By Dr. Adnan Bozan

Introduction: Religion Between Faith and Power

Since the dawn of history, religion has not merely been an answer to humanity’s existential questions—it has been a comprehensive structure that shaped mankind’s vision of the world, of time, of death, and of the absolute. At its core, religion did not emerge as a political system or an ideological apparatus, but rather as an attempt to connect with the unknown, and to dissolve into that which transcends mortality. However, once religion stepped out of its sacred temple and touched the soil of power, it entered a complex and troubled relationship—with history, with community, with the state, and with the Other.

From that moment on, religion ceased to be a private matter. It became one of the most powerful tools for shaping communities, crafting identities, and reproducing power itself.

Religion has always held a double-edged nature: it contains within it seeds of peace and seeds of war, solace as well as threat, mercy as well as dominion. And the more fragile societies become, the more fractured civil value systems are, the more people return to religion—not as a matter of faith, but as a fortress of identity. At that point, religion stops serving as a bridge between man and the heavens, and becomes a shield against other human beings.

In the Middle East—a land saturated with revelation and blood—religion has intertwined with everything: language, ethnicity, history, collective memory, even the soil itself. In this region, the Abrahamic religions were not merely sacred texts; they were systems of governance, frameworks for social order, geographical borders, and blueprints for expansion. Therefore, the question of religion is not merely theological—it is also political, social, cultural, and at times, existential.

When we read the political history of the region—from the rise and fall of states, from the Crusades to the U.S. invasion of Iraq, from the Arab-Israeli conflict to sectarian civil wars—we discover that religion has not been present merely as a creed, but as an identity. And identities, when constructed around absolutes, become deadly. Faith, when reduced to a binary of “us” versus “them,” ceases to be faith and becomes a tool of segregation and exclusion. Thus, instead of being a path to personal salvation, religion turns into a justification for collective violence.

What is even more dangerous is when political power enters the realm of religion—it corrupts it. It uses religion to justify tyranny, to beautify its bloody face, and to convince the masses that obedience to the ruler is obedience to God. At this point, the prophet becomes a leader, the holy book becomes a constitution of rule, and the mosque, church, or synagogue turns into a platform of propaganda. That is why the question of religion is a double one: a question about the essence of faith, and a question about the boundaries of authority.

So, at its human root, does religion call for violence? Or is violence something that infiltrates religion through the gates of identity and power? Can faith be liberated from the hegemony of the collective, from the extortion of the state, and from the abuse of politics? Can we still see in religion an open space for contemplation and wisdom, rather than a barricade for rejection, contempt, and hatred?

With these questions, we do not seek to dismantle religions, but to deconstruct the mechanisms of their misuse. We do not aim to negate the sacred, but to expose those who turn it into a sword. For religion, in its essence, is a discourse of meaning; but when used to justify race, sect, or nationalist projects, it becomes a discourse of death.

1. The Grand Identities of the Middle East: From God to the Tribe

The Middle East is not merely a stage for events—it is a complex cosmic memory, etched with lines of fire and faith, where the gods of the heavens intertwine with the maps of the earth. Here, religions did not merely coexist; they contested meaning, time, and eternity. As the three major monotheistic religions—Judaism, Christianity, and Islam—began to take shape in this space, they each started constructing grand narratives around salvation, truth, and divine chosenness. But these narratives did not remain confined to spiritual realms; over time, they hardened into rigid, closed, and at times deadly identities—inscribed not in ink, but in blood.

The gravest development in this region was not the emergence of religions, but rather the transformation of religion into a tool for defining collective identity. Religious identities here are not mere personal affiliations; they are collective certificates of existence, sanctioned by myth, reinforced by prophecy, and legitimized by sacred texts. And because these texts are religious, they are perceived as absolute and beyond critique or deconstruction. This makes religious identity a structure resistant to negotiation or plurality, instantly classifying the Other as foreign, impure, an enemy, or at best, unwelcome.

Let us examine the articulation of these three identities:

1. Judaism – From the Chosen People to the Armed Religious State

Within the context of historical isolation and persecution, Judaism emerged as a religion of a besieged minority seeking meaning for survival in a hostile, pagan world. Thus, the concept of "divine chosenness" was born—not as a doctrine of superiority, but as a doctrine of survival. The tragedy began when this discourse of survival morphed into a discourse of supremacy, and the “divine covenant” was politicized to justify the establishment of a state—not based on citizenship, but on ethno-religious belonging.

