The Baltic states in Putin's shadow | DW Documentary

Here in the Baltic states, people are all too familiar with Moscow’s hunger for power. There is one enemy, which is Russia. So it is so naïve to think that Russia is far away.

No. It’s only been around thirty years since the Baltic states became independent from the Soviet Union. Now, many here are once again extremely suspicious of Moscow, their former occupier.

They’re prepared to take weapons in their hands and go to the front, just to fight the enemy, to defend their home. People here on the Baltic Sea have no intention of losing their freedom again. I'm not afraid.

If the Ukrainians can beat the Russians then so can we. Let them come – we’ll be fine! I’ve come to meet people in Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania.

All three share land borders with Russia. The present-day conflicts are bringing back dark memories for residents of these Baltic countries. I’m on my way to the Estonian island of Hiiumaa.

Its pristine nature was off-limits to visitors in Soviet times. Moscow saw it as strategically important a gateway to the northwest. At the military museum on Hiiumaa traces of the Soviet era are plain to see.

Among them: old monuments that have been dismantled and relocated here. The Soviet Union occupied Estonia in 1940. So do we still have to sing the glory to these troops who occupied us?

I guess no. It was just about the time. Since the outbreak of the war in Ukraine, Estonia has taken steps to clear its public spaces of Soviet monuments.

The Baltic states’ relationship to Moscow has become more problematic than ever. Latvia, Finland, Sweden and the Baltic Sea Poland, Germany, Denmark. They all are friends, and there is one enemy, which is Russia.

So it is so naïve to think Russia is far away. No. The war in Ukraine has even provided some new museum exhibits, with obvious symbolism.

This is a true souvenir from the Bakhmut area, these pieces of uniform and helmet were taken from the killed Russian soldiers. A warning to the old occupying power and its new war. War is a very terrible thing.

There is nothing romantic and nothing to be glorified. So it is a hell of a feeling if you carry only this part of the equipment is more than thirty kilos. You have to run, you have to shoot.

And of course I understand why Ukrainians have to run and shoot: they’re protecting their country. But why do Russians do that? All their ideas have been so idiotic.

There is no sense in anything the Russian leader is talking about. Soviet monuments have also been taken down in Tallinn. Despite its medieval old city, the Estonian capital on the Baltic comes across as young and cool.

On the beach, I meet Matthias. I ask him whether he or his friends think about leaving, given the threat from neighboring Russia. We have been talking about it amongst ourselves, amongst our friends as well.

Since there’s always a question: is Russia going to come to the Baltics? Is Russia going to invade Estonia again? In my opinion and at least from what I know of, most of them aren’t.

They’re prepared to take weapons in their hands and go to the front, just to fight the enemy, to defend their home. At 22, Matthias already has his own start-up. That’s not unusual in Tallinn.

He develops online games as advertising platforms. He could work in London or Shanghai, but he’s chosen to stay. Every time I’ve been away for a month or more, I’ve felt like I missed something from Estonia.

Because whatever we say about our country, it’s still our home and we still love it. Even as Estonia looks towards a hi-tech future, tradition remains important. Like at this singing festival.

Singing has a proud history here. Citizens of the Baltic States once used their voices to stand up to Soviet tanks as part of the “Singing Revolution”. It’s a song festival, it’s a party that brings us all together.

I think it’s a lot for each and every Estonian. It’s a must-do in summer. This isn’t just tradition for tradition’s sake.

It’s key to the identity of a small nation that for so long was prevented from forging its own path. Previous generations were expected to sing the ideological anthems of the Soviets, rather than their own songs. My grandfather was a choir singer.

My mother was a dancer. I’ve been a choir singer for 18 years now. So it’s part me and part of Estonian culture that’s already encoded into us.

A nation of fewer than 1. 5 million people, Estonia has often found itself a pawn in the chess game of European history. We travel on to Narva – the most culturally Russian city in Estonia.

