Peace in a World That Has Forgotten Itself

Your Excellency, before we begin speaking about Syria, Europe, or the Church—let me ask what is perhaps the simplest, yet today the most difficult question: what is peace for you in a world such as ours?

Archbishop Jacques Mourad: This question may seem simple, yet it touches the very heart of human experience. Peace—pace—is both a religious and a universal word. It is a word that, since the beginning of human history, has carried within it the desire of every person, every civilization. Peace is not merely the absence of war, not merely the silence of weapons. Peace is both a gift and a task. It is a daily effort, a quiet struggle that we carry within our hearts. And yet, in today’s world, it seems like a distant idea—something everyone speaks about, but almost no one truly experiences. It is like a dream that constantly escapes us, even as we pursue it with our whole soul.

So is peace, for you, a dream—after all that you have witnessed and experienced?

Without faith, without hope in God, who is the source of all peace, a person cannot truly grasp this idea. One cannot receive it or allow it to dwell within. And this is true regardless of circumstances—even in times of war or oppression. Peace is not within us by ourselves—it comes from beyond us. It is a gift that arrives when a person opens their heart to the presence of God.

Without faith, there is no peace?

Peace is also a vocation. It is an inner calling that every person carries within: to live in peace, to bring peace, to build peace. But—and this is essential—no one can live in peace alone. That is why we cannot speak of peace as something we possess. It is given. For peace is born from encounter, from love. Only when we live in relationship with another person can we truly experience what peace is.

Can a person who is alone experience peace?

A person who is alone may know silence, but not peace. Silence without love becomes emptiness. True peace is the fruit of love, presence, and community.

In 2015, you were imprisoned by Islamic State.

Yes, and that is why I know well the taste of loneliness. But even beyond captivity, in my personal life, there have been many moments when I had to be alone. And I know how difficult it is to preserve the light of peace within oneself in such moments. Loneliness opens within a person battlefields they never knew existed. It becomes an inner struggle—with fear, with memory, with oneself. And then one begins to understand how fragile the human soul is.

Loneliness seems to be one of the defining experiences of the 21st century—regardless of geography.

I often think of men and women in Syria: of mothers left alone because their sons fled to survive; of fathers looking at the empty homes of their children; of elderly people who have a roof over their heads and bread on their tables, yet have no peace. For peace is not born from a full pantry, but from the presence of another person. That is why I insist that peace is not a material fact, but a spiritual choice.

Can one consciously reject peace by choosing solitude—by trying to escape a chaotic and noisy world?

I will answer paradoxically: how many of these people have not chosen loneliness, but have been forced into it? What harmony can they find there? I myself spent four months and twenty days in prison—almost entirely alone. And I know that without thirty years of monastic life, of spiritual preparation, of prayer, I would not have been able to endure it. Even then, I did not find complete peace. The only path that allowed me to survive that time was prayer—above all, the rosary. It saved me—not because it changed the reality around me, but because it calmed the storm within me.

Syria has for many years experienced war, migration, suffering, and poverty; it is difficult to speak of peace in such a situation. How do Christians in Syria live today? What are their greatest hopes and fears?

Christians in Syria live under the shadow of fear. There is no clear vision of the future—neither political nor social. We live in a world where uncertainty has become daily life. Many still suffer persecution, but it must be said clearly: in Syria, the entire nation suffers, not only Christians.

So Christians are not the only victims of what is happening in the Middle East?

Christians may even suffer slightly less, because our presence and history inspire a certain respect—even among our persecutors. For centuries, we have borne witness to faith, peace, and coexistence. And many Muslims truly understand this. Despite differences, many still respect us, because they know that in suffering, we are all the same.

Where, then, does so much evil in Syria come from?

Deep within, the Syrian people are a good people. But a political system built on revenge does not allow us to live in peace.

Is the situation improving?

Many people who were refugees for years are now returning to Syria. They return to their homes, but their hearts are wounded. They come back with pain, anger, and a sense of injustice. It is difficult to build the future when souls are filled with the past. This is Syria’s greatest tragedy—not the ruins of houses and cities, but the ruins in human hearts.

Is politics to blame?

This kind of politics, yes. The current political system, based on violence and revenge, offers no hope for true stability. The government bears responsibility for much of the suffering, especially in places like Homs. There, violence continues every day, even if the world no longer speaks about it. People live in a closed circle of fear and hatred, from which they see no way out. And without an exit from violence, there is no future.

From this perspective, what would you like to say to the Church in Europe, and to Europe itself—especially to young Catholics who often do not know the experience of persecution for their faith, but face many other temptations?

First of all, I would like to say that our experience—the experience of the Church in Syria—has taught me how powerful solidarity is, a very Polish trait. Without the support of the Church in Europe, without the help of communities and parishes, many lives would not have survived. This closeness was like a bridge between suffering and hope. Thanks to this help, the sick received treatment, families received food and shelter, and children received education. These are not merely charitable gestures—they are salvific. For every act of mercy restores a small measure of peace to the world.

And so we return to where we began—the question of peace. How can the Church build peace on earth?

A community that embraces those who suffer reveals the true face of the Church. The Church is not a structure, but a family. And in a family, one does not ask where you come from, but how one can help. This is the witness that Europe must rediscover—that the Church lives when it serves. Only in this way can it build peace on earth. We need a renewal of the spirit of solidarity, greater sensitivity among nations, greater compassion, and more courage in love. For only in this way can true peace be built. In the end, peace is not born from negotiations or treaties. Peace is born from sacrifice, and it begins where a person decides to give something of themselves for the good of others: their time, their skills, their prayer, their life.

Paradoxically: to build peace, must one be ready to give one’s life?

We need people who are willing to go to Syria—to heal, to teach, to help, to offer their gifts and talents. Not to support governments or political agendas, but to support another human being. I do not place great faith in the political projects of this world. But I have great faith in people—in the good that still lives within them, even if the world tries to silence it.

I simply believe that people of good will in Europe, and everywhere else, are capable of overcoming the logic of violence and hatred. That is why I would like to say to everyone listening: we are responsible for one another. National borders cannot divide us if we truly believe in God, who is the Father of all. We are all brothers and sisters, children of one Creator. And if we forget this, we will also forget what peace is. And speaking about peace is already the first step toward finding it.