The Baltic States and their Region: New Europe or Old? (On the Boundary of Two Worlds: Identity, Freedom, and Moral Imagination in the Baltics 3) (On the ... Freedom, & Moral Imagination in the Baltics)

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THE BALTIC STATES AND THEIR REGION NEW EUROPE OR OLD?

On the Boundary of Two Worlds Identity, Freedom, and Moral Imagination in the Baltics 3

Editor Leonidas Donskis, Professor of Philosophy at Vytautas Magnus University in Kaunas, Lithuania, and Foreign Docent of Philosophy at the University of Helsinki, Finland Editorial and Advisory Board Timo Airaksinen, University of Helsinki, Finland Egidijus Aleksandravicius, The Lithuanian Emigration Institute, Vytautas Magnus University, Kaunas, Lithuania Endre Bojtar, the Central European University, Budapest, Hungary Kristian Gerner, University of Uppsala, Sweden John Hiden, University of Glasgow, UK Mikko Lagerspetz, Estonian Institute of Humanities, Estonia Andreas Lawaty, Director, the Nordost-Institute at Lüneburg, Germany Olli Loukola, University of Helsinki, Finland Alvydas Nikzentaitis, Lithuanian History Institute, Lithuania Rein Raud, University of Helsinki, Finland, and Estonian Institute of Humanities, Estonia Alfred Erich Senn, University of Wisconsin-Madison, USA David Smith, University of Glasgow, UK Saulius Suziedelis, Millersville University, USA Joachim Tauber, Nordost-Institut, Lüneburg, Germany Tomas Venclova, Yale University, USA

THE BALTIC STATES AND THEIR REGION NEW EUROPE OR OLD?

Edited by

David J Smith

Amsterdam - New York, NY 2005

The paper on which this book is printed meets the requirements of “ISO 9706:1994, Information and documentation - Paper for documents Requirements for permanence”. ISBN: 90-420-1666-3 ©Editions Rodopi B.V., Amsterdam - New York, NY 2005 Printed in the Netherlands

Table of contents Editor’s introduction

1

Christopher S. Browning, From “east-west” to “new Europe-old Europe”: the American challenge to Finnish identity

11

Dovilė Budrytė, Lithuania’s new (in)security: transatlantic tensions and the dilemma of dual loyalty

41

Pertti Joenniemi, The challenges of “new” and “old”: the case of Europe’s north

67

Marko Lehti, Estonia and Latvia: A “new” Europe challenges the “old”?

87

Sergei Jakobson-Obolenski, Overlapping ideological boundaries and transformations in the EU periphery: the Baltic States and Kaliningrad

115

Leonidas Donskis, The promise of certainty, safety and security in an uncertain, unsafe and insecure world: the emergence of Lithuanian populism

143

Charles Woolfson, Labour rights, social conflict and cohesion in accession Lithuania: implications for EU enlargement

159

Dirk Crols, Old and new minorities on the international chessboard: from League to Union

185

David J Smith, Non-territorial cultural autonomy as a Baltic contribution to Europe between the wars

211

Martyn Housden, Cultural autonomy in Estonia: one of history’s “curiosities”?

227

Helen M. Morris, The non-citizens of the EU

251

Viatcheslav Morozov, The Baltic States and Russia in the new Europe: a neo-Gramscian perspective on the global and the local

275

vi

The Baltic States and Europe – the New and the Old

Paul Holtom, The gatekeeper “hinge” concept and the promotion of Estonian, Latvian and Lithuanian new/ postmodern security agendas

293

Eero Mikenberg, Estonian-Russian cross-border cooperation: the warning example of Tartu-Pskov

313

Editor’s introduction: the Baltic States and their region: new Europe or old? David J Smith This edited volume consists of selected papers from a conference held in January 2004 at the University of Glasgow. With European Union (EU) and NATO membership for the Baltic States by that time firmly on the horizon, contributors were invited to reflect upon the relationship of the three countries and their constituent peoples to Europe, both historically and in the period following the restoration of independence in 1991. At a time of growing regional integration, analysis was extended to the wider Baltic sea area, hence the inclusion of chapters dealing with Finland and Russia. In the original call for papers, it was also emphasised that “Europe” should be understood in the broadest possible sense, and not simply as defined by the EU and/or NATO. Above all, contributors were invited to reflect upon the various ways in which the bases of European community and identity have been defined, and to locate the Baltic area within those debates, also highlighting any original contributions to the construction of Europe that have come from this region. 1.

New Europe and old As the countdown to EU and NATO enlargement began at the start of 2003, debates over the essence of the post-Cold War Europe took a dramatic new turn within the context of the impending US-led war on Iraq. Commenting on the transatlantic divisions occasioned by the Iraq crisis, US secretary of defence Donald Rumsfeld asserted that Europe was now divided into two camps of “new” and “old.” The former was characterised by its unwavering support for an Atlanticism newly premised on support for the “war on terror”; the latter by its inability to grasp the fundamental turning point in world affairs occasioned by the events of September 11 2001. Whilst the longer-term implications of the “new-old” split have yet to become clear, the attempt to impose a new definition of transatlantic community carried potentially revolutionary implications for European affairs. Not least, the new US rhetoric broke with a continued tendency to define Europe according to categories of east and west. This is a point which is developed in several of the contributions to this volume, most notably those by Chris Browning, Pertti Joenniemi and Marko Lehti. At the start of the 1990s, the collapse of communism and the demise of the USSR were hailed as marking the emergence of a “Europe whole and free.” In practice, however, there has been a continued tendency to differentiate the former socialist states of the East from the “core” western Europe of the Cold War era. From a western perspective,

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the rhetoric of whole and free was inextricably linked to the triumphalist “end of history” thesis, which held that former socialist states had no option but to adopt the values of liberal democracy and market economy. Dissemination of these values has been central to the mission of the main institutions (Council of Europe, European Union, NATO, OSCE) which are seen as the basis for a post-Cold War European order. The “return to Europe” of the former soviet satellites has thus been understood as a learning process rather than something which occurred by default following the collapse of communist power. Interwar independence and western support for the doctrine of legal continuity throughout the Cold War enabled the Baltic States to escape the designation of “former Soviet republic” and thus enter the category of states eligible for EU and NATO membership. However, in a recent article Merje Kuus argues that even those post-socialist states that recently acceded to the EU have yet to be accepted as “fully European,” in the sense of being deemed conversant with western rules, norms and values.1 For most of the 1990s, the applicant countries of Central and Eastern Europe (CEE) were conceived as nations “in transit” from East to West. Yet EU stipulations regarding, for example, the free movement of labour suggest that these countries are still not considered as equals even after having met the benchmark Copenhagen criteria and gained entry to the EU. Kuus’ basic point – that the relationship of the former socialist countries to the West can be framed in terms of “postcoloniality” – finds expression in several chapters of this book, most notably the contributions by Dovilė Budrytė, Sergei Jakobson-Obolenski and Lehti.2 Developing Kuus’ point further, one can say that western governments and international governmental organisations have been concerned above all with bringing stability and order to a region they perceive as inherently volatile. For some, the concept of new Europe is synonymous with a postmodern turn of events in which the Europe of nation-states is gradually being supplanted by an altogether more fluid and complex pattern of authority at many levels. A number of the contributions here, however, suggest that the EU has in fact placed a premium upon the construction of coherent western-style nation-states in CEE, as well as the construction of a hard external border between the new member states and the “outsiders” of the CIS. For JakobsonObolenski, this raises the prospect of a modernist path-dependency which could leave CEE ill-equipped to compete with more regionally cohesive parts of the EU, thereby cementing the area’s peripheral position within international markets and division of labour. The reinforcement of nation-statehood is a point further developed by Dirk Crols and Helen Morris in their chapters on citizenship and minority rights in Estonia and Latvia. Whilst urging greater steps to integrate the large non-citizen populations living in these states, the EU and other IGOs have been reluctant to push the minority rights agenda too

Editor’s introduction

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far, out of a fear that this might itself destabilise the region (e.g. by encouraging “states within states”) and prompt a groundswell of similar demands from national and ethnic minority groups within western states. Morris thus argues that the current framework convention drafted by the Council of Europe will remain precisely that – a framework, within which states will retain the freedom to define the term “minority” themselves. In the context of the EU accession process, CEE states have not in fact enjoyed full sovereignty in this regard. In the Estonian and Latvian cases, external agencies (such as the OSCE high commissioner on national minorities) have been able to designate non-titular, non-citizen residents as a minority de facto if not de jure. Whether the Baltic governments will be so willing to accept external interventions in this sphere now that they are full members remains to be seen. In examining the EU approach to the region, a number of parallels can be discerned with the period after World War One, when the western allies conceived the League of Nations as the guarantor of a new Europe that would consign national conflicts to the past. However, as Crols demonstrates in his comparison of the two eras, the League did not fundamentally challenge the primacy of state sovereignty, whilst treating minority protection as a transitional phase in the construction of westernstyle nation-states on the territories of the former empires. With the benefit of hindsight, attempts to graft the homogeneous western model onto the multinational patchwork of CEE always seemed more likely to exacerbate nationality conflicts rather than laying them to rest. The League of Nations never got to grips with the minority question, and was fatally undermined by the absence of any durable settlement of European affairs following World War One. The subsequent resumption of world war and the horrors visited upon central and eastern Europe during 1939–45 continue to colour views of the interwar period, feeding a tendency to view intolerant, nationalising statehood as the historical norm. As Martyn Housden and David Smith argue in their contributions to this volume, a study of Estonia and Latvia during the 1920s does much to counter this negative picture. Their studies of cultural autonomy show that despite the undoubted power of ethnocultural nationhood, democratic multicultural solutions were not only conceived but also implemented in these countries during their first period of independence. Hardly coincidentally, Estonia and Latvia also provided the key leaders for the congress of European minorities (CEM), which began life in the 1920s as a liberal and transnational grouping committed to the pursuit of a lasting European peace. Challenging the League’s continued obsession with state sovereignty, the CEM lobbied for a panEuropean guarantee of minority rights based on non-territorial cultural autonomy, something which it saw as one of the essential pillars for a future United States of Europe.3

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As Housden notes, defence of one’s cultural community within the context of primary loyalty to state community was all too quickly superseded by the pursuit of organic, national particularism during the 1930s, when CEM ultimately fell under the sway of Nazi Germany. In light of these developments, he hesitates to recommend cultural autonomy unequivocally as a blueprint for today’s “new” Europe. Smith’s view is that the Baltic States’ unique interwar experiment in non-territorial cultural autonomy nevertheless merits closer scrutiny, all the more so given that Estonia, Hungary and the Russian Federation have all recently adopted legislation based on this principle. 2.

The “return to Europe” of the Baltic States The western portrayal of the CEE countries as “new Europeans” engaged in a learning process has been at odds with the self-understanding of the region’s elites, which have tended to stress the ancient European roots of their peoples and which, at the start of the 1990s, often viewed EU and NATO membership as a question of historical justice. The actual nature of subsequent enlargement policy was a source of profound disillusionment to many, but this could not offset the promise of attaining the “normality” associated with the societies of existing EU member states.4 Resentment at western double standards, fears of a dilution of recently reattained sovereignty, and a realisation in some circles of the scant economic benefits to be derived from EU membership were far outweighed by a desire to banish the more tangible recent experience of colonial rule by the USSR. In this regard, EU membership clearly constituted the “lesser of two evils” when set against the alternative of remaining outside. While Baltic leaders have questioned the notion of east-west divide as far as their countries’ relations with existing EU members are concerned, they have readily supported the drawing of firm boundaries between Russia and an enlarging Euro-Atlantic area.5 From a western perspective, the post-Cold War discourse of “whole and free” has plainly not extended to Russia, which continues to be viewed as a great power and separate pole within the international system. As Viatcheslav Morozov argues in this volume, great power status has also remained central to Russia’s self-understanding following the collapse of the USSR, notwithstanding the undoubted strength of identification with Europe within an overall statist conception of foreign relations. Initial attempts by Yeltsin to engineer a complete break with the Soviet and tsarist past and chart an Atlanticist course were complicated by Russia’s status as legal successor to the USSR. The presence of some twenty-five million Russians in neighbouring states also offered fertile ground for the emergence of homeland nationalism. Russian foundational narratives harking back to the greatness of the Soviet and tsarist eras have been fundamentally at odds with the

Editor’s introduction

5

dominant Baltic tendency to view the same periods through the prism of colonialism. Growing assertiveness towards the “near abroad,” coupled with the continued presence of Soviet (now Russian-controlled) troops strengthened perceptions of Russia as a threat to restored independence and rekindled fears that power politics might again consign the Baltic states to a “grey zone” of insecurity, only this time between the EuroAtlantic area and Russia. Integration with NATO and the EU has thus been viewed to a significant extent through the prism of security, as a development that will definitively rule out any repetition of the kind of events that occurred in 1939–40. In the case of Estonia and Latvia, the notion of external threat from Russia was widely invoked during the early 1990s as further justification for the exclusion of the large population of Soviet-era settlers and their descendents from immediate political influence. The nationalist programme of essentialising this group as “colonists” and “civil occupants” with no automatic right to citizenship drew further legitimacy from the internationally recognised concept of legal continuity. Support for the latter has meant that, in legal terms, western governments and IGOs have not questioned the breaking of the “zero option rule” and the establishment of naturalisation requirements for settlers and their descendents desiring citizenship. Western observers were alarmed – with hindsight one could say unduly so – by the potential sociopolitical implications of these policies and have thus insisted that Estonia and Latvia do their utmost to facilitate integration. Such prompting, however, has fallen far short of satisfying the demands voiced by external Russian commentators in their frequent – and often, frankly, unhelpful – interventions on this theme. Despite some significant new initiatives within the context of accession process, around 20% of the population of each state had still not acquired citizenship at the time of EU entry in 2004. As Teija Tiilikainen predicted in 2003, Russia has hardly abandoned its aspirations to influence over the Baltic States since the three countries entered the EU and NATO.6 Yet how are Baltic-Russian relations likely to develop now that they are subsumed within a broader framework? Morozov for his part detects a notable decline in tensions during 2000–2003, especially after the “war on terror” gave Russia the opportunity to enhance its standing vis a vis the United States. Yet he wisely cautions against seeing recent developments as offering a definitive resolution of outstanding issues in Baltic-Russian relations. As he puts it, democracy and pluralism rarely blossom in a besieged fortress: a new Europe predicated on US global hegemony and the eradication of “terror” at whatever cost is therefore no substitute for a still-elusive democratic and transnational regional identity. In a further variation on this theme, Paul Holtom’s contribution discusses the extent to which the Baltic States have abandoned “old”

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(modernist) security thinking in favour of a “new” (postmodernist) agenda stressing non-military and transnational concerns such as the environment and organised crime. In this way, he assesses their potential to act as what he terms “gatekeeper hinges” – mediators that promote trade between the EU and Russia but also greater cooperation in combating the new security challenges that such interaction will inevitably bring. In spite of a continued tendency to see things in hard security terms (perhaps more so now that the Baltic states have actually entered Euro-Atlantic institutions), he sees encouraging signs of progress. Eero Mikenberg, however, strikes a more pessimistic note in his brief study of cross-border cooperation between local authorities in Estonia, Latvia and the Pskov oblast’ of the Russian Federation. Mikenberg maintains that EU enlargement will bring improved relations at the all-important inter-state level. At the same time, one should not lose sight of the continued impediments to the construction of a thriving cross-border network. For border regions within the Baltic States, he argues, cooperation with other EU regions is viewed as a more viable prospect than forging links with Russia. Fulfilling a bridging role between the EU and the CIS is one of the potential “niches” on offer to the Baltic states following enlargement, but it is far from being the only one. As identity-political discourses gradually shift their focus from interwar past to EU future, the most pressing concern is to avoid marginalisation and attain greater centrality and influence within the union. Lithuania’s shift from “policy-taker to policy-maker” – to use Budrytė’s phrase – has involved efforts to portray the country as lying at the centre of a region that cuts across the EU-CIS border. These. however, have been offset by continued fear and suspicion of Russian economic and political influence, especially in light of the recent presidential scandal. Marko Lehti’s discussion of Estonia suggests that this country’s strategy has focused more squarely on the internal development of the EU. In this regard, Estonian commentators have sought to turn the traditional east-west dichotomy on its head, by portraying their country as a high-growth “tiger economy” better attuned than longer-standing EU members to the challenges of competition in a global markets. Similar claims have recently been made in relation to Lithuania, too. Yet the “Baltic tiger” label is clearly not one that has universal resonance within the societies concerned. Whilst no one seriously entertained the notion that EU membership might be rejected in the 2003 referendums, the underlying consensus surrounding an “economic return to Europe” was nevertheless wearing painfully thin by the time entry was confirmed. As Leonidas Donskis observes in his chapter here, there has been growing talk in recent years of “ ‘two Lithuanias’ – a westwardlooking and economically vibrant Lithuania, celebrating its dynamism and rejoicing over accession to the European Union and NATO, and an elite-

Editor’s introduction

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abandoned, long-suffering, divided and depressed Lithuania, longing for something like the ‘equality in misery’ it knew in the Soviet Union.” 7 Such yearnings for “order” reflect the depth of socio-economic divisions caused by the rapid transition to a market economy, as well as entrenched perceptions of the political elite as corrupt and unaccountable. Such an environment has provided fertile ground for populism, which, Donskis argues, continues to threaten the bases of Lithuania’s democracy, security, foreign policy – even its very statehood – in the wake of the 2004 presidential scandal. Budrytė makes a similar point in her contribution, while Charles Woolfson highlights the danger to social stability arising from a neo-liberal approach to labour rights. Like minority rights, labour rights still remain largely outside the purview of the EU, something which has given Lithuania latitude to follow the US, as opposed to the “old” European, social model. According to Lehti, support for economic neo-liberalism can be seen as another, less controversial way of underlining one’s continued affiliation with the US within the context of recent transatlantic splits over Iraq. Baltic leaders have scarcely been able to countenance an open breach with America, which is still couched as the main guarantor of their country’s security. Rumsfeld’s vision of a US-led “new Europe” offered the Balts the tempting prospect of asserting their influence vis a vis the “old” Europeans at the EU core, a point developed by Joenniemi in his discussion of this theme. However, Joenniemi observes an obvious reticence to follow this course, noting that European unity remains a crucial reference point in terms of Baltic identity and interests alongside the importance of a strong transatlantic link. The challenge has therefore been to square the circle by maintaining good relations with both “old Europe” and the US. Budrytė’s close empirical analysis of the Lithuanian case neatly dissects this “dilemma of dual loyalty” and the ways in which the country has coped with it in practice. Browning’s chapter makes it clear that Finnish leaders have also been thrown by recent US attempts to redefine what the “West” is all about. Like their Baltic counterparts, they have sought to situate Finland between the camps of “new” and “old,” where its experiences during the Cold War could make it eminently qualified to fulfil a mediating role. Joenniemi’s analysis of dissenting voices within central and eastern Europe, meanwhile, suggests an understanding that unequivocal alignment with current US policies would not herald genuine partnership and enhanced subjectivity within the international system, but subservience to American national interests within the context of a marginalised and weakened Europe. Ultimately, Rumsfeld’s “new” and “old” dichotomy can be seen as further instance of the “power to name” that external great powers have long enjoyed in relation to this region.

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Only time will tell whether the war in Iraq (and, more broadly, the post−9/11 “war on terror”) is remembered as a further new formative moment in European affairs following the end of the Cold War. Perhaps, as Holtom suggests here, History will ultimately relegate Rumsfeld’s vision of an old and new Europe to the status of “flippant remark.” Whatever the case, the current collection of articles demonstrates that the nature of the new Europe arising out of EU and NATO enlargement will be far more open and contested than anyone could have anticipated just a few short years ago. One thing seems certain: there is still some considerable way to go before the Baltic States attain the status of “a golden, or rich and boring, backwater of Europe,” or, to paraphrase Toomas Hendrik Ilves, “boring little EU countries.”8 3.

Acknowledgements This volume arose out of the conference “the Baltic States: new Europe or old?”, held at the University of Glasgow on 23–24 January 2004. I am deeply grateful first of all to the British Academy for its award of a conference grant in support of this event. Additional financial support was provided by the MacFie bequest and the department of central and east European studies (CEES) of the University of Glasgow. The embassies of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania were highly supportive in terms of securing and funding attendance by keynote speakers. Particular thanks are also due to Richard Berry and those colleagues – both staff and students – from CEES and the wider school of slavonic and central and east European studies who helped to ensure the success of the conference. In this regard, the invaluable support of Mr Tommy Kane, the university’s court steward, must also be acknowledged. As editor of this volume, I would like to thank the series executive editor Leonidas Donskis and Mr Eric van Broekhuizen at Rodopi for their help and advice in preparing this volume. On a personal note, I would also like to take this opportunity to give long overdue thanks to Suzanne Beschaner, for her support and friendship in the early stages of my academic career. As always, I am most indebted of all to my wife Sanna, for her continued love and encouragement. This work I dedicate to her, and to the memory of my great friend and fellow traveller to the Baltic Robert Lothian, now sadly departed.

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Notes 1. Kuus, 2004. 2. Kuus uses this term “not in the sense of ‘after’ coloniality but to denote current ongoing practices of constituting Eastern Europe as not yet European.” Postcolonial theory in this context “thus refers to a set of theoretical perspectives within which questions of constituting place occupy a central position.” In this regard she refers to western “orientalisation” of the accession countries and “othering” of states further east. Ibid, 473. 3. For an illuminating study of the CEM’s founding principles, see Hiden, 2004. 4. On the notion of communist collapse as “return to normality,” see Eglitis, 2002. 5. Kuus, 2004, 479–81. Despite the professed aims of the northern dimension initiative, such a tendency has also been observable in the Finnish case, a point which is developed by Browning and Lehti in their respective contributions to this volume. 6. Tiilikainen, 2003, 18. 7. A similar image has been invoked with regard to the other two Baltic States. See Lauristin, 2003. 8. This phrase is borrowed from a Lithuanian commentator, V. Urbelis, cited in Dovilė Budrytė’s contribution to this volume (endnote no.10). In 1999, Estonian foreign minister Toomas Ilves famously pronounced that Estonia was well on the way to becoming “just another boring little Nordic country.”

References Eglitis, Daina Stukuls (2002): Imagining the Nation. History, Modernity, and Revolution in Latvia. Pennsylvania: The Pennsylvania State University Press. Hiden, J. (2004), Defender of Minorities. Paul Schiemann, 1876–1944. London: Hurst. Kuus, M. (2004), “Europe’s Eastern Expansion and the reinscription of Otherness in East-Central Europe,” Progress in Human Geography, 28, 4, 472–489. Laurisitin, M. (2003), “Social Contradictions Shadowing Estonia’s ‘Success Story’,” Demokratizatsiia, 11, 4, 601–616. Tiilikainen, T. (2003), “The Political Implications of the EU’s Enlargement to the Baltic States,” in: V. Pettai and J. Zielonka (eds), The Road to the European Union: Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania (2003).

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Author affiliation: David J Smith is a senior lecturer and convenor of the Glasgow Baltic research unit at the department of central and east European studies, University of Glasgow, UK.

From “east-west” to “new Europe-old Europe”: The American challenge to Finnish identity Christopher S. Browning 1.

Introduction In recent years it has become common to argue that Finland’s post-Cold War foreign policy has been driven by the desire to affirm a western identity for the country. In this light decisions to join the European Union (EU) in 1995 and to adopt the Euro in 2002 were taken primarily because of their symbolic importance as identifiers of westernness and proof that Finland had escaped its Cold War position of being between East and West.1 Today, similar arguments can be heard regarding the need for Finland to give up its policy of non-alignment and to join NATO. For example, although security concerns are often evident here, former President Martti Ahtisaari has argued that Finland should join NATO simply because membership will finally put an end to questions of Finland’s geopolitical identity. 2 Underlying some of these arguments is a deeper claim that Finnish identity politics has historically always been structured around an east-west continuum, with Finland at different points in history simply occupying different points along that continuum, but with the general trend being the desire to occupy the western position and to escape any identification with the East.3 Although there are reasons to think that this is not the whole story, and that there have also been other important historical dimensions to the construction of Finnish identity, such as the need to also differentiate Finland from Sweden,4 it is also clear that in contemporary Finnish political debate and public understanding this eastwest configuration has become a hegemonic discourse. In this context, this chapter has two goals. The first is to show how such east-west understandings have developed and how since the end of the Cold War Finnish foreign policy has been driven primarily by westernising narratives of Finnish identity. A central argument here is that in the context of the geopolitical changes of the end of the Cold War, previous understandings of Finland as a nation between East and West no longer made much sense. Finland was therefore faced with a need to tell new stories that would better locate Finland in the new Europe. In this context, westernising discourses have been the most successful in coping with the problem of systemic change and dealing with the issue of how to orient Finland to the new situation. The second aim, however, is to assess whether in the context of the “war on terror” the utility and relevance of westernising discourses is in fact now being undermined. As argued elsewhere in this volume, there are reasons to believe that a new geopolitical transition is underway and

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that the traditional east-west structuring logic of European politics is being challenged. The question in this respect is the extent to which the eastwest framework is being replaced by one of Europe vs. America and where the major issue is how close European countries feel they can or should tie themselves to the United States. In other words, in a context in which American political leaders and influential policy-makers are drawing distinctions between a “new” and an “old Europe” and in which “old European” states have become increasingly critical of American unilateralism, the “West” of the westernisers is no longer so straightforward. As the category of the “West” is problematised, the chapter contends that new contests over Finnish identity are likely to arise. Indeed, challenging hegemonic westernising discourses will be essential if Finland is to effectively locate itself in the new environment. 2.

A theoretical note Methodologically this chapter sits in the realm of constructivist approaches and is informed by a narrative theory of identity and action that contends that action only becomes meaningful in the process of narrating a constitutive story of the self.5 Importantly, utilising a narrative theory of identity and action focuses on the temporal nature of subjectivity and points to the fact that identities are never pre-given, as they are presented in more traditional rationalist materialist approaches to international relations. Instead, identities are understood as emergent as part of an ongoing performance reaffirming subjectivity and identity.6 In other words, it is only once a story of the self as being “like” something (western, eastern, neutral, warlike etc) has been told that an actor gains an interest and incentive in acting in certain ways, whilst acting on such stories in turn becomes a performance and affirmation of the identity told.7 However, whilst this position enables us to retain an important position for actors in constituting and ordering their social world, actors are also always constrained by the particular historical context, by how they have been socialised into accepted understandings, and by the availability of meanings present at that time. In other words, to the extent that particular narratives become naturalised and taken for granted, they structure perceptions of the present and rationalise certain courses of action. As such, discursive structures of meaning and identity can have a considerable structuring effect on the courses of action that can be conceivable for actors. Because of this structuring effect of historically ingrained social understandings some people have criticised constructivist theories as being essentially status quo oriented and as being unable to explain change, since they cannot explain why one discursive structure will give way to another.8 Although there are in fact various constructivist responses to this charge and constructivist-inspired insights as to how change may occur, for our purposes it is enough to note just one of these.9

From East-west to new Europe-old Europe

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As Ringmar argues, sometimes our stories about the world and of who we are no longer seem to fit. In the context of unfolding events established stories need to be revised, adapted or replaced, because accepted stories have simply become irrelevant. Ringmar terms such instances formative moments.10 In particular, Finnemore and Sikkink refer to “world historical events” such as wars or major depressions that may lead to a search for new ideas and ways of understanding the world. For example, this may be especially the case for those on the losing side of a war who may feel their previous understandings to be discredited, thereby opening space for alternative discourses and a reconceptualisation of national identity.11 One final point worth noting about change is that not all changes are the same. As Wæver argues discourses and narratives should always be understood as layered, with some discourses more deeply sedimented in the social structure than others. As such some discourses will always be less open to transformation or replacement, but never completely so. “Deeper” discursive structures, Wæver argues, will tend to be foundations for other less sedimented discourses. In this respect, we might think of less sedimented discourses as the branches and twigs of a tree, the deeper structures as its trunk and roots. Wæver’s point is that understanding discourse as multilayered enables us to move beyond the idea that change is in some sense always fundamental. Wæver’s insight is thus to point out that change can occur within continuity, that change is not always an either/or question.12 Moreover, this also illustrates that marginalised and opposing discourses and groups will often only be in disagreement with the dominant position “at the level of manifest politics,” near the surface of the discursive structure. At other, deeper levels of discourse they will probably share much with the dominant position.13 From our perspective this analysis is important in that throughout much of Finnish history one of the key trunks and foundational discursive structures of Finnish identity debates has been that of the east-west framework. Throughout history much of Finnish identity politics has been driven by the question of just where along the continuum between East and West Finland should be located. The conflicts here have often been heated and at times extremely violent, as in the Civil War of 1918. However, despite such conflicts the competing parties have always taken for granted the validity of the deeper structure of the east-west continuum. In this respect, one thing this chapter seeks to explore is whether a new formative moment can be identified in European politics in which this deep structure is itself now being contested by a new constellation based on the state of European-American relations.

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3.

An historical overview As noted then, one way of reading Finnish history is to see it as framed around debates as to where Finland is located between two geographical poles of East and West. Simplifying somewhat, at different times dominant discourses have located Finland in different positions (see Fig. 1). Figure 1 Finland 2 (Inter-War) WEST

Finland 3 (Cold War)

Finland 1 (Grand Duchy) EAST

For example, during the nineteenth century when Finland was a grand duchy of the tsarist Russian empire, dominant understandings tended to locate Finland quite close to Russia. To some extent, of course, this reflected geopolitical realities. However, it was also the case that many Finns (especially amongst the political, cultural and economic elite) also felt close affinities to the empire. After all, it was only with the separation of Finland from Sweden and its inclusion in the Russian empire in 1809 that a distinctive Finnish nationalist movement began to emerge and was actually one for the most part sponsored by Russia’s tsars. As such it has been argued that Finnish nationalism was initially directed against Sweden, not Russia, with many Finns actually feeling indebted to the latter.14 Indeed, it is often argued that it was only towards the turn of the 20th century that dominant constructions of Finnish identity began to be drawn against Russia. In contrast, during the interwar period dominant narratives of Finnish identity explicitly constructed Finnish identity in opposition to bolshevik Russia, seeing the Soviet Union as an evil enemy to be thwarted at all costs. In this narrative Finland became constructed as an “outpost of the West,” a sentry guarding the borders of western civilisation from infection by eastern communism.15 This was a role Finland would later play out in very real terms during the Winter War and the Continuation War between 1939–1945. During the Cold War Finland then came to occupy a third position along the east-west continuum. This was a position of being located in between, of being neither East nor West, but to some extent a third space blurring a divide that was normally conceptualised as rather definitive and was metaphorically represented in the concept of the Iron Curtain. Initially positioning this was driven by very pragmatic considerations. Given Finland’s geopolitical location on the borders of the Soviet Union and the fact that the country had just been at war with the

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eastern neighbour, the options available to it were necessarily limited. Representations of Finland as an outpost of the West fighting the evil East were simply not acceptable in the immediate post-war years, especially at a time when developments in Finland were overseen by an allied (Soviet) control commission and for as long as a final peace treaty was outstanding. In other words, if Finland was to avoid the fate of the states of central and eastern Europe it was imperative that Finnish leaders were able to narrate a new story of Finland also acceptable to Moscow.16 After the end of the war a reappraisal of Finnish identity and history was therefore initiated and jointly pushed through by Juho Paasikivi (president 1946–56) and Urho Kekkonen (president 1956–81). The essence of the new story was that the unfounded rabid antiRussianism of inter-war national identity narratives had been responsible for Finland’s wars with the Soviet Union in the 1940s. This antiRussianism and the idea that Finland was an outpost of the West facing an evil and expansionist communist empire, it was argued, resulted in Finland abandoning “itself in a national recklessness which left little room for a more sober and politically practical viewpoint.”17 It also meant that the Soviet leadership had little trust in Finland’s proclaimed policy of neutrality from 1935 onwards.18 In contrast, Paasikivi argued the Soviet Union’s interests in Finland were primarily strategic and defensive, not ideological and expansionist.19 As a small state next to a great power Finland’s best chance was simply to accept the realities of its geopolitical position, to expunge previous conceptualisations of the Russians as the hereditary enemy, and instead to rebuild Finnish national identity on a less antagonistic basis that would enable the country to earn the trust and friendship of the Soviet Union. This new narrative, with its more positive conceptualisation of the Russians and with its focus on accepting the reality of Finland’s geopolitical location, entailed clear prescriptions for Finnish foreign policy during the Cold War. Instead of being the outpost of the West Finland would adopt a more positive and friendly approach to the Soviet Union. Given that in the West, western identity was generally conceptualised by depicting the West as standing in opposition to the evil expansionist eastern empire, Paasikivi’s and Kekkonen’s more positive reading of Soviet identity and goals was often viewed uneasily in the West. In any case, although in cultural terms dominant understandings maintained that Finland was a Western state, the more positive reading of Soviet identity and the realisation of the vulnerability of Finland’s geopolitical location meant that when it came to the east-west ideological conflict, Finland instead adopted a position of trying to stay aloof. Ultimately this policy of locating Finland between East and West in the

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ideological conflict became the basis for Finland’s Cold War policy of neutrality. Over time this “pragmatic” reappraisal was also accompanied by more idealistic elements. Finland’s position between East and West was increasingly viewed as a virtue that entailed specific possibilities. From being “between East and West” the idea also emerged of Finland being a “bridge builder” of the Cold War.20 To some extent Finland (and the Nordic states more generally) became conceptualised as a meeting place where eastern socialism and western capitalism had been successfully meliorated and coexistence shown to be possible. 21 In Finland this also resulted in another reappraisal where Finland also became understood as a cultural meeting ground. Although Western elements dominated, eastern influences were also increasingly pointed out and viewed positively as something to be embraced, not rejected.22 Ultimately, the position of being in between and the conceptualisation of Finland as a cultural, political and ideological meeting place enabled Finland to adopt a more activist view of neutrality. Instead of trying to stay aloof from the Cold War, the idea developed that Finland could play a key role as a peace facilitator, softening the east-west conflict and creating mutual understanding. It was precisely this view that led Kekkonen to announce to the United Nations in 1961 that Finland’s international role would be that of a physician whose task is to “diagnose and to try to cure.”23 This view was also important in Finland’s sponsorship of the process that led to the creation of the Conference on Security and Cooperation in Europe (CSCE) in 1975. However, as already indicated, this reappraisal of Finnish identity and of the country’s international role was not always viewed positively in the West and the distinctiveness of the Finnish position became clear during the “Finlandisation” debates of the 1960s–1980s. In the West, Finland’s “good neighbourly” relations with the Soviet Union were regarded with suspicion and as indicative that Finland was slipping into the Soviet Union’s sphere of influence. In this context the term Finlandisation was coined to refer to the subservience of a small state to the wishes of a great power and the willingness to comply with those wishes even before they are formulated.24 Indeed, Finland’s activist peace policy was also sometimes viewed as simply a “Soviet peace offensive.” Finlandisation implied a distinctly negative and expansionist view of the Soviet Union and of communism, with Finland, despite its cultural claims of westernness, seen as being almost hypnotised by the eastern neighbour.25 By contrast, defenders of the tendency of Finnish decision makers to pay heed to Moscow’s concerns viewed Finnish policy as pragmatic and rational given Finland’s geopolitical position and its more positive understanding of the Soviet Union’s identity. 26 And it was precisely this different understanding that facilitated the construction of a

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between-East-and-West identity for Finland and enabled Kekkonen to promote an international image of Finland as a physician and peace facilitator. As a summary of almost two hundred years of Finnish history the above presentation is, of course, somewhat simplified. It is important to note, for instance, that even if one particular discourse of Finnish identity came to dominate at a particular time, other discourses were always also in play. For example, throughout the Cold War there was also a rightist opposition that remained highly sceptical of the “Paasikivi-Kekkonen Line” and that refused to reform their images of the Soviet Union. Likewise, during the interwar period there was a strongly socialist opposition much more favourable to the Soviet Union and that offered an alternative vision of Finnishness not built around the idea of fighting Russians. Being aware of these other discourses is important in order to remember that the telling of a discourse is always a political act entailing the exclusion of other positions. However, what is also important to note is that to a significant degree, and despite the sharp political contests that these different representations of Finland have often entailed, each of the three discourses presented here have also been premised on a much deeper narrative that Finnish identity and Finland’s role in the world is to be located somewhere along a continuum between East and West. 4.

Westernisation after the Cold War Importantly, this same basic discursive structure has prevailed following the end of the Cold War. In one respect the end of the Cold War and the collapse of the Soviet Union was experienced very much as a formative moment in Finland. With the end of the Cold War established understandings of Finland as a nation between East and West with a policy of neutrality became viewed by many Finns as increasingly irrelevant. After all, what is it to be neutral when the conflict towards which neutrality was proclaimed has ended and when one of the opposing sides no longer exists? To be sure, there were also important political voices in Finland that still urged caution and clearly felt that the events of 1989–1991 were simply a blip in a longer heritage of east-west confrontation. For these people Finland’s neutrality policy and ideas of Finland being a country “in-between” remained relevant.27 Throughout the 1990s, however, this view was largely marginalised by a growing perception that something fundamental had changed. As such, with the end of the Cold War accepted stories of “Finland” and “Finnishness” no longer made much sense and space was opened up for alternative representations that would orient Finland in new directions. Most successful, in this context, have been a series of narratives depicting Finland as being an organically Western state and asserting that

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with the end of the Cold War an opportunity arose for Finland to come home and assume its rightful and natural place in the western European family of nations.28 In practice these westernising narratives have taken two quite different forms, although both have contributed to an understanding that with the end of the Cold War Finland is now free to express its “true” and “natural” western identity. A.

The critical westernising narrative First, there has been a highly critical narrative depicting the Cold War policy of neutrality and of friendly relations with the Soviet Union as being nothing short of an aberration. According to this view, Cold War Western accusations of Finlandisation were not the misplaced ramblings of western commentators lacking knowledge of Finland and its relationship with the eastern neighbour,29 which was how Finns sometimes defended the country’s policy during the Cold War, but were in fact right on the mark.30 Rather than having skilfully avoided the pitfalls of Cold War power politics to maintain a position of magnanimous neutrality, the thrust of this view is that Finland, especially during the presidency of Urho Kekkonen (1956–1981), actually became complicit with the propaganda of the Soviet Union and its expansionist communist ideology and agenda. Already in 1991, for example, Timo Vihavainen colourfully depicted Finland as having been a nation prostrated on its stomach before the Soviet Union.31 In Mikko Majander’s opinion, such criticisms start with the claim that everything began to go wrong when Kekkonen made a Faustian deal with the Soviet leadership in 1943–44, “after which he acted in constant symbiosis with his foreign masters.”32 Consequently Finland’s sponsorship of the CSCE process has been revaluated. Instead of being a prime example of bridge building, critics have instead argued that Finland was actually implicated in helping achieve the objectives of the Soviet Union.33 Key here is the fact that in proposing a European security conference Finland was in fact simply picking up on an earlier Soviet proposal, whilst in ratifying the borders of post-war Europe (including the division of Germany) the CSCE process achieved a key Soviet objective. To put it starkly, there has been an element in this critical narrative implying that the Finlandised elite were verging on a betrayal of Finland’s true western identity. With the Cold War over, and with the errors of the past exposed, it is therefore implied that the time has come to redirect Finland to its true path of closer relations with the West, of which it is argued Finland is a “natural” and “organic” member. B.

The apologist westernising narrative In contrast to these critical perspectives on the past the second westernising narrative takes a more apologist and supportive view of

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history. According to this view, Finland’s Cold War leadership should be praised, not criticised. The argument is that the Cold War political elite did not sell out the country to the Soviet Union but, led by Kekkonen, skilfully steered the Finnish ship of state through the potential pitfalls of the Cold War. Aware of Finland’s precarious geopolitical position and utilising a shrewd understanding of Realpolitik, it is argued the political elite managed to keep Finland as far west as possible and to avoid the most onerous of the Soviet Union’s advances.34 In this context, the neutrality policy and the position of being between East and West was not a matter of identity or emotional attachment, but simply a strategic tool to keep the Soviet Union at a distance, whilst also facilitating the country’s steady integration with the economic institutions of the West.35 As Paavo Lipponen, Finland’s prime minister from 1995–2003 and now the Speaker of Parliament, recently put it, for Finland neutrality was “a means to secure Western integration.”36 However, like the critical narrative the apologist narrative also pushes Finland further down the westernising road. Presenting neutrality as having been a pragmatically and strategically deployed device of foreign policy grounded in Realpolitik denies that it ever had any emotional efficacy for the Finns. Seeing neutrality this way denies that Finland was ever really between East and West at all, but was rather a Western outpost fighting its own (largely misunderstood) battle against the East. The argument is then that, with the end of the Cold War, Finland’s geopolitical position has changed and Finland no longer needs to be so careful in its foreign policy and can instead adopt the “western” orientation that it always desired. 5.

Defining westernness It is important to say something about just how westernness is conceptualised in these westernising narratives. In particular three elements can be identified. First, it is clear that the goal of re-claiming Finland’s “natural” western identity implies a rejection of past policies and perhaps more specifically of the idea that Finland should conceptualise itself as being a nation in-between. Instead, Finnishness is to be achieved by clearly locating itself on one particular side of the east-west boundary. By contrast, ambiguity in this regard is to be rejected. However, and as indicated above, westernisers have not had it all their own way and there remains in Finland a strong opinion that sees something positive in standing somewhat aloof from the West, especially when it comes to the question of NATO membership, where for years the majority of public opinion has been opposed. What this indicates is that even in the 1990s the concept of the “West” was also somewhat problematic, with various options existing for how Finland’s westernness might be demonstrated. For example, at the stronger end there have been calls for Finland to join

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both the EU and NATO. In contrast, others have argued for a policy of non-alignment within the EU (but retaining close cooperation with the US in the north), whilst others still have argued for active engagement in the emerging European security and defence identity (ESDI). In other words, even before 9/11 the exact nature of the West and Finland’s engagement with it was somewhat contested, even if the east-west framework remained the primary foundational discourse. The second point, however, is that despite a certain amount of reserve regarding NATO and Finland’s exact institutional links with the West, westernness has been basically equated with membership in those western institutions of which membership was denied to Finland in the past because of the Soviet Union’s categorisation of them as being antiCommunist. Central here has been EU membership, which Finland gained in 1995. As Moisio notes, for a significant group of Finns EU membership was not about rational material economic and practical calculations, but was primarily a question of identity, of the senses and of the national spirit.37 Membership in this sense was conceptualised as a symbol and passport of Finland’s western identity and of the wider European community’s recognition of this – much as EU and NATO membership has also been viewed by the states of central and eastern Europe.38 As President Ahtisaari put it in 1995, “our membership in the European Union has strengthened our European identity.”39 Third, westernness is also basically understood as not being Russian (eastern). This is to say that the idea of “coming home” or “returning” to the West to reclaim Finland’s natural identity is premised on leaving something behind. And that something is Russia, with Russia frequently depicted in rather negative terms as a potential threat to Finland. To put it another way, despite the end of the Cold War, westernising discourses continue to construct Finnish foreign policy and Finnish identity in terms of east-west dynamics. So, if during the Cold War Finland occupied the “hyphen” of the east-west divide, in westernising terms all that has changed is that Finland has swapped the position of being in-between for a position in the West – though as stated what this has meant in practice has been a point of political contestation. To be sure the idea of the “Russian threat” is somewhat ambiguous and tends to take two forms. On the one hand, there are representations that characterise present-day Russia as simply the modern day version of the expansionist Soviet Union. Indeed, a great power status is often seen as an essential aspect of Russia’s identity, with Russia understood to be a civilisation distinct from the West and one not committed to Western values of democracy and peace. Instead, these views pick up on Russian pronouncements that Russia is entitled to its own sphere of influence and to unilaterally use force within that sphere.40 Such representations locate Russia as a direct military threat to Finland. As former President Mauno Koivisto has put it, this is because in Russian

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thinking land previously conquered by Russia is understood as always being a rightful part of Russia, and this includes Finland.41 On the other hand, the official view is that the security threat does not come from Russian expansionism, but rather from Russia descending into chaos and disorder. The other popular representation of Russia is therefore as a site of instability, a land wracked by poverty, organised crime, pollution and the degeneration of the rule of law, with the threat being that Finland will be sucked into this vortex of social instability and economic backwardness.42 Both these representations of Russian otherness therefore locate Finland firmly on the Western side of the east-west continuum, with Finland becoming all that Russia is not. In contrast to the “wild East” across the border,43 Finland is a Western country characterised by democracy, order and rationalism. Moreover, these representations have also entailed implications for foreign policy. On the one hand, concerns that Russia may be a direct military threat to Finland have fuelled the desire to integrate Finland with Western institutions. EU membership, in this respect, has been widely conceptualised as an important step in multilateralising the Finnish-Russian relationship,44 but also as implying implicit military security guarantees for Finland.45 Such concerns are also, of course, constantly in the background of debates over NATO membership, with a common position being that Finland should join now before it is too late and before Russia has recovered.46 On the other hand, representations of Russia as a land of chaos have also inspired policies, such as the Northern Dimension initiative, that have been designed to stabilise Russia’s northwest and to promote its future social and economic development, the goal being to prevent Russian chaos and lawlessness seeping across the border. One final point to note about the influence and structure of these westernising discourses in post-Cold War Finland is that even if westernising discourses have remained stuck in an east-west dynamic, and as such reflect the continued importance of Cold War mindsets, such discourses have actually been in close accordance with more general postCold War understandings in Europe. These have also ultimately retained a division between the West and Russia. For example, it has been clear in both the EU and the US that westernness is also generally associated with membership in Western institutions like the EU and NATO, and that Russia will remain excluded from these institutions. Thus, the American goal of creating a “Europe whole and free” has been equated with NATO enlargement to all the states of Europe, except Russia. In other words, Russia has continued to be viewed as a potential threat to the West. So, whilst westernising discourses in Finland are founded on an east-west dynamic, so have been broader European and American discourses and policies.

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As such, the westernising discourses in Finland have fitted well with more general understandings. In so doing they have provided Finland with a post-Cold War identity relevant to the unfolding context, and have promoted a certain course in Finnish foreign policy based around the country’s steady integration with western institutions. 6.

Europeanism vs. Atlanticism – The new geopolitical challenge This, however, brings us to the main contention of this chapter and to the central theme of this book. In the context of global developments over the last few years, and in particular related to the “war on terror,” what the chapter will now explore is whether the westernising narratives that have dominated Finnish identity debates since the end of the Cold War, and their very foundation in a deeper discursive structure built around an east-west continuum, is losing its relevance. To put it another way, although the westernising discourses have been one important response to the formative moment of the structural changes of the end of the Cold War, with the War on Terrorism are we witnessing a new formative moment that in turn is undermining the foundational bases of westernising discourses? In other words, how effective are westernising discourses of Finnish identity and foreign policy in providing a conceptual framework by which to think about unfolding developments? As indicated, the reason for thinking that a new formative moment of structural change is unfolding that challenges dominant understandings of identity, is that with the war on terror the structuring logic of European politics appears to be increasingly less based on an eastwest divide. Instead, the central question increasingly appears to be related to the way in which European states and Europe as a whole relates itself to the United States and America’s global agenda. The debate here is essentially twofold. First, there is the question of whether Europe (the EU) as a whole will fall in line behind America’s global agenda, or if Europe will stand apart and assert its difference from America, thereby breaking the former unity of the “West”? The second question is whether Europe itself will remain united or whether it will split into Europeanist and Atlanticist camps on this issue. In other words, are we going to see a pro-Atlanticist “New Europe” increasingly at loggerheads with a Europeanist “Old Europe” less inclined to ride along behind America and instead keen to assert a separate role for Europe on the global stage? And how will Finland orient itself within this context and can it play a role in European politics that is active, not simply reactive to developments elsewhere? A.

A transatlantic split? Ideas that a transatlantic split is underway between Europe and America are, of course, contested. For example, some people have argued that the current spat between the US and “old Europe” (especially France

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and Germany) is simply the result of diplomatic ineptitude on all sides and as such any damage in relations can and should in future be repaired.47 On the other hand, there are those who tend to see the current troubles as emblematic of more fundamental divides that are only now being acknowledged. Perhaps best known in this regard is the analysis of Robert Kagan. According to Kagan Europeans are from Venus, whilst Americans are from Mars. By this he means that whereas Americans tend to take a Machiavellian power politics approach to international relations, Europeans are more prone to legalistic and liberalist normative approaches, preferring economic inducements and diplomacy to the use of force.48 In reality the argument is somewhat problematic, not least because within America one can find influential proponents of a softer (more European?) approach to international politics that emphasises multilateralism and the use of economic and normative levers as the best means to promote the American national interest.49 However, it is important to note that Kagan’s view is widely held by many people in both Europe and America and leads to easy characterisations of each other, either as European “wimps” and “freeriders” or as American “neanderthals.” Moreover, the idea that a fundamental difference in approaches to world politics exists between Europe and America has also been accepted at governmental levels where it has become a justification for unilateralism on both sides. For the Bush administration, views such as Kagan’s have been taken as justification for a go-it-alone foreign policy, 50 whilst the response within some European capitals is to then conceptualise further European integration and the enhancement of the “actorness” of the EU as a way to balance America in world affairs. Moreover, it is also possible to make an argument that these differences predate disputes over the war on terrorism and the war against Iraq. President Bush, for example, signalled his disregard for international norms and agreements and his preference for a unilateralist approach rather early in his presidency, not least by dismissing the Kyoto protocol and vociferously rejecting any idea that Americans might be subject to trial at the new international criminal court – all of which was viewed highly negatively in Europe. Beyond this, however, ever since the end of the Cold War there has been a body of opinion in America that at times has positioned the United States and the EU in opposition to each other, in particular arguing that in the future the EU will pose a threat to American economic hegemony.51 There is also, however, another reason that may well explain at least elements of the current disputes between Europe and America. The reason here is that as soon as the EU and NATO enlargements appeared assured a view began to spread within US policy making circles that the American mission in Europe to create “a Europe whole and free” had been achieved.52 The result is that America no longer sees Europe as a security

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problem, one result of which is that even before September 2001 US security strategy was beginning to be re-oriented away from Europe towards southeast Asia and the Pacific Region.53 Since Europe is no longer viewed as a security problem the imperative to retain a united front with Europe is also arguably less strong. Aside from ideas as to whether Europe is from Venus and America is from Mars, this may also explain why the Bush administration has been relatively happy to let the previous discourse of creating a unified Europe “whole and free” be replaced by a new, much more divisive, framing that divides Europe into “new” and “old” categories. In this distinction, which was first introduced into the debate by Secretary of State Donald Rumsfeld in January 2003,54 new Europe refers to those states supportive of America, whilst old Europe refers to awkward partners and even potential rivals of the US. As Joenniemi argues in this volume, this represents a dramatic departure that threatens to pit European states against each other, not least because it offers the “new Europeans” (most of whom are also new EU and NATO members) the chance to jump above their “old” neighbours in gaining favours and influence in Washington. More particularly, it also represents an attempt where America sets out to take a stand in defining what “real” and “progressive” European values are and which states should be seen as the “core Europeans.” Again, as Joenniemi notes, it is far from clear whether this manoeuvre will be successful, or whether in pushing the new Europe – old Europe distinction the United States has misjudged its power in Europe. After all, although the move has clearly flattered some of the “new Europeans” of central and eastern Europe, they have also clearly found it somewhat embarrassing and are also aware that they have great interests in not antagonising those old European states that are the core members of the EU. As such it is uncertain whether the American interjection of the new Europe – old Europe divide will in fact primarily serve to draw a rift between “Europeanist” and “Atlanticist” oriented European states, or whether it will actually rather go some way to consolidating Europe in opposition to America. Most probably aspects of both possibilities will emerge: attempts will be made to patch up the relationship between the US and the states of “old Europe,” although it is likely antagonisms will remain. Likewise, the seeds have also been sown for debates within Europe and in which the background presence of the “American factor” is likely to remain an important element. Consequently, even though a sharp break between Europe and America or between “new Europe” and “old Europe” is unlikely, it is also clear that increasingly it is the relationship with America that provides a foundational point for European politics, at least just as much as the traditional reference point of Europe vis-à-vis Russia.

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Relocating Russia It is also important to note that in these new debates Russia has not simply slipped into the background. Instead, it can also be argued that, particularly in light of the “war on terror,” Russia has to some extent been able to escape from its position as the defining other of the West (Europe). This is to say that as a result of the terrorist attacks of September 2001 and their aftermath, Russia has increasingly become viewed as “one of us.” With the identification of terrorists and rogue states as our common enemy, traditional Cold War images of Russia as the constitutive other of the West have to some extent been overcome. This is particularly clear in American rhetoric. Whereas previously the American goal to create a “Europe whole and free” ultimately left Russia excluded on the fringes as at best only semiEuropean, but also as a potential enemy, the distinction between “new Europe” and “old Europe” treats Russia differently. Arguably, in this new discourse Russia’s position is greatly enhanced. In American terms at least, instead of remaining excluded from Europe, Russia has actually been given a choice as to which Europe it wishes to join. This should be seen as quite a stunning development. This is because throughout much of the 1990s America was concerned that Russia would try to slip in between Europe and America, that it would try to ease apart the transatlantic relationship and encourage Europe to develop along more independent lines. These concerns were well founded and were a response to Russian preferences for a multipolar world system, rather than a unipolar one dominated by the US.55 The emphasis on NATO enlargement, which was the central element to the US policy of creating “a Europe whole and free,” therefore, was not only about uniting Europe (excluding Russia), but was also about preserving America’s key position in the European house. What is interesting about the shift away from the “Europe whole and free” discourse is therefore that although America has established a new framework for thinking about Europe, the discourse of new Europe – old Europe actually gives Russia the opportunity to also play a constitutive role in framing how Europe will develop. The question is therefore whether Russia would choose to associate itself with new Europe or old Europe. The issue is not straightforward as Russia has reasons to favour both locations. “New Europe” is no doubt attractive because the Russian approach to fighting terrorism shares much with that of the United States. Indeed, America’s War on Terrorism has considerably eased the diplomatic criticism Russia previously faced over its conduct in Chechnya, and Russian definitions of who counts as a terrorist are now widely accepted in the West. Less attractive about the new Europe location, however, is that it places Russia alongside a considerable number

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of its former east European satellites. Whether Moscow can conceive of joining a “new Europe” of former colonies is less certain. In this respect, an identification with ”old Europe” may look more enticing to Moscow, not least because of how the Eurasianist camp in Russia continues to construct Russian identity in opposition to America, and the extent to which a strategic goal of Russia remains the creation of a multipolar world order.56 Ironically, then, America’s new discourse may well provide an opportunity for Russia to slip into Europe by drawing closer to France and Germany, thereby producing the result that the “Europe whole and free” policy of NATO enlargement was designed to pre-empt. A third option, however, and one much more in line with realist traditions in Russian foreign policy that aim at promoting Russia as a great power and maximising its freedom of manoeuvre within a multipolar world would be for Russia to play off the two Western camps against each other: courting ”old Europe” on occasion, but maintaining the new alignment with the US as necessary. Although most of the above is mainly speculative the key conclusion that might be drawn from this discussion is that even if the American distinction between new Europe and old Europe fails to stick over the longer term, developments over the last few years have certainly undermined the previous dominance of east-west frames of reference when thinking about European politics. In this respect, what the American interjection and the war on terror have highlighted is that perhaps the key issue that faces European states today, is no longer their relationship towards Russia, but rather whether particular states wish to be tied to US global objectives or not. In other words, the question is not so much whether you are East or West, but rather whether you are a Europeanist or an Atlanticist. 7.

Implications for Finland All of this raises important questions for Finland. In a context in which previous East-west frames are being replaced (or at the least complemented by) European-American dynamics, how relevant are westernising discourses anymore in orienting Finland to international developments and in providing a basis for action? Indeed, on some issues the east-west perceptual framework appears decidedly outdated. The question of Finland’s possible future NATO membership is one such issue. When framed in terms of westernising discourses, as it almost always is in Finland, ultimately the issue is conceptualised in terms of whether NATO membership is the best means of dealing with a potential Russian threat or not. Those in favour argue that since one cannot be sure how Russian politics will develop in the future, it is better to be safe than sorry. Opposed to this is the view of former President Mauno Koivisto who argues that even though expansionism is central to

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Russia’s understanding of itself Finland has nothing to gain by provoking Russia through NATO membership.57 A slightly different argument in favour of membership, and one noted earlier, is that of former President Martti Ahtisaari. According to Ahtisaari, Finland should join NATO as a final demonstration that Finland is a part of the West. Only then will Finland finally escape the shackles of the Finlandisation label. Whilst in domestic terms such a framing is understandable, in an international context juxtaposing NATO and Russia in this way is becoming increasingly problematic. On the one hand, this is because with NATO keen not to overly provoke Russia such a framing is unlikely to be received well in diplomatic circles. Likewise this reflects the fact that since the end of the Cold War NATO has been keen to stress that it should no longer be conceptualised as an alliance directed against Russia, but rather as a community of values – which in theory at least is therefore also open to Russia.58 On the other hand, with the NATO-Russia relationship becoming increasingly normalised, some of the central debates in NATO are no longer about the relationship to Russia, but rather about America’s dominance within the Alliance and the extent to which NATO is being subordinated to American strategic objectives. In other words, thinking about these things in the east-west terms of westernising discourses no longer makes much sense. Moreover, even Ahtisaari’s argument is problematic. In part, from an outsider’s perspective it can seem slightly antiquated. Given that even countries as far east as Georgia are now being considered for membership NATO has itself transcended the east-west divide such that Finland’s non-membership is hardly likely to be viewed as a sign of “easternness” by the European community or by the US. However, it is also problematic because such an East-west frame provides absolutely no guide for action once Finland would become a member of NATO. In the context of the “war on terror,” pushing an East-west agenda within NATO seems irrelevant and unlikely to win friends. The replacement of East-west frames with Europe-America frames can also be seen in debates over the future of the EU. For example, for certain EU members enhancing the EU’s capabilities as an international actor clearly seems to be part of a desire to balance America’s global power and to ease Europe’s dependence on the US. As such, when thinking about the future development of the EU the key question is not simply the EU’s relations with Russia (which is important), but also its developing relationship with the US. In this context westernising narratives premised on the East-west framework are unable to capture some of the key dynamics now underway in EU politics. In a nutshell then, whilst Finland’s post-Cold War foreign policy has been significantly framed in terms of becoming and asserting Finland’s westernness in relation to Russia, in a changing situation in

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which Russia is increasingly included on “our side” and in which the West itself is increasingly split into Europeanist and Atlanticist camps, quite what it means to be “western” is increasingly unclear. In fact, it seems that the westernising East-west story actually obscures from sight issues that have become increasingly important since September 2001 – i.e., the fact that security debates are today less about East-west divides, and more about Europeanist-Atlanticist dynamics. 8.

Conclusion – The need for a new narrative In conclusion then, it seems that the westernising discourse appears increasingly out of sync with unfolding developments, a new discursive frame that provides Finland with a new way of thinking about its identity is needed if Finland is to be able to respond effectively to global developments. Of course, to some extent a new foundational framework already exists. Instead of the continuum between East and West, what we rather have is a continuum between Europe and America with Russia’s position in this relationship somewhat undecided (see Fig.2). The question then becomes where Finns wish to locate Finland in this triangle and what international role they believe Finland could and should play in the future. Within this context at least four positions appear to be available to Finland. First, there is the option of positioning Finland in the antiAmerican Europeanist camp of old Europe, where there is a desire to build the EU into an actor distinct from the US and even as a potential rival to it. Within Finland there are clearly some sentiments that might in the end push in this direction, especially if American foreign policy retains its current course. For example, both President Halonen and Foreign Minister Tuomioja clearly see the Bush administration’s approach to world politics, international law and to the UN as highly problematic. Instead, both are keen to emphasise that future world order should be built around the reaffirmation of international law and the centrality of the UN, a position which Risto E. J. Penttilä, director of the Finnish Business and Policy Forum (EVA), recently asserted was directly at odds with a close relationship with Washington, but which was denied by Halonen.59 Similarly, whether this stress on international law and the UN translates into unqualified support for “old Europe” is also debatable. Both Tuomioja and Halonen, for example, are also highly critical of French and German aspirations to turn the EU into a military great power.60 The second option then, is to position Finland in the proAmerican Atlanticist camp of new Europe. In this respect, it should be noted that even though Finland has remained outside NATO, Finnish foreign policy since the end of the Cold War has been premised on retaining an American presence in northern Europe. This has been seen as a central part of Finnish security policy and vital in avoiding giving Russia the impression that the Baltic Sea should be seen as a part of its sphere of

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influence. Cooperation between Finland and the US has been strong and Finland played a key role in persuading the US to develop a separate strategy for northern Europe, which became formalised as the Northern European Initiative (NEI). Maintaining this presence in northern Europe remains a key concern of the Finnish government. Figure 2

Europe (EU)

1. Anti-American Europeanist (old Europe)

3. Isolationism

4. Bridge Builder

Russia

2. Pro-American Atlanticist (new Europe)

United States Given the difficulty of these debates, however, there is also a third option available to Finland, which may be to keep one’s head down and to try and stay out of the Europe-America discussion for as long possible. Whether such a policy of isolationism is a long-term viable strategy is unlikely given Finland’s membership of the EU. However, there is also a Cold War historical heritage of adopting such a strategy, when Finland tried to stay outside of the conflicts affecting the great powers. Such a “neutrality” strategy conceivably may still appeal to some people today. There is, however, also a possible fourth option, where instead of isolationism and trying to stay aloof, Finland could try to re-invent itself as a bridge-builder in a new context, by trying to soften the emerging divides between Europe and America and between new Europe and old Europe, whilst also continuing to try and reach out to Russia as it has been

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doing throughout the 1990s. What is important here is to stress that Finland does not have to take the emerging geopolitical framework as given. The point is rather not to take the various divides as fixed, but to realise that Finland might also be able to play a role in also shaping the European political arena and the relationship between the EU and the US according to its interests. The ability of Finland to play such a role, however, will be dependent on two factors. First, it will depend on whether a more general will emerges in the US and in “old Europe” favourable to reconciliation. Second, it will also depend on whether it becomes possible in Finland to move beyond westernising constructions of Finnish identity that are founded in a deeper narrative opposition between East and West. Whilst westernising narratives and the east-west discursive framework they are founded on proved to be a successful way of positioning Finland in relation to the end of the Cold War and the development of Europe during the 1990s, the contention of this chapter is that increasingly such a framework is losing its relevance. New discursive strategies are needed if Finland is to maximise its interests in the new situation. In this respect, in the Cold War heritage of being a bridge builder between East and West, and its post-Cold War continued engagement with Russia, Finland has historical experiences that could well be adapted to the new context, grounding a new identity and role of Finland as a bridge builder in a deeper historical experience. In other words, it is precisely that which is problematised in westernising narratives, the position of being in-between, which today may provide Finland with some of its greatest resources. Instead of rushing to choose sides to locate Finland in a firmly defined geopolitical camp, once again Finland’s best option may be precisely that of avoiding fixity, instead playing on a position of being in-between, of offering an alternative and of playing the role of a mediator and bridge builder.

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Notes 1. For such analyses see, Arter, 1995; Browning, 2002; Jakobson, 1998, 111; Moisio, 2003. More materialist explanations for Finnish post-Cold War foreign policy orientations have also been put forward. Most notably, Ingebritsen (1998) has argued that the central factor explaining Finland’s decision to join the EU in 1995 was not identity considerations, but material economic considerations. 2. Ahtisaari made these comment in an interview on the Yleisradio 1 TV programme, Lauantaiseura on 13.12.2003. Also see, Helsingin Sanomat International Edition, 2003. 3. Harle and Moisio, 2000. 4. Joenniemi, 2001; Joenniemi, 2002; Browning, 2003. 5. See Carr, 1986; Ringmar, 1996; Schrag, 1997. 6. Laffey, 2000. 7. Ringmar, 1996, 73. 8. Moravcsik, 1999, 671. 9. However, for an overview see Browning, 2003, 71–76. 10. Ringmar, 1996, 83–85; Carr, 1986, 91. 11. Finnemore and Sikkink, 1998, 909. 12. Wæver, 2002, 31. 13. Ibid. 14. Hyvärinen, 1998, 204. For recent analyses pointing out how the Tsarist period was actually viewed positively during the period see, Klinge, 1997; Lehti, 2001. 15. Karemaa, 1998; Paasi, 1996, 160; Klinge, 1993; Luostarinen, 1989. 16. The peace treaty was finally signed in 1947. On the immediate postwar period see, Polvinen, 1986. 17. Pajunen, 1969, 8. 18. Kekkonen, 1970, 110. 19. Paasikivi, 1956, 35–36. 20. Tiilikainen, 1998, 155. 21. Hanhimäki, 1997, xii. 22. Kekkonen, 1970, 123; Kemiläinen, 1998, 284–285. 23. Kekkonen, 1970, 94. 24. Singleton, 1978, 325. 25. One of the best-known “Finlandisation” attacks on Finnish foreign policy is Lacqueur, 1977. 26. For example, Jakobson, 1980, 1040; Maude, 1976, 23. 27. A key advocate here was Paavo Väyrynen, chairman of the Centre Party from 1980–1990 and Minister of Foreign Affairs from 1977–1987 and 1991–1993. 28. For example see, Lehtonen, 1999, 5. 29. Jakobson, 1984, xiii. 30. Penttilä, 1992, 41.

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31. Vihavainen, 1991. 32. Majander, 1999, 89. 33. Majander, 1999, 89. 34. Particularly notable here has been the prodigious output of Kekkonen’s biographer Juhani Suomi, whose eight volume biography depicts Kekkonen as having been an outstanding statesman who ably protected the nation in a precarious political environment. Jakobson, 2000. 35. Jakobson, 1998, 80. 36. Paavo Lipponen quoted in Helsingin Sanomat International Edition, 2004a. 37. Moisio, 2003, 13. 38. It is perhaps worth noting that the debates on EU membership that were also held in Sweden and Norway, prior to the three countries holding their referenda in 1994, never involved the question of whether these states were in some sense Western or not. In Norway and Sweden, unlike in Finland, this was just taken for granted and EU membership was not in any sense viewed as enhancing one’s claim to westernness. See Alapuro, 1999. 39. Ahtisaari quoted in Harle, 2000, 10. 40. Finnish Institute of International Affairs, 1999, 1; Vaahtoranta and Forsberg, 1998, 193–194. 41. Koivisto, 2001. 42. Jakobson, 1995, 42. 43. Pihlaja, 1999. 44. Pursiainen, 1999. 45. As General Hagglund, Commander-in-Chief of the Finnish Defence Forces, argued in 1995, “Once a country is a member of the EU family, it is natural that the other EU countries will make sure that Finland’s independence is secured.” Quoted in Johansson, 1995, 42. 46. Ries, 1999. 47. Asmus, 2004, 27, 30–31. 48. Kagan, 2003. 49. Nye, 2003; Kupchan, 2000, 134–66. 50. Asmus, 2004, 29. 51. Luttwak, 1990, 17–24. For a different negative American view of European integration, and in particular of the development of an EU defence dimension see Frum and Perle, 2003. 52. This rhetoric of creating “a Europe whole and free” originated with George Bush Snr, remained a central part of Clinton’s discourse on Europe and his strong advocacy of NATO enlargement, and was also picked up by the current Bush Administration. On Clinton’s NATO policy see, Asmus, 2002. For a recent elaboration of the view by President Bush see Bush, 2001. 53. For example, see the Quadrennial Defense Review, 2001. 54. BBC News, 2003.

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55. On the development of Russian strategic doctrine see Heikka, 1999. 56. Patomäki and Pursiainen, 1999. 57. Jakobson, 2004. 58. Williams and Neumann, 2000, 357–87. 59. Helsingin Sanomat International Edition, 2004b. Helsingin Sanomat International Edition, 2004c. 60. For example see, Tuomioja, 2004. For another highly critical view of American foreign policy under George Bush see, Sadeniemi, 2004.

References Alapuro, R. (1999), “Finnish Nationalism between East and West,” Paper presented at the Finnish Institute, London. Available at http://www.finnish-institute.org.uk/articles/alapuro1.htm (13.04.1999). Arter, D. (1995), “The EU Referendum in Finland on 16 October 1994: A Vote for the West, Not for Maastricht,” Journal of Common Market Studies, 33/3: 361–87. Asmus, R. D. (2002), Opening NATO’s Door: How the Alliance Remade Itself for a New Era. New York: Columbia University Press. Asmus, R. D. (2004), “The Atlantic Alliance at a New Crossroads: What Does it Mean for Denmark and Northern Europe?”, in: P. Carlsen and H. Mouritzen (eds.), Danish Foreign Policy Yearbook 2004, Copenhagen: Danish Institute for International Studies, 25–48. BBC News (2003) “Outrage at ‘old Europe’ remarks,” 23 January 2003. Available at http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/2687403.stm. Browning, C. S. (2002), “Coming Home or Moving Home? ‘Westernizing’ Narratives in Finnish Foreign Policy and the Reinterpretation of Past Identities,” Cooperation and Conflict 37/1: 47–72. Browning, C. S. (2003), Constructing Finnish National Identity and Foreign Policy, 18092000. University of Wales, Aberystwyth, unpublished Ph.D. manuscript. Bush, G. W. (2001), Remarks by the President in Address to Faculty and Students of Warsaw University, Warsaw, Poland, 15 June 2001. Available at http://www.whitehouse.gov/news/releases/2001/06/20010615-1.html. Carr, D. (1986), Time, Narrative, and History. Bloomington: Indiana University Press.

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Finnemore, M. and K. Sikkink (1998), “International Norm Dynamics and Political Change,” International Organization, 52/4: 887–918. Finnish Institute of International Affairs (1999), Russia Beyond 2000: The prospects for Russian development and their implications for Finland. Helsinki: The Finnish Institute of International Affairs. Frum, D. and R. Perle (2003), An End to Evil: Strategies for Victory in the War on Terror. New York: Random House. Hanhimäki, J. M. (1997), Scandinavia and the United States. New York: Twayne Publishers. Harle, V. (2000), “Martti Ahtisaari, A Global Rationalist,” in: Northern Dimensions 2000. Helsinki: Finnish Institute of International Affairs, 5– 24. Harle, V. and S. Moisio (2000), Missä on Suomi? Kansallisen identiteettipolitiikan historia ja geopolitiikka [Where is Finland? The Nation’s History of Identity Politics and Geopolitics]. Jyväskylä: Vastapaino. Heikka, H. (1999), “The Evolution of Russian Grand Strategy and Its Implications on Finnish Security,” in: Northern Dimensions 1999. Helsinki: Finnish Institute of International Affairs, 27–44. Helsingin Sanomat International Edition (2003), “Former President Ahtisaari: NATO membership would put an end to Finlandisation murmurs,” 15.12.2003. Available at http://www.helsinginsanomat.fi/english/. Helsingin Sanomat International Edition (2004a), “Lipponen sees no use for non-alignment,” 09.01.2004. Available at http://www.helsinginsanomat.fi/english/. Helsingin Sanomat International Edition (2004b), “Halonen criticised as global do-gooder,” 26.04.2004. Available at http://www.helsinginsanomat.fi/english/. Helsingin Sanomat International Edition (2004c), “Professor and Minister disagree with criticism of President Halonen,” 28.04.2004. Available at http://www.helsinginsanomat.fi/english/. Hyvärinen, M. (1998), “The Fictional Versions of ‘Valta’ (Power),” Finnish Yearbook of Political Thought, 2: 203–40.

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Ingebritsen, C. (1998), The Nordic States and European Unity. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Jakobson, M. (1980), “Substance and Appearance,” Foreign Affairs, 58/5: 1034–446. Jakobson, M. (1984), Finland Survived: An Account of the Finnish-Soviet Winter War 1939–40. Helsinki: Otava Publishing Co. Jakobson, M. (1995), “Collective Security in Europe Today,” in: B. Roberts (ed.), Order and Disorder after the Cold War. Cambridge, Massachusetts: The MIT Press. Jakobson, M. (1998), Finland in the New Europe. Westport, CT: Praeger. Jakobson, M. (2000), “Saviour of the Nation or a Devious Faustian Bargainer?”, Helsingin Sanomat International Edition, 31.08.2000. Available at http://www.helsinginsanomat.fi/english/. Jakobson, M. (2004), “Finland, NATO, and Russia,” Helsingin Sanomat International Edition, 20.01.2004. Available at http://www.helsinginsanomat.fi/english/. Joenniemi, P. (2001), “Suomi miekan ja sapelin välissä” [Finland between the Sword and the Scimitar] Ulkopolitiikka, 38/1: Joenniemi, P. (2002), “Finland in the New Europe: A Herderian or Hegelian Project?’, ” in: L. Hansen and O. Wæver (eds.) Between Nations and Europe: Regionalism, Nationalism and the Politics of the Union. London: Routledge, 182–213. Johansson, K. (1995), “EU Strengthens Europe’s Security,” Finland in Europe. Helsinki: Finnish Ministry for Foreign Affairs. Kagan, R. (2003), Paradise and Power: America and Europe in the New World Order. Atlantic Books. Karemaa, O. (1998), Vihollisia, vainoojia, syöpäläisiä: Venäläisviha Suomessa 1917–1923 [Foes, Fiends and Vermin. Ethnic Hatred of Russians in Finland 1917–1923]. Helsinki: Suomen Historiallinen Seura, Bibliotheca Historica 30. Kekkonen, U. (1970), Neutrality: The Finnish Position. London: Heinemann.

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Kemiläinen, A. (1998), Finns in the Shadow of the Aryans. Helsinki: Suomen Historiallinen Seura; Studia Historica 59. Klinge, M. (1993), “Finnish Russophobia in the Twenties: Character and Historical Roots,” in: M. Klinge, The Finnish Tradition: Essays on Structures and Identities in the North of Europe. Helsinki: Suomen Historiallinen Seura. Klinge, M. (1997), Finlands historia 3. Kejsartiden [Finland’s History 3. The Imperial Period]. Helsinki: Schildts. Koivisto, M. (2001), Venäjän idea [The Idea of Russia]. Helsinki: Tammi. Kupchan, C. A. (2000), “After Pax Americana: Benign Power, Regional Integration and the Sources of a Stable Multipolarity,” in: B. Hansen and B. Heurlin (eds.) The New World Order: Contrasting Theories. Houndmills: Palgrave Macmillan, 134–66. Lacqueur, W. (1977), “Europe: The Specter of Finlandization,” Commentary, 64/6: 37–41. Laffey, M. (2000), “Locating identity: performativity, foreign policy and state action,” Review of International Studies, 26/3: 429–44. Lehti, M. (2001), “The Petersburgian Europe in Finnish Identity,” in: P. Joenniemi (ed.), Saint Petersburg, Russian Europe and Beyond. St. Petersburg: St. Petersburg University Press, 3–20. Lehtonen, T. M. S. (ed.) (1999), Europe’s Northern Frontier: Perspectives on Finland’s Western Identity. Jyväskylä: PS Kustannus. Luostarinen, H. (1989), “Finnish Russophobia: The Story of an Enemy Image,” Journal of Peace Research, 26/2: 123–37. Luttwak, E. (1990), “From Geopolitics to Geo-Economics: Logic of Conflict, Grammar of Commerce,” The National Interest, 20: 17–24. Majander, M. (1999), “The Paradoxes of Finlandization,” in: Northern Dimensions 1999. Helsinki: Finnish Institute of International Affairs, 85– 94. Maude, G. (1976), The Finnish Dilemma. London: Oxford University Press.

