Chapter Two: Naturalization, Theory and Practice
Lagging Interest in Naturalization
Citizenship Legislation
The Role of Language
Problems with Implementation
The Human Rights Issue
On the Ground: A Look at Narva
Chapter Three: Identifying Obstacles to
Compromise
Disparities
Titular Suspicions
Bitter Feelings
Apathy and Other Factors
Chapter Four: Promoting Solutions
Potential Dangers
Points of Departure
What is Possible and What is Being Done
Recommendations
The dissolution of the former Soviet Union has been accompanied by the emergence or reemergence of states seeking to define or redefine in a fundamental way the relationship between the individual and the community. Evolving concepts of national identity are reflected in the enactment of new citizenship and aliens laws in many states. The promulgation and administration of these new legal regimes may, however, render certain groups vulnerable to severe discrimination and result in significant international migration. These are serious issues about which the international community should be concerned.
In most former Soviet states, successor governments chose the “zero-option” variant and granted all legal residents automatic citizenship. Some countries, Estonia and Latvia for example, have adopted more restrictive laws. These two countries have established often-times complex naturalization processes for people who moved to these territories following their forced incorporation into the Soviet Union in 1940. The issue of citizenship in Estonia and Latvia has sparked tensions between the recently independent states and Russia. Strong criticism has come from Russian officials over possible violations of the rights of the sizable Russian-speaking minorities in those countries.
These new citizenship measures are part of the political efforts to rejuvenate Baltic cultures uprooted by years of war, deportation, emigration, and planned population transfers during the Soviet era. During the post-World War II period of Soviet industrialization, both countries received large in-migrations of Russians. The demographic shift is further exacerbated by the fact that Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania are the only post-Soviet states that continued to experience significant in-migration after the 1960s, when migrants began leaving the non-Slavic republics in Central Asia and elsewhere, heading to European Russia. Today, Estonians and Latvians are minorities in many of their own countries’ largest cities.
Current laws in Estonia and Latvia establish proficiency in the local languages as a prerequisite for citizenship, regardless of whether or not a person was born in these countries. There is an ongoing debate, involving international organizations, human rights groups, Russian speakers and government authorities, about the difficulty of the language examinations given in the naturalization processes. Some view the procedure as a means of denying citizenship to the Russian-speaking populations, most of whom do not speak the local languages.
The former Soviet Union’s unprecedented situation in terms of numbers of potential stateless people has highlighted the inadequacies of international laws regarding citizenship in cases of territorial change or state dissolution. Citizenship can be a guarantor of basic human rights, yet the granting or denial of citizenship has long been considered a sovereign prerogative. Most commentators assert that citizenship itself is a human right, citing Article 15 of the 1948 Universal Declaration of Human Rights. Emerging international legal norms, reflected in the 1954 Convention on the Status of Stateless Persons and the 1961 Convention on the Reduction of Statelessness, oblige states specifically to protect the human rights of stateless persons and to avoid imposing a lesser status that might expose residents to the vulnerabilities of being a noncitizen.
An optimal approach, in terms of promoting fully inclusive societies, would have been for Estonia and Latvia to follow the examples of other former Soviet states in adopting the zero-option formula regarding citizenship. This course was not taken. Thus, important issues concerning the respect of fundamental human rights of noncitizens have arisen. Also, questions have been raised over the implementation of naturalization legislation and of the rule of law.
An exclusionary approach is increasingly unsustainable, and a new framework to promote an inclusive society should be found. It is in the clear interest of Estonia and Latvia to consider alternatives. The status quo raises doubts about those countries’ eligibility for membership in European security structures. Open societies cannot be sustained when a significant segment of the population cannot participate in public life.
This report examines the economic, social and political dimensions of state-building efforts in Estonia and Latvia. Exclusionary tendencies are chronicled and prescriptions are offered to reduce unnecessary tensions, avert individual hardships and promote political stability. Apart from the ongoing human rights debate, the report suggests several specific measures pertaining to citizenship and language policy in order to promote inclusion and strengthen civil society—perhaps the optimal strategy to prevent the causes of forced migration.
This report is one of a series of special reports. It is based on a mission of inquiry conducted in November 1996 by Justin Burke, associate director of the Forced Migration Projects, and the principal author of this report. Editorial assistance was provided by Nils Muiznieks, director of the Latvian Center for Human Rights and Ethnic Studies; Boris Tsilevich, an independent human rights activist in Latvia; Michael Prince, a lawyer and journalist; Elena Popovich of the Forced Migration Projects; and David Jones, a graduate student at Columbia University. A background paper on historical and legal aspects of citizenship issues in the former Soviet Union authored by Alex Gregorievs, of the National Democratic Institute in Moscow and Francoise Girard of the Open Society Institute–New York, was also consulted.
Mr. Burke traveled from 12 to 27 November, 1996, throughout Estonia and Latvia, gathering information for this special report. His travels included interviews with government officials, representatives from international and multilateral organizations, nongovernmental organization workers and dozens of private citizens and residents. Mr. Burke visited Tallinn, Narva and Tartu in Estonia, and the Latvian capital of Riga. A list of persons quoted in the report and the principal sources of literature consulted appear as appendices to the report.
While Estonia and Latvia have distinct traditions, languages and cultures, the challenges presented by the citizenship and language dilemmas in the two countries are, for the most part, similar. Therefore, to avoid repetition, and aiming for brevity and clarity, this report will treat issues in the two states together. Important differences in circumstances will, however, be highlighted.
The citizenship situation in the third Baltic state, Lithuania, will not be examined. Lithuania followed a different state-building model when it regained independence in 1991, in which all legal residents at that time, including Russian speakers, essentially obtained automatic citizenship. Those who arrived in the country between 1940 and 1991 had to go through a streamlined registration process.
Lithuania’s citizenship decisions were heavily influenced by demographics. In Lithuania, the share of the Russian-speaking population—including ethnic Russians, Ukrainians, Belarusians and others—is 12 percent. In Estonia and Latvia, the demographic shares of Russian speakers are far higher, in the case of Latvia approaching 50 percent. In considering how to approach state building, an overriding concern of all three Baltic states is rooted in the desire to preserve their distinct cultural identities. The feeling of cultural vulnerability remains extremely high in Estonia and Latvia, given their current demographic breakdowns, the low birth rates among Baltic peoples, and the lingering effects of 50 years of Sovietization. In the immediate aftermath of the reestablishment of independence, policymakers in Lithuania, with its substantially smaller share of Russian speakers, were more secure about questions of cultural durability.
The term “Russian speakers” is used in this report to describe the nontitular ethnic groups in the Baltic states. Russian speakers is probably the most appropriate term because not all of the people affected by citizenship and language dilemmas are ethnic Russian, yet the vast majority speak Russian as their first language. A significant portion of the Russian-speaking population come from ethnic backgrounds other than Russian, such as Belarusian and Ukrainian.
This report is designed to assist those involved in the complex set of economic, political and social endeavors pertaining to state building, citizenship, and conflict prevention in the region. The intended audience includes a wide variety of policymakers and policy implementers in the international community concerned with such issues.
Arthur C. Helton
Director, Forced Migration Projects
August 1997
Independence does not automatically grant a country the freedom to act in an autonomous manner, especially if the state, or states, in question strive to become thriving democracies. The actions of successful democracies are bound by common standards of decency, often including the principle of inclusiveness. The interests of all constituent parts of the political community must be balanced and enjoy protection under law. For this to occur, the experience and opinions of all groups must be respected. Not only that, but people must be willing to listen and to compromise. Open-mindedness is then a major component of problem solving within the democratic context. When the principle of inclusiveness is ignored, and when the willingness to compromise is absent, a state, no matter how prosperous in economic terms, exposes itself to the type of breakdown that can culminate in the persecution of a minority by the majority.
Since regaining independence in 1991, the Baltic states of Estonia and Latvia have found that democracy’s caveats can create agonizing dilemmas. Virtually every action can have both beneficial and detrimental effects. The search for the ideal balancing point of the state’s political, economic and social interests is ongoing. Estonia and Latvia may have achieved remarkable success over the past six years in transforming their political and economic systems, but at the same time, the rapid nature of the transformation has had a wrenching impact on society. As a result, a spirit of inclusiveness is lacking in the two Baltic states. This, as already stated, threatens Estonia’s and Latvia’s ability to complete their evolution into fully fledged civil societies.
The crux of Estonia’s and Latvia’s dilemma is linked to the presence of large numbers of Russian speakers in the Baltics. More specifically, it is the fact that many of these Russian speakers—hundreds of thousands—are not recognized as citizens. Their status as noncitizens is the result of a variety of factors, involving history, politics, culture, geography and pure happenstance.
A relatively complex legislative framework to naturalize most Russian-speaking noncitizens exists in Estonia and Latvia. But these mechanisms have been underutilized, in part because of stubbornness demonstrated by those on both sides of the citizenship issue. In addition, laws have not always been implemented properly.
Many Russian speakers consider themselves entitled to citizenship and thus view the imposition of naturalization requirements as a violation of their human rights. Most in the titular communities see citizenship through a very different prism, in which there are not only rights, but also responsibilities. To this end, Estonians and Latvians are adamant in demanding that Russian speakers demonstrate an ability to speak, read and write in the titular language to enjoy the rights of citizenship. Another motivating factor is the Baltic desire to reverse decades of Sovietization.
To a certain extent both sides feel under attack in the citizenship and language debate. Russian speakers feel they are the subjects of persecution, while Estonians and Latvians feel embattled to preserve their separate cultural identities.
Finding solutions to the citizenship dilemma will be harder now than would have been the case in 1991. Opinions have hardened. If allowed to fester, disputes could lead to the erosion of the democratic pillars upon which the new orders in both Estonia and Latvia are being built. In the worst-case scenario, an abnormally high number of noncitizens could threaten the very sustainability of independent Estonian and Latvian states. At the very least, such a situation could hamper the two states’ ability to realize their potential and evolve into mature open societies. It could also prevent them from integrating into Western European political and economic security structures. Thus, it may be in the best interests of Estonia and Latvia to take action to change the status quo, specifically promoting a more inclusive society.
In any case in which there is a lack of inclusiveness, the potential for forced migration always exists. Thus, the examples of Estonia and Latvia, and how the citizenship issue is handled, deserve scrutiny. Noncitizens can be easy targets for discrimination in any country. For example, if Estonia and Latvia face a severe political or economic crisis, a mood could develop that makes the continued residency of Russian-speaking noncitizens untenable. That could prompt a significant out-migration to Russia, a country that is unprepared and increasingly unwilling to receive newcomers, even if they are ethnic Russians.
Solving the citizenship dilemma will require the expansion of educational opportunities, especially language instruction. Con-current with increased education, methods should be pursued that allow existing tensions to give way to a spirit of compromise.
The prerequisite of sustainability is patience and tolerance, and so both sides must recognize that their ideal variants are unrealizable. Russian-speaking noncitizens ought to be more accepting of the changed circumstances, and demonstrate an increased willingness to learn local languages. The Baltic peoples, in turn, ought to accept that it is impossible to turn back the clock to the pre-Soviet era, when Estonians and Latvians enjoyed far greater demographic dominance than they do today. They should make the naturalization process as efficient as possible, thereby promoting inclusiveness.
Finding approaches that will ease Estonia’s and Latvia’s citizenship dilemma is the purpose of this special report by the Forced Migration Projects. In doing so, the Projects also aim to prevent a scenario in which forced migration would occur. This report will discuss the background factors that influence the citizenship debate, examine the legislative framework in detail, take a look at the mood and existing circumstances, and conclude with suggestions for action that could help resolve the current conundrum.
It is easy to see why Estonia’s and Latvia’s citizenship dilemma is so tangled when one examines the history of the Baltic region in the 20th Century. It is an era that features trauma and injustice, full of events that make it hard for people not to hate. If harmony and prosperity are to become the features that characterize the Baltic states in the 21st century, then it will probably be necessary for people in the region to set aside history as a topic of discussion. In this corner of Europe, rehashing long-standing grievances, or trying to settle old scores, is nothing more than a sure-fire method for re-opening healing wounds.
To briefly summarize, all three Baltic states—Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania—declared their independence from Russia in 1918, establishing parliamentary republics amidst the chaos of the Tsarist empire’s collapse and the Bolsheviks’ rise to power. Independence was not secured until Estonia and Latvia signed separate peace treaties with Soviet Russia in 1920. Baltic independence lasted until 1940, when all three states succumbed to the collusion between the Nazis and communists. First the Red Army marched in, followed by the Germans. When World War II concluded, Soviet forces controlled the countries again. While under Moscow’s rule, the Baltics were subjected to Sovietization, in which indigenous culture was suppressed and traditional agricultural lifestyles were uprooted by industrialization and collectivization. Soviet rule lasted until 1991, when the communist system collapsed.
During the Soviet era, the demographics of Estonia and Latvia were drastically altered by the deportation of large numbers of the indigenous population, followed by the influx of Russian speakers. In this sense, the current citizenship conundrum can trace its roots to forced migration.
