To Touch or Not to Touch: Reflections on the Importance of Human Intimacy
- T. Donohue
- Aug 30, 2019
- 6 min read
“Seek out what magnifies your spirit. Who are the people, ideas, and books that magnify your spirit? Find them, hold on to them, and visit them often. Use them not only as a remedy once spiritual malaise has already infected your vitality but as a vaccine administered while you are healthy to protect your radiance.”
Maria Popova
The August sun is hot on the back of my neck as I stand, holding Annie in my arms, looking out over the mountains in the distance. She is rubbing her hands against my collar bone, giggling and shrieking. I put her down and she takes off, running, in a fit of joyous laughter. She falls to the ground as I run up behind her. I place my hands on her cheeks and begin to tickle her. Her laughter fills the afternoon air. Mama Doris is watching us from the doorway of the jikoni – kitchen. Her smile, cheek to cheek, tells me stories of joy and weariness. As I leave, Annie hangs onto her mama’s back, and Mama and I hold hands as she walks me down the hill.
As I lie on my yoga mat, sweat dripping from my forehead, I breathe deeply. My left hand placed over my heart, my right over my stomach. With each inhale I let the air fill me up like a refreshing glass of water; from the bottom of my being to the top of my chest. I exhale, everything air, love, pain, joy. I release. I press my hands closer to my body. I can feel my heart beating when I press gently into my belly. I feel my heart slowing down. I feel my hands touching my body. I feel my body touching my hands. I feel the Earth below me, holding my body. I feel my body, being held by the Earth.
Afterwards I stand in my bafu – bathing room – and pour warm water over my naked body. I slowly, mindfully move my hands down my arms. The side of my body. The soft skin on the inside of my thighs. The soap smells of fresh cut strawberries and orange peels. The scent and the touching of skin is intoxicating.
And again, I remember how much I miss touch. I long to touch someone. I long to be touched. There are many astoundingly beautiful things about this country. And I am awestruck every day by the way communities are woven together. And yet, I cannot help but reflect on the absence of intimacy, of touch. Since arriving in this country, I have begun a journey of learning to differentiate between my wants and my needs. It is quite clear that there is only so little that we actually need. And, were you to have asked me four months ago, I would likely have told you we only need water, food and shelter. And I admit, those things are quite a necessity. But with each passing day I am learning, deeply, about the need for human touch. For the quiet moments, when two bodies come together, sharing warm, sharing love, connecting.
And no, I am not talking about sex. I am talking about two hands holding each other, fingers wrapped delicately together. Hands resting on the space above your knee. The cool hand placed on someone’s cheek. Fingers navigating their way through a head of hair. An arm around your shoulder that grounds you wholly. Foreheads pressed together. Resting your head on the strong shoulder of a friend or a lover. And I have come to believe we are moving much to fast to remember this touch. We, and by we I mean the fast-paced we of America, are forgetting. We grab our lover’s hand without remembering the moment you were absolutely desperate to touch their hand for the first time. We curl into the warmth of blankets to watch movies, tucked perfectly into the nook of our lover’s shoulder, and we forget what it was like when we slept alone. We mindlessly touch our friends, our parents, our children, our lovers, having forgotten how void the spaces were before they arrived in our lives. We touch without evening recognizing the absence of touch. We forget that when we touch another, their skin is also touching us. We, busy with work and family and how many likes we got on this or that and what we’re drinking and what he or she said, forget that we are blessed, beyond words to touch and be touched.
I have been here for almost seven months, and I have yet to see any sort of public display of affection. Walk through any village or city, and you are likely to find people of the same sex holding hands. Otherwise, you would think this place may be devoid of all human contact. Of course, this is far from true. The intimacy happens behind closed doors, under cover of darkness. Yet this must somehow shroud intimacy and touch in some cloud of secrecy; something not to be seen by others. Something we must not admit actually happens. And hence, what results is perhaps a profound sense of shame and uncertainty about human touch. And this is, in part, true. Because in a society that does not address the fact that people have physical needs, be it sex or basic human contact, when sexuality is taboo, one cannot be surprised that human touch elicits such a strong response.
On Sunday evening, a friend of mine came over for dinner. We discussed teaching, and English, and the way students here need to trust their teachers, and the differences between cultures. Using both English and Kiswahili, our conversations have this wild flow to them. Me, trying my best to express myself in a new language. And him, trying his best to understand my flawed Kiswahili. There is, inherently, patience and trust in these conversations. I tell him that in America I greet all of my friends with hugs. Sometimes I will even hug people when meeting them for the first time. Often hugs are accompanied by a kiss on the cheek. Yes, even for platonic male friends.
“Do you miss it?”
“Do I miss hugging? Yeah, I really do. I miss human contact. I miss the connection” I say.
“From now on then, you should hug me when I come here. It is important. I do not want you to forget about your culture” he says, his kind eyes smiling.
There is a deep beauty in this sentiment. I do not want to forget this either. Desperately. Though, I also want to remember how I feel in the moment when he says this. I want to remember how deeply I want to hold someone’s hand. How I want to feel someone’s hand on the back of my neck. I am deeply grateful to come from a place that values human intimacy, granted we are certainly still learning, but we try, day after day to express ourselves; we touch, we make room for our emotions and our need for contact and love.
I tell him about the day I arrived in Mvaa, back in late April. Both a lifetime and a moment ago. I got out of the car and Mama Doris was standing on the hill waiting for me. Having only met her during my site visit for three days but feeling deeply that this woman was the closest thing to my mom here in Tanzania. I skipped towards her. I swear when she smiles something shifts in the way the sunlight hits the trees. She opened her arms and I fell into them. The nerves and apprehension about arriving at my home for the next two years, I was filled with so many emotions. And then I arrived, in this woman’s arms, and she truly held me. Recalling this story to my friend the other day, I was moved to tears. It was the first real hug I had received from a Tanzanian, and it filled my heart. And, at times, I feel my heart cannot contain all of this joy. All of this gratitude. At times, I worry that I will not remember all of this when I return. That I, we, will continue to move too fast. That we will forget to bow down in gratitude that we are able to feel, skin to skin, the power of human touch.
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