Only a river separates the two countries. It’s still home to Russian families who settled here during the Soviet era, bringing their worldview with them. Out on the river with tourist guide Andrei, we’re just meters from Russian soil.

Andrei, too, originally comes from Russia. I feel Russian, but I’ve lived in Estonia for 38 years. I love this country.

I’ve spent my whole life here. Like many people in the border city of Narva, Andrei doesn't speak Estonian. Russians once effectively ruled the country; today they’re just a minority community.

Many of them admire the Russian president, and mourn the past. Like this taxi driver, also called Andrei It took 30 years of capitalism to realize things were better in the Soviet Union. Not everyone here agrees.

A young woman with Russian roots, Alina, found herself the subject of a viral video when she wore a t-shirt denigrating Vladimir Putin in order to protest the war. I’ve arranged to meet Alina by the river in Narva. You weren’t allowed to bring any posters or anything, because they were trying to keep the situation calm.

Because it’s very dangerous if people start fighting amongst each other. All kinds of signs, whether supporting Russia or supporting Ukraine, were forbidden. They didn’t allow any posters.

But you cannot take off a t-shirt, right? As we’re filming, a woman gets annoyed behind the camera, saying the police should be called because of the anti-Putin propaganda. When we turn the camera towards her she cycles away.

Many Narva residents with Russian roots consume only Russian media. And there are more direct efforts to spread the Kremlin’s message. From just across the river, Moscow put on a concert celebrating the Russian military, aimed specifically at the Estonian side.

I was just very angry about it. Because it’s just making a concert especially for us, towards the Estonian side. It’s all provocation and there’s a narrative that people here are being restricted.

The border is closed to tourists, but those with family on both sides are allowed to go back and forth. Talking openly about the war in Ukraine is frowned upon in Narva. But Alina does it anyway.

Of course I hope the Ukrainians win. I’m a little bit concerned about what will come after Putin, though. Despite the clear Russian influence, we’re still in Estonia.

Alina invites us home. The 22-year-old is a teacher. After her protest against Vladimir Putin, her school urged her to resign.

She feels completely Estonian though. She tries to explain the Russian urge to look fondly on the Soviet era. Sometimes I think maybe the life was simple as well.

You had one ideology, one job, one house. Same friends. But right now it’s all very fragile and uncertain, and you have so many choices.

And you need to know a lot and you have to think critically so it’s not to simple anymore. Estonia has been independent again since 1991. Since then, rifts have formed in many Estonian families with Russian roots.

Including Alina's own. I also consider myself Estonian. And I love my father of course.

We have different political views, we have different views about identity. I think it upsets him mostly. I don’t think alike.

And my mom is like, “Well done. ” But we have a good relationship. And he’s in favor of Putin also?

Yes. But that’s not a problem for you. No, we have some heated discussions sometimes, but where we come to an agreement is that time will tell.

Time will definitely tell. As a music teacher, Alina finds songwriting an important outlet. Back to the island of Hiiumaa, in the far west of Estonia.

Once a restricted area, it’s now a hipster hotspot. We meet Britt and Kätlin. The two friends from Tallinn love the lifestyle here on the island.

They take to the water whenever they get the chance. Unfortunately, with no wind, today’s not good for surfing. Too bad – it’s not the right day today.

But the waves can just show up. Here on the Baltic Sea you never know in advance. You just have to be ready.

But look at this. Even without waves, it’s fantastic, just look at my face! In Estonian, the Baltic Sea is called the WEST Sea.

When I ask them why, they say: look at a map! Of course it’s true: the sea is to the west of the country. Britt and Kätlin work in the film and event business.

They both spend their summers here with their families. Now 39 and 42 respectively, they were children when the Soviet Union collapsed. Their families still think of Russia as the occupier of their country.

And Russia’s war against Ukraine has given them a new perspective. You start to understand your own parents better, because they lived under Russian domination. You see why Estonians are the way they are, how much our identity in the past was shaped by external interference.