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Moisio, S. (2003), Geopoliittinen kamppailu Suomen EU-jäsenyydestä [The Geopolitical Struggle for Finland’s Membership in the EU]. Turku: Turun Yliopisto. Moravcsik, A. (1999), “Is something rotten in the state of Denmark? Constructivism and European Integration,” Journal of European Public Policy, 6/4: 669–81. Nye, J. S. (2003), The Paradox of American Power: Why the World’s Only Superpower Can’t Go It Alone. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Paasi, A. (1996), Territories, Boundaries and Consciousness: The Changing Geographies of the Finnish-Russian Border. Chichester: John Wiley and Sons. Paasikivi, J. K. (1956), Paasikiven Linja I: Juho Kusti Paasikiven Puheita Vuosilta 1944–1956 [The Paasikivi Line, Vol.1. Speeches 1944–1956]. Porvoo: WSOY. Pajunen, A. (1969), “Finland’s Security Policy,” in: I. Heiskanen, J. Huopaniemi, K. Korhonen and K. Törnudd (eds.) Essays on Finnish Foreign Policy. Vammala: Finnish Political Science Association, 7–30. Patomäki, H. and C. Pursiainen (1999), “Western Models and the Russian Idea: Beyond ‘Inside/Outside’ in Discourses on Civil Society,” Millennium, 28/1: 53–78. Penttilä, R. E. J. (1992), “Official Religions,” Books From Finland, 1: 41– 3. Pihlaja, J. (1999), “The Wild East begins just across the border,” Helsingin Sanomat International Edition http://www.helsinkihs.net/thisweek/43041999.html (23/10/1999). Polvinen, T. (1986), Between East and West: Finland in International Politics, 1944–1947. Porvoo: WSOY. Pursiainen, C. (1999), Finland’s Security Policy Towards Russia: From Bilateralism to Multilateralism. Helsinki: Working Papers 14, The Finnish Institute of International Affairs. Quadrennial Defense Review, Department of Defense, September 30, 2001. Available at http://www.defenselink.mil/pubs/qdr2001.pdf. Ries, T. (1999), Finland and NATO.

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Available at http://www.mil.fi/tiedotus/julkaisut/finland_and_nato/index.html Ringmar, E. (1996), Identity, Interest and Action: A Cultural Explanation of Sweden’s Intervention in the Thirty Years War. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sadeniemi, P. (2004), “Kagan, the late-coming prophet,” Helsingin Sanomat International Edition 24.02.2004. Available at http://www.helsinginsanomat.fi/english/. Schrag, C. O. (1997), The Self after Postmodernity. New Haven and London: Yale University Press. Singleton, F. (1978), “Finland between East and West,” World Today 34/8: 321–32. Tiilikainen, T. (1998), Europe and Finland: Defining the Political Identity of Finland in Western Europe. Aldershot: Ashgate. Tuomioja, E. (2004), “Euroopan turvallisuusstrategiasta” [Europe’s Security Strategy], Speech presented in Helsinki, 25.02.2004. Available at http://www.formin.fi. Vaahtoranta, T. and T. Forsberg (1998), “Finland’s Three Security Strategies,” in: M. Jopp and S. Arnswald (eds.), The European Union and the Baltic States: Visions, Interests and Strategies for the Baltic Sea Region. Kauhava: Ulkopoliittinen instituutti and Institut für Europäische Politik, 191–211. Vihavainen, T. (1991), Kansakunta rähmällään: Suomettumisen lyhyt historia [A Nation on its Stomach: A Short History of Finlandisation]. Keuruu: Otava. Wæver, O. (2002), “Identities, communities and foreign policy: Discourse analysis as foreign policy theory,” in: L. Hansen and O. Wæver (eds.), Between Nations and Europe: Regionalism, Nationalism and the Politics of Union London: Routledge, 20–49. Williams, M. C. and I. B. Neumann (2000), “From Alliance to Security Community: NATO, Russia and the Power of Identity,” Millennium 29/2, pp.357–87.

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Author affiliation: Christopher S. Browning is an ESRC research fellow at the department of political science and international relations, University of Birmingham, UK.

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Lithuania’s new (in)security: transatlantic tensions and the dilemma of dual loyalty Dovilė Budrytė There is general agreement that Lithuania has been enjoying an unprecedented level of security. Currently the state does not face any immediate military threats. Not a single country, not even Russia, is identified as an enemy in its national security documents. Euro-Atlantic integration helped the state to mend fences with Poland, its neighbour and former enemy. In 1994, hoping for membership in NATO (North Atlantic Treaty Organization), Lithuania signed a good neighbourhood treaty with Poland. Official Lithuanian-Russian relations improved following the terrorist attacks of September 11 when Russia weakened its opposition to Lithuania’s NATO membership and agreed to resolve the transit issue to Kaliningrad.1 In June of 2003, Russia finally ratified a border treaty with its western neighbour, thus removing a major sticking point in LithuanianRussian relations. Finally, although Lithuania cannot ignore the failure of its eastern neighbour (Belarus) to democratise, in militarily terms Belarus does not pose a direct threat to Lithuania. It appears that this feeling of security created by Euro-Atlantic integration and understood as the absence of a direct military threat is shared by many. One the eve of NATO expansion, Linas Linkevičius, a former defence minister, noted that “since the times of king Vytautas the Great (15th century), Lithuania has never been as powerful as today. Lithuania is powerful not because it is a big country or is well armed, but because it became a member of the most powerful alliance on earth.”2 According to a public opinion poll taken on 29 March 2004, the day when Lithuania became a de facto member of NATO, 38.5 % of respondents said that receiving an invitation to NATO made them feel more secure.3 Since the early 90s, Euro-Atlantic integration has been presented as the “return to the West” in Lithuanian political discourse.4 In January 1991 Vytautas Landsbergis, leader of the Lithuanian independence movement Sąjūdis, argued that: “The return of the Baltic States to Europe is peaceful and consistent [with the past]. Not only the Baltic States, but Europe as a whole needs this return to take place. Sometimes Europe does not have enough confidence to stand up for the independence of Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia. The freedom of the Baltic States means greater freedom for all Europe. The freedom of the Baltic states would mean that

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Dovilė Budrytė wars such as Iraq’s invasion of Kuwait are no longer possible.”5

In 1990, Arvydas Juozaitis, a prominent member of Sąjūdis, also claimed that Lithuania was “coming back to Europe” after fifty years of imposed isolation. At the same time, Juozaitis argued that there were major differences between Lithuania and the West. In his eyes, Lithuania remained trapped in what he described as the “spirit of eastern totalitarianism” which constrained political and economic freedom.6 Landsbergis’ speech illustrates the main expectation associated with membership in the “new” Europe – security. Being part of “new” Europe meant self-confidence and interdependence instead of rule by powerful nation-states and Lithuania’s dependence on them. Juozaitis described the main obstacle to Lithuania’s route to “new” Europe – the legacy of the Soviet past. A lingering fear of being controlled by Russia in economics and politics has become a major theme in political discourse during the independence period. Preoccupation with security and the Soviet past remained in Lithuanian political discourse until 2004, when Lithuania became part of NATO and the European Union (EU). Again, Lithuania’s integration into the Euro-Atlantic structures was described as “return to Europe.”7 At the same time, beliefs that the Soviet past has made Lithuania different from the West persisted. The Soviet past was seen as having contributed to Lithuania’s ability to help westerners communicate with the postcommunist East (i.e., Russia, Belarus and Ukraine.)8 In 2002, when Lithuania was invited to join the EU and NATO, a new theme emerged in Lithuanian political discourse. The so-called “dilemma of dual loyalty” was understood as the need to be able to pursue two conflicting goals: the first was to remain a reliable partner of the United States, and the second to remain committed to the process of European integration. This dilemma became especially pertinent in the context of transatlantic acrimony over the Iraq war. Such tensions made it clear that in the near future Lithuania’s policy makers would have to balance their actions to achieve these two goals.9 This “dilemma” suggests several things about Lithuanian identity in the new Europe. On one hand, the use of the word “loyalty” reflects a postcolonial way of thinking in Lithuanian society. “Loyalty” suggests that there is a yearning to be committed to someone powerful. On the other hand, discussions about “dual loyalty” are discussions about Lithuania’s choices in the Euro-Atlantic community. These discussions are an expression of freedom as Lithuania is changing from a policy taker to a policy maker. During the nineties, membership in NATO and the EU were Lithuania’s major strategic goals, rarely questioned by Lithuania’s political elite. Having received invitations to these dream clubs,

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Lithuania’s political elite and the public became engaged in a discussion as to whether Lithuania should be active in foreign policy or whether it should resign itself to taking care of economic prosperity instead, hoping to become “a golden, or rich and boring, backwater of Europe.”10 In 2002– 2003, the focus of the discussion was on whether to be active or passive. Shortly before the U.S. invasion of Iraq in spring 2003, the discussion started to focus on the question “with whom” (the United States or France and Germany) instead of “whether.” To gain insight into Lithuania’s identity shifts under new geopolitical conditions, this chapter outlines the evolution of the dilemma of dual loyalty in Lithuania’s political discourse. It starts out by describing the way Lithuania’s foreign policy elites and public have seen Lithuania’s security environment since Lithuania was invited to join Euro-Atlantic institutions in 2002. The second part analyzes the construction of the dual loyalty dilemma in political discourse after the United States decided to invade Iraq in 2003. The third then outlines the recent debates about Lithuania’s security after the country joined NATO and the EU. This debate suggests ways in which the country is likely to address the dilemma of dual loyalty in coming years. 1.

Lithuania’s (in)securities after the country was invited to join the EU and NATO in 2002 On paper, the main challenges to Lithuania’s security are transnational ones such as organized crime, people and drug trafficking. In practice, however, significant changes in the international system, such as US detachment from the Euro-Atlantic community or the creation of a large-power-only directory in Europe, are seen as the real threat. Historically, Lithuania has been most vulnerable to traditional military threats – that is, invasion and occupation by neighbours such as Germany and Russia. Indeed, Lithuania’s history has been marked by constant insecurity arising from experiences of external aggression. It is difficult to forget the fifty-year occupation by the Soviet Union. In 2002, the national security strategy and the white book still mentioned the remote possibility that Lithuania might have to deal with a “demonstration of military power, provocations, and threats to use this power” by an unnamed nation-state in the future.11 Given these perceptions of insecurity and weakness, it is understandable that Lithuania wanted to get into an American-led NATO as soon as possible. Lithuania did not see any alternatives to this alliance led by the benevolent hegemon, the United States, regarded as the only power capable of preventing unfair diktat by big European powers. In light of their historical experiences, Lithuanians wanted to live in a security environment in which Munich-like agreements were unthinkable.12 France, Germany and other western European states were seen as unable

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or unwilling to deliver such an environment. In fact, some perceived them as ready to betray Lithuania’s interests to Russia. Sometimes Germany was portrayed as a country that has been long opposed to Lithuania’s dream of NATO membership. France was portrayed as being preoccupied with keeping its influence in Europe and willing to make ad hoc coalitions with Russia.13 Thus, Lithuania was willing to accept a powerful America in Europe. America was seen as the only power capable of helping Lithuania secure its territory. Despite rhetoric about normalization in official LithuanianRussian relations, the elites as well as the public constantly express their fears about Russia.14 An analysis of elite discourse suggests that the “East” is still perceived as a threat to the nation and the sovereign state.15 Reactions to several recent developments – the overwhelming victory of the pro-Putin “Yedinaya Rossiya” (United Russia) party in the Russian Duma elections in December 2003 and the 2003–2004 Lithuanian presidential crisis – are cases in point. For example, on 9 December 2003, when the Russian election results became public in Lithuania, an editorial in the leading Lithuanian daily Lietuvos Rytas claimed that Putin-style “managed democracy” was creeping into Lithuania. Former president Rolandas Paksas and his Liberal Democratic Party were held responsible for this development, and were accused of supporting Russia’s interests in Lithuania.16 Such claims became more pronounced during the height of the notorious presidential scandal in November-December 2003 and in January 2004. On 1 December 2003, a parliamentary inquiry found that the president’s advisors were linked to organized crime, and that Paksas himself was close to Yuri Borisov, a Russian-born dealer in helicopter parts who sponsored Paksas’ election campaign. Borisov was in turn thought to be linked to a Russian lobbying firm tied to Russia’s security services. 17 He was seen as an agent of Russian influence with Paksas ready to help him. According to the findings of the inquiry, the president “was, and still is, vulnerable. Taking into account the special status of the president, his responsibility and role in domestic and foreign policy, this poses a threat to Lithuania’s national security.”18 The constitutional court found Paksas guilty of violating the constitution, and the president was removed from office. Naturally, during the presidential crisis commentators and politicians made numerous claims about “the return of Russia,” arguing that only the naïve were unable to grasp how Russia attempts to control not only “our economics, but also our deep political processes.”19 For example, Romanas Sedlickas, a member of the right-leaning Liberal party, who observed the parliamentary elections in Russia, suggested that “Russia still harbours imperial ambitions, and it hopes to regain its influence in the post-communist countries through investment.”20 Raimundas Lopata, a leading political analyst, and Audrius Matonis, a

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journalist, explained the meaning of the presidential crisis as follows in their book Prezidento suktukas [The Presidential Spin]: “The question of whether Lithuania and other east and central European countries are involved in natural political processes similar to those in western Europe remains. It is possible that political processes [in east central Europe] are affected by poorly understood external factors [i.e., forces originating in Russia.]”21 The public shared these concerns. According to a public opinion poll, in 2003 Russia was considered to be the country most threatening to Lithuania’s security (42.3%). Belarus came next (19.7%).22 Official documents on Lithuanian security policy paint a different picture of Lithuanian-Russian relations. In 2002, Lithuania claimed that after joining NATO, it would support a more active NATO engagement with Russia.23 It was argued that bringing Russia as close to NATO as Russia wants to come would be one of Lithuania’s security priorities after the dual enlargement. Official suggestions on how to achieve this include common NATO-Russia training projects in Kaliningrad and attempts to achieve force interoperability for peacekeeping missions led by NATO.24 Currently, the official position of Lithuania is to welcome closer cooperation within the context of the NATO-Russia Council. According to Linas Linkevičius, NATO-Russia dialogue reflects a “new thinking” in international security and gives hope that it is possible to overcome old fears in a world where the major threats are transnational. Official Lithuanian position is to strengthen Russia’s cooperation with NATO.25 There has been an emerging consensus that Lithuania is going to cooperate with the other EU members to create a common policy toward Russia, Belarus and Ukraine. Since 2003, Lithuania has been actively participating in the planning processes of the EU “new neighbours” initiative. It is believed that such activity helps to move the country away from the European periphery.26 According to official Lithuanian rhetoric, Lithuania suggests that the EU develop a differentiated approach to each country. It is argued that it is necessary to forge contacts in selected areas with Belarus. Ukraine, meanwhile, should be encouraged to join EuroAtlantic structures.27 Although a formula for democratization in Belarus has yet to be discovered, it is clear what Vilnius would not like to see happen in Belarus in the future – a further consolidation of authoritarian rule and closer relationship with Moscow. 28 An “expanding nondemocratic East” – closer Belarus-Russia union – would be perceived as a major potential security threat. Although they do not pinpoint direct threats from nation-states, Lithuanian national security documents stress transnational threats, such as

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international terrorism and trafficking in drugs and people. National security strategists warn that “too much dependence” on imports of strategically important materials, such as petroleum, and capital from one “potentially unstable country” may become a threat to Lithuania’s national security in the future.29 Even though for seven years the EU has been the leading market for most of Lithuania’s export products (accounting for 42% of Lithuania’s exports and 48.4% imports in 2003), Lithuania remains dependent on Russia for petroleum and other raw materials.30 In addition to transnational threats, perceptions about Lithuania’s security are affected by domestic developments. In 2002–2004 Lithuania experienced unprecedented economic growth. Its GDP growth was 6.8% in 2002 and 9% in 2003.31 In mid-2003 Lithuania was the fastest-growing economy in Europe.32 This economic growth started in 2000, and it is expected to last for the next few years. Compared with the current EU members, however, Lithuania is still poor. According to the Economist Intelligence Unit, it may take as many as 53 years for Lithuania to reach the average income per person of longer-standing EU members.33 Other estimates suggest that approximately thirty years will be needed to catch up with the “old” EU.34 Perceptions about a better life in the latter have been a big contributory factor in out-migration. It is estimated that 11,000 Lithuanians left their homeland in 2003, a 56% increase compared with 2002.35 Uneven economic development is related to another problem – corruption. According to a survey conducted in Lithuania by Transparency International in 2002, 75% of respondents thought that bribery helps to “solve problems.” One third was ready to give a bribe.36 One out of every three businessmen who participated in the survey admitted to bribing a government official. Corruption was recognized as a threat to national security as early as 1994, but has proven very difficult to eradicate. In 2003, the presidential scandal exposed the links between top officials and organized crime.37 In 2004, three Lithuanian parliamentarians were accused of taking bribes from a business company to influence legislation. Corruption scandals tend to become the focus of mass media. To illustrate, 35% of all news articles on politics in Lithuania in July 2004 dealt with the parliamentarian corruption scandal.38 According to Sigitas Babilius, a journalist, the corruption scandal involving the parliamentarians demonstrated “what everybody already knew. It is possible to ‘take care of business’ with the parliamentarians.”39 Coupled with the other corruption scandals, the scandal has probably strengthened a yearning for “order” felt by a large number of Lithuania’s residents.40 In the past, this yearning was skillfully exploited by populist politicians such as former president Paksas and the leaders of Darbo partija (Labour party), the most popular party in Lithuania in 2004. The rise of populist politicians is associated with the possibility that Russia is likely to use them (by extending financial support) to maintain its power in

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the region. In the words of politician Romualdas Ozolas, “Russia has never refused and it will never refuse to pursue its geopolitical influence in the eastern Baltic coast.” Ozolas went on to argue that Russia cannot use the minority rights discourse to exert its influence in Lithuania (Lithuania is ethnically homogenous). Thus, Russia is likely to use prominent personalities, such as Viktoras Uspaskichas (the leader of Darbo partija) to pursue its goal of maintaining control over Lithuania.41 A possibility that Russia may pursue its influence through a political leader has been seriously considered by prominent Lithuanian analysts such as Raimundas Lopata.42 Insecurities about Russia and its potential influence came up during the discussions that took place in January 2003, when Lithuania’s politicians were faced with the question of whether to back the United States’ decision to use its military muscle in Iraq or whether to lend its support to France and Germany who opposed the war. On 5 February 2003, together with the other members of the Vilnius−10 group (ten aspiring NATO members) and several other European countries, Lithuania expressed its support for the United States. On 25 March, the Lithuanian parliament decided to send a small support task force consisting of ten servicemen and logistics specialists as well as six medical officers for a six-month “humanitarian mission” in Iraq. Three months later, the number of Lithuanian troops to be sent to Iraq was increased to 130, and the length of the mission was increased to eighteen months. There was some domestic opposition to these decisions. Interestingly, the decision to send a Lithuanian force to Iraq was made by a parliament in which the leftist Social Democratic Party had most seats (54 out of 141). The Social Democrats and the left-leaning Social Liberals were the members of a ruling coalition. Led by Algirdas Brazauskas, a former president and nationalist leader of the Lithuanian Communist party, the Social Democrats were not known for their pro-Americanism. The most pro-American party in Lithuanian politics, Vytautas Landsbergis’ Tėvynės Sąjunga (Homeland Union, the Conservatives) had only ten seats in the parliament in spring 2004.43 Why did the Lithuanian parliamentarians decide to support the United States? What arguments were put forward in support of the United States engagement in Iraq? The following section addresses these questions by exploring debates surrounding the Iraq crisis. 2.

Addressing the dilemma of dual loyalty: Lithuania’s decision to support the United States during the war in Iraq A public debate about Lithuania’s role in Iraq started in February 2003 when it became clear that there were irreconcilable differences in the Euro-Atlantic community. Jacques Chirac’s comments referring to the “childish” behaviour of central and eastern European states and the

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decision of the European Union to exclude the representatives of these states from the simultaneous EU Summit dealing with the crisis in Iraq fuelled this debate. Some, although they were the minority, argued that Lithuania should support “old” Europe, because support for the United States might endanger Lithuania’s EU membership and fuel the already existing transatlantic tensions.44 In the official rhetoric, the cruelty of Saddam Hussein’s regime and the possibility that this regime possessed weapons of mass destruction were brought up to justify Lithuania’s support for the United States. It was argued that the United States was fighting terrorism, but France and Germany, the “old” Europeans, were fighting America’s power.45 Arguments about the need to have the United States involved in Europe to balance against Russia were equally important. A closer analysis of this debate helps to identify the main reason – historical memory – behind Lithuania’s initial support for the United States. The participants of the debate recalled that during the major crises of the post-independence period (since 1991), the United States had always supported Lithuania.46 Furthermore, during Soviet times the United States did not recognize de jure the incorporation of the Baltic States into the USSR. In 1993, the United States helped to negotiate the withdrawal of the Soviet army from Lithuania and supported Lithuania’s entry to the European Union and, after 9/11, to NATO. Unlike the U.S., France and Germany took what the Lithuanians viewed as a more “pro-Russian” position arguing that Lithuania’s membership in the Euro-Atlantic community should not make Russia insecure. Other “betrayals” of central Europe by western Europeans, such as Munich, were remembered as well.47 In this regard, it has been argued that Lithuania, in common with other central and east European states, suffers from a “victim’s syndrome,” following its numerous past abuses at the hands of big powers. As long as this syndrome remains in the collective memory, Lithuania will invite a friendly power (i.e., the United States) to provide balance against Russia.48 The main reason behind Lithuania’s support for the United States during the Iraq crisis was summarized by MP Egidijus Vareikis from Tėvynės Sąjunga (The Homeland Union): “I trust security guarantees (extended to us) by the United States and NATO (not France and the EU).”49 The need for American-backed security guarantees was even more sharply perceived when it became clear that President Putin supported the French and the Germans. MP Rasa Juknevičienė, also from Tėvynės Sąjunga, argued that Russia’s support for the German and the French position was consistent with its desire to increase its power vis-à-vis the United States and eventually regain its full influence in the former Soviet territories. Therefore, Lithuania had no other choice but to pursue a proAmerican foreign policy.50 Vytautas Landsbergis expressed a similar opinion, arguing that Russia was trying to maximize its potential gains

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from these transatlantic tensions, thus hoping to increase its sphere of influence. Consequently, supporting the United States was a logical choice for Lithuania.51 The support for America’s war in Iraq expressed by Lithuania’s political elite was to some degree shared by the public. According to a survey conducted in February 2003, 75% of Lithuania’s population felt that Iraq was a threat to the world, while only 5.4% disagreed with this statement. The majority (64.1%) was in favor of helping the United States during the war in Iraq. By contrast, only 26.5% of respondents suggested that their country should not help the United States if there was a military conflict.52 Respondents also believed that the United Nations, NATO and the EU were the “most reliable” actors in this drama. Only 5.7% believed that Russia could be trusted. As elsewhere in Europe, there were anti-war demonstrations, but they attracted only several hundred participants. The protests were organized by an NGO called “Šviesos lyga” (The League of Light) and the Lithuanian Pacifists’ Front.53 On 25 March 2003, the Lithuanian parliament started a debate on what was known as “the dilemma of dual loyalty.” Parliamentarians had to decide how to support the United States (by sending troops to help rebuild Iraq), without upsetting the “old” Europeans. The future of Lithuania’s relations with the EU in general, and France and Germany in particular, was the dominant theme in this debate. MP Algirdas Gricius, speaking on behalf of the centre-right liberal and centre parliamentary group, argued that regime change in Iraq was necessary for global peace and that Lithuania should support the change. Furthermore, Lithuania should support the United States, its reliable strategic partner. Lithuania’s right-wing political parties – the liberal and centre parliamentary group and the Homeland Union – fully supported the United States. The left-leaning Social Liberals also supported the proposal to help the United States in its war in Iraq, but the ruling party of Social Democrats was willing to extend support only if the United Nations was involved in the attempt to remove Saddam Hussein. The opponents of the US-led war in Iraq were from the leftleaning parties (the New Democracy/Farmers parliamentary group). MP Kazimiera Prunskienė, speaking on behalf of the New Democracy party, argued against the temptation of prioritising support for the United States at the expense of the “most important partners in the EU” (France and Germany), since this would endanger the future of Lithuania’s economy. Her opinion mirrored the arguments of those who argued against Lithuania’s support for the United States, namely that, by supporting the U.S., Lithuania was going to tarnish its reputation as a “good EU member.” 54 The text of the final resolution tried to accommodate these two positions. According to this document, Lithuania’s involvement in Iraq

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was a “humanitarian mission” (i.e., it was not getting directly engaged in war). The goal of this mission was merely to help the victims of the conflict, not to participate in combat. The document included a reference to the 20 March 2003 resolution of the European council that asked for humanitarian aid for Iraq and for the involvement of the United Nations. In other words, Lithuania was supporting the United States, but not ignoring the position of the EU. According to defence minister Linkevičius, the final (25 March) version of Lithuania’s standpoint regarding Iraq had a “European accent” that was missing from the previous Vilnius−10 declaration.55 In spite of this, thirteen out of seventy four parliamentarians still voted against the resolution, which approved a mission of sixteen Lithuanian specialists. Three months later, on 29 May, ten out of seventy three parliamentarians voted against sending 130 troops to help the United States keep the peace in Iraq. 3.

Developing relationships with the European security institutions 56 The Iraq crisis made it clear to many that Europe was not yet speaking with one voice. France, Germany and Belgium were perceived as speaking with a clear anti-American accent, whereas Great Britain, Italy, Spain, Portugal and Denmark spoke with a pro-American one.57 Most importantly, the Iraq crisis created a perception that the European Union was far from developing a common security policy. 58 The March 2003 Belgian initiative (supported by Germany, France, and Luxembourg) to speed up the development of the European security and defence policy (ESDP) by creating a union with a separate planning headquarters independent from NATO actually strengthened the scepticism of Lithuanian analysts regarding the ability of the Europeans to create a reliable defence organization any time soon. These analysts dubbed the proponents of the Belgian initiative “opponents of war against Saddam Hussein’s regime” (read: anti-American).59 They also noted that Great Britain, a major pro-American country, did not support the Belgian initiative. It was argued that the four proponents of this union could not afford to become the leaders of European defence because of their meagre (except for France) defence budgets. The idea behind the Belgian initiative was seen as an attempt to speed up the development of the European military capabilities at the expense of NATO, thus drawing another dividing line between the “stubborn and ambitious old Europe” and the “new Europe” which has been trying to preserve the transatlantic link.60 The official Lithuanian reaction to the Belgian initiative took shape in the second half of May 2003, when Linas Linkevičius attended a meeting of European defence ministers in Brussels. Here, Linkevičius expressed Lithuania’s opposition to to any development of European military capabilities that might duplicate existing NATO capabilities. Relying on the reformed NATO, he argued, would help to avoid

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unnecessary competition and expense.61 Linkevičius reiterated the Lithuanian perspective on ESDP during the Vilnius roundtable on northeast European security in June 2003 when he stated that: “Various mini summits, quartets and two speed Europe ideas do anything but strengthen European security and cooperation between NATO and the EU. As [the] future members of both organizations we have a stake in the success of this cooperation. The outcome of the ESDP project must not in any way compromise the role of NATO as the cornerstone of Euro-Atlantic security but [it must] strengthen it.” In December 2003, foreign minister Antanas Valionis echoed Linkevičius’ remarks during a meeting of NATO foreign ministers in Brussels. NATO should remain the basis of collective defence and the main forum on transatlantic security issues. The ESDP, he said, should add to NATO but not compete with it.62 Lithuanian policy makers argue that NATO should transform itself from “an immobile defence alliance at the heart of Europe into a flexible and rapidly reactive force capable of intervention wherever needed to prevent a conflict rather to stop one that has already started.” According to their statements, the country has been adjusting to its new vision of NATO by “dropping [the] outdated territorial defence posture” and modernizing its military capabilities.63 Vilnius believes that NATO should remain a strong collective security alliance capable of defence against unpredictable global threats such as terrorism. To achieve this goal, the Europeans should be willing to find funds to modernise their armies, thus helping to bridge the “capabilities gap” between the Europeans and the United States. NATO members should simplify decision-making procedures to make the organization as effective as possible. At the same time, Lithuania supports keeping NATO’s doors open to new candidates such as Ukraine and Georgia. The continued emphasis on NATO has not entailed a complete disregard for specifically European institutions of security such as the EU’s common foreign and security policy (CFSP). Until 1999, Lithuanian support for CFSP was primarily rhetorical. Whilst interested in EU initiatives toward the eastern neighbours,64 Lithuanian policy-makers realized that CFSP was not backed by any real military strength and was limited in what it could do. When ESDP was launched in 1999 Lithuania supported it, albeit with some reservations. Vilnius did not like the fact that would-be EU members had not been not invited to participate in the dialogue surrounding this policy, 65 while it detected a lack of political will to spend more on the development of European military power. Western

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European leaders were seen as incapable of increasing their military expenditures significantly because such decisions would not be popular in the eyes of their publics.66 All the same, Lithuanian policy-makers have expressed a readiness to help the EU prevent conflict and manage crises successfully. They have been willing to contribute 100–150 troops and equipment to the European rapid reaction force (part of ESDP), and in May 2003 offered to contribute a further squadron of special forces.67 Lithuania has participated in “Concordia” – one of three ESDP missions in Macedonia – by sending an officer. In July 2004 the country also expressed an interest in participating in a new EU mission to Georgia.68 In short, Lithuania has been keen to demonstrate its commitment to both NATO and the EU. Consequently, it would like the EU’s security and defence policy to become a pillar of NATO instead of developing into a separate defence alliance.69 NATO is still seen as a way of keeping the United States involved in Europe, something which remains one of Lithuania’s most important strategic goals. As such, the country’s leaders have welcomed the idea of establishing NATO (or, as Linkevičius put it, “American or NATO”) military bases or training facilities on Lithuanian territory.70 Lithuania has contributed troops to NATO operations in Bosnia, Kosovo, and Albania, and has continued to support America’s “war on terror.” In 2002–2003, 79 troops were deployed in Afghanistan, while 120 troops remained in Iraq even after the withdrawal of Spanish troops. 71 Recent expressions of interest in helping to enhance security in the Caucasus also reflect the United States’ growing interest in this area since 9/11. In spite of its support for transatlantic projects, Lithuania – together with the other central and east European countries – was again faced with the “dilemma of dual loyalty” in June 2003. At this point, it had to decide whether to support the common European position regarding the international criminal court (ICC) and thereby face a threat by the United States to suspend military aid. The common European position was to resist signing bilateral agreements with the US pledging not to surrender each other’s citizens to the International Criminal Court. In this case, Lithuania managed to find a solution that was acceptable to both the United States and the European Union. On one hand, Lithuania expressed its support for the EU position by refusing to sign a bilateral agreement with the United States. On the other hand, it struck a deal with the Americans. On 30 June 2003, one day before the US officially suspended the aid to those countries that did not sign the bilateral agreements, the Lithuanian defence ministry signed a $12 million military aid agreement with the US officials, and went on to purchase American-made equipment for its armed forces.72 On 21 November 2003, six countries, including Lithuania, were cleared by President Bush to have US military assistance reinstated in order to facilitate their integration into

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NATO and continued support for US-led operations in Iraq. In the future, however, deciding on the supplier (the Europeans or the Americans) of equipment for Lithuania’s armed forces is likely to raise the “dilemma of dual loyalty” again.73 The way that Lithuania handled the dilemma of dual loyalty for the second time suggests that although its values in international affairs may be closer to European values, the United States is still regarded as the country’s main strategic partner as well as the main pillar of European security.74 Lithuanian elites would like to see the United States engaged in a close predictable relationship with Europe strengthened by expanding security, economic, and cultural ties. They believe that Europe and the United States should remain together in a security community united by common interests such as spreading democracy and facing unpredictable global threats. It is probably in Lithuania’s best interests to work for more unity in Europe and hope that the United States addresses Europe as a single actor rather than dealing with one issue and one country at a time. Ad hoc coalitions with separate European countries stand weaken the transatlantic alliance and therefore threaten one of the core security priorities of the state.75 Lithuania is thus likely to continue its support for CFSP and the development of effective European military capabilities as means of achieving greater European integration. At the same time, it will remain devoted to NATO’s survival. 4.

Envisioning Lithuania’s security after the country’s “return to the West” in 2004 A strategic plan for 2004–2006 adopted by the defence ministry – probably the most pro-Atlanticist state institution in Lithuania – has a clear focus on NATO as an instrument to pursue national security. It foresees the development of relatively small, but mobile and well-equipped armed forces as its priority. As in the past, Lithuania’s determination to contribute to NATO peacekeeping missions is underlined. In the second half of 2004, Lithuania planned to keep 116 troops in Iraq, 129 in the former Yugoslavia and forty five in Afghanistan.76 The defence ministry would like to increase the number of Lithuanian peacekeepers deployed abroad to approximately 1,200 (10% of the total armed forces) compared with 289 (approximately 2.5%) in November 2003.77 In the spring of 2004 Lithuanian officials underlined the importance of transatlantic links on several occasions. In May, the international scandal surrounding abuse of prisoners by US guards elicited public debate over Lithuania’s continued involvement in Iraq, yet Linkevičius and acting president Artūras Paulauskas both expressed their determination to stay the course.78 Linkevičius also reiterated Lithuania’s Atlanticist orientation during a meeting with his French counterpart

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Michele Aliot-Marie. Here, he characterised coordination between NATO and ESDP as vital in order to combat new threats effectively, as the EuroAtlantic community simply cannot afford to “divide its forces.”79 The same agenda – support for ESDP, but without duplicating existing NATO institutions – was repeated in a 1 May parliamentary resolution on the future dimensions of Lithuanian foreign policy. As on previous occasions, the resolution expressed Lithuania’s wish to develop stronger transatlantic relations, which were described as the basis for European security. In addition, the document expressed Lithuania’s intention to become an active regional power that shapes its own relations with its neighbours.80 Similar goals were expressed later that same month by Paulauskas, who declared that “my vision of Lithuania is that of a country which through the quality of its membership of the European Union and NATO and good neighbour policy has become a leader of the region.”81 Analyst Raimundas Lopata had already made the case for Lithuania as an active regional leader and bridge-builder in April 2003, at a time when the “dilemma of dual loyalty” loomed especially large. In an article “Etapas įveiktas, priešaky – naujos paieškos” [“One stage is over; a new quest lies ahead”] published in Lietuvos Rytas, Lopata argued that the dilemma of dual loyalty would only be definitively resolved if Lithuania managed to escape the “eastern” (read “Russian”) sphere of influence. However, establishing normal, interest-based relations with Russia would not be enough to achieve this goal: the real key to avoiding the dilemma lay in the attainment of a security environment in which “Munich-style” agreements were unthinkable. Lithuania’s emergence as a regional centre upholding the common interests of NATO and the EU (such as promoting democracy in Ukraine and Belarus) was likely to contribute to the creation of such a security environment.82 Drawing to a large extent on Lopata’s arguments, Paulauskas argued in May 2004 that Lithuania must be at the forefront of EU-Russia relations “in order to defend our national interests and to avoid a situation where we are made an item of trade or other states pursue their interests at our expense.” He also reiterated the country’s desire to contribute to a stronger Euro-Atlantic alliance by participating in peacekeeping operations and serving as a “bridge-builder” between different regions in the north and south as well as the east and west. Engaging the eastern EU neighbours in dialogue was seen as especially valuable in terms of dealing with elusive 21st century threats.83 Critics of this vision questioned how Lithuania could become a regional centre when the borders of the “region” in question remained unclear.84 Others argued that the new vision paid too much attention to the eastern dimension rather than aiming at better integration into different western institutional structures. Instead of wasting energy to engage its eastern neighbours, Lithuania should focus on reducing its dependence on

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imports from Russia and developing an effective transportation system linking Lithuania to western Europe.85 Notwithstanding this criticism, the immediate response of Lithuanian policy-makers suggested that they take this doctrine in general and its eastern dimension in particular seriously. Thus, during the Istanbul NATO summit in June 2004, president Paulauskas expressed support for Ukraine’s NATO membership.86 In the same month, prime minister Algirdas Brazauskas also tried to convince the EU that Ukraine should be promised membership in this organization.87 Such attempts to draw Ukraine into Euro-Atlantic structures are probably based on a belief that EU/NATO membership can prevent Ukraine from gravitating towards Russia in the future. In the same vein, former prime minister and Homeland Union deputy Andrius Kubilius has characterised gravitation towards Russia as the main obstacle to democratization in Ukraine, Belarus and Moldova. Thus, if Lithuania is interested in having democratic neighbours, it should try to reduce Russia’s influence in those countries.88 In Lithuania, the fear of gravitation towards Russia was felt during the second round of the presidential elections in June 2004. This fear became intermingled with the discourse surrounding the dilemma of dual loyalty. Kazimiera Prunskienė, who served as the prime minister of the first democratic government in Lithuania in March 1990, was running against Valdas Adamkus, Lithuania’s president from 1998 to 2003. Given the major role in foreign and security policy assigned to the presidency by the constitution, geopolitical orientation became one of the main dividing lines between the two candidates. During her presidential campaign, Prunskienė supported greater “independence for Europe from the United States,” greater integration into European security and defence policy and a more active dialogue between Russia and the European Union.89 Although Prunskienė was perceived by and large as a pro-Russian politician, this was not necessarily a drawback. The recent presidential scandal had demonstrated that a large number of Lithuania’s residents were nostalgic for the Soviet (that is, the “Russian”) times.90 “Europeanization” of Lithuania’s foreign policy became one of the main accents of Prunskienė’s election campaign. She reminded the electorate that she had supported the position of France and Germany regarding the war in Iraq in March 2003. In addition, Prunskienė expressed doubts as to whether Lithuania should keep its peacekeepers in Iraq.91 Valdas Adamkus, who has spent most of his life in the United States, portrayed himself as fully devoted to Lithuania’s western (i.e., proAtlanticist) orientation. However, Adamkus’ pro-Atlanticism was not blind pro-Americanism. Instead of saying that in the future Lithuania should always support the United States, Adamkus argued that Lithuania should focus on its national interests to become a regional power. To

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pursue Lithuania’s interests, Adamkus promised to look for ways to exploit transatlantic differences in the future so that Lithuania can benefit from the “dilemma of dual loyalty” instead of being paralyzed by it. 92 Although other concerns, such as economic welfare and the support of the impeached president Paksas for Prunskienė were very important during these elections, Lithuania’s role in the new Europe was the main issue. Adamkus represented the continuation of Lithuania’s foreign policy, whereas a vote for Prunskienė implied support for “old” Europe and at the same time a gravitation towards the Russian sphere of influence.93 Prunskienė received 47.6% of the vote to Adamkus’ 52.4%. His victory was celebrated as a “victory for the West.” Adamkus’ promise to exploit the dilemma of dual loyalty was interpreted as an opportunity for Lithuania to pursue policies that are independent from those pursued by the “old” Europeans.94 As in 2003, discussions about the “dilemma of dual loyalty” underlined the need for Lithuania to define its national interests and to rethink its relationship with Russia and its own past. In essence, the dilemma was not about loyalty to a powerful actor, but about Lithuania’s identity in the new Europe after NATO and EU expansion. One more time, albeit by a small margin, Lithuania demonstrated its wish to be engaged in close relations with the United States and maintain an identity that is seen as different from “old” Europe. 5.

Conclusion Discussions about transatlantic differences suggest that most Lithuanians, not just elites, are starting to see their country as an actor interested in active participation in the decision-making processes that affect the future of Europe and their own country. During the crisis in Iraq, when forced to choose between the position of Germany, France and Russia and that of the United States, Lithuania decided to support the United States. However, Lithuania’s support for the United States during the crisis in Iraq does not mean that the country is going to be opposed to European initiatives to create regional security arrangements in the future. Lithuania supports both European integration and transatlantic cooperation. Economic, political or even security cooperation with Russia in the future cannot be ruled out. However, Lithuania’s preoccupation with its territorial defence and its latent uneasiness about Russia are not going to disappear any time soon. Russia’s ambivalence about the expansion of NATO to the territories known as “the near abroad,” its prolonged “transition to democracy” and its unwillingness to own up to the Soviet past all contribute to the persistence of Lithuanian insecurity about the “eastern neighbour.” While Russia is seen as a familiar partner with a great promise for future cooperation, it is still also regarded as a potential threat. Europe is seen as dependent on Russia for resources, and the only reliable power

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is therefore the United States. Consequently, the future of Russia and its willingness to deal with its recent past will affect how Lithuania is going to address its dilemma of dual loyalty in the future. If Russia’s transition to democracy remains unfinished, then Lithuania is likely to retain commitment to the pro-Atlanticist stance. Recent visions of Lithuanian foreign and security policy suggest that in future, the country is unlikely to be content with – to quote Heather Grabbe – the position of a “meek policy taker.”95 To be a reliable partner in transatlantic relations and to bring its vision of a regionally important state to life, Lithuania needs to be able to maintain stable domestic political institutions, economic growth and reduce corruption. The unfinished process of coming to terms with its Soviet past is also an impediment to Lithuania’s vision as a self-confident, active state. Meanwhile, Lithuania will have to accept the fact that it cannot fully provide for its own security and live with its dilemma of dual loyalty.

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Notes 1. On 1 July 2003, Lithuania successfully implemented a new visa policy for the residents of Kaliningrad, an exclave of Russia bordering Lithuania. Residents of Kaliningrad can now get free transit visas in order to travel to Russia proper. 2. “NATO naikintuvai F–16 dislokuoti Zoknių oro uoste,” Krašto apsauga, 13–27 April 2004: 7. 3. “Dėl NATO skydo – skirtingos Lietuvos žmonių nuomonės,” Lietuvos Rytas, 19 May 2004: 4. 4. Vinogradnaitė, 2002, 180–89. 5. Landsbergis, 1991, 179. 6. Vinogradnaitė, 2002, 184. 7. For example, Antanas Valionis, the minister of foreign affairs, addressed the Lithuanian parliament on 1 May 2003 by saying that “Lithuania returns to the Euro-Atlantic community. We have proved to ourselves and the world that we are the masters of our destiny.” Valionis, 2003. 8. This theme was present in public discussions after acting president Arturas Paulauskas outlined the dimensions of Lithuania’s new foreign policy on 24 May 2004. The “eastern” dimension was an important part of Paulauskas’ vision. Paulauskas, 2004. 9. Budrytė, 2005, 151–71. 10. Urbelis, 2003, 2. 11. Lietuvos Respublikos krašto apsaugos ministerija (2002a), 7. Lietuvos Respublikos krašto apsaugos ministerija (2002c), 5. 12. Lopata, 2003, 4. 13. “Laiko ženklai,” Lietuvos Rytas, 13 August 2003, http://www.lrytas.lt. 14. For example, Vytautas Landsbergis expressed a concern that Russia might do “something undesirable” before Lithuania is officially admitted to NATO and the EU. “Konservatorių politikas raginamas išlįsti iš alegorijų olos,” Lietuvos Rytas, 24 July 2003, www.lrytas.lt. 15. Pavlovaitė, 2003, 201. 16. “Laiko ženklai,” Lietuvos rytas, 9 December 2003, http://www.lrytas.lt. 17. “Muddling on,” Economist, 10 January 2004: 46. 18. “Commission concludes that President’s vulnerability threatens security,” RFE/RL Baltic States Report, 19 December 2003. 19. Gentvilas, 2003, 39. 20. “Rinkimų rezultatai Rusijoje gali atsiliepti ir Lietuvai, teigia juos stebejęs Seimo narys,” Baltic News Service, 10 December 2003. 21. Lopata and Matonis, 2004, 19.

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22. “Lietuvius stingdo baimė likti Europoje antrarūšiais,” Veidas, June 5, 2003: 8. 23. This goal is mentioned in “Lietuvos ateities raidos strategija” [A strategy for future Lithuanian development] ratified by the parliament. “Lietuva imasi ambicingo plano – kurti gerovės valstybę,” Veidas, 28 November 2002: 31. 24. Linkevičius, 2003. 25. Linkevičius, 2004, 5. 26. Raimundas Lopata, quoted in Rožėnas, 2003, 41. 27. “Europos Sajungos Rytų matmuo ir Lietuva,” Radio Free Europe, 30 April 2003. 28. Jonavičius, 2003, 12–13. 29. Lietuvos Respublikos krašto apsaugos ministerija (2002c), 5. Lietuvos Respublikos krašto apsaugos ministerija (2002a), 7. 30. Vilniaus Bankas, 2004, 24. In 2003, 18% of Lithuania’s imports were from Russia. This figure was 20% in 2002. Ibid. 31. Vilniaus Bankas, 2004, 9. 32. “Baltic Tiger,” Economist, 19 July 2003: 41. 33. “When East Meets West,” Economist, 22 November 2003: 4 (Survey of EU Enlargement). 34. Vilniaus Bankas, 2004, 9. 35. Vilniaus Bankas, 2004, 27. 36. “Apklausa parodė bauginančius korupcijos mastus,” Lietuvos Rytas, 6 March 2003: 4. 37. The Lithuanian state security department clandestinely recorded conversations between Remigijus Ačas, an advisor to Rolandas Paksas, the president of Lithuania, and a representative from an organised crime group in Russia. Reportedly, these conversations mentioned debts owed by President Paksas to the Russians. 38. “Tyrimas: NS susilaukė mažiausiai kritikos dėl galimos korupcijos,” ELTA, 13 August 2004. 39. Babilius, 2004, http://www.atgimimas.lt. 40. According to a poll quoted by Rimvydas Valatka (2004), a leading Lithuanian journalist, 53.5% of Lithuanians think that they lived better “under the Russians” than in independent Lithuania. 41. Ozolas, 2003, 11. 42. Lopata and Matonis, 2004, 82. 43. The attitude of this party can be summarised as follows, “more American influence in Europe means less Russian influence on this continent.” Baltnikas, 2004, 4. 44. Klimaitis, 2003. Evaldas Nekrašas suggested that Lithuania should support the position of the European Union in November 2002. His opinion was quoted in “Politologų metinė konferencija,” Politologija, 2003, no. 1: 187–88.

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45. Kubilius, 2003, 27. 46. This argument was put forward by Raimundas Lopata, the leading Lithuanian political scientist. “Nato vidaus nesutarimai – blogas ženklas Lietuvai,” Lietuvos Rytas, 13 February 2003, http://www.lrytas.lt. 47. “Proamerikietiškosios šalys,” Veidas, 27 February 2003: 37. 48. Pugačiauskas, 2003, 2. 49. Ibid. 50. Quoted in “Atlantizmas ir Lietuva,” XXI amžiaus horizontai, 19 February 2003: 8. 51. Landsbergis, 2003, 10. 52. “Dauguma lietuvių įsitikinę, kad Irakas – grėsmė pasauliui,” Lietuvos Rytas, 19 February 2003, http://www.lrytas.lt. “Lietuviai – didžiausi JAV karinių operacijų rėmėjai,” Lietuvos Rytas, 16 May 2003: 4. 53. Ross, 2003, 1. 54. “Seimo nutarimo ‘Dėl Lietuvos karių dalyvavimo Jungtinių Amerikos Valstijų vadovaujamoje tarptautinėje operacijoje Persijos įlankos regione’ projekto svarstymas ir priėmimas” stenograma, Krašto Apsauga, 8–22 April 2003: 3–11. 55. “Seimo nutarimo ‘Dėl Lietuvos kariųu dalyvavimo Jungtinių Amerikos Valstijų vadovaujamoje tarptautinėje operacijoje Persijos įlankos regione’ projekto svarstymas ir priėmimas” stenograma, Krašto Apsauga, 8–22 April 2003: 4. 56. I have explored this question in Budrytė, 2005, 159–66. 57. “Kokia bus Šiaurės Atlanto sutarties organizacija, kai į ją įstos Lietuva?” Lietuvos rytas, 13 February 2003, http://www.lrytas.lt. 58. Šmaižytė, 2003, 11. 59. “Laiko ženklai,” Lietuvos Rytas, 25 March 2003: 4. 60. Janeliūnas, 2003, 2. 61. “Europos karinės pajėgos vis dar primena miražą,” Lietuvos Rytas, 21 May 2003: 8. 62. “Lietuva remia Europos gynybinių iniciatyvų plėtrą ir siūlo nedubliuoti NATO struktūrų,” Krašto Apsauga, 8–22 December 2003: 5. 63. Linkevičius, 2003. Malakauskas, 2004. 64. Lietuvos Respublikos krašto apsaugos ministerija (2002b), 11. 65. Linkevičius, 2002, 2. 66. Ozolina, 2003, 211. 67. Lietuvos Respublikos krašto apsaugos ministerija (2002a), 19. Grumadaitė, 2003, 7. 68. On 19 July 2004, the EU opened its first “rule of law” mission in Georgia to pursue civilian crisis management, which is part of its defence and security policy. Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty, July 19, 2004. The Lithuanian forces earmarked for the European rapid reaction force are also equipped for participation in NATO operations. 69. CSIS and Institute of International Relations and Political Science (2002), 131.

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70. “Aljanso bazėms – atviros durys,” Lietuvos Rytas, 3 June 2003: 3. 71. Krašto apsaugos ministerija, 2004a. 72. RFE/RL Baltic States Report, 28 July 2003. 73. Interview with Robertas Šapronas, Lithuanian defence ministry, 1 July 2003. 74. “National Security Strategy,” 2002, 10. 75. Bačiulis, 2002, 35. 76. Krašto Apsaugos Ministerija, 2004b, 6–7. 77. “Lietuvos kariai tarptautinėse operacijose,” Krašto Apsauga, 29 March –13 April 2004: 19. 78. “Lietuva nesirengia atšaukti savo karių iš Irako,” Krašto Apsauga, 27 April – 11 May 2004: 9. 79. “Prancūzijoje ministras aptarė naująją gynybos politiką,” Krašto Apsauga, 11–25 May 2004: 3. 80. Lietuvos Respublikos Seimas, 2004. 81. Paulauskas, 2004. 82. Lopata, 2003, 4. 83. In his speech of 24 May 2004, Paulauskas described 21st century threats as follows: “It is not possible to spot them at once; they enter through the internal structures of the state – economy, finance system, communications; also through vulnerable social and state institutions.” Paulauskas, 2004. 84. Ronkaitis, 2004. Ronkaitis reports that the notion of “regional centre” received criticism from the Lithuanian diplomats stationed abroad. Šlekys, 2004a, 12. 85. “Laiko ženklai,” Lietuvos rytas, 27 May 2004: 4. Šlekys, 2004b, 3. 86. “A. Paulauskas: Lietuva remia NATO atvirų durų politiką,” Baltic News Service, 28 June 2004. 87. “Brazauskas: Ukrainai reikia aiškios ES perspektyvos,” ELTA, 29 June 2004. 88. Kubilius, 2004. 89. Šimėnas, 2004, 34–35. 90. Sarafinas, 2004, 22–23. 91. Makaraitytė, 2004. 92. “R. Lopata: V. Adamkaus pergalė leis žaisti subtilesnį užsienio politikos žaidimą,” ELTA, 28 June 2004. 93. Kavaliauskaitė, 2004, 2. 94. “A.Valionis: Lietuva toliau eis Vakarų kryptimi,” Baltic News Service, 28 June 2004. “R. Lopata: V. Adamkaus pergalė leis žaisti subtilesnį užsienio politikos žaidimą,” ELTA, 28 June 2004. 95. Grabbe, 2004, 78.

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References Babilius, S. (2004), “Saugumas ir smalsumas,” Atgimimas, 30 July http://www.atgimimas.lt. Bačiulis, A. (2002), “NATO ieško naujo veido,” Veidas, 23 May: 35. Baltnikas, J. (2004), “Aljanso išlikimas būtinas,” Tremtinys, 8 April: 4. CSIS and Institute of International Relations and Political Science (2002), “Lithuania’s Security and Foreign Policy Strategy: White Paper,” Lithuanian Foreign Policy Review 1: 86–170. Budrytė, D. (2005), “The Dilemma of ‘Dual Loyalty’: Lithuania and Transatlantic Tensions,” in: T. Lansford and B. Tashev (eds.) Old Europe, New Europe and The US: Renegotiating Transatlantic Security in the Post 9/11 Era. Aldershot: Ashgate, 151–71. Gentvilas, E. (2003), “Lietuvos misija – tramdyti Rusiją,” Veidas, December 4: 39. Grabbe, H. (2004), “The Newcomers,” in: F. Cameron (ed.) The Future of Europe: Integration and Enlargement. New York: Routledge, 63–79. Grumadaitė, R. (2003), “Didėja Lietuvos indėlis į tarptautines karines pajėgas,” Krašto Apsauga, 20 May–9 June: 7. Janeliūnas, T. (2003), “ES ateities vizija temdo jos narių ambicijos,” Lietuvos Rytas: Rytai-Vakarai, 3 May: 2. Jonavičius, L. (2003), “Nenugalimoji Baltarusija,” Atgimimas, 19 December:12–13. Kavaliauskaitė, J. (2004), “Lietuva – geopolitinėje kryžkelėje,” Lietuvos Rytas, 19 June: 2. Klimaitis, A. (2003), “Lietuvos interesas – Europa,” Veidas, 21 February http://www.veidas.lt. Kubilius, A. (2003), “Ar toli Irakas nuo Lietuvos?” Veidas, 20 March: 27. Kubilius, A. (2004), “Peržengus slenkstį,” Veidas, 6 May http://www.veidas.lt. Landsbergis, V. (1992), “Europa – nauja tikrovė rytuose ir raktas, kurį galima surasti Baltijoje,” Speech delivered on 3 January 1991, in: V. Landsbergis (ed.), Laisvės byla. Vilnius: Lietuvos aidas, 176–179.

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Landsbergis, V. (2003), “Europoje yra geriau,” XXI amžius, 30 April: 10. Lietuvos Respublikos krašto apsaugos ministerija (2002a), Lietuvos gynybos politikos baltoji knyga. Vilnius: Lietuvos Respublikos krašto apsaugos ministerija. Lietuvos Respublikos krašto apsaugos ministerija (2002b), 2002 Nacionalinio saugumo sistemos būklės ir plėtros ataskaita. Vilnius: Lietuvos Respublikos krašto apsaugos ministerija. Lietuvos Respublikos krašto apsaugos ministerija (2002c), Nacionalinio saugumo strategija. Vilnius: Lietuvos Respublikos krašto apsaugos ministerija. Lietuvos Respublikos krašto apsaugos ministerija (2004a), Lietuvos kariuomenes dalyvavimas tarptautinėse operacijose, http://www.kam.lt. Lietuvos Respublikos krašto apsaugos ministerija (2004b), Krašto apsaugos ministerijos 2004–2006 metu sutrumpintas strateginis veiklos planas. Vilnius: Lietuvos Respublikos krašto apsaugos ministerija. Lietuvos Respublikos seimas (2004), Resolution “Dėl Lietuvos Respublikos politikos krypčių Lietuvai tapus visateise NATO nare ir Europos Sąjungos nare,” May 1, http://www.seimas.lt. Linkevičius, L. (2002), “Stabilumo palaikymas Baltijos regione: ateities perspektyvos,” Krašto Apsauga, 12–25 July: 2. Linkevičius, L. (2003), “Northeast European Security after the 2004 Dual Enlargement: The End of History?”, keynote speech, Vilnius: roundtable “Life after Enlargement,” 6 June. Linkevičius, L. (2004), “Platesnė saugumo koncepcija XXI amžiuje,” Krašto Apsauga, 11–25 May: 5. Lopata, R. (2003), “Etapas įveiktas, priešaky – naujos paieškos,” Lietuvos Rytas, 24 April: 4. Lopata, R. and A. Matonis (2004), Prezidento suktukas. Vilnius: Versus Aureus. Makaraitytė, I. (2004), “Užsienio politika – Prezidento rinkimų podukra,” 2 June, www.delfi.lt.

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Malakauskas, P. (2004), “Pagrindiniai iššūkiai dešimčiai ateinančių metų,” speech, seminar “Survey of Baltic Strategic Defense,” 9 January, http://www.kam.lt. Ozolas, R. (2003), “Rusija grįžta,” Atgimimas, 28 November – 4 December: 11. Ozolina, Z. (2003), “The EU and the Baltic States,” in: Anatol Lieven and Dmitri Trenin (eds.) Ambivalent Neighbors: The EU, NATO and the Price of Membership, Washington, DC: Carnegie Endowment for International Peace: 205–230. Paulauskas, A. (2004), “Naujoji Lietuvos užsienio politika,” speech, Vilnius University, 24 May. Pavlovaitė, I. (2003), “Paradise Regained: The Conceptualization of Europe in the Lithuanian Debate,” in: M. Lehti and D. J. Smith (eds.) Post-Cold War Identity Politics: Northern and Baltic Experiences. London: Frank Cass: 199–218. Pugačiauskas, V. (2003), “Istorija europiečiams vėl tapo svarbi,” Lietuvos Rytas, 1 March: 2. Ronkaitis, G. (2004), “Lietuva užsienio politikoje – dirbtinis lyderis ar traukos centras?” 15 July, www.delfi.lt. Ross, D. J. (2003), “Low turnout at anti-war protests,” Baltic Times, 20 February:1. Rožėnas, A. (2003), “Kaip Lietuva keis Baltarusiją?” Veidas, 30 October: 40–41. Sarafinas, G. (2004), “Lietuvius ir vėl perka rusiški pinigai,” Veidas, 20 May: 22–23. Šimėnas, S. (2004), “Profesorė akcentuoja gerą kaimynystę,” Veidas, 10 June: 34–35. Šmaižytė, V. (2003), “Pasaulio savaitė,” Lietuvos Rytas, 8 February: 11. Šlekys, D. (2004a), “Lietuva ieško partnerių,” Atgimimas, 11–17 June: 12. Šlekys, D. (2004b), “Kokie mūsų prioritetai,” Atgimimas, 28 May–3 June: 3.

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Urbelis, V. (2003), “Skirtingi ir pavojai, ir JAV interesai,” Lietuvos Rytas: Rytai-Vakarai, 11 January: 2. Valatka, R. (2004), “Atsimetimas į praeitį dėsningas,” Lietuvos Rytas, 15 March http://www.lrytas.lt. Valionis, A. (2004), “Address at the Lithuanian Seimas,” 1 May http://www.urm.lt. Vilniaus Bankas (2004), Lietuvos makroekonomikos apžvalga, May. Vinogradnaitė, I. (2002), “ ‘Kelias Europon’: Europietiškojo identiteto konstravimas Lietuvos viešajame diskurse 1990–2000 metais,” in: D. Staliūnas (ed.) Europos idėja Lietuvoje: Istorija ir dabartis. Vilnius, Lietuvos Istorijos Institutas, 180–189.

Author affiliation: Dovilė Budrytė is assistant professor of international studies at the department of humanities, Brenau University, USA.

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The challenges of “new” and “old”: the case of Europe’s north Pertti Joenniemi The primary aim of this chapter is to unpack the “old”-“new” Europe theme outlined by the US secretary of defence in January 2003 during a period of intense rhetorical battles and contests regarding boundary-drawing. Donald Rumsfeld’s enunciation, indicative of a division over the issue of war in Iraq, is used as an inroad into exploring the recent breach in the sphere of transatlantic relations. I will first discuss how the US administration has conceptualised Europe – and US-European relations – in a security-related, post–9/11 context. I will then probe European responses to the challenge posed by Rumsfeld and examine how his delineation has impacted upon European politics. What kind of responses has US “altercasting” – to use a term coined by Alexander Wendt – generated?1 What are the consequences of the US being seen to claim the position of a core “Europe-maker” once the effort is one of constructing a different European configuration premised on responding to the challenges posed by the “dark side” of globalization? As well as reviewing the more general responses of those ascribed the status of “old” and “new” European, I will endeavour to trace the impact in Europe’s North, a region where some countries fall into the former and others very much into the latter category. 1.

A new framing At its inception, the distinction between “new” and “old” Europe did not seem to have much of an air of permanence about it. That the juxtaposition has lingered testifies to the depth of European divisions over the Iraq issue and the emergence of the new, more assertive US policies. Rumsfeld’s rhetoric has become a frequently-used point of departure when discussing the essence of Europe. For instance, when the current Spanish government revised its attitude towards the Iraq war, this move was framed in terms of Spain having abandoned the camp of the “new” Europeans in order to position itself within that of the “old.” The “old” versus “new” statement was initially voiced at the end of January 2003 at a high point of the Iraq crisis. More particularly, it surfaced in a dialogue with the media prior to Rumsfeld’s visit to Prague. When asked to explain why “Europe” was against American military action in Iraq, he stated flatly that he did not think that “Europe” was against removing Saddam Hussein from power. When a Dutch reporter then responded that in any case Germany and France were against using force to remove Saddam, Rumsfeld retorted that:

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Pertti Joenniemi “now you are thinking of Europe as Germany and France. I don’t. I think that’s old Europe. If you look at the entire NATO Europe today, the center of gravity is shifting to the east and there are a lot of new members. And if you just take the list of all the members of NATO and all of those who are invited in recently – what is it, 26, something like that? [But] you are right. Germany has been a problem, and France has been a problem.”2

Rumsfeld’s usage of the terms “old” and “new,” while neither very explicit nor elaborate, signalled a new departure in the temporal and spatial definition of the transatlantic community. Premised on his delineation, the various European powers are seen as inexorably and profoundly divided in their thinking and policies. Some, usually those located to the east, pass the test of time. They come out as true allies eligible to join the ranks of those riding into the future under US leadership. Others, however, are hopelessly geared towards the past. Rumsfeld repeated his argument in a somewhat more specific form in June 2003 whilst visiting a centre for security studies in GarmischPartenkirchen, southern Germany. Discussing the role of Poland and Romania in Iraq, he said that “the distinction between old and new Europe is a matter of attitude, of the vision that countries bring to the transatlantic relationship.”3 In other words, some Europeans have the vision needed to follow the US lead and ride into the future while others do not, although no effort was made to explain in detail what the required “vision” was about. 2.

Introducing a dichotomy This obscurity notwithstanding, the Rumsfeldian contestation has clearly introduced new aspects into the unfolding of European political space. Whereas hitherto Europe was imagined in concentric terms, with a clearly discernible core fading to more indistinct outer circles, the suggested new American modelling operates in terms of “either-or.” Those singled out as real partners of the US are seen as truly European while those playing by other rules are relegated to a position outside the European configuration. For the post-communist states, a close alignment with the new US foreign policy offers the tempting prospect of moving from the outer fringes of Europe to its very core. If one considers the existing “core” European powers, then some – most notably Denmark, Great Britain, Italy and for a time also Spain – have felt comfortable with the new externally-imposed definition of “Europeanness.” Others, such as Belgium, France, Germany and Luxemburg (nicknamed the “gang of four”) have refused to follow suit, opting to retain a more independent stance. Were US “altercasting” to bring about permanent changes to the international political map, the standing of this latter group at Europe’s

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core would be profoundly affected. In remaining loyal to established European models and retaining far less security-focused understanding of the essence of international relations and the implications of globalization, “old” Europeans have been labelled as worn-out, pacifist, unprincipled, degenerate and non-representative of the Europe-to-come in social, economic as well as cultural terms. The new US interpretation positions them at the fringes of a rather bifurcated order, one expected to flow from a re-definition of the American self. 3.

Targeting the Peoples of Faith Claims that the US constitutes the guardian of European and world order within a temporally reconfigured and rather moral landscape of international relations might be expected to carry a particular resonance for central and east Europeans, since the latter have – borrowing the terminology of the Bush administration – shown themselves to be “peoples of faith.” Being familiar with the repressive side of statist power and having recently experienced tyranny as well as an enforced easternness, they are well attuned to a language premised on freedom and the exercise of moral duty. Their past, as something to be escaped, makes them eligible to side with the future sketched in the various US moves. America has for them been a core constitutive pole in the context of the westernness that they aspire to join and become part of. By this reasoning they are bound to abide to the call as they generally do not perceive any “We” outside the one binding them to the US. This group of countries may also be expected to comprehend that joining the US-new European community of faith calls for active alignment and the pursuance of sometimes rather harsh policies. The formation of a joint “We” is in no way automatic but requires, particularly in face of danger, confessional moves and a pledging of loyalty for example in the form of public letters such as the one published by the “Vilnius–10” group (a group originally formed by countries applying for NATO membership) in the run-up to the Iraq war. The option of positioning themselves as US-designated “new” Europeans offers the countries in question the possibility of gaining a much more central position within a differently premised European configuration, one that can be achieved only if the traditional delineations of European political space are profoundly shattered and undermined. For all of the reasons outlined above, one might have expected an uncritical acceptance of the new constitutive stories pertaining to the essence of the West, transatlantic relations and a “Europe” unfolding under altered conditions. As Edward Rhodes has argued, the US administration of George W. Bush appears to have its own distinct interpretations as to what is new and what is old in the sphere of current-day international relations.4 The struggle currently underway is not seen as pertaining to a conflict between

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capitalism and socialism, liberalism and communism or, for that matter, East and West. The era of Realpolitik with its grand alliances, sharp and well established dividing lines and policies of balancing is for the most part left behind. The past has truly become the past, as the new dangers are deemed to lie in the future and consist of unpredictable risks – these representing the “dark side” of globalization – that nonetheless have to be encountered here and now. Rather than being seen in terms of modern-style power politics, the new challenges are essentially reduced to a conflict between good and evil. This dichotomous endeavour, reflecting a greater calling, is taken to transcend generations due to its eternal character. Projected also into the past of the Atlantic relationship, it constantly requires that one “show dignity,” “speak the truth” and act in order to “ensure freedom.” The more recent challenges are seen to derive from the fact that a turning point in human history has been reached. Evil no longer has the face of communism or that of the “East” but has taken the form of terrorism and tyranny. It thus possesses a far more absolute, unpredictable and unbounded character. By this reasoning, the present shape and reach of such evil mandates not just a momentous but a constant state of emergency. One has to be alert. The risk of being targeted is constant and it incorporates also a variety of aspects related to civil society. The message outlined – most notably by George W. Bush in his Warsaw speech of June 2001 – is that humanity’s struggle against evil is not a matter of political choice. It is not subject to nuanced judgments of moral relativism but supersedes national or civilisational identities. The issue is thereby moved out of the realm of politics by a process of simplification and naturalization. 4.

Painting new horizons The thinking just described was obviously strengthened by the challenge of 9/11. By Bush’s reckoning, the enemy representing evil cannot be appeased; it has to be eradicated, “and we’re going to get them before they get us.”5 Rhodes summarises Bush’s activist message as follows: “evil of this sort cannot be cured. It must be excised. These human pathogens must be eliminated.”6 No other exit – such as negotiation or compromise, not to speak of moves aimed at changing the very script by self-reflection – is allowed. Within this framing, “purity” also becomes intrinsic to the United States’ choice of friends and allies. In this regard, “Europe” too translates into the scene of a battle to be waged against actors trying to position themselves as somehow “in-between” the self and the other. The temporal shift from “old” to “new,” as outlined by Rumsfeld, implies a need to eradicate “cross-over cases” that represent a political challenge to the very order of things. Europeanness is, in this context, made to reflect the dichotomous departure pushed into the sphere of international relations

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more generally. The introduction of such a distinction draws upon an assumed state of emergency and builds upon the current, particularly demanding tasks assigned to “the community of faith.” The calling and self-image that the US projects into the sphere of international relations rest upon faith, as well as an ability “to speak the truth” and to combine this with the pursuance of particularly resolute policies. These views, however, are not always shared by the Atlantic allies, who thereby challenge US efforts to impose new rules through which identities are classified. Secretary of state Colin Powell is one of those who have endeavoured to undermine such expressions of variance. In a testimony to the US senate in April 2003, Powell noted that conclusions about how to deal firmly with current dangers are not always shared among the allies: “Some in Europe see it differently. Some see terrorism as a regrettable but inevitable part of society and want to keep it at arms length and as low key as possible. It is our job to convince them otherwise.” He added that “old thinking – the thinking of the Cold War years, which deterred and negotiated with, and otherwise compromised with evil, is no longer relevant.”7 The “old” relativist policies were therefore relevant during a certain period, but this is no longer seen to be the case. For US deputy secretary of defence Paul Wolfowitz, September 11 exposed the “dark side of globalization.” It provided “a window into our future” by illustrating the security threats of the 21st century.8 In using globalization as his temporal and spatial horizon of political imagination, Wolfowitz rejected any rosy images of growing interdependence as an inroad into durable peace. For him “old” was synonymous with an overly-optimistic reading of the prevailing situation. A simple focus on the benefits of globalization stood, in his view, for complacency: “the September 11 attacks have awakened us to a fundamental reality: the 21st century security environment will be different from the one we faced in the 20th century – but just as dangerous.”9 In other words, the vision of the future that he elaborated remained highly securitized, albeit the narratives contributing to securitization are new. 5.

European responses The German and French reactions to “old-new” dichotomy were predictably negative, since US rhetoric consciously sought to undermine conceptualizations of Europe that these powers felt comfortable with and

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saw as essential for their own self-understanding. Rumsfeld’s contestation not only aimed at ousting these countries from the inner circle of Europeanness; it could also be seen as an attempt to undermine crucial aspects of their nation identity, since “Europe” forms an integral part of such a construction. German foreign minister Joschka Fischer characterised Rumsfeld’s views as “irrational”; a spokesman for the French Government, meanwhile, sought to reinterpret totally Rumsfeld’s stance by arguing that “being old also means being wise.”10 “Old” was in this connection synonymous with a desire to remain within the limits of the existing normative order of international relations, or at least to limit the scope and endurance of the exceptional measures brought about by the US challenge. By contrast, the “newness” advocated by Rumsfeld was interpreted as being hasty and immature and therefore also quite risky. Other commentators too interpreted Rumsfeld’s statement as irresponsible, dangerous and in some cases criminal.11 In the sphere of more official policies the critique launched against the “old” in no way stalled various endeavours to create an even more Europeanist Europe. The effect was in some respects almost the opposite, as became clear for example in the context of the EU’s convention. In May 2003, Belgium, France, Germany and Luxemburg advocated further steps of integration in the sphere of European defence policy, although the agreement to provide the US authorities with information on flight passengers and the content of the EU’s new security doctrine suggested that the American contestation had nonetheless had a certain impact. In some spheres the EU abides by a model of its own, whereas in others it appears to be quite ready to take on features that pertain to the “new,” globalization-related narrative advocated by the USA. The more recent demands – prompted by the terrorist attack in Madrid in May 2004 – to create a joint European intelligence service more or less along the lines of the US “homeland defense” also testify to the latter trend. The various US attempts to mobilize support have indeed found a considerable echo, as a number of European countries have willingly positioned themselves in the category of “new” Europeans. Organized by prime minister Blair of Great Britain and his Spanish counterpart Aznar, the leaders of Italy, Poland, Hungary, the Czech Republic, Portugal and Denmark published a joint letter in the Wall Street Journal (20 January 2003) endorsing US policy over Iraq. The signatories emphasised the historical debt which was owed to America for its help in rescuing Europe from the evils of Nazism and communism, and stated further that “the transatlantic relationship must not become a casualty of the current Iraqi regime’s persistent attempts to threaten world security.” Their use of the slogan “united we stand” suggested that the leaders concerned could easily project themselves as members of the Euro-Atlantic unity constituted in the context of the war in Iraq and the US conceptualizations pertaining to post–9/11.

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Shortly after the stand taken by the aforementioned eight countries, the “Vilnius group” published a similar open letter that pledged backing to the US stance on Iraq. It was based on what the signatories called “compelling evidence of Iraq’s weapons programs.” The group consisted of ten countries (Albania, Bulgaria, Croatia, Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, Macedonia, Romania, Slovakia, and Slovenia), all aspiring to NATO membership. It was originally established in 2000 with the declared objective of providing mutual support towards this goal. Seven members of the group had secure invitations to join NATO in November 2002 and became members in May 2004, while Albania, Croatia and Macedonia still hope to join. In addition to the above, the British and the Estonian prime ministers published a joint article entitled “an enlarged Europe needs competition.” In it, Tony Blair and Juhan Parts located the dividing lines between “old” and “new” Europe more in the sphere of economics than in politics and international relations, declaring their support for the US model of a relatively weak state rather than for the specific policies pursued vis-à-vis Iraq. This shifting of Rumsfeld’s scheme away from security allowed the two leaders to position themselves close to the US while making the issues at stake somewhat less contentious within the internal sphere of EU-policies. Hardly surprisingly, these expressions of support were warmly received in Washington, being interpreted by one commentator as “the work of new Europe, a modern, active, willing and pliant wing of the European member states.” Others claimed that “France and Germany could no longer claim to be the epicentre of Europe, there was a fresh breeze blowing”;12 and that “new Europe expresses an ideology, philosophy, and appreciation of freedom through strength. New Europe understands America, what she stands for, and that America’s national interests coincide with theirs.”13 There were suggestions in the US that the “Vilnius group” should be rewarded for its loyalty by the establishment of a free trade arrangement between the US and the “new” Europeans, whereas France’s denunciation of the US stand prompted a consumer boycott of French products.14 It was further proposed that US military bases be moved from the “old” to the “new” Europe following a gravitational shift towards the east. Such a move, considered at least in part and currently in the process of being implemented, would impact both the “old” and the “new” parts of Europe symbolically as well as an economically.15 Yet the publishing of the two letters met with strong reservations on the part of the “old” Europeans. French President Jacques Chirac – drawing support from the millions of European citizens then demonstrating against the Iraq war – strongly criticized those countries on the threshold of EU membership for getting involved. The applicants were accused of disloyalty if not outright “desertion.” Chirac depicted the

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signing of the two letters as “infantile” and “dangerous” and – touching upon the basis of European communality – reminded the countries concerned that entry to the EU implies a minimum of understanding of the others. By this definition, “Europe-making” remains a purely intraEuropean affair and is premised on departures other than those advocated by the Bush administration. The argument was that the applicants had opened the gates for unwarranted external intrusion in having missed an opportunity “to shut up.”16 In addition, they had endangered the Europe at the heart of a French reading of the political landscape, one integral to France’s ability to project itself into the transatlantic relationship and the world more generally. 6.

An elite reaction? And yet, on balance, support for US policies has been far from unanimous among the putative “new” Europeans, whilst the latter group’s interpretation of these policies has not always been one-to-one with the original ideas. The candidates for the category of “new” Europeans may have felt compelled to follow the US lead, but this does not mean that they think of it as something highly desirable, especially since the Bush administration has been so unabashed about wielding US power primarily in defence of its own nationally-defined interests. Critical interventions have thus also been heard in those applicant countries that signed the various letters, all the more so because public opinion in these countries was in most cases equally sceptical of the US plans to go to war in Iraq as elsewhere in Europe (whereas it was in general rather positive about EU membership).17 One could thus argue that the “new” Europe and the consequent Euro-Atlantic communality existed at the level of some of the political elites but did not enjoy any solid backing on the level of the populations at large. Moreover, disagreement could also be traced amongst the elites themselves. In the case of the Czech Republic, for example, President Vaclav Havel had to sign the letter published in the Wall Street Journal against the wishes of opposition within his own government. He was able to side with the United States “but he also had to split the Czech Republic itself down in the very middle.”18 The hoped-for new transatlantic and western communality thus appeared to rest on rather shaky ground already from the outset, as the US was not automatically granted the position of “significant other” with access to the construction of the national self. The call to side with the US in a fight for “true” Euro-Atlantic values was in some respects comprehended as an instance of linear progress and fulfilment. The issue was regarded as being almost existential in nature and the moral principles at stake wholly familiar. In the words of Jiri Pehe, a former advisor to President Havel, “here, we say we know what’s good and evil – it is simple. We’ve lived under it. We have a less foggy view of the basics.”19 The declaration of the Vilnius ten

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said the same in stating that “our democracies understand the dangers posed by tyranny and the special responsibility of democracies to defend our shared values.” For the countries concerned, the US approach seemed to offer confirmation that they were as European, if not more, than some of the “old” countries that now showed themselves rather unprincipled and ambivalent in regard to tyranny. It was a moment of empowerment in the sense that America perceived and approached them in a manner which confirmed the understanding that they had of themselves and their past. EU-related constitutive stories had, by contrast, tended to slot the central and east Europeans into the category of countries clinging to outmoded power political conceptualizations as to the essence of international relations. While the “new” Europeans could scarcely countenance a breach with the United States, they nevertheless had reservations about being severed from the “old” in the manner suggested by the Rumsfeld. For them, Europe (as previously defined) has also had independent significance – and existential meaning – within the overall construction of “westernness.” In Rumsfeld’s conception, the West becomes a vanguard defined by its exposure – and ability to respond – to the new dangers inherent in globalisation. This implies, especially after the “old-new” controversy, a downgrading and weakening of the role played by key European actors within the western camp. As already noted, the emphasis on morality within the US contestation sustains an understanding that central and east Europeans have had of themselves all along. Beyond this, however, the attempt to reconfigure Europe was seen as destabilising and a threat to existing deeprooted conceptions of national identity. In general, it seems, the peoples in question have continued to adhere to a traditional Realpolitik view of international relations and to foundational narratives premised on an eastwest division and a debordered “Europe whole and free” (equated with NATO enlargement to all the states of Europe except Russia). In particular, they are deeply wary that the self-other distinction pertaining to Russia, one that is felt to be almost existentially important for their own self-understanding, could conceivably be seen to vanish within the context of the Rumsfeldian “old-new” narrative. All in all, then, US efforts of contestation did not seem to draw broad, unambiguous and politically self-evident support among the countries outlined as “new” Europeans. This has since been evidenced most conspicuously by the developments in Spain and confirmed by the waning of support for the US Iraq policy in a number of other countries, including Poland. The increasingly critical views on the Iraq war appear to indicate that the identification with the US in the countries concerned was in fact less automatic and natural than sometimes assumed at the outset. Internally, lines of division emerged from the very start: “Are we just

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being used here?”, asked Jana Ciglerova in a commentary on the Iraq events, noting that: “we have spent a long time at the sidelines – and now we are being told that we matter ... We don’t really buy Rumsfeld’s words and we know why. Now, we are called the ‘new Europe’ when only four years ago, in the Kosovo war, we were the ‘hesitating ones’ and the French were our friends. Nothing lasts for ever and in another four years, the situation might change dramatically again.”20 Ciglerova’s comments nicely convey the wavering on the part of central and east Europeans, who have been hesitant as to whether to accept the new subjectivity on offer to them. Rather than partnership, the US recognition could imply being relegated to a position of inferiority. In the view of Ciglerova, the old/new contestation pertained to a temporary move. It was seen as tactical in character serving above all the needs of the US itself and could, in this sense, be seen as testifying to a disregard of European security interests. 7.

