“Bliny?” Despite this memory being well over a decade old, I distinctly remember the teaching assistant’s soft-spoken inquiry encouraging me to speak. I had spent the previous hours meticulously rolling out clay on my small part of the table, afraid and unable to socialise. It was my first day at school, and as an immigrant child who only knew the company of siblings and cows on the family farm, I felt uneasy with the unrelenting stares of other 4-year-olds. I took a moment too long to answer, so the Lithuanian teacher left with a sigh to inform others that I knew neither English nor Russian.

Fortunately for my younger self, the language barrier did not hinder my ability to form meaningful friendships. In a class filled with immigrants, a new addition unable to understand any word said would not stand in the way of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves fighting with the Little Red Riding Hood. This unconditional embrace of each other’s diversity lessened the loneliness of growing up in a strange, foreign land. Halloween was celebrated alongside Diwali, we knew that some classmates could only eat Halal. Our differences just became a common fact of life.

Once we grew older, teachers began to ask who we wanted to be in the future. The most common answer would be: “I want to be a scientist AND go Home.” Regardless of the connections we formed with each other and the place we now lived, most pupils longed to move to their mystical “Home”. Many hadn’t set foot in the countries we proudly represented, yet most had an aim of living in a land far away, where we could talk in our native language and finally visit the often-mentioned relatives that we only knew by name. If one student was lucky enough to have the opportunity to visit their motherland, it would inspire and quickly crush the dreams of fellow 8-year-olds who were keen to have a similar experience.

Seeing as we continued to remain in a place far away from where we hoped to be, any notice of a new classmate would excite the class as it was an opportunity to have someone to share a language and culture with. Immediately upon arrival, the fearful newcomer would be interrogated about their origins as hungry ears listened on. Over the years, I experienced countless disappointments, as each time I fervently hoped that this new addition would be a fellow Latvian, yet my wish never came to fruition. A soothing balm to my young broken heart were my Lithuanian friends, with whom I could talk about basketball, name days and the quirks of our languages.

This want for connections led many parents to find solutions outside of school, so a habit that many of the immigrant children shared was the early weekend mornings when we would be required to dress before the light to get to the local centres of our respective cultures. For me it meant sleepily hurrying to catch the bus and the metro, just to arrive in Central London only as most people were waking up. The lack of a good night’s sleep would disappear once I met fellow Latvian children, as I finally had an opportunity to jabber away in a mess of Latvian and English. The parents involved in the Sunday school made sure we took part in the choir, traditional dancing and everything distinctly Latvian. My experiences did not greatly differ from the Polish Sunday schools, nor the Muslim schools my classmates attended. We were willing to sacrifice a day every week if it meant we could hold onto the fragile strings that kept us tied to our “Home” a little while longer.

Luckily, I was able to hold onto these strings until I returned to Latvia. A few weeks ago, I finally surpassed the years I lived in London with my time spent living in Riga. This bittersweet moment made me admire the young children who are willing to go against everything they know whilst they desperately cling to some idealistic notions of “Home”. The plight of any immigrant child is both unique and shared, yet often overlooked. I hope that someday, I will be able to ask a student if they are making pancakes and be able to make their transition into a new, daunting place just a little bit less painless.