Israel has become the clearest model of using religion as a foundational legitimacy—not for a pluralistic society, but for an exclusive ethno-state built on expelling the "other" from geography, history, and symbol. The “Promised Land” is no longer a metaphysical hope, but a military map. The narrative of “eternal persecution” has evolved into one of the most dangerous tools of psychological and political dominance in the world. As such, Jewish identity has become a bundle loaded with fear, victimhood, and exceptionalism all at once.

2. Christianity – From the Cross to the Sword, from Salvation to Nationalism

Christianity began as a marginal movement opposing imperial power, raising the banners of love and nonviolence. But when it historically transformed into the religion of the Roman state (starting with Constantine in the 4th century CE), it entered the arena of power and meaning. The cross, once a symbol of individual salvation, became a political emblem hoisted over invading armies. Christ himself was reimagined as a symbolic king rather than a spiritual teacher.

In modern Europe, after Christianity fractured into warring sects and centuries of Catholic-Protestant conflict, Western Christianity gave birth to a new identity: the Christian civilizational identity. This led to dividing the world into “us,” the civilized Christians, and “them,” the barbaric Muslims. It became the basis of the Crusades, modern colonialism, and the ongoing war of cultural narratives.

In the East, however, Christians found themselves in a state of existential fragmentation: the West didn’t fully accept them as part of its own, and the East didn’t fully recognize them as equal citizens. Thus, they were left torn between a universal identity that did not protect them, and a local identity that excluded them. Some retreated into sectarianism, others assimilated into nationalist regimes, and many emigrated to the “Christian West,” which had ceased to be truly Christian—except in name.

3. Islam – From a Message to a State, from Revelation to Caliphate

Islam, which began as a message of mercy and liberation in the heart of the desert, quickly evolved into a state-building project. After the Prophet’s death, the early political phase began—marked by divisions over authority before disputes over doctrine. From the moment the sword was raised in the name of the "Caliphate," Islam became a profoundly political religion.

Through its vast expansion, Islam arrived not merely as a faith, but as a civilization, a legal system, a governance model, a language, and a cultural center. Over time, Muslims came to view themselves as an eternal, central Ummah (community), tasked with spreading the “truth” and bearing the “seal” of prophecy. But this sacred view of history and identity shattered under the impact of Western modernity and internal fragmentation. Islamic sects began to clash, each invoking its own texts, narratives, and awaited Mahdi.

Today, Islamic identity swings between three forces: nostalgia for a golden past; the shock of modernity; and a reactionary stance against the Western other. This explains the rise of jihadist groups, the resurgence of Salafi discourse, and the proliferation of closed religious identities that perceive the Other as an “apostate,” “infidel,” or “traitor.” The dream of the “Caliphate” has turned from a spiritual aspiration into a political nightmare.

From Religion to Ideology: The Death of Meaning and the Birth of Sectarianism

In sum, these three religious identities have ceased to be mere individual beliefs—they have become totalizing ideologies. They provide their adherents with a sense of superiority, tools for exclusion, and closed historical narratives. Most dangerously, each religious identity sees itself as the victim and views the other as the aggressor. Thus, all sides spin endlessly in a vicious circle of fear, violence, suspicion, and the constant invocation of myth.

When religion is transformed into political identity, it does not yield peace—it yields sectarianism. It does not open doors to reflection—it builds walls. What we witness today in the Middle East is nothing more than the logical result of identities that were never deconstructed, of narratives that were never revised, and of sacred concepts that were never subjected to critical thought.

Second: Religion as a Killer Identity — When the Sacred Becomes a Weapon

Religion, in its purest form, is a relationship between the human being and the Absolute—a bond that is not mediated by institutions, not bound by politics, and not measured by national or ethnic affiliation. But when religion is stripped of its spiritual dimension and reduced to a collective identity, it begins to shift from a realm of faith to a realm of domination. Religious identity, unlike personal belief, does not ask: "What do you believe in?" Rather, it proclaims: "Who are we—and who are they?" Thus, it generates narratives of conflict instead of encounter, builds borders instead of bridges, and creates images of the enemy more than visions of salvation.

