As a researcher, you often read about conflict from a distance. You hear stories, collect data, and listen to people recount their experiences, usually after the worst of the violence has passed. Conflict becomes something abstract, something you analyse. Most researchers don’t plan to be in the middle of it while conducting fieldwork.  

Moyale is a town of around 34,000 people, located atop an escarpment that rises abruptly amidst the low rocky hills and brushland that characterise the area. The Kenyan-Ethiopian border runs through the town, with one of Kenya’s and Ethiopia’s major border crossings located in the centre of the town, along a key highway that also serves as Moyale’s main thoroughfare.  

One morning in early March 2024, during my field research, my field coordinator and I were preparing to visit a nearby village to meet with a local women’s group. The plan was to spend the day hearing from women about their experiences, their roles in the community, and their aspirations for peace in an area that hasn’t always experienced it. But the day took a sharp turn. 

We received word that the meeting would have to be cancelled. Violent clashes at a number of gold mines had broken out in Dabel, a region in Marsabit County, Kenya (of which Moyale is the largest town) and several victims were being brought to Moyale for medical treatment. Moyale’s previously calm atmosphere shifted instantly. My field coordinator, a member of the Gabbra community, started receiving urgent phone calls. Tensions were rising rapidly between the Gabbra and the Borana, the two dominant communities in Marsabit. 

Uncertain of how events would unfold, we stayed put. In situations like these, the safest course of action is to follow the guidance of local partners who know the terrain, the networks, and the dynamics better than anyone. One of the first people we contacted was Rahma, a local peacebuilder and a respected leader in her community.  

She was composed but serious. She immediately updated us on what was happening: the violence in Dabel had triggered a ripple of anxiety in Moyale, and tensions were threatening to spill across the border into Ethiopia, as they had previously. “No one wants Moyale to burn again,” she said, referring to violent clashes in 2012 between the Boranna and Garri communities. That violence, which began as a dispute over land use and grazing rights, killed 18, displaced around 20,000 from Ethiopia into Kenya, and garnered international attention.   

When I asked how her local peacebuilding organisation group were responding, Rahma spoke with quiet determination. The first step, she explained, was to alert the elders from both communities. “When the elders speak, people listen,” she said. Her team had already reached out to them, urging them to call for calm and prevent any escalation. Simultaneously, they were supporting those injured in the clashes who had been brought into town, ensuring they had access to basic care and support. 

But Rahma’s work didn’t stop there. She had begun visiting families of the victims, offering solidarity, helping them process what was happening, and quietly gathering information. She and her team were also sending alerts to women on the Ethiopian side of Moyale, warning them of potential escalation. This early warning system, built on personal relationships, is often the difference between violence being contained or spreading further. 

In those tense hours, I witnessed first-hand an often opaque and unacknowledged process of local, women-led peacebuilding. It was happening in real time: the phone calls, the home visits, the coordination between elders, youth, and women’s groups. The effort to prevent the spread of violence wasn’t being led by armed actors or official peace envoys; it was being led by women like Rahma, who, in the absence of formal authority, exert extraordinary influence through relational leadership, local knowledge, and moral authority. 

This experience reshaped how I understand peacebuilding. It is not a grand event or a signed document; it is often the quiet work done by those with the most to lose. It is those without official standing, often women, who issue early warnings, who offer first response, who try to ease tensions, and try to prevent a spark from turning into a fire.  

The bigger picture: women’s peace work in policy and practice 

Rahma’s story is not unique, and that’s exactly the point. Across the Horn of Africa, and indeed globally, women have long been central to informal peacebuilding networks, particularly in borderland and conflict-prone regions where formal institutions often falter. omen play a crucial role in providing early warnings of conflict by alerting the appropriate community actors. In Moyale, women frequently cross the border into Ethiopia for routine activities such as trade, visiting relatives, or participating in cultural events. This regular cross-border movement, combined with their cultural fluency, enables them to pick up on subtle signs of tension whether these be unusual gatherings, atypical livestock movements, or murmurs of grievances that may signal emerging conflict. This early warning function is not limited solely to cross-border threats; it also applies to potential conflicts arising from interactions with different communities on the Kenyan side. Upon detecting these early signals, women promptly return to their communities to mobilize local peace committees and inform local leaders of potential flashpoints.  

Their work, however, is consistently under-recognised, underfunded, and under-reported. 

In my research across the borderlands of Kenya and Ethiopia, particularly in Moyale, I encountered this paradox repeatedly. Women like Rahma are doing the critical work of de-escalating violence, providing first response, and maintaining cross-border dialogue, yet they remain largely excluded from formal peacebuilding mechanisms. County-level peace committees and national dialogue platforms are overwhelmingly male-dominated. When women are included, it is often in token ways, lacking decision-making power or sustained institutional support. Increasing the number of women in country level governance positions and requiring gender balanced teams for new county-funded projects in this part of Kenya could help to address the gender imbalance in decision making.  

The barriers to inclusion are as structural as they are cultural. Women’s groups in the region frequently lack consistent funding, safe spaces to convene, reliable transport to conflict-affected areas, and access to early warning information channels dominated by local government or security actors. In Moyale, for instance, women peacebuilders often rely on their personal networks, phones, ad hoc transportation, and informal clan ties to respond to crises. Yet these grassroots systems are fragile, stretched thin, and rarely acknowledged by formal actors who continue to see peacebuilding through a masculinised lens of negotiation, disarmament, or enforcement. 

And yet, research continues to affirm that when women participate meaningfully in peace processes, outcomes are more durable and inclusive. The challenge is not simply to “add women” to existing peace structures, but to reimagine peacebuilding itself: to centre the relational, affective, and community-based forms of mediation that women are already practicing.