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Spaniol: It is my honor and privilege to introduce Ms. Nadja Halilbegovich, today’s commencement
speaker and recipient of an honorary degree from Butler University. I know I speak for
many, many members of the Butler community when I say that we are delighted to have Nadja
back on campus to celebrate a truly remarkable person and to recognize her for her good and
important work promoting peace worldwide.
Nadja came to Butler as a student in the fall of 1997 and earned a Bachelor’s degree in
Music Performance and Theater. As you can imagine, many of us in the Jordan College
of Arts have been especially excited to welcome Nadja back to campus today.
In the past few months, I’ve had many conversations with my colleagues in JCA and across campus
about Nadja. In one of these conversations, I mentioned that Nadja was a student in a
music theory class that I taught, and the response was something like, “oh, I bet
she knew the answer to every question.”
In fact, Nadja was a truly outstanding academic student. I looked back at my old grade book
(yes, I keep these) and saw that Nadja had earned a score of 107% on the last project,
105 on the final exam, and 102 overall for the semester.
As remarkable as these numbers are, the truth is I had forgotten about them. And the reason
is this: Nadja’s academic strength was not her most memorable characteristic. When I
think of a teen-aged Nadja Halilbegovich, what I remember is a young lady who was always
exceedingly polite and eloquent in conversation.
And her interactions went well beyond surface niceties – her well-chosen words and her
manner of speaking and listening reflected a genuine kindness and caring. But even that
doesn’t really describe her well. I don’t think it’s an overstatement to say that
in even a simple, short conversation with Nadja I felt as if she radiated an appreciation
for what it means to be human, for the value of human life, and the importance of our time
on Earth together.
What I didn’t know at the time was the sequence of events that brought Nadja to Butler. When
I learned of her childhood it made me realize that what I had suspected about Nadja must
indeed be true: that what appeared to be a deep appreciation for the beauty and dignity
of human life was indeed genuine.
Nadja was born in Sarajevo. In 1992 when she was 12, war broke out in Bosnia and for the
next several years she, her family, and all the citizens of Sarajevo endured the tremendous
pain and hardships brought on by the war. Nadja herself was seriously wounded when a
bombshell exploded by her; to this day she still has shrapnel in her legs.
As difficult as this experience must have been, during the war Nadja continued to write
poetry, continued to study, continued to sing and to play music. And she continued to write
the poignant diary entries that detailed her wartime experiences and became the basis for
her first book My Childhood Under Fire.
In 1995, amidst sniper fire and bomb blasts, Nadja escaped Sarajevo and the war literally
through an underground tunnel. A few days later she arrived safely in the United States.
And ever since Nadja has been working to promote peace and serving as an advocate for children
of war. This work includes speaking to tens of thousands of people around the globe including
presentations at the Global Young Leaders Conference and the State of the World Forum.
Nadja has been featured in documentaries and books, often alongside such luminary peacemakers
as Mother Teresa, Desmond Tutu, and the recently deceased Nelson Mandela. Perhaps most commonly,
Nadja and her diary are compared to Anne Frank and her famous diary, and for this reason
Nadja is sometimes referred to as the “Bosnian Anne Frank.” And so it is fitting to recognize
Nadja Halilbegovich today for her good work and ask her to address today’s graduates
as they begin the next stage of their own good work. Nadja, would you please come forward?
Fenneman: On the recommendation of the faculty, the president and provost, with the approval
of the Butler University Board of Trustees and by the authority vested in me, I confer
upon you, Nadja Halilbegovich, the degree of Doctor of Humane Letters, honoris causa,
with all the rights, privileges, and responsibilities thereto.
I invite the audience to join me in expressing our congratulations and best wishes to our
newest Honorary Degree recipient.
[applause]
Halilbegovich: Thank you all so much! Thank you Dr. Spaniol for that beautiful introduction,
I'm so moved. Thank you President Danko, Dr. Morris, Chairman Fenneman and the Board of
Trustees! This is such an enormous honor.
Good afternoon esteemed faculty, staff and guests, proud family and friends, and above
all, good afternoon and congratulations to my Butler family, my fellow Butler graduates.
I am so proud and happy to be here today celebrating your amazing achievements.
Now, being here at Clowes Hall, I must take a moment to acknowledge how beautifully surreal
this moment is for me. Some 15 years ago as a high school senior I came to Butler to audition
for the music department. Afterwards, I was taken on a tour of the campus and ended up
here, at Clowes Hall. I walked across this stage and settled in one of these rows, wondering
whether I would ever get to perform here and whether Butler would become my home for the
next 4 years. I was 18 years old, still with a heavy Bosnian accent, I had only been speaking
English for 2 years, and although I was full of hope, I was also deeply uncertain about
my future.
