“The last time I saw my mother” by Nadja Halilbegovich

The last time I saw my mother, she flew thousands of miles to visit me. We had been living on separate continents for half of my life — ever since I escaped the war in my native Bosnia at 16. We loved each other fiercely, but our short visits could not make up for the time and distance always tugging at our relationship. She died a few months later, from complications of heart surgery.

In the decade since her passing, I have held onto the good memories. I have fantasized about what could have been had she lived and had we made more memories. I have also replayed our hurts and misunderstandings, changing my behaviour and softening her reactions to reclaim the points of connection we had missed — if only in my imaginings.

In the past five years, I have discovered a real love for cooking. And yet, with it came the disappointment that it had not happened sooner, while she was still here.

Over time, my grief has morphed into brief moments of fantasy where I taste the soup I have just finished seasoning and imagine passing a spoonful to my mother who nods and licks her lips. Or when I make the cherry cobbler — the one it took a dozen tries to get as close to hers as I could without a recipe — and take it out of the oven while it is still bubbling. I conjure her next to me, proud as anything.

In my do-over fantasies, I am more patient and present than I was in reality. On her last visit, we went to an international foods store with a long list of groceries to make a Bosnian feast. I darted to the Balkan section, but my mother paused in front of a display of tropical fruit. Fixated on our mile-long list, I ignored her childlike wonder as she took in the unfamiliar shapes and textures and told her to hurry. She looked so wounded and gave me the silent treatment for the rest of the shopping trip.

Now every time I pass by exotic fruit, I feel a stab of regret for missing out on what could have been a lovely memory of picking fruit together and tasting it for the first time.

I have this framed picture of her holding me as a baby. She is so young and glowing. I am barely a few weeks old. I have not yet done or accomplished anything, but she is looking at me with such pride as if I am already everything I need to be. 

I have rarely seen that look in my adulthood and it stings a little knowing that I might have caused her some hurt or disappointment simply by choosing the life I am living.

After she died, my father brought me a suitcase of her belongings. Although most of her clothes fit me, they somehow feel wrong on my body. When I look in the mirror, I keep seeing my mother wearing them at various occasions in my childhood and the memories make me teary. 

And yet, I feel a certain paralysis at the mere thought of donating. 

So they wait. They wait for my sorrow to feel less heavy. They wait for something.

The same goes for her jewelry which I keep in small containers. Every once in a while, I choose one box to crack open just long enough to get a whiff of her scent.

Strangely, the possession that connects me to her the most is a pink shirt she mended on her last visit. Part of the hem had fallen and although I knew how to fix it, I asked her to sew it by hand, like she did when I was a child. I have not worn it since fearing the stitches would come out from wearing and washing.

Every few months, I run my fingers across the hem she fixed. I caress each stitch starting with the small knots on either end. The loops of pink thread, loose and fragile, are the undoubtable proof of her love and care for me. No matter any hurt or disappointment we had over the years, her love feels unbreakable.

In an effort to leave something for the future, I stop myself from counting the stitches, even though I really want to. I do this so I always have something of my mother to look forward to. It may seem silly, but in this way, I feel I can stave off the finality of her death a little longer.

In the ocean of lasts — the last hug, the last kiss, the last email, the last visit — I cling to anything I can to keep her here with me, whether through a memory, a fantasy, or some uncounted stitches of pale pink. 

Nadja Halilbegovich is the author of My Childhood Under Fire: A Sarajevo Diary (from Kids Can Press here). She is a writer and public speaker and lives in Toronto.

This essay was originally published in the Toronto Star for Mother’s Day.

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"I never realized how much of my identity I carried in my hair — until I gave it all away" by Nadja Halilbegovich

I sat on a chair in the middle of the living room as my husband cut off all my hair. If he was nervous, he didn't let on. Maybe there was a part of him that hoped I might back out at the last moment. After all, he loved my long auburn hair and cutting all of it was quite drastic. 

But this was at the height of the pandemic and my need to reach out and connect with my fellow human beings had reached its peak. Perhaps it was an unusual way to connect, but I found a charitable organization that provides hairpieces for children who have suffered hair loss as a result of medical conditions such as alopecia and cancer and after some soul-searching, I decided to donate every last inch of my hair. 

Still, despite any reservations he might have had, my husband divided my hair into four long ponytails before cutting them off and buzzing me down to mere fuzz. We took turns running our palms over the soft bristles on top of my head, which made us both laugh with delight.

