By: Dr. Adnan Bouzan

Introduction:

Since the moment the human being first lifted his head toward the sky, he was not merely searching for an explanation of thunder and lightning, nor solely for an answer to the question of death. He was searching for meaning—meaning for his existence in a world suspended between chaos and order, between fear and hope, between the fragility of the body and the soul’s longing for eternity. In that first existential moment, religion emerged as a profound human attempt to transcend the limits of reality and to forge a relationship between the human and the absolute, between the mortal and the eternal. Religion, in its earliest form, was not a project of power nor an instrument of control; it was a promise of redemption from the absurdity of suffering, a bridge between the human being and his inner dignity, between his earthly weakness and his aspiration toward cosmic justice.

However, as human gatherings evolved into organized societies, and as the state emerged as an entity seeking stability and dominance, religion gradually began to move beyond its individual spiritual domain into the sphere of social and political organization. It was no longer merely an internal experience lived in silence, but also became a public discourse, a source of legitimacy, and an instrument for shaping collective obedience. At this point, one of the most dangerous transformations in the history of human consciousness began: the transformation of religion from an open existential question into a closed political answer.

At a decisive historical moment, power discovered that the strongest forms of legitimacy are not those imposed by force alone, but those presented as divine will. Power that speaks in its own name can be challenged; but power that speaks in the name of God places itself beyond accountability. Thus, religion ceased to be merely faith—it became a system of regulation, a language of control, and a framework that grants power a sacred character, transforming obedience from a political choice into a spiritual obligation.

From here emerged the great paradox that continues to haunt history to this day: the paradox between religion as a promise of human liberation and religion as an instrument of human subjugation; between religion as a search for justice and religion as a means of justifying injustice; between religion as a call for mercy and religion as a discourse used to legitimize cruelty.

The problem, in its essence, does not lie in the existence of religion itself, but in that moment when it is extracted from its spiritual context and reinserted into the structure of power. In that moment when God ceases to be an idea that transcends humanity and becomes instead a discourse used to control it. In that moment when faith ceases to be a free experience and becomes an instrument used to justify human actions presented as absolute commands.

Throughout history, across its different eras, multiple forms of this political instrumentalization of the sacred have appeared. This phenomenon has not been exclusive to a particular civilization or a specific religion, but has rather been a recurring pattern revealing a complex relationship between the sacred and power, between faith and force, between heaven and earth. In many instances, God was not invoked to liberate humanity, but to justify its subjugation. The sacred was not always a refuge for the weak; in certain contexts, it became a language used to legitimize their submission.

Here, the central question becomes deeper and more dangerous: Does violence originate from religion itself, or from the way religion is used within the structure of power? Is the problem located in faith, or in the monopolization of its interpretation? Is God, as an absolute idea, the source of violence—or does the human being, when speaking in the name of God, merely project his own will rather than that of the absolute?

This question does not aim to deny religion, nor to attack it as a spiritual experience. Rather, it seeks to deconstruct the relationship between the sacred and power, between faith and authority, between the text and its political interpretation. For the most dangerous phenomenon is not that a human being believes in God, but that another human being claims the exclusive right to speak in His name. Nor is it that a human being searches for meaning, but that a single meaning is imposed upon him as an absolute truth.

Thus, the issue that must be raised today is not merely theoretical, but existential, ethical, and political at once: How did religion, at a particular historical moment, transform from an individual spiritual experience seeking to liberate humanity from fear into a political discourse sometimes used to justify violence in the name of the absolute? And how did the sacred—originally meant to grant humanity its dignity—become, in certain contexts, an instrument capable of stripping that dignity away?

Attempting to answer this question is not merely an intellectual exercise. It is a necessity for understanding one of the deepest contradictions shaping our contemporary world: the contradiction between God as an idea of absolute justice, and the use of His name within a world governed by power, interests, and struggles for domination.

First: When the Sacred Text Becomes a Political Instrument

In its original formation, the sacred text was not a political text, nor was it a project of governance or a constitution of power. Rather, it was a discourse addressed to the depths of the human being—to his conscience, to his existential anxiety, and to his fundamental questions about life and death, good and evil, justice and meaning. In its earliest essence, the text was a call to awakening, not to blind obedience; a call to reflection, not to forced compliance; a call to liberate the human being from the bondage of fear, not to place him into a new form of bondage in the name of the absolute. Before the hand of power touched it, the text was an open space for thought, a free field for interpretation, and a personal experience lived by the individual in his intimate relationship with meaning.

