POST-COLD WAR IDENTITY POLITICS
Northern and Baltic Experiences
CASS SERIES: NATIONALISM AND ETHNICITY ISSN 1462-9755 General Editor: William Safran
This new series draws attention to some of the most exciting issues in current world political debate: nation-building, autonomy and self-determination; ethnic identity, conflict and accommodation; pluralism, multiculturalism and the politics of language; ethnonationalism, irredentism and separatism; and immigration, naturalization and citizenship. The series will include monographs as well as edited volumes, and through the use of case studies and comparative analyses will bring together some of the best work to be found in the field. Ethnicity and Citizenship: The Canadian Case (NEP 1/3 Autumn 1995) Edited by Jean Laponce and William Safran Nationalism and Ethnoregional Identities in China (NEP 4 1/2, Spring/Summer 1998) Edited by William Safran Identity and Territorial Autonomy in Plural Societies (NEP 5 3/4 Autumn/ Winter 1999) Edited by William Safran and Ramon Maíz Ideology, Legitimacy and the New State: Yugoslavia, Serbia and Croatia Siniša Maleševi Diasporas and Ethnic Migrants: Germany, Israel and Russia in Comparative Perspective by Rainer Munz and Rainer Ohliger Ethnic Groups in Motion: Economic Competition and Migration in Multiethnic States by Milica Z.Bookman
POST-COLD WAR IDENTITY POLITICS Northern and Baltic Experiences Editors
MARKO LEHTI DAVID J.SMITH
FRANK CASS LONDON • PORTLAND, OR
First published in 2003 in Great Britain by FRANK CASS PUBLISHERS Crown House, 47 Chase Side London N14 5BP This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2005. “To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s collection of thousands of eBooks please go to www.eBookstore.tandf.co.uk.” and in the United States of America by FRANK CASS PUBLISHERS c/o ISBS, 920 NE 58th Avenue, Suite 300 Portland, Oregon, 97213–3786 Website: www.frankcass.com Copyright © 2003 Marko Lehti and David J.Smith British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Post-Cold War identity politics: northern and Baltic experiences.— (Cass series. Nationalism and ethnicity) 1. Nationalism—Baltic Sea Region 2. Ethnicity—Baltic Sea Region 3. Baltic Sea Region—Foreign relations 4. Baltic Sea Region—Politics and government I. Lehti, Marko II. Smith, David J. (David James), 1968– 320.5′4′0948 ISBN 0-203-01069-8 Master e-book ISBN
ISBN 0-7146-5428-0 (cloth) ISBN 0-7146-8351-5 (paper) ISSN 1462-9755 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Post-Cold War identity politics: northern and Baltic experiences/editors, Marko Lehti, David J.Smith p. cm.—(Cass series—nationalism and ethnicity, ISSN 1462-9755) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0-7146-5428-0 (cloth)—ISBN 0-7146-8351-5 (pbk.) 1. Post-communism—Europe, Northern. 2. Post-communism—Baltic States. 3. Security, International. 4. Europe, Northern—Politics and government. 5. Baltic States—Politics and government. 6. Russia (Federation)—Foreign relations. I. Lehti, Marko. II. Smith, David J. (David James), 1968– III. Series. DL55.P67 2003 947′.0009′049–dc21 2003043408 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher of this book.
FOR LENNART AND ANNI
Contents
Map
viii
List of Contributors
ix
List of Abbreviations
xi
Series Editor’s Preface
xiii
Foreword
xiv
Introduction: Other Europes Marko Lehti and David J.Smith
1
1.
Possessing a Baltic Europe: Retold National Narratives in the European North Marko Lehti
11
2.
Nordic Near Abroad or New Northern Europe? Perspectives on Post-Cold War Regional Co-operation in the Baltic Sea Area David J.Smith
49
3.
Past Politics in North-Eastern Europe: The Role of History in Post-Cold War Identity Politics Jörg Hackman
77
4.
From Modern to Post-Modern Region-Building: Emancipating the Finnish Nation from the State Christopher S.Browning
101
5.
The Encounter between the Nordic and the Northern: Torn Apart but Meeting Again? Pertti Joenniemi and Marko Lehti
127
6.
Looking for Neighbours: Origins and Developments of Latvian Rhetoric on Nordic ‘Closeness’ Valters Ščerbinskis
155
7.
Regional Security: All or Nothing at All? John Hiden
171
8.
Estonia and Europe: A Common Identity or an Identity Crisis? Vahur Made
181
vii
9.
Paradise Regained: The Conceptualization of Europe in the Lithuanian Debate Inga Pavlovaite
197
10.
The Baltic States in Russian Foreign Policy Discourse: Can Russia Become a Baltic Country? Viatcheslav Morozov
217
11.
Post-Soviet Geo-politics in the North of Europe Pami Aalto
251
12.
Clash of the Boundaries? The European Union and Russia in the Northern Dimension Hiski Haukkala
273
Select Bibliography
297
Index
309
Contributors
Pami Aalto is a research fellow at the University of Tampere, Finland. He has also been working at the University of Helsinki and in the European Studies Department at the University of Bradford. He specializes in critical geopolitics, methodology and the Baltic region. Christopher S.Browning is a research fellow at Copenhagen Peace Research Institute, Denmark. His research interests include Finnish foreign policy, Nordic/Baltic security issues, theories of foreign policy and identity formation. Jörg Hackmann is Lecturer in East European History at the University of Greifswald, Germany. From 1992 to 1999 he was a lecturer at the Baltic Academy in Lübeck-Travemünde. His research focuses on the modern history of Poland and the Baltic countries. Hiski Haukkala is a research fellow at the Finnish Institute of International Affairs in Helsinki. He has done research on the European Union’s relations with Russia, including the first Common Strategy and the Northern Dimension. John Hiden is Professor of Baltic Studies at the University of Bradford, and is currently a Visiting Fellow at the School of Historical Studies of the University of Newcastle-upon-Tyne. He has written extensively on the modern history of Germany and the Baltic states. Pertti Joenniemi is Senior Research Fellow and Programme Director of Nordic-Baltic Studies at the Copenhagen Peace Research Institute, Denmark. Marko Lehti is a senior research fellow in the Department of Contemporary History and a docent at the History Department of the University of Turku, Finland. He has specialized in the following fields: history of the Baltic Sea Area, regionalism and the national question in eastern Europe. Vahur Made is the Deputy Director of the Estonian School of Diplomacy, Tallinn. He has also been lecturing at the Universities of Tartu and Helsinki. His research has concentrated on the history of Estonian foreign policy, Cold War history and the problems of political integration in Europe. Viatcheslav Morozov is an assistant professor at the Department of European Studies in the School of International Relations of Saint Petersburg State
x
University, Russia. His current research field is the idea of Europe in Russian foreign policy discourse. Inga Pavlovaite obtained a Master of Arts degree from the University of Birmingham in 2001, and is currently working as a researcher for GHR Consulting. Her present research interests are the eastern enlargement of the European Union and its impact on the applicant countries. Valters Ščerbinskis is a senior researcher at the State Historical Archives of Latvia and a lecturer at the Institute of European Integration at Stradinš’ University of Riga. His research focuses on foreign relations in the Baltic area and the history of Latvia during the inter-war period of the twentieth century. David J.Smith is a Lecturer in Transition Studies at the Department of Central and East European Studies, University of Glasgow. From 1996 to 2002, he was a Lecturer in Contemporary History and International Relations and a member of the Baltic Research Unit at the Department of European Studies, University of Bradford. His recent publications include Estonia: Independence and European Integration (Routledge, 2001).
Abbreviations
BEAR BOPS BSA BSSSC B-7 CBSS CEE CIS CSR ESDP ESRC EU EVA FSU GUUAM HELCOM IGC IMF NATO ND NDI NGOs NKVD NMD OSCE PACE
Barents Euro-Arctic Region Baltic Oill Pipeline System Baltic Sea Area Baltic Sea States Sub-regional Co-operation Baltic Sea Seven Islands Co-operation Network Council of Baltic Sea States Central and Eastern Europe Commonwealth of Independent States Common Strategy on Russia European Security and Defence Policy Economic and Social Research Council European Union Centre for Finnish Business and Policy Studies Former Soviet Union Georgia, Ukraine, Uzbekistan, Azerbaijan and Moldova Helsinki Commission Inter-governmental Conference International Monetary Fund North Atlantic Treaty Organization Northern Dimension Northern Dimension Initiative non-governmental organizations Narodnyi Komitet Vnutrennykh Del [National Committee of Internal Affairs] National Missile Defence Organization for Security and Co-operation in Europe Parliamentary Assembly of the Council of Europe
xii
PCA RSFSR TACIS UBC
Partnership and Co-operation Agreement Russian Soviet Federal Socialist Republic Technical Assistance to the Commonwealth of Independent States Union of Baltic Cities
Series Editor’s Preface
The present volume, an important addition to the study of nationalism and nationbuilding, is the product of co-operative efforts among historians and social scientists from Baltic and Scandinavian countries—Lithuania, Latvia, Estonia, Finland and Denmark—as well as from Russia, Germany and Britain. Some of the contributions deal with diversities and commonalities among the various countries, and others focus on the three small Baltic republics, providing insights into their history and their national narratives from the Hanseatic era to the present. In various chapters devoted to individual countries, the authors, while discussing the continuing attempts to overcome the legacy of Soviet occupation, do not neglect the problem of coping with the darker side of their national past, including the departures from the democratic model during the interwar period and collaboration with the Nazis during the Second World War. A major theme of the book is the efforts by the Baltic countries to regain their traditional (pre-Soviet) national bearings and to incline them in a western democratic direction. The ‘renationalization’ of their collective identities and political cultures is hampered by demographic realities, including the presence of ethnonational minorities. For example, the sizable Russian ‘stranded’ diaspora in Estonia and Latvia poses problems with respect to the relationship between language requirements, citizenship, and civil rights. The policies of the Baltic countries are also informed by their geography: their northern, or ‘Baltoscandian’, positioning between Eastern and Western Europe, which is no longer defined in NATO terms but is reflected both in the desire to maintain orderly links to Russia—a complicated task in view of history and the sheer size and power of this neighbouring country and the lingering anti-Russian sentiments—and in a deepening of relations with Western Europe via the anticipated entry of the three former Soviet republics into the European Union. The Baltic countries are individually small and marginalized; in the face of this situation, they are constrained to act collectively: they must seek a balance between national self-assertion and Europeanization and structure a system of regional co-operation in terms of a looser concept of state sovereignty and shared, transnational, identities. William Safran University of Colorado
Foreword
This volume is the result of two years of discussions by the international research network, Mapping the Baltic Sea Area: the Meaning of Political Space in the European North, which was established and co-ordinated by the Department of Contemporary History of the University of Turku, Finland and the former Baltic Research Unit (BRU) of the University of Bradford. The project began life in the autumn of 1997, when the editors received funding from the British Council and the Finnish Centre for International Mobility to develop further collaborative research on the Baltic Sea region. Drawing partly on our own personal contacts and those of our respective institutions, we set up the current network, which subsequently obtained more extensive funding from the Nordic Council of Ministers during 1999–2001. Our first task is therefore to express our gratitude to all of these funding bodies, whose generous support has made the publication of this volume possible. In this connection, Marko Lehti would also like to thank the project, Geohistory: Remapping and Conceptualizing European Space and Thought Between East and West, which is based at the Department of Contemporary History, University of Turku, and is funded by the Academy of Finland. David Smith for his part wishes to acknowledge the additional financial support provided by BRU. He would also like to mention the many insights into this topic that he has obtained through his participation in the Economic and Social Research Council (ESRC)-funded project on Fuzzy Statehood and European Integration in Central and Eastern Europe, based at CREES, University of Birmingham. In the two years starting June 1999, the Mapping the Baltic Sea Area network held seminars at the University of Turku, the Estonian School of Diplomacy (Tallinn), the Åland Peace Research Institute (Eckerö), the School of International Relations of Saint Petersburg State University and the Department of History of the University of Tartu. Of these, all but one were made open to the students of the respective host institutions, whilst the Tallinn seminar in December 1999 was attended by diplomatic representatives from a number of Baltic Sea states. The Tartu seminar in June 2001 also included a visit to Pskov, where we were able to meet with staff and students of Volny University and representatives of local non-governmental organizations involved in cross-border cooperation. The network brought together established authorities on the region
xv
and younger researchers working in the field. This blend, we feel, significantly enriched our discussions, as did the multidisciplinarity of a forum uniting specialists in history, political science and international relations. Indeed, one could say that the nature of the topics under discussion dictates such a multidisciplinary approach: one feature of post-Cold War developments has been the blurring of the boundary between domestic and foreign policy, whilst history remains integral to any discussion of identity politics. Equally important was the fact that we managed to collect together a truly international group of scholars. Most of the contributors to this volume live and work in various corners of what is today commonly referred to as the ‘Baltic World’: in Turku, the oldest town in Finland, which for centuries looked more towards the Baltic Sea than it did inland; in Helsinki, a ‘daughter of the Baltic Sea’, whose architecture bears many similarities to that of St Petersburg; in St Petersburg, Russia’s ‘window on Europe’ but also in its day a truly cosmopolitan Baltic metropolis; in Tallinn, formerly Hanseatic Reval; in Riga, a city that recently celebrated its 800th anniversary and for which the sea and the trade between East and West have always provided a fundamental raison d’être, in Greifswald, another important Hanseatic centre but also once a Swedish stronghold on the southern shore of the Baltic; and in Copenhagen, Scandinavia’s gateway between the Baltic and North Sea worlds. Of the remainder, one originates from Kaunas, Lithuania, and two are from Great Britain. Whilst Britain can hardly be comprehended as an integral part of the Baltic World, it has nevertheless played a significant role in Baltic affairs during the last few hundred years. Moreover, as certain of our contributors point out, the impact of northern myths can be discerned within identity-building processes in the British Isles. As the preceding remarks imply, we have been conscious in the course of this project of our own contribution to current processes of ‘region-building’. Our discussions have of course highlighted differing national perspectives and academic traditions. At the same time, we have also tried to show that national thinking is by no means self-evident and that the Baltic can be comprehended as a trans-national space. Our own co-operation has been an excellent example of this and we have often felt ourselves to be not so much a collection of different nationalities as a Baltic (or North European) group of researchers. In our meetings in various places we have noticed differences of culture and topography, but especially similarities in customs and manners. Not least, relaxing in the sauna after a hard day’s discussion has become an established part of our joint symposiums! The good humour shown by all participants in the network has helped to make our meetings most enjoyable as well as academically rewarding. It only remains for us to thank the following people who have participated actively in the project but have not contributed to the final edited volume. Vesa Saarikoski from Turku, Eero Medijainen from Tartu and Stanislav Tkachenko and Konstantin Khudoley from St Petersburg have all stimulated our discussions
xvi
and helped in the organization of seminars and symposiums. Thanks also to Arunas Bliudzus of the Baltoscandia Institute, Lithuania, for his participation; and to the Estonian School of Diplomacy and the Åland Peace Research Institute for their organizational support. Last and by no means least, we would like to thank Georgina Clark-Mazo, Sarah Clarke, Pat Wemyss and Sally Green of Frank Cass for their patient and efficient handling of matters relating to the publication of this work. Marko Lehti and David Smith Turku and Bradford 22 October 2001
Introduction: Other Europes
MARKO LEHTI and DAVID J.SMITH
Small states are the lubricating oil of Europe and the mortar of Europe. The survival and development of small nations is the key issue of the future of Europe. Europe needs small nations as much as we need Europe. Because the strength of the European Union does not lie in its size—the strength of Europe comes from its diversity. Our task here at the coast of the Baltic Sea is to produce and keep this diversity. (Lennart Meri, President of Estonia, ‘The Role of Small Nations in the European Union’ speech at the University of Turku, Finland, 25 May 2000)1 ‘What is Europe?’ This was the question posed by the Estonian president, Lennart Meri (who was voted ‘European of the Year’ in 1998), at the start of a speech reflecting on the profound changes of the past decade. In today’s conditions, the essence of ‘Europeanness’ necessarily remains elusive, for the end of the Cold War has drastically altered the European spatial imagination and called forth a host of questions to be addressed both conceptually and in terms of political practices. What does the removal of the Iron Curtain mean for the 200year-old division of Europe into East and West? Where do the outer boundaries of today’s Europe lie—if, indeed, one can still treat European boundaries in geographical terms at all? What is the role of nations and states in a Europe subject to processes of deepening integration and economic globalization? The aim of this book is to uncover the answers that have been given to these questions in an area that is fast becoming an established feature of the post-Cold War political and mental map, either as the Baltic Sea Area or, more recently, the ‘New Northern Europe’. As Meri implies in his speech, the discussions of recent years have focused primarily on the eradication of Cold War political divisions and the construction of a united Europe. However, following his train of thought further, it is clear that there is and never has been only one Europe but several. Diversity is, we argue, fundamental to the self-image of this ‘little peninsula of the Eurasian continent’ (to use Meri’s phrase), which has played such a central role in the world during the last few centuries. Each nation has depicted its own unique, yet shifting and
2 POST-COLD WAR IDENTITY POLITICS
contin-gent image of Europe; for ‘smaller’ peoples in particular, membership of meso-regional groupings of nations and states has at times been deemed integral to realizing national self-determination within an overall European framework.2 Such diversity was all too easily forgotten and even denied during the years of the Cold War, when superpower bipolarity imposed a rigid political division into East and West and constrained the freedom of each nation (and of smaller nations in particular) to participate in the construction of Europe. As we discuss below, the Nordic states broke the hegemonic Cold War discourse of two Europes by constituting themselves into a distinct regional entity ‘between’ East and West. However, the Baltic Sea Area as a whole has rightly been characterized as a ‘blind alley on the outskirts of Europe’ during the 45 years after World War Two, when the exclusive dividing line segregated the western and the eastern shores of the sea into two different worlds.3 The fall of the Berlin Wall and the collapse of the Soviet Union have stirred this constellation completely, giving scope for the reinvention of ‘other Europes’. New and original contributions to the European project have been especially apparent in the areas under consideration here, where the pre-existing geopolitical categories of West, East and Norden have been blurred by a new overarching notion of regionally. The region-building initiatives scrutinized in this volume initially centred on the Baltic Sea, whose littoral states and peoples are now increasingly viewed as part of a single ‘Baltic World’.4 More recently, region-building efforts have been grounded in a redefined concept of ‘northernness’. All of the initiatives in question have sought to transcend both the old Cold War political divide and the ‘silk’ or ‘silver’ curtain expressing economic disparities between the western and eastern shores of the Baltic. Whilst in many ways consistent with the projection of uniform ‘western’ values to the post-socialist states, the invention of these new regional formations has been prompted not least by the reassertion of national diversity, as states and peoples have sought to profit from the new openness of the post-Cold War era in order to ‘customize’ Europe according to their own conceptions of national interest.5 They can thus be construed as a means of injecting greater variety into the European landscape. Since the time of the Enlightenment successive European orders have been characterized by a clear hierarchy. Western Europe constituted the ‘core’, whereas other Europes (the East, the South, the far North) were viewed as somehow less important, less civilized, less ‘European’. Today, the invention of overarching regions raises the question of whether this hierarchy is fading away, making it possible to introduce other Europes equal to the old core. Several commentators have depicted current initiatives in the North/Baltic area as a kind of litmus test for wider European developments.6 Not least, we argue, the region could be seen as a kind of ‘litmus test’ for European diversity. Integral to the recent Finnish initiative on the ‘Northern Dimension’ has been the ambitious task of engaging Russia in the post-Cold War reconstruction of Europe. Notwithstanding triumphalist visions of the ‘End of History’ and a
INTRODUCTION 3
‘Europe whole and free’, the past decade has in many ways been marked by a growing sense of Russia’s isolation and exclusion. The question of Russia’s relationship to current processes of European integration has assumed a particular relevance in the North, and provides one of the main themes of this work. The contributions by Pami Aalto and Hiski Haukkala explore this relationship from a variety of theoretical standpoints, showing how boundary-drawing practices on the part of the EU and NATO have been matched by Russia’s attempts to impose its own conception of order on the region. Viatcheslav Morozov’s comprehensive account of Russian identity politics sheds further light on the country’s ambiguous attitude towards Europe and the peculiar role assigned to the Baltic states within official discourses on foreign policy. In particular, it underlines the uphill struggle faced by voices in favour of crossborder co-operation and region-building, as they vie with deep-rooted conceptions of Russia as a great power. Current depictions of Russia as ‘the touchstone of European stability and security’ call to mind the period between the wars, when the ‘Russian question’ was similarly deemed to stand ‘at the very centre of the question of Europe’.7 Indeed, as John Hiden emphasizes in his contribution to this volume, the current situation in the region more generally presents some quite striking parallels with the years after World War One, when a previous generation of statesmen strove to construct a New Europe on the ruins of old multinational empires. In this respect, however, the conditions for forging a truly united and non-hierarchical Europe were hardly any more propitious than they were during the Cold War, even if the division of Europe was not so clear cut. There was a new East in the form of Bolshevik Russia, which, along with Weimar Germany, was cast as an outsider in the new European order. The failure of the League of Nations framework and the impotence and indifference of the western powers meant that the belt of new small sovereign states stretching from Finland to the Balkans was condemned to the status of a ‘Europe between’. It is precisely this fate that the Baltic states are trying to avoid today. Implicit in the above quote by Lennart Meri is the contention that Europe as a whole will not prosper if the rights of small nations are disregarded and violated by larger states, as they were at the end of the 1930s. By the same token, as John Hiden asserts in Chapter 7, the re-emergence of ‘small’ Baltic states is central to any meaningful discussion of regional identity after the Cold War, not least because these coun tries occupy a pivotal role in the overall scheme of relations between Russia and the expanding ‘Euro-Atlantic space’. The theme of Baltic identity politics thus figures prominently in many of the contributions dealing with the region as a whole, whilst Vahur Made, Valters Ščerbinskis and Inga Pavlovaite offer specific case studies of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania respectively. As Inga Pavlovaite makes clear, the current quest for membership of European (and Euro-Atlantic) organizations is seen as both an affirmation of an historically based European identity and a sure route to stability and prosperity. At the same time, integration with the West is presented as a way
4 POST-COLD WAR IDENTITY POLITICS
of distancing these countries from an unstable and potentially revanchist Russia. The discourse of ‘Return to Europe’ has thus been to some extent consistent with the erection of firm boundaries against the ‘eastern other’ in the form of the Commonwealth of Independent States and the Soviet past. Such a reading, however, does not convey the full complexity of Baltic discourses on the ‘Russian question’. Commentators in all three states have also stressed the need for a ‘normalization’ of relations with the ‘eastern neighbour’, not least because the desirability of this goal is increasingly being impressed upon them by the main European and Euro-Atlantic organizations as part of their own enlargement policy. All the same, there remains a sense that affirmation of European and ‘western’ identity in the form of EU or even NATO membership will constitute a necessary prerequisite for full normalization with the East. In his study of Latvia, Valters Ščerbinskis demonstrates how the Baits have sought to affirm both their nationhood and their European identity by invoking claims to membership of a wider ‘Baltoscandian’ grouping of nations. However, such moves have been tempered by a realistic appreciation of the limits of regional co-operation, a point that is also developed by John Hiden, Vahur Made and David Smith in their chapters. The latter in particular argues that the specifically regional dimension has been very much a question of second order compared to the quest for membership of wider European organizations. Finally, Vahur Made’s wide-ranging survey of Estonian identity politics demonstrates how moves towards Europeanization and regionalization have had to contend with the continued power of national particularism, a state of affairs that is suggestive of an ‘identity crisis’ within Estonian society. This is a point that Inga Pavlovaite also develops with regard to Lithuania. A third major theme of this collection is the relationship of the Nordic nations to the new projects of regional co-operation. Nordic actors, especially Finland and Sweden, have in many ways been the driving force behind these projects. Like the Baits, their prime concern has been to avoid the fate of marginalization within the new post-Cold War Europe. As Marko Lehti and David Smith show in Chapters 1 and 2 respectively, Nordic new region-building approaches can be read in dif ferent ways. A missionary aim of spreading Nordic and ‘western’ models to the East has represented one side of the coin, but on the other, a sincere effort to exceed old dividing lines can also be discerned. However, as David Smith emphasizes perhaps most strongly in his chapter, there remain important differences in perspective between the Nordic and Baltic groupings. In the Cold War era the Nordic states constituted something of an exception and a challenge to the prevailing bipolarity, adopting the role of a ‘third Europe’ distinct from both East and West. At this time, the term Norden (literally ‘the North’) became largely synonymous with the Nordic/Scandinavian countries and the common welfare model and practices of inter-state co-operation that they had begun to develop between the wars. However, as Pertti Joenniemi and Marko Lehti argue in their joint chapter, the origins of Nordic particularism can in fact be traced much further back in history, to a time when Europe was still imagined
INTRODUCTION 5
along north-south rather than east-west lines. The wider ‘European North’ of past centuries encompassed not only Scandinavia but also Russia, Poland and Prussia. Northern themes have also been used as an identity marker since the early modern period, most particularly in Sweden, but also in Russia and Finland. One of the uses of this marker has been to assert the political and moral superiority of the North and to contest conventional notions of a ‘core’ Europe. The Nordic countries carried on this tradition during the twentieth century, when Norden was depicted as representing a higher variant of modernity, an ideal ‘middle way’ between the eastern socialist and western liberal capitalist orders. The end of the Cold War and the subsequent EU enlargement to Sweden and Finland, however, have posed serious challenges to a Nordic identity already under strain since the 1970s. Today, it seems, the term Norden or ‘northern Europe’ is no longer merely synonymous with the Nordic countries, but is reassuming a broader connotation. The Nordic nations have been forced to question their previous identity as a separate grouping, confident in its superiority vis-à-vis the ‘core’ Europe of the EU and thus content to occupy a peripheral position at the northernmost end of Europe. Instead, they see themselves as the centre of a ‘new northern Europe’, a dynamic zone of growth and co-operation that transcends the east-west divide and gives the Nordic states greater centrality in Europe. The Northern Dimension Initiative is perhaps the best example of this trend. Our aim has thus been to put together a comprehensive collection that combines a uniform focus on regionally with an attempt to unveil the variety that exists in the post-Cold War Europe. One basic premise running through the whole book is that ‘East’, ‘West’ and ‘North’ should not be treated as plain points of the compass or as self-evident political labels, but rather as cultural constructions that have their own conceptual history. A number of recent studies have focused on the cultural history of Eastern Europe, with Larry Wolff in particular arguing that the East is an invention of the Enlightenment—or, more precisely, an invention of western intellectuals in the late eighteenth century, when a new ‘other’ was needed in order to define a new core, the West.8 At a time when the 200-year-old division of Europe into West and East is rapidly blurring, there is a need to study how these spatial images originated and developed not only in western Europe, but also in those areas close to the former dividing line. Besides the East, we want to emphasize the possibilities offered by a study of the image of the North. No one today is arguing that the old pre-modern division of Europe into South and North is returning, merely that old concepts and narratives have been rediscovered and used for constructing a new post-Cold War Europe. The questions remain as to how these new stories are told, what meanings are given to the spatial images mentioned above, and what Europe looks like when depicted through these metaphors and narratives. To these questions there are no simple answers. Rather, several sometimes conflicting interpretations are introduced in the chapters which follow.
6 POST-COLD WAR IDENTITY POLITICS
A new kind of approach towards regionalism and region-building is also a common feature of these chapters. All convey a picture of a continent in which the essence of European order, its fundamental spatial images and the state itself are in ferment. Whilst the authors express varying opinions as to the overall direction of these changes, a key idea of the whole book is to comprehend political spatiality as something that is socially constructed. This is to say that, in examining the organization of territorial space for political purposes, the work views ‘geography’ not merely as a passive spatial setting in which human life occurs, but as a social construct that is produced and reproduced by means of discourses.9 Discursively established understandings of geographical space are central to the study of identity politics, which examines how interested élites seek to acquire legitimacy by socializing individuals and groups into identification with an imagined community, usually based upon a particular territory. Traditionally, literature in the fields of both international relations and history has taken a region as a given framework, the origin and essence of which is not usually subjected to closer analysis. However, when ‘geography’ is seen not as passive but as socially produced, it is the origin and essence of regions that become the pri-mary target of study. It should be recalled, for instance, that the Baltic Sea Area was an almost non-existent image during the Cold War years. Today’s region is thus very much a new invention for the purposes of organizing a European North that is undergoing rapid change, even if it does exhibit certain continuities with the earlier past and this past is one of the key arguments used in order to ‘naturalize’ the region. But who exactly named the region? How was it defined? What was the new Baltic narrative and why was it needed? Alongside regionally, this book also focuses upon the depiction of boundaries and, in particular, dividing lines in Europe. In this regard, we strongly refute Samuel Huntington’s contention that there are natural dividing lines between cultures. Rather, we again view these dividing lines as social constructions shaped by different political practices. As Pami Aalto shows in Chapter 11, Huntingtonian-based rhetoric towards Russia constitutes one such social construct, which has been a particular feature of post-communist identity politics in the Baltic states. This, however, is not to say that there is anything ‘natural’ in Huntington’s division of the world. In a recent study of the post-Soviet states, political geographer Graham Smith is as dismissive of Huntington’s ‘civilizational divides’ as he is of Francis Fukuyama’s earlier rosy triumphalism. Instead, he urges the researcher ‘to acknowledge the possibility that differing and overlapping forms of identities are in the making, which refuse to follow the totalizing contours of such essentialist theorizing’.10 This is, by and large, the approach adopted here, although opinions vary among the authors as to their perception of how the former East-West dividing line is being redefined. Some, like Aalto, Haukkala, Hiden, Morozov and Smith, are more inclined towards pessimism, emphasizing practices that are leading to the construction of new dividing lines between Russia and an EU-dominated Europe as well as the ambiguities and uncertainties surrounding the projected enlargement of the EU
INTRODUCTION 7
(and NATO) to the Baltic states. Others, most notably Browning, Joenniemi and Lehti, claim that images like the Baltic Sea Area or the North are acting as a kind of ‘ice-breaker’ and precursor of a new spatial imagination. These regionalizing practices, they argue, are not only exceeding former geopolitical dividing lines, but are creating a new imagined regional community based on supra-national ties. In this regard, they note that northern Europe has been hailed as perhaps the best example of a ‘new’ regionalism incorporating extensive society-based networking alongside traditional ‘co-operation. Aalto, Haukkala, Hiden, Made, Morozov and Smith, on the other hand, are inclined to view regional developments in terms of the more traditional interplay of national interests. History is another important dimension of the book. Over a decade of new regionalism offers the opportunity to adopt historical method towards the process. On the one hand, a comparative analysis of the inter-war period and the current processes of constructing a new Europe offers some rich insights, as can be seen from the chapters by John Hiden, Vahur Made and Valters Ščerbinskis. The similarities between these two ruptures in the European order are clear: on both occasions, the collapse of the Russian/Soviet empire made way for the emergence of new small nation-states, thereby injecting a new heterogeneity into the Baltic World. The abdication of the Tsar, the Bolshevik coup, the fall of the Berlin Wall, the end of the Soviet Union—each of these events gave rise to formative moments marked by a search for recognition, expressions of sovereignty and a desire to create a new order on the ruins of the old. Whilst there are of course fundamental differences between the two eras, the continuities are obvious. The past should also be seen as a contingent cultural construction that opens up varying perspectives on region-building. An analysis of the use of the past in the current rhetoric on a new Europe thus helps us to deconstruct the discourse on the Baltic Sea Area or the North. Such an analysis provides the main focus of Jörg Hackmann’s wide-ranging discussion of ‘past polities’ in north-eastern Europe, as well as Marko Lehti’s chapter on the reinvention of national narratives and his joint contribution with Pertti Joenniemi. Made also touches upon these themes in his chapter on Estonia. There is no such thing as ‘objective’ history. Narratives of the past are always political, because they emphasize certain views and issues while forgetting and underrating others. The power of these narratives as identity makers is all too often forgotten in the literature on current international relations. Whereas the realist tradition has emphasized the rational game of decision-makers, in this book we argue that foreign policy is as much about story-telling and is always a question of identities —political, national and regional. Nor is foreign policy made in isolation from the rest of society, as can be seen in the often close relationship between political and academic discourses. One of the main issues running through all the chapters is the question of the relationship between different spatial images. The ‘new regionalism’ is already a reality, but how is it shaping political identities? Does it, for instance, challenge
8 POST-COLD WAR IDENTITY POLITICS
the very concept of the sovereign nationstate? Or should regional identities be treated as a kind of addition to existing national identities—changing their content but not replacing them? In this, as in other questions, the authors advance a variety of different viewpoints; all, however, seem to agree that national identities constitute the nodal point of the whole issue. National identities are not fading away, but are clearly undergoing redefinition in the new Europe. The question of the relationship between state and nation appears more complicated, with some authors—most notably Christopher Browning—arguing that the two concepts are slowly separating. All in all, the construction of a Baltic/Northern region has represented an attempt to bring order to the fragmented landscape of the post-Cold War era, and —more especially—to the post-socialist East. Co-operation across the former East-West divide has necessarily entailed a reframing of identity politics, for, in order for any regionalization project to succeed, it is essential that the partners feel they have something in common. The rise of new regional institutions and networks has thus gone hand-in-hand with ‘region-building’, a process which shares at least some similarities with earlier projects of nation-building.11 Like nation-building, the construction of regions is a political—and therefore contested —process. Just as different models of nationhood/statehood can simultaneously exist within the same state, so several region-building projects are currently underway in northern Europe. Some of these projects are state-centric, while others more closely reflect the interests of sub-state actors; each emphasizes different images (the Baltic Sea, the North, the ‘New Hansa’) and different dimensions of regional co-operation (economic complementarity, political objectives, common historical/socio-cultural background). In the case of the Baltic Sea Area in particular, it is thus reasonable to argue that instead of one region there exist several regions simultaneously. It is for this reason that the European North is hailed as such a good example of a ‘new regionalism’ in which nation-states are no longer the only relevant players and where participation is open to all. However, as is the case with nation-building, one cannot assume a smooth, linear progression whereby intensified contacts between different groups automatically leads to a shared sense of identity embodied in common institutions and political practices. As this volume demonstrates, the spread of regional identity will inevitably be a protracted and uneven process that must contend with pre-existing national animosities and which remains to a large degree contingent upon the broader factors shaping the New Northern Europe. NOTES 1. See the President of Estonia 1992–2001 web-page, http://upl992–2001.UPK.ee/eng/ k6ned/K6ned.asp.
