Estonia and Russia

It should be frightening living cheek by jowl with the Russian bear.  The ex-Soviet commissars are not so reformed that they have lost their taste for gobbling up vulnerable neighbors.  Just ask the Ukrainians and the Georgians.

The Estonians ought to be petrified.  With a population of less than a million and a half and a quarter of these folks ethnic Russians, they are utterly incapable of halting determined aggression.  NATO recently came to the same conclusion when it decided to send in additional troops to the Baltic to serve as a tripwire.

And yet during a recent trip to Estonia, my wife and I found no alarm.  It was business as usual as the locals sought to make money off the tourist hordes.  Given the Hanseatic charm of Tallinn (their capital city), it is no surprise visitors find the place enchanting.

As it happened, my wife and I lucked out.  We decided not to take our cruise line’s pre-packaged shore excursion and trusted to chance.  The idea was to walk around and hope that serendipity would strike.

In fact, it did.  When we checked in at the local information office, they were organizing a free walking tour.  A local history student was to lead it.  Since this young fellow full of vinegar and nationalistic pride, we could not have found a more stimulating guide.

He began by showing off the Estonian monument celebrating independence.  The equivalent of our statue of liberty, this glass cross symbolized a release from centuries of foreign subjugation.  Although our chaperon was not sure that his countrymen could defend their freedom, he was intensely proud of it. 

But then he explained that the truly important thing was that the tallest mountain in Estonia was 885 feet high.  Immediately afterwards, however, he corrected himself.  The really important thing was that this peak was fifteen feet higher than the one in next-door Latvia.

This was patriotism in its most fundamental form.  He knew that his nation was Lilliputian and that its accomplishments were modest—but he loved every square inch of his tiny homeland.  He was thrilled that an Estonian had developed Skype.  He was delighted that its voting was computerized and a single card carried his medical, social security, and driving records.

He then regaled us with stories of its accomplished leaders.  The prime minster’s wife, it seems, was a singer who competed in a pan-European competition.  She did not win, but embodied the youth and vitality of a people struggling for their place in the sun.

Meanwhile the president had lately turned out a rap album.  We were informed that it was not very good, but if we were lucky we might encounter him at a local café where we could convey our opinion directly to him.

All this contrasted markedly with the reception we received the next day in Russia.  Our ship’s tour director had warned us about the chilly welcome—and he was right.  In the rest of Europe, there are almost no border guards, whereas in St. Petersburg the old paranoia survives. 

For some reason, the customs agents are instructed not to smile.  Their faces were as uniformly grim as if they were preparing our documents for a trip to Siberia.  It didn’t matter how polite we were, they meant business—and only business.

 On the way out I decided to test this veneer.  Upon receiving my passport, instead of saying “thank you,” I tried out my limited Russian.  I said “spasibo.”  My interrogator’s response was the faintest hint of a smile that she immediately suppressed.  The spontaneity so characteristic of Estonia was completely lacking.

So where would you rather live?  In an Estonia under constant threat of foreign annexation or in a Russia that would do the annexing?  The Estonians did not take themselves seriously and so they enjoyed their successes, whereas the Russians aspire to greatness, but don’t appear to take pleasure in it.

For me the answer is clear.  If only the weather in Estonia were a bit better.

Melvyn L. Fein, Ph.D.

Professor of Sociology

Kennesaw State University