My name is Camila Bolaño Amorim, and for a very long time, that was all I was. I knew little about my connection to Lithuania, other than the fact that my grandparents were Lithuanian and that my grandmother had a “different, difficult name” she no longer used. I was a teenager when I asked what her real name was: Uršulė Ivanauskaitė. Such a beautiful name — one that had been hidden for years under layers of sadness and trauma.
I was also a teenager when I learned her story — a story of bravery and strength, but also of sorrow and deep longing. She fled the small town of Vilkaviškis with her parents and five siblings, and when their ship arrived in São Paulo, she did not know she would never return to Lithuania. She also did not know that she would soon be separated from her siblings — never to see some of them again.
As she told me her story, I discovered my own. I realized I was more Lithuanian than I had ever thought. I learned that I already knew some Lithuanian words without realizing they were Lithuanian at all. Bažnyčia wasn’t a “nickname” she used for a church — it was the Lithuanian word itself. Calling my grandfather tinginys wasn’t her way of calling him “sweet” like the dessert she made — it was just Lithuanian humor. I realized that her many different ways of cooking potatoes were Lithuanian too. And I learned that my childhood nickname, Gintarė, came from how my eyes shimmered in the sun — reminding her of the amber beaches of Palanga.
I was her favorite grandchild, and I think it was because she saw so much of her homeland in me — even when I didn’t yet know where that homeland was.
She never had the chance to return, and I never had the chance to learn more from her. But I had the chance to learn for her. I carried her name in my heart and brought it back to her homeland: Camila Ivanauskaitė — a name that exists in no official documents, but one that carries immense meaning to me. A name I strive every day to be worthy of.
My journey of reconnecting with my roots began in 2021, when I started the process of restoring Lithuanian citizenship. In July 2022, I visited Lithuania for the first time — and, impossibly, it felt like coming home. It was familiar in ways I couldn’t explain, and I fell in love with it instantly.
I took part in the Summer Language and Culture Program at Vilnius University and joined every activity I could. I visited an amber museum and learned how to craft amber jewelry; I discovered Lithuania’s deep relationship with bees and honey-making; I went to Senamiesčio krautuvė to learn the art of bread-making; I explored the National Museum of Lithuania and Trakai History Museum. I attended every celebration for Vilnius’ 700th anniversary, watched Giedrė Žickytė’s documentary Šuolis and Laurynas Bareiša’s psychological drama Piligrimai in a meadow by the Barbican. I loved every moment of it. When it ended, I promised myself I would return.
I continued studying Lithuanian on my own, and when I came back for the Winter Program in 2023, I was able to skip a level and start from A2.2. Returning in winter felt like stepping into a fairytale — having been born and raised in Brazil, I had never seen snow before, and it made everything feel magical. I visited Trakai again, transformed under snow, and went to Kaunas for the first time, where I joined folklore dances and traditional dinners.
That was when I realized I wanted to stay. I decided that Lithuania would be my future. When I returned to Brazil, I was already planning how to make it happen — how to take that next, life-changing step.
Coincidentally or not, that decision came during a time of uncertainty and dissatisfaction in my personal life. I was unhappy with my career and decided to start over. I fell in love with Diplomacy and International Relations, because — as someone whose family was forced to flee Lithuania during the Soviet occupation — diplomacy and conflict resolution felt deeply personal. As a woman who has faced gender discrimination and seen the challenges my peers endure, advocating for women’s rights also felt personal. And as someone who grew up in a developing country and witnessed poverty firsthand, the pursuit of social justice through diplomacy became a calling.
The Master’s Program in Diplomacy and International Relations at Vytautas Magnus University (VMU) had everything I was looking for. I applied — and not only was I granted a 90% tuition fee waiver, but I also became a Support Foundation scholarship recipient. This scholarship made my studies possible, as the current economic situation in Brazil would have made it otherwise unattainable.
While preparing my VMU application in Brazil, I connected with the Lithuanian community there. I joined several Facebook groups for Lithuanians in Brazil and attended many events, such as the Lithuanian Independence Day celebrations organized by Aliança Lituano-Brasileira – Sąjunga, which featured crafts, food, and the folklore group Rambynas. I also attended the LABAS Festival in May, which included exhibitions and seminars about Lithuanian history, culture, and music. In July, I even had the chance to watch the Symphonic Orchestra of Santo André, my hometown, perform M. K. Čiurlionis’ Miške.
These experiences showed me that the Lithuanian diaspora in São Paulo is thriving — even so far from Lithuania.
I arrived in Lithuania on September 24, and it has already been an incredible experience. I feel deeply welcomed by both the faculty and my peers, and I am excited about what the future holds. I plan to be an active member of the global Lithuanian community — to strengthen my Lithuanian identity and to help connect fellow Brazilians who also carry “different, difficult names” in their family stories.
And with that, I finish this letter — hoping that I have made my grandmother proud, and assuring you that I will make the most of this opportunity and cherish it with all my heart.
Camila Ivanauskaitė