INTRODUCTION 9
2. For a recent study of such region-building in the context of the inter-war Baltic Sea Area, see M.Lehti, A Baltic League as a Construct of a New Europe. Envisioning a Baltic Region and Small State Sovereignty in the Aftermath of the First World War (Frankfurt-On-Main: Peter Lang, 1999). 3. ‘Opening statement by Mr Uffe Ellemann-Jensen, Minister for Foreign Affairs of Denmark, Copenhagen, March 5, 1992’, in Council of the Baltic Sea States, CBSS Monitor., special issue on the occasion of the 3rd CBSS ministerial session in Tallinn, 24–5 May 1994 (Tallinn: Ministry of Foreign Affairs of Estonia, 1994), p. 8. 4. The term was introduced separately by David Kirby and Matti Klinge. See D. Kirby, Northern Europe in the Early Modern Period. The Baltic World 1492–1772 (Harlow: Longman, 1990); D.Kirby, The Baltic World 1772–1993. Europe’s Northern Periphery in an Age of Change (Harlow: Longman, 1995); M.Klinge, The Baltic World (Helsinki: Otava 1994). 5. Cf. Hanna Ojanen’s depiction of the Northern Dimension Initiative. H.Ojanen, ‘How to Customize your Union: Finland and the “Northern Dimension of the EU”’, Northern Dimensions 1999 (Yearbook of the Finnish Institute of International Affairs: Forssa), pp. 13–26. 6. Cf. Carl Bildt’s characterization of the Baltic states as the ‘litmus test of Russia’s intentions towards Europe’; also David Smith has described these countries as the ‘litmus test of the New Europe as a whole’. See D.J.Smith, ‘Russia, Estonia and the Search for a Stable Ethno-Politics’, Journal of Baltic Studies, 29, 1 (1998), pp. 3– 18. 7. T.H.Ilves, statement at the meeting of the foreign ministers of the Baltic states and the USA in Vilnius, 13 July 1997, to discuss NATO enlargement, the US-Baltic Charter and regional co-operation. The Estonian Minister of Foreign Affairs webpages, http://www.vm.ee/engindex.htm. The latter statement by Count Coudenhove-Kalergi, cited in M.A.Kurchinskii, ‘Soedinennie Shtati Evropy: Ekonomicheskie i Politicheskie Perspektivy etoi Idei’. Tartu Ülikooli toimetused, B. 18 (Tartu: University of Tartu Press, 1930), p. 27. 8. L.Wolff, Inventing Eastern Europe. The Map of Civilization on the Mind of the Enlightenment (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1994). 9. A.Paasi, Territories, Boundaries and Consciousness. The Changing Geographies of the Finnish-Russian Border (Chichester: John Wiley & Sons, 1996), p. 67. 10. G.Smith, The Post-Soviet States. Mapping the Politics of Transition (London: Edward Arnold, 1999), p. 3. 11. I.B.Neumann, ‘A Region-Building Approach to Northern Europe’, Review of International Studies, 20, 1 (1994) pp. 53–74.
10
1 Possessing a Baltic Europe: Retold National Narratives in the European North MARKO LEHTI
INVENTING A BALTIC WORLD In the early 1990s two historians, David Kirby and Matti Klinge, separately introduced a new term, the Baltic World, to define a novel scene of history.1 In their use of the term Baltic, reference was made not only to the three Baltic states but to the whole Baltic Sea Area (BSA), including also Scandinavia and Finland as well as parts of Poland, Germany and Russia. In their use of the word world, the Baltic Sea Area was described as a whole setting, if not a uniform area, for human activity that had existed at least in the past. The model for this new term was taken from the idea of a Mediterranean world introduced by Fernand Braudel in the 1940s. The question arises as to why an idea of this kind was borrowed and adapted to the European North in the 1990s. No scientific activity can be isolated from the trends of its own time and this statement holds good in the case of historiography, too. Seemingly, in the early 1990s there emerged a strong need to imagine new kinds of spatial images to rise above the old East-West division. Thus, the invention of the Baltic World was not only an issue of historiography but also part of a much wider process of reacting to the drastic changes that followed the disappearance of the Soviet zone and thereby the disappearance of the old East. Larry Wolff has shown in his stimulating book Inventing Eastern Europe. The Map of Civilization on the Mind of the Enlightenment that the invention of a new spatial image is not a sudden process and that signs of a change can be found in several fields—travel accounts, novels, scientific books and cartography. Wolff writes about a great turn that took place 200 years ago. Then, it was a question of replacing the old North-South division by a new East-West division at the moment when Europe’s political, economic and intellectual activity was shifting away from the shores of the Mediterranean to the shores of the Atlantic. A new space between Europe and the Orient was discovered and named. But it was preceded by a blurring of the old images of the North and the Orient. Russia spread out towards the Black Sea and began to be comprehended not only as a northern country but also as a realm to be constituted on a north-south axis, from St Petersburg to the sea of Azov or to the Crimea in the south. Thus, it
12 POST-COLD WAR IDENTITY POLITICS
constituted not only a northern realm but also an eastern one. At the same time, the Ottoman Empire, the Orient, withdrew from the Hungarian lands and a new space between Europe and the Orient emerged.2 The resulting confusion in the midst of change had then to be sorted out in several texts from novels to scientific studies. A new space was possessed and finally named Eastern Europe. For Wolff, it is not a question of an invention of Eastern Europe or any other image as such, but of efforts to map or possess a changing politico-cultural order and of defining one’s own central position in it. But possessing a new situation requires the naming of a new space. Without a name, nothing can exist in the social world. With a name, we are also giving co-ordinates in space and time. Naming thus means the invention of new narratives, to be told about something which has not existed before. Yet every narrative has to be based on something that has existed before, thereby using the past and emphasizing continuity are crucial elements in new spatial narratives, too. Naming a space means defining its nature, its boundaries, but also its past and future. I would argue that the situation after the end of the Cold War is highly reminiscent of events over 200 years ago. The East is no longer the same East that it used to be. On the other hand, denying the East would mean denying the West, too, and hence while the old East has lost its meaning there is still an East! It exists in the form of a ‘silk curtain’. The East exists also in the ‘return-toEurope’ rhetoric of the politicians of the former Eastern Europe, because this is also a narrative based on the backwardness of the East and on how it will follow the West. Consequently, there is a kind of Europe in-between comprehending itself as a transit region escaping from easternness to westernness. On the other hand, during the past decade, practices have emerged connected with the EU and NATO enlargements, the latest of which is the extension of Schengen border regulations to concern applicant countries. This depicts a new East including Russia, Belarus and Ukraine. In the current Europe, old self-evident features have disappeared but instead of one there are several narratives available for outlining a new order. Sheer amazement has been characteristic of the European attitude towards the disappearance of the Iron Curtain, the transformation of the old Eastern Europe and the emergence of the new Russia. Old myths have been mixed with new visions as a new Europe is envisioned. And there is no single way of comprehending this European change, but several. A Baltic Europe is certainly a contribution to the depiction of a new Europe existing at least partly beyond the old East-West division. The idea of change and of a search for the new order have been characteristic of the decade following the end of the Cold War. That decade can be comprehended as a formative moment. According to Erik Ringmar, a formative moment can be characterized as ‘a time when the very definition of the meaningful is up for grabs; when old metaphors are replaced by new ones; when new stories are told about these metaphors, new identities established and new social practices initiated’. Old stories are contested and new ones are invented to replace them. It is also a period when some try to hang on to the old beliefs,
POSSESSING A BALTIC EUROPE 13
while others bravely look forward to the building of the new order, as James Der Derrian recounts in his analysis of the nature of the ruptures in history. Formative moments also underline the role of individuals as creators of something new, because there exists in a community a great desire for new narratives, to bring order into the midst of change. ‘For this reason formative moments often come to appear as times of unprecedented poetic freedom: people suddenly believe they can fashion themselves according to their own fancy and become whatever they want to be,’ as Ringmar writes.3 It is easy to recognize that the region-building approaches for the BSA belong to this category. Not only has the division of Europe changed over the last decade, sovereignty has also been redefined. During the past few decades, a novel geo-rhetoric has been spread all around Europe. In this rhetoric, sovereign entities exist parallel with non-sovereign and national units coexist with non-national. The straitjacket of state boundaries has been broken up by trans-boundary and cross-boundary cooperation but, in particular, a new kind of spatial imagination has gained a place in geopolitical thinking. Regionalism is a fact in the new Europe because the current discourse on Europe recognizes varying images of regions: microregions within states, such as Catalonia, Scotland or Bavaria; interstate regions, made up of the states such as the EU or the Commonwealth of Independent States (CIS); trans-regions that cross state borders and consist of state and nonstate actors as several Euro-regions; and also quasi-continental regions, such as Europe itself.4 This new regionalism has blurred the limits of state sovereignty and has led many to argue about ‘the end of sovereignty’ or, if not quite so dramatically, at least about the need for a drastic redefinition of sovereignty.5 The Baltic World is an excellent example of this change, because it does not only contribute to one of the regional models, but to all of them at the same time. The BSA is based on trans-regional co-operation between different kinds of networks formed by non-state actors, but it can be comprehended also as an interstate region existing in official state co-operation, that is, in the form of the Council of the Baltic Sea States (CBSS). The conceiving of the Baltic World has also had a strong influence on the image of a particular quasi-continental region, Europe, because it has reorganized and surpassed the fundamental East-West division of Europe. The rise of micro-regions such as Schleswig-Holstein has again been an essential element in the invention of the BSA and, on the other hand, these micro-regions have used the BSA for strengthening their position. Nonetheless, I am not arguing that the state or a nation is disappearing. New spatial images seemingly have their origin in the national discourses, but because of the challenge of a new regionalism, the old nations and nation-states have been forced to reidentify themselves in a new Europe. In this chapter I am arguing that the regionalization of Europe has been in the first place a discursive process; it is a process of naming. In the European North during the last decade and a half several new regional narratives have been recounted, yet most of them have been centred, in one way or another, around the Baltic Sea. An alternative rhetoric has arisen, founded on concepts of
14 POST-COLD WAR IDENTITY POLITICS
northernness or of a New Northern Europe,6 of an Amber Gateway or of a Yuleland! These new images have not been invented by accident. They are attempts to reorganize a disintegrating world. In the discourse on the Baltic World it is not only a question of simply reorganizing ‘the near abroad’, but also of systematizing the idea of the whole of Europe. Views on Europe and its divisions have been blurring ever since the end of the Cold War and thus many new Europes have been imagined. In this chapter I am endeavouring to capture this great change in spatial and temporal narratives, which has made possible the envisioning of a new order beyond the old East-West division. This is not to argue that the East-West division has totally vanished, but that it has lost its monopoly and exclusiveness. I am especially interested in the narratives on Europe invented near the former East-West dividing line. Eastern Europe, as stated by Wolff, was and is a western invention, but, of course, people in the East have also had visions of their own about Europe. Thus, the disappearance of the East-West division has most probably been comprehended differently on the shores of the Atlantic and in the European North. The imagining of a Baltic Europe has not, however, been a simple and one-sided process but includes several, even contrary dimensions. I have tried to capture this variety by separately analysing the different aspects of the new Baltic rhetoric and seeing the new discourse not as a constant structure but as a continuing process or, I would say, as a continuing debate over Europe and one’s own identity within Europe. INVENTING SIMILARITIES BEYOND THE EAST-WEST DIVISION Up until the end of the 1980s the Soviet Union and the whole Soviet bloc were seen in the West, including the Nordic countries, as one uniform grey zone extending from the shores of the Baltic Sea all the way to Vladivostok. The EastWest dividing line of the Cold War era was a truly exclusive one. Thus, the other side represented an ‘otherness’ with which there was no possibility of sharing common features. During the last few years of the 1980s political changes in East Central Europe and the perestroika in the Soviet Union started to upset the uniformity of the East. In the Baltic World, the most drastic event was the (re-) emergence of the three Baltic states—Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania—as independent political and national units. The Popular Fronts of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania succeeded, after 1988, in bringing these nations on to the political stage and transformed these former passive subordinates into active actors.7 In the West these states have belonged to the realm of the lost and forgotten past, but from the late 1980s onwards they have been there to stay in the present, too. These three small nations in this manner broke up the uniformity of the Soviet Union and introduced to the western public the varying faces of the East. The blurring of the uniformity of the old East required a repossessing of what the East truly means and includes. The position of the newborn Baltic states was in
POSSESSING A BALTIC EUROPE 15
the first place the target of this re-evaluation, although later in the 1990s the main issue shifted more to the essence of what Russia is. A Baltic Finnic Space The discussion in Finland at the turn of the 1980s and 1990s, when the former Baltic states began to re-emerge, serves as a good example of the contrasting reactions the amazement of the change in the East brought forth. In these years, this problem constituted, in Finland, a part of the tentative efforts made to capture and to cope with a change that began to affect Europe as whole. There arose positive expectations, but many comprehended the changes as new fears. As to the specifics of what was happening in the eastern Baltic, it should be noted that even if Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania are geographically close neighbours of Finland, the existence of these countries was almost completely forgotten by the Finnish public during the Cold War years. After the annexation of the three Baltic states by the Soviet Union in 1940 and the experiences of the Winter War and the Continuation War, the Finns tried to protect their position in the West by forgetting altogether their location as a fourth Baltic state and assuring themselves as well as others that they belonged to the Nordic group. Further, during the years of official friendship between Finland and the Soviet Union, any dwelling-upon the independent Baltic nations of the inter-war years was seen to be a threat to the official foreign policy line.8 On the other hand, the Finns had an experience of having had a close relationship with the three Baltic states during the inter-war years and the tradition did not fade away altogether. For example, Finnish historians remained one of the leading groups in Baltic studies in the world.9 Because of this last tradition, the re-emergence of the Baltic States brought back a certain recall of the lost past, although in a redefined form. There was something familiar about the Baltic states, but simultaneously the Baltic nations were also strangers; their rebirth was felt as a reminder of the lost Europe that had existed before the Cold War. The main brake on the previously dominant inside-outside rhetoric about the Soviet Union occurred when similarities as well as differences were found on the other side of the former dividing line. At that moment, the East-West division lost its absolute character. In Finland the interest of the public during the 1980s rapidly focused on the other Baltic Finnic peoples. This was particularly the case with respect to the political strivings of the Estonians, but the Karelians and Ingrians also received attention. On the other hand, the Latvians and the Lithuanians seemed to be only minor actors in the new stories the media recounted.10 Like many other small nations, the Finns have also had to seek during past decades their linguistic relatives, a larger group with whom to identify. The nineteenth century, the age of nationalism, was especially the golden age of several pan-movements, among which Pan-Finnishness acted out a minor role. The number of Finno-Ugric people was too small to keep alive ambitious visions.
16 POST-COLD WAR IDENTITY POLITICS
Still, the two neighbours, the Finns and the Estonians, were tied together by a special relationship as the only true Baltic Finnic nations in the world to have managed to build up their own nation-state. After the First World War, it was not improbable that there might also have arisen a Finnish-Estonian dual-state in a similar way as new states were created on the basis of linguistic relationships in the cases of Czechoslovakia and Yugoslavia.11 During the inter-war years the brotherhood of all Finno-Ugric peoples was almost an official ideology, but during the Cold War years it was, in practice, forgotten. Then, the Finns were the only Finno-Ugric nation outside the Soviet zone. The spatial imagination of the inter-war period and of the Cold War era were essentially different. The older ‘kinship thinking’ would not have been deterred by state boundaries, but during the Cold War years the emphasis on territorial integrity made state boundaries insurmountable obstacles for the national discourse.12 A sort of return to the old thinking took place, however, in the late 1980s, when Finland’s role as the leading Baltic Finnic nation was emphasized and new cultural bridges began to be constructed over the Gulf of Finland. The emphasis in the new rhetoric was less openly nationalistic than it had been during the interwar years, but a certain continuity of discourse is obvious. It was a Baltic Finnic space that was reinvented in the first place, and that was clearly a spatial image stretching beyond the old East-West division. A Baltic Finnic space was, however, not the only form by which the changing East was possessed. An image of a ‘lost Europe’ closer to Finland was also introduced. It was not the current Europe that was discovered, but the old romantic central Europe redolent in the Hanseatic towns of Tallinn and Riga, in the manor houses of the Baltic German nobility, in the medieval churches and quiet rural villages of the Estonian islands.13 This attitude can be viewed as a reflection of a new ‘return to Europe’ discourse dominating Finnish public discussion in the early 1990s, when a new romantic outlook towards the old central Europe emerged. Nevertheless, until the summer of 1991, when the Baltic states regained their sovereignty, all changes were in practice seen in Finland as a consequence of the perestroika within the Soviet Union. This became an attempt to say that no drastic change was taking place within the European political architecture, although every piece of news told about the breakdown in the old uniformity of the East.14 Once the Baltic states regained their independence in August 1991 and the Soviet Union ceased to exist, these kinds of explanation became impossible. Still, the changes in the East represented for many only new fears that had to be combatted. Ecological catastrophes and economic collapse linked with rising crime and illegal migration had become another side of the coin of the new image of the East. In the early 1990s a new kind of a grey boundary zone was taking more accurate forms in the Finnish discussion. One dominating thought concept was that of the so-called ‘neighbouring regions’ (lähialueet), a concept covering the Kola Peninsula, Karelia, St Petersburg and the Leningrad oblast’, Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania and Poland.15 In this narrative the political
POSSESSING A BALTIC EUROPE 17
changes in the East were explained in terms of a decay of the East but not of a change in one’s own location or in Europe as such. This kind of emphasis was familiar to the media but reflected also the lines of the first official policy of Finland towards the changes in the East. All in all, in spite of every new rhetorical effort to keep the East as an East, the former dividing line was no longer so easy to define and instead a new border zone was entering into the Finnish discourse. This zone was still part of the East but at the same time contained features of western culture and, what was also important, shared similarities with the observer itself. Alongside the neighbouring area policy, a more positive alternative with much more constructive visions was introduced, based on the idea of the Baltic Sea Area. If the neighbouring region idea was a reaction among governmental circles as well as among the wider public, the BSA was a project of academic and economic circles. An excellent example of this alternative discourse was the pamphlet Mare Balticum, published in 1990 by the Centre for Finnish Business and Policy Studies (Elinkeinoelämän Valtuuskunta, EVA), a private study centre —thinktank—funded by key business organizations in Finland. It painted a brave vision of a Baltic Sea Area. ‘The Baltic Sea-centric northern Europe will be one of the future major regions in our continent. The most distant corner of the Baltic Sea is as near to Helsinki as Utsjoki [the most northerly local government area in Finland]’ it said in its introduction. In the booklet, a common history, mostly based on the Hanseatic League, was sketched out and it was underlined how ‘the sea binds the Baltics with the Nordic’.16 The year 1990 served in many ways as an opening for broader discussions on the BSA. In July a large conference on the New Hansa was held in Kotka, Finland and that forced even the politicians to a reluctant response. Still, there were a few who saw the potentiality of the idea, though for many it was just an unrealistic Utopia. Nevertheless, the Baltic Sea Area or a new Hansa, as it was mostly called, were now expressions in the public discussion—a new space was thus named—and in consequence began to exist.17 At the same time, the idea of inviting parliamentarians from the countries around the Baltic rim to Helsinki was introduced by Kalevi Sorsa, the chairman of the Finnish parliament. Practical planning took place during the autumn and eventually on 7 January 1991 the parliamentarians from all the Baltic Sea states, including the still Soviet republics of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania, and even the autonomous region of Karelia, gathered in Helsinki for a conference that was to serve as an opening for constructing the institutional framework for Baltic Sea co-operation.18 Nonetheless, it seems to be the case that in the Finnish discussion the interest was usually not on the whole BSA but rather on a narrower region closer to Finland and that the idea of a Baltic Finnic space contained the original Finnish outlook, while the BSA was merely loaned from the international discussion although quickly accepted and adapted into the Finnish milieu, too.
