The most recommended books about violence

I was late to discover this book, but I devoured it instantly. Una’s is a hybrid work, a mixture of memoir and criminal history in stunning graphic novel form.

She tells her account of growing up in West Yorkshire, UK, in 1977 when the serial murderer Peter Sutcliffe (dubbed “the Yorkshire Ripper”—ick) was still at large. Her book connects her own traumatic history with local newspaper and media accounts as well as broader statistics of sexual violence and the failures of formal investigations.

By the conclusion, Una builds to her own recovery and survival process and creates one of the most beautiful endings—drawings only—I have ever experienced in a book delving into such heart-wrenching subject matter. 

Why do people harm each other and the planet? Why do the rich continue to accumulate more and more wealth, when they already have all they need? When is enough, enough?

Those questions can be answered by social psychologists, environmental economists, historians, and other academics. But Jack D. Forbes’ book is perhaps the best explanation I have ever read. Drawing on the history of the colonization of North America, Forbes (Renape/Lenape) argues that modern civilization is based around “a spiritual sickness with a physical vector.” He calls it the wetiko disease: the desire to consume other beings, with no possibility of satiation. Forbes’ exploration from his indigenous perspective is one of the most important books I’ve ever read.

A history of the early 1960s in America, leading up to the assassination of JFK, seen through the eyes of the mobsters and criminals, crooked cops, spies, and sleazos who power the machines of history.

A comprehensive romp through the underbelly of American crime and politics (and you might, after reading this book, wonder what’s the difference), it’s a novel about characters you don’t like—but they’re vivid and fascinating.

Much more than a gritty gangster novel, it’s a tale about the people in history’s shadows, and, ultimately, history and the “never innocent” America itself. 


For people specifically interested in understanding issues around domestic violence and the justice setting in the U.S., this is an excellent read.

Villalón provides an intimate look at the difficulties Latina immigrants specifically face when navigating their marginality in a system that is already clunky and incomplete. While my book looks more at the experience of being a Latina immigrant survivor from a health and aging perspective, this book offers more insights into the legal implications of being an immigrant survivor, and I reference her excellent research many times in my own.

The Ground Breaking takes a look at the work Tulsa is doing to repair damage from the 1921 Tulsa Race Massacre—to make reparation. Specifically, the book examines Tulsa's commitment to investigating longstanding accounts of mass graves containing Black bodies hastily buried in the wake of the massacre. Collective trauma from historical events must be addressed. Answering the answerable questions that linger from the past is part of the healing process. 

With two other women, Leymah Gbowee received the 2011 Nobel Peace Prize for her peace activism that helped end the 1999-2003 civil war in Liberia. Using tactics that included daily protests, a sex strike, and rehabilitation of child soldiers, Gbowee and her coworkers effectively combined religious values, social service, and direct action to advocate for peace. Although not directly about theology, Gbowee’s church and personal faith provided important motivation, resilience, and organizational support. This memoir is both honest about her struggles and provides an inspiring witness to social change.

During the final phases of my dissertation research, I taught a course at the University of Virginia titled “Blood and Sacrifice.” Girard's book validated my hypothesis that the vampire figure is a scapegoat. It discusses topics such as ‘stereotypes of persecution,’ ‘violence and magic,’ and others. I used Girard’s writings on sacrifice to bolster my claim that societies need to construct scapegoats (such as vampires or witches) to avoid creating internal social chaos and blame.

Though his approach is that of a literary scholar, his erudition creates a very thorough understanding of a socio-structural phenomenon that has existed as long in human history as we have had writing, and certainly longer.

Why did anti-Chinese violence continue to rise even after the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882, reaching a terrible peak in 1885 and 1886?

In a powerful reinterpretation of Chinese exclusion, Beth Lew-Williams reveals how the 1882 act was deliberately limited in scope, poorly funded, and loosely enforced—because immigration policy at this time was still governed by diplomacy. Only in the late 1880s, with China perceived as weak, did the US unilaterally abrogate its treaty obligations and move toward outright exclusion.

The chronology really matters here: for Chinese immigrants it was a question not just of entry or exclusion, but of life and death. Deftly situating anti-Chinese violence in overlapping regional, national, and international contexts, Lew Williams shows how the idea of the immigrant “alien” emerged in tandem with national citizenship during the era of the Civil War and Reconstruction. 

I learned much about the causes of violence in human relations from this book’s compelling explanations of how peaceful negotiations can break down, thus leading to war.

I appreciated the book’s wide-ranging applicability, which included interstate and civil wars, but also “wars” involving drug cartels, gangs, and other factions. As an economist, Blattman’s coverage of economic aspects of war and peace shines throughout the book, and his rich multidisciplinary perspectives nicely round out his analysis.

I especially like the book’s intuitive coverage of historical examples of how peace can slip away, as well as lessons learned that can aid in future efforts to avoid war.

Violence of Mind is the only book I can remember immediately reading a second time upon finishing it. While the title is somewhat misleading and will likely dissuade too many people from picking it up, the content is straightforward, intelligent, and far more insightful than any other book in the genre I’m familiar with. Freeborn delivers succinct but critical lessons in self-defense from a philosophical perspective—this isn’t tough guy fantasies squeezed into ill-advised recommendations, but a quest to help us understand how to successfully navigate dire situations in ways that align with our values.