Jelena, 38, lives with her son Maksim and her mother Lyudmila in a housing block on the outskirts of Narva. She works in a small supermarket. Her Estonian is enough for work, but not for parent–teacher meetings.

Jelena: “School used to be something we shared. I could help him with his homework, explain what a poem means. Now everything is in Estonian. I read his notebooks, but I don’t understand them. He says, ‘Mama, it’s fine. I’ll do it myself.’ But I can see he’s still awake late at night.”

She turns her head toward the window. Outside, children are playing, laughing, shouting in Russian.

Jelena: “I know why the government does this. I understand that Estonian is important. But sometimes I think: integration shouldn’t mean taking away a child’s language of love. I speak Russian with him, my mother too. Now when he answers, he mixes languages. And sometimes, he doesn’t answer at all.”

Lyudmila (Grandmother): “I can’t read the letters from school. I don’t go to the celebrations anymore. I just sit there and listen. It feels as if we’re guests in our own home.”

Jelena: “The teachers say we should speak more Estonian. But how should I do that? I never have the time to learn the language. I work, I cook, I take care of everything. I don’t want my child to stand between us and the world like an interpreter.”

She falls silent for a while.

Jelena: “Recently he came home and said he had spoken Russian at school and the teacher warned him. He was quiet all evening. Later he said: ‘Mama, maybe Russian is an old language.’ I didn’t know what to say. So I cried.”

Lyudmila: “We are not enemies. We just want to be understood.”

Jelena: “School should be a bridge. But for us it has become a border. I only hope it won’t stay that way forever.”

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