I probably butchered the grammar in that title, but despite my limited knowledge of the language, being Latvian-American has always been a core part of who I am. I developed my first crush as a kid while dancing in the folk fair and singing in Sunday school. Whenever my mom was mad, angry Latvian nagging bit my ears before any English could squeeze its way out. And yet, for all the time I’ve spent within the culture, I’ve never set foot in Latvia itself. I’ve never walked the streets my grandparents fled in the 1940’s, and never seen the landscapes that inspired the songs I grew up singing. It’s something I need to do before time or conflict changes it forever.
Riga, the capital, seems like the place to start. It’s not just a city, it’s a physical manifestation of the complex history of the country, shaped by centuries of invasions and occupations. You can see the marks invading Germans, Swedes, and Russians each left on the skyline, made up of Gothic church spires, Baroque palaces, Soviet-era blocks, and Art Nouveau facades. It’s chaotic but intentional, the streets planned around medieval routes that twist and turn unpredictably. The city is made up of so many clashing cultural layouts, like the Old Town that was once a walled fortress made of colorful buildings against the massive, imposing Soviet blocks imposing the classic Modernist assertion of dominance across the space. The built environment is only part of the experience, with the natural surroundings overwhelming even the most beautiful building.
Whenever my great-aunt shows me a photo of the sea, I picture myself standing on the cliffs of the Gulf of Riga, the chilly Baltic wind tussling my hair. One of my favorite folk songs, “Saule, Pērkons, Daugava,” describes the land in beautiful poetic imagery that never fails to make the old Latvian women in church cry; miles of golden fields under an endless sky, rivers carving through the countryside, and people emerging from the ocean with musical instruments to drive away invaders? Strange, anyways. I’ve always imagined Riga as a place that exists somewhere between history and myth. Seeing it in real life, I wonder if it will feel smaller than the version I’ve built in my head.
I’ve heard stories about the Christmas market in the city’s main square, as cute and charming as something out of a postcard. My family has brought me gifts from there over the years—intricate wooden statues of cats sitting atop large chunks of amber, warm wool mittens, and delicious fruit tea. Latvia’s pagan roots run deep, especially in winter. I’ve celebrated these customs in Milwaukee’s Latvian community, but I can’t help but feel like I’ve only ever experienced a shadow of the real thing.
Despite all of these lovely dreams of what the city might be, my vision of Riga is tangled with something heavier. My grandparents fled from the Soviet invasion during World War II. They watched their villages burn as they escaped on bicycles through smokey air amidst pops of gunfire. My grandmother, Ilga, once told me (rather dramatically, with lots of waving of arms and fake whimpering) about reaching the Polish border, her heart pounding in her chest, unsure if she’d ever see home again. It’s impossible to hear stories like that and not wonder what it must feel like to stand in the same place twenty years shy of a century later.
Lately, my need to visit feels more urgent. Latvia is independent now, but the threat of invasion never really stops looming. Tensions in the region are on the rise due to the recent invasion and war in Ukraine, and the fear of Russian aggression hangs heavy over the country and Latvian’s everywhere. If I don’t go soon, will I still be able to see the Latvia they remembered? Or will it be changed again forever the way it has been so many times before?
For now, I hold onto my heritage the only way I know how—through stories, traditions, and song. One day, I hope to walk down the streets of Riga and to stand on the banks of the Daugava River, finally understanding what it means to be Latvian.
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