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The New Hansa During the years 1989 and 1990, when the Baltic Sea Area emerged for the first time as a spatial label for transcending the East-West division, it was in most cases called the Hansa region, although many other labels were also used. The strength of this image is well seen in the way the Hansa label was adopted in the Finnish discussion, even if in the end it was difficult to find a true meaning for this rather German and southern Baltic term. Thus, the Hansa label was abandoned rather quickly in Finland and even in Scandinavia, where the Hansa carried the negative burden of the past because traditional history-writing has seen the Hansa as the arch-enemy of the national kingdoms of Sweden and Denmark.19 The dominating position of the Hansa image can be traced back to SchleswigHolstein from where, in the late 1980s, originated the loudest initiative for constructing a new Baltic Europe. Minister President Björn Engholm and a few other Social Democrats opened the discussion about the new Hansa as early as 1987 and it became the official policy of Schleswig-Holstein after 1988, when the Social Democrats took power in the government of a Teilstaat. A lively discussion on the issue endured for a few years after that.20 In looking back on the developments of the late 1980s, it may be argued that it was quite natural for the boldest initiative to come from Schleswig-Holstein, then the most northerly and the only Baltic Sea state of the Federal Republic of Germany. Under the new label, an attempt was made to link the eastern and southern shores of the Baltic Sea with the Nordic countries. It is far from odd that this kind of approach originated in Schleswig-Holstein, because SchleswigHolstein, in particular, has long historical traditions with all these regions. Schleswig-Holstein has traditionally been oriented towards the Nordic states because of its shared common past with Denmark. Lübeck, the capital of Schleswig-Holstein, on the other hand, once formed a kind of centre of the Hanseatic world extending all the way to the Livonian (the current Estonian and Latvian) towns in the east. The North as well as the East were thus a natural direction of reorientation, but political realities had for a long time prevented the search for similarities between the eastern and western shores of the Baltic Sea. The new age broke old chains and Engholm expressed the changed atmosphere at Kotka in July 1990 in the following way: ‘What will occur are changes in the societies on both sides of the old demarcation lines which divided Europe so long. A prime driving force behind this is the simple fact that people no longer view those on the other side as enemies.’ Engholm blurred the meaning of foreign when arguing that East Germany, Poland, Hungary and Czechoslovakia belonged to the same Europe and should be treated under the same European domestic policy. In the case of the Baltic states, the Soviet Union generally, and Romania he was a little bit more cautious, locating these areas more on the grey boundary zone.21 Over a decade later this kind of rhetoric sounds like talking about self-evident phenomena, but in 1990 when the Cold War ideological camps were just beginning to tremble, it was still a novel voice. The speed of
POSSESSING A BALTIC EUROPE 19
change in the discourses on Europe from 1990 to the present has been huge. In the midst of these changes it has been important to name a common space to surmount the former East-West division, and in that way to shape the future and not be shaped by it. The image of the new Hansa offered a spatial and temporal narrative to link the eastern, southern and western shores of the Baltic Sea. The new Hansa was an image that already existed, as Jörg Hackmann reminds us, but a new situation —the gradual erosion of the Soviet bloc, German unification and finally the collapse of the Soviet Union—created a need for a reinterpretation of the image and also opened up the possibilities for widening the meaning of the Hansa far beyond the old dividing lines.22 The old Hanseatic towns from Tallinn and Riga via Gdansk to Greifswald and Stralsund on the other side of the Iron Curtain were being refounded. Previously, they had been grey towns in the Soviet Union, Poland or East Germany. Illustrative of the period was the fact that in Germany the old Hanseatic name for Tallinn, Reval, was in practice, forgotten. After the great dividing line started to blur, it was possible to see other dimensions, too, and emphasize similarities that were already well marked in the cultural topography of the towns from Tallinn to Lübeck. In practice, for example, in reading the volumes of the Mare Balticum yearbook, published by the Ostseeakademie (one of the new projects initiated by the government of Schleswig-Holstein) in Lübeck, it may be seen that in the early 1990s the pictures from the East represented mostly the architectural heritage of the Middle Ages and the early modern period, with clearly noticed familiarities with one’s own heritage that interested the western audience.23 History was thus used to argue for a new unity. By comparing the encapsulation of the East in Finnish and North German discourses at the turn of the 1980s and 1990s, it is easy to recognize similarities, but there are also differences. In both cases, the exclusiveness of the former dividing line was becoming blurred and similarities were being found on the other side. These similarities were seen through a national prism: it was a Baltic Finnic space that attracted the Finns and the old Hanseatic space that attracted the northern Germans. A new but still indefinite and obscure region was founded and named, but the process of naming was much more coherent in SchleswigHolstein, where Björn Engholm created a purposeful political programme around the new Hansa. Engholm gathered around him intellectual potentiality for envisioning a new order of things. In March 1989 an international seminar on the possibilities of co-operation in the BSA was organized by the Landtag of Schleswig-Holstein and just five months later Engholm appointed a special thinktank, a Denkfabrik, to outline the content of a new BSA, a future region of Europe.24 Thus, the impulse to possess a no-longer so isolated East was a much quicker and more conscious process in Schleswig-Holstein than elsewhere, which explains quite well the dominant role of the new Hansa idea in the early 1990s. This early activity of the government of Schleswig-Holstein merits an additional explanation apart from the personal role of Engholm. This lay in
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Schleswig-Holstein’s political status. Schleswig-Holstein was not an old sovereign state but a Teilstaat in a federal state seeking for a better position in the new Germany, in the EU and in Europe. Hence, its attitude towards the redefinition of boundaries and emphasis on regions was more open and flexible, as Thomas Christiansen and Pertti Joenniemi emphasize.25 It is still of interest to note that although Schleswig-Holstein was not a traditional foreign policy actor, its initiative was seriously listened to around the Baltic rim. All in all, in the rhetoric about the BSA, the eastern dimension played a key role. In these new narratives the horizon of expectations was widened eastwards and what was near and what was far were subject to rethinking. The cities and provinces that were believed to be as distant as possible were suddenly recognized as being the closest of neighbours! It has to be remembered that distance is not merely an objective quantity, but is also culturally constructed. At the turn of 1980s and 1990s old boundaries lost their meaning and as part of this change some commentators, such as those in Finland who talked about ‘the new neighbouring region’, tried desperately to maintain the old divisions. Others introduced new spatial images such as the new Hansa, based on the idea of a boundary-less Europe. The question is, however, why has it been important to ‘westerners’ to find similarities on the other side of the former dividing line? A FUTURE-ORIENTED BALTIC EUROPE The years 1989 and 1990 marked a grand opening for a general discussion on the content and possibilities of a Baltic Sea Area around the Baltic rim. Several seminars and meetings were organized—in Rönneby, Bornholm, Travemünde, Riga, Tallinn, Leningrad and Kotka—to discuss and envision the future of the Baltic World.26 It can be argued that in these discussions the Baltic World was invented as a future region, since before 1989 the BSA was in practice a nonexistent unit for political cooperation. The only exception had been environmental co-operation, the roots of which date back to the late 1960s and to the Helsinki Commission (HELCOM)—the first Baltic-wide organization— which was founded in 1974,27 but apart from this concern over pollution the Baltic Sea region was not used as a cross-European structure before the turn of the 1980s and 1990s. Few comprehended the Baltic Sea region as a historical region before the late 1980s; instead national histories and existing state boundaries dominated the spatial imagination of historians and political scientists.28 Thus, the Baltic World was a kind of blank page ready to be written on. The narrative of the Baltic World as a future region was shaped mainly at these several seminars and meetings held during the critical years of change in Europe. These fora of discussion contained both politicians and researchers and thus political and scientific discourses were closely interlinked. Peace researchers, in particular the so-called Copenhagen School, actively took part in the discussion and the first scientific contributions were published quickly in the
POSSESSING A BALTIC EUROPE 21
early 1990s.29 I would argue that this activity reflected confusion in the face of the blurring East-West division, but at the same time it showed that there did exist, too, a great intellectual potentiality that tried to devise something new instead of sticking with the self-evident that was no longer self-evident. And, in this political imagination, the BSA received a magical position and its different names began to be repeated everywhere around the Baltic. The question that has to be put is why were the hopes for a new, better future directed towards a non-existent Baltic World. Why was the Baltic World needed? And, further, why did the ideas expressed almost spontaneously by many during the critical years of European change remain alive and not simply fade away as one interlude? According to my reading, there were in fact several needs to be satisfied, for which the BSA provided an excellent response. The fear of being marginalized in a new Europe was the dominating issue in both the Nordic countries and in northern Germany in the early 1990s. Further, the disintegrating East appeared to the western mind to create different threats—from pollution and the Mafia to more abstract fears concerning the European order. In addition, especially in the Scandinavian countries, there was a strong feeling of moral responsibility towards the Baltic states. And, it has to be remembered that in the midst of the change novel ideas appealed—as Ole Wæever reminds us— and a new rhetoric about a Europe of the regions certainly constituted this kind of a novelty in the European North.30 All these different phenomena can be comprehended as different tactics to possess and manage the disintegrating East and to transform it from otherness to sameness. Escaping Marginalization The fear of being marginalized in a new Europe was the dominant reason for seeking to breach the old dividing line. To avoid marginalization it was necessary to invent a Europe where one could play a key role and that Europe was the Baltic World. The seminar on the Europe of the regions organized by the Nordic Council on 13 November 1990 revealed the fears that existed in Scandinavia about the ongoing processes in Europe. In the discussion, the European political architecture was said to be changing and the Nordic countries were seen mostly as outsiders or even as passive objects in this move. On the one hand, European integration was deepening and only Denmark was so far involved in that process. Sweden, Norway and Finland had not yet then even applied for EU membership. Simultaneously, the East was seemingly disintegrating. It was not only the political order that was changing but also the rise of the regions, which confused the evaluation of the future position of one’s own state in Europe. Sverre Jervell, who led a joint Nordic research project, drew interesting maps of Europe in his paper, where a new Europe in-between zone was outlined and that zone included all countries between the EU and Russia, thus including the still non-EU-member Nordic countries. Scandinavia was in this way mapped into the same region as the Central and East European countries
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and the not yet independent Baltic states. In another map, Jervel expressed a most threatening future in which Europe was divided into four power circles—the Atlantic, the German, the French and the Italian—and where Scandinavia would be marginalized in Europe. All these changes created a fear of being lost in Europe. More concretely, fears were expressed about a disintegrating East and about the impact of an ensuing economic chaos and political disorder. Mass migration was seen as a threat above all others. Thus, controlling the change required a definition of the North’s new location in Europe. The only possible option seemed to be the invention of a Baltic Europe, a new region, and to plead for a diversity of Europes.31 Expressions of similar kinds of feelings in the midst of the European change can also be found from Schleswig-Holstein. In 1990, in Kotka, Engholm, for example, warned the audience that ‘Northern Europe could be in danger of being relegated to the backwaters’. And, he continued, the only way to avoid this destiny of peripheralization was to ‘concentrate our efforts, cooperate across national boundaries and tap our potential’.32 Escape from the periphery was the main issue in the internal discussion in Schleswig-Holstein, in which economic values played a key role. Schleswig-Holstein had long been a peripheral state in Germany, far away from the economic centre of the EU; when this centre seemed unattainably remote, the idea arose of creating an alternative centre for Europe.33 This same need to be in the centre instead of on the periphery received collective expressions during the institutionalization of Baltic Sea co-operation. The Danish foreign minister, Uffe Ellemann-Jensen, and the German foreign minister, Hans Dietrich Genscher, called together all foreign ministers around the Baltic rim on March 1992 to formalize the existing co-operation by founding the Council of the Baltic Sea States (CBSS). The idea was to create a kind of umbrella organization for controlling the spontaneously emerging regionbuilding processes. The need for a council had already been expressed a couple of times before, especially by the parliamentarians of the Baltic Sea countries, but it was Ellemann-Jensen and Genscher who outlined a concrete initiative.34 However, it has also been argued that they were not personally interested in developing Baltic Sea co-operation, but thought that a spontaneously aroused cooperation afforded opportunities for pursuing the interests of their own countries, while in any case the activity of non-state actors required the control of the state in their opinion. Although the CBSS truly meant an increase in state control, it also raised co-operation to a new political level and, through the annual meetings of the foreign ministers, gave concrete features to this co-operation. Escaping from peripheriality into a new centrality was/is seemingly the mission of the CBSS. In the first ministerial session, Ellemann-Jensen already declared that ‘the Baltic Sea region is no longer a blind alley on the outskirts of Europe but has the potential for becoming a new zone of growth close to the centre of Europe’.35 The Baltic was clearly defined as a future region of Europe. The same message was also expressed in the context of the co-operation between
POSSESSING A BALTIC EUROPE 23
the parliamentarians, another important institutionalizing process in the Baltic World. In the first conference of Baltic parliamentarians in 1990, Kalevi Sorsa declared that ‘The Baltic is becoming a sea of opportunities.’36 This kind of selfrealizing talk about the potentiality of the Baltic Sea region has continued until the present The Baltic Sea region is being shown as Europe’s fastest growing region.37 This kind of rhetoric is based on hard facts, of course, but it can also be read as an assuring voice that is arguing especially for people in the North that they are not on the margins of Europe but form their own dynamic centre, a Baltic Europe. ‘Europe’s North is not on the edge of Europe, but rather a region with highly developed and growing economies, with high productivity and innovative skills, fascinating and well-known cities, social infrastructure second to none and an absolutely magnificent landscape,’ as Engholm put it as early as the summer of 1990.38 This kind of parole is not expressing something that exists beyond speech-acts as such, but it reorganizes the facts in a new way, creates a new image, thus realizing the order it has been creating. Patronizing the Baltics The return of the three independent Baltic states created moral obligations that justified the need to get over the old East-West division. Some kind of moral responsibility towards the Baltics characterized the Swedish and Danish reactions especially. A kind of culmination of this moral responsibility was contained in the speech of the Swedish premier, Carl Bildt, on 17 November 1993 at the Swedish Institute of Foreign Affairs. It was a highly self-critical view surveying the last half century. Bildt touched on tender issues in Swedish-Baltic relations with surprising openness. His effusion was based on a report commissioned by the government from the institute. The shame of being the only western country that had recognized de jure the Soviet occupation of the Baltic states was clearly underlined in the speech. Further, the dreadful act of extraditing certain Baltic refugees to the Soviet Union and the Swedish foreign minister, Östen Unden’s embarrassing statement in 1954, where he denied the three Baltic nation’s right to independence by reference to their immaturity, received their place in Bildt’s speech. The message of his confession was clear: we once abandoned the Baltic states and that should never happen again. Therefore, the programme proposed by Bildt was one of active co-operation with the Baltic states.39 In his speech, Carl Bildt expressed feelings that have dominated both Swedish and Danish policies towards the Baltic states since the late 1980s. Both Sweden and Denmark have been active in openly supporting the rights of the Baltic states. The visits of the Nordic ministers to the then still Baltic Soviet republics started in autumn 1989, and these visits can be comprehended as a kind of de facto recognition, if not an official one, of the Baltic states.40 The emerging moral responsibility for the Baltic states was hardly a surprise in the light of Nordic history. Moral policy has a long history in Swedish foreign policy and has
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acquired a strong self-esteem about Sweden’s own superiority. Since the eighteenth century versions of identity politics can be found comprehending the North—and Sweden in particular—as morally superior in its relations to the rest of Europe, as Chapter 5 argues. During the Cold War years, this moral superiority found issue in certain forms of policy and Scandinavia, again Sweden in particular, acted as a conscience of the world.41 Even if moral policy has had a long tradition as part of the Nordic identity, the pinpointing of it towards the Baltic states was a significant turn of events, raising as it does the question of why this shift was required. In Sweden and Denmark the Baltic Sea had not been a source of identification for decades. Even Scandinavianism turned Swedish and Danish national myths from the sea to the inland areas; it was Scandinavia that formed the larger community to which people felt they belonged. During the inter-war years the Swedes and Danes were sceptical about the capabilities of the Baltic states and they did not see any reason to collaborate with them, even if the Estonians, Latvians and Lithuanians desperately looked over the Baltic Sea towards Scandinavia.42 During the Cold War the Baltic Sea did not have a recognizable other coast—the endless area of the Soviet Union just started from there. Still, both Sweden and Denmark had had their own Baltic empires in the past, but in the twentieth century this past was interpreted as being an imperialist policy that was against the true Nordic nature of these states.43 Thus, the common past with the eastern Baltic lands was not used for creating solidarity: it was merely rejected. Post-Cold War policy broke these chains and made possible the return of the idea of a common Baltic past. For decades, Scandinavians felt that they were located on the eastern and northern edge of Europe, but the re-emergence of the Baltic states opened up the eastern direction and made it possible to be located in the centre of a Baltic World. The question is why this geographical transition occurred. I would argue that one of the main aspects of Scandinavian Baltic policy was a need to control, educate and patronize the East and in that way manage the threatening change. A certain patronizing policy came out clearly in the early phases of Baltic Sea co-operation, the original targets of which were pinpointed by Scandinavian or German politicians. The agenda of the first Conference of Foreign Ministers of the Baltic Sea States in Copenhagen in March 1992 had the idea of assisting the creation of new democratic institutions. In the rhetoric of the official declaration, it was seen that in the Baltic Sea Area ‘a genuine democratic community’ was emerging.44 The same rhetoric can be understood also as a mission of the West to introduce a western kind of democracy to the East, to standardize the Baltic World and thus to control a disintegrating East. The need to guide the Baits (and why not also the Russians?) was seemingly a primary motive for founding the Council. The need to educate the Baits took on concrete forms in the following years. During the second ministerial session of the Baltic Sea states in Helsinki in March 1993 the idea of founding a so-called Euro-Faculty in Riga was introduced and decided. The debate was about an institute of public and business
POSSESSING A BALTIC EUROPE 25
administration, law and economic sciences.45 Thus, the Baits had to be educated to be good citizens of the market economy. Uncivilized easterners had to be civilized and taken into the superior western and/or Nordic model. Further evidence of such a policy of responsibility was that the Baits and also the Russians of the north-west were quickly included in Nordic exchange systems and grants. Assistance to democratic institutions remained in the spotlight at the third ministerial session held at Tallinn in May 1994, when the Council welcomed ‘the progress achieved in democratic transformation and economic reforms in Poland, Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania and the Russian Federation’.46 The ‘teacher’, the Council, in this way praised the good ‘students’, the East. Two years later, in the declarations—the communiqué and the action programmes for Baltic Sea states co-operation—given out by the fifth ministerial session in Kalmar, the patronizing rhetoric was a bit more restrained.47 It was still possible to see signs of western missionary aims towards the East, but they were by now well hidden. The sovereignty of the Baltic states had received more stable forms: they were quickly integrating into Europe and were thus being accepted as normal Europeans. The patronizing policy has not been absent in the case of other Baltic organizations either. The Baltic Sea States Sub-regional Co-operation (BSSSC) was set up in October 1993 in Stavanger, Norway, and again the main target was declared to be ‘to expand subregional co-operation with the aim of supporting democracy and sustainable economic development’. In contrast to the representatives from Scandinavia, the representatives from the Baltic states supported much more concrete initiatives for economic co-operation, initiatives which would in a practical way immediately help their state-building.48 The targets and tools of co-operation were thus comprehended differently on the western shores and the eastern shores of the Baltic Sea. The West offered its ‘learning’ based on its moral superiority, while the East expected concrete ‘money-based’ projects. Missionary elements could also be found in the sphere of environmental policy. The awakening consciousness of ecological catastrophes in the Soviet Union was one of the dominating themes of the media in the late 1980s and it was connected with the wider story of the decay of the Soviet Union. For example, in Finnish newspapers in the late 1980s the open quarries of shale oil in north-east Estonia or the oil harbour of Ventspils were described in doomsday terms.49 The environmental activity of the Estonian and Latvian national movements supported the concocting of images of this kind, in which the former technological glory of the Soviet system was transformed into an image of the total decay of the whole system. In this reporting there was a lot of exaggeration, even if no one could deny the seriousness of pollution in the post-Soviet countries. The environmental discourse in its own way dimmed the old image of the East and created a new threat. Environmental problems were not something that could be confined within state boundaries, and, in particular, worry about the
26 POST-COLD WAR IDENTITY POLITICS
deterioration of the common sea was spreading. Environmental co-operation itself was not a new issue, since HELCOM had already been founded in 1974 to carry on the protection of the Baltic Sea. The old co-operation had, however, been strictly on an equal footing and it was only during the late 1980s that a new hierarchy emerged. The manner in which the West accused the East in the case of environmental problems was a sign of a new kind of feeling of superiority. Thus, the decay of the East required the superior West to aid and patronize its poor neighbour so that a new balance of nature but also of political space could be found. In practice, environmental aid was often bilateral but interestingly, for example, in Finland the money used for these projects was taken from funds designated for co-operation with the developing countries.50 From the western point of view, the Soviet Union and its successors had been transformed into development countries on a level with the Third World. Pollution received attention in the work of the CBSS from the very beginning. In Copenhagen, the pollution of the Baltic Sea was seen as a clear threat to which the devising of a solution was the joint responsibility of all the Baltic Sea states. The environment and pollution have remained main issues of the CBSS in its subsequent sessions. The action programme for Baltic Sea state co-operation issued during the Kalmar meeting of 1996 was a basic document, which guided the framework for the whole co-operation. In this document, environmental solidarity was named as one of three main issues of co-operation. However, the solicitous attitude of the West towards the East has given way to a more genuine worry about the common future of the common sea.51 Nuclear safety has also been a question closely related to the environment, and a lot of time has been given to the issue in ministerial sessions and in special committees. In the post-Chernobyl era, the threat of uncontrolled and decaying nuclear power stations in the former Soviet zone has been comprehended in the West as a true threat to the whole of Europe.52 Nonetheless, the missionary aims have faded away, especially after the mid-1990s, when the Baltic states established more clearly their position as normal sovereign powers, with the possibility of a more equal basis for co-operation. BECOMING BALTIC Man is a ‘story-telling animal’, defining himself through stories. We can exist and be someone only through stories. The same can be said in the case of all human communities, such as nations, states or cities. Narratives are there to define our identity and thus every new narrative is invented because of the need to reidentify one’s own place in the world or in this case, in Europe. They define who and what we are like. According to Ringmar, ‘we must make room for ourselves in time and in space’.53 Foreign policy can be seen as rational decisionmaking, but it can be read also as a form of creative story-telling and—hence— identity production.54 Stories told by foreign policy makers are there to define who we are by showing what we want. Thus, in my opinion the rhetoric on the
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BSA, with all its variations, can be seen as new constitutive stories for defining ourselves in space and in time. The question is, however, what is new in these narratives—what are they redefining? Further, who is that ‘we’ whose coordinates of identification are redefined? ‘The existence of regions is preceded by the existence of region builders, a political actor who, as part of some political project, imagines a certain spatial and chronological identity for a region, and disseminates this imagined identity to others. That is how Iver Neumann visualized the region-building process and showed its relationship to nation-building.55 Successful region-building requires region builders to assure people about the naturalness of the territory, which may be done by arguing about the historical, geographical, cultural or economic unity of the given region. It is a process of naturalization. In the end, if the new interpretation is accepted, which does not, of course, inevitably happen, there emerge different practices within that new territory, which strengthen the selfevident nature of that region and make it a natural way of dividing the world. The traditional kind of region-building, like nation-building, would indeed have required this type of naturalization of a region in one way or another, as Neumann has argued. Nonetheless, as Wæever reminds us, the case of the BSA is not altogether a modern one, but at least it holds features of post-modernity.56 Then the question arises as to whether we should deal with the criteria of regionbuilding differently. Perhaps naturalization is no longer needed or it is possible to argue the case in a different way. Creating New Political Spatiality The invention of the Baltic World was closely connected with the rise of the new post-realist rhetoric that emphasized the importance of regions and of a boundary-free Europe. I would argue that it is impossible to separate the study of the new regionally from the region-building approaches, because scientific analysis guided policy makers and gave them tools, a new language, with which to construct a new Europe. Vice versa, of course, the new, bold activity of policy makers, in particular that of creative personalities like Björn Engholm, directed the interest of political scientists to issues of regionally. The close link between politicians and researchers is clearly seen in early region-building talk, when politicians quickly adopted the phrases of political scientists and peace researchers.57 Besides creative politicians, acting simultaneously were politically determined researchers. This linkage between researchers and politicians was already clearly apparent in the ‘New Hansa’ conference of the summer of 1990 in Kotka, organized by the Stockholm Institute of Future Studies and in particular its director, Åke Andersson.58 At the second parliamentary conference of the Baltic Sea states held in Oslo in April 1992, one of the key speakers was Ole Wæever, a peace researcher belonging to the so-called Copenhagen School, who took the theme of ‘Baltic Sea Identity—Visions of Regional Co-operation’.59 A year before in Helsinki in the first parliamentary conference, it was Pertti
28 POST-COLD WAR IDENTITY POLITICS
Joenniemi, a Finnish peace researcher, who acted as secretary-general of the conference. In the opening speech of the premier, Kalevi Sorsa, one could hear the analytical voice of science mixed in with political rhetoric.60 Emerging networks and institutions around the Baltic Sea in the early 1990s supported the view that the BSA represented a new kind of political spatiality that was neither sovereign nor exclusive. Instead, the region was being shaped through different kinds of parallel influences (but not necessarily harmonious practices) defining several Baltic Sea Areas. Thus, there coexisted at the same time several definitions shaped by the everyday practices of several Baltic-based organizations and networks. During the past decade, the number of Baltic networks has been growing. At governmental level, the CBSS with its annual ministerial sessions and since 1996 also with summits of the heads of states, has remained the most prominent single organization.61 Apart from this statecontrolled organization there are currently tens or even hundreds of networks and institutions being constructed in the name of the Baltic World.62 Some of them are of only minor importance, but some of them, such as the Union of Baltic Cities (UBC), the Baltic Sea States Subregional Co-operation (BSSSC) and the Baltic Sea Seven Islands Cooperation Network (B-7),63 have constructed strong organizations and networks of their own. Nonetheless, even the more modest networks have expressed in their own way the fact that a Baltic Europe exists. Baltic networks have become thicker and thicker, but at the same time their substance and also the definitions of the BSA have become more and more diverse. The Helsinki Commission, the oldest Baltic organization, has conceptualized the BSA as a drainage area, which as a definition has emphasized an objective image based on natural science. B-7, the organization of the Baltic islands, is another network with an emphasis on the sea itself but then introduces a narrower definition. Other definitions have comprehended a more political region, focusing on the Baltic rim rather than the sea itself. In the working of the CBSS, the BSA constitutes primarily a region of coastal states—Sweden, Denmark, Norway, Finland, Germany, Poland, Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania and Russia—yet also includes the EU Commission, whose participation underlines the role of the BSA as a sub-region of EU Europe. Most organizations have constructed networks between state and non-state actors, that is for example the BSSSC, and then usually from Russia, Germany and Poland only their coastal districts and provinces are represented. Other Baltic organizations have stimulated networks only among the non-state actors, such as the UBC.64 Thus, there is even reason to argue that the BSA—as it is now being envisaged —exists partly beyond the state-centric world. A variety of networks produce simultaneously different images and definitions of a Baltic Sea region that are all valid at the same time. In such a manner, it can be purported to be a region without boundaries or a region with varying boundaries. The Baltic Sea region is a region devoid of exact definitions and nobody is seemingly expecting a single definition given from above. It seems clear that a region such as the BSA is
POSSESSING A BALTIC EUROPE 29
breaking the dominance of state sovereignty. The territorial imagination is slowly changing and it has been possible to overcome state boundaries and to imagine other kinds of political regions than a state without challenging the latter’s sovereignty. On the other hand, territorial states are not absent from Baltic Sea co-operation; since the foundation of the CBSS in 1992 the controlling role of the old states has been strengthening, although the diversity of actors has not been challenged or denied. The continuous talk about regions and a boundary-free Europe actually helps to make these phenomena come true. The new region-building dialogue has made fuzzy the old sovereignty and the meaning of state boundaries, although nation-states have not disappeared—they have only defined themselves in a new way. The new BSA is not exclusively a region of states and nations, but states and nations are forced to act on a scene dominated not only by classical political actors but also by subregions and non-governmental organizations (NGOs). Thus, the BSA is creating practices that are slowly diminishing the power of the old state boundaries. Furthermore, it seems that states and nations have been willing to accept this, either because they feel that the new kind of spatiality is crucial for redefining their position in the new Europe, or because they have needed a new regionality in order to escape the threats and fears that emerged after the end of the Cold War. In the case of the complicated mutual relationship between state and nation, I would argue that the nation has been the primary subject of redefinition, whilst the state has lost its former dominant position (see below). A Baltic Golden Age Besides the importance of spatial narratives in current identity politics, the power of the narratives of the past still seems to be incontestable. On the basis of history, we build expectations for the future. History is a narrative for explaining the present and thus it guides our thoughts towards the future. It is a collective memory of society—and thus the basis of identification—but it is also an aspect of power. As with the memory of individuals, history as a narrative is selective. When the stories are told, something is emphasized and something is forgotten. In modern societies, history serves the same role as myths in other cultures; every community has its own myths for explaining the origin of the community, for defining its identity and guiding the future. This kind of myth may be called a foundational myth. History lies at the heart of these myths in modern societies. According to Anthony D.Smith, all of these myths tell a story about where ‘we’ come from and about the glorious past of the community that might have been lost. That is called the myth of the Golden Age, which has constituted a driving force in national ideologies. The characteristics of a community are defined through these myths. This definition is achieved partly by constructing a boundary against ‘others’, but also by specifying those unique characteristics of which the community is proud.65
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In explaining the necessity of Baltic Sea co-operation, different functional reasons—control of the disintegrating East, pollution, avoiding marginalization and so on—can be found, but there has been only one clear region-building argument concerning the naturalness of the Baltic Sea region and that has been based on history. The argumentation for the BSA has been historically stated and, as the Norwegian Sverre Jervell put it in 1991, it was felt that the Cold War had frozen the true historical ties that were now returning.66 It was not argued that the BSA was a new region, but that it was something which was returning. The emphasized similarity between the Mediterranean and the Baltic worlds used by many at the turn of the 1980s and 1990s was another way of pointing to the ancient roots of the BSA. This kind of rhetoric slipped into official documents, too. In the Copenhagen communiqué in 1991, it was, for example, noted that between the Baltic Sea states there existed ‘a shared basis of cultural heritage’ that bound them together.67 Such statements can be described as a traditional ‘region-building’ voice, which attempts to naturalize a region by arguing that it has already existed for centuries, even if for a while its existence had been forgotten. Admitting the existence of a joint identity reaching over the former East-West division—that is, between those who formerly felt the hostility of the ‘other’—was and still is something unique in the whole European context. The return of true historical ties after the false history of the Cold War has been part of the Baltic Sea rhetoric from the very beginning. However, explanations as to what was returning differed from speaker to speaker. For the northern Germans, it has been the glorious days of the Hansa, when Lübeck was a leading town of the BSA, while the Swedes have remembered more the Viking era or their Baltic empire. The story retold about the glory of the Hansa and of Lübeck as the leading town of the Hanseatic league appealed to the peoples of Schleswig-Holstein, a Teilstaat in a federal state, which was located on the periphery of West Germany. Engholm and others introduced a new foundational myth for the northern Germans, telling the story of the lost Golden Age and the possibility of a return of the ancient glorious days. The same can be said in the Swedish case, where blurring the East-West division brought back other memories of the national past. Hans Dahlberg wrote in his book Östersjön. Kampen om ett hav 862–1990 (The Baltic Sea. The Struggle over the Sea, 862– 1990)—which was one of the earliest instances of the changing view of history in Sweden—that the BSA consisted of a three-power fulcrum: in the East, Russia; in the South, several leagues, principalities and states representing Germany; and in the West, Sweden.68 Previously the Swedish Baltic empire had been regarded as unnatural, but through the new Baltic narratives the glorious past of Sweden as a great power was restored. Tallinn and Riga ceased to be grey and unknown Soviet towns. Now, their past as Swedish towns was suddenly remembered and Swedish interests in the whole BSA (and especially in the eastern Baltic countries) began to come out. Interestingly, in German historical overviews, the Swedish and Danish realms were usually forgotten and only the
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Viking era and the Hansa era were mentioned as a kind of prehistory of the common BSA.69 While talking about the Baltic Sea Area as a true historical region, it is necessary to recall that the whole idea is in many ways an invention of the postCold War era, even though it has some roots reaching down especially into the inter-war years.70 It is a question of a reinterpretation and rewriting of existing history. Of course, it is difficult to deny that the Baltic World has been one of the scenes of history, and there is certainly plenty of raw material for rewriting history, in the form of forgotten ties and networks around the Baltic. The fact remains, however, that the Baltic has not often been used as a co-ordinate of state or nation during previous decades and centuries. Before the twentieth century the term Baltic Sea was used for defining northern Europe only during the late sixteenth century and the seventeenth century, when the concept of Dominium Maris Baltici was used for describing the struggle of the powers surrounding the Baltic Sea. The term North has been used by contemporaries far more frequently when defining the same region.71 It can be argued that the BSA was truly invented for the first time during the inter-war years, when in the Baltic states especially an attempt was made to invent a new kind of wider unity of states and nations for defining another Europe. This discourse took off from the Baltic League policy of the early 1920s, which aimed to develop co-operation and the construction of a league or a confederation among the new Baltic states and Scandinavian countries. During the next decade, geographers introduced the term Baltoscandia and argued that the Baltic states, Finland and Scandinavia formed part of a single geographical region. This geopolitical rhetoric received its expression in political discussion, too.72 There are certain parallels between the early 1990s and the 1920s, which will be alluded to in subsequent chapters of this book. The current BSA cannot, however, be seen as a continuation of these inter-war ‘Baltic Europes’; rather, in the current BSA the same themes are partly repeated and partly similar arguments are stated as were used earlier, but in a new context. I would argue that the ending of the exclusive East-West division has changed the view of history around the Baltic rim. That is the reason why there has been a strong feeling about the return of a ‘true history’ and historical ties. During the Cold War years, the view of history was restricted by the existing state boundaries and it was only during the new formative moment that one’s own past could be seen as existing also beyond the present boundaries, as Jörg Hackmann underlines.73 I also fully agree with Kristian Gerner’s argument that in current narratives on the BSA it is a question of extended foundational myths of existing nations.74 In the change that has been called a ‘return of history’, old foundational myths are altered, and new ones invented. This is, in the end, a rather natural solution, because in practice new views of history have to be built on the basis of the old discourses and it has been the national discourse that has determined our views of history for a long time.
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On the other hand, something has clearly changed. These new foundational myths are not seemingly in conflict with each other and different interpretations of the BSA are accepted. The BSA is introducing a narrative free from the dominance of the current state boundaries. Still the ‘we’ in these narratives is the old and familiar nation seeking centrality in a new environment. While extending the state boundaries, foundational myths also left behind traditional political goals. Imagining one’s own great past without any aims of territorial expansion is possible in the post-Cold War Europe, and this is a novelty. The new narratives on the BSA are not exclusive; they are not there for defining otherness, but more to include sameness. Thus, the BSA can be seen as an open area that embraces overlapping national stories. The sameness is seen on the other side of boundaries. The narratives about the BSA are therefore opposite in character to the so-called ‘origin myths’ demonstrated by so many national movements in Europe. For example, celebration of the memory of the battle of Kosovo Polje by the Serbs is a myth redefining a community’s past but it is defensive in character,75 while the BSA is a narrative of the past that is open and futureoriented. Thus, while expanding their national foundational myths beyond the existing state boundaries so as to be taken into the whole BSA, the self-identification of Swedes, Danes, northern Germans, Finns and others has drastically changed. The nation-state is still there and will remain, but its boundaries are becoming fuzzy. The collapse of the bipolar world was the start of a new formative moment, which has lasted for a decade now. The stories and metaphors have changed but not the story-tellers and the main heroes in these stories. Thus, current regionbuilding is still modern in the sense that the narratives of the past constitute a crucial element for pinpointing the true essence of the BSA, but it also holds features of post-modernity while the overlapping and diversity of national stories is accepted. The narratives of the past can be approached differently using Hayden White’s ideas of what it means to think historically. The past is an essential element of identity for an individual or a community such as a nation, but how are we telling stories about the past? White separates four types of narratives: romance, satire, comedy and tragedy.76 Romance is a drama of self-identification. It is a drama of the triumph of good over evil, of virtue over vice, of light over darkness. Satire is the opposite of romance: a drama dominated by the apprehension that man is ultimately a captive of the world rather than its master. It is rarely used in geopolitical rhetoric, but during hard times it can serve as surviving narrative. For example, during the Soviet years in the Baltic states when one could not challenge the power of Moscow, there existed a narrative that Moscow could not destroy the core national identity either. Comedy is a narrative of a temporary triumph of man over his world by the prospect of the occasional reconciliation of the forces at play in the social and natural worlds. Festive occasions are used to symbolize change and transformation. This story is used as geopolitical rhetoric, but is often linked with romance. A good example is the current story about the
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fall of the Berlin Wall. Nonetheless, the current change is comprehended as a departure from the world of force to the world of freedom. Tragedy is the story of destruction but also of learning. Tragedy is regarded as a threatening example to those who have survived—such as the Baltic narratives on the Soviet annexation of the Baltic states without any resistance, narratives employed in the current Baltic states. The narrative of the BSA is composed of a mix of romance, tragedy and comedy. It is a narrative of the lost Golden Age, which is returning in a new form. The narrative of the BSA is a typical meta-historical narrative which argues that the whole region is not a conscious human construct, but that its existence is a kind of law of nature that the bad forces of the Soviet Union tried to deny when contesting the true nature of the region. Thus, the story of the BSA is also a comedy celebrating the unforeseen collapse of the Soviet empire and arguing that the moment should not be lost. The narrative also includes elements of tragedy, especially in respect of the eastern shore of the Baltic Sea. These elements constitute a warning about the Cold War era, thus the West should have as its educative mission the securing of democratic development. CHALLENGING THE BALTIC All the initiatives analysed above have originated in the former West and mainly from Scandinavia or northern Germany. It seems that in a way the new spatial images have remained odd to the Estonians, Latvians and Lithuanians as well partly to the Finns. After secession from the Soviet Union, the revival of nationalist stories and return-to-Europe rhetoric have dominated the reidentification of the Baits in particular. National space has been reimagined within the limits of the nation-state and its boundaries.77 The BSA has, however, met with some response in the former East, but it has been used mainly as an aid to reach a main target—integration into the European Union or joining NATO and/or securing one’s own national interests. A strong sense of being located on the periphery of Europe has ruled their thinking and the changing of the old ‘easternness’ into ‘westernness’ has been seen as the only viable solution. Using one’s own peripherality as a strength has not yet proved to be a possible alternative in the former East. Nonetheless, during the late 1990s, after the most hectic transitional phase was over, new and original regional initiatives were also introduced from the eastern shores of the Baltic Sea. The Finnish initiative for the Northern Dimension (ND) is perhaps the most prominent, but the Estonian Yule-land and the Latvian Amber Gateway are at least interesting, if not too serious openings. These new approaches are not presented as an open challenge for the BSA, but seemingly the BSA has not satisfied all the needs of the Baits and Finns. There has been a need to imagine alternative regional orders and thus alternative Europes.
