Holong Mangalap Holong: The House, The Land, and The Silence. | The Death of Oppung Boru.
Live today—seriously—as if it might be your last.
In her late 80s, she suffered from chronic loneliness, I guess, more than her physical sickness. She had five children, my mother was the fourth, and sadly, the vast majority of her offspring were very seldom and nearly never visited her in the few years. My father is always away from the city due to his job demands, but insisted us (my sisters and I) visit her monthly.
She celebrated New Year's Eve alone in her house for the past 8 years, if I’m not mistaken. My mother passed away 9 years ago, so my family spent the New Year's Eve celebration in my father’s mother's house. Well, that’s just another tradition in our Batak House. Then, the next day, we’ll come to see her and ask, “Whom did you sleep last night with?” She just shook her head. Probably, because all of her children already have big families, they decided to stay in their house. Perhaps they thought that she would be fine.
In the last 5 years, she got sick. Her eldest son took care of her, brought her food twice a day. I visited her once in two weeks. Then, on 20th June, she had gone. She refused to open her eyes forever.
We prepared everything, chiefly handled by my father. “Saur Matua” funeral culture rites in Batak Culture are elaborate and demand enormous effort. Her funeral was held on 25th June. Later on that day, we discussed the expenses of this cultural ceremony.
What made me sad on that day was that my uncle and aunt didn’t really give enough support on the money issue. The 3 of them keep bragging on how hard for them to eat, about their sickness, and how hard their life is. They spoke more about their hardships than their willingness to contribute.
My father—technically a boru in this context, the “woman’s position” because he married into the family—offered the most. He paid for the land. He bought the house. His offering was grand, and truthfully, I resented it. Not because he gave too much, but because no one else gave enough. His generosity made their absence even louder.
By all means, I demand their responsibility as my grandmother’s children. My father is only a son-in-law in that house, yet he contributed more than the whole family. But yeah, the decision has been made, and I should learn something from this breakthrough moment.
That day, something shifted in me. I no longer saw family as an automatic bond. It has to be chosen—again and again, especially in the hardest moments. My father chose it, even when others didn’t.
And maybe that’s what life is really about.
We’re taught to chase ambition, build something for ourselves. But when the people we love are ageing, sick, or alone, what do our dreams mean if we can't be there for them? When the silence of a New Year’s Eve stretches across decades of absence, what then?
This experience taught me to live wide awake. To notice. To show up. Whatever your hands find to do, give it your full strength. Aim higher. Push farther. And live today—seriously—as if it might be your last.
Because one day, someone you love may close their eyes for the final time. And all that will matter is: Were you there?
Watching my father shoulder so much for a woman who wasn’t even his mother reminded me that life isn’t about personal ambition alone. It’s about showing up—for family, for those we love, even when it’s hard. If today were your last, would you be proud of how you lived it?