Dag Hammarskjöld’s life was fraught with difficulties in 1961. The Congo Crisis, which began in 1960 and showed no signs of stopping the following year, had become not only a localized disaster but also a Cold War flashpoint. In the summer, Dag’s pet vervet, Greenback, died under bizarre circumstances (read more here.)
As hard working and diligent as Dag was, he wasn’t superhuman. The sleepless nights and stressful days took a toll:
The Security Council session dragged on, hours stretching into what felt like an eternity, the words of the debate congealing together. Several delegates expressed that the UN was destroying Africa and Dag Hammarskjöld was the main aggressor. Dag pressed his hand against his forehead, shielding his eyes. His usual composure was cracking under the unrelenting accusations, and he started to wear fatigue like a heavy cloak. The Congo crisis had consumed him for months, each meeting a battle of wills, each discussion a hotbed of political maneuvering. The strain left him frayed and his normal optimism was drained.
He glanced at the notes in front of him, the letters swimming on the page. There was no end in sight, only more bickering, more finger-pointing. Dag’s head throbbed, and he pinched the bridge of his nose, wishing—just for a moment—that it could all stop. He delicately took a sheet of paper and started to write. Perhaps he was writing to himself for his journal, or maybe he was creating a kind of prayer to God: Please let this meeting end. Please make this quarreling stop. I have descended into hell.
Decoding the Unicorn: A New Look at Dag Hammarskjöld (pp. 418-419). Sara Causey. Kindle Edition.
(For a photo of Dag at one of the SC meetings, click here.)
There’s a prevailing image of Dag as cold, sterile, and academic. I believe this stereotype has been intentionally curated over the years, and I intend to theorize about it in a project I’m currently writing. For now, suffice it to say: Dag was not an unfeeling intellectual who mechanically locomoted through life like a robot. Here’s a passage from my latest draft of Simply Dag, which I’ll publish on July 29, 2026 to coincide with Dag’s birthday:
Maria’s eyes were getting heavy as I picked her up. Greta walked with us and pointed to a rocking chair in the corner of Maria’s room.
“Alright, you two. Good luck. If she gets cranky, just let me know.”
We sat down and I started to gently rock her. I opened the book quietly and started in a gentle voice:
“‘There was once a velveteen rabbit, and in the beginning he was really splendid. He was fat and bunchy, as a rabbit should be.’”
When I arrived at the passage:
“‘Real isn’t how you are made,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.’
‘Does it hurt?’ asked the Rabbit.
‘Sometimes,’ said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. ‘When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.’”
Maria was fast asleep breathing smoothly against my chest. I, on the other hand, felt highly emotional.
You become real when someone loves you. And you don’t mind the pain. I wonder how “real” I am by that measure? I thought. No, Dag. Knock it off. You mustn’t have a Jean-Paul Sartre existentialist moment in this nursery. Cut it out.
By the final line—“‘But he never knew that it really was his own Bunny, come back to look at the child who had first helped him to be Real’”—I realized I was crying. I carefully placed Maria in her crib and wiped my eyes. I took a minute to regain my composure. I hadn’t remembered the story being quite so intense when I read it before, but many things had happened in my adult life that I didn’t understand as an adolescent, even a precocious one. I gathered myself and walked down the hall. The kitchen table was adorned with candles, a lovely dinner, and the grön tårta.
“Happy birthday, old man!” Bo announced. “Well, not technically yet, but close enough for tonight.”
It occurred to me that while I may not have found a soulmate, I was loved. And I supposed by that measurement, yes, I was Real like the rabbit.
Explore more:
- 5 Surprising Things You Didn’t Know About Dag Hammarskjöld
- Decoding the Unicorn: Why Dag Hammarskjöld?
- When the Press Pounced: Dag Hammarskjöld’s Desk Invasion
Stay tuned for more.
New to Dag’s life and legacy? Start here.
Passages from Decoding the Unicorn and Simply Dag © Sara Causey.