A house can be a home but a home is not always a house. Home is an abstract concept where as house is a concrete concept.
A home is a place where someone lives and to which they have an emotional attachment whereas a house is just a building whether or not someone lives in it.
Some people, like me, learned this early in life; some learned it late; others never learned at all, while the rest don’t care one way or another.
You can ‘feel’ home. That’s why people sometimes say, “It feels like home.”
When you have a roof over your head, or even if you only have a sleeping bag, a tent, or even just a piece of canvas or cardboard box, home is where you can rest your weary bones at the end of the day.
If you are truly blessed, home is wherever you stay for any extended period of time and you feel comfortable while you spend time there.
To me, home feels warm and comforting. It is full of memories and continuing love and it makes me feel safe. It is where I keep all my stuff.
Unfortunately, for some people, home is a place of fear and dread. There are homes where abuse is the rule instead of comfort and love.
So, home can be the most wonderful or the most terrible place, all depending on who you are and who shares that home with you.
The first time I felt what the title of this article says was at the age of ten when my parents left me alone to fend for myself while attending school in our village.
They had to do it in order to work more efficiently on our paddy farm which was several miles away in the jungle. It was not possible for me to walk the distance between the farm and the school each day, once in the morning and once in the evening.
As far as I knew, other kids who were in similar situations were placed with their aunts, uncles or grandparents.
My parents did ask if I was willing to stay with my grandmother but I refused because the old woman was often bad-tempered for reasons that did not make sense to me. I preferred a place where I could do my homework or read books peacefully.
What about an uncle or an aunt? One of my father’s older brothers was mentioned but I did not like his house. It was always dirty and messy. Anyway, his eldest son smelled so bad because he seldom took a bath.
In the end, because I insisted on taking care of myself, they agreed to let me try living in our house alone — on one condition. I must report myself to our nearest neighbour — daily if possible — just to show that I was all right.
In practice, all I had to do was called the man from our side window and said something like, “Uncle, I am cooking rice now before it gets dark.”
He (or his wife) would answer, “Good. Just be careful with the fire or you might burn your house down.”
And I would reply, “Okay, I’ll keep that in mind.”
It was a way of telling them that I was capable of taking care of myself just as I had promised my parents.
One time the man even came in while I was cooking and he tasted my rice to make sure it was properly cooked and not burnt.
He nodded his approval and as he left, he reminded me to make sure that the wood fire was completely extinguished every time before going to sleep at night.
Some of my friends asked if I ever feared being in the house alone at night. I found their questions rather odd because to me nighttime was not something to be feared. It was just dark, that was all.
Unlike many of their counterparts, my parents never caused my younger siblings and me to fear nighttime by telling us that ghosts, evil spirits, and bad creatures lurked in the dark waiting to cause us harm. I often saw my father going fishing or hunting alone at night, so why would I think that the dark should be avoided?
As the days and weeks went by, fear of the night (or lack of it) was among the least of my problems. What caught me rather unawares was the strange feeling that slowly crept into my heart.
After school in the late afternoon each day, I found myself becoming more and more reluctant to return home although I knew that I must.
I learned through trial and error that certain routine tasks such as doing homework, cooking and eating, cleaning cookware, and washing clothes must be done before nightfall.
This was because there was no electric light in those days. It was rather inconvenient to do anything in the dim light of the ubiquitous kerosene lamps.
But I could not help myself. It eventually got so bad that I had to figuratively drag myself home.
There was no one at home; no one to look forward to; no one waiting for me there.
I didn’t even feel like opening the door knowing that I was always met by silence. I wished my little siblings were there to scream their greetings like they usually did before they went to the farm.
In my mind’s eye, I saw their little snotty faces and promised that during the coming weekend when I joined them at the farm, I would let them sit on my lap or climb on my back as much as they liked. I would not brush them off or scold them.
The way I felt then, I was even willing to be scolded for nothing by one or both of my parents just so I could hear their voices.
On one of those days when I was overly focused on my depression, I recalled a story told by one of my Chinese uncles who claimed to have a relative in Hong Kong whose family hated their home, which was a small one-room flat, and they were claustrophobic.
The way he explained claustrophobia was quite hilarious, but in the end, he managed to make us understand that the family members were afraid of being inside confined spaces, which was unfortunate as they were basically living inside a box.
One day an accident happened to them, and they had to stay at a hospital for over a week. When they returned, their perspective of their home changed completely; it felt like heaven.
The problem was not their home; it was something else, but my uncle did not finish the story. His wife (my aunt) reminded him that they had chores to do and they had limited time, after which they had to walk for about two hours back to their home.
Why didn’t I just drop out of school to be with my family? Well, that was never considered — not even once. I liked being in school although it was quite tough sometimes. The more I kept at it the better I could read and write, and that made me happy.
One weekend at the farm, I told my parents about my loneliness and not once did they suggest that I should drop out of school. Instead, Father suggested that I should not spend too much time thinking about them but concentrate on making the house more homely.
“How can I do that?” I asked.
“You can try organising things to your liking. Make them neat and tidy, clean, and nice to look at. Take care of those things more and you won’t miss us so much,” he said.
“You could also spend more time tending to your vegetables,” said Mother.
The house compound was full of various types of vegetables that Father planted before they went to stay at the farm. I was never short of food.
“And limit the time you play with your friends because after having a lot of fun you’ll find that the house is too quiet, especially in the evening,” said Father.
“I have been thinking of asking Ratum (a first cousin) to stay with me,” I said. “After all, we go to school together.”
“You can, but not full time. You have limited rice to share with him.”
And so I proposed the idea to Ratum and he was happy to stay with me. He did not mind bringing his own rice every day as being with me was a good excuse for him to stay away from his Father who was often verbally abusive. Also, our house was nearer to our school.
Even with Ratum around, the house still did not feel completely like home, but at least I had someone to talk to and play with.
Many years later, in 1973, while browsing through the music library of Radio Television Malaysia (RTM) where I was working as a programme assistant, I came across a song that reminded me of my childhood.
So, in parting, I share part of the lyrics with you.
When a House is Not a Home
By Willie Nelson
Lyric by Roger Miller
I walk up to my door and hate to turn the key
Emptiness is all that waits inside for me
That’s how it is when the one you love is gone
That’s how it is when your house is not a home
Is there a way out on a heart as torn as mine?
Each day I live I’m like a prisoner passing time
That’s how it is when the one you love is gone
That’s how it is when your house is not a home
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the New Sarawak Tribune.
