Q. Sudan, Somalia, Libya, Syria, Iraq, Yemen, and Iran – what do these 7 countries have in common (other than the BAN)?

A. The BOMB. The U.S. of Empire is “collapsing” them (or threatening to – Persia) through military occupation, carpet bombing, or proxy state support for the same, all in the name of the GWOT.

Quick quiz from your publisher. Here’s Vermonter Amy Carst, who just returned from Jordan.

This wasn’t my first time in a Muslim country. Nor was it my first time interacting with Muslim or Arab people. But in many ways, it felt like it. I went to Jordan last month to visit the al Zataari refugee camp in preparation for what, I had hoped, would be the best thing to happen to one small Vermont town in decades. The resettlement of 100 Syrian refugees in Rutland began with the first two families in mid-January. Unfortunately, because of the executive order Donald Trump signed on International Holocaust Remembrance Day, the first two families may also be the last.

I thought I understood Muslim culture well enough. I mean, I have Muslim friends. Of course, most of them are so liberal that we’re more likely to drink whiskey together than discuss the Quran. And I’ve spent time in six predominantly Muslim countries, but looking back, most of that time was spent in coffee shops with expats and my travel companions, engrossed in conversation with people who looked and dressed just like me.

So, my biggest surprise in Jordan was my own misconceptions and fears about a culture and a people that I spend hours advocating for on a daily basis. We can talk about equality and tolerance until we’re blue in the face, but if we only interact with other people who look and think like us, we will inevitably fear “others,” even if we spend our days marching for these others, fighting for these others and advocating for these others. To admit our fears would be to smash our human-rights activist armor into a million tiny pieces and expose us as the privileged white Americans we despise. But acknowledging our imperfect selves, fears and biases included, is actually a beautiful thing. People crave authenticity in this “perfect” society where nobody is perfect but we all want to be.

So, despite all of my advocacy work for Syrian refugees, I hopped on a plane bound for Jordan with nothing but my backpack and a slew of preconceived notions I didn’t even know I was carrying. I arrived to the Amman Pasha hotel late at night and was immediately greeted by a group of young Jordanian men singing, drumming and playing the oud (an eastern guitar). They were friendly and lively, and a perfect addition to my collection of “First night in Jordan” Facebook pictures, which included the spontaneous musical group, a cup of Turkish coffee, a shameful number of selfies, and a plate of hummus and falafel. The night was fun and the food was great, but my tourist glasses were still screwed tightly to my head (which, by the way, was throbbing the next morning due to lack of sleep, jet lag and two “big size” Petra beers).

Over the next few days, the tourist glasses started to slowly slip from my eyes, thanks in large part to Richard, a lovely Jordanian man who offered to be my driver for the week. Fortunately, I accepted the offer because, honestly, I think I learned more about the Middle East, Islam and Christianity in the 15 or so hours we spent in the car talking than in the previous 38½ years of my life. Richard is Christian in a predominantly Muslim country, but he loves his country and all of its people. In fact, the positive relations between Muslims and Christians in Jordan is striking. We could learn a lot.

Throughout the next week, Richard introduced me to many of his friends, most of them Muslim. I sat in the homes of several Muslim families sharing sweet treats and cups of delicious Bedouin tea (sage, cinnamon, cardamom and mint). In every home I visited, the common desire of the families to speak to me in English was sweet, and a bit embarrassing. Here I was, an American visiting their country from a place where our fears and hatred of the Middle East are plastered across social media, and they wanted to speak to me in English? I had never wanted to speak Arabic more than in those moments, to be able to tell them, “No, no, it’s OK. Let’s speak your language, it’s beautiful.”

As we shared our tea and sweet treats, I mentally kicked myself for not learning how to say more than thank you (shukran), hello (salaam), and God willing (inshallah). Smiling dumbly, nodding my head, and saying shukran, shukran, shukran over and over again, I felt like a parrot with a learning disability.

It seems, however, that I did get one thing right. Terrorism isn’t based in religion. No, religion is an excuse. The real cause of terrorism, and violence as a whole, is suffering. I’ve been saying this for years, but not because of an acute understanding of Islam or the Middle East. It’s simple logic. Every violent group is built on a foundation of suffering. Think of inner-city gangs. Would teenagers be standing on street corners selling drugs or stabbing other teens as part of gang initiations if all their needs were met, and they lived in safe homes with loving families, organic food and golden retrievers named Sam? Of course not.

The suffering in parts of the Middle East, Africa, India and South America is out of control. Instead of using some of our power, resources and money to help build infrastructure, schools and hospitals, we use our power, resources and money for military defense, arms and counterterrorism. We convince our citizens that Muslims, Arabs, Africans and Mexicans will either blow us up, rape our women or steal our jobs. Through the use of propaganda, we demonize these people (who, by the way, account for the majority of the global population). Why do we do this? Well, first we have to understand who “we” actually is.

In the United States, the wealthiest people and corporations have significant control over everything from the media to the passing of legislation. If rich, white, Christian American men have significant control over the media, the government, and legislation, it stands to reason that they have significant control over us, wouldn’t you say? And if their values and motivations are based in self preservation, which is to say the self preservation of rich, white, Christian American men, can you see why Arabs, Africans, Muslims and Mexicans (and even women) might be a threat?

In much the same way that those in power in America use media to distract us from getting “too involved” (think reality TV shows, football and fake news), those in power in many of the Arab countries have their own way of distracting citizens. Keep the people hungry. If they are too distracted by starvation and the constant need to procure food, they will not get involved in politics. But, in some places, such as Syria, that plan backfired. If your entire existence becomes about getting food to feed your family, this need replaces all others. In the words of my new friend, Richard, if you give a starving man $1,000, it is a treasure. Food forever. He will do anything for it. If you give a starving man $1,000 and a gun, he will kill his brother.