Yet this same text, which was born within the horizon of freedom, gradually began—through a long and complex historical process—to transform into an instrument used within the structure of power. It was no longer read as an ethical discourse open to reflection and interpretation. Instead, in many contexts, it came to be presented as a closed and final command, a complete truth that could neither be questioned nor debated. At this point, the text ceased to be merely a text; it became authority. Its interpretation was no longer an intellectual act, but a political privilege monopolized by institutions or forces claiming possession of absolute truth.

When it is said, “Thus says God,” or “Thus said the Messenger,” such statements, in many cases, are not used as the beginning of dialogue, but as its end. They are not presented as invitations to thought, but as instruments to halt thinking altogether. What was once a phrase carrying spiritual meaning becomes a tool with a political function: the function of closing the door to doubt, eliminating the possibility of critique, and shifting discourse from the realm of reason into the domain of obedience. Thus, the text, which was meant to open wider horizons of understanding before humanity, becomes an instrument used to narrow those horizons, confining them within a closed framework from which there is no exit.

Here lies the true danger—not in the text itself, but in the way it is used. The text, in itself, is silent; it does not speak except through human beings. But when a human being monopolizes its interpretation and presents that interpretation as absolute divine truth, he is not transmitting the will of God, but rather his own understanding, his own interests, and his own vision—granting them an absolute cover that shields them from criticism and accountability.

At this precise moment, a dangerous transformation occurs within the structure of consciousness: the text shifts from being an object of understanding into an instrument of domination. Faith shifts from being a free inner experience into an external system imposed through symbolic power. The human being shifts from a thinking, choosing, and morally responsible agent into an executor of what he believes to be absolute commands, without questioning their meaning, their consequences, or their ethical implications.

Thus, in certain contexts, the text becomes a substitute for conscience rather than a guide to it. It becomes a substitute for thinking rather than a stimulus for it. It becomes a substitute for responsibility rather than its foundation. For when a human being believes he is executing divine will, he may feel exempt from moral responsibility for his actions—even when those actions lead to violence or injustice. He no longer sees himself as an agent, but as an instrument; no longer as responsible, but as merely obedient.

The deeper paradox, however, lies in the fact that this so-called “divine will” which the human believes he is executing is, in reality, nothing more than a human interpretation of the text—an interpretation shaped within a specific historical context, influenced by particular political conditions, and sometimes used to serve specific interests. Thus, the human being is no longer subordinated to God, but to another human being who claims to speak in His name.

The greatest danger in this process is not only that it abolishes reason, but that it abolishes the necessary distance between the human and the absolute. It creates a dangerous illusion: the illusion that a human being can possess absolute truth, speak in its name, and impose it upon others. At this moment, the text ceases to be a means of liberating humanity from violence, and may instead become, in certain contexts, an instrument used to justify it.

From here emerges the most fundamental and urgent ethical question: Can any God, if He is a God of justice and mercy, command the killing of the innocent? Can the absolute, if it is the source of justice, also be the source of injustice? Or does the problem lie not in God, but in the human being who speaks in His name—who transforms the text from a space of meaning into an instrument of power, and from a call to liberation into a mechanism of domination?

This question does not target faith as a spiritual experience, but rather that moment when faith is abducted from its free human domain and reinserted into the structure of power—where the text no longer becomes a voice of truth, but an instrument in the hands of those who possess the authority to interpret it and impose that interpretation as the only possible truth.

Second: Violence Is Not a Religion, but an Instrument of Power

If religion, in its original essence, was an attempt to give meaning to human existence, then violence, in its political essence, is an attempt to control that existence. From this perspective, the relationship that emerged between religion and violence was not an intrinsic relationship arising from the nature of faith itself, but a functional one formed within the structure of power—when ruling forces realized that the deepest forms of control are not those imposed on the body alone, but those imposed on consciousness, on conscience, and on the very sense of legitimacy.

