“In Vietnamese, the word for missing someone and remembering them is the same: nhớ. Sometimes, when you ask me over the phone, Có nhớ mẹ không? I flinch, thinking you meant, “Do you remember me?”
I miss you more than I remember you.”
- Ocean Vuong, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous
Every birthday, Mum and I write each other letters: a little tradition that began when I was fifteen, physically and emotionally awkward, trying my best to condense all the feelings I had no idea how to deal with in one piece of prose. In the very first birthday letter, I drew parallels between her and the Moon: how art has always revolved around it, what life would be — if not nonexistent — without the brightest object in our night sky. About the moonlight’s quiet but consistent presence above our head, gently caressing us regardless of whether dusk has fallen. Private, intimate confessions are our love language, but only in the form of writing.
Years later, when I moved to Australia to study, Mum and Dad stayed home, leaving moonlight to follow my footsteps to a place oceans away. Yet, before crossing the ocean in an eight-hour flight, I could not bring myself to voice out anything aching inside my heart. Words weighed heavy on my tongue. “I love you.” “I am gonna miss you.” “It would be so hard without you.”
Nothing came out. Suddenly, all the languages I knew failed me. Saying goodbye to familiarity is hard; I sobbed my entire flight, and for days after that, when I looked out the window and saw the Moon. No different from my parents, it still silently observed my days and nights. I started calling them at least once every day, eager to know what had changed and what had not about their lives. Overwhelmed by their absence, with a yearning that I did not know one’s heart could bear: I was hit with the realisation that I love them more than I ever thought.
As I searched for similar experiences, I learned that the relationships and communication between international students and their parents have always been complicated.
From January to May 2024 alone, 717,587 international students studied in Australia. Moreover, students from overseas make up nearly half of the University of Sydney’s student body across undergraduate and postgraduate levels, a ratio of 31,429 to 68,421: thousands of lives living away from home, thousands of different relationships with their families.
When beginning university, family seems to be the sole source of stability in a world full of change. Still, this does not mean there has been no shift in the role of parents. From being the primary caretaker of students, they have become more of a support system, expected to offer advice and encouragement when their children seek them out. As parents of international students become more open and empathetic with their kids’ stories and experiences, high expectations about academic or career success no longer dominate conversations. My parents’ main priority and interest now lie in my well-being and health, which they exhibit through our calls and texts throughout the day. “Did you eat?”, “Is the weather too cold for you?”, or “Have you been sleeping well?”, instead of the same old “How was the exam?”.
The geographical differences do not only open the door for international students to the world but also the door from their hearts: they start sharing more when they feel they have a sense of agency. Opposed to the socially enforced interaction of in-person contact, communication from a distance requires initiative and intention. Children living away from their parents are also given the freedom to become selective when it comes to sharing things with their parents, yet despite this, it seems we actually share more about their lives than we did living together.
The saying “distance makes the heart grow fonder” surely applies to the complicated parent-international student relationship, as it can foster trust, support, and intimacy. Ironically, it seems geographical and cultural gaps permit students and parents to view one another more holistically than episodically. They see each other as equal beings with values and interests worthy of respect. As close proximity might create space for arguments about trivial, daily life details, distance increases the value of rarer connections.
It seems like the separation makes the bodies apart, but pulls in the hearts.
“I love you.” “I miss you.” “It is so hard without you.” It is so much easier for me to confess to the Moon now. It is so much easier for me to thread them into letters and texts. And when they cross the ocean on an eight-hour flight to see me, I hope I can tell this to my parents’ faces.
