The children must become the father

.... When children live with extraordinary things day in and day out, those things become ordinary.
Calling ourselves children of His Majesty may be a way to comfort ourselves during these difficult hours. The pictures on the walls – showing him drenched in sweat, trekking through remote landscapes, pointing his camera or looking at maps – were routine things that children could be ignorant about. When he earned praise, either here or abroad, it was “nothing unexpected”. What was so exciting about his fluency in French and English anyway? The songs he composed were pleasant to hear, but how many “children” really stopped to listen and thought “Wow, my father did this”? 
One part of being a father is that it’s okay for the children to ignore the songs. And the love. You don’t miss the water until the well runs dry, they say. The well was never missed before because nobody got thirsty. His Majesty provided a constant supply of water, ensuring that everyone had enough to drink. It was all right to be ignored, as long as everyone was happy.
Some may ask if “ignore” is the right word. Royal Household news is compulsory on every Thai TV channel. People stand up in cinemas before every show. Events have been regularly organised to honour the father. Triumphant athletes hold his photo aloft at every major international tournament. How did His Majesty the King not get enough attention?
He did, but it was children’s attention all the same. Our love grew strong on occasions. Mostly, though, it was the kind of love that leads to Father’s Day gifts or special reunion dinners now and then. His love was different. His was constant and unconditional, demonstrated largely behind the scenes through selfless sacrifices and dedication. He read our cards with an understanding heart, albeit one that quietly longed for the day when the card senders would become truly mature, independent and virtuous.
The tears and grief sweeping the Kingdom confirm the children know what kind of love he gave them. That love manifested or hid itself here and there – on the walls, inside coffee-table books, or in short New Year messages telling the children in old-style, unattractive fonts which path he thought was the best for them to follow in this world. The question, therefore, is whether His Majesty’s children are ready to take their love for him to the next level.
We didn’t “ignore” his love as such. We were just too young to know how to love him back. We knew he loved us, but we were too young to really appreciate it. We knew he was exhausting himself, but, young and preoccupied with ourselves as we were, we didn’t help lessen his burden. We could be forgiven for not realising how wonderful his songs were, for not being wowed by his linguistic skills and grace, for considering the countless photos of down-to-earth village visits to be nothing special, and for not giving his numerous projects the attention they deserved. We were just children.
It was all right. Children’s love is a cyclical fact of life. It’s what comes next that is important. His Majesty’s name means the power of the land, and what constitutes the power of the land is the people, albeit his children. Last Thursday, October 13, he passed us the torch.
Many people are saying they wish everything over the past week was just a dream. Others say they now know what Ploy, the key character in former prime minister Kukrit Pramoj’s “Si Phandin” (Four Reigns) novel, felt when King Rama VIII passed away. Perhaps suffering a real-life nightmare is an essential part of growing up.
What does His Majesty’s torch hold? What’s in there in the flame? It’s the virtues of tolerance, of perseverance, of compassion, of understanding, and of sustainable self-reliance. It’s patriotism without aggression. It’s a genuine ideology that requires only sacrifices and not violence. It’s a fulfilling and satisfying way of living one’s life, a life that gives a lot and takes very little.
The children must become the father. It’s the only way we can truly honour him. The spirit of generosity shown since the day he left us – free motorcycle-taxi services, free food and free drinks, free dyeing of clothes – must become ingrained in our national psyche. He embodied that spirit for 70 years, even when much of the time nobody was looking.
The tears won’t subside easily, but eventually they will. And when they do, we can no longer be ignorant without guilt.