The problem begins when religion is reduced to an identity card, and religious affiliation becomes a cultural weapon rather than a spiritual journey. At that point, the sacred transforms into a "mobilizing symbol," a tool through which the group expresses its sense of superiority, fear, or humiliation. Religion ceases to be a text to interpret; it becomes a history to avenge. The community transforms from a "nation of believers" to a "tribe at war," from a "people who pray" to a "nation that curses."

When religious communities become closed identity structures, they begin creating a “symbolic enemy” who cannot be lived with or reasoned with—because he is not merely different, but “false,” “impure,” “infidel,” or a “desecrator of divine truth.” At that moment, religious discourse is left with only two options: exclusion or symbolic extermination—paving the way for actual extermination.

1. From Truth to Monopoly: Religion as a Silent Declaration of War

At the heart of every major religion lies a claim to absolute metaphysical truth: Judaism is built upon a “divine covenant” between God and His chosen people; Christianity presents itself as the sole path to salvation through Christ; Islam comes with a finality that excludes all that follows and reinterprets all that precedes. These claims, in themselves, are not dangerous—so long as they remain within the realm of individual experience. The danger arises when they are transformed into political projects that legitimize exclusion, justify occupation, and provide a sacred cover for violence.

When the devout Jew says that God promised them a land “that has no room for others,” the other—whether Arab or Palestinian—is not seen as a citizen but as a violation of prophecy. When the Christian says, “No one comes to the Father except through me,” the non-Christian is treated as inherently lacking salvation, even if he lives in the same society. And when the Muslim says, “Whoever does not believe is a disbeliever and deserves combat or subjugation,” then all who differ become targets of divine truth enforcement.

At this point, religion is no longer a spiritual realm but a pulpit for war—even if that war is silent, postponed, or symbolic. Every group begins to draw its borders on the map, on bodies, and in history.

2. Memory as a Wound: When Victimhood Becomes a Bloody Ideology

Every religious identity in the Middle East emerges from an unhealed wound: the Jew remembers the Holocaust, the Christian recalls Roman and Islamic persecution, and the Muslim mourns the fall of Andalusia, the Mongol invasions, or the collapse of the Caliphate. But instead of transforming this memory into wisdom, it becomes a trench—and a perpetual instrument of mobilization. Victimhood is not invested in forgiveness, but in fear. It crafts a narrative of the eternal victim—who is always right, always innocent, and always entitled to revenge.

Thus, relationships between communities are reduced to a logic of vengeance: every sect sees itself as “saved” and the rest as “misguided.” Every faction sees the other as an existential threat. Worse still, this victimhood is passed down, reproduced in schools, sermons, media, and even in popular proverbs. History becomes a series of “attacks against us,” while all traces of reconciliation, tolerance, or coexistence are erased.

3. Man is Buried Beneath His Religion: From Deed to Origin

When religious identity becomes the sole criterion for judging a human being, the deed is erased, and ethics are reduced to belief. The “other” is no longer evaluated by his actions, character, or personhood—but only by his affiliation. Thus, the infidel is condemned before he speaks, the Christian is suspected before he moves, the Shiite is accused before he explains, and the Sunni is doubted before being questioned.

By this logic, religion loses all moral content. It transforms from a system of values to a system of boundaries—from a message of life to an arsenal of categorization, from a path to God to a justification for hatred. Every individual becomes a prisoner of their sect, condemned for what they did not choose, but were merely born into.

The End of the Sacred: When the Veil Becomes a Mask and the Call to Prayer a Cry for Blood

When religious identity reaches such rigidity, even the sacred itself is crushed. Prayer ceases to be communion and becomes a ritual of distinction. Fasting is no longer piety, but a communal obligation to separate “those with us” from “those against us.” The veil is no longer a moral choice, but a political badge. God becomes a party identity, heaven a trench, and the Prophet a military commander.

At that moment, not only does religion die—but the human being dies. The sacred is not defiled when attacked from the outside, but when assassinated from within—when reduced to a slogan, a weapon, a curse, a video clip beheading the “apostate,” or a religious chant declaring war on the different.