Communist Party bosses in Moscow expected Russian-speaking migrants to have a colonizing effect on the newly incorporated region, cementing the Baltics firmly into the Soviet system. The migration of Russian speakers continued into the 1980s. Then came the momentous events of 1991. Upon the restoration of pre-World War II legislation, adopted by the interwar Parliaments of Estonia and Latvia, most Russian speakers failed to qualify for automatic citizenship and saw their status reduced effectively to that of aliens. It does not matter that when they came to the Baltics they crossed no international border. A thunderbolt tossed by fate rendered them foreigners overnight. The trauma produced by this sudden switch has been understandably profound on Russian speakers.
Though unfortunate, the situation is not unusual. Empires are often built on injustice. The Soviet colossus is no exception to the rule. Injustice, then, can be seen as an inevitable consequence of the Soviet Union’s collapse. Although certainly undeserving of such a cruel fate, Russian-speaking noncitizens in Estonia and Latvia are bearing the brunt of misfortune. They are unlucky bystanders harmed by circumstances beyond their control, something that has produced a deep feeling of victimization.
Of course, the Baltic peoples also consider themselves victims of history—the innocents sacrificed on the altar of the 1939 Molotov-Ribbentrop pact that carved up Central Europe between the fascist and communist camps. Feelings of victimization fueled patriotic sentiment in the Baltics throughout the Soviet era. All three states went to great lengths during the Cold War to maintain the trappings of independent statehood. Geopolitical circumstances helped the Baltic peoples keep their dreams alive, as some foreign powers, particularly the United States, refused to recognize the Baltic states’ incorporation into the Soviet Union. When the opportunity for a full restoration of statehood presented itself in 1991, Baltic leaders acted vigorously to exploit the openings.
A major source of present-day discontent among Russian speakers in the Baltics lies in decisions made in 1991. In theory, upon receiving a second chance at independence, the leaders of Estonia and Latvia had several state-building blueprints from which to choose. In reality, however, the bitter struggle against Soviet domination, combined with the aforementioned demographic factors, helped push Baltic decision makers into the present dilemma. Both Estonia and Latvia revived their interwar constitutions, rather than draft a new basic law for the post-Soviet era. They based their choice on the premise that the incorporation into the Soviet Union had been coerced, and not voluntary. In effect, Estonia and Latvia opted to pretend that the Soviet era had never existed. If the two countries had decided to draft new constitutions, citizenship and naturalization issues might have been addressed in a more mutually satisfactory manner.
The reliance on the so-called restoration principle to guide post-Soviet state building naturally had significant ramifications for Russian speakers. Most importantly, citizenship in the revived republics is based on an individual’s ability to connect his or her heritage to the pre-Soviet era. This effectively excluded hundreds of thousands of Russian speakers from automatic eligibility for citizenship. Eventually, naturalization rules were established to allow the large majority of Russian-speaking noncitizens residing in Estonia and Latvia in 1991 to obtain citizenship. In the meantime, noncitizens with proper documentation were granted provisional resident alien status.
In 1997, six years after their re-emergence as sovereign states, the mood in Estonia and Latvia is tainted by deepening bitterness over the citizenship issue. This bitterness nourishes a growing sense of anxiety about the future, affecting those on both sides of the citizenship divide. People are especially anxious about their place in the new economic order, which is still in its formative stage of development. While some people have become fabulously wealthy in the post-Soviet era, the overwhelming majority face a daily struggle to remain above the poverty line.
Ameliorating seething hostility, and easing anxiety, will not be easy because the sources of the conundrum are all connected to history, in one way or another. Many in Estonia and Latvia clearly are having a hard time putting the past behind them. History is something that is very much alive in the region, and in some cases, is on display for all to see.
A corner of the old town in the Estonian capital of Tallinn, in the shadow of the Niguliste Church, is a good example of how the past bears down on the present. Surrounded by quaint centuries-old houses with red-tiled roofs stands a small field of overgrown ruins, serving as a memorial. A message, in four languages, is posted behind the chain-link fence that guards the site. It reads: “Tallinn was bombed by the Soviet air forces during the evening and midnight of March 9, 1944. Fifty-three percent of living space was destroyed and 20,000 people lost their homes. 463 people were killed and 659 wounded.” Such precise documentation suggests the entire statement is underlined by lingering outrage among Estonians at the Soviet action more than half a century ago.
Meanwhile, in Narva, an Estonian city with a 97-percent Russian-speaking population, old allegiances are also deeply entrenched. Since Estonia gained independence, most signs of communist domination throughout the country have been removed, in particular statues of Bolshevik leader Vladimir Lenin. Like in other cities, the Lenin statue in Narva has been purged from its original spot, but unlike those from other locations, the monument has been preserved. It now stands in a secluded corner of the Narva castle, just outside the town museum. Fresh flowers of tribute can sometimes be found resting on its pedestal.
In addition, the varying versions of the Soviet invasion of the Baltic states at the outbreak of World War II, perhaps the seminal event for the current problems, reveal stark differences in points of view. The widespread Estonian and Latvian view is almost the polar opposite of that held by most Russian speakers. The two sides tend to quibble about everything, right down to the tiniest detail.
For Estonians like Endel Lippmaa, a renowned scientist, former Soviet dissident and current right-of-center legislator who himself endured the war and subsequent tumult, the Soviet era began with an invasion and occupation. “It was just like something you read about in a [George] Orwell book,” Lippmaa says, “Only they [Soviet authorities] were much more proficient than Orwell. It was a very thorough occupation. They went to the depths of everything.”
Members of the Russian-speaking community in the Baltics tend to dismiss that type of interpretation as revisionist. For example, Gennady Kotov, a leader of the Latvian Human Rights Committee, an advocacy group for Russian-speaking noncitizens, asserts: “It was an annexation, not an occupation. When the Red Army arrived [in 1940] it found it had many friends welcoming them.” Kotov also describes the Baltic argument that the Soviet occupation was illegal as flawed. “It [the incorporation of the Baltics] was recognized both at Potsdam [during the Big Three conference of 1945] and at Helsinki [the 1975 human rights pact that recognized Europe’s existing borders],” he says.
The gulf dividing the two sides would seem so wide as to render impossible any effort to reach consensus. Accepting that, in this case, history is a large obstacle in the search for solutions to the existing social dilemmas, the most prudent course would be to look forward, setting it aside until passions cool.
Estonia and Latvia have the largest ethnic-Russian communities, in terms of percentage of the overall population, of any former Soviet republic except the Central Asian nation of Kazakstan. When it regained independence, about 475,000 of Estonia’s 1.5 million overall population were ethnic Russians. Another 75,000 or so ethnic Slavs—including Ukrainians and Belarusians—lived in the republic. Over the past six years, the share of Russian speakers has declined, mostly because of emigration, yet ethnic Estonians still only comprise 64 percent of the country’s population. Ethnic Russians comprise about 30 percent and other ethnic groups make up the rest.
The demographic mixture is even more balanced in Latvia. In 1991, roughly 900,000 of the country’s 2.56 million inhabitants were ethnic Russians. Add in other ethnic groups, and Latvians comprised only a slim majority. In 1996, Latvians’ demographic share was 55.1 percent. Ethnic Russians made up 32.6 percent of the population with other ethnic groups totaling 12.3 percent.
The full impact of migration on both countries can be gauged by looking at their pre-World War II ethnic make-up. Ethnic Estonians comprised 90 percent of the population. Immediately after the war, there were only 23,000 ethnic Russians living in Estonia. Meanwhile, the prewar population share of Latvians in their country was 77 percent—a smaller share than in Estonia, but still a dominant majority. During the Soviet era, however, massive migration shifts occurred in the Baltic region, with the influx beginning in earnest in the early 1950s and maintaining momentum right up until the late 1980s. Hundreds of thousands of people from all across the Soviet empire, especially Russia, were attracted to the Baltics during that 40-year span by some of the highest living standards in the former Soviet Union.
During the Soviet era, Estonians and Latvians seethed not only over the loss of independence, but also increasingly over what they perceived as the threat the newcomers posed to their cultural identity. The advent of former Soviet President Mikhail Gorbachev’s policy of perestroika, or restructuring, opened a Pandora’s box of pent-up nationalist sentiment that had previously been suppressed by Soviet totalitarianism.
Communist Party bosses encouraged Baltic-bound migration for a variety of reasons, including the desire to cement a newly obtained region into the Soviet system. There also existed a need for skilled labor for the growing number of factories in the region. Another consideration was the strategic importance of the Baltics, which prompted the stationing of hundreds of thousands of military personnel in the region. Combined with the low birthrates of the titular populations, the in-migration steadily whittled away the overwhelming majorities held by Estonians and Latvians. In Latvia, for example, between 1959 and 1989 the country’s ethnic Russian population grew by 350,000, while the Latvian community grew by only 90,000.
The trend reversed itself after 1991. In Latvia, migration from other former Soviet republics ground to a halt, aided by the imposition of visa requirements. At the same time, tens of thousands of mainly Russian inhabitants of Latvia chose to leave. In 1992, 6,199 people arrived in Latvia, while 53,130 left, for a net outflow of 46,931. Immigration levels remained low in 1993-94, the latest years for which there are statistics, and net outflows dropped to 27,994, and 18,810, respectively. In 1995, the net outflow declined further to 10,547. The numbers are different, but the pattern is generally the same for Estonia. Today, most officials in the Baltics recognize that the bulk of Russian speakers who want to leave the region have already done so.
When considering the demographic mix, it is important to know how the Russian-speaking minority is distributed throughout Estonia and Latvia. In both countries, high concentrations of Russian speakers are found in most major cities, while the titular peoples dominate the countryside. In the Latvian capital of Riga, the Russian-speaking population actually comprises a majority. In Tallinn, their share approaches 50 percent. This urban prevalence arises out of the fact that Russian speakers work primarily in either the industrial or service sectors.
A major demographic quirk is found in Estonia, where the northeast region of the country is overwhelmingly Russian speaking. The region is Estonia’s industrial heartland, featuring a horizon littered with smokestacks. In the major towns and cities of the region—Narva, Sillamae and Kohtla-Jarve—the Russian-speaking share exceeds 95 percent. The Estonian language is practically never heard on the street, and beyond the physical emblems of state, such as flags and border posts, there is little to differentiate Estonia’s northeast region from the neighboring areas of Russia.
Latvia does not have a demographic situation that is analogous to Estonia’s northeast. The Latgale region of Latvia has a long tradition of hosting significant numbers of Russian speakers, but in no location does the concentration of Russian speakers come close to matching northeast Estonian levels. Russian speakers are spread out across Latvia much more evenly than they are in Estonia.
A discussion of the Russian speakers’ conundrum cannot occur in a vacuum. Various outside developments—both political and economic—can exert strong influence over efforts to incorporate Russian speakers into Baltic life. To a large extent these developments are prone to sudden shifts, and in some areas prevailing perceptions constrain the Baltic governments’ options.
The most influential outside factor is, of course, the Baltic states’ relationship with Russia. Succinctly stated, relations between the Baltics and Russia are fragile, prone to frequent antagonistic clashes. The two sides have had a hard time putting the past behind them and they have yet to make substantial progress on building a new framework for future relations. There is so much pent-up hostility that occasionally one or the other side engages in what Charles Magee, the head of the Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe (OSCE) office in Riga, describes as “an unnecessary and provocative act.” An example of such action occurred in August 1996, when the Latvian Parliament adopted a resolution that characterized the Soviet era as an “occupation.” The declaration seriously strained relations with Moscow, provoking a vitriolic reaction from some Russian officials.
If nothing else, the tendency to dwell on the past greatly distracts from efforts to address current bilateral questions. A plethora of issues awaits mutual agreement. The Baltic states, aided by considerable international pressure, managed to cajole the Russian military into withdrawing from the region. But they have not had similar success in settling other serious bilateral issues. Without resolution, there is no chance for a normalization of relations.
The Russian-speakers’ rights issue is just one of the outstanding problems. Presently, another contentious issue concerns border delineation, specifically lingering tension stemming from territorial claims made by Estonia and Latvia on Russia. The basis for such claims are the Tartu and Riga treaties of 1920. Those pacts established Estonia’s and Latvia’s borders with Russia during the period of interwar independence. Upon regaining independence in 1991, both Baltic states pressed claims for small swathes of territory that, in their interpretation of the treaties, should be theirs, but which have been part of the Russian Federation since the end of the Second World War.
The disputed territories do not contain especially valuable natural resources that make them worth wrangling over. If Estonia and Latvia managed someday to reacquire their lost territories, they would likely be a source of headaches for the governments. Demographically, the disputed territories are inhabited now by overwhelming ethnic-Russian majorities. In addition, the areas are economically depressed and would require substantial investment. More important than demographic or economic considerations is the impact the territorial dispute has on Russia. It is a constant irritant, making an already prickly relationship even worse, hindering efforts to build the mutual confidence needed to conduct a successful dialogue.
From the Estonian and Latvian nationalist viewpoint, the struggle to get the land back has been mostly a matter of principle. Many government officials would like to see the interwar republics reestablished in every sense of the term. Russian officials have categorically rejected the claims, insisting that the Tartu and Riga treaties lost their juridical force in 1940, when the Baltics were incorporated into the Soviet Union. Moscow maintains that the accession of Estonia and Latvia to the Soviet Union was voluntary and validated by the legislatures of both nations. The post-annexation transfers of Baltic territories to Russia, therefore, were completely legal, the Russian reasoning goes.
