I’m in a mood to quibble, but let me first set the stage. It was a fast and furious summer for many students at the Gaŗezers summer high school near Three Rivers, Mich. Between the usual classes and other activities, there was the 11th Latvian Song Festival to attend in Chicago. And as usual, there were any number of “student life” experiences: learning once again how to live with four or five other people in one small room, falling in or out of love, not getting caught with a cigarette or a beer in hand.

But it was all good, or so it seemed based on what I saw during this past weekend’s commencement ceremony. Judging by the tears streaming down the faces of graduates and continuing students alike, there is no worse punishment in life than to be ripped from the ethnic wonder that is Gaŗezers to be replanted into the “real world.”

Symbolizing this best was Artūrs Bērziņš, the graduating student chosen to deliver the commencement speech. Listening to his emotional and tearful farewell, many of his classmates were soon crying as well. Heck, I tried to hold back tears, too, and I don’t even know the kid nor did I ever attend the summer high school.

To be sure, there’s something special about the Gaŗezers high school. My daughter tells me her Latvian friendships often run deeper and truer than those she has developed outside of Gaŗezers. Next year she’ll face the emotional roller-coaster of a Gaŗezers graduation, but she’s already vowing to return the year after as a camp counselor.

For many, Gaŗezers is a world apart.

“Zinu, ka es pēc dažām dienām atgriezīšos īstajā pasaulē,” young Bērziņš said during his commencement speech. He knows that in a few days he’ll return to the real world.

The notion that Gaŗezers is a sanctuary, a dream or a little Latvia was hinted at by other speakers as well. Out there, the real world awaits, but here, in Gaŗezers, we’re free to be ourselves.

So let me quibble: Why must we who live outside Latvia separate our “Latvian world” from the “real world”?

What are we afraid of? That people won’t understand us? That we’ll be laughed at because we have funny, non-Anglo names, eat yucky foods like smoked eel and head cheese, and go prancing around a bonfire in the middle of summer?

Or are we afraid that if we allow any linkage between our “Latvian world” and the “real world,” the creeping power of assimilation will eventually erode what sets us apart?

How many of us, once in the “real world,” avoid speaking Latvian to each other so as not to stick out in a crowd of Americans or Canadians or Australians or whatevers? How many of us have modified the pronunciation—or even the spelling—of our names, just to “make it easier” for non-Latvians? How many of us have allowed our Latvian heritage to become an interesting appendix to our life story, rather than the theme that runs throughout?

Our organizations and institutions, such as Gaŗezers, provide us a safe haven, a space in which we can recharge our Latvian batteries. But if we see them only as refuge, rather than part of our “real world,” how long will we be able to maintain them?

The majority of Latvians Online readers don’t live in Latvia. Most of us don’t have the opportunity to speak Latvian on a daily basis outside of our immediate families. The language of commerce, of education, of government and of culture, for many of us, is rarely Latvian. It seems pretty clear that the “real world” has little use for us as Latvians.

And how could it, if we keep separating it from our Latvian world?

In her fiery address to the graduating class at Gaŗezers, long-time teacher Mirdza Paudrupe summoned students to the good fight, the fight for Latvia’s future. Perhaps some of the 34 graduates will eventually live and work in Latvia, finally combining their “Latvian world” with their “real world.”

But what about the rest of us? What about our “real world?”

“Viņš ir Filadelfijā.” He’s in Philadelphia. “Viņa mira.” She died. Snippets of conversation revealed some of what has happened in the half century since a Latvian high school in Augsburg, Germany, closed its doors as Displaced Persons began to move to new homes overseas.

Former students of the Auseklis high school, which from 1946-1950 served students from two Displaced Persons camps, met July 21 during the 11th Latvian Song Festival in Chicago. The gathering was organized by Biruta Abula of Michigan, herself a 1949 graduate of the school. She’s been collecting information about her former classmates for a number of years.

The reunion was one of several gatherings of former DPs held during the song festival. Other groups that met included those from Esslingen and Wuerzburg.