Europe’s North The launching of the new-old narrative seems to have had somewhat different consequences in the case of Europe’s North than it has in the former eastern Europe. Here, the impact of the new narrative has been somewhat less distinct, and in this sense the North has been able to stay loyal to a certain tradition that was there also during the period of the Cold War. Although profoundly affected by the east-west line of division, Europe’s North was nonetheless able to carve out at least some “breeding space” for itself within the Cold War constellation. Rather than being split clearly into two opposite camps severed from each other by ideological, political, military and economic lines, northern Europe stood out as a region of “low tension.” It had, in general, a somewhat detached relationship to the core signifiers of political space. This detachment was evidenced, in one of its more concrete aspects, by the policies of nonalignment pursued by both Finland and Sweden as well as the intense system of Nordic co-operation. Against this background, the launching of the “Europe whole and free” discourse was bound to cause upheaval in the region. The new narrative was premised on a less bordered and much more concentric Europe, a Europe in which the northern parts were clearly located at the fringes. Europe’s North was, by the introduction of that narrative, basically turned into a zone that was there in order to contribute to transition. It was allotted the function of “hosting” some former east

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Europeans, in order that the latter might qualify and position themselves in the context of the new concentric Europeanness. Instead of leaving space for any in-between position or the option of viewing the region as part of a battle-zone between the East and the West, the new coinage envisaged a much more graded political landscape. The agendas related to various military threats became less central as the core issue was increasingly comprehended as pertaining to influence. Marginalization and being ousted to the fringes have in this regard become central concerns. Moreover, as well as having to rethink their relations to Europe’s core, the countries of the region were compelled to revise their intraregional relations. They were offered the option of combining their forces as the previous dividing lines imposed by the east-west coinage between the Nordics, Poland and the Balts were no longer there. The concentric figure favoured by the talk of transition discriminated against Russia, but in the new situation even Russia could be viewed as a resource – and seen in that sense as a semi-insider – in terms of bolstering the region’s overall Europeanness. It was of considerable importance that the United States also found reasons to support the new narrative, and thereby endeavours of region-formation as well as the attachment of the actors of the region to the suggested more concentric Europe. The US stance was certainly not fully identical with the EU-related one, as the US was also pushing the enlargement of NATO, but the constitutive stories were quite close to one other. Also notable is the fact that the US did not just confine its backing to general political moves; it also launched an initiative of its own, the Northern European Initiative (NEI), which sought to advance cross-border co-operation and networking and to enhance the development of civil society in the formerly east European parts of the region. In fact, the US policies seemed at least on the surface very much a carbon copy of the policies pursued by the European Union. This working in tandem and pursuance of similar goals has continued in as much as the US is still pursuing the NEI and has not signalled in any particular way that the previous policy, part of the “Europe whole and free” aspiration, has been abandoned. American region-specific policies have yet to be premised on criteria that flow from the “war on terror” and the communality devised on that basis. Northern European actors have been able to capitalise on the European Union’s stated aims of doing away with divisive borderlines and promoting efforts at regionalization. Hence Finland suggested in 1997 the establishment of a Northern Dimension (ND) to the Union. The stucturing logic embedded in the North as a fresh cardinal signifier and a kind of third option alongside clinging to the East or the West would underpin a regional formation bringing together both EU and non-EU members, Russia included. From a Russian point of view, this initiative has offered partial compensation for the country’s exclusion from the new post-Cold

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War arrangements. This exclusion has been most notable in the context of EU and NATO enlargement, even though in the latter case Russia was accorded “semi-insider” status through its membership of the NATORussia council established in 2002. While no longer categorically excluded and outlined as Europe’s “other,” Russia has found itself at the fringes of the new “Europe whole and free.” Whereas Polish and Baltic membership of the EU and NATO is taken to imply the end of these countries’ post-socialist transition, Russia’s performance continues to be measured according to the degree of success achieved in the process of transformation. The new criteria applied in outlining political space in northern Europe thus single out Russia to some extent and consign it to continued membership of the “transition” category. The “Europe whole and free” discourse has given the countries of the region scope to come up with interpretations of their own regarding the constitutive criteria pertaining to the formation of political space and the position they would like to occupy. Their willingness to exploit the new situation has been constrained to a significant extent by the entrenched quality of the hiherto dominant east-west division. Rather than embarking upon the new and aiming at maximal usage of the openness accorded to them, they have in many cases premised their policies on continuity. In the Baltic and Polish – and to some extent also the Finnish – case, talk of a Europe “whole and free” has been interpreted as an opportunity to leave behind any attachment to the East and thereby gain an immutable reputation as being part of the West. In the Finnish case, membership of the EU has been taken as confirmation of having “arrived home” whereas for Poland and the Baltic States membership in NATO has stood out as the ultimate proof of their westernness. Yet although such traditional readings of the political landscape have persisted, the countries of the region have also been able to exploit the option of region-formation. As a matter of fact they have done so to an impressive degree. Within a relative short period of time, the North has become one of the most regionalized parts of Europe. A considerable number of cross-border arrangements – such as Barents, Arctic and Baltic Sea cooperation – have emerged to bring about a rather fractured political landscape. With the various military threats waning in credibility, the core constitutive departure has been that of “Europe” and the key motivating factor in policy the threat of marginalization. This situation has in turn has facilitated the adoption of a different view of Russia. Instead of sending signals that northern Europe is a region rife with conflict and tensions, the message is one of conciliation and togetherness. It is thus important that Russia be encouraged to channel its European policies through northern Europe by actively engaging it in arrangements such as the Northern Dimension. Thus far, Russia’s policies have not been marked by any overwhelming eagerness to play the regionalization card. Nor have the

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Baltic States or Poland argued strongly in favour of engaging Russia in region-specific cooperation. All the same, the idea of joining forces in order to “make it” in the new Europe has clearly gained in weight. Even the Balts (and the Estonians especially) have on a number of recent occasions expressed concern as to the overly tight border regime between the EU and Russia. The latter trend suggests that the Balts feel unable to deploy all their potential resources, some of which derive from their past as part of the USSR, and that in this regard they see the Brussels’ inflexibility over borders and bordering as something which boxes them in. Such views are doubtless still rare, but it nevertheless notable that they have figured in the debate. Against this background, the tensions and divisions occasioned by Rumsfeld’s “old-new” contestation have thus far been fairly muted. The main consequence, it seems, has been heightened confusion as to the importance and inter-relationship of various lines of argumentation (i.e. east-west, “going Europe,” Atlanticist Europe vs. Europeanist Europe). Of the regional partners, Denmark, the Balts and Poland have sided with the US and found it important to announce their loyalty; Finland, Norway and Sweden have for their part endeavoured to stay aloof from the rhetorical struggles occasioned by the US contestation, though if pressed, they have expressed doubts about the legality of US policies towards Iraq. In so doing, they have landed closer to the “old Europeans,” with Sweden in particular having been a vocal critic of the US. Yet, on balance, all of these countries continue to aspire for good relations with the US. Criticism, to the extent it has been voiced in the first place, has been kept within bounds and has not been extended beyond the Iraq war. Moreover, it has remained on a rather general level and – most importantly – has not been articulated in terms of wishing the US to adopt a more detached policy in regard to Europe’s North. As long as the “Atlanticist-Europeanist” tension remains latent and it is possible to pursue both visions simultaneously, Europe’s North seems likely to remain relatively untouched by recent developments. Obviously, should the US decide for one reason to prioritise the Atlanticist approach in relation to northern Europe, splits would in all probability occur. Contests would emerge as to who is eligible for inclusion into the category of “new Europeans” and who is to be consigned to the status of “old.” In this regard, Denmark, Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania and Poland would be on record as claiming membership of the former grouping, whereas Finland, Norway and Sweden would remain on the sidelines. Russia for its part has opted to play the two approaches against one another. An important partner in the overall context of the “war on terror,” it nevertheless chose to side with France and Germany over the war in Iraq, thereby disqualifying itself from membership of the “new European” category. Any attempt to embrace Russia unequivocally within a NATO-defined “new Europe” would be almost certain to ignite

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residual east-west tensions in the region, since the Baltic States and Poland would doubtless find it hard to countenance such a step. However, as things stand Russia seems unlikely to make any move in this direction, while the US seems ready to tolerate continued ambiguity on its part. More generally, it would not appear to be in the interest of the US or any other relevant actor to play the new-old card in northern Europe. The Estonians have, as already noted, sought to position themselves as “new” by dint of their neo-liberal economic and social policies, an approach which seems likely to provoke clashes and struggles as to what is warranted and applicable in the policies of the region as a whole.21 However, the line pursued by the Balts may be comprehended as being legitimate in as much as as it can also be taken to represent yet another means of “going Europe.” Whilst drawing primarily upon American experiences, it does not endeavour at playing Europe against America in any categorical manner. 8.

Concluding Remarks Since September 11 2001, the constitutive stories pertaining to the Euro-Atlantic relationship have been profoundly affected by a new set of narratives based around the concept of “strategic globality.” There is a heavy dose of ontological insecurity in the air, underpinned by the notion that globalization enables particular threats to spread both rapidly and in an unpredictable manner. The globalization story, told with an emphasis on terrorism, failed states, the spread of weapons of mass destruction, tyranny and so forth, has been deployed in order to redefine the United States as a kind of frontline country at war. This exceptional situation of war has in turn been used to challenge the epistemic, political and cultural foundations of the established international order. With the “war on terror” having become a core criterion in the definition of communality, existing conceptualizations of the “West” and of transatlantic relations have been undermined. In this connection, the introduction of Rumsfeld’s “new-old” dichotomy also posed a clear challenge both to accepted European power hierarchies and to customary understandings of European identity. Yet, while the US intervention has undoubtedly had an impact – perhaps most especially in the case of the central and east European countries – this has yet to translate into an irrevocable breach between “new” and “old” Europeans. As long as there remains space space for the simultaneous pursuit of Atlanticist and Europeanist approaches, regionalization seems certain to remain one of the main constitutive horizons in Europe’s North.

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Notes 1. Wendt, 1999, 327. 2. Quoted by Baker, 2003; Hulsman, 2003; Richburg, 2003. 3. Radio Free Europe, 2003. 4. Rhodes, 2003. 5. See the interview with George Bush in Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty, November 18 2002, 2. 6. Rhodes, 2003, 8. 7. Powell, 2003. 8. Wolfowitz, 2001. 9. Ibid, 13. 10. For Pond (2004, 67–8), Fischer thus placed “electoral opportunism before the transatlantic relationship.” 11. Baker, 2003; CNN.com. World; Rubin, 2003. 12. Mitchell, 2003. 13. Elder, 2003. 14. Kudlow, 2003. 15. Antola, 2005 16. CNN.com, February 18, 2003. 17. MacMillan, 2003. 18. Ciglerova, 2003. 19. As quoted by Darnton, 2002. 20. Ciglerova, 2003. 21. In fact, some of these struggles are already underway. In the case of taxation on alcohol, for example, the policies of the Balts are compelling Finland and Sweden and Sweden to alter their own policies in a more neoliberal direction.

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Frum, D. and Perle, R. (2003), An End to Evil: Strategies for Victory in the War on Terror. Random House: New York. Gnesotto, N. (2002), “Demilitarisation of Europe,” International Politik, 3. 25–8. Gnesotto, N. (2003), “Reacting to America,” Survival 44, 4. 99−106. Ikenberry, J.G. (2001), After Victory. Institutions, Strategic Restraints and the Rebuilding of Order after Major Wars. Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press. Kagan, R. (2002), Power and Weakness, Policy Review, 113. Kagan, R. (2003a), Of Paradise and Power. America and Europe in the New World Order. New York: Alfred A. Knopf. Kagan, R. (2003b), “From Victory to Success: Looking for Legitimacy in All the Wrong Places,” Foreign Policy, July/August. Kagan, R. (2004), “America’s Crisis of Legitimacy,” Foreign Affairs, 2. Kissinger, H.A., Summers, L.H. and Kupchan, C.A. (2004), Renewing the Atlantic Partnership. Report of an Independent Task Force. Council on Foreign Relations: Washington, DC. Kuus, M. (2004), “Europe’s Eastern Expansion and the reinscription of Otherness in East-Central Europe,” Progress in Human Geography, 28, 4, 472−489. Mearsheimer, J. (1990), “Back to the Future: Instability in Europe after the Cold War,” International Security, 52, 4. 5−56. Moravcsik, A. (2003), “Striking a New Transatlantic Bargain,” Foreign Affairs, 83, 4.74−89. Mouritzen, H. and Hedegaard, A. (2004), “Indre mod Ydre Europa. Irakkonflikten 2003 og Europas Geopolitiske Puslespil,” The Danish Institute for International Studies (forthcoming). Peterson, J. and Pollock, M.A. (2003), Europe, America, Bush. Routledge: London and New York. Pond, E. (2004), Friendly Fire: The Near-Death of the Transatlantic Alliance. Washington D.C.: Brookings Institution.

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Powell, C.L. (2003), “An Enlarged NATO. Mending Fences and Moving Forward on Iraq,” Testimoiny before the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, Washington D.C., April 29. Rasmussen, M. (2002), “A Parallel Globalization of Terror: 9−11, Security and Globalization,” Co-operation & Conflict, 37, 3. 323−49. Rhodes, E. (2003), “Rethinking the Nature of Security: America’s Northern Europe Initiative,” in: Busygina, I. and Potemkina, O. (eds.), New Frontiers of Europe: Opportunities and Challenges. MGIMO: Moscow. 234−67. Rhodes, E. (2003), “Constructing European Security After Prague. The United States Searches for Useful Pasts and Attractive Futures,” Paper presented to the CIEECA conference in Budapest, Budapest, 26−28 June 2003. Shawcross, W. (2003), Allies: The US, Britain, Europe and the Aftermath of the War in Iraq. London: Westview Press. Schweiss, C.M. (2003), “Sharing Hegemony: The Future of Transatlantic Security,” Co-operation & Conflict,38, 3. 211−34. Todd, E. (2003), The Breakdown of the American Order. After Empire. Columbia University Press: New York. Wendt, A. (1999), Social Theory of International Relations. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wolfowitz, P. (2001), Building a Military for the 21st Century. Prepared statement for the House and Senate Armed Services Committees, 3−4 October., Washington, DC: United States Department of Defense.

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“Chirac lashes out at new Europe,” CNN.com/World, February 18 2003. http://www.edition.cnn.com(/2003/WORLD/europe/o2/18/sprj.irq.chirac/ Ciglerova, J. (2003), “What does the ‘new Europe’ really think?”, Observer Worldview, February 16. http://www.euactiv.com Drozdiak, W. (2003), “What New About the New Europe? The Economy,” The Washington Post, February 9. http://www.gmfus.org.apps.gmf/gmfwebfinal.nsf/0/$UNIDviewA11/FCD E77B57524 “Germany’s Word of the Year comes from the US Defense Secretary,” Associated Press, December 19. http://209.157.64.200/focus/f-news/1043720/posts Kudlow, L. (2003), “In with the New Europe,” February 21. http://www.natiaonalreview.com MacMillan, S. (2003), “What ‘New Europeans’?”, February 19. http://www.slate.msn.com/id/2078876 Mitchell, A. (2003), “Old Europe – New Europe. Rumsfeld Ruffles Feathers.” http://europe.tiscali.co.uk/politics/news Radio Free Europe, “Rumsfeld Again Refers To ‘Old’ and ‘New’ Europe.” http://www.rfel.org.features/2003/06/11/11062003171320.asp Richburg, K.B. (2003), “Rumsfeld’s Remarks Upset France, Germany,” 23 January. http://www.washingtonpost.com Šlonka, J. (2003), “No to the ‘New’ Europe,” quoted in Deutsche Welle/Current World, January 1. http://www.dwworld.de/dwelle/cda/detail/dwelle.cda.detail.artikel_drucke n/o,3820,1

Author affiliation: Pertti Joenniemi is a senior research fellow at the Danish Institute of International Studies, Copenhagen, Denmark.

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Estonia and Latvia: A “new” Europe challenges the “old”? Marko Lehti The enlargement of the European Union (EU) and NATO to the Baltic States has marked the end of a long period of transition following the fall of the Berlin Wall and the collapse of the Soviet Union. Whether this means the final end of the discourse on transition, however, is still very much open to question. The logic of transition has been integral to the post-communist era. Cherished in the West but also adopted and adapted in the East in the form of the “return to Europe” discourse, it has kept symbolic divisions of Europe alive and well. In this respect, the former eastern bloc countries which in May 2004 became full members of the EU have been comprehended as countries lagging far behind the former western countries in terms of their development. The West has retained its image as a forerunner and originator of new ideas and initiatives, while the East is still associated with backwardness and depicted as an incomplete copy of a West which it must still aspire to follow. As Merje Kuus has argued, the attainment of EU- and NATOmembership will not necessarily erase this image of the East, which could continue to shape the opinions and views of the “old core Europeans” within the framework of a Europe of twenty-five.1 The Balts themselves are now intent on shedding the image of “nations in transition,” insisting that in a new united Europe all are equal.2 The East has been needed for so long in order to define western superiority that it will certainly prove hard to abandon and replace. However, it may be that the newly self-assertive voice of the Balts, accompanied by the new tones of US foreign policy, have also forced the old core members to change their view of Europe as whole. In this chapter, I will endeavour to show how double enlargement – and, in particular, EU-membership – is influencing the national identities of the Estonians and Latvians3. How will these new nation-states eventually manage to find their place in Europe? An examination of the influence of EU membership on the Estonian and Latvian national discourses necessarily also requires an analysis of the Estonian and Latvian outlook on Europe. In this respect, I will argue that Europe and, in particular, the EU have been nodal points of these national identities since 1991 but that at the beginning of the 21st century the relation towards Europe began to change from passive to active. From here on, the question is not just about the influence of the EU on Estonian and Latvian identities, since the two nations will in turn also make their own contribution to the whole of Europe.

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Membership of the EU and NATO has not been the only crucial issue in recent times. The new US-led war on terrorism and, in particular, the war in Iraq has also had a significant influence on the whole of Europe, including the Baltic States. While it is still too early to speculate about long-term outcomes, a reinvention and reuse of the term “new Europe” is clearly apparent. In this particular chapter I investigate how Estonian and Latvian elites use this term and the ways in which they are challenging the old divisions of Europe. Such a challenge first implies the rejection of the “transit-country” and “return to Europe” images – discourses which label the new members as humble followers and imitators of the old western European countries. Also, old signifiers have become more ambiguous during the past decade and a half. Not only has the old east-west dividing line become blurred, but the West itself is in crisis due to its loss of a clear opponent. The new Russia may be still seen as “eastern” but it has too close relations with NATO and is too weak; the Muslim world is too vague and the terrorists of Al-Qaeda too indeterminate to form a new clear “Other” which might keep the West coherent. The Balts are therefore “returning” to the West at a time when the very meaning of the latter is starting to blur. This raises the question of what will arise if the “westernness” of the new members is contested by the old members and the two sides differ in their views of what this latter term actually means.

1.

Identity, foreign policy and security European policy is often studied as either an international issue or as a socio-economic question. Yet recent studies, most notably of the Nordic case, have also underlined how European policy is always a question of national identity and that it is not possible to draw a clear line between the external and the internal. Ole Wæver introduces practical guidelines for studying the relationship between a nation, a state and Europe when he distinguishes three levels for studying European policies.4 First, it is important to examine what the terms “state” and “nation” mean and how these two ideas are tied together. Second, the image of Europe is different in each national case – what should be talked about is “Europe in the plural.” That is why it is important to analyse how Europe is integrated into the collective “We,” whether the “We” be that of state or nation. Reading European policy – the practical programmes and goals of the policy-makers – is just the third level of analysis. Thus, when studying the European policy of a particular state, we are also studying national narratives and hence national identities. For Erik Ringmar, foreign policy constitutes a form of storytelling for the purpose of defining the identity of a nation or state. All “We” concepts can exist and become significant only through stories.

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Narratives are there to define our interests and the expression of interests defines, according to Ringmar, the coordinates of nation or state in space and time.5 Policy-makers are obviously not the only “story-tellers” in this regard, but when examining narratives of European order they have a crucial role in defining options to be accepted by the wider public. The stories told by foreign policy-makers are there to define who “We” are by showing what “We” want. That is why in this article I concentrate mainly on material produced by the political elite and I read these documents as narratives which define the interests of a state and nation and thus also serve as an expression of national identity.6 The linkages between identity and action, identity and interests, and identity and security form a key issue in Ringmar’s thinking. On the basis of a case study of 17th-century Sweden, he develops a general argument about wars, which, he notes, “may not only be necessary when a well-established identity is threatened, … but also when we are trying to create a new identity for ourselves.”7 Yet Ringmar’s point has wider applicability: developing his thinking further, it is clear that the security issues of the current post-Cold War era can be examined in terms of hard and soft security but can also be seen as an identity issue. Constructing and securing identity is a fundamental aim of any community and this calls for various kind of acts which do not necessarily have anything do with traditional hard or even soft security but which are essential in order to secure the dignity of a nation. The way a nation is tied to a state sets limits on how the nation’s relationship with larger units can be comprehended. In this respect, Waever and Joenniemi distinguish between “civic” and “ethnic” nations, suggesting that ethnic nations find it easier to accept limitations on state sovereignty.8 The ethnic-civic division is, however, far from being unproblematic and self-evident and it is necessary to find more sophisticated modes of expression than the one introduced by Hans Kohn decades ago.9 Recent scholarship has indeed blurred this dichotomy in new interesting ways. Aviel Roshwald’s work on ethnic nationalism and the fall of empires after World War One, for instance, makes a significant contribution to the study of small eastern European nations like the Estonians and Latvians. Roshwald studies the transition from the era of multiethnic empires to the era of nation-states in the area stretching from the Baltic to the Black Sea, the Balkans and even the Middle East. His conclusion is that all identity projects include both civic and ethnic elements and are usually inherently contradictory in nature. He also reminds us that the old world of the empires accepted multiple political identities within certain limits and that small nations believed national self-determination could be satisfied within the existing realms. The small nation-states that arose from the ashes of the Romanov, Habsburg and Ottoman empires were not result of a decades-long striving for

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independence, but a reaction to the sudden weakening and collapse of the old order during the war years.10 Similarly, it is important to note that in the Estonian and Latvian cases, separation from the Soviet Union and full sovereignty were not yet unanimous goals in 1988 when the Popular Fronts were founded: broad sovereignty within the Union was the initial demand. It was the drastic changes in Eastern Europe and the weakening of the Kremlin that changed future expectations and opened new horizons, making it possible to envisage full sovereignty as a realistic goal.11 The future (and also the past) look different when viewed from different moments in history. Identities and interests are contingent and linked to changing expectations of the future.12 2.

Imagining national sovereignty When examining developments at the beginning of the 21st century, it is necessary to look all the way back to the 19th century when the Estonians and Latvians were invented as nations and the basis for current national discourses thereby established. One has of course to be careful when mapping a decades-long continuity of national discourses. The discourses of the 19th century or the interwar era do not in themselves explain Estonian or Latvian European policies today, but they do give us a broader framework within which national discourses have changed and are changing. In their original essence, these two nations represent perhaps the most genuine form of the peripheral and ethnic-defined nationalism in which the nation preceded the state and even any kind of idea of a state. Before 1860 there was not even a name for an Estonian nation and country – the Estonians called themselves simply “common people” (maarahvas). Nothing can exist without a name, and in the early 1860s J.V. Jannsen introduced in his newspaper Eesti Postimees the term “Estonians” (Eestlased) and “Estonia” (Eesti). At that time, today’s Estonia and Latvia were still part of the multiethnic Russian empire and the local Baltic German nobility held all power on the Baltic shores. The land was divided into three administrative units – Estland, Livland and Courland – the borders of which did not follow linguistic boundaries but were based on the traditions of the Baltic Germans. Estonians and Latvians were seen simply as a “peasant folk.” It was, therefore, Baltic German hegemony and not the rule of St. Petersburg that was challenged by the rising national movement. The invented national chronology depicted the era from the 13th century crusades to the 19th century as an “era of darkness” dominated by the Germans and their culture. This had been preceded by an “era of freedom” when, according to legend, Estonian and Latvian cultures and virtues flourished. What this discourse envisaged in the future was a new dawn which would mark a return to this old freedom. In that way, the Baltic Germans were depicted as colonists and foreigners in the Baltic

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lands. Estonia and Latvia were even then being comprehended as national units existing merely in the cultural sphere and transcending any artificial administrative divisions. The 1905 Revolution radicalised and politicised national demands in the Baltic lands. It was then that demands for reorganising the Baltic provinces according to ethnic borders arose. Still, the goal was not separation from the empire but autonomy similar to that already enjoyed by the Finns. Even during the crucial year of 1917, when the old order collapsed, democratisation and federalisation of the Russian empire remained the prime nationalist goals, as seen in the the famous Latvian political slogan “A Free Latvia in a Free Russia.” Only at the turn of 1917−1918 did full sovereignty appear as one of the alternative national futures. The reason for the change can be found in the internal as well as external situation. The former empire had sunk into chaos after the Bolshevik coup in November and the German empire was expanding again on the Baltic front. This was precisely the time to internationalise the Estonian and Latvian questions in order to avoid annexation to the German Reich.13 During these founding decades, it was believed that national selfdetermination could be satisfied within a multinational realm. Estonia and Latvia as national units were not imagined as sovereign states. Instead, national sovereignty was seen as being fulfilled by internal sovereignty. This kind of interpretation of self-determination also explains the readiness for close cooperation and mutual integration in the aftermath of the First World War, when the new Baltic States emerged on the political map without a legal tradition, infrastructures or currency of their own. At this time, the idea of securing national independence through schemes for unification gained prominent supporters and was adapted to the foreign policies of these countries.14 During the interwar years the Estonians and Latvians finally had their own nation-states which can be characterized using Rogers Brubaker’s concept of “nationalizing statehood.” Both countries, however, carried also hints of civic nationalism and the rights of minorities including the Baltic Germans were guaranteed to the extent that they were offered cultural autonomy. However, in comparison to the imperial era society was heavily Estonianised and Latvianised and other ethnic groups more or less excluded from the “core nation” owning the state.15 It was this nation that had preceded the state and which now nationalized it. At the same time, the state became the essential phenomenon needed for securing the Estonian and Latvian nations. The state was a source of dignity for the nation, but national narratives did not manage to change from ethnic to civic-centric even if the form of nationalism was transformed from peripheral to state-building. During the early stages of the 1980s “singing revolution,” safeguarding and securing the cultural heritage was the primary national

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interest, but a step towards state-centric discourse was taken already during the last years of the Soviet era and, in particular, after independence was regained in 1991. The importance of the language question in the early phase of the new national movement and the declaration of Estonian and Latvian as sole official state languages demonstrate that the ethno-linguistic definition of the nation was closely associated with the notion of the state. The existence of the new states was legitimated by reference to their interwar predecessors and the principle of legal continuity was used to legitimise a strict citizenship policy and the exclusion of all Soviet-era newcomers and their descendents from the Estonian and Latvian “national communities.” The emphasis on the interwar state thus served to remind the world that Estonians and Latvians had had their “own” state whilst providing a legal basis for the exclusion of most of the Russian-speaking population. 16 The loss of nation-statehood through the 1940 Soviet annexation has remained a national trauma. National dignity was violated in a fundamental manner. This explains why the events of the crucial years 1939−41 have been the subject of such intensive study in the newly reborn republics and why the period of interwar statehood has been elevated to the status of a new Golden Age defining the present, too. In early 1990s Estonia and Latvia the question of boundaries – a symbol of statehood – was crucial, and led to a long diplomatic dispute over the “lost” areas of the Petseri region, the eastern bank of the Narva river and the Abrene region which had been incorporated into Russia after the Soviet annexation. The argument for returning these areas was not ethno-linguistic, because the huge majority of their inhabitants are Russian-speaking. Rather, it derived from a cherishing of the memory of the interwar state and support for the doctrine of legal continuity. The safeguarding of the state was at that time seen as an essential and primary method for securing the nation. The national imagination was therefore very much limited by the symbolic and concrete boundaries of the (interwar) state, which was seen as a prime source of national dignity. However, the state still did not define the nation. Different resources have been used for defining the Estonian and Latvian nations during the past hundred years. The early emphasis on culture and language was partly replaced by the role of the state during the interwar years and again in the early 1990s. Yet the border making process has remained predominantly organic with only some hints of voluntarism, such as the granting of automatic citizenship to all inhabitants during the interwar years and, in the 1990s, the framing of new citizenship laws based on continuation of the interwar state and thus including also nonethnic Estonian and non-ethnic Latvian citizens and their descendants.17 In sum, one can say that a state has not defined a core nation but a nation has defined a state. The new national narrative of the early 1990s focused on the loss of the interwar national state and its subsequent restoration. The

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main national interest behind the two countries’ European policy was to safeguard the state and to prevent any recurrence of past catastrophe. 3.

Narrating a Nation into Europe Perhaps no other geographical concept is so loaded with different symbolic and political meanings as “Europe.” Instead of one Europe it is better to talk about Europes in the plural, since each national discourse has its own definition of the term. Trying to fix definite borders for Europe is essentially futile, because these borders – both external and internal – are also politically constructed. The definition of them thus varies according to the time period and speaker in question. Having said this, the way in which the internal and external borders of Europe are comprehended is an important determinant of national interests and foreign policy. Subdivisions of Europe have been part of the spatial imagination for centuries, even millennia. A north-south division long defined core and periphery, civilization and barbarians in Europe, but from the time of the Enlightenment a new east-west division was invented. A new space, eastern Europe, between the Orient and the Occident was envisaged and a new core, western Europe, thus defined.18 The intellectual colonisation of eastern Europe has been examined usually from the perspective of the West. How the people of the imagined East have located themselves has been all too often a neglected question. Beyond these mega-divisions it is possible to notice several congruent but not altogether identical divisions: between Catholic and Protestant Europe; between those sharing the legacy of the Habsburg, Romanov or Ottoman empires; between “old” and “new” Europe. During the past decade and a half, these old divisions appear to have regained significance, though their meaning has obviously been adapted to reflect the values and expectations of the new global era. Furthermore, it is not only important which borders are imagined but also how are they imagined. The exclusiveness of the Iron Curtain dominated popular views for a long time, but now it appears that the “fuzzy” borders characteristic of the pre-modern world are returning in a new guise to define the 21st century Europe. As Jan Zielonka has argued, the Union looks like “a kind of new and unbounded entity with fuzzy borders and various kinds of multilevel regulatory arrangements.’ It is more like a neo-medieval empire than a traditional territorial actor.”19 Since the regaining of independence in August 1991 and even before during the late 1980s “singing revolution,” the “return to Europe”rhetoric has embodied the most penetrating programme of the Balts.20 While many shades can be found within this rhetoric, and representations of the East-West divide and its surrounding border zone have varied according to the dominant national discourse, the Estonians and Latvians

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have never been able to escape this imagined division entirely. At the beginning of the post-Cold War period, Russia was still lurking as an omnipresent factor in the definition of Estonia’s place in Europe, and the country was depicted as a European outpost against the East. Geographical Europe was thereby divided into “real” Europe and Russia.21 In a series of eloquent speeches since 1990, former Estonian President Lennart Meri has perhaps given greatest expression to the spectrum of Estonian discourses on Europe. Even in 1990, Meri – then foreign minister of the still Soviet Estonia – wrote that “Europe is to the Estonians more than only a geographical concept. Europe is our programme. Not because we regard ourselves as better Europeans than the Finns, but because we know what the price is of being absent from Europe.”22 Thus, when Estonia was a part of the Soviet Union, the East, it could not be part of Europe, the West, even if spiritually the Estonians belonged to the latter community. After old ties and borders collapsed, it was time to “return to Europe,” to escape from “easternness” to “westernness.” This has been a common idea in the whole of post-communist eastern Europe. The narrative was based on the revision of the past. Building a new order was derived from a negation of the Soviet system; there was a denial of the significance of the recent Soviet past and an attempt was even made to forget it entirely. For Daina Eglitis, the notion of “normality” dominates the Balts’ self-understanding of the transformation from Soviet era to independence. In her view, “normality” was understood as the restoration and recreation of the “the institutions, norms, and values of the interwar period of independence” and thus the focus was not on the future but on the past.23 The Soviet era and all its expressions were seen as abnormal and illegitimate and transformation meant returning to “normality” and a legal state of affairs. There was no need to envision a new order because according to the dominant Estonian and Latvian rhetoric the state of normality already existed in a parallel place and it was possible to return there. In the temporal realm, attaining normality required a return to the interwar years and the continuation of new independence from this point. In the spatial realm, normality was synonymous with western Europe or the broader West including the United States.24 The preceding analysis shows that the old east-west division did not end after the Cold War: the eastern border of Europe has simply been pushed further eastwards and the Baltic States located on this border. Estonian and Latvian independence was bound up with the West, yet in this regard Europe was not seen as open but as a closed fortification against the East. In order to secure its position as an outpost of “European fortification” Estonia required integration with the rest of Europe. Even if Russia and the east-west division remained important nodal points of identity-building, the notion of security changed in the second half of 1990s. According to Merje Kuus, the withdrawal of

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Russian troops in August 1994 gave rise to a “cultural turn” in which the perception of Russian military threat was replaced by an emphasis on cultural differences. This new understanding owed a lot to the ideas of Samuel P. Huntington, whose book was translated into Estonian and published with a foreword by foreign minister Toomas Hendrik Ilves. In a speech entitled “Estonia’s Return to Europe” in 1997, Ilves consciously employed Huntington’s notion of the conflict of civilizations when he described the Estonian-Russian boundary as a fault-line between the West and the East.25 Following the logic of Huntingtonian rhetoric, Estonia was depicted in public discussion as a bridgehead of western civilization. With this new cultural emphasis, the Russian threat no longer stemmed solely from the Russian state, but rather from “a broader realm that includes Russia’s history and the so-called ‘Russian mindset’ of the Russian minority in Estonia.” Thus a border between “Us” and “Them” was depicted not only between Estonia and Russia but also within Estonia between ethnic Estonians and non-Estonians.26 In this discourse, there was a western Europe, the EU and NATO, and on the other side the East, Russia, but no space in-between. Estonia has to join the former Europe and the organisations symbolising it so as to avoid Russia and secure its national state. But whereas in the early 1990s NATO and EU were needed to give actual military security, in the later half of 1990s membership was already seen more as symbolic proof of belonging to the West in a Europe of clashing civilizations. The Latvian discourse on Europe has many features in common with the Estonian, but there are also slight differences. A feeling of being located on the borders of Europe and a strong need to integrate into Europe have been focal points of the Latvian European identity too, with “Europe” being defined by the EU and NATO.27 On the other hand, there have been interesting visions of a Latvian mediator role in Europe. This Latvian flexibility with spatial images received its visualisation in the idea of the “Amber Gateway” introduced by foreign minister Valdis Birkavs in November 1997. The Amber Gateway both renamed the Baltic Sea Area and redefined it as a space geared to fostering contacts and mediation between East and West. “We are the synapse between two worlds. The medium for communication and transit,” declared Birkavs when mapping out Europe in his speech “Between Europe and Eurasia” in Houston, Texas in April 1998. In this discourse, Russia still exists on the other side of the European dividing-line. However, it should not be excluded from European development and in the intercourse between Russia and Europe Latvia can play a leading role.28 This kind of duality in Latvian discourse on Europe is not a novelty but something which was already familiar in the interwar period, when Latvians wanted to be at one and the same time a transmitter between East and West as well as forming with other Baltic Sea states a strong barrier against the East.29

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The question of the definition of Europe within the Estonian and Latvian national discourses during the past decades is a rather complicated and highly politicised one. Many recent Baltic researchers have tried to assert that the Baltic peoples also belonged to the West in the past, but according to my reading that is not the case.30 Many have depicted the early 20th century radical cultural movement of the Young Estonians and the New Current in Latvia as forerunners of paneuropeanism, but in their own time these were representative more of the minority than the majority. 31 The same can be said of the few advocates of the pan-European movement during the interwar years. For the Estonians and Latvians, the Baltic Germans formed the original national “Other,” and in that way Germany was seen as a national threat, especially during the years of the First World War. Until that war, the “near abroad” of the Estonians and Latvians was the Russian empire and they imagined a location for themselves in both present and future within that realm. During the interwar years, the Estonians and Latvians felt strongly that they were sandwiched between Russia and Germany and a Baltic group was conceived that would include the Nordic states, too. But the latter were not then interested in any kind of cooperation. On the other hand, there were many in the political and cultural elite who admired the West and in particular Britain, but neither Estonia nor Latvia were seen as being part of “that” Europe. Since the Estonians and Latvians have never really been part of western Europe, it follows that they could not “return” there. In this regard, Christopher Browning’s analysis of Finland seems quite apposite in the Estonian and Latvian case, too: instead of a “return to the West” it has been a question of “moving homes.”32 While Europe is comprehended in a new way, it has been necessary to project a new image onto the past, too, in order to provide assurance that this is a natural state of affairs. Belonging to Europe and the broader West was seen as essential to the construction of a new national identity. This belonging was in turn seen to require acceptance by the “old Europeans,” which in practice meant membership in the most prominent western institutions, the EU and NATO. 4.

Changing Tones In a speech delivered in June 2002, Latvian president Vaira VīkeFreiberga compared that year to 1991, claiming that the EU’s decision to admit Latvia and the other Baltic States to membership was akin to regaining independence for a second time.33 Integration is seemingly viewed as essential for maintaining national sovereignty even if it simultaneously entails the delegation of sovereignty to the Union. According to Latvian foreign minister Indulis Bērzinš the latter is not a problem; rather, membership opens a possibility for expressing Latvian interests within a larger forum. By joining the EU, Latvia is engaging

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itself in a shared future.34 Acceptance to the EU and NATO has also contributed decisively to the definition of Europe and the state in all three national discourses. The European Union has changed from being a space to which the Balts want entry, to being an idea which they want to influence. The image which the two peoples holds of their respective nation and state in Europe has simultaneously undergone drastic change, while statements about Russia have become milder and the eastern border has been imagined in softer terms. The categories of East and West are no longer as simple and fixed as they have been for the past decade, as new challenging ways of envisioning Europe and its dividing lines have been introduced. While the “West” has long been synonymous with “normality” in Baltic discourse, the former has now become more unstable and its content more contested. The withdrawal of the last Russian troops from Estonia and Latvia in 1994 was regarded by many as marking the end of the Second World War. Yet, according to Vīke-Freiberga, the war only really ended when EU and NATO membership changed from being a dream somewhere in an undefined future to a set date in the near future.35 The memory of World War Two and of Soviet annexation without any resistance and without any foreign aid or even protest have been the reason for the almost unanimous striving towards NATO, which is seen as the best means of securing the new nation-state. Now that membership has finally become a reality, it is possible to forget the trauma of Soviet annexation and turn towards the future. As Latvian foreign minister Sandra Kalniete argued in January 2004, “for first time in history Latvia is living without the shadow of a threat from abroad and this opens up opportunities for accelerated development.” She discerns only one comparable period in the past and that was the 1920s – an era when liberal ideas and national culture purportedly also flourished.36 Recent statements by Latvian President Vīke-Freiberga and Estonian foreign minister Kristiina Ojuland show that in the current situation it is no longer necessary to emphasize the civilizational threat of Russia. This is not to say that there are no outstanding problems in BalticRussian relations – the question of the Russian-speaking population in particular remains sensitive. All the same, the east-west division of Europe is today seen to be “not only an artificial but an unnatural one,” as the Balts pursue opportunities for trade in eastern markets and emphasise their potential as bridge builders.37 Latvians in particular have strongly underlined in their recent statements that the integration of Russia into the Common European Economic Space is something “essential for stability of the region and the continent itself.”38 Russia may still be seen as an undeveloped country in its relations with the EU, but, in keeping with the general western rhetoric, the Balts now emphasise the need for cooperation and aid and the advantages of a close neighbourhood for controlling Russia. The Estonians and Latvians are still “frontier nations,”

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but they are no longer portrayed as vanguard states on the exclusive border of East and West. Now, they are seen more as lying on the frontier between two European empires, that of the European Union and that of Russia, with an increasing number of transactions taking place between the two. If Russia is no longer an omnipresent threat, what then are the new threats? Since EU and NATO membership is deemed to have guaranteed the security of the state, the new rhetoric again emphasises the security of the nation. In an interview with the newspaper Postimees at the start of 2004, Estonian prime minister Juhan Parts argued that the greatest danger for Estonia had now become “marginalisation in the European Union and in NATO as well. I mean a situation where we are only formal members.”39 Foreign policy guidelines formulated in both Latvia and Estonia after the realisation of membership have also highlighted the development of the EU towards a strong and united Union defined by solidarity and equality of all members as a primary political interest. In the Latvian case, the guaranteeing of economic development and living standards was listed as a second important goal.40 The traditional eastern threat has thus given way in day-to-day political discourse to new kinds of threats which exist within the EU and which are mostly linked to economic development. To understand this new perception of threats to the nation it is necessary to know how the narration of Europe is changing in Estonian and Latvian national discourses. This change is seen perhaps most explicitly in discussion of the EU. Previously, the overriding imperative of the Balts was to assure their “Europeanness” and the EU was a political goal in these terms.41 Now that this kind of assurance is no longer needed, the main question is how the Balts are and will be European. The EU has been transformed from a dreamland of democracy and free markets into a concrete community to which the Balts can also contribute and the future of which they can influence. This community is no longer only an ideal image but it is admitted that it also has “dark sides.”42 The Estonians and Latvians do not see the Union they have entered as something which has already been fixed in form. “I hope that the Europe that we are building together will also never been completed,” said Vīke-Freiberga, adapting to the EU the old Latvian tale about how Riga would be flooded by the Daugava once it was finished.43. Contributing to the EU has become a new future-orientated national programme as Baltic politicians turn their thoughts to the question of how to develop the EU. “From Estonia’s point of view, it is essential that the EU becomes more transparent and comprehensible, both for its own citizens, and for the Union’s external partners” says Ojuland in regard to her country’s EU agenda .44 Everyone seems to be aware that this latest enlargement will change the EU even more drastically than the previous ones.45 The question is just how the EU

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is changing and how the Balts could influence this change so that the future EU would better satisfy their national interests. At the beginning of the 21st century the Estonians and Latvians are finding new ways to depict themselves as nations, and a new foundational narrative has been introduced. In his speech “Latvia for Europe, Europe for Latvia” delivered in March 2002, Latvian foreign minister Indulis Bērzinš crystallised the content of a new Europeanised national identity when he stated that “Latvia’s approach in the accession process can be best described by three R’s: reform-oriented, reliable, realistic.”46 Through these three terms Bērzinš narrates a new story of Latvia as a modern European nation. Similar terminology can also be found in the joint statement by Estonian prime minster Juhan Parts and his British counterpart Tony Blair in which the new members are characterized as “forward-looking and reform-minded” states.47 A new identity is under construction and, now that EU membership has been attained, it must address the question of how to remain “reform-oriented, reliable and realistic” within the Union. Behind these new catchwords it is possible to outline a new success story which is replacing the old foundational narrative that looks back to the loss of the interwar state. Baltic politicians have for some years already reminded the domestic and foreign public about the growth rates of their economy and have depicted themselves as quick learners of market economics. Recently, it has even been added that the Balts are more efficient and more successful in their realization of the market economy and reforms than the old established states and that they therefore really do have something to teach other Europeans. As Ojuland declared in a speech in the EU heartland of Brussels in October 2002, “Estonia has on the basis of its reforms and progress acquired enough selfconfidence to be able to address with an innovatory spirit also the matter of reforming the European Union.”48 Latvian statements around this time, though, were more cautious in tone than those of the Estonians. The newest addition to the success story is the IT-sector – the symbol of the ultra-modern world. The question is not so much about the reality as about the image of the “information society.” On the one hand, it has been emphasized how fast the IT-sector is expanding in the Baltics. Another dimension is associated with people: the plentitude of personal computers and the number of people using the internet on a daily basis are calculated and compared with the corresponding figures for the “old” Europe.49 A programme with the symbolic name of “Tiger’s Leap” has aimed to connect all Estonian schools, the future generations, to the internet, proving just how conscious this ultra-modernization of Estonian society has been in recent times.50 Juhan Parts, meanwhile, has combined the story of an economic miracle and the image of the information society in defining for Estonia the progressive goal of developing “knowledgebased economic growth.” In this manner, he consciously borrows the

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fashionable phraseology of the EU to in order to define a nation. Yet Estonian politicians are not simply using EU terminology – they are claiming that they are forerunners in comparison to the “old” Europeans.51 As one recalls the situation in the early 1990s when the Baltic nations emerged on to the political map as tiny and insecure states, it is almost a miracle that the Latvians and, in particular, the Estonians have managed to create such strong national self-esteem. No longer, it seems, are the two peoples content simply to emulate “western” Europeans as they were some years ago. Now, they argue that in certain key “progressive” sectors they are actually ahead of many western states and will soon overtake the rest. In the words of Ojuland, the Balts see themselves as the “Tigers of Europe” a term which refers to the Asian examples of South Korea, Taiwan, Hong Kong and Singapore and, more recently, the EU’s own “Celtic Tiger,” Ireland. Following Ojuland’s formulation, they may be tiny but nonetheless “Tiny Tigers will always be Tigers.”52 In recent times, the same label has also been used to characterise Latvia and Lithuania. If the second half of the 1990s marked a cultural turn in Estonian security and identity discourses, the beginning of 21st century has to my mind signalled an economic or even capitalist turn. Integral to the new narrative is the market economy, which is usually comprehended as a nonnational phenomenon. In current Estonia and Latvia, safeguarding the state and its boundaries and assuring one’s own “westernness” are no longer primary interests, because EU and NATO membership are deemed to have offered a permanent guarantee in both of these respects. More important in the new post-enlargement era is the continuation of the “economic miracle” within the EU, which is in turn seen as a key prerequisite for the survival and flourishing of the nation in a globalised world. The close association of national identity with market economy may be a new phenomenon in the Baltic context, but there are comparable cases: the narrative of markets has certainly long been present within conceptions of American national identity, while more recently a similar kind of success story has also been apparent in Finland.53 The emphasis on markets may be a source of flexible identity, but I would note that it also makes identity rather vulnerable in the face of internal challenges that may even create a threat of dividing the national community. The emergence of “two Estonias” was well seen in 2001, when Arnold Rüütel’s capture of the presidency on the basis of votes from the impoverished countryside profoundly shocked the more prosperous and well-educated urban classes.54 The new national narrative is based on cherishing the “economic miracle,” but this miracle is not yet shared by every Estonian and Latvian. Recent trends towards Euroscepticism have derived partly from socio-economic arguments against the idealization of the free market economy and for the welfare state. EU membership thus

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became a debating point within the nation precisely because it supports the newest version of the national narrative. During the past year in particular, the Estonian government has given more concrete statements about the goals of its European policy. The general principle of the policy is well expressed in Juhan Parts’ article “Victory of Estonia in Europe,” where he argues that “we will have to break through to the EU ‘core,’ to participate in as many EU cooperation forms as possible.”55 This statement is in line with the fear of marginalisation mentioned above and it also strongly resembles Finnish policy during the era of former prime minister Paavo Lipponen. The Estonians are trying to move from the periphery to the centre, but that does not mean that they accept and agree with everything and that they do not have their own opinions. Thus far it is possible to recognize four fundamental principles of how to develop of the EU expressed by the Estonian (and also Latvian) government. Firstly, the equality of all member-states, regardless of size, in the EU’s decision-making processes is frequently underlined. Equal treatment of member-states includes the idea that “all states should be treated by the same rules and that rules should be followed.” In this latter statement a barely disguised criticism of the transition periods set for new member states can be discerned. Guaranteeing that everyone is treated by the same rules and that everyone abides by them requires a strong EU Commission in which all member states are represented. Secondly, Parts in particular has called for a “simple, transparent and flexible” union that is comprehensible and accessible for its citizens. The third and in my opinion most prominent principle links welfare with economic growth in global markets. Fast and balanced economic growth requires measures supporting competitiveness and flexible labour markets. Competitiveness is seen to guarantee welfare, which in turn means “security for citizens” or – as I would put it – the securing of national sovereignty. The fourth main principle is a more moral statement of the need to continue enlargement and demonstrate solidarity with those who are still outside.56 These four expressed goals are there in order to secure the continuation of the Baltic economic miracle within the EU and to change the EU towards a community within which the Balts can feel safe. 5.

New Europes The previous “return to Europe” discourse accepted the division of Europe into West and East, into the “true” Europe and its fake copy. During the past few years, however, the imagined Europe has received more diverse faces. The division of Europe is not anymore taken as fixed and Europe is seen finally to be whole or, as Latvian President VikeFreiberga puts it, “fully complete.”57 Ironically, this emphasis on “wholeness” has appeared at precisely the moment when the old West has begun to fragment and a transatlantic split has emerged.

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A blurring of the old categories of East and West can be recognised within two processes whereby new divisions of Europe are set by the Balts. One is the envisioning of a new northern Europe and the other derives from the recent rhetoric on “new Europe.” The defining of Estonia as a “northern Tiger” – a model European country of the market economy and IT-sector – embraces a vision of the wider North first propounded by Toomas Hendrik Ilves in December 1999. In a speech delivered at the Swedish Institute of International Affairs, Ilves claimed that “we live in Yule-land, the area where one and the same word signifies both the birth of Christ as well as the solstice, the return of the sun, one of the two highpoints in the pre-Christian Calendar of the hyberboreans.... The Yule-swath that extends from Iceland and Britain through the Scandinavians to the Finnic lands that include Estonia, ends there.”58 This new Estonian discourse is related to the interwar vision of Baltoscandia, the main difference being that there is no longer any joint Baltic group. The Yule-land concept appeals to the pre-modern division of Europe into North and South, but it does not neglect the modern division of Europe into East and West. Ancient history forms a core element, which is no accident given that the Estonian narrative has typically portrayed the ancient period before Christianity as a Golden Age of pure national culture. Ilves further argues that it is the innate talents and characteristics of the northern people – such as being rational, logical, businesslike, stubborn and hard-working – which define the unity of the region. The most recent expression of these characteristics is the ease with which the adoption of high technology has taken place. In so far as Ilves simultaneously based his observations on Huntington’s view of the EastWest division, it may be argued that he was mapping a new meaning for the Protestant (mostly Lutheran) North and that he wanted to depict this as something separate not only from the Orthodox East but also from the Catholic South. This vision deviates from the current definition of Norden as a group of welfare societies, though the two are linked by a common understanding of the North as an ultra-modern and progressive project. I would see Ojuland’s notion of “Tiny Tiger” as the latest version of the neo-North that Ilves first started to depict. In this narrative Estonia is defined as a northern nation that is well placed to compete globally by virtue of its progressiveness. The tiger image also comes close to the Finnish view of the new northern Europe included in the Northern Dimension Initiative (NDI). At the level of official statements, the NDI was created in order to link together the Baltic Sea area and the Barents area and, in that way, to provide Russia with one option for linking itself

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with Europe. In practical terms, however, the rich resources of the Russian Arctic have been the burning issue. Symbolically speaking, the obvious imbalance within this region between the East (Russia and, in particular, its Arctic areas) and the West (northern EU) means that certain materials can read rather crudely. An illustrative example is the film that can be viewed from the NDI pages of the Finnish Foreign Ministry web site, which sharply differentiates Russia from the western parts of the region, Estonia included. That Estonia is presented through views extending over the towers of the old town of Tallinn towards new glass skyscrapers conveys the essence of a “new northern Europe” which is symbolised by the market economy, high technology and ultra modern architecture and which clearly does not include Russia which portrayed images of pollution, poverty, orthodox church and the Soviet legacy. 59 The discussion of Europe has been further diversified by Donald Rumsfeld’s concept of new and old Europe first enunciated in January 2003 and repeated in June of that year. In his original statement just prior to the Iraq War, the US Secretary of Defence declared that: “you’re thinking of Europe as Germany and France. I don’t. I think that’s ‘old Europe.’ If you look at the entire NATO Europe today, the center of gravity is shifting to the East. And there are a lot of new members. And if you just take the list of all the members of NATO and all of those who have been invited in recently – what is it, twenty-six, something like that? [But] you’re right. Germany has been a problem, and France has been a problem.”60 The lack of a European consensus over the United States’ Iraq policy was not the only framework behind this striking statement. The article Power and Weakness by neo-conservative Robert Kagan (2002) clearly demonstrates that it has not only been Europeans who have contrasted themselves to the current US administration, but Americans as well. Neo-conservative circles close to the Bush administration have been especially notable for constructing identity narratives against Europe. Kagan’s famous statement is that “Americans are from Mars and Europeans are from Venus,” by which he means that they share totally different values and views of foreign policy.61 Rumsfeld’s strong criticism of the Franco-German axis should be seen against this background, but at the same time he praised the loyal followers of the USA in Europe. The US is thus seeking to redefine and reorganise Europe. The term “new Europe” is not as straightforward as it looks. The term itself has a longer history and it has been introduced already twice during the past century – first during and immediately after the First

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World War and then by the Nazis during the Second World War – to describe a fundamentally new kind of order and shape of Europe. These articulations introduced new splits and definitions in which the persistent east-west division was challenged and blurred. It is possible to find at least three different geographical and political definitions for the latest version of “new Europe.” In contrast to the previous usage, “old” and “new” Europe can be seen as both parallel images and chronological labels emphasising thorough transition from one order to other. Firstly, “new Europe” can be understood to refer only to the post-Communist states of the East that have recently become new members of the EU and NATO. Secondly, this term can be taken to refer to those European countries that feel comfortable with US foreign policy leadership and thus includes alongside the post-Communist states also Great Britain, Denmark, Italy and – until the Madrid bombings – Spain. The rather easy switch which Spain underwent from “new” back to “old” Europe shows that this divide is not yet too deep. Thirdly, “new Europe” can be used normatively to refer to the new post−2004 EU of diminished Franco-German influence.62 While the first definition is no more than a simple renaming of the old eastern Europe, the other two are interesting in that they have blurred the east-west dichotomy. Of these, the latter introduces a vision or mission of transformation from one Europe to another, and the former divides Europe in a totally new way. Or, perhaps it is not so novel, because in the history of the 20th century we can twice find the “central” or “Axis” powers in opposition to the surrounding forces of the “Allies.” Baltic politicians have thus far not really adopted the term “new Europe.” In so far as it has been used it has referred only to the division of the EU into old and new members.63 In recent times, Kristiina Ojuland has emphatically denied the existence of separate “old” and “new” Europes or of any dividing lines for that matter.64 Yet the foreign policy orientation of the Estonian and Latvian political elite tells another story. For a decade now, leaders in both have emphasised the transatlantic character of their states, and this labelling has recently been given new expression. In December 2002, Latvian foreign minister Bērzinš defined the Latvian “Europes” by declaring that “Latvia is a Baltic country – but not only. Latvia has already learned to think and work within the whole Baltic Sea region, but it is not all. Latvia is a European country and the European integration is an important political and human value for us. Latvia is also a new transatlantic state” [italics ML]. 65 The Baltic States have openly supported the US policy in Iraq and have thus automatically opposed the Franco-German line. Juhan Parts

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justified this support by arguing that Estonia’s voice would be better heard if the country joined the US-led coalition in Iraq. Yet this support has not been a purely tactical choice. Support for the US is still seen as matter of security, but beyond this there lies a significant identity dimension. Parts finds three fundamental reasons originating from the burden of history as to why Estonia should stand behind the US foreign policy. Firstly, the right for national self-determination was introduced by US president Woodrow Wilson and became the basis of Estonian independence. Secondly, Parts recalls the non-recognition policy of the US during the Soviet period, whilst finally he emphasises US help and support for the Baltics during the 1990s. In making these points, Parts is not only soliciting Estonians’ gratitude for US support, but is also reminding his audience that this support has been indispensable for saving, rescuing and securing national sovereignty. On the other hand, he emphasises that Estonia is obviously also European and that all its values and norms originated from Europe.66 In a similar manner the Latvian foreign minister from 2002−2004, Sandra Kalniete, has underlined that the restoration of Latvian independence “owes its successful outcome largely to Latvia’s relations with the United States of America.”67 A situation in which one is obliged to look to Europe while at the same time turning one’s back upon it appears rather schizophrenic. The solution to this conundrum lies in the idea of “new Europe” – that is to say of a regrouping and redefinition of Europe. One example of this has been the joint article by Parts and Tony Blair, two loyal partners of the US, in which not a word was said abut the Iraq war but rather strong arguments for national autonomy of taxation and social policy within the EU were advanced.68 What has united the Rumsfeldian “new Europe” has not only been support for the US foreign policy but also advocacy of the more liberal and (dare I say) American model of economy which has been the core element of the new Estonian success story. In arguing simultaneously for a united Europe and for a strengthening of European-US relations the Estonians and the Latvians are setting clear guidelines for European development.69 For them, the fundamental security of state and nation is based on the unity of the West to which the Balts have in their opinion just returned. This requires a US presence and the continuation of transatlantic friendship. Rumsfeld’s slogan of “new Europe” had clear political aims – it was based on a classic policy of devide et impere. Yet it also resonated with existing trends in Europe in as much as it unnerved politicians in France and Germany. Jacques Chirac’s assertion that the US-supporting Eastern European countries “missed a great opportunity to shut up” clearly shows that the old core was not expecting any alternative policy from the eastern states. Rather, the latter were expected to behave as loyal followers of the western Europeans.70 Still it has not only been a question of

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renaming and redefining the old east-west division: instead, a new division between the original core of the EU and its surrounding states to the east, south, west and (partly) north has been emerging. This regrouping is supported strongly by the Balts in their statements. The Franco-German core has thus been challenged and an alternative vision for the entire EU introduced – if not yet established and altogether accepted. Interestingly, in this newest redefinition of Europe the USA – its policy but also its role in each national discourse in Europe – plays a central role.

6.

Concluding remarks In sum, two alternative emphases in the national discourse of the Estonians and Latvians may be noted. The first, the older one, is a backward-looking discourse emphasizing the interwar years as a mythical Golden Age. This discourse is state-centric, with the exclusive boundaries of the state defining national sovereignty. Supranational organizations like the EU or NATO are needed for securing the state and for assuring belonging to the West – hence, greater emphasis has been given to NATO membership. The newer tones of national discourse, on the other hand, are more future-orientated and the narrative of the interwar is being replaced by a new kind of success story cherishing economic reforms and the knowledge-based society. The EU is seen as a necessary element for continuing along the path of success and thus a part of state sovereignty may be delegated to the EU for securing national sovereignty or, as I would say, national identity. Europe becomes the means for defining the new essence of nationality defined by Bērzinš in his three R’s – reformoriented, reliable, realistic. To express and fulfil this new characterisation the Balts need to adopt an active policy within the EU for securing continuation of the “economic miracle” that forms the basis of their national identities. This requires a clear programme and vision of the direction of change. Currently, the idea of Europe is being extensively employed in the creation of a new identity for the Estonians and Latvians. The next step after membership is to make one’s own contribution to Europe and to challenge the existing centre, which is exactly what the Estonians and Latvians are doing. They are not anymore just copying the West, but are declaring themselves as forerunners. The rhetoric on “new northern Europe” resonates with these new tones defining Estonia and Latvia as reform-orientated and forward-looking nations. The latest addition, the idea of “new Europe,” simultaneously offers a long-term programme for transforming the entire EU. In the shorter term, “new Europe” provides an opportunity to blur the old east-west division and to sketch out a new alliance of states surrounding the “old core” and sharing similar values and norms in their national discourses. The new Europeanism of the Balts can be further read as an effort to save the unity of the old West which for

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so long formed in their national discourses a state of “normality” and which they now fear might be lost. All in all, the Europe of twenty-five will certainly not be same as the old EU, but will seemingly be more multiple and speak with diverse voices.

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Notes 1. Kuus, 2004. 2. See, e.g., K. Ojuland, “Main guidelines of Estonia’s foreign policy,” 8 June 2004, www.vm.ee (4.8.2004). 3. In this article I deal only with the Estonian and Latvian cases. While the Lithuanian case is close to them in many respects, there are also major differences, especially as regards the past. 4. Wæver, 2002, 33−9. 5. Ringmar, 1996, 75−8. 6. As Kuus has observed, the message of speeches and texts may vary between foreign and domestic audiences. The practices and jargon of international relations set limits to rhetoric directed at a foreign audience, and it has thus been possible to emphasise the Russian threat more clearly in domestic speeches and debates. However, in the case of national identity and the image of Europe, I would argue that audience does not matter as much because it is hard to produce a double identity. Kuus, 2002, 313. 7. Ringmar, 1996, 188 8. Wæver, 2002, 25; Joenniemi, 2002, 182. Joenniemi does not use the categories of ethnic and civic nationalism but the terms Kulturnation and Staatsnation. 9. Implicit in the ethnic/civic dichotomy is a strong moral valuation whereby the “western” civic model is seen to represent liberal and democratic values and the “eastern” ethnic one to be more autocratic and collectivistic in essence 10. Roshwald, 2001, 7−8, 33. See also Lehti, 1999, 61−102. 11. Smith, 2003, 162−3; Pabriks & Purs, 2002, 51−6. 12. Roshwald, 2001, 218−9. 13. See more e.g., Lehti, 1999, 61−82. 14. See more e.g., Lehti, 1999, 61−93, 201−212; Lehti, 1997, 43−52. 15. Brubaker, 1996, 55−76. This was especially the case during the period of authoritarian rule during the 1930s. 16. On the language and citizenship question see Smith, 2001, 72−7. 17. The latest amendment to the citizenship laws which grant citizenship automatically to those children born to non-citizen parents after 1992 represent a more fundamental step towards acceptance of a multiethnic state. 18. The epoch making study has been Wolff, 1994. 19. Zielonka, 2003, 19. 20. See, e.g., Smith, 2001, 164−72; Pabriks & Purs, 2002, 138−44. 21. “Where does Europe end?”, Meri, 1995, 154. 22. Meri, 1990. See also “Back to Europe,” a speech at the European Council 13.5.1993, Meri, 1995, 133.

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23. Eglitis, 2004, 17. 24. Eglitis, 2004, 7−8, 16−7; Smith, 2003, 165. 25. T.H. Ilves, “Estonia’s Return to Europe,” Rome, 20 March, 1997, www.vm.ee (12.12.2002). 26. Kuus, 2002, 305−312. Nevertheless, the change had also another side and the year 1994 meant according to former foreign minister Ilves the beginning of a process of “Europeanization” in which Estonia adapted the behaviour standards of European foreign policy. Smith, 2003, 169. 27. I. Bērzinš, “Latvia and Europe: Common Values, Common Goals,” London, 23 Jan 2000; Bērzinš, “Latvian Foreign Policy and the Development of Northern Europe,” Riga, Dec 1999; Bērzinš, “European and transatlantic integration – motor for Baltic co-operation,” Riga, 3 Dec 1999, www. am.gov.lv (12.12.2002). 28. V. Birkavs at the conference “Security and Prosperity in the Baltic Sea region,” 17 Nov 1997; G. Ulmanis, President of the Republic of Latvia at the Swedish Foreign Policy Institute Stockholm, 25 Nov 1997; Birkavs, “Between Europe and Eurasia: Latvia’s Developing Regional Role,” Houston TX, 21 April 1998, www.am.gov.lv (12.12.2002). It is notable also that Huntington’s book has not been translated into Latvian. 29. Lehti, 1999, 310−8. 30. See analysis on Estonian discourse on Europe Made, 2003. 31. Made, 2003, 192. 32. Browning, 2002. 33. V. Vīke-Freiberga “European Integration: New Opportunities and Challenges,” Dublin, Ireland 4 June 2002, www. am.gov.lv (12.12.2002). 34. Bērzinš “Latvia for Europe and Europe for Latvia,” London 14−15 March 2002, www.am.gov.lv (12.12.2002). 35. Vīke-Freiberga at the LATO 2nd International Conference “Post Prague Agenda: Prospects for cooperation in Eastern and Northern Europe,” 6 Dec 2002, www.am.gov.lv (12.12.2002). 36. S. Kalniete, “Latvia’s Foreign Policy at the Crossroads of Changes,” 27 January 2004, www.am.gov.lv (6.8.2004). Similarly, Estonian foreign minister Kristiina Ojuland has noted that “NATO guarantees our security in a manner which was non-existent for Estonia previously.” Ojuland, “Main guidelines of Estonia’s foreign policy.” 37. Vīke-Freiberga “Dimensions of European Civilization: Past, Present and Future,” Athens, 27 March 2002, www.am.gov.lv (12.12.2002); Ojuland, “An EU of 25 and Estonia’s role in it,” Brussels, 23 Oct 2002, Ojuland, “Estonia as a Litmus test for Europe’s Future,” London, 18 June 2002, www.vm.ee (12.12.2002); Viron ulkoministeri tarjoaa EU-Viroa portiksi Venäjälle. Turun Sanomat 24 November 2002. 38. Vīke-Freiberga, “What is Old and What is New? Europe after the Enlargement of the EU,” Riga, 6 Oct 200, www.am.gov.lv (8.1.2004); E.

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Repše, “A Europe of 25: Crisis of Reform?”, Berlin 15 Nov 2003, www.mk.gov.lv (8.1.2004). 39. Prime minister’s interview for the newspaper Postimees, www.peaminister.ee (8.1.2004). 40. Kalniete, “Latvia’s Foreign Policy at the Crossroads of Changes”; Ojuland, “Main guidelines of Estonia’s foreign policy.” 41. The Latvian case is slightly different compared to Estonia and the old reassuring talk can still be noticed. See, e.g., Repše, “A Europe of 25: Crisis of Reform?” 42. Bērzinš “Latvia for Europe and Europe for Latvia.” 43. Vīke-Freiberga “The future of European Integration.” Ljubljana, Slovenia, 17 April 2002, www.am.gov.lv (12.12.2002). 44. Ojuland “Identity through Integration,” 31 Oct 2002, www.vm.ee (12.122002). 45. See, e.g., Ojuland, “The Added Value of an EU of 25.” Dublin 7 April 2004, www.vm.ee (4.8.2004) 46. Bērzinš “Latvia for Europe and Europe for Latvia.” 47. Joint article by Prime Ministers Juhan Parts and Tony Blair, “An Enlarged Europe needs competition,” www.peaminister.ee (8.1.2004). Ojuland has used the same terms in recent speeches. See, for instance, Ojuland, “The Added Value of an EU of 25”; Ojuland, “The European Union after the First of May,” Bucharest 5 April 2004, www.vm.ee (4.8.2004) 48. Ojuland “Tiny Tigers will always be Tigers,” Berlin, 15−16 Nov 2002, www.vm.ee (12.12.2002). 49. Ojuland “Tiny Tigers will always be Tigers,” Viron ulkoministeri tarjoaa EU-Viroa portiksi Venäjälle. Turun Sanomat 24 Nov 2002. 50. Ojuland, “IT and Development – The Political Aspects,” 2 March 2004. 51. J. Parts, “Victory of Estonia in Europe,” Eesti Päeväleht, 27 June 2003, www.peaminister.ee (8.1.12004). 52. Vīke-Freiberga “Latvia’s contribution to a New Europe” Vienna, 18 June 2001; Bērzinš ”Latvia for Europe and Europe for Latvia” London 14−15 March 2002, www.am.gov.lv (12.12.2002); Viron ulkoministeri tarjoaa EU-Viroa portiksi Venäjälle. Turun Sanomat 24 Nov 2002.; Ojuland “Tiny Tigers will always be Tigers,” Ojuland, “An EU of 25 and Estonia’s role in it,” Brussels, 23 Oct 2002, www.vm.ee (12.12.2002). 53. See Joenniemi & Lehti,2003, 147. 54. Rüütel is a former agriculture secretary of the Estonian Communist Party and served as the last chair of the Estonian Supreme Soviet during 1983−1992. 55. Parts, “Victory of Estonia in Europe.” 56. Parts, “The Government’s European Union Policy in 2004−2006,” 6 April 2004; Parts, “Victory of Estonia in Europe”; Parts, “The Future of the EU after the Accession of 10 New Countries and Their Position in an

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Enlarged Europe,” Slovakia, 20 Sept 2003; Parts and Blair, “An enlarged Europe needs competition,” www.peaminister.ee (8.1., 15.9.2004). The moral case for continuing enlargement is often repeated by Estonian and Latvian minister see, e.g., Kalniete, “Latvia’s Foreign Policy at the Crossroads of Changes.” 57. Vīke-Freiberga, “What is Old and What is New?” Similarly, Kristiina Ojuland has emphasised that “there is only one Europe” now that enlargement has erased former dividing lines. Ojuland, “EU25 > 15+10,” Oxford, 19 February 2004; Ojuland, “The Added Value of an EU of 25” www.vm.ee (4.8.2004). 58. Ilves, “Estonia as a Nordic Country,” the Swedish Institute for International Affairs, 14 Dec 1999, www.vm.ee (12.12.2002). 59. A Northern Dimension for the Policies of the European Union. Written for Virtual Finland by Peter Stenlund and Marja Nissinen, Ministry for Foreign Affairs, virtual.finland.fi/finfo/english/northdim2.html (30.6.2002). See also Lehti, 2002, 350−3. 60. M. Baker, “Rumsfeld’s ‘Old’ and ’New’ Europe Touches On Uneasy Divide,” 24 Jan 2003: “Rumsfeld Again Refers to ‘Old’ and ‘New’ Europe,” 11 June 2003, Radio Free Europe, www.rferl.org/nca/features/ (14.1.2004). 61. Kagan, 2002. Kagan’s article also forms the basis for his new book Of Paradise and Power: America and Europe in the New World Order. See also Möttölä, 2003, 17−21; Jokisipilä, 2003, 62−6. 62. Sikorski, 2003. 63. Vīke-Freiberga, “What is Old and What is New?” 64. Ojuland, “The European Union after the First of May,” Bucharest, 5 April 2004, www.vm.ee (4.8.2004). 65. Speech by the Minister of Foreign Affairs of the Republic of Latvia at the 15th session of the Baltic Assembly 3 Dec 1999, www.am.gov.lv (12.12.2002). 66. Prime minister’s interview for the newspaper Postimees. 67. Kalniete, “Latvia’s foreign policy at the crossroads of changes.” 68. Parts and Blair, “An enlarged Europe needs competition.” 69. Saee, e.g., Vike-Freiberga, “Europe – Moving towards a new era,” Berlin 10 January 2004, www.am.gov.lv (4.8.2004); Ojuland, “The added value of an EU of 25.” 70. Chirac lashes out at “new Europe,” CNN.com, 18 Febr 2003, www.cnn.com (14.1.2004).

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References Browning, C. (2002), “Westernizing’ narratives in Finnish foreign policy and the reinterpretations of past identities,” Cooperation and Conflict, 37(1): 47−72. Brubaker, R. (1996), Nationalism Reframed. Nationhood and the National Question in the New Europe. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. The Cabinet of Ministers of the Republic of Latvia, www.mk.gov.lv CNN.com, www.cnn.com Eglitis, D. S. (2004): Imagining the Nation. History, Modernity, and Revolution in Latvia. Pennsylvania: The Pennsylvania State University Press. Estonian Ministry of Foreign Affairs, press and information, speeches, www.vm.ee Joenniemi, P. (2002), “Finland in the New Europe: a Herderian or Hegelian project,” in: L. Hansen & O. Waever (eds). European Integration and National Identity. The Challenge of the Nordic States. London & New York: Routledge. 182−213. Joenniemi, P. & Lehti, M. (2003), “The Encounter between the Nordic and Northern: Torn Apart but Meeting Again?”, in: M. Lehti & D.J. Smith (eds.), Post-Cold War Identity Politics. Northern and Baltic Experiences. London, Frank Cass. 128−156. Jokisipilä, M. (2003): “Maailman sheriffi umpikujassa,” Ulkopolitiikka 2/2003: 62−6. Kagan, R. (2002), “Power and Weakness,” Policy Review, 113, www.policyreview.org Kagan, R. (2003), Of Paradise and Power: America and Europe in the New World Order. New York, Alfred A.Knopf. Kuus, M. (2004), “Europe’s Eastern Enlargement and the Re-Inscription of Otherness in East-Central Europe,” Progress in Human Geography, 18, (4): 472−489. Kuus, M. (2002), “Toward Cooperative Security? International Integration and the Construction of Security in Estonia,” Millennium: Journal of International Studies 31,(2): 297−317.

Estonia and Latvia: a “new” Europe challenges the “old”?

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Lehti, M. (1999), A Baltic League as a Construct of the New Europe. Envisioning a Baltic Region and Small State Sovereignty in the Aftermath of the First World War, Frankurt-am-Main, Peter Lang. Lehti, M. (2002), “Pohjoisen paluu. Uudet tarinat ja vanhat symbolit,” in M. Heinonen etc. (eds.), Dialogus. Historian taito, Turku, Kirja-Aurora. 347−366. Lehti, M. (1997), “Sovereignty, Borders and the Construction of National Identities in Estonia and Latvia,” in: Landgren, L-F. and Häyrynen M. (eds.), The Dividing Line. Borders and National Peripheries, Helsinki: Renvall Institute publications. 43−52. Made, V (2003), “Estonia and Europe: A Common Identity or an Identity Crisis?”, in: M. Lehti & D.J. Smith (eds.), Post-Cold War Identity Politics. Northern and Baltic Experiences. London, Frank Cass. 183−198. Meri, L. (1995), Tulen maasta, jonka nimi on Viro. Helsinki: Otava. Meri, L. (1990), “Eurooppa on Viron ohjelma!”, Helsingin Sanomat 2 Dec 1990. Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Latvian Republic, current news, speeches, www.am.gov.lv Möttölä, K. (2003): “Amerikkalaiset ovat Marsista, eurooppalaiset Venuksesta,” Ulkopolitiikka 1/2003, 17−21. A Northern Dimension for the Policies of the European Union. A Video directed by Peter Stenlund and Marja Nissinen. Virtual Finland. virtual.finland.fi/finfo/english/northdim2.html Pabriks A. and Purs A. (2002), Latvia: the challenges of change. London & New York: Routledge. The Prime Minister www.peaminister.ee

of

Estonia,

press

releases/speeches,

Radio Free Europe, www.rferl.org/nca/features/ Ringmar, E. (1996), Identity,Interest and Action. A Cultural Explanation of Sweden’s Intervention in the Thirty Years War. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Roshwald, A. (2001), Ethnic Nationalism & the Fall of Empires. Central Europe, Russia & the Middle East, 1914−1923. London & New York: Routledge. Sikorski, R. (2003), “The New Europe,” Center for Strategic and International Studies (CSIS), Congressional Staff Forum, 7 April 2003. www.csis.org/europe (15.1.2004). Smith, D. J. (2001), Estonia: independence and European integration. London & New York: Routledge. Smith, D.J. (2003), “ ‘The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea’: European Integration, National Identity and Foreign Policy in Post-Communist Estonia,” The Journal of Communist Studies and Transition Politics, 19(3), 156−177. Turun Sanomat 24 Nov 2002 Wæver, O. (2002), “Identity, communities and foreign policy,” in: L. Hansen & O. Waever (eds), European Integration and National Identity. the Challenge of the Nordic States. London & New York: Routledge, 20−49. Wolff, L. (1994), Inventing Eastern Europe: the Map of Civilization on the Mind of the Enlightenment. Stanford: Stanford University press. Zielonka, J. (2003), “Borders in the Enlarged EU: Fixed and Hard or Soft and Fuzzy?”, in: Lindhal, R. (ed.), Whither Europe? Borders, Boundaries, Frontiers in a Changing World. Göteborg University. 19−24.

