In 1980, I paid my first visit to the Jordanian capital, Amman, a wonderful city distinguished by the beauty of its hills and the kindness of its people. A Jordanian friend invited me to a famous musical restaurant in Amman, a venue frequented by many Iraqi refugees during the rule of the late President Saddam Hussein.

In the middle of the evening, an Iraqi singer took the stage and performed a mawwal by the singer Saadoun Jaber, whose opening lines were:

He who has lost gold can find it again in the gold market.
He who has lost a loved one may, with time, eventually forget.
But he who has lost his homeland, where can he ever find it again?

As he sang, loud sobbing arose from a nearby table, the kind that pierces the heart. When I asked my Jordanian friend about the reason for such grief, he told me it was an Iraqi refugee longing for his homeland. I stood up and approached the man who had burst into tears, hoping to comfort him.

I said to him, “My brother, do not be so hard on yourself. I too am a Tunisian refugee who fled prison.”

He replied:

“By God, my brother, if imprisonment had been the punishment in Iraq, I would never have fled and left my homeland.”

Indeed, throughout the rule of the late President Saddam Hussein, I never heard of political opponents being sentenced to prison. Even under the most lenient circumstances, the minimum punishment was execution, and in many cases it was carried out without any formal judgement.

By contrast, following a terrorist attack against our armed forces in the Chaambi region in 2013, I travelled to Kasserine to express my solidarity with our security and military forces, and also to learn about the concerns of local residents under those particular circumstances.

At the time, I was relatively well known thanks to my frequent appearances on El Hiwar Ettounsi television, where I regularly expressed my views. This made it easier for me to interact with people and sometimes led them to gather around me spontaneously.

After visiting the Chaambi area and speaking with members of the security forces and the military, I returned to the centre of Kasserine and sat in a café. A group of young men, all in their twenties, gathered around me.

They began by asking for my assessment of the political situation, particularly the possibility that the Ennahdha Movement might remain in power. I answered according to my convictions, and the conversation gradually turned to the fight against terrorism as an expression of love for one’s homeland.

One of the young men replied:

— What homeland are you talking about? I have seen nothing from it except humiliation, poverty, unemployment, police repression and a dark future. I am twenty-six years old and I still ask my mother for money to buy cigarettes and have a coffee with my friends. I swear to God that I would sell it for five hundred dinars.

Imagine the shock.

And imagine the contrast between that middle-aged Iraqi man shedding tears over the loss of a homeland where his very life was at risk, and this young man living in his own country after a revolution that had granted him many freedoms.

After several visits to Iraq and extensive interaction with Iraqis both inside and outside the country, I came to understand that human and social bonds had remained strong within Iraqi society despite the absence of even the most basic freedoms — or perhaps because of that absence, since the danger threatening everyone strengthened social cohesion.

Throughout my journey back to Tunisia, I kept thinking about what that young man from Kasserine had said. At times I condemned him; at other times I excused him. Today, nearly ten years after the incident, I understand his position much better. In doing so, I recall the saying attributed to Imam Ali:

“Poverty in one’s homeland is a form of exile.”

This young man does not feel a sense of belonging because no one has reached out to embrace him and make him feel that he belongs to what is called a homeland.

This explains the growing importance of tribal, clan-based and even gang affiliations, which become substitute frameworks for national belonging.

It also explains the overwhelming desire among young people to emigrate and risk their lives, since they see nothing, apart from their parents, that binds them to what they leave behind.

And, of course, no shared dream can be achieved without a shared sense of belonging.

So what is the solution?

The solution is certainly not to lament the weakness of patriotism, but to cultivate patriotism.

Nor does this necessarily require providing every young man and woman with a prestigious job, a luxury car and an elegant home. Many people who enjoy all these comforts are less patriotic than the young man from Kasserine whom I mentioned.

One day, a successful businessman — at least in material terms — told me that he did not care who governed Tunisia, since his wife and children lived abroad and he remained in the country only because of his money and business interests.

The solution begins with recognising this estrangement and then rebuilding all the ties that bind citizens to their homeland.

This cannot be achieved through preaching or moral instruction, but through action.

Citizens must feel, at every moment of their lives, that they are not alone in a world that often resembles a jungle.