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The Northern Dimension78 During the late 1990s the North emerged as a new challenging initiative to the Baltic. The initiative to construct a so-called Northern Dimension for the European Union was introduced to a wider public by the Finnish prime minister, Paavo Lipponen, in April 1997. In 1998 the EU commission gave a first report on the ND and since then it has been part of the official Europe. How strong an opening it has been, however, is still under dispute. ND rhetoric has been adopted widely by the Finnish foreign policy and foreign trade élite. It has also received support from scholars.79 Nevertheless, the North has not only been a Finnish invention, but rather the Northern Dimension as an idea includes elements of other existing regionalist rhetoric. Northernness as an image, for example, owes a lot to the so-called Barents region or to the Barents Euro-Arctic region (BEAR), as it has also been called.80 In this connection may be mentioned the rise of a global discourse on the North, which has received its expression, for example, in the form of the Arctic Council set up by eight Arctic states in Ottawa in 1996.81 The Finnish initiative is, however, expanding this Arctic orientation of the ‘North’ southwards, all the way to the Baltic Sea. At the turn of the 1980s and 1990s, the Baltic or the North were still used as synonyms, but soon the North as an attribute of Europe was glossed over before the Finnish political élite discovered it anew a halfdecade later and gave a new meaning to it. If these labels have been used synonymously, the question inevitably arises as to their mutual relationship now. Are they competing or complementing region-building initiatives? The North is not there consciously to challenge the Baltic Sea Area, but instead these two projects are presented as overlapping. Many Finns consider Baltic Sea co-operation and especially the CBSS as regional projects for constructing the North. For example, in a speech made in Tartu in May 2000, Prime Minister Lipponen stated that the ND is ‘the number one project in the Baltic Sea Area’.82 On the other hand, many Scandinavians have accepted ‘northernness’ instead of the old ‘Nordicness’ as an attribute of a new Europe.83 Yet when the basic statements are analysed, it is clear that the Danes and Swedes want to play a key role in the BSA, while the Finns want to locate themselves in the centre of the new Northern Europe. This difference in rhetoric is seen most clearly in business slogans. ‘Denmark—your access to business in the Baltics’ has been a Danish slogan, while the Swedes have used a similar kind of idiom: ‘Sweden—a natural base for your regional headquarters in the Baltic Sea Region’. The Finnish rhetoric differs a lot from the Swedish and Danish—Finland is seen to be a ‘base for business in the New Northern Europe’.84 Besides similarities and overlap, clear differences also exist between the rhetoric on the Baltic and the rhetoric on the North. Even the geographical scope of the discourses differs. The discourse on the BSA is symbolically anchored by the sea, and even if the BSA has no exact borders, all its shores are undoubtedly included. The new North has been seen as a combination of the existing regional
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co-operation around the Barents and the Baltic Seas. The BSA can be seen as a sub-region of the North but, on the other hand, there are statements in which not all the countries in the BSA are included in the North, and often the southern shores of the Baltic Sea are forgotten in the North and replaced by a chunk of Russia.85 The North is still used more or less as a synonym for the Arctic, as is seen in a report prepared for the European Parliament in 1999. The widest definitions include, besides the Nordic countries, the Baltic countries, the northern parts of Germany, Poland and Russia and even Scotland and Greenland within the scope of the North.86 Even if the logic of region-building talk in the case of the ND has been of a rather similar kind than in the case of the BSA, there is, however, one crucial difference: the ND rhetoric altogether lacks temporal co-ordinates. It is hard, for example, to find any traces at all of reliance on a common past in the official rhetoric of Prime Minister Lipponen. In the texts of political scientists such as Jyrki Käkönen and Lasse Heininen the same stories about the past are repeated as in the case of the BSA—such as those of the Vikings, the Hansa and the Swedish era. But these stories are not recounted in such a way as to make it clear that they are narratives of the North, and they are seemingly only there as a necessary element of a classical story beginning with the words ‘Once upon a time there was…’.87 The New North has not yet received its own constitutive story for the creation of solidarity among all northern peoples including Russians. The narratives that have so far emerged are used to emphasize features that represent the old peripherality but are now employed for strengthening one’s own local identity in a globalizing world. The question can be put about whether a new spatial image could be created without using the past, and, if there is no past, whether there is a clear vision about the future. Or is this kind of spatial narrative more open and easier for others to accept? So far, at least, ‘northernness’ has remained a rather weak regional identity even in Finland, where local actors and NGOs are very slowly adopting new features as a basis for their European discourses. All in all, the images of the North and of the BSA are certainly overlapping but not uniform. In the rhetoric of the North, the focus rests more on the north and east (referring here only to the points of the compass) than in the Baltic Sea rhetoric. In the discourse on the BSA, it has been the Baltic states that have formed the main focal point. The independence of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania has created a new space between the former East and West, a space that was seen as being necessarily filled by new initiatives from the West. Russia has, however, been the main ‘beef’ of the ND, as Hiski Haukkala emphasizes.88 Linking Russia and its rich natural resources with European integration has been the key aspiration of the Northern Dimension Initiative. It is clear that the North or Northern Dimension is not just another name for the Baltic Sea region. Insofar as the latter label has satisfied the Swedes, Danes and Germans, it may be asked why the Finns have felt the need to introduce a new image. The new narratives have to find a contact surface in the national
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past, because each story is told for a national audience. The BSA has seemingly no point in common with the Finnish national memory, though it has been easy to link it with the existing national memory of the Swedes, Danes and Germans. The Baltic as an attribute has a long negative history in Finland, which has been afraid of being summed up as a fourth Baltic state,89 whereas the North as an attribute has a more positive value, mostly because of the tradition of Nordic cooperation. Nordic, of course, literally means north(ern), as will be more closely analysed in Chapter 5 below. The temporal difference in region-building approaches finds its explanation in seeing Finland as being located in between the former East and West and including characteristics of both. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, the Finnish discourse followed the same paths as those of the Estonians or Latvians. The ‘back to Europe’ idea—a kind of Europhoria— dominated Finnish discussion in the early 1990s before the EU membership and immediately after it. Just after this ecstasy was over, the Finns also started to look at their own regional order and to seek a new central position for themselves and their country. And, for the Finns, Russia and its role in Europe has traditionally been a far more fundamental issue than it has for the Scandinavians.90 From the Yule-land to the Amber Gateway Whereas for the Swedes, Danes, Finns and Germans the discourse on Europe has been understood in terms of eastwards enlargement, in the three Baltic states the mapping has been mainly in the opposite direction. The ‘return to Europe’ rhetoric has contained the most penetrating programme of the Baits, though within that discourse can be found many shades.91 The Estonian president, Lennart Meri, in his eloquent speeches since 1990, has perhaps expressed most fully the spectrum of the Estonian discourse 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.’92 Thus, when Estonia was 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 the collapse of old ties and borders, it was time to ‘return to Europe’, to escape from ‘easternness’ to ‘westernness’. This has been a common idea in post-communist eastern Europe and it was the Czech president, Vaclav Havel, who originally devised the term. 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 the attempt was even made to forget it altogether. The inter-war years, in contrast, were depicted as a new Golden Age, which also defined the future path. In defining the Estonian location in Europe, Russia is lurking as an omnipresent factor and Estonia is depicted as a European outpost against the
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East, Russia.93 According to this rhetoric Russia is not a true European country. Geographical Europe is divided into a real Europe and into Russia. The old EastWest division has not been eradicated; the eastern border of Europe has simply been pushed further eastwards and the Baltic states located on the eastern border of Europe. Estonian independence is bound up with the West, yet here Europe is not an open but a closed fortification against the East and for securing its position as an outpost of ‘European fortification’ Estonia requires integration with the rest of Europe. This narrative is built up from the traditional division of Europe. There is western Europe, the EU and NATO, and on the other side the East, Russia; and Estonia has to join the former Europe and the organizations symbolizing it in order to avoid the latter. There is no space in between. Toomas Hendrick Ilves, the Estonian Foreign Minister, is well informed on the new discussion about spatial images and dividing lines and he refers in his speech ‘Estonia’s Return to Europe’, delivered in Rome on 20 March 1997, not merely to Larry Wolff but also to Samuel Huntington. Huntington’s main point of replacing the old bipolar world by the conflict of civilizations fits in well with Estonian self-identification. The Estonian-Russian boundary is seen as a fault line between the West and the East. The recent extension of the Schengen border regulations to the eastern borders of the applicant countries is supportive of the Estonian view of Europe and its divisions. Ilves’ statement also includes an heroic narrative about the Estonian success in adopting European values: ‘Estonia has made rapid progress in re-adopting European norms of democracy and free markets, and in returning to European and Euro-Atlantic structures in all spheres of international cooperation.’94 The Estonian survival story is that of a model student of the West, an approach which contains a lot of elements similar to the Finnish narrative on Europe. The Baltic Sea has not been totally absent from the Baits’ discourse on Europe. President Meri, in particular, has from time to time reminded people about the role of the Baltic Sea for Estonia and he took up in the early 1990s the words of the former Danish foreign minister, Uffe Ellemann-Jensen: ‘a state, which opened on the sea, could not be small’.95 According to this rhetoric, the Baltic Sea is the Estonian’s road to a wider world, to Europe, and the Baltic Sea makes Estonia big, at least spiritually. Nonetheless, the Baltic Sea Area takes on in Meri’s speeches a form related to the inter-war discussion on Baltoscandia, the united region of the Baltic states and Scandinavia.96 Meri wrote in 1990 that Estonia identified simultaneously with central Europe and with the Nordic countries.97 Defining Estonia as a Nordic country accorded special attributes to Estonian identity. In that rhetoric, the Nordic world and the Baltic Sea Area were fused and the BSA gained its significance from the Nordic connection. Thus, the Estonian BSA is an exclusive region and a channel to the West, while in contrast the BSA in the Scandinavian discourse has been inclusive and to be open towards the East. The North (more precisely the Nordic lands) still has its own position in the Estonian discourse on Europe. Ilves’ vision about a so-called ‘Yule-land’,
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introduced in his speech at the Swedish Institute for International Affairs on 14 December 1999, is an interesting opening to modernizing the old Baltoscandia and to melting the North, Nordic and Baltic. ‘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,’ said Ilves in outlining this new spatial image.98 Thus, first Latvia and Lithuania and then Russia are excluded from this North. Ancient history here forms a core argument, which is no accident because in the Estonian national narrative the ancient period before Christianity is usually seen as the Golden Age of a pure Estonian culture. Ilves further argues that it is characteristics such as being businesslike, stubborn and hard-working that are defining the unity of a region. This is traditional region-building talk for naturalizing the Yule-land, which is geographically, however, nothing more than the old Nordic area enlarged with Britain and Estonia, but the ‘Yule-land’ is defined rather differently than the Nordic area usually is, and thus it should be comprehended as a spatial image of its own. Estonian discourse on the North relates to the interwar discourse on Baltoscandia, but one clear change has happened, and that is that in the current Estonian discourse there is no joint Baltic group.99 Ilves, for example, denies as clearly as possible the Baltic identity of Estonia. Thus, it is only Estonia among the three Baltic states that is seen to be Nordic and not Baltic. Besides the Yule-land, a new Baltoscandia, the Estonians could not have avoided the wider BSA or the ND, which are referred to in Estonia, too, but in that discourse they are in the first place only viewed as being trade and economic matters.100 The Latvian discourse on Europe includes a lot of features similar to the Estonian discourse, but there are slight differences. A feeling of being located on the borders of Europe and a strong need to integrate into Europe are focal points of the Latvian European identity. The EU and NATO also define Latvian Europe.101 On the other hand, there have been interesting visions of a Latvian mediator role in Europe. ‘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 of important political and human value for us. Latvia is also a new transatlantic state, the best example for what could be, for instance, the US-Baltic Partnership Charter and successful work in its frameworks.’ This is how the Latvian foreign minister Indulis Bērzinš defines the Latvian ‘Europes’.102 In this discourse, one regional identity does not exclude other European identities and more value is accorded to nearby regions than the Estonian discourse on Europe accords. The most interesting initiative introduced by the Latvians is without doubt the idea of the ‘Amber Gateway’. ‘The Amber Gateway is a vision of regional development in an area where Hanseatic merchants once traded but it is a larger vision even than the Hansa, which was, after all, a cartel,’ foreign minister
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Valdis Birkavs said when introducing the new term in his speech on 17 November 1997. He approached the core of the new term by emphasizing how it enabled ‘the free flow of both East-West, and North-South trade’. The Amber Gateway can be seen as a renaming of the BSA, but a renaming that also means a redefinition. If the discourse on the BSA is constructed by binding together the former East and West, the Amber Gateway is simply aiming to be a mediator between them. ‘We are the synapse between two worlds. The medium for communication and transit,’ Birkavs said when mapping out Europe in his speech ‘Between Europe and Eurasia’ in Houston, Texas, on 21 April 1998. In this discourse, Russia still exists on the other side of the European dividing line, yet it should not be excluded but rather included in European development, and in the inclusion of Russia Latvia can play a leading role.103 This kind of duality in the Latvian discourse on Europe is not a novelty but something that was already familiar in the inter-war period when Latvians wanted to be at one and the same time a transmitter between East and West as well as to form with other Baltic states a strong barrier towards the East.104 During the last few years Latvians have employed the term the Amber Gateway much less, but still the idea persists. It has to be underlined that in the case of the Amber Gateway, as in the case of the Yuleland, the names have been derived from the more or less not-too-serious personal initiatives of foreign ministers, and hence these labels have not been adopted widely by the public. Still, I would argue that they have reflected more general efforts to relocate and reidentify the place of Estonia and Latvia in Europe. Ilves’ and Birkavs’ initiatives have been, however, the only cases in which the new Europes of Estonia and Latvia have been named and thus also more precisely defined. To conclude, it can be argued that the Baltic Sea region has been far less important for the Estonians and Latvians than it has been for the Scandinavians. The idea of a Baltic Europe has remained somehow strange for them. Their national identities have run up against the exclusive East-West division and are anchored in territorial states. Thus, larger spatial images serve an instrumental role for making a nation-state secure. On the other hand, western initiatives for the Baltic Sea region have been so strong and aggressive that it has not been possible to deny their existence. Yet these new spatial images have been adapted to fit in to Estonian and Latvian ideas on Europe. Spatial images arising from the Baltic lands themselves are still shaping the Europe of the East-West division, as in the case of Yule-land. The Latvian vision of the Amber Gateway, which does not exclude Russia, is the only Baltic initiative aimed at softening the straitjacket of the East-West controversy. A BALTIC EUROPE What is happening to a Baltic Europe? As Ole Wæver argued a couple years ago, the Baltic Sea region is very real because as an image it exists in texts and it is used as a self-evident reason in the foreign policy of the Baltic Sea states but also
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among business people and in cultural co-operation.105 Baltic Europe is used for organizing space and time. And, most Baltic Sea countries have an interest in keeping Baltic Sea co-operation alive and well and even in developing it. It is obvious that a new space to bring together the former East and West in the European North has been found, possessed and named during the last decade. But it still has several names, various meanings and manifold aims. All these new narratives are reorganizing post-Cold War space and they include a new interpretation of the past. Story-telling is going on and it is still an open and flexible process. Nonetheless, a Baltic Europe has already received its foundational narrative(s). And, even if the process is still going on, some limits have already been set. Introducing a new name and narrative might still be possible, but the existing images, the BSA in particularly, have already built so strong a position that it is not so easy to contest them. Nevertheless, the newest approaches, the Northern Dimension Initiative as well as the Estonian Yule-land and the Latvian Amber Gateway, have met with at least some responses in their own countries. Each nation seemingly has its own Baltic Europe or northern Europe. Still, Baltic identity, regardless of its meaning in each case, is without a doubt always part of a European self-identity. The plurality of the Baltics should not necessarily be regarded as a problem, although it might be an obstacle to the spread and acceptance of a strong Baltic identity. On the other hand, as a spatial image, Baltic Europe is perhaps not the kind of modern ‘supra-identity’ that will be adopted by the large masses or in a uniform way. Instead, it is perhaps a vague political and cultural identity for helping old nations to redefine their place in a new Europe. It can be called a trans-national identity, because it is shared by many nations. However, it is not intended to challenge national identities or to construct a new supra-identity. I would also argue that through these new narratives, nations are breaking the limits of current territorial states but without challenging state sovereignty as such. Baltic Europe provides a starting point for imagining a more open, multicultural, less bordered and multiple Europe. It is not yet a post-national Europe, but can be regarded as a kind of meeting-place of nations, states and other actors such as provinces, towns and NGOs. The narrative on a Baltic Europe is based on the transparency of the East-West division and if this kind of imagining became impossible it would mean an end to the current Baltic Europe, too. Baltic Europe is an open project without any clear boundaries or unanimously accepted boundaries; it represents non-sovereign territoriality in the best sense. NOTES 1. D.Kirby, Northern Europe in the Early Modern Period. The Baltic World 1492– 1772 (Harlow: Longman, 1990); D.Kirby, The Baltic World 1772–1993. Europe’s
POSSESSING A BALTIC EUROPE 41
2.
3.
4.
5.
Northern Periphery in an Age of Change (Harlow: Longman, 1995); M.Klinge, The Baltic World (Helsinki: Otava, 1994). Kirby’s and Klinge’s books both concentrate on giving a general outline of the history of realms and nations around the Baltic rim. The Baltic Sea Area constitutes for them a framework of historical drama, but they are not worried too much about defining the Baltic Sea Area. Still, Kirby is talking about Europe’s northern periphery as characterized by a harsh climate but also East-West controversies. Klinge has used three dichotomies for defining a region: German-non-German; city-countryside; and empire-periphery. By the second he is referring to the influence of great centres such as St Petersburg and by the third to the dominance of the region by several empires, the Swedish, Russian and German. Kirby and Klinge both emphasize issues that are partly controversial, such as the German, Swedish or Russian dominance of the area, or of a rather apologetic kind, about peripheriality, that their narratives have not been applied as such by politicians and other region-builders who have been looking for more harmonious stories. Thus, the general discourse on the Baltic Sea Area and the ‘professional’ study on its history have remained more or less separate debates. They are both nonetheless expressions of the same Zeitgeist. See also M.Lehti, ‘Mapping the Study of the Baltic Sea Area: From Nation-Centric to Multinational Identity’, Journal of Baltic Studies, 33, 4 (2002). L.Wolff, Inventing Eastern Europe. The Map of Civilization on the Mind of the Enlightenment (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1994). There are also other highly interesting studies on the naming of spatial images. E.Said’s book Orientalism (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1978) has been a classic for a long time. M.Todorova’s book Imagining the Balkans (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997) dealing with the genealogy of the image of the Balkans is another stimulating study. E.Ringmar, Identity, Interest and Action. A Cultural Explanation of Sweden’s Intervention in the Thirty Years’ War (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), pp. 83–7; J.Der Derrian, ‘S/N: International Theory, Balkanization and the New World Order’, in M.Ringrose and A.J.Lerner (eds), Reimagining the Nation (Buckingham: Open University Press, 1993), p. 101. O.Wæever, ‘From Nordism to Baltism’, in S.Jervell et al (eds), The Baltic Sea Area. A Region in the Making (Karlskrona: Baltic Institute, 1992), p. 300. On the new regionally and the change of political spatiality see also, e.g., T.Forsberg, ‘Beyond Sovereignty, Within Territoriality. Mapping the Space of Late-Modern (Geo) Polities’, Cooperation and Conflict, 31, 4 (1996), pp. 355–86; A.Paasi, The Political Geography of Boundaries at the End of the Millennium: Challenges of the De-territorializing World’ and T.Christiansen and P.Joenniemi, ‘Politics on the Edge: On the Restructuring of Borders in the North of Europe’, both in H. Eskelinen, I.Liikanen and J.Oksa (eds), Curtains of Iron and Gold. Reconstructing Borders and Scales of Interaction (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1999). See, e.g., J.Camilleri and J.Falk, The End of Sovereignty? The Politics of a Shrinking and Fragmenting World (Cheltenham: Edward Elgar, 1992), pp. 54–66, 237–41; G.Gottlieb, Nation Against State. A New Approach to Ethnic Conflicts and Decline of Sovereignty (New York: Council of Foreign Relations Press, 1993), pp. 15–19; B. Heuser, ‘Sovereignty, Self-Determination, and Security: New World Orders in the Twentieth Century’, in S.H.Hashmi (ed.), State Sovereignly. Change
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6. 7.
8. 9.
10. 11.
12.
13. 14.
15.
16. 17. 18. 19.
and Persistence in International Relations (Pennsylvania: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1997), p. 99. The return of the North is analysed more closely in Chapter 5 of this volume. For political developments at the turn of 1980s and 1990s see, e.g., D.J.Smith, Estonia: Independence and Integration (London and New York: Routledge, 2001); J.Dreifelds, Latvia in Transition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996). For more about Finnish policy during the Cold War see Chapter 4. K.Hovi, ‘The Nordic Research on the Relations Between the Nordic Countries and the Baltic States in the Twentieth Century’, in K.Hovi (ed.), Relations Between the Nordic Countries and the Baltic Nations in the Twentieth Century, Publication of the Institute of History Nr 15 (Turku: University of Turku, 1998). Helsingin Sanomat (HS), 16 October 1988, 23 June, 16 September and 4 November 1989. M.Lehti, ‘Fennomaanit Suomen siltaa rakentamassa’, in Faravid. PohjoisSuomen Historiallisen Yhdistyksen vuosikirja 1/7/1993; M.Lehti, ‘Suomi Viron isoveljenä. Suomalais-virolaisten suhteiden kääntöpuoli’, in K.Immonen and T.Onnela (eds), Suomi ja Viro-yhdessä ja erikseen (Turku: Turun yliopisto, historian laitos, julkaisuja no.44, 1998); M.Lehti, 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 (Frankfurt-am-Main: Peter Lang, 1999), pp. 213–19. S.Makinda, ‘Sovereignty and Global Security’, Security Dialogue, 29, 3 (1998), pp. 284–5; Heuser, ‘Sovereignty, Self-Determination, and Security’, p. 88. See also M.Lehti, ‘Sovereignty Redefined: Baltic Cooperation and the Limits of National Self-Determination’, Cooperation and Conflict, 34, 4 (1999), pp. 425–6. E.g., HS, 13 August 1989. Cf. similar experiences during the inter-war years. M.Lehti, ‘Suomalaisten Tallinnan-matkailun alkuvaiheet. Tallinna fennomaanien silmin 1800-luvun jälkimmäisellä puoliskolla’, in T.Syrjämaa (ed.), Matkakuumetta. Matkailun ja turismin historiaa (Turku: Turun yliopisto, historian laitos, julkaisuja no. 31, 1994), p. 100. E.g., HS, 15 and 16 October, 18, 20 and 24 November 1988, 29 July 1989. HS, 9 March 1993; Keski-ja Itä-Euroopan toimintaohjelma. Toimintastrategia (Ulkoasianministeriön julkaisuja 5/1993); K. Koivumaa, ‘Venäjän auttaminen ei helppoa: Lähialueiden auttaminen on Suomen prioriteetti’, Ulkopolitiikka 1/1992; H.Kuismin, ‘Suomen lähialueyhteistyö: Kankkulan kaivo vai kansallinen etu?’, Ulkopolitiikka 3/1997. Finnish views on the BSA were dominated for a long time by Realpolitik. See, e.g., Kalevi Sorsa, ‘Itämeren suhteissa monia jännitteitä’, Turun Sanomat (TS) 29 December 1996; M.H., ‘Suomi ja Itämeren alueen turvallisuus’, Kanava 7/1996. Mare Balticum. Talouden ja kulttuurin meri (Helsinki: EVA, 1990), p. 1. Framtider International, the New Hansa, 1 (1991); TS, 3 July 1990; HS, 3 and 17 July 1991. Parliamentary Conference on Co-operation in the Baltic Sea Area. Helsinki, 7–9 January 1991. J.Hackmann, ‘Not Only Hansa. Images of History in the Baltic Sea Region’, Mare Balticum (Lübeck-Travemünde: Ostsee-Akademie, 1996), pp. 27–9. Nonetheless, even if the Hansa-image had been abandoned at national level, local actors would still use the Hanseatic past in their foundational narratives. A good example is the
POSSESSING A BALTIC EUROPE 43
20.
21. 22.
23. 24.
25. 26. 27.
28.
29.
30. 31.
32. 33. 34.
town of Turku, which proudly defines itself as ‘the only Finnish city ever to have been closely connected with the old Hanseatic league; a league which included some 200 European towns’. Here the Hansa is used as an argument for the uniqueness of Turku in comparison with other Finnish towns. Turku-region (Painoprisma, 1999), p. 64. P.Männikkö, ‘Periferiasta yhteistyön moottoriksi. Itämeren alueen yhteistyö Schleswig-Holsteinin osavaltion poliittisessa keskustelussa 1988–1995’ (unpublished M.A.thesis, Department of Contemporary History, University of Turku, 2001), pp. 8–12. B.Engholm, ‘Ars Baltica. Towards a New Understanding’, Framtider International, the New Hansa, 1 (1991), pp. 5–6. Hackmann ‘Not Only Hansa’, pp. 26–7. See also B.Engholm, ‘Im Norden des neuen Europas: Eine neue Hanse?’ and M.Engelbrecht, ‘Die Ostsee als historischer Wirtschaftsraum’, NORDEUROPAforum, 4 (1991). Mare Balticum. Ostseegesellschaft, 1989–95. Mare Balticum. Ein Landtagsforum am 9. März 1989 im Schleswig-Holsteinischen Landtag (Rendsburg, 1989); Chancen einer stärkeren Einbindung SchleswigHolsteins in den Ostseeraum. Abschlussbericht der 2. Projektgruppe der Denkfabrik SchleswigHolstein (Kiel, 1990). Christiansen and Joenniemi, ‘Politics on the Edge’, p. 91. See, e.g., Kalevi Sorsa’s opening speech at the Parliamentary Conference on Cooperation in the Baltic Sea Area, Helsinki, 7–9 January 1991, pp 6–16. On the Helsinki Commission (HELCOM) see, e.g., HELCOM. 20 years of International Cooperation for the Baltic Marine Environments 1974–1994 (Helsinki, 1994). Among the few exceptions are M.Männikkö, ‘Itämeren piiri historiallisena käsitteenä. Ongelmia ja näkökohtia’, Faravid (1979) and K.Zernack, ‘KoillisEuroopan historian peruskysymyksiä’, Faravid (1981). See also S.Troebst, ‘Nordosteuropa: Geschichtsregion mit Zukunft’, NORDEUROPAforum, 1 (1999). For more about the genealogy of the Baltic Sea see Chapter 3; also Lehti, ‘Mapping the Study of the Baltic Sea Area’. Co-operation in the Baltic Sea Region: Needs and Prospects, ed. P.Joenniemi (Tampere: Tampere Peace Research Institute, 1991); The Baltic Sea Area: A Region in the Making, ed. S.Jervell, M.Kukk and P.Joenniemi (Oslo: EuropaProgrammet, 1992). Wæver, ‘From Nordism to Baltism’, pp. 27–8. S.Jervell, ‘Norden i en ny europeisk arkitektur, in Parlamentarikernas roll i regionernas Europa. Rapport från Nordiska rådets seminarium i Snekkersten 13 November 1990 (Malmö: Nordiska Rådet, 1990), pp. 32–46. Engholm, ‘Ars Baltica’. Männikkö, Periferiasta yhteistyön moottoriksi, p. 21. Copenhagen Declaration, Conference of Foreign Ministers of the Baltic Sea States, Copenhagen, 5–6 March 1992 (http://www.cbss.st/documents/foundingdocs/ dbafile751.html); Council of the Baltic Sea States, special issue of the CBSS Monitor, on the occasion of the 3rd CBSS ministerial session in Tallinn, 24–25 May 1994, pp. 4–9. See also C-E.Stålvant, The Council of Baltic Sea States’, in A.Cottey (ed.), Subregional Cooperation in the New Europe. Building Security,
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35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40.
41.
42.
43.
44. 45. 46. 47.
48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54.
55.
Prosperity and Solidarity from the Barents to the Black Sea (London: Palgrave, 1999), pp. 56–7. Opening statement by Mr Uffe Ellemann-Jensen, 5 March 1992, Council of the Baltic Sea States, CBSS Monitor, p. 8. Parliamentary Conference on Co-operation in the Baltic Sea Area, Helsinki, 7–9 January 1991. See, e.g., web-pages of the Estonian Investment Agency, http://www.eia.ee Engholm, ‘Ars Baltica’. Carl Bildt, ‘Ruotsi ja Baltian maat, Kanava, 1 (1994). J.Fitzmaurice, The Baltic. A Regional Future (New York: St Martin’s Press, 1992), p. 149; M.Lehti, ‘Yli Itämeren—Baltianja Skandinavian yhteys 1920-ja 1990luvuilla’, Ulkopolitiikka, 4 (1995), pp. 21–6; P.Kyhn, ‘Aspects of Recognition. Denmark’s Relations to the Baltic States and Non-Recognition 1940– 1991’, in Hovi, Relations Between the Nordic Countries, pp. 245–50. B.Henningsen, ‘The Swedish Construction of Nordic Identity’, in Ø.Sørensen and B.Stråth (eds), The Cultural Construction of Norden (Oslo: Scandinavian University Press, 1997), p. 93. U.Østergard, ‘The Nordic Countries in the Baltic Region’, in P.Joenniemi (ed.), Neo-Nationalism or Regionally. The Restructuring of Political Space Around the Baltic Rim (Stockholm: NordRefo, 1997), p. 27; M.Lehti, ‘Non-Reciprocal RegionBuilding. Baltoscandia as a National Coordinate for the Estonians, Latvians and Lithuanians’, NORDEUROPAforum, 2 (1998), p. 36. U.Østergård, ‘The Geopolitics of Nordic Identity. From Composite States to Nation-States’, in Sørensen and Stråth, The Cultural Construction of Norden, pp. 58–9. Council of the Baltic Sea States, CBSS Monitor, pp. 10, 18–19. Communiqué, 2nd ministerial session, Helsinki, 16–17 March 1993. Report of the Committee of Senior Officials, Council of the Baltic Sea States, 3rd ministerial session, Tallinn, 24–25 May 1994. Communiqué, Council of the Baltic Sea States, 5th ministerial session, Kalmar, 2–3 July 1996; Action Programmes for the Baltic Sea States Co-operation. See the web pages of the CBSS (http://www.cbss.st/documents/cbsspresidencies 4swedish/ dbafile517.htm). Final Documents of the BSSSC Conferences. HS, 3 July and 29 November 1989; Uusi Suomi (US), 17 April 1990. Koivumaa, ‘Venäjän auttaminen ei helppoa’; Kuismin, ‘Suomen lähialueyhteistyö’. Council of the Baltic Sea States, 5th ministerial session, Kalmar 2–3 July 1996; Action Programmes for the Baltic Sea States Co-operation. Working Group on Nuclear and Radiation Safety. Terms of reference, see Council of the Baltic Sea States, CBSS Monitor, p. 21. Ringmar, Identity, Interest and Action, pp. 75–8. See, e.g., R.Kuusisto, Western Definitions of War in the Gulf and in Bosnia: The Rhetorical Frameworks of the United States, British and French Leaders in Action (Helsinki: Finnish-Society of Sciences and Letters, 1999), pp. 22–35. I.B.Neumann, ‘A Region-Building Approach to Northern Europe’, Review of International Studies, 20 (1994), p. 58 (italics mine).