Author affiliation: Marko Lehti is a senior research fellow at the Tampere Peace Research Institute, Finland.

Overlapping ideological boundaries and transformations in the EU periphery: the Baltic States and Kaliningrad Sergei Jakobson-Obolenski 1.

Introduction The multi-level structure of today’s European governance presumes the existence of a new organisational logic, defined in terms that defy the traditional modernist, divisive and static understandings of space and time. Cohesion, networking, partnership, competitiveness and cooperation are said to be the main ideological pillars of these new institutional arrangements. Yet recent talk of a “multi-tiered,” “differentspeed,” “many-cores” Europe suggests that the current process of European integration is in fact nowhere near as uniform as was once assumed. Whilst the European Union (EU) is ostensibly structured internally by post-modern, non-territorial political and economic logic, a “Europe of the Regions” has yet to supplant de Gaulle’s “Europe des Patries.” Externally, meanwhile, the Union constructs a type of modern exclusive subjectivity, which favours “insiders” over “outsiders.” In this chapter, I examine how problems of uneven spatial and socio-economic development, both within and outside the EU, have continued to impede the realisation of a post-modern “New Europe.” I also dispute the assertion that these problems are somehow set to disappear following the recent round of EU enlargement. Taking the examples of three new EU members (the Baltic States) and a continued EU “outsider” (the Russian region of Kaliningrad), I question the logic of historical determinism which, together with neo-classical positivism, has done so much to shape thinking on Europe’s post-socialist “transition.” Firstly, I will seek to demonstrate how the allegedly “postmodern” project of EU integration and expansion actually carries within it strong overtones of modernism. This is clearly evident in the case of the Baltic States, whose transition from post-communist to EU member states was actively articulated through the establishment of clear-cut boundaries, state sovereignty, national homogeneity and liberalisation of national economy. Such spatial engineering of Europe’s modern competitive socioeconomic order, I maintain, creates both potential for change and a certain fixity, as reproduction and reinforcement of the expansionist European core proceeds at the expense of marginalisation of underdeveloped peripheries. Secondly, I will argue that in order to understand the extent of European spatial and institutional changes in the Baltic periphery, we have to place this region within a larger geo-historical framework, whereby the implications of Russian pre-modern – as well as Soviet and Russian modern – empire-building impose limits on both the fixed metaphysics of nationalism and the progressive rationality of modernism. European

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governance theory, confronted by path-dependency arguments, is thereby invited to engage with broader post-colonial debates related to the issues of underdevelopment and marginalisation of the European “double periphery”1 of Kaliningrad. In the final part of my argument I will explain how the inclusion/exclusion discourse, which informs all policies and actions of “inclusive communities”2 such as the EU and nation-states, may be irrelevant in the case of the Kaliningrad Oblast.3 Despite the various claims emanating from experts and the European commission,4 the enlargement of the EU will not necessarily bring common market prosperity or dreadful isolation to those “outer” peripheries of the Union, such as Kaliningrad. Rather than integration or isolation from European markets and society, I will suggest an alternative strategy for this Russian peripheral region based on “de-linking” from global economic and political trends. Such a strategy, if promoted through local community initiatives, could guarantee long-term sustainable regional development, instead of an exclusive and profit-oriented one imposed through global corporate links. 2.

Europe between modern and post-modern History did not end with the Cold War and the collapse of the Soviet Union as Francis Fukuyama predicted in the early 1990s.5 Rather, the history of Europe keeps unfolding in various forms through time and space as the borders of the EU continue to expand eastwards by way of its sixth enlargement. If one assumes that the contemporary world can no longer be understood as “modern,” but rather as a “post-modern” phenomenon,6 then a quite different understanding emerges of how the EU constitutes itself vis-à-vis the world. Europe’s ever-changing forms, structures and multiple identities seem to spiral around opposing visions of socio-economic and cultural realities. On the one hand, the Union is still represented by the modern but somewhat fading Hobbesian nation-state Leviathan in which “monopolies of legitimate violence, rational bureaucracies and centralised policy-making authority correspond to territorially exclusive political orders” of nation-states.7 On the other hand, the EU is seen as a part of the post-modern de-centralised, fluctuating but omnipresent global “McWorld.”8 As the system of nation-states is fading under the pressures of globalisation and new forms of governance – including that of the EU – are emerging, these post-modern systems of sub- and supra-national governance appear to be beneficially fractured, decentred, pluralized and lacking clear spatial and functional lines of authority. Against this background, some researchers assert that the two most significant conceptual shifts that have occurred within the EU during the last decade are, firstly: from centralised “government” to “multi-level governance”9, and, secondly: from the homogenous and exclusive nationstate towards an integrating and interchangeable “Europe with the

Overlapping ideological boundaries and transformations in the 117 EU periphery: the Baltic States and Kaliningrad regions.”10 Such a statement appears to justify the evolutionary pursuit of the current policies of supranationalism in Europe. At the same time, however, it overlooks the fact that next door to the EU, in the postsocialist countries, the application of the neo-classical logic of transition from “here” to “there” along the unidirectional “line” of history has largely failed during the 1990s.11 As Sokol argues: “neo-liberal expectations of convergence [with the West] under market conditions never materialised. Instead, ‘new Europe’ has been experiencing fragmentation and a growing disparity not just between ‘West’ and ‘East,’ but also within the ‘East’ itself.”12 From such a perspective, the application of the same logic toward the analysis of European “denationalisation,” prompted by growing globalisation and regionalism, can hardly be justified. After all, according to Elshtain, it appears that the nation-state is a continuing phenomenon that “cannot be imagined or legalised out of existence” as long as “state/nation-centred discourse… remains the best way… for protecting and sustaining a way of life in common.”13 However, “the old interwar national state based on territory and political sovereignty looks to be a mere transitional development”14 within the process of globalisation itself. Kramsch, for example, views this transition as “the perspectival scale of modernity,” because historically different spatial scales (local, regional and national) are perceived through the lens of neo-liberal politics as “functionally equivalent categories, simply offering up alternative spaceas-containers for an essentially unchanging instrumentalist strategy of capital accumulation.”15 As such, the form of social scale is becoming divorced from its social content and the formation of development policies on different spatial scales is becoming “excessively influenced by the assumption that globalisation represents the overriding causal influence and policy imperative.”16 Indeed, according to Scott: “Goals of economic efficiency, … informed by neo-liberal ideology, often clash with principles of solidarity” and spatially inclusive economic development.17 By rejecting the reductionist neo-classical and neo-liberal logic of modernisation theory and adopting, instead, a historical-institutionalist approach, one can argue that the abovementioned European transitions – or transformations – represent attempts to institute and develop new systems of coupling between capitalist accumulation regimes and new regulatory processes embedded in the practices of the past.18 This, in turn, helps one to see globalisation itself as a consecutive change of the world system, which depicts “the third great original expansion of capitalism around the globe (after the earlier expansions of the national market and the older imperialist system).”19 Viewed from this perspective, it is then legitimate to ask: if these socio-spatial expansions or regimes appear to be nested in each other, instead of being progressive, are they interconnected by way of historical continuity?

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As Jouni Häkli has rightly noted: “new Europe is echoing ghosts of the past.”20 Post-modern governance in Europe is closely interrelated with the nation state and its modern attributes in the bifurcated process of transformation and change. Thus, while postmodern-like supranationalism and regionalisation are Europe’s ways of adapting to the new decentralised accumulation regimes of a post-industrial global economy, the EU’s notorious nation-state features, such as borders, represent new European regulatory processes embedded in outmoded practices of modernity. Indeed, if one pictures historical processes as cyclical, then the European order is simply “falling back in time” to its own past, thus (de-) limiting alternative development paths in socio-economic space. These repeating patterns of the past, arising from institutional vacuum, constitute not progression, but path-dependency, which is strongly biased in one direction.21 One aspect of the adaptation of European Communities (EC) to globalising markets, which have been redistributing production and wealth beyond the territories of national economies since the 1960s, is the introduction of a new, “non-territorial,” “spatial” and “re-scaled” kind of “thinking.” This has been applied to the economic policy-making of those “developed [European] states” which “put aside military, political and territorial ambitions as they struggle not for a cultural dominance but for a greater share of the world output.”22 Such new, deterritorialised “jumping of scales” and “spatial fixes”23 for the sake of economic effectiveness – from national and regional, to both local and global – has inevitably led to the opening up, as well as to the fragmentation, of national economies and political and social spheres. As a consequence, fragmentation and the introduction of a new range of actors operating outside the regulatory framework of traditional state institutional forms was followed by shifts in the forms and policies of public presentation and representation. Thus, one of the main facets of the European multi-level governance project is an attempt to create “multiple loyalties” within a public sphere of disparate European communities, rather than to recreate the modern idea of a “European fatherland.” Being a European today means managing an amalgam of different scales of identity: local, regional, national and supranational.24 However, a negative side of European structural transformation is its institutional path-dependency – the fact that it is being institutionalised through and repeating the practices of the past. 25 This has developed due to several phenomena which, although sometimes attributed to the failures of supranationalism, are in fact simply features of continuity arising from already existent institutional structures. For example, problems of a classical Realpolitik nature are clearly discernible within the intergovernmental negotiations on the main issues and policies of the Union. According to Wincott and Moravcsik, this reflects the fact that European states are motivated by their contradictory national interests,

Overlapping ideological boundaries and transformations in the 119 EU periphery: the Baltic States and Kaliningrad which tend to stall or dilute supranational efforts towards the cohesiveness and implementation of common agricultural policy and European monetary union.26 Other, similar issues of an intergovernmental nature include the common foreign and security policy and recent controversies over the European constitution. Beyond this, one can point to the failure by the new structures of European governance to attain modern-style democratic legitimacy,27 as well as the role of the national bureaucracies of the member states in hampering regional economic development and co-operation.28 Finally, one can say that the process of EU integration and enlargement is itself becoming reminiscent of the development of the nation-state, whereby a “European state” aims to protect its order, citizens and territory, within its boundaries, against outsiders.29 Despite arguments to the contrary,30 the EU is today clearly attempting to reconstitute strict borders to secure its own loose sovereign space. Some point out the exclusionary essence of this process, “for it seeks to lower the disparity of standards between the EU and the applicant countries while simultaneously erecting ‘normative,’ or even ‘digital divides’ against the outsiders.”31 Others have tended to compare the supra-national Union to a kind of “neo-medieval,” non-exclusive “soft empire” which can extend its rule to its neighbours without necessary including them.32 However, according to Harvey, the capacity of social groups is better in “commanding place rather than space.”33 If this is the case, the ever-expanding EU lacks enough institutional power to both: a) secure its place in the globalised world and b) ensure the development of common European space. Such an institutional “vacuum” causes it to “fall back” into what is already there: the still-existing nation-state (in its regulatory function), national bureaucracies and territorial boundaries. Thus, for example, while the Cold War created a rigid geopolitical boundary around the EC which prevented close cooperation with the central and eastern European states in the first place,34 subsequent enlargements of the Union, including the most recent one, have expanded European systemic boundaries beyond the direct/substantial reach of the institutions of multilevel governance. Yet European enlargement is not just about drawing boundaries. As Pami Aalto argues, it is also about establishing an EU “order” in the East through the dissemination of EU norms, rules and regulations to neighbouring areas in the form of directives and standards.35 In this sense, a critical assessment of sometimes simplified, modernist visions of a borderless Europe with a disappearing nation-state becomes crucial to an understanding of boundaries not simply as dividing lines, but as “dynamic sets of discourses and practices that exist everywhere in societies, not only where social systems (or ‘power containers’) meet each other.”36 Two different cases, exemplifying European path-dependency will now be

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considered. Firstly, I will examine the three Baltic States (incorporated by the recent sixth enlargement); and, secondly, the Kaliningrad region (excluded by the same). 3.

Modern Baltic States in post-modern Europe The EU’s consideration of the applicant Baltic States, prior to their accession, was based primarily on the principles of functional stability and developmental progress, which succinctly constitute the modernity discourse. As Friis and Murphy have argued, “the EU exports models of governance” either through “voluntary imitation by other states or by the conditional nature of EU external action which requires acceptance of certain norms and procedures by outsiders.”37 They have also noted that “the overall [modernist] character of the Union is such that core elements of the institutional/legal boundary are non-negotiable with outsiders” and that these concern “bargains on structures, goals, policies and methods and represent a costly investment on the part of existing members.”38 Thus, since the treaty of Amsterdam of 1997, the EU’s accession is open only to those nation-states which fulfil the set of rational criteria guaranteeing systemic compatibility with European ideo-political, economic and social space. The requirements include adoption of the Schengen agreements, which could seriously hamper cross-border cooperation with non-EU states unless special arrangements are developed for regular border traffic and commuters.39 Indeed, for the last decade, in order to break away from their post-colonial communist legacies, EU’s new members – Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania, – have been shaping their “return” to the “family of civilized nations” through use of the restrictive geopolitical vocabulary of modernity. The EU not only expects new entrants to be fully sovereign, homogenised and functional international states prior to the accession, but also wants them to share and maintain the Union’s own attributes of international sovereignty, most importantly its political, economic and geographic territory. For the Baltic States to be accepted into the EU, they had to normalise and stabilise their economies, laws and governmental institutions in accordance with the aquis communautaire. They also had to resolve their territorial and ethnic-based conflicts both among themselves and also with neighbouring Russia and Poland.40 National homogeneity had to be accomplished through new citizenship laws, which, like the tightening of border controls, have failed to into account the well-being of the Russian-speaking population in certain Baltic regions and, moreover, were regarded by neighbouring Russia as highly antagonistic.41 Finally, the Baltic States had to promote and disseminate their appraisal of “Europeanness.” In sum, then, the Baltic States have had to be upgraded to modern nation-state subjectivity already twice during the 20th century – once during the inter-war period and again following the collapse of the USSR.

Overlapping ideological boundaries and transformations in the 121 EU periphery: the Baltic States and Kaliningrad In order to break away from the Russian and later Soviet colonial system into the world of “free nations” the former three Baltic provinces had to acquire, first of all, national and international subjectivity by undergoing the processes of state- and nation-building. Describing this, Marko Lehti notes that the process of state- and nation-building was “not only a question of a declaration of independence but it was a long process of defining the borders of sovereignty and assuring one’s own sovereignty.”42 In both cases, sovereignty had to be assumed and defined by the new entities themselves, but, at the same time, the existing powers set the final criteria in each case. They accepted whether newcomers were eligible for the “club” of sovereign states. This mechanism seems to have functioned well twice during the twentieth century: first, with the collapse of the Russian tsarist empire and the summoning of victorious European powers at Versailles, and, second, after the collapse of the Soviet empire, as witnessed by the United States, Russia and the EC. Joining the EU today, however, does not automatically guarantee the Baltic States a secure place in the (post-)modern world defined by Europe alone, in absentia of a single global hegemonic power. Instead, the EU itself is only a transforming part of a larger global system, which is also in flux. While the Baltic States are eagerly “importing” the product of European integration with its quality label of modern eligibility (in terms of the aquis communautaire), they are also simultaneously accepting an unpredictable jigsaw puzzle of post-modern globalisation.43 This tendency can be described as double or nested path dependency, which is where two cycles of path-dependency overlap and affect each other in a reciprocal manner. This can be seen in the EU, whose path-dependency, defined in terms of modernity, will now also comprise the path-dependency of the post-Soviet transition state(s) and vice versa. The accession of the three Baltic States to the EU has elicited a degree of controversy in Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania, in that it takes away the centrality of national politics in favour of supranational ones. First, the Baltic States’ post-Soviet sovereignty conflicts with the EU’s post-modern multi-level governance and fluctuating borders (despite these states having multiple membership in various inter-governmental regional bodies around the Baltic rim).44 Secondly, the concept of national identity is changing from one defined simply by nationality, to one defined by membership of supra-national and extra-territorial institutions resulting out of global regionalisation.45 The building of the new European “imagined community” takes place in the form of identity as multi-layered diversity negotiated through the rationales of economic competitiveness, environmental sustainability and social equity. Clearly, the socio-political implications of such diverse aspects of the new European geography for the new EU entrants are manifold.

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Integrated primarily into the “new Europe” via their national government institutions and policies, the Baltic States might be ill-placed to achieve sufficient levels of inter-regional and intra-regional integration and co-operation with the more advanced European regions as they seek to adapt themselves to the European supranationalism that would follow. Having each quickly built national edifices of modern state on the ruins of state socialism, but unable to achieve full regional and social cohesiveness which characterises other European countries, the ethnically diverse population of the Baltic countries would not be able to face competitiveness within the “Europe of regions” and fulfil their own development potential. If, to the satisfaction of Eurosceptics, socio-economic shocks do occur with the most recent EU enlargement, this will be partly due to the systemic inequalities inherited by the new entrants (the majority of whom, like the Baltic States, are post-socialist countries), from the previous period of economic development, which today appears to be embedded into the global system. The transition process of post-socialist countries differs distinctly from the EU’s supposed transformation from the modern system of state, economy and society towards the post-modern (in global economic terms). It has been necessary for these post-socialist countries, such as the Baltic States, to “catch up” with the developed world through intensified modernisation and liberalisation, after decades of backward command economy. This has consisted of a shift from planned-type economy and authoritarian state – towards the modern effective market economy, open democratic society, and liberal state.46 With accession to the EU, this initial process of transformation cannot be expected to stop, as neo-liberal theory predicted. The post-socialist transformation will not be miraculously upgraded to the level of the European one, as discussed above. Instead, as Swain and Hardy argue, the post-socialist transition process has its own dynamics, which are directly related to the processes of globalisation.47 For the Baltic States, these dynamics will now interact with the larger discourse of European post-modern transformation, itself part of the global flux. With the Baltic States joining the European economic system, it should be emphasised that in an open global economy “competition between places is stimulated so that an improved relative position of place is not assured or guaranteed as a result of systemic transformation.”48 Thus there arises an interesting dilemma that faces the Baltic States in the EU. If they were hoping to improve their relative positions in the global economy through sharing the EU’s post-modern features, instead they are likely to be constrained by the Union’s modern features, such as common economic and trade policies. Secondly, the EU’s internal system of multilevel governance is oriented towards generally “deterritorialised,” highly developed nation-states, as well as to the post-modern regional production networks, interlinked with the global markets. Yet, in its relationship with

Overlapping ideological boundaries and transformations in the 123 EU periphery: the Baltic States and Kaliningrad the Baltic States, through a variety of pre-accession and contingency policies, the EU deliberately stressed and supported the modern, national and territorial structure of the Baltic States, rather than its regional component. This is a clear indicator of the EU’s own “modern” pathdependency in an increasingly “post-modern” global world. However, for the Baltic States, this can only mean that their continuous adaptation to the global economy will be generally constrained within this modern pathdependency of the European structures, which they must accept with EU membership. Therefore, Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania, despite being EU members are unable to immediately become an organic part of the “postmodern” “multi-level” Europe. Another factor in the post-socialist transformation process is the continuing post-colonial legacy. Apparently, with accession to the EU the three Baltic States are expected to forget about their turbulent colonial, socialist and transitional past, to somehow free themselves from it, and simply start to share the troubles and aspirations of new Europe. The example of the European-Russian peripheral region of Kaliningrad illustrates how unresolved post-colonial issues continue to shape pathdependency in both Europe and Russia. 4.

Post-colonial continuity in the excluded periphery of Kaliningrad In the past, East Prussia (present day Kaliningrad), Lithuania, Latvia and Estonia were all peripheral imperial colonies. If the colonial past is what unites them, what separates Kaliningrad from the Baltic States are the different paths of transformation that took these four adjacent geographical locations, from the mixture of imperial/planned and protomodern past, and placed them within the global world economy. Today deep structural and systemic differences separate Kaliningrad from Europe and the three Baltic States. The divide is visible throughout both quantitative and qualitative factors. Quantitative factors include levels of foreign direct investment49 and the structure of the local economy (see appendix Table 1 and 2). From the existing acute structural asymmetries and poor balance of payments in Kaliningrad’s economy, which make it highly un-competitive,50 some researchers posit the likelihood of Kaliningrad becoming a gateway for the massive dumping of low quality European goods into Russia and Eurasia.51 On the qualitative side of the argument there are the problems arising from the lack of national (or regional) autonomy and identity, functional civil society and high standards of living. For example, the lack of a recognised past potentially threatens the development of any sound local or regional identity.52 But the question remains whether Kaliningrad can (re-)define its identity beyond the modern territorial understanding. From a post-modern point of view, it can

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be said that Kaliningrad already combines overlapping identities, inherited from: a) its own historic past (pagan Balts, Teutonic Orders, Hanseatic League, as well as Prussian and Russian monarchies and the Third Reich), b) its modern post-war period (as a militarised Soviet colony-like outpost, with resource-extracting and defence industries), and c) the post-Soviet period (as a trading/transit agent for the Baltic States and Poland, with a special offshore status of exclave within the Russian Federation, and now as an enclave inside the EU). If Kaliningrad’s identity continues to be constructed through the discourse of modernity, then the articulation of self-determination and development of a national sovereignty, together with the drive towards a national economy, is inevitable. However investing in this idea of an independent “fourth Baltic republic” will prove to be futile because, as Dewar explains: “it would be destroyed in an overwhelming balance of payments crisis within days … the reality is that an independent Kaliningrad simply is not an economic possibility.”53 Issues pertaining to the unfolding debates about the transformational nature and modern/post-modern character of socioeconomic development in both Europe and Russia find clear development in the example of Kaliningrad. Some researchers have argued that, on the one hand, after becoming a Russian enclave within the EU, the region could potentially benefit from the Union’s “post-modern” features by becoming a borderless “bridge” between East and West.54 On the other hand, it has been recognised that Kaliningrad can also be detrimentally held back by the EU and Russia’s distinctively “modern” features which could potentially turn it into an isolated “black hole.”55 On this last point in particular, many peripheral regions in the Russian Federation are suffering from underdevelopment because the new Russian state has inherited a lack of sound and effective regional development policies from Soviet times. Then, central planners would monopolise resources, production and vast territories. So, promoting regional development, especially in peripheral regions, has a very negative connotation in Moscow, where it is perceived as an “unwanted and uncontrolled process of devolution, entailed by the erosion of central power”56 and the likelihood of secessionist movements.57 However, the general weakness of the central state in Russia58 also means that no stable, functional market institutions – needed for sustainable economic growth – have been developed over the last decade. The still-unreformed Russian monopolistic energy sector, as well as an unregulated tax system, means that there are no incentives for small and medium business to grow and innovate.59 The absence of the government’s support for domestic exports and security for international investments are not promoting competitiveness and efficiency in both public and private sectors.60 Budget arrears and dysfunctional fiscal federalism have led to the lack (or, in many cases, absence) of sound regional development programs.61 Currently, Moscow is operating a system of federal transfers (based on

Overlapping ideological boundaries and transformations in the 125 EU periphery: the Baltic States and Kaliningrad economic need rather than on economic performance), subsidies and tax breaks as the only policies aimed at sustaining life in Russian regions.62 While Russian bureaucrats and post-soviet businessmen are suffering from the “Dutch disease” (a bias towards servicing import flows), at the same time, the EU is treating Kaliningrad as an internal Russian matter, subject to the general stipulations of the 1997 EU-Russia partnership and cooperation agreement (PCA).63 These modern delineating features of Russia and the EU severely constrain options for sustainable development. As long as Kaliningrad remains either a peripheral Russian borderland or a special region “inbetween” Europe, trying to achieve its potential of international subjectivity (effective government and prosperous economy) within the global market system, it is bound to remain a focus of economic antagonisms, which will continue to be exacerbated by the unresolved issues of its predominantly colonial past. Since the 12th century, the Kaliningrad region (formerly East Prussia) has been a colony of: the Teutonic knights, Prussian empire (1688−1871), Russian empire (1757−62), German empire (1871−1919) and the Third Reich (1920−1944) and finally, Soviet empire (1945 to present). Such a history has left this peripheral region a legacy of dependency on the centre and international power politics, underdeveloped economy and low levels of social capital and social mobilisation. As discussed above, the post-socialist transition process has its own dynamics directly related to the processes of globalisation. Indeed, in an open global economy regions and places are required to compete, so that an improved relative position of place is not assured or guaranteed as a result of systemic transformation. This is because the emergence of varieties of post-socialist capitalism and divergent regional economies has been said to be path-dependent.64 Processes of internationalisation of the former socialist economies are mediated by path-dependent formal and informal institutions, at the local and national scale. According to Altvater, “…transition can be understood as a double process of endogenous modernisation and of exogenous opening up to external markets, and of integration with the capitalist world economy.”65 In this way, processes of globalisation are said to selectively connect and disconnect people as well as locate and dislocate places.66 However, in the context of eastern Europe, the Baltic States and Russia, far from displacing all the properties of locations, globalisation actually makes some of them more salient.67 Kaliningrad constitutes a clear example of this, for, despite being designated as an open, export-oriented zone during the 1990s, it became 60−80% dependent on European imports, compared to Russia’s average 50%.68 One feature of the post-socialist fragmented space-economy is an enduring inability of national states to project visions of economic

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development. Another feature of post-socialist capitalism (similar to western economies) is that the degree of regional specialisation and the extent of the vertical integration varies between regions and within countries. In this way, varieties of centrally-planned societies have given way to varieties of post-socialist capitalism, which combine a multiplicity of governance mechanisms – markets, hierarchies, and networks. However, these projections of economic development are not realised. In particular, the absence of stable configurations of political and economic agents to adopt restructuring goals as well as the presence of “thick” informal institutions, have constrained actual possibilities for regional endogenous development.69 Thus, Russian industrial directors and regional governments, which became the main stakeholders after the notorious 1992−95 “privatisation” campaign, were allowed to exercise illegal authority in handling major investment projects. 70 For example, since 1994, Kaliningrad’s regional administration (rather than a properly designated and transparent regional development agency) has retained the rights over sales of locally extracted oil (which amounts to 130 mln. USD per year, or 65% of all tax-free exports), and since 1998 it has also had the right to manage the proceedings from sales of import quotas at auctions. In addition, the practice of tax-free trading and the related extraction of shadow rents from processing imports have become an immanent feature of the region’s economy driving around 70−80% of the local labour force into informal activities.71 Thus, the obvious benefits of “Dutch disease” spawned an increase in the size of the regional administration, which by the end of the 1990s, was “larger than construction, transport and communication combined.”72 In the case of peripheries, such as Kaliningrad, regional economies have been trapped in a vicious circle of decline, which passively absorb reverberations from the national and international economy. Kaliningrad’s dysfunctional “rent-seeking” economy is based on price and tax differences, created and perpetuated by its artificial border regime.73 This exploration of transformation in the former socialist states, has led to an understanding of path-dependency, not as a modernist, national trajectory of political, economic, and social systems, but as a “process of placing a given country into the spatio-temporal structure of global markets and power relations.”74 The “embeddedness” of foreign inward investments75 in peripheral regions, such as Kaliningrad, which can be sometimes understood as “sites” of local-global governance,76 has been also interpreted as a “Kuwaitisation” process,77 in which transnational capital tries to establish colonial-style “strongholds” separate from the favoured territories (e.g., Baltic states and Poland), thereby producing fragmented space-economies which a mobile capitalism and flexible accumulation can feed upon. Similar to this, a “Kalinigradisation” process in Russia of the 1990s has set up some notorious examples of highly lucrative cases of re-export of the number of excise goods (tobacco,

Overlapping ideological boundaries and transformations in the 127 EU periphery: the Baltic States and Kaliningrad alcohol, gasoline and fish) from the Russian exclave back to the Baltic States, Poland and Russia, which were possible due to price differences created by the international border and global consumption regime. A recurring question that has arisen is: can Kaliningrad actually become a pilot-region that promotes Russia’s integration into the EU – a “site,” “mediating political, economic and cultural contacts,”78 instead of remaining a backward Russian-European periphery? The above examination of Kaliningrad’s situation suggests not. Generally, due to a higher level of investment in development during the Soviet era, the Baltic States are experiencing post-colonial path-dependency to a lesser extent than Kaliningrad. Yet, however strong the desire to forget the colonial past through historical self-invention and augmented self-potentiality, the newly emergent postcolonial entities are “often deluded and unsuccessful in their attempts… of …emancipation from the … realities of the colonial encounter.”79 As Altvater posits, the artificially constructed social, economic and political space of new Europe “cannot be realised in the course of the transformation process by means of a simple exchange of existing maps of place and space.”80 According to him, “there already exists a social, economic and political map inherited from the past, and this map has to be erased in the course of designing a new map.” The colonial map “will only decompose if, and when we are willing to acknowledge the reciprocal behaviour of the two colonial parties.”81 Whereas the Baltic States have now finally acquired the necessary sovereign subjectivity to master their own maps and borders, Kaliningrad’s “transitional” path-dependency cannot be so easily “erased.” This is due to Russia’s inability to negotiate its post-imperialist “syndrome,” founded in the crisis of subjectivity and control, which imparts the restless expansionism of civilization. Perceived throughout history as an external representation of the threat-imposing, deconstructive forces (either as “over-militaristic” East Prussia during World War II, or as “over-liberalised” free economic zone after the collapse of the USSR), Kaliningrad is perpetually internalised and consumed by Russia’s geopolitically dominating space. Singling out and recognising Kaliningrad’s potential either as an external borderland and outpost, or as a “gateway” and “pilot-region,” in fact, perpetuates the centrality of the borders and control in a wider discourse, whose aim is to exclude peripheral and deviant places from the global space of nations’ well-being. It can be said that multiple possibilities for Kaliningrad’s development are now entertained precisely because this peripheral region now exists beyond the margins of society: European, Russian and global. Mainstream society protects itself from deconstructive forces and threats to its order and well-being by expelling and excluding, or dominating, those who are located on the margins of “normality.” For example, in

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addition to Russia’s geopolitical domination (as mentioned above), since 1945 the Kaliningrad region has been excluded from the major socioeconomic policies and trends of the societies that surround it. Thus, the recent inflow of EU and Russian policies and programs towards this periphery represent only an attempt to resuscitate this already socially and economically “dead” region. This phenomenon of the “death” of geographical regions (places) also seems to be a regular part of changes that occur on the global scale. Implicit in all of the recent research produced on Kaliningrad, therefore, is the question of whether this marginalized region has a viable potential for change rather than being helplessly subject to it. The problem with the discourse of “potentiality” (often understood in the context of Kaliningrad as this region’s capacity to change in order to prevent deterioration) is that it ignores the historical limits to this potential and is obsessively focused on the control and engineering of socio-economic deviance. The endless attempts to include Kaliningrad within global processes of economic integration and fragmentation have been of little lasting benefit to the region, which seems determined to exist in its “never-(where)-modern” place, trapped in its own “folding-in” histories, with all its marginal weaknesses and shortcomings. “The Kaliningrad puzzle,” it appears, would be best solved not by trying to transcend the region’s disputed regime of territoriality with post-modern clichés, but rather through re-negotiating its colonial past, where this territoriality and the problems that come with it are rooted. Popular education about and general promotion of this region’s multicultural legacy, de-bordering and uniting cross-border and multicultural communities, partial withdrawal of the Russian military and extractive industries and general environmental clean-up – are just a few necessary measures along this path. Another strategy – that of “de-linking” the local economy from the national and global market – may actually serve as a “precondition for more socially inclusive [and more sustainable – S. J-O.] economic development.”82 For example, instead of increasing linkages between the rich and poor localities in a perceived homogenising global space-time continuum, sustained primarily through market technologies and corporate governance, the idea of empowering the local self-government (partially exercised already during the late perestroika period) could become a key to promoting sustainability in the Kaliningrad region. Although difficult to realise under Russia’s ever-centralising presidential rule, an alternative development model for Kaliningrad would encourage local municipalities and councils to focus on and actively engage in sustainable environmental policies, which are already present in the current, old-fashioned survival practices of today’s rural and sub-urban Russia. This means that ecotourism, green energy and community educational schemes in Kaliningrad

Overlapping ideological boundaries and transformations in the 129 EU periphery: the Baltic States and Kaliningrad will be beneficial only if tailored by and designed to fit local, rather than national or global interests. 5.

Conclusion Evidently, the “falling back” into European “modern” pathdependency since the period of accession negotiations has already produced the fixation of the period of modernity and political discourse of sovereignty within the Baltic States. Although EU membership offers the three Baltic States an opportunity to “forget” and ignore the legacies of their development under colonial imperialism, socialism and free-market “arbitrage capitalism,” these seem likely to persist, at least in a latent form. For example, the peripheral position of these states vis-à-vis the European “core” members could be further exacerbated through: a) the peripheral positioning within international division of labour and production markets which occurred during the post-socialist transition; and b) their low level of resourcefulness and socio-political mobilisation, in attempting to break the competition from the other EU countries. For Kaliningrad, the path of transition is not simply a product of the free choice of rational autonomous political and economic actors. Rather, it depends not only on historical factors from the pre-modern period, but also on the options available in a given spatio-temporal location of the process of transformation, within the development trajectory of the global economic system. To sum up: as new supranational regimes and regulatory processes, such as the EU, appear to be increasingly embedded in the political practices of the past, the phenomena of continuity and pathdependency constitute a common political denominator for the socioeconomic outcomes along the Eastern coast of the Baltic Sea. To escape the divisive politics of this global post-colonial expansion would mean two things for the regions concerned: first, bringing to a halt the evolutionary pursuit of politics of national identity and space and, second, re-negotiating their post-colonial legacy in terms of dialectics of place and space.

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Notes The author wishes to thank Dr. David J. Smith for his insightful comments, and Laura John for her loving support and assistance. 1. Joenniemi, 1998; Joenniemi, et al., 2000, 6. 2. Paasi, 2002a, 197. 3. The division of the Russian Federation into administrative regions or “oblasts” dates back to the Soviet Union. In addition, Russia also has 21 ethnically-dominated republics, which, although constitutionally have the same status as oblasts, usually possess richer resources and have better institutional infrastructure (throughout this paper, the Kaliningrad oblast will be referred to simply as “Kaliningrad”). 4. The European Commission Communication on Kaliningrad of 19 January 2001, Brussels, COM 2001.26 – 2001/2046.COS. 5. Fukuyama, 1992. 6. Harvey, 1989; Jameson, 1984. 7. Caporaso, 1996, 30; and Ruggie, 1993. 8. Barber, 1992, p. 53, see also Caporaso, 1996. 9. Marks, et al., 1996. 10. Hooghe, 1995, Newhouse, 1997, Keating, 1998. 11. Stark provides a good account of this from an institutionalist perspective, which prefers the term “transformation” instead of “transition” in explaining the complex, non-linear process of institutional change in post-communist societies which, although having already achieved modern levels of development through industrialisation and international trade, have largely failed to establish a strong state, functioning democracy and diverse civil society. See: Stark, 1993; and also: Rutland, 2003; Ticktin, 2003. 12. Sokol, 2001, 645. 13. Elshtain, 1992, 150. 14. Barber, 1992, 53 (emphasis mine). 15. Kramsch, 2002, 170. 16. Lovering, 2001, 349. 17. Scott, 2002, 149. 18. In the institutionalist vein it can be argued that the introduction of the new structural shortcut (from nation-state to globalism via regionalisation) will not lead to the changes unless it is backed up by institutional transformation, which requires longer periods of time and higher sociopolitical efforts, which are often path-dependant. See: Smith and Swain, 1998. 19. Jameson, 1984, 53. 20. Häkli, 1998.

Overlapping ideological boundaries and transformations in the 131 EU periphery: the Baltic States and Kaliningrad 21. Pierson argues that a path dependent historical process is one “characterised by a self-reinforcing sequence of events,” whereby: a) “small” events early in a sequence can have disproportionally large effects on later events; and b) while during the early stages things are relatively open, they get more restrictive as one moves down the path. See: Pierson, 2000, 74−77. 22. Rosencrance, 1996, 45. 23. Kramsch, 2002, 169. 24. Morley and Robins, 1995, 20. 25. Pierson, 1998; Mahoney, 2000. 26. Wincott, 1995, 602; Moravcsik, 1995, 616−20. 27. Weiler, et al, 1995; Wallace and Smith, 1995. 28. Nilson, 1997; Lange, 1998 and Lovering, 2001. 29. Caporaso, 1996, 33. See also Smith, 1996; Agnew, 2001. 30. Newhouse, 1997, O’Dowd and Wilson, 1996, 1−17; Walters, 2002. 31. As Hiski Haukkala explains, both “normative” and “digital” divides are terms coined by the Finnish Ministry of Foreign Affairs in reference to Russia’s a) inability to make her laws and regulations compatible with the EU standards, and b) lagging behind in the information technology revolution. See: Haukkala, 2003, 287. 32. Wæever, 1997, 86. 33. Harvey, 1989, 302−3). 34. Smith, 1996, 13−18. 35. Aalto, 2003, 254. 36. Paasi, 2002b. 37. Friis and Murphy, 1999, 214. 38. Friis and Murphy, 1999, 216. 39. Kempe and Van Meurs, 1999, 7. It seems that Schengen aquis will only exacerbate the already existing regional cross-border economic problems due to globalisation (See, e.g.: Krätke, 1999; Williams et al., 2001). 40. In addition to their traditional territorial conflicts, economic and political competition among the Baltic States has been exacerbated during their run for EU membership during the last five years. With the Union’s membership this economic competition can only increase. See, e.g.: Ozolina, 1999; Watson, 2002; Koivu, 2002. 41. The largest of the communities is in Latvia, with some 1 million Russian speakers making up the country’s 2.4 million residents. Estonia is second, with 400,000 out of the 1.4 million population, and in Lithuania, with 3.5 million residents, there are some 300,000. For more see: Strauss, 2003, and the European Enlargement site: http://europa.eu.int/comm./enlargement. 42. Lehti, 1999.

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43. As Joenniemi notes: “Regions such as BSR [Baltic Sea Region] are targets of policy-export, although the policies exported are not coherent and uniform…. [S]ome of these are conductive to region-building, albeit the effect can also be an adverse one for the endogenous process within BSR.” See; Joenniemi, 1999b. 44. See, e.g.: Jurgaitiene and Järve, 1997; Lehti, 1998, and Berg, 2002. 45. Heuser, 1997. 46. Despite being painless, this “drive for international economic and political acceptance, and the pursuit of rapid integration within the global political economy, has had damaging short-term implications for the viability of … rural economy and society” in the Baltic States. See: Unwin, 1998, 289. 47. Swain and Hardy, 1998. 48. Altvater, 1998, 598. 49. In terms of absorption capacity the gap between Kaliningrad and its neighbours ranges from 6-times, as compared with Poland, to 82-times lower as compared with Estonia (see: Smorodinskaya and Zhukov, 2003). 50. These are said to be caused by the small size of internal market (40% of which depends on trade with mainland Russia) and its dependence on import-substitute production (up to 90% of region’s external trade are imports from abroad, including Russia) (See: Vinokurov, et al., 2003, 4−8, 23), as well as over 60 per-cent-strong “black” market (Smorodinskaya, 2001c, 114). 51. Smorodinskaya, 2003. 52. Joenniemi, 1999a. 53. Dewar, 1999, 35. 54. Samson, 1999; Joenniemi, 1999a and 2000. 55. Baxendale, et al., 2000; Joenniemi, et al., 2000; Smorodinskaya, 2001a. 56. Haukkala, 2003, 281. 57. The Kaliningrad region is no exclusion here: bitter argument over the region’s special economic status and privileges between Moscow and then governor Gorbenko started in 1996, and ended during the 2000 local elections with his virtual replacement by the Kremlin-loyal, former admiral Egorov. 58. Stoner-Weiss, 2001. 59. Kaliningrad region is 97% dependant on subsidised energy supply from Russia via the Baltic States. 60. Herrera, 2001. 61. Kaliningrad has been so far subject to two such federal development programs: one in 1997 and, more recently, in 2002. While the first one was a complete failure due to the federal state’s 100% financial involvement in its implementation, the latest ambitious Federal Development Program on Kaliningrad up to the year 2010 (worth 3.28

Overlapping ideological boundaries and transformations in the 133 EU periphery: the Baltic States and Kaliningrad billion USD) is only 10% state-subsidised, the rest being the responsibility of the domestic and international private sector. 62. Since, during the last decade, Kaliningrad’s budget revenues proper were only 50−60% of its total revenues, the region could not repay its accumulated expenditures and debts, and was declared bankrupt by the Russian Clearing House in 2001. As noted by analysts, the larger is the turnover of tax-free outflows from Kaliningrad (which accounted for up to 72% of the local GRP in 2001), the bigger portion of local rent income (an estimated 70−90%) goes to the shadow economy. This leads to severe shortages for local finances, and sharper regional demand for extra federal assistance (federal transfers accounted for 19.4% if GRP in 1999, for 23.5% in 2001, and in 2003 as high as for 37.8%). See: Smorodinskaya and Zhukov, 2003, 13, 16, 42. 63. In 2004 Russian trade with the EU will amount up to 53−55% of its trade turnover, whereas in Kaliningrad this figure would rise up to 73% of region’s trade turnover. At the same time, Kaliningrad has only received about 15 mln. Euro from the European TACIS and Phare technical assistance programs between 1998−2000 (or around 5 mln. Euro a year) and will also receive some more 24 mln. Euro over the 2003−06 period (under Phare and Interreg programs for trans-border projects). At the same time, Poland and Lithuania alone were receiving directly up to 100 million Euros per year under preferential pre-accession regime. See: Dewar, “What is to be done?”, in: Baxendale et al., 2000, 239. 64. Hausner, et al., 1995. 65. Altvater, 1998, 607. 66. Burbach, R., et al., 1997. 67. Grabher and Stark, 1997, 16. 68. Smorodinskaya, 2001a, 58. 69. Hausner, et al., 1995. 70. Herrera, 2001, 156. Also worth noting here are three notorious scandals: firstly, over the building of the cost-inefficient KaliningradPoland motorway by the first governor Matochkin, and, secondly, mafiarelated distribution of import quotas by the Gorbenko administration, which also, thirdly, defaulted on a 15 mln. USD loan from the German Dresdener Bank in 1997. 71. According to estimates, between 100,000 and 120,000 residents of the region (12,5% of the population) are engaged in cross-border smuggling, whereas another 230,000 employees are involved in redistribution and resale of imported goods. Moreover, a considerable proportion of real sector of region’s economy is extracting shadow incomes by upgrading imports to the status of goods of their own produce by simply overestimating the value added to bring it to the 15−30% of legally required added value for them to be subsequently re-imported into mainland Russia. See: Smorodinskaya and Zhukov, 2003, 13−14.

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72. The share of bureaucrats in regions’ total employment has risen from 3.0% to 7.8% (up to 32,000 officials) over the last decade, which meant that there were 34 public servants per thousand inhabitants in Kaliningrad, as compared with only 20 in Russia and only 24 in the independent Estonia (total of 34,100), where the population is 40% bigger than in Kaliningrad region. Smorodinskaya and Zhukov, 2003, 41. 73. Smorodinskaya, 2001b; Dewar, S., in: Baxendale et al., 2000, 175−206. 74. Altvater, 1998, 594. 75. Pavlinek and Smith, 1998. 76. Swain, 1998. 77. Burbach et al., 1997, 121. 78. Joenniemi, 1999a. 79. Ghandi, 1998, 4. 80. Altvater, 1998, 598. 81. Memmi, 1968, 45. 82. Lovering, 2001, 350−351.

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Overlapping ideological boundaries and transformations in the 139 EU periphery: the Baltic States and Kaliningrad Rutland, P. (2003), “Post-Sovietology Blues: Reflections on a Tumulous Decade,” The Journal of Post-Soviet Democratisation, 11 (1): 134−141. Samson, I. (ed.) (1999), Kaliningrad Region 2010: Potential, concepts and prospects. Kaliningrad: TACIS. Scott, J.W. (2002), “A Networked Space of Meaning? Spatial Politics as Geostrategies of European Integration,” Space and Polity, 6 (2): 147−167. Smith, A. and Swain, A. (1998), “Regulating and institutionalising capitalisms: the micro-foundations of transformation in eastern and central Europe,” in: J. Pickles & A. Smith (eds.), Theorising Transition. Routledge: London. Smith, M. (1996), “The European Union and Changing Europe: Establishing the Boundaries of Order,” Journal of Common Market Studies, 43 (1): 5−28. Smorodinskaya, N. (2001a), Kaliningrad Exclave: Prospects for Transformation into a Pilot Region. Moscow: Institute of Economics, Russian Academy of Sciences. Smorodinskaya, N. (2001b), “Rent-seeking in the regions: the politics of economic privilege in Kaliningrad,” in: K. Segbers (ed.) Explaining PostSoviet Patchworks: Pathways from the Past to Global. Volume 3, Free University of Berlin, Aldershot: Ashgate, 56−82. Smorodinskaya, N. (2001c), “Kaliningrad under European enlargement: challenges and responses,” Voprosy Ekonomiki, 11, 106−127. Smorodinskaya, N. (2003), “Beware mines!”. Expert North-West. 25 (134), www.expert.ru (07.07.2003). Smorodinskaya, N., and Zhukov, S. (2003), The Kaliningrad Enclave in Europe: Swimming against the tide. Diagnostics of the State and Potential of Economic Development. Moscow: Regional and Transfrontier Cooperation Program, EastWest Institute. Sokol, M. (2001), “Central and Eastern Europe a Decade After the Fall of State-Socialism: Regional Dimensions of Transition Process,” Regional Studies, 35 (7): 645−655. Stark, D. (1993), “Recombinant property in east European capitalism,” Discussion paper FSI 93−103, Wissenshaftzentrum, Berlin. Stoner-Weiss, K. (2001), “The Russian Central State in Crisis: Center and Periphery in the Post-Soviet Era,” in: Barany, Z. and Moser, R.G. (eds.), Russian Politics. Challenges of Democratisation. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 103−134.

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Strauss, J. (2003), “Latvia and Estonia bring million Russians into EU,” www.news.telegraph.co.uk (16. 09.2003). Swain, A. and Hardy, J. (1998), “Globalisation, Institutions, Foreign Investment and the Reintegration of East and Central Europe and the Former Soviet Union with the World Economy,” Regional Studies, 32 (7): 587−590. Swain, A. (1998), “Governing the workplace: the workplace and regional development implications of automotive foreign direct investment in Hungary,” Regional Studies, 32 (7): 607−18. Ticktin, H. (2003), “Why the Transition Failed: Towards a Political Economy of the post-Soviet period in Russia,” Critique, 32−33: 13−41. Unwin, T. (1998), “Rurality and the Construction of Nation in Estonia,” in: J. Pickles and A. Smith (eds.), Theorising Transition. The Political Economy of Post-Communist Transformations. London and New York: Routledge. 284−308. Vinokurov, E., Kharin, A., and Usanov, A. (2003), “Kaliningrad Region external trade: present and future,” Support to regional development of Kaliningrad, Bulletin no. 1, EUROPEAID/114287/CSV/RU. Wæever, O. (1997), “Imperial Metaphors: Emerging European Analogies to Pre-Nation-State Imperial Systems,” in: O. Tunander, P. Baev and V.I. Einagel (eds.), Geopolitics in Post-Wall Europe: Security, Territory and Identity. Oslo and London: PRIO and SAGE Publications, 59−93. Wallace, W. and Smith, J., (1995), “Democracy or Technocracy? European Integration and the Problem of Popular Consent,” West European Politics, 18 (3): 135−157. Walters, W. (2002), “Mapping Shengenland: denaturalising the border,” Environment and Planning D: Society and Space, 20: 561−80. Watson, J. (2002), “The Baltic States: Entering a Competitive World,” World Markets Research Centre, www.worldmarketsanalysis.com/InFocus2002/articles/telecoms_baltic.ht ml (10.09.2004). Weiler, J.H., Haltern, U.R. and Mayer, F.C. (1995), “European Democracy and Its Critique,” West European Politics, 18 (3): 4−39. Williams, A.M., Baláž, V. and Bodnárová, B. (2001), “Border Regions and Trans-border Mobility: Slovakia in Economic Transition,” Regional Studies, 35 (9): 831−46.

Overlapping ideological boundaries and transformations in the 141 EU periphery: the Baltic States and Kaliningrad Williams, M.C. (2000), “Modernity, Postmodernity and the New World Order,” in: B. Hansen and B. Heurlin (eds.), The New World Order: Contrasting Theories. London, Macmillan Press. Wincott, D. (1995), “Institutional Interaction and European Integration: Towards an Everyday Critique of Liberal Intergovenrmentalism,” Journal of Common Market Studies, 33 (4): 597−609.

Appendix Table 1. Kaliningrad Oblast, Foreign Direct Investment inflow compared with the new EU entrants, 1995−2001. 1995 1996 1997 1998 1999 2000 2001 Kaliningrad FDI inflow, mln. USD

6,6

3,2

As a share of total foreign investment, % 79,4 91,5 93,8 23,3 22,4 34,5

12,7 21,5 10,6

9,2

4,1

13,0

FDI’s accumulated stock (by year end)

41,63 35,97

EU accession states FDI, mln. USD Lithuania

73

152

355

926

486

379

600

Poland

4454 2275 2173 2036 1970 1649 2443

Estonia

454

685 1142 1863 1139 1173 1457

Latvia

180

382

521

357

347

408

257

Table 2. Kaliningrad Region as Compared to Russia and Baltic States in Transition: a) Industrial and b) Employment Structures (by producton sector, 2000). a) Industrial structure (GDP/GRP = 100%) I II III Kaliningrad 8.4 40.1 7.0 region Russia 7.5 32.9 6.8 Latvia 4.5 18.7 6.8 Lithuania 7.5 26.2 6.1 Estonia 6.1 26.8 5.8 Poland 3.7 26.7 8.3

IV 44.5

V 11.0

VI 15.3

VII 18.2

52.8 70.0 60.2 61.3 61.3

8.6 16.3 12.6 12.6 6.8

21.2 18.2 15.1 14.5 20.9

23.0 35.5 32.5 30.6 33.6

19.8

36.3

14.6 16.8 … 13.8 14.0

33.7 35.3 … 35.8 27.1

b) Structure of employment (total employment = 100%) Kaliningrad 9.8 19.4 7.3 63.5 7.4 region Russia 22.6 22.6 7.8 56.1 7.8 Latvia 15.3 18.1 6.3 60.3 8.2 Lithuania 17.5 29.2 … … Estonia 7.2 26.4 6.9 59.5 9.9 Poland 21.5 21.5 5.8 46.5 5.4

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Note: I – agriculture; II – industry; III – construction; IV – tertiary sector (total of V, VI, VII); V – transportation and communication; VI – trade; VII – other services. Calculated at relative PPP and at relative 2000 prices (the technique of IMEMO). Sources: N. Smorodinskaya and S. Zhukov, The Kaliningrad Exclave in Europe: Swimming Against the Tide. Diagnostics of the State and Potential of Economic Development. East-West Institute, Regional and Trans-frontier Cooperation Program, Moscow, 2003.

Author affiliation: Sergei Jakobson-Obolenski is currently studying for a PhD at the department of central and east European studies, University of Glasgow, UK.

The promise of certainty, safety and security in an uncertain, unsafe and insecure world: the emergence of Lithuanian populism Leonidas Donskis The phenomena of innocence and self-victimisation are instrumental in shaping what might be termed the culture of determinism and the culture of poverty. Victimised consciousness is moved by a belief in malevolent and sinister forces of the universe – allegedly manifesting themselves through secret and elusive human agencies – that come to manipulate and dominate the world through subversive activities immediately targeted at the single most fragile actor. The principle of evil is permanently ascribed to the big and powerful, while the principle of good is reserved exclusively for the small and vulnerable. This means that, by implication, I cannot err or sin if I belong to a small, vulnerable and fragile group; conversely, it means that I can never be on the right side if, by birth and upbringing, I happen to belong to the ranks of the privileged or powerful. My human value and merit are predetermined and can thus be easily judged in terms of my race, gender, nationality, or class. Such reasoning, which takes all human beings as irreversibly shaped and moved by biological or social forces with no moral or intellectual choice involved, is a powerful element of conspiracy theory. Regrettably, this kind of modern barbarity, which deprives humanity of the sense of fellowship and tends to replace it with the concepts of natural animosity and everlasting struggle between irreconcilable groups or forces, tends to surface and extend its influence beyond underground consciousness. Far from being qualified as social pathology, it assumes the status of something normal and even progressive. Conspiracy theory allows no room for critical self-reflexivity and critical self-discovery. At this point, it is a mortal enemy of moral philosophy. Whereas modern political philosophy, properly understood, is an extension of moral philosophy, the point of departure for conspiracy theory is a radical denial of theoretical reflection, critical judgment and moral accountability. Infinite manipulation and unlimited power are the ultimate ends that motivate evil forces. The world is too naïve, vulnerable and fragile to unmask the real masters and the sordid manipulations through which they keep that world in the darkness of ignorance, stupidity and self-deception – this is the message that conspiracy theory conveys to its adherents. In his book Moralizing Cultures, Vytautas Kavolis suggests that this phenomenon is deeply rooted in a modern system of moralisation, which he terms the culture of determinism. Kavolis puts it thus:

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Leonidas Donskis “A modern amoral culture, in the sense that it tends to eliminate the notion of individual moral responsibility without taking collective responsibility seriously, is the culture of determinism. In this culture it is assumed that individuals are shaped and moved by biological or social forces in all essentials beyond the control, or even the possibility of major choices, of the individuals affected by them. The four major intellectual foci of this culture are the theory that ‘biology (or racial inheritance) is destiny’; the belief that the human being is and should be nothing but a utility-calculating, pleasure-maximizing machine; the conviction that the individual is, in currently existing societies, only a victim of the ‘oppressive,’ ‘impoverished,’ ‘devitalizing,’ or ‘traditionally constricted’ social conditions of his or her existence (without the ability to become an agent of his fate and assume responsibility for her actions); and the notion that he can be helped out of such conditions solely by the ‘guidance of experts’ who have a ‘rational social policy’ at their disposal, in the determination of which those who are to be helped participate merely as instruments of the experts.”1

Kavolis’ concept of a modern amoral culture sheds new light on why victimised groups or societies relate to ruling elites as patients relate to specialists dispensing diagnosis and treatment. At the same time, it takes us directly to the heart of the matter, by allowing us to understand how and why victimised culture manifests itself as the culture of destiny and determinism as opposed to the culture of freedom and choice. The concept of amoral culture reveals the links between all kinds of deterministic theories, especially in the social sciences. Kavolis starts by quoting Sigmund Freud’s dictum “biology is destiny,” and then goes on to highlight other modes of discourse that speak out in favour of inexorable laws of racial inheritance, history, milieu, societal life, social organisation, and so forth. A modern amoral culture denying individual responsibility and moral choice, or the culture of determinism in Kavolis’s parlance, is a system of moralisation disseminated in the modern moral imagination. Such a culture is characteristic of anti-modernist reactions, including racism, technocracy and other forms of deterministic consciousness. It also includes a belief in inexorable historical laws, a phenomenon that Karl Popper termed historicism. It goes without saying that the culture and spirit of determinism are driving forces behind totalitarian regimes – totalitarianism without deterministic consciousness would be merely a contradiction in terms. At the same time, the culture of

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determinism penetrates all “minor” forms of organised hatred. It appears wherever the quest for enemies is in demand. The culture of determinism is not only a perfect home for conspiracy theories of all shades; it is also another term for what I call modern barbarity. Indeed, it might be suggested that totalitarianism and the spirit of technology are both the offspring of such barbarity.2 The culture of determinism not only informs modern anti-Semitism, but also many other manifestations of anti-modern sentiment. It has evidently incorporated the kind of medieval quasi-animistic and exorcist principles which readily attributed adultery and even rape to the alleged presence of seductive and demonic power in women. Its symbolic (anti)logical brings to mind the even older accusations of maleficium which were levelled at the first Christians within the Roman empire, but later reserved by Christians for the Jews.3 The logic of natural innocence and victimisation holds that people cannot in principle control biological or social forces – on the contrary, particular individuals and even entire societies are shaped and moved by those forces. Since the world is controlled and dominated by powerful groups, clandestine international organisations, or secret agencies and their elusive experts, individuals cannot assume moral responsibility for their actions; nor can they influence or change the state of affairs. This kind of consciousness is shaped by anti-liberal and antidemocratic regimes, but is also characteristic of what Oscar Lewis has termed the “culture of poverty.”4 The culture of poverty is not necessarily synonymous with real poverty. According to Lewis, who spent many years studying the identities and value orientations of shanty town dwellers in Puerto Rico and Mexico, groups living in poverty can develop their own social networks, conspicuous cooperation and social forms (good examples here would be the Jews of eastern Europe in the 19th–early 20th century and craftsmen in India). Rather, the culture of poverty manifests itself first and foremost in an absolute distrust of the state and its institutions, an unwillingness to participate in the state’s life, and conviction that everything in the world – social roles, the amount of power, wealth and poverty – is predetermined.5 Other salient features include a strong sense of fatalism, low level of social trust, and male detachment from the family and its problems. In sum, then, the culture of poverty can be regarded as a variant of determinism. In the course of his research Lewis found that its main characteristics were present even among the thinking and worldview of the wealthy. 1.

The culture of determinism and the culture of poverty in Lithuania In 1996, Vytautas Kavolis asked rhetorically whether a culture of poverty exists in Lithuania. There is in fact ample evidence that such a

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culture is well established: recent sociological polls suggest that a strong sense of helplessness, fatalism and failure is accompanied by a growing hostility to liberal democracy and democratic institutions. A good proportion of Lithuanians would favour authoritarianism over parliamentary democracy, deeming rule by a strong leader as preferable to the rule of law, representation, and the division of powers. Powers of association have deteriorated considerably, while growing social atomisation and fragmentation point to the existence of new forms of cultural colonisation, isolation and marginalisation. The Soviet regime seems to have transformed Lithuania into a kind of low-trust nation, where a lack of faith in existing institutions threatens the fragile foundations of civil society, yet where people – oddly enough – place enormous trust in the media and TV in particular. The bewildering pace of economic and socio-cultural change has exacerbated such trends over the past decade and a half. People of the older generation often feel that their lives have been ruined, if not totally wasted. Many of them have lost their jobs and savings. Their children have left the country and settled in Ireland or Spain, whereas they have to stay behind and live on a miserable pension. It is hardly possible to convince such people that Lithuania has a vibrant economy or that it is “a Baltic tiger” (as Poland’s Leszek Balcerowicz recently described it). While such claims hold true in the case of certain groups, quite a large segment of Lithuanian society now lives beyond the “EU reality.” It is indeed telling that in a December 2004 sociological poll, 34% of respondents characterised 1990–2004 as the most unfortunate period in Lithuania’s entire history. Only 30% reserved this honour for the Soviet period, and even less – 23% – for the period under tsarist Russia (1795–1915).6 Lithuania today has the highest suicide rate in the world – an alarming fact that sheds new light on the extent of social depression, alienation and despair in society. Moreover, growing emigration has deprived the country of many young and highly qualified people – nearly 300,000 have left Lithuania over the past ten years, settling in the USA, Great Britain, Ireland, and other western European states. The country has thus lost much of its potential, while the countryside in particular has been denied any prospect of rapid economic and social development. In recent years, political commentators and politicians have begun to speak of “two Lithuanias” – a westward-looking and economically vibrant Lithuania, celebrating its dynamism and rejoicing over accession to the European Union and NATO, and an eliteabandoned, long-suffering, divided and depressed Lithuania, longing for something like the “equality in misery” it knew in the Soviet Union. This discourse has especially emphasised rural-urban splits, dividing Lithuanian society into the “sugar-beets” – the term runkeliai in Lithuanian is a far from innocent word, and in this context appears as a derogatory term – and the “elite.”7

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In view of these developments, many commentators have diagnosed Lithuania as suffering from a new social disease characterised by identity crisis, amnesia, political illiteracy, the loss of a sense of history, and, ultimately, the disappearance of national pride. The fragmentation and segmentation of Lithuanian society has reached the point where it threatens democracy as well cohesion and civic solidarity. Not least, growing social divisions have opened up fertile ground for populism, as events since 2002 testify only too well. The impeachment of Rolandas Paksas in April 2004 marked the end of Lithuania’s “presidential crisis,” but has done little to dispel the allure of populist politics and the generalised sense of uncertainty that hangs over Lithuania’s future. In the second part of this chapter I will go on to a detailed analysis of the events of 2002−2004. Before this, however, some more general observations on the phenomenon of populism are in order. 2.

Populism Populism was born in the 19th century as a specific Russian political doctrine, at the headwaters of which stood a figure of European stature – the prominent political thinker and social critic Alexander Herzen. Herzen’s ideas initiated the movement of the ”Narodniki” (“national countrymen”/“patriots”). A political exile during the reign of Nicholas I, Herzen lived for many years in Paris, where he associated with the most prominent European political thinkers of the time.8 Herzen returned to Russia during the reign of Alexander II, but was by now disillusioned with western political doctrines. He now told Russian intellectuals to disavow their own wealth and privileges and to “go to the people.” By sharing in the sorrows and injustices encountered by the Russian peasantry, he believed, they would imbibe something of its wisdom and authentic values. Thus, populism was born as a semi-mystical and radical doctrine that rejected political reforms and institutions in favour of direct relations between enlightened and privileged society and the mass of the population. As a critique of the state, its institutions and political elite, populism was an interesting phenomenon that elicited considerable interest in Russia and the West. Yet, understood literally and translated into the language of modern politics, populism becomes an especially threatening and destructive phenomenon. The rebirth of populism during the 20th century can only partly be attributed to the rise of national-socialist and Bolshevik mass ideological movements and their associated totalitarian regimes. Both of these regimes were in essence bureaucratic and based on exclusive ideologies that rejected any possibility for peaceful coexistence with other ideologies and other political systems. By the same token, one should not confuse populism with the manipulations inherent in all modern electoral

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campaigns. Populism is not just a collection of electoral tricks. If it were, then one could label all contemporary world politicians as populists. Sociologists working in this field see populism as marked by an exceptional level of political intuition and ability to probe the soil of social processes. Populists are always in the right place at the right time, ready to capitalise upon the political elite’s perceived disregard of collective hopes and sentiments. Populism thrives especially during transition periods, when a new social and moral order is still crystallising, when old value orientations and systems are defunct, but new ones have not yet started to function. By emphasising a growing distance between state and society and the bureaucratisation and arrogance of the political class, it further undermines popular trust in official institutions and elites. Indeed, the basic appeal of populism lies in its promise to provide clarity and security to a population lacking in both. Populists rush to offer a solution that would supposedly rescue the country from crisis, be it the return of historic lands, the introduction of anti-immigration laws and limitation on the number of foreigners, or other similar ultra nationalist and xenophobic pearls. Most important of all is the promise to bring order to a society suffering from unemployment, social contrasts, crime, and corruption. Although anyone capable of reflection could see that this promise is empty, insecurity and confusion will always lead people to hanker after “social revenge” in the form of a redistribution of wealth and power, something that, in today’s conditions would kill social peace and provoke deep civil conflict. Social rage, a thirst for revenge, and a hatred of foreigners or those who are better off and better educated are the most stable currency of political populists. In other words, populism always implies political lumpenisation and an appeal to the darkest and lowest instincts of the crowd. It is a kind of anti-politics, which carries immediate resonance for the Lumpenproletariat and the criminal world. As Michel Wieviorka points out: “Populism may be on the left as well as on the right, a fact which tends to be underestimated today. It is always based on a mythical formula which has the characteristic of placating what cannot be placated by promising to combine the future and the past or by ensuring social transformation while ensuring the reproduction of traditions. Populism promises the synthesis of identity and of change, it declares to the people that they will remain the same while they change, and that its accession to progress will be accomplished in the name of an unchanged culture. Populism is not concerned about its own contradictions, and its leaders are often

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charismatic precisely in order to resolve, through discourse, the contradictions which define it. Populism … is therefore a synthesis, an amalgam, a fusion in which the actor is both defined by an identity, a tradition, a culture, a history on the one hand, and on the other hand, by a future, projects or desires for modernisation or inclusion in modernity. It can tend towards the one or the other, but it is of necessity both, by definition. It is not a pure thorough-going discourse as nationalism, but a milder formula and one in which the most radical tendencies are to some extent contained. Populism, for example, could be permeable to racism and even more to anti-Semitism.”9 Populists are often true masters of social masquerade and political circus, who know how to use the elements of clownery and show. In their hands, carnival-style anti-structure becomes structure, a medieval feast of fools routine and everyday life experience. They incline naturally towards the use of spin and spin doctors, as they seek to tap into public anger against the world. One should have no illusions regarding populists’ social sensitivity and sympathy for the poor. Their ideology and sole concern is authority. All the same, they can reach a wide audience by juxtaposing tradition and modernity within a recognisable idiom. As Wieviorka observes, such approaches may be related to anti-Semitism and racism, though this is not always the case: “Indeed, in a populist perspective the Jews may incarnate a tradition which must be opposed in the name of one’s own tradition, religion or nation, and at the same time symbolize a form of modernity which is becoming unattainable, or from which one feels expelled and which they control by holding money or power in the mass media. But racism and anti-Semitism, for as long as they are an integral part of a populist phenomenon do not go very far, and if they explode, it is when the phenomenon in question is decomposing far more than when it is at its zenith … In this perspective populism is therefore not fascism, nationalism, the extreme right, nor the occasion for extreme expressions of racism and anti-fascism. It tends to be an intermediary period marked by considerable change, and in which the actors and the discourse are limited to a myth of reconciliation of the irreconcilable. This myth sometimes tends to be left-wing, dominated by

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Leonidas Donskis references to the social and political emancipation of the people and to justice, while at other times it is rightwing, with references to the nation, religion, the community of culture, and to history. But … it is always by definition both, until it disintegrates.” (Emphasis mine. – L.D.)10

If populists succeed in making their opponents synonymous with absolute amorality and rejection of all values, the opponents can, in their confusion and powerlessness, easily begin to imitate populists in an attempt to retain credibility amongst the masses. The day that liberals, conservatives or social democrats begin to place fellow countrymen, rather than abstract ideas and values at the core of their activity, and insist on the necessity of cooperation with all political powers, one can state the end of Aristotelian politics and either the short or long-term victory of populism. Populism can establish itself only by ruining the existing political system. Whilst some allege that it is capable of adjusting to the existing political spectrum, it cannot in fact coexist with traditional political parties and classical political ideologies. Populism differs from totalitarian ideologies and movements in that it does not destroy its opponents from outside. Rather, it undermines them from within by imposing upon them its own technique and practice. The point of departure for populism is that one should not take for granted any rhetoric, but should look at what people really want. Populism is a purified mechanism for seizing and maintaining power, freed from all values, ideas or moral obligations. Populist parties might flirt for some time with familiar names and concepts, and simulate rightist and leftist values, but in the end everything is totally separated – words and meanings do not coincide. Perfect examples of this are the Liberal Democratic Parties of Russia and Lithuania. No-one with a modicum of political education or knowledge of western social science literature could claim that either party has consistent political views or even a minimal connection to liberal democracy. Voltaire once famously remarked that the Holy Roman Empire was neither holy, nor Roman, nor an empire. The same could be said for the aforementioned groupings, both of which flirt with Nazi-style rhetoric or symbolism – they are neither liberals, nor democrats, nor political parties. 3.

The Scandal that Divided the Nation The immense political scandal that erupted over Lithuania at the end of October 2003 dealt a shocking blow to the cohesion and civic solidarity of Lithuanian society. The country was divided over its president – should he stay or should he go? Was he open to the charge of treason?

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To cut a convoluted tale short, the scandal emerged from a report by Lithuanian state security. It linked one of Rolandas Paksas’ close advisors to a Russian businessman with suspected ties to organised crime. Others in the president’s inner circle were also alleged to have met with the Russian, Anzor Aksentyev-Kikalishvili, who is thought to be interested in buying Lithuanian assets. The report also found evidence that Paksas promised a job to a second Russian businessman (also his major campaign contributor), who is surrounded by allegations of illegal arms trading. On 3 November, the Seimas, Lithuania’s parliament, met in closed session to decide what to do next. Formally, the Seimas has the authority and power to impeach the president in the event of treason or violation of his oath of office. A special commission was set up to look into the affair. On 2 December 2003, the commission released its findings, and its chairman Aloyzas Sakalas presented a summary. Paksas had placed himself in a “vulnerable position” – and taking into account the president’s role in domestic and foreign policy, the affair “represented a threat to Lithuania’s national security.” The next day prime minister Algirdas Brazauskas and Seimas speaker Artūras Paulauskas both urged the president to resign. These events hardly came as a surprise to dozens of politicians and political observers. Many had long had grave doubts concerning the transparency of the activities of Paksas’ supporters and donors – both in Lithuania and in Russia. These misgivings heightened after the presidential election in January, in which Paksas won a landslide victory over the incumbent, Valdas Adamkus. The émigré environmentalist Adamkus returned to Lithuania and became its president in January 1998. He had, ever since, enjoyed the reputation of the most highly esteemed and regarded politician in Lithuania. Paksas’ victory over Adamkus in January 2003 was marked by some ugly details. The symbols used by Paksas’ Liberal Democratic Party (LD) caused great unease, especially its eagle logo, stunningly (and hardly accidentally) similar to the Luftwaffe eagle, and its torch-lit rallies where speakers called for the introduction of an “iron order” in Lithuania. Paksas’ nasty rhetoric and populist dash were accompanied by an aggressive and cynical PR strategy, which appealed to the lowest instincts of the masses. They described Adamkus as representing the interests of the West and the rotten political and intellectual elite in Lithuania. In brief, the presidential campaign of Paksas shamelessly exploited the immoral logic of populism. During the election campaign Paksas consulted the Russian public relations firms Nicollo M and Almax (the latter having been instrumental in Vladimir Putin’s victorious run for the Russian presidency). Paksas’ most generous campaign contributor was a helicopter sales-and-rental company called Avia Baltika, which Lithuanian law-

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enforcement agencies had investigated in connection with illegal arms sales to Sudan. Immediately after the election, company chief Yuri Borisov applied to president Paksas for Lithuanian citizenship and received it – in addition to his original Russian citizenship. During the campaign, Paksas hopped across Lithuania in an Avia Baltika helicopter, delivering fiery speeches about the better life to come, to audiences in one depressed rural stopover after another. A few more words about Rolandas Paksas: however unpredictable and sinister, he was by no means a freshman in politics when he became president. Having served twice as mayor of Vilnius (while still a member of the Motherland Union-Conservative Party of Lithuania), Paksas twice reached the office of prime minister. Frequently associated with the vigorous and forward-looking part of the Motherland Union-Conservative Party, a major centre right party, he enjoyed much popularity in the country, and was thought of as the future light of Lithuanian politics. But it was not to be. During intense negotiations with the American oil company Williams in 1999 over privatisation of the Mažeikiai oil refinery, Paksas, in a highly charged political atmosphere, suddenly resigned his office. His theatrical argument was that he did so over his strong disagreement with an unreasonable and politically motivated decision to choose an expensive American company over the far more affordable and favourable Russian Lukoil. This ex-prime minister, a wilful and stubborn air pilot (Paksas worked as a professional flying instructor in Soviet Lithuania, and was the all-Soviet cup winner in acrobatic flying) changed political coats, becoming chairman of the Liberal Union Party. By choosing the political hero and nay-sayer to head them, the Liberals gained plenty of political points, and won many seats in the 2000 parliamentary election. Paksas was duly returned to the premiership. In the end, the Liberals bitterly regretted it. Paksas proved to be a dictatorial party leader rather than political team worker. The split of the party would not be long in coming. What resulted from the divorce of Paksas and the Liberals was the emergence of Paksas’ new political entity, the LD: an infamous analogue of Vladimir Zhirinovsky’s identicallynamed party in Russia. (Incidentally, Zhirinovsky warmly greeted both the Lithuanian Liberal Democratic Party and Paksas on his presidential victory.) Small wonder, then, that Paksas was christened “the pilot of political parties.” One can draw several conclusions from what has happened in Lithuania – or rather, how it has happened. First, Lithuanian leaders should not mock Belarus, nor explain away the tragedy that has befallen it merely by reference to the low political culture of society or the prevalence of a Soviet-type mentality among the nation. In reality, the scandal has shown Lithuanian political culture to be very similar to that of

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its eastern neighbours, and should thus dispel any naïve belief in Lithuania’s superiority, or larger degree of “westernness.” The embryo of Lithuanian civil society suffered a bitter defeat by the Soviet people. Although Lithuania possesses an intellectual culture of western orientation, this is still isolated and poorly institutionalised on a national level. Its role in a fragmented and further-disintegrating society is less than minimal. Furthermore, the moral authority of the educated part of society has been reduced to zero. The second point, perhaps, is a consequence of the first. The larger part of Lithuanian society has totally lost its immunity to political manipulation. The low level of political culture (and absence of any political awareness of the powers and functions of the country’s president) paved the way for a victory that was achieved simply by telling the voters what they wanted to hear or by rewarding them. Such susceptibility to manipulations is good news for Lithuania’s large eastern neighbour. The task of destabilising Lithuania and redirecting its political orientation – even that of its whole civilisation – is not only possible, but, apparently, far easier than anyone would ever have believed. Thirdly, the scandal revealed that Lithuania has no real political left, let alone leftist values. The fidelity of the Lithuanian left to social democratic values is nothing but a lamentable fiction. In any western European democracy, social democrats would have marched their electorate through the streets, and would have been the first to stand against a presidential candidate who employed quasi-Nazi symbols. In Lithuania, a part of the left showed its open support for such a candidate, while the most powerful and best-organised left-wing party, the Social Democrats, played a double game, declaring its favour for Valdas Adamkus while secretly blessing Paksas’ road to victory. One could feel only sadness when one heard Lithuania’s leftwing politicians earnestly disputing what they saw as the more-or-less identical mistakes and sins of Adamkus and Paksas. Application of this kind of symmetrical reasoning was not only silly, it was morally repugnant. With this kind of morality among the political left, Lithuania is surely not immune to the establishment of autocracy. Recalling Mikhail Romm’s masterly documentary about the “ordinary fascism” of the Browns (and their striking, almost morphological resemblance to the Reds), one could describe the so-called “phenomenon” of Rolandas Paksas as ordinary “paksism.” There is nothing remarkable in it, only a masterfully modelled political game, which needed a small fortune and professional image-makers and propaganda masters, as well as a cohort of local revenge-seekers and cynics. Paksism is not just a political amalgam of incompatible and mutually exclusive things. In general, it is the absence of political convictions, a rejection of any coherent world outlook, the unleashing of

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methods of political struggle that disregard the rules of morality, and, most importantly, an effective use of something the American writer Alan Harrington once called a “mobile truth.” By this definition, the truth is what best serves my interests. If my interests remain the same – but to pursue them I need to present alien (and maybe not fully understood) phrases and images as a real thing to convince others – then today, my interests may become the greatest truth of my life; which I will accept and profess in every possible way. Tomorrow, the greatest truth of my life may become other things. 4.

