Many years ago, I set out to write a novel, a fictional love story that takes place during the civil war of the 1970s in Lebanon. The central character in my story was a young soldier who fell in love with a girl, and they found refuge in each other despite the chaos around them.
To understand the events of that time, I interviewed several fighters from diverse backgrounds to learn about their experiences. I devoted a great deal of time to the project but eventually abandoned it because, no matter how hard I tried, I struggled with the brutality of war. However, all was not lost. I gained invaluable insight and experience. A common theme emerged among the wounded and the dying. They almost always called out to their mothers, whether they were living or dead. Many would engage in long conversations with their deceased mothers and seemed to be comforted before passing away.
This behaviour was not seen as a sign of weakness by the others, who would try to comfort their fallen comrades. There was a quiet understanding and acceptance that whatever was happening was real and not a hallucination. Some saw saints, angels, or other religious figures. These experiences were deeply personal and unique. I have no way of knowing whether they were real events or the result of exhausted minds nearing the end. I do not mind either way, as long as the visions brought some comfort to the soldiers who saw them before their final transition.
It is remarkable how thin the veil can be between our worlds when we are so near and yet so far.