A two-tiered Russian response to territorial questions has damaged Baltic efforts to integrate rapidly into Western security structures. On one level, Russia is proceeding deliberately in concluding basic treaties with Estonia and Latvia that would demarcate borders and regulate bilateral relations in general. On another level, Moscow is utilizing the land dispute to keep international attention focused on alleged discrimination against Russian speakers. Moscow continues to be an outspoken critic of Estonia’s and Latvia’s treatment of Russian speakers. Outlining Russia’s foreign policy goals in January 1997, Foreign Minister Yevgeny Primakov described Estonia’s treatment of the Russian-speaking minority as Moscow’s “greatest concern” in the region. The Russian Duma also passed resolutions condemning Estonia’s and Latvia’s treatment of non-Baltic peoples.
Although international organizations have tended to dismiss Russian charges of human rights violations, Moscow’s information campaign has created an image problem for the Baltics, says Tago Holsting, head of the Central and Eastern Europe Department of the Estonian Foreign Ministry. By keeping alive ongoing disputes over supposed human rights violations, Russia has made Estonia and Latvia less attractive as potential members of Western multilateral structures. “In the OSCE and the UN, it is harder and harder to convince people that we are not eating Russian children,” Holsting says.
The lack of a basic treaty with Russia has serious complications for both Estonia and Latvia. The two states’ main foreign policy goal is admission to both the European Union (EU) and the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) as soon as possible. Baltic leaders view membership in those organizations as the best guarantor of continued independence, as the fear of subjugation by Russia still dominates the thinking of many decision makers. For a variety of geopolitical reasons, the Baltics are not candidates for early admission to NATO. Their EU membership prospects, however, appear much better. But a major requirement for EU accession is that the applicant must have normalized relations with all of its neighbors—a condition that Estonia and Latvia cannot fulfill at the present time because of their border disputes with Russia.
Aware of the impediment posed by their original positions, Estonia, followed by Latvia, made overtures to end the dispute with Russia, unilaterally offering in late 1996 and early 1997 to drop their territorial claims. They hoped the gesture would encourage Russia to sign basic treaties, thus helping to clear the way for Baltic membership in the EU. If such a move had been made in the early 1990s, a favorable reply might have come from Moscow. But over the last few years Russian foreign policy priorities have shifted in a much more nationalistic direction. Russia has not responded to the unilateral initiatives in a way that Estonia and Latvia desired. Indeed, Moscow’s response may indicate that the window of opportunity for a rapprochement has closed.
Taking full advantage of the diplomatic opportunity presented by the land dispute, Russia has kept up the pressure on the Baltics. It has sought to link the signing of a basic treaty to improved conditions for the Russian-speaking minorities in both states. Various expert groups from Moscow have visited the Baltics in recent months, ostensibly to examine the Russian-speakers’ situation first hand. Their findings have not put the issue to rest.
Russia’s recent behavior has aroused Baltic concerns about Moscow’s true intentions. Holsting, the Estonian Foreign Ministry official, described Russia as having “no interest in the normalization of relations.” He suggests the lack of a treaty is convenient for Russia, giving it leeway to pursue its real aim—the reestablishment of its dominance over the states in the former Soviet Union. Such dominance does not necessarily mean the reestablishment of the Soviet Union as a political-territorial entity. The nominal independence of the former Soviet states can be maintained. What Moscow wants is controlling interest in the decision-making ability of those states, Holsting and others suggest. Such a concept has been debated openly in Russia, and some have dubbed it “the soft empire.” In the Baltics, officials more often have described the concept as “Finlandization,” a reference to the country which, although independent, did not launch any foreign policy initiative during the Cold War era without Moscow’s approval.
Further fanning fears among Baltic peoples is their strong sense of cultural vulnerability. The soft empire concept poses a grave threat to the survival of a distinct Estonian culture, Holsting says. “One main feature of a ‘soft empire’ is the expanded use of Russian as an official language,” he says. “English is already accepted as a foreign language [in Estonia], but if we must accept another official language, it will be viewed as an attack on the Estonian cultural identity.”
Caught in the middle of this soft empire debate are the Russian-speaking noncitizens in the Baltics. Russian speakers, particularly noncitizens, have been shown to be vulnerable to scapegoating. Some Estonian and Latvian officials appear all too eager to portray all Russian-speaking noncitizens as “tools,” manipulated by Moscow. In this context, the opinions of the hard-line faction of the Russian speakers in the two Baltic states can be represented as the consensus of the entire community.
At the same time, the actions of some Russian speakers in the Baltics have done more to complicate, rather than facilitate, the conduct of a productive dialogue among Tallinn, Riga and Moscow. Leaders of the Russian-speaking community in Estonia, for instance, have inflamed tensions by forging relationships with notorious Russian nationalists, including Moscow Mayor Yuri Luzhkov and Russian nationalist politician Sergei Baburin. Given the current atmosphere of mutual distrust, seemingly innocent activities have the potential to provoke tension. For example, Mayor Luzhkov offers 40 scholarships every year for Russian speakers in Estonia to study in the Russian capital. Under more dispassionate circumstances, the scholarship program would be innocuous. But given Luzhkov’s outspokenness on issues related to Russia’s national interests, the scholarships are viewed with concern by the Baltic peoples. Viktor Andreyev, an ethnic-Russian Parliament member in Estonia, denies there is a political element to any aspect of the cooperation between the Baltic Russian minority and their compatriots in Russia proper. Nevertheless, the symbolism involved in Luzhkov’s actions serves to reinforce the doubts of many Baltic peoples about the loyalty of the Russian minorities.
A vicious cycle is building momentum. Holsting suggests that the Estonian leadership would be more willing to consider easing citizenship requirements for Russian speakers after Russia signs a basic treaty with Estonia. The problem is that Russia has made improvements for Russian speakers a precondition for an agreement. This leaves Baltic leaders in a bind. To ease citizenship requirements before signing a basic treaty might be seen as caving in under Russian pressure. Several Estonian experts believe that Russia often views compromise as a sign of weakness.
There are those in Estonia and Latvia who are skeptical about the chances of reaching any kind of accommodation with Russia in the near-term. Moscow’s negotiating style has not changed, even though the communist system no longer exists, Holsting says. “You must fight very hard to get anything from the Russian side,” he says. “They prefer to begin talks with attacks.” Many political observers say that even if bilateral treaties are signed, such agreements would not automatically put an end to the disputes. “Much depends on developments within Russia,” Holsting says.
Russia’s domestic political situation, as Holsting points out, is a source of anxiety for the Baltics. President Boris Yeltsin’s health problems, starting in the latter half of 1996, sparked a Kremlin power struggle. In an attempt to gain political advantage, some potential presidential successors, such as Luzhkov, have staked out positions that appeal to nationalist-expansionist sentiment. Periodic statements by political figures in Moscow call into question the permanence of Baltic sovereignty. In January 1997, for example, prominent Russian political figure Arkady Volsky suggested that Latvia was considering selling the port city of Liepaja to Russia. The port served as an important Soviet naval base until 1994. Latvian Foreign Ministry officials immediately and vociferously denied any such possibility.
The primary force driving Estonian and Latvian efforts to gain accelerated admission to the EU and NATO is an overriding fear of Russia, particularly the current feeling that political volatility in Moscow poses an ongoing threat to Baltic sovereignty. But paradoxically, the ability of Baltic leaders to achieve this goal greatly depends on Russia’s acquiescence. Although everyone denies it, events so far have shown that Moscow enjoys virtual veto power over the Baltic EU and NATO membership questions.
Russia opposes NATO expansion in general, and is especially sensitive when it comes to NATO membership for Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania. According to Russian reasoning, losing the Baltics to the Atlantic alliance would have serious strategic repercussions for Moscow, supposedly weakening its peripheral defensive capabilities. Primakov, the Russian foreign minister, has also cited “moral-psychological” reasons for opposing an eastward push by NATO. The Russian complaints appeared to have worked for the time being. The Atlantic alliance is proceeding cautiously on the expansion issue, and so has already signaled to the Baltic states that membership will not be open to them soon.
Russia’s stance on EU membership for the Baltics is more ambivalent. Some in Moscow feel Baltic EU membership would facilitate Russian trade with Europe. It cannot be excluded, then, that Estonia and Latvia will be in the first wave of formerly communist states gaining admission to the EU. At this point, speculation may be premature. No one can predict when, or if, EU eastern expansion will occur. Regardless, both Estonia and Latvia are doing everything possible to meet the stringent fiscal criteria for aspiring members. Measures taken out of perceived fiscal necessity have created a fair share of social discomfort for all, regardless of their ethnicity, with the hardest hit being pensioners. “The public sector must work under a strict budgetary framework,” says Henrik Hololei, head of the Estonian office for European Integration.
Programs to promote Russian speakers’ integration, particularly spending on Estonian-language instruction, are limited in part due to government austerity. Barring a major political realignment, the Estonian and Latvian governments seem likely to maintain an austere course for the foreseeable future. “The chances of Estonia entering the EU in the first round [of expansion] is about 50-50,” Hololei says. “The accession drive will require discipline.”
Estonia and Latvia have made remarkable progress in transforming their economies in such a short time frame. When they regained independence in 1991, the Baltics were prosperous within the communist context, but lagged far behind the West. Since then the gap has closed, and there is a distinctly Western feel to the city centers of both Tallinn and Riga in 1997. Russian-made autos—Ladas, Volgas and Nevas—have almost disappeared from the streets, replaced by mostly secondhand Fords, Toyotas and Mercedes. Flashy boutiques and banks dominate the commercial districts, which were not so long ago home to drab shops devoid of goods worth buying. Food stores also offer a wide variety of goods.
The contrast between the different eras is clearest at night. During the Soviet period, the nighttime mood in the old towns of Tallinn and Riga might best have been described as haunting. Most people went directly home after work, mainly because there were few sources of evening entertainment. As a result, streets were empty. Poor street lighting created a general mood of desolation, making strollers feel like coal miners walking in a mine shaft. The atmosphere today is far different in the city centers. The lighting is better, replete with neon. Restaurants, pubs and coffeehouses have proliferated and are packed. Meanwhile, crowds flock to cinemas featuring first-run Hollywood movies.
It must be remembered, however, that the Estonian and Latvian capitals do not accurately reflect the countries’ overall economic situations. Investment has tended to flow to the source of political and economic influence. Thus, when one looks beyond the downtown cores of both Tallinn and Riga, initial impressions of prosperity are greatly diminished. The suburbs of the capitals have that typical down-at-the-heels Soviet look, dominated by pre-fab housing projects. Provincial cities are similarly in need of revitalization. And as already mentioned, some areas, particularly northeastern Estonia, look as if they are still struggling to catch up to the perestroika era. One of the few signs of progress in the countryside are the modern gas stations now found along major roads, complete with 24-hour food marts offering assorted fast-food and beer.
The wide economic disparity between the capitals and the provinces is indicative of the enormity of the restructuring task. Overcoming the effects of Soviet central planning will take years, if not decades, of hard work and frugality. For all the economic accomplishments of the last six years, much more remains to be done before most residents in Estonia and Latvia will enjoy a measure of prosperity. Vigilance will also be needed, as the economic reform process will remain fragile for the foreseeable future.
The financial sector is particularly prone to growing pains, including bankruptcies and consolidations. Such volatility in a developing environment can spark financial panic, as underscored by the 1995 collapse of Banka Baltija and the subsequent financial crisis. The failure prompted the government to strengthen regulations and oversight procedures, but serious damage was done to public confidence. The financial sector has struggled ever since to regain widespread trust.
Another source of economic volatility concerns foreign investment. Estonia in particular has been a beneficiary of keen interest from abroad. With per capita foreign investment between 1992 and 1994 reaching nearly $280, Estonia was second only to Hungary as a foreign-investment recipient, in per capita terms, among formerly communist countries. Latvia has lagged behind, but nonetheless has received more per capita investment than countries such as Croatia, Lithuania, Russia or Ukraine.
The potential danger posed by foreign investment is that investors can be fickle, especially given the high-risk nature of the so-called Wild East. In this respect, as long as the Russian speakers conundrum exists, there will be potential for it to slow down investment in Estonia and Latvia. For instance, a possible flare of ethnic tension, growing out of the citizenship debate, could heighten risk and therefore dampen foreign-investor enthusiasm. That, in turn, could cramp economic development, thus increasing the anxiety that fuels interethnic animosities.
At the same time, the current economic realities increase the difficulties for solving the Russian-speakers question. As already mentioned, most Russian-speaking noncitizens live in industrialized areas that were devastated by the collapse of the Soviet economic system. Many of the factories that employed tens of thousands of people during the Soviet era are now idle. Thus, there are fewer economic opportunities in those regions today than there are in other areas. Hololei, the Estonian European integration official, says the state lacks the money to promote restructuring of antiquated industrial behemoths. As a result, unemployment in regions such as northeastern Estonia is almost double the national average of 4.7 percent.
Many Russian-speaking noncitizens also must grapple with underemployment, struggling to earn a living in unskilled occupations. In Tallinn, people with professional backgrounds, especially teachers, can be found selling trinkets to tourists or peddling fresh flowers near the entrance to the old town. Others turn to small-scale trading or take menial jobs, such as street cleaning, to survive. Few can see a clear way out of their present predicament, and this fuels frustration. A deep-rooted sense of victimization is widespread. Many feel the state should not abandon its Soviet-era responsibility for maintaining simple, yet sufficiently comfortable living standards.