New populist players: promises and miracles Lithuania still stands at a crossroads in the wake of the presidential scandal. Until such a time as Lithuanian politicians pronounce Paksism to have been a threat to social peace, democracy and civic solidarity, its shadow will continue to hang over the country and Lithuania will face the threat of becoming a European Union member de jure, but a protectorate of Russia de facto. With the main characteristics of the culture of poverty – isolation, fatalism, distrust of everything – as strong as ever, populism continues to rear its head in Lithuania. The latest player in the populist arena is the recently-founded Labour Party, an amalgam of graduates of the higher institutions of the Communist Party, former functionaries and nouveau riches, headed by Viktor Uspaskich. Uspaskich settled in Lithuania in the 1990s, and quickly made a success of himself, rising from the position of welder in a factory to being the owner of a major food company and a representative of Russian gas giant Gazprom. Uspaskich got close to mainstream politics as early as 1997 when he started supporting and financing the then newly-founded Social Liberal Party headed by Artūras Paulauskas, the former prosecutor general of Lithuania. Paulauskas, who lost the presidential election to Valdas Adamkus in January 1998, was described by the media as having considerably benefited from Uspaskich’s support in terms of transforming his Social Liberal Party from a marginal populist party, hostile to the accession of Lithuania to the EU, into a major political player in Lithuania. Widely regarded as the favoured candidate of Russia in the presidential election and a populist exploiting the Lithuanian farmers’ resentment against the EU, Paulauskas underwent a remarkable transformation into a predictable, westward-looking and serious politician. This was obvious during the Paksas scandal when Paulauskas, then speaker of the Seimas, took office as temporary president of Lithuania. Ironically, the Social Liberals made an alliance with the Lithuanian Social Democrat Party. The latter is nothing other than the former Lithuanian Communist Party which was renamed the Democratic Labour Party immediately after independence and finally merged with a tiny Social Democrat Party, thus reshaping itself into allegedly the major

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left-wing political party (I use the word “allegedly” in as much as the Democratic Labour Party firmly established itself in the 1990s as the party of the former nomenklatura, who made up the bulk of Lithuania’s nouveaux riches and who occupied key positions in the country’s economy and political institutions). Having made an alliance with what is called now the Social Democrat Party, Paulauskas’ Social Liberals ceased to exist as a troublemaking populist party and turned into part of the establishment. The vacuum was to be filled by new players – the Liberal Democrat Party and the Labour Party. To cut a long story short, it was the right time for the rise of Viktor Uspaskich. When Rolandas Paksas was impeached and his Liberal Democrat Party lost much of its electorate, Uspaskich appeared on the political stage stating that all politicians of Lithuania make fools of the people, that they are incapable of reform and that they have no concept of how to improve the life of farmers, pensioners or factory workers. Capitalising on nostalgia for the Soviet past with its alleged security and certainties, making fun of Lithuania’s independence, mocking the political elite of Lithuania, and speaking Lithuanian with heavy accent, Uspaskich promised a miracle – a substantial improvement of the economic condition of the vast majority of Lithuanian society in 1111 days. Such promises propelled Uspaskich’s Labour Party to victory in the autumn 2004 parliamentary elections. However, it was not a landslide victory Uspaskich hoped for. Ultimately, he had to make an alliance with other political parties in order to be able to take high office and to form the government. The rest of the story is quite banal. The Social Democrat Party that claimed to never ever make an alliance with a populist party like the Labour Party proved to have cynically cheated its electorate. Instead of trying to establish a “cordon sanitaire” by forming a rainbow coalition of left and right, the Social Democrats under former president and current prime minister Algirdas Brazauskas (formerly leader of the Lithuanian Communist Party) chose to align themselves with Uspaskich and Kazimira Prunskienė, leader of the Farmers Union, also a populist party and haven for the former communist nomenklatura. This move allowed the Social Democrats to keep Brazauskas in office as prime minister and to form a new government with a considerable number posts reserved for their party members. It also allowed Paulauskas to stay on as Seimas Speaker. Last but not least, this alliance made it possible for Prunskienė to reappear on the political stage after her failure in the 2004 presidential election which she narrowly lost to Valdas Adamkus. The system thereby took revenge and was suddenly given a chance to live a second life. Although the Social Democrats and Social Liberals were left far behind the Labour Party and even the Motherland

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Union-Conservative Party in terms of the number of seats in the Seimas, they had the lion’s share of key posts in the government. This is a story worth analysing in politics textbooks, so as to demonstrate how a brutal and vulgar Realpolitik triumphed over political ideas, values, principles and moral commitments. At the same time, this story again underlines the profound value crisis and anomie in present Lithuania. 5.

Postscript Corruption, anomie and immaturity of social elites threaten democracy no less than military upheavals. They make a caricature of democracy and discredit it in the eyes of ordinary people. This is exactly what autocrats are waiting for, always ready to restore “order and true justice” and to remind everyone of the alleged rottenness and corruption at the heart of the democratic process. It remains to be seen whether the public domain will remain part of post-modern politics and society. Will there remain public intellectuals and public political debates, as opposed to spin doctors’ political manipulation of momentary and situational opinion, and the construction of symbioses for the benefit of populism? These are not merely theoretical or rhetorical questions, but political ones in the deepest sense. Beyond them lies the future of political and civil existence, moral choices, intellectual culture, validity of norms and values, democracy and conscious political self-fulfilment on the part of the individual.

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Notes 1. Kavolis, 1993, 48. 2. Leszek Kołakowski describes totalitarianism and the spirit of technology as forms of modern barbarity. For more on this issue, see Kołakowski, 1990, 14–31. 3. The term Maleficium refers to secret acts of collective evil and magic incorporating incest and the use of blood for religious ritual. 4. For more on this issue, see Lewis, 1996, 217–224. 5. The culture of poverty, then, was not characteristic of Fidel Castro’s post-revolutionary Cuba, since, according to Lewis, society (even the poorest layers) acquired value and a sense of the meaning of life. 6. For more on these data provided by the market analysis and research group “Rait,” see http://www.rait.lt/. 7. It would be naïve, however, to claim that such sentiments are confined to the depressed countryside. More than a few Lithuanian tycoons and public figures have openly supported Rolandas Paksas and then Viktor Uspaskich. 8. He was well acquainted with Europe’s most prominent socialists and anarchists, and also corresponded with the father of modern nationalism, Giuseppe Mazzini. 9. Wieviorka, 1996, 25. 10. Ibid., 25–26.

References Kavolis, V. (1993), Moralizing Cultures. Lanham, MD: University Press of America. Kołakowski, L. (1990), Modernity on Endless Trial. London & Chicago, Ill.: University of Chicago Press. Lewis, O. (1996), “The Culture of Poverty,” in: R.T. LeGates and F.Stout, eds., The City Reader. London & New York: Routledge. Wieviorka, M. (1996), “Populism and Nationalism in Contemporary Europe,” in: S. Fridlizius and A. Peterson, eds., Stranger or Guest? Racism and Nationalism in Contemporary Europe. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell International.

Author affiliation: Leonidas Donskis is professor of political science and philosophy, and director of the political science and diplomacy school at Vytautas Magnus University, Kaunas, Lithuania.

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Labour rights, social conflict and cohesion in accession Lithuania: implications for EU enlargement Charles Woolfson 1.

Introduction This chapter examines the legal inhibitions on strike action in the new European Union (EU) member state of Lithuania. The right to strike is a part of collective labour law which falls outside the competence of the EU, in terms of the alignment of elaborative provisions of national governments in this sphere. Significant legal inhibitions on the right to strike are embodied in post-independence labour law, and largely reiterated in the new Lithuanian Labour Code of 2002. It is argued here that one of the basic expressions of democratic society, the right to freely withdraw labour in order to assert labour’s independent demands, is potentially being compromised. This may pose a longer-term threat to social cohesion, not only within the society, but also to broader European social cohesion, as acceding central and east European countries, such as Lithuania, attempt to integrate into the wider European project of enlargement. The US Agency for International Development, USAID, lists the freedom of trade unions as one of its ten primary criteria for assessing levels of democratic governance within post-transitional Central and East European states.1 Similarly, influential foreign foundations such as the German Friedrich Ebert Stiftung and the Swedish Work Life Foundation today are actively promoting the values of free collective bargaining in the former Soviet bloc.2 These activities are in line with the widely stated belief that the right to withdraw labour differentiates genuine democratic societies from the previous system where the freedom to strike was only a theoretical possibility.3 During the past decade or so of capitalist transformation and democratisation, the ruling elites of many postcommunist countries, nevertheless, have remained ambivalent about the desirable scope of the right to free collective bargaining and, in particular, the freedom to strike. This continuing ambivalent attitude is attributable, in part, to the belief that further economic restructuring requires a weakening rather than a strengthening of organised labour’s role in the political economy of transition. Hitherto, one of the signal features of transition has been the relative quiescence of labour which has had to bear the brunt of these costs.4 It has been argued that one reason for such quiescence is that organised labour has been entrapped by the uncertain promises of triparitsm and a philosophy of partnership with employers.5 However, while in the past, many central and eastern European workers have viewed

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trade unions as a discredited legacy of the previous regime, there is now at least patchy evidence of growing support for collective bargaining and a shift in labour’s perspectives as the process of accession to an enlarged Europe expands the horizon of expectations.6 This chapter does not seek to examine the potential resurgence of labour unrest or trade unionism per se in Central and Eastern Europe. Rather, it explores the restrictive legal base of the industrial relations framework which has been imposed in one central and east European post-communist state, Lithuania, and which creates a major impediment to any potential resurgence of labour assertiveness. Lithuania is chosen principally because its strike laws have now become the subject of international attention. In examining legal obstacles to collective action in Lithuania, this chapter addresses a tendency which may be present more widely in the increasingly neoliberal environment which has come to dominate central and eastern European industrial relations, and which may make the wider emergence of a more convergent European framework of industrial relations more difficult to achieve.7 Conceptually, the chapter is grounded in the broader observation that many central and eastern European governments now consider labour regulation inherited from the previous socialist system as a hindrance to the consolidation of market forces in post-communist transition. Thus Russia, a number of ex-Soviet republics, as well as former satellite states in central and eastern Europe, have passed new labour codes or amended existing ones. These labour codes seek to impose greater labour flexibility.8 They also legitimise systems of collective bargaining which are typically heavily reliant on rigorous processes of conciliation and arbitration to resolve labour conflicts. Less often examined is the virtual prescription of the right to strike as a legitimate expression of industrial conflict.9 Industrial conflict is not simply to be seen as an object of procedural intervention. It also powerfully exposes the underlying assumptions and attitudes on the part of governments and key elites towards labour.10 The imposition of restrictive regulation of industrial conflict from this perspective can be seen as the attempt by the legal superstructure of the new market economies to prevent visible disruption of the surface norms of social peace which may mask a more troubled and conflictual underlying reality. The conflict-centred approach has its roots to the writings of Lewis A. Coser, (1968) specifically his classic work The Functions of Social Conflict. Coser’s view of the implications of social conflict was very different in kind from the then prevailing functionalism in the world of sociology, as elaborated by Parsons, Mayo and Roethlisberger. For such contemporaneous theorists, especially those whose intellectual formation coincided with the Cold War, conflict in society was akin to a “disease” of the social body, a sickness which required to be contained if not eradicated.11 In particular, labour conflicts

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and strikes were viewed as essentially “dysfunctional” or “irrational” phenomena.12 Coser’s contribution was to identify the positive dimension of conflict in so-called “open societies” and, co-relatively, a potentiality for socially “catastrophic” consequences in suppressing social conflict in “rigid” societies. Coser stated that: “in…open societies, conflict, which aims at the resolution of tension between antagonists, is likely to have stabilizing and integrative functions for the relationship. By permitting immediate and direct expression of rival claims, such social systems are able to readjust their structures by eliminating the sources of dissatisfaction…These systems avail themselves, through the toleration and institutionalization of conflict, of an important stabilizing mechanism…A flexible society benefits from conflict because such behavior, by helping to create and modify norms, assures its continuance under changed conditions. Such mechanism for readjustment of norms is hardly available to rigid systems: by suppressing conflict, the latter smother a useful warning signal, thereby maximizing the danger of catastrophic breakdown.”13 From Coser’s perspective, labour disputes could be seen as an acceptable, even necessary, form of expression of interest-based social conflict in emerging market economies. They enable key social actors “to create and modify norms” governing their interaction under radically changed conditions. Such conflicts are “adjustive” and not, per se, to be seen as system threats or potential destabilisers of a society. This chapter commences with an outline of the immediate postindependence Law on the Regulation of Collective Disputes, as enacted and subsequently amended. The next section examines a recent landmark industrial dispute which highlights how legal provisions serve to restrict strike action. In the third section, the chapter discusses the formal complaint to the ILO that the Lithuanian trade union movement lodged with respect to the legal impediments experienced in pursuing this industrial dispute. The fourth section briefly assesses the ensuing response by the Lithuanian government, as embodied in the draft and final versions of the new labour code, to ILO’s recommendations for reform. Lastly, the potential impacts on collective bargaining rights and on wider social cohesion are discussed.

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2.

The Evolution of Labour Law in Lithuania The first post-communist legislation governing the conduct of strikes was the Law on the Regulation of Collective Disputes (Lietuvos Respublikos Kolektyviniu gincu istatymas, 1992, 1994, 1999). The Articles of the amended law (Lietuvos Respublikos Kolektyviniu gincu istatymas, 1999) lay out the basic framework of collective bargaining principles.14 Article 1 describes collective disputes as follows: “disagreements between the trade union and the employer … resulting from the unsatisfied demands of trade unions which have been submitted and registered in accordance with the provisions set forth in this Law.” Under Article 2 the “right to make demands of the employer” is vested in trade unions. Article 3 states that trade union demands may be “raised in accordance with the rules and procedure in the trade union’s statutes.” Article 4 outlines the procedures for the consideration of collective demands, stipulating that the employer must consider the demands and inform employees of his decision in writing within seven calendar days of the submission of demands. Articles 7 and 8 outline various procedures for conflict resolution, including the formation of a “reconciliation commission” the decisions of which may be binding. If there is still a failure to agree, further recourse can be taken to a labour arbitration committee and eventually, to a court of arbitration. All of these bodies are charged with meeting in a timely and appropriate manner. Article 9, subtitled as Strike, envisages that only after complete exhaustion of conciliation mechanisms will there be strike action by employees. In the 1992 formulation of the Law, a strike is characterised in terms of the withdrawal of labour. This is described as “a voluntary refusal of the employees of enterprises or their structural units to temporarily carry out their work in order to have their demands satisfied.” In the 1999 version, a strike is described in Article 1 as “a voluntary refusal of the employees of one or a few enterprises or their groups to temporarily carry out their work if the collective dispute is not settled or the decision reached by reconciliation committee, labour arbitration or the court of arbitration is not carried out.” The direct linkage of strike action to the exhaustion of conciliation procedures is a constant theme of the legislation both in its original and amended forms. Article 9 states that, “in the event that a collective dispute has not been settled, or in the event that the employer does not carry out the decision of the reconciliation committee (labour arbitration and the court of arbitration), a strike may be declared in accordance with the procedure set forth in Article 10 of this Law.” The conduct of a strike is further elaborated upon in Article 10, Declaration of Strikes. Article 10 is of relevance, on account of its prescriptions for the conduct of strikes. Where

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trade union members constitute the majority of employees of an enterprise, they have the right to call a strike in accordance with the rules of procedure in the trade union’s statutes. The decision to initiate a strike must be reached in a secret ballot and endorsed by a two-thirds majority vote of employees (in order to initiate a strike in the enterprise), and by two-thirds majority vote of employees of the structural unit of the enterprise, and by majority vote of employees of the enterprise (in order to initiate a strike in the structural unit of the enterprise). The two-thirds threshold for strike action may be compared with the normal expectation of simple majority voting in democratic systems. To initiate a strike Article 10 requires that: “employers must be informed in writing about the beginning of future strikes within seven calendar days of the strike by sending them the decision adopted in accordance with the established manner (prescribed above). Only those demands which have not been regulated during the reconciliation procedure may be brought up upon declaring a strike. Strikes may be preceded by a warning (limited) strike, which may not last longer than two hours. The employer must be warned about the said strike no later than twenty four hours before its beginning.” The seven-day notice to employers of impending industrial action is a general provision. However, in certain industries this increases to twenty-one days. The specified list is in fact extensive. Article 10, Section 6 Declaration of Strikes notes that: “the employer shall be sent a written warning no later than twenty one calendar days prior to the beginning of the strike, upon the adoption of a decision concerning a strike (as well as a warning strike) in railway, city public transport, civil aviation, communications, and power engineering enterprises (with the exception of electric power enterprises), as well as in medical and pharmaceutical institutions, food, water, sewerage and waste disposal, and oil processing enterprises, and in enterprises of uninterrupted production and other types whose stoppage may result in difficult or dangerous consequences to society or the health and lives of humans.”

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This provision gives employers ample opportunity to put in place alternative arrangements aimed at keeping production going at the enterprise where the dispute is occurring, and/or for the employer to embark upon legal manoeuvres in the courts to frustrate trade union action. In any case, the lengthy warning provisions remove the element of surprise, which can be a powerful persuader or bargaining counter in the successful pursuit of a strike. In adopting these restrictive provisions, the Law on the Regulation of Collective Disputes largely ignores the fact that the effectiveness of industrial action ultimately rests on the potential harm that it causes to the employers’ interests. Stoppages that do not at least threaten to “result in difficult consequences” for the employer, if not for “society,” may be ultimately ineffectual. Censuring stoppages which can be deemed “dangerous” to society or to “the health and lives of humans,” must be seen as creating a significant level of ambiguity over the boundaries of tolerability of strike action. Such ambiguities can be exploited by a hostile state or employer to inhibit strike action in an unreasonable manner. Strikes are meant to inconvenience, even potentially damage the employer. Strikes, on occasion, can also hurt the interests of innocent bystanders or the general public. This, however, is usually understood as being the price to be paid for the right of labour in a democratic society to freely bargain with employers. While requirements of early warning notice of a planned industrial action may perhaps be taken as no more than an overly cautious attitude to strikes, Section 7 of Article 10 presents even greater problems. Here, a series of industries is categorically excluded from the right to strike; Section 7 states that: “it shall be prohibited to call a strike within the structures of internal affairs, national defence and national security as well as in enterprises of electric power, centralised supply of heating and gas, and services of immediate medical aid. The demands of the employees of such services and enterprises shall be considered by the Government of the Republic of Lithuania. The limitations of strikes may be provided for in the special laws of other services (institutions).” While strike action by workers providing important services may require additional mediatory steps, the outright prohibition of strike action by large groups of employees can be seen as somewhat out of line with western liberal democratic norms. Thus, the UK experienced a protracted fire-fighters dispute in late 2002 and early 2003 involving several stoppages of work of up to a week, while strikes by ambulance drivers have also occurred.

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The hesitancy of Lithuanian legislators to allow strikes to run their course, and to become means of determining the outcome of an industrial dispute, is further apparent in subsequent sections of the Law on the Regulation of Collective Disputes. Thus Article 12, The Course of a Strike, provides for the right of employees to picket their place of work, but excludes specific industries from these provisions. Such industries again include the list of essential services in Section 6 of Article 10, namely, the railways, city public transport, civil aviation, communications, and power engineering enterprises (with the exception of electric power enterprises, where strikes are outlawed entirely), medical and pharmaceutical institutions, food, water, sewerage and waste disposal, oil processing enterprises, and enterprises of “uninterrupted production” and “other types” (sic). The right to picket is generally regarded as intrinsic to the processes of industrial action, even if much restricted in certain jurisdictions. The extensive scope of prohibition is quite exceptional. In essence, Article 12 compromises the formal legislative statement of free collective bargaining rights, which implies that workers should have the right peacefully to persuade fellow employees to join an industrial action by not crossing a picket line and to dissuade them from entering the place of work during dispute. If a strike takes place at enterprises specified in Section 6 of Article 10, then the Section 3 of Article 12 states: “the executions of the minimum amount of conditions (services) necessary to satisfy the immediate (vital) needs of society according to the province established by the Government or executive body of the local government shall be ensured by the body leading a strike, as well as by the employer and employees designated by them.” This means that following the commencement of a lawful strike, even after the twenty one days period of notice has passed, trade unions may be required to allow for the provision of such services as the authorities may deem to be “essential.” Article 13, Lawfulness of a Strike, allows for further state interference through the court system: “…the court shall declare a strike unlawful if its goals contradict the Constitution of the Republic of Lithuania and other laws, if it has been called without compliance with the procedures and requirements set forth in this Law. Upon declaring a strike unlawful, it must be terminated on the day of the enforcement of the court decision. In the event that there are particularly important reasons, the court shall have the right to

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Article 13, which theoretically applies to all industries and allows the authorities to intervene in an industrial dispute if there are “particularly important reasons” would seem to offer almost unlimited scope for judicial interference. Taken together, these provisions give the Lithuanian state far greater powers to intervene in a strike action than is customary in western liberal democracies. The next section of this article details how the provisions of the Law on the Regulation of Collective Disputes impacted on one group of public service employees, the Vilnius bus and trolley bus drivers 3.

The Vilnius Strike With overall estimates of trade union density in Lithuania perhaps between a maximum of fifteen per cent to as low as five per cent of the working population, it is not surprising that collective labour agreements, as elsewhere in central and eastern Europe, are the exception rather than the rule.15 Collective bargaining agreements, as such, cover no more than ten per cent of the workforce. Bargaining agreements that do exist and are enforced, are largely confined to the public sector in larger state enterprises where the trade unions have residual presence. Private sector employers, especially in the newer enterprises, are reluctant to recognise trade unions or conclude collective labour agreements.16 Perhaps unsurprisingly, the number of reported strikes in Lithuania has been comparatively low.17 In the year 2000, there were fifty-six strikes in Lithuania of which twenty-one were warning strikes. In 2001 there were thirty-four reported strikes, of which twenty-nine were token strikes. These work stoppages, were generally of little more than a day’s duration and involved about 3,000 workers in 2000, and 1,700 workers in 2001. The stoppages took place almost exclusively in the state sector, that is, in transport and in education (which accounted for the overwhelming majority of the disputes, being largely over delayed payment of salaries).18 The origins of the Vilnius bus and trolley bus workers’ dispute reach back to April and May 1999 when public transport employees protested over delayed wages and a reduction of overtime work, which they argued lowered their wages.19 As required by the Law on the Regulation of Collective Disputes preparations were made for a secret ballot which was held in June and July. This ballot obtained the necessary majority for action. On 19 July 1999, the Municipality of Vilnius as employers, and the government, were informed of three two-hour warning strikes to be held in accordance with Article 10 of the Law on the Regulation of Collective Disputes. These warning strikes were to result in

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the withdrawal of transport services from 4am to 6am. If demands were not met then a full strike would take place on 9 September. Industrial disputes in the municipal transport industry are covered by the special provisions of Article 12 of the Law on the Regulation of Collective Disputes requiring “the minimum amount of conditions (services) necessary to satisfy the immediate (vital) needs of society.” Five days before the first warning strike, the Vilnius municipal authority adopted Decision No. 1443V ruling that a minimum service of seventy per cent of the normal transport provision would have to be provided by the striking workforce.20 Faced with this, the strike was postponed by the trade union until January 2000 while negotiations continued. The negotiations did not resolve the basic issues in dispute, and again, a warning strike was called for 18 January to be followed by a one-day stoppage called for 27 January. The municipal authority then applied to the court to have these strikes banned, and, at the same time, issued an order for the removal of buses and trolley buses from the vehicle depots under the ruse of a transfer of legal ownership. This represented an implicit threat of a lockout situation which would have affected the future livelihood of two hundred drivers. On 25 January, two days before the one-day stoppage, the Vilnius court postponed the strike for 30 days, as empowered under Article 13. Negotiations between the employees and the municipality took place the same day (arguably with the trade union under considerable duress, following the intended removal of vehicles by the administration) and a short-term agreement was reached to postpone the strike to 15 March 2000. For its part, the municipal authorities agreed not to drive away buses from the vehicle depots and to pay wages on time, and on 3 February withdrew the application to the court to have the strike declared illegal. When, in January, employee wages were not paid on time, the workforce again decided to strike; this time on 16 March 2000. A strike was eventually scheduled in mid-May, (one year after the dispute began). However, one day prior to the strike, on 17 May, the Vilnius district court, for the second time in the course of the dispute, made a ruling that the strike should be postponed for thirty days. Nevertheless, on 18 May the strike went ahead, being overwhelmingly supported by the workforce. Only two trolley buses and several buses out of five hundred in total left the depots. At 4pm that day, an agreement was reached between both sides for negotiations to begin in the near future and transport services were duly resumed. Negotiations, however, did not begin, and on 26 May the mayor of the municipality refused to withdraw the request to have the strike declared illegal. In the view of the trade union, this violated the agreement to negotiate in good faith made on 18 May. The mayor’s application to the court was examined by the Vilnius District Court on 4 July 2000, which ruled that the strike of 18 May had been illegal. The

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trade unions duly appealed. In a court of appeals judgement in September 2000, the lower court ruling was successfully annulled. Had it not been so annulled, then, under Chapter 4 of the Law on the Regulation of Collective Disputes, the trade union would have been liable for damages to the employer as a result of “unlawful” industrial action. Article 17, Liability of Trade Unions, specifies the details of the employer’s right to recover any losses incurred from an “unlawful” strike from the trade union itself. The Vilnius bus and trolley bus workers’ dispute exemplifies the continuing scope for legal manoeuvres in the courts provided by hostile employment legislation with respect to the right to strike which has made industrial action difficult to pursue. 4.

Complaint to ILO by the Motor Transport Workers’ Federation (MTWF) In the interim, in December 1999, the employees’ trade union, the Motor Transport Workers’ Federation (MTWF) of Lithuania lodged a complaint with the International Labour Organisation. This alleged that the authorities had contravened the ILO Freedom of Association and Protection of the Right to Organise Convention, 1948 (No.87) (ILO, 1948) and the Right to Organise and Collective Bargaining Convention, 1949 (No.98) (ILO, 1949). Lithuania, in common with most other former Soviet republics, has ratified both Conventions. However, neither Convention 87 nor 98 makes explicit reference to the right to strike, although supervisory bodies of the ILO have taken the view that such a right is “an integral part of the free exercise of trade union rights.”21 While the ILO does not have exclusive authority in matters of workers’ rights, it “has been recognised as the primary body with specialist expertise relating to labour standards.”22 A number of “core” labour principles are embodied in the ILO Constitution and the ILO Declaration on Fundamental Principles and Rights at Work 1998. Under the ILO Declaration, all member states – irrespective of which ILO Conventions they have ratified – are obliged to promote and to recognise the principles concerning freedom of association and the effective recognition of the right to collective bargaining. Procedurally in terms of dealing with such complaints, the committee on freedom of association (a constituent ILO tripartite committee which reaches its decisions by consensus) responds to complaints and issues a Digest detailing its findings. Nonetheless, there are no formal sanctions for failure to enforce ILO standards. With respect to the complaint before it, the committee on freedom of association felt that while public transport could not be considered an “essential service in the strict sense of the term,” it was indeed a “public service of primary importance.”23 The committee has consistently recognised that the right to strike may be curtailed in the public sector and in relation to essential services, but warned against

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defining essential services too broadly.24 Therefore, ILO conceded that the requirement of provision of a minimum service in the event of a strike could be justified. The committee further noted that Section 12 of the Law on the Regulation of Collective Disputes required that the body leading the strike to ensure minimum necessary services to satisfy the vital needs of society. However, the committee suggested that the determination of the level of this minimum should be a matter for “a careful exchange of views” involving the representatives of the employees as well as the authorities.25 In consequence: “the committee therefore regrets that the seventy per cent minimum service established by decision (of the municipality) was taken without any consultation with the social partners concerned. Furthermore, the committee finds itself obliged to conclude that, in this case, the requirement to ensure seventy per cent of the services provided cannot be considered to be a truly minimum service and that the likely result of such an imposition would be to render the exercise of the right to strike ineffective in practice. Noting that the legislation provides for a unilateral determination by the government authorities of the minimum services required, the committee requests the government to take the necessary measures to amend the legislation so as to ensure that the workers’ and employers’ organizations concerned may participate in the determination of the minimum service to be provided and, in the event that no agreement is reached, to ensure that the matter is settled by an independent body.”26 The ILO called on the Lithuanian authorities to ensure that Decision No. 1443V of Vilnius municipality, which established the minimum service threshold of 70 per cent, be revoked. With respect to the Vilnius court’s decisions to postpone the strikes of 25 January and 17 May, the committee further noted that Article 13 of the Law on the Regulation of Collective Disputes gave courts the right to declare strikes unlawful or postpone strikes due to “especially important reasons.” Despite earlier correspondence seeking clarification from the Lithuanian government, the committee observed a lack of clarity in the legislation as to what these “especially important reasons” might constitute. Noting that even though conciliation procedures were in place, and a twenty one-day warning notice of strike was still required:

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The committee further instructed the ILO’s committee of experts on the application of conventions and recommendations (CEACR) to examine the legislative aspects of the case.28 CEACR reiterated the request of the committee on freedom of association to the Lithuanian government to amend Article 10 of the law with respect to the definition of “essential services” and to lift the prohibition of the right to strike by workers not employed in essential services in the strict sense of the term. CEACR also expressed concerns about the legal framework and procedures for declaring a state of emergency (as strikes may be prohibited in regions where such a state is declared) under Article 10 of the Law. Finally, CEACR requested the Lithuanian authorities to indicate “whether there existed penal provisions, enforceable by prison sentences, restricting the right of workers to participate in industrial action in public transport, and public and social services.” CEACR suggested that while the authorities may establish a system of minimum service in sectors such as public transport, it must be a “genuinely minimum service,” that is one “limited to meeting the basic needs of the population while maintaining the effectiveness of strike pressure.”29 The ILO’s recommendations for legislative reform left the Lithuanian government with an unnecessary degree of exposure as a result of this dispute. Moreover, this exposure is a continuing one. Following further referral from the committee on freedom of association, in the light of the Lithuanian government’s subsequent responses to ILO comments, CEACR has been invited to revisit the issues raised. Reporting to the 2003 international labour conference with its “observation” on Lithuania, CEACR has essentially reiterated its previous concerns.30 In view of this, the ILO has signalled that the provisions of the new labour code of Lithuania, which the Lithuanian government claims supersedes many aspects of the provisions of the previous Law on the Regulation of Collective Disputes, will now be subject to scrutiny. In the final section of this chapter I discuss how far, to date, the government may claim to have taken on board previous ILO concerns arising from the Vilnius transport workers’ complaint, in the provisions of the new labour code.

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The new Lithuanian labour code (2002) In the spring of 2002 the social democratic-led coalition government finally turned its attention to enacting the new labour code, which updated previous legislation. Detailed draft proposals had been under intensive discussion in the tripartite commission since 1999.31 The ILO provided comments on the draft labour code to the ministry of social security and labour, as did EU experts.32 The experience of Poland, Hungary and the Czech Republic in redrafting their labour codes was also taken into account.33 The new Lithuanian labour code was enacted on 1 January 2003.34 With this enactment, the old Soviet labour code of 1973, last revised in 1989, was finally consigned to the past.35 Article 2 of the new Labour Code, describing Principles of Legal Regulation of Labour Relations, endorses the fundamental principles of freedom of association and freedom of collective bargaining. However, a qualifying statement is added, restricting labour rights “by law or court judgement, if such restrictions are necessary in order to protect public order, the principles of public morals, public health, property, rights and legal interests.”36 ILO comments on the draft code drew attention to the restrictions as being contrary to the provisions of the ILO Declaration on Fundamental Principles and Rights at Work 1998.37 Strikes are also prohibited “where a state of martial law of state of emergency has been declared.”38 The ILO emphasised that its freedom of association conventions do not permit any derogations or suspension of application based on a plea that an emergency exists.39 In this context, the Lithuanian government was “strongly urged to revisit” the labour code in draft form, in order to ensure that fundamental rights were “not exposed to the possibility of inappropriate restrictions.”40 However, the clauses reappeared in the final adopted Labour Code.41 No significant amendments with regard to the right to strike, therefore, were introduced to final version of the Lithuanian labour code of 2002. The required two-thirds majority of enterprise employees voting in favour of a strike remains a crucial obstacle.42 This stipulation was already contained in the previous Law on the Regulation of Collective Disputes.43 The view of the ILO on the draft labour code was that even a requirement for a majority vote of the workers “may in some cases excessively hinder the right to strike.”44 The two-thirds test was, however, incorporated unmodified into the final version of the new labour code. In addition, as with the former Law on the Regulation of Collective Disputes, the new labour code fails to provide for special rules governing the conduct of strikes at a level beyond the individual enterprise. The possibility of concluding collective bargaining agreements at the “upper levels” (sectoral, inter-sectoral, regional or national) has existed in law since the mid−1990s. However, specific procedural rules that would

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affirm the right to strike in the event of dispute over such collective agreements at supra-enterprise level do not exist. In consequence, in order to call a strike at higher than enterprise level, the trade unions must first exercise all the procedural requirements, including possible binding arbitration, regarding strikes at the level of the enterprise. Should a single employer fulfil the requirements of any collective bargaining agreement (and there could be a plurality of such agreements) then the strike could be prohibited.45 The new labour code, meanwhile reduced the notification requirement for the intention to strike from fourteen days in the draft Code, to seven in the final version adopted. A longer period of notice of fourteen days is again required for selected industries defined as “essential services.” This, however, is a slight improvement on the twenty-one days notice required under the previous law. In its comments on the draft labour code the ILO had noted that stringent requirements for conciliation procedures in the event of a dispute, culminating in binding arbitration, might result in the period of notification becoming a “deterrent to the exercise of the right to strike.”46 Essential services include, as before, those listed under Article 10 of the 1992 act. An unamended list of essential services is offered, including internal affairs, the defence and national security sectors, but also covering railway and public transport, civil aviation, communications and energy enterprises, health care and pharmaceutical institutions, food, water, sewage and waste disposal enterprises, oil refineries, enterprises with continuous production cycle and other enterprises in which a cessation of work would result in “grave and hazardous consequences for the community or human life and health .”47 In response to critical comments on the draft labour code by the ILO, some minor redefinition of the nature of essential services was introduced in the new labour code. The previous law, in English translation, spoke of restricting stoppages of work which “may result in difficult or dangerous consequences to society or the health and lives of humans.”48 In the new labour code, reference is made to “cessations of work which would result in grave and hazardous consequences for the community or human life and health,” which arguably might just represent a more stringent legal test for an essential service.49 However, a comparison of the Lithuanian versions of both texts reveals that the original formulation of the 1992 act in fact remains unaltered. For external monitoring agencies such as ILO, the vagaries of legal translation represent an additional obstacle in appraising the current legislation. Under the new labour code, as with the previous Law on the Regulation of Collective Disputes, “minimum conditions necessary for meeting the immediate (vital) needs of the society” must be ensured for the above specified list of industries above deemed to be “essential services.”50 If a strike “will affect the provision of minimum conditions

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(services) required for meeting the essential (vital) needs of the society and this may endanger human life, health and safety” a proposed strike may be cancelled for thirty days by the court, or suspended for the same period if it is already in progress.51 However, the unilateral determination of such “essential (vital) needs” is modified under Article 80.2 of the new Labour Code to allow determination of minimum conditions (services) by “tripartite consultation” whereby: Such minimum conditions (services) shall be determined by the Government in accordance with its competence, having regard to the opinion of the Tripartite Council or by the executive institution of a municipality upon consultation with the parties to the collective dispute (Republic of Lithuania, 2002b, Article 80.Section 2). The introduction of tripartite opinion into governmental or local authority determination represents a notional concession towards ILO concerns. However, an independent and impartial body to determine the minimum level of service in the event of continuing disagreement still remains to be defined in law. Again, in those industries in which strikes were prohibited (internal affairs, national defence and state security systems, electricity, district heating and gas supplying enterprises and first aid medical services), strikes continue to remain so. Employee demands will be settled by government, although not entirely unilaterally as before, but “taking into account the opinion of the tripartite council.”52 However, as above, an independent and impartial body to which continuing disagreements may be referred, and with competence to make a final ruling, is unspecified. In the draft labour code, the courts and the president of the republic had wide discretion in banning or interrupting strikes when a strike concerned “essentially important interests of the state.”53 In the final version of the new labour code, under Lawfulness of a Strike, ambiguities remain, although direct presidential powers of intervention are not stipulated. Powers to invoke penal sanctions against strikers under a state of emergency, by invoking provisions of the criminal code have now been removed under the amended criminal code of 2003. In the transport sector this could, in theory, have meant imprisonment for taking part in collective action for a period of up to three years. An act of industrial disobedience formerly could be legally characterised as “sabotage” (any action aimed at obstructing the proper functioning of public or other enterprises…with a view to weakening the State of Lithuania: Article 67 of the Amended Criminal Code). However, these provisions were removed from the new criminal code of 2003.54 In sum, the labour code reiterates most of the restrictive provisions of previous labour legislation.

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The specific and fairly modest recommendations of the ILO arising out of the Vilnius bus strike, as well as recommendations on the draft labour code appear to have been largely ignored, with the exception of some minor modifications. The ILO drew also attention to the inadequacy of the code’s provisions, which “do not go far enough to protect individual employees against dismissal on the grounds of union membership or activity.”55 As the ILO suggested, “dismissal in these circumstances should be unlawful, employers should be exposed to sanctions, and workers should be able to 56 be reinstated to their posts.” Compensation payments for dismissal by themselves were deemed insufficient. These suggestions appear to have been largely ignored in the new labour code, and the relevant sections are virtually identical in wording to the draft code of 1999.57 However, there is a provision for the reinstatement of an employee representative where dismissal has been effected without the consent of the prior consent of the body which s/he represents.58 On the other hand, where the employer is determined to press ahead with dismissal, s/he may appeal to the courts to prevent reinstatement “if the employer proves that this decision substantially violates his interests.”59 Such grounds for appeal would appear to offer considerable legal latitude. One of the chief complaints of trade union leaders in Lithuania today is the unjustified dismissal of their workplace activists.60 Again, several of the potentially draconian financial penalties of the previous Law on the Regulation of Collective Disputes against trade unions and strike committees in retaliation for industrial action deemed unlawful, are retained unaltered in the new labour code. Meanwhile, in an important modification of the previous law, individual strikers will no longer directly incur “material liability.”61 The overall effect of the new code is to “liberalize” employer opportunities to dismiss employees. The most insidious element, however, lies not its technical erosion of worker protection, cumbersome conciliation mechanisms, limitations on strikes in particular industries, or even in the encapsulation of neo-liberal assumptions concerning labour market flexibility. Rather, there is a fundamental change in the very definition of what constitutes a collective labour dispute. In the postindependence Law on the Regulation of Collective Disputes a collective labour dispute was characterised by a fairly wide-ranging and extensive manner, as a disagreement “resulting from the unsatisfied demands” of an enterprise collective or trade union.62 In the new labour code, a collective labour dispute is redefined in Article 68 as arising from a “conflict of interests” with respect to the enterprise collective agreement, in the course of negotiation, conclusion or implementation of that agreement.63 This means that a strike embarked upon to pursue wider democratic demands or defend basic labour rights could fall outside this narrow definition of interests, and therefore be construed as illegal. The ILO conventions 87 and 98 governing labour rights may be described as “core” labour

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principles in the sense that they refer to the crucial right of labour to assert its collective demands as independent social actors in society. Such rights are not qualified by any caveat which limits strikes to strictly circumscribed direct “interests” pertaining to the collective agreement in the enterprise. Had, for example, the striking Vilnius workers, in addition to seeking to end the indignity of periodical unpaid wages, also sought to withdraw their labour in protest at the unfavourable terms of the new labour code, then this action would have fallen outside the permissible limits. The Lithuanian state, at least formally, endorses the principle of social partnership in the new labour code by encouraging bilateral negotiations between employers and employee representatives in collective agreements. This includes the prohibition of acts to hinder the formation of trade unions among employees as well as interference with the lawful activities of trade unions.64 Some provisions of the new labour code, therefore, can be read as imposing restrictions on the employers’ ability to undermine strike activity by means such as deliberately preventing other parts of the enterprise from functioning, or imposing a lockout of either striking or non-striking personnel.65 However, none of this can detract from the fact that the new labour code severely circumscribes the right to strike. In consequence, Lithuania’s new labour code remains an object of continuing ILO concern.66 6.

Conclusion This analysis of legal inhibitions on the right to strike in Lithuania suggests that existing legislation, in spirit if not in the actual letter of the law, is contrary to the major ILO conventions on freedom of association and collective bargaining. Lithuania has incorporated the major European directives into its labour code of June 2002, while reiterating its adherence to the “core” ILO conventions. In 2002 Lithuania signed the revised but non-binding charter of fundamental rights, which endorses the right to strike.67 However, ILO opinions on the draft Lithuanian labour code, and the ILO recommendations following the formal complaint to ILO by the trade unions, have not been fully incorporated in the new labour code. In terms of the assertion of the basic right to strike in new central and east European member states such as Lithuania, it might conceivably be argued that a more equitable framework of labour law would be one which firstly recognizes the reticence of workers, for cultural and historical reasons, to assert their independent demands and, secondly, their current profound organizational weakness. If, in addition, a realistic assessment is made of the objective barriers to collective bargaining arising from economic restructuring, high unemployment and pervasive insecurity, then it is arguable that democratic norms should require a

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framework of employment legislation which at least sustains rather than constrains the effective withdrawal of labour. Seen in this light, the enthusiastic promotion of social dialogue and social partnership, as well as the mechanisms of conciliation in the workplace encouraged by both ILO and the EU, may be something of a false panacea. In the longer run, consensus in industrial relations may be weakened rather than strengthened where the means for seeking industrial peace are promoted at the expense of the necessary articulation of legitimate industrial grievances. When viewed within the context of aggressive liberalization, it seems unlikely that the Lithuanian labour code in particular will provide appropriate or equitable opportunities for redress of employee demands, without significant improvements in the effective legal right to strike. Returning to Coser’s view of conflict, the prevailing structure of collective labour law can be seen as providing a legal framework to sustain “rigid” social system in which the “toleration and institutionalisation” of conflict is low. Neo-liberal Lithuanian society is deprived of an important stabilizing mechanism that allows for the “readjustment of norms.” Coser had suggested that in smothering “a useful warning signal” – and here the pursuit of collective demands through industrial strike action may be included – the danger of “catastophic breakdown” could be intensified. The legal suppression of employee discontent at the workplace may actually reinforce rather than dissipate accumulating tensions in the social system. Today, the very modest concessions in the new labour code must be assessed against the broader backcloth of sustained efforts to circumscribe labour rights in Lithuania. As elsewhere in central and eastern Europe, the official endorsement of “the concept and principles of social partnership” cannot necessarily be taken as evidence for an equitable and functioning collective bargaining system. As the Baltic accession states take their place in the enlarged European Union, they may bring with them assumptions in the sphere of labour relations more based on US-style neo-liberalism that are, in key respects, out of line with the mainstream of European social democracy. In so doing, they may create an Achilles heel for European labour rights in general, and with that, for the integrative social cohesion and harmonization of law and industrial relations practices on which the success of European project will ultimately rest.

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Notes Acknowledgement is made of the generous support of a British Academy Larger Research Grant, the award of a Marie Curie Fellowship, a Visiting Fellowship to the Institute for Advanced Studies in the Humanities, the University of Edinburgh, and the award of a Marie Curie Chair, University of Latvia to Dr Charles Woolfson. Special thanks are due to Dr Tomas Davulis, Vice-Dean, Faculty of Law, Vilnius University and Jurgita Jurgutyte of the Bank of Lithuania for their helpful comments. Any errors remain the responsibility of the author.

1. USAID, 2002. 2. Phillips, 1999. 3. Pravda and Ruble, 1986. 4. Crowley and Ost, 2001; Pollert, 1999; Martin and Cristescu-Martin, 2001. 5. Cox and Mason, 2000; Pollert, 2000; Casale, 1999, 2000. 6. SIC Rinkos Tyrimai, 2001; Woolfson and Beck, 2004. 7. Weiss, 2004. 8. Rmykevitch, 2003; Petrovic, 2002; ICFTU, 2002a. 9. Carabelli and S. Sciarra, 1996; Mrachkov, 1996; Pliszkiewicz, 1999; Zenkin and Kudiukin, 2000; Mavrin, 2001; Rudokvas, 2001; Eiro Reports, 2002, 2003a, 2003b, 2003c; ICFTU, 2002b. 10. Campeanu, 1998. 11. Coser, 1968, 29. 12. Coser, 1968, 50−51. 13. Coser, 1968, 154. 14. All references to the legal provisions and articles that follow are from the 1999 Law unless otherwise stated. 15. Dovydenienė and Casale , 1999; Antila and Ylostalo, 2002, 2004. 16. Ministry of Social Affairs and Labour, 2001; Dovydenienė, 2001. 17. Republic of Lithuania, 2002a. The sensitivity of the issue of strikes can be gauged by the absence in official statistical sources of reported data regarding strikes in the manufacturing sector, on the grounds that these are “confidential data or data which do not meet publication criteria to preserve their anonymity and reidentification possibility.” See Statistical Yearbook of Lithuania, 2002. See Tables 6.22 to 6.25, op. cit., pp. 157−159. 18. Ministry of Social Affairs and Labour, 2002, 57. 19. ILO, 2001. 20. ILO, 2001, para. 597. 21. Creighton , 1982, 95ff. 22. Novitz, 2000.

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23. ILO, 2001, para. 616. 24. Creighton, 1982, 122. 25. ILO, 2001, para. 616. 26. ILO, 2001, para. 617. 27. ILO, 2001, para. 619. 28. CEACR, 2001. 29. CEACR, 2001. 30. International Labour Conference, 2003. 31. Republic of Lithuania, 1999. 32. ILO,1999; Galiana and Molto, 1999. 33. Ministry of Social Security and Labour, 2002, 58. 34. Republic of Lithuania, 2002b. 35. Lietuvos Tarybu Socialistines Respublikos, 1989. 36. Republic of Lithuania, 2002b, Article 2,Section 2. 37. ILO, 1999, para. 11. 38. Republic of Lithuania, 2002b, Article 80, Section 2. 39. ILO, 1996, para.186. 40. ILO, 1999, para. 11. 41. Republic of Lithuania, 2002b, Article 78, Section 2. 42. Republic of Lithuania, 2002b, Article 77 Sections 1 and 2. 43. Republic of Lithuania, 1999, Article 10, Sections 1 and 2. 44. ILO, 1999, para.41. 45. Republic of Lithuania, 2002b, Article 78, Section 3. 46. ILO, 1999, Section. 42. 47. Republic of Lithuania, 2002b, Article 78, Section 4. 48. Republic of Lithuania, 1999, article 10. 49. Republic of Lithuania, 2002, article 77, para. 4. 50. Republic of Lithuania, 2002b, article 80. 51. Republic of Lithuania, 2002b, Article 81, Section 4. 52. Republic of Lithuania, 2002b, Article 78.Section 1. 53. Republic of Lithuania, 1999, Article 82. 54. Lietuvos Respublikos baudžiamojo kodekso patvirtinimo įsigaliojimo įstatymas. 55. ILO, 1999, para. 64. 56. ILO, 1999 para 64. 57. Republic of Lithuania, 2002b, Article 129 Section.3.1. 58. Republic of Lithuania, 2002b, Article 134, Section 5. 59. Republic of Lithuania, 2002b, Article 134, Section 3. 60. ICFTU, 1999. 61. Republic of Lithuania, 2002b, Article 85. 62. Republic of Lithuania, 1999. 63. Republic of Lithuania, 2002b, Article 68. 64. Republic of Lithuania, 2002b, Article 35. 65. Republic of Lithuania, 2002b, Article 83.

ir

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66. International Labour Conference, 2003. 67. European Union, 2000, Republic of Lithuania, 2001.

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ICFTU (International Confederation of Free Trade Unions) (2002a), “Russia: World Bank Comments on Draft Labour Code,” ICFTU CEE Network, 20, 4−9. ICFTU (2002b), “Russia: New Labour Code – Weakening Trade Unions” ICFTU CEE Network, .21−22, 3−4; “Yellow Cards for the Croatian Government: Croatia – Change yourselves and not the Labour Code!” ICFTU CEE Network, .21−22,5; “Poland – White and Blue Demonstrations – Government’s anti-labour face,” ICFTU CEE Network, .21−22, 6-7; “Slovak Republic – Employers as allies?!” ICFTU CEE Network, .21-22, 8; International Labour Conference (2003), 91st Session 2003, Report III (Part 1A), Third item on the agenda: Information and reports on the application of Conventions and Recommendations, Report of the Committee of Experts on the Application of Conventions and Recommendations (articles 19, 22 and 35 of the Constitution) General Report and observations concerning particular countries, C.87 Observation on Lithuania, pp.275−278 at http://www.ilo.org/public/english/standards/relm/ilc/ilc91/pdf/rep-iii1a.pdf ILO (International Labour Organisation) (1948), C87 Freedom of Association and Protection of the Right to Organise Convention, 1948. ILOLEX, http:/www.ilo.org/ilolex/cgi-les/convde.pl?C087 ILO (International Labour Organisation) (1949), C98 Right to Organise and Collective Bargaining Convention 1949. ILOLEX, http:/www.ilo.org/ilolex/cgi-les/convde.pl?C098 ILO (International Labour Organisation) (1999), Comments of the International Labour office on the Draft Labour Code, 1999, of the Republic of Lithuania (authors possession) ILO (International Labour Organisation) (2001), 324th Report of the Committee on Freedom of Association, Complaint against the Government of Lithuania presented by the Motor-Transport Workers’ Federation (MTWF) Report No. 324, 2001, Case(s) No(s). 2078. at http://ilolex.ilo.ch:1567/english/caseframeE.htm Lietuvos Respublikos baudžiamojo kodekso patvirtinimo ir įsigaliojimo įstatymas (2003), 2003 04 10, Nr. VIII-1968 at http://www3.lrs.lt/cgi-bin/preps2?Condition1=211457&Condition2=

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Lietuvos Respublikos Kolektyvinių ginčų įstatymas (1992), 1992 03 17, Nr. I−2386 at http://www3.lrs.lt/cgi-bin/preps2?Condition1=1918&Condition2= English version at http://www3.lrs.lt/cbin/eng/preps2?Condition1=21150&Condition2= Lietuvos Respublikos Kolektyvinių ginčų įstatymas (1994), 1994 03 31, Nr. I−2386 at http://www3.lrs.lt/cgi-bin/preps2?Condition1=21994&Condition2= Lietuvos Respublikos Kolektyvinių ginčų įstatymas (1999), 1999 11 11, Nr.I−2386 at http://www3.lrs.lt/cgi-bin/preps2?Condition1=91248&Condition2= Lietuvos Tarybų Socialistinės Respublikos (1989), Darbo Įstatymų Kodeksas, Teisingumo Ministerijos Leidykla. Martin, R. and A. Cristescu-Martin (2001), “Employment Relations in Central and Eastern Europe in 2000: The Road to the EU,” Industrial Relations Journal, 32, 2: 480−493. Mavrin, S.P. (2001), “On Some Peculiarities and Problems of Russian Labour law,” International Journal of Comparative Labour Law, and Industrial Relations, 17, 4:.399−406. Ministry of Social Security and Labour (2001), Social Report, Year 2000, Vilnius. at http://www.socmin.lt/pdf/SocialReport2000.pdf Ministry of Social Security and Labour (2002), Social Report, Year 2001. Vilnius. at http://www.socmin.lt/?1545971650 Mrachkov, V. (1996), “Recent Changes in the Labour Code and the Transition to a Market Economy: A Review of Bulgaria’s Experience” Bulletin of Comparative Labour Relations: 21−34. Novitz, T. (2000), “International promises and domestic pragmatism: to what extent will the Employment Relations Act 1999 implement international labour standards relating to freedom of association?” Modern Law Review, 6,3: 379−393.

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Petrovic, J.A. (2002), “Condemned to a uniform and ideologically-driven model,” ICFTU CEE Network, 20, May: 1−2. Phillips, A.L. (1999), “Exporting Democracy: German Political Foundations in Central and Eastern Europe,” Democratization, 6, 2: 70−98. Pliszkiewicz, M. (1999), “Le développement du nouveau droit du travail en Europe centrale et orientale,” Revue Internationale de Droit Comparé, 51,2: 281−305. Pollert, A. (1999), Transformation at Work: Labour and the Political Economy of Central Eastern Europe, London, Sage. Pollert, A. (2000), “Ten Years of Post-Communist Central and Eastern Europe: Labour’s Tenuous Foothold in the Regulation of the Employment Relationship,” Economic and Industrial Democracy, 21: 183−210. Pravda, A. and B.A. Ruble (eds.) (1986), Trade Unions in Communist States, Boston: Allen & Unwin. Republic of Lithuania (1999), Draft Labour Code of the Republic of Lithuania, Vilnius. (authors’ possession). Republic of Lithuania (2001), Law No IX 317 of 15 May 2001 On Ratification of the European Social Charter (as Amended) (Official Gazette No. 49−1699, 2001). Republic of Lithuania (2002a), Statistical Yearbook of Lithuania 2002,Vilnius: Department of Statistics. Republic of Lithuania (2002b), Labour Code, Official Gazette "Valstybes žinios,” No 64) of the Republic of Lithuania published on 14 June 2002 at http://www3.lrs.lt/c-bin/eng/preps2?Condition1=191770&Condition2= Rmykevitch, O. (2003), “The codification of the Russian labour law: issues and perspectives,” International Journal of Comparative Labour Law and Industrial Relations, 19, 2: 143−162. Rudokvas, A.D. (2001), “Trade Unions and Labour Law in a Modern Russia,” International Journal of Comparative Labour Law and Industrial Relations, 17, 4: 407−422.

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SIC Rinkos Tyrimai (2001), Research about Trade unions; Survey on behalf of Education Support Fund of Lithuanian Trade Unions Unification, Vilnius. USAID (2002), Monitoring country progress in Central and Eastern Europe & Eurasia, USAID/E&E/PCS, Office of Program Coordination and Strategy Bureau for Europe & Eurasia, U.S. Agency for International Development, No. 8, 8 at http://www.usaid.gov/regions/europe_eurasia/country_progress/eighth/mc p-october-2002.pdf Weiss, M. (2004), “Enlargement and Industrial Relations: Building a new social partnership,” The International Journal of Comparative Labour Law and Industrial Relations, 20, 1: 5−26. Woolfson, C. and M. Beck (2004), “The End of Labour Quiesence? Industrial Unrest in Contemporary Lithuania” International Journal of Comparative Labour Law and Industrial Relations, 20, 2: 227−251. Zenkin, I.V. and P.M. Kudiukin (2000), “The Reform of Labour Relations in the Russian Federation: Problems and Prospects,” Review of Central and East European Law, 51, 2: 175−195.

Author affiliation: Charles Woolfson is director of the European centre for occupational health, safety and the environment at the University of Glasgow, UK, and currently holds a Marie Curie chair at the Vilnius Eurofaculty, Lithuania.

Old and new minorities on the international chessboard: from League to Union Dirk Crols At the beginning of the 20th century, the famous legal scholar Oppenheim argued that the sovereignty of a state encompasses supremacy over all persons and things within its territory (territorial supremacy), authority over its citizens at home and abroad (personal supremacy) and independence from any external authority1. This last element is commonly termed Westphalian sovereignty, namely the exclusion of external actors from the domestic authority structures of a state2. Sovereignty implies that the policy which a state follows towards its citizens or other people within its territory cannot be the concern of another state or international organisation3. The Westphalian sovereignty of a state is violated when external actors impose upon it requirements in spheres such as minority rights. During their two periods of independence existence (1918−1940 and 1991 to date), Estonia and Latvia have arguably constituted perfect examples of what Rogers Brubaker calls “nationalising states,” that is to say “state(s) of and for a particular ethnocultural ‘core nation’ whose language, culture, demographic position, economic welfare and political hegemony must be protected and promoted by the state.”4 Yet, in both eras, the policies of international organisations (the League of Nations and the European Union respectively) have had important implications for the Westphalian sovereignty of the two states and the state-building processes which they have pursued. In this contribution, I compare the approach of the League of Nations towards the minority policy of Latvia during the interwar period with the policy of the European Union towards the citizenship policy of Estonia in the period between 1991−2002. I will show that although there is much talk nowadays about a Europe “beyond the nation-state,” the European Union continues to regard the unitary and integrated nation-state model as the key to stability and security in Eastern Europe, much as the League of Nations did between the wars. 1.

The League of Nations and the minority policy of Latvia After the First World War, the allied powers imposed upon the countries of Central and Eastern Europe and some other states a minority protection system, in order to ensure the domestic stability of these countries and the international peace. Five minorities treaties were concluded in 1919−1920 between Poland, Czechoslovakia, Rumania, Yugoslavia and Greece, respectively, on the one hand, and the “principal allied and associated powers” on the other. In the peace treaties with

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Austria, Hungary, Bulgaria and Turkey, special chapters concerning minority protection were inserted. The system of the League further consisted of two treaties and declarations made by Albania, Estonia, Finland, Latvia, Lithuania and Iraq to the Council.5 The minority protection system of the League pursued a double aim, namely the prohibition of discrimination of citizens belonging to racial, religious and linguistic minorities and the protection of the separate characteristics of those minorities6. The treaties contained provisions ensuring the protection of life, liberty and religion. Further they guaranteed citizens belonging to minorities equal civil and political rights, equality before the law and an equal right of admission to public functions and other professions. Minority citizens also had an equal right to establish, manage and control charitable, religious and social institutions, schools and other educational institutions at their own expense and the right to use their own language and to practise their own religion freely within them. Signatory states could not restrict the use of any minority language in private intercourse, in commerce, in religion, in the press, or in publications or public meetings of any kind. Alongside these provisions guaranteeing negative equality, the treaties also ensured positive equality. Firstly, the treaty-bound states agreed to provide minorities with adequate facilities for the use of their own language before the courts. Secondly, in towns and districts containing a considerable proportion of citizens whose mother tongue was not the official state language, adequate facilities were to be provided to ensure that in primary schools, instruction would be given to the children in their own language. Finally, the treaties contained a clause stipulating that in towns or districts where there was a considerable proportion of citizens belonging to racial, religious or linguistic minorities, the state had to guarantee them an equitable share in the enjoyment and application of the sums provided out of municipal or other budgets for educational, religious or charitable purposes7. Each of the treaties also contained stipulations regulating the acquisition of citizenship8. The intent of these citizenship clauses was to protect individuals against denationalisation and to ensure respect for the elementary rights of populations inhabiting the territories allocated to the new states9. To ensure the observance of the minority clauses, the treaties and declarations foresaw both an internal constitutional and an international guarantee. Internally, the obligated state recognised the principal clauses as “fundamental laws” and undertook that “no law, regulation, or official action shall conflict or interfere with them.”10 The only real guarantee, however, was the international guarantee. By virtue of the international guarantee, the signatory countries agreed that the stipulations concerned constituted obligations of international concern and were placed under the guarantee of the League of Nations. The minority provisions could not be modified without the assent of the majority of the members of the Council

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of the League. Further, any member of the council had the right to bring to its attention any infraction or any danger of infraction and could thereupon take such action or give such directions it deemed proper. The second organ charged with the international guarantee was the permanent court of international justice. This could give a judgment in the event of a contentious procedure or advisory opinions upon any dispute or question referred to it by the council or by the assembly of the League. The treaties and declarations did not prescribe the procedure to be followed in the execution of the guarantee of the League and therefore a minority protection procedure was established by the council through several resolutions, adopted in the period between 1920 and 192911. As a result of these successive resolutions, the minority protection procedure could be summarized as follows. 12 The minorities section of the secretariat received, from any source – be it a state, an organisation, or minority group – petitions alleging the mistreatment of minorities and then determined the receivability of these petitions. When a petition had been found receivable, it was sent to the government complained against, which could then make observations within two months. The petition and the government’s observations were then communicated simultaneously to each member of the council for purely informational purposes, and to a committee of three consisting of the president of the council and two members appointed by him. Through the creation of this organ, no member of the Council could ever be placed in the delicate position of having to take the initiative in accusing a government before the council of infringing its minority obligations. Through the “collectivising” of the initiative and the placing of the responsibility for it conjointly on three members of the Council, the way was open for the actual treatment of minority questions by the League. The minority committee studied the problem with the assistance of the minorities section of the secretariat. It could either dismiss the charge as an unfounded complaint or decide that the evidence merited an examination by the council as a whole, or secure remedial action through informal negotiation with the accused state. In the great majority of cases, the committee began a dialogue with the government concerned, seeking additional information and often also trying to obtain from the government agreement to reverse policies or actions, or to pay compensation for damages done13. Altogether, only fourteen minorities questions were referred to the council by minorities committees, out of a total of about 325 taken up by the committees14. In cases where the minority committee decided that the problem had to be dealt with by the council, the latter examined the complaint in conjunction with a representative of the state concerned, who took a seat at the council. Since the council could not reach a decision without a concurring vote from the state, it was forced to achieve a settlement through compromise.

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Although the relationship between the states concerned and their minorities was internationalised by the League guarantee and was thus no longer a purely domestic affair, the minority protection procedure itself was essentially a political procedure, in which the sovereignty of the states was scrupulously respected and safeguarded. The petitioner stood as a source of information only. Once he had submitted his petition, he was left wholly out of the procedure. The minorities committees were instituted to determine which cases merited being placed on the council agenda. Typically at such committee meetings, the director of the minorities section would recommend a specific course of action to the committee; for example, that it close consideration of the case, request additional information from the government, or suggest certain actions to the government. If the committee agreed with the recommendations made to it, as it usually did, it would then authorize the minorities section to write on the committee’s behalf to the government concerned or to discuss the problem unofficially with the government’s Geneva representative, to obtain additional information or statements of policy. As a result of these discussions, some mutually acceptable solution to the problem would eventually evolve. Either the government would accept the committee’s view of what actions were necessary, or the committee, advised by the minorities section, would agree to settle for something less than initially seemed desirable because the government would go no further. Respect for state sovereignty was even more accentuated when the question became before the full council. To avoid any indication that the petitionaries were parties in a case against the state concerned, the petitioner was not invited to take part in the discussions in the council. In theory, the council’s powers were quite extensive. This power was, however, fundamentally altered by the right of the state concerned to sit (with voting rights) as a member of the council and by the unanimity rule. Since there was no possibility of adopting a decision which was unacceptable to that state, the process before the council was one of negotiation and pressure, aimed at finding some mutually satisfactory solution, just as it had been at the committee stage15. In these negotiations and settlements, the council not only occupied itself largely with extra-legal considerations but also limited its considerations largely to the government’s side only. Whenever it did settle a question, it couched its resolution in the most conciliatory terms and only rarely provided for any supervision of the execution of the settlement16. It is important to see the League’s minority policy in perspective. The states of central and eastern Europe were of crucial strategic importance to the French and the British, who wanted to preserve a buffer between Germany and a Bolshevik Russia. France and Great Britain were only interested in internally stable states. Persistent criticism of the

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minority policy of these states might possibly result in an end to these states’ participation in the allied-sponsored security system 17. A.

The Estonian and Latvian minority declarations Jewish organisations had initiated the establishment of the minority protection system and it was also on request of the joint Jewish committee that the great powers tried to subject the three Baltic states to the same minority obligations as the treaty-bound states18. In Latvia, the minorities formed a larger proportion of the total population – amounting in 1930 to 23,4% – and played a correspondingly more important role in political life than did those in Estonia or Lithuania. The large Russian minority (12%) consisted chiefly of peasants, whereas the Jews (4,8%) were concentrated in the towns. The German minority (3,2%) was made up mainly of expropriated landlords and of merchants. Most of the Poles (2,5%) belonged to the small landowning and middle classes19. While Lithuania signed and submitted a minority declaration whose provisions were practically identical to the Polish minority treaty20, Estonia and Latvia refused to sign such a declaration. In their view, a declaration modelled on the Polish minority treaty constituted an unacceptable violation of their sovereignty. The result of this refusal was two years of tough negotiations between the Estonian and Latvian representatives Pusta and Walters and the Council. The former maintained that there were no general obligations in the field of minority protection. The minority provisions in the treaties were only binding on the signatory states and created no obligations for Estonia and Latvia. In this regard, Walters made it clear to the council that his government considered the question of naturalisation as a matter which entirely belonged to the sovereignty of the Latvian state and which therefore could not be in any way be subjected to the League of Nations. The fact that certain treaties – placed under the control of the League – contained stipulations about naturalisation justified in his view in no way an intervention by the League. According to the Latvian representative, the League of Nations was only the executive organ of the states which had concluded the relevant treaties and whose stipulations could not be applied to nonsignatory countries21. In connection with this, Pusta and Walters pleaded for a general minority system that would encompass all countries. Pending such regime, they underlined that they remained entirely sovereign in this matter22. Finally, the negotiations resulted in a diplomatic victory for Estonia and Latvia. The declarations signed by these two countries did namely not contain the same international guarantee and detailed minority clauses as the treaties.23 Ito has pointed out that the Estonian and Latvian declaration started from a certain presumption, namely that the treatment of minorities in their countries was in accordance with the general principles of the minority treaties. On the basis of this presumption,

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Estonia and Latvia assumed the international obligation not to modify this situation in a way that was detrimental to their minorities. Through their declarations, Estonia and Latvia committed themselves internationally to continue their policies24. Yet De Azcarate has also observed that while the wording of the Estonian and Latvian declarations differed completely from the treaties and other declarations, in practice the result was the same25. Although Estonia and Latvia indeed succeeded formally in preserving their sovereignty, the declarations had the effect that henceforth their minorities could petition the League in case of a violation of the general principles of the minority treaties26. In this regard, Moskov argues that these declarations had the same purpose as the treaties in the League’s system. Since the treaties had inspired the declarations, the enforcement of these declarations also followed the way the treaties were executed27. B.

The April 1925 petition of the Baltic barons against Latvia Immediately after their independence, Estonia and Latvia passed drastic land reform acts. Through these laws the Estonians and Latvians wanted to break the power of the German landlords and to regain control over their states28. Soon after these laws were adopted, representatives of German landlords submitted minority petitions to the League, arguing these laws discriminated against the German minority. The most interesting petition – involving several issues of sovereignty – was the one submitted against Latvia in April 192529. In April 1925, W. Baron Fircks and Von Vegesack, two German members of the Latvian Parliament, petitioned the League because of the promulgation of the new agrarian reform law in the previous year. In their petition, the two Baltic Germans pointed out that 2,700,000 hectares formerly possessed by persons belonging to the German minority had been expropriated without compensation. In their view, the new agrarian reform law clearly discriminated against the German minority. Only their lands (noble lands) were expropriated, while the lands of the Latvian majority (peasant lands) were not affected. Also, minority representatives were excluded from the central agrarian committee. The petitioners thus raised issues like the discriminatory taking of property, ethnicity-based exclusion from the benefits of reform and denial of fair compensation for the property taken. Accordingly, they accused the Latvian government of violating the principle of equality before the law, as embodied in the Polish and other minority treaties. Since the Latvian declaration of 7 July 1923 provided that the issue of minority treatment could be reopened, the petitioners requested a consideration of their case by the League and demanded that the council ask the permanent court of international justice for an advisory opinion regarding the agrarian law and the different actions of the Latvian government.30

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The bulk of the response of the Latvian government consisted of a detailed analysis of the agrarian reform law and other closely related laws and a factual assessment of how these laws were implemented. The Latvian government argued that the land reform was not discriminatory and that it served a very important purpose, namely internal stability. Latvia was an agrarian country and therefore it was essential that the former feudal system of the latifundia – enormous estates owned by a few landlords – was abolished and their lands distributed among small peasants and people who possessed nothing. The Latvian government and the civilian organisation (“l’organisation bourgeois”) of the state could only be sustained if Latvia possessed a strong landowning peasant class.31 As in other countries of central and eastern Europe, an agrarian reform in Latvia was a prerequisite for a stable organisation of the state. Land reform was absolutely necessary to counter communist influences and to keep the Soviet Union at bay. 32 The Latvian government further argued that it was the right of every state to pursue a certain socio-economic policy, even if this meant that certain ethnic groups were affected more than others by this policy. Reasons of public order, social necessity, economic development or internal stability demanded and allowed a state to regulate and organise the crucial trade and industry sector which was dominated by members of minorities.33 The Latvian government pointed out that members of minorities had the possibility to challenge government acts before the supreme court. It emphasised that the League of Nations could not intervene with regard to judicial decisions without violating the sovereignty of the Latvian state and affecting the authority of its courts of law. The League had no authority to reverse judicial decisions with regard to the interpretation of the law or the assessment of the facts.34. It concluded that the land reform in Latvia was completely in accordance with the Latvian declaration of 7 July 1923. More specifically, this agrarian reform resulted from a social necessity, as inscribed in the following declaration: “considering that the regulation of the question of minorities in Latvia must take into account the constitution and sovereign rights of the Latvian State, as well as of its social necessities (…).”35 The establishment and preservation of social peace in Latvia was also in the minorities’ interest. The petition together with the Latvian observations was examined by a committee of three which requested – by way of a letter from Colban, the director of the minorities section36 – the Latvian government to explore the possibility of financial compensation. In his reply of 11 May 1926, Latvian representative Duzmans began by repeating the former arguments of his government. Every state had the right to adapt its own legislation, even if certain laws affected members of certain minorities more than the majority group. Duzmans then asserted that there was no

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minority problem in Latvia and warned that any international intervention could only disturb the social and national peace in his country. He argued that these conflicts originated from the uneasy relationship between the domain of international law and the domain of the exclusive competence of the national legislator. The question of financial compensation as a result of the agrarian reform was a matter which exclusively belonged to the competence of the Latvian legislator and had nothing to do with the international protection of minorities.37 On 8 June 1926 the committee of three concluded its examination of the question without recommending any action by the Council.38 The outcome of this petition was not exceptional. In fact, with regard to petitions against agrarian reform legislation, it was the rule. Petitions by the Baltic Germans in Estonia had a similar outcome. 2.

The European Union and the citizenship policy of Estonia Estonia’s contemporary citizenship and language policy results from the country’s claim to be identical to the state that existed on its territory before 1940. During the failed August 1991 coup d’etat in the USSR, the Estonian parliament – like its Latvian and Lithuanian counterparts – declared that the interwar independence of Estonia was restored.39 In line with their former position, the then European Community (EC) and its member states accepted the Baltic thesis of legal continuity.40 On 27 August 1991, EC foreign ministers held an extraordinary meeting in which they issued a declaration welcoming warmly the restoration (my emphasis) of sovereignty and independence of the Baltic states which they had lost in 194041. Most of the western states resumed diplomatic relations with the Baltic states which they had considered to have been restrained during occupation42. Estonia had, however, become a completely different country. The forcible annexation of Estonia to the Soviet Union namely had a tremendous social, political and demographic impact. The Soviet authorities had undertaken massive deportation campaigns and had encouraged large-scale immigration of Russians to work in the industrial and administrative sectors. This had resulted firstly in a steady reduction of the ethnically Estonian (titular) share of the population, and secondly in a decline of the titular presence within the republic’s power structures.43 The Soviet Union had also pursued a Russification policy which had led to a decline in the use of the Estonian language and an increased use of Russian as the language of government and interethnic communication. After independence, the governments of Estonia and Latvia tried to reverse a status quo which they saw as rooted in historical injustice. Under a decree of the supreme soviet of the Republic of Estonia, the law on citizenship of 1938 in the version of 16 June 1940 was put into force on 26 February 1992. Like the Latvian resolution of 15 October 1991, this

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law applied the principle of ius sanguinis.44 Only citizens of 1940 Estonia and their direct descendants on the father’s side could become Estonian citizens. Post-war settlers and their descendants who wanted to become Estonian citizens had to go through a process of naturalisation. They were required to: comply with the prerequisite of a two-year residence; be living in the country for a further waiting period of one year after filing their application; give proof of knowledge of Estonian language; swear an oath of allegiance to the Estonian constitution; and have no reason for exclusion (e.g. as members of armed forces of foreign states, former staff of the Soviet security bodies).45 It was simultaneously decreed that the period when proof of residence became a requirement should begin on 30 March 1990, with the consequence that the earliest possible moment of naturalisation was 1 April 1993. Consequently, Soviet-era settlers and their descendents were excluded from voting on the constitutional referendum as well as in the parliamentary and presidential elections of 1992. This affected almost 40 per cent of the population of voting age. Through the declaration of 27 August 1991, the EC and its member states formally agreed with the thesis that the Baltic states did not constitute successor states to the former USSR and would therefore be free of such rights and obligations as would be consequential upon succession.46 On this basis, David Smith argues that the decision to apply the restorationist principle to citizenship policy was certainly facilitated by the EC’s acceptance of the thesis of legal continuity.47 The implications of this declarations, he claims were “far-reaching”: “by recognising the restoration of Estonian statehood on the basis of legal continuity, the west implicitly gave the green light to exclusionary policies vis à vis soviet-era settlers.”48 A.

