The First Ibu
Sixteen years ago, while I was flying across twelve time zones to reach Bali, the mother of my husband slipped from this world. We had not expected it. As soon as I arrived, I headed to the airline counters to find a way back. But it wasn't to be—not a single plane departing that week held an empty seat. I was stranded on a textile adventure, my heart divided.
On the day that my husband gathered with family to celebrate his mother's life, I was high on a mountain in Timor, listening to a collective of weavers and dyers, mothers all, through the small rupture in my own motherless heart. I asked our guide to tell me about one woman, her wrists jangling with an exquisite set of silver bangles. Oh, she is the leader of the cooperative, he explains, the one they all respect. That's why she wears the special jewelry. This woman is their ibu.
Their Ibu. I had heard this word at the airline counters, learning it is an honorific bowing to all mothers on these islands, including women without children who guide and counsel. . . all women of respect.
It was on that day, in the remote mountain village of Boti, that I knew. I wanted to gather all of the women I'd met who—through the skills of their hands—were rising into sovereign lives. Later, I would call it Ibu, thinking back to that day, wanting all women to feel the gleaming honor in that name.
When I think of Mothers Day, I do not think of a Hallmark moment. I think of ibu all over the world, like the women of Boti, sending their children to school, some to college, planting community gardens, bringing clean water to town, spinning/weaving/dyeing/
Madre. Mère. Mãe. Mutter. Māmā. Nantli. Shimá. Ma'. Ibu. Mother. I want to slip tinkling bangles on every mother and hear them jingle with the bright sounds of Ibu. I want to honor their fierce love and ambition, knowing that when they pass from this world, weaving complete, they will leave sons and daughters with a new story, a more prosperous life, and an undying respect for the one who mothered them. Their ibu.
I bow to them, and to you, bravely mothering this world. Each as we are able.
All the Best,
Susan Hull Walker