By Nahrizul Adib Kadri

We often say we want peace. Harmony. Stability. Order. But I sometimes wonder: do we really? Or is it that what we want most is to feel safe?

Because peace and the feeling of safety, though often used interchangeably, aren’t always the same. One is a state of being. The other, a perception. And more often than not, it’s the perception we chase.

The world organises itself in ways that appear orderly: alliances, agreements, trade deals, military partnerships, you name it. Superpowers align, economies entangle, flags are raised, and pacts are signed. But scratch beneath the surface of that choreography, and something else often emerges.

Many of these connections don’t start with trust or shared ideals. They start with fear. A common threat. A mutual suspicion. A shared need to survive in the presence of something, or someone, else.

We don’t always become allies because we like each other. Sometimes, we form alliances because we fear the same thing. That truth might not fit well in the press releases or official statements, but history suggests it’s more common than we’d like to admit. And perhaps it’s always been that way.

Closer to home, the same logic appears — just in quieter forms. We live behind gates. We install CCTV systems. We add motion detectors, double-lock doors, and bolt metal grills onto windows. We tell ourselves it’s about safety. And perhaps it is.

But that safety only makes sense because we’ve already assumed something dangerous might happen. The wall isn’t a response to an actual threat. It’s a response to the possibility of one.

And that possibility becomes the foundation on which we build everything else — policies, procedures, daily routines, even how we raise our children. We structure our lives around a risk that may or may not be real. But it feels real. And that’s enough.

Back in engineering school, I barely passed thermodynamics. Let’s just say heat and I had a complicated relationship. But I do remember one thing clearly: entropy. Left on its own, everything tends to fall into disorder, including buildings, systems, even conversations and relationships. That’s the natural direction of the universe.

To create order, then, is not a passive act. It takes energy. To maintain it takes even more. Whether it’s a government trying to run a country, or a person trying to keep their life in balance, the same law applies. Order is never accidental. It’s constructed. And reconstructed, constantly.

So perhaps the systems we build — societal, personal, institutional — aren’t just products of ambition or idealism. Maybe they’re simply our response to entropy. Maybe order isn’t a luxury. Maybe it’s a form of resistance.

But even as we build, we never quite outrun uncertainty. The gates might close, but the fear seeps through. The deals might hold, but suspicion lingers. The world still turns with its share of unknowns. And that’s when I’m reminded of an old Buddhist saying quoted by Murakami in his 2007 memoir ‘What I Talk About When I Talk About Running’: Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.

Disorder, like pain, might be inevitable too. But how we respond to it, that’s where meaning begins.

It’s here that Antonio Damasio’s idea comes to mind: that emotion gives value to survival. It’s not enough to endure. We endure because we care. Because something in us wants to preserve not just existence, but the people and places that make it worthwhile. And that’s what gives structure its soul. That’s what gives order its weight.

It’s strange when you think about it: many of the things we build for peace are shaped by the shadows we’re trying to keep out. Fear shapes security. Insecurity gives rise to policy. Doubt builds borders. The structure is real — but so is the unease that birthed it.

And yet, that’s not necessarily a flaw. Maybe it’s what keeps us moving. Because if everything were safe and certain, perhaps we wouldn’t build at all. We’d rest. We’d pause. And maybe, over time, we’d lose our edge. Disorder, then, isn’t the opposite of order. It’s the reason order exists in the first place.

Look, I don’t claim to know how the world really works. But the older I get, the more I begin to believe this: we don’t build because the world is safe. We build because we’re never quite sure it is.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s what keeps us trying. What keeps us creating, structuring, adjusting. Not because we’re naive, but because we understand the stakes. We keep going. We keep organising. Not to deny the chaos, but to push back against it. To say: even in the face of uncertainty, we choose to shape something meaningful anyway.

And maybe that’s the most beautiful truth of all.

_{Ir Dr Nahrizul Adib Kadri is a professor of biomedical engineering at the Faculty of Engineering, Universiti Malaya. He may be reached at nahrizuladib@um.edu.my This piece was originally published on TwentyTwo13}