.
Another aspect of my journey, which I’ve delved into over the last 15 years, is rooted in the Persian culture that goes back to the Zoroastrians, which is inherently pluralistic. For example, the Cyrus Cylinder, which is 2,500 years old, is the first document that talks about having a state where people can practice whatever religions or faiths they choose. The idea is that everyone should coexist and live together. This pluralism is deep in the essence and DNA of Iranian culture, and you can feel it in the society, in the way I grew up, and in Iranian society today, to a large extent, even after the revolution.
What I find fascinating about Zoroastrianism is its focus on the positive. Instead of saying, “Speak no evil,” we say, “Speak kind words.” Instead of “Do no evil,” we say, “Do kind deeds.” Instead of “Think no evil,” we say, “Think good thoughts.” This positivity is crucial in how we view the world, focusing on what can be done rather than what can’t be done. While it’s true that there are many horrible things happening, it’s important to balance that out with the positive. If we don’t invest in and nurture the positive, we just take it for granted.
At OBI we talk about the necessity of bridging to engage across lines of difference and build societies where everyone can belong. Do you see any parallels in the way we understand bridging to your own work in conflict transformation and can you explain what bridging means to you in the context of violent conflict scenarios?
In our work, we talk a lot about bridging in different ways. For example, at ICAN, which I founded in 2006, we have always aimed to be a bridge between local actors—people doing community work—and the global policy environment. If you’re doing peace-building in Yemen, you know your community, the issues, and the changes needed. Yet, decisions about your life are often made by someone at the UN or in Washington. We wanted to bridge that gap by bringing local knowledge into the international space while also informing our Yemeni, Syrian, or other colleagues about what the international community was planning. In this context, we act as trusted interlocutors. Because I’ve worked at the UN and know the international community—these donors and governments we work with—we can facilitate these connections. Bridging, in this sense, has a trust element. While some may use it as gatekeeping, we don’t. I actually believe it’s fundamentally unethical to do so; the goal should be connecting.
Another aspect of bridging I think about is the risk of being walked over once you create that connectivity. People may bypass those who connected them and focus solely on the new relationship
But what we’ve tried to do, and this is a unique aspect of our work, is to use our position on top of the bridge to see all sides. We have a unique perspective that allows us to understand the broader geopolitical landscape, see how decisions made in places like Washington can ripple through Syria, Afghanistan, and beyond, and anticipate or mitigate those impacts. The hardest part is trying to change these decisions—like what the United States did in the negotiations with the Taliban in 2021. We saw it coming, the women knew, and we tried to warn others. When you’re on the bridge, you have a 360-degree perspective, and sharing that view is crucial because people on the ground, in their own communities living and trying to serve their communities and do their work on a daily basis, often don’t have the time to see what’s happening globally.
The third element of bridging is what I call the bridge to the future. When your community or society experiences conflict or trauma, there’s a tendency to dwell on the past—what happened, who did what to whom. For example, what happened in 1948 in Palestine. While understanding the past is important, the danger is that the past, whether it is 50 years ago or yesterday, can dictate present actions and shape the future in ways that may not be desirable. I believe it’s crucial to envision the future you want and work towards it rather than assuming it will just happen. It’s like standing at a crossroads; there are different paths, and the assumption that we’ll automatically end up in the future we want is dangerous. Too often, people go in circles until tension breaks, violence erupts, and the future is shaped by that violence, leading to a horrific outcome.
The South Africans understood this. They set a vision for the future they wanted with something called the People’s Charter, which served as a guiding post. Even as things got tense, they kept asking: Where do we want to go? We want to avoid violence and create an inclusive society where everyone has rights. It was a promise so that every generation that came as they saw the injustices, could look at that charter and decide how to fight for that vision. It’s not just about what you’re fighting against, but what you’re fighting for. That’s another aspect of bridging—creating a bridge to the future.
Finally, the connection between the work OBI does and what we do at ICAN is that instead of focusing on people and communities as “others” or emphasizing differences, we seek out similarities. To me, this is about finding the humanity in each person, and discovering what connects us despite appearances or political perspectives. Recently, I’ve done a lot of work around questions of identity, exploring how we perceive identity on both an individual and communal level, and how we can cultivate a sense of connectivity and belonging that transcends the divisions created by “othering.”