“There is a large group that cannot just be tossed aside,” says Viktor Andreyev, the ethnic-Russian legislator in Estonia. “The rich have an obligation to take care of the poor, and the culture of the minority must be defended. These are the pillars of civil society.”
Other ethnic-Russian lawmakers in Estonia warn that the economic stress felt by many noncitizens can not continue indefinitely without having adverse social repercussions. “Russians are growing poorer and poorer and as they become more impoverished their nostalgia will only grow,” says Sergei Ivanov, the Russian-speakers’ parliamentary faction leader. “In the near future, some mechanism must be created to provide more social protection.”
In formulating responses that might ease existing disparity, there are several factors that must be taken into account.
The domestic political calculus in both Estonia and Latvia is a major source of complications. Democratic principles quickly gained acceptance in both countries, but the political systems have not yet reached maturity. This is underscored by the abundance of political parties, representing a broad spectrum of opinion. The fragile structure of governing coalitions and the relatively frequent changes of government also reflect the fledgling nature of the democratic systems.
Comparatively tiny disputes can topple governing coalitions, as exemplified by the January 1997 collapse of Andris Skele’s first government in Latvia. The collapse was triggered by a dispute over a proposed candidate for finance minister who had been tainted by corruption charges. The affair was not trivial, but it was probably something that a more cohesive coalition could have survived. Skele ended up being reconfirmed as prime minister in February 1997, but the incident nevertheless hampered the government’s ability to both formulate and implement policy.
Estonia has been wracked by similar political struggles. A scandal caused the government of Tiit Vahi to collapse in February 1997. Mart Siimann was subsequently appointed prime minister-designate but encountered difficulty in forming a majority government, saying a broad-based coalition would experience “serious, perhaps insurmountable differences.”
Indeed, the preponderance of political parties in Estonia and Latvia decreases the chances for the formation of stable governments. This, of course, severely limits the ability of the state to pass or amend laws. At present, governing coalitions tend to be unwieldy. Skele’s second government, for example, comprises representatives of six political parties. Such diversity of opinion in a cabinet makes for lengthy debates and for tentative decisions.
The era of tenuous coalitions appears set to continue in both Estonia and Latvia for the foreseeable future. Such political circumstances greatly reduce the possibility that lasting solutions to explosive issues, like the Russian-speakers question, can be formulated. Both Estonia and Latvia lack a political personality or party that has the ability to forge consensus. At the same time, many parties have sufficient power to paralyze the political process. “It is now very difficult to attempt any changes in citizenship laws,” says Ints Zitars, of Latvia’s Citizenship and Immigration Department. “Any attempt to make a change could cause the government coalition to collapse.”
Some Russian legislators describe the issue of Russian-speakers’ rights as such a sensitive topic that few Estonian legislators are willing to discuss it publicly. For Estonian and Latvian politicians, being seen as a supporter of Russian-speakers’ rights could be politically ruinous. Ethnic-Russian Parliament members say it is possible to have private discussions with some Estonian colleagues in the corridors of power, but add that an open debate on the floor of Parliament will not occur in the foreseeable future. “To discuss the rights of ethnic Russians is taboo,” says Sergei Ivanov, the Russian legislative faction leader.
An additional complication, according to some observers in Estonia, is that political infighting often distracts from legislating and policymaking. Elected representatives from both the Russian-speaking and titular communities have been embroiled in scandal and debilitating political maneuverings. In the Estonian Parliament, political rivalries have apparently shattered the cohesion of the Russian-speaking caucus, causing the six-member Russian faction to split over philosophical differences in December 1996.
It would appear that serious discussion of some vital issues, including the situation of Russian speakers, awaits the appearance of secure governing majorities in both countries. Stable governments will probably materialize, but only after the completion of a process of political consolidation. Interparty wrangling, as well as intra-party struggles for control, are a natural part of such a process, and there is no way to tell how long it will take to run its course. Eventually, consolidation should reduce the number of parties to a more manageable amount, thereby permitting the formation of stronger majority coalitions.
Actions should always be judged within the context of their times. And in 1991, when crucial decisions were being made regarding citizenship, policymakers operated in an atmosphere laden with emotion. The Soviet-era experience had a searing impact on the memory of many leaders who suddenly found themselves thrust into positions of power following the collapse of the empire. These memories heavily influenced post-Soviet policy, as many relied on the past to guide the shaping of the future.
Of all the non-Slavic republics, Estonia arguably put up the greatest resistance to Sovietization during the Soviet era. But as Priit Jarve, a member of the Estonian Presidential Roundtable on Interethnic Relations, pointed out: “This policy [Sovietization] left memories that the Russian presence is potentially dangerous—something that threatens Estonian culture.” Likewise, because of the demographic mix in Latvia, many Latvians at the time of the restoration of independence feared that they could become a minority in their own state. Ethnic-Russian behavior during the last stages of the Soviet era helped to reinforce indigenous attitudes. Many remained oblivious to the cultural yearnings and desires of the Baltic peoples, even during the perestroika era.
“Russians, beginning with Gorbachev on down, were always blind to the problems of titular nations, and underestimated the strength of nationalist sentiment in the [union] republics,” says Igor Torbakov, a specialist on interethnic relations and a research fellow at the Institute of Russian History at the Russian Academy of Sciences in Moscow. “They never took the concerns of titular nations close to heart, hence the general unwillingness to learn the language.”
The insensitivity demonstrated by Russian speakers merely compounded feelings of bitterness among titular peoples. Significant numbers of Estonians and Latvians, but certainly not all, harbored deep resentment against Russians. Not only did hostility stem from the loss of independence, but also from the resulting deportations and Sovietization policies.
Russian speakers, in failing to show much concern for the preservation of indigenous traditions, lost an important opportunity. If the newcomers had been open to adopting some of the local cultural characteristics, particularly demonstrating a willingness to learn the titular languages, the attitudes of the indigenous peoples in 1991 might have been softer.
In the aftermath of independence, the true extent of indigenous hostility towards Sovietization became apparent. Complicating the situation was the suddenness of the Soviet Union’s collapse. The lightning speed of events in the late 1980s and early 1990s helped produce a feeling of euphoria upon the reestablishment of sovereignty.
In the early post-Soviet era, those who replaced communist authorities in the governing elite were often the same people who had led the national resistance to Soviet rule. A significant number of the new rulers had been persecuted as dissidents during the Soviet era. In addition, many of these leaders had seethed over what they perceived as a Soviet policy of cultural annihilation in non-Slavic regions. They were thus driven by a sense of urgency in the effort to restore national cultures in their countries.
Given the pent-up hostility mixed with euphoria, the narrow interpretation of citizenship may have been partially the product of a desire for revenge. The Baltic peoples had sufficient reason to be angry after more than 50 years of Soviet maladministration. A comparison of the gross domestic products of Estonia and Latvia with Finland underscores the toll exacted by the Soviet system. In 1939, Estonia and Latvia had GDPs that were similar to that of Finland. Following World War II, while the Baltics were Soviet-ized, Finland became a quasi protectorate of the Soviet Union but was nonetheless allowed to develop a capitalist system, serving as a trading conduit linking Moscow to the West. Fifty-plus years later, the differences between Finland and the Baltics are glaring. Finnish tourists now crowd into Estonia for cheap weekend getaway vacations. Finland gained membership in the European Union in 1995, while Estonia and Latvia struggle to overcome the devastation wrought by the planned economic system.
During the citizenship policy debates of the immediate post-independence period, few people bothered to ask questions about the long-term implications of the adopted policies, and whether they were in the best interests of both Estonia and Latvia. The experience of the last six years has shown that, regardless of whether the citizenship approach taken was proper in a purely juridical sense, some of the moves were not thoroughly considered. “People were blind and they did not see the problems,” says Ilmar Tomusk, head of the Estonian National Language Board.
Policy that is guided by the past often founders on the shoals of the future, and some decision makers are awakening to this realization. Euphoria is wearing off. “There is confusion now,” says Jarve, “The difficulties are coming to the forefront. We have to face the multi-cultural realities.”
Reversing the current course, however, will not be easy. It is almost like a chicken-or-egg scenario in which all sides are asking what should come first. Estonians and Latvians, many of whom remain concerned about cultural extinction, are reluctant to abandon the notion that Soviet-era newcomers ought to learn the language. “Even now, more than five years after independence, many Russian people do not want to learn Latvian,” says Ints Zitars, head of the Latvian Citizenship and Immigration Department. “The Latvian people were worried they would lose the possibility to determine their fate, and many Latvians still worry about this.”
As for Russian speakers, the feeling that they are deserving of automatic citizenship is as strong as ever. “They just want us to leave. The fewer Russians the better, as far as they are concerned,” says Tatyana Zhdanok, co-chair of the Latvian Human Rights Committee.
At this point, the paramount question may be: Are the two sides capable of compromise?
The need to get the Russian-speaking population more involved in the political, social and economic development of Estonia and Latvia is self-evident. Their sizable numbers make Russian speakers too large a group to ignore. Likewise, current migration trends indicate that Russian speakers, barring an unforeseen calamity, are unlikely to leave in large enough numbers to spontaneously solve the citizenship and language question. In Estonia’s and Latvia’s case, a high degree of stability will be needed if the countries are to ever achieve their stated goals of integrating into the EU and NATO. Large numbers of disenfranchised residents, however, can threaten a state’s social and political equilibrium. It would thus appear to be in the best interests of Estonians and Latvians to embrace, not rebuff, Russian speakers.
Zhdanok and other Russian speakers believe some in the titular communities probably would like to see Russian-speaking noncitizens return from whence they came during the 50 years of Soviet rule. But this plainly is not likely to happen. Although they might find life in the Baltics less satisfactory now than prior to 1991, many Russian speakers nonetheless have better prospects in Estonia and Latvia than they would find in any other former Soviet republic, including Russia. This, of course, provides a strong incentive to stay, despite any possible hardships caused by the citizenship conundrum. Even in cases where there may be a desire to leave, many would-be émigrés are unable to fulfill their desire due to a lack of financial resources.
For a variety of reasons, many Russian-speaking noncitizens are hesitating to assume the initiative and take responsibility for overcoming their citizenship predicament. Overall, there is little enthusiasm for learning the local languages among older Russian speakers, while younger Russian speakers are more receptive. Some appear to be reluctant to adapt to changed circumstances, while for others, dissatisfaction over the inability to qualify automatically for citizenship has transformed into apathy for naturalization. There are also Russian speakers who refuse as a matter of principle to go through the naturalization process. Tens of thousands, meanwhile, have taken Russian citizenship while continuing to reside in the Baltic states. Russia, as the successor state to the Soviet Union, has granted citizenship to anyone who can prove residency in any of the 15 former Soviet republics at the time of the empire’s collapse.
Making progress in solving the existing dilemma likely will require Estonian and Latvian authorities to examine citizenship and language issues from a fresh perspective. That does not mean that efforts to preserve and enhance cultural traditions must be abandoned. But there should be recognition that the largely passive approach so far endorsed by the Estonian and Latvian elites is insufficient to integrate Russian speakers into Baltic society.
The citizenship debate has been the most complicated aspect of the region’s overall post-Soviet experience. After the Baltics regained independence, most Russian speakers advocated a policy called “zero option,” in which all residents at the time of the restoration of independence in 1991 would have been entitled to automatic citizenship. During the late Soviet era, the Popular Front movements, which agitated for independence from Moscow, gave the impression that they supported the zero-option formula, thus helping to rally a significant number of Russian speakers to the nationalist-democratic cause. After independence was reestablished, however, Estonian and Latvian officials opposed zero option. Instead, they pushed for strict criteria for automatic citizenship eligibility.
After acrimonious debate, the Parliaments of Estonia and Latvia, both dominated by the titular peoples, followed a narrow approach that relied heavily on pre-World War II legislation for guidance. Based on the fact that the two states reestablished the independence of the interwar republics, only people who could prove that either they, or their ancestors, were citizens of Estonia or Latvia before 1940 became eligible for automatic citizenship. The requirements, though certainly tough, were applied to all ethnic groups. Still, only about 100,000 of the approximately 550,000 Russian speakers living in Estonia in 1991 qualified for automatic citizenship. In Latvia, of the 900,000-plus Russian-speaking population, only about 200,000 qualified for immediate citizenship. The share of ethnic Russians in Latvia’s overall population, including resident aliens, was 33 percent in 1994. But among the 1.77 million citizens of the country, ethnic Russians made up only a 16.2 percent share, or about 283,000 people.
As a result of disenfranchisement, longtime inhabitants, including many in the Communist elite, suddenly saw their status reduced to that of resident aliens. Naturally, the loss of status fueled bitterness. Many felt, and continue to feel, that their long tenure of residency should have been qualification enough for automatic citizenship. In Estonia in 1991, 78 percent of the ethnic-Russian population, or about 340,000 people, had lived in the country for at least 21 years. About 90 percent had lived in the country for at least 10 years. The overwhelming majority of these people faced going through the naturalization process if they desired citizenship. For those who did not take citizenship, it was not immediately clear what political, economic and social benefits, if any, they would have access to. The situation was similar in Latvia, where citizenship is required for employment in a variety of nonstate job sectors, including airline attendants and pharmacists.