Young people take the freedom we've had for 30 years for granted, but you can't exactly blame them for that. Many residents of the Baltic states feel certain that Putin wants them back. Despite the reassurance of NATO membership, many Estonians have been buying homes abroad.

Some of them as far west as Spain. But despite the tensions, life here seems carefree. Somehow, Estonians have managed to get used to the war.

Today, the mood is especially good on Hiiumaa. It’s the summer solstice, the annual highlight of life on the island. I get the impression that people here couldn’t imagine leaving.

We’re tied to Hiiumaa thanks to this magical place called Kalana. It wouldn't be that complicated to move abroad with our families, but I can't really imagine it. It wouldn’t be easy to leave friends and family behind.

But of course the thought was there, especially in the first few days after the invasion on February 24. As a family we had a plan in place, just in case. For years, I’ve experienced Estonian people as both outward-looking and closely tied to their homeland.

After all, it’s a homeland that’s been taken away from them time and again. First stop: Jurmala, the country’s most glamorous beach resort and until the war a tourist hot-spot for wealthy Russians. In Soviet times it was a top seaside destination, along with Sochi and Yalta.

Russian popstars used to perform here, until Latvia closed its border with Russia. Renowned Latvian chef Lauris Aleksejevs has cooked for oligarchs. The war has certainly affected his business.

They cancelled many festivals which were actually held by Russians. Like this. But we’re still here and that’s good.

And then the rest is yeah. Without the big-spending Russians, Lauris has lost sales. Even so, he understands the sanctions placed on Russia.

It’s the same in Germany. If German companies had lots of deals with Russia, you ask them if they’re missing this. Money-wise maybe you miss it but if you look from another side maybe you don’t miss it.

Lauris can’t imagine leaving to work as a chef anywhere else. He grew up just a few meters from the beach. Here the energy for the food is beautiful.

Because every time, every day, every minute, we work and we see this beautiful landscape. And that helps. Talking to Lauris, it’s clear that he’s both a businessman and a proud Latvian.

More than ever, people here seem to see Russia as a power-hungry enemy. I’m proud of our language. Because only 1.

5 million people speak the language, maybe less. It’s a heritage, I would say. We need to keep the language very much, and save it.

After Covid, the lack of Russian customers is yet another challenge for the local restaurant business. But Lauris making do without them. We leave Jurmala and head west, for a very different experience of Latvia’s Baltic coast.

Here too, Moscow once held sway over people’s lives. At the old naval base of Karosta, there’s a disused military prison for Soviet naval personnel. Today, you can still get a taste of the prison experience if you pay for it.

I was looking for something interesting. And this one came up and here we are. My husband gave me this for my last birthday.

A romantic weekend! For fifty euros, the couple joined this “extreme tour”. You, volunteer.

Pick up belongings. Pick up all the belongings. All of you.

All of you. If one is an idiot in this case Tomas. Participants get treated like Soviet sailors who’ve fallen foul of the law.

Can you breathe now? Can you breathe now? See?

It’s working. In this simulated military prison, following orders is mandatory. It’s an immersive experience.

It’s okay, it’s interesting. And this history he told us, it really made me think about those dark times in history. Any questions from a journalist would no doubt break the tense mood.

But after an hour, I pluck up the courage to ask what on earth the point of all this is… It’s different to answer this question right now, because since February 2022 it’s been a bit different. Many of my colleagues have changed their uniforms from Soviet to neutral. Those two regimes are equal right now and we don’t want to be connected anyhow with those days, glorifying them.

But we’re showing a history that will be memorized much better with such an experience like in here. The Soviet times in here was something quite similar to what’s going on in Ukraine now. So we understand them.

We help them as much as we can. Time drags on. Three hours of drill practice and carrying heavy ammunition.

Even watching on is exhausting. It was an interesting exercise when we had to carry It was extremely heavy. I think it was forty kilo and I think it was basically that heavy for a purpose, because only two of us out of four were able to carry it.

