The days continued to pass, each heavier than the last, and my perception of God began to change. I grew up hearing that He was everywhere, that everything that happened was part of His plan. But how could I believe that when the world around me was an open-air cemetery?
One day, during a break between attacks, I sat next to the chaplain of our battalion. He carried a small wooden crucifix, worn with time, and stared at it as if searching for answers.
— Do you still believe in Him? — I asked bluntly.
The chaplain lifted his eyes to me, and for a moment, I thought he might scold me for my doubt. But he only sighed.
— I don't know if I believe the same way I did before the war.
— What do you mean?
He ran his hand over the crucifix, as if it helped him organize his thoughts.
— Before, I thought God was above us, watching, guiding. Now, I think God is here, in the mud, in the screams, in the silence. He doesn't guide us. He suffers with us.
— A God who suffers? That sounds weak. — The words escaped before I could stop them.
The chaplain smiled, but it wasn't a joyful smile.
— Maybe it is. But I'd rather believe in a God who feels, even if He suffers, than in an indifferent God.
His words stayed with me. What if God wasn't the omnipotent being I'd been taught to fear, but something much more fragile? Something that existed only in small acts, in small gestures? The old woman who gave us bread. The soldier who shared his water with me. Even in war, there were sparks of something greater, something I couldn't explain.
But that didn't answer another question hammering in my mind: Why does He allow this?
That night, a surprise attack hit us. We ran to the trenches, firing at an enemy we could barely see. The sound of gunfire and explosions was deafening. Amid the chaos, I hid behind a pile of bodies—friends and foes stacked together as if they were the same. And maybe they were, I thought.
When the attack ended, I emerged from that hell and looked at the sky. It was clear, full of stars, as if the war didn't exist. I felt a deep anger.
— Where are you? — I murmured, almost like a prayer. — If you're here, why don't you do something?
There was no answer, only silence. But in that silence, I realized something: maybe I was asking the wrong question. Maybe the question wasn't where God was, but where we were.
The war was our doing. The choices that brought us here, even when forced upon us, were still made by human hands. God, if He existed, was merely an impotent observer. Or maybe, as the chaplain said, He was suffering with us, unable to intervene in the game we had created.
The change in me was subtle, but profound. Before, I looked for God as a savior. Now, I saw Him as a reflection—something that existed within us when we did good, and that vanished when we surrendered to hatred and destruction.
And maybe that was the greatest tragedy. Because if God depended on us to exist, then we were killing Him.