Perhaps it was seeing my hair laid out on the coffee table — such an intimate part of me suddenly turned into an inanimate object — or my reflection in the mirror, which startled me for the first few days, that made me consider how much of my identity is entangled in my hair.

When I was 10, my mother started using henna on my hair. I'm not sure where she got the idea, but she believed it would help strengthen my hair and give it a beautiful coppery lustre. I loved the colour, but what I loved the most were my mother's warm hands massaging my scalp as she applied the henna. Later, I'd sit in the bathtub as she gently rinsed it out, all the while oohing and aahing at the beautiful colour. 

At 16, the war in my country, Bosnia, broke my family apart. I escaped to the United States and found refuge with a host family in Ohio. In a new country and culture, learning a new language, my young identity flexed and stretched as I tried to fit in, but I remained my mother's daughter.

Thousands of miles away from her, I continued the tradition of applying henna as a way to preserve our bond. The ritual was never the same without her, but it also never failed to nourish me deeper than the roots of my hair. 

The war ended in 1996 and I started visiting Bosnia every few years to reunite with my family, but by then it was clear to me that I would never feel safe in my home country after living through almost four years of siege. Instead, I forged my own path and identity on another continent.

I continued using henna throughout high school and university, and even after I moved to Canada in 2002. The process of applying henna brought on its own kind of hilarity, like the time my father-in-law walked into the kitchen just as I was stirring olive oil into the glossy henna mixture and excitedly proclaimed, "Oh good, we are having brownies." 

In 2012, my mother died unexpectedly at the age of 65. A few months after her death, I was stumbling from grief as if I were standing in the shallows of a raging ocean getting battered by wave after wave. I desperately needed some self-care, so I booked a facial. 

At the end of the treatment, as I lay on my back with the esthetician standing over me, she offered a relaxing scalp massage. I nodded with gratitude. As soon as her warm hands sank into the bundle of my long auburn hair, a tide of tears spilled onto my cheeks and into my hair.

"My mom died," I said. 

For several minutes, she cooed words of comfort and cradled my head as I wept. Then she bent over me and kissed my forehead.

My hair still held my mother's touch, but also my heartbreak. That hair had seen me through so many of my life's stages: building a new life in Canada, getting married, publishing a book, grieving my mother and grappling with mental health. After reading about hair donation and learning what a difference hairpieces make for children struggling with hair loss, I felt that my hair could now serve someone beyond myself. This gave me a sense of peace and purpose.

A day after getting my buzz cut, as I went out for my usual morning walk, I wondered what kind of reception I would receive from neighbours and strangers on the street. We make such snap judgements about each other's appearance and going from very long to a buzz cut was a drastic change.

However, as I laced up my running shoes, I felt no apprehension, only excitement. I loved the warmth I felt on my fuzzy scalp. I smiled at the curious glances and double takes from a few passersby who had seen me previously on my morning stroll. Some smiled back and said, "Cool look!" while others stopped to ask what prompted the change. 

I also quietly wondered what my mother would have thought of my bold new look. She had pretty short hair in her later years, although never quite so short. In her absence, and considering what a giving person she was, I decided she would have been supportive of my decision — proud even.

A few days later, I carefully packed up the ponytails and sent them off with a silent prayer that they might bring some comfort to a child in need. It turns out that giving away my hair empowered me and strengthened my resolve to be a person who values connection and kindness above all else. 

Now when I look in the mirror and see a blond pixie, I find comfort in noticing that the older I get, the more my mother's face floats up to the surface. And when I look at a friend or a stranger — whether their hair is long or short, coloured or grey — I can see past the surface and recognize someone not too different from myself.

Nadja with her mother

Nadja Halilbegovich is an award-winning author, public speaker and peace advocate living in Canada. She is a survivor of the Bosnian War and the siege of her hometown of Sarajevo. Her book My Childhood Under Fire: A Sarajevo Diary was published in 2006. (See here.) Visit Nadja's website here. 

"I never realized how much of my identity I carried in my hair — until I gave it all away" was originally published as a first person piece on the CBC (here). For information on submitting a First Person piece to the CBC, see here. The Globe and Mail also wants your First Person essays, see here.

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“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/  

See Brian Henry’s upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and weekend retreats here.