I am a Jordanian citizen from Madaba, a city where many Muslims pray in a mosque named the "Mosque of Christ Jesus, Son of Mary." It is a city where, every year, a number of fasting Muslims eat their Iftar meal in the church courtyard, after a day during which Christians refrain from consuming anything that might violate the sanctity of the fast; some even fast themselves and break their fast at the Maghrib call to prayer.
I am a son of a city where, when a prominent Muslim figure passes away, church bells toll. Those are the churches we entered as children driven by curiosity, and as adults to offer condolences in times of grief, or to offer congratulations in times of joy. It is a city where the church cross rises next to the mosque crescent, while pigeons circle above them as ambassadors of peace, witnessing a long history of coexistence that has endured wars, famines, struggles, and dreams of a better tomorrow. It is a city whose women have breastfed Muslim orphans and raised Christian infants. We dance together in times of joy, weep together when the world brings us sorrow, and chant together for the country and against the greed of enemies. And at the end of the night, just before sleep, we all ask God to guide us toward a day filled with blessings.
We have never needed to ask each other about our religion before sharing bread, opening our doors, or extending our hands to comfort a neighbor who has been harmed. This coexistence has been and remains part of our nature; we do not pay much attention to it because we inherited it just as we inherited the names of our streets, the features of our city, and the memories of its people.
In many countries, I boast that I am a son of a city belonging to a land that has never known, in its long social history, a relationship between Muslim and Christian based on hostility, but rather on neighborliness, affection, and a shared destiny. Stars of joy light up my forehead when I tell them that this city is a sister to Karak, Fuheis, Al-Husn, Amman, and all other Jordanian cities that have learned that difference in worship does not mean difference in belonging.
But today, I am filled with extreme sadness, even grief. Not only because three terrorists toyed with our lives in a desperate attempt to undermine this human fabric, despite the spilled blood and the souls of the pure martyrs, but because I have become more fearful for the pages of our coming days. A fear that stems from a question that has been echoing in my imagination since the news of the tragedy reached me: How many among us resemble these three who aimed their rifle barrels at worshipers who were mourning a deceased person who had departed to the side of his Lord?
It is a painful question, not because I doubt the people around me, but because terrorism does not emerge suddenly, nor does it come from nothing. There must be, behind every mind that has reached this level of brutality, a long path of distorted ideas and hatred that grew until it obscured the humanity of the other.
This leads me to another question: Who toyed with the minds of these young men, portraying to them that God would be pleased with a Muslim when he kills a Christian with such brutality? Who convinced them that the path to Paradise passes through the blood of an innocent human being? And who is this entity that believes that through such a filthy act, it can toy with a society for which humanity has been, and will remain, the umbrella, despite the constant insistence on tearing it apart?
Like any person who believes in his humanity, I am still sad and shocked by the terrorist incident that targeted worshipers in a church in the village of Hamoud in Karak Governorate, one of Jordan's governorates. It is an extremist terrorist act that cannot be separated from a takfiri discourse that seeks to turn religious difference into a pretext for killing and to create a rift in the Jordanian coexistence, which remains a model of brotherhood and tolerance.
However, what worries me, alongside this crime, is what might have preceded it in terms of a long silence regarding ideas growing in the dark. The terrorist who carries his rifle today was, years ago, a child sitting in a classroom, a young man frequenting a place of worship, a member of a family, or a face we pass in the street without knowing what is going on in his head. And somewhere along that journey, a malfunction occurred that made a human see the killing of another human as an act that brings him closer to God.
Hence, I look forward to the days when the sadness will recede, even if only a little, so that we can think about those around us and the gaps through which those who recruit others can pass, making them see the world through a darkened window. What we want when we wake up from the impact of the tragedy is not to get angry when we say that the killer may be, in one aspect of his formation, a victim as well, and that the victim is a victim of his crime. But there is a big difference between the two victims; the killed is an innocent person whose life was stolen, while the killer is responsible for his crime, regardless of the ideas that lured him into it or the circumstances that contributed to distorting his consciousness.
Understanding the path that led the killer to his crime does not mean justifying it or diminishing its hideousness, but rather means searching for what can prevent another killer from being formed among us.
And when we are convinced of this painful matter, we must face ourselves with questions that are no less painful: Why does a person become a terrorist? How does he turn into an extremist who sees the assassination of the other as a victory and the taking of a life as an act of worship? Is the flaw in our culture? In our society? In our daily contexts? In our educational curricula? In our homes? Or in a religious discourse that is being cut off from its human meaning and then presented to minds that have not learned how to ask, doubt, and think?
We must possess enough courage to face these questions and not be content with condemning the crime or celebrating the arrest of its perpetrators. Security services can stop a terrorist, thwart a plot, and protect many lives, and this is a great and necessary role, but they cannot alone uproot an idea that has settled in a person's mind or dispel hatred that has been nurtured inside him for many long years.
That is a responsibility that goes beyond security to the school, the university, the family, and the religious, cultural, and media institutions. A responsibility that begins with the way we teach our children to look at the "other," and with our ability to make thinking broader than indoctrination, and the human being greater than the narrow affiliations that are intended to turn into walls separating people.
We have lived in Jordan for a long time, knowing that the Muslim and the Christian do not share only the land, but share the memory and the destiny. It is not enough to sing the praises of this human heritage; we must protect it from the ideas that infiltrate minds and try to steal from the human being his ability to see his fellow human.
That is why I return to the question that haunts me: Will terrorism end when the terrorists are arrested?
I fear the answer is no. Arresting a terrorist ends his immediate danger, but it does not necessarily end the idea that made him a killer. Unless we go to that idea, dismantle its sources, and close the paths through which it passes into the minds of our children, we will continue to face the results of terrorism, not its causes.
We do not want to protect our lives today only, but to protect the pages of our coming days, so that a morning does not come when we discover that the pigeons that were circling around the church cross and the mosque crescent have left the sky of our city, because we were too late in protecting the peace that we were accustomed to having among us.