History, when read beyond the justificatory narratives produced by victorious powers, reveals a clear truth: violence has never been the monopoly of any single religion, culture, or historical period. Across the ages, violence has been the hidden language of power—the instrument it resorts to when persuasion fails. Yet violence has rarely presented itself as mere violence. Instead, it has always been wrapped in a discourse that grants it meaning, provides it with legitimacy, and conceals its true nature as an expression of the will to dominate.

In Europe, the wars fought by the Church were not merely theological conflicts; they were also struggles over influence, territory, and the formation of political order. The name of Christ was not only a spiritual reference but, at certain historical moments, became a banner raised to sanctify war, transforming violence from a human act into what appeared to be the execution of divine will. At the same time, when European empires expanded into the wider world, they did not present themselves as invading forces, but as “civilizing” powers carrying a mission to “uplift” other peoples. Thus, violence was no longer presented as violence, but as a moral duty and a historical mission.

In the Islamic world, conflicts in which religious slogans were raised were not always purely religious conflicts. In many cases, they were political struggles over power, legitimacy, and control. Religion, in such contexts, became a language that granted conflict an absolute character, transforming it from a dispute between human forces into what appeared to be a struggle between truth and falsehood. Yet when political structures changed, a new language emerged—one that no longer spoke in the name of God, but in the name of the “nation,” the “people,” or “nationalism.” The violence itself did not change; only the language used to justify it did.

This transformation reveals a deeper truth: violence does not need religion in order to exist—it needs legitimacy in order to endure. When religious legitimacy is unavailable, power produces alternative forms of legitimacy—national, security-based, or ideological. The modern nation-state, despite claiming separation from religion, did not abandon the need for an absolute discourse to justify its actions. It replaced the religious sacred with the political sacred, substituting the name of God with the name of the nation, yet preserving the same structure: the justification of violence in the name of a value presumed to stand above the individual human being.

In the modern era, bombs are no longer dropped in the name of God, but in the name of “national security.” Wars are no longer always declared as holy wars, but as wars for “democracy,” “stability,” or the “fight against terrorism.” Yet in their essence, these wars continue to express the same structure: the structure of power seeking to impose its will while requiring a discourse that presents that will as morally justified.

This reveals that the problem does not lie in religion alone, but in the structure of power itself. Power, by its nature, does not merely seek to be powerful; it seeks to appear legitimate. It understands that true domination is not achieved solely by subjugating the body, but by convincing the mind, reshaping consciousness, and making those subjected to it believe that such domination is justified—even necessary.

For this reason, power always seeks a language that transcends the individual—a language that appears absolute and beyond dispute. Sometimes it finds this language in religion, and speaks in the name of God. Sometimes it finds it in nationalism, and speaks in the name of the nation. Sometimes it finds it in security, and speaks in the name of stability. Sometimes it finds it in morality, and speaks in the name of the common good. Yet despite these changing names, the essence remains the same: transforming violence from an act that can be questioned into a necessity that cannot be challenged.

In this sense, religion becomes one of several forms that legitimacy can take, but it is not the only one. The deeper problem lies not in faith itself, but in that moment when any absolute idea—whether religious, national, or ideological—is transformed into an instrument used to justify domination.

Violence, in this meaning, is not a religion, nor a doctrine, nor even an ideology. It is, above all, an expression of the will to power. What changes throughout history is not its existence, but the language used to justify it. At times it is presented as the will of God; at other times, as the will of the nation; and at other times, as the necessity of security. Yet behind all these names, violence remains the same: an instrument used by power when it seeks to impose itself as the only possible truth.

Third: When God Becomes a Human Instrument

The most dangerous moment in the history of human consciousness is not when a human being commits violence in the name of direct personal interests, nor even when it is justified in the name of necessity or survival, but the moment when an act is stripped from its human context and re-presented as an expression of divine will. For when a human being kills in his own name, he remains within the boundaries of responsibility; he can be questioned, judged, and his actions can be rejected as human actions capable of error. But when he kills in the name of God, he no longer sees himself as an agent, but as an executor; no longer sees himself as responsible, but as an instrument; no longer sees himself as a decision-maker, but merely as a mediator between earth and heaven.