The citizenship decisions made shortly after the restoration of independence had a profound impact on the continuing democratic development of these two Baltic states. Noncitizens were frozen out of the decision-making process. In Estonia, a new Constitution was adopted in June 1992 by a referendum in which only citizens could participate, essentially meaning that Russian speakers had little influence on the passage of the basic law. In the subsequent parliamentary elections of September 1992, not one ethnic Russian gained office in the 101-seat legislature, creating a situation in which hundreds of thousands of people had virtually no say in how they were to be governed. This compounded the angst felt by most Russian speakers.
After establishing citizenship, the two nations had to formulate naturalization standards, as well as determine the legal status of resident aliens. In both countries these processes quickly became entangled in bitter recrimination, as it was impossible to conceive a legislative blueprint that would please everyone.
After more fierce debate, the vision of the titular peoples generally prevailed. Estonia essentially revived its prewar Law on Citizenship, making a few amendments to bring its naturalization provisions up to date. Latvia, on the other hand, adopted an entirely new naturalization code in 1994 after a drawn-out and acrimonious debate. Central to the naturalization process in both countries is a language requirement, in which command of the titular language is measured by a written and oral test. Would-be citizens also have to fulfill a residency requirement, demonstrate a general understanding of fundamental legislation, and make a loyalty oath to the state. Estonia and Latvia generally prohibit dual citizenship, although some exceptions are made for so-called westernized Estonians and Latvians—people who emigrated to the West rather than live under Soviet rule and then returned after independence was reestablished.
Estonian naturalization criteria are more lenient than Latvia’s. The residency requirement in Estonia is two years prior to applying for citizenship and one year after application, while in Latvia noncitizens must wait five years before initiating naturalization procedures. In addition, Latvia enacted a strict naturalization eligibility timetable, or “window system” that in effect institutes a quota on the number of applications every year. In 1996, for instance, only persons who were born in Latvia and were between 16 and 20 years old at the time of their application could apply for naturalization. In 1997, only those who were born in Latvia after 1972 could apply. Under the existing rules, it will not be until 2003 that all resident aliens are eligible to apply for naturalization. Estonia did not enact a similar naturalization timetable.
Legislation concerning the rights of resident aliens took longer to refine, exacerbating anxiety among noncitizens. Focusing on Estonia, the 1993 Law on Aliens originally required all noncitizens to apply for residency permits, regardless of the length of the applicant’s Soviet-era residency in the republic. There were no guarantees, however, that applications would be approved. All permits would be temporary, issued for a five-year period. The statute also excluded those connected with Soviet security organs, particularly military and KGB personnel. These requirements caused an uproar among Russian speakers, sparking a secessionist effort in the mainly Russian-populated towns in northeastern Estonia. An additional source of controversy concerned travel documents. Once the old Soviet passports were declared invalid, resident aliens sought an alternative document that would allow them to travel abroad and to return freely.
Responding to the complaints of Russian speakers, Estonia eventually softened the rules, guaranteeing that all those living in the country before July 1990 would receive residency permits. It also introduced a travel document, called an alien passport, which would permit free travel and reentry.
Latvia has generally followed the same path as Estonia in the formulation of resident-alien legislation, but it often has been slightly slower to act. Authorities initiated a cumbersome process to reregister residents that caused major delays for Russian speakers seeking to obtain noncitizen documentation. The primary law in question—having the awkward title of the “Law on the Status of Former USSR Citizens Who are not Citizens of Latvia or any other State”—offers noncitizen’s passports to those who can prove their residency in Latvia prior to July 1992, and who were not employed in the Soviet military or security forces. The law, which was adopted in April 1995, does not specify rules for the issuing of these special passports. As a result, no such passports had been issued as of January 1, 1997.
One major difference concerning the rights and privileges of noncitizens in the two states involves the ability to vote. In neither country are noncitizens able to vote in national elections. But in Estonia, although resident noncitizens cannot hold elected office at any level, they are allowed to vote in local elections. Noncitizens have no such rights in Latvia. In any event, aliens remain particularly vulnerable to the vagaries of an arcane residency permit system, in which there is great potential for arbitrary action on the part of officials. Persons lacking valid residence permits are unable to claim social benefits, and are subject to deportation.
The international community has scrutinized the Baltic legislation concerning noncitizens, and in some cases, such as Estonia’s Law on Aliens, its criticisms have brought about modifications. But the amendments, while they may have been sufficient to allay the concerns of foreign governments, have not satisfied the Russian-speaking communities. The chief indicator of ongoing displeasure is the general disdain for the naturalization process. Indeed, international observers have noted that the numbers of those going through the naturalization process are disappointingly low.
The Estonian Citizenship and Migration Department reported in late 1996 that 86,939 non-ethnic Estonians had obtained citizenship in the post-Soviet era. Of that number, however, only slightly more than 35,000 had obtained citizenship via naturalization. Others obtained their citizenship in other ways, such as by proving that one of their patents is an Estonian citizen. In addition, fewer people than anticipated have applied for the so-called alien passports. In October 1996, citizenship authorities had received only 112,000 applications for alien passports; they had expected more than 175,000. Then in December 1996, officials reported that of the 73,000 alien passports that had been processed, only half had been picked up by their recipients.
In Latvia, interest in naturalization is even lower. Of the 33,000 people eligible to apply for naturalization in 1996, only 525 applied. “People were hopeful that noncitizens would come forward to apply, but it’s been a great disappointment,” says Charles Magee, of the Latvian OSCE office, which monitors the democratization process. As for the issuance of noncitizen passports, officials hope to begin distribution in 1997, and the process could take up to two years to complete. The reasons for lack of interest in naturalization are manifold, including the inability to pay the necessary filing fees, a shortage of information, the desire to avoid military service, concern about losing the ability to travel visa-free in Russian and other CIS nations, and feelings of apathy or alienation.
Russia, as the successor state of the Soviet Union, has offered automatic citizenship to any former resident of the collapsed empire. In Estonia, more than 100,000 Russian speakers have availed themselves of this option. But there are still hundreds of thousands of other Russian-speaking resident aliens in Estonia who have not made a final decision on their status. Officials in Latvia say they do not have precise data on the number of resident aliens taking Russian citizenship, but experts say far fewer Russian speakers in Latvia have opted for Russian citizenship than in Estonia.
Language often figures prominently in controversies involving citizenship. It is the view of most Estonians and Latvians that their distinct languages form the chief pillar of their respective national identities. Therefore, it follows that they would want aspiring citizens to have a reasonable command of the local tongue. For them, language ability also offers the most tangible evidence of a naturalized citizen’s loyalty to that individual’s adoptive country. In addition, there is widespread concern among the governing elites that local cultural traditions remain vulnerable to outside domination.
The language requirement contained in naturalization laws is seen by the titular peoples as a device that will help ensure the survival of distinct Estonian and Latvian cultural identities. “The only thing that we have that is our own is the language,” says Tago Holsting, the Estonian Foreign Ministry official, in explaining the Baltic determination on the language requirement.
Estonia’s handling of the language question demonstrates the extent to which indigenous people feel culturally threatened. It also highlights an area in which an attempt to redress perceived wrongs of the Soviet period can, at the same time, undermine the development of civil society.
Even before the Soviet Union’s collapse, Estonian leaders were acting to bolster the position of the Estonian language. In 1989, the republic’s Supreme Soviet adopted a law that made Estonian the state language, although Russian remained a recognized language for official communications and transactions. After the republic restored its independence, the preeminence of the Estonian language was enhanced further. The Constitution adopted by the 1992 referendum curtailed official bilingualism through the omission of any provisions on the right of Russian speakers to interact with state officials in Russian. Later, a revised 1995 language law delivered the coup de grace to Russian as an official state language, saying authorities were obliged to speak only Estonian when conducting official business. Subsequently, additional legislation was adopted that declared Estonian the language of the workplace, public or private. If Estonian-only legislation is strictly enforced, it might be a source of resentment for Russian speakers.
In the educational sphere, Estonia has also adopted legislation that states all secondary schools in the republic should teach primarily in Estonian by the year 2000. There are more than 100 mostly Russian-language schools serving tens of thousands of students. The prospect of mandated instruction in Estonian has developed into a source of particular concern for Russian-speaking parents, who view the move as an attempt to cut off Russian-speaking pupils from their traditional culture.
As for the language tests, both the Estonian and Latvian exams require knowledge of between 1,500 and 2,000 words in order to have a reasonable chance of passing both the oral and written portions, with standards somewhat more stringent in Latvia. Familiarity with specialized terminology is also required for employment in certain professional fields. In Estonia, immigration officials say about 85 percent of those who take the language exam pass it.
In administering the language tests, some Estonian and Latvian authorities say they are not looking to enforce fluency as much as they are seeking recognition on the part of Russian speakers of the legitimacy of independent Estonian and Latvian states. Therefore, the mere act of Russian speakers trying to learn the language is perhaps more important than actual language capabilities.
Long accustomed to the linguistic dominance of their native language, Russian speakers not only have resisted learning Estonian and Latvian, but also generally consider the language requirement for citizenship to be onerous, even discriminatory. Since independence, the numbers of those claiming to speak at least some Estonian or Latvian has risen. Nevertheless, large numbers of noncitizens—perhaps into the hundreds of thousands—do not have a basic grasp of Estonian and Latvian. Of the two languages, Estonian is by far the more complex, and therefore more difficult to master. For example, nouns in Estonian are declined into 14 different cases.
The reluctance of Russian speakers to learn the local languages has its roots in the Soviet past, when Russian was the lingua franca of the empire. Jeff Chin and Robert Kaiser, in their recent book, Russians As The New Minority, describe the Russian view in the following way: “During the Soviet era, Russian migration outside Russia did not imply cultural adaptation. Russians lived together and worked together and assumed that communication with others would be in Russian.” Indeed, in 1989, only 21.1 percent of ethnic Russians in Latvia claimed to be conversant in Latvian, while 13.7 percent of ethnic Russians in Estonia claimed knowledge of at least some Estonian.
Legislation may now be in place to permit the integration of Russian-speaking noncitizens, but the process is unfolding in a manner that is dissatisfying to all sides. Some Russian activists, such as Gennady Kotov, of the Latvian Human Rights Committee, go so far as to characterize the existing legislation as “policy apartheid,” designed to keep Russian speakers second-class citizens.
Baltic officials bristle at such criticism. Ints Zitars, director of Latvia’s Citizenship and Immigration Department, insists there are no insurmountable obstacles to obtaining citizenship. If there is an element of hardship, it is self-imposed through Russian speakers’ unwillingness to learn the titular language, Zitars says. “In most cases, it is the free choice of Russians,” not to become citizens, he adds.
Laws are only as good as the ability to enforce them. And in the case of Estonia and Latvia, there are lingering problems connected with the implementation and application of present citizenship and naturalization mechanisms. Current deficiencies, particularly in the spheres of language instruction and residency-permit registration, prevent the mechanisms from working in an optimal fashion, diminishing interest in the process among Russian speakers.
The desire of Estonians and Latvians to make noncitizens learn their languages is not matched by a zest to promote language instruction. To expect that an individual can teach himself or herself a foreign language, especially one as complex as Estonian, is plainly unreasonable. Yet so far, especially in Estonia, access to language instruction is not widely available. Children can learn languages in schools, but adults have a much harder time gaining access to affordable instruction. The various programs that promote adult language education are dependent on international assistance. Latvia, for instance, relies on the United Nations Development Program (UNDP) to finance much of the country’s $23 million project to promote the teaching of Latvian. The ambitious program aims to provide Latvian-language instruction to 180,000 adults and an additional 180,000 schoolchildren over a 10-year span. As for direct governmental aid for language promotion, allocations are insufficient to meet the needs. The Estonian government provides only 10 hours of state-paid “language consultation” to aspiring citizens preparing to take the language test, according to Ilmar Tomusk, director general of the Estonian National Language Board. This is far from enough to ensure a reasonable chance at a passing grade on the language portion of the naturalization test. Thus, Russian speakers often find themselves with no alternative, other than to finance the bulk of their language study with their own money. Although economic conditions in the Baltics have been improving, the need to self-finance language instruction is burdensome for a significant number of Russian-speaking households.
The administration of the language tests has also come under criticism. The Estonian procedure contains room for arbitrariness in the grading process, according to Dr. Joyce Neu, an international observer from the Atlanta-based Carter Center. Naturalization hopefuls must demonstrate a conversational knowledge of Estonian, but examiners have broad authority to ask questions that go beyond the spirit of the language requirement, Dr. Neu has observed. In at least one case, in apparent contradiction of the test’s intent, oral answers not only had to be grammatically proper, but also factually correct. One Russian speaker told a Forced Migration Projects researcher that when he took the test he was asked how to get from Tallinn to the coastal city of Parnu. Although he claimed that he answered in more-or-less grammatically correct Estonian, he was told that his answer was factually wrong. Although he did not pass the test, there was no way to verify independently the reason for his failing grade.
