In Jordan, A Family And A Country Feel The Loss Of A Pilot

Editor's Note: Jordan is a staunch U.S. ally in the war against the Islamic State. Earlier this year, it paid a price when one of its pilots was captured by the Islamic State and later killed. NPR's Alice Fordham met his parents at the time, and saw them again recently.

It was so cold, the day I first met the parents of Moath al-Kasasbeh. They were wearing coats in their immaculate living room, solid, dignified people in late middle age, bearing the ache of their anxiety stoically.

Their son, 26, was then the most famous man in Jordan after King Abdullah II. ISIS had captured him in Syria – the group said it shot down his plane and he parachuted out.

They published photographs of their fighters pulling Kasasbeh out of a river. He was wearing underwear, bleeding from the mouth and looked vulnerable. Later, ISIS interviewed him for their online magazine, asking whether he knew what they would do to him. Yes, he said. They will kill me.

I met his parents shortly after. Their son's chances didn't seem good, but there were reports American special forces were trying to rescue him, Tribal leaders were negotiating a prisoner swap. The Jordanian king had sworn to do everything he could. The radio and TV had spots every few minutes pledged support for him.

The Kasasbehs told me they didn't think Jordan should be bombing Syria at all. What they didn't say stuck with me so much as they way they did say. They were so measured and courteous. They so wanted me to stay for lunch. They were mortified I'd come to their home and leave without eating.

But there was a snowstorm coming and I pleaded I had to get to the capital Amman before we all got snowed in. They asked whether I'd rather take a Quran or a Bible as a gift. I left it up to them and they gave me a Quran. We agreed I'd come back and have lunch when their son was safe home.

It wasn't to be.

A few weeks later I watched the video of Kasasbeh being burned alive in a cage. I was in traffic in Istanbul, the lurid snuff movie flickering on my phone screen. He stood in his orange jumpsuit with his head bowed until the flames consumed him and his skin turned black. I rushed to a hotel to send my story. Later, I tried to imagine how his family felt, seeing that. I sent messages of condolence.

Next time I was in Jordan, last month, I wanted to visit. In fact, Kasasbeh's mom, who everyone now refers to as the mother of the martyr, was in hospital, recovering from a chest infection. So I visited her there. She was doing well, out of bed, in a green flowered housedress. She had that same calm demeanor, and she and her daughter hospitably offered apples and candy.

She told me she was doing just fine. He son had been martyred and she lived with what had happened. The family is treated almost like royalty. People are building mosques in her son's name. All the doctors in the hospital came to pay their respects when they heard she was there.

But there are things that bother her. The royal authorities have helped the family and honored them with gifts, including a trip to Mecca. But, they won't answer some of the family's questions about their son's last radio communications from his plane, or whether there are negotiations for the return of his body.

The palace's ambivalence is reflected in their policies. They haven't bombed Syria since August, although they insist they remain firmly supportive of the anti-ISIS campaign. In Jordan's careful balance between fighting extremists and not becoming a target of their wrath, the searing images of the burning young man are an inconvenient reminder that there's no such thing as a war without risk.