How do individual and group identities impact conflict dynamics and peacebuilding efforts? What strategies can be employed to address identity-based grievances and foster a sense of shared identity among conflicting groups, or how can conflicting parties move beyond identity-based divisions to find common ground?
This question takes me back 30 years. When we think about identity, there’s a tendency to frame it in terms of ethnicity, race, faith, or national and political ideology. These are the categories we often refer to when discussing group identity—Tutsis and Hutus, Catholics and Protestants, for example.
Early in my career, as we were exploring conflict transformation, we realized that if you bring women together from across these rigid group identities and allow them to share their experiences as women, they often find they have more in common with each other than the differences that stem from race, ethnicity, or religion. For example, a Catholic woman and a Protestant woman in Northern Ireland, when discussing what it means to be a woman dealing with conflict and war, can often relate more deeply to each other’s experiences. If you can create that space of trust for those conversations, they end up having much more in common with each other as women. Their shared gender identity brings them closer together than the divisions imposed by other aspects of identity. It’s something that might seem obvious in hindsight, but it’s often overlooked.
Take the origin of International Mother’s Day in the United States, for instance. It was born out of the Civil War when Julia Ward Howe made a speech calling for mothers in both the North and South to unite, recognizing their shared grief over losing their children. The idea was to stop the killing, transcending the divisions of war.
So, identity is pivotal, but the real question is: how do we understand it? As a peacebuilder and through my life experiences, I’ve tried to unpack concepts of identity. For example, when I hear someone talk about a multicultural society, they often describe groups living in parallel, separate but side by side. While that may be true, it doesn’t fully capture how we live together. So I started exploring other terms, like “transcultural,” where you see the blending and fusion of cultures—like how you might find Syrian food and culture blending into the fabric of a place like Detroit.
Then there’s the concept of intersectionality, which captures the complexity of individual identities—being female, brown, Muslim, etc. However, I find it limiting. The term “intersection” feels like being stuck at the crossroads of these identities. It doesn’t capture the fluidity and dynamism of how our identities shift and change, how we connect with people differently in various contexts.
Moreover, intersectionality sometimes comes with the assumption that certain identities automatically bring disadvantages. For example, being a first-generation Middle Eastern female in the U.S. might come with the expectation of facing discrimination. But that’s not always true. I come from a place of privilege, and I don’t want to be boxed as “poor little migrant” stereotype. Similarly, colleagues from disadvantaged white backgrounds may face their own struggles, and it’s unfair to assume otherwise because they happen to be white and blue-eyed.
So, in my opinion, while intersectionality is necessary, it’s not sufficient. That’s why I’ve been framing identity in terms of what I call “quantum identity.” I use “quantum” intentionally, drawing from quantum physics, where particles are in constant motion, interacting in complex ways. I think of identity similarly—as a set of dynamic, ever-changing connections. We have many identities, like a deck of cards, and we don’t necessarily think about all of them at once. For instance, I don’t walk around identifying primarily as a Cambridge graduate, but in a situation where that connection matters, it can suddenly become relevant and create a sense of belonging.
In my work, this understanding of identity has been crucial. When discussing conflict transformation or the role of women in peace and security, I need to connect with the people I’m talking to. Otherwise, I’m just seen as some foreigner who came and gave a talk, and they had to sit there and listen. But if I mention something relatable, like being a mother, half the room might suddenly connect with me. Or, if I share my experience as an Iranian observing Sudan’s peaceful revolution at the time after 40 years under a military theocratic regime, it changes the perception from “Oh, she’s a UN feminist. Let’s run away from her” to “Oh, she’s Iranian!”
Understanding our multiple identities allows us to push past the prejudices and assumptions we’re conditioned to have about each other. And I say “quantum” because identity can be triggered in different situations. For example, I don’t often think of myself as a very good Muslim, but if someone starts speaking about Islam being a religion of terror, I feel as if my grandmother's spirit is coming alive in me, and I feel the need to defend it. In that moment, my Muslim identity becomes active, only to recede again later. This fluidity is key—it’s about recognizing that our identities are not static; they can evolve and adapt as we navigate different contexts and stages of life. It's almost like you can go back and forth in your own life at various times and remember, what was it like to be a young mom? What was it like to be graduating from college and not knowing what to do next? So it's like stepping back and forth in time as well as acquiring these alternative identities and things that allow us to connect with others in more meaningful ways, moving beyond the labels and divisions that often hold us back.