Another contentious aspect of the exam concerns administrative costs. The government imposes an administrative fee to those taking the test, ranging upwards of 20 percent of the minimum monthly wage. In 1997, the fee amounted to about 180 Estonian kroons, or roughly $15—a sizable sum under the prevailing conditions. The average monthly wage in Estonia is about $197, while in Latvia it is roughly $240. Russian speakers view the imposition of such a fee as a hardship designed to diminish the number of those hoping to naturalize.
In Latvia, the main lightning rod for criticism is the Citizenship and Immigration Department (CID), run by Zitars. International organizations, particularly the OSCE, have cited the department on several occasions for abuse of power. In particular, the Department has faced criticism for unlawful and arbitrary action in refusing residency permits. Without such permits, noncitizens are vulnerable to deportation. The permits are also required to initiate the naturalization process. The OSCE’s Charles Magee says there have been instances in which the CID has disregarded court orders to grant resident permits to certain individuals. Magee adds that the CID’s burden of proof concerning the fulfillment of residency requirements can be excessive. In addition, the review process can be conducted in a random fashion. The bureaucrats are “not in a mood to be helpful,” he says. Offering a possible explanation, he adds that some in the Latvian bureaucracy “could have been under the influence of the nationalist idea.”
Zitars acknowledges problems with the Department’s operations, but stresses that improvements have been made since the OSCE lodged its initial complaints. CID workers have been instructed to interpret legislation in a broader manner, Zitars says. He adds that there are gaps in the existing legislation that make it difficult for his agency to resolve a significant number of residency-permit cases in a timely manner.
Magee confirms that the OSCE office is receiving far fewer complaints about the CID than in previous years, but adds that it still needs to make greater strides in professionalizing its operations.
Naturalization candidates in both Estonia and Latvia also complain about lengthy waiting periods. Completing all stages of the naturalization process can take a year or more. Indeed, even in relatively small nations such as Estonia and Latvia, the bureaucratic machinery moves at a deliberate pace, with numerous bottlenecks built into the process. Particularly time consuming is the need to verify information provided in applications for naturalization or permanent residency. But there are other hurdles as well. In Estonia, for instance, all decisions on the granting of citizenship require ratification by Parliament.
Allegations of human rights violations have been injected into the citizenship debate, ratcheting up interethnic animosities. While the arguments may have merits, opinions are sufficiently polarized to ensure that any discussion of human rights ends in an impasse. As is the case with discussions about history, prospects for a solution to the dilemma may be best served if the human rights dispute is acknowledged. However, refocusing the debate on policy prescriptions based on civil society may strengthen conciliation and encourage an inclusive approach at this juncture.
The imposition of a bar to automatic citizenship by the governments of post-Soviet Estonia and Latvia constitutes a human rights violation in the view of most Russian speakers. Particular indignation is reserved for the language requirements, which most Russian speakers consider to be onerous, designed solely to secure political and economic privileges for the titular nationalities. In Latvia, Russian speakers also have complained vociferously about naturalization quotas and certain laws limiting opportunities for employment and property ownership. Only citizens can own land.
International organizations, including the United Nations, the OSCE and the Council of Europe, have identified shortcomings in Estonia’s and Latvia’s citizenship and naturalization policies. Latvia has been criticized for restricting employment opportunities for noncitizens. However, the same international agencies have affirmed that in general the policies conform to minimal international standards. The Council of Europe, for instance, decided in January 1997 to end its mission in Estonia that monitored whether the country was fulfilling all its membership commitments, which include the observance of human rights conditions. In ending the mission, though, the Council recommended that Estonia take additional steps to promote naturalization of nonethnic Estonian residents. By 1997, most of the international community’s lingering concerns appeared directed at the implementation and application of laws, and not the legislation itself.
Russian speakers persevere with their claims, despite the lack of backing from international organizations. The Russian government additionally remains active in advocating greater rights for Russian speakers not only in the Baltic states, but throughout the so-called near-abroad. In late 1996, the UN General Assembly turned back an attempt by Russia to sanction Estonia and Latvia for alleged human rights abuses.
Estonians and Latvians tend to treat with contempt allegations of human rights violations. To the titular nationalities, Russian speakers seek the best of both worlds, wanting to retain the secure comforts that they had during the Soviet era, while reaping the benefits of Baltic independence. Endel Lippmaa, a leading Estonian intellectual and right-leaning politician, suggests many Russian speakers, especially older ones who lived most of their lives during the Soviet era, do not want to face the new realities, in which the state no longer guarantees Soviet-style, cradle-to-grave security. “Little mental effort was required during Soviet times,” Lippmaa says. “It was rather a carefree life. Life is now much more demanding.”
Policy can never be properly evaluated if the differences between theory and practice are not taken into consideration. Thus, a thorough examination of the on-the-ground realities for Russian speakers is appropriate. Perhaps the most expedient way to observe potential discrepancies between theory and reality is to look at the situation of Russian speakers in northeastern Estonia. The region is unique in the Baltic states for its high concentration of Russian speakers, as Estonians comprise less the 10 percent of the area’s population. The problem of how to incorporate Russian speakers into the political, economic and social mainstream is acute here.
Northeastern Estonia was home mostly to farmers and fishermen before World War II. But following Estonia’s loss of independence, Soviet central planners reconfigured the region’s economic base and Russian speakers were encouraged to move to the region to staff the huge industrial plants situated in coastal areas. Over time, industrialization had a debilitating impact on both the land and the indigenous people. In and around the town of Kohtla-Jarve, strip-mining scars the land, while uranium processing in Sillamae threatens to turn the surrounding area into a hazardous wasteland.
The collapse of the Soviet system wrought economic havoc on the region. Old, inefficient factories could not compete in international markets and closed, leaving thousands without full-time jobs. Some factory smokestacks continue to belch poisonous waste into the air. A particularly notorious cement plant in the coastal town of Kunda spreads gray ash across the bucolic area.
The region’s hub is Narva, which stands on Estonia’s border with Russia. All that separates Narva from the Russian city of Ivangorod is the narrow, but fast-flowing Narva River. Once an important trading center and member of the Hanseatic League, Narva now can only boast about being the biggest town in Estonia’s poorest region. Demographically, Narva had a large prewar Estonian population, but now 97 percent of its inhabitants are Russian speakers.
Narva presents a startling contrast to the other major Estonian population centers of Tallinn, Tartu and Parnu. It is hard to believe Narva and the other cities are part of the same country. Little of the economic dynamism that vibrates through central Tallinn is evident in Narva. What stands out is a noticeable paucity of investment. Narva’s center lacks boutiques, restaurants and other accouterments of budding prosperity. Against this bleak background, many Russian speakers struggle to scratch out an existence. People seem preoccupied with personal financial matters, an impression drawn from random interviews in the city center. Only after first complaining about economic difficulties do people raise the issues of citizenship and language.
One such interviewee is Lida Matrossova, who, along with her husband, came to Narva in 1961 from the Russian autonomous republic of Bashkiria. She perhaps best encapsulates the lament of changed economic circumstances with the statement: “When we moved here it was heaven. Now it is not.” After Estonia regained independence, she continues, the rich-poor gap started to yawn. “It is not so easy today for the people who do not have much money,” Matrossova says. “People in general are much more aggressive now.”
With little prompting, people have harsh comments about existing citizenship and language policies. They complain about all aspects of the naturalization process: the difficulty in assembling the needed documents, including verification of residency needed in order to submit the application; the language test; and the administrative costs involved in naturalization. Most point out that the city is so overwhelmingly Russian-speaking that it is virtually impossible for someone to learn Estonian because there are so few opportunities to practice the language. Indeed, ethnic Estonians in the city often have no choice but to speak in Russian if they want to be understood.
“I would take Estonian citizenship, but I cannot seem to learn the language,” says Lydia Denishik, a street sweeper originally from Belarus. Not all share Denishik’s enthusiasm for Estonian citizenship. Most say they would apply for an alien passport, or would put off a final decision on status until later.
At the same time, many are skeptical about applying for Russian citizenship. For one, Estonia’s economy is stronger than Russia’s, and, despite the hardships, the average person is still able to enjoy a higher standard of living in Narva. “It may be bad here, but it is worse on the other side,” Denishik adds, pointing across the Narva River at Ivangorod in Russia. Many also say that, although they are Russian by ethnicity, they would have no place to go if they returned to Russia. Others, like Yelena Alexandrova, express concern that those taking Russian citizenship now would expose themselves to possible deportation from Estonia in the future.
The citizenship issue is even threatening to tear apart some families. For example, 20-year-old Natasha Obukhova says she applied for Estonian citizenship, passed the language test and is now waiting for her documentation. Since she learned Estonian in school, the language exam presented no problem. Her father, on the other hand, has become a Russian citizen, while her mother remains undecided. Her father, Obukhova adds, wants to return to Russia, but she is adamantly opposed to leaving. “I came here when I was five years old. This is the only place I know and I have no intention of leaving.”
A feeling that unites virtually all Russian speakers is insecurity. They are anxious about everything connected with the future, including their ability to earn a living, and their place in society. Fueling the insecurity is what they consider a deficit of information on issues that affect them. Authorities make insufficient efforts to keep Russian speakers apprised of developments that may affect their interests, especially those concerning language and citizenship policy. Without easy access to official information, rumors can circulate and obtain an imprimatur of fact, further fraying nerves.
Maybe the issue that most worries Russian speakers here is the border-crossing regime. Virtually everyone has either relatives or close friends living in neighboring Ivangorod. One elderly pensioner even says he lives in Narva but maintains a garden plot in Russia, adding that he crosses the border almost daily during the growing season to tend to his vegetables, which are a major source of food. Many fear a change in rules that would complicate border-crossing procedures.
While most people interviewed say they have no desire to live in Russia, some express a strong desire for the Russian government to help them by advocating more for expanding the rights of Russian speakers in Estonia. Officials in Moscow have frequently complained that noncitizens in Estonia and Latvia, i.e. ethnic Russians, are denied fundamental human rights. But so far, Russian officials have yet to back their complaints with tough actions. This has disappointed some in Narva. “We do not feel anything from the [Russian] Duma,” Alexandrova says.
Though there might be great animosity towards current citizenship and migration policies, wrath is focused on faceless government structures. Everyone interviewed in Narva says their personal relations with Estonians are “normal,” and most cannot conceive of a scenario in which there might be an incident of interethnic violence.
Estonia and Latvia find themselves at an important juncture in their development. A wrong move at this stage will be hard to undo. There exists a broad gulf in the attitudes of the titular peoples and of Russian speakers towards continuing state-building efforts. The atmosphere is riven by deepening feelings of mutual alienation. In addition, dangerous disparities and discrepancies in the fields of politics and economics are apparent.
In politics, disparity is evident in the ethnic representation of elected members of Parliament. The citizenship dilemma, of course, ensures that Russian speakers do not enjoy a level of representation that is commensurate with their share of the population. For example, only six of the 101 members of Parliament in Estonia at present are of ethnic Russian origin, despite a Russian-speaking share of the general population of over 30 percent. The disproportion is perhaps more pronounced in Latvia, where, unlike Estonia, resident aliens do not enjoy the right to vote in local elections. This creates situations like that in Riga, where a majority of the population is Russian speaking, but 56 of the 60 seats on the city council are held by ethnic Latvians. In addition, Russian speakers are vastly underrepresented in the executive branches of government in both countries.
In the post-Soviet era, the advent of a rough-and-tumble market system is fueling economic differentiation. The gap between rich and poor is now reaching alarming dimensions. While to a certain extent unavoidable, the differentiation contains an ethnic element that is a source of special concern, says Jarve, the member of the Estonian Presidential Roundtable on Interethnic Relations. While no studies have been conducted that can prove or disprove his impressions, Jarve says the inability of many Russian speakers to communicate properly in the titular languages is seriously damaging their economic prospects.
The titular peoples, as a whole, tend to be more prosperous than the Russian speakers, and the difference is perhaps widening, suggests Jarve. Although there are Russian speakers in both Estonia and Latvia who have amassed vast fortunes from trading raw materials, the bulk of Russian speakers languish near poverty. Similar impressions are seconded by leaders of the Russian-speaking communities in the two countries. “One segment of the population now finds itself isolated,” says Sergei Ivanov, the leader of the ethnic-Russian faction in the Estonian Parliament.
An increasing number of Russian speakers fear that they are being left behind. “[Economic] competition is fierce, and it is not easy to survive,” says Boris Tsilevich, an independent human rights activist who advocates greater rights for Russian speakers. “It is also tough for them [the indigenous populations] and so they say: ‘Why should we sacrifice our advantages? Why should we help?’ ” He adds that a large number of Russian-speaking noncitizens have little chance of finding jobs to match their levels of education. Many have professional qualifications but are forced to take menial jobs, when they can find them, because of the lack of indigenous-language proficiency.
As for the mood among Estonians and Latvians, a significant number continue to perceive Russian speakers as a potential Fifth Column, ready to undermine Baltic independence from within. “The Russian presence is a threat to the state’s security,” says Suune Tihane, the leader of the Tartu branch of Kaitseliit, a paramilitary Estonian nationalist organization with about 10,000 members nationwide. Conspiracy theories are prevalent in nationalist circles, which often exert undue influence over policy debates. “There are people [Russian speakers] who don’t want to integrate, and who don’t want others to integrate,” Tihane says. The suspicions of Tihane and other nationalists are bolstered by poll results compiled in March 1997 by the International Organization for Migration indicating that more Russian-speaking noncitizens consider Russia to be “my country” than do those who think the same of Estonia.