Third: Are We Victims of Religion or Victims of Power?
At the heart of the great question tearing apart Middle Eastern societies lies this crucial inquiry: Are we victims of religion? Or are we, in truth, victims of power when it cloaks itself in religion? And the blood spilled in the name of heaven—was it truly the result of believers’ convictions, or was it orchestrated by rulers who turned sacred texts into kill orders and fatwas into war decrees?

The bitterest truth is that religion, in its original form, was not a system of oppression, but an existential experience seeking to answer humanity’s deepest questions: Who are we? Where do we come from? Where are we going? Religion, as an initial discourse, was not a state, nor an army, nor a border—it was an open call to faith, to moral refinement, to individual piety. But when it was placed atop the ruler’s head—transformed into a turban upon the crown—it lost its innocence and became a sword plunged into the body of society.

1. From God to the State: How the Sacred Is Invoked When Power Loses Legitimacy
   When political regimes lose their civic legitimacy—that is, legitimacy based on competence, justice, and accountability—they begin to seek alternative sources. At this point, “God” emerges as a ready-made symbol of sanctity and a highly effective rhetorical weapon. The more state institutions decay, the more religious discourse is summoned to cover the stench. As the social contract disintegrates, it is patched with appeals to “sharia,” “Islamic identity,” and “defending the faith.”

In this exact moment, the imam becomes the ruler’s trumpet, the preacher a tool of incitement, and the school a mobilization camp. The Quran, Bible, or Torah is no longer a light to illuminate the conscience, but ink spilled on loyalty decrees. Sin is no longer a personal matter between the individual and God—it becomes “national treason” punishable in the name of the ummah or the creed.

2. Tyranny in Pious Garments: When God Becomes the Dictator’s Shield
   The political history of the region reveals that the most dangerous tyrants were not atheists, but outwardly devout men. Saddam Hussein, Khomeini, Bashar al-Assad, Ben Ali, and others all used religion—in their own ways—to entrench their rule. Not because they were true believers, but because they knew that masses are easily stirred in God’s name, enslaved by the promise of paradise, and mobilized by fear of disbelief.

This reveals one of the most perilous transformations: religion shifts from a moral compass to an ideological apparatus; from a messenger who preaches wisdom, to a jurist who curses, excludes, and excommunicates; from a spirit dwelling in the heart to a discourse residing in intelligence agencies, drafted in the corridors of security, and broadcast through state media. The “imam” is no longer the one who interprets religion, but the one appointed by the presidential palace. The “scholar” is no longer the one who possesses knowledge, but the one close to the throne.

3. Do We Fight in the Name of Religion—or in the Name of Dead Regimes?
   In the sectarian wars stretching from Lebanon to Yemen, from Iraq to Sudan, people are not killed because they believe differently—but because certain regimes have declared “difference” a threat. Islamic militias are not armed for their piety, but because they are pawns in the hands of regional powers distributing influence under sectarian banners. The blood spilled in Karbala, on the outskirts of Gaza, or at the crossings of Daraa is not shed because God willed it—but because rulers want the masses busy dying rather than questioning them about poverty, corruption, and dictatorship.

Thus, belief becomes a battlefield, and worship a display of sectarian muscle. "Shia" and "Sunni" turn into soldiers in wars they neither started nor control. The Palestinian cause, for example, is reduced from a national liberation struggle to a religious conflict. The real enemy is forgotten, and the adversary becomes “the other Muslim” who interprets a verse differently or bows in another way.

4. So Who Is the Perpetrator—Religion or the State?
   To blame religion alone is like blaming the knife for the murder, not the hand that wielded it. Religion is not the culprit—it is the medium hijacked when politics fails, when rulers flee from accountability. The true perpetrator is power—when it abandons earthly legitimacy and clings to divine sanction. It is the regime that builds temples instead of schools, and protects clerics who bless its authority instead of protecting its citizens.

But in the end, the victim is the citizen: the Shia dragged through a Sunni neighborhood, the Sunni expelled from a Shia district, the Christian accused of betrayal for refusing to take up arms, the Jew demonized for rejecting Zionism. These people do not die because of God—but because someone profited off His name and turned death into a tool of governance.