From Trade to Accession Although the EC member states had endorsed the principle of legal continuity, they made it also clear to these countries that there were “limits to restorationism.”49 Their legal approach would not serve as a justification for a decolonisation policy. The EC member states indicated that they did not dispute the legal basis of Estonia’s citizenship policy and that this policy was a legitimate response to a peculiar set of circumstances. On the other hand, they were also deeply concerned about the possible socio-political consequences of this law and thus insisted that Estonia take steps to integrate its non-citizens as quickly as possible.50 This double attitude was reflected in the discussion of the trade and cooperation agreements (TCAs) in the European parliament. On 11 May 1992 the TCAs with the Baltic states were signed51. Article 1 of these agreements contained a so-called “essential element” clause, a provision defining democratic principles and respect for human rights as an essential element of the agreements.52 This meant that the application of democratic principles and the respect for human rights were no longer an internal

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affair that belonged to the sovereignty of the Baltic states but “the subject of common interest” and “part of the dialogue between the parties.”53 Together with the essential element clause, an explicit “suspension” clause (“non-compliance/non-execution clause”) was introduced in the TCAs with the Baltic states. Since then, this clause has been known as the “Baltic clause.” This allowed the EC to suspend immediately the application of the agreement in whole or in part in case of serious breach of essential provisions, including of course, in the commission’s view, serious and persistent human rights violations and serious interruptions of the democratic process. 54 The contractual and even the customary minimum notice requirement was put aside.55 On this basis, Hoffmeister has described this clause as an “einseitiges Sanktionsinstrument.”56 From the autumn of 1992, Russia began to internationalise the citizenship issue in Estonia and Latvia. This strategy was successful in its aim of focusing western attention and the attention of the European parliament (EP) on the Baltic states57. In his report on Estonia on behalf of the EP committee on foreign external economic relations, Gary Titley strongly criticized the citizenship policy of Estonia. He also referred to discriminatory practices in the privatisation process.58 In the subsequent plenary debate, too, Titley argued that the Estonian citizenship law was discriminatory. Its aim was to deny the Russians “elementary civil rights” and to push them to leave the country. In his view, Estonia came close to the policy of “ethnic cleansing” in Yugoslavia. Although Mr. Titley was in favour of the TCA with Estonia, he urged the EC to put pressure on Estonia to soften its citizenship law.59 European commission member Bruce Millan responded by pointing to the fact that article 1 of the agreements stipulated respect for human rights, including the rights of minorities. He added that the agreements could be suspended in case of disregard of human rights. Having said this, one could not disregard the special historical situation of the Baltic states. In any case, the commission would see to it that these states would take all the necessary measures to ensure their internal stability and their harmonious relations with their neighbour states (my emphasis).60 Although the European parliament approved the TCAs, it declared itself “disturbed” by the “worsening tension” in the Baltic states and requested that the European commission closely monitor the future internal situation and react rapidly in the framework of the human rights clauses in the agreements.61 Unlike Russia, however, the EP saw no reason to suspend the departure of Russian troops. On the contrary, its resolution of 23 April 1993 demanded that Russia accelerate this departure.62. Referring to the essential elements clause of the TCAs, it requested that the three countries take all measures necessary to safeguard the nondiscrimination of Russian-speaking inhabitants according to international

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law. Any governmental action in the direction of a forced expulsion of minorities would lead to the suspension of all aid and community assistance. On the other hand, it also underlined that the presence of the large Russian-speaking group resulted from a deliberate policy of Sovietisation. Immediately after the entering into force of the TCAs, respectively on 1 February and on 1 March 1993, the Baltic states wanted to start negotiations on Europe agreements with the EC. However, the Copenhagen European council opted instead for free trade agreements (FTAs).63 These agreements, signed on 18 July 1994, did no longer contain the earlier Baltic clause.64 The Baltic clause namely had the potential to bring numerous legal problems to the Community, and so was replaced by the so-called “Bulgarian clause.” Whereas the Baltic clause only allowed for an immediate suspension, the Bulgarian clause was formulated in a more diplomatic way: it aimed first at finding a solution, reserving suspension or non-execution for cases of special urgency. 65 It provided for preliminary consultations and a conciliation procedure within the framework of the association council and was designed to keep the agreement operational wherever possible: “If either Party considers that the other Party has failed to fulfil an obligation under this agreement, it may take appropriate measures. Before so doing, except in cases of special urgency, it shall supply the association council with all relevant information required for a thorough examination of the situation with a view to seeking a solution acceptable to the Parties. In the selection of measures, priority must be given to those which least disturb the functioning of this agreement. These measures shall be notified immediately to the association council and shall be the subject of consultations within the association council if the other Party so requests.” On 12 June 1995, European Agreements (EAs) with the Baltic states were signed.66 Like the FTAs, these contained a “Bulgarian clause.” The minority question was very briefly discussed in the plenary session of the European parliament. Mr. Truscott pointed out that an often-heard complaint of the Russian speakers was that the official language examinations are arbitrary and expensive. Because only citizens have the right to vote, most Russian speakers (only 140,000 of the 400,000 nonEstonians were Estonian citizens) were unable to vote in the parliamentary elections of March 1995. In case of a deterioration of the human rights situation, the EU could invoke the human rights clause of the EA67. Gary Titley reiterated the need to continue to monitor closely the human rights situation of the Russian minority. With regard to the free movement of

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people, problems could, in his view, arise from the restrictive citizenship laws. While Estonian and Latvian citizens enjoyed that freedom, noncitizens – residing for many years in these countries – were not allowed to move to EU-countries.68. Other speakers underlined that the citizenship question could not be separated from fifty years of Sovietisation. Only gradual change was possible.69 Thus, in the period between 1991 and 1997 Estonia gradually strengthened its relationship with the EU. Its nationalising policies never played a major role – let alone hindered – this process of rapprochement. The process was mainly driven by the internal Russian situation and geopolitical interests. The result of the first Duma elections, with the victory of Vladimir Zhirinovsky, could well be the main reason why the FTAs with the Baltic states were turned into EAs even before they entered into force. Illustratively is the fact that the amendments to the Estonian Citizenship Law in January 1995 increased the residence requirement for citizenship to five years, whilst introducing further tests which required applicants to demonstrate a detailed knowledge of the Estonian Constitution and the political system70. B.

From Avis to Membership Only after 1997 did Estonia take some steps to revise its nationalising policies with regard to citizenship. The question of Estonia’s stateless children provides a good example. The ius sanguinis principle which underpinned the Estonian law on citizenship initially dictated that children born to non-citizens living in Estonia had no automatic entitlement to Estonian citizenship. In the course of the 1990s, experts at the OSCE had expressed increasing concern at possible stagnation in the process of naturalising the non-citizen population. With over a thousand children being born annually to non-citizen parents in Estonia, there were fears that this would strengthen the citizen/non-citizen divide. An amendment giving these children automatic entitlement to citizenship would also bring Estonia in line with UN provisions relating to the rights of the child.71 In April 1997, OSCE high commissioner for national minorities Max Van der Stoel visited Estonia again and reiterated his old recommendation that Estonia should grant citizenship to stateless children. In response, prime minister Mart Siimann said that the government would not change the principles of Estonia’s laws on citizenship, aliens and language.72 However, the tune began to change once the EU started to support the OSCE recommendations. In its opinions on Estonia and Latvia published in 1997, the commission required Estonia and Latvia “to take measures to accelerate naturalisation procedures to enable the Russian-speaking non-citizens to become better integrated into (their) society.”73 The commission also insisted that Estonia and Latvia “must consider ways” to make it easier for

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stateless children born on their territory to become naturalised, with a view to the application of the European convention on nationality concluded by the Council of Europe. It further observed that under the new naturalisation procedure of the April 1995 citizenship law, the number of naturalisations per year had fallen and that at that rate “a large percentage of Estonia’s population will continue to remain foreign or stateless for a long time.” The statements in the commission’s opinion immediately influenced Estonian policy. Already in December 1997, the Estonian government presented a draft law to the parliament (Riigikogu) whereby all children born in Estonia would be granted citizenship if their parents had lived in the country for at least five years74. The EU welcomed this decision and qualified it as a “constructive step towards the integration of Estonia’s non-citizens in the spirit of the UN convention on the rights of the child and an important confidence-building measure.”75 There was, however, strong domestic opposition and in early 1998 the amendments twice failed to pass. When the EU negotiations were about to start, the government introduced its draft to the parliament, and the bill passed in the first of the three required readings76. Keeping up the pressure, in the 1998 EU accession partnership with Estonia “measures to facilitate the naturalisation process to better integrate non-citizens including stateless children an to enhance Estonian language training for non-Estonian speakers” were identified as short-term priorities in the preparation of accession.77 As the year passed without results, the commission used its first regular report of 8 November 1998 to push for change. It regretted that the Riigikogu had not yet adopted the amendments to the Estonian citizenship law which would align it with OSCE recommendations and facilitate naturalisation of stateless children.78 The day after, the EU’s commissioner for external relations, Hans Van den Broeck, met with Estonian President Lennart Meri. OSCE HCNM staff also went to Tallinn to try to persuade opponents of the amendment.79 These combined OSCE and EU efforts produced results. Just before the Vienna summit, Estonia made the changes requested by the commission. On 8 December 1998, the Riigikogu passed the necessary amendments to the citizenship law that facilitated the granting of citizenship to stateless children. Stateless children under fifteen who were born after 26 February 1992 (when the country’s 1938 citizenship law was reinstated) became eligible to gain citizenship. The children’s parents had to apply on their behalf, had to be stateless themselves and had to have lived in Estonia for at least five years. Those opposed to the bill had argued in favour of applicants’ having to pass a language proficiency test.80. Estonian foreign minister Raul Mälk called the move a sign of the “wish to speed up the integration of Estonian

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society.”81 These amendments were welcomed by the council and the European parliament.82 In spite of the above amendments, the basic premise of the Estonian citizenship policy – that of state continuity and the granting of automatic citizenship only to pre−1940 citizens and their descendants – has never been questioned by the EU. The critique has only related to specific categories or elements but never to the entirety of the Estonian legislation. In its Regular Report of 6 October 1999, the EU commission indicated some concern over the naturalisation procedure and the integration of minorities into Estonian society. 83 In response to the commission’s report and the subsequent 1999 accession partnership, on 14 June 2000 the Riigikogu eased the naturalisation process for disabled applicants, removing both linguistic requirements and those relating to knowledge of the Estonian constitution.84 Once again, these changes were welcomed by the commission, the then EU presidency and the EP.85 In its 2000 Regular Report, the commission welcomed the amendments of the Citizenship Law and concluded that overall, Estonia had fulfilled the OSCE recommendations in the area of citizenship and naturalisation. In a statement of 28 June 2001 in response to Ambassador Hertrampf, Head of the OSCE Mission in Estonia, the European Union agreed with Mrs. Hetrampf that Estonia clearly demonstrated the political will to achieve integration, and welcomed the efforts by the Estonian government to facilitate naturalisation, especially for young people.86 Finally, in its November 2001 progress report on Estonia, the commission observed that: “Estonia has continued to make progress with the implementation of concrete measures for the integration of non-citizens. An important positive development is the strengthening of the administrative capacity of the legal chancellor’s office, including the establishment of branch offices in the northeastern part of the country. Estonia should maintain the momentum of the integration process. This includes ensuring the efficiency of the naturalisation process, providing access to language training, and raising awareness of the issue across the entire spectrum of Estonian society.”87 The subsequent Copenhagen European council of 13 December 2002 closed the accession negotiations. 3.

Conclusion A critical reader will certainly wonder whether it is überhaupt possible and sensible to compare the approaches of these two

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organisations towards countries which have been transformed so dramatically. The League of Nations and the European Union are of course radically different organisations, and the composition, status and size of the minorities in Latvia and Estonia radically different if one compares the two eras. Such a comparison is nevertheless worthwhile. The analysis contained in this chapter makes it clear that the underlying strategy of the two organisations is the same, in as much as their policies are based primarily on perceived considerations of domestic stability and international peace. With regard to the outcome of the German minority petition, the argument of the Latvian government that a successful outcome of the petition might endanger domestic stability and invite a Bolshevik invasion had the desired effect. In this regard, the former director of the minorities section, De Azcarate, has observed that: “If it had been conceded that agrarian reform in Central European countries, since it generally expropriated the holdings of members of national minorities and divided the land among members of the majority, was contrary to the clause of the Minorities Treaties guaranteeing equality before the law, the absurd and inadmissible conclusion would have been reached that all agrarian reform was impossible under the treaties, although in reality there was not the slightest doubt that such reform was one of the keys to the economic and social consolidation of these countries.”88 As indicated above, the primary concern of the Great Powers was to have friendly stable states. The underlying strategy of the European Union has also been based upon the need to have stable and economically viable states and to ensure international peace. Issues of human rights and minority rights have only been considered in terms of peace and security. In any case, they have always been secondary to stability and progress in economic reform.89 On the one hand, the European Union understood the fear of Estonia that granting citizenship to its substantial Russian-speaking population would compromise its independence. On the other hand, the Union wants a stable Estonian nation-state. It therefore wanted to avoid a situation whereby a significant population of residents in these countries might acquire citizenship of the Russian Federation, since Russia has a lawful interest in the fate of its citizens.90 This is a potentially destabilising factor and a security risk. Large numbers of non-citizens also render the political cohesion of a society problematical.91

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Notes 1. Oppenheim, 1905, 101. 2. Krasner, 1999, 9. 3. Krasner, 1999, 23. 4. Brubaker, 1996, 103. 5. German-Polish Convention on Upper Silesia of 15 May 1922 (Part III) and the Convention concerning the Memel Territory between the Principal Allied and Associated Powers and Lithuania of 8 May 1924 (article 11 and articles 26 and 27 of the Statute annexed to the Convention). 6. Advisory Opinion on Minority Schools in Albania, 1935, Permanent Court of International Justice, Series A/B, Nr. 64, 3 at 17. 7. Jackson Preece, 1998, 75, and Thornberry, 1991, 42−43, and De Azcarate, 1945, 60−61. 8. De Azcarate, 1945, 172; for a more detailed description, see: Mandelstam, 1925, 412−417, and Sibert, 1951, 497−498. 9. Wolfrum, 1993, 157. 10. Oppenheim, 1905, 652−653. 11. For a short overview of the successive resolutions, see: Capotorti, 22−25; Jackson Preece, 1998, 78−82. 12. Veatch, 1983, 369−383; for a more detailed description and critical analysis of the procedure, see: De Azcarate, 1945, 191−200, and also: Bagley, 1950, 81−91 and 110−120. 13. Unofficial minutes of the minorities committee meetings for the years 1923−1932 indicate that only 35% of the complaints were disposed of by a decision of the Committee at its first meeting not to pursue the matter further (Veatch, 1983, 375). 14. Bagley, 1950, 89−90. 15. Veatch, 1983, 374, Bagley, 1950, 86, and Jackson Preece, 1998, 83. 16. Bagley, 1950, 105. 17. Herman, 1992, 39. 18. Sandor-Szalay, 2001, 22−23; letter from the Joint Foreign Committee of the Jewish Board of Deputies and the Anglo-Jewish Association to the Chairman of the Committee N° 5 of 26 November 1920, in: Société des Nations, Actes de la 1er Assemblée, Séances des Commissions, 241−242. 19. For a good overview, see: Hiden and Salmon, 1991, 46; also: Royal Institute of International Affairs, 1938, 30−38. 20. Lithuanian minority declaration of 12 May 1922, text in: Société des Nations, Journal Officiel, June 1922, 586−588; the English version in: League of Nations, Protection of linguistic, racial and religious minorities by the League of Nations. Provisions contained in the various international instruments at present in force., Publications de la Société des Nations, I.B. Minorités, Geneva, August 1927, 34−35.

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21. Letter of 18 March 1922, in: Société des Nations, Journal Officiel, June 1922, 479−481. 22. History of the negotiations, in: Société des Nations, Journal Officiel, June/July/September/October/November 1922, January/March/August/November 1923; for an overview, see: Villecourt, 1925, Zile, 1980, Putins Peters, 1988. 23. Latvian minority declaration of 7 July 1923 (French text in: Villecourt, 45−46, English text in: League of Nations, 32) and Estonian minority declaration of 18 September 1923 (Société des Nations, Journal Officiel, November 1923, 1311−1312, English text in: League of Nations, 14−15). Article 9 of the Lithuanian declaration contained the typical international guarantee: “The stipulations in the foregoing Articles of this Declaration, (…), are declared to constitute obligations of international concern, and will be placed under the guarantee of the League of Nations. No modification will be made in them without the assent of the majority of the Council of the League of Nations. Any member of the Council of the League of Nations shall have the right to bring to the attention of the Council any infraction or danger of infraction, of any of these stipulations, and the Council may thereupon take such action and give such direction as it may deem proper and effective in the circumstances (…).” 24. Ito, 1931, 34−35. 25. De Azcarate, 1945, 95. 26. Putins Peters, 1988, 290. 27. Moskov, 1936, 33. 28. Von Rauch, 1990, 80−83; these laws had indeed the effect of placing the Estonian, Latvian and Lithuanian peoples in safe control of their respective states (Macartney, 1934, 181). 29. A very useful schematic overview of the different minority petitions submitted by the different ethnic groups in the minorities states can be found in: Von Truhart, 1931. 30. Pétition des propriétaires fonciers lettons appartenant aux minorités ethniques de la Lettonie au Conseil de la Société des Nations, Petition of 6 April 1925, C. 675.1925.I. 31. Reply of the Latvian government of 10 November 1925, see: Document C. 675.1925.I, 8. 32. Document C.675.1925.I, 18. 33. Document C.675.1925.I, 36−37. 34. Document C.675.1925.I, 18−19. 35. Latvian declaration of 7 July 1923. 36. Letter of 15 March 1926. 37. Letter of Mr. Duzmans of 11 May 1926, 12 and 17. 38. Von Truhart, 1931, 51. 39. The Estonian Supreme Council emphasised the illegal incorporation of Estonia in the USSR in 1940 and claimed that the current Estonian state

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was identical to the Estonian state which had existed during the interwar period. 40. Most of the Western countries had always considered the annexation of the Baltic states into the Soviet Union as illegal and thus never recognised it (see for example: Koskenniemi and Lehto, 1992, 196−197, and Klabbers, Koskenniemi, Ribbelink and Zimmerman, 2000, 48, 50 and 52). 41. Full text in: Bull. EC 7/8−1991, 1.4.23, and in Foreign Policy Bulletin Database, Nr. 91/251. 42. Ziemele, 255; Klabbers, Koskenniemi, Ribbelink and Zimmerman, 1992, 48 and 50. 43. In 1934 Estonians comprised 88%, Russians 8 % and other ethnic groups 4 % of the population of Estonia. During the ensuing Soviet period, the number of non-Estonians increased 26-fold, from 23,000 in 1945 to 602,000 in 1989. At the same time the number of Estonians decreased from about 1,000,000 in 1940 to 965,000 in 1989 (Vetik, 1993, 273). 44. Latvian Resolution on the Renewal of the Republic of Latvia Citizens’ Rights and Fundamental Principles of Naturalisation. 45. Brunner, 1996, 42−43. 46. Shaw, 1997, 678. 47. Smith, 1997. 48. Smith, 2001, 17. 49. Smith, 1998, 309. 50. Statement by a leading representative of the British Foreign Office, in: Smith, 1997. 51. OJ 1992, L 403; the agreements with Latvia and Lithuania entered into force on 1 February 1993 and the agreement with Estonia on 1 March 1993; for a summary of the main characteristics of these agreements, see: Sedelmeier and Wallace, 1996, 358, and Nuttall, 2000, 85−86. 52. For example, article 1 of the agreement with Estonia stated that: “Respect for the democratic principles and human rights established by the Helsinki Final Act and the Charter of Paris for a New Europe inspires the domestic and external policies of the Community and Estonia and constitutes an essential element of the present agreement.” 53. Commission Communication Com (95)216 of 23 May 1995 on the inclusion of respect for democratic principles and human rights in agreements between the Community and third countries., 2. 54. Pollet, 1997/3, 293; again in the agreement with Estonia, article 21 explicitly stated that: “the parties reserve the right to suspend this agreement in whole or in part with immediate effect if a serious violation occurs of the essential provisions of the present agreement.” 55. Article 65 of the Vienna Convention on the Law of Treaties of 23 May 1969 requires a notification of the suspension of a treaty which can only be operative three months later in the absence of any objection. Although this convention is not directly binding for the EC, the EC is

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bound by the provisions of this convention, to the extent that the provisions of this convention are part of general customary international law. According to international customary law, a reasonable period of notice is required if the suspension of a treaty is announced (Kuyper, 1993, 417 and 420). 56. Hoffmeister, 1998, 379. 57. Smith, 1997. 58. Titley, 1992, 7−8. 59. Plenary session of 18 December 1992, Nr. 3−425/353−354. 60. Plenary session of 18 December 1992, Nr. 3−425/356−357. 61. Legislative resolutions A 3−0367/92 (Estonia), A 3−0363/92 (Lithuania) and A 3−0359/92 (Latvia) of 18 December 1992, OJ C 21/546−548; plenary debate in the plenary session of 18 December 1992, Handelingen van het Europees Parlement, session 1992−1993, Nr. 3−425/353−357. Resolution A 3−0364/92, OJ C 21/548−550; on the basis of a report of Moorhouse, 1992. 62. Resolution A 3−0109/93, OJ C 150/330−335, on the basis of a report of Mrs. Ferrer, 1993. This report led to a lively discussion in the plenary session of 22 April 1993 (Handelingen van het Europees Parlement, session 1993−1994, Nr. 3−430/332−335). 63. Bull. EC 6−1993, I. 14. 64. The FTAs with the Baltic states entered into force on 1 January 1995 (for Estonia: OJ 1994, L 373/1). 65. Fierro, 2003, 221−222. While the Baltic clause only allowed for an immediate suspension, the Bulgarian clause was formulated in a more diplomatic way: it aimed first at finding a solution, saving suspension or non-execution for cases of special urgency (Bulterman, 2001, 231; Riedel and Will, 1999, 728). 66. These agreements entered into force on 1 February 1998; for a summary of these agreements, see: European Commission, 1995, 5−6. 67. Plenary session of 14 November 1995, Handelingen van het Europees Parlement, session 1995−1996, Nr. 470/70−71. 68. Plenary session of 14 November 1995, Nr. 4−470/73. 69. Mrs. Carrère d’Encausse (UPE), Mr. König (EPP), Plenary session of 14 November 1995, Nr. 4−470/75 and 79. 70. Smith, 2003, 24. 71. Smith, 2003, 25. 72. Kelley, 2003, 28−29. 73. Commission Opinions on Estonia’s and Latvia’s applications for membership of the European Union of 15 July 1997, available on: http://europe.eu.int/comm/enlargement/dwn/opinions 74. RFE/RL Newsline, 9 December 1997; Norgaard, Johannsen, Skak, Sorensen, 1999, 180.

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75. Statement on the draft law concerning stateless children in Estonia of 15 December 1997, European Foreign Policy Bulletin Database, N° 97/138; RFE/RL Newsline, 16 December 1997. 76. Kelley, 2003, 29. 77. Council Decision of 30 March 1998 on the principles, priorities, intermediate objectives and conditions contained in the accession partnership with the Republic of Estonia. 78. Regular Report, 1998, 10−12. 79. Kelley, 2003, 30. 80. RFE/RL Newsline, 9 December 1998; European Parliament, “The Russian minority in the Baltic states and the enlargement of the EU.” 81. European Report, N° 2367, 12 December 1998. 82. Statement on Estonia of 9 December 1998, European Foreign Policy Bulletin Database, N° 98/371; Resolution of the European Parliament on the Commission’s Regular Report on Estonia of April 1999 (A4−0149/99). 83. 1999 Regular Report, 14−15. 84. RFE.RL Newsline, 15 June 2000. 85. Commission Press Room, 16 June 2000, IP/00/626: http://www.europa.eu.int/rapid/start; CFSP Presidency Statement, 19 June 2000, http://ue.eu.int/newsroom; also in: European Foreign Policy Bulletin Database, N° 00/135. A5−0238/2000, on the basis of the Report of Mrs. Guntilla Carlsson of 15 September 2000. 86. “EU/OSCE: EU Statement in response to Ambassador Hertrampf, Head of the OSCE Mission to Estonia,” 28 June 2001. 87. 2001 Regular Report, 24. 88. De Azcarate, 1945, 62−63. 89. Smith, 2003, 7−8. 90. In the beginning of 1998, almost 100.000 residents of Estonia had become citizens of foreign states, mostly of Russia. 91. Pritt and Wellmann, 1999, p. 9; Müllerson, 1998, 17−18.

References Accession Partnership Estonia, 1999. Bagley, T.H. (1950), General Principles and Problems in the International Protection of Minorities. Geneva: Imprimeries Populaires. Brubaker, R. (1996), Nationalism reframed. Nationhood and the national question in the New Europe. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Brunner, G. (1996), Nationality Problems and Minority Conflicts in Eastern Europe. Gütersloh: Bertelsmann Foundation Publishers.

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Bulterman, M. (2001), Human Rights in the Treaty Relations of the European Community. Real Virtues or Virtual Reality? AntwerpenGroningen-Oxford: Intersentia. Capotorti, F., Etude des droits des personnes appartenant aux minorités ethniques, religieuses et linguistiques. Série d’Etudes 5, Nations Unies. De Azcarate, P. (1945), League of Nations and National Minorities. An International Experiment. Washington: Carnegie Endowment for International Peace. European Commission (1995), Communication Com (95)216 of 23 May 1995 on the inclusion of respect for democratic principles and human rights in the agreements between the Community and third countries. European Commission (1995), EU Relations with the Baltic states. Background Report, ISCEC/B15/95. European Commission (1997), Opinions on Estonia’s and Latvia’s application for membership of the European Union. European Commission (1998), Regular Report on Estonia. European Commission (1999), Regular Report on Estonia. European Commission (2000), Regular Report on Estonia. European Commission (2001), Regular Report on Estonia. European Commission (2002), Regular Report on Estonia. European Parliament, The Russian minority in the Baltic states and the enlargement of the EU. Ferrer I Casals, C. (1993), Report of the Foreign Affairs Committee of the European Parliament. A 3−0109/93. Fierro, E. (2003), The EU’s Approach to Human Rights Conditionality in Practice. The Hague/London/New York: Martinus Nijhoff Publishers. Herman, J. (1992), “De Volkenbond en de bescherming van nationale minderheden: relevant voor het heden?,” in: J.G. Siccama and J.Q.T. Rood, Grenzen aan de Europese integratie: het Westerse antwoord aan Oost-Europa. Assen-Maastricht: Van Gorcum, 35−49.

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Hiden, J. and Salmon, P. (1991), The Baltic Nations and Europe. Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania in the Twentieth Century. London-New York: Longman. Hoffmeister, F. (1998), Menschenrechts- und Demokratieklauseln in den vertraglichen Aussenbeziehungen der Europäischen Gemeinschaft. Berlin: Springer. Ito, N. (1931), La protection des minorités. Paris: Librairie de jurisprudence ancienne et moderne Edouard Duchemin. Jackson Preece, J. (1998), National Minorities and the European NationStates System. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Kelley, J. (2003), International Actors – Domestic Effects: Explaining Ethnic Politics in Europe. Terry Sanford Institute of Public Policy, Duke. Klabbers, J., Koskenniemi, M., Ribbelink, O. and Zimmerman, A. (2000), State Practice Regarding State Succession and Issues of Recognition: The Pilot Project of the Council of Europe. The Hague-London-Boston: Kluwer Law International. Koskenniemi, M. and Lehto, M. (1992), La succession d’Etats dans l’USSR, en ce qui concerne particulièrement les relations avec la Finlande, Annuaire Français de Droit International, 179−219. Krasner, S.D. (1999), Sovereignty. Organized Hypocrisy. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Kuyper, P.J. (1993), “Trade sanctions, security and human rights and commercial policy,” in: M. Maresceau (ed.), The European Community’s Commercial Policy after 1992: The legal dimension. Dordrecht-BostonLondon: Martinus Nijhoff Publishers, 387−422. League of Nations (1927), Protection of linguistic, racial and religious minorities by the League of Nations. Provisions contained in the various international instruments at present in force. Publications de la Société des Nations, I.B. Minorités. Macartney, C.A. (1934), National States and National Minorities. London: Oxford University. Mandelstam, A. (1925), “La protection des minorités,” Recueil des Cours, 367−517.

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Moorhouse, J. (1992), Rapport de la Commission des relations économiques et commerciales entre la Communauté et les Etats baltes., A 3−0364/92. Moskov, A. (1936), La garantie internationale en droit des minorités. Paris: Librairie générale de droit et de jurisprudence. Müllerson, R. (1998), “Law and Politics in Succession of States: International Law on Succession of States,” in: B. Stern (ed.), Dissolution, Continuation and Succession in Eastern Europe. The Hague : Martinus Nijhoff Publishers. Nuttall, S.J. (2000), European Foreign Policy. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Norgaard, O., Johannsen, L., Skak, M. and Sörensen, R.H. (1999), The Baltic states after independence., Cheltenham-Northampton: Edward Elger. Oppenheim, L. (1905), International Law. London: Longmans, Green & Co. Pritt, J. and Wellmann, C. (1999), “Minorities and Majorities in Estonia: Problems of Integration on the Threshold of the EU,” ECMI Report, 2. Putins Peters, R. (1988), “Baltic State Diplomacy and the League of Nations Minorities System,” in: J. Hiden and A. Loit, The Baltic in International Relations between the Two World Wars. Acta Universitatis Stockholmiensis, 281−302. Riedel, E. and Will, M. (1999), “Human Rights Clauses in External Agreements of the EC,” in: P. Alston (ed.), The EU and Human Rights. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 723−754. Royal Institute of International Affairs (1938), The Baltic States. A survey of the political and economic structure and the foreign relations of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania. London-New York-Toronto: Oxford University Press. Sandor-Szalay, E. (2001), “Das Minderheitenschutzsystem Völkerbundes aus heutiger Sicht,” Europa Ethnica, 2: 21−29.

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Sedelmeier, U. and Wallace, H. (1996), “Policies towards Central and Eastern Europe,” in: H. Wallace and W. Wallace, Policy-making in the European Union. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 353−387. Shaw, M.N. (1997), International Law. University Press.

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Smith, D.J. (1997), Legal Continuity and Post-Soviet Reality., unpublished PhD thesis, University of Bradford. Smith, D.J. (1998), “The Restorationist Principle in Post Communist Estonia,” in: C. Williams and T.D. Sfikas (eds.), Ethnicity and Nationalism in Russia, the CIS and the Baltic states. Aldershot: Ashgate, 287−323. Smith, D.J. (2001), “Cultural Autonomy in Estonia. A Relevant Paradigm for the Post-Soviet Era?”, ERSC “One Europe or Several?” Programme, Sussex European Institute. Smith, D.J. (2002), “Estonia: Independence and European Integration,” in: D.J. Smith, A. Pabriks, A. Purs and T. Lane (eds.), The Baltic States. Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania. London-New York: Routledge, 1−196. Smith, D.J. (2003), “Minority Rights, Multiculturalism and EU Enlargement: The Case of Estonia,” Journal on Ethnopolitics and Minority Issues in Europe, 1: 1−38. Société des Nations, Actes de la 1er Assemblée, Séances des Commissions. Société des Nations, Journal Officiel, June/July/September/October/November 1922, and Journal Officiel, January/March/August/November 1923. Thornberry, P. (1991), International Law and the Rights of Minorities. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Titley, G. (1992), Rapport de la Commission des relations extérieures sur la proposition de la Commission au Conseil relative à une decision concernant la conclusion d’un accord de commerce et de cooperation commerciale et économique entre la Communauté économique européenne et la République d’Estonie. Doc. A 3−0367/92.

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Veatch, R. (1983), “Minorities and the League of Nations,” in: The League of Nations in retrospect. Berlin-New York: Walter de Gruyter, 19−30. Vetik, R. (1993), “Ethnic Conflict and Accommodation in PostCommunist Estonia,” Journal of Peace Research, 3: 271−279. Villecourt, L. (1925), La protection des minorités dans les Pays Baltiques et la Société des Nations. Bordeaux : Imprimerie J. Bière. Von Rauch, G. (1986), Geschichte der baltischen Staaten. Wilhelm Kohlhammer Verlag.

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Von Truhart, H. (1931), Völkerbund und Minderheitenpetitionen. Ein Beitrag zum Studium des Nationalitätenproblems. Wien-Leipzig: Wilhelm-Braumüller. Wolfrum, R. (1993), “ ‘New Minorities’ as a Result of Migration,” in: C. Brölmann, R. Lefeber, M. Zieck (eds.), Peoples and Minorities in International Law. Dordrecht: Martinus Nijhoff Publishers, 153−166. Ziemele, I. (1998), “The Role of State Continuity and Human Rights in Matters of Nationality,” in: T. Jundzis (ed.), The Baltic States at Historical Crossroads. Political, Economic and Legal Problems on the Doorstep of the 21st Century. Riga: Academy of Sciences of Latvia, 248−267. Zile, Z. (1980), “The Legal Framework of Minorities’ Policies in Latvia: Background, Constitution and the League of Nations,” Journal of Baltic Studies, XI: 3−24.

Author affiliation: Dirk Crols is studying for a PhD at the Department of Central and East European Studies, University of Glasgow, UK.

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Non-territorial cultural autonomy as a Baltic contribution to Europe between the wars David J Smith When considering Baltic contributions to the construction of Europe over the past century, it is important to keep in mind the pioneering efforts by the three countries to implement non-territorial cultural autonomy for their national minorities during the period between 1 the two World Wars. Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania all enshrined the cultural autonomy principle in their founding constitutions, and all went on to implement it in practice to varying degrees during the 1920s. Of the three, however, only Estonia formally drafted a full minorities law on this basis. The Estonian case thus provides the central focus for this article, which examines the origins of Baltic cultural autonomy, its implications for wider European debates on minority rights during the period in question and its possible relevance to post-communist central and eastern Europe. 1.

Cultural autonomy in inter-war Europe: Estonia, Latvia and beyond The Estonian Cultural Autonomy Law of 1925 was unique in inter-war Europe, and elicited much attention internationally. Under its terms, representatives of Estonia’s Russian, German, and Swedish minorities (and other nationality groups numbering at least 3,000) were given the possibility to establish their own cultural self-governments. Once constituted, these could assume full responsibility for the organisation, administration and control of public and private schools operating in the mother tongue of the relevant minority, as well as for the supervision of minority cultural institutions and activities more generally.2 Whilst cultural self-governments were structured along the same lines as local authorities, the exercise of minority rights was not linked to particular territorial sub-regions of the state. Rather, each autonomous minority had the status of a corporation at public law, whose remit extended to the state territory as a whole. The institutions of autonomy were partly funded by central and local government, which provided the same level of funding previously allocated to minority schools within the state sector. However, since cultural self-governments had the status of public corporations they also had the power to levy taxation on their members, something which provided them with an important additional source of income. The law was especially suited to the needs of Estonia’s small and territorially dispersed German and Jewish minorities, both of which established cultural self-governments during 1925−26. By contrast, the

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Russian and Swedish minorities made no immediate move to implement autonomy, mainly because the more compact nature of their settlement enabled them to secure minority rights on a territorial basis under the terms of the 1920 constitution.3 Russian commentators hailed these latter provisions as generous compared to the practices which obtained in many other European states at the time. Nevertheless, activists such as the Tartu Law Professor and Riigikogu Deputy Mikhail Kurchinskii continued to argue strongly – if ultimately fruitlessly – for the adoption of cultural autonomy, on the grounds that public-legal status would offer Estonia’s Russians a yet more superior form of minority rights.4 Although Latvia never formally adopted a formal cultural autonomy law during the inter-war period, it too was widely recognised as being at the forefront of minority rights development during the 1920s. Indeed it has been argued that, de facto, Latvia’s minorities actually enjoyed a higher degree of autonomy than their counterparts in Estonia.5 The basis for this was a 1919 law which granted minorities their own school administrations within the Latvian ministry of education. The Heads of these administrations could only be appointed in consultation with the representatives of the relevant minority, and were answerable only to the minister of education. In practice, it appears that these administrations were subject to far less formal regulation than the institutions of cultural self-government in Estonia, though the experience of the 1930s suggests that the latter system offered a more durable foundation for the protection of minority rights. In Latvia, as in Estonia, the German minority did most to avail itself of the opportunities on offer. Unable to constitute themselves formally as a public corporation, the Latvian Germans nevertheless adopted many of the practices (e.g. selftaxation) of cultural autonomy on a voluntary basis. This high level of organisation was due in no small measure to the efforts of Paul Schiemann, Saiema deputy and editor of the influential German-language daily Rigasche Rundschau, who managed to weld the disparate currents of Baltic German opinion into a politically disciplined whole.6 Such activists did not confine their work to the Baltic countries. As Mikhail Kurchinskii noted at a pan-European meeting of Russian minority representatives in 1929, the relatively privileged position of minorities in Estonia and Latvia did not leave any room for complacency. Rather, it was incumbent on these more favoured groups to take the lead in promoting the effective practice of minority rights across Europe.7 In the late 1920s, Kurchinskii and Schiemann formed part of a committed liberal grouping at the head of the congress of European minorities (CEM – also known as the nationalities congress). The foundation of the Congress in October 1925 testifies to the obvious inadequacies of the system for minority protection established under the post-World War One peace settlement. In the eyes of the CEM, this system was fundamentally flawed, in so far as state sovereignty remained paramount. League

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procedures for dealing with minority disputes therefore tended to favour state governments, while minorities themselves remained objects rather than subjects of international law. At its annual meetings in Geneva ahead of the League of Nations sessions, the organisation lobbied for a panEuropean guarantee of minority rights, which it saw as key to the achievement of a lasting peace and the to the future construction of a Europe of nationalities alongside (not in place of) the existing Europe of states. In seeking to realise this goal, the nationalities congress espoused non-territorial cultural autonomy as its guiding principle right from the outset. 2.

The roots of cultural autonomy The proponents of autonomy were all heavily influenced by the work of the “Austro-Marxists” Karl Renner and Otto Bauer, who first elaborated the non-territorial model within the context of the late Habsburg empire. Contrary to accusations by the Bolsheviks, Renner and Bauer had no intrinsic interest in the national question, which they saw as an unwelcome distraction from the primary goal of building socialism. Rather, the day-to-day demands of politics within the Habsburg domains meant that the Austrian social democrats “were obliged to recognize the power of national identity as an independent factor with tremendous potential influence over the behaviour of the working masses.”8 In common with other socialist and also liberal political thinkers across CEE, Renner and Bauer faced the issue of “how to reconcile the particular with the universal, how to synthesise ethno-cultural identity with internationalist solidarity.”9 Necessarily acknowledging the salience of ethno-cultural nationality in their part of the world, they nevertheless believed that it was possible to take culture out of politics and create an environment within which individuals could be simultaneously loyal to their ethno-national group and their state of residence. Although devised with specific regard to the Austrian case, Renner and Bauer’s ideas quickly attained wide currency within tsarist Russia, where, as Roshwald notes, “various blends of populist, Marxist and nationalist themes dominated the political thought of intelligentsias amongst many of the … empire’s ethnic minorities.”10 Non-territorial cultural autonomy proved to be of particular interest to the Jewish communities of the western borderlands, being espoused first by the Bund and later (as a concept of diaspora rights) by the Zionists and the Folkists. In this regard, the Austrian model bore a striking similarity to the concept of minority rights propounded by Shimon Dubnow in his Letters on Old and New Jewry published during 1897−1907. Dubnow’s scheme drew on a long-standing indigenous tradition of Litvak politics, and his ideas arguably did much to shape the far-reaching provisions for cultural autonomy which were initially espoused in Lithuania during 1917−1919.11 As we will see, thinking on cultural autonomy also exerted an important

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influence on the development of the Estonian national movement. By the last decade of tsarist rule it had also penetrated Russian liberal and socialist circles, finding its way onto the agenda of the Kadets and the Socialist Revolutionary Party.12 Paul Schiemann and Mikhail Kurchinskii had spent their formative years within this multinational environment, both beginning political careers in the wake of the 1905 Revolution. For them and their liberal fellow travellers within the CEM, the post−1918 settlement of Europe merely confirmed what Renner and Bauer had long maintained – namely that it would be impossible to resolve the national question simply by redrawing territorial boundaries. The complex ethnic geography of central and eastern Europe meant that each of the new successor states to the former multinational empires contained significant national minority populations. Indeed, the bureau of Russian minorities in Geneva later estimated that those living as representatives of a minority made up one in four of the region’s population.13 Congress activists recognised that in an era of growing national consciousness, most of these minority populations would be ill disposed towards assimilation, the model which had formed the basis for the earlier construction of “classic” nation-states in western Europe. The League of Nations was anxious to prevent the dissimilation of national minorities, enacting provisions to ensure that the latter enjoyed equal rights as citizens within the new states. The League also paid lip service to “minority protection.” However, it clearly viewed assimilation as the best long-term solution for the region’s “national question.” More perspicacious observers argued that attempts to graft the homogeneous nation-state model onto the region’s multi-ethnic mosaic were more likely to generate grave conflict than to engender lasting peace and stability. In this regard, as Ephraim Nimni has observed: “it was the great merit of Bauer and Renner to foresee the enormous cost in loss of life, economic ruin and displacement that the carving out of national states for aggrieved minorities would cause.”14 It was therefore not enough simply to guarantee those of nontitular nationality equal rights as citizens. A robust minority rights approach was regarded as an essential prerequisite for successful state and nation-building in the new states that had emerged from the collapse of empires. According to the leaders of the nationalities congress, nationality should be considered a fundamental element of every human being; in this regard, the right to preserve one’s national culture was deemed an inalienable human right on a par with freedom of religion. In the case of nationality, however, it was not enough in constitutional terms merely to stipulate – as the League of Nations did – that each individual had the

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right to maintain his / her nationality. Only full cultural autonomy, granting minorities the status of legal corporation, would be enough to forestall the spectre of assimilation and the transformation of minorities into what Kurchinskii called “human dust.”15 This emphasis on group rights should not be taken to imply an organic view of nationality and a prioritisation of the collective over the individual. Absolutely central to the liberal vision of cultural autonomy propounded by Renner and Bauer and their disciples in inter-war Europe was the “personal principle,” namely the premise that each individual is free to determine his/her own nationality. This principle was firmly enshrined in the 1925 Estonian law, which stipulated that representatives of a particular minority seeking to implement autonomy had first to enrol at least half of the adult members of the relevant group onto a national register (the right to membership being determined on the basis of a citizen electing to enter the relevant nationality on his/her passport). Once the national register had been drawn up, its members were called upon to elect a 20−60 strong Cultural Council, which could only be constituted if 50% of registered voters participated in the election. If a council could be established, a two-thirds majority vote by its members was then required in order formally to adopt cultural autonomy. Only if these hurdles were overcome could minority representatives proceed to elect the executive organs of cultural self-government at central and local level. Thus, as Karl Aun has remarked, the constituency of minority cultural self governments in Estonia derived from “the deliberate personal will of individual nationals living within the state territory.”16 The national (cadastral) register system, however, raised the obvious question of how to deal with those representatives of the relevant national group who chose either not to register or who registered but then voted against the implementation of cultural autonomy. This question formed the object of fierce debate. In spring 1923, after the first draft of the autonomy law had been discussed in committee, the Estonian government sought to introduce an amendment whereby the amount of resources given to a cultural self government would be determined according to the proportion of the particular minority that actually supported the introduction of autonomy. The sponsors of the bill retorted that this approach would destroy the foundations of autonomy by placing only some schools in the hands of self-governments while leaving others under local authority control. The two sides eventually came to a compromise based on the majority principle outlined in the preceding paragraph. That is to say that if half of the national group could be registered and the necessary votes secured in favour of autonomy, all members of the national group would be subject to the terms of cultural autonomy and all existing and future minority institutions would come under the control of the relevant cultural selfgovernment.17 Those unwilling to fulfil to obligations (e.g. taxation)

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inherent in the scheme could opt out by changing the nationality indicated in their passport, with the further stipulation that the institutions of autonomy would be curtailed if the number of those listed on the national register fell below 50% of the total minority group. 3.

From theory into practice The 1925 law marked the realisation of undertakings contained in the founding documents of the Estonian state, which, in common with those of their Baltic neighbours, recognised the right of minorities to establish autonomous institutions for the preservation and development of their national culture. Taking their cue from the 1920 constitution, leaders of Estonia’s German minority began to lobby actively for the introduction of cultural autonomy from the start of 1921. German representatives – Eduard von Bodisco and most notably the politician and lawyer Werner Hasselblatt – had a key role in formulating and refining the successive drafts of legislation that went before parliament and its relevant committees over the course of the next four years. Yet German efforts would clearly have been in vain had the principle of cultural autonomy enshrined in the constitution not found concrete political support amongst influential sections of the ethnic Estonian (titular) elite. In this regard, the legislative proposals received firm backing of two of the most notable figures in inter-war Estonian politics, Konstantin Päts (Head of State from January 1921−November 1922 and again from August 1923−March 1924) and Karl Einbund. Both men were active in the prolonged parliamentary committee discussions surrounding autonomy and both had a big hand in drafting the bill that eventually through to final reading at the start of 1925. Indeed, in a recent work, Finnish historian Kari Alenius goes so far as to term these Estonian politicians the true fathers of the cultural autonomy law.18 Päts entered the political life of the Estonian Republic as a member of the rightist conservative Agrarian Party, and was thus perhaps more ideologically predisposed than many of his centre-left colleagues to seek an accommodation with conservative elements amongst the Baltic German former elite (see below). However, Päts had begun his career on the radical left, and it was in this connection that he became acquainted with the ideas of Renner and Bauer during a spell in Riga in the early 1900s. Einbund, who joined Päts’ Agrarians from the liberal nationalist People’s Party during the early 1920s, had expressed support for the basic premises of autonomy in his 1918 work Õiguslik Riik, again reflecting the trends towards autonomist federalist thought at this time.19 Until the final months of 1917 the Estonian national movement, in common with other minority representatives across the Empire, had thought not in terms of independence, but of national autonomy within a reformed democratic and federal Russia. According to Aun, once independence had been proclaimed in 1918 “these old ideas of a liberal

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federation were at first firmly maintained in the new states and considered integral parts of their democracy.”20 In the immediate aftermath of World War One, such ideas could be seen as consistent with the European spirit of the age and, as such, with the quest for international recognition of statehood. In the course of 1914−1918, the principle of non-territorial cultural autonomy for national minorities had been espoused by the union for a lasting peace and the various Jewish agencies established in neutral countries across Europe. It was also popularised by influential commentators such as law professor Rudolf Laun, who presented a memorandum on the subject to the 1919 League conference in Berne and the St Germain Peace Conference.21 Against this background, argues Alenius, many of Estonia’s leaders genuinely believed that equality of nationalities would be one of the cornerstones of a new era in international relations, an era in which the boundaries between the domestic and external spheres would be blurred.22 This context quickly changed, in as much as the League disregarded cultural autonomy in favour of a more limited concept of individual rights. Moreover, by 1923, minority protection had clearly slipped down the international agenda, something which opponents of cultural autonomy were keen to emphasise when a draft law came before parliament during that year.23 In the context of 1918−1919, the continuing armed struggle against Bolshevik Russia had made it imperative to rally support for Baltic independence amongst minority groups. Once this struggle had been won and international recognition attained, the case for tolerance towards minorities became less compelling. The change was most marked in Lithuania, where nationalist disputes with Poland and – later – Germany poisoned the domestic political atmosphere and hastened a descent into authoritarianism during the 1920s. Against this background, the very far-reaching minority provisions adopted during the early period of independence were never fully realised in practice. In Estonia, however, there remained sufficient political support amongst the titular elite to carry the day for cultural autonomy. The fact that Estonia’s national minority population was relatively small compared to that of its neighbours is often cited as a major factor behind the implementation of a cultural autonomy law. Notwithstanding this fact, however, the proponents of autonomy faced an uphill struggle to realise their goal during the course of 1921−25. Echoing the line taken by the League of Nations, critics of the proposed law argued that far from encouraging integration, cultural autonomy would in fact promote segregation and give minorities the possibility to establish a “state within a state.” This in turn might raise the spectre of irredentism. Such arguments quickly gathered force amongst the majority Estonian population following the initial consolidation of independence, when accumulated bitterness at past domination by the Baltic German nobility and the latter’s collusion with occupying Reich German forces during

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1918−19 frequently came to the fore. The latter events in particular gave succour to discourses portraying the Germans as a colonial oppressor and an alien element and provided fertile ground for dissimilationist integral nationalism. Although only 1.5% of the population in 1922, Estonia’s German minority continued to exercise a disproportionate influence within the economic and cultural life of the new state, notwithstanding the 1919 land reform which stripped the Baltic nobility of its estates. In this regard, demands for autonomy were often viewed as part of a campaign to undermine the Estonian Republic and restore German pre-eminence. Suspicion was present to some extent within all Estonian parties, but was especially prevalent within the ranks of the Social Democrats and Jaan Tõnisson’s Peoples Party. It is these two groupings that can be deemed most responsible for delaying the passage of autonomy legislation through parliament during 1921−24. German minority representatives for their part strenuously refuted any suggestion of disloyalty, whilst going to great lengths to address the concerns voiced by their opponents amongst the Estonian political elite. In this regard, a coherent exposition of German arguments can be found in the 1922 tract addressed to members of the Riigikogu by August Spindler, Chairman of the German Party of Estonia, who had been brought in as an advisor to the parliamentary commission on cultural autonomy during 1921.24 This document contains a comprehensive treatment of the autonomy question, and is worth dwelling on at some length. Addressing the “state within a state” argument, Spindler first emphasised that the proposed autonomy related strictly to cultural matters. The competences of minority self governments could thus be clearly distinguished from those of the state, which was a sovereign territorial entity. Following Renner, he also noted that, legally speaking, cultural self-governments were themselves organs of the state, their competences in the sphere of culture being delegated to them by the national parliament. The latter argument found strong support in the course of parliamentary debate from Konstantin Päts, who maintained that the delegation of cultural tasks to minorities would ease the burden on central government and allow it to focus on other more pressing issues of concern to all. Indeed, it was Päts – perhaps seeking explicitly to strengthen an understanding of cultural self-governments as institutions of the state – who first proposed that minority institutions be structured along the lines of existing local authorities. In so doing, he was credited by Hasselblatt with reviving a legislative process that had at one stage all but ground to a halt.25 As regards the “irredenta” argument, Spindler observed that such demands typically arose within the context of the suppression of minority interests rather than their recognition. In this respect, the “worst patriots” were nurtured in those states which exercised the greatest pressure on their minorities.26 These remarks are entirely consonant with the thinking of the

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late 1920s nationalities congress, which explicitly prohibited any discussion of border disputes at its meetings. Indeed, the statutes of the organisation forbade any mention of specific minority conflicts: in their speeches, delegates could refer only to general and theoretical issues of relevance to all minority groups. As the leading light within the CEM during this period, Paul Schiemann repeatedly emphasised that the primary loyalty of each individual should be to his/her state of residence, conceptualised as the shared territorial space of the various nationalities living within its borders. Spindler’s Estonian document of 1922 also addressed the oftrepeated criticism that cultural autonomy gave representatives of minorities additional privileges compared to other inhabitants of the state. Here, he noted that while autonomy provided additional rights it also entailed additional responsibilities, not least the obligation to pay taxes to the cultural self-government.27 Spindler’s basic dictum of “no rights without responsibilities” is one that crops up time and time again in the speeches and writings of liberal activists who lobbied in favour of cultural autonomy throughout the inter-war period. In the case of Estonia, it can also features strongly in a 1919 speech by the Jewish activist Sergei Eisenstadt, who talks of the “benefits and burdens” inherent in the autonomy project. In Eisenstadt’s estimation, a nation could only be accorded autonomy if it were willing and able to assume responsibilities: a one-sided interpretation of the rights on offer, he noted, could all too easily be transformed into national chauvinism.28 The Spindler document was of course prepared for lobbying purposes, and it must be said that its arguments do not give an entirely accurate picture of the initial proposals presented to parliament at the start of 1921. According to its critics, the first draft of legislation was so vaguely formulated as to leave the real scope of autonomy entirely open to question. The latter question formed the object of widely divergent opinions within the German camp, with many envisaging initially that the competences of minority self-governments would in fact extend far beyond the cultural realm to encompass areas such as social welfare. Indeed, it was only during the final reading of the bill that the welfare clause was deleted, consideration of this question being deferred until a later date. In some circles, at least, the aspiration for cultural autonomy clearly was synonymous with a desire to preserve as far as possible the old system of corporations which had underpinned German ascendancy during the tsarist era. When the law had finally been adopted, more conservative elements within the inaugural German cultural council of November 1925 were quick to draw unfavourable comparisons between the new framework and the former Baltic German Ritterschaften. Especially revealing in this regard was Greinert’s warning that if the council moved

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to implement cultural autonomy, future generations might feel themselves to be part of a minority rather than Baltic Germans.29 The expression of such sentiments can only have bolstered the arguments of those who saw in autonomy the seeds of a “state within a state.” In the context of 1922, Spindler’s carefully crafted arguments seemingly had little immediate impact on the opponents of cultural autonomy, who continued to engage in blocking tactics over the next two to three years. Ultimately, however, it did prove possible to achieve a satisfactory accommodation over this issue, as the autonomy law moved swiftly through its second and third readings during January 1925. For many authors, the abortive communist putsch of 1 December 1924 was the determinant factor in this evolution, prompting Tõnisson – then Speaker of the Riigikogu – and other nationalist opponents to drop their opposition to the law in the interests of consolidating all democratically minded forces against a common external threat. Alenius for his part disputes this, claiming that although the coup acted as a catalyst, the law was already close to being adopted by the end of 1924. This followed a crucial breakthrough in March 1924, when Hasselblatt and other German representatives allegedly secured Tõnisson’s agreement on the basis that cultural questions would be kept entirely separate from politics and the institutions of cultural self-government democratically elected through existing local constituencies.30 4.

Autonomy undermined Whatever one’s view of the aforementioned events, the introduction of the 1925 law – and the parallel operation of the schooling law in neighbouring Latvia – demonstrated that it was possible to implement the minority rights model successfully within a central and east European setting. Of course, as nationalities congress activists frequently activists observed during the 1920s, the accommodation between state and minority could only be as durable as the overall European climate allowed. In this regard, ethnic relations inevitably became more strained from the start of the next decade, as Nazism extended its influence amongst the Baltic Germans and Estonia and Latvia both succumbed to authoritarian rule during 1934. In the Latvian case, the schooling law had been revealed as a fair weather system already prior to the authoritarian turn, as Education Minister Keņiņš sought arbitrarily to change the curriculum in a determined effort to Latvianise the school system. Autonomy was then curtailed more definitively under the Ulmanis dictatorship, which passed new legislation relegating the minority representatives within the education ministry to a purely advisory role.31 Estonia’s minorities were somewhat better placed under authoritarian rule. The regime presided over by Päts and Einbund (who later Estonianised his name to become Kaarel Eenpalu) never formally abolished cultural autonomy, and the fact that

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Kurchinskii intensified his efforts to secure this for the Russian minority during the 1930s clearly demonstrates that organised minorities continued to enjoy certain advantages. In practice, however, the previous autonomy of the 1920s was heavily circumscribed, while new legislation in both countries significant reduced the number of citizens who were entitled to opt for minority nationality. With Paul Schiemann now effectively marginalized within the international minorities movement, more völkisch elements began to assert themselves within the German groups that provided the mainstay of the nationalities congress. Whereas Schiemann and his ilk had defined Volksgemeinschaft as an association of free individuals based on the deliberate personal will of its members, the new generation conceived of it as an organic entity within which the interests of the individual were firmly subordinate to those of the collective. Moreover, loyalty to the German Volk (and to the prospect of an enlarged, racially-grounded German Reich) superseded all other considerations, including any semblance of loyalty to the local Staatsgemeinschaft. The fact that Werner Hasselblatt was amongst those who threw in their lot with Nazism in the 1930s might seem surprising given Hasselblatt’s pivotal role in the implementation of cultural autonomy and his more general contribution to Estonian parliamentary politics during the democratic era. However, Hasselblatt’s essential contempt for democratic ideals had been apparent already during the 1920s, when he had openly declared his preference for “corporatist leadership” over “amorphous masses.” In this regard, his commitment to the liberal 1925 law seems to have been essentially pragmatic rather than grounded in conviction.32 The same could seemingly be said for that other key of sponsor of autonomy Konstantin Päts, who came to preside over an authoritarian “nationalising” dictatorship after 1934. Unlike Hasselblatt, Päts’ consistently advocated the “personal principle” during the debates of the early 1920s. Yet he too proved to be no lover of liberal democracy, and during the 1930s sought to accommodate the institutions of autonomy within a corporatist state structure dedicated to prioritising the interests of the “titular” Estonian nation over those of other groups residing within the state territory. 5.

Contemporary resonances Not surprisingly, the wholly negative developments of the 1930s still cast a long shadow over writings on the national question in inter-war Europe. As such, they have tended to obscure the successful application of the minority rights paradigm in Estonia and Latvia and the constructive work of the nationalities congress during the 1920s. However, the ideas and debates that permeated the 1920s minorities movement appear startlingly relevant to the “new” Europe which has emerged following collapse of communism and the demise of the USSR.

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Legislation on non-territorial cultural autonomy was revived in Estonia during 1993, but has yet to be implemented by any of the numerous minority groups eligible to do so. The contemporary relevance of this law is often seen as deeply questionable, given that the post-Soviet “national question” revolves around the status of a large, territorially compact and above all non-citizen population of Soviet-era settlers and their descendents.33 Debates within this context have thus tended to focus on the attainment of equal rights for all residents rather than minority rights as such, though against the background of Soviet multinational statehood, many Russian-speaking residents would understand “equal rights” as implying rights to a full education in one’s mother tongue. Perhaps more intriguing in today’s setting is the legislation on non-territorial cultural autonomy recently adopted by the Russian Federation (a move nicely characterised by Bill Bowring as “AustroMarxism’s last laugh”) and Hungary.34 In both cases, the new legislation has to be viewed within the context of state-sponsored attempts to promote the rights of ethnic “kinfolk” residing in neighbouring states.35 In this connection, some political circles in Hungary have outlined their vision of how a Europe of nationalities rather than simply nation-states might ultimately be forged under the auspices of the EU. As Nimni has observed, the principle of the nation-state is far more widely contested in today’s Europe, and supranational political organisation no longer a distant utopia.36 And yet, the fierce controversy surrounding the Hungarian status law demonstrates that there is still some way to go before we can begin to speak of a Europe “beyond the nation-state.” Cultural autonomy has also evoked fierce debate within Russia, with critics insisting that the 1996 federal law will simply foster the further institutionalisation – and by extension politicisation – of ethnonational identities. Bowring for his part clearly refutes this, arguing that Chechnya’s status as “the exception that proves the rule of peaceful solution of ethnic tensions in Russia” can be attributed at least partly to the adoption of the law.37 Whether one subscribes to this view or not, it is hard to dispute Bowring’s assertion that the NCA experiment carries major implications for the concepts of “minority” and “minority rights” and should therefore “be much more widely known outside Russia … , whether ultimately successful or not.”38 The same can certainly be said for the experience of the Baltic States between the wars. At a time when it is still common to see intolerant “nationalising” statehood in eastern Europe as somehow historically preordained, a study of the Baltic experiment with cultural autonomy can help to give a fuller and more nuanced understanding of the region’s complex past.39 Such an understanding can be seen as all the more important given that recent moves towards cultural autonomy in the East have coincided with growing debates around multiculturalism in western societies. At the very least, these trends demonstrate that political

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liberalism’s struggle to reconcile the principle of civic equality with the ethno-cultural dimension of collective identity is as salient to the “new Europe” of today as it was to the Europe between the wars.40

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Notes 1. This article arises out of preliminary work towards the arts and humanities research board (AHRB)-funded project “Ending nationalism? The quest for cultural autonomy in inter-war Europe,” which will eventually lead to a full-scale study. The author gratefully acknowledges the support of the AHRB. 2. These autonomous institutions were of course bound by certain national regulations laid down by the ministry of education, including a stipulation that the Estonian language be taught as a compulsory subject. 3. In areas where representative of a minority group constituted more than 50% of the population, the relevant minority language could serve as a second official language of administration alongside Estonian. In certain districts of eastern Estonia, the Russian minority was able to establish a network of schools through its control of local government. The law on education stated that wherever a district contained thirty or more pupils belonging to a particular minority, the local authority had to provide teaching in the relevant language. For the territorially dispersed Germans and Jews, this meant that access to state-funded education in the mother tongue could rarely be guaranteed outside the main urban centres of Tallinn and Tartu. 4. Smith, 1999. 5. Undated memo, probably written early 1933, by Wolfgang Wachtsmuth, first head of the German educational administration. “Die rechtlichen Grundlagen des deutschen Schulwesens in Lettland,” Latvijas Valsts Vēstures Arhīvs (LVVA), f.2125, a.2, l.12, 10−20. 6. For a full discussion of Schiemann’s life and work, see Hiden, 2004. 7. Reported in “Soveshchanie predstavitelei russkikh men’shinstv’ 6 goudarstv’ v Rige,” Sevodnia (Riga), 22 August 1929. 8. Roshwald, 2001 16−17 (my italics); see also Nimni, 2000. Renner and Bauer’s Bolshevik critics were ultimately also required to recognise this fact after 1917, though their own conception of nationality was intimately wedded to territory. 9. Roshwald, 2001, 54. 10. Ibid. 11. Dohrn, 2003, 155−158. 12. Roshwald, 2001, 50−51. 13. Sbornik postoiannogo byuro Russkikh men’shinstv’ v Genev’ (Geneva August 1927), 2. 14. Nimni, 2000, xviii. 15. Smith, 1999. 16. Aun, 1949, 241. 17. For a comprehensive account of the debates, surrounding the 1925 law see Alenius, 2003, 282−374.

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18. Ibid, 335. 19. Eesti Riigiarhiiv (ERA) f.55 n.1 s.55, 24. Vorbereitender Arbeitsausschluss fur die deutsche Kulturautonomie. Dr Spindler, “Vähemusrahvuste kultuuriline autonomia. Gesetz Projekte bettreffend die Autonomie deutsche Minderheitsgemeinschaft in der Republik Estland.” 20. Aun, 1949, 243. 21. ERA f.55 n.1 s.55, 30. 22. Alenius, 2003, 331. 23. Ibid, 329. 24. ERA f.55 n.1 s.55. 25. ERA f.85, n.1, s.67, 4−5. Estnische Übersetzungen der Protokolle des I Kulturrats, 1 Nov. 1925−22 Okt 1928. I Eesti saksa kultuurnõukogu avamise koosoleku 1 nov 1925, Mustapeade Klubis Tallinnas. Protokoll nr. 1. 26. ERA f.55 n.1 s.55. 27. Ibid. 28. ERA f.2297, n.1 s.5, 28. “Protokol zasedaniia mandatnoi kommissii S’ezda Evreiskikh Obshchin Estonii,” 2 May 1919. 29. ERA f.85, n.1, s.67, 14. 30. Alenius, 339−340. 31. LVVA, f.2125 a.1 l.45, 118. Minutes of Meetings of the Council of the Russian Dept of the Ministry of Education from 24 January 1924 to 2 September 1932. 32. ERA f.85, n.1, s.67, 11. 33. Smith, 2001. 34. Bowring, 2002. 35. Such attempts have found expression in the Hungarian “Status Law” granting certain privileges to ethnic Hungarians living in neighbouring states and, rather less tangibly, in the Russian Federation discourse on “compatriots” (“sootechestvenniki”). 36. For some interesting remarks on the contemporary salience of Renner and Bauer’s ideas, see Nimni, 2000. 37. Bowring, 2002, 247. 38. Ibid. 39. The reading given here is fully consistent with Rogers Brubaker’s influential thesis regarding the pervasive power of (institutionalised) ethno-cultural understandings of nationhood in CEE. However, it does dispute Brubaker’s contention that such understandings are necessarily conducive to nationalist conflict and leave little room for indigenously conceived multinational solutions. Brubaker 1996. 40. Roshwald, 2001, 6.

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References Alenius, K. (2003), Ajan ihanteiden ja historian rasitteiden ristipaineissa: Viron etniset suhteet vuosina 1918−1925. Rovaniemi: Pohjois-Suomen Historiallinen Yhdistys. Aun, K. (1949), On the Spirit of the Estonian Minorities Law, Stockhlom: Societas itteratum Estonica in Svecia. Bowring, B. (2002), “Austro-Marxism’s Last Laugh? The Struggle for Recognition of National-Cultural Autonomy for Rossians and Russians,” Europe-Asia Studies, 54, 2, 229−250. Dohrn, V. (2003), “State and Minorities: the First Lithuanian Republic and S.M Dubnov’s Concept of Cultural Autonomy,” in: A. Nikzentaitis, S. Schreiner and D. Staliunas (eds.), The Vanished World of Lithuanian Jews. Amsterdam: Rodopi. 155−173. Hiden, J. (2004), Defender of Minorities. Paul Schiemann 1876−1944. London: Hurst & Co. Nimni, E.J. (2000), “Introduction for the English-Reading Audience,” in: O. Bauer, The Question of Nationalities and Social Democracy Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, xv−xiv. Roshwald, A. (2001), Ethnic Nationalism and the Fall of Empires. Central Europe, Russia & the Middle East, 1914−1923. London and New York: Routledge. Smith, D.J. (1999), “Retracing Estonia’s Russians: Mikhail Kurchinskii and Interwar Cultural Autonomy,” Nationalities Papers, 27, 3, 455−474. Smith, D.J. (2001), “Cultural Autonomy in Estonia: a Relevant Paradigm for the Post-Soviet Era?”, ESRC “One Europe or Several?” Programme Working Paper 19/01. Brighton: University of Sussex.

Cultural autonomy in Estonia: one of history’s “curiosities”? Martyn Housden Writing in the 1980s, Ernst Gellner observed that an ethnographic and political map of the modern world resembles more a painting by Modigliani than one by Kokoshka. Its patterns show “very little shading,” “neat flat surfaces are separated from each other,” the beginning of one generally is clearly differentiated from the other, and there is little “ambiguity” or “overlap.”1 If such maps really look like this, they are not fair reflections of reality and probably never have been. This is particularly the case in respect of central and eastern Europe. No matter how hard politicians have tried over the years, it has proved quite impossible to establish an easy harmony between the political borders of that region and the geographical distribution of peoples who have been resident there for centuries. Unfortunately, the patent unfeasibility of a project to order the extensive and complex region according to a system whereby, for instance, a series of single states might correspond to the distribution of single nations, has not stopped attempts to realise either this or some comparably over-simplified and artificial aim. The unimaginative principle of human organisation, whereby a single nationality lays claim to a “space” as exclusively its own, too often has been associated with motives that are either determinedly doctrinaire or vengeful and has produced too many outcomes which testify to the worse capacities of mankind. Infamously, efforts to structure central and eastern Europe according to “neat and tidy” ethnic criteria have led to the persecution, displacement and even the attempted genocide of the region’s inhabitants. Understandably, a weighty and challenging literature continues to address in serious fashion the drama and suffering caused by these various kinds of ethnic persecution. No one can doubt the enduring impact attached to such grave injustices, whether they happened earlier in a living individual’s life or to previous generations. Taking just one example of hardship, even a superficial reading of publications by groups of Germans who either fled or were expelled from central and eastern Europe after 1945 shows how this can be the case. A recent article concerning Germans from the mountain region of the Banat exemplifies the pain of removal from a homeland which happened several decades ago. It raises the sadness of a life partitioned by flight or expulsion and speaks of the impossibility of “amputating” the earlier, unsatisfied identity which an individual formed in his or her place of birth.2 A second article shows that those forced to leave a place are not the only ones to experience loss as a result. Reunion with a Romanian friend, unseen for half a century, can prove equally moving for both parties.3

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Every single ethnic group in central and eastern Europe can point to outrages committed against it which require respect; but there is also a case for recognising that these dark events have cast more than one kind of “shadow” across the history of the region. There is an impression that the understandable need to come to terms with dramatic injustice and suffering can obscure, at least partially, more subtle responses to ethnic diversity which have also emerged from central and eastern Europe. Typically, an English-language student of modern European history will learn a very great deal indeed about the impact on the region of Adolf Hitler’s national socialism; the same student will hear much less about how Austro-Marxists Otto Bauer and Karl Renner wanted to regulate inter-ethnic affairs; and next to nothing will be learned of Paul Schiemann’s liberal conception of Europe’s nationality question.4 In a spirit of rebalancing popular perceptions of the history of nationalities in central and eastern Europe, with the aim of displaying something which is more suggestive of hope for the human condition than despair, we should pay attention to the cultural autonomy legislation which was enacted in Estonia on 5 February 1925. In a number of ways, the principles enshrined in this law were integral to the construction of the independent Estonian state as the project was pursued following the collapse of the tsarist empire. In fact, long ago Karl Aun maintained that the initiative saw ideas of freedom and equality predominate over less tolerant possibilities.5 He thought the state-building project was carried out in a positive atmosphere which juxtaposed the experiences of conflict and upheaval typical of the earlier phases of war and revolution. The interpretation has been repeated much more recently by Kari Alenius. This is not to deny that relations between the Estonian people and their country’s minorities during the formative period 1918 to 1925 certainly did face serious obstacles, not least because often social and economic cleavages mirrored nationality divisions.6 Hence land reform, as implemented in 1919−1920, involved Estonian peasants assuming control of Baltic German estates and was accompanied by some tough rhetoric on both sides. Likewise Estonians had enduring suspicions about the motives of ethnic Russians, particularly when the latter were officials in the local administration. But even accepting these limitations and given the difficulties attendant on the break-up of the Russian empire, in Estonia during the early 1920s inter-ethnic strife remained a “dog” which “barked” rather quietly. Alenius locates the reason for this in the mood which characterised the new state-bearing Estonian élite. Since barely a million Estonians existed, it was simply impossible for them to aim at the crass subordination of others through the threat of naked force. An alternative had been suggested long before by Jakob Hurt: if the Estonians could not be numerically great, they would exhibit a spirit that was great.7 Hence they took up an ethos of tolerance of minorities.8

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Appropriate to this approach, assurances of national cultural autonomy featured during even the early moves towards Estonian independence. The manifesto of February 1918 promised national cultural autonomy to the Russian, German and Swedish minorities. The position was repeated in the declaration of November 1918 and, as if a sign of good faith, the provisional government included a Baltic German, a Russian and a Swede.9 A law of May 1920 allowed for primary school education to be carried out in the child’s mother tongue and this provision was extended to middle schools two years later.10 The Estonian constitution devoted six paragraphs to the rights of minorities. Paragraph 6 allotted all citizens equal rights regardless of their nationality; paragraph 12 allowed all ethnic groups to establish their own schools and to teach children in their native language; paragraph 20 permitted all citizens to decide their own nationality; paragraph 21 established the principle of cultural self-government; and paragraphs 22 and 23 authorised the use of local languages for administrative purposes.11 Without question, Estonia’s espousal of tolerance did not reflect the domestic situation alone; it had important links to influences and developments in the international arena. Revolution in Russia brought much talk of the autonomy of peoples. At an early point, the provisional government declared that a free Russia would not oppress different nationalities by force, but wanted peace on the basis of selfdetermination.12 Events of November 1917 were accompanied by a substantial rhetoric of national self-determination, not least the declaration of the rights of the peoples of Russia which was signed by both Lenin (as chairman of the council of people’s commissars) and Stalin (as people’s commissar on nationality affairs). It stated that the first and second congress of Soviets had accepted the right of the peoples of Russia to free self-determination and said that the “unworthy policy of distrust and falsehood” between peoples had to be replaced by something more “open and honest” likely to inspire “trust.” Specifically the declaration announced the “equality and sovereignty of the peoples of Russia,” the eradication of “national and national-religious privileges and restrictions,” the free development of all national minorities on Russian soil, and the right to national self-determination “even up to the point of separation and the creation of an independent state.”13 When C.A.Macartney commented in the 1930s that Estonia’s separation from Russia was “in conformity” with Bolshevism’s doctrine of self-determination, he left a lot unsaid.14 Claims to national independence were not really expected to take minorities out of the Bolshevik orbit. All the same, German military victory along the Baltic coast provided the context for exactly this to happen. The treaty of Brest-Litovsk, signed on 9 February 1918, stipulated that Estonia would be cleared of Russian troops and occupied by a German police force until security could be established by “proper national institutions.”15 Apparently this clause was a response

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to earlier mistreatment of Baltic Germans by Russian troops and was supposed to prevent anything comparable being repeated.16 Next August, in a supplement to Brest-Litovsk, it was agreed that Russia renounce sovereignty to Estonia and that the two states reach accommodation over, amongst other things, the treatment of ethnic Russians choosing to leave Estonia.17 In this light, it is clear that from the very outset respect for national autonomy and the recognition of the needs of diverse national groups were part and parcel of the framework within which the Estonian state began to emerge. This reality was underlined by the peace of Tartu according to which Russia ceded Estonia the regions of Petseri and TransNarva, areas populated overwhelmingly by ethnic Russians.18 Under such circumstances the needs of different groups could never easily be overlooked, particularly if Bolshevik Russia maintained a powerful rhetoric on the treatment of minorities and national self-determination. Of course, considerations of national autonomy were not even just responses to German and Russian interests in Estonia; they were also related to the agenda set by the victorious allied powers. Admittedly the Allies generally conceptualised the nationality question too bluntly and spent too little time considering how best to deal with national minorities once hostilities ended.19 Woodrow Wilson told the US senate on 22 January 1917 that “every people should be left free to determine its own policy, its own way of development, unhindered, unthreatened, unafraid, the little along with the great and the powerful.”20 In practice, this translated into the idea of national self-determination leading to the creation of “nation states” and in comparison concern for the inevitable minorities left outside their “home state” remained under-developed in official circles. In the first place, therefore, it seems that other voices, often originating in private bodies, raised their needs in particular. In 1917 the Association for a Durable Peace issued a draft international treaty on the rights of national minorities, which called for civil and political equality, control over educational and religious institutions, proportional representation in government and supervision of the measures by an international commission. Jewish groups also called for a kind of culturally based autonomy for central and Eastern Europe to permit educational and religious freedom. Initiatives such as these must have had some airing in policy circles because Wilson personally came to favour the application of general minority provisions to all members of the League of Nations. Such a comprehensive approach was not pursued, however, not least because it promised difficult consequences for imperial powers like France and Britain. Instead, the post-war settlement included the more limited stipulation that the new or enlarged states of central and eastern Europe should enact legislation to protect their national minorities.21 Thereafter a minorities’ committee was established within the League of Nations to deal with petitions from relevant groups alleging

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discrimination. Although the system never satisfied the minorities, it did provide an institutionalised recognition of their situation. This was the context in which the new Estonian state had to operate. Predictably, therefore, the international agreements it entered into during its early years expressed respect for national diversity and autonomy. The treaty of Tartu was signed with Russia on 2 February 1920. It recognised Estonia’s independence and specified that individuals were free to adopt either Estonian or Russian citizenship.22 Thereafter, an agreement reached between Estonia, Finland, Latvia and Poland on 17 March 1922 in Warsaw contained a paragraph promising national minorities “all rights and freedoms” including “free development of their national cultural organisations.”23 Finland never ratified this treaty, and so it never came into force, but the principles it enshrined were repeated in Estonia’s approaches to the League of Nations. As we have seen, membership of the League was dependent on the new and enlarged states of central and eastern Europe putting in place systems of protection for their minorities. To comply, Estonia pursued a course which was also being taken by others. For instance, Poland signed a minorities treaty as early as June 1919 and Latvia adopted a law providing autonomous education for its minorities in December 1919.24 A full meeting of the League accepted on 15 December 1920 that Estonia too could only be admitted as a member if proper steps were undertaken to protect her national minorities and on 13 September 1921 the Estonian government agreed to adopt the proposal.25 Two years later, on 21 September 1923, Estonia made an appropriate declaration to the League pledging protection for its national minorities based on generally accepted principles and accepting that controversial cases could be referred for international mediation. In an earlier communication to the League, the Estonian government had promised the protection of life and liberty of all Estonian citizens without reference to nationality, language or religion. It also promised equality of all before the law.26 Toleration for national diversity had to be an integral component of Estonian political development both at home and abroad. The law on the cultural self-administration of national minorities, or cultural autonomy law, was possibly the culmination of this twin dynamic and its genesis has been examined by Michael Garleff in particular. In early 1921, Estonia’s minorities provided the impetus for the government to act on clause 21 of the constitution which laid the foundations for independent national cultural institutions.27 That same year, ethnic German and Russian parliamentarians quickly prepared a legislative draft. The government failed to move on the matter with comparable speed, but a committee was called together the following March under the chairmanship of People’s Party deputy Jaakson to draw up another draft. Eventually, in Spring 1923, cultural autonomy legislation was debated in the Estonian parliament. Axel de Vries, the Baltic German editor of the

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influential newspaper Revaler Bote, described this project as “the first actual attempt in current times to provide a solution to the nationality question, as it affects domestic [political] life, based on the selfadministration of national minorities.”28 Unfortunately, optimistic words did not yet signal agreement and a further investigatory commission was appointed. Its main players turned out to be the Baltic German members, not least Werner Hasselblatt, and representatives of the Estonian People’s Party, particularly Jaakson and Tõnisson. The People’s Party in fact had a heritage in the more radical wing of Estonian nationalism which had formed during tsarist times and its members, in general terms, did not want the national minorities to be given the opportunity to constitute themselves as “states within states” on the grounds that they might prove subversive.29 Agreement between these very different groups only emerged after private talks held on 18 March 1924 brokered by another Baltic German, Ewald Ammende. At this point it was agreed that political issues needed to be separated from cultural, and that the organisation of cultural life could be entrusted to local organisations (Kulturkratorien).30 Despite this breakthrough, it took nearly another year of parliamentary work before the cultural autonomy law was passed. Baltic Germans Hasselblatt, Ammende, de Vries and August Spindler all were particularly active promoting the legislation both among parliamentary deputies and in the wider press.31 Spindler, who Garleff calls “the initiator” of the law, wrote a famous pamphlet establishing cultural autonomy as the very essence of the new political system. Democracy, he said, was essentially the negation of foreign domination. As a result, the freedom to pursue one’s own national culture simply had to be a cornerstone of it.32 Estonians such as the later president Konstantin Päts and parliamentary deputies such as Labour Party representative Juhkam, People’s Party representative Jaakson and Social Democrat Joeäär played their part too, as did interior minister Einbund and his officials Eugen Maddison and Oskar Angelus.33 No doubt, idealism and expediency had begun to come together well. In the end, even the most fervent Estonian nationalist must have recognised advantages in cultural autonomy. On the one hand, the enactment of strong minorities provision supported effectively Estonia’s achievement of statehood and reputation in the eyes of the League of Nations. As early as 1921, former Baltic German land owners from Estonia had been involved in petitioning the League over the loss of their estates in the process of land reform. A further petition would follow in 1926.34 The state could only benefit from a firm foundation on which to construct a response to such complaints. Actually, Spindler made a point similar to this in his pamphlet: autonomy would forestall dissatisfaction on the part of Estonia’s minorities and avoid confrontation between the majority people and others as it was developing in Poland.35 On the other

