By Mi Htaw Kon (Opinion)
Since the 2021 military coup, the ongoing military, political, and economic crises in Myanmar have forced many people to leave their families and go abroad, while others have chosen different paths to fight for their beliefs.
As a result, even during Thingyan—the time of year when people usually celebrate together—families can no longer reunite, and friends can no longer meet. I am one of those people.
The joyful month of Tagu, when “colorful flowers are in full bloom” and “gentle breezes begin to blow,” is approaching once again, bringing with it the Thingyan festival.
Thingyan marks the transition from the old year to the new in the Myanmar calendar. It symbolizes “change” and is the country’s traditional New Year festival.
During this time, people prepare traditional foods, set up ceremonial pots, splash water, practice meditation, and pay respect to elders by bathing them. It is also a time when families, communities, and friends come together to laugh, celebrate, and perform acts of merit.
Whenever Thingyan arrives, I find myself remembering the entrance road to my native village, Duya Village (Ye Township, Mon State), lined with lush green paddy fields and trees.
Along that green village road, the air would once be filled with laughter, music, splashing water, and the fragrant scents of thanaka and padauk flowers.
The sound of laughter flowed as clearly as a stream, spreading warmth and joy throughout the surroundings. Competing music from different speakers filled the air with excitement.
Young men and women, holding buckets and water guns, would splash each other playfully. The cool water would drench the body, making the summer heat disappear, while laughter rang out brightly.
They would also apply thanaka to their faces, decorating them with floral and circular patterns, filling the village with its gentle fragrance. Meanwhile, golden padauk flowers bloomed brightly, falling like golden rain upon the ground.
Yet, amidst such complete joy and happiness, for some—including myself—Thingyan has also become a time filled with longing.
For those who are far from their families, working or studying abroad, or unable to return home for various reasons, Thingyan no longer brings the same excitement as before.
Memories from past years resurface—waking early to help my mother prepare offerings, making mont lone yay baw (sticky rice balls) with family, and laughing with friends while splashing water in front of the house.
After more than three years away from home during Thingyan, I often hear those familiar sounds and recall those scents in my mind from afar. I can still picture the small crossroads in front of my house.
At that crossroads, we built water pavilions, stages for performances, and donation stands where we served food to elders returning from the monastery and to those visiting pagodas. I deeply miss those moments.
I also miss how people of all ages in the neighborhood—youth, adults, and elders—joyfully worked together to prepare and serve food throughout the three main days of Thingyan.
Every time these memories come back, tears quietly well up in my eyes, and I feel a deep ache in my heart.
A young worker in Thailand shared, “There is a water festival here too, but it can’t compare to celebrating with my family and friends back home. I just miss home.”
No matter how lively Thingyan celebrations may be elsewhere—with modern music, international performers, and dazzling lights—they can never replace the Thingyan of my small village.
The days I spent laughing and playing in the water with my family and friends under the blazing summer sun are now irreplaceable memories.
I also remember paying respect to elders, preparing Thingyan meals to deliver to elderly households, sharing mont lone yay baw with neighbors, and picking padauk flowers together. These memories now live only in my heart.
Still, the hope that one day I will reunite with my family and celebrate Thingyan together again brings warmth and eases the longing.
A young person in Japan also said, “Every Thingyan, I miss both my home and my village deeply. I miss cooking Thingyan meals with my family and offering flowers with my friends.”
Thingyan reminds me of joyful laughter with family, the love of my parents, their blessings, and the good deeds shared with friends.
I remember my father’s smile as he waited at the front of the house for his children to return during the holiday, and my mother’s lovingly prepared meals—more beautiful than any painting. Their prayers and words of blessing still echo in my ears.
The voices and love that once filled my heart with warmth can now only be heard through phone calls, and hearing them that way makes me miss home even more.
Although we can stay connected through phones, it can never fully replace a shared meal with family or the moments spent happily together.
Missing home is not just about longing for a place—it is about missing people, cherishing memories, and learning to value the most important moments in life even more.
That is why missing home during Thingyan should not be seen only as sadness, but also as something that deepens our appreciation for the warmth, laughter, and love of family and friends.
