WORLD POLICY JOURNAL

BOOKS: Volume XXI,  No 1, Spring 2004	Print
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Rock Pool on the Baltic: A Latvian Journal
Benjamin Pauker*

RIGA—The winter sun casts long shadows over medieval Doma Square, where mud-speckled new Audis and BMWs traverse the icy cobblestones. Here, where Latvia was reborn as a sovereign democracy 13 years ago, one senses a spirit of change. On April 2, Latvia—along with its Baltic sisters, Estonia and Lithuania—became members of NATO. And, on May 1, they will formally join the European Union. No less important psychologically, six weeks later Latvia will also claim an unlikely and unprecedented spot in the final tournament of the quadrennial European soccer championships in Portugal, a prime showcase for the continent’s largest sporting and economic powers.

But although the near future ostensibly bodes well, a second round of democratization and capitalization will open Latvia to the scrutiny of Europe and to the caprices of a global trading system. All the Baltic democracies, still in their adolescence, are entering choppy waters. EU accession entails tough new requirements on human rights and a crackdown on corruption; it also exposes inefficient, undercapitalized economies to Western competition. Meanwhile, as the Baltics look westward for support, new troubles gather in the east. Russia is demanding free transit of goods through Lithuania to the isolated Russian port of Kaliningrad; it seeks official status for the Russian language in Estonia and Latvia; it is wary of NATO warplanes now policing its borders; and it is lobbying for greater EU dependence on Russia’s western oil reserves that currently languish without a market.

All the while, the still-fragile Baltic governments cope with their domestic disorders. Lithuania’s president, Rolandas Paksas, was impeached on corruption charges on April 6, and Latvia’s ruling coalition in parliament recently imploded, resulting in the appointment of a new prime minister just months before the country is due to enter the EU. But in Riga, the largest city in the Baltics (population: 800,000) and an elegant example of the prosperity that with wisdom and luck awaits the region, there is hope for a smooth transition and the resolution of old animosities.

A Winter Visit

I went to Latvia to see an old friend, Sasha, an ambitious, Kazakhstan-born, Wharton graduate who recently settled in Riga to work for a New York–based private equity firm. Airfare to Riga in February is justifiably cheap: days are short and cold. But offsetting the winter gloom in the old city are Riga’s refurbished medieval homes, the copper towers of the brick churches, and a multitude of cafes and bars. The narrow streets are largely free of cars and trucks due to aggressive and expensive metering of all traffic. Still, such measures have not slowed development; zoning laws have encouraged the renovation of old structures, so that new restaurants and hotels sprout even within the cloistered walls of a fourteenth-century convent. Amid the cobblestone streets, I came upon the brash façade of Pelmeni XL, an embryonic franchise that specializes in a regional favorite, Russian meat-filled dumplings. It is an inviting restaurant, a synthesis of local tastes and Western entrepreneurialism, but the banal face of globalization can be glimpsed at the T.G.I. Friday’s branch that lurks just down the street. Commerce, however, in all guises, has been the hallmark of Riga since its earlier centuries as a flourishing Hanseatic city with its Germanic merchants, guildhalls, and Lutheran churches. Before and after, drawn by its location, waves of conquerors have swept through Latvia as they did through Lithuania and Estonia—Teutonic knights, Swedes, Poles, Finns, and for the last three centuries, Tsarist and Soviet Russians.

One can usefully look at the three Baltic states as tidewaters whose rock pools catch and preserve receding waves of non-Baltic peoples. In Latvia, the biggest and most problematic rock pool comprises roughly 700,000 Russian speakers, many of whom live in a world apart from a people speaking an unrelated Indo-European language that still carries the stigma of colonial subjugation. Hence the special bite of Latvian nationalism, sharpened by a succession of catastrophes—Soviet occupation following the 1939 Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact, German invasion, extermination of Latvian Jews, then deportation and purges during the Stalin era.

The devastating years of Soviet rule still reverberate in Riga. In Rifleman’s Square, the vestiges of decades of repression were visible. Here, bordered by medieval German guild houses and the town hall— now restored and crowned with an uninspired, postmodern glass roof—the plaza is dominated by a black steel monolith that houses the Latvian Occupation Museum. The building’s symbolic meaning has been reshaped by the changing political tides: originally sheathed in gleaming copper, the Soviet-era building was once the Red Rifle-man’s Museum, honoring a brigade of crack Latvian troops who fought the Germans in the First World War and became Lenin’s prized guardsmen. Now stripped of its copper panels, the museum—which holds relics of the Soviet and Nazi occupations, including listening devices once used by the KGB and reconstructions of gulag life— is a dark, grave scar on the picturesque old city.

