By Ali Syarief
Love is universal. Yet the way we express love is deeply shaped by culture.
Recently, I heard a mother in Bekasi proudly telling her friends how closely she follows her university-aged son who studies in Yogyakarta. She knows all of his phone numbers and WhatsApp accounts. She even knows many of his conversations with friends. Through location sharing and constant messaging, she always knows where he is and what he is doing.
To her, this was the ultimate proof of maternal love.
Her friends admired her devotion. In many parts of Indonesia, such involvement is often seen as a sign of responsibility. A “good mother” is expected to stay connected, remain informed, and intervene whenever necessary. Children, even as adults, often remain emotionally and practically dependent on their parents.
There is nothing inherently wrong with this. It is simply one cultural expression of affection.
Yet I was reminded of an experience that offered a completely different perspective.
Years ago, through the Hippo Family Club Year-Long Exchange Program, a Japanese high school student lived with my family in Indonesia. As the host father, I thought it would be reassuring for his parents if they occasionally called their son during his stay.
So I contacted them and said politely,
“Whenever you wish, please feel free to call your son.”
The father’s answer surprised me.
“Mr. Ali, I love my son. That is exactly why I do not call him. I want him to learn how to live independently.”
I was speechless.
At first, his answer sounded almost contradictory. How could someone who loved his child choose not to communicate with him for months?
But the more I reflected on his words, the more profound they became.
In many East Asian societies, especially Japan, independence is not considered the opposite of love. Rather, it is one of love’s highest goals.
Parents prepare their children not to depend on them forever, but to become capable adults who can make decisions, solve problems, endure loneliness, and face uncertainty with confidence.
The greatest gift is not constant protection.
It is trust.
This does not mean Japanese parents are emotionally distant. Quite the opposite. They worry, they miss their children, and they think about them every day. But they believe that excessive monitoring may unintentionally communicate a painful message:
“I don’t fully trust you.”
Indonesian parenting, meanwhile, often reflects the strength of family bonds. We value togetherness. Parents remain involved long after children become adults. Advice continues. Assistance continues. Sometimes even supervision continues.
The family is not simply a social unit; it is an emotional home that rarely lets go.
Both approaches are rooted in love.
One says,
“I protect you because I love you.”
The other says,
“I let you grow because I love you.”
Neither is entirely right or wrong.
Yet as our world becomes increasingly interconnected, perhaps each culture has something valuable to learn from the other.
Indonesian families could gradually replace some control with greater trust, allowing young adults the space to develop resilience and responsibility.
Japanese families, on the other hand, remind us that true independence does not emerge overnight. It is cultivated through opportunities to fail, recover, and succeed without immediate parental intervention.
The ultimate purpose of parenting is not to raise children who always need us.
It is to raise adults who no longer need us—but who will always choose to return because they know they are loved.
Perhaps that is the quiet paradox of parenthood.
Love is not measured by how closely we watch our children.
Sometimes, it is measured by how confidently we can step back, believing they are ready to walk on their own.
