Hug Me

Written by Aaron Kaufmann

“Hug me” read the embroidered words on the teddy bear’s cap.

Walking along the harbor of Mytilini, working your way past the shops and cafes found along the water’s edge, you can look out and see Turkey’s coast rising from the Aegean, seemingly only a stone’s throw away. If you turn your back on the amazing scenery and head into town and up the hill, you will find yourself passing from commercial downtown to the mansions and town houses of residential Mytilini.

Continuing on, winding your way through and climbing the hill, you leave that behind as well. That wasn’t where you would find the teddy with “Hug me” written on its cap anyway. You find yourself surrounded by large apartment buildings, somewhat rundown high rises, and simple shops looking to scrounge a living off of serving the families that inhabit these communities.

Turning around at the top and looking back towards Turkey, you can see how incredibly close the two countries truly are. The journey can be made in a couple of hours in as simple a boat as a little rubber dingy. But the view is not the purpose of the climb up the hill, and you feel yourself getting nearer, hearing the Teddy’s call: “Hug me.”

Returning to your quest, you enter the cemetery. In German, the word is Friedhof, literally translating to “place of peace.” Once you talk your way past the grave keeper, it truly is a peaceful location. Trees grant shade as you walk along the rows of pristine marble monoliths for the dead. As you progress, the trees grow fewer and further apart. The graves here are not so ornate. Much like in the town, you continue forward and find yourself among dilapidated graves bearing the wind-worn names of the dead. If you look carefully, you can see it: a seemingly discarded teddy bear, smudged and dirty, lying on a little mound of earth, simply asking to be hugged.

Only with the last of the marble graves behind you can you see them. Thirty or forty mounds, all pointing East, pointing to Mecca. These graves never bore names—simply genders, presumed ages, and dates the bodies washed ashore. Teddy, blown from his seat upon one of the smaller mounds by the wind, is there too, right next to a stuffed caterpillar with a mockingly paradoxical smile frozen on its face. “Hug me” not yet visible, you gather them up, placing them back nearer to their rightful owner, a young child who will never hug or be hugged again.

 

There I stood. I turned, Turkey still visible, and it truly started to hit me. The day before, it had cost me €4 to ride the ferry from Turkey to Greece. I was able to do this because I had a paper that says “USA” on it. This child did not. Instead of “USA,” hers said “Syria,” or “Iraq,” or “Pakistan.” Instead of paying €4, his parents paid thousands for the chance to try to escape war and bombing—a chance that for this young one cost everything and cost the parents the lifelong guilt of wondering if they could have somehow done something different to hold their baby girl, their baby boy above the waves just a little longer. The true cost is echoed in that ironic plea embroidered on Teddy’s hat: “Hug me.”

Who are you hugging?