A commentary on the recent terrorist incidents in India and Australia, and the rise of societal faith-based radicalism that purportedly supports these.
The recent terrorist car blast in Delhi was deeply unsettling. Not merely because it targeted civilians, or because it occurred in the heart of a major city, but because it once again demonstrated how perceived grievances can metastasise into local violence. Those involved were neither social outcasts nor driven solely by personal despair. They were educated, urban, and ideologically oriented, convinced that violence was a legitimate means of expressing dissent against what they believed to be injustice. It is this belief — rather than the device itself — that warrants closer scrutiny.
This concern has been reinforced by the recent father–son attack on a Jewish community celebration at Bondi Beach in Sydney on December 14, which claimed 16 lives. In the aftermath of such incidents, there is a tendency to seek comfort in familiar explanations. Labels such as “mental instability” or “lone actors” narrow responsibility to the individual. Yet while psychological vulnerability may exist, ideology increasingly provides purpose, justification, and target selection, rendering violence symbolic and outward-facing rather than random.
Unlike many mass shootings in the West, which are inward-facing expressions of nihilistic rage, ideologically driven attacks are outward-looking, purposeful, and symbolic—selecting victims for what they represent, not who they are. The Delhi blast fits squarely within this pattern. It was orchestrated with links to a distant hierarchy but the grievance was perceived as personal. Informal networks, shared narratives, and a sense of moral urgency combined to normalise violence against innocents. This is not an anomaly; it is increasingly the dominant model of radicalisation. The danger lies not only in organised groups, but in the ease with which grievance can be internalised, amplified, acted upon locally and externally exploited too.
The Sydney shooting at Bondi, like the recent blast in Delhi, reminds us that contemporary terrorism often emerges from organised networks, and also from individuals who internalise grievance and act upon it locally. Australia offers a revealing case study. With a population of around 27 million spread across a vast landmass, it is a low-density country that relies heavily on immigration for economic vitality and demographic balance. It is, in many ways, a nation shaped by expatriates. Its diversity is real and largely peaceful, yet often concentrated in urban clusters where communities coexist but interact only superficially.
In theory, such a setting should allow early detection of radical trends. A smaller population, strong intelligence institutions, extensive surveillance powers, and high digital penetration all suggest this. In practice, however, radicalisation has shifted from organisational recruitment to emotional capture. Social media reduces distance, accelerates outrage, and strips distant conflicts of nuanced detail, making them feel immediate and personal.
Conflicts such as Gaza illustrate this dynamic starkly. They generate powerful emotional responses far beyond their geography. For most people, these responses remain within the bounds of protest, advocacy, or humanitarian concern. For a small minority, however, repeated exposure to graphic imagery and absolutist narratives creates a sense of moral compulsion. When direct engagement with the source of grievance is impossible, substitutes are sought closer to home.
This is how communities entirely unconnected to political decision-making become symbolic targets. The Jewish community in Sydney, for instance, has no role in shaping Middle Eastern policy. Yet it can be cast, in the minds of radicalised individuals, as a proxy for distant actions. This substitution of guilt lies at the heart of terrorism’s moral bankruptcy. Innocents are punished not for what they have done, but for what they are presumed to embody.
Globally, terrorism today appears quieter than it has been in decades. Large, centrally directed attacks are fewer. Yet this relative calm is deceptive. The threat has fragmented rather than disappeared. Isolated acts, driven by ideological emotion and personal instability, are extraordinarily difficult to detect. Even the Islamic State, vanquished territorially nearly six years ago, continues to survive in the mind, as suggested by alleged allegiances in incidents such as Bondi. Intelligence agencies can track organisations, finances, and communications, but are far less capable of mapping individual psychological journeys, especially when radicalisation unfolds within encrypted platforms and informal social spaces.
This is where the limits of state power become evident. Governments can monitor, disrupt, arrest, and prosecute. They can harden targets and expand legal authorities. What they cannot do easily is change mindsets. They cannot legislate emotional restraint or supervise every grievance incubated online. Policing, by its nature, intervenes late in the cycle — often after radicalisation has already solidified.
If prevention is the objective, society itself must shoulder part of the responsibility. This is not an argument for moral policing, nor a call for the state to intrude into belief systems. It is a recognition that communities are the first environments in which radicalisation either accelerates or stalls. Families, peer groups, educational institutions, and places of worship shape how global events are interpreted locally. During periods of international crisis, these spaces become emotionally charged — and therefore critically important.
Clergy occupy a particularly sensitive and important position in this ecosystem. Through Friday prayers, Sunday services, and other congregational forums, they speak simultaneously to identity emotion. That influence can be misused, but it can also stabilise society. Tempering language, contextualising events, and decoupling faith from rage are acts of social responsibility. Governments would do well to recognise this potential and support such positive interventions, for restraint at the community level denies extremism the oxygen it needs to spread.
Equally important is how societies engage with their young. They are the most exposed to online outrage and absolutist narratives, yet often least prepared to handle complexity. Counter-radicalisation is therefore not about suppressing dissent or empathy, but about conveying a basic truth: the actions of one government, anywhere, cannot justify targeting an entire community elsewhere.
Interfaith harmony, viewed this way, is not an abstract ideal or ceremonial slogan. It is a form of social resilience. Societies with strong inter-community relationships absorb shocks better and are less susceptible to imported anger. Those without such bonds fracture more easily under provocation. This is not utopian thinking; it is observable reality.
There are no easy solutions. Some individuals will always combine psychological vulnerability with ideological conviction. Recognising the societal roots of radicalisation is not weakness, but realism. Treating each attack as an aberration and relying only on coercion addresses symptoms, not causes. In a world where grievances travel faster than facts, security must be co-produced by society through leadership, restraint, and resistance to simplistic blame.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
The author is a product of Sherwood College, Nainital and St Stephen’s College Delhi. He is the former Commander of the Chinar Corps Srinagar and is currently the Chancellor of the Central University of Kashmir and Member of the National Disaster Management Authority.
