By Odbayar Dorj
Before I ever stepped into a classroom, I had already learned to read and write. Over twenty years ago in Mongolia, children typically started school at the age of eight. But I began a year earlier—at seven—already recognising the letters and words on the page.
I don’t remember exactly how I learned, but I do recall asking my mother, who worked at a school dormitory, to bring me a copy of the Tsagaan Tolgoi (Alphabet Book) from the school library. With the help of my grandparents, I memorized all 35 letters and began reading. Because my mother worked at a school, we often visited the homes of her coworkers. On one such visit, we stopped by the home of the school librarian, Mr. Bayaraa. I remember flipping through one of the literature books for older students and seeing a drawing of a giant with one eye standing before frightened people in a cave. Later, I realised it must have been The Odyssey. From that moment on, I was fascinated. I longed to read every book I could find—especially those with pictures and stories.
When I finally started school, I couldn’t wait to dive into books. But the first-grade routine quickly wore me down: we spent most of our time copying words neatly into our notebooks. Then our family moved from the countryside to the city, and I transferred to a new school. By fourth grade, I was enrolled in a class called Reading and Writing, which would later become Literature. It was my favorite subject. Our teacher encouraged us to borrow books from the school library and read outside of class. That was, without a doubt, the most exciting homework I’d ever been given.
Still, getting into the school library wasn’t easy. Our school operated in two shifts, and my classes were in the morning—from 8:00 to 11:00. I lived nearby and could be home in under five minutes. My grandmother always had lunch ready, usually a warm bowl of bantan. Those were some of my happiest moments.
In the afternoons, I would walk back to school and try to visit the library. But the teacher on duty at the entrance always interrogated me: “Where are you going? Who are you meeting?” I explained that I just wanted to visit the library. Even after getting permission, I often found a sign on the door that read: “Closed for internal work.” Many times, I left disappointed. The librarian never opened the door.
Everything changed when I entered junior high school and gained the independence to ride buses. I started visiting the National Public Library named after D. Natsagdorj. It took about thirty minutes by bus, and I could only afford to go once or twice a week. The library was mostly empty, except for a few elderly men reading newspapers. It used the old Soviet-era catalog system, which was difficult to navigate. Instead, I approached the librarian directly and told her the kinds of books I liked. She always picked something out for me, and even though I never knew what it would be, the anticipation became one of my favorite parts of the week. I spent many summer days in the tiny reading room, lost in stories. When the fall semester began and university students returned, seats became scarce. They, too, relied on public libraries for study space.
By the time I entered high school, our school librarian had changed. Finally, we were allowed to use the library after classes. It had a wide range of books—both Mongolian and international literature. It felt like a dream come true.
Years later, in 2020, my daughter started school. In Mongolia, we celebrate the moment children finish learning their 35 letters with a Tsagaan Tolgoi celebration—a joyful milestone that marks the beginning of reading and writing. Sadly, due to COVID, my daughter never got to experience that celebration. More than that, she never even had a chance to experience a library. Unlike my school, hers didn’t even have a library corner. Due to overcrowding, the library space had been converted into a classroom. After textbooks were distributed during the first few weeks of the school year, the “library” served no other purpose.
As a mother and a former student, I couldn’t help but feel heartbroken by this quiet loss.
Now, as I study in Japan, I’ve started volunteering as an English teacher for first- to fourth-grade students at a local elementary school. It was my first time being at a Japanese school not as a visitor, but as a teacher. Two retired female teachers welcomed me warmly and introduced me to the principal. I would start teaching on May 1st. Even though my Japanese was limited, I felt their kindness beyond words.
We visited the classroom—a spacious room, half of it open for movement and activities. I was shown the storage room where they kept teaching materials, including flashcards. I was given two weeks to prepare. I was thrilled—not just to be working, but to finally be using my professional skills.
I reviewed every flashcard, thinking carefully about how to incorporate them into my lessons. I created a 12-week lesson plan and excitedly prepared for my first class.
But the first class didn’t go as I imagined. Sixteen students joined the English club, and as soon as I started speaking in English, some children looked surprised. Because I am Mongolian and physically resemble Japanese people, many often assume I am Japanese. The students seemed confused—some even asked if I was pretending or acting, wondering why a “Japanese-looking” person was speaking to them in English. I had prepared fun activities like Simon Says and The Alphabet Song, hoping to create a lively atmosphere, but without help from the two retired teachers, it was hard to hold their attention. Somehow, I made it through the class, but I left feeling defeated.
Thankfully, the teachers encouraged me: “Don’t be discouraged,” they said. “Especially with first graders—it’s only been a month since they started school.”
I spent the following week stressed and unsure. How could I communicate with children from another culture? How could I teach kids of different ages and learning levels?
There’s a Mongolian saying: “If God doesn’t know, ask a book.” I realised books were my only hope.
Just like the times I hesitated to enter unfamiliar spaces in Japan, I found myself nervous about entering the university’s children’s library. But I gathered courage, walked in, and soon found myself surrounded by picture books in English.
There were so many beautiful titles—more than I had ever imagined. I felt I was more excited than the children. Since then, finding the right book for my students has become my favourite part of lesson planning. I spend hours reading reviews, flipping through pages, and selecting stories that are both accessible and engaging.
At the same time, I couldn’t help but reflect on how lucky Japanese children are. Back in Mongolia, many children grow up without ever experiencing a library. And here I am, surrounded by cozy furniture and shelves filled with books, just a few steps away from the classroom.
Every week, I arrive an hour early to prepare for class. Right next to my classroom is the school’s library—bright, welcoming, and full of choices. Sometimes I see the first graders visiting with their teacher, eagerly choosing books and settling into child-sized chairs to read. And I think of my daughter. I feel sad—not only because I miss her, but because I know she doesn’t have access to a space like this. At her school in Mongolia, there is no library—not even a reading corner. Watching these children enjoy books so freely makes me wish my daughter could experience the same joy and comfort that comes from being surrounded by stories.
I remember my childhood dream: to one day have a small children’s library of my own. A place where I could read aloud to children, draw with them, fold origami, and spend quality time. That dream has only grown stronger.
In Mongolia, there are very few children’s book authors. Most publishers produce simplified versions of Disney movies or classic tales, often filled with too much text to engage young readers. Finding the right book for my daughter has always been a challenge. That’s when I began to dream—not just of reading books, but of writing one myself. After all, books hold countless lives, stories, and dreams. They are entire worlds we can live in.
I miss my daughter very much. I often make a list of things we could do together—places I want to show her if she ever comes here, places I want to go with her. I especially dream of going to the library with her, choosing and reading books together. I want to read aloud to her the book I think is the most beautiful, and then watch what she imagines, what she draws, and what she creates after reading it.
Sitting here in my university’s children’s library, I felt like I became a child again, and I found myself wishing that children everywhere in the world could have access to a library like this—one that sparks their imagination. That’s when I began writing this essay.
Because libraries are not just buildings filled with books—they are spaces where children begin to dream. I hope that one day, more schools in Mongolia will make room for those dreams. And until then, I’ll keep turning pages, teaching stories, and imagining that little library I still dream of—for my daughter, and for so many others like her.
Odbayar Dorj is an international student from Mongolia currently studying in Japan. Her writing reflects on cultural identity, personal memory, and the power of connection across borders and generations.
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