“The Virtue of a hug in war, peace, and pandemic” by Nadja Halilbegovich

 

I had not hugged a friend or a family member, save for my husband, for over two years until recently, when my sister-in-law flew in for a brief visit. For everyone’s safety we met outside, but despite the wintry weather, her hug warmed me from the inside out. It’s strange, but only now do I truly realize how much I’ve missed embracing loved ones – the lingering warmth that remains long after our arms have untwined. Unexpectedly, this pandemic milestone has also reminded me of some of my life’s most significant and vulnerable moments –indelibly shaped by a simple hug.

I spent most of my teenage years living under siege in my hometown of Sarajevo, Bosnia. Every single day of those three-and-a-half years was steeped in danger, uncertainty and privation of food, water, electricity and above all, peace. At 13, I was wounded. On that rare peaceful morning, I had begged my mom to let me go outside after spending weeks wilting indoors. She finally relented. I was outside for only 10 minutes, when an artillery shell struck a few feet away, raining tiny, searing shrapnel on both of my legs. 

Shot with adrenaline, I sprinted toward the front entrance of our building where I literally crashed into a neighbour. I draped my arms around her neck just as my legs collapsed underneath me. She hugged me with both arms and dragged me to the hallway in front of her apartment door. The following moments are a flurried mess of panicked faces and cries as I lay on the ground, while neighbours wrapped my legs with towels and tried to keep me conscious. 

A stranger showed up with his van ready to transport me to the hospital just as Dad appeared and scooped me off the bloodied tiles. I will never forget the desperate grip of his hug as he sat in the back of the speeding van, holding me in his lap, gathering me up as if I could spill out at any moment. I burrowed my face into his neck, averting my eyes from the rapidly blooming scarlet on his shirt. “Don’t let me lose my legs, Dad” I cried.

Thankfully, I made a full physical recovery, but the onslaught of danger and terror that was our daily life gave no reprieve for my mental and emotional wounds to even begin to scab. Two and a half years later, on August 28th, 1995, several explosions struck Sarajevo’s outdoor marketplace which was mere metres from our apartment. I was alone at home and Dad had just popped out to the nearby bakery. By the time he showed up at our doorstep, carrying a loaf of bread, he had missed the blasts by a whisper. I was caked in tears, covering my ears in an attempt to block out the blood-chilling chorus of civilians strewn across the pavement among torn flesh and bruised fruit. Dad nearly toppled over from the force of my hug. I clasped my hands so tightly around his back, my knuckles ached from my grip.

Oscar

As fate would have it, that same night my parents managed to smuggle me out of Sarajevo through an underground tunnel that connected the besieged capital with the rest of the world. They desperately wanted to secure some small shred of normalcy for what was left of my childhood. I was 16 and I came to America on my own. A generous host family took me in and I began learning English and going to school. They had a large dog, Oscar, a sweet, good-natured mutt with floppy ears and brown spots on his paws. 

Over the next several months, I secretly struggled with feeling homesick, exacerbated by the constant fretting over my family’s safety. Calls to Bosnia were expensive so I could only speak to them once a week for 15 minutes. Despite this, I was managing quite well at school, with the help of my teachers and host parents, but I still had no ability to share my feelings with anyone. A couple of times a week, while my host parents ran errands, I would sit on the floor and drape my arms around Oscar. He would remain quite still, fidgeting only a little, just to nuzzle his head on my shoulder. He was big and sturdy so I could hug him tightly and let myself cry until I felt lighter.

Several years later, I moved to Canada for my first job after university. The first person I met was a 19 year old named Joe who quickly became a close friend. Joe gave everyone hugs, even upon first meeting. In fact, he loved picking a spot on a street or in a park while holding a sign that read “free hugs.” He died in a car accident two years after we met and I still feel his loss. One summer afternoon, as a way of honouring him, a dozen of his friends gathered in a park and we spent several hours giving “free hugs” to passersby. With some people, I instantly felt comfortable – our bodies fit in a perfectly moulded hug. 

This surprising alchemy between strangers made me think back on Sarajevo’s siege and the numerous occasions where I’d find myself on the street when thunderous explosions suddenly struck the neighbourhood. I’d quickly duck into the first shelter I could see – usually a lobby of some building – and there I would find a stranger also seeking cover. Our eyes would meet for just a second, before darting like arrows trying to find the safest corner. Without a word, we would hug and brace for impact. We would grip each other as if trying to pin ourselves to the ground as the earth beneath us quivered.

It is yet another sad aspect of our pandemic lives that hugging a stranger is the last thing on our minds. For many of us, even hugging a relative or a friend comes with stress and anxiety over risks and precautions. Perhaps we have undervalued the impact of a simple hug. As I look back on my four decades, I count myself truly lucky to have been held, shielded and buoyed at some of the most pivotal moments of my life by the almost otherworldly power of a hug. I pray that in the not-so-distant future we can safely hold one another again — a friend, relative, or even a stranger.

Nadja Halilbegovich is an award-winning author, public speaker and peace activist. She is a survivor of the Bosnian War and the siege of her hometown of Sarajevo. Since her arrival to Canada in 2002, Halilbegovich has been a frequent speaker in middle schools and high schools across the country and with the pandemic, her presentations have become virtual. 

Her book My Childhood Under Fire: A Sarajevo Diary was published in 2006. (see here). Visit Nadja's website here: https://nadjapeace.com/  

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