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56. O.Wæver, ‘The Baltic Sea: A Region after Post-Modernity?’, in Joenniemi, NeoNationalism or Regionally, pp. 293–7. 57. Björn Engholm is good example of a politician adapting the rhetoric of political science to his own future visions. ‘In a future Europe, the importance of regions will shift. Allow me to risk the following statement: the new European supraregions will not only be defined by national boundaries, and I might add— they shouldn’t be,’ he declared in Kotka in the summer of 1990, and he used scientific rhetoric for constructing a political vision. Engholm, ‘Ars Baltica’. 58. Kalevi Sorsa’s opening speech at the Parliamentary Conference on Co-operation in the Baltic Sea Area, Helsinki, 7–9 January 1991, pp. 11–12; Framtider International, the New Hansa, 1 (1991). 59. Co-operation in the Baltic Sea Area. Report from the 2nd parliamentary conference at Storting, Oslo, 22–24 April 1992 (Copenhagen: Nordic Council, 1992). 60. Parliamentary Conference on Co-operation in the Baltic Sea Area, Helsinki, 7–9 January 1991. Pertti Joenniemi is a contributor to this volume, too, and the argument given above is based on a conversation with him. 61. Stålvant, ‘Council of Baltic Sea States’, pp. 56–65. 62. T.Suominen, E.Antola and H.Haukkala, Networks in the Baltic Sea Region (Turku: Turku University Press, 2000). 63. The islands are Saaremaa and Hiiumaa in Estonia, the Åland Islands in Finland, Rügen in Germany, Gotland and Öland in Sweden and Bornholm in Denmark. 64. M.Lehti, ‘Competing or Complementary Images: The North and the Baltic World from the Historical Perspective’, in H.Haukkala (ed.), Dynamic Aspects of the Northern Dimension (Turku: Turku University Press, 1999), pp. 38–41; Lehti, ‘Sovereignty Redefined’, pp. 433–6. 65. A.D.Smith, The Ethnic Origin of Nations (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1986), pp. 191– 200. See also F.Cerutti, ‘Political Identity and Conflict: A Comparison of Definitions’, in F.Cerutti and R.Ragionieri (eds), Identities and Conflicts. The Mediterranean (London: Palgrave, 2001), pp. 9–17. Cerutti recalls that not all identity-building constructs walls against others as, for example, Samuel Huntington is arguing. 66. S.Jervell, ‘Ende einer Eiszeit’, NORDEUROPAforum, 4 (1991). 67. Copenhagen Declaration, Conference of Foreign Ministers of the Baltic Sea States. Copenhagen, 5–6 March 1992 (http://www.baltinfo.org/docs/declar.htm); ‘Regional Cooperation in the Baltic Sea Area’, Council of Baltic Sea States, CBSS Monitor, p. 14. 68. H.Dahlberg, Östersjön. Kampen om ett hav 862–1990 (Legenda: Boras, 1990), p. 7. 69. Engelbrecht, ‘Die Ostsee als historischer Wirtschaftsraum’. 70. See also Chapter 3 below. 71. See, e.g., Lehti , ‘Competing or Complementary Images’, pp. 32–3. See Chapter 5 for more about the genealogy of the North. 72. Lehti, Baltic League as a Construct of the New Europe; Lehti, ‘Non-Reciprocal Region-Building’. 73. Hackmann, ‘Not Only Hansa’, p. 25. 74. K.Gerner, ‘Centres and Peripheries: a tentative beginning’, paper presented at the Baltic Sea Region Identity Workshop held in Gdansk on 6–9 April 2000.
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75. About the division of identities based on ‘origin myths’ and ‘foundational narratives’ see Cerutti, ‘Political Identity and Conflict’, pp. 18–19. 76. H.White, Metahistory. The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth-Century Europe (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1973), pp. 1–11. 77. On how national spaces are emphasized in the Baltic states see, e.g., K. Jurgaitiene and P.Järve, ‘The Baltic States: Re-Nationalisation of Political Space’, in Joenniemi, Neo-Nationalism or Regionality; P.Vihalemm, ‘Changing National Spaces in the Baltic Sea Area’, in M.Lauristin and P.Vihalemm (eds), Return to the Western World. Cultural and Political Perspectives on the Estonian Post-Communist Transition (Tartu: Tartu University Press, 1997). 78. In Chapter 5 the NDI is analysed more closely as well as the genealogy of the North and northernness. 79. H.Haukkala, ‘Introduction’, in Haukkala, Dynamic Aspects of the Northern Dimension, pp. 11–14. 80. See further, P.Joenniemi, ‘The Barents Euro-Arctic Council’, in A.Cottey (ed.), Subregional Cooperation in the New Europe. Building Security, Prosperity and Solidarity from the Barents to the Black Sea (London: Palgrave, 1999). 81. Lehti, ‘Competing or Complementary Images’, p. 26. On global northernness see, e.g., K.Coates, ‘The Discovery of the North: Towards a Conceptual Framework for the Study of Northern/Remote Regions’, Northern Review, 12/13 (1993/1994), pp. 15–43. 82. Lipponen, ‘Pohjoinen ulottuvuus Itämeren alueen ykköshanke’, HS, 10 May 2000. 83. P.Jukarainen, ‘Norden is Dead—Long Live the Eastwards Faced Euro-North: Geopolitical Re-making of Norden in a Nordic Journal’, Cooperation and Conflict, 34, 4 (1999). 84. The Baltic Sea Region, Business and Industry, Politics, Developments and Trends (Bollschweil: Hagbarth Publications, 1998). 85. See, e.g., the statements of Heikki Savolahti from the Finnish Foreign Trade Association in his article ‘Finland—The Business Center of the New Northern Europe’, in ibid., p. 86. 86. Haukkala, ‘Introduction’, pp. 14–15. A similar kind of definition but without Russia, Germany and Poland, is seen in the pages of the new business magazine Northern Enterprise: Northern Europe’s Business Magazine (2000) pp. 1–12. 87. J.Käkönen, ‘Local Dimension and Regionalisation: The Northern Perpheries’, in L.Heininen and J.Käkönen (eds), The New North Europe. Perspectives on the Northern Dimension (Tampere: Tampere Peace Research Institute, 1998); L. Heininen, Euroopan pohjoinen 1990-luvulla. Moniulotteisten ja ristiriitaisten intressien alue (Rovaniemi, 1999); L.Heininen, Viikingit Pohjolaa laajentamassa (Rovaniemi: Lapin Yliopisto, 1998). 88. H.Haukkala, ‘The Battle of the Northern Dimension: The Diverging Interests and Strategies in the Formation of a Regional Cooperation Scheme’, paper presented at the Thinking Europe: The Northern Experience symposium held at Eckerö, Åland, 5 June 2000. 89. On this history see, e.g., Lehti, Baltic League as a Construct of the New Europe, pp. 319–27, 491–502. About the situation in the early 1990s, see e.g., W.Agrell, ‘Suomi harmaalla vyöhykkeellä’, Ulkopolitiikka, 2 (1994). 90. More about change in the Finnish regional discourses can be found in Chapter 4. 91. See, e.g., Smith, Estonia: Independence and European Integration, pp. 164–72.
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92. L.Meri, ‘Eurooppa on Viron ohjelma!’ HS, 2 December 1990. See also ‘Back to Europe’, a speech given at the European Council on 13 May 1993, in L. Meri, Tulen maasta, jonka nimi on Viro (Helsinki: Otava, 1995), p. 133. 93. ‘Where does Europe End?’, Meri, Tulen maasta, jonka nimi on Viro, p. 154. 94. Remarks by T.H.Ilves, Rome, 29 March, 1997, ‘Estonia’s Return to Europe’. See the web pages of the Estonian Ministry of Foreign Affairs (http://www. vm.ee/eng/ kat_140/arkiiv/kuup_1997). 95. L.Meri, ‘Yhteinen meri, yhteinen horisontti’, HS, 15 March 1992; ‘Heirs of the Baltic Sea’, Meri’s speech in Denmark, 12 April 1994, Meri, Tulen maasta, jonka nimi on Viro, pp. 221–2. 96. Lehti, ‘Non-Reciprocal Region-Building’. 97. Meri, ‘Eurooppa on Viron ohjelma!’ At the same time as Meri, Toivo Kuldsepp, deputy foreign minister of Estonia, expressed an identical idea in his article ‘Estonia and Norden’, in which he declares that ‘We Estonians have always felt we belong to the Nordic world.’ T.Kuldsepp, ‘Viro ja Pohjola. Takaisin Eurooppaan’, Kanava (1991), p. 47; US, 6 June 1991. 98. Speech by T.H.Ilves to the Swedish Institute for International Affairs, 14 December 1999, ‘Estonia as a Nordic Country’ (http://www.vm.ee/eng/ pressreleases/speeches/Ilves_stockl412.html) 99. Nonetheless just recently criticism about Ilves’ exclusive statements concerning the other Baltic states have been heard especially from business leaders. 100. K.Raik, ‘Estonian Perspectives on the Northern Dimension’, in Haukkala, Dynamic Aspects of the Northern Dimension, pp. 155–63. 101. Speech by the Foreign Minister of Latvia H.E. Mr Indulis Bērzinš, ‘Latvia and Europe: Common Values, Common Goals’, London, 23 January 2000. Speech by Bērzinš, ‘Latvian Foreign Policy and the Development of Northern Europe’, Riga, December 1999 (kat_140/arkiiv/kuup_1999). Speech by Bērzinš, ‘European and Transatlantic Integration—Motor for Baltic Co-operation’, Riga, 3 December 1999. All of the speeches listed in notes 101–103 can be found in the archive of the web pages of the Latvian Ministry of Foreign Affairs (http://www.mfa.gov.lv/ engl). 102. Speech by the Minister of Foreign Affairs of the Republic of Latvia at the 15th session of the Baltic Assembly (italics mine). 103. Concluding remarks by Dr Valdis Birkavs, Minister of Foreign Affairs at the conference ‘Security and Prosperity in the Baltic Sea Region’, 17 November 1997. Address by Mr Guntis Ulmanis, President of the Republic of Latvia at the Swedish Foreign Policy Institute Stockholm, 25 November 1997. Speech by H.E. Dr Valdis Birkavs, ‘Between Europe and Eurasia: Latvia’s Developing Regional Role’, Houston, Texas, 21 April 1998. 104. Lehti, Baltic League as a Construct of the New Europe, pp. 310–18. 105. Wæver, ‘Baltic Sea’, p. 306.
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2 Nordic Near Abroad or New Northern Europe? Perspectives on Post-Cold War Regional Cooperation in the Baltic Sea Area DAVID J.SMITH
The partition of Europe is a thing of the past. The political and economic geography has been changed. Co-operation and dialogue are the key concepts of the 90s. Regional co-operation, which cuts across the previous divide between East and West, is of particular importance. It contributes to European integration and greater stability. (Uffe Ellemann-Jensen, Danish minister for foreign affairs at the first ministerial session of the Council of the Baltic Sea States, Copenhagen, March 1992)1 Talk of bridging East and West has been a recurrent feature of the various regionbuilding projects that have emerged in northern Europe over the past decade. Uffe Ellemann-Jensen’s statement from 1992, for instance, would be equally applicable to Finland’s 1997 Northern Dimension Initiative (NDI), which has been mooted as a co-ordinating mechanism for existing organizations seeking to promote greater cooperation between the Nordic and Baltic countries and Russia. Perhaps the most distinctive feature of the NDI has been the scope of its ambition. Conceived as an instrument of EU rather than simply Finnish or regional policy, it has placed particular emphasis on the need to draw Russia more firmly into the current construction of a ‘new’ Europe. Indeed, in the words of one of the key ‘region-builders’ behind the project, the NDI represents ‘an attempt to unify the whole [of] Europe instead of strengthening the old historical division…into Roman and Byzantine parts’.2 Nearly ten years on from the inaugural session of the CBSS, this chapter assesses the nature and progress of attempts to build ‘a cohesive Baltic region which would become a model of growth and stability—a “New Northern Europe”’.3 Contrary to some of the claims emanating from this quarter, however, it will argue that there is some way to go before existing geopolitical categories in the region (East, West, Nordic) give way to a new expanded and unifying concept of ‘northernness’. As well bringing into focus broader geopolitical conceptions of East, West and North, recent initiatives have also raised interesting questions concerning the role of states and nations within the regionalizing process. For some authors, the term ‘new northern Europe’ is clearly synonymous with a post-modern turn of events
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in which state sovereignty (and its concomitant sharp distinction between the ‘inside’ and the ‘outside’) has ceased to be the main defining feature of international relations. In their contribution to the present volume, for instance, Pertti Joeniemmi and Marko Lehti assert that the influence of the traditional logic of realpolitik…has declined in importance. The categories of ‘us’ and ‘them’ are no longer as strictly separated from each other as they used to be, and it may also be observed that the needs of the former do not automatically take priority over the latter. Such a hierarchy has now become far less distinct as exemplified by an increasing number of trans-border projects.4 That Nordic peace researchers in particular express such views is hardly surprising, for this group is inspired by a normative agenda that seeks to overcome the divisive power of national boundaries and to forge a new imagined community in the interests of peace and stability. This same peace research community has of course also had considerable input into policy discussions surrounding the Baltic Sea Area. Nonetheless, I would argue that talk of the interests of ‘them’ being on a par with those of ‘us’ remains more a reflection of wishful thinking than an accurate portrayal of recent developments in the region. That the nature and role of the state changed in response to the pressures of globalization and Europeanization cannot be doubted. The altered balance of the state-society relationship and the relative decline of military issues on the agenda of international relations in the wake of the Cold War has afforded new opportunities to civilian and non-state actors with an interest in co-operation, integration and region-building.5 Even so, the experience of the past decade suggests that states are still the defining actors in the regionalization process, whilst the nation itself remains the central referant in identity politics. This latter contention, moreover, is as true for an allegedly ‘post-modern’ West as it is for the still ‘modernizing’ states to the east of the former Iron Curtain. All too often, it seems, initiatives such as the NDI are portrayed as some kind of altruistic exercise in debordering and embracing the eastern ‘other’. Behind the region-building rhetoric, however, there lurk clear considerations of national self-interest, not least (to use the NDI example) the significant benefits that Finnish business might derive from an intensification of co-operation between the European Union and Russia. By this reading, the neighbouring territories of the former eastern bloc remain very much part of a Nordic Near Abroad, to use David Arter’s phrase.6 The vision of a new northern European identity region can thus be construed as an attempt to control and shape these territories in a direction that enhances the Nordic nations’ own security, economic development and political influence within the wider Europe. This raises the obvious question of whether the Nordic blueprint for the region is in tune with the priorities not just of other EU member states, but also of those actors lying to the east of the former Iron Curtain.
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EAST AND WEST IN THE NEW EUROPE Current regionalizing projects in northern Europe must be viewed within the wider context created by the end of the Cold War and the dramatic events of 1989–91 in central and eastern Europe (CEE) and the USSR. In the immediate term, the end of Cold War bi-polarity diminished the status of Norden as an interstate grouping between the hitherto dominant categories of East and West, paving the way for enlargement of the European Union to Sweden and Finland. At the same time, the CEE states launched their own bids for membership of the European Union, NATO and the Council of Europe. First and foremost, perhaps, these organizations were deemed to have provided the basis for an era of unparalleled peace and prosperity in post-war western Europe. At the same time, integration with the West represented a means of avoiding a recurrence of the ‘worst case scenarios’ of history, such as the inter-war period, when the successor states of CEE found themselves consigned to a ‘Europe between’ a revisionist Germany and Soviet Russia. In the face of impotence and indifference from the western allies, they eventually fell prey to the ambitions of two totalitarian regimes.7 Whilst the post-war integration of Germany into the EU and NATO and the collapse of the USSR may have removed these traditional threats, the lines of a ‘new’ post-Cold War Europe have yet to clearly emerge.8 For the CEE states, however, ‘returning to Europe’ has proved to be a far less straightforward endeavour than was originally anticipated at the start of the 1990s, when the peoples of the region tended to regard their membership of the ‘family of democratic European nations’ as axiomatic.9 Although the Cold War political partition has now plainly been laid to rest, the imagined East-West division of Europe is of much older historical provenance, and was not about to disappear overnight. From a western point of view, the former Soviet bloc was reconceptualized as a post-socialist eastern ‘other’, which was to be held at arm’s length until it could prove its ‘European’ (i.e. western) credentials. In his now familiar (and much maligned) ‘end of history’ thesis, American author Francis Fukuyama suggested that the only viable course open to the postcommunist countries was to adopt the political values and economic system of the West.10 According to Graham Smith, Fukuyama’s thesis is far from being merely ‘an intellectual interpretation’; rather, it has ‘[underpinned] the prevailing attitude of most western states and global financial organizations’.11 It is reflected in IMFimposed restructuring programmes and the conditions that the Council of Europe, the EU and NATO have set for applicant states in the area of market reform, democratic institutions, respect for and protection of minorities, and settlement of border disputes. It is also apparent in the discourse on Baltic Sea regionbuilding. In his March 1992 address, for instance, Ellemann-Jensen stated that the progressive development of co-operation in the Baltic Sea region will depend upon the emergence of stable democracies and the pursuit of vigorous economic reforms to build market economies. The countries on
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the western shores of the Baltic Sea must contribute to this development within the framework of regional co-operation…although co-operation between countries with different systems and values is possible, cooperation only really flourishes between countries which share the same values.12 In short, regionalization has formed part of a broader endeavour designed to bring ‘order’ to the post-socialist East and enhance the economic interests and societal security of the West. On the one hand, Eastern Europe has been cast as a source of new markets and cheap labour for western industry. At the same time, however, the current economic and political transition is seen to present new security threats, such as organized crime, illegal migration and ethnic conflict.13 Many commentators in the former socialist countries have been understandably affronted at being cast as ‘wayward barbarians at the gates’ and have accused the West of both patronizing superiority and double standards in its attitudes to the region.14 Finally, one can say that from the perspective of the CEE nations, ‘Europe’ has presented something of a ‘moving target’; the norms underpinning the conditions for EU membership have been necessarily vague, reflecting the wide variety of existing practices in the West, and this has led to a fear that goalposts might be shifted on political grounds.15 By way of example, one could cite recent demands that the populations of the current CEE candidate states should be subject to a seven-year moratorium on free movement following their entry to the Union, without any reciprocal restriction on the rights of westerners to buy land in the new member states. Thus far, western equivocation and eastern frustrations have not contrived to derail the enlargement process. However, whereas the CEE nations remain prospective members of the western club, the same cannot be said of Russia. As Fami Aalto and Hiski Haukkala point out in Chapters 11 and 12 below, it is in the differentiation between CEE on the one hand and Russia and the CIS on the other that the reconfiguration of the East-West divide has been most apparent. Whilst western order-building processes clearly have been extended to Russia, full membership of the EU is not on the agenda, either in the short or medium term. Eventual NATO membership is perhaps a more likely scenario, and is at least mooted in some academic and political circles. Even so, the post-Cold War relationship between Russia and the Euro-Atlantic space seems to rest upon a mutual understanding that Russia still constitutes a great power and a separate pole within the international system. As such, the age-old debate about Russia’s relationship to Europe and the West appears as alive as ever in the wake of the Soviet collapse. In the West, Fukuyama’s optimistic vision of the post-Cold War world has since been challenged by Samuel Huntington’s notion of a civilizational divide separating Russia and the West.16 As Chapter 10 makes clear, Europe remains a crucial co-ordinate in the construction of Russia’s self-image. Nevertheless, the liberal pan-Atlanticist vision pronounced by Russian leaders during the early
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1990s quickly gave way to a statist discourse stressing Russia’s distinctiveness as a ‘Eurasian’ power and its right to a leading role within the ‘Near Abroad’ of the Former Soviet Union. Above all, for our purposes, Russia’s status as the legal successor to the USSR from 1992 meant that it assumed responsibility for the host of unresolved issues stemming from the Soviet occupation of the Baltic states in 1940. This development brought a rapid and perhaps inevitable deterioration in Baltic-Russian relations during 1992, when the Baits’ insistence on the legal continuity of the inter-war republics was met with a Russian refusal to admit that the events of 1940 could be termed an occupation.17 Opinions differ as to whether the Baltic states are included within Russia’s concept of ‘near abroad’; whatever the case, it seems clear that their attempts to break the ‘unilateral dependence’ on the FSU bequeathed by Sovietization is viewed with a fair amount of unease in Moscow. Officially, at least, Russia has not objected to the prospect of EU membership for the Baits, although certain commentators have questioned its sincerity in this regard. In the decade after 1991 Baltic membership of NATO was portrayed as a potentially hostile move that might lead to Russia’s isolation and encirclement Since the start of his presidency, Vladimir Putin has at least recognized the rights of the sovereign Baltic states to choose their own security arrangements. However, he and other members of the Russian government continue to question the need for NATO enlargement to these countries, insisting—as Putin did on 3 September 2001— that this would do nothing to tackle the ‘common threats’ of ‘terrorism, fundamentalism, drugs and the spread of organized crime’. The Baltic-Russian antagonism of the post-Soviet period presented the existing members of NATO with a dilemma. Having upheld Baltic claims to de jure statehood throughout the Cold War and given recognition to the restoration of independence on the basis of legal continuity, they could hardly disregard the Baltic governments’ request for membership. At the same time, however, they have been understandably reluctant to alienate Moscow and risk a return to the kind of overt East-West hostility seen during the Cold War. The response can be seen as an attempt to square the circle: insisting that the door remains open to Baltic NATO membership, the Euro-Atlantic community nevertheless prioritized the goal of EU membership for these countries while simultaneously seeking to forge ‘partnership’ with Russia. In this regard Northern European regionbuilding projects involving Russia were seen as having an important role to play in this strategy of building a new European security community. A NEW REGIONALISM? Far from being just a traditional process of regionalization guided solely by national governments, the Baltic Sea Area has been heavily shaped by ‘bottomup’ regionalism, as evidenced by the active participation of sub-state actors and the presence of extensive society-based networking across borders.18 The formation of the CBSS, for instance, built on a plethora of existing regional
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initiatives by sub-state actors, the most notable being the New Hansa launched by Schleswig-Holstein landpresident, Björn Engholm, in 1988. Recent regionbuilding initiatives must, therefore, also be seen as a response to the processes of economic globalization and ‘Europeanization’, which today challenge the picture of a Europe divided into sovereign states.19 The emergence of a global space for trade and investment has lent greater relevance to sub-national and trans-national regulatory activity, with the institutional context of the European Union creating ‘a political base for building new and more autonomous regional structures’.20 In recognizing that economic growth has begun to follow transnational patterns, national governments have found themselves increasingly compelled to respond to pressures for a more decentralized variant of statehood. Accordingly, they have engaged in regulation and infrastructural development designed to create an integrated regional economic space attractive to foreign investors, while sanctioning crossborder initiatives at the local level.21 At the same time, state governments have clearly been anxious to retain overall control of the process. Indeed, it has been claimed that the Danish and (first and foremost) German governments created the CBSS in order to reassert their authority over a ‘bottom-up’ regionalism that was threatening to get out of hand.22 Such fears appear exaggerated, for experience suggests that substate actors in the region have generally sought to work through the state centre rather than acting in opposition to it.23 In the light of this fact, there seems little evidence to refute Jyrki Käkönen’s claim that northern European regional co-operation is still ‘defined primarily by (nation)states’.24 Calls for greater trans-national co-operation, integration and regionbuilding have after all been only one of the responses to the rapidly evolving international situation. In as much as globalization and Europeanization often carry profoundly disruptive implications for existing societies and cultural identities, they are perhaps equally prone to engender heightened nationalism and calls for a reinforcement rather than further erosion of state sovereignty.25 According to Christiansen, Joenniemi and Lindström, the threat of such a backlash is especially acute in the weaker states of the post-socialist East, which are still in the process of reconstruction or formation.26 There is perhaps some truth in this assertion: for the more ethnically diverse states in particular, the reassertion of sub-state regional and minority identities and calls for trans-national co-operation can all too easily be construed as a dangerous threat to state sovereignty.27 And yet it seems unduly simplistic to speak of a ‘post-modernizing’ West facing a ‘modernizing’ East. As was intimated earlier in this chapter, the struggle to make sense of recent changes is by no means confined merely to the post-socialist countries, but is also apparent in existing EU member states striving to come to terms with deepening integration and the dilemmas of enlargement. In this connection, Judy Batt notes that a smooth, incremental transition to the political unification of a ‘Europe without borders’ can no longer be taken for granted as states and citizens
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show an unexpected attachment to the idea of ‘sovereignty’. National identity is not about to be replaced by an overarching European identity, and European institutions are recognized as suffering a ‘democratic deficit’, being perceived as distant and unaccountable. While the popular legitimacy of national governments and parliaments is also at a low ebb, European citizens seem unwilling to see further erosion of their powers.28 At the same time, as will be discussed later in this chapter, one can point to an increasing emphasis on the protective function of the EU external border, in order to guard against encroachments by ‘outsiders’. As part of an ongoing study of the identity politics of post-communist state transformation, Batt and Kataryna Wolczuk have suggested that earlier work by Clifford Geertz on identity formation in post-colonial Africa and Asia might be germane to understanding recent developments in CEE. In his 1973 article ‘After the Revolution’, Geertz claims that the task of nationalist movements in newly independent states is to define a subject, a collective ‘we’ to which the workings of the state can be connected. In his view, this quest for a national identity in new states revolves around the question of the content, relative weight and proper relationship of two towering abstractions: ‘The Indigenous Way of Life’ and ‘The Spirit of the Age’. To stress the first of these is to look to ‘local mores, established institutions and the unities of common experience—to “tradition”, “culture”, “national character” or even “race”—for the roots of a new identity’. To look to the ‘Spirit of the Age’, on the other hand, is to emphasize ‘the general outlines of the history of our time, and in particular what one takes to be the overall direction and significance of that history’.29 In the context of post-communist CEE, Geertz’s ‘towering abstractions’ might indeed be seen to correspond to the notions of ‘Europeanization’ and ‘National Self-Assertion’, which have permeated debates on state and nation-building over the past decade.30 However, this framework could also be usefully extended to the post-Cold War Europe as a whole. Paraphrasing Geertz, one could argue that there is no European state ‘in which both these themes (“National SelfAssertion” and “Europeanization”)…are not present [in political debate]; few in which they are not thoroughly entangled with one another; and only a small minority in which the tension between them is not invading every aspect of national life’.31 Today, governments everywhere are increasingly compelled to subscribe to the logic of globalization and European integration. Yet, in order to maintain legitimacy, they have to balance this with demands expressed by more nationally (sovereignty) minded circles. As is argued elsewhere in this volume, the image of Europe articulated in a particular country has to be compatible with the pre-existing collective identity of the nation/state.32 The same is true of
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regional images. In this regard, the attitude towards a particular regional formation on the part of a national audience will rest upon the extent to which the region gives that nation greater centrality and ‘customizes’ Europe to suit its needs.33 RESPONSES TO EUROPEANIZATION: THE NORDIC NATIONS From a Nordic perspective, new regional initiatives such as the CBSS and the Northern Dimension have constituted a necessary response to the collapse of the Cold War security framework and the creeping ‘Europeanization’ of Norden, which culminated in Finland and Sweden’s entry to the EU in 1995. From World War Two until the late 1980s, northern Europe was largely synonymous with the Nordic states, which were defined as a distinct identity grouping located between the then dominant geopolitical categories of East and West. In spite of the differing affiliations that they adopted in the aftermath of World War Two, Nordic governments (including the ‘reluctant’ NATO members Denmark and Norway) remained united by an aspiration to maintain a zone of low tension between the two superpower blocs. In realist terms, this aspiration was realized through the concept of the Nordic balance.34 The post-war Nordic security community was grounded in the longstanding desire of all the parties concerned to steer clear of any entanglement in great power politics. However, as had been the case in the League of Nations between the wars, the Nordic states also invested heavily in the concept of common security, arguing that both superpowers had a mutual interest in lowering levels of armaments and building networks of trust. By seeking an enhanced role for the UN and promoting the CSCE process, Sweden and Finland marketed themselves as active neutrals and peace-loving peoples capable of serving as an example to the world. In institutional terms, post-war Nordic co-operation was never any more than a loose arrangement between states with differing economic interests and a strong attachment to national sovereignty. In other ways, however, post-war Norden appeared to be a far more homogeneous entity than the European Union has ever been. The underlying strength of its identity derives from the close linguistic and cultural ties which gave rise to a shared feeling of Scandinavianism alongside clearly defined national identities during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.35 The subsequent emergence of the Nordic welfare model—hailed as an ideal ‘middle way’ between the ideological extremes of left and right— imbued Norden with connotations of a superior civilization vis-à-vis both Sovietstyle socialism and western liberal capitalism. Coupled with considerations of security policy, the sense of distance from ‘Catholic, conservative and capitalist’ mainland Europe does much to explain the lack of enthusiasm for the EEC project, which earned these peoples the epithet of ‘reluctant Europeans’ during the post-war period.36 The early 1970s, however, arguably marked the start of the current Nordic ‘identity crisis’. Henceforth the continued viability of ‘third way’
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welfare capitalism was increasingly called into question, while the Nordic economies were increasingly tied to that of the Community.37 With the end of the Cold War (and the subsequent reunification of Germany), further integration seemed to be the most logical course of action. Once neutrality ceased to act as a constraining factor, Finland and Sweden both launched successful bids for EUmembership during the early 1990s. However, talk of a Nordic ‘domino effect’ was dispelled when Norwegian voters delivered a second ‘no’ vote in the referendum of late 1994. According to some commentators, developments during the 1990s have deprived Nordic identity of much of its relevance. Much of the evidence, however, suggests that the Nordic peoples have hardly welcomed the loss of their distinct status. Uffe Østergård, for instance, has claimed that the majority of Scandinavians were able to live through the Cold War without noticing that they were involved in a virtual war. They thus haven’t noticed that they were on the winning side. If noticed, this confusing state of affairs is often deplored and many long for the bad, but predictable old days.38 As the Norwegian case testifies most graphically, the Nordic peoples’ reputation as reluctant EU members seemingly dies hard. This label is probably least justified in the case of Finland which, as Chapters 4 and 5 point out, always constituted something of an exception in Nordic terms. Finland was by far the most enthusiastic Nordic state in its pursuit of European integration, and its entry into the Union carried at least some echoes of the ‘return to Europe’ rhetoric exhibited by the CEE countries. As well as offering greater security against any potential threat from Russia, EU-membership represented an affirmation of the country’s ‘western’ credentials after a period when it had been seen as a quasisatel-lite state of the USSR. However, notwithstanding the support voiced in some circles, the Finnish rhetoric of ‘return to Europe’ did not translate into widespread calls for NATO membership during the 1990s. Rather, both Finland and Sweden have sought to profit from their new-found freedom of maneouvre by stressing the right of each sovereign state to choose its own security arrangements. In this regard, Carl Bildt’s portrayal of the Baltic states as the ‘litmus test of Russia’s intentions towards Europe’ could be construed as an extension to the wider region of the old ‘Nordic balance’, the implication being that undue Russian pressure on the Baltic states might drive the Nordic neutrals into the arms of NATO. The real key to a new ‘northern balance’, however, is seen to lie in the construction of a regional security framework that includes Russia rather than leaving it isolated.39 The creation of an expanded security community embracing Russia will in turn provide Nordic actors with the stability needed to pursue their economic interests in the region. Inasmuch as attempts to build a partnership with Russia correspond to the priorities of the main European and Euro-Atlantic
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organizations, they also allow the Nordic states to cultivate a niche for themselves within the new Europe and to show themselves to be ‘producers’ rather than just ‘consumers’ of security. Nordic-Baltic co-operation occupies an important place within this strategy. In this respect, Nordic governments have assumed a mediating role in the international/social conflicts surrounding the status of the Russian-speaking populations in Estonia and Latvia. They have also sought to wean Baltic leaders away from their view of NATO as an instrument of collective defence against Russia and to ‘educate’ them in the new European discourse of comprehensive security.40 Whilst it is possible to discern a certain measure of Nordic consensus over security policy, the coherence of Norden as an identity grouping has been undermined by the reassertion of national divisions and rivalries following the end of the Cold War and the (incomplete) northward enlargement of the EU. Indeed, the degree of divergence over questions such as European Monetary Union (EMU) led Nordic Council president Berit Brørby Larsen to warn in 1998 that the organization would be reduced to little more than a ‘cultural club’ unless the constituent states became more united and proactive in their dealings with the EU.41 The Nordic states have also exhibited differing priorities vis-à-vis the eastern ‘Near Abroad’, as the respective governments have vied to place their states at the centre of the new ‘dynamic zone of growth’ around the Baltic rim. Not least, Nordic governments found themselves at odds over the question of EU enlargement during 1997, when Finland’s especially close ties with Estonia led it to support the original decision to admit only one Baltic state to membership negotiations. Finland’s Scandinavian neighbours, on the other hand, have a significant presence in all the Baltic states, and therefore argued for a ‘regatta approach’ whereby all three should be admitted to negotiations simultaneously.42 In the initial post-Cold War period, Finland had appeared to be somewhat on the margins as far as Baltic Sea regional co-operation was concerned. Although the CBSS was originally German in origin, it is the Danes and more especially the Swedes that have since aspired to a leading role within the organization. For both nations, the Baltic Sea Area could be conceptualized as a region ‘of one’s own’. In historical terms, the image of the Baltic provided a counterpoint to a Hansa concept that still carried uncomfortable overtones of past Germanic hegemony in the area.43 By extension, the Baltic label evokes memories of a medieval and early modern ‘Golden Age’ in which Denmark and Sweden both established dominions on the eastern shores of the Baltic and became important European players in their own rights. Commenting on the forthcoming chairmanship of the CBSS by Germany and then Russia, Swedish academic CarlEinar Stålvant made the telling remark that ‘this signifies a new element: until now, a tacit understanding has prevailed that the Council is foremost a club of small countries’44 As John Hiden suggests in Chapter 7, Sweden’s Baltic policy could indeed be deemed consistent with an attempt to carve out a Swedish-led Baltoscandian sphere between Germany and Russia.
