Feeling a Sense of Delight
“Delight” can mean feeling joyful, content, inspired, or uplifted in various ways. However, it must stem from something good. Delight is a profound sense of joy and appreciation that arises within one’s heart. Sometimes, it emerges from the sights we see, our accomplishments, or meaningful moments connected to our lives.
Honestly, I have been estranged from the feeling of delight for quite some time. My life has been clouded by loneliness, sadness, and the exhaustion of facing challenges. I’ve spent extended periods confined to my room, weighed down by the burdens of life. In the place I live, there are four rooms, one person per room. Conversations among us are rare; everyone is absorbed in their work, and most of the time, we retreat to our own spaces. Even brief interactions lead us back to solitude—listening to songs, watching work-related clips on YouTube, and then falling asleep. (Now, with the internet gone, it feels even more isolating and stifling.)
Today, however, November 26, 2024, is my son’s birthday. He turns seven. He remains in Sittwe, left behind in what feels like a detention camp. Worry for him lingers in my heart. Recently, when I sent some money to buy a birthday cake, I was told he was thrilled. In the past, birthdays were celebrated together with his sibling, family, neighborhood children, and close friends—cutting a cake and enjoying the day at home. Now, with no parents by his side, I am deeply concerned for him. Yet, circumstances have forced us to make difficult choices, leaving him behind with his grandmother, aunt, and uncle. However, I console myself, thinking that everything will be fine.
This afternoon, while reading “Saingone” books, boredom led me to take a walk around 5 PM. On a grassy roadside, I saw a woman and a younger girl sitting. Curious, I approached them and found that they were a mother and daughter selling long beans, each for 10 baht. They asked if I would support them, and I decided to buy some.
Returning to my place, I sat outside on a small concrete table, gazing absentmindedly at the modest house of A Moe’s family across the way. In the past, A Moe used to cook upstairs in their house, but now she cooks in the open space beneath the house. There’s a reason for this change. It’s because A Moe’s daughter recently had a baby, and they worry about the smoke bothering the baby—or perhaps the smell of cooking food might become overwhelming. Babies can’t tolerate strong odors, after all.
I sat there, gazing at the scene unfolding before me. A Moe was tending to the fire, preparing to cook. One pot after another, she worked to prepare meals for her family. Nearby, her son-in-law was energetically pounding fresh chilies and green peppers with a mortar and pestle. Their lighthearted chatter and the bustling preparation for the family’s evening meal filled my heart.
It was as though I had rediscovered a sense of delight that had been absent for a long time—something I mentioned earlier as lost to me. I found myself smiling, my mind clearing, my spirit at ease.
In their small, modest home made of wooden planks, bamboo, and neatly arranged brick roof, a priceless treasure had come into their lives—a new child. Children are treasures, aren’t they? Precious gems so invaluable that parents and grandparents love them with an unyielding devotion, as if they are the very essence of life itself.
Curious, I went to the cooking mother and asked, “What are you making?” She replied that her daughter-in-law was breastfeeding but struggling with low milk production, so she was preparing roasted Nga Yant fish soup as a remedy. I shared my knowledge, saying, “In our place, we make broth from tender jackfruit leaves for this purpose,” and she agreed.
When my first daughter was born, I used to pick fresh neem leaves from Sittwe town quite often. As for my son, from an early age, he didn’t nurse much from his mother and had to be raised on formula milk. Even so, whenever he fell ill, finding remedies was exhausting.
There’s something called “Ma Dya,” which we refer to as “Ma Dan” in our tradition. It’s a type of ancestral child-healing method. If the child doesn’t nurse, we consult the Ma Dan guidebook, which provides instructions based on the child’s birth date and time. According to the book, symbolic offerings—like figurines, snacks, or ornaments—are placed at specific locations depending on the directions indicated. For example, the book might suggest placing these items at the child’s birthplace or in a particular direction. This practice is believed to guide the spirits to bring healing and protection for the child.
When things came to that point, finding a pauk tree in Sittwe town was such a challenge. On top of that, the figurines I made with mone pat dough didn’t even resemble humans. Sometimes, people would burst into laughter when they saw my creations.
But the truth is, when a child is born, it brings everyone together—parents, grandparents, and extended family—all wrapped in a shared warmth and affection. That’s just how it is. The birth of a child becomes a unifying moment, sparking joy and deep connections among loved ones.
The Nga Yant that A Moe was cooking had been gathered by her eldest son, who had found it near a stream close to their home just a few days ago. That day, plenty of Nga Yant came in. However, he didn’t eat it. Instead, their mother had cooked it and set it aside for his younger sister. Ah, the bond between a brother and sister—such deep love, especially in a family. Sometimes, the sense of family is not just about calling someone by name, but truly feeling it in your heart.
In A Moe’s home, his eldest son, was holding the baby. “You’re already able to carry the baby,” I said. “I can’t yet, brother,” he responded. The baby had grown a bit heavier, just as he said when the baby was first born. He said this with affection, holding the baby gently in his arms. The little one was still so sweet and charming, with soft, fair skin. It’s that innocence and love that make a child truly precious.
Sometimes, just like me, when I am far from home and far from my family, experiencing moments of loneliness, we miss our families equally. Just as we warmly welcome and embrace newly arrived family members, we also sometimes miss and remember the family members who have departed, isn’t that right?
Whatever it may be, today seeing A Moe’s family’s movements, their love and unity, their delightful, beautiful little smiles, it feels like a warm and tender delight that touches my heart deeply. It’s like experiencing a fresh happiness that hasn’t occurred in the past three or four months, right here today.
Today, on my little son’s 7th birthday, may all children be free and joyful. May all children be far from the suffering of war, may all children grow up in free and loving spaces, may all children return to their classrooms, may all children be free from the pain of hunger, may all children be able to play freely. I offer this prayer.
