The Unseen Strength of Our Elders - A Son’s Tribute

Today, it’s them. Tomorrow, it’s us.

If you read this with the same heart as mine, knowing I write as a son pouring out his soul, you’ll see why this story matters. This isn’t just about my father—it’s about the quiet dignity, the unspoken sacrifices, and the fierce independence of a generation we too often overlook. Let’s pause and honor the self-respect that burns brightly in our elders.

My father was the headmaster of an upper primary school, a man carved from the rugged simplicity of rural roots. To me, he was more than a teacher—he was a beacon of resilience, unafraid of hardship and unwavering in his belief that dependence was a trap to be avoided. As his son, I’ve watched him live this truth, not as a bystander, but as someone who sees the depth of his spirit.

When he retired in 1997, the classroom—his battlefield—fell silent. Teaching wasn’t just his job; it was his purpose, his way of shaping young minds. Losing that left a void no pension could fill. He didn’t crave status, but the quiet ache of feeling “less than” gnawed at him. Yet, even now, the government’s pension fuels his generosity. Milk, curd, newspapers, fruits, snacks for the kids, cooking gas, medicines, travel, rent—his money still holds the family together. While working, he quietly supported three families, not out of duty, but because it was who he was. I’m not here to praise him; I’m here to share the raw humanity of a man who gave without expecting a single thank-you.

For 18 years, he and my mother have lived with me. At 80, they wrestle with a fear that haunts them, becoming a burden. They dream of independence, of not leaning on their son’s roof, but I won’t let them go—not out of obligation, but love. Isn’t it heartbreaking that their pride, their refusal to live “under someone’s shoes,” goes unseen by those who judge from a distance? Why should the world understand their quiet strength? Their true nature isn’t for everyone to grasp, and maybe that’s okay.

They’re not perfect. No one is. Like all of us, they see the world through the lens of their own experiences, sometimes missing what lies beyond. But their generation? It was different—woven with threads of selflessness, impartiality, and a deep respect for others that feels rare today. Do we, in our rush to honor everyone’s story, forget to cherish theirs? How fair is it to criticize them without knowing the weight they’ve carried? (And who’s complaining, anyway?)

They live in a world that’s drifted from their ideals, watching their children and grandchildren march to a different tune. They’ve seen things—hardships, betrayals—that they can’t bring themselves to voice. The thought of lost freedom haunts them. An 80-year-old man, still renting his son’s home, isn’t wrong for wanting to stand on his own, is he?

Today, it’s them. Tomorrow, it’s us.

When I look at my parents and their peers—people who poured their lives into raising families, from cradle to grave—I’m struck by their sacrifice. It’s not just duty; it’s love in its purest form. It moves me to tears, and I know I’m not alone.

So I share this sorrow, this pride, this love with you, my friends. Because if you feel what I feel, even for a moment, then my father’s story—and the story of so many like him—lives on. Their strength, their heart, their unyielding spirit reminds us, the future we build rests on the shoulders of those who taught us what it means to stand tall.