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The spatial image of the Baltic did not carry the same historical onance in the case of Norway and Finland. After Norway formed the Barents Euro-Arctic Region (BEAR) in 1994, there was a sense that the Finns were falling behind in the regionalization stakes. The subsequent Northern Dimension Initiative could be construed partly as an audacious bid for leadership within the Nordic grouping, yet it also reflected peculiarly Finnish concerns, not least the country’s position as a state directly bordering Russia. Above all, the NDI has attempted to capitalize on the image of Finland as an economic gateway or bridge between the EU and Russia.45 In this regard, particular emphasis has been given to the utilization of Russian oil and gas resources, with Finnish state-owned energy consortium Fortum lobbying for an extension of Russia’s projected Baltic Oil Pipeline System (BOPS) from Primorsk in the Leningradskaia Oblast’ to Porvoo in Finland.46 RESPONSES TO REGIONALIZATION: THE NORDIC NEAR ABROAD Initially, at least, NDI met with a cool response from Finland’s Scandinavian neighbours, who felt that it should have been launched under the auspices of the Nordic Council. Subsequent experience, however, suggests that they have now taken the initiative on board. In the words of David Arter, the NDI thus ‘ultimately demonstrated that there was a “Nordic dimension” to the EU if not necessarily a “northern dimension”’.47 As the latter statement suggests, however, Nordic regionbuilders still have some way to go in terms of advancing their agenda, both within the existing EU and amongst the former socialist states of the ‘Near Abroad’. Looking back over the past decade, it seems that the region has not been an especially important co-ordinate in the post-Soviet nation-building projects of the Baltic states. The situation was different in the late 1980s, when the notion of belonging to a wider regional community was used to support claims for independence from the USSR. This became clear in May 1989, when the leaders of the Popular Front movements in the three republics expressed a joint demand for eventual independence ‘within a neutral and demilitarised Baltoscandinavia’.48 The use of this term was strongly evocative of the period after World War One, when a previous generation of Baltic leaders had regarded membership of a regional grouping as integral to the realization and consolidation of national sovereignty.49 In the context of 1989 the Baltoscandinavia rhetoric was also consistent with the pragmatic approach adopted by the Popular Fronts, which sought to work through Moscow to secure independence. In this respect, Baltic demands did not appear wholly inconsistent with Gorbachev’s own rhetoric on a ‘Common European Home’.50 It quickly became clear, however, that the Soviet leadership was not about to accede to demands for Baltic independence under any circumstances. From a Nordic (as well as a western European) perspective, the Baits thus had something
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of the quality of interlopers who threatened to disturb the established security equilibrium in the region. The same had been true in the immediate aftermath of World War One, when the ‘Baltoscandian’ vision propounded by Estonian and Latvian political and academic circles had singularly failed to strike a chord amongst Scandinavian governments and the public alike. As part of their evolution into a bloc of neutral states during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Denmark and Sweden had progressively turned their backs on the Baltic component of their respective national histories. This abandonment reached its climax in 1940, when Sweden implicitly recognized the Soviet annexation of the three Baltic states. In response to renewed overtures from this quarter during 1989–91, the Nordic states began to extend important diplomatic and moral support to the Baltic national movements. However, with the exception of Iceland, they were unwilling to renounce their Cold War policy of ‘Soviet first’, withholding full recognition of independence until the events of August 1991 presented them with a fait accompli. As part of the justification for this policy, Baltic requests for associate membership of the Nordic Council were deemed to be inconsistent with the specifically ‘Nordic’ character of this organization.51 This position has not changed during the ensuing decade. To be sure, the Nordic and Baltic states have attained a vigorous level of co-operation through the medium of the ‘5+3’ meetings of foreign ministers (subsequently redesignated as the ‘grouping of eight’) and joint sessions of the Nordic and Baltic Councils. At the level of civil society, the opening of new Nordic Associations in the three Baltic countries (as well as in the north-west regions of Russia) certainly does imply a reaching out beyond existing boundaries, recalling the extension of Nordic identity to Finland and Iceland (and also to some degree the Baltic states) during the inter-war period. All the same, it is notable that a recent proposal to incorporate the three Baltic states into the Nordic Council was voted down by a large margin.52 Experience suggests that Norden’s desire to maintain a distinct profile in relation to its regional neighbours has not been lost on the Baltic countries. In the 18 months before August 1991, statements by the then Estonian foreign minister Lennart Meri insisted that an independent Estonia forming part of a wider northern European grouping would be in the best interests of Moscow. The need to establish stable and good neighbourly relations with the ‘Eastern Neighbour’, he maintained, was the leading principle of an Estonian foreign policy rooted in ‘geopolitical necessity’.53 Such statements prompted one leading Popular Front activist to assert that the Estonians had learnt the virtues of the postwar Finnish approach in their dealings with the Soviet government.54 At the same time, however, statements by Meri emphasized that the sole legal basis for relations with Moscow remained the Tartu treaty of February 1920, under which Soviet Russia had renounced in perpetuity any claim on the territory of Estonia. That this was the case demonstrates the growing salience of the legal continuity principle in the thinking of the Estonian national movement. In the face of Moscow’s truculence, calls for the legal restoration of the inter-war Estonian
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republic were regarded as the most practical means of advancing the independence drive. Yet they also reflected the growing political influence of the ‘national radicals’, for whom legal continuity was integral to the vision of an Estonian nationstate free from Soviet-Russian ‘colonial’ influence.55 Western recognition of restored statehood after August 1991 lent further weight to anti-Russian discourses. Under these circumstances, the value of Baltoscandinavia as a vehicle for ‘returning to Europe’ declined further. Instead, attentions now shifted firmly to gaining membership of wider European and Euro-Atlantic structures. At this time, the Nordic and western Baltic Sea states, already anchored (or fast becoming so) within the institutional architecture of the new Europe, could afford (indeed, were impelled) to prioritize new, specifically regional arrangements. For Estonian foreign policy makers, on the other hand, the latter became very much a question of second order, to be explored more fully once the cardinal goals of EU and NATO membership has been attained. A special edition of the CBSS Monitor, produced by the Estonian foreign ministry on the occasion of the Tallinn ministerial session of the organization in 1994, suggests that the Baltic Sea Area was accorded little significance as an identity region around this time. Rather, the publication highlighted the existence of a variety of ‘identity groups’ around the Baltic Sea. The Nordic and Baltic states were seen to constitute two such groups, which are distinguished by ‘close historical, cultural or linguistic ties linking their respective members’. Whilst the presence of these identity groups is listed amongst the ‘geopolitical factors’ motivating regional co-operation, it is recognized that Norden and the Baltic states may have different priorities when it comes to specific issues. Moreover, and perhaps most significantly, the key to bridging these identity groups was seen to lie not through the Baltic Sea regionally per se, but rather through mutual membership of the European Union.56 Against this background, to quote Ole Wæever, regional engagement has been regarded as useful ‘as long as it pulls you westwards; any “waiting room” set up… to avoid membership is to be avoided’.57 By way of illustration, one needs only to cite the recent attempts (most notably by foreign minister Toomas Hendrik Ilves) to relabel Estonia as a ‘Nordic’ state. This identity discourse dates from 1995, when Estonia emerged as the leading contender amongst the Baltic states for entry to EU negotiations.58 At this point the concept of a distinct ‘Baltic’ identity grouping became less compelling, and the Nordic label a useful means of distancing Estonia from its allegedly laggard neighbours to the south. The resultant intra-Baltic frictions produced by this move have persisted right up to the time of writing, although the subsequent admission of Latvia and Lithuania to full membership negotiations served to undermine Estonian claims to distinct status. More generally, one can say that insofar as all the Baltic states have benefited from staunch Nordic support for their countries’ EU aspirations, Nordic-Baltic regional co-operation and EU enlargement have complemented one another entirely.
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The exclusion of the Baltic states from the first round of NATO enlargement in 1997 also led the leaders of these countries to attach far greater importance to the development of a specifically regional security framework.59 All the same, the importance which the three states attached to NATO membership appeared to grow, rather than diminish, after 1997. Rejected outright was the notion that regional arrangements might somehow serve as a substitute for this goal, which continued to be portrayed as the ultimate guarantee of restored independence. More liberal commentators in Russia posit the current state of Finnish-Russian relations as the ideal for future relations between Russia and the Baltic states, insisting that whereas Baltic EU-membership is fine, accession to NATO would be contrary to Russian’s still vaguely defined ‘national interest’.60 However, although this position has corresponded to the thinking of many Nordic commentators, most especially in Finland and Sweden, it is seen as wholly unacceptable by governments in the Baltic states.61 Although mainly attributable to the historical experience of Soviet occupation, the Baltic states’ quest for ‘hard’ security guarantees in the form of NATO membership has been strengthened by the uncertain course of political development in neighbouring Russia over the past decade. For the titular nations of these countries, the collapse of the USSR was perceived as a return to European ‘normality’ in the form of restored sovereign statehood. The consensus surrounding the goal of return to Europe accounts at least partly for the willingness on the part of Baltic citizens to endure the often profound hardship engendered by market reform during the past decade. For Russians, on the other hand, the end of the Soviet state was synonymous with a profound identity crisis. Attempts to forge a new Russian national identity based on identification with the territorial boundaries of the former RSFSR have been complicated by the legacy of Soviet nationalities policy, which encouraged Russians to identify with the USSR as their homeland. In this regard, post-Soviet Russia has the appearance of a state that lost an empire but has manifestly yet to find a role. This legacy provided a distinctly unpromising foundation for the civicbased ‘new Russian nationalism’ and ‘Atlanticist’ vision of Russia’s place in the world, which was initially propounded by the Yeltsin regime during 1990–92. The deeply disruptive effects of western-inspired economic ‘shock therapy’ and the growth of instability in the FSU engendered feelings of impotence and humiliation, and fuelled the rise of a neo-nationalist ‘Red-Brown’ opposition clamouring for a more assertive role within the ‘Near Abroad’. The Yeltsin regime responded to this challenge by elaborating a new statist orthodoxy. In Geertz’s terms, ‘democratic statism’ can be regarded as a classic synthesis of the ‘spirit of the age’ and the ‘indigenous way of life’. Thus far, its proponents have been pragmatic enough to realize that, in a globalizing economy, Russia must work with the West in order to achieve economic renewal. At the same time, they are obliged for purposes of domestic political consumption to subscribe to the neo-nationalist discourse of Eurasianism and great power status.62
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As Chapter 10 makes clear, verbal attacks on the Baltic states (most notably Estonia and Latvia) have assumed a particular role within the domestic political discourse. Far from being mere rhetoric, however, the negative conception of these countries has had concrete effects in the form of (to take the Estonian example) trade sanctions and the continued refusal to conclude a formal border agreement. Such ‘state-sponsored geopoliticking’ has in turn seriously impeded the efforts of regional actors interested in pursuing co-operation with the NordicBaltic area. As Mikhail Alekseev and Vladimir Vagin note with regard to the Pskov oblast’, the incentives for such interaction are obvious to many local actors. For Moscow, on the other hand, ‘supporting the role of Pskov as a major trade gateway means foregoing the capacity to apply economic and political pressure on the Baits’.63 Another key factor in Russian statist thinking relates to current anxieties about the long-term ability to preserve the territorial integrity of the current federation.64 As well as encouraging identification with the boundaries of the union as a whole, Soviet nationalities policy simultaneously created a complex system of ethno-territorial federalism within the RSFSR. Centre-periphery relations were already in flux when the Russian Federation came into existence. The 1993 constitution did little to stabilize the situation, giving rise to an ‘asymmetrical federalism’ in which the regions managed to exert varying degrees of autonomy from the centre, while Moscow attempted to keep them in line through a largely improvised policy of carrots and sticks. If the federalism of the Soviet era sought to foster a culture of dependence on the centre amongst regional élites, a similar logic appears to be at work within the new Russia. In poorer border regions such as Pskov, ‘beholden to subsidies…[from Moscow], regional élites have been wary of pushing the Baltic integration option hard’. Instead, they have resorted to what has been termed ‘pork-barrel hustling’ in the Kremlin, despite the fact that promises of funding have been easier to obtain than the funding itself.65 Here, the logic of federal politics has encouraged local élites to increase trade and economic interchange with Belarus (with accompanying professions of slavic solidarity) rather than pursuing the more lucrative NordicBaltic option.66 As certain commentators have noted, however, it would be wrong to assume that greater devolution of power to the regions would in itself foster the kind of culture conducive to regionalization.67 Whilst there clearly has been pressure for cross-border co-operation emanating from the regional level, a number of accounts testify that equivocal attitudes to westernization permeate all levels of the federal hierarchy. Others high light the inadequacies of existing EU instruments, a deficient legal base and a lack of requisite technical expertise that will only be addressed through generational shift and significant external investments in education.68 The future development of the regions depends to a large extent on the overall nature of Russia’s systemic transformation and the ability of the latter to create a favourable business and investment climate. The current direction of this transformation, of course, remains the object of great
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debate. Whilst Putin’s current attempts to impose greater centralization and legal standardization have been widely condemned as retrograde and authoritarian in intent, it could equally be argued that measures to strengthen the state constitute a necessary prerequisite for greater economic engagement with Europe. INTEGRATION AND NORMALIZATION: THE BALTIC STATES, THE WEST AND RUSSIA The Russian statist discourse has of course gained succour from nationalist, antiRussian and pro-NATO rhetoric within the Baltic states themselves. However, if one views the statements of Baltic foreign policy makers over the past decade, it becomes clear that NATO membership per se has never been regarded as a panacea in terms of security. In the Estonian case, Meri’s talk of good neighbourly relations as a ‘geopolitical necessity’ was reiterated in 1994 through Jüri Luik’s dictum that ‘security equals normalization [with the East] plus integration [with the West]’.69 As well as the obvious security ramifications, the desire for normalization reflects the independent Baltic states’ potential as an economic bridge between East and West. The Estonian discourse of ‘normalization’ with the East appears entirely consistent with the stated aims of EU and NATO policy towards Russia. In this respect, the debate boils down to the question of priorities. In the minds of Estonian commentators, the integration of the Baltic states with the West will serve as the necessary prelude to the full normalization of their relations with Russia. For, as Foreign Minister Ilves noted in 1996, the latter aim will be difficult to achieve as long as Estonia is unable to relate to Russia as ‘a normal western state, free and confident of its independence and not as a former colony or oblast’ burdened by complexes and doubts’.70 Such complexes and doubts were understandably in evidence during 1992–94, at a time when Russian-controlled units of the former Soviet army remained in Estonia, and Moscow attempted to make their withdrawal contingent upon improved rights for the local Russian-speaking population. As Chapter 10 makes clear, the Russian side invoked European values to back up its claims, condemning the state-building practices of Estonia and Latvia as an example of a ‘false Europe’. For Estonian commentators, however, this alleged concern for the rights of ‘compatriots’ simply masked Russia’s geostrategic aim of bringing the Baltic states within a sphere of influence.71 Foreign policy statements during this period were replete with references to Russia’s ‘Monroe Doctrine’ and the ‘statesanctioned concept of “Near Abroad”’. Taking on board western notions of the new Europe as a philosophical and ethical programme rather than a geographical concept, President Meri described Estonia’s border as the border of western values. By extension, normalization with Russia was deemed contingent upon the latter’s transformation into a westward-leaning, stable democracy that refrains from verbal and other confrontation and respects sovereignty, national security interests and international norms of behaviour.72
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Within this context, Russia’s verbal attacks on Estonia and Latvia proved largely counter-productive. No one questions Moscow’s right to use diplomatic channels in order to protest at an Estonian citizenship law which it regards as a violation of the Estonian-Russian inter-state treaty of 1991. However, the crude and emotive nature of Russian outbursts (using terms like ‘ethnic cleansing’ and ‘social apartheid’ and making veiled threats of possible military intervention) simply played into the Estonians’ hands, since inspections by a series of invited international delegations quickly concluded that these extreme allegations had no basis in reality. As such, the West was not prepared to sanction Russia’s attempted linkage between troop withdrawal and the status of ‘compatriots’, although it did prevail upon the Estonian and Latvian governments to make major concessions over the status of Soviet military pensioners residing in these states.73 As the latter example testifies, European and Euro-Atlantic organizations have increasingly made it clear to the Baltic states that normalization with Russia will serve as an essential prerequisite for integration. Wæever, for instance, notes that the aspiration for EU and NATO membership has increasingly required Baltic governments to market their states as ‘normal, democratic market economies, that can be easily fitted into the West European circle’.74 In this regard, the final departure of Russian troops on 31 August 1994 marked the start of moves to ‘Europeanize’ Estonian foreign policy through a more active strategy of ‘pacification with the East’.75 Although verbal confrontation between Estonia and Russia has not ceased over the past six years, the Estonian side has made a number of key concessions concerning the disputed border between the two countries. On the 1996 decision to agree to a border treaty with Russia, Estonian foreign minister Toomas Hendrik Ilves has noted that this step was ‘not merely necessary for the demarcation of Estonia…it was also the first step showing that Estonia is a responsible nation with a European-like behaviour’.76 These concessions helped to keep the country’s EU ambitions firmly on track, ensuring that it was Russia, rather than Estonia, which appeared to be the unco-operative partner in the relationship. To quote a further statement by Ilves, the year ‘1997 proved that Estonia can achieve its foreign policy goals regardless of whether it has or does not have a border agreement with the Russian Federation’.77 As part of its strategy of pacification with the East, the Estonian side has begun to exhibit a greater interest in Baltic regional initiatives. In 1992–94 the CBSS was viewed with a certain amount of suspicion, since Russia used the organization as a further forum in which to raise allegations of human rights abuses. More recently, however, Foreign Minister Ilves has underlined the importance of the CBSS as a mechanism for engaging with Russia, although on other occasions he still voiced doubts as to the relevance of this organization.78 The strategy of pacification with the East has also met with an enthusiastic response from Estonian business circles with a vested interest in Russian markets and east-west transit trade. The same is true in peripheral border regions such as Ida-Virumaa,
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Põlvamaa and Võrumaa, which have actively pursued crossborder initiatives with local authorities in the neighbouring Russian Federation. Recent evidence, however, suggests that it will be difficult to expand levels of cross-border cooperation until a full normalization of inter-state relations is achieved.79 The Estonian shifts towards pacification with the East has yet to meet with corresponding moves from the Russian side. State-sponsored geopoliticking against the Baltic states was clearly one factor in the 1997 decision to begin construction of three new ports in the Leningradskaia Oblast’, one of which will serve as an outlet for the BOPS. On the one hand, the construction of this new infrastructure is motivated by wholly rational and compelling economic arguments, not least a desire to avoid paying the millions of dollars which the Baltic states currently collect for the transit of Russian goods through their ports.80 However, it is notable that when unveiling these plans, former president Boris Yeltsin couched them in political terms, as a development that should make the Baltic states ‘think hard about their policy towards Russia’.81 It seems likely that such statements convey an understanding that for Russian exporters, the Baltic ports still retain many advantages over their prospective rival in terms of ease of access, efficiency and geographic (ice-free) conditions. In this sense, the construction of new ports serves as a geopolitical lever for gaining reduced tariffs or furthering efforts by Russian companies to obtain a controlling interest in the Baltic port capacity. However, it is questionable whether the inauguration of BOPS and the new Russian ports will have such drastic implications for the Baltic economies as some have predicted. According to one Latvian diplomatic source, at least, the loss in transit fees should not be all that significant. Suggestions that a structural shift from geo-politics to geo-economics holds the key to improved Baltic-Russian relations necessarily imply that the long-term economic prosperity of the Baltic states is still bound up with developments in Russia. Similar arguments were advanced back in the 1920s, yet in the final analysis the absence of normal economic relations with Russia proved no impediment to economic viability between the wars. By the same token, the Russian ‘financial meltdown’ of 1998, far from constituting a fatal setback to Baltic economic progress, has merely accelerated the already dramatic shift towards trade with the EU. In the field of capital, too, there is evidence to suggest that foreign companies are now beginning to invest with an eye to exporting their production not to Russia, but to the wider Baltic states market or the EU itself.82 The Russian transit trade, of course, remains vitally important, perhaps most especially in the case of Latvia, and in spite of all the geopolitical huffing and puffing, the trade is buoyant. In this respect, Baltic actors have tended to view the NDI in cynical terms, as a piece of Finnish realpolitik that seeks to divert the lucrative transit trade away from the Baltic ports.83 Similar sentiments were occasioned by the Finnish-Estonian ‘shipping war’ of 1999, which led a number of Estonian parliamentarians to express concern at the growing penetration of Finnish capital into the economy.84 Behind such episodes lies a degree of resentment at what are perceived as Nordic ‘neo-colonial’
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attitudes towards the Baltic states. Whilst some accounts suggest that crossborder activities have already created a widespread sense of regional identity in areas lying to the east of the former Iron Curtain, others maintain that such feelings remain confined to a small minority with an active stake in the new projects.85 Claims that Estonia is becoming ‘just another boring little Nordic country’, for instance, seem barely credible at a time when GDP per capita remains at only 28 per cent of the EU average.86 Significant income disparities, moreover, could yet provide a breeding ground for the kind of populist and antiEU rhetoric peddled by Edgar Savisaar’s Centre Party. As things stand, the last few years have seen a significant growth of Euroscepticism amongst the titular Estonian population. The unwillingness on the part of the EU to give a firm date for Estonia’s accession until 2002 merely fuelled such sentiments, making it difficult for the Estonian government to strike a balancing act between EU conditionalities and the domestic agenda of restoring a nation-state. In Russia, too, enthusiasm for the Northern Dimension has been tempered by a fear that the country might ultimately become little more than a resource periphery to a more economically advanced western Europe.87 Even leaving these considerations aside, however, the realization of NDI presupposes that the EU is prepared to engage actively with Russia. Just as the formulation of an EU Baltic policy proved slow and cumbersome in the years following the formation of the CBSS, so it appears that Brussels and most member states have yet to embrace fully the notion of a ‘northern dimension’ to the Union, with all of its attendant implications. Funding for cross-border projects has been sparse, and there has been little attempt to address the ‘co-ordination deficit’ that continues to hinder regional projects involving Russia.88 It is also clear that the current process of EU integration does not lend itself easily to a softening of external borders. Finland’s implementation of the Schengen Accord, for instance, has already brought a significant tightening of visa requirements for travellers from Russia. It thereby stands to diminish the hitherto significant crossborder traffic, whilst further complicating projects such as Euroregion Karelia. Indeed, it seems ironic that Finland—perhaps anxious to underline its credentials as a ‘model pupil’ of the EU—has rushed to implement Schengen, even though the accord ostensibly contradicts the aims of its eastern policy. In a wider regional perspective, it should be noted that Estonia’s prospective entry to the EU has already entailed the abolition of the hitherto simplified border-crossing regime between Narva and the neighbouring Russian town of Ivangorod.89 CONCLUSION Finnish scholar Jyrki Käkönen claims that since the Viking period there have been at least ‘two attempts to change the peripheral position of northern Europe’, both under the auspices of a ‘northern European’ (read Nordic) power. The first of these was the Kalmar Union—which ‘aimed to fight the power of the Hanseatic League in the North but failed’—the second was made by Sweden in
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1600–1721.90 Today, weare wit-nessing a third attempt to place northern Europe on the map in the form of various Nordic-sponsored region-building projects, which, although they represent national competition for greater centrality, are essentially complementary in their objectives. In the early post-war decades, the Nordic nations were largely content (although in Finland’s case merely impelled) to be peripheral to the European core. Today, faced with the diminished status of the Nordic model, the collapse of the Cold War security framework and the subsequent rise of new security challenges, they fear economic and political marginalization within the new Europe. In order to avoid this fate, each of the states has sought to extend its influence to its respective ‘Near Abroad’ and forge a ‘New Northern Europe’ under Nordic auspices. For Baltic states leaders, however, talk of a ‘northern’ identity has been of little relevance at a time when these countries remain outside the European Union. As Vahur Made suggests in Chapter 8, regional identity seems likely to become more salient if and when membership is finally achieved, although it seems that for Estonian actors, at least, the Baltic is viewed first and foremost as a future ‘internal sea of the EU’.91 The most perspicacious Baltic commentators also cherish the vision of creating an expanded northern security community involving Russia. This reflects a realization that Russia constitutes, as Ilves puts it, a ‘keystone of European security and stability’.92 However, unlike certain commentators in Finland and Sweden, for whom neutrality constitutes a tried and tested framework, their experiences since 1940 mean that they are still reluctant to give Russia the benefit of the doubt when it claims to pose no threat to its neighbours.93 NATO membership remains firmly on the agenda, and it remains to be seen whether this aspiration can be reconciled with the project of building a new northern Europe that embraces both the Baltic states and Russia. Attempts by the United States to build an international coalition against terrorism following the events of 11 September 2001 have done much to satisfy Russia’s desire for enhanced recognition as a world power. This development looks set to facilitate NATO enlargement to Baltic states and may ultimately serve to bring Russia within an expanded concept of Euro-Atlantic space. At this point, many of the debates of the past decade would be rendered anachronistic. Having said this, it also remains to be seen whether Nordic-inspired regionalizing projects can be reconciled with an EU enlargement process that looks set to erect hard borders against the states of the ‘new East’. NOTES 1. Cited in Council of the Baltic Sea States, CBSS Monitor, special issue on the occasion of the 3rd CBSS ministerial session in Tallinn, 24–25 May 1994, p. 8. 2. J.Käkönen, ‘Local Dimension and Regionalization’, in L.Heininen and J. Käkönen (eds), The New Northern Europe. Perspectives on the Northern Dimension (Tampere: TAPRI, 1998), p. 61.
