Facing Death (with Sebastian Junger)

Sebastian Junger: Certainly! To give you some context, my father was a wartime refugee, fleeing places like Germany and Spain during the rise of Fascism, and later escaping France. His experiences instilled a profound awareness of war within me from a young age.

He eventually married an American woman, and I grew up in a picturesque yet exceedingly dull suburb of Boston called Belmont. As a child, I was quite anxious. Looking back, it’s clear I spent much of my life compensating for an upbringing that felt too safe. In my teenage years, I longed to become a man, but the environment I was in didn’t lend itself to that transformation. This yearning led me to become a war correspondent for many years, a journey that took a turn when I settled down and had a family with two young children. Ironically, it was during that time that I nearly lost my life—at home.

Sebastian Junger: My first self-assigned war assignment was in Bosnia during the Siege of Sarajevo in 1993-1994. Afterward, I returned to write my first book, The Perfect Storm. As soon as I submitted the manuscript, I was eager to return to the field. I had little faith in the book’s reception, feeling it was a niche topic.

Then, I ventured to Afghanistan in 1996, coinciding with the Taliban’s rise. I observed them near Kabul and Jalalabad, where I found myself under suspicion before escaping. My travels continued through Kosovo, Sierra Leone, and Liberia, where I faced severe dangers, including a brief captivity by rebels in Nigeria. Eventually, I spent significant time with American soldiers in Afghanistan, which is where most people know my work from, despite my deep affection for the country.

My hope is to return safely with my family one day; that would be a dream fulfilled.

Sebastian Junger: Yes, indeed.

Sebastian Junger: Yes. I was a young kid surfing off the Massachusetts coast in midwinter—all alone. The waves were enormous, and I nearly drowned.

I also worked as a climber for tree companies, scaling heights of 60 to 100 feet while using a running chainsaw to take down trees. From the ground, it probably appeared terrifying, but up there, I felt the danger was manageable if I followed the laws of physics. If something went wrong, it would typically stem from my error. In contrast, driving on the road poses unpredictable risks from others who may not adhere to those same laws. I learned to compartmentalize my fear, which was a crucial skill in both tree work and combat.

Sebastian Junger: Absolutely not; if you’re fighting, you’re no longer a journalist—you’re a participant. While embedded with American soldiers, I recorded events with a video camera, and in earlier assignments, I documented my observations with a notebook and pen. The former allows for capturing live events, while the latter is about processing information. In situations with American soldiers, I kept my video camera close, even sleeping with it. Moments of significance could arise unexpectedly, and I wanted to be ready. It wasn’t all combat; life at the outpost Restrepo was multifaceted. I imitated the soldiers closely, taking care to fit in and not become a liability.

Sebastian Junger: One incident that stands out was in Sierra Leone. After a frontline skirmish, I found myself in an open jeep with Sierra Leonean soldiers and fellow journalists when we were confronted by rebels. They leveled their weapons at us, and I sensed they were in heated debate about whether to execute us. It was my first experience with that hollow feeling of fear.

Another time, while detained by rebels in Nigeria, one of them approached me, machine gun in hand, and said, ‘When we kill you later, I’ll be the one to do it.’ That was particularly terrifying.

With American soldiers, I experienced intense combat. Notably, during one firefight, I froze when I couldn’t reach my video camera. This absence of purpose left me unguarded against fear. Fortunately, my colleague Tim Hetherington, who later tragically lost his life in combat, jumped to my aid.

Sebastian Junger: Absolutely. In June 2020, my family and I had taken our daughters, who were just a few months and three years old, out of New York City to our secluded property in Massachusetts. It’s a beautiful spot, deeply wooded and cut off from modern communication. While it’s a slice of paradise, it became a nightmare during my health crisis. I’ve always been an athlete, so I never anticipated needing emergency medical attention.

While enjoying a moment of peace, I suddenly felt an intense pain in my abdomen—what I thought was indigestion turned out to be something catastrophic. I had an undiagnosed aneurysm in my pancreatic artery, a rare condition that can develop unnoticed over years. When it ruptured, I started bleeding internally without any visible signs. Within minutes, I was losing consciousness, and my blood pressure dropped dangerously low.

My wife had to physically drag me to the car, and I was barely conscious, unaware that I was slowly dying. I was losing blood at a rapid rate, and there was a little regional hospital an hour away. As I faded in and out of consciousness, she feared the worst.