At this precise moment, the most dangerous transformation occurs: God ceases to be an absolute idea that transcends the human being and instead becomes an instrument within the human world. The absolute is no longer the standard by which human action is measured; rather, human action cloaks itself in the mantle of the absolute in order to protect itself. Thus, the human being is no longer subject to God; instead, God, within discourse, becomes subject to human interpretation—to human interests, fears, and the will to dominate.

The profound paradox lies in the fact that God, as an absolute idea, is presumed to exist beyond all instrumentalization, beyond all monopolization, beyond all exploitation. Yet when God is reduced to a single interpretation, a single discourse, and a single voice claiming exclusive authority to speak in His name, He loses His absolute character and becomes a symbolic instrument within the structure of power. Here, the sacred ceases to be a space of liberation and becomes a means of control. Faith ceases to be a free relationship between the human being and the absolute, and instead becomes a relationship of power between one human being and another—one claiming possession of truth, and the other expected to submit to it.

Instead of being a source of morality, the name of God, in certain contexts, becomes a cover for the absence of morality. For when an act is presented as divine will, it is elevated above ethical scrutiny. The question is no longer: Is it just? Is it humane? Is it justified? The only question becomes: Is it “commanded”? Thus, ethical standards are replaced by a single absolute standard—the standard of obedience. At that moment, the individual conscience ceases to be the reference point for action and becomes merely subordinate to an external authority claiming to represent the absolute.

Instead of religion serving as a path to liberate human beings from fear and grant them meaning beyond their fragility, it can, in certain contexts, become an instrument for reproducing fear itself. Fear of doubt. Fear of questioning. Fear of thinking outside the prescribed framework. For questioning, within such a structure, is not seen as a search for truth, but as a threat to the existing order. Faith ceases to be a space of inner peace and instead becomes a mechanism of regulation—defining what may be thought and what must not be thought.

The greatest danger in this process is not only that it reshapes the human relationship with God, but that it reshapes the human relationship with oneself. It strips the individual of moral responsibility and grants a false sense of innocence. The individual does not see himself as responsible for his actions because he believes he is carrying out a higher will. Yet in reality, he is carrying out nothing more than a human interpretation—formed within a specific historical context and shaped by particular political and social conditions.

Here, the problem becomes clearer: the problem does not lie in faith itself, nor in the idea of God as a spiritual concept, but in the monopolization of its interpretation. It lies in that moment when a human being, an institution, or a power claims to possess the final understanding of the absolute, and that its interpretation is not merely an interpretation, but truth itself. For the monopolization of interpretation is, in essence, the monopolization of power. Whoever monopolizes the interpretation of God monopolizes the authority to define what is right and what is wrong, what is legitimate and what is forbidden, what is moral and what is immoral.

God, as an absolute idea, cannot be an instrument. But when reduced to human discourse and employed within human conflicts, He becomes, in collective consciousness, transformed from a source of truth into an instrument used to justify it. Thus, the real question is no longer: What does God say? But rather: Who is speaking in His name? Why? And for what purpose?

For the most dangerous form of power is not the one that imposes itself through force alone, but the one that succeeds in convincing human beings that submission to it is not submission to another human being, but submission to the will of God itself.

Fourth: The West, the East, and Moral Duality

One of the clearest contradictions in the contemporary global order is the deep gap between the language political powers use to present themselves and the reality they practice on the ground. States, whether presenting themselves as guardians of religious values or as representatives of modern rationality and secularism, do not always act according to the principles they proclaim. Rather, they operate according to a deeper and colder logic: the logic of interests, influence, and the preservation of power.

It is no coincidence that morality becomes a central component of political discourse, because power, by its nature, needs more than force to endure. It needs legitimacy. It needs a story it tells about itself. It needs a language that makes its actions appear necessary—even moral. Thus, the discourse of values—whether religious, humanistic, or national—becomes a means of presenting power in an acceptable, even legitimate form.

In the Western world, which presents itself as the bearer of modernity and human rights, concepts such as freedom, democracy, and human dignity are used as moral foundations of the political order. Yet this discourse often coexists with a more complex reality, in which these same powers may support wars, military interventions, or economic policies that result in the suffering of entire populations. Here, the contradiction becomes clear: How can the language of human rights coexist with practices that violate those very rights? How can values become instruments within the game of interests?

