The Baltics States’ lingering Russia problem, and those caught in between
Following the Russian invasion of Ukraine in 2022, the Baltic states – Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania – have been presented by the Western media as a potential battleground for any future military ambitions Vladimir Putin may have, provided all “goes to plan” in Ukraine. The three states, all of whom have joined NATO and the EU following their independence from the USSR, take this threat very seriously indeed. Ukrainian president Volodymyr Zelensky recently told NBC news that a subsequent attack on the Baltics was “undoubtedly” part of Putin’s strategy following Ukraine, an idea that the Lithuanian politician Žygimantas Pavilionis has seconded, arguing that the fate of Ukraine is “existential for us right now”.
My recent trip through the Baltics confirmed to me the seriousness with which each Baltic state perceives this threat. The flags of Ukraine and NATO populate the streets of all three capitals in such an abundance that I was struck upon recalling London’s comparative lack of these visual reminders; the sight of a NATO flag in our capital being an especially rare sight. On a walk through Vilnius I encountered the ‘Protect the Future’ mural, painted by the Lithuanian street artist Žygimantas Amelynas. The mural depicts simple everyday occurrences: families walking, friends playing basketball, couples gleefully dancing; all of which is covered by an imposing blue umbrella bearing the NATO compass. The art bears no subtlety and nor does it intend to – freedom only comes with the willingness to defend it, one which they feel unable to do without the collective security of NATO.
The suspicion with which the Baltics regard Russia often supersedes political affiliations; they have generally refrained from granting amnesty to Russians fleeing conscription, a stark contrast to the vast number of fleeing Russians I met while I was living in Georgia. This distrust extends to the use of the Russian language, often seen as a colonial tool that has repressed their own native languages for centuries. Despite Russian being a native language for more than a third of Latvians, about 75% of the public voted against its constitutional recognition in a 2012 referendum. At a bar in Riga, one Latvian expressed to me their disbelief that any Russian could come to the country and expect to freely speak Russian there. I awkwardly nod in response, choosing not to mention that the primary reason for my visit to the Baltics was to visit a friend studying Russian there.
Since the fall of the Soviet Union, Estonia and Latvia have treated their substantial Russian minorities, the majority of which arrived during the Soviet era, rather apprehensively. Latvian MP Janis Dombrava has openly argued that the Russian minority could be mobilised into a potential “fifth column” in the event of Russian aggression, given that many of them obtain their news from Russian outlets. Neither country granted full citizenship to those Russians who arrived after Soviet occupation began in 1940, requiring them to pass exams in the country’s respective language and pledge an oath of allegiance to the country before citizenship could be granted. While Latvia has since relaxed these laws, Estonia has held firm – creating an underclass of around 64,000 stateless citizens in Estonia, each with a grey ‘Alien’s passport’.
Many of these stateless citizens reside in Narva, a city on the Russian border composed of 83% ethnic Russians and 97% native Russian speakers. Often derided by Estonians elsewhere, Narva has regularly been portrayed in the Western media as a potential battleground for any Russian incursion into the country, with the BBC’s Neal Razzell calling it “NATO’s Russian city” that would give Putin “material to work with” if he wants to trouble NATO. The argument that any linguistic resonance with Russia is causally linked to an endorsement of Putin’s warmongering is somewhat flawed – those born in Russian-speaking communities that struggle to learn the intricacies of Estonian simply have no other form of communication. The state of affairs can hardly be equated to political advocacy for a dictator – after all, Volodymyr Zelensky’s native language is Russian. A recent poll from 2019 concluded that only 25% of Narvans actually claimed that they identified the most with Russia, while 63% saw Estonia as their point of identification, differing with the city’s overwhelming ethnic Russian demography.
This disparity between linguistic and political ties to Russia became immediately clearer to me upon my own visit to Narva. Stopping off for lunch at a small bakery, I start talking to the lady behind the counter, a longtime Narva resident and native Russian speaker who speaks very little Estonian. Ethnically Russian, she often visits family across the border but doesn’t see anything political in simply visiting relatives who happen to live under Putin, repeatedly insisting “we’re for peace”. She’s very proud of the Ukrainian woman her son is dating, showing me pictures of the young couple and bragging about her beauty, blissfully unaware of any political implications their relationship has. Arriving at the border itself, I was struck by the simplicity of it all: a small bridge over a narrow river, the traffic on which was steadily flowing both ways. The banality of the border underscores the nature of the relationship to the country on the other side for many Narvans: a place where they may need to visit family or buy slightly cheaper groceries, albeit with fewer civil liberties. Overlooking the border, I encounter the words “the sun will come up” (title picture) written on a ledge in Russian, a message whose peaceful intent is made evident by its poignant location. It seems ironic that its peaceful intent is communicated in the language of the perceived threat to that peace, but this paradox is just one of many that currently define life in Narva and the ambiguous crossroad it finds itself at.
While it would be naive to suggest that Putin is completely unpopular in ethnically Russian towns like Narva, where older generations often associate Russia with liberation from Nazi occupation, the link between this demographic and Putin’s brand of Russian nationalism has been exaggerated. The war in Ukraine has only intensified this ambiguity, as even the Centre Party, a pro-Russia party that was previously partnered with Putin’s United Russia and enjoyed relative success in the Narva region, condemned Russia as the “aggressor” in the war. As we have seen in Donetsk and Luhansk, the presence of a significant Russian majority near its borders has provided Putin with the grounds for invasion under the guise of “liberating” these communities from their occupants. The Baltics have the right to fear their Russian minorities being exploited by Putin to justify a similar prospect. Whether the minorities themselves would greet such a “liberation” with open arms, however, is a much more equivocal question.
The likelihood of any Russian incursion into the Baltics in the immediate future is very slim. While testing the integrity of European collective security has clearly been a fervent ambition of Putin’s for some time now, choosing to test it while bogged down in the largest-scale conflict Europe has seen since the Second World War would be a downright bizarre decision. Nevertheless, the war in Ukraine has only hastened the Baltic imperative to prepare for the worst and implore their fellow NATO members to follow suit – a doubtful prospect if the alliance is once more subjected to the caprices of a Donald Trump presidency.
Words by George Milne