Fortunately, I did attend Butler and I did get to perform on this stage for many joyous
occasions with the Butler choir; I even worked here as an usher earning some spending money…
So you see, to find myself on this stage again and in this awesome capacity, is…I have
no words except to say: beautifully surreal. I stand before you today as a 34-year-old,
but sometimes I feel like I’ve lived a century. A childhood spent living under siege, under
the constant threat of bombshells and bullets, in this relentless grip of fear and uncertainty
has left an indelible mark on my mind and my heart. I believe this mark is even deeper
due to the fact that I was only a child when the war erupted in my native Bosnia Herzegovina.
Much too early, at the age of 12, I became deeply aware of the fragility of human life.
And this painful, premature knowledge has been one of the most important lessons in
my life, as well as a terrible burden and sometimes, a debilitating emotional trauma.
I was 13 years old, when one sunny, crisp October morning in 1992, I begged my mom to
let me go outside. I couldn’t remember the last time I was outside in the fresh air;
it felt like weeks. Most days, the bombings of our capital, Sarajevo, were so ruthless
and intense that we had to seek refuge in dark and moldy basements, or at the very least,
hide inside our apartments.
On the rare occasion when dawn broke into a quiet day, it was only a matter of time
until deadly crackles of snipers and deafening explosions would shatter the peace and instantly
color the day with the blood of innocent civilians. So although I was pale and teary-eyed as I
begged, my mom firmly resisted. But, I was relentless and I kept asking her again and
again well into the afternoon of that October day.
Finally, I wore her down and I still remember her yelling out “Just for a few moments,
alright?” as I laced up my shoes and ran down the stairs. Outside, I stayed close to
our apartment building finally enjoying some warm sun and fresh air when suddenly a powerful
blast ripped through the air. The immense impact of the explosion thudded against my
face and chest and I felt as though it tore through my insides obliterating every nerve
and every cell. All I could do was wait to be shattered into a million pieces.
A bombshell exploded a few feet away from me and a rain of shrapnel pelted my legs.
I was incredibly fortunate to survive that day. I still have 7 tiny pieces of shrapnel
in both of my legs.
But you see, my physical wounds have healed and my scars are now nearly invisible and
translucent. But the deeper wounds, those that can never fully heal, are on a mental
and emotional level. I came out of that day forever changed. I wrote and published my
diary during the war and in the entry describing that fateful day, I wrote: “Slowly, I’ve
recovered, but I’ve also changed. I’m more frightened and worried—and a lot older.”
I wrote that sentence when I was 13 and two decades later, I feel the same way.
Months after I was wounded, when I was finally able to walk again, the first winter of the
war was descending upon my city. Sarajevo was once an Olympic city, in 1984 we hosted
very memorable, very beautiful Olympic games, but now we were a city entirely besieged by
weapons, a relentless noose of tanks depriving us of peace, freedom, dignity and basic human
needs like electricity, food and water.
Still, like a true Sarajevan, I looked forward to all the winter fun and games. Being wounded
had definitely chipped away a large piece of my childhood, but still I had somehow preserved
a tiny piece of my innocence. So as the first snow blanketed the streets of my beloved city,
I hoped that that would be the war’s end. I hoped that the carnage would end because
the snow would act as a soft, pillowy blanket absorbing the mortars and bombshells. I honestly
believed that every bomb would be rendered completely benign and useless.
The first time, I saw hot human blood scorch deep scarlet grooves in the fast-melting snow,
every childhood illusion, every tiny shard of innocence was shattered. And precisely
because of my deep awareness of the fragility of human life, my constant worry and hyper-vigilance,
the way I’ve come to view life as a tiny pearl in the palm of my hand, I’ve often
asked myself a question that poet Mary Oliver puts in such a beautiful, haunting way: “What
is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”
For me, my life has been trying to live happily despite the wounds and painful memories, and
despite the very intimate knowledge of human darkness. It has been about cultivating my
belief in peace, beauty and tolerance and working for those very ideals that were shattered
right in front of my face.
In 1995, I was invited to come to America, to live with a host family, learn English
and continue my education. However, in 1995 the war was still raging and Sarajevo was
still gasping for its every breath, but my persistent parents managed to smuggle me out
of the city through the only route connecting Sarajevo with the rest of Europe—an underground
tunnel.
The tunnel was dug out during the second year of the war out of sheer necessity for supplies
such as food, oil and medicine. The government controlled the tunnel as it was the only artery
feeding the city and also the only way out, especially for those who were badly wounded
and who required immediate medical assistance outside of our ravaged capital. Although the
permits to use the tunnel were terribly hard to come by, after numerous attempts, my parents
managed to procure two of them. The plan was that my mom would escort me through the tunnel
and other dangerous parts of Bosnia and take me to Croatia from where I was to fly to America.
The tunnel started on the outskirts of Sarajevo, and went underneath the airport runway, some
15 feet under the ground, and then emerged again in a small town near the city. As mom
and I stepped into the tunnel I looked ahead of me and immediately thought that it resembled
a long, narrow tomb with its dead still walking and carrying heavy bags. The tunnel was about
5 feet tall, sometimes dipping even lower which meant that I, at 5’7” had to drop
my shoulders, hunch my back and lower my head.