Conclusion: Toward a Religion Without Power, and Power Without Sacred Claims
Our societies will never escape this hell of blood until we reestablish the separation of religion and power—not as a form of exclusion, but as a liberation of religion from political exploitation. Religion must return to its original place: the domain of conscience, not of legislation; the realm of faith, not of governance; the language of love, not the theatre of war. And power must derive its legitimacy from constitutions, development, and human rights—not from heaven.

Only then will we realize that God does not side with one faction over another, nor with one sect over another—but with the just human being, regardless of their religion.

Fourth: What Future Awaits Religious Identities?

In a world where identities are becoming increasingly rigid and closed off, rethinking the role of religion within society—and within the human soul—is not merely an intellectual need, but an existential one. The problem today is not the presence of religion, but the form of its presence: Is it a tool for inner salvation? Or a membership card for collective belonging? Is it a bridge between the human and the transcendent? Or a wall built between a person and their different fellow?

The answer neither begins with abolishing religion nor ends with a naive secularism that banishes it. It begins with redefining religion—not as a collective, imposed creed, but as a free individual experience, open to interpretation, spacious enough for reflection, and allowing both entry and exit without curse or betrayal.

1. From Religion as Identity to Religion as Relationship
   Religion lost its soul when it was reduced to identity. It ceased to be prayer, contemplation, or silent pain within the heart. It became an ID card used in elections, wars, and birth records. Religion began to precede the person, to govern them instead of liberating them, to define them rather than open them to the unknown.

In such a world, people are not asked: What do you believe in? but: Who are you? Sunni? Shia? Maronite? Orthodox? Hanafi? Jewish? Thus, the relationship between a human and their God becomes a relationship between the human and their religious tribe. And the spirit gets lost in the clamor of sectarian slogans.

But religion, in its authentic essence, needs no group to be practiced. It is an internal event—a reverent silence, a confrontation with the self. It is the moment of remembering that the human being is fragile and mortal, and that beyond the material lies something deeper. This kind of religion builds neither wars nor prisons—it builds free souls reconciled with their fragility.

2. The Civil State: When Law Is Freed from Creed
   The first condition for building a human future for religious identities is a true—not cosmetic—separation between religion and state. This does not mean excluding the religious from public life, but rather protecting religion from power, and protecting the state from monopolizing the sacred. Only when clerics are banned from drafting laws, and politicians are banned from invoking God to assert authority, does the state become a homeland for all its citizens—not a church for one sect.

A state built on the values of citizenship does not kill religion; it saves it from becoming a tool of oppression. It does not ban prayer, but bans its imposition. It does not fight faith, but shields it from distortion. The state is not a place of worship, nor a pulpit, nor a sanctuary—it is a contract among equal human beings, regardless of how they pray.

3. Education: From Religion as “Fate” to Religion as Choice
   The future is built in classrooms, not in temples. Therefore, reforming religious identity begins in childhood—when we teach the child that they are human first, not Muslim, Christian, or Jewish. That we grant them the freedom to ask questions before feeding them answers. That we raise them to think, not to follow blindly—to empathize, not to exclude.

A child is not born sectarian. They are taught sectarianism the same way they are taught the alphabet. Hence, the responsibility of educational and cultural institutions is to dismantle the mechanisms of religious superiority and to instill in young minds that faith is not a fortress against the other, but a bridge toward them. True faith only flourishes in pluralistic environments because it needs neither imposition nor exclusion—but freedom.

4. Toward a Humanistic Faith Beyond Sects
   Perhaps we cannot—and should not—abolish religion. But we can dream of another kind of religion: one that embraces difference instead of fighting it. One that doesn’t say “Only we are right,” but says “We’re all searching for the light in different ways.” A religion that does not believe in a “chosen people,” but in a “people chosen for dignity.” One that does not sow fear, but frees from it. One that does not pursue paradise through hatred, but through mercy and humility.

When we reach this kind of religiosity, we’ll realize that all wars waged in the name of religion were never for God, but for power. That the true God does not fight anyone—but waits patiently for us to return to Him as individuals, not as armies.

Conclusion: Not a Society Without Religion, but Religion Without a Throne
In our troubled age, what is needed is not to remove religion from society—but to remove it from its political throne, to free it from the grip of power, and to return it to the human heart. To allow it to be a space for contemplation, not a trench for combat. To recover it as a moral force, not an exclusionary identity.

