Last Stop: Narva
Narva is in Estonia, but the people there speak Russian. Putin wants to ‘take back’ the border town and the population is alarmed. What is it like to live between the Soviet legacy and a diffuse threat?
The name seems like a mockery. The ‘Bridge of Friendship’ is peppered with anti-tank barriers. On one side is the Estonian city of Narva, one of the easternmost corners of the European Union, on the other Russia. Where the border officials of both countries once met to discuss matters, they now only stare at each other from a distance of 100 metres.
The city could be the victim of the next Russian invasion: As early as 2022, shortly after the start of the major attack on Ukraine, Russian President Vladimir Putin declared that Narva was historically part of Russia and had to be ‘taken back’. The statement set alarm bells ringing in Estonia and at Nato. Since then, the small Baltic country has been one of the most determined supporters of Ukraine and, measured against its economic output, has provided more military aid than anyone else.
Narva has a complex history: more than 90 per cent of the city's inhabitants speak Russian and many have family on the other side of the border. In 1993, shortly after Estonia became independent, the population of Narva and two neighbouring towns voted overwhelmingly for autonomy in an unofficial referendum. Moscow supported these autonomy endeavours in the background by financing Russian-language media and political actors in the region and exerting diplomatic pressure on Estonia. However, Tallinn declared the vote unconstitutional.
‘It was a very, very uncertain time,’ remembers Mayor Katri Raik. She studied in Germany and speaks fluent German. With her chin-length black bob and determined demeanour, she looks like a Baltic version of Angela Merkel.
Raik sits in the huge, wood-panelled meeting room of Narva's newly built town hall. The Ukrainian flag hangs upside down here: blue at the bottom, yellow at the top - to the confusion of many tourists. ‘This is our city's coat of arms and has nothing to do with Ukraine,’ explains Raik. She looks tense: It is the beginning of February, the day before Estonia is to be disconnected from the Russian electricity grid and connected to the European one. ‘Fake news is circulating on pro-Russian channels about a two-day blackout, no electricity, no heating,’ she says, shaking her head.
However, even the government cannot completely rule out interruptions. Many people in the city have therefore stocked up on food as a precaution. People are showing gallows humour on social media: ‘The Lord is my light’ or ‘Time to look for someone on Tinder with a power generator and a large supply of candles’ are typical comments.
The 57-year-old mayor with the typical Estonian name comes from Tartu, the third-largest city in Estonia. She has lived in Narva for over 25 years. ‘Broken love, longing for a faraway place, the usual reasons led me to Estonian Siberia,’ she says with a smile. Then she sighs: "The biggest attraction in Narva is, of course, Russia. We are all so tired of the tourists - the Germans and Swiss who come to our shore just to gawp at our neighbours.”
Until 1918, the cities of Narva and Ivangorod were united under Russian rule, but after the First World War, the Narva River became the border of independent Estonia. This freedom ended abruptly: from 1940 to 1991, the city first experienced Soviet occupation, then briefly German and finally Soviet again, with the Red Army destroying almost the entire historic city centre in 1944. During the decades of Soviet rule, Narva became an industrial city with thousands of newly settled Russian workers in prefabricated housing estates. The abandoned industrial halls, once home to Europe's largest textile factory, still characterise the cityscape.
The close connection to Russia has hardly changed for the approximately 54,000 inhabitants of Narva since the Russian attack on Ukraine three years ago. Until recently, it was quite normal to go shopping in Russia, visit friends or travel to St. Petersburg at the weekend. ‘I grew up in the Soviet Union, with Russian films and songs,’ says Mayor Raik. She has travelled a lot in Russia and has friends there. It is a shame that she will never be able to visit the country again. ‘As mayor of Narva, it would be too dangerous because of my previous work,’ she says.
But even for those who continue to travel to Russia, a lot has changed. The Estonian government is increasingly distancing itself from Russia. It officially advises against crossing the border, and those who still want to cross wait up to ten hours outside.
Estonia would prefer to have nothing more to do with its Soviet past. After the start of the war, the then Prime Minister Kaja Kallas ordered the dismantling of all Soviet monuments. In Narva, this included a T-34 tank from the Second World War, which enraged the population. Raik was accused of wanting to erase history. Her response to such accusations is clear: "Anyone who wants to can move to Russia at any time. But in the end, no one does, because everyone knows that Estonia is a free country."
Raik believes that the Soviet Union, and thus the proximity to Russia, must finally disappear from people's minds. ‘I'm quite sure that relations between Estonia and Russia will remain cold for a long time to come,’ she says and adds after a pause: ‘Very, very cold.’
The border between Estonia and Russia in Narva is not only marked by the river, but also by the identity of its inhabitants. ‘We don't really feel like Estonians,’ says Kirill Fjodorov. He has long, curly hair, a pink star stuck below the corner of his mouth and dozens of eyes printed on his black T-shirt.