Sebastian Junger: Yes, that moment came later in the evening after I was stabilized. My blood pressure was critically low, and they needed to transfuse me quickly. One nurse held my hand and guided me through breathing exercises, which surprisingly alleviated my pain. I had no idea I was dying; I was still confused and focused on my immediate pain.

Then, something extraordinary happened. As I lay there, I began to experience a vision of my deceased father. He appeared above me in some ethereal form, conveying to me that I didn’t need to fight it—I could join him. I was horrified at the thought of dying and expressed to my doctor that I felt I was slipping away.

In the following hours, medical professionals worked frantically to save me, employing a catheter to seal the rupture. While undergoing this procedure, I experienced hallucinations, where terrifying images surrounded me. At one point, I sensed a profound loneliness as I realized I might not survive this ordeal. It was then that the same nurse returned, reassuring me that I wasn’t alone.

Sebastian Junger: Absolutely. The medical details are crucial for grounding the emotional gravity of the situation. I wanted readers to feel the reality of what I experienced, and I relied heavily on the records and my conversations with the doctors. The juxtaposition of clinical details and personal emotion heightens the impact of the narrative.

Sebastian Junger: Certainly. My father was the product of a mixed marriage, with an Austrian Catholic mother and a Sephardic Jew father. He was a journalist, notably posted in Dresden during pivotal historical moments. As the political climate deteriorated, he fled various countries with his family, ultimately settling in the United States after several tumultuous relocations.

He was a brilliant physicist but had a complex emotional landscape. I now recognize he was likely somewhere on the autism spectrum, making our relationship challenging at times. However, I loved him deeply, and his passing became an essential moment in my understanding of death and connection.

Interestingly, as he lay dying, he engaged in conversations with his deceased sister, which was a striking experience for me. Although I was a rationalist, witnessing this phenomenon sparked a curiosity about the intersection of life and death.

Sebastian Junger: The inherent challenge of being a rationalist is the continuous emergence of inexplicable phenomena. The line between a visionary and a madman is incredibly thin, which adds complexity to the experiences I’ve encountered.

For instance, if you were to tell someone about the vastness of the universe or the strange behaviors of subatomic particles, they might dismiss you as irrational. Yet, these are the very realities physicists grapple with. The rational realm often collides with the mysterious, prompting questions about consciousness and existence.

Sebastian Junger: The critiques of my book often stem from my continued disbelief in a deity despite my experiences. Some readers were disappointed that I didn’t proclaim an afterlife or divine intervention. I’ve always believed that stories and explanations serve different purposes; stories uphold human dignity, while explanations seek to clarify our understanding of existence.

Near-death experiences have been reported by many, and while some argue they can be explained through neurochemical responses, the shared visions among individuals raise intriguing questions about consciousness. I remain open to the possibility that something beyond our understanding could connect these phenomena.

Sebastian Junger: Following my near-death experience, I delved into physics and near-death literature, seeking clarity. I even reached out to my father’s colleagues to discuss my experiences. One colleague gave a statistical perspective on the odds of my father appearing to me—fascinating yet grounding.

This exploration of physics rekindled memories of my father, highlighting the magical moments we shared amidst the rationality of his world. The experience of writing my book became an introspective journey, allowing me to confront the complexities of life, death, and connection.

Sebastian Junger: Discovering that life can abruptly end lends a terrifying dimension to existence. This understanding fosters a duality of reverence and terror; appreciating the present moment takes on new meaning when faced with mortality. It’s about cultivating that awareness in daily life, even amidst challenges.

As I recovered, I realized life’s temporality imbues every moment with significance. It’s a balancing act of recognizing life’s fragility while engaging with its beauty.

Sebastian Junger: Exactly. It’s a continual reminder that life, with all its complexities, is a miracle worth cherishing. In the ICU, when a nurse congratulated me on surviving, I was initially struck by the gravity of that reality. The contrast between miraculous survival and the shadow of death was profound.

Sebastian Junger: Each of my books holds a unique place in my heart, but this one resonates deeply due to its personal nature. Writing about my mortality and experiences involved confronting trauma and grief, which often brought me to tears. It was a deeply emotional journey.

Ultimately, the writing process was transformative, allowing me to find clarity and understanding. It became an attempt to convey essential truths about human existence, mortality, and the connections we share.

Sebastian Junger: Thank you for having me; it was a pleasure.