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3. Finnish prime minister, Paavo Lipponen, quoted in D.Arter, ‘Small State Influence Within the EU: The Case of Finland’s “Northern Dimension Initiative”’, Journal of Common Market Studies, 38, 5 (December 2000), p. 687. 4. See p. 128 below. 5. T.Christiansen, P.Joenniemi and C.Lindström, ‘Nationality and Regionally: Constituents of Political Space around the Baltic Rim’, in P.Joenniemi (ed.) NeoNationalism or Regionality: The Restructuring of Political Space around the Baltic Rim (Stockholm: NordRefo, 1997), pp. 19–21. 6. Arter, ‘Small State Influence’; D.Arter, Scandinavian Politics Today (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1999). 7. D.J.Smith, Estonia. Independence and European Integration (London and New York: Routledge, 2001), pp. 147 and 149–50. 8. J.Batt, ‘Dilemmas of Self-Determination in Central and Eastern Europe: Historical Perspectives on the Nation-State and Federalism’, draft chapter for forthcoming work ‘Fuzzy Statehood’ and European Integration in Central and Eastern Europe, as part of the ESRC’s One Europe or Several? programme (University of Birmingham, 2000), p. 2. 9. Smith, Estonia, pp. xi–xii. 10. F.Fukuyama, The End of History and the Last Man (London: Hamish Hamilton, 1992). 11. G.Smith, The Post-Soviet States: Mapping the Politics of Transition (London: Edward Arnold, 1998), p. 2. 12. Council of the Baltic Sea States, CBSS Monitor, p. 8. 13. In the latter regard, violent conflicts in the former Yugoslavia and elsewhere have strengthened the image of the East as a locus of allegedly ancient and irreducible tribal hatreds. As Anatol Lieven has noted, western journalists tend to ‘[swing] between two contradictory stereotypes of east European nations… The first…is of gallant little freedom-loving peoples, fighting against wicked empires for the sake of independence and liberal democracy. The second is horrible little…peasants, trying to involve us in their vicious tribal squabbles.’ A.Lieven, The Baltic Revolution: Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania and the Path to Independence (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1993), p. 381. For further discussion of these attitudes, see H.Miall, O.Ramsbotham and T.Woodhouse, Contemporary Conflict Resolution (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1999), p. 90; D.Laitin, Identity in Formation: The Russian-Speaking Populations in the Near Abroad, (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 1998), p. 19; Batt, ‘Dilemmas of Self-Determination in Central and Eastern Europe’, p. 2. 14. Batt, ‘Dilemmas of Self-Determination in Central and Eastern Europe’, pp. 1–2. Such accusations rest on the continued presence of national minority disputes in western Europe and the failure to apply such rigorous political conditionality to existing EU members. See also P.Järve, ‘Integration of Europe, Ethnic Minorities and State Borders’, Lake Peipsi Quarterly (winter 2000), p. 7. 15. Batt, ‘Dilemmas of Self-Determination in Central and Eastern Europe’, p. 1; Smith, Estonia, p. xv. 16. S.Huntington, ‘The Clash of Civilisations’, Foreign Affairs, 72, 3 (1993), pp. 22– 49. 17. For a fuller discussion of Estonian-Russian relations during this period, see Smith, Estonia, pp. 147–72; D.J.Smith, ‘Legal Continuity and Post-Soviet Reality: Ethnic
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18.
19.
20. 21. 22.
23. 24. 25. 26. 27.
28. 29.
30. 31. 32.
Relations in Estonia 1991–95 (unpublished Ph. D. thesis, University of Bradford, 1997), chapter 4. On regionalism and regionalization, see H.Haukkala, ‘The Northern Dimension and the Baltic Sea Region in the Light of the New Regionalism’, in H.Haukkala (ed.), Dynamic Aspects of the Northern Dimension (Turku: Jean Monnet Unit, 1999), p. 79; O.Wæver, ‘The Baltic Sea: A Region after Post-Modernity?’, in Joenniemi, Neo-Nationalism or Regionality? J.Camilleri and P.Falk, The End of Sovereignty? The Politics of a Shrinking and Fragmenting World (Cheltenham: Edward Elgar, 1992), p. 7. ‘Europeanization’ can be taken to refer to the growing power of the EU as a supra-national actor. Christiansen et al., ‘Nationality and Regionality’, pp. 19–21. Ibid. Cf. comments made by Pertti Joenniemi, an active participant in regional policy discussions, at the seminar entitled Linking the European East and West. The Baltic Sea Area within the Framework of European Integration, University of Turku, 3 June 1999. See, for instance, Chapter 4. Käkönen, ‘Local Dimension and Regionalization’, p. 61, n5. Christiansen et al., ‘Nationality and Regionality’, p. 22. Ibid. Such a contention underpins Roger Brubaker’s celebrated ‘triadic nexus’ model, whereby the ‘nationalizing’ states of the post-communist world find themselves simultaneously challenged by representatives of national minorities demanding recognition of their distinct ethno-cultural identity and the trans-border nationalisms of’external national homelands’ purporting to defend the interests of their ethno-national kin residing in neighbouring states. R.Brubaker, Nationalism Reframed. Nationhood and the National Question in the New Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996). At first sight, the current situation in post soviet Estonia and Latvia appears to exemplify this model quite neatly. One of the major deficiencies of Brubaker’s model, however, is the lack of attention he gives to the role of ‘Europe’ and European organizations within these disputes. It is certainly impossible to understand the Estonian and Latvian cases without reference to this additional dimension, since all the parties involved have invoked differing conceptions of European norms in order to justify their position. In this regard, I feel that it would be more appropriate to speak of a quadnexus in which the field of ‘Europeanization’ interacts with the three fields of nationalism identified by Brubaker. See D.J.Smith, ‘Cultural Autonomy in Estonia. A Relevant Paradigm for the Post-Soviet Era?’, ESRC, ‘One Europe or Several?’ programme working paper 19/2001 (Brighton: Sussex European Institute, 2001). Batt, ‘Dilemmas of Self-Determination in Central and Eastern Europe’, pp. 1–2. C.Geertz, The Interpretation of Cultures (London: Fontana, 1993), pp. 240–1. For details of the project ‘“Fuzzy Statehood” and European Integration in Central and Eastern Europe’, see www.bham.ac.uk/crees/statehood For a discussion of this model in the context of post-communist Estonia, see Smith, ‘Cultural Autonomy in Estonia’. Geertz, Interpretation of Cultures, pp. 240–1. See Chapters 9 and 10 for discussion of Ole Wæver’s model.
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33. On the case of Finland and the Northern Dimension Initiative, see H.Ojanen, ‘How to Customize your Union: Finland and the “Northern Dimension of the EU”’, Northern Dimensions 1999 (yearbook of the Finnish Institute of International Affairs: Forssa), pp. 13–26, cited in Arter, ‘Small State Influence within the EU’, pp. 683–4. This principle could, of course, also operate at the sub-state regional level, i.e., local authorities might frame a particular initiative as being compatible with the identity/interests of the particular region rather than the state as such. However, as argued above, it seems that local authorities have sought to work with central government rather than challenging the basic premise of state sovereignty. 34. The concept of Nordic Balance rested on the contention that any attempt by one of the superpower blocs to increase its influence in northern Europe (e.g. NATO in Denmark and Norway, the USSR in Finland via the 1948 Treaty on Friendship and Co-operation) would automatically be met by a corresponding move from the other. This meant that it was in the interests of both blocs to maintain the status quo of low tension in the region. See K.Wählbäck, ‘The Nordic Region in 20th Century European Polities’, in B.Sundelius (ed.), Foreign Policies of Northern Europe (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1982). 35. On Scandinavianism, see T.K.Derry, A History of Scandinavia (London: Allen & Unwin, 1979), pp. 220–48; D.Kirby, The Baltic World 1772–1993 (Harlow: Longman, 1995), pp. 107–37; B.Stråth, ‘Scandinavian Identity: A Mythical Reality’, in N.Sørensen (ed.), Cultural Diversity and Integration in Europe Since 1700 (Odense: University of Odense Press, 1995); U.Østergard, ‘The Geopolitics of Nordic Identity—From Composite States to Nation-States’, in Ø.Sørensen and B.Stråth (eds), The Cultural Construction of Nor den (Oslo: Scandinavian University Press, 1997). As mentioned below, Finland deviates in many respects from this Scandinavianist framework. 36. See Ø.Sørensen and B.Stråth, ‘Introduction: The Cultural Construction of Norden’, in Cultural Construction of Norden, pp. 1–23. For the original notion of a Nordic ‘Middle Way’, see M.Childs, Sweden: The Middle Way (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1936); E.D.Simon, The Smaller Democracies (London: Gollancz, 1939); T.Miljan, The Reluctant Europeans: Attitudes of the Nordic Countries Towards European Integration (London: C. Hurst & Co., 1977). 37. J.Nomikos, The Integration of the Scandinavian Countries in the European Union: Problems and Prospects (Athens: Institute for International Economic Relations, 1994); H.Wiberg, ‘Europe: The Western Project and the Hesitant North’, Research Institute for European Studies research report no. 7 (Athens: RIES, 1994). 38. U.Østergard, The Nordic Countries in the Baltic Region’, in Joenniemi, NeoNationalism or Regionally, p. 27 On the perceived decline in relevance of the Nordic model in Sweden and the difficult identity shift that this entails, see M. Rojas, The Rise and Fall of the Swedish Model (London: Social Market Foundation, 1998). 39. For a comprehensive review of Nordic security policy thinking towards the Baltic states, see C.Archer, Norden and the Security of the Baltic States, Det sikkerhetspolitiske bibliotek 4 (Oslo: Den Norske Atlanterhavskomité, 1998). 40. Ibid., pp. 7–15; Arter, ‘Small State Influence within the EU’, pp. 679–80. 41. Quoted in D.J.Smith, ‘Nordic, Baltic and Arctic Organisations’, in A.J.Day (ed.), The Annual Register 1998. A Record of World Events (Rockville: Keesing’s Worldwide, 1999), p. 446.
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42. D.J.Smith, ‘Nordic, Baltic and Arctic Organisations’, in A.J.Day (ed.), The Annual Register 1997. A Record of World Events (Bethesda: Keesing’s Worldwide, 1998), p. 419. 43. J.Hackmann, ‘Not Only Hansa. Images of History in the Baltic Sea Region’, Mare Balticum (1996), pp. 23–35. 44. C-E.Stålvant, ‘Baltic Sea Co-operation: Moving Forward?’, BALTINFO, 28 (March 2000), www.baltinfo.com 45. Arter, ‘Small State Influence within the EU’, pp. 679, 682. The EU Commission had itself emphasized the importance of this role during Finland’s membership negotiations. See L.Heininen, ‘Finland as a Northern Country in the New North Europe’, in L.Heininen and J.Käkönen (eds), The New Northern Europe. Perspectives on the Northern Dimension (Tampere: TAPRI 1998), pp. 32–3. 46. O.Reut, ‘Will the Baltic Pipeline System Become a Gale Warning?’, unpublished paper presented in revised form at the Department of European Studies, University of Bradford, 4 May 2001. I am grateful to Dr Oleg Reut for his permission to use this material. 47. Arter, ‘Small State Influence within the EU’, p. 692. 48. S.White, Gorbachev and After (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), p. 161. 49. See M.Lehti, 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 (Frankfurtam-Main: Peter Lang, 1999). 50. Smith, Estonia, pp. 155–6; O.Nørgaard, ‘Soviet-Nordic Relations in the Era of Perestroika and New Thinking’, in R.E.Kanet, D.Nutter Miner and T.J.Resler (eds), Soviet Foreign Policy in Transition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), pp. 49–69. 51. J.Fitzmaurice, The Baltic: A Regional Future? (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1992), p. 136. 52. Nordic Council session, Rejkyavik, 6–8 November 2000. News in Brief, http:// www.norden.org/session2000uk/index.html 53. L.Meri, ‘Mis tahes poliitika on alati dialoog’, interview to Päevaleht, 19 April 1990, in L.Meri, Presidendikōned (Tartu: Ilmamaa, 1996), p. 222. 54. R.Ruutsoo, ‘The Perception of Historical Identity and the Restoration of Estonian National Independence’, Nationalities Papers, 23, 1 (1995), p. 177. 55. For an overview of state-building debates, see Smith, Estonia, pp. 72–7. 56. A.Ollum and M.Kukk, ‘Regional Co-operation in the Baltic Sea Area: The Council of the Baltic Sea States’, CBSS Monitor (1994), pp. 14–15. Note that it is the Baltic states—not the Baltic Sea states—that are referred to here as an identity grouping. At the time of publication—prior to 1995—the EU was still dealing with the three countries more or less as a single bloc, encouraging them to engage in projects of mutual co-operation as a necessary step towards their integration into the EU. This suggests that in the minds of the authors, the Baltic states were linked by their common desire for EU membership rather than their purported membership of a common region. 57. Wæever, ‘Baltic Sea: A Region after Post-Modernity?’ 58. Smith, Estonia, p. 170. 59. Wæver, ‘The Baltic Sea: A Region after Post-Modernity?’, pp. 14–16.
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60. Author interview with Anatolii Trynkov, Head of Department of International Security at the Russian Institute of Strategic Research, Moscow (Moscow, 18 May 1995). Putin reiterated this position during his visit to Finland at the start of September 2001. 61. The dominant perspective in the Baltic states is, I think, neatly encapsulated in Chapter 7 below. Citing the principle that each state has the right to determine its own security arrangements, Finland and Sweden have accepted the Baltic pursuit of NATO membership. However, unlike Denmark, which has been in many ways the Baits’ most consistent champion within the alliance, they have clearly placed a premium on the ‘soft’ security dimension of EU membership, fearing that NATO membership will lead to heightened tensions in the region. See Archer, Norden and the Security of the Baltic States. 62. Smith, Post-Soviet States, p. 63; A.Gentleman, ‘Leaked Speech Reveals Putin’s Iron Fist’, the Guardian, 7 July 2000. 63. See M.Alekseev and V.Vagin, ‘Russian Regions in Expanding Europe: the Pskov Connection’, Europe-Asia Studies, 51, 1 (1999), pp. 43–64. 64. G.Smith, ‘Russia, Multiculturalism and Federal Justice’, Europe-Asia Studies, 50, 8 (1998), p. 1,400. 65. Alekseev and Vagin, ‘Russian Regions in Expanding Europe’, pp. 46–7. 66. Ibid. 67. See, for instance, N.Lynn, ‘The Republics of the Russian Federation: National Territorial Change’, in M.Bradshaw (ed.), Geography and Transition in the PostSoviet Republics (London: John Wiley, 1997), pp. 59–72. 68. Alekseev and Vagin, ‘Russian Regions in Expanding Europe’; O.Reut, ‘Republic of Karelia: A Double Asymmetry or North-Eastern Dimensionalism?’, COPRI Working Papers, no. 13 (2000), pp. 19–20; see also note 85 below. This was indeed the impression conveyed to the present author in a series of interviews held in Petrozavodsk during October 2000. 69. Quoted in the Baltic Independent, 28 October-3 November 1994. 70. Address by Toomas Hendrik Ilves in the name of the government to the Riigikogu, 5 December 1996. http://www.vm.ee/eng.index.htm/ 71. Smith, Estonia, pp. 161–2. 72. T.Tammerk and E.Lucas, ‘Meri Blasts Moscow’s Monroe Doctrine’, Baltic Independent, 14–20 May 1993; L.Meri, ‘Meie Piir on Euroopa Väärtuste Piir’, speech at the ‘Estonia’ Concert Hall, Tallinn, on the 75th anniversary of Estonian independence, 24 February 1993, in Presidendikōned, pp. 325–31. 73. For a fuller account of Estonian-Russian disputes during this period, see D. Smith, ‘Legal Continuity and Post-Soviet Reality: Ethnic Relations in Estonia 1991–95’ (unpublished Ph. D thesis, University of Bradford, 1997). 74. Wæever, ‘Baltic Sea: A Region after Post-Modernity?’ 75. Smith, ‘Legal Continuity and Post-Soviet Reality’, chapter 7. T.H.Ilves, ‘Eesti Poliitika Euroopastumine’, Luup, 6, 37 (17 March 1997); Alekseev and Vagin, ‘Russian Regions in Expanding Europe’. 76. Ilves, ‘Eesti Poliitika Euroopastumine’. Prior to the compromise on the border, he noted, there had been ‘a rather well-spread notion that Estonia is a nation that unreasonably avoids co-operation and is unable to react in a European-like manner’.
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77. T.H.Ilves, address made to the Riigikogu in the name of the government, 12 February 1998. http://www.vm.ee/eng/index.htm/ 78. T.H.Ilves, statement at the meeting of the foreign ministers of the Baltic states and the USA in Vilnius, 13 July 1997, to discuss NATO enlargement, the US-Baltic Charter and regional co-operation, http://www.vm.ee/eng/index.htm/; T.H.Ilves, ‘Implications of EU and NATO Enlargement Policies for the Baltic States’, remarks at the Conference on the Northern Dimension of the CFSP, Helsinki, 8 November 1997. http://www.vm.ee/eng.index.htm/ 79. Alekseev and Vagin, ‘Russian Regions in Expanding Europe’; D.J.Smith ‘The Narva Region within the Estonian Republic. From Autonomism to Accommodation?’, Regional and Federal Studies (2002). 80. Reut, ‘Will the Baltic Pipeline System Become a Gale Warning?’ Reut cites evaluations showing that oil transit currently accounts for 32 per cent of revenues going to the Latvian state budget. 81. Smith, Estonia, p. 124. 82. Ibid., pp. 140–1. 83. H.Haukkala, ‘“The Battle of the Northern Dimension”: The Diverging Interests and Strategies in the Formation of a Regional Co-operation Scheme’, paper presented at the symposium Thinking Europe. The Northern Experience, Eckerö, Åland, 5 June 2000, p. 9. Arter, ‘Small State Influence within the EU’, p. 688. One Latvian source recently spoke of a sense that while Latvia is being held in the EU queue, the Nordic states are rushing to corner more and more of the transit market. 84. Smith, Estonia, p. 123. This dispute broke out when dockers in Finland refused to unload Estonian ships on the grounds that the wages of seamen working on them are barely a third of those earned by their Finnish counterparts. This action was not based on any agreement with the corresponding Estonian trade union, prompting allegations that the real motive was to drive out Estonian competition on routes used by Finnish carriers. 85. See, for instance, G.Hønneland, ‘Identity Formation in the Barents Euro-Arctic Region’, Cooperation and Conflict, 33, 3 (1998), pp. 277–97; A.Paasi, The FinnishRussian Border as a Shifting Discourse: Boundaries in the World of Deterritorialisation’, in L.Hedegaard and B.Lindström (eds), The NEBI Yearbook 1999: North European and Baltic Sea Integration (Berlin: Springer, 1999), pp. 215– 28; see also J.Rislakki, ‘Virossa kasvaa ärtymys Suomea kohtaan’, Helsingin Sanomat, 11 April 1999. 86. Smith, Estonia, p. 141. 87. O.Reut, ‘Republic of Karelia’; A.Sergounin, ‘Northern Dimension from the Russian Experts’ Viewpoint’, paper presented at the conference Russia and the European Union: Regional and Economic Co-operation, Saint Petersburg State University, St Petersburg, 14 October 2000. 88. On the relative paucity of European funding allocated to these projects and the EU ‘Co-ordination Deficit’ more generally, see T.Christiansen, ‘EU Perspectives on the Future of the Baltic Sea Region’, in P.Joenniemi and C-E.Stålvant (eds), Baltic Sea Politics: Achievements and Challenges (Stockholm: Nordic Council, 1995), pp. 93–108; Haukkala, ‘Battle of the Northern Dimension’. 89. Smith, ‘Narva Region within the Estonian Republic’. 90. Käkönen, ‘Local Dimension and Regionalization’, pp. 50–1.
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91. This was the view expressed by K.Kanarik, head of the Baltic Sea Cooperation Bureau at the Estonian Ministry of Foreign Affairs in an interview with the author in August 1997. 92. Ilves, statement at the meeting of the foreign ministers of the Baltic states and the USA in Vilnius. 93. President Putin reiterated this claim in relation to the Baltic states when he visited Finland in early September 2001. Quoted in Postimees, 4 September 2001.
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3 Past Politics in North-Eastern Europe: The Role of History in Post-Cold War Identity Politics JÖRG HACKMAN During the last decade historical discourses have undoubtedly assumed a growing importance in debates about the Baltic Sea region. Since Björn Engholm introduced his already historic concept of a New Hansa, historians—and also to some extent ethnologists and philologists—have been ascribed the function of contributing to a common (Baltic, Nordic, northern or north-east European) identity that might provide a solid fundament to Baltic Sea co-operation.1 Such a historical or cultural basis for region-building is a common feature of many political speeches and statements. Its range comprises history as well as linguistic kinship and elements of folk culture, which are used to support such different kinds of regionalizing projects as Norden, Baltoscandia or even Yuleland.2 With regard to the Baltic Sea Area as a whole, the image of the Hanseatic trade exchange between West and East has a certain logic, inasmuch as it coincidences with contemporary mappings of the region. Furthermore, the Hansa image evokes cultural landmarks, such as cityscapes, that still impress almost everyone travelling across the Baltic or along its shores.3 This impact of the Hansa legacy is already noticeable in the writings of Johann Gottfried Herder, who stated in his Outlines of a Philosophy of the History of Man: What the Mediterranean had been to the south of Europe, the Baltic was to the north; an early incentive to the pursuit of navigation, and a means of intercourse between different countries. Beside the Gael and Cimbri, we have seen the Prisons, the Saxons, and more especially the Normans, traversing all the seas of the West and North, nay even the Mediterranean, and effecting much good, and much evil… Amber in particular was the costly bauble, that attracted Greeks, Romans, and Arabians, and brought the north and the south acquainted with each other… After the Slavians became possessed of a great part of the Baltic shores, they established a range of flourishing commercial towns along them. The Germanic nations on the islands and opposite coasts were their eager rivals; and desisted not, till, for the sake of gain and of Christianity, the commerce of the Slavians was destroyed. They then endeavoured to occupy their place; and long before the proper Hanseatic League, a kind of maritime republic, a league of mercantile towns, was gradually established, which afterwards rose to
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the grand hanse… So now a much more extensive commercial state was formed of various members, on the genuine principles of mutual aid and security; a prototype, probably, of the future state of all mercantile nations of Europe.4 The use of the historic Hansa for contemporary purposes thus forms part of a long tradition stretching from Herder via the German Hansaeuphoria after 1871 to Björn Engholm in the 1980s. Such a strategy has been frequently criticized as ideological or as an exercise in voluntaristic historical construction.5 This, however, is not the point that will be discussed here. Since we know that communities need constructions of the past for orientation in the present, my argument will explore another path: namely, I shall try to discern a historical perspective on the Baltic Sea region that might contribute to demands for a supranational Baltic identity.6 As indicated above, one might argue that the Hanseatic League is the most appropriate conception to use in constructing such a Baltic identity. Yet, even if it is the most successful term in this regard, one can still question how important the Hansa image is in the everyday life of the Baltic Sea region. It could be argued that the temporary success of the New Hansa concept was due to its vagueness and presumably also to the fact that it does not really interfere with contested historical topics amongst the societies on the Baltic rim. In other words, the Hansa can easily be associated with positive developments such as trade, exchange, wealth and inter-cultural contacts. If there was occasionally a slight reluctance towards Engholm’s image of the Hansa, this was based not so much on differing political conceptions as on a national perspective which held that it was blurring the colonial role of the Hansa in the past.7 This observation leads to an important point: the relevance of supranational versus national perceptions of history. Inasmuch as such national inclinations appear to have lost much of their former enmity, one should not overestimate their actual importance.8 Nevertheless, traditional or revived nationalisms still have to be taken into account in any critical appraisal of a new regional approach.9 When speaking about the contribution of history to what might be called the identity of a greater region, one cannot ignore the impact of national discourses. Otherwise, the use of history would be confined to the development of tourism, which, although an important topic in mapping the Baltic Sea region, does not always correspond to the relevant historical discourses amongst its societies.10 There is a further point to be made concerning the use of the past in Baltic Sea co-operation politics. When matters of ‘high’ politics such as security and EU accession are discussed, politicians as well as scholars from the Baltic states often refer to arguments of identity and historical experience, whereas outsiders seem rather unwilling to use such concepts in this context.11 The argument of the three Baltic states that their goal of NATO membership is based on historical experiences of relations with Russia is hardly accepted in international political discussions and is replaced instead by talk of contemporary security concepts. If
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one tries to explain this reluctance to mix discourses on history and security, one could point out that these historically based identity discourses are primarily national and—hence—potentially in competition with other national perspectives.12 However, it is also important to recognize that there are obviously disputes about the relevance of historical experience for today’s politics. In this regard, one might polemically state that the Hansa seems to be a good experience, whereas the Baltic states’ fear of Russia is seen as one that should be excluded. The theoretical solution would be to offer a comprehensive historical perspective on the Baltic Sea region. On the level of historiography, however, we are still not very far out of the starting blocks in this respect.13 My remarks here must hence remain rather tentative. THE BALTIC SEA AREA AS A HISTORICAL REGION If we proceed from the assumption that history may indeed contribute to regionbuilding in the area, as Marko Lehti argues, we first need to discuss which historical facts and structures constitute the Baltic Sea Area as a historical region.14 Today, all historians of the Baltic Sea region refer with good reason to Fernand Braudel’s notion of the Mediterranean World, which first appeared in print in 1949.15 However, a lively debate on the Baltic Sea Area as a historical region had already emerged during the first half of the twentieth century. Whilst German historians of the time referred primarily to the role of the Hansa in shaping a German sea, Polish historians looked for elements of a sea culture dating back to the pre-Hanseatic era.16 There was also an early attempt to cultivate international co-operation in Baltic Sea historiography, and this was fostered by the past policies of the authoritarian Ulmanis regime in Latvia.17 After the Second World War this discussion was continued by Polish and German historians, whereas in Scandinavia debate clearly focused on Norden.18 All of these discussions were, of course, shaped to a large extent by political interests. Nevertheless, we can derive from them a debate about the historical constituents of the Baltic Sea region. Further attempts to discern a Baltic World— inspired by Braudel—have been made by Matti Männikkö and Klaus Zernack since the 1970s and, subsequently, by David Kirby, Matti Klinge and Stefan Troebst.19 These authors all agree that the region constitutes a historical unit, but differ with regard to periodization. German discussion of the region has been heavily influenced by the work of Zernack, who developed the concept of ‘Northeastern Europe’ as a synonym for a Baltic Sea Area that explicitly includes Russia. This marked a clear departure from earlier German historiography, which had sought to exclude Russia.20 Stefan Troebst has recently enlarged this concept to include the Barents Sea region, thereby underlining the importance of cohabitation with Russia in the Northern Calotte (Nordkalotte) in particular.21 Ralph Tuchtenhagen, on the other hand, has presented a narrower understanding, defining north-eastern Europe as a border zone between Scandinavia, Russia and
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the Baltic states (excluding Lithuania). Although he does not draw any explicit parallel, Tuchtenhagen’s depiction of the region thus appears closer to more limited conceptions such as Baltoscandia.22 If we try to look at north-eastern Europe in terms of the broader understanding outlined above, there are several features that could be designated as structural characteristics of the historical region.23 The first is the idea of the region as a gravitational field of trade. This is not only connected to the Hansa, but already to the early Middle Ages, including the emporia along the Baltic rim, and Gotland as the early centre of Baltic trade. The importance of trade connections continued through the Hanseatic era and up to the period of huge grain exports from Poland and the eastern Baltic (primarily from Danzig) to western Europe in the early modern period. Russia’s trade with western Europe was also significant in this regard, even during the period of the Swedish Dominium Maris Baltici. Secondly, one could point to the large structures of power that emerged from the sea traffic, beginning with the establishment of Rus’ by the Scandinavians on their ‘way from the Varagians to the Greeks’. The same might be said about the Danish imperium of the early thirteenth century, which temporarily incorporated Lübeck and reached the ‘Taani linn’ Reval (present-day Tallinn; literally, ‘the Danish town’), and Swedish control of the harbour cities from Vyborg and Nyen to Stralsund and Wismar during the seventeenth century. These features are closely connected to the third characteristic, which is communication across the Baltic. Until the emergence of overland railroads and telegraphs, harbours maintained much closer ties with one another than they did with settlements that lay beyond their direct hinterland. Fourthly, the impact of the high medieval colonization, shaping to a large extent even today’s cultural landscape, has to be mentioned. Fifthly, one can cite the impact of Christianity and the Reformation on nation-building processes within the region. A further point of relevance in this regard is the tension between trade cities and shore regions on the one hand and the emerging territorial states on the other, a feature which is also connected to the problem of the Unions of Krewo and Kalmar in the late fourteenth century. In the nineteenth and twentieth centuries we have to point to the formation of small nations and the transformation of the realms of Sweden, Russia and Prussia. It was mainly these aforementioned small nations that supported the idea of a Baltic Sea region during the early decades of the twentieth century. A final topic—one exceeding Mannikkö’s and Zernack’s conceptions, which more or less strictly limit the historical region to the early modern period—is that of historical topographies or the mémoire collectif of the twentieth century.24 The cultural sediments of these historical processes have also left an impact on those who migrated—either voluntarily or by force—to new places in the region after 1945. In this way, topography influences the identity and to some extent also the mentality of today’s city burghers in places such as Danzig, Riga, Tallinn, Vyborg and Kaliningrad. This does not, of course, mean that the Baltic Sea Area is a homogeneous region. On the contrary, I would argue for the kind of conceptual mapping of the
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region introduced by Matti Klinge, who has outlined three oppositions denoting a ‘dynamic and dialogic’ basis for historical development. These oppositions are empire and periphery, city and countryside, and German and non-German.25 All of the preceding points are mentioned here only in order to demonstrate that historians might speak of the Baltic Sea area as a historical region. Even if we follow Tuchtenhagen or other authors in defining a (north-eastern European/ northern/Baltoscandian) historical core region within the larger region of the Baltic and Barents Sea, we should still keep in mind Braudel’s vision of a sea world, which still inspires discussion about a maritime mentality or the catchment area of the sea. PAST POLITICS Having sketched a historical conceptualization of the Baltic Sea region, the question remains as to how this construction of history might contribute to region-building in the area and mitigate—or at least compete with—the impact of nationally or ethnically centred perceptions. In postmodernist terms, this leads one to speak about narratives of history. It has already become clear that the use of history is connected to imagined communities or imagined regions, and is hence based on myths or symbols and their tradition.26 Today, however, a purely voluntaristic approach runs the risk of being deconstructed if it appears to be obviously false, because in modern societies historiography is examined by professionals. In this regard, a more appropriate term for the use of history in a political perspective may be the term past politics, which has been introduced to historical debates in Germany during the last few years.27 Past politics emerged against the background of the German discussions about coping with the past (Vergangenheitsbewältigung), which initially focused upon the Nazi period. After 1989, however, this term received a new meaning and an increased importance with the discussions about the dictatorship in the GDR.28 These questions are to a large extent a matter for the legal and judicial authorities, which are responsible for punishing those who committed crimes and granting compensation to those who suffered injustice. Besides these aspects, however, Vergangenheitsbewältigung is also a matter of a broad public discussion and a core question of today’s political identity, and it is this aspect that I shall focus upon here. Although the term as coined by Norbert Frei is strictly limited to the reintegration of Nazi-era officials into the Federal Republic of Germany at the beginning of the 1950s, it nevertheless seems appropriate to use it more broadly.29 In its West German beginnings, Vergangenheitsbewältigung was closely related to the political aim of eliminating the effects of Allied deNazification policies. Yet it also became a question of identity politics from the late 1950s, when accusations of a suppressed past began to conflict with a hitherto dominant collective amnesia.30 In the context discussed here, past politics and their impact on the formation of identities may serve as a starting point for an analysis of how discourses on