The building’s very existence is an affront to many Latvians. The Riga City Council has condemned it to be razed because of opposition to anything remotely Soviet. The same spirit of settling scores has informed the parliament’s recent law requiring that 60 percent of courses in primary and secondary schools be taught in Latvian, native to a slim majority of the population. The EU, a staunch supporter of lesser-used languages, has approved this decree, and indeed has encouraged the increase of funds for Latvian language training, a decision deeply resented by the country’s large ethnic-Russian minority, who actually constitute a majority in seven of Latvia’s eight largest cities.

Language Troubles

Sasha had arranged for a friend, Jörgen Johansson, a wire-service reporter well tutored in Latvia’s labyrinth, to serve as my occasional guide. We met in an Irish pub, complete with photos of nineteenth-century County Cork and Guinness on tap. Jörgen, wearing Buddy Holly–style glasses and a hippie, hooded pullover, was waiting for me, and after pleasantries the conversation turned to the recent troubles over language reform. Days before, organizers had arranged for thousands of Russian schoolchildren to demonstrate near the residence of the Latvian president, Vaira Vike-Freiberga. Massed outside, they sang a protest song, to the tune of Pink Floyd’s classic, “Another Brick in the Wall”: “Don’t you be such fools, keep your hands out of Russian schools, dirty hands out of Russian schools.” (In a comic footnote, representatives for Roger Waters, the song’s author, have initiated copyright infringement proceedings to ban distribution of the song and the corresponding video.)

“These laws are really nothing new,” said Jörgen, referring to the new legislation. “Yes, it’s true that a couple more classes a week will have to be taught in Latvian, but this is just another cause célèbre for Russian politicians who seek to use expatriot issues to distract from problems at home.” Indeed, Russian-language news programs were accusing Latvia of repeated human rights violations. Even allowing for exaggerations, Latvia nonetheless has much work to do in this arena, according to Alvaro Gil-Robles, the Spanish-born human rights commissioner for the Council of Europe.

In recent reports on the Baltic for the council, Gil-Robles takes all three states to task. Lithuania, he notes, “has achieved significant success these last ten years in the promotion and respect of human rights,” although it still must address problems of persistent and lawless trafficking of women for prostitution, widespread domestic violence, and shaming prison conditions. The report on Estonia faults the diminished citizenship rights of the large Russian-speaking minority, but praised the “now-prevailing spirit of dialogue...[and] a strong political will to solve the remaining obstacles to reaching the goals of equality and social inclusion.” With respect to Latvia, however, his words are unsparing: the country must “close a chapter on the past, however painful it may have been, and [fix] its attention firmly on the future.” Even in the cumbersome language of such reports—which are only advisory—the change in tone is clear. The text is sprinkled with admonitory phrases: “put an end to” X, “close down” Y, and Z “must be allowed.” Indeed, so sharp are the commissioner’s conclusions, that of the three reports, only this one has an annex, with comments and retorts by the Latvian authorities.

The report’s primary concern is the persecution of Latvia’s significant population of noncitizens. When the country regained its independence in 1991, it instituted a grandfather clause of sorts, granting automatic citizenship only to persons who had been Latvian citizens before 1940, and their descendants. All others, roughly 740,000 people out of a total population of 2.3 million, could obtain citizenship through a complex process of naturalization that required Latvian language proficiency and knowledge of the country’s history and constitution. The obvious intent was to disenfranchise and punish the Russian population that had for decades been ascendant. According to the commissioner, some 500,000 people are still noncitizens, prevented from voting in local or national elections, holding public office, or working in the public sector. Compounding their predicament, these Russian-speaking noncitizens hold no passport whatsoever, having lost their Soviet citizenship with the fall of the USSR. Worse, though the government decreed in 1998 that all children (including those of noncitizens) born in Latvia since August 21, 1991—Independence Day—can claim citizenship, so unwieldy is the application process for ethnic Russians and so lacking is the government’s will to promote the policy that only 4,000 children of noncitizens have become full citizens. And the number of people naturalized annually has dropped significantly over the past three years. While Latvia’s citizens look forward to soon being citizens of Europe, this lost remainder—roughly 21 percent of the population—will be even further isolated.

Jörgen, a Swede married to a Latvian woman, talked to me about his father-in-law, an ethnic Russian. “He owns a corner shop about 60 kilometers east of Riga. Nothing big, nothing fancy. He was a soldier in the Red Army stationed in Latvia in the early 1970s. When he left the service, he was given a job in the merchant marine and settled here. Eventually, he married a Latvian woman. But he has no need for Latvian citizenship: he knows only a few words in Latvian, speaks Russian, watches Russian television, his friends are Russian. In fact, without citizenship it’s cheaper for him to cross back into Russia—Latvian citizens are charged up to 400 percent more for a Russian visa. So why go through the trouble of studying and paying for the test? He already has to pay taxes. He does carry a passport, but where it should give his nationality, ‘Alien’ is written, in English.”