Conversely, in other parts of the world, where religious identity plays a central role in shaping political legitimacy, religion is used as a source of authority and as a language that grants the political system a sacred character. Yet this use, in certain contexts, does not reflect the essence of faith, but rather the need for legitimacy that transcends the human being. Thus, repression can be presented as a defense of doctrine, domination can be justified as protection of the sacred, and individuals may be asked to accept injustice as part of a divine order.

This resemblance between East and West, despite their different apparent languages, reveals a deeper truth: the problem does not lie in the type of discourse—whether religious or secular—but in the function this discourse serves within the structure of power. For power, whether speaking in the name of God or in the name of humanity, always seeks to present itself as a necessity, not a choice; as the guardian of order, not a participant within it.

Thus, religion, in certain contexts, becomes a language used to justify authority, just as concepts such as democracy, security, or stability are used in other contexts for the same purpose. Discourse, in this case, ceases to be a reflection of truth and becomes instead an instrument for producing it. It ceases to be a means of understanding reality and becomes a means of reshaping it in service of specific interests.

However, it is essential to distinguish here between faith as an individual experience, religion as a social institution, and religion as a political instrument. Not every believer is violent, and not every religious person seeks domination—just as not every secular system is just, and not every human rights discourse is sincere. Confusing these different levels leads to a dangerous simplification and conceals the deeper truth: that faith, in its essence, can be an ethical experience that liberates human beings from fear, but when it enters the structure of power, it can become an instrument for reproducing that very fear.

This moral duality—where values are used to justify actions that contradict them—reveals that discourse, no matter how noble it appears, cannot in itself be a standard of truth. For truth does not lie in what power says about itself, but in what it does. It does not lie in the slogans it raises, but in the outcomes it produces.

From this, it becomes clear that religion itself is not the problem, just as secularism itself is not a guarantee of justice. Both can be transformed into instruments within the structure of power. What determines the nature of this instrument is not the text or the slogan, but the human being who uses it, and the purpose he seeks to achieve.

Thus, the real question is not: Is this authority religious or secular? Eastern or Western? But rather: Does it use its discourse to liberate human beings—or to control them? For the difference between liberation and domination does not lie in the language used, but in the structure that stands behind that language.

Fifth: The Human Being Between Faith and Freedom

In its deepest essence, faith is not born from fear, but from freedom. It is not something imposed from the outside, nor a law written within institutions of power, but an inner experience that emerges from the depths of human consciousness—in that silent space where the individual confronts himself and asks his greatest questions about meaning, existence, and destiny. Faith, in this sense, is not obedience, but choice; not submission, but conviction; not a response to an external force, but an expression of an inner need for meaning.

The relationship between the human being and faith, in its origin, is a free relationship. It is not founded on coercion, but on conviction; not on fear, but on understanding. When faith is genuine, it does not need authority to protect it, violence to impose it, or laws to compel others to accept it. For what is born in freedom does not require force to endure. And what arises from conviction does not need the sword to prove its existence.

Yet this relationship, which begins as a free individual experience, can transform into something entirely different when it enters the structure of power. When faith ceases to be a personal experience and becomes a political system; when it ceases to be a choice and becomes an imposed duty; when it ceases to be an expression of freedom and becomes an instrument for regulating it. In that moment, faith loses its original nature and transforms from a spiritual experience into a social system, and from an inner relationship into an external structure.

A free human being does not need to kill another to affirm his faith, because faith, in its essence, does not require external proof. It is not a truth imposed by force, but a truth lived inwardly. Whoever needs violence to protect his faith is not protecting faith, but protecting his fear of doubt. For faith that depends on force is not faith, but a fragile certainty that fears collapse before questioning.

True faith does not need a sword, because it does not seek domination, but understanding. It does not seek to subjugate the other, but to coexist with him. It does not see difference as a threat, but as part of human nature. For it understands that faith, if it is real, cannot be the result of coercion, but the result of freedom.

Thus, the problem becomes deeper than the mere presence or absence of religion. History shows that violence can exist in the name of religion, just as it can exist in the name of nationalism, ideology, or even reason itself. The real problem does not lie in faith, but in the absence of freedom. For freedom alone allows the human being to be responsible for his actions—to choose, to think, to err, and to learn.

