A few days ago I received an email from Mahmud, a young Libyan anesthetist who was working in an ambulance crew in Misrata while I was there in April. I went out with him a couple of times during some of the heaviest fighting and we’ve stayed in touch ever since.
In June he wrote to tell me that one of his brothers was killed by pro-Gaddafi forces on the outskirts of the city:
“My brother get killed at the southern front of the city 22 days back, after that event, suddenly I started to look to these things differently, now I can feel the exact pain the every family in Libya has felt. But even though, I have another 2 brothers also at the southern front, I hope they stay safe.”
I was really moved by his email; not only because my friend had just lost his brother, but because his reaction to the pain was not to turn inwards, but instead to reach out and empathize with others around him who had also lost family.
In the most recent email, 3 months later, Mahmud tells me how he and his family are coping with his brother’s death:
“Thank you, me and my family are fine. Although we still can’t accept the idea that our family has lost one member…. For instance, I cant delete my brother’s phone number, also if we all at home and my mother prepares a meal for us, she makes a meal for him too, and then she says, I forgut. but I know she didn’t. She just feels that she betray him, like he was nothing but a guest for a while, and then he left. I feel the same way when I attempt to delete his number.”
There’s been surprisingly little coverage of the human side of the Libyan conflict as journalists chase the ever-fluctuating front lines or pack into press conferences in luxury hotels. Let us not forget that war, whether it is sectarian or revolutionary, is vile and nasty and indiscriminate in who it kills. We’d all do well to follow Mahmud’s example and take a moment to turn outwards and empathize with those around us.