That was the feeling when I realized how difficult it must be for these soldiers, for Ukrainians to defend their country, because it’s extremely difficult. The next morning, it’s over. But having to sleep on a wooden board has left its mark on the participants.

How was your night? It wasn’t like in a hotel. No fresh air.

Mold everywhere. A wooden bed, but I made it. Was it worth it?

Definitely. I’d recommend everyone try it. We all are afraid of this I think, deep down inside.

This is a collective trauma for all post-soviet republics. And somewhere deep down inside we’re all afraid that this is going to happen again. Is something like the prison experience really necessary?

Is it freakish? Cynical? Or does it actually help people to better understand the current situation?

There’s no easy answer to these questions. But one thing is clear: the threat of being occupied is once again an issue in Latvia. Our next stop is the Latvian capital, Riga.

We want to find out more about the relationship between Latvians and the Russians who have settled here over time. We’ve come to Riga’s famous market. We’re here to meet Reinhard Krumm regional director of German non-profit the Friedrich Ebert Foundation.

In the early 1990s, he also worked as a journalist in Moscow, before becoming a foreign correspondent in Latvia. Like many people here, he speaks Russian. I like coming here because I used to be a journalist.

Latvians have had so many different forces affecting their country, and there are so many contradictions. And you get a sense of that here. Yes!

How to get along with Russia, whether people like Russia or not There’s a big Russian-speaking minority here. Some speak Russian, some Latvian. In the past, nobody here spoke English.

A lot of products are unavailable, because sanctions prevent Russian suppliers from selling to the EU. In their place, there are now more products from the West. It’s not easy to talk about politics or the war in Ukraine with the Russian community here.

Many don’t feel comfortable expressing their views, especially if they favor giving support to Ukraine. It’s interesting. We surveyed people about this.

A lot of the Russian-speaking minority support Ukraine. But there are also families who continue to support Russia. In light of Russia’s war against Ukraine, the Latvian government has changed the rules for Russians who settled here during the Soviet era.

On principle, Russian is set to be taken off school curriculums. Russian citizens will have to take a Latvian test – if they fail, they may have to leave the country. Even though some have been living here for decades.

Do Latvians lack a common identity? That's an excellent question. Very conservative politicians would say that Latvia belongs to the Latvians, and the Russian-speaking minority has been imposed on them.

Which is partly true: after the Soviet occupation there was a real influx into the three Baltic states. But now they’re part of the country. The hope is that, as older people eventually die out, the younger ones will have a more positive relationship with Latvia and with Europe.

And surveys back that up. The market is known for its traditional Riga sprat, as well as other smoked fish and spices. As we walk around, a Russian spice-trader approaches Reinhard Krumm.

He wants to complain about the sanctions imposed on Russia. Is business okay? No.

There is no business. It’s dying. Because of import restrictions?

Yes. For me, it’s been halved. You can’t import anything.

If we were in Russia, we’d have money. In the Latvian capital, there’s a sense of tension between the mindset of the former occupier, Moscow, and proud Latvians defending their own identity. Among the Russian community, some people still look fondly on the old days.

But Riga has also become home to many exiled Russians who no longer feel safe in their homeland. Elena is a Russian journalist who fled to Latvia. We’d done international internships in the past, before the war broke out.

And we did some publications that were supported by international journalistic funds. That led to us being called “foreign agents And we also of course didn’t support the war. On the weekend, Elena and other exiled Russian journalists meet up for relaxation exercises on the beach Unlike Elena, many of them don’t want to be filmed.

They fear what Moscow might do to them even here. When my country invaded Ukraine, I felt that for me it was unethical to stay at home. Because I couldn’t support the politics of the government and I couldn’t find ways to protest successfully.

Thus I left with my family. Elena writes for a Russian-language Latvian newspaper. It’s too dangerous to return to her old life.

I want to visit my mom. I want to see my relatives. I really hope that it’ll finish soon.

