On December 3, 2024, as martial law was declared, my mother and I sat down for an emergency conversation. I worried about how my mother, who couldn't hear, would be able to understand and adapt to the sudden changes. However, my mother's response was simple. She would say “yes” unconditionally, as she had always done. This “yes” had become familiar and natural, rooted in the survival instinct to live and survive. Behind it lay my mother's fear of being excluded and abandoned. In front of such a mother, I felt unable to be honest, cowardly, and violent. By conforming to her way of life, I too had been complicit in her existence. Perhaps I feared being excluded and abandoned by certain entities. To my mother, I might have been a source of pain, wounds, and trauma worse than the night of December 3rd.
As time passes, my name, “Sori,” makes me reflect on myself. My mother and I have kept many rules for decades simply because I can hear. This was not about acknowledging the differences between my mother and me, but rather about imprisoning her within my voice and erasing her uniqueness. I feared the conflicts that might arise between us. My voice did not consider my mother's place at all. The belief that my voice was helping my mother was all in vain.
Now, I must reveal and confess my cowardice to create a place for my mother. Rather than stepping forward to speak for her and repeating and reproducing illusions, I must enable her to speak for herself. Now, my mother also picks up the camera, and I bring the sharp words I once hurled at her back to my own face.