Suffering breeds violence. The underlying disease of terrorism is suffering, brought on by poverty. You can treat the underlying disease, or you can treat the symptoms. While the West continues to treat only the symptoms of this suffering through war, torture, prison and occupation, groups like ISIS are treating the underlying disease. They are smart and sophisticated. Curing the underlying disease serves their purpose. And our hatred and fear of Muslims plays perfectly into the hands of jihadist leaders. It’s the best recruiting tool they could ask for. But this isn’t a one-sided game. Just as terrorist groups want us to block refugees and spew hateful rhetoric to increase their ability to recruit, those in power in the U.S. benefit from terrorism. If they fear us, ISIS recruits more fighters. If we fear them, wouldn’t we recruit more fighters too?

I spent the day in al Zataari. With more than 83,000 inhabitants, it is the largest Syrian refugee camp. Once again, the desire of everyone I met to speak English was both heartwarming and heartbreaking. It’s even more heartbreaking now, knowing that their hopes of leaving the dusty, soulless confines of the refugee camp have been dashed with the stroke of a pen. The thing about refugee camps is the challenges go beyond poor living conditions, the feeling of being trapped and the lack of privacy and enough food. The worst part is probably the waiting. Do you like to wait? For anything? Think about waiting in limbo for five years, 10 years, 15 years. For these people, life is on hold. And Donald Trump’s executive order just made that already intolerable hold even longer.

During my time in Jordan, I stayed at the Amman Pasha, a lively hostel where I met American atheists from Kuwait, several Jordanians, a Finnish woman who volunteers in animal shelters throughout the Middle East, an older Italian woman who joined me on a few excursions, a little girl whose only English word was ketchup, and a lot of Muslims. The interaction with Muslim women wearing hijab was more profound for me than I had expected. As I said earlier, my experience with Muslim friends has been like my experience with “Christian” friends who last went to church 27 years ago when their Uncle Larry found God and decided to get baptized as an adult. So, when a woman wearing hijab and speaking very little English came over and asked me for a cigarette, it turned my world upside down. I said, “oh, yes, of course,” and handed her a cigarette. I picked up my lighter and she bent down so I could light the cigarette for her. Such a silly little gesture, but the interaction somehow felt more human than any interaction I’ve had with anyone before.

Even with an open mind, cultural conditioning can be quite the hurdle to overcome. On our way to Petra, late one night, Richard and I stopped at a gas station for snacks. Pringles taste the same in the Middle East, by the way. As I was about to walk out of the gas station, a pickup truck pulled in front of the glass doors, stopped somewhat abruptly, and four guys dressed in long white robes and headscarves hopped out all at once. I think my heart skipped a beat. Four men in Arab dress getting out of a truck, at night? As Americans, we only see these images in the news, when the men are equipped with machine guns, shouting “Allahu Akbar!”

These guys didn’t have machine guns. I continued to move forward with confidence, albeit a touch of fear. One of the men held the door for me. Distracted by the mishmash of logic and cultural conditioning scrolling through my head, I tripped over his foot. He smiled (actually, I think it was more of a giggle) and said, “Sorry, madame.” I walked back to the car filled with an overwhelming sense of shame.

When I shared my experience with Richard, he laughed. “Yes, I understand. But it’s OK to feel that way, as long as you recognize it and question it. That’s how we learn.” Richard is a smart man. But if a person who spends her days preaching about tolerance and love can be scared of someone — even if only for a heartbeat — simply because he looks different, what about everyone else? We have an uphill battle to climb. The national dialogue about Muslims and refugees cannot be changed overnight. It will take time, and it will take personal experiences. The resettlement in Rutland could have been an answer. Now, who knows? On one of my last nights in Jordan, the old man who owned the hotel I was staying at learned of my trip to the refugee camp. As I sat in the hotel café having my 14th Turkish coffee of the day, he sat beside me and thanked me for coming to Jordan to give a voice to refugees. He was a refugee himself, having fled Palestine in 1948, then again in 1967. He resettled in Australia, living there for almost 40 years, until returning to the Middle East, marrying, and buying a hostel in Damascus, Syria. The place quickly became a popular spot for tourists from around the world, but when the revolution began in 2011, he had to flee yet again. “So, now I am here in Jordan. I hope I don’t have to flee again before I die. … I’m an old man, you know, and I love Jordan.” I said, “Jordan seems safe and tolerant. I’m sure you’ll be fine here.” He smiled, “Yes, yes, I’m sure. But then again, we’re in the ring of fire here. Who knows?”

The ring of fire. As I sat there talking to this charismatic, fascinating, full-of-life, three-time refugee, I couldn’t help but think, “Are we the ones holding the match?” I keep hearing claims that Trump’s executive order is not a ban, just a pause. But for the community of Rutland, the pause is likely permanent. Warehouses filled with donated items sit waiting for Syrian families who will never arrive. The aroma of cardamom and falafel that filled the air as local families learned to make food that our new neighbors would enjoy, will quickly fade away. For many of us, this ban is not a pause. It is a missed opportunity for our community, and an extension of suffering for thousands who have already endured a lifetime’s worth of suffering.

 Amy Carst is a human rights activist who has lived and worked in the Middle East. She lives with her husband and three children in central Vermont. This piece was first published in the Rutland Herald.