Some thoughts on Parents’ Day

We are living in a reserved society. We all are way too reserved when it comes to expressing our good feelings to people. Especially towards our family members. Words don’t come easy. You just can’t go to your mom, hug her, kiss her on the cheeks and say, “K’on ngailua, henu!” That’s the thing they do in movies. Not here. Not by us. It sounds like a novel.

And I didn’t say those three little sweet words to my parents on Parents’ Day. I should have. But I just couldn’t. I know I love them, but telling them how I love and miss them feels a little too weird. Not for me alone, for everyone; even for my parents. Suppose I say, “I love you” to them, I would be expecting something quite like, “What the hell! What’s wrong with you?”

Last Sunday, July 8, 2007, we were celebrating Parents’ Day in our local church. To tell you the truth, it never really mattered to me what this day is all about. But something happened the previous night which would change my take on Parents’ Day for years to come. I came to realize that the next day would be Parents’ Day only when a very good friend of mine SMSed me.

“Happy Parents Day! As you’re the eldest son, may you be the uplifter(sic), joy and the pride of your parents and family.”

After reading the message, I began to give a serious thought on this Parents’ Day. I began to think about my parents back home. And I whispered Happy Parents’ Day softly.

I still remember ten years ago, when during the Kuki-Zomi ethnic clash (1997-98) our village was attacked. It was a cold winter night, and I was just a little kid back then. Gun shots were heard from every corners, people get killed and houses were burnt. We had to run for our lives. That was when I was separated from mom and dad. Dad was on duty that night, mom and kid brother ran to the church, and stayed there. I don’t know how it all came about, but I found myself running towards the army camp. There were crowds of people, some sitting tight clinging to each other. Some were crying, others were praying.

I sat in a corner wondering where dad, mom and brother would be. It was so cold and I felt intolerably lonely. The drama dragged on for about three hours.

At last when the mayhem came to an end, and the inferno died down, I ran towards the church. I saw my mom there at the entrance searching desperately for someone. When she saw me she ran towards me, embraced me and asked, “Bawi, dammaw?” with tears streaming down her cheeks. “Dammaw” is casually used to greet someone; the literal meaning of which is “are you alive.”

The word struck me like lighting. Mom was not greeting me. She was asking me if I were alright. She was asking me I really were alive. It’s a question of survival, of being alive.

I replied, “Yes, nunu.”

And here I am holding those bittersweet moments in my head, feeling only too sorry that I didn’t tell mom how I missed and loved her all through these years.

Umma, Sarang hae yo*.


[*Korean connection here, eh? Been watching loads of Korean movies lately. ]