Although the old Labunishta residents often did not have the opportunity to attend school, they highly valued knowledge and education. Life directed them early towards work, and many towards earning a living. Therefore, they wished that their children would continue schooling and gain opportunities that they themselves had been denied.

To enable this, they worked more, saved, and gave up many things. The money they sent home was invested in long working days, fatigue, and time spent away from family. They were accompanied by the hope that the children would finish school and secure a better future.

However, among the many children who completed primary education, relatively few continued to secondary school, and even fewer graduated from university. There were many talented students believed to go far, but the path from the school bench to the diploma required conditions, support, and perseverance.

The reasons for stopping schooling were varied. One might have been the separation from fathers working far from home. Their financial help was necessary, but the children also needed their closeness, advice, and encouragement in moments of hesitation.

This was one of the silent hardships of the migrant life: while striving to provide a better future for their children, fathers missed part of their growth.

Some parents took their children with them to work during the holidays. They wanted them to feel closely the weight of the bread earned and understand how much effort was behind every denar that arrived home.

One such lesson remained in my memory.

After I enrolled in university, my father called me to spend a month with him working in migrant labor. I remember that month well.

He asked me to perform heavy physical work, sometimes even harder than what others did. I felt he wanted to give me a practical life lesson—to see for myself what his daily life looked like and how much strength it took to endure.

Days passed, and the fatigue accumulated. What I had known about his work from conversations at home, I now felt myself. I better understood what the money he sent meant and how much effort he put in so that I could study.

Before the agreed month ended, when I was already tired and exhausted, it was time to return to my studies. When seeing me off, my father said:

"Study, son, for your own good. I will help you as much as I can, but learning is yours. If you don't study, you know the master’s workshop awaits you."

I carried those words with me. Later, when facing a harder exam, I recalled them and the month spent with him. I also remembered that while I sat over the books again, he continued with the same hard work. That helped me overcome hesitation and persevere.

In his advice, there was no belittling of the craft. With the master’s workshop, he supported the family and enabled my schooling. He knew its value but also knew its weight.

Today, when I look back on those words, I realize that my father left me a lesson that goes beyond schooling itself: to respect work, to persevere when things get tough, and to responsibly use the opportunity he provided me.

That lesson is worth passing on to today’s children as well. To study to become more capable, independent, and aware of the world they live in, while respecting every honest job and the people who perform it.

Perhaps this is the deepest meaning of the parental advice “Study, son”: the desire for the child to go farther while preserving gratitude toward those who made the path possible.

✍️ Jakub Kazimoski From the series “Wisdom of the Old Labunishta Residents”