Negotiating the Nonnegotiable

Author: Daniel Shapiro

This book offers a new model for resolving conflict—a model that speaks to the heart as much as it does to the mind. Just as scientists have discovered the inner workings of the physical world, my research in conflict resolution reveals the emotional forces that drive people into conflict. These forces are invisible to the eye, yet acutely felt: they can tear apart the closest friendships, end any marriage, destroy any business, and incite sectarian violence. And unless we learn to confront such forces, we will tend to engage in the same frustrating conflicts again and again, with the same frustrating results. This book offers the tools to overcome these patterns and foster cooperative relationships, transforming emotionally charged conflict into an opportunity for mutual benefit. The need for a new model occurred to me twenty-five years ago in a coffee shop in the former Yugoslavia. I had just co-organized a weeklong workshop on conflict resolution for adolescent refugees—Serbs, Bosnian Muslims, and Croats—and a few of us were now discussing the differences between life in Yugoslavia and in the United States. Gunfire still echoed in the minds of these teenagers, but we were, in the midst of the storm, drinking Turkish coffee and talking about football and who in our workshop was attracted to whom. Among us was a long-haired, blue-eyed seventeen-year-old girl named Veronica, who stared straight ahead, rigid and frustrated. She hadn’t spoken much over the course of the workshop; so I was surprised when she suddenly spoke during a lull in the chatter. Staring at her plate, she began, “It happened nine months ago. I was having lunch with my friend at his house. There was a knock at the door, and then three men with firearms entered.” She looked up for a moment, unsure if she should continue, and then added, “They pushed my friend against the wall. He resisted, but they overpowered him. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. I wanted to run for help. I wanted to do something, but I froze.” Now her already monotone voice grew even more somber, and her eyes widened. “They grabbed my shoulders, restricting my movement, and held my friend’s head in front of mine. I saw the fear in his eyes. He moved his head, trying to get away, but they held him tightly.” She paused again before saying, “One of them pulled out a knife, and I watched them slit his throat.” The café noise subsided. I looked at her, shocked, feeling as if I were cemented to my seat. I wanted to comfort her, to support her somehow, but I didn’t know what to say. And then, just as Veronica had suddenly awoken to that moment of horror, she suddenly fell silent. My colleagues and I had one more night in Yugoslavia. At dawn, we would take a train to Budapest. I was sad to leave the workshop participants; I had grown very attached to them, and they had entrusted us—in that terrible war zone—with their secrets. But I felt more guilt than sadness; I would return to the comfort and safety of the United States, while they would remain prey to despair. As our car approached the train station early the next day, my heart leaped. All twenty-four of the teenagers who had participated in the workshop were standing by the railway line, waving. Veronica was among them. She then came forward to say goodbye. “Don’t be like the others who came to help,” she said. “Don’t say you’ll remember us and then forget.” I made her a promise.