Although no one can know for sure. Another Russian who’s found refuge in Riga is actress Chulpan Khamatova best known for the film “Goodbye, Lenin”. She was abroad when her country invaded Ukraine.

She never returned to Russia, instead bringing her daughters to Riga from Moscow. I lost my future. All my plans as an actress or my plans for charity, that disappeared in one day.

She’s against Russian imperialism and couldn’t stay silent. Ideally she would speak her mind in Moscow, for a public figure that could be life-threatening. But in Riga, it’s possible.

This is suicide for Russia. Because it’s no future. Putin and his friends, colleagues, they took the future from the country.

Riga is just a few hours' flight from Moscow. It’s proximity and popularity make it a potential target. Back in Karosta in the west of Latvia.

This was once a water tower serving the naval base. Now, it houses studios for Latvian artists like Egons Persevics. Egons was only 9 when Latvia became independent from the Soviet Union.

When I look to the Soviet Union, it’s boring and it’s gray. This is how I see the Soviet Union. And today, everything is getting more colorful and more interesting.

There’s more diversity and more openness. Freedom. The freedom is the most important thing I value in today’s life, and this was something that was not there in Soviet times.

Contemporary Latvian art in what was once a restricted military zone run by the Soviets. Many of the Russian families who settled here from Moscow still live in the area. Egons wants to use his art to bring the two cultures together.

But when it comes to the war, he makes his opinions clear. I feel for them, and of course I feel for the Ukrainains most. Of course they suffer and they’re still suffering.

We escaped the Soviet Union pretty fast. In Soviet times, the tower was strategically important for Karosta’s water supply. It was therefore heavily guarded.

Egons shows me places where naval personnel carved their names into the walls. This here is from ’85, but here are older ones also. You can see it’s from ’56.

Do you think it’s important to preserve these things? I don’t know, it’s part of life. Things appear and they disappear.

Latvia spent five decades under Soviet rule. Here was a post, so people scratched things while they were bored to death. The former military site has been given a new life by the people working here.

They’re predominantly younger Latvians, like Egons. We travel on to Lithuania, along a strip of land called the Curonian Spit, right on the border with the Russian exclave Kaliningrad. The peninsula has some spectacular views: one part belongs to Lithuania, the other to Russia.

Our boat is driven by Soteras. He grew up here and learned German as a child, in order to make the most of the tourism business. For him, the memory of Moscow’s occupation is ever-present Putin never got over the loss of the Baltic republics.

If they come, they come. What can I do? I can pack my life up and go to Germany, because my German’s better than my English.

And that’ll be that. Soteras offers boat tours. I get the impression he doesn’t want to think about the political situation.

I don't want to hear the news all the time. When Ukraine wins, I'll watch the news again, but not now. Soteras's whole family works in tourism.

He invites us back to his family-run hotel, and we talk about what it’s like living so close to Russia. The people who were afraid have already left. They bought homes in Spain, and left their jobs behind.

Everyone else just goes on like before. The Curonian Spit peninsula is a national park. It’s home to the Curonian Lagoon, as well as pine forests and some of the largest sand dunes in Europe.

I’ve come to meet Ausra Feser, who manages the park. She tells me that Putin's invasion of Ukraine has had a big impact here. A lot of tourists canceled their trips as a result.

But, they’re slowly returning. German visitors ask us whether Russia’s close. We have to tell them: Yes, very close indeed!

Then they ask for the ferry timetable, so they can leave quickly if anything happens. The border between Lithuania and the Russian exclave Kaliningrad runs right through the peninsula. Beyond it, the mainland is highly militarized Moscow has stationed Iskander missiles there, with a range that reaches as far as Berlin.

Newly built towers emerge above the horizon. The towers are really annoying. Because people come here to see the natural landscape, first and foremost.