Others believe that increasing the number of Russian-speaking citizens would not automatically solve the fundamental problem, which some describe as a cultural gap. “We are very different types of people and it is hard to find things in common,” says Anne Janese, the head of the Estonian Language Department at the Tartu University Language Center. The center provides Estonian language instruction to Russian-speaking students.
Given prevailing perceptions and suspicions, any initiative designed to facilitate the incorporation of Russian speakers, especially potential legislation that softens citizenship requirements, would likely be viewed as a concession, and therefore receive a hostile reception from the voters in the titular communities. Tolerance levels are higher in urban areas, like Tallinn and Riga, where Estonians, Latvians and Russian-speaking people frequently interact. But in the countryside, where less interethnic interaction occurs, attitudes tend to be more hardened on the issue of integrating Russian speakers.
For their part, Russian speakers have on occasion sent signals that have alarmed, rather than assuaged, Estonians and Latvians. For example, during the June 1996 first-round of Russia’s presidential election, turnout among resident Russian citizens in Estonia was relatively heavy, and they strongly backed the Communist Party candidate Gennady Zyuganov. Indeed, Zyuganov gathered almost two-thirds of the 23,000 ballots cast in Estonia, according to the Estonian ETA news agency. President Boris Yeltsin ran third, behind Alexander Lebed, the former Russian general turned national-patriotic politician.
Spirited support for a Communist candidate is a sure way to arouse the fears of the titular community. In the post-Soviet age, the Russian Communist Party has been a leading force in the Russian nationalist cause, often advocating measures that are ostensibly aimed at restoring at least some vestiges of the old empire. The party has also criticized the Estonian and Latvian governments for supposedly discriminating against Russian speakers.
Other obstacles to compromise are connected to Russian-speakers’ discontent. For many Russian-speaking intellectuals, developments since 1991 have left them feeling betrayed. This element of Russian-speaking society once had the potential to serve as a bridge to the titular communities, but that potential appears to have been exhausted, at least for the time being.
Their sense of betrayal arises out of their experiences during the Baltic independence drive. During the latter stage of the Gorbachev era, Russian liberal intellectuals in both Estonia and Latvia joined forces with Baltic nationalists and intellectuals in the so-called Popular Front movements, which agitated for greater local autonomy. The old guard in Moscow, in its futile attempt to preserve the union, helped unify the democratic and patriotic elements in the Baltic Popular Fronts. Once the Soviet empire went into its death throes, though, the competing agendas quickly came into conflict. Titular activists tended to be motivated more by the idea of national revival, while Russian-speaking intellectuals placed more emphasis on the democratic aspect of the struggle.
Given the preponderance of support for the Baltic patriotic ideal, the Russian democrats quickly found themselves first isolated, then shunted aside. In many cases, the insensitivity demonstrated by Baltic activists toward their Russian-speaking cohorts helped turn Russian liberals into reactionaries. “Many Russians feel betrayed by those organizations that they supported during the drive for independence,” says Boris Tsilevich, the human rights activist in Riga.
Tsilevich’s own experience is a case in point. In 1988, he joined the Latvian Popular Front. It became quickly apparent to him that the front had two main components: a democratic wing, which attracted many ethnic Russians, and a more national-democratic wing supported by a majority of Estonians and Latvians. “The question always was which component would prevail,” Tsilevich adds. “We thought our [Russian intellectuals’] presence would make the national-liberation movements less nationalistic and more democratic. But we lost.” Tsilevich left the Popular Front in 1990, and is now an ardent critic of current government policy. “The problem is back then,” he says referring to the late 1980s, “we weren’t professional politicians. We were just doctors, intellectuals and the like.”
Past experience has been so embittering that many Russian intellectuals are wary of again placing their trust in Estonian and Latvian leaders. “There are roundtables and other discussions of the issues, but these solve nothing. They are only words,” says Leonid Raikhman, a leading advocate for the protection of Russian speakers’ human rights in Latvia.
Others are so alienated that they have chosen to remain outside the process. Alexander Shegeinin, a former Russian-language professor at Estonia’s Tartu University, is one such case. During the independence drive, he was an enthusiastic supporter of Estonian independence. But then he was fired from his teaching job in 1991 when the university eliminated many of its Russian-language programs. Ever since he has struggled to maintain a decent living standard, and he is working as a journalist for a local Russian-language newspaper. Although he speaks decent Estonian, and could fulfill all the requirements, the hardships of the last five years have left him disinclined to apply for Estonian citizenship. “I don’t think I’ll ever apply. I know this is not a pragmatic approach,” he says. “It is due to purely psychological factors.”
Apathy is another powerful current now running through the Russian-speaking population. Evidence of apathy is seen in the low number of Russian-speaking Latvians applying for citizenship in 1996, says Charles Magee, the OSCE representative in Riga. In Estonia, an indicator is the sharp decline in voter turnout. In the local elections of 1993, in which noncitizens were allowed to vote, about 170,000 resident aliens registered to cast ballots. But in the October 1996 local balloting, only about 71,000 noncitizens joined the voter rolls.
There are important distinctions within the Russian-speaking community that may not be properly appreciated by the bulk of Estonians and Latvians. Russian speakers are often perceived by titular peoples as one monolithic group, but this perception is fraught with oversimplification. According to some Russian-speaking experts, there are significant differences in outlook and attitudes that separate those who arrived before World War II and those who migrated during the Soviet era.
The differences within the Russian-speaking community, whether in Estonia or in Latvia, are not related to citizenship, which prewar arrivals gained automatically under the established rules. There is a fundamental difference in orientation, according to Sergei Issakov, the Parliament member whose family came to Estonia between the world wars. In addition to his responsibilities as a legislator, he is a professor at Tartu University and the author of a recent book on the history of ethnic Russians in Estonia during the interwar period. Issakov says many of the pre-World War II Russian-speaking arrivals were anticommunist “White Russians,” who fled Russia after the Bolsheviks solidified their hold on power in the early 1920’s. These included Tsarist military officers and their families. As a result of their experiences, these prewar migrants tended to integrate, learning Estonian and intermarrying.
Also important is the fact that prewar Russians suffered terribly after Moscow’s reconquest of the Baltics. Soviet dictator Joseph Stalin viewed ethnic-Russian residents in the Baltics as a subversive element, and they were persecuted as ruthlessly as the Estonian intelligentsia. Stalin arrested and deported many of these ethnic Russians to Siberia.
The postwar arrivals, as already highlighted, tended to settle in compact communities, and found jobs mostly in the industrial and service sectors. Because Russian was the primary language of communication and instruction in the Soviet empire, few saw the need to seriously study local tongues. Most importantly, the postwar arrivals identified with Moscow and the Soviet system in a way that the prewar Russian speakers never did. “The mentality of prewar ethnic Russians is different. They are more connected with Estonian society,” Issakov says. “They see the world in a different way [than do postwar migrants] and they do not have any special feelings of loyalty to the Soviet Union. The ethnic Russians who arrived after the war are of a more Soviet character.”
Age is another major factor in how members of the Russian-speaking communities in Estonia and Latvia approach citizenship and language issues. Younger Russian speakers, according to polling data compiled by the International Organization for Migration, are in general more content with their circumstances in the Baltics, and express a greater desire to integrate and become naturalized citizens. Older Russian speakers are more reluctant to take steps to learn indigenous languages. The study also shows that older Russian speakers are far more likely to apply for Russian citizenship.
here is no telling how events might unfold should the numbers of resident aliens in Estonia and Latvia remain at current levels. The citizenship situation has few historical analogies, so it is extremely difficult to cull previous experience for clues about its impact on the Baltics’ future.
A continuation of the existing situation, however, surely would not ease prevailing anxieties. Several Russian-speaking observers go so far as to raise the possibility of spasmodic violence. Continuing down the present path, they say, could lead to a situation like that in Northern Ireland, with its tit-for-tat sectarian violence, or Los Angeles, which suffered an ethnically tinged violent outburst.
Most analysts, though, are not so dire in their discussion of possible dangers. There is certainly widespread concern about unforeseen consequences of past and present actions. Yet the overwhelming majority rule out the possibility of a conflagration in the Baltics of the type frequently seen in the early 1990s, primarily along the former Soviet Union’s southern rim. Still, many are concerned about the course of developments in the Baltics.
“It would be extremely unlikely to see widespread unrest,” says Charles Magee of the OSCE in Riga. “However, it is a sufficiently abnormal situation that we would like to get larger numbers of citizens.”
What worries Sergei Ivanov, the Russian parliamentary leader in Estonia, is not the possibility of a conflict engulfing the region, but just the opposite—total disengagement of the Russian-speaking population. “If there is no change in the near future, then Russian-speaking noncitizens will go their own way,” he says. He refers to Estonia, but his thoughts could also apply to Latvia. “We can end up with a situation where we will have two separate nations—one that is Russian-speaking and one that is Estonian—living in one state called Estonia.”
Such a condition of socio-political schizophrenia would be debilitating for any country, but it could be catastrophic for a state with fledgling democratic and market economic institutions. If Russian-speaking noncitizens disengage, the ethnicity factor in the stratification of rich and poor would likely become enhanced. Estonia and Latvia then might find themselves burdened with a permanent Russian-speaking underclass, acting as a constant drain on state resources, preventing the economy from reaching its full potential. No one would benefit much from such a situation. In social terms, a pervasive sense of desperation can often fuel negative social tendencies, including crime. Thus, deep and impermeable ethnic divisions could easily scuttle Baltic attempts to become fully a part of the Western European democratic tradition.
The Russia factor deserves close examination at this point. Geo-strategic considerations mean that Russian attention would probably be riveted on the Baltics no matter what the circumstances. Disputes over citizenship and language issues, however, offer Moscow a chance to aggressively influence Estonia’s and Latvia’s future course. The longer the Russian-speakers’ conundrum remains unresolved, the easier it becomes for Moscow to play the role of instigator.
Given the ever-present potential for Russian interference, some ethnic Russian leaders in the Baltics argue that current citizenship policies do more to harm the national interests of Estonia and Latvia than to bolster the two countries’ sovereignty. A potential danger, in the view of some observers, arises from the fact that significant numbers of Russian-speaking resident aliens in Estonia are opting to become Russian citizens. In Estonia, for instance, more Russian speakers have opted for Russian citizenship than have gone through the Estonian naturalization process. “It creates a way for Russia, in a legal manner, to meddle in Estonia’s internal affairs,” says Sergei Issakov, the Estonian Parliament member.
“At the present time, Russia does not have the resources, or the desire, to concern itself too much about the fate of their compatriots elsewhere,” Issakov added. “But times will change, and the situation may change accordingly. And then the presence of large numbers of compatriots in the Baltics could represent a grave danger to those states’ sovereignty.”
In Latvia, far fewer Russian speakers have so far opted for Russian citizenship than in Estonia. Many fear that holding Russian citizenship would endanger their ability to obtain state pensions, limit their ability to buy and sell land, and render them vulnerable to deportation if convicted of a major offense.
Some Estonian and Latvian officials seem indifferent on the matter of resident Russian citizens. In part, this reaction is consistent with the largely passive stance that has been assumed in the Baltic approach to naturalization. Many among the titular populations also believe that no matter what the Baltic states do to accommodate Russian speakers, it would never be sufficient to satisfy Russia. “They [officials in Moscow] would complain even if there were no Russian citizens here,” says Endel Lippmaa, the former dissident.
For its part, Russia’s interests might be well served by advocating that Russian speakers in the Baltics learn the titular languages. The ability to converse in the local tongues would lessen tension and promote a greater sense of shared prosperity among the Russian-speaking population. The more Russian speakers are integrated into the Baltic mainstream, the less inclined they will be to migrate back to Russia. This might please Moscow, which has been unable to handle in a proper fashion the influx of Russian speakers from former Soviet republics since 1991.
Despite the potential benefits for stability in the Baltics, Russia is unlikely to urge what would amount to an integration strategy. Other interests, especially geo-political concerns, may override Moscow’s desire to diminish its migration burden. In addition, nationalist rhetoric has proven popular with the electorate in Russia.
In a speech on June 23, 1996, in Narva, Estonian President Lennert Meri said: “A state is precisely as strong as its weakest link.” This comment indicates that at least some Baltic leaders see a more aggressive stance on promoting naturalization as being in the best interests of the Estonian and Latvian states.
Recognition of a problem is often the first step towards a solution. Unfortunately, domestic political considerations make it difficult for governments to follow up with actions. Governing coalitions are so fractious that virtually any initiative relating to the Russian-speakers question is likely to stoke intense debate, and perhaps create a political crisis. Under such conditions, few politicians are willing to take the necessary risks to start a dialogue that can build trust between the titular communities and Russian speakers. Starting a dialogue, in which the complaints and concerns of all are voiced and heard, is essential for the resolution of differences of opinion.
The reaction to President Meri’s speech shows that much remains to be done to create an atmosphere of trust. Meri went to great lengths to reassure the Russian-speaking community in his Narva speech. “The Estonian Constitution and the Republic of Estonia trust their citizens alike, no matter whether they are Russians, or Finns, Ukrainians or Germans,” he said. Most Russian speakers, however, are skeptical. “We can only guess what will happen to us. We get no concrete answers from the Estonian authorities,” says Yelena Alexandrova, one of the many discontented residents of the predominantly ethnic-Russian city of Narva.