I tried to imagine living in Daugavpils, a small city four hours south of Riga, where 85 percent of the population speaks Russian and is denied representation in local government. Worse, the ethnic Russians likely can barely follow what the government is doing, since all official correspondence is in Latvian. I asked Jörgen how the current generation feels about its disenfranchisement. He shrugged, “It sucks, ja? But it’s the economy that dictates these issues. With so much Russian investment, it’s natural that the Russian language is used for business,” he said. “And as long as the economy provides opportunities—and with Europe on the horizon, it will—these communities have no need to assimilate.”

As the long night rolled in, I ordered an Aldaris, a crisp local pilsner, and the waitress returned with a fresh glass. “Spasiba,” I said, pleased with myself. She retreated, with a polite, but less than friendly smile. “Paldies,” corrected Jörgen, replacing my Russian with Latvian. “Latvians only use Russian to swear. Latvian is a...um...how do you say...submissive language. Too many years of conquest have had their effect. The only curses are ‘boot’ or ‘ax.’ But in Russian...” he said with a grin, then illustrated his point with an intensity that would have made a truckdriver blush.

The Russian Connection

I met Sasha the following day at Vincent’s, regarded as the city’s finest restaurant, on the edge of the old city. Open since 1994, the restaurant has hosted foreign dignitaries and film stars, a clientele attested to by the 40-odd photographs in the foyer between the two dining rooms. The décor is modern and muted, and the waiters speak excellent English. An informal business meeting was underway at the next table. As we ordered, I overheard a 60-something British CEO and his associate pitching a chain of service-ori-ented gas stations to four Russian businessmen, none a day over 30. “We offer our clients motor oil as a spare part,” he explained in his Midlands accent. The Russians looked at one another quizzically, then nodded.

“The country is full of Russian money,” explained Sasha. “They have tons of capital, they’re familiar with the economic landscape, and real estate is cheap...for the time being.” But while Russian firms may be among the biggest spenders, foreign direct investment is pouring in from all sides: Sasha works for a relatively small U.S.-based firm that has quietly become Latvia’s second-largest landowner, after the state. It has done well: with EU accession assured, land values have nearly doubled in the past year. But most investment in the region is purely speculative, that is, buyers have no intention of developing and building infrastructure or commercial enterprises. Foreign direct investment is of great importance to the Baltic economies, but if firms buy property only to sell it, untouched, three years later, it does little to benefit anyone but the investor. One particularly spurious example: EU laws mandate that the Latvian government own a small perimeter around its borders, a fact that has not gone unnoticed by greedy speculators who have snapped up vacant properties, only to sell them back to the government at vastly inflated prices.

Much of Latvia’s economic muscle derives from geographic advantage. Transit corridors linking east with west slice across the entire region. Latvia has one of the densest rail networks in Europe (Soviet-built, of course), decent roads, and the enormous advantage of a warm water port, Ventspils, that provides year-round storage and transit for goods and freight. As such, it is an important trading partner for Russia. However, lingering animosity between the two countries threatens to destroy a mutually beneficial relationship: Russia’s state-owned oil and gas transport company, Transneft, has temporarily shut down the oil pipeline to Ventspils, citing unspecified technical reasons, as it pursues diplomatic concessions— such as tariff-free transit through Lithuania to Kaliningrad for freight and military traffic—intended to circumvent Latvia altogether. In early February, the Duma, the lower house of Russia’s parliament, supported a measure to impose economic sanctions on Latvia for the persecution of its Russian-speaking minority. And, in early April, the Duma adopted a resolution denouncing NATO’s eastward expansion and encouraging Vladimir Putin to reexamine Russia’s defensive posture.

Latvia will have to address Moscow’s concerns. While Estonia has turned to Finnish investment to infuse its growing economy, and Lithuania has nearby Germany and Poland as strong trading partners, Latvia, frankly, needs Russia. Much of Latvia’s economy is based on the transport of Russian goods to Western markets. Without Russian trade, the country’s economy looks increasingly fragile: Transneft’s closing of the oil pipeline to Ventspils has hurt government coffers. And though the economy is expected to remain strong—the central bank has forecast over 7 percent growth for the coming fiscal year—Latvia ignores Moscow at its own peril.

Strip Malls and Hip-Hop

On the morning of the fourth day of my visit, we climbed into Sasha’s car and drove out to the countryside so that I could get a taste of life outside of Riga. We crossed the Daugava River just south of the modern single-span suspension bridge; amid the dark pockmarks of fishermen huddled on the ice below, the iridescent pink sail of an ice windsurfer traced lonely, elegant arcs. The far side of the river, not subject to the strict zoning laws of the old city, is currently undergoing massive development. A Radisson Hotel with its garish, angular neon sign sticks out like a sore thumb; a 30-story office tower faced in reflective glass is nearing completion nearby, a stone’s throw from a ramshackle riverbank town of tiny, corrugated tin shacks.