He and Durya Zemljanuhhina were born in Narva and live here in a prefabricated building away from the city centre. It's Friday evening and the young couple are sitting on the couch in their jogging bottoms. The heating is running at full blast, creating an almost uncomfortable heat - a legacy of the Soviet prefabricated buildings with their barely controllable central heating systems. American rap videos are playing on the television and there are Playstation controllers and energy drinks on the coffee table. The flat is darkened, except for an LED strip that bathes the window in bluish light. Zemljanuhhina switches the TV down and goes into the kitchen to make tea. She has a pierced nose and blonde hair, and her white trainer jacket is labelled ‘New Lifestyle’.
‘When we worked in the capital Tallinn, we were treated like slaves and often discriminated against,’ says Fjodorov. ‘People nicknamed us “onions” because of the Orthodox churches and their onion roofs.’ According to the young couple, they are not discriminated against in Narva, but there is a kind of depression in the city. ‘There is no perspective, there is no work, no new shops, nothing.’
Unemployment is around 10 per cent, significantly higher than the Estonian average. Many industrial companies have closed, the population is ageing and young people prefer to move away. The few who stay all look the same, says Fjodorov: ‘If you look different here and don't wear Adidas jogging trousers, people talk about you straight away.’ He is studying computer science, while Zemljanuhhina has completed training as a seamstress. She is currently working in a bookshop, where she earns just three euros a day. "In Narva, people aren't interested in customised clothes. The best I could do is work on an assembly line making work clothes," she says. But she can't be creative in mass production.
The current political situation is weighing on the young couple. ‘Narva is actually Russia,’ says Fjodorov. ‘We don't have any Estonian people here and life is almost like in Russia.’ Nevertheless, the couple distance themselves from Russian politics, especially with regard to Ukraine. ‘War is bad, and Putin started it,’ says Zemljanuhhina. Both would prefer to go as far away as possible. ‘Maybe China, Korea or Thailand,’ says Fyodorov. ‘Los Angeles would also be cool,’ says Zemljanuhhina.
But for most people in Narva, a future abroad is just a dream. Instead, the pressure to fit into Estonian society is becoming ever more tangible. Soon, all schools will only teach in Estonian, which means the end of Russian-language schools. This educational reform, which will be implemented in stages from 2024/2025, symbolises the progressive suppression of Russian culture for the young couple. ‘Why should I learn Estonian?’ asks Zemljanuhhina. "A language that you only need in Estonia? Even if I speak it perfectly, I'll always be Russian to Estonians."
But there are also Russian-speaking Estonians who make a conscious decision in favour of integration. On a frosty Sunday morning, the headquarters of the Kaitseliit, Estonia's volunteer defence force, is brightly lit in Narva. This is where young people train for war: they learn how to survive alone in the forest, how to read a map and how to overcome obstacles. The adult members receive basic military training and learn how to shoot. The ‘Young Eagles’ and the ‘Daughters of the Homeland’ offer programmes for children as young as seven years old.
On this day, an excited buzz of voices fills the rooms as around 50 youngsters put on their dark green camouflage uniforms. The programme includes a kind of military scavenger hunt: a running competition, an obstacle course and, at the end, a virtual exercise to shoot down enemy drones. Maria Morozova, a 17-year-old with long brown hair and piercing blue eyes, helps with the organisation. She has been a member for more than three years and is now part of the adult organisation.
After the roll call and the final instructions from the group leader, the teams disperse with their task cards. The importance of the Kaitseliit has grown in recent years. In February 2024, Estonian Defence Minister Hanno Pevkur once again emphasised the need for increased readiness. This is also reflected in the country's military budget: At 3.2 per cent of gross domestic product, it clearly exceeds the two per cent target set by NATO; next year it is to be raised to 5 per cent.
Later, Morozova and a comrade are waiting for the first group at their post in the local skate park. Here, one participant will have to pull a sledge with her team-mate on it up a snow-covered ramp. There is a loudspeaker on the frozen ground blaring out Rammstein. It is minus ten degrees, Morozova prances back and forth and keeps herself warm with rhythmic arm movements.
‘I speak Estonian better than many others here in Narva,’ she says. Her story is unusual: she has Russian-speaking parents, but was born in England and only came to Estonia at the age of seven. Until she was ten, she mainly spoke English, she hardly knew any Russian. Her father worked as an engineer in London, her mother in a hotel. When the family decided to return to Estonia, they initially settled in Mäetaguse, a predominantly Estonian-speaking small town. ‘I learnt Estonian at school and Russian at home,’ says Morozova. ‘It was challenging, but manageable.’
When the family moved to Narva, where the parents came from, a year later, the daughter switched to a Russian school. Now her Russian was suddenly not good enough for the lessons. ‘It was frustrating to get bad marks because you get the questions wrong,’ she says. ‘I spent all my summer holidays learning Russian.’