For their part, many leaders in the Russian-speaking community, given their previous experience, distrust gestures of reconciliation. Especially in Latvia, where Russian speakers have less access to the political system, leaders seem filled with bitter feelings, all but precluding constructive dialogue. “They deceived us once before,” says Tatyana Zhdanok, a leading advocate for Russian-speaker rights in Latvia. “All they [politicians] do is exploit the nationalist idea.”
Outside of the political sphere, the signs are more encouraging. Feelings of enmity among Estonians and Latvians seem to be diminishing over time. For example, Russian speakers say that, immediately following the reestablishment of independence, Estonians and Latvians would often refuse to speak Russian in public places, including stores and restaurants. Six years later, many Russian speakers admit that the Baltic peoples appear more tolerant about the use of Russian. Economic realities are also tacitly encouraging Russian speakers to learn local languages. There is growing awareness that language ability is a key to opportunity.
Government officials in both countries admit that they are disappointed with the low numbers of naturalized citizens. Some officials express willingness to consider modifications that would promote greater interest in naturalization. The possibilities for improving the situation in 1997, however, are limited. Government officials make it clear that naturalization requirements will not be eliminated. “Zero option goes against the principles of our statehood. It is not an issue,” says Henrik Hololei, head of the European Integration Department in the Estonian government. Again, he is speaking about Estonia, but Latvian officials share the same opinion. “To allow zero option would mean that we would be tossing the principles of our reestablished state into the trash can.” At the same time, amending current legislation is problematic due to the fragile nature of governing coalitions.
Estonian and Latvian leaders are showing signs of greater flexibility, however. In its 1997 program, for instance, the Estonian government said it would grant permanent residency permits to legal aliens who now have only temporary permits. Estonian legislators, meanwhile, have considered extending the deadline contained in an education law, which currently would eliminate education in the Russian language by the year 2000. In addition, Koidu Mesilane, head of the Citizenship Department of the Estonian Board of Citizenship and Migration, indicates that the naturalization requirements for senior citizens may be eased.
In Latvia, the chief of the citizenship board, Ints Zitars, says he supports the abolition of the graduated approach to naturalization, or the so-called window system. All noncitizens should have the ability to apply immediately for naturalization in Latvia, he suggests. He adds that new informational materials are being prepared to better explain the naturalization process to Russian-speaking noncitizens.
In addition, Baltic officials have demonstrated flexibility in the enforcement of legislation. Zitars, as already mentioned, asserts that Latvian Citizenship and Immigration Department officials are interpreting regulations concerning residency permit cases in a broader manner. Estonian authorities, meanwhile, in some cases have extended deadlines so that Russian-speaking state employees could remain at their posts. In northeastern Estonia, for example, an almost two-year extension was given to noncitizen police officers to meet employment requirements. The Public Service Act of 1996 had called for the dismissal of state employees who had not become naturalized by February 1, 1997. Despite the extension, at least 22 of the 192 officers affected by the measure have announced that they, under no circumstance, would go through the naturalization procedure, primarily because of their refusal to take the language examination. The stance of the 22 officers reflects the mood of an unreconcilable segment of the Russian-speaking population. Unable to come to terms with the post-Soviet reality, the lingering reluctance to adapt is arguably the biggest obstacle to resolution of the conundrum.
The area where Baltic leaders have the greatest room to maneuver, in terms of expanding naturalization incentives, is in the educational sphere. This is the case in part because of the dire need to modernize the schooling systems, equipping them to teach Estonian and Latvian as second languages.
Focusing on Estonia, there are drastic shortages of both teaching materials and human resources. Of the 700 or so teachers now working in the country’s 116 predominantly Russian-speaking schools, only about 100 are qualified to teach in Estonian. Attracting qualified instructors to work in Russian-speaking schools is difficult. One disincentive is low teacher salaries. Another factor is that most Russian-language schools are located in areas, such as northeastern Estonia, that feature less variety and lower standards of living.
In addition to material shortages, a methodology for teaching Estonian as a second language has yet to be fully formulated, says Ilmar Tomusk of the Estonian National Language Board.
He adds that the language board is devising a strategic plan, which is scheduled to be ready in mid-1997. Still, even the most comprehensively revised education plan stands little chance of achieving all its goals, primarily due to a funding shortage. “We have a small and new democracy, and we must rely on the help of foreign countries,” Tomusk says.
Despite the apparent interest in expanding and improving language education, Sergei Issakov and other Russian-speaking politicians say Estonians are not exploiting existing opportunities to their fullest potential. “The official explanation is there is no money,” says Issakov, “but I am afraid that there is a general attitude [among Estonians] that says basically: ‘Let the Russians take care of themselves.’ ”
Some ethnic Russian leaders have called for the creation of so-called culturally autonomous zones in northeastern Estonia and other areas with high concentrations of Russian speakers. Meanwhile, some officials in Moscow have called for Russian to be officially recognized as a second language. Both of these proposals have been flatly rejected by Baltic government officials. Implementation of either measure would virtually eliminate all incentive for Russian speakers to learn titular languages, Estonian and Latvian officials argue. “Language is vital for our feeling as a state,” says Tomusk. “Estonians should be able to use their own language in any area of their own country.”
The current situation requires strong conciliatory initiatives. The international community—donor governments, international organizations and nongovernmental organizations (NGOs)—will be a key element in such approaches. Interested international actors could marshal resources and provide valuable experience, helping to encourage the strengthening of civil society. Several specific areas are deserving of international assistance:
The need for dialogue. Any effort to amend existing legislation could prove to be divisive. Nevertheless, citizenship issues merit wide discussion. Politicians must have the courage to address unpopular topics. It would appear to be in the best interests of the governments of both Estonia and Latvia to open a dialogue on citizenship and language issues. The top foreign policy objective of both states—EU membership—may well depend on the two states’ ability to significantly reduce the number of noncitizens in their countries, as such a large share of noncitizens in the general population diminishes their attractiveness as candidates for EU membership. Dialogue would be a prerequisite of conceiving a mutually satisfactory approach to reducing the noncitizen population. Comprising the majority, the titular population should make the first move. The governments of Estonia and Latvia could help build momentum for dialogue with an administrative act, perhaps eliminating or greatly reducing the fees charged for the naturalization procedure. Legislative reform may also contribute to a more inclusive approach. In Latvia in particular, the “window approach” to applying for naturalization should be eliminated, as should most restrictions on employment opportunities for resident noncitizens.
Language instruction. As previously noted, the teaching of titular languages already is receiving attention, both from the Estonian and Latvian governments and from international organizations. Nevertheless, available resources are insufficient to meet the needs. The international community can provide several types of assistance. Specifically, donors can provide stipends to encourage young Estonian and Latvian language teachers to move to, and work in, areas inhabited primarily by Russian speakers. Additional economic incentives can help ease shortages of qualified language teachers in Russian-speaking areas. In the realm of technical assistance, textbooks and a methodology for the teaching of Estonian and Latvian as a second language should be devised. Finally, the international community can help bolster language instruction for adult Russian speakers. UNDP is active in this area with education programs that, provided they are judged to be effective, may deserve to be supported and significantly expanded.
Professionalization of the bureaucracy. A lack of professionalization throughout the system helps make naturalization a cumbersome and unpleasant process for thousands of Russian speakers in both Estonia and Latvia. Vague rules have created room for arbitrary decision making. In addition, the standards of those administering the language portion of citizenship examinations have varied widely. The prospect of mind-boggling paperwork, unnecessary delays and other impediments decreases the numbers of those seeking to become naturalized citizens. Latvia’s Citizenship and Immigration Department has gained an especially bad reputation for shoddy treatment of aspiring citizens. The international community can help reverse the negative perceptions of the bureaucracies by providing technical assistance such as equipment and training that would make the naturalization process more applicant-friendly. Improvements have already been made, but the need for international advice is ongoing.
Improving media coverage. Producing solutions that are satisfactory to all sides requires a lengthy and open public debate. Experience has shown that the easiest way to promote such a debate is via the media. At present, though, there is a dearth of objective media discussion on cross-cultural issues, especially concerning citizenship and language. For instance, a 1996 survey of media trends in Estonia, compiled by Saar Poll, revealed sharp differences in the way Estonian-language media and Russian-language media cover events. Coverage tends to reflect only one side of the issue. Estonian newspapers reflect the titular nationality point-of-view, relying heavily on Western sources of information. The Russian-language press, on the other hand, places heavy emphasis on Moscow’s viewpoint. As a result, most people in the republic suffer from a lack of information diversity. International organizations and NGOs can work with appropriate media outlets on expanding journalistic horizons, thereby helping to influence public opinion in support of substantive change. This can be accomplished in a variety of ways. Grants can be made available to Estonian and Latvian media outlets, both print and television, that demonstrate a desire to examine citizenship and language issues from all perspectives. International organizations and NGOs might also work with the editorial boards of Estonian and Latvian media, both titular-language and Russian-language, to improve skills and promote better understanding of journalism’s role in democratic society. One option might be the creation of a six-week program of study that allows selected journalists to observe how the editorial process works in other countries, as well as continuing education on civics-related topics.
Thriving democracies tend to have one thing in common: a solid social-political arrangement regulating relations between the majority and the minority, in which everyone should enjoy equal economic opportunities. In the political sphere, the majority is obligated to ensure that the minority can freely voice its policy complaints. In return, the minority acts as a loyal opposition, always working within the system to bring about change. All are expected to participate in the political process, and basic individual rights are guaranteed no matter if one is a member of the majority or minority. This interaction is a reflection of robust civil society.
At present, many elements of such an arrangement exist in Estonia and Latvia. Yet, neither state can claim at present to be fully inclusive. The majority does not always behave in a tolerant manner towards minorities. Meanwhile, the loyalties of the minority are sometimes questioned. There are a plethora of explanations for the existing situation, many of them connected in some way to the Soviet experience.
The main task now is to invite Russian-speaking and titular communities to move beyond the emotion of the present and recent past, and focus on the future. Since it will be difficult, if not impossible, for Estonia and Latvia to find long-term stability if they do not have fully inclusive societies, the emphasis should be on increasing naturalization rates. That will require a reexamination of citizenship and language policies. Doing this in a satisfactory manner means that the Russian-speaking and titular communities must confront hard realities. Estonians and Latvians must recognize that the interwar republics cannot be recreated in their entirety. Allowances must be made for the consequences of the Soviet era. It would be wiser, we submit, to try to incorporate Russian speakers, rather than leave them to their own devices. The naturalization process should become more accessible. Proactive policies aimed at incorporating Russian speakers should be implemented. Procedures should be standardized and the process streamlined to maximize the appeal of naturalization to noncitizens.
The controversy over citizenship and language is far from a one-way street. Russian-speaking noncitizens must assume greater responsibility for their own fate. They cannot pick the best aspects of the present and past, while disregarding the unpleasant. In this respect, the lingering reluctance of many to learn the titular languages is a major stumbling block.
The international community can play a pivotal role in bringing both sides together, helping to break down barriers of distrust that have built up since the Baltic republics reestablished their independence. Language instruction plans are unlikely to succeed without heavy outside involvement. International expertise can also be put to use in promoting a mood of greater tolerance.
The stakes are large. The ability of Estonia and Latvia to find a formula for inclusiveness could open the door for quick admission to the EU—the gateway to stability and prosperity. Individual hardships can be avoided. A continuation of the existing situation, meanwhile, could leave Estonia and Latvia stuck in the so-called gray zone, caught between the West and Russia. Rights-respecting structures could be truncated. In the most basic terms, it is a question of whether Estonia and Latvia will opt for open society.
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Below is a list of people quoted in the report (in alphabetical order)
Victor Andreyev, member of the Estonian Parliament, Law Committee
Valerij I. Gerasimov, Project Coordinator for the Russian Public Information Center in Riga, Latvia
Merle Haruoja, Secretary General of the Estonian Institute for Human Rights
Henrik Hololei, Head of Office of the Office of European Integration, Republic of Estonia
Tago Holsting, Bureau Director of Estonian Foreign Ministry
Dr. Sergei Issakov, member of the Estonian Parliament, Foreign Affairs Committee, Russian Faction Chairperson
Sergei Ivanov, member of the Estonian Parliament
Anne Janese, Head of the Estonian Language Department, Tartu University
Priit Jarve, member of the Estonian Presidential Roundtable on Interethnic Relations.
Endel Lippmaa, Estonian politician and Soviet dissident
Charles Magee, Head of Mission for the OSCE Mission to Latvia
Koidu Mesilane, Head of the Citizenship Department, Estonian Board of Citizenship and Migration
Nils Muiznieks, Director of the Latvian Center for Human Rights and Ethnic Studies
Inga Reine, Senior Officer of the Complaints Department, Latvian Human Rights Office
Ilmar Tomusk, Director General, National Language Board, Republic of Estonia
Boris Tsilevich, independent human rights activist in Riga, Latvia
Dr. Tatyana Zhdanok, Cochairperson, Latvian Human Rights Committee
Ints Zitars, Director of the Citizenship and Immigration Department, Republic of Latvia Ministry of Interior
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