Sasha saw me looking at the hovels. “Those are garden plots,” he said, “a little land for families to plant in the spring. The shacks are for tools and soil.” Then, excitedly, he leaned over me, pointing out the passenger window. “Do you see that old factory, over there?” he asked, indicating a complex of decrepit buildings. “We own that whole area,” he said, referring to his company, “from the road out in front to the old walls in back. About 350,000 square feet. We’re building a massive ‘entertain-ment-focused’ mall,” he continued, “with two Israeli developers. There’ll be live auctions in the main atrium, where people can bid by cellphone, and games and chaperones for the kids, so the parents can shop.”

Later, on the outskirts of Jelgava, a small industrial city south of the capital, Sasha motioned again, slowing next to a large vacant lot adjacent to a modern sports facility. “We’ll use half the space to put in a do-it-yourself home and house store here, kind of like a Home Depot. The second stage of development will see other stores ring the anchor,” he said in developer’s jargon. “A strip mall?” “Yep.” “Well done,” I chided him, “you’re bringing suburban sprawl to the Baltics.”

Back in Riga, we stopped for dinner at Lido, a popular riverside buffet and brewery. Only a few kilometers from the three towering spires that mark the old city’s medieval cathedrals, Lido is located next to a fourth: the 368-meter, garishly illuminated television tower, erected in the mid 1980s. To this visitor, the restaurant complex seemed a comic pastiche of a nonexistent, pan-Baltic past: the building is a massive log cabin festooned in pulsating Christmas lights, with an incongruous Dutch windmill protruding from the side and an ice skating rink adjacent to the valet parking. Inside, there are three stories of casual dining, fireplaces, and heavy wooden tables. Cubes of beige, jellied herring glistening under the fluorescent light dot the vast buffet.

Downstairs, in the vaulted cellars, sandblasted to give the impression of age, a Latvian singer belted out traditional tunes as couples danced: historical fiction, gorged on new freedom and a Hollywood budget. Perhaps it was the strong homebrewed beer, or the toe-tapping melodies, or the enthusiasm of the half-dozen couples on the small, dance floor, but I began to soften. Is it so wrong to want a Wal-Mart? After so many years of Soviet repression, in a country where even the singing of these simple folk songs was banned, where the poor still subsist on black bread, canned smelts, and vodka, don’t people deserve a strip mall if they want one? Though I might find it charming that the small town of Sabile has no stores save a tiny bakery where I had to interrupt two chatty old women to ask for a loaf of bread, its aging residents likely think otherwise. And, as for Riga’s young, give them French hip-hop, Finnish cellphones, and a burger at T.G.I. Friday’s—they have been hungry for all of it for too long.

Looking Forward

On my last day in Riga, I walk out of the old city through the moated park that marks its northern border. The wind is bitter and I pull my woolen hat down firmly. Wandering, I find myself in the Art Nouveau district, which covers several square blocks. Architectural historians say that this is one of the finest collections of this prized style in all of Europe, and indeed there are some lovely examples. But except for a few renovated buildings, the elaborate ornamental façades are chipped and worn, weathered by the long, cold winters and decades of Soviet neglect.

On Vilandes Street, I pause beneath a sign reading “New Luxury Apartments for Lease.” Out front is a shiny new Range Rover, and tossed onto a dumpster, a discarded fur coat. The door to the building is ajar, and I push lightly. It swings open, exposing a decaying hall and a badly chipped stone staircase. I avoid the rusted handrail and walk to the first landing where a large window looks out over a pale yellow courtyard. A rusted Russian-built Lada from the 1980s sits in a puddle of dirty water.

It is an apt metaphor for the current state of affairs in Latvia. While Europe beckons with promise and opportunity— not to mention millions in the form of EU structural and integration grants—beneath a veneer of stability, Latvia’s ill-treatment of its minority ethnic-Russian population threatens to derail a smooth accession process. Riga cannot continue to neglect this constituency, the engine upon which its modern economy will be built. While the mature economies of Western Europe worry about a wave of job-seeking Eastern Europeans, the governments of the Baltics should be equally concerned by this potential human hemorrhage. In a region with a shrinking population—deaths outnumber births three to two—retaining this large, skilled workforce is centrally important to maintaining the long-term growth of the economy. Only by taking serious steps to naturalize these noncitizens can Latvia slow the outflow that nations like Britain and Ireland fear will be unleashed this May.

Still, for the moment, these are sanguine times in Riga, and there’s a good chance that, come summer, the “luxury apartments” will be refurbished and someone will get that Lada running again. And, if my visit is any indication, there is an investor somewhere looking to pay good money for it. Paradoxically, it may be the spirit of consumerism rather than forgiveness that in the end helps Latvia exorcise its past._•