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hand, steps to cement the cohesion of all Estonia’s citizens were relevant in the face of a possible communist threat. Summer 1924 saw a communist-inspired demonstration in Tallinn and an insurrection by four to five hundred communists took place there on 1 December 1924. The latter event was accompanied by rumours of Soviet troops massing on the border.36 Under the circumstances, taking meaningful steps to “bind in” minorities to the Estonian state, thereby removing sources of unrest and a seed-bed for communist propaganda, made good sense. The cultural autonomy law was passed on 5 February 1925. It was a powerful attempt to address concerns held by Estonia’s minorities and an important block in that country’s state-building enterprise. Commentators took it as a sign that Estonia was ascending the moral high ground. It provided the granite foundation for judgements such as that made in a pre-war pamphlet from the Royal Institute of International Affairs: “Estonia has a well-earned reputation for the model treatment of her national minorities.”37 It allowed national minorities of over three thousand people to organise independent of external government interference in order to run their own educational and cultural institutions. In effect, they were allowed a share of state sovereignty to constitute themselves as public-legal corporations for national-cultural purposes. As a result, minorities were permitted to elect between twenty and sixty members to their own Kulturrat (cultural council) which would sit in the capital. This would take the lead in matters such as the registration of each minority’s membership. It would be supplemented by a series of Kulturkuratorien (cultural committees) which would supervise and organise cultural life in the provinces. At stake were initiatives to do with libraries, theatres, lectures and so on. Most important of all, however, was the provision that minorities organise their own educational life. Relatedly, the cultural bodies were given some powers to raise taxes to help fund schools in their mother tongue. Admittedly neither the Russian nor Swedish minorities ever put into effect their right to practice cultural autonomy. Apparently these groups were settled in such a fashion that they could regulate their affairs in others ways, for instance through existing local government arrangements.38 Others seized the opportunity gladly. Years beforehand, in May 1919, a congress of Jewish groups had expressed support for a model of cultural autonomy.39 It was hardly surprising, therefore, that on 30 March 1926 they decided to hold elections for a Kulturrat. Twenty seven members were chosen the following May and the body met in July. In due course, the Jewish cultural council assumed responsibility for six schools which taught in Russian, Hebrew and Yiddish.40 Having played a prominent role in bringing about this landmark legislation, it was the German minority which seized the opportunity with most enthusiasm. Within weeks of the law being passed, on 11 April 1925 German parliamentary deputies indicated their readiness to pursue cultural

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autonomy. On 1 November 1925, Werner Hasselblatt opened the first Estonian German Kulturrat which consisted of forty one members.41 By 1930, the body had supervised the registration of 13,998 Germans in Estonia, that is to say 10,645 adults and 3,353 children.42 In due course, the autonomous administration took over the running of about a quarter of the twenty five German-language schools which existed and which could cater for 3,456 pupils in total. Moves were made to develop a uniform curriculum for all German schools. Without question, this educational work was the single most important task of the German cultural administration and it accounted for 85% of the body's budget.43 Nor was educational work confined to schools. In time, the German cultural council appointed twenty German lecturers to work at the University of Tartu.44 Why exactly did the German minority have such a deep-seated interest in cultural autonomy? Fear of persecution, relatively low numbers and a geographical distribution which made it impossible for them to control local administrations in the provinces were all important, but do not tell the whole story. Cultural autonomy related to the historical experiences and, indeed, to the élite sense of identity of Estonia’s Germans. The German presence in the eastern Baltic area dated back to the twelfth century when the Teutonic orders had invaded the area, establishing landed estates for themselves. Peter I gave the Baltic provinces a special, autonomous status which, in effect, permitted the Baltic German nobility (or Ritterschaften) to administer the area independently on behalf of St.Petersburg. In the first instance, this was done through a feudal Landtag (regional council), peopled by the local nobility, from which even the Russian governor was excluded. Germans characterised the system as permeated by an ethos of obligation and service: the nobility felt a distinctive and distinctly feudal loyalty to the tsar and sought to administer the area accordingly. Appropriately, the Baltic German caste also provided a series of senior government officials who engaged more generally in the government of the Russian empire. It has been said that an aristocratic ethos of service was reflected in the urban councils and the guilds created by businessmen and artisans in the region. The Baltic German-run university at Dorpat, now Tartu – first founded in 1632 and reestablished under Alexander I in 1802 – embodied values taken from chivalry, Lutheran christianity and German idealism.45 In the late 19th century, however, the largely pre-modern values of the Baltic Germans were challenged. Taking central imperial policy first, Alexander III pursued a project of “democratic nationalism” in which a “modernising” agenda directed against the corporatist institutions of the Baltic Germans took the form of “Russification.”46 So, in 1887, Russian was introduced as the official language of instruction for all schools in the region. In 1888−9, the traditional system of law and order was replaced by one more typical of the Russian state. In 1889, Dorpat University was

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Russified as well. These developments led a number of prominent Baltic Germans, such as Theodor Schiemann and Paul Rohrbach, to leave for Germany. Others sent their children there to be educated. At the same time, important local developments were underway in the Baltic region, not least a growing sense of nationhood among the Baltic peoples themselves. In the early 19th century, Estonian “national” figures (generally school teachers, clerks and pastors) had begun an intellectual and cultural movement to explore their identity.47 As the 20th century dawned the Estonian population more generally began to sense something in common. Since Baltic Germans only ever comprised about 10% of the region's population, this development inevitably began to threaten their position. Industrialisation brought increasing numbers of Estonians into Tallinn (then Reval) and their percentage of that urban population rose from 51.8% to 88.7%. In 1904 the city got an EstonianRussian urban administration for the first time. The unrest of 1905, although less marked on Estonian lands than, say, neighbouring Latvian ones, did lead to plundering of German estates. At this point the discontent of urban and rural workers began to mix with a desire to develop their ethnic identity. When the unrest was put down by troops loyal to the empire, Estonians did not blame Russian officers and Cossacks for the bloodshed, rather the Baltic barons who, through it all, retained so many trappings of aristocracy.48 Influential Baltic German commentator Reinhard Wittram said that the experience of 1905 had a dual importance for the Baltic Germans. First, it pressed them to offer some kind of compromise to the local nonGerman populations. In concrete terms this meant rolling back the Russification of schools and the provision of education in their own language for the local Baltic peoples. Second, it underlined that the Baltic Germans would have to rely on their own initiative to maintain a sense of community, solidarity and identity.49 This second point became all the more pertinent in the wake of the First World War. The conflict had posed particularly acute problems for the Baltic Germans. Many fought for the Russian army against Germany, they had to respond to the German occupation of the region, they encountered suspicion from Russian quarters and, not least, were persecuted by Bolshevik revolutionaries. Germany’s defeat in the war, the upheaval in Russia and the establishment of the Estonian state (bringing with it the expropriation of the massive baronial estates) left the once ruling German élites of Estonia and Latvia facing marginalisation. It speaks volumes for the depth of their sense of pride that, from such an unpromising position, they looked to construct a system suited to the preservation of autonomy in some form. Inevitably such a system had to play to their traditional identity and fit with existing political possibilities. Cultural autonomy fitted the bill. In the wake of the First World War, the history of the Baltic Germans intersected with that of other German groups living in central

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and eastern Europe’s multinational lands. In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, Austro-Marxists Otto Bauer and Karl Renner had begun examining possible ways to promote the productive coexistence of different national cultures in a single state. In due course, Viennese lawyer Rudolf Laun developed ten appropriate principles which included the equality of all citizens, freedom to choose one’s own nationality and education in the mother tongue.50 These were the ideas which individuals such as Werner Hasselblatt drew on and applied to their own circumstances as they moved towards the cultural autonomy law. So what sort of people were the Estonian Germans who played a formative role in producing the cultural autonomy legislation? In answering this question we begin to encounter some important limitations to the project as it actually occurred. Authors as diverse as M.H.Boehm and Michael Garleff have evaluated Hasselblatt as absolutely pivotal to the drafting of the legislation.51 Georg von Rauch called it simply “Hasselblatt’s bill.”52 Karl-Heinz Grundmann says that only once Hasselblatt took up August Spindler’s initiative was progress really made.53 So it is interesting to observe that when Hasselblatt wrote a book manuscript justifying the law, he did so in a way which, without question, fitted his Baltic German heritage. This is part of the reason why XoseManoel Nunez Seixas thinks he put his nationality before everything else.54 There is no doubt that Hasselblatt took his Baltic German roots seriously and, in the early and mid−1920s, forged arguments in favour of cultural autonomy which were highly characteristic of these. Werner Hasselblatt was born in Dorpat (Tartu) in 1890 and trained as a lawyer at that university. After the First World War, he represented German landowners who were being expropriated by the Estonian state. At this time he was encouraged by another influential Estonian German activist, Ewald Ammende, to pursue a career in politics representing the German community. He took the step and quickly became a deputy in the Estonian Parliament. Subsequently he became leader of the German-Swedish fraction. Again responding to advice from Ammende, Hasselblatt became a leading participant in the committees which prepared the cultural autonomy law. In the 1920s Hasselblatt felt a serious personal stake in cultural autonomy and wrote about it extensively.55 In his book manuscript he identified the essential characteristics of cultural autonomy as follows: it allowed every individual to decide his/her own nationality (and that of any children) without foregoing equality with other citizens; it allowed every child to be educated in his/her own language without additional cost to the parents; it permitted separate nationalities to administer their own schools; and comparable provision could be put in place for other cultural activities as well.56 To understand Hasselblatt’s view of cultural autonomy properly, however, it has to be placed in the context of a wider world view which was distinctly conservative. In fact, as might be expected of the product of

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a former élite stratum of a massive empire, Hasselblatt was highly critical of the way small nation states were developing in central and eastern Europe in the 1920s. Internationally-speaking, he believed the system of single nation states had displaced a much richer plurality of other possibilities which large empires had allowed to coexist for the ordering of life in the region. Unlike the earlier and looser imperial systems, the nation-state had displaced multiple frameworks based on geography, history, economics and the preservation of order. In domestic terms, Hasselblatt felt the nation-state was concentrating too many powers in too few hands and was interfering in too many spheres of life which were inappropriate to it. This was all the more regrettable because he believed the post-war states were mechanical, soulless and promoting of mediocrity. Their parliamentary democracies were based first and foremost on class and this was certain to prove too weak and anonymous a principle for organising politics in the long term. He also believed it was too easy for democratic parties to divide along nationality lines and, as a result, for majority nationalities to use democracy to impose their ways on others. Instead of a nation-state built on class-based or nationality-based politics, Hasselblatt wanted a more organic kind of society. Hearkening back to the glory days of the “Ritterschaften,” Hasselblatt maintained that, in the Baltic region, traditionally a “living community” had been guaranteed not by a unitary state structure, but by numerous autonomous organisations. He even characterised Baltic history as that of the “self-administration of corporations.” These included religious organisations, systems of estates and guilds, professional organisations, regional administrations and independent schools. He felt that self-administration brought a personal stake in a community which was essential to getting anything done with high quality. Equally he felt participation in an autonomous corporation bound people together morally, since it made everyone feel they had a public responsibility for getting things done. In this light, Hasselblatt believed that the tie of common national identity, especially when linked to a cultural organisation, could motivate substantial public achievement. For Hasselblatt, the creation of autonomous cultural institutions was a means to turning a potentially disorderly mass of national individuals into a vital, productive community. With this in mind, he echoed Renner’s criticism of nineteenth century Austria-Hungary. There nationalities had been permitted education in their own language, but they had not been encouraged to organise institutionally. It had been a lost opportunity; but now Estonia had gone a stage further. By adopting an institutionally-based cultural autonomy, it had begun to construct not a nation state, but a state of all those nationalities which existed on its territory – a state which should be capable of very considerable achievement indeed. From this perspective, Hasselblatt progressed to argue that cultural autonomy would actually benefit all citizens of Estonia

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– even Estonians. By devolving cultural life to more “local” organisations, it would allow over-arching state institutions to concentrate on more general initiatives of benefit to all nationality groups on their territory. It would maximise the prospect of a state validating itself as a champion of progress, a Rechtsstaat, an economic system or as an agent of security on the borders of Europe. Hasselblatt hoped success here would promote the growth of a concept of “Us” which would bind together all the nationalities existing on that territory. If cultural autonomy was “the new bottle,” Hasselblatt wanted to fill it with rather a lot of “old wine.” Of course, not all commentators on cultural autonomy had quite so obviously reactionary terms of reference. Within Estonia, Spindler’s readiness to apply the democratic framework has been noted already. Even though the Russian minority never opted for cultural autonomy, the democratically-minded ethnic Russian professor at the University of Tartu, Mikhail Kurchinskii, tried to promote the law too. More important still was Latvia’s liberal politician and thinker of longstanding and high-repute, the Baltic German Paul Schiemann. He certainly displayed much more progressive instincts.57 But Hasselblatt was a pivotal thinker and his ideas were certainly resonant of a given time and place. It is also true that Werner Hasselblatt moved on to put his ideas into an international context, but in the early 1920s, this was even more important to that other Estonian German, Ewald Ammende. Ammende was born in Pärnu (then Pernau) in December 1892.58 His family owned a large trading business which operated across the Russian empire. Ewald Ammende developed his wide horizons to become active on behalf of German minority groups first across the old tsarist empire and then across Europe. His cosmopolitanism was reflected in an education which included stays not just in Riga and Moscow, but also in Cologne, Tübingen and Kiel. At the latter he presented a doctoral dissertation about the position of German minorities in post-war Europe. In 1922, Ammende was one of those responsible for launching the Verband der deutschen Minderheiten in Europa. In 1925 he played a leading role in establishing the congress of European minorities which met for the first time in Geneva.59 The organisation aimed to represent not only the eight million-strong German minorities left outside the Weimar Republic by the peace treaties, but the full forty million members of all Europe’s national minorities. Eventually the Congress actually adopted cultural autonomy as the ideal way to address Europe’s minorities’ problem. How, then, did Ammende’s interest in Estonia and cultural autonomy mesh with his wider concerns about Europe? In 1925 Ammende wrote articles for Revaler Bote supporting Estonia’s cultural autonomy legislation and applying its insights to German minorities in Europe more generally. Where he found their situation wanting, he turned his arguments around to criticise the League of Nations’ ineffectiveness in the protection of these people. He was

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critical that the League did not actually have a permanent committee dealing with minority issues. He felt it spent too little time on preventive measures to stop the persecution of minorities before it started. In sum, Ammende thought the League of Nations was far too much a vehicle for the interests of states, and far too little concerned with the welfare of national minorities. He would have found it quite symptomatic that, in the later 1920s, both Aristide Briand and Sir Austen Chamberlain suggested the League was protecting these people simply as a prelude to their assimilation by majority populations.60 Ammende’s response to the difficult situation sought to locate cultural autonomy in the wider European context and to give it an important place in the Congress of European minorities. He looked to the day when all Europe’s minorities might organise themselves on principles analogous to Estonia’s model legislation. Then it would be possible to construct a massive international system of nationalities’ cultural organisations which would come together and balance the system of states established in the League of Nations. His vision involved every culturallyconscious national group institutionalising its own Volksgemeinschaft (national community) organisation in every state where it had a minority. Each Volksgemeinschaft would govern itself according to the rules of cultural autonomy in every state in which it existed, and every culturallyconscious national minority would be allowed the freedom to interact with both its co-national minorities and its core state. In other words, he looked to the day when all German minorities abroad – whether in Latvia, Poland, Estonia, Hungary, Romania or wherever – would organise themselves according to cultural autonomy. Then they would interact with each other, and indeed with institutions in Germany itself, for cultural purposes. Comparable organisational possibilities would be laid open to all Europe’s minorities and they would all come together in the forum of the Congress of European Minorities. This would balance the power of the states in the League of Nations. Ammende’s aim, then, was to underpin peace in Europe by securing the fullest kind of national cultural expression for all its national groups. He believed the resulting satisfaction of national identities would reduce, not exacerbate, political friction across the continent. Here, then, is a sketch of some central concerns which moved the Estonian German pioneers of cultural autonomy. Unfortunately, it must be said that the passage of time saw both develop careers which were anything but trouble-free. Hasselblatt’s conservatism slid towards a more partisan and revolutionary kind of German nationalism, while Ammende’s desire to mobilise all German minorities across Europe led him to seek illconsidered sponsors. In time, both compromised with German national socialism. Hasselblatt moved to Berlin where, during the 1930s, he joined Hans Frank’s Academy for Germany Law. In the 1940s he wrote shameful memoranda supposed to contribute to the new order’s re-shaping of

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Europe.61 In the 1930s, Ammende took money from Hitler’s government to support anti-Soviet initiatives. He died on a world cruise in 1936 at which time he was working on the international implications of bolshevism. It is hardly surprising that some contemporaries were sceptical about any initiative so strongly supported by these individuals, particularly when it was suggested that it be implemented around the whole European arena. For instance, leaders of Slavic minorities argued that cultural autonomy worked with disproportionate effectiveness for minorities which had been former élites and which were reasonably wealthy.62 Only they could afford to subsidise appropriate educational provision properly. We should also note that Hasselblatt and Ammende did not speak out adequately against the persecution of the Jews in Germany after 1933. These stark facts make us want to be careful about how exactly to interpret cultural autonomy. We may even be tempted to take them as definitive arguments against seeing much lasting good in it. If the central figures of Hasselblatt and Ammende displayed mixed motives, shifting from pride in national identity to outright nationalism, we may not want to be generous about a system they regarded as congruent with their ends. Perhaps they did not have an eye on abusing a system, but were actually setting up something which we should today regard as intrinsically suspect. In this light, we must also raise a more general point which strikes at one of the absolutely core values of cultural autonomy. More modern commentators have questioned whether educational systems should ever promote separate, possibly competing, national and cultural identities.63 Such practices may lead to pressure on social harmony. So, does all of this begin to suggest that the Estonian model of cultural autonomy had such strong roots in the world of the 1920s that it was crucially time-bound? Taking everything into account, are we left to view it as, at most, a transitional phenomenon? Was it, at best, some kind of “half-way house” characteristic of perspectives which existed momentarily in an ethnographically diverse zone as it modernised from empire to nation state? The idea that cultural autonomy was just a step on the way during the modernisation of Europe fits with Ernst Gellner’s thesis that industrialisation brings the nation-state. Accordingly, Gellner argued that systems of self-government (such as cultural autonomy) were characteristics of the pre-industrial, agrarian age.64 Other more recent authors have welcomed the rise of the nation state. David Miller says, for instance, that “it is valuable for the boundaries of political units (paradigmatically, states) to coincide with national boundaries.”65 He goes on to say that:

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“where a nation is politically autonomous, it is able to implement a scheme of social justice; it can protect and foster its common culture; and its members are to a greater or lesser extent collectively to determine its common destiny. Where the citizens of a state are also compatriots, the mutual trust that this engenders makes it more likely that they will be able to solve collective action problems, to support redistributive principles of justice, and to practise deliberative forms of democracy. Together, these make a powerful case for holding that the boundaries of nations and states should as far as possible coincide.”66(66) Miller’s quotation was published in the mid−1990s, soon after the collapse of the Soviet Union. Interestingly, at exactly the same time a number of other commentators were investigating alternative, more flexible, approaches to social organisation. In fact, a number of them took up lines which suggest that, through it all, cultural autonomy still has the potential to be regarded as more than just an anachronism. At least some of the ideas pushed by Hasselblatt and Ammende in the wake of the collapse of the Russian empire began to be “recovered” (presumably unknowingly) by a set of respectable authors writing after the collapse of the Soviet Union. Some of the new commentators expressed dissatisfaction with the prospective emergence of a universal, homogeneous society. In 1993, Yael Tamir rejected the idea of a global community stamped by completely uniform relationships. Instead, Tamir proposed a world with populations divided according to principles of “liberal nationalism.” The vision included the possibility of national minorities gaining a kind of self-administration which would lead to reduced roles for the umbrella state structures existing “above” them.67 In 1999, Ross Poole argued that national heritage helps form personality even today and that the resulting national identity provides a substantial moral force capable of energising whole communities.68 On this basis, he maintained that the “freedom of modern citizens” does not so much involve the manufacture of their own political order, but the opportunity for “making and remaking” the cultural world essential to this identity.69 Were he alive today, Werner Hasselblatt would find overlap with arguments such as these. The 1990s also saw “new” thinking about national cultural ties which cross political borders. In 1994 Kenichi Ohmae argued that economic forces are refusing to be confined by state boundaries. Today it seems the world economy is being shaped more by cultural ties than by relations between nation states.70 More surprising still is a book by Gidon Gottlieb. In 1993 Gottlieb, a professor from Chicago with a particular interest in the Middle East, argued that stability in the modern world could

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be increased by a better, more flexible, recognition of national and cultural identity. He specified that the current world political system of states should be supplemented by an extensive system of nations; that state citizenship should be supplemented by a kind of nationality citizenship; and that sovereignty should be redistributed away from the state and towards the nation.71 The parallel between Gottlieb’s ideas and even Ammende’s desire to transfer the principle of cultural autonomy to the international plane is striking. But it impossible to overlook Multicultural Citizenship by Will Kymlicka. Written from a clearly “liberal” standpoint, this appeared in 1995 and maintained that the challenge of multicultural society, comprising different nationality groups, is here to stay. With this in mind, Kymlicka proposed that the customary formulations of human rights are inadequate to determine how liberal societies should react to this reality. They do not stipulate, for instance, how educational systems should be organised for different national groups, how government responsibility should be devolved to minority bodies or the way minority citizens should be expected to integrate into majority society.72 Kymlicka’s goal was to stimulate critical thought about how best to supplement existing human rights provisions with a system of “minority rights” capable of ensuring that national minorities do not suffer injustice, whether accidental or otherwise. To this end Kymlicka observed that the “traditional birthplace(s)” of liberalism such as Britain, France and the USA, have either ignored such preoccupations or else, in line with the title of this chapter, regard them “as mere curiosities or anomalies.”73 For all of the limitations associated with it, Estonia’s cultural autonomy project had been an attempt to fill precisely this gap. Obviously given the shortcomings displayed by the key Baltic German protagonists outlined here, it would be inappropriate to overplay the degree of connectedness of the law of 1925 to Europe as it exists 80 years later; but equally clearly the project from the 1920s has had a definite echo in at least some scholarly concerns which emerged in the 1990s. This fact is explained by two central points. Cultural autonomy was a response to dissatisfaction with the centralised, unitary nation state. It was regarded as too limited to facilitate life either domestically or internationally. In the current climate of dissolving international barriers and globalisation, this remains a very pertinent concern. Furthermore, cultural autonomy involved an attempt to balance the obvious requirement of any population for a universal state structure (to carry out functions required by all citizens) against the need of individuals to feel part of more manageable, distinct, personal and meaningful communities. This trend is unlikely to vanish overnight. In fact, to put things more directly still, so long as people feel diverse national identities strongly and share the same territorial space, how best to manage their society peacefully has to be more than a “curiosity or anomaly.” For this reason, Estonia’s project of

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cultural autonomy deserves to be studied today. Despite the limitations and mixed intentions noted in this chapter, it was still one of central and eastern Europe’s more interesting contributions to the on-going debate about how best to organise a complex society.

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Notes 1. Gellner, 1983, 139−40. 2. Unnamed, 2004. 3. Drozdik-Drexler, 2003. 4. Schiemann’s life is dealt with in Hiden, 2004. 5. Aun, 1951, 52. 6. Alenius, 2004, 33. 7. Ibid, 32−34. 8. For brief recent characterisations of the growth of Estonian nationalism, see Kasekamp, 2000, 4−6 and Ketola, 2000, 25−7. 9. von Rauch, 1974, 137. 10. Maddison, 1926, 4−6. 11. Summarised in Rauch, 1974, 135−6. 12. Macartney and Palmer, 1962, 73. 13. The document is reproduced in Sakwa, 1999, 58−9. 14. Macartney, 1996, 109. 15. Wheeler-Bennett, 1963, 406−7. 16. Aun, 1951, 29. 17. Wheeler-Bennett, 1963, 429−30. 18. Kasekamp, 2000, 19. 19. Jackson Preece, 1998, 70; Claude, 1955, chapter 1. 20. Robinson et al, 1943, 5. 21. Jackson-Preece, 1998, 70−72. 22. Aun, 1951, 28 & 33; von Rauch, 1974, 73. 23. Aun, 1951, 33−4. 24. For the text of Poland’s treaty, see Jankowsky, 173−9. Regarding Latvia’s legislation, see Smith, 1996, 240−2; and Saleniece and Kuznetsovs, 1999. 25. Aun, 1951, 36−7 26. Ibid, 42−9. 27. Garleff, 1976, 106−13. 28. Ibid, 107. 29. See Alenius, 2004, particularly the section “Differences of Opinion on Minorities among the Estonians.” 30. Garleff, 1976, 110. 31. Ibid, 111. 32. Ibid; Spindler, 1924. 33. Garleff, 1976, 112. 34. Aun, 1951, 63. 35. Spindler, 1924, 4. 36. Von Rauch, 112−114. 37. Cited in Kasekamp, 2000, 48. 38. Alenius, 2004. See the section “The Minorities’ Viewpoint.”

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39. Garleff, 1976, 113. 40. W.Hasselblatt, Ueber die Kulturautonomie. Book manuscript p.160. It is located in the Estonian State Archive (fond 85, nimestik 3 säilik 26), Tallinn. It was written between 1926 and 1932. 41. Garleff, 1976, 112−113. 42. Hassleblatt 1932, 160. 43. Ibid, 155. 44. Ibid, 150−51. 45. Accessible histories of the Baltic Germans include von Rauch, 1974; and von Taube et al, 1995. 46. Taube et al, 1995, 73. 47. Kasekamp, 2000, 4−6; Ketola, 2000, 25−7. 48. Taube et al, 1995, 80. 49. Wittram cited in ibid, 80−1. 50. Garleff, 1976, 105. 51. Garleff, 1994, 200. Boehm is quoted during the description of Hasselblatt. 52. Von Rauch, 1974, 140. 53. Grundmann, 1977, 110. 54. Nunez Seixas, 2001, 480. 55. His publications are listed in Garleff, 1994, 201−13. 56. For detailed discussions of Hasselblatt’s ideas, see Garleff, 1980 and Housden, 2004. Refer also to Hasselblatt, 1932. 57. For a study of Kurchinskii, see Smith, 1999. On Schiemann, see Hiden, 2004, esp. chapters 1 and 7. 58. For discussions of Ammende’s life and ideas, see Garleff, 1994, 191−99; Housden, 2000 and 2004. 59. Schott, 1988, 103−4. 60. Jackson-Preece, 1998, 51. 61. Hasselblatt’s later career is detailed in Hackmann, 2005 (forthcoming). 62. Bamberger-Stemman, 2000, 176−7. 63. Miller, 1995, 142. 64. Gellner, 1983, 13 & 139−40. 65. Miller, 1995, 82. 66. Ibid, 98. 67. Tamir, 1993, 151. 68. Poole, 1999, 104−5. 69. Ibid, 109. 70. Ohmae, 1995, 11. 71. Gottlieb, 1993, 3−5. 72. Kymlicka, 1995, 5. 73. Ibid, 194.

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References Alenius, K. (2004), “Under the Conflicting Pressures of the Ideals of the Era and the Burdens of History: Ethnic Relations in Estonia, 1918−1925,” Journal of Baltic Studies, 35, 1. Aun, K. (1951), Der völkerrechtliche Schutz nationaler Minderheiten in Estland von 1917 bis 1940. Hamburg: Joachim Heitmann. Bamberger-Stemman, S. (2000), Der Europäische Nationalitätenkongreß 1925 bis 1938. Nationale Minderheiten zwischen Lobbyistentum und Großmachtinteressen. Marburg: Verlag Herder-Institut. Claude, I.L. (1955), National Minorities. An International Problem. New York: Greenwood. Drozdik-Drexler, H. (2003), “Banater, Miteinander oder nebeneinander?”, Banater Berglanddeutsche. Mitteilungsblatt der Heimatverbandes Banater Berglanddeutscher eV, 112. Garleff, M. (1976), Deutschbaltische Politik zwischen den Weltkriegen. Bonn: Verlag Wissenschaftliches Archiv. Garleff, M. (1980), “Nationalitätenpolitik zwischen liberalem und völkischem Anspruch. Gleichklang und Spannung bei Paul Schiemann und Werner Hasselblatt,” in: J.von Hehn and C.J. Kenez (eds.), Reval und die Baltischen Länder. Marburg: Herder Institute. Garleff, M. (1994), “Deutschbaltische Publizisten: Ewald Ammende – Werner Hasselblatt – Paul Schiemann,” Berichte und Forschungen, 2. Gellner, E. (1983), Nations and Nationalism. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Gottlieb, G. (1993), Nation against State. A New Approach to Ethnic Conflicts and the Decline of Sovereignty. New York: Council on Foreign Relations Press. Grundmann, K.H. (1977), Deutschtumspolitik zur Zeit der Weimarer Republik. Hanover: v. Hirschheydt. Hackmann, J. (2005 – forthcoming), contribution to: M.Garleff (ed.), Deutschbalten. Weimarer Republik und Drittes Reich. Cologne: Böhlau. Hasselblatt, W. (1932), Ueber die Kulturautonomie. Book manuscript.

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Hiden, J. (2004), Defender of Minorities. Paul Schiemann, 1876−1944. London: Hurst. Housden, M. (2000), “Ewald Ammende and the Organization of National Minorities in Inter-war Europe,” German History, 18, 439−60. Housden, M. (2004), “Ambiguous Activists. Estonia’s Model of Cultural Autonomy as Interpreted by Two of its Founders: Werner Hasselblatt and Ewald Ammende,” Journal of Baltic Studies, 35, 231−53. Jackson Preece, J. (1998), National Minorities and the European NationStates System. Oxford: Clarendon. Jankowsky, O.I. (1945), Nationalities and National Minorities. York: Macmillan.

New

Kasekamp, A. (2000), The Radical Right in Interwar Estonia. Basingstoke: Macmillan. Ketola, M. (2000), The Nationality Question in the Estonian Evangelical Lutheran Church, 1918−1939. Helsinki: Finnish Society of Church History. Kymlicka, W. (1995), Multicultural Citizenship. Oxford: Clarendon. Macartney, C.A. (1996), “National States and National Minorities,” in: S.Woolf (ed.), Nationalism in Europe 1815 to the Present. A Reader. London: Routledge. Macartney, C. A. and Palmer, A. W. (1962), Independent Eastern Europe. London: Macmillan. Maddison, E. (1926), Die nationalen Minderheiten Estlands und ihre Rechte. Tallinn. Miller, D. (1995), On Nationality. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Nunez Seixas, X-M. (2001), Entre Ginebra y Berlin. La Cuestion de law Minorias Nacionales y la Politica Internacional en Europa 1914−1939. Madrid: Akal. Ohmae, K. (1995), The End of the Nation State. The Rise of Regional Economies. London: HarperCollins. Poole, R. (1999) Nation and Identity. London: Routledge.

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Robinson, J., Karbach, O., Laseron, M.M., Robinson, N. and Vichniak, M. (1943), Were the Minorities Treaties a Failure? New York: Antin Press. Sakwa, R. (1999), The Rise and Fall of the Soviet Union, 1917−1991. London: Routledge. Saleniece, I. and Kuznetsovs, S. (1999), “Nationality Policy, Education and the Russian Question in Latvia Since 1918,” in: C.Williams and T.D.Sfikas (eds.), Ethnicitv and Nationalism in Russia, the CIS and the Baltic States. Aldershot: Ashgate. Schott, B. (1988), Deutschland und der Minderheitenschutz. Zur Völkerbundspolitik der Stresemann-Aera. Marburg: Herder-Institut. . Smith, D.J. (1999), “Retracing Estonia’s Russians: Mikhail Kurchinskii and Interwar Cultural Autonomy,” Nationalities Papers, 27, 455−74. Smith, G. (1996), “Latvia and the Latvians,” in: G.Smith (ed.), The Nationalities Question in the Post-Soviet States. London: Longman. Spindler, A. (1924), An die Gegner der Kulturautonomie der völkischen Minderheiten in Estland. Reval: Nord- und Ostdeutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft. Tamir, Y. (1993), Liberal Nationalism. New Jersey: Princeton University Press. Unnamed (2004), “Was uns verbindet, sind Erinnerungen und eine gemeinsame Geschichte,” Banater Berglanddeutsche. Mitteilungsblatt der Heimatverbandes Banater Berglanddeutscher eV, 115. von Rauch, G. (1974), The Baltic States. The Years of Independence. Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania 1917−1940. London: Hurst. von Taube, A., Thomson, E. and Garleff, M. (1995), “Die Deutschbalten – Schicksal und Erbe einer eigenständigen Gemeinschaft,” in: W.Schlau (ed.), Die Deutschbalten. Munich: Langen Müller. Wheeler-Bennett, J.W. (1963), Brest-Litovsk. March 1918. London: Macmillan.

The Forgotten Peace.

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Author affiliation: Martyn Housden is a senior lecturer at the department of social sciences and humanities, University of Bradford, UK.

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The non-citizens of the EU Helen M. Morris Soviet policies substantively altered Latvian demography. Migration of predominately ethnic Russians into Latvia, coupled with ethnic Latvian war losses, deportations and migration, resulted in a decline in the ethnic Latvian portion of the population from 75% in 1939 to 52% in 1991. When Latvia regained independence in 1991, the government gave citizenship to citizens of the pre-war republic (1918–1940) and to their descendants. The 1.7 million people gaining citizenship at this time included around 280,000 Russian speakers. Soviet-era migrants and their descendents, however, became “non-citizens.” This chapter will focus on the status of the remaining non-citizen population in Latvia, the impact of the vote to join the European Union (EU) on citizenship applications and, in the field of minority policies, will talk about education and the ratification of the Council of Europe framework convention for the protection of national minorities (FCNM). In it, I argue that the collapse of communism has not resulted in a “new Europe” for minority rights. There is no overarching European policy or provision for minority protection. Given the lack of specialised institutional capacity within the EU to deal with minority issues, monitoring of minority rights in the enlarged EU may fall to the Council of Europe, which has established monitoring mechanisms through the FCNM. The first legally binding multilateral instrument devoted to the protection of minorities in general, the FCNM is a compromise document which does not include radical proposals. Its principles are implemented through national legislation and individual governments’ policies, thus ensuring national sovereignty over the process. Although it has been ratified by all accession countries except Latvia, the FCNM remains a politically and legally weak instrument which has not been ratified by all existing member states.1 The conclusion to this chapter attempts to put Latvian events into a broader European context and assess the relevance of the “new” and “old” Europe labels to the issue of nationality and minority policy. 1.

Non-citizens The April 1995 “law on the status of former USSR citizens who are not citizens of Latvia or any other state” afforded non-citizens already registered in Latvia on 1 July 1992 a legal status and additional rights to those established in the constitution as well as provision for issuing identity documents in the form of non-citizen passports. The 1994 citizenship law and accompanying procedures determined by the cabinet of ministers outlined the requirements for non-citizens to apply for citizenship through naturalisation if they had five years’ residence in

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Latvia after May 1990, basic knowledge of the Latvian language, constitution, and history; pledged an oath of loyalty; had a legal source of income, and renounced any former citizenship.2 Initially applications were limited by age group and until 1998 when the citizenship law was reformed only 11,432 people were naturalised out of a total non-citizen population of around 700,000. The pace of naturalisation is very slowly picking up. By 30 June 2004, 74,6563 persons had gained citizenship through naturalisation, making approximately 78% of the population of Latvia citizens.4 A total of 9,844 persons were naturalised in 2002 and 10,049 in 2003.5 The head of the naturalisation board, Eiženija Aldermane, has stated that the number of naturalisation applicants has doubled since the positive outcome of the 20 September 2003 EU membership referendum.6 This rise in interest also coincided with the September 2003 government decision to increase further the number of groups eligible for reduced naturalisation fees. In the first four months of 2004, 7353 applications to acquire the citizenship of Latvia were submitted or approximately 80 per cent of the number of applications for the whole of 2001 and 2002.7 As with previous spikes in interest these increases are likely to tail off, though the move to a professional army by the end of 2006 should serve as an additional motivating factor for young males to naturalise. Non-citizens are not conscripted. The board for citizenship and migration affairs’ figures for July 2004 put the number of non-citizens at 470,220.8 In addition to EU accession, the naturalisation board suggests the increase in applications is due to: free Latvian language classes,9 provision of information on naturalisation including running information days, as well as increased cooperation with local governments, educational establishments and media contacts.10 The ministry of foreign affairs website is keen to highlight the frequent public statements made by state officials, including the president, prime minister and other ministers encouraging non-citizens to naturalise.11 However, the impact of such statements is somewhat lessened by continued radical nationalist rhetoric on the one hand and, on the other, reactionary Russian sentiments, particularly manifested with regard to the language of instruction in education. Prior to 1998, international actors heavily criticised the fact that being born to non-citizen parents did not lead to automatic citizenship for the child, meaning around 2000-3000 new non-citizens were born each year.12 The citizenship law changes in 1998 included Article 3 on the recognition of Latvian citizenship for children born in Latvia after 21 August 1991 to non-citizen parents. Uptake of citizenship under this provision has so far been very low, with just 1514 children being recognised as citizens from 1 January 1999 until the end of April 2004. However, following a written appeal to parents by the minister for special assignments for society integration affairs Nils Muižnieks and special task

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minister for children and family affairs Ainars Bastiks, 354 children were registered in May 2004 alone.13 2.

External pressures and key concerns During the course of EU accession negotiations, the Latvian authorities were subjected to unprecedented pressure to reform their citizenship, language and education policies in order bringing them into line with international obligations and fulfil the Copenhagen accession criteria relating to “respect for and protection of minorities.” Despite sweeping changes in Latvian nationality policy, the size and status of the non-citizen population and minority language education remained contentious issues at the time of Latvia’s entry to the EU on 1 May 2004. But does the fact that membership is now secure mean that citizenship and minority policy issues will stagnate? Despite the considerable changes seen in Latvian nationality policy since the country regained independence in 1991, a number of issues remain unresolved and of concern to domestic and external actors as the country establishes itself as an EU member state. Among these are the implementation of education reforms (including the transition to 70% of teaching in Latvian in secondary schools in 2004 and the development of minority education provision), the status and large number of noncitizens,14 the application of language legislation against possible infringements of minority language rights, and the signature and ratification of the FCNM. While EU accession was expected to make gaining Latvian citizenship more attractive, there remain almost 500,000 non-citizens in Latvia.15 Members of the international community resident in Riga have estimated that approximately 300,000 of these will never become citizens, for, having lived so long without political status, they lack the will or the means to meet the naturalisation requirements.16 A.

Education fury Increasingly heated rhetoric surrounding the implementation of the reforming 1998 education law has hindered the prospects for ongoing constructive dialogue. A number of minority groupings are campaigning for full state-funded education in minority languages, while the 1998 education law provides for instruction in Latvian in classes above the ninth grade17 in secondary schools by 2004.18 However, as many minority children finish non-Latvian language education unable to gain citizenship, enter higher education or compete for jobs, the government is faced with the challenge of ensuring minorities have an equal competitive chance in education and labour while maintaining their linguistic and cultural identity. 19 The education reform has received a favourable assessment from the EU and the Organisation for Security and Co-operation in Europe (OSCE), which are promoting integration and the economic competitiveness of minorities. OSCE high commissioner on national

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minorities Rolf Ekeus considers the education reform to be sufficiently flexible, but has stressed the need for ongoing dialogue with minorities and careful implementation of the law. In December 2003, Ekeus stated that he considered the planned reform of education in Latvia necessary.20 The OSCE supported the need for Latvian language dominated education. Following its first hundred days in office, the government of prime minister Indulis Emsis (Union of Greens and Farmers) was still struggling with the increasingly heated debate and rising protest surrounding the education reform in minority schools. The government initiated a dialogue with students, parents and teachers in an attempt to smooth the implementation of the law.21 However, the already strained atmosphere and the opposition of many protestors to the law itself and not merely its implementation meant that compromise looked highly unlikely by the summer of 2004. A strong showing for radical nationalists at the June 2004 European Parliamentary election coupled with the continuing protests over education reform again brought nationality issues up the political agenda during this period. According to Muižnieks, comments by officials from the previous government contributed to an escalation in the protests; yet, at the same time, unrealistic demands and the political agenda of the protest organisers from the unregistered headquarters for the defence of Russian-language schools (SHTAB) made dialogue challenging.22 In midJuly 2004, the more moderate LAShOR (Latvian association for support of schools with Russian language of instruction) and representatives of the ministry of education and science established a working group to discuss minority education programmes. Agreement was reached that such programmes should develop loyalty towards the Latvian state, guarantee a high level of Latvian language competence, preserve the minority language, and allow for multicultural education.23 LAShOR supports the learning of the Latvian language by all Latvian residents, but argues for the preservation of Russian language, education, and culture.24 However, such a moderate stance failed to capture widespread support amongst those minorities with the right to vote in the European parliamentary election. Igor Pimenov resigned as chairman of LAShOR to stand on the People’s Harmony Party list but failed to gain a mandate, securing just 4.77% of the vote. Yet the more radical and anti-establishment Tatyana Ždanoka became a member of the European parliament, heading the list of the For Human Rights in a United Latvia grouping which gained 10.66% of the vote.25 In August 2004, more radical elements of LAShOR duly broke with the organisation to form the more radical For Russian Schools, Culture and Language, which pledges support for SHTAB. This left more moderate factions within LAShOR freer to negotiate with the government. Muižnieks stated that it was increasingly difficult for radicals and moderates to work together.26

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The protests surrounding the implementation of the education policy began in May 2003 and peaked with a gathering of 8000 students in February 2004. The actions were the first time the traditionally fragmented and disparate Russian-speaking population had exhibited any kind of unity. Indications are that Russian-speaking non-citizens have been able to circumvent some of the citizenship and language restrictions through engagement in private enterprise and political relationships with Russian Federation companies.27 Education policy, however, has a direct and discernible impact upon their children and cannot be circumvented so readily. Reporting to the parliamentary defence, internal affairs and national security commissions, security police chief Janis Reiniks claimed that the true goal of the organisers of the education protests was to further their own political influence. In addition, he voiced a wider concern that the organisers were not in control of the protestors, whom he labelled as increasingly disloyal to the country in which they live.28 International observers have expressed concern that a lack of coordination or control over the protests may allow them to get out of hand, thereby escalating the disputes and changing the tenor of the debate. It is currently widely accepted, apart from by the Russian Federation, that citizenship, language, and education legislation is in line with international commitments and that the citizenship debate in particular is closed. An escalation of the education protests, however, could question this notion of closure, while posing an additional threat to the already vulnerable minority administration. The government will remain in office as long as an acceptable alternative cannot be found. A significant escalation of the education protests ahead of the implementation of the new policy would greatly challenge government stability and likely tarnish the country’s international image. B.

Future integration The controversy over the implementation of the education law has further polarised political debate in Latvia. However, there is strong evidence of a desire to integrate non-citizen and minority children and give them a stake in Latvian society. For the academic year 2003−2004, 74.4% of all first graders commenced their studies solely in Latvian, suggesting that parents of non-Latvian children are anxious for them to gain wider access to higher education and the labour market afforded by a Latvian language education. Overall, whereas in 1995−96 60.3% of pupils were learning in Latvian, by 2003−2004 this figure had risen to 70.3%.29 C.

Language The issues of language use and education stray across into the realm of minority policy. Data from the 2000 Latvian census indicated that the number of minorities who speak no Latvian had declined from

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more than a million in 1989 to around 500,000.30 This is a reflection of an increased knowledge of Latvian among minorities, out-migration and deaths. The national programme for Latvian language training (NPLLT) has continued, although demand for language training exceeds the NPLLT capacity and lack of Latvian language skills remains a key impediment to naturalisation.31 In August 2004, the British Embassy in Riga pledged 49,000 lats for Latvian language training at the Latgale naturalisation board. The courses aim to allow around 700 candidates to prepare for the language element of the naturalisation exam.32 While the NPLLT will continue to provide language training, the integration foundation (which supports NGOs) will now be an intermediary administering European social fund money. The naturalisation board, meanwhile, organises intermittent language training specifically for applicants, funded by the Latvian government, UNDP, and the British government. The ministry of welfare and the integration fund have launched grant competitions for European social fund money. A sizable portion of this will go on language training and most clients will be non-citizens.33 D.

Status of non-citizens While there is broad agreement that the citizenship law complies with Latvia’s international obligations, non-citizens have an ambiguous status post-accession: while not EU citizens, their internationally recognized non-citizen passports afford them the protection of the Latvian state. With the exception of travel to Estonia, Lithuania, and Denmark non-citizens must have a visa to travel within the EU. The European council directive on the regulated status of third country nationals34 gives non-citizens the right to travel in another EU member state for up to three months in any six-month period. While the directive aims to afford noncitizens equality of treatment in most fields of socio-economic life – including access to and conditions of employment education, welfare benefits etc – member states retain a large degree of discretion in its implementation.35 The rights of holders of long-term resident EC residence permits are confined to the particular member state, in this case Latvia. The right to establish themselves in another member state to work or study requires a separate application and is not guaranteed by the fact of possession of long-term residence. Latvia had to change its constitution to give EU member state citizens resident in Latvia the right to vote in local elections, yet it is extremely unlikely that non-citizens will be afforded the same privilege as such a move would substantively alter the political constituency in many municipalities. 3.

Minorities vs. non-citizens In any assessment of the situation of the minorities in Latvia, a distinction has to be made between rights and safeguards connected with membership of an ethnic and cultural community, regardless of the

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nationality held and of differences in personal status arising from nonpossession of Latvian citizenship. Minorities in Latvia , including noncitizens, account for nearly 44% of the population, including 30% Russians, 4% Belarussians, and 3% Ukrainians. In seven of the country’s eight largest towns, Latvians are a minority. The present demographic situation is largely attributable to the Soviet Union’s post−1945 policy of encouraging the settlement by Russian-speakers. This altered demography has been a major source of political tension and created intense and acrimonious debate over membership of the polity following the restoration of independence in 1991. The steady decline in the proportion of Latvians and the corresponding rise in Russian speakers between 1935 and 1979 are apparent from the table below: Census date 1935 1959 1979 A.

Latvians (%) 75.5 62 53.7

Russian-speakers (%) 12 26.6 32.8

Protection of national minorities The European commission’s 2002 Regular Report on Latvia’s Progress towards Accession36 stated that Latvia had met the political criteria for joining the EU. However, the government was urged to: ratify the Council of Europe’s FCNM, already ratified by all accession countries except for Latvia (but not by all of the EU−15); accelerate the naturalisation process; ensure adequate funding for Latvian language training; and ensure equality of treatment for non-citizens and minorities.37 What effect will criticism and advice from external actors have upon minority policies now that accession has taken place? Will international actors lose all leverage in this area with the conclusion of negotiations? The Copenhagen criteria were adopted into primary EU law in the Amsterdam treaty, with the exception of the need to show “respect for and protection of minorities.” This clause was left as a purely political rather than legal obligation. Given that the commission has no power to influence minority policies post-accession, the “respect for and protection of minorities” clause risks being treated as a requirement for EU accession rather than a necessary long-term condition of membership. At the same time, however, further EU integration has the potential to stimulate continued legislative adjustments and to enhance minority protection. In Latvia the amendment and creation of domestic legislation to meet the requirements of the anti-discrimination race and employment directives could sustain the momentum of minority protection. In existing member states the race directive had to be implemented by July 2003 and the commission has been deciding whether proceedings need to be implemented against those failing to comply. 38 The emphasis here is on

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reducing disadvantage and ensuring equal opportunities rather than promoting ethnic differences, but the implementation of legislation could be a lengthy process. In addition, the first rulings against Latvia in the European court of human rights (ECHR) 39 in 2002 may increase the profile of Latvia’s international obligations, compelling officials and representatives of the judiciary to respect international instruments, though the reaction to the Ždandoka ruling (discussed below) suggests that EU membership may have increased the Latvian government’s confidence in terms of objecting to international rulings. However, NGOs do anticipate that this process of adherence to international norms will continue and lead to institutional reforms as well as legislative changes.40 Calls to integrate monitoring of minority policies into the European Union internal framework41 appear extremely unlikely to be heeded, as substantial differences remain. Minority policies are simply not perceived as being high enough up the agenda to merit the political costs involved. In May 2004, the Latvian Saeima (parliament) again refused to ratify the FCNM, despite continued urging by international organisations. Nationality issues appeared to be at the forefront of voters’ minds as the Latvian nationalist For Fatherland and Freedom/LNNK (Latvijas Nacionālās Neatkarības Kustības) (TuB/LNNK) gained four of the country’s nine seats in the 2004 elections to the European parliament, their 30% of the vote far exceeding the 5.4% they registered in the 2002 national election. This result soundly beat the governing coalition parties, which had been cooperating with left-wingers. In this wake of the poll, the Saeima appeared even more unlikely to vote for a convention which is seen by many nationalists as detrimental to ethnic Latvian interests. President Vaira Vike-Freiberga has suggested that ratification is a nonurgent matter and maintains that adequate protection of minorities exists under current legislation. Foreign minister Artis Pabriks’ similarly argued in 2004 that ratification would only divide Latvian society further.42 Ina Druviete, head of the Saeima human rights and public affairs committee believes that ratification can only occur if there are no further unjustified protests against the creation of a unified education system and society is ready to accept the fact that there will never be a retreat from Latvian as the sole state language.43 Muižnieks, on the other hand, supported ratification, arguing that there are no legal obstacles to ratification, only political ones (the definition of a “minority”).44

4.

Future concerns The status of the non-citizen minority has been intimately linked to the country’s need to deal with the Soviet past. The issues of citizenship, education, and minority rights have become intertwined in considering the lustration process:

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A.

Courting controversy A four-year court battle between the government and left-wing Russian-speaking political activist Tatyana Ždanoka deeply divided Latvian politicians and wider society. On 17 June 2004, the European court of human rights (ECHR) ruled that the right to free election, freedom of assembly, and association of MEP Ždanoka had been violated by Latvian election legislation which bars her from standing for local and national office.45 Election legislation prohibits candidates who were active in the Communist Party after 13 January 1991 from standing for office.46 However, the European Parliamentary election law passed in January 2004 permitted Ždanoka to stand, ahead of the hearing of her case. On 6 July 2004, the Latvian cabinet of ministers announced its intention to file an appeal against the ECHR judgement. Minister of justice Vineta Muizniece’s response to the verdict was to question the competence of the Latvian legal experts, asking whether they had defended Latvian national interest. Muizniece claimed Latvia had to explain more clearly the experiences under Soviet rule and questioned the performance of Inga Reina, the country’s representative to the court who, prior to the verdict, allegedly claimed that Latvia would not win the case.47 An international organisation representative noted that Riga is reacting more bullishly to international court judgements. This can be expected to continue as the feeling of security from EU and NATO membership intensifies. The recent ratcheting up of Russian-Latvian rhetoric and a deterioration in relations has not attracted nearly the level of attention afforded the worsening in bilateral relations in 1998. The Latvian government appears to be confident that, as a member of the EU and with EU and OSCE backing of nationality policy, it can safely ignore the Russian pressures and continue to try and exclude Latvia from future discussion on minority and human rights issues in international fora. B.

Domestic dilemmas In March 2004, the minority government of prime minister Indulis Emsis, from the centrist alliance of the Green and Farmers’ Parties (ZZS), became the eleventh government since 1991. Emsis replaced Einars Repse, following months of coalition feuding and complaints about Repse’s authoritarian leadership style. Emsis had stated that the integration of society was among the main challenges of his new government, to avoid further polarisation of groups and divisions along ethnic lines. However, considerations of coalition unity have in practice made it virtually impossible to change existing policy. Coalition members and opposition parties continue to feud, and the formation of a majority government has been hindered by personality conflicts as well as disagreement over education and attitudes to broader minority and noncitizen policies. The TuB/LNNK refused to join the coalition as it would have meant working with the Christian Latvia’s First Party (LPP). The

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ranks of LPP contained five deputies who recently defected from the leftleaning For Human Rights in a United Latvia (PCTVL), a party opposed to education reform, in favour of ratification of the FCNM and wholly contrary to TuB/LNNK ideology. The left-wing parties are in a no-win situation. By standing by their principles of supporting minority education and relaxation of citizenship laws, they are excluding themselves from government. Yet, if they relax their principles to gain power, they risk losing voter support. The LPP is in favour of integration, promoting naturalisation, and supports the ratification of the FCNM. The opposition TuB/LNNK is opposed to this stance.48 The appointment of Muižnieks, formerly director of the Latvian centre for human rights and ethnic studies, as minister for special assignments for society integration affairs had been viewed as a positive signal of the priority the government was giving to integration issues. Yet domestic political wrangling has hindered advancement in this area. A lack of clear objectives from parliament have made the executive’s job challenging. The lack of clarity emanates from the wide range of opinions on this matter in the Saeima. However, Muižnieks continued in post and anticipated gaining an additional 185,000 lats in the budget amendments in 2004.49 The ratification of the FCNM remains a contentious issue with opponents and supporters of the framework having widely differing expectations as to what the agreement will achieve. The argument is further complicated by the lack of definition of what a minority is in the framework, or indeed across Europe. Misleading debate in the press has led to a strong link with the language law and the convention. The positive financial fallout of EU membership risks being compromised by administrative difficulties. Structural funds will primarily be distributed to poorer areas such as Latgale, which hosts a disproportionate number of minorities as well as exhibiting a higher than average unemployment rates, much of which is structural in nature. During the accession process significant funding has been available for integration and minority protection projects. However, these programmes have often been slow to be implemented and many have yet to come on stream after accession. The complex nature of the application process for funding has also limited the utilisation of such funds by NGOs working with minority groups. Substantially more funding is available postaccession, but this vastly increased availability may greatly challenge already overstretched administrative structures. Further projects to improve the situation of minorities will also require political will and financial commitment from already very constrained budgets struggling to implement the acquis communautaire.50 The integration secretariat has gained financially and the NPLLT, naturalisation board, and integration fund have received funding as more EU money is also becoming available.51

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Political parties in Latvia continue to be defined by their attitude to nationality policy, and tend to view a nationalist stance as a positive vote winner. Following the European parliamentary election in June 2004, Emsis stated that the results were positive as it meant nationalist parties would represent the country in the European parliament. He concluded that the results reflected the mood of the country which had been provoked by the widespread protests against education reform in ethnic minority schools. These he described as being organised by For Human Rights In A United Latvia and certain Russian diplomats.52 5.

The end of international influence? A number of disputes are likely to arise regarding the interpretation of international instruments which Latvia has already signed up to and their impact upon minority issues, particularly the influence of language policy upon political participation, freedom of expression and access to information. The law on radio and television was amended following a June 2003 Latvian constitutional court ruling. This abolished the rule providing that no more than 25% of programming broadcast on electronic mass media may be in foreign languages. The Saeima had rejected proposals for amendments abolishing these restrictions. Local broadcasters had been fined for exceeding these limits and found it difficult to compete with satellite and cable channels from Russia which did not face the same restrictions. The restrictions limited the access of Russian speakers to news on Latvia, further hindering participation in political debate and integration.53 The corresponding article in the FCNM has been cited by nationalist politicians who oppose its ratification. There have been four failed attempts at ratification in the Saeima, with ratification further stalled in the run up to the September 2003 referendum on EU accession. The then foreign minister Sandra Kalniete and president Vaira Vike-Freiberga feared that ratification of the FCNM would negatively influence the outcome of the EU accession referendum.54 At its February 2003 congress, the People’s Harmony Party (formerly part of the parliamentary coalition For Human Rights in United Latvia) adopted resolutions supporting the immediate ratification of the FCNM without reservations or restrictive declarations. In contrast, For Fatherland and Freedom/LNNK is strongly opposed to ratification and believes that the term “majority” cannot be applied to the Latvian population. The party is particularly opposed to: • •

Article 4 paragraph 255 (full and effective equality) arguing that ethnic protectionism for ethnic Latvians is necessary; Article 5 paragraph 256 (prohibition of forced assimilation) arguing that the state integration strategy is perceived as assimilation;

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•

•

Article 10 paragraph 257 (language used in relations with public administration) is opposed because Latvian is the sole state language. Article 11 paragraphs. 2 and 358 (use of minority languages in public signs and information) For Fatherland and Freedom/LNNK opposes mass-scale advertising in Russian, as well as bilingual signs. Article 1459 (use of minority languages in education) was opposed as it does not comply with the party’s desire to see Latvian as the sole language of instruction in state-supported minority secondary schools; and The party opposes implementation of Article 1660 (prohibition of measures to change the demographic structure).

A.

Russian opposition Moscow continues to criticise heavily the failure to ratify the FCNM. However, international organisations report satisfaction with Latvian treatment of their non-citizen and minority populations. During meetings with the EU in April 2004 and the OSCE parliamentary assembly in Edinburgh in July 200461 Russian delegations again brought up the issue of minorities and non-citizens in Latvia and Estonia. The joint statement on EU-enlargement and EU-Russia relations62 included a general statement about protection of human rights and the protection of persons belonging to minorities. Following seventeen interventions from the Latvian delegation, the OSCE parliamentary assembly resolution on national minorities avoided any direct mention of Latvia and Estonia in the heading of the statement. However, the assembly urged Latvia to ratify the framework convention and called on Estonia and Latvia to enact antidiscrimination legislation. While Moscow’s continued interventions serve to irritate Latvian politicians, they are tempered by Russia’s wish to maintain transit through the Baltic state and the utilisation of Latvian banks by Russian companies. The tone and frequency of Russian Federation rhetoric has intensified since the education reform protests. While EU membership may increase Latvia’s confidence in dealing with Moscow, neither side is likely to expend domestic political capital on improving relations. B.

Future coordination The end of this current round of enlargement also heralds a changing role for organisations whose work benefited from the monitoring which accompanied the enlargement process. International actors continue to comment upon the situation in Latvia, but without the carrot of EU membership their influence is significantly limited. In August 2003, the UN committee on the elimination of racial discrimination reviewed

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Latvia’s 4th and 5th periodic report on the convention of the same name. The press release stated the pace of naturalisation was slow and, while some lacked the motivation to apply, a number of people were waiting until they turned twenty-seven in order to avoid military service.63 Terry Davis, secretary-general elect of the Council of Europe, pledged on his election to focus on the problems of the Russian-speaking minorities in Estonia and Latvia. Davis was subject to criticism in the 1990s for backing reform in excess of recommendations agreed by the international community. He stands accused of being a defender of Russian interests despite insisting that concern for the Russian speakers in the Baltic States does not mean that he will ignore the situation in Chechnya.64 The OSCE high commissioner on national minorities had a key influence on the minutiae of citizenship, language, and education legislation in Latvia during the 1990s, with OSCE recommendations significantly strengthened due to their receipt of EU backing. The OSCE HCNM aims to focus on the underlying issues and potential causes of conflict. He states that this can include a need to examine minority participation in local and national legislatures as well as public administration. Further underlying issues include minority education and language use. The commissioner points out that he is regularly engaged in attempts to solve a specific grievance or incident while attempting to identify the underlying issues before positions harden and become extreme.65 The HCNM’s office readily acknowledges that the effectiveness of its work has been greatly enhanced by the EU accession process and that already, as this process was drawing to a close, it was becoming increasingly challenging. The OSCE HCNM is likely to struggle to have his recommendations implemented in countries where prospects for EU and/or NATO accession are either very remote or nonexistent. Key concerns for the OSCE HCNM remain: how to remain involved in the enlarged EU; the development of the EU’s relationship with Belarus, Moldova, and Ukraine and the impact this will have on the work of the high commissioner; and the question of how to work most effectively in countries where NATO and/or EU membership is a long term or impossible goal.66 6.

Conclusion There are two ways in which the “new Europe or old?” debate can be viewed regarding issues of non-citizen and minority policies in Latvia. First, the issue of double standards has regularly come to the fore in relation to debates over minority rights and protection, with “old” Europe traditionally far from willing to have its own policies subjected to the same scrutiny as “new” member states. In addition, there is a desire to differentiate between recent migrants in the EU−15 and more historical minorities in the new member states, the former being subject to the justice and home affairs and immigration debate rather than the minority

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rights discourse afforded to the latter. New member state governments – including Latvia – and their wider populations may feel that adherence to EU demands has been foisted upon them by countries unwilling to subject their own minority policies to similar scrutiny. If the expectations of the population of Latvia and other new member states are frustrated by lengthy delays in the disbursement of structural funds, budgetary curbs become too heavy, and the European court of justice floods the countries with judgements for failure to implement the acquis communautaire, issues of minority protection are likely to slip down the political agenda. During negotiations to join the EU, the accession countries have displayed significant advancement in terms of respect for and protection of minorities. With membership achieved, however, the commission will no longer be able to influence policy decisions in the field of minorities and further progress in this area risks being compromised. If there is very little emphasis on policy coming from the countries themselves, it is unlikely that reform will be given the same priority it was afforded when seen as a condition of entry into the EU.67 The accession process has created an increased awareness of minority protection issues. However, different roles and agendas of European institutions, the varied understandings of how to define a minority within and among European countries and an ever changing political climate render the creation of a long term and effective minorities strategy unlikely and perhaps, in the interests of particular minorities, undesirable. Minority protection is likely to remain at the level of a basic framework such as the FCNM. Of more lasting benefit could be the creation of structures which allow the development of policy at the grassroots level tailored to specific needs of the minorities concerned. Membership of the EU is likely to afford the Latvian government greater confidence in dealings with the Russian Federation and other external pressures, making concessions in the field of nationality policy extremely unlikely. In terms of the key areas of citizenship, education, and language, the focus will be on children and youth and the integration secretariat is planning further information activities aimed at parents and schoolchildren. In the realm of language policy the strategy is to maximise the use of EU funding. In education there is likely to be disruption as the reforms are implemented, but as all schools have programmes in place disruption may be minimal.68

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Notes 1. Council of Europe, Framework Convention for the Protection of National Minorities, http://www.coe.int/T/E/human%5Frights/Minorities 2. Republic of Latvia, Law on Citizenship, 22 July 1994 (modified by amendment 22 June 1998); Republic of Latvia, Law on the Status of Former USSR Citizens who are not Citizens of Any Other State, 12 April 1995. 3. Naturalisation Board Information Centre (2004), Statistics on Naturalisation, 30 June 2004 (http://www.np.gov.lv/en/faili_en/Lpp1_angl.doc). 4. Figures from the Board for Citizenship and Migration Affairs (2004), 1 July 2004 (http://www.np.gov.lv/index.php?en=fakti_en&saite=residents.htm). 5. Naturalisation Board Information Centre (2004), Statistics on Naturalisation, 30 June 2004 (http://www.np.gov.lv/en/faili_en/stat_angl.xls). 6. Latvijas Avize, 4 December; participation 72.5% of eligible voters, 67% voted in favour of accession. 7. The Naturalisation Board (2004), Riga, Latvia, Statistics on Naturalisation, 30 June 2004, (http://www.np.gov.lv/en/faili_en/stat_angl.xls). 8. The Naturalisation Board (2004), Facts and Statistics on Residents, Data from the Board for Citizenship and Migration Affairs, 1 July 2004, (http://www.np.gov.lv/index.php?en=fakti_en&saite=residents.htm). 9. In cooperation with international partners, the Latvian government provides Latvian language courses free of charge for persons wishing to become citizens. The Latvian Society Integration Foundation has agreed to ensure continuity of the initiative and also provides financing for free of charge Latvian language courses. The language and history examinations necessary to gain citizenship have been simplified on a number of occasions and around 90% of candidates pass on the first attempt. Previous such experience shows that the free course aids 90% of the candidates in passing the examination successfully at the first attempt, and 100% of participants see positive results at the second try. 10. Naturalisation Board (http://www.np.gov.lv/en/faili_en/Lpp1_angl.doc). 11. Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Republic of Latvia (2004), Integration in Latvia: A Multi-faceted Approach, fact sheet, 6 May 2004, (http://www.mfa.gov.lv/en/policy/4641/4642/4649/). 12. United Nations Development Programme (1997), United Nations Development Report, Riga, Latvia, 1997.

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13. The Naturalisation Board (2004), The News of the Naturalisation Board, Riga, Latvia, 15 May 2004−15 June 2004, (http://www.np.gov.lv/en/faili_en/May_June.2004.doc). 14. 74, 646 persons had naturalised and just under 500,000 remained non-citizens by 30 June 2004. The Naturalisation Board (2004), Statistics on Naturalisation, Information Centre, Riga, Latvia, 2004 (http://www.np.gov.lv/index.php?en=fakti_en&saite=statistic.htm). 15. The Naturalisation Board (2004), The Board for Citizenship and Migration Affairs indicates there are 470, 220 non-citizens and 1.805,156 citizens in Latvia. Facts and Statistics on Residents, Naturalisation Board, Riga, 1 July 2004 (http://www.np.gov.lv/index.php?en=fakti_en&saite=residents.htm). 16. Surveys suggest many elderly non-citizens would find any language test no matter how simple an impossible barrier to pass. 17. Republic of Latvia Education Law adopted 29 October 1998, Transitional Provisions Paragraph 9, no, 3., on 1 September 2004 – in the 10th grade of state and municipal general education institutions and in the 1st year of state and municipal vocational education institutions studies are begun only in the state language. State-funded education in Russian will continue to be available to those under sixteen. 18. Republic of Latvian Ministry of Foreign Affairs (2002), Minority Education in Latvia, 11 December 2002. 19. Personal correspondence from Nils Muižnieks, Minister for Special Assignements for Society Integration Affairs, Cabinet of Ministers f the Republic of Latvia, 27 March 2003. 20. Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty Newsline (2003), 3 December 2003, Vol. 7, No. 226. 21.LETA 16 June 2004. 22. Vesti Segodnya, Riga, 26 May 2004, pp. 1, 3. 23. Chas, Latvijas Avize, Telegraf quoted in Integration Monitor, (www.policy.lv), 13 July 2004. 24. Memorandum of LAShOR Principles and Position, (http://www.reforme-2004.net/eng/position.php). 25. Eiropas Parlamenta vēlēšanu rezultāti, Centrālā Vēlēšanu Komisija, 2004. (http://www.cvk.lv/cgi-bin/wdbcgiw/base/eiro.veles_rez04.sak), [Central Electoral Commission, European Parliamentary Election Results]. 26. The Baltic Times, 5 August 2004. 27. Interviews with Russian businessmen in Riga, 1996−1999 and interviews with international organisation representatives 1999−2004. 28. Interfax, Riga, 12 May 2004. 29. Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Republic of Latvia (2004), Integration in Latvia: A Multi-faceted Approach, fact sheet, 6 May 2004, (http://www.mfa.gov.lv/en/policy/4641/4642/4649/).

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30. Preses izlaidumi, Centrālā Statistikas Pārvalde, Riga, Latviešu valodu prot 79% iedzīvotāju (2002) (Press Release, Central Statistical Bureau of Latvia), 25 January 2002 ( http://www.csb.lv/satr/larh.cfm?tema3=tsk). 31. European Commission Regular Report on Latvia’s Progress Towards Accession, Brussels (2002); National Programme for Latvian Language Training: www.lvavp.lv 32. LETA, 4 August 2004. 33. Personal Correspondence with Nils Muižnieks, Minister for Special Assignments for Society Integration Affairs, 17 August 2004. 34. European Union (2004), Council Directive 2003/109/EC of 25 November 2003 concerning the status of third-country nationals who are long-term residents, Official Journal of the European Union, 23 January 2004, L 16/44. 35. Joanna Apap and Sergio Carrera (2003), Towards a Proactive Immigration Policy for the EU, CEPS Working Document No. 198, December 2003. 36. European Commission (2002), Regular Report on Latvia’s Progress Towards Accesssion, Brussels, 2002. 37.European Commission (2002), Regular Report on Latvia’s Progress Towards Accesssion, Brussels, 2002, p. 18. 38. Personal Correspondence with European Parliament Official, 8 January 2004; By June 2004, the European Commission had already started infringement procedures and had passed the stage of reasoned opinion prior to commence proceedings probably against ten countries at the European Court of Justice. No member state notified a complete transposition of the directive by the deadline. All notifications to the Commission had parts missing. The quality of the legislation transposing the Directives is being analysed by two lawyers in the Commission Antidiscrimination unit, personal correspondence with Sophie De Jonckheere, Policy Manager, European Network Against Racism, 2 June 2004. 39. European Court of Human Rights (2004), Chamber Judgement in the Case of Podkolzina v Latvia, Press Release issues by the Registrar, 192, Strasbourg, 9 April 2002. 40. Personal correspondence from Ilze Brands Kehris, Director Latvian Centre for Human Rights and Ethnic Studies, 21 March 2003. 41. The Bolzano/Bozen Declaration on the Protection of Minorities in the Enlarged European Union, 1 May 2004, Bolzano, (http://www.eumap.org/journal/forum/forum1/1089631500/declaration.pd f). 42. Chas, 17 August 2004 (http://www.chas-daily.com/win/2004/08/17/index.html?). 43. Latvian Centre for Human Rights and Ethnic Studies (2004), Integration Monitor, 17 August 2004, (http://www.humanrights.org.lv/html/monitor/28098.html).

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44. Personal Correspondence with Nils Muižnieks, Minister for Special Assignments for Society Integration Affairs, 17 August 2004. 45. Cour Europeenne des Droits de l’homme, Affaire Ždanoka c. Lettonie, Arrêt (Au principal et satisfaction équitable), Application Number 00058278/00, 17 June 2004. 46. Republic of Latvia (1995), The Saeima Election Law, Article 5, 25 May 1995. 47. LETA, 18 June 2004. 48. Personal correspondence from Ilze Brands Kehris, Director Latvian Centre for Human Rights and Ethnic Studies, 21 March 2003. 49.Personal Correspondence with Nils Muižnieks, Minister for Special Assignments for Society Integration Affairs, 17 August 2004. 50. Interviews with European Commission Officials, Brussels, 20 and 21 November 2002. 51. Personal Correspondence with Nils Muižnieks, Minister for Special Assignments for Society Integration Affairs, 17 August 2004. 52. LETA, 16 June 2004. 53. Nils Muižnieks, Accession and the Politics of Language in Latvia, Open Society News, Summer 2002. 54.Personal correspondence from Ilze Brands Kehris, Director Latvian Centre for Human Rights and Ethnic Studies, 21 March 2003. 55.Article 4.2, The Parties undertake to adopt, where necessary, adequate measures in order to promote, in all areas of economic, social, political and cultural life, full and effective equality between persons belonging to a national minority and those belonging to the majority. In this respect, they shall take due account of the specific conditions of the persons belonging to national minorities. 56. Article 5.2, Without prejudice to measures taken in pursuance of their general integration policy, the Parties shall refrain from policies or practices aimed at assimilation of persons belonging to national minorities against their will and shall protect these persons from any action aimed at such assimilation. 57. Article 10.2, In areas inhabited by persons belonging to national minorities traditionally or in substantial numbers, if those persons so request and where such a request corresponds to a real need, the Parties shall endeavour to ensure, as far as possible, the conditions which would make it possible to use the minority language in relations between those persons and the administrative authorities. 58. Article 11.2, The Parties undertake to recognise that every person belonging to a national minority has the right to display in his or her minority language signs, inscriptions and other information of a private nature visible to the public. Article 11.3, In areas traditionally inhabited by substantial numbers of persons belonging to a national minority, the Parties shall endeavour, in the framework of their legal system, including, where appropriate, agreements with other States, and taking into account

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their specific conditions, to display traditional local names, street names and other topographical indications intended for the public also in the minority language when there is a sufficient demand for such indications. 59. Article 14.1, The Parties undertake to recognise that every person belonging to a national minority has the right to learn his or her minority language. 60. Article 16, The Parties shall refrain from measures which alter the proportions of the population in areas inhabited by persons belonging to national minorities and are aimed at restricting the rights and freedoms flowing from the principles enshrined in the present framework Convention. 61. Organisation for Security and Cooperation in Europe (2004), Declaration of the OSCE Parliamentary Assembly and Resolutions Adopted at the Thirteenth Annual Session, 5−9 July 2004, Edinburgh, (http://www.oscepa.org/admin/getbinary.asp?fileid=534). 62. European Commission (2004), Joint Statement on EU Enlargement and EU-Russian Relations, 27 April 2004, Brussels (http://europa.eu.int/comm/external_relations/russia/russia_docs/js_elarg_ 270404.htm). 63. United Nations Press Release, Human Rights Committee Considers Second Periodic Report of Latvia, 29 October 2003. (http://www.unhchr.ch/huricane/huricane.nsf/NewsRoom?OpenFrameSet) 64. The Baltic Times, 23 July 2004. 65. Rolf Ekéus (2003), High Commissioner on National Minorities for the OSCE, Preventive Diplomacy, Muller Lecture, The Hague, 30 January 2003. 66. Interview with International Organisation Official, 21 April 2004. 67. EU Accession Monitoring Programme, Open Society Institute, Minority Protection, volume I, 2002. 68. Personal Correspondence with Nils Muižnieks, Minister for Special Assignments for Society Integration Affairs, 17 August 2004.

References Joanna Apap and Sergio Carrera (2003), Towards a Proactive Immigration Policy for the EU, CEPS Working Document No. 198, December 2003. The Baltic Times The Bolzano/Bozen Declaration on the Protection of Minorities in the Enlarged European Union, 1 May 2004, Bolzano, (http://www.eumap.org/journal/forum/forum1/1089631500/declaration.pd f).

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Centrālā Vēlēšanu Komisija (2004), Eiropas Parlamenta vēlēšanu rezultāti, (http://www.cvk.lv/cgi-bin/wdbcgiw/base/eiro.veles_rez04.sak), 2004. [Central Electoral Commission, European Parliamentary Election Results]. Centrālā Statistikas Pārvalde (2002), Preses izlaidumi, Riga, Latviešu valodu prot 79% iedzīvotāju (2002), (Press Release, Central Statistical Bureau of Latvia), 25 January 2002 (http://www.csb.lv/satr/larh.cfm?tema3=tsk). Chas Cour Europeenne des Droits de l’homme, Affaire Ždanoka c. Lettonie, Arrêt (Au principal et satisfaction équitable), Application Number 00058278/00, 17 June 2004. Rolf Ekéus (2003), High Commissioner on National Minorities for the OSCE, Preventive Diplomacy, Muller Lecture, The Hague, 30 January 2003. European Commission (2004), Joint Statement on EU Enlargement and EU-Russian Relations, 27 April 2004, Brussels, (http://europa.eu.int/comm/external_relations/russia/russia_docs/js_elarg_ 270404.htm). European Commission (2002), Regular Report on Latvia’s Progress Towards Accession, Brussels, 2002. European Court of Human Rights (2004), Chamber Judgement in the Case of Podkolzina v Latvia, Press Release issues by the Registrar, 192, Strasbourg, 9 April 2002. European Union (2004), Council Directive 2003/109/EC of 25 November 2003 concerning the status of third-country nationals who are long-term residents, Official Journal of the European Union, 23 January 2004, L 16/44. Interfax Latvian Association for Support of Schools with Russian Language of Instruction (2004), Memorandum of LAShOR Principles and Position, (http://www.reforme-2004.net/eng/position.php). Latvijas Avize, 4 December 2004; participation 72.5% of eligible voters, 67% voted in favour of accession.

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Latvian Centre for Human Rights and Ethnic Studies (2004), Integration Monitor, 17 August 2004, (http://www.humanrights.org.lv/html/monitor/28098.html). Latvian National (www.lvavp.lv).