She has a clear stance on the question of identity: "If you live in Estonia and have Estonian citizenship, you are Estonian. It is understandable why Estonia wants its citizens to speak Estonian. This should not be seen as oppression or hardship." It is also clear to her that she wants to stand up for her country. She joined the Kaitseliit because she had a ‘burning desire’ to get involved in the military. ‘I want to make a contribution and, if necessary, defend the country.’
Kaitseliit is now much more than just a hobby. Morozova dreams of a career in the military. "I would love to become part of the artillery. Big guns are exactly my thing,‘ she says and makes a shooting motion in the air: ’Boom, boom". When she talks about the possibility of a conflict with Russia, her voice becomes serious: "I hope it doesn't come to that. Nobody loves war. But if it comes, I would fight. My family and friends are here, I want them to be able to continue living."
However, according to Estonian security expert Marek Kohv from the International Centre for Defence and Security, there is no immediate threat of an attack for the time being. ‘While Russia is busy in Ukraine, they have no resources for further wars,’ he says. More worrying is the political development in the USA since Donald Trump's return to the presidency: "It seems that the Trump administration only has demands on Ukraine, not on Putin. It would be very easy to end the war: Russia would just have to withdraw its troops."
Estonia has stated in its security policy that it will never surrender again, and as far as Narva is concerned, Kohv's position is unequivocal: ‘Narva is an Estonian city and we will defend it together with our allies.’ Kohv finds Russia's indifference to international standards particularly problematic: ‘Russia no longer cares about its international image.’
One example of this is the so-called shadow fleet in the Baltic Sea - ships that operate without official labelling in order to circumvent Western sanctions. Old tankers - ‘ticking time bombs’ according to Kohv, as they are old, often leaky and poorly maintained - transport Russian oil to India and China and travel through the ecologically sensitive Baltic Sea. In addition, the ships are increasingly being used to sabotage critical infrastructure. Like last Christmas: The Estlink 2 power line between Finland and Estonia suddenly failed. ‘The anchor was dragged over a hundred kilometres across the seabed,’ says Kohv. ‘It's impossible that the captain of the ship didn't notice.’
One person who observes Putin's shadow fleet at close quarters is 82-year-old Aarne Vaik in his maritime museum in Käsmu. Only around 147 inhabitants live in this sleepy coastal village directly on the Baltic Sea, around two hours by car from Narva. After lunch, he steps to the window and takes the worn binoculars that are always at hand. Today: only a steely grey horizon. But at night, he says, the faint lights behind the horizon can even be seen with the naked eye: ‘Putin's oil ships’.
Vaik, black beret, silver-grey hair, glasses and neatly trimmed beard, has not only been running the museum since 1993, he also lives in it - together with his wife and the Irish setter Puna, who follows him like a shadow through the cluttered rooms. Harpoons and compasses hang from the ceiling, yellowed nautical charts cover the walls, amber and shells from all over the world gleam in glass cabinets.
‘Europeans don't know how to deal with Russia,’ says Vaik. Estonians, on the other hand, know that Russia only understands toughness. The complicated history of the two countries is documented in his museum. Vaik takes a green book out of an old wooden chest of drawers. It is the first exhibit in his collection, an illustrated book about Soviet border guards with the signatures of the departing soldiers.
Does that make him nostalgic? ‘No,’ he says, "it makes me feel sick when I think back. Estonian culture was destroyed, people were deported. When the Soviet Union came to an end, it felt like a rebirth." For Vaik, the issue of the relationship between the Estonian and Russian-speaking population is less a political problem than a temporal one. ‘The younger generation no longer harbours these conflicts,’ says Vaik. ‘They don't remember the deportations, they didn't experience the Soviets.’
Two days later, the much-discussed switch from the Russian to the European electricity grid was completed. Nothing has happened. The feared blackouts did not materialise. ‘It was clear to me that we wouldn't experience a power cut,’ says Maria Morozova from Estonia's volunteer defence force, adjusting her uniform. ‘But it worries me how many people are deliberately fuelling fears and spreading misinformation - and how many actually believe it.’
Back on the banks of the Narva, fog hangs over the river. A few fishermen are standing on the Russian side. On the Estonian side, a shivering fisherman wrapped in a green jacket emerges with a hurried step. "There used to be a lot of fish here, lots of trout. I used to fish with a bamboo rod," he says. The fisherman doesn't want to talk about Russian politics. "As soon as the subject of politics comes up, I leave. What am I supposed to listen to that rubbish?" But he does say one thing: "Putin has miscalculated. His advisors are no good. If they actually come, I'll take a gun and defend myself." In the end, he says, the war is above all a business: ‘The big guys move money back and forth, the little guys die.’