The Latvian students came from the Hochfeld and Haunstetten camps, according to Abula. The high school, or ģimnāzija, came about at the urging of American military officials who were in control of that part of Germany after World War II. About 250 students attended the school, Abula recalled. The high school represented part of a refugee educational system that included elementary schools and institutions such as the Baltic University (Baltijas universitāte).

Abula said she thought only about five people would show up. Instead, more than 25 came to peruse lists of students Abula has tracked down, reminisce over old black-and-white photographs and share stories about their classmates and teachers.

It was clear that for these former students, their high school years are remembered fondly. In one photo album, images showed smiling students posing together for class pictures. A few portrayed athletic and cultural activities, such as dancing. Reunion participants pointed out each other, telling tales as they went. Some reassembled to have new class pictures taken.

If time allowed and the participants were willing, the reunion would have been a wonderful opportunity for Abula to record what these former high school students remembered about their time in Augsburg. Abula admitted it’s hard to convince people to make the effort.

But the effort has to be made. Too much of Latvian history, both in Latvia and abroad, has been lost. In the case of the Displaced Persons camps, some work has been done to retrieve that history, but much remains. Rediscovering stories such as those of the Auseklis high school would serve not just to rekindle the memories of former students, but would help all of us understand the formative years of a generation that for many years led exile cultural, social and political life in the United States, Canada and elsewhere.

And with hundreds of thousands of displaced persons still wandering the globe, thanks to any number of conflicts that have upset many homelands, improved knowledge about the Latvian DP experience might help others to deal with their particular need for ethnic survival.

CHICAGO—Compared to the excitement of the previous day, Sunday morning proved downright low key. The faithful flocked to either the ecumenical Christian church service in the seventh floor ballroom of the Marriott Hotel or—two floors lower—to a service hosted by followers of the folk religion dievturība.

Meanwhile, miles away in the UIC Pavilion, hundreds of singers were rehearsing for the main event: the unified choir concert set to start at 3 p.m.

The festival choir concert filled the UIC Pavilion with the sounds of many Latvian choral standards, such as “Gaismas pils” and “Tēvijai,” as well as some newer works. Among the latter was “Skaista, balta viešņa gāja,” an arrangement by Selga Mence commissioned by the song festival organizing committee. Conducted by Monika Dauksts-Strautniece, the performance featured the sweet soprano voice of soloist Arnita Eglīte.

Including the American and Latvian national anthems, the choir performed 26 songs. But with audience demands for six encores, the more than 600 singers presented a nearly three-hour program.

Choir conductors came from the United States, Canada and Latvia. Perhaps the most entertaining was Māris Sirmais, who also founded and conducts the youth choir Kamēr of Rīga. His sweeping signals to the choir helped the singers express the emotions of songs. Sirmais at one point rewarded the choir by running up to it and tossing flowers to the singers.

Honorary choirmaster Roberts Zuika led the choir in its performance of the classic, “Gaismas pils.” Zuika is known in part for his work in organizing Latvian men’s choirs in the United States.

The concert ended on an emotional note with a performance, sung with the audience, of Vilis Plūdonis’ patriotic hymn “Tev mūžām dzīvot, Latvija.” Perhaps realizing that the festival was coming to a close—and that many participants and festivalgoers would not see each other again for a while—a number of people had tears in their eyes.

But the festival wasn’t quite over yet.

Once again, those who wanted to take in the musical “Lolitas brīnumputns” had to rush back downtown to get to the Merle Reskin Theater. And then there was still the final dance, with music provided by Denver’s Jūrmalnieki and Chicago’s Vējš.

The dance provided clear evidence that the festival was on the wane. Gone was the formal attire of the previous night. Gone were the long lines at the bar. Gone was the smothering heat of the room. The dance provided an opportunity for reflection about the festival and, late into the night, for good old Latvian nīkšana.

By Monday morning, it seemed as if a song festival had never happened in Chicago. Only a few, fleeting bits of Latvian could be heard in the elevators and in the lobby, most of it quickly replaced by the banter of biomedical products salespeople.

But one bellboy was still in the spirit, wearing his song festival pin and telling departing guests “atā” before closing the door to their car.