I was born in Aranyaprathet, where the border is not an abstract line on a map but a lived corridor—markets, languages, families, work, and waiting. On ordinary days, the border is a practical place: documents, queues, trade, the quiet choreography of people trying to make tomorrow possible. On bad days, the border turns into theatre: uniforms, slogans, and the hard wind that arrives when fear becomes policy.

Tim Marshall writes about why flags can become “worth dying for”—not because cloth has power, but because we pour ourselves into it. A flag is a container for memory: pride and grievance, dignity and loss. It is a promise that “we” are protected and recognized. That is why a raised flag can feel like shelter—and why a rival flag, in the wrong place, can feel like an invasion.

This is the trap of symbolic politics: when leaders and publics start treating identity symbols as a substitute for negotiation, then every incident becomes existential. A disputed temple becomes not just a heritage site, but a stage for sovereignty. A checkpoint becomes not just administration, but humiliation. A viral clip becomes not just information, but a mobilization order. And once the public mood hardens, compromise is caricatured as betrayal.

Look at where we are now. The reporting is blunt: renewed fighting, civilians and soldiers killed, mass displacement, and urgent external mediation efforts to restore a ceasefire. 

If we accept the saying that war is a political failure, then what we are watching is not strength—it is politics collapsing into violence. And peace is not merely “no shooting today.” Peace is the success of politics in building a just arrangement that can survive the next incident, the next rumour, the next provocation.

So a “call for peace” must be more demanding than a call for calm. It must ask for political architecture, not just moral sentiment:

  1. Humanitarian first principle: protect civilians now—safe corridors, transparent evacuation arrangements, and verified access for relief. A ceasefire that does not centre civilians is simply a pause before the next funeral.
  2. De-symbolize the flashpoints: establish temporary demilitarized and de-performed zones around the most sensitive heritage areas—no flag theatre, no “victory” footage, no staged ceremonies. Not because symbols do not matter, but because they matter too much to be used as weapons.
  3. Monitoring with teeth: ceasefires collapse when no one can credibly say who violated what. The region needs verification mechanisms that the publics can trust—not just private assurances.
  4. A shared story of dignity: both societies need a narrative that allows restraint without shame. The most dangerous politics is the kind that cannot retreat. The task is to make “choosing negotiation” the patriotic act.
  5. Justice as prevention: mine incidents, boundary ambiguity, and historical grievance are not side issues; they are the ignition sources. Peace requires continuous work on the conditions that repeatedly recreate crisis.

From Aranyaprathet, peace is not an abstract slogan. It is the ability of children to sleep, traders to cross, farmers to harvest, and families to plan a week ahead. It is the refusal to let symbols and anger become the only language available. It is the insistence that politics does its job: not to dramatize identity, but to protect life with fairness.

The flags will still fly. They should. But let them mark a commitment that is harder than war : the continuous political effort to build a just and harmonious society on both sides of the line.