Only then will we have a religion that listens rather than shouts, that dialogues instead of excommunicating, that liberates rather than terrifies.

Conclusion
In an age marked by deep divisions and wars waged in the name of the “sacred,” we find ourselves trapped in a vicious cycle of conflict, where religious identities shift from being bridges of connection to tools of exclusion and segregation. Each group claims to hold the ultimate truth, each sect crafts its own salvific narrative that excludes, demonizes, and portrays the Other as an obstacle to the realization of divine will. But how long can the world bear the weight of these “absolute truths” that have become blades upon human necks?

It is time to enact a cognitive and spiritual rupture from concepts such as “God’s chosen people,” “the saved sect,” or “the sole message,” for these notions—though they may appear theological on the surface—often transform, within historical and political contexts, into instruments of domination and bloodshed. What we need is not another religion, but another consciousness of religion—one that does not base faith on rupture, but on encounter; that does not affirm identity through negation of the Other, but through embracing them within a broad human horizon.

Identity is not a curse, but a possibility
Identities are not problematic in themselves, but in how they are formed, used, and sanctified. Identity, when linked to life, becomes a space of diversity; but when linked to an absolute sacred, it becomes a project of war. What is needed, then, is not the denial of identities, but the removal of their divine status. When we cease to see ourselves as “the best nation,” “the people of the covenant,” or “the saviors of the world,” we confront a simple and earth-shaking truth: we are human beings—equal in fragility, in hope, and in our need for meaning.

Liberating ourselves from closed religious identities does not mean uprooting our origins, but opening ourselves to other roots. Life is not a straight line from creed to salvation, but an intertwined web of questions, stories, and experiences. True religion does not fear this diversity—it lives through it, because it seeks depth, not control; meaning, not numbers.

God is not private property
One of humanity’s gravest errors has been turning God into a “collective identity,” instead of seeing Him as a mirror of all existence. God, in the expansive human understanding, cannot be reduced to a book, monopolized by a group, or marketed in an electoral or military campaign. The God worthy of worship is the one who opens the gates of mercy to all—not the one standing at sectarian borders with a sword, saying: you are the saved, and the rest are damned.

The idea of “only we are with God” and “God is only with us” are nothing but psychological projections meant to justify superiority, fabricate enemies, and fuel the illusion of divine favoritism. But God, in His transcendent horizon, belongs to no one and binds no one to a single version of faith. God does not sign identity papers—He asks that we discover Him in the Other, in the different, in the passerby, in the simple.

Faith as a bridge, not a trench
If we seek a future free of sectarianism, we must redefine faith as a personal, free, and responsible stance—not as a boundary line drawn against others. Faith is not a banner raised against the different; it is a bridge through which we cross toward mutual understanding, toward a shared silence, where pre-packaged words fade and the true experience of the soul begins.

The true believer is not the one who hates in God’s name, but the one who loves despite the differences in how God is perceived by others. Whether Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Buddhist, or non-religious—all of them, in a moment of sincere contemplation, gaze at the same sky and ask the same question: Why are we here? What gives our lives meaning? This shared human thread is what we must celebrate—not bury beneath the ashes of dogmatic conflict.

Toward a new cosmic horizon
Perhaps the first step toward a new cosmic meeting is to admit that we are all victims of the myths we have created about ourselves. That religions—no matter how sacred—are but human attempts to grasp the ungraspable. That Truth, if it exists, cannot be possessed, only humbly approached, while respecting those who walk toward it through different paths.

We must move from the religion of “deadly belonging” to the faith of “shared meaning”; from the illusion of exclusive salvation to the horizon of universal compassion. For the earth, as the poet said, “is too wide to narrow with identity wars”—and God, as pure hearts say, “is too vast to be claimed in the name of hatred and killing.”

Final word: From identity to existence
What we need is not more religions, but deeper humanity. Not more temples, but purer hearts. Not more fatwas, but a return to the voice of conscience. The person who searches for God in the face of the Other is the only one capable of building a new world—a world that does not divide people into saved and doomed, but brings us all back to our primal essence: beings in search of light, of warmth, of meaning.

And at that threshold of contemplation—only there—does human meet human, and all meet God.

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