Freedom does not mean only the ability to believe, but also the ability to question. It does not mean only the right to faith, but the right to think. It restores faith to its natural place: as a choice, not an imposition; as a relationship, not a system; as an experience, not an instrument.

But when thinking is abolished in the name of faith, and when the individual is asked to obey without understanding, and to act without questioning, he does not only lose his freedom—he loses part of his humanity. For he is transformed from a conscious, responsible being into an instrument. From a free self into a tool within a system greater than himself.

The most dangerous thing that can happen to a human being is not to lose his faith, but to lose his freedom in the name of faith. For when a person loses his freedom, he loses the ability to distinguish between what he truly believes and what he has been forced to believe. He loses the ability to be himself and becomes instead a reflection of another will.

Thus, the real question is no longer: Does the human being believe or not? But rather: Is he free in his faith? For faith, when born in freedom, can become a source of ethics, meaning, and dignity. But when born in fear, it can become an instrument for destroying all of these.

The human being does not become human because he believes, but because he chooses. And freedom, in the end, is not the opposite of faith, but its essential condition. For faith that does not pass through freedom is not faith—it is merely another form of obedience.

Fifth: The Human Being Between Faith and Freedom

In its deepest essence, faith is not born from fear, but from freedom. It is not something imposed from the outside, nor a law written within institutions of power, but an inner experience that emerges from the depths of human consciousness—in that silent space where the individual confronts himself and asks his greatest questions about meaning, existence, and destiny. Faith, in this sense, is not obedience, but choice; not submission, but conviction; not a response to an external force, but an expression of an inner need for meaning.

The relationship between the human being and faith, in its origin, is a free relationship. It is not founded on coercion, but on conviction; not on fear, but on understanding. When faith is genuine, it does not need authority to protect it, violence to impose it, or laws to compel others to accept it. For what is born in freedom does not require force to endure. And what arises from conviction does not need the sword to prove its existence.

Yet this relationship, which begins as a free individual experience, can transform into something entirely different when it enters the structure of power. When faith ceases to be a personal experience and becomes a political system; when it ceases to be a choice and becomes an imposed duty; when it ceases to be an expression of freedom and becomes an instrument for regulating it. In that moment, faith loses its original nature and transforms from a spiritual experience into a social system, and from an inner relationship into an external structure.

A free human being does not need to kill another to affirm his faith, because faith, in its essence, does not require external proof. It is not a truth imposed by force, but a truth lived inwardly. Whoever needs violence to protect his faith is not protecting faith, but protecting his fear of doubt. For faith that depends on force is not faith, but a fragile certainty that fears collapse before questioning.

True faith does not need a sword, because it does not seek domination, but understanding. It does not seek to subjugate the other, but to coexist with him. It does not see difference as a threat, but as part of human nature. For it understands that faith, if it is real, cannot be the result of coercion, but the result of freedom.

Thus, the problem becomes deeper than the mere presence or absence of religion. History shows that violence can exist in the name of religion, just as it can exist in the name of nationalism, ideology, or even reason itself. The real problem does not lie in faith, but in the absence of freedom. For freedom alone allows the human being to be responsible for his actions—to choose, to think, to err, and to learn.

Freedom does not mean only the ability to believe, but also the ability to question. It does not mean only the right to faith, but the right to think. It restores faith to its natural place: as a choice, not an imposition; as a relationship, not a system; as an experience, not an instrument.

But when thinking is abolished in the name of faith, and when the individual is asked to obey without understanding, and to act without questioning, he does not only lose his freedom—he loses part of his humanity. For he is transformed from a conscious, responsible being into an instrument. From a free self into a tool within a system greater than himself.

The most dangerous thing that can happen to a human being is not to lose his faith, but to lose his freedom in the name of faith. For when a person loses his freedom, he loses the ability to distinguish between what he truly believes and what he has been forced to believe. He loses the ability to be himself and becomes instead a reflection of another will.

Thus, the real question is no longer: Does the human being believe or not? But rather: Is he free in his faith? For faith, when born in freedom, can become a source of ethics, meaning, and dignity. But when born in fear, it can become an instrument for destroying all of these.

The human being does not become human because he believes, but because he chooses. And freedom, in the end, is not the opposite of faith, but its essential condition. For faith that does not pass through freedom is not faith—it is merely another form of obedience.