Mud and underground water came to our ankles and above our heads loomed heavy support beams
and large oil pipes. The air was scarce, thick with a nauseating smell of oil, stale water
and sweat. This was the longest walk of my life. At some point, the wounds on my legs
started hurting, my back started burning from carrying all these bags and being bent for
so long, and I couldn’t breathe. I felt I was going to faint. Ahead of me was just
an unending, unrelenting darkness.
And then there was a moment; a moment when this last drop overfilled the cup of patience
and faith in this world. I felt too tired and humiliated. I decided to give up. I turned
around with sticky tears on my face and looked at my mother. She was smaller than I was,
but she was carrying even more bags and before I could say anything she looked at me and
said: “Remember Nadja, remember your dreams and keep walking!”
I turned around, took one deep, nauseating breath and sped up. And I made it through
that darkness because of my mom. Together, she and I survived many perils on our road
to Croatia, but we made it in the end and we said goodbye. She went all the way back
to Sarajevo and I flew to America. I didn’t speak much English, in fact, I
mainly knew lines from Tom Cruise movies, but they weren’t very useful. I'm sorry
but I also thought every man in America looked like Tom Cruise. That was a bit of a surprise.
But I was greeted with so much love and compassion and kindness by my host family, my high school
teachers and fellow students and a couple of years later, by my Butler family. And they
healed me. So many people in your country healed me. In those years that I lived in
America, I was so nurtured and supported, I’ve renewed my belief and passion for peace
and tolerance. I became an author and speaker passionate to advocate for those who are most
innocent, children, but who are also often voiceless. I have found purpose in trying
to educate others about the war in Bosnia, promoting peace and in the process, finding
some personal healing and grace. In my 34 years, I’ve learned many lessons
in a very harsh way. Through my experiences, I’ve learned that life is powerful, it ruthlessly
hammers and chisels our fates and each one of us has an allotment of tunnels and challenges.
But you see, for as much darkness as I have witnessed, I have also felt myself awash in
the warmest light of the human spirit and of human kindness. The citizens of my besieged
city, people of all religious and ethnic backgrounds struggled through a common tragedy and came
together as one human family sharing a loaf of bread. I personally witnessed people’s
generosity, ingenuity and kindness brighten the deepest darkness. And in people like my
mother, I saw the power of an indomitable spirit that can persevere through almost anything,
and I learned that although life is powerful, so are we. And with our grit and grace we
hold the hammer and the chisel as well, and we and our loved ones ultimately sculpt our
fates. I lost my mom earlier this year. She slipped
away quickly and suddenly and left my family reeling from grief and sadness. But I’ve
also spent many days and sleepless nights thinking about her legacy and all the lessons
she and my dad have taught me through their love and sacrifice. This has also made me
take stock of my own life, making me reflect on what it means to live life well.
There are many things that make for a full life. Achievements and successes have their
important place. But for me, at the very core, at the very heart of human existence are three
things: to live life well is to find one’s voice and one’s purpose, it is also to love
passionately and be loved by many family and friends, and finally, it is to offer as much
kindness to strangers and loved ones as one possibly can.
As I learn and grow, I’m finding that for most of us life isn’t defined by some heroic
acts or epic achievements, but by small, every day gestures of love and kindness. And so
our purpose isn’t just about achieving our own goals and climbing the ladders of success,
but it is also about lessening the burden and furthering the joy of our fellow travelers.
These small acts of great love fill us with peace and contentment all the while, in a
very graceful, very quiet way making a big and lasting difference in the lives of those
we encounter on our way. So you see in my opinion, peace and tolerance are built by
each and every one of us every single day.
So…”Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” I
know you have been asked this question, or a variation of it, by many especially as you
graduate, and quite naturally, you might find it daunting, annoying even. But may I suggest,
as someone who has heard death’s carnivorous groans at the age of 12, that the mere fact
that we have the breath to ask this question of others and of ourselves, should flood our
hearts with gratitude before anything else. And as someone who has survived the shackles
of indignity and intolerance, I think we also ought to be immensely grateful for the invaluable
freedom of choice to answer such a question in whichever way we choose.
I have no doubt that you will reflect upon your life and ask this question often as you
age. I have no doubt that you will find your own authentic, unique ways to answer it. Remember,
life is powerful but so are you, and if through it you can muster some grit, some kindness
and some grace, I think you will live life well.
And finally, if I may ask you for a small kindness. One that will mean so much to me.
You see, just like you have your loved ones with you today, I have some wonderful family
and friends, my host parents, my amazing husband Chris, but also, my father who flew all the
way from Bosnia for this occasion and who doesn’t speak English. So if I may, I would
just like to thank my dad and tell him that he and mom taught me many valuable lessons.
“Tata, volim te, hvala sto si dosao i znaj da si mi ti i mama uvijek bili uzor plemenitog
covjeka.” Thank you all so much! Congratulations again and remember your dreams and keep walking!
Thank you.
[applause]