They’re totally foreign to the environment, and it’s clear their purpose is military, rather than anything else. Until the invasion in February 2022, Ausra was even working with Russian colleagues on a joint Russian Lithuanian travel guide. Then, suddenly, she broke off all contact.

It was such a strong feeling. We didn’t want to have anything more to do with that nation or those people. It was incredibly painful.

We felt we couldn’t talk to them or look them in the eye anymore. The only issue now was war, Ukraine. Every other topic of discussion was no longer relevant.

More than thirty years after independence from Moscow, this part of Lithuania is idyllic, except for its unpredictable neighbor. On the mainland is the port of Klaipeda. It’s a tranquil place, with a picturesque harbor and a historic city center.

But Klaipeda is also strategically important for Lithuania. It’s the country's most important cargo port including for liquified natural gas or LNG. We’re shown around the LNG terminal by Jurgita Šilinskaitė-Venslovienė, the terminal’s trade manager.

Getting a permit to film here took a while, especially given the current situation. This is critical infrastructure, and there’s a growing naval presence here. When the war started, additional measures were employed, like escorting LNG carriers, the ones which are approaching and bringing their cargoes to the LNG terminal, et cetera.

Having this neighbor which is big and sometimes employs energy as a political measure against the countries which are neighboring, Lithuania has had experience of such situations. Jurgita tells me that there have been cyberattacks on her company for a long time. The LNG terminal is a marker of the country’s energy independence before it began operating in 2014, Lithuania relied on Russian gas.

Early on, Riga grew mistrustful of Moscow, and opted for international supplies of LNG instead. The government also warned against becoming dependent on Russian gas. Unlike Germany, it was a fierce critic of the Nord Stream 2 gas pipeline.

In general, Lithuania is geographically very close to Russia. Despite the fact that we don’t have a very long line of border, we have the Kaliningrad enclave area and we also have a border with Belarus, which is tightly related to Russian policies, especially right now. So for us, being in the neighborhood of this country brings the Ukrainian borders very close to our borders as well.

With Russia on one side and Western partners on the other, Lithuania's orientation is clear. Jurgita speaks of the importance of the natural gas terminal, and most people here share her view. The first impression is that the Baltic Sea is something that we share with all the countries here around the Baltic Sea.

This is something that unites us and creates opportunities for cooperation, for joint projects. Currently also with Finland entering NATO, almost all the Baltic Sea is covered by NATO countries, currently. They’re united against what they see as a common threat right on their doorstep.

In Klaipeda harbor, fisherman Virgis Jurkus and his crew have just returned from the Baltic Sea. They work very near the Russian fishing grounds. Since the war began, things have been more tense.

Both sides monitor their borders more closely, and the fishing boats encounter the Lithuanian navy more often. We can SEE the tension! There are drones flying around.

And airplanes, helicopters, ships. We see a lot. I'm not afraid.

If the Ukrainians can beat the Russians then so can we. Let them come – we’ll be fine! They say they’d happily fight for their homeland anytime.

But for now, the grueling work of fishing is their life-blood. The Baltic is my home, plain and simple. I grew up here.

I've been working here for 30 years. Now my son’s starting here too. It’s everything to me.

We’re a country of seafarers. For the people in Klaipeda, the sea is everything. Virgis and his crew show us the hall where they sort their catch.

They’re proud of their profession – and their country. Virgis’s son Paulus would join the army in a worst case scenario. Recruitment is booming in Lithuania, and not just among gun enthusiasts.

Like everyone on the Baltic, Virgis has a family history marked by Moscow. My grandparents were deported to Siberia. And their grandparents were taken somewhere else.

They may have been killed. Wherever the Russians showed up, they didn't leave anything good behind. My whole family was deported.

So I think the Ukrainians are doing it for all of us. Not just for themselves. Virgis’s son Paulus has an engineering degree, but he calls it a waste of time.

He wants to work on the sea, to keep the traditions going, and to defend his country and its values. Above all, one thing unites people here in the Baltic states: they’re determined never again to lose their freedom.