By Odbayar Dorj
Perhaps we live by feeding on our memories.
Today, I had an argument with my mother over a small name tag attached to my suitcase. To her, it was nothing more than a useless piece of plastic. To me, it was something I could never bear to lose.
When I went to my mother’s house to collect my carry-on suitcase, I never imagined that such a tiny object would lead to an argument. She could not understand why I was so upset. Who had given it to me that made it so precious?
How could I explain?
When I was living and studying alone in a foreign country, one of my dearest friends in Mongolia had sent me that little tag through someone travelling to see me. It also bore the address of the place I loved most in the world. It was not merely a name tag; it was a little piece of home, a reminder of a dear friend and the life I had built far away from my birthplace.
Perhaps the hardest thing about loving something deeply is discovering that another person cannot see what you see in it.
It is wonderful, really, how even inanimate objects seem to have grown intelligent. Sometimes, they feel as though they can read my mind. Every now and then, the Memories feature on my phone brings back photographs of my beloved Naruto. What makes me smile is the title under which these memories appear: Home.
Yes, Naruto is my home.
Whenever I travelled back from Tokyo or Osaka, the journey itself became part of the joy of returning. As the bus crossed the Onaruto Bridge from Awaji Island towards Naruto, I would gaze at the vast blue sea and the whirlpools below. I felt as though I were finally returning to the place where I belonged.
Soon, the bus would arrive at the Kosoku Naruto bus stop. Classical music would fill the air, and as I walked down and saw the words Welcome to Naruto, I would take a deep breath.
At last, I was home.
Sometimes, my friends would come to pick me up. If I missed the bus, I would wait for the next one. If nothing else worked, I would simply take a taxi back to my dormitory. These might seem like ordinary details of everyday life, but to me, they were precious. They were the small rituals of returning to a place where I felt safe, comfortable, and completely at ease.
And today, someone had called a little piece of that home useless junk.
I love Naruto. If someone asked me why, I could give hundreds of answers. Above all, it is special because I met some of the kindest people I have ever known there.
I remember my friend, Soufiane, once saying that Naruto seemed almost magical, as though it had gathered all the kind-hearted people in the world into one place. I have never forgotten those words.
If someone asked me how rich I was, I would say I was very rich indeed. Wherever I travel in the world, I have friends in different countries. I may not have great material wealth, but I have something far more precious: people who have become part of my life, no matter how far apart we may be.
I met so many of them in Naruto. We became friends and created memories that I continue to carry with me. Looking back, I sometimes wonder whether, despite life’s difficulties and disappointments, I managed to build such sincere friendships because I never completely lost the kindness in my heart.
Whatever the reason, I am grateful. Those three years in Naruto gave me memories that I could not have gathered in thirty years elsewhere.
I believe I learned many things from Japan, especially the importance of appreciating even the smallest things in life. A gift is not valuable because it is expensive. Its value lies in the thought behind it, in knowing that someone has taken the time to think of you.
When I first returned from Japan, I carefully chose gifts for my relatives and people close to me. I brought back handkerchiefs, handmade earrings, hair accessories, and other little presents that reminded me of Naruto and Japan. I wanted to share a small part of the place I loved with the people I loved.
Sadly, my gifts were not always received as I had hoped. Some people asked what they were supposed to do with such tiny handkerchiefs. Others said the gifts were strange or wondered where they could use them. I remember how disappointed I felt. I had chosen those gifts with affection, yet the thought behind them seemed to go unnoticed.
In contrast, I had seen Japanese people receive even a single Mongolian sweet with genuine appreciation and respect. These experiences taught me that the way we receive a gift can be just as meaningful as the act of giving one.
Of course, not everyone is the same. Still, I sometimes struggle to understand why something given with love can be so easily dismissed.
What is the meaning of life, anyway? Does kindness have to come with the expectation of something in return? If we give sincerely, should we not be content simply because we have given? And yet, when our kindness is met with indifference, is it wrong to feel hurt?
I do not always know the answers. Sometimes, I find myself struggling to get along with people whose attitudes leave me disappointed. I try to understand them and live peacefully alongside them, but it can be exhausting.
Perhaps I am too sensitive. Perhaps I attach too much meaning to small things. Whatever the answer, I know that I do not want to lose the part of myself that treasures them.
When the world feels cold, when people seem distant from one another, and when greed and jealousy overshadow kindness, I return to my memories. I return to the blue sea beneath the Onaruto Bridge, the familiar bus stop, the classical music, and the words Welcome to Naruto. I remember the friends who came to meet me and the kindness that made me feel I was never truly alone.
These memories remind me that the world is not entirely cold. There are people who care, friendships that remain precious across distances, and places that give us something we did not even realise we were searching for.
It gave me faith in life. It brought kind-hearted people into my world. It gave me light when I needed it, meaning when I was searching for it, and hope when I needed something to believe in.
Even though I spent only three years there, I created a lifetime’s worth of memories. Perhaps that is why I cannot think of Naruto as simply a place where I once lived. It has become part of who I am.
How could I not love a place that gave me so much?
If someone asked me which place in the world I would most like to visit again, I would answer Naruto without hesitation. Ask me again tomorrow, or next year, or many years from now, and my answer would remain the same.
Naruto.
My beloved Naruto.
Even now, deep inside my little heart, Naruto continues to beat like the homeland I carry within me.
Perhaps our homeland is not determined solely by where we were born.
Perhaps it is the place where we feel that we belong. The place where we discover our own humanity through the kindness of others. The place where our lives acquire meaning, where we form friendships that change us, and where we find a reason to keep believing in the goodness of the world.
Perhaps we can have more than one home. Perhaps home is not always a house, a country, or an address printed on a little tag.
Sometimes, it is a blue sea, a familiar road, a bus stop, or a friend who remembers you when you are far away.
Sometimes, it is a small object that nobody else understands.
And sometimes, it is a place thousands of miles from where we were born, a place we may one day leave behind but never truly leave.
For me, that place is Naruto.
I may no longer live there, but a part of me will always return.
Naruto is my home.
Odbayar Dorj was an international student from Mongolia studying in Japan. Her writing reflects on cultural identity, personal memory, and the power of connection across borders and generations.
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