Tag: Odbayar Dorje

By Odbayar Dorj

There is a word I’ve never been able to say. Just three letters in Mongolian—“ААВ” (father)—but for me, it’s the most difficult word of all. I’ve never called anyone by that name.

I remember second grade in Duut Soum, one of the most remote and elevated villages in Mongolia. It was a small, close-knit place where everyone knew each other. My classmates and I had grown up together—from kindergarten to school, playing outside in the same familiar streets. Because there weren’t many children, each grade had only one class. Ours was one of the largest.

One day, our teacher assigned us to write a composition titled “My Father”. It was a simple assignment for most, but for someone who had never known a father, I didn’t know where to begin. For the first time, I asked my mother for help. I remember her thinking of her own father—my grandfather—and guiding me gently: “Write that when he comes home, it feels like a mountain’s shelter fills the house.”

I wrote exactly what she said and turned in my paper.

Later, our teacher read aloud one of the essays she liked best. To my surprise, she read mine. I was so embarrassed, I wanted to disappear from my seat. I still wonder why she chose it — maybe because it touched her, or maybe because it came from a child imagining what she had never experienced. When she finished, some boys asked, “How can she write about a father if she doesn’t have one?” Their words cut deeply. I didn’t cry, but I wanted to.

From that moment on, every assignment about “father” became something I dreaded. It felt unfair that schools continued to assign such topics, as if everyone had the same kind of family. In a world where many grow up without a father or mother, why do we continue to teach in ways that exclude them?

Despite it all, I’m endlessly grateful to my mother. She raised me without letting me lack for anything. Because I never had a father to begin with, I didn’t know what I was missing—until much later.

In 2022, I came to Japan as a student. It became one of the most beautiful periods of my life. I met many wonderful people, and one of them was Toshio-san.

As summer approached, I was researching places to travel. When I showed Toshio-san my list, he pointed to one place, Shimanto River. “That’s near my home,” he said. “I can help you get there.”

We arranged to meet at the library the following week. Punctual as always, he was waiting at the entrance. We planned to go on August 22, and he suggested we stay two nights instead of one. I agreed. He called a friend to find accommodations and promised to take me to the Pacific Ocean.

Later, he returned from a trip with brochures and snacks for me, but due to rising COVID cases, he suggested we postpone. “But I promise, I’ll take you,” he said. I would have understood if it didn’t happen, but just before classes resumed, he contacted me again. He opened his calendar and asked about October 29–30. I had no plans, so I said yes.

Before leaving, he added, “Oh, one more thing. Do you know Yuto Ishihara? He’ll join us.” I did. Toshio-san thought I might feel uncomfortable traveling alone, so he arranged a friend for me.

I counted the days until October 29.

When the day came, he called at 5:55 a.m., right on time. We picked up Yuto and headed toward Kochi. It was a warm, golden day. Our first stop was Umi no Eki in Toyocho, famous for fresh raw fish. Unfortunately, I dislike raw fish—and raw eggs too, which was part of the breakfast set. When I asked if it was boiled, Toshio-san laughed and explained that Japanese people enjoy mixing raw eggs with rice and soy sauce.

Still, I ate the miso soup and rice and watched the surfers nearby.

“Kochi is known for its waves,” he said, smiling.

We visited a cave near Muroto, one of Tokushima’s 88 pilgrimage sites, and passed through orange fields. “Do you like oranges?” he asked.

“Yes, I love them!”

He immediately called a friend to find the best ones and bought me two bags. I shared a few, then ate the rest happily. Watching me, he said, “What else do you like? I’ll get it for you!” He was sincerely happy to make me happy.

That’s when a thought crossed my mind: What would it have been like to have a father?

I had never asked myself that before. But seeing someone care so sincerely, someone wanting to make me smile, I couldn’t help but wonder: If I had a father, would he have been like Toshio-san?

We visited the famous Hirome Market in Kochi for lunch. I told him I liked karaage (fried chicken), and he got me several types to try. Later, we drove to Tosashimizu. On the way, he talked on the phone—I guessed it had something to do with fish.

By the time we arrived, the sun was setting. We went to Tosashimizu Geopark to see the sunset. Though we were late, the orange glow lingered, and the lighthouse in the distance glowed beautifully.

That night, we visited an elderly woman, nearly 100 years old, who gifted me handmade crafts and an eco-bag. Then we went to a guesthouse run by another friend. Dinner was elaborate, and though they had prepared sashimi, Toshio-san had informed them in advance that I didn’t eat raw fish. They made grilled chicken just for me.

It was then that I realized: that phone call earlier had been for me.

Another guest joined us—a friend of Toshio-san’s who showed me his collection of sea shells and marine fossils, each labeled and categorized. He even gifted me one as a keepsake.

At that moment, I remembered a Mongolian proverb:

“When your father is alive, meet people. When your horse is healthy, travel far.”

I had never been introduced to so many people before. This was what that proverb meant.

The next morning, we woke early to watch the sunrise. Words can’t describe its beauty—the waves crashing, the golden light spreading over the ocean and cliffs, the lighthouse standing tall.

We visited Kawashijima Island, where the sea was so clear we could see fish without any equipment. Later, we had lunch at another friend’s restaurant—a tiny, spotless place where I had the best omurice I’ve ever tasted. While waiting, another friend of his joined us—a lively woman who had worked in elementary school and was now a river master.

Although it was only a two-day trip, I met so many new people and visited countless beautiful places. It became one of the most precious memories of my life—when I truly felt how beautiful this world is, and how many kind-hearted people there are in it. In those moments, I found myself thinking, If I had a father, maybe he would have taken me on a trip like this, introducing me to his friends, just like this.

And in those moments, it felt like the wound I’d carried deep in my heart for 26 years had finally started to heal.
The thought: What if I had a father?

Just be kind. Your kindness may fill someone’s emptiness. It may even heal a wound they’ve been silently carrying for years. Maybe, at that time, Toshio-san didn’t even realize how much of that space he had filled in me. But I truly wanted to say the word I could never say for so many years—father—to him.

Even though we were born in different countries, speak different languages, and live in different cultures, I found the father I had long searched for—in Japan. I haven’t seen Toshio-san since, but if I’m ever asked about my father, I will tell this story again and again.

Because sometimes, it doesn’t take blood to become family.

Sometimes, a kind voice, a shared meal, or a smile from the heart is enough to fill what we thought would always be missing. In a quiet corner of Japan, through simple acts of kindness, I found a sense of belonging—and perhaps, the most unexpected gift of all: a father’s love.

.

Odbayar Dorj is an international student from Mongolia currently studying in Japan. Her writing reflects on cultural identity, personal memory, and the power of connection across borders and generations.

.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Amazon International