Programme

for

Latvian

Language

Training,

LETA (Latvian National News Agency) Nils Muižnieks, (2002), Accession and the Politics of Language in Latvia, Open Society News, Summer 2002. Open Society Institute (2002), EU Accession Monitoring Programme, Minority Protection, volume I, 2002. Organisation for Security and Cooperation in Europe (2004), Declaration of the OSCE Parliamentary Assembly and Resolutions Adopted at the Thirteenth Annual Session, 5−9 July 2004, Edinburgh, (http://www.oscepa.org/admin/getbinary.asp?fileid=534). Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty Newsline (2003), 3 December 2003, Vol. 7, No. 226. Republic of Latvian Ministry of Foreign Affairs (2004), Integration in Latvia: A Multi-faceted Approach, fact sheet, 6 May 2004, (http://www.mfa.gov.lv/en/policy/4641/4642/4649/). Republic of Latvian Ministry of Foreign Affairs (2002), Minority Education in Latvia, 11 December 2002. Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Republic of Latvia (2004), Integration in Latvia: A Multi-faceted Approach, fact sheet, 6 May 2004, (http://www.mfa.gov.lv/en/policy/4641/4642/4649/). Republic of Latvia, Law on Citizenship (1994), 22 July 1994 (modified by amendment 22 June 1998). Republic of Latvia (1995), Law on the Status of Former USSR Citizens who are not Citizens of Any Other State, 12 April 1995. Republic of Latvia Education Law (1998), adopted 29 October 1998. Republic of Latvia Saeima Election Law (1995), Article 5, 25 May 1995.

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Republic of Latvia Naturalisation Board Information Centre (2004), Statistics on Naturalisation, 30 June 2004 (http://www.np.gov.lv/en/faili_en/Lpp1_angl.doc). Republic of Latvia Naturalisation Board (2004), Facts and Statistics on Residents, Data from the Board for Citizenship and Migration Affairs, 1 July 2004, (http://www.np.gov.lv/index.php?en=fakti_en&saite=residents.htm). Republic of Latvia Naturalisation Board (2004), Naturalisation, 31 July 2004, (http://www.np.gov.lv/en/faili_en/Lpp1_angl.doc).

Statistics

on

Republic of Latvia Naturalisation Board (2004), The News of the Naturalisation Board, Riga, Latvia, 15 May 2004−15 June 2004, (http://www.np.gov.lv/en/faili_en/May_June.2004.doc). United Nations (2003), Press Release, Human Rights Committee Considers Second Periodic Report of Latvia, 29 October 2003. (http://www.unhchr.ch/huricane/huricane.nsf/NewsRoom?OpenFrameSet) United Nations Development Programme (1997), United Nations Development Report, Riga, Latvia, 1997. Vesti Segodnya, Riga, 26 May 2004, pp. 1, 3.

Personal Correspondence and interviews: European Commission Officials, Brussels, 20 and 21 November 2002. European Parliament Official, 8 January 2004 International Organisation Official, 21 April 2004. International organisation representatives 1999−2004. Sophie De Jonckheere, Policy Manager, European Network Against Racism, 2 June 2004. Ilze Brands Kehris, Director Latvian Centre for Human Rights and Ethnic Studies, 21 March 2003.

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Nils Muižnieks, Minister for Special Assignments for Society Integration Affairs, Cabinet of Ministers of the Republic of Latvia, 27 March 2003. Nils Muižnieks, Minister for Special Assignments for Society Integration Affairs, 17 August 2004. Russian businessmen in Riga, 1996−1999

Author affiliation: Helen M. Morris was a Marie Curie fellow at the centre for European policy studies, Brussels until November 2004, and is currently a visiting fellow at the department of central and east European studies, University of Glasgow, UK.

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The Baltic States and Russia in the new Europe: a neoGramscian perspective on the global and the local Viatcheslav Morozov This article provides a neo-Gramscian perspective on the relations between the Baltic States and Russia in the context of the global war against terrorism. It follows the methodological line opened by Ernesto Laclau and Chantal Mouffe, two contemporary scholars who tried to develop Antonio Gramsci’s theory of hegemony in the spirit of Derridean poststructuralism. Laclau and Mouffe proceed from the Gramscian thesis about social productivity of ideology, especially as regards the constitution of the subject of political action and the ability of the ruling class to establish relations of hegemony by positioning itself as the representative of other group interests,1 but they come to the need to reject the economic determinism which is still inherent in Gramsci’s writings. For Laclau and Mouffe, “the space of the economy is itself structured as a political space, and […] in it, as in any other ‘level’ of society, those practices we characterized as hegemonic are fully operative.”2 Accordingly, the whole domain of the social turns out to be the sphere of undecidability, where identities and practices can be more or less sedimented, but where any final fixation of meaning is impossible and where, as a result, any identity remains contingent. In their main book Hegemony and Socialist Strategy Laclau and Mouffe develop a poststructuralist neo-Gramscian theory, which holds that relations of hegemony emerge out of a struggle between antagonistic forces fix floating signifiers and delimit community borders. This struggle in the end leads to a constant redefinition of the identity of the antagonistic forces themselves. 3 This article argues that the current political situation in the Baltic Sea region is to a great extent based upon a constant struggle to define “Europe.” This battle for Europe is especially important for the relations between Russia and the Baltic States. The tension which is very much visible in those relations cannot be properly understood if one disregards the fact that both sides claim for themselves a position within the European “core,” and both sides tend to deny this position as regards the other. This seems to be inevitable as long as there remain doubts about the external boundaries of political Europe: by emphasizing the allegedly nonEuropean elements of Russia’s identity, the Baltic states confirm their right to be called Europeans, and vice versa. In the current global setting this conflict seems to be losing its universal significance, being in part substituted by a new constitutive antagonism – the struggle between “the civilized world” and the terrorists. This paper argues, however, that such solution to regional problems

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cannot be accepted, since it is bound to have highly adverse consequences for global democracy, as well as for the prospect of a peaceful and prosperous Baltic Sea area. The alternative solution seems to consist not in trying to suppress existing antagonisms but in establishing connections between existing local struggles and finally including them as essential elements into the global democratic agenda. 1.

The Baltic States and Russia: imperial past, European future The breakdown of the USSR caused an acute identity crisis in Russia, since, unlike the rest of the former Soviet republics, the Russian Federation as a state and a nation had no anchoring in the past that could be read separately from the history of the Russian Empire and the Soviet Union. Facing in addition a total economic collapse and extreme political instability, Yeltsin’s leadership chose the easiest way to answer the question “what is Russia?” They opted to define Russia as the successorstate of the Soviet Union and of the Russian Empire.4 A complete break with the Soviet past was ruled out, and this gave the Russian Federation a firm historical foundation for its new nation-building project. However, the repercussions of this decision were wide-ranging and often disturbing. Inter alia, it lead to an open conflict between Russia and the Baltic States, which can be explained only if one takes into account the conflicting foundational narratives. While Russian national identity came to be defined through reference to the imperial past, Estonian, Latvian and Lithuanian identities were based on its total and unconditional negation. In addition, the neo-imperial definition of the Russian nation inevitably included the so-called “compatriots abroad,” i.e. Russian-speaking residents of the former Soviet republics. The fact that most of them were denied citizenship in Latvia and Estonia, as well as a range of other issues common to all three Baltic States (such as Russian-language education and media), were a constant source of criticism on the part of Moscow. There is, however, another signifier which is crucial for understanding the discord between Russia and the Baltic States. Their discursive articulations clash over the definition of Europe. In effect, both sides tell the story of the rape of Europe, which is endowed with diametrically opposite interpretations. The Baltic story is about the Baltic Europe being abducted by an outside, non-European force, embodied in the Russian empire, the Soviet Union and – potentially at least – in the Russian Federation.5 In Russia, the same story is often interpreted in positive terms, with Russia acting as mighty Zeus saving Europe from an outside threat. Russian deputy minister of foreign affairs Evgenii Gusarov, referring to Moschus’ Idyls, tells the story of the dream which Europa, daughter of Phoenix, had before she was abducted by Zeus. Two women, symbolizing Asia and “the continent separated from Asia by the sea” were fighting each other for the possession of Europa. Asia was beaten, and Europa woke up in fear and asked the gods to ward off the misfortune.

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This is why Zeus came to save Europa and hid her on Crete, thus ensuring that, in Gusarov’s words, “Europa remained Europa.”6 The message is quite clear: Europe is in need of protection from hostile forces (the most dangerous being, of course, “the continent separated from Asia by the sea,” an obvious reference to America) striving to deprive it of its identity and to convert Europe into something else, which will no longer be Europe. Vadim Tsymbursky argues that “the rape of Europe” has been the overarching aim of Russian foreign policy since Peter the Great, and that it has diverted attention and resources from the vitally important task of integrating the internal Russian space, in particular in the east.7 It is important to emphasize, however, that in this struggle for Europe Russia has always positioned itself as a European power, defending genuine European values. This trend can be conceptualized using Iver Neumann’s terminological opposition of “true” Europe vs. “false” Europe, which he traces back several centuries.8 Russian discourse always constructs a “true,” friendly Europe – which represents, in a sense, a projection of Russian values and priorities – while dismissing the allegedly hostile, antiRussian Europe as being no longer genuinely European. This latter construct is described by Neumann as “false” Europe. The list of historical examples of the two opposing Europes includes Moscow as the “third Rome” versus the “infidel” catholic West, the legitimate Europe of the holy alliance versus the “barbarian” Europe of the revolutionaries, and the “peoples’” Europe of the Soviet ideologues versus a Europe of the capitalist monopolies, controlled by the US. This complex structure of the world as it looks from Russia always makes it possible to dismiss certain political positions as being “falsely European” and to insist on the role of the Russian state as the defender of “true” European values. To put it in terms of the discourse theory developed by Laclau and Mouffe, all Russian hegemonic articulations have tried to establish relations of equivalence between Russia and Europe (i.e. to position Russia as an essential, defining part of the European civilisation9) by excluding “false” (often pro-American) Europe as a constitutive outside. While the role of “false” Europe was assigned to the Baltic States as early as in the beginning of the 1990s, this pattern was exploited most actively in 1998–2000, when bilateral relations were extremely strained. After the crisis in the Russian-Latvian relations provoked by the dispersal of a demonstration of Russian-speaking pensioners in Riga in March 1998 (and aggravated by the annual march of Latvian Waffen-SS veterans), Russian diplomats, politicians and journalists systematically accused the authorities of the Baltic states of harbouring pro-Nazi sympathies, using language which was later described by two Russian journalists as belonging to the time of the Second World War.10 Expressions of support for the Chechen rebels with the Baltic States, and the desire of these

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countries to join NATO have provided additional reasons for locating them at the core of the “false,” anti-Russian Europe.11 By singling out the Baltic States as the black sheep of the European family, Russia could depict itself as a “normal” European nation whose internal problems (e.g. Chechnya) were forgivable if compared to the even greater – it was argued – sins of others. However, the example of the Baltic States demonstrates that the structural domain of “false” Europe is not simply a contingent, instrumental construction “invented” by the Russian politicians for the sake of convenience. On the contrary, “false” Europe is a necessary negation which has to emerge as long as Russia’s European identity remains both uncertain and indispensable. The uncertain character of this identity means that there are identities and discourses which negate Russia’s belonging to Europe. As long as Russian discourse strives to confirm the country’s European destiny, it is bound to a sort of counter-negation of those identities and discourses as not only antiRussian, but anti-European as well. Relations of equivalence between Russia and Europe can be established only by “purging” Europe of any elements which negate this equivalence, which involves ascribing to them an outside, non-European identity. The discursive boundaries of the Russian Europe are therefore substantially different from those found in many other articulations. If one accepts the key poststructuralist thesis about the absolute necessity of a constitutive outside for the construction of community,12 one has to recognize that this structurally embedded antagonism between Russia and the Baltic States cannot be overcome without a new antagonism which could transfer mutual negation into relations of difference within a newly established community. This seems to reflect Carl Schmitt’s thesis that the distinction between friend and enemy is constitutive for the political, and that an ultimate readiness to go to war is the only criterion for the existence of a truly political community.13 However, Schmitt should not be read in a vulgar manner: while any political antagonism might involve an ultimate possibility of resorting to violence, the antagonistic force does not have to be another state, or people, or any other metaphysical given. In the context of the Baltic Sea region, the new, more inclusive community could be established through negation of the Soviet past (a possibility which existed in the late 1980s – early 1990s) or of the Cold War as a more general signifier for something we would like to leave completely behind. The problem, however, is that under current circumstances such rearticulation would involve a profound transformation of already established identities. Russia would in any case have to give up its neo-imperial identity – a move which at this stage seems unrealistic given the distinctive features of the hegemonic articulation that has developed during President Putin’s first term. Relations between Russia and the Baltic States improved considerably during the period 2000–2003. An exceptionally favourable

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constellation of all major factors, such as economic recovery and an outstanding external situation, combined with a sophisticated handling of identity issues by Putin’s administration, alleviated the identity crisis in which Russia had found itself ever since the collapse of the Soviet Union. Two key manifestations of the crisis-ridden worldview – a fear of isolation from Europe and doubts about Russia’s belonging to European “civilisation” – significantly receded, and this made the image of the Baltic States as an embodiment of “false,” anti-Russian Europe almost redundant. Russian society is no longer afraid of NATO enlargement, is ready for constructive dialogue on the issue of the Russian-speakers, and is getting closer to the enlarged EU. The outcome of the NATO summit in Prague in November 2002, which decided to accept seven new members including Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania, did not provoke any significant negative reaction in Russia – on the contrary, a balanced, business-like approach was characteristic of publications dealing with the preparations for accession and other military issues. In state policy regarding the “compatriots,” the emphasis has shifted from making their rights a foreign policy issue into encouraging Russian-speakers to migrate to Russia as a means of offsetting demographic crisis. The new stricter citizenship law, adopted in 2002, is also framed according to the principles of civic nationalism.14 In June 2003, Russia agreed to the abolition of the post of Council of Baltic Sea States (CBSS) commissioner for democratic development, an institution established in March 1993 at Russia’s urgent request. It was obvious that in the Baltic Sea area, this institution’s primary concern was to be the rights of non-citizens in Latvia and Estonia, and that in this case Russia aspired to establish itself as a representative of the “true” Europe by referring to European values (human and minority rights), using European mechanisms (the institute of ombudsman), and positioning itself in opposition to the “false” Europe embodied by the Baltic states. As far as one can judge, in 2003 the Russian press completely ignored the decision to do away with the post of commissioner. The only mention of this development is to be found in the brief “reference Information” on the CBSS published by the ministry of foreign affairs website in September.15 Of course, one may argue that the institution had never worked completely in accordance with Moscow’s preferences, and that the issue of compatriots was still on the agenda of Foreign Minister Ivanov as he attended the CBSS ministerial meeting.16 Nevertheless, the fact that the fate of the institution left the Russian public opinion completely indifferent is significant in itself. Last, but not least, the Baltic States receive no mention at all in the much-discussed statement by Anatoly Chubais, who at the height of the 2003 Duma election campaign proposed that Russia embark upon a mission of building a “liberal empire.” The limit of this empire is set at the outer border of the Commonwealth of Independent States, and it is taken

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for granted that Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania are a natural and integral part of the European abroad, falling within the sphere of influence of the EU and NATO.17 This assumption, which was not contested by any of Chubais’ politically significant adversaries, should be contrasted with the Russian position on NATO enlargement during the first years of Vladimir Putin’s presidency, when Moscow persisted in drawing a “red line” along the former borders of the Soviet Union and arguing that move by NATO beyond this line would be considered an aggressive act.18 Even the split of Europe into the “old” and the “new” over the attitude to the 2003 Iraqi war did not thwart this discursive transformation. One might have expected this new division to be superimposed upon the existing one between “true” and “false” Europe, especially given that the core countries of “false” Europe – the Baltics included – supported president Bush’s Iraqi adventure. Surprisingly enough, the desire of political elites in the NATO and EU candidate countries to support the US at all costs was interpreted in Russia as a manifestation of the “new” Europe’s immaturity rather than its hostility, as a mistake rather than a manifestation of some falsely European, pro-American essence. The theme of infantilism is widely present in the Russian commentary on EU enlargement and the new divisions in Europe. Thus, a Kommersant article on the results of the referendum on EU membership in Poland plays with subtle differences between the Russian and Polish languages: the title “the Poles have made their way to become Europeans” uses the Polish word Europejczyk which, in the Russian transcription, acquires a funny diminutive meaning.19 Andrei Grachev of Novoe Vremia, meanwhile, uses the phrase “ ‘junior’ Europeans” as a synonym for ‘new’ Europe.”20 However, even the theme of infantilism is rarely played up in a manner which would simply conflate “new” and “false” Europes. On the contrary, the division between old and new members of the European Union is interpreted as a common European problem, resulting from what might be termed EU imperialism.21 For instance, Fedor Lukyanov refuses to see the fact that in January 2003 the Czech Republic, Hungary and Poland joined Britain, Spain and other west European states in their open support for a military solution in Iraq as marking their “desire to curry favour with the American big brother, whom they have always venerated much more than their neighbour Europeans.”22 Instead, he argues, this should be understood as “an attempt by the ‘new Europe’ to achieve equality promised to it in the framework of the great integration project.” The theme of infantilism is here extended to entire Europe which is yet to achieve a fully-fledged subjectivity: “The Iraqi crisis has demonstrated how far Europe is from its goal to become a powerful independent player at the world stage […]. So far, the ceiling of the old world’s military and political independence remains at

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the level of commanding the peacekeeping operation in Macedonia, after the main Balkan problems have been already solved by the American military fist.”23 The fact that the entire European house is out of order, inter alia, enables Russia to distance itself from Europe and to pose as an “equal partner” of the United States in the global geopolitical game, while all Europeans are described as “junior partners” of Washington.24 Thus, Russian lenience towards the “new” Europe cannot be meaningfully explained by the fact that the alleged US aggression, supported by the “new” Europe, was not directed against Russia – the huge contrast with the Russian reaction to the Kosovo campaign is too visible to be disregarded. The irony in Russia’s attitude to the “new” Europe signifies a deeper shift in the hegemonic discourse, which opens space for relations of difference. What is possible under a total antagonism is sarcasm, but not irony. The process of establishing a community through the exclusion of constitutive outside as an absolute negation presupposes that this negation is taken seriously, as long as the very existence of the community as such, the presence of the boundary separating the inside and the outside, depends upon it. Sarcasm is directed against the enemy’s qualities opposite to one’s own, whereas irony focuses upon weaknesses shared by all humans, emphasises commonality instead of difference, and thus makes fun of the boundary between the Self and the Other. 2.

From Europe to the “civilized world”? At the same time, the end of the antagonistic stage in relations between Russia and the Baltic States does not mean that the Russian political community will henceforth be constituted in a “less antagonistic” way, or even that this constitutive antagonism has acquired a new, more democratic form. What we are dealing with is a new constellation of the key signifiers which has, indeed, produced a new antagonistic articulation. The events of 11 September 2001 made possible a rearticulation of Russian political discourse by establishing relations of equivalence between Russia, Europe and the West as a new community of civilized nations fighting against the overwhelming threat of global terrorism. Russia today is a crucial member of the antiterrorist coalition, it closely cooperates with the EU and NATO and thus feels itself part of the “civilized world.” Within this discursive constellation, the differences between Russia and its western neighbours lose their constitutive significance in the face of this new major antagonism. What makes this new articulation even more feasible is the fact that in Russian discourse, Moscow is situated firmly at the centre of this new community. This is because Russia, according to its own dominant narratives, had been fighting against terrorism long before 9/11, yet had stood alone and been

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criticized for its actions by hypocritical western politicians and human rights activists. This story of Russia being the first to stand up against new international terrorism is not an ex post construction – on the contrary, it came up immediately after the Russian government had to confront western opposition to the military solution in Chechnya in late 1999. To give just one example, foreign minister Igor Ivanov tried to convince the parliamentary assembly of the Council of Europe as early as in January 2000 that “[i]n essence, Russia today defends Europe’s common borders against the barbarian invasion of international terrorism, which consistently and obstinately builds up the axes of its influence: Afghanistan – Central Asia – the Caucasus – the Balkans.”25 According to the same story, before the attacks on New York and Washington the West had failed to understand the gravity of this problem and had been pursuing its centuries-old anti-Russian policy – in effect allying itself with international terrorism. Now western leaders, as it were, have understood their own mistakes and moved closer to the Russian position.26 One does not have to be an enthusiastic supporter of the Russian government’s policies to admit that this latter account of the shift in the western position is also very close to reality. Thus, at the time of the NATO-Russia summit in May 2002 NATO secretary general Lord Robertson stated that the “[g]lobal terrorist network, which has penetrated German universities and US pilot schools, which arms the rebels in Chechnya and attacks skyscrapers in New York, cannot be suppressed by one country or even by the 19 NATO countries acting together.”27 In 2004 Samuel Berger, former national security adviser to president Clinton, described “the worst option” for the development of confrontation around Pyongyang’s nuclear programme as “cash-starved North Korea” becoming “the supplier of nuclear weapons to al Qaeda or Hamas or to radical Chechens, who then deliver them to Washington, London, or Moscow.”28 It is obvious not only that “the Chechen rebels” or “radicals” figure in these statements as enemies of the West almost equal to al Qaeda, but also that there exist relations of equivalence between the US and Russia (as well as Germany and Britain) as potential targets of terrorist attacks. Any “minor” differences disappear in the face of such a tremendous threat, and the process of community construction looks nearly complete. This vision in its most concentrated form was expressed as follows by the Russian journalist and political scientist Leonid Radzikhovsky after the plane bombings that occurred in Russia during August 2004: “[W]hat is going on is an escalation of the world war of the Islamic fundamentalists against the West, and they consider Russia as one of the most vulnerable parts of the West. Whether we want it or not, the defeat of the

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US = the destruction of Russia (as in 1941 the defeat of the USSR = the destruction of the Western culture). […] If this is the case, it is silly to build up the army against the potential threat of NATO or the US, instead it is necessary to build up rapid reaction force against the terrorists common (or at least coordinated) with the US and NATO. If this is the case, one has to fight against anti-Americanism […].”29 This is a truly Schmittean solution – a community created by a political decision about the common enemy who is threatening the very existence of the political Self (the aim of the terrorists, according to Radzikhovsky, is “to destroy the western, christian world as a whole” 30) and whose presence makes us forget about our internal differences and unite in the face of this overwhelming constitutive antagonism. Security as a discursive form articulating and radicalising antagonistic relations has become even more dominant. What has changed in the aftermath of 9/11 is the boundary of the community whose identity is threatened – previously it was the Russian nation-state which came under pressure from both the West and the terrorists, whereas now it is the “civilized world” which is attacked by the “barbarian” terrorists. This broader “We” thus includes the old Other, the West, but the referent object of security discourse remains essentially the same – the identity of a community centred around Russia. In the global context, then, this new antagonism between civilization and terrorism might potentially develop as a new hegemonic articulation, which will tend partly to substitute and partly to supplement and transform the discourse of neo-liberal globalisation. It is clear that the new community of the “civilized world” has not solidified – at least for the time being – to such an extent as “old” communities such as nations or the western world. However, there exists a powerful alliance of diverse political forces which promote the interpretation of the world as driven primarily by the clash of civilizations. It is important to emphasise that a significant part of this alliance cannot be described as nationalist, conservative, or fundamentalist. From the point of view of many Russian neo-liberal politicians and intellectuals, which are strongly in favour of economic liberalization and political openness towards the US and the EU, the coming clash of civilizations has the advantage of laying the basis for cooperation between Russia and the West and thus giving us a chance to overcome the legacy of the Cold War. It is not a coincidence that this view is promoted by such known westernisers as Radzikhovsky, and that one of their main motivations is to fight against anti-Americanism. However, from a truly liberal perspective (which necessarily values political freedoms as the top priority), this solution can hardly be described as optimal. First of all, this discursive setting has a strong

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tendency to equate terrorism with Islam (and other similar signifiers, such as the East, the Arab world, etc.). For Radzikhovsky, the nature of the enemy is quite clear: one of his main arguments is the indubitable link between the terrorists in Russia, al Qaeda, the Madrid bombings, hostage taking in Iraq and the Palestinian struggle against Israel. He extensively uses such labels as “Islamic Komintern” (a reference to the Communist International),31 or “Islamic terrorists,” and consciously tries to dehumanize the enemy: “Human life […] is nothing [for the terrorists], it is dirt under the fingernails, mutton is dearer [for them] than human flesh. […] The terrorists are humans, of course, but they are ‘different’ [drugie], ‘beyond Good and Evil’.”32 Even if politicians and journalists were doing their best to respect the norms of political correctness, the overwhelming nature of the antagonism would inevitably absorb subtle distinctions under the all-encompassing image of the two hostile camps. What is more, the differences on “this” side of the constitutive divide will also be eroded, meaning that the slogans of “consolidation” or “unity” will be used extensively to justify the most undemocratic practices. This is happening even while the success of the new hegemonic articulation in creating a stable and homogenous community of the “civilized world” is far from certain. The willingness of many western politicians to turn a blind eye to the Chechen problem is just one example of this trend: since Russia is “our” ally in the principal conflict of the new century, criticizing it for what it describes as part of the global struggle against terrorism becomes risky. However, pluralism and justice are under threat on both sides of the Atlantic: the habit of declaring “anti-American” everyone criticizing the current administration policy is especially disturbing, since it shows that the operation of the logic of equivalence has reached the point beyond which any dissent is classified as subversive, as activity of the fifth column representing the dangerous Outside within the internal space of the community. The expansion of secrecy and surveillance, limited access to court for persons suspected of terrorist activities, the rise of xenophobia indicate that dissidence and difference are under suspicion everywhere. The same trends are of course visible on the “other” side of the frontier, where the intensification of the antagonism also expands the chains of equivalence. The anti-Semitic attacks in France in 2003 illustrate this point: European Jews are held responsible by Muslims for the policies of the state of Israel. The “absolute” scale of problems can be very different, but the relative deterioration is a universal phenomenon. Another important disadvantage is that Europe is marginalized in this global articulation, at least in the Russian discourse. To build a

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political community with the West is, in terms of contemporary Russian politics, a much less demanding task than to bring Russia into Europe. A subtle difference between the two signifiers which developed in Russian political discourse during the 20th century links the West (the former Cold War adversary) mostly with geopolitics, spheres of influence and strategic games, while Europe is also about culture, quality, human rights, prosperity. Taking into account this distinction, it is easy to explain how the present Russian administration manages to combine its pro-western foreign policy with re-militarization, increasing assertiveness in the “near abroad” and disregard of democratic standards in domestic politics. For Russia, being equal with the West in this case means claiming its share in the global geopolitical game and asserting its interest allegedly in the same manner as other great powers. What it does not necessarily entail is any “learning,” adopting western or European practices and norms. In this sense, the West is a partner much more convenient than Europe. It is therefore hardly coincidental that those Russian commentators who promote the idea of Russia as an equal partner of the US also tend to belittle the significance of Europe for global security.33 From the Baltic regional viewpoint, the “civilisation versus terrorism” setting can hardly be described as the ideal way forward for the development of stable and friendly relations between Russia and the Baltic States. First of all, it does not provide any alternative to the conflicting interpretations of Europe described earlier in this chapter. Rather, it marginalises the Baltic Sea region as a whole, since the latter has very little to offer in terms of the global struggle against terrorism. This in turn makes possible sporadic recurrences of the image of the Baltic States as “false” Europe when the political situation necessitates a reassertion of national identity. The 2003 election campaign produced exactly such a need, and resulted in harsh criticism against first of all Latvia and Estonia, with Russian politicians using these verbal attacks as small change to increase their popularity. When this discursive model was reactivated, political actors started to compete for the role of best defender of the national interest, which steadily intensified tension and culminated in statements like the one made by the chairman of the state duma foreign affairs committee Dmitry Rogozin that Latvia had become a land of “hooligans” run by Nazis,34 and in the duma resolution condemning Latvia for the alleged violations of the rights of the Russian-speakers, adopted on 14 October.35 Speaking more generally, the war against terrorism certainly does not favour the development of transnational politics and the emergence of new identities above national boundaries in one of the world’s regions, however peaceful. The logic of total war against absolute evil, despite any dislocations caused by the multidimensionality of the dominant antagonism, can only strengthen existing identities – “civilisational,” national, ethnic – but in no way create new ones which would question

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existing community boundaries. It represents an ultimate example of what Laclau and Mouffe call popular antagonism, opening a political space whose borders coincide with the borders of community and potentially resulting into a closed and sutured totality which does not tolerate any difference. In other words, the fact that hegemonic articulation exists in several guises (civilised world against barbarianism, Russia against terrorism, the Russians against the non-Russians) only means that each of these antagonisms constructs and reinforces “classical” modernist communities (civilisation, the nation, the ethnic group). These identities can to some extent contradict each other, but there is still no space for alternative articulatory practices. The entire history of mankind testifies against the possibility of democracy and pluralism blossoming in a besieged fortress. Besides, the very logic of conflict between civilization and terrorism questions some of the most important achievements on the way towards Russia’s more active and meaningful participation in the Baltic Sea region-building process. In particular, this relates to the understanding of the Russian nation as a civic community, which has just started to take root in the official discourse. If anti-Islamic or ethnonationalist trends take the upper hand and the Russian nation is reinterpreted as a community of Orthodox ethnic Russians, this will, along with even more dangerous consequences for ethnic relations within Russia, lead to a renewal of Moscow’s preoccupation with the problems of the “compatriots abroad,” and maybe even to the policy of encouraging irredentist movements and ideologies. 3.

A Democratic Alternative The conclusion here is that embarking upon total war against terrorism does not provide a solution to the remaining problems in the Baltic Sea area. The residual conflict potential between Russia and the Baltic States cannot be reliably defused in such a manner, and even if it could, the price would indeed be too high. Even if relations between the states were “normalised,” this would not mean that the real problems of real people would be solved – instead, they would be declared irrelevant in the face of the “truly vital” security concerns. Conversely, the only logically coherent way to address the Baltic Sea issues would be by integrating the regional agenda into the context of global democratic struggle. The distinction Laclau and Mouffe make between democratic and popular politics is of key significance here. The expansion of a populist political space whose boundaries coincide with those of the community bears the danger of a totalitarianism, i.e. of the development of a closed and homogenous community which treats any dissent as representing subversive outside forces, and tries to suppress it accordingly. Paradoxically, by promoting total unity, it at the same time threatens with

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cleavage and violent conflict: some of the political positions which are forced outside of the internal communitarian space may accept this external identity, opting in favour of separatism in one way or another. In Russia, this is evidenced not only by the growing danger of alienation between official nationalism and Islamic communities, but also by separatist trends in the regions which position themselves as “most democratic” or “truly European” – for instance, St. Petersburg or Kaliningrad. The only guarantee against societal breakdown, against the Schmittean spectre of civil war is plurality of alternative articulatory practices. Only under such competition for hegemony can a nation (or any other community) survive as a unity of all its constitutive identities. Democratic antagonisms, which form political space whose limits do not match community boundaries, are thus not only the form of existence, but also the main guarantee for the survival of liberal democracy. The emergence of transnational politics favours the spread of new identities and the transformation of the existing ones, but neither leads to cleavages in the existing communities nor competes with the fundamental constitutive antagonisms as such. The Baltic Sea region is one such transnational political space, which can provide us with an essential point of reference for defining our attitude to the past as well as the present. Viewed from the Baltic regionalist viewpoint, Russian imperial policies, Stalin’s deportations and Nazi occupation are to be read as parts of our common regional past which has to be recognized, but not glorified. The existing conflicts are not to be neglected or played down – what is necessary is to stop interpreting them according to the established pattern of “Russians vs. Balts” and to look for common value added. In order to achieve this goal, one has to seek at least some common ground in our understanding of Europe. As long as the Russian and the Baltic definitions of Europe remain mutually exclusive, it will be very difficult to reinterpret existing problems in regionalist – rather than nationalist – terms. This regional politics of exclusion relies upon other, pan-European and global, structures. So far, Russia is kept out of what is usually defined as “the Euro-Atlantic community” by a whole range of barriers from tariffs and visas to continuing criticism over its human rights record. At the same time, there is no denial that this exclusion is to a large extent a conscious choice of the Russians themselves: instead of trying to implement certain norms and practices described as democratic and/or European, the Russians often prefer to declare that they are no less European than their western neighbours, and therefore the Russian ways are no worse than the western ones. The discussion about rights, institutions and procedures is this replaced with a talk about how to label them. What is required therefore is to bring Europe back to certain values which can be presented as universal. Europe could be redefined in this context as an area of freedom and democracy, a signifier which cannot and should not be appropriated by any national discourse, but rather must

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serve to modify national and other identities towards greater openness and tolerance. In the end, a new Europe – without quotation marks – can grow out of global alliances between local struggles, and the Baltic Sea region in this respect is one of the most promising political spaces.

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Notes 1. Gramsci, 1971, 180–182. 2. Laclau and Mouffe, 1985, 76–77. 3. Laclau and Mouffe, 1985. In particular, see pp. 136–137. 4. Matz, 2001. 5. See in particular Vares and Osipova, 1992. 6. Gusarov, 2001. 7. Tsymbursky, 1993. 8. Neumann, 1996. 9. As argued by the Minister of Foreign Affairs Igor Ivanov (1999, 4), “There can be no Russia without Europe, as there can be no Europe without Russia.” 10. Kalashnikova and Kalashnikov, 2001. 11. For a more detailed discussion of the 1998–2000 period, see Morozov, 2003. 12. See Laclau and Mouffe, 1985, 143–144 and Laclau, 1990, 21 for a theoretical discussion on the subject, most applicable to our current problematique. 13. Schmitt, 1996. 14. Rossiiskaya Federatsiya, 2002. For a detailed discussion of these matters, see Morozov, 2004. 15. Ministerstvo Inostrannykh Del Rossiiskoi Federatsii, 2003. 16. The minister raised the issue at his meetings with his Latvian and Estonian counterparts (RIA-novosti, 2003b, 2003c) and even met with the “compatriots” in the Finnish city of Pori, where the ministerial meeting took place (RIA-novosti, 2003a). 17. Chubais, 2003. 18. A particularly well-documented account of the Russian position on the issue can be found in Black, 2004. 19. Vodo, 2003. 20. Grachev, 2003a. See also Morozov, 2004, 324. 21. Some Russian authors even argue that Jacques Chirac and Gerhard Schröder are “enthusiastically restoring the empire of Charlemagne” (Sukhova, 2003). 22. Lukyanov, 2003. Such accusations appeared in the same magazine a few days earlier, see Grachev, 2003b. 23. Lukyanov, 2003. Cf. Grachev, 2003a. 24. See Sukhova, 2003. 25. Ivanov, 2000. 26. For more details, see Morozov, 2002, 423–425. 27. Robertson, 2002. 28. Berger, 2004, 56. 29. Radzikhovsky, 2004a.

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30. Radzikhovsky, 2004b. 31. Radzikhovsky, 2004a. 32. Radzikhovsky, 2004b. 33. See e.g. the already cited article by Sukhova, 2003. 34. Radio Free Europe / Radio Liberty, 2003. 35. Rodin, 2003.

References Berger, S.R. (2004), “Foreign Policy for a Democratic President,” Foreign Affairs, 83(3): 47–63. Black, J.L. (2004), Vladimir Putin and the New World Order. Looking East, Looking West? Lanham etc.: Rowman and Littlefield. Chubais, A.B. (2003), “Missia Rossii v XXI veke,” Nezavisimaya gazeta, 1 October. Grachev, A. (2003a), “Dvadtsat’ piat’ i odna,” Novoe vremia, 21 December, available online at: www.newtimes.ru. Grachev, A. (2003b), “Malen’kaia ‘vos’merka’,” Novoe vremia, 9 February, available online at: www.newtimes.ru. Gramsci, A. (1971), Selections from Prison Notebooks. London: Lawrence & Wishart. Gusarov, E.P. (2001), Rossiya v Evrope XXI veka. Vystuplenie zamestitelia Ministra inostrannyh del Rossii E.P. Gusarova na konferencii “Evropa v global’nom mire – vyzovy 21 veka” (Gretsiya, 11 iyulia 2001 goda). Available online at: www.mid.ru. Ivanov, I.S. (1999), “Za bol’shuyu Evropu bez razdelitel’nyh linii (k 50letiyu Soveta Evropy),” Mezhdunarodnaya zhizn’, 5: 3–7. Ivanov, I.S. (2000), Vystuplenie Ministra inostrannykh del Rossiiskoi Federatsii I.S. Ivanova na sessii Parlamentskoi assamblei Soveta Evropy (Strasburg, 27 yanvaria 2000 goda). Available online at: www.mid.ru. Kalashnikova, M., Kalashnikov, V. (2001), “Proekt ‘Estonia’,” Dipkurier NG, 7 June. Laclau, E. (1990), New Reflections on the Revolution of Our Time, London: Verso. Laclau, E., Mouffe, C. (1985), Hegemony and Socialist Strategy, London: Verso. Lukyanov, F. (2003), “Edinstvo i bor’ba,” Vremia novostei, 12 February.

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Matz, J. (2001), Constructing a Post-Soviet International Political Reality. Russian Foreign Policy Towards Newly Independent States 1990–1995, Uppsala: University of Uppsala. Ministerstvo Inostrannykh Del Rossiiskoi Federatsii (2003), Sovet gosudarstv Baltiiskogo moria (spravochnaya informatsia), 30 September. Available online at: www.mid.ru. Morozov, V. (2002), “Resisting Entropy, Discarding Human Rights: Romantic Realism and Securitisation of Identity in Russia,” Cooperation and Conflict, 37(4): 409–430. Morozov, V. (2003), “The Baltic States in Russian Foreign Policy Discourse: Can Russia Become a Baltic Country?”, in M. Lehti and D.J. Smith (eds.), Post-Cold War Identity Politics. Northern and Baltic Experiences, London, Portland: Frank Cass, 219–252. Morozov, V. (2004), “Russia in the Baltic Sea Region: Desecuritisation or Deregionalisation?”, Cooperation and Conflict, 39(3): 317–331. Neumann, I.B. (1996), Russia and the idea of Europe. A study in identity and international relations. London, New York: Routledge. Radzikhovsky, L. (2004a), “Dve strategii,” Nezavisimaya gazeta, 1 September. Radzikhovsky, L. (2004b), “Nepopuliarnye shagi,” Rossiiskaya gazeta, 31 August. RIA-novosti (2003a), Igor Ivanov vstretilsia s sootechestvennikami v finskom gorode Pori. 11 June, 17.44. RIA-novosti (2003b), Igor Ivanov vyrazil glave MID Latvii ozabochennost’ situatsiei vokrug obuchenia v etoi strane na russkom yazyke. 11 June, 17.40. RIA-novosti (2003c), Igor Ivanov vyrazil obespokoennost’ rossiiskikh grazhdan i sootechestvennikov, prozhivayushchikh v Estonii, glave MID etoi strany. 11 June, 17.53. Robertson, G. (2002), “Lord Robertson: sozdanie Soveta Rossia – NATO stanet istoricheskoi vekhoi,” Kommersant, 28 May. Rodin, I. (2003), “Duma prigrozila Latvii sanktshiyami,” Nezavisimaya gazeta, 15 October. Radio Free Europe / Radio Liberty (2003), Baltic States Report, 4(33), 13 October. Rossiiskaya Federatsiya (2002). “Federal’nyi zakon ‘O grazhdanstve Rossiiskoi Federatsii’,” Rossiiskaya gazeta, 5 June.

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Schmitt, C. (1996), The Concept of the Political. Chicago, London: University of Chicago Press. Sukhova, S. (2003), “Odinokoe NATO zhelaet poznakomit’sia,” Itogi, 20 May. Tsymbursky, V.L. (1993), “Ostrov Rossia. Perspektivy rossiiskoi geopolitiki,” Polis, 5: 6–23. Vares, P., Osipova O. (1992), Pokhishchenie Evropy, ili Baltiiskii vopros v mezhdunarodnykh otnosheniyakh XX veka. Tallinn: Izdatelstvo Estonskoi entsiklopedii. Vodo, V. (2003), “Poliaki vybilis’ v evropeichiki,” Kommersant, 10 June. Author affiliation: Viatcheslav Morozov is associate professor of European Studies at the school of international relations of the St. Petersburg State University, Russia.

The gatekeeper “hinge” concept and the promotion of Estonian, Latvian and Lithuanian new/postmodern security agendas Paul Holtom The Baltic security dilemma has had an impact on the whole northeast European region, with consequences for Scandinavia, continental Europe, the European Union, Russia and NATO. This region is a kind of historical laboratory, a meeting-point of modernity and postmodernity where new principles of international relations are being formed and put to test.1 In the 1990s, the foreign and security policies of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania revolved around the following “security trinity”: remain independent sovereign states; return to Europe; and stress separation from Russia and a desire to remain outside the “Russian sphere.” At the heart of this formulation, was the idea that the “return to Europe” would be the most useful means of guaranteeing the first and third elements of the trinity. This line of thinking promoted the idea that by joining the EU and NATO, the independence of the Baltic States would be best protected against Russian revanchism directed at limiting the sovereignty of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania. However, for analysts such as Gražina Miniotaitė the thoroughly modern aims of securing independent sovereign statehood rubbed against the postmodern statehood required of members of the EU and NATO. For Miniotaitė, there was a tension between the Baltic States’ discourses of sovereignty and discourses of integration. Or put another way, it appeared somewhat strange that the Baltic States “modern” security concerns were pushing them towards institutions that espoused “postmodern” security agendas. This is the departure point for this chapter, as it seeks to ask where one would place the Baltic States on a modern-postmodern security spectrum. Using declarations of security priorities and threats as a guide, the chapter attempts to judge the balance constructed by Estonian, Latvian and Lithuanian foreign and security policy-makers between old and new, military and non-military, hard and soft, security threats. In the analysis of Miniotaitė and other security analysts to be discussed in this paper, the Baltic States have often been portrayed as lying “in-transit” between modern and post-modern Europe, with integration interactions impacting upon thoughts about sovereignty in the “Europe” to which they sought to “return.” Their geographical location has lent further credence to the metaphor of “in-between” or “in-transit” used to describe their shift from modern to post-modern European statehood. This chapter also draws upon

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the thoughts of the political geographer Saul Cohen, by developing the “gateway hinge” concept which he applies to the Baltic States into one of “gatekeeper hinge,” in line with changes in the construction of threats in the international security environment.2 The “gatekeeper hinge” concept promoted here is rooted in a commitment to see the strategic location of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania utilised for the promotion of peace and cooperation in combating new security challenges, rather than being construed as the site or declared cause of conflict and the modern European security threats of the 20th century. In line with the request of the editor, my discussion begins by exploring the labels “old” and “new” as applied to Europe and security, and asks if they can be favourably aligned with Robert Cooper’s thoughts on modern and postmodern worlds and states. It is from the placing of the Baltic States at the juncture between these two worlds that Saul Cohen’s “gateway hinge” concept, and its application to the Baltic States, is introduced. It is then argued that “gatekeeper hinges” may be a more useful description of the Baltic States, in line with the securitisation of new, non-military threats and challenges.3 It is argued that this shift in security concerns also resecuritises the Baltic States, although they should not be regarded as modernist shatter belts in this reconfiguration, but rather as trafficking routes or “dirty” gateway hinges. The importance of Estonian, Latvian and Lithuanian trading hubs as strategic locations for legitimate trade and illicit trafficking routes, and the challenges that this poses for the potential gatekeeper “hinges,” will be considered here. It is then argued that Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania have appeared not only to promote the threats and concerns of the new security agenda at the expense of old security threats and concerns, but that the shift in the security hierarchy has also been accompanied by a willingness to engage with the transparency and openness at the heart of the postmodern world’s response to new security issues. Thus, by promoting integrative and cooperative solutions, and recognising that the territories, infrastructure and services of the Baltic States have played a role in facilitating the transit of illicit materials and the trafficking of people, one could argue that the gatekeeper “hinge” responsibilities have been recognised and are being acted upon. The conclusion asks if commitments to the postmodern security agenda will continue now that Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania are members of the EU and NATO. From their modern-postmodern world juncture, can they play a positive role in promoting the postmodern security agenda to the modern world, or are they committed to maintaining this division? 1.

The labels old and new in thinking on Europe and security Rather than using the divisive notions of “old” and “new” Europe contained in the flippant remark of the US Secretary of Defence Donald Rumsfeld, this paper proposes another reading of what these terms imply.

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In the reading proposed here, “old” and “new” relate rather to the nature of the security challenges or threats considered to dominate the security hierarchy of the actors under consideration. Hence, old Europe is married to the security threats that have come to be described as old, traditional, military or “hard.” Such threats are defined as being directed against the classical Westphalian notions of sovereign statehood, and commonly understood as resulting from a conflict with the military of another sovereign state. The concerns of various European states in the interwar period of the 20th century serve as a useful illustration of this form of old European security thinking. This old Europe or – as Mark Mazower has described it – “other” Europe,4 serves as a useful opposite for the new Europe elaborated below. In almost direct contrast to old European security concerns, new European security concerns are described using antonyms such as new, non-traditional, non-military or “soft.” Therefore, in this reading, new European security threats and challenges relate to the broader security agenda as identified by scholars such as Barry Buzan.5 Through the work of Buzan, and also Ole Wæver’s thinking on the processes of securitising and de-securitising certain issues,6 efforts have been made to theorise the shift in securitising that has seen the promotion of non-military concerns and referents move to the top of national security agendas. Buzan and Wæver have thus noted how environmental concerns, trafficking in arms, drugs, people and dangerous materials, transnational organised crime, terrorism, ethnic conflicts and a myriad of other political, social and economic challenges have become the referents in securitising discourses articulated by state and non-state actors. But new European security concerns also entail a reordering of the security hierarchy, with the old European security threats relegated, and the new European security threats, those of a non-traditional or military nature, promoted. As Buzan and Wæver put it: “For western states and their close associates at the core of the global political economy, the big impact [of the end of the Cold War] was the sudden, and probably long-term, shift out of heavy military security concerns and into much wider, more diverse, and less clearly understood set of mostly non-military security concerns.”7 Hence, new Europe in this reading could be represented by the security agenda of the European Union. This reconfiguration of old and new Europe and security could perhaps benefit from another form of relabelling, one which is already in use thanks to the work of Robert Cooper.8 Here one could align the above definitions of old and new European security concerns with the definitions

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of the modern and postmodern worlds and states offered in Robert Cooper’s The Postmodern State and World Order. In Cooper’s manifesto for a postmodern world order, modern (or old) European states are thus defined because they: are prepared to use force against other states for achieving their foreign and security policy goals; place a particular stress on the recognition of state sovereignty; and place a hard dividing line between what takes place in the internal and external spheres of state activity. In particular, interference by “external actors” in domestic affairs is to be avoided at all costs. In contrast, Cooper argues that postmodern (or new) European states openly accept that mutual interference in their affairs is necessary in order to deal with many of the new security challenges. They are more willing and able to accept a blurring of the domestic-foreign policy spheres than modern states, and therefore openness and transparency are deemed to be key principles for enhancing their security. Cooper succinctly argues that the guiding mantra for postmodern states is the maxim “never forget that more security can be achieved by co-operation than competition.”9 Of course, the labels old and new or modern and postmodern Europe merely serve as two ends of an analytical spectrum, along which analysts can place states and other actors based upon their articulated security hierarchies. Therefore, for example, if concerns with the environment, transnational organised crime and terrorism are articulated as the main security concerns of a given actor, and bilateral and multilateral exchanges of information and other acts of sharing and transparency are highlighted as the priorities for resolving the given state’s security concerns, then one would be inclined to place such a state nearer to the new or postmodern end of the spectrum. The main question for this paper is: where should one place the Baltic States along such a spectrum? In answer to this question, it is worth noting that on the maps of Barry Buzan and Ole Wæver’s geopolitical regional security complexes (RSCs),10 the concentric circles of Ole Wæver’s Imperial analogies,11 and Samuel Huntington’s civilisations,12 the Baltic States appear to lie along the border of the regions or zones of the EU and Commonwealth of Independent States (CIS), Brussels and Moscow, and western and Orthodox civilisations. Therefore, although these maps are derived from very different premises on security and the geopolitical reorganisation of the post-Cold War world, in each conception the Baltic States are positioned at junctures almost “in-between.” They are labelled “insulators” for the EU and CIS RSCs, or placed “in-between” imperial analogies centred around Brussels and Moscow or as the eastern boundary of western civilisation in the three maps mentioned here. And furthermore, with their positioning there is often an implicit, if not explicit, concern that they remain in a zone of potential contention, if not possibly conflict. For Cooper, the relegation or even demise of traditional security threats within the region occupied by postmodern states, does not mean the end to all

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modernist security concerns, as he foresaw potential “problems when the postmodern meets the modern world.”13 In this regard, Cooper would arguably place the Baltic States between a postmodern EU and a modern Russia (although he also sees Russia and the CIS as exhibiting pre-modern and postmodern elements too). Thus, although the Baltic States, and central-eastern Europe as a zone, are no longer explicitly recalled as “the lands in-between” Russia and Germany, there still appears to be a tendency to regard them as inhabiting not only borderline or “in-between” spaces in geographical terms, but also with regard to their position on the postmodern-modern/old-new European security spectrum. To rephrase Peter van Ham’s question “is geography destiny?”, is it the geopolitical destiny of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania to remain “in-between”?14 One could ask why there is a continued tendency to attribute this role to the Baltic States when the latter have not only declared their intentions to become part of the new European security infrastructure, but have also had these intentions recognised by the various institutions of new European security. For example, Klas-Göran Karlsson, Peter van Elsuwege, and Peter Wennersten have all drawn attention to the fact that unlike all of the other Former Soviet Republics, the Baltic States were recipients of PHARE not TACIS programme assistance.15 Could this be read as a sign that the Baltic States were expected to become new or postmodern Europeans? Or was the distinction on technical assistance linked to western support for the legal continuity of the Baltic States? Although Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania appear to now be regarded as the “outer limit” of an expanded new or postmodern Europe, it is generally suspected that modernist security concerns remain far higher on their security agendas than on those of their western neighbours. It therefore seems apposite to ask, does their inclusion in the EU and NATO space mean that they can be placed towards the new or postmodern end of the security spectrum? 2.

Gateway and gatekeeper “hinges” “Located along the border of the world’s geostrategic realms and geopolitical regions or within an integrating Europe, gateway states are optimally situated for specialized manufacturing, trade, tourism and financial service functions, thus stimulating global economic, social and political interaction. With independence, they will accelerate the trend of these borders being transformed from zones of conflict to zones of accommodation.”16

Like Barry Buzan, Samuel Huntington and Ole Wæver, the political geographer Saul Cohen placed the Baltic States at the juncture

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between what he saw as maritime Europe (the EU) and the Eurasian Heartland (the CIS). Therefore, like the authors cited above, Cohen was hesitant to see the Baltic States as fully integrated into either of these core areas. Writing in the early 1990s, he argued that the Baltic States would serve as gateway “hinge” or “transistor” states for interactions between the Eurasian heartland and maritime Europe. He saw this role not only in terms of facilitating trade, but also in terms of fostering peace and stability between their previous hosts and the neighbouring region to their west. In this manner, he contrasted them not only with other potential gateway “hinges” that are currently the site of bloody conflicts, such as Eritrea, Gaza-West Bank and Tamil Eelam, but also with the eastern Baltic region’s own violent past and its modern treatment as a “shatter belt” for European military conflicts. Yet in spite of Cohen’s belief that the Baltic States would continue to be “in-between,” as in the mappings of Buzan, Huntington and Wæver, he did not regard them as inhabiting a zone of conflict but rather a zone of transfers. It is true that Huntington’s civilisational model also allows for trading exchanges to take place across civilisational borders, and the same is no doubt true of Buzan and Wæver’s RSCs. In these conceptions, the majority of interactions are to be conducted within a given civilisation or region, with those located at the border peripheral, but still situated within their respective region or civilisation. In Cohen’s conception, the peripheral areas of the maps of Buzan, Huntington and Wæver are positively charged with the role of facilitating interactions that go beyond simple trading relations. For Cohen, those “hinge” states located in geostrategically significant locations are key sites in gateway regions. He argues that as “hinges,” they “take the lead as economic and social mediators in opening the [gateway] region in both directions.”17 Therefore, “hinges” are considered to serve not only as conduits for economic exchanges, but are also charged with facilitating the spread of peace and understanding between different regions. As Cohen argues at the beginning of his essay, “in contrast to the old geopolitics that was an instrument of war, the new geopolitics can be applied to the advancement of international co-operation and peace.”18 It is therefore possible to argue that Cohen’s thinking on old and new geopolitics sits neatly with the conceptions of the old and new European security agendas described above, as “old” is once more charged with divisive and conflict-ridden meanings, while “new” carries connotations of cooperation and peace. However, by taking note of my own points on the changing hierarchy of security concerns in old/modern-new/postmodern Europe, it is also becoming evident that “hinges” which serve as important transit routes and house trading hubs for large volumes of trade shipments are also likely – wittingly or unwittingly – to serve as routes for those involved in trafficking arms, drugs, people and dangerous substances. The recent increase in the level of attention given to international trading hubs

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in efforts to combat international arms smuggling and diversions suggests that this fact is becoming more evident. Key trading hubs are now being called upon to introduce more stringent regimes for controlling and checking the cargo shipments that pass through their ports and transport infrastructures.19 The need to keep a “trade friendly” trading hub reputation with a known ability for quickly processing shipments with minimum interference from customs, border and law enforcement agencies is therefore being reassessed due to growing concerns that a “light touch” could be hampering efforts to detect shipments of trafficked goods and people. Cohen’s positive portrayal of gateway “hinges” as contributing to peace and security is therefore being potentially undermined by global shifts in security concerns and threats. “Hinges” that are believed to serve as trafficking routes have therefore seen their strategic locations once more associated with security threats, albeit of a very different nature. Transit territories are now faced with the problem of balancing checks on shipments to satisfy current international security concerns on the one hand, and minimum interference in the easy and rapid facilitation of trade shipments to keep their attractiveness as gateway “hinges” on the other. One can add that this further increases the pressure on the often stretched state border, customs and law enforcement agencies, as they struggle to find a balance. In international terms, the problem is exacerbated by the fact that trading hubs often have limited experience or resources for carrying out high-tech, unobtrusive detection, and that in some cases the state agents charged with implementing checks and controls have a proclivity towards indulging in corrupt practices as a means of supplementing their incomes. It is therefore no surprise that areas with underdeveloped state customs, border and law enforcement agencies are seen as a particularly weak link in the global struggle with transnational organised crime and terrorism. Yet even in new/postmodern and comparatively wealthy trading hubs, balancing increased controls with trade-friendly practices poses a number of problems. For one set of analysts, it is not only hubs in “underdeveloped” states that are a concern, for Amsterdam has also garnered a reputation as “a traditional hub for illicit goods in transit.”20 I would therefore argue that new security threats and concerns require a shift in thinking from gateway hinge concept towards gatekeeper hinge. Such a shift retains Cohen’s key principle that gateway hinges should play an important role in bringing regions together to increase their collective security. Yet it argues that they should be brought together to increase their security by directing combined efforts against new common security threats and concerns. The need to “clean” the shipments passing through trading hubs has led me to ask if a gatekeeper hinge concept is an appropriate response to new/postmodern European security concerns. The gatekeeper hinge concept proposed here is based upon the premise that it

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is possible for trading hubs to find an appropriate way of filtering shipments and detecting cargoes of illicit materials, which will still enable them to retain their competitiveness in the international transit trade market. It is also believed that detecting shipments of illicit materials requires not only improvements in the techniques and technologies used for inspecting suspicious shipments and increased controls, but that its efficiency also relies upon increasing and deepening cooperation between the regions and actors located in and around the “hinges.” This is the reason for aligning the concept of gatekeeper hinges closer to Cohen’s conceptualisations rather than to those of Buzan and Wæver, who appear to be arguing for distinct RSCs with rather limited interactions between them. The guiding principle for the concept of gatekeeper hinges remains a commitment to the challenging principles of inclusion and co-operation. There will undoubtedly be a tension between these principles and those of exclusion and division when the gatekeeper hinges are located between postmodern and modern entities. Yet it can be argued that it is possible to have a gatekeeper hinge concept that is inspired by the positive cooperative features of Cohen’s gateway hinges and Cooper’s desire to see more modern states brought into the postmodern world, through further cooperation and institutionalisation of transparent and open relations to states currently considered to be outside the postmodern realm. 3.

The trading hubs of the eastern Baltic gateway and some of their gatekeeper “hinge” challenges For Cohen, the “hinges” of the eastern Baltic gateway are Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania. Thanks to their strategic geographic location at the juncture between the Eurasian landmass and maritime Europe, their relatively well-developed transport infrastructure (in particular their ports, but also their rail and road connections) and historical intermediary role in trade patterns, it is understandable that Cohen argued for their development into gateway hinges for economic exchanges between maritime Europe and the Eurasian heartland. While there are certainly those who would question his assertion that the Baltic States have been “social mediators” between the EU and CIS, the flow of goods and the development of transport infrastructure in Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania during the 1990s could lead one to argue that these countries have fulfilled Cohen’s prophecy with regard to mediating economic exchanges. The transit trade role of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania is undoubtedly connected to the fact that the ports located in these states were important export and import hubs for Soviet maritime trade with the West.21 Despite the demise of the USSR, and the occasionally bitter political relations between the Baltic States and the state that has assumed many of the USSR’s international privileges and responsibilities, the volume of Russian exports and imports that has passed “in-transit”

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through the Baltic States has been considerable. Although some commentators have estimated that facilitating transit has accounted for around 25% of the GDP of Estonia and Latvia, a consensus appears to have settled upon the following estimates for the contribution of handling transit to GDP in these states in the late 1990s and 2000: 7−9% for Estonia, 8−10% for Latvia, and 4−6% for Lithuania.22 One can even concur with the claim made by Claus G. Alvstam and Alf Brodin that in the 1990s transit trade “was one of the seemingly few stable and income bringing activities that many in the Baltic Sea region adhered to.”23 As the ports of Klaipėda, Rīga, Tallinn, and Ventspils began to realise their value and profitability, they began to expand and improve the quality and the range of the services that they could offer. Yet independence for Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania meant that the ports of these three states were now competitors, rather than parts of a single unified transport system. They were not only in competition with each other for east-west and west-east trade between the Russian Federation and the CIS to the east and the EU to the west, but also in competition with Finnish ports to the north and Polish ports and land routes to the south. Competition is likely to increase further with the development of Russian ports around St Petersburg and plans for developing the port complex in Kaliningrad city and converting parts of the former Soviet naval base of Baltiysk into a commercial port.24 These developments may have led to fears that the gateway hinge role of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania would diminish. Yet Ingmar Oldberg and Andris Spruds have argued that the economic interests of various Russian actors and enterprises have played a role in the continuation of the Baltic States gateway “hinge” role for Russian trade, despite the geopolitically motivated developments in Primorsk and the Baltic Pipeline System (BPS).25 Oldberg and Spruds both see Russian actors as operating in perfectly “rational” terms, and both have argued the Baltic transit routes will continue to be used after EU enlargement. In fact, Oldberg argues that the entry of the Baltic States into the EU has been identified in some Russian quarters as being economically advantageous because Baltic import tariffs would be lowered and “the transit of goods through EU states would be free from customs and other fees, except for administration and transport.”26 For Spruds, concerns in political relations between Russia and the Baltic States and the politicking surrounding transit routes: “[c]annot conceal the fact that Russian and Baltic transport and energy infrastructures are firmly interlocked, and a strong mutual interest in cooperation remains. The transit through the Baltic countries has been beneficial for the Baltic economies, and it has been important and reliable for Russia (…) Moreover, it is

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As argued above, gateway hinges and trading hubs with a high cargo turnover, irrespective of the state in which they reside, are likely to have illicit shipments passing through them.28 For the gateway hinges of the eastern Baltic Region to have been immune to such shipments would therefore have been an unbelievable success story. Although one could argue that the heyday of the “illegal economic free-for all” of the early 1990s, when the eastern Baltic gateway garnered a reputation as a trafficking route for illicit shipments of alcohol, arms, antiques, drugs, humans, stolen cars etc. from west to east and vice versa appears to have abated,29 reports continue to surface of seizures of illicit goods in-transit through the Baltic States, and law enforcement and customs agencies are sometimes willing to discuss their concerns regarding trafficking in drugs and humans.30 There are, of course, a number of factors that have assisted in the casting of the eastern Baltic gateway “hinges” as “dirty,” and I would like to begin by highlighting two elements in this development that one can argue stem from the collapse of the USSR and increased competition in the transport and logistics sphere. Firstly, as noted above, independence meant the end of Soviet all-union state enterprises and operations and increased competition in the region. For example, in place of the two Soviet import and export operations “Soyuzvneshtrans” and “Soyuztranzit,” hundreds, even thousands of small companies sprang up across the former Soviet space, including within Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania. According to Sergei Tkachenko and Alf Brodin, “many of these [import-export companies] were created for just one operation, and sometimes even with a clearly criminal purpose of illegally exporting or importing different types of goods.”31 However, the freight forwarding and logistics market has been greatly consolidated in the east Baltic Sea region over the past decade, as international mergers and acquisitions have led to several large firms dominating the market, as in the EU. Yet, there still remain freight forwarders, logistical and shipping agents operating from or through the Baltic States whose services are undoubtedly utilised, wittingly or unwittingly, for transporting illicit shipments around the world. Balancing the requirements of state inspections and the freedom to operate and compete in the international market for logistics and transportation services therefore remains a pertinent problem for dealing with this sphere. Another concern stemming from the collapse of the USSR is related to greater competition in areas that were formerly dominated by a

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single port. While greater competition may not seem a particularly worrying security threat, it can be a concern when applied to the potential problems of dealing with the increased volume of containers in international trade. In the Soviet and early post-Soviet period, Riga was the dominant port in the eastern part of the Baltic regarding the container trade, yet it must now compete with Gdańsk, Gdynia, Klaipėda, St Petersburg and Tallinn. This is a potentially disturbing international security issue too, because there is a fear that containers provide a useful means for conveying illicit transfers of arms, people and other dangerous substances.32 The shipping consultancy H.P. Drewry has estimated that 244 million containers (TEU’s “Twenty foot Equivalent Units”) were handled in 2001, with only about two percent of these being screened worldwide. For criminal organisations and traffickers, they provide an excellent means of shipping illicit goods and trafficking people, as not only are they infrequently screened, but “the movement of each container is part of a transaction that can involve up to 25 different parties: buyers, sellers, inland freighters and shipping lines, middlemen (customs and cargo brokers, for example), financiers and governments. A single trade can generate 30−40 documents.”33 Concerns with delaying trade and damaging trade-friendly reputations put further pressure on state customs authorities, in addition to the fact that many of them have inadequate equipment or experience for screening and checking containers. While the actual volume of illicit shipments using containers is unknown, the likelihood of detecting such shipments will continue to be confounded by the large volume of container shipments. On top of these two problems, Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania face a number of other challenges in cleaning their trading hubs. I have already mentioned a number of the problems that these states face in a report on arms trafficking and controls in the eastern Baltic Sea Region.34 Many of the problems identified in this report can also be found in the assessments of the EU Commission on Estonian, Latvian and Lithuanian progress during their accession negotiations and the country reports of the Council of Europe’s group of states against corruption (GRECO). The EU Commission and GRECO have highlighted a number of concerns with the judiciary, law enforcement, border and customs services of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania. In particular, they have highlighted problems with corruption, measures to overcome deficiencies in experience and training, and in some cases an acute lack of resources for efficiently and sufficiently dealing with the challenges posed by new security threats.35 Yet at the same time, Estonian, Latvian and Lithuanian officials have acknowledged deficiencies in these areas, and to varying degrees, have at least drafted, if not begun to fully implement programmes and strategies to deal with these problems. In many cases, these programmes and strategies have been drafted or implemented with assistance from EU

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member states, the US, Canada and Norway. Best practice training and other transfers of techniques, technology and equipment have greatly assisted the capacities of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania for dealing with new security challenges. These exchanges have also included reciprocal exchanges of information, thus suggesting a commitment on the part of the Baltic States to the new/postmodern security agenda and its guiding principles, as set out by Cooper. It has been recognised that international information exchanges are of the utmost importance for those agencies responsible for dealing with new security threats and challenges, yet Estonian, Latvian and Lithuanian international efforts are undoubtedly hampered by problems with domestic inter-agency co-operation. While it appears that the complex nature of new security challenges and threats have been accepted, there is still a long way to go before the traditional or modern divisions of law enforcement, border controls and state security services have been sufficiently adapted to effectively deal with new security challenges. For example, according to one Estonian practitioner, “traditionally, law enforcement has many sources that are restricted and jealously protected,”36 but such cultures have to be changed as coordination is necessary if controls and operations are to be effective. This may require shifting from modern divisions to postmodern cooperation and transparency within states, to use Cooper’s terms, and although this is certainly a development that has been noted in several EU member states already, it is far from universal in Cooper’s postmodern realm.37 4.

The new/postmodern national security concepts of the Baltic States The foreign and security policy-making communities of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania have articulated that their main security threats are of a new rather than an old form, and also appear to be promoting postmodern responses to these challenges. One can therefore argue that concerns with the use of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania as transit routes for illicit shipments of arms, drugs, people, and other dangerous substances between maritime Europe and the Eurasian heartland have been securitised by the elites in Rīga, Tallinn and Vilnius, as these concerns now feature prominently in the lists of concerns contained in the Estonian, Latvian and Lithuanian national security concepts and strategies. The national security concepts and strategies of these three states are particularly interesting as they also seem to indicate that the Estonian, Latvian and Lithuanian foreign and security policy-making communities have structured their security hierarchies to be in line with those of postmodern or new European states rather than modern or old European states. For example, the 2001 National Security Concept of the Republic of Estonia stated that “Estonia does not see a direct military threat to its security either now, or in the foreseeable future.” This downward shift for

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old security concerns was accompanied by the promotion and identification of new, non-military threats, as demonstrated by the following passage: “Against a backdrop of a reduced military threat, rapid changes in the international arena, in economy and in technology have brought a number of so-called new, non-military risks to the fore. On a global scale these include ecological risks, the potential for ethnic conflict, international organised crime, the proliferation of weapons of mass destruction, and the potential volatility of social and economic problems.”38 On the regional and “domestic” levels, the National Security Concept numbers ecological catastrophes resulting from Soviet-era nuclear plants, flows of refugees, crime, substance abuse, the smuggling of arms and narcotics, and the use of ICT for committing transnational criminal acts amongst the security challenges that Estonia faces. Similar concerns are expressed in the 2002 Latvian National Security Concept, which also demotes hard security concerns and promotes soft security concerns.39 The same shift in security priorities can also be seen in the 2002 white paper Lithuania’s Security and Foreign Policy Strategy: “Lithuania does not face immediate foreign military threats. Nonetheless, numerous new challenges to the country’s security have arisen over the past decade. The majority of challenges are transnational in nature, including organised crime, trafficking, and smuggling, international terrorism, and environmental, medical, and infrastructural emergencies. To help counter these threats, Vilnius has proposed forming alliances with states that adhere to the same political, social, cultural and moral values. The government has also endeavoured to transmit these values to states whose transition process has been blocked.”40 Therefore, it would appear that Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania consider new security concerns to be their main challenges. This is certainly the impression given by the above-cited national security documents, which were published shortly before the Baltic States joined the EU and NATO. Yet, such declarations are not sufficient for arguing that the Baltic States are new or postmodern European states. This status can only be conferred upon states that support Cooper’s notions of transparency and cooperation as the main bases upon which to tackle new security challenges. Therefore, although a state may recognise that its

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main security challenges are of a new or soft form, it cannot be placed at the new or postmodern end of a security spectrum if it does not demonstrate its commitment to information sharing, openness and removing barriers to greater inter-agency co-operation within and between states. In the cases of Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania, the fact that each national security concept (and strategy) identifies openness and cooperation through bilateral and multilateral measures, programmes and organisations as the best solutions for increasing national, regional and global security suggests that these states could be placed towards the new or postmodern end of the security spectrum discussed earlier in this chapter. They could also therefore be regarded as model gatekeeper hinges, seeking to meet new security challenges with the options available to states recognised as postmodern. However, the concerns identified at the end of the previous section indicate that there are still some questions over the political will and ability of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania to participate fully in combating transnational security concerns. 5.

Concluding remarks To what extent have Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania fully embraced the new/postmodern security agenda and relegated concerns about potential invasions or military encounters with their non-EU neighbours to the east? Based upon the national security concepts quoted in the preceding section, which were all drafted and adopted before these states were members of the EU and NATO, one would have argued that Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania were certainly to be placed towards the new/postmodern end of the security spectrum. One could also argue that several passages in the national security documents support the notion of the Baltic States as gatekeeper hinges, as it is explicitly stated that they have a propagandistic role to play in promoting the benefits of embracing a new/postmodern European agenda to their eastern neighbours. Yet there are still concerns that they have not quite made it all the way to the new/postmodern end of the security spectrum and dispensed with all of their modernist security concerns. This concern has been given further credence with the recent publication of Estonia’s revised national security concept, which was introduced after Estonia joined the EU and NATO. The 2004 national security concept repeats many of the concerns and commitments of its 2001 predecessor, including the claim that, “Estonia’s national security is neither presently, nor will be in the near future, confronted with a direct military threat.”41 Yet the section on military threats has been considerably extended. Although the line “in the long term perspective, the possibility for the reoccurrence of such a threat cannot be totally excluded” seems fairly innocuous, it is then stated that military build-ups and manoeuvres on Estonia’s borders should be regarded as security threats. It is fairly

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obvious towards whom these concerns are directed. Therefore, perhaps the changes in the 2004 Estonian National Security Concept are connected to the fact that Estonia no longer feels bound by the conditionality of EU accession, and we now need to re-assess the place of Estonia, and its neighbours, on the modern-postmodern/old-new security spectrum. Is it therefore possible that those responsible for drafting the National Security Concept still harbour old/modern European security concerns about their large eastern neighbour? Will Latvia and Lithuania follow suit in their own updated, post-enlargement national security concepts? The idea that Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania are on the border between the modern and postmodern worlds could be used in the defence of those who have drafted the new Estonian national security concept. Cooper has argued that the borders between the postmodern and modern realms are not entirely stable, and one could argue that the Estonian change merely reflects the possibility that, in the long-term, this border may harden and once more become a zone of contention and conflict rather than a fuzzy line in an EU-Russia common space. Yet, it is still worth promoting the positive attributes of Cohen’s gateway hinges, and charging the Baltic States with a role in helping to facilitate flows and exchanges of information and cooperation between these two regions in a variety of policy areas, including the countering of new security threats and challenges common to both maritime Europe and the Eurasian heartland, as a means of countering such negative developments. Questions will no doubt continue to be raised about the possibility of deteriorating political relations between Russia and the Baltic States, now that the latter feel more “secure,” at least in modernist terms. But the positive aspects of Cohen’s gateway hinge concept could be incorporated into their new gatekeeper hinge roles, and they could act as conduits rather than blocks for developing closer EU-Russian relations. Of course, this also depends on developments across the European continent and beyond, but the Baltic States could still play a positive (even if supporting) role in drawing Russia into the postmodern realm. Could this be conceived of as the other side of the former Swedish Prime Minister Carl Bildt’s “Baltic Litmus Test”?42

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Notes 1. Miniotaitė, 2001. 2. For Cohen, “gateway hinges” are small states located between major core areas or regions of states, which are positively charged with the role of acting as economic and social mediators for the major core areas/regions between which they are situated. 3. The term “securitisation” is employed in this paper in a manner comparable to that of Barry Buzan and Ole Wæver. Put simply, it is a process in which those recognised as “power-holders” name a certain social phenomena as a “security problem” or “existential threat,” and thereby place the phenomenon onto the national or international “security agenda.” See Buzan et al 1998; Buzan 1999; Wæver, 1995. 4. Mazower, 1999. 5. Buzan, 1991; Buzan et al, 1998. 6. Wæver, 1995. 7. Buzan and Wæver 2003, 18. 8. Cooper, 1998. 9. Cooper, 1998, 26. 10. Buzan and Wæver 2003, Map 2. 11. Wæver, 1997, 77. 12. Huntington, 1998, 159. 13. Cooper, 1998, 26. 14. Van Ham, 1998. 15. Karlsson, 2002; van Elsuwege, 2002; Wennersten, 1999. 16. Cohen, 1994, 38−9. 17. Cohen, 1994, 45. 18. Cohen, 1994, 18. 19. “Emerging Issue: Transit and Transshipment Controls,” 2003. 20. Davis and Hirst and Mariani, 2001, 21. 21. Alvstam and Brodin, 2002. 22. Alvstam and Brodin, 2002, 18; Laurila, 2002, 26. 23. Alvstam and Brodin, 2002, 25. 24. Geopolitics and Baltic Ports: Development Prospects for the Port of Baltiysk, 2002. 25. Oldberg, 2003; Spruds, 2002. 26. Oldberg, 2003, 64. In the “Joint Statement on EU Enlargement and EU-Russia Relations,” from the Russia-EU Moscow Summit (27 April 2004), the lowering of tariffs for Russian imports to new EU Member States and the application of the freedom of transit of goods between the Kaliningrad region and the rest of Russia are explicitly mentioned, but the situation for the transit of goods through new EU Member States was not. 27. Spruds, 2002, 361−2. 28. “Emerging Issue: Transit and Transshipment Controls,” 2003.

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29. Rawlinson, 2001. 30. The national media in the Baltic States occasionally feature articles on seizures. Details of these seizures can sometimes be found in The Baltic Times http://archives.baltictimes.com/www/, and the various news services of Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty (RFE/RL) are also a useful English-language source of information on these topics http://www.rferl.org 31.Tkachenko and Brodin, 2002, 36. 32.“Container Trade: When trade and security clash,” 2002. 33. “Container Trade: When trade and security clash,” 2002. 34. Holtom, 2003. 35. For more detailed accounts of these assessments see the EU’s Comprehensive Monitoring Reports on the Estonian, Latvian and Lithuanian Preparations for Membership, published on 5 November 2003, in the Enlargement section of the EUROPA portal and the first and second rounds of Evaluation Reports on Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania on the Council of Europe’s Group of States Against Corruption (GRECO) website . See also the relevant sections of the chapters on Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania in: Holtom, 2003. 36. Raba, 2002, 20. 37. See for example the analyses of British and Italian developments in this sphere in Davis and Hirst and Mariani, 2001. 38. National Security Concept of the Republic of Estonia, 2001. 39. Latvian National Security Concept, 2002. 40. Lithuania’s Security and Foreign Policy Strategy, 2002, 40. 41. National Security Concept of the Republic of Estonia, 2004. 42. Bildt, 1994.

References Alvstam C. G. and Brodin A (2002), “An introduction to Russian Transit Trade,” in: A. Brodin (ed.) Russian Transit Trade in the Baltic Sea Region. Goteborg: Centre for European Research, Goteborg University. 1−31. Bildt, Carl (1994), “The Baltic Litmus Test,” Foreign Affairs 73(5): 72−85. Buzan, B. (1991), People, States and Fear: An Agenda for International Security Studies in the Post-Cold War Era. London: Harvester Wheatsheaf [2nd Edition. 1st published 1982].

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Buzan, B. et al (1998), Security: A New Framework for Analysis. London: Lynne Rienner. Buzan, B. (1999), “ ‘Change and Insecurity’ Contemporary Security Policy, 20(3): 1−17.

Reconsidered,”

Buzan, B. and O. Wæver (2003), Regions and Powers: The Structure of International Security. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Cohen, S. (1994), “Geopolitics in the New World Era: A New Perspective on an Old Discipline,” in: G. J. Demko and W. B. Wood (eds.) Reordering the World – Geopolitical Perspectives on the Twenty First Century. Boulder, Colorado: Westview. 15−48. “Container Trade: When trade and security clash,” The Economist, 4 April 2002. From the archives of the Economist Cooper, R. (1998), The Postmodern State and World Order. London: Demos. [First published 1996] Davis, I. and C. Hirst and B. Mariani (2001), Organised crime, corruption and illicit arms trafficking in an enlarged EU: Challenges and perspectives. London: Saferworld Arms and Security Programme. “Emerging Issue: Transit and Transshipment Controls,” NIS Export Control Observer, 4, April 2003