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history influence the political agenda of building new European structures. This is evidently something different to historical consciousness, which has been broadly discussed in, for instance, Germany as well as Poland during recent decades. Since the notion of historical consciousness has tended towards normative fixations, comparisons of the two cases led to complaints about the allegedly low level of historical consciousness in Germany compared to its esteemed position in Poland, the result being seemingly everlasting GermanPolish misunderstandings. The concept of past politics, on the other hand, makes it possible to take into account the political impact of historical discourses. In short, if a new narrative of Baltic history is to have an impact in terms of identification with the region and a new conceptualization of Europe, the relevance of historical discourses and their main topics in the countries around the Baltic rim have to be analysed. For the purposes of this chapter, the emphasis is placed upon Germany and the former socialist countries, yet the analysis may be expanded to the North as well. If we return to the writings of Herder, it is notable that he saw no contradiction between nation-building and the common progress of mankind. However, early conceptions of past politics such as Herder’s Hansa concept were subsequently replaced by national perspectives all around the Baltic rim. In Germany, for instance, Jacob Grimm, writing in 1847 in the album of the Second Session of Germanists in Lübeck claimed that ‘Hansa is the oldest German word for band and company. A German Hansa, stronger than the old one, must be gathering some day on the sea.’31 Another example is the Polish perception, which was broadly shaped by the question of access to the sea, which was finally attained and celebrated in 1920.32 In Latvia a striking example can be seen in the statesponsored past politics of the Ulmanis regime, which founded a state institute with the task of constructing a new history of the Latvians as a legitimate basis of the authoritarian state.33 This conception is also apparent in Ulmanis’ plans to change the urban structure of Riga, whereby the medieval market square was to be overshadowed by a prodigious new city hall with a tower higher than the church steeples of Old Riga.34 After 1945, however, all these uses of Baltic history were for some forty years past perfect. Their place was taken by the socialist concept of a Sea of Peace, somehow reminiscent of the late eighteenth-century tranquillité du Nord.35 ‘The past is another country’—this statement by Tony Judt neatly encapsulates the post-war political mentality in those parts of Europe under consideration here.36 Cutting the present off from the past could work as a political strategy as long as there were political goals (or ideologies) and patterns of identification that were not based on history or at least only on a very limited view of history. In many cases, however, such a tendency was based less on a modernist perspective that history had become unimportant, than it was on the insight that history could reveal facts that might become dangerous for a regime or sections of the political or economic élite. Past politics thus deals mainly with the recent past, in which the present generations or that of their (grand)parents were involved. It is
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orientated first and foremost to the fate of one’s own community and, hence, connected to the discourses of national history. However, a critical analysis may contribute to a new understanding of history. It is an understanding that challenges the traditional notion of historiography, which has emphasized the perspective of ruling élites or nations. In this way, past politics may have the potential to contribute to the building of a supra-national or post-national region. COMPARATIVE ASPECTS OF PAST POLITICS A comparative analysis may help to answer the question of whether there are common tendencies of past politics in the region that might constitute crossborder discourses and thus be perceived as a common feature of Baltic Sea identity politics. I shall concentrate here on the following points: firstly, the blank spots of history; secondly, the question of victims and perpetrators during the Second World War and the socialist period; and thirdly, the relevance of national history today. Blank Spots The blank spots or black holes in the history of the twentieth century were probably the most dynamic aspects of historical discourse within socialist societies. They were directly bound to restrictions on public debate, and thus primarily associated with non-democratic systems. ‘Classic’ examples include: the murder of more than 20,000 Polish officers by the Soviet NKVD at Katyń and other places in 1940–41; the mass deportations from Poland and the Baltic states in the same year and again after the war; and the secret additional protocol of the August 1939 Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact, which delimited German and Soviet spheres of interest in east-central Europe from Finland to Romania.37 As soon as the existence of secret protocol could no longer be ignored by the Soviet Union, and the Soviet responsibility for the murders of Polish officers was officially admitted, these former taboos lost much of their weight. The admission of the Soviet occupation of the Baltic States and the murders at Katyń constituted an important element in the past politics initially propagated by Yeltsin’s Russia, which sought to overcome the Soviet legacy. Yeltsin passed the documents on Katyń to the Polish government in order to build up new bilateral relations.38 Past politics designed to eliminate these ‘black holes’, along with attempts to reveal the truth, were therefore characteristic of the late socialist period, above all. Their relevance has declined rapidly in the post-socialist era, and they no longer possess the explosive political impact so apparent in, for example, the Baltic chain on 23 August 1989 or, to a lesser extent, Polish exhibitions and publications on Katyń.39 The situation is more difficult, however, in cases where a historical taboo was not only enforced by a regime, but also widely accepted by the societies themselves. Especially problematic are cases such as crimes committed during
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the Second World War, exchange of populations and the shifting of state borders. In this connection, the concept of blank spots is not limited to authoritarian regimes, but refers also to German society over the question of exploitation of forced labour, or the debate on wartime collaboration with the Nazis in Sweden. In both cases, accusations of a ‘conspiracy of silence’ are now levelled.40 Victims and Perpetrators In the Cold War period the image of the Second World War was seemingly unambiguous: there were perpetrators (the Germans, or more precisely, the fascists), there were victims (the Jews and the Poles, the Baltic peoples), and there were the victors (first and foremost the Soviet people).41 From the middle of the 1980s onwards, however, cracks began to appear in this picture. To give just two illustrations from the West German debate, Joshua Sobol’s play Ghetto, about the Jewish administration of the Vilnius Ghetto, raised the question of Jewish collaboration with the Nazis, while Claude Lanzmann’s film Shoah asked whether Christian Poles were also responsible for the murder of Polish Jews.42 These rather extreme examples are indicative of a much broader development of the mémoire collectif, which Jan Assmann has analysed in the case of ancient Egypt—the change from communicated to cultural memory.43 Assmann’s theory may help us to understand the heightened importance of coping with the past of the Second World War since the mid-1980s, a development which, in my opinion, cannot be adequately explained only by the changes of 1989. The most important topic in this respect has become that of the Nazi crimes in Eastern Europe during the war. It is closely related to an increasing interest in Jewish history and culture, which is not just confined to the Jewish population. At first sight, it might seem astonishing that this discussion returned to German society during that particular decade. After all, the question of Nazi crimes had already been extensively documented at the Nuremberg International Military Tribunal, and there had been Nazi trials in West German courts for decades. An early turning point in the West German public discussion on Vergangenheitsbewältigung was the trial against the head of the German police in Klaip da/Memel during the war (the so-called Ulmer Einsatzgruppenprozeβ) in 1958. A second crucial point was President Weizsäcker’s speech on the 40th anniversary of the end of the Second World War. However, the German discussion about Nazi war crimes has undoubtedly increased during the last few years, and it is only since the late 1980s that German historical research has developed a broad interest in this field. If one tries to explain this phenomenon, two points have to be stressed. Firstly, German unification put topics on the political agenda that hitherto had been easy to disregard on the grounds that they were matters for a future all-German government. This was clearly the case with the question of compensation for forced labourers from Eastern Europe, which has been settled only recently.44 However, there is also another, so-to-say, inner-
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societal reason: namely, that the younger generations are much more interested in German politics during the Second World War. Moreover, as public discussion about Daniel Goldhagen’s Hitler’s Willing Executioners demonstrates, there is an interest in the commitment not only of the Nazi élite, but also of broader groups within society (such as scholars, for instance). Earlier, such a perspective had been rejected as being influenced by the theory of collective guilt, or—even more blameworthy—by campaigns from the Eastern Bloc. Today, however, such arguments have seemingly lost much of their former popularity. Whilst this might constitute an overly optimistic portrayal of recent developments, such a tendency can undoubtedly be noticed. The significantly increased German interest in Vergangenheitsbewältigung over the last decade mirrors broadly similar tendencies at work in the former socialist countries. In Poland the revision of Cold War ideology formed part of the above-mentioned debates on black holes until 1989. A critical analysis of German-Polish relations led to a questioning of the official anti-German propaganda and contributed thus to the deconstruction of the socialist regime. The Nestor of this perspective—which, by the way, was hardly understood in West Germany and not noticed in the GDR—was Jan Józef Lipski, a member of the dissident movement during the 1970s and 1980s. In his 1981 essay ‘Two Fatherlands, Two Patriotisms’, Lipski highlighted two points that are characteristic of the Polish variant of past politics. Firstly, it was not just the Poles who were victims of the war, but also the Germans expelled from the former eastern territories of Germany taken over by Poland in 1945. Secondly, he claimed that the Poles have a responsibility for preserving the cultural heritage of the region and thereby establishing friendly relations with the former enemy.45 From the standpoint of late 2000, the Polish debate still had a long way to go in terms of discussing the involvement of Poles in crimes against Jews as well as against Germans after the war. Nevertheless, a start has been made over the past few years. With regard to German-Polish relations, an important impulse was given by Helga Hirsch, a German journalist working in Warsaw, whose book Revenge of the Victims dealt with the fate of Germans arrested in Polish camps after the war.46 In terms of Polish-Jewish relations, a first step was made by Jan Błoński in his book The Poor Poles are Looking at the Ghetto, whilst 1996 saw a public debate on the Kielce pogrom of 1946.47 These initial discussions have been overshadowed by the recent interest in Jan Tomasz Gross’ book Neighbors, which discusses Polish involvement in the murder of Jews at the village of Jedwabne during 1941.48 Since its publication in November 2000, Gross’ book has generated a steadily expanding debate, which has tended to revolve around traditional questions of Polish self-esteem.49 Gross is surely right to point out that it is not the facts themselves which are causing this situation, but the way in which Polish society digests them. Moreover, he sees within these debates ‘a great chance for the shaping of a Polish identity that is no longer built on lies, ignorance and the suppression of uncomfortable truths’.50 However, several
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influential voices have criticized Gross for his allegedly simplified presentation of the events in Jedwabne.51 These debates notwithstanding, it seems that Polish past politics are still more concerned with the question of victims or perpetrators than they are with underlining the common experience of being victims of the Second World War and Yalta.52 This latter point leads me on to a second important topic—the question of who was responsible for the socialist regime. The difficulties in establishing the Polish Institute of National Memory show the highly political nature of this debate, which reflects a deep conflict between those who argue for gruba kreska (drawing a line under history), and those voting for lustracja (investigation) or an even more radical decommunization.53 The newly established institute also incorporates the former General Commission for Research on Fascist Crimes in Poland, which, after the collapse of socialism, was renamed the Commission for Research on Crimes against the Polish Nation.54 It is notable that the commission’s investigations against suspected Polish perpetrators still provoke sharp reactions in nationalist circles.55 This suggests that there is still a tendency within Polish society to regard the socialist injustice as having been committed from ‘outside’ the Polish nation; or, in a broader sense, to view the People’s Republic as a ‘nonPolish’ system of power.56 The Polish Vergangenheitsbewältigungis therefore still influenced by the image of national martyrdom. However, it is also heavily contested, due to the political interests of national and postsocialist parties in Poland.57 A review of the debate in Lithuania also reveals many of the aforementioned elements, although the discussion on ‘victims or perpetrators’ is much sharper than it is in the Polish case. The most important event in this regard was the trial of Aleksandras Lileikis, who, as the head of the Lithuanian police service Saugumas under German occupation in Vilnius, was accused of having murdered Jews.58 The case of this old man, pitied by the majority of Lithuanians, is, however, only one indi-cator of a problem that has deep roots in Lithuanian society.59 In Soviet Lithuania there was almost no discussion about the involvement of Lithuanians in the murder of Jews at the beginning of the war against the Soviet Union. Instead, the Lithuanians regarded themselves solely as victims of the Soviet system. This perspective finds expression in the redefined use of the term genocide, which in the present Lithuanian perception applies first and foremost to the Lithuanians themselves.60 Only in the last few years have there been attempts to extend it towards the Litvaks, the Lithuanian Jews. Even so, the discussions about the active participation of Lithuanians in the killing of Jews still have to overcome many inhibitions within society. The situation is made even more complicated by the fact that many of those whose served as policemen under Nazi occupation later joined the forest brothers after the war and were thus regarded as national patriots from an anti-Soviet perspective. When compared with the Polish case, Lithuanian past politics seems to be more post-socialist, claiming the unique character of the martyrdom of the Lithuanian people and rejecting interferences from outside.
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The Latvian and (to some extent) Estonian cases display some similarities to the Lithuanian case. In the mémoire collectif of these peoples, the year of horror of the first Soviet occupation in 1940–41 overshadows the question of collusion with German wartime policies in Eastern Europe.61 The participation of Estonians and Latvians in divisions of the Waffen-SS has been largely perceived as part of a fight for freedom against Soviet occupation. This interpretation was further strengthened by the fact that the SS-legions adopted popular folk songs as their symbols, thus making it possible for the songs of the Latvian legionnaires to become symbols of the national liberation movement. Even if the question of Latvian involvement in the murder of Jews during the Second World War has been raised by Margers Vestermanis and Andrievs Ezergailis, this seemingly still remains something of a sore point of public discussion in Latvia.62 Thus far, such discussion has focused on whether the legion should be commemorated during the Remembrance Day of the Latvian Soldier on 16 March.63 Compared to Lithuania, the situation regarding criminal prosecution in Latvia is more complicated. At the end of 1999 Konrad Kalejs, a member of the infamous Arājs Commando, which murdered thousands of Jews during World War Two, was found to be living in the United Kingdom, but immediately left for Australia in an attempt to evade extradition to Latvia. In contrast to the slow progress in the Kalejs case, former officers of the Soviet NKVD have already been tried in Latvia. This fact has prompted claims—from Russia and also from elsewhere— that ‘revanchist’ tendencies are at work in Latvia.64 However, the formation of an International Historical Commission on Crimes during the Second World War in both Latvia and Estonia is one indication of recent changes to a historical discourse hitherto largely shaped by the perspective of national martyrdom.65 The Estonian commission has already finished its investigations of the German occupation and published preliminary conclusions. It has now turned its attentions towards the Soviet occupation of 1940–41.66 The Latvian commission, meanwhile, has organized conferences on Latvia during the Second World War and on the Holocaust in Latvia and has also engaged historians to investigate these topics.67 OVERCOMING NATIONAL HISTORY One might argue that the political relevance of these debates about the Second World War is mainly due to the new climate of international relations since 1989, because the topics mentioned above have only rarely been regarded as problems within national discourses of history. This may be clearly noticed, for instance, in the critique of the Latvian discourse.68 We therefore have to look into the relevance of the framework of national history for collective identity. Even if there has been (as the aforementioned developments clearly show) a revival of national historiography after the collapse of the Soviet system, the situation today is already far beyond unchallenged traditional national historiographies.69
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Before describing these new perspectives, however, I shall examine the issue that perhaps best illustrates the new challenges to these discourses of national history. This issue concerns the perception of lost territories, which constitute a problem in Germany as well as in all East European countries, including Finland. In all cases, this problem was treated in a very one-sided fashion during the years of the Cold War. In Finland public references to the loss of Finnish Karelia (including Vyborg/Viipuri) were strictly limited due to the political imperative of keeping good relations with the Soviet Union. In the GDR the fact that a large part of the population originated from the former Prussian East was erased for reasons of ‘socialist brotherhood’.70 A similar phenomenon took place in Poland with regard to the Kresy, the former Polish territories in the East that include the cities of Vilnius and—far from the Baltic, but still within its catchment area—Lwów, both important historical centres of Poland alongside Warsaw and Cracow.71 However, once the Cold War ended and the process of democratization took hold in socialist societies, old nationalist arguments that had been suppressed or forgotten for some decades revived more or less immediately. In West Germany, the situation was different. With a few notable exceptions,72 groups of expellees—financed and to some extent tolerated by the German government—maintained a revanchist view of the past. Here, however, the accent was generally placed upon the expellees’ integration into West German society, rather than upon historical problems. It seems, therefore, that the absence of an open historical discourse kept old national perspectives alive and made them suitable for politicization. The latter point has been illustrated most graphically in the case of Polish-Ukrainian relations, where the question of the Lyčakivskyj/Łyczakowski cemetery in L’viv/ Lwów has shown that such tendencies are deeply rooted in Ukrainian society.73 As a counterpoint to these traditional past politics, however, the Polish case also reveals an opposite perspective that is closely connected to the above-mentioned essay by Lipski. Rejecting the polonocentric perspective of the Ziemie Odzyskane (the regained lands in the West and on the Baltic), regional groups such as Borussia in Olsztyn are trying to adopt the ‘German’ culture of the region as a part of their own identity.74 In this conception, the term Borderland assumes a positive rather than a negative connotation, as can also be seen in the work of the Pogranicze (‘Borderland’) Association in Sejny in north-eastern Poland. Such an approach may accord with the traditional Polish perception of Kresy, but how does it fit with the narrower national perspectives of Lithuanians, Belarusians and Ukrainians? The latter cases all reveal the difficulties of constructing one’s own distinctively ‘national’ approach to the multilayered history of the region. In Lithuania, for instance, the Polish aspects of Lithuanian history were more or less entirely neglected some years ago, and the founder of the Polish-Lithuanian Union, Jagiełło/Jogaila, was regarded as a traitor.75 More recently, however, the situation has shifted somewhat. Attempts to reconcile divided memories are today apparent not only in the former German regions of Poland, but also in the former Polish territories in the East, where Polish,
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Lithuanian and western Ukrainian intellectuals are interested in overcoming conflicting national perspectives. This can be clearly noticed in the case of Wilno/Vilnius, where writers and intellectuals such as Czesław Miłosz and Tomas Venclova have paved the way for mutual understanding. It remains open to question, however, whether such regional discourses of history might replace or at least reduce the importance of the national discourses. This seems to be the case wherever the regional discourse supports the notion of emancipating the periphery from the centre, something that can be observed in the Baltic littoral regions of Poland such as Gdańsk, Olsztyn and to some extent Szczecin. Such tendencies have so far manifested themselves quite strongly in belletrist and journalistic publications (such as the journal Borussid) but much less in historiography. Furthermore, their reflection may be also found in architecture and town planning, especially in the rediscovery of the historical city centres, as the development of Szczecin or Elblag indicates.76 The special example of Gdańsk demonstrates that the regional—or, more precisely, local— discourse already predominates over the national one, which had undoubtedly prevailed throughout the post-war era. The period since 1989 has seen the reemergence of attitudes of civic pride, which incorporate fin-de-siècle architectural reminiscences into a new mapping of the city. The case of Klaip da/ Memel in Lithuania seems to be similar to some extent.77 The Latvian and Estonian cases are different: here, the regional discourse could be described as a widening of the national discourse to embrace the heritage of the German past. A good example of this trend is the adaptation of the recently reconstructed House of the Black Heads in Riga. The plans for its reconstruction actually date back to the late 1940s, at which time they were conceived as an expression of national identity.78 Today, however, the reconstruction of the house is understood as a preservation of the multilayered past of Latvia. Another example might be noticed in Lennart Meri’s heavily disputed conception of Virgin Mary’s Land, which is obviously intended to exceed the limitations of a narrow, ethno-centred perspective on Estonian history.79 Alongside these attempts to promote a regionalization of history, one can point to a long tradition of German-Polish historical conferences as offering a further possible basis for a common approach to Vergangenheitsbewältigung, not only with regard to the Second World War but also to the period of socialism.80 This form of supra-national cooperation dates from 1972, when the Georg Eckert Institute in Braunschweig organized the first in a series of joint conferences on school textbooks. However, problems still become apparent whenever the discussion touches upon highly political matters, such as the question of cultural assets that were removed during the Second World War. The latter is probably one of the last significant areas—in Germany as well as in Poland—where the direct impact of the war can still be felt. In December 2000 a German-Polish network of scholars known as the Copernicus Group tried to overcome the deadlock in negotiations by advancing the idea of common care for these cultural assets. The reaction of the Polish and German public to this proposition,
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however, shows that in this case, old-style or post-socialist arguments are still very much alive.81 The latter point seems to be especially relevant in the case of Russia, where the picture is the most complicated of any Baltic Sea state. Russian discourses on history obviously follow a different set of rules, based around a dichotomy of ‘good’ (Russian) versus ‘false’ (western) Europe.82 Efforts to highlight Soviet repression have seemingly lost much of their public support during the last few years. As recent discussions about the national anthem show, the Russian Federation is today largely understood as the inheritor of the Soviet Union, a fact that does much to explain the current lack of interest in critical past politics.83 Such critical politics, which emerged in the era of glasnost and were partially continued by Yeltsin in his conflicts with the Communists during the first years of his presidency, were pursued mainly by civil rights organizations such as Memorial.84 The agenda of these organizations underlines the connection between past politics and the concept of civil society, something that can also be observed in the work of the Polish organization Karta.85 One of the main centres of Memorial is St Petersburg, which generally seems to be far more critical of the Soviet legacy than Moscow.86 With regard to St Petersburg’s orientation towards the Baltic Sea region, this might lead one to assume that there is perhaps some common interest in the kind of co-operative initiatives on past politics described earlier.87 However, as Viatcheslav Morozov shows in Chapter 10, the Russian discourse on the Baltic Sea region is strongly linked to the imperial traditions of Petrine Russia and to Aleksandr Nevskii, with a consequent emphasis on past victories over the Germans as well as the Swedes.88 Those arguing for a Russian variant of Vergangenheitsbewältigung have hence been marginalized during recent years, although local and regional activities do provide nuances to this picture. One might add that in the case of Memorial, past politics is mainly focused on social issues and less orientated towards images of history. CONCLUSION This chapter has attempted to analyse whether a discourse on history in the Baltic Sea Area might contribute to the shaping of a new image of Europe beyond the nation-state. Since it is obvious that not only our notions of national history, but also those of supra-national regions are based on constructions, a conception of the historical Baltic World may be created as a counterpoint to nationally based images. It seems, however, that even the construction of Norden —which, as Bo Stråth and Øystein Sørensen argue, is based on notion of homogeneity and nationstates and expresses a demarcation from Europe—does not really transcend the problem of a national shaping of history.89 The same holds true for conceptions of Baltoscandia, insofar as they exclude Russia or the Slavic nations from their models of regionalization. As I have sought to demonstrate, any notion of a Baltic World must recognize that pluralism and
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diversity are basic factors of European history. Since images of Europe are necessarily controversial, such a model of Baltic history must be based on a multi-perspectival understanding of the region.90 It remains, however, an open question as to whether a conception of past politics fostering a European mentality can actually compete with the national aspects of past politics. From the analysis contained in this chapter one might conclude that the national discourses of history are already losing importance and will be gradually replaced by regional and supra-ethnic discourses. Such claims, however, appear misleading if one looks at the question of enlarging the European Union to Eastern Europe. In opinions warning against Poland’s accession to the EU, for instance, one finds lots of arguments based on allegedly historical experiences. It seems that past politics are still at their strongest within a national framework. Furthermore, this focus on the nation seems to be a driving force in discussions about the socialist past, in Germany and across Eastern Europe. This leads to the question of whether it is possible to devise viable counter-strategies against these national discourses of history. For this purpose, one should analyse those areas where a historical discourse contributing to European identity is most readily accepted. As already mentioned, this seems to be the case at the regional or local levels. Beyond this, I have argued here for the development of a critical comparative perspective that goes beyond the myths of national martyrdom and highlights analogies in fates as well as faults amongst the societies around the Baltic.91 The regional or local examples suggest that supra-ethnic discussions might already be assuming a dominant role, placing the genius loci higher than the national gods. Another field, probably the most important in terms of shaping images of history, is the question of school textbooks and history teaching in schools. Some interesting approaches to a supra-national teaching of history have been already undertaken, but so far they are first of all manifest on a preparatory level.92 Nevertheless, the argument outlined here is intended to show that there are many historical aspects that may be used as contributions to a European discourse of Baltic identity based on a broad perspective of the region’s history. NOTES 1. B.Engholm, ‘Im Norden des neuen Europas: Eine neue Hanse’, NORDEUROPA forum 1, 4 (1991), pp. 9–11; cf. Mare Balticum. A Cultural and Economic Sea (Helsinki: EVA, 1990); R.Wulff and M.Kerner, Die Neue Hanse, Arbeitspapiere des Instituts für Internationale Politik und Regionalstudien no. 1 (Berlin: Institut für Internationale Politik und Regionalstudien des Fachbereichs Politische Wissenschaft der Freien Universität, 1994). Probably the most important international discussion of the New Hansa concept was the seminar held in Kotka in 1990. See Chapter 1 above. 2. Cf. B.Stråth and Ø Sørensen, ‘The Cultural Construction of Norden’ in B.Stråth and Ø Sørensen (eds), The Cultural Construction of Norden (Oslo: Scandinavian University Press, 1997), pp. 1–24; and Uffe Østergard, ‘The Geopolitics of Nordic
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3.
4.
5. 6.
7. 8.
Identity’ in ibid., pp. 25–71 on Norden. On Baltoscandia, see M.Lehti, ‘NonReciprocal Region-Building’, NORDEUROPAforum, 2 (1998), pp. 19–47, and on the background to the inter-war period, M.Lehti, 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 (Frankfurt-am-Main: Peter Lang, 1999). YuleLand was introduced by Toomas Hendrik Ilves, the Estonian minister of foreign affairs, in his speech Estonia as a Nordic Country to the Swedish Institute for International Affairs, 14 December 1999, see web-page www.vm.ee/eng/ pressreleases/speeches/1999/Ilves_stockl412.html (see chapter 1 above). Examples are given in j.Hackmann, ‘Not Only Hansa. Images of History in the Baltic Sea Region’, Mare Balticum (1996), pp. 23–35; T.Hill, ‘Die “Neue Hanse”: Rückblick eines Historikers auf einen Mythos’, Mare Balticum (1996), pp. 15–23; R.Postel, ‘Hanseatische Treuhänder und Erben: Das Nachleben der Hanse’, in J.Bracker et at. (eds), Die Hanse. Lebenswirklichkeit und Mythos (Lübeck: Schmidt-Römhildt, 1998), pp. 879–98. A good example of a recent usage is U. Kivikari, The Legacy of Hansa. The Baltic Economic Region (Helsinki: Otava, 1996). The original title of this work was Hansan perilliset, in Germany it was published without naming the Hansa, as Wirtschaftsraum Ostsee. Eine neue Zukunft für eine alte Region. J.G.von Herder, Reflections on the Philosophy of the History of Mankind. Abridged and with an Introduction by Frank E.Manuel (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1968), pp. 357–9. Cf. also the diary of Herder’s sea journey from Riga to France, ‘Aus dem Tagebuch der Seereise nach Frankreich’, in J.G.Herder, Zur Philosophic der Geschichte. Eine Auswahl in zyuei Bänden, ed. Wolfgang Harich, 2 vols (Berlin: Aufbau-Verlag, 1952), vol. 1, pp. 281–319. On Herder’s relevance for Europe as a political idea, see H.Münkler, ‘Europa als politische Idee. Ideengeschichtliche Facetten des Europabegriffs und deren aktuelle Bedeutung’, in Leviathan, 19 (1991), pp. 521–41. Cf. also H.B.Nisbet, ‘Herder’s Conception of Nationhood and its Influence in Eastern Europe’, in R.Bartlett and K.Schönwälder (eds), The German Lands and Eastern Europe. Essays on the History of their Social, Cultural and Political Relations (Basingstoke: Macmillan Press, 1999), pp. 115–35. See Hill, ‘Die “Neue Hanse”’ and Postel, ‘Hanseatische Treuhänder’. Cf. A.D.Smith, The Ethnic Origin of Nations (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1986); G. Schöpflin, ‘The Politics of National Identities’, in M.Branch (ed.), National History and Identity. Approaches to the Writing of National History in the North-East Baltic Region in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Studia Fennica Ethnologica 6 (Helsinki: Finnish Literature Society, 1999), pp. 48–62. Since my focus here is not the scholarly debate of the term identity, I will merely point to the most recent German publications: A.Assmann and H.Friese (eds), Identitäten, Erinnerung, Geschichte, Identität, 3 (Frankfurt-On-Main: Suhrkamp, 1998); L. Niethammer, Kollektive Identität. Heimliche Quellen einer unheimlichen Konjunktur (Reinbek: Rowohlt, 2000). Cf. also the remarks on European identity by B. Stråth, ‘Europe as a Discourse’, in B.Stråth (ed.), Europe and the Other and Europe as the Other, Multiple Europe Series 10 (Brussels: Peter Lang, 2000), pp. 13–44. Cf. Hill, ‘Die “Neue Hanse”’. Cf. Hackman, ‘Not Only Hansa’.
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9. See, for instance, P.Joenniemi (ed.), Neo-Nationalism or Regionality? The Restructuring of Political Space Around the Baltic Rim (Stockholm: NORDREFO, 1997). 10. A good example is G.Westholm, Hanseatic Sites, Routes and Monuments. A Traveller’s Guide to the Past and Present (Uppsala: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1996). 11. See G.Miniotaite, ‘The Baltic States: In Search of Security and Identity’, revised version of a paper presented at a conference of the German Press Office in Sellin in September 2000.1 am indebted to Grazina Miniotaite for giving me a copy of her paper. 12. Cf. G.Schöpflin, ‘Uses of the Past in Inter-Ethnic Relations’, Idäntutkimus. The Finnish Review of East European Studies, 6, 3/4 (1999), pp. 7–16. 13. The most ambitious approach has been undertaken by D.Kirby: see Northern Europe in the Early Modern Period. The Baltic World 1492–1772 (Harlow: Longman, 1990) and The Baltic World 1772–1993. Europe’s Northern Periphery in an Age of Change (Harlow: Longman, 1995). Another project, but so far not very much advanced, was launched by Thomas Riis, Studien zur Geschichte des Ostseeraumes 1–3 (Odense: Odense University Press, 1995–1999). 14. Lehti, ‘Non-Reciprocal Region-Building’, p. 26f. It should be kept in mind, however, that this also remains a discourse based on constructions of history. See, for instance, Stråth and Sørensen, ‘Cultural Construction of Norden’ and Østergard, ‘Geopolitics of Nordic Identity’ (1997). This is a point that I develop further below. 15. F.Braudel, The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II, 2 vols (Glasgow: Fontana Press, 1986); F.Braudel et al., La Méditerranée. Uespace et I’histoire, les hommes et l‘heritage (Paris: Flammarion, 1992). 16. See J.Hackmann, ‘Mare germanicum? Anmerkungen zur deutschen Geschichtsschreibung über den Ostseeraum’, Mare Balticum (1995), pp. 31–40; and F.Bujak, ‘Kultury morskie i lądowskie’ in J.Borowik (ed.), Światopogląd morski, Pamietnik Instytutu Baltyckiego 15 (Toruń: Kasa im. Mianowskiego, 1934), pp. 1–19. 17. See Conventus primus historicorum Balticorum: Pirmā Baltijas vesturnieku konference, Rīgā, 16.–20. VIII. 1937. Runas un referâti (Riga: Latvijas vestures instituta izdevums, 1938). The establishment of an international group of Baltic Sea historians was discussed at this conference. See M.L’héritier, ‘L’Histoire internationale de la Baltique et la coopération des Historiens’, in ibid., pp. 577–85. He also expressed, although in quite diplomatic terms, ‘le désir qu’ont les historiens baltiques d’étudier ensemble d’historie de leur region qui est un peu leur commune patrie’ (p. 585). 18. See Hackmann, ‘Not Only Hansa’ and ‘Zugang zum Meer’, a paper on the Polish historiography of the Baltic (forthcoming); Østergard, ‘Nordic Countries in the Baltic Region’, pp. 26–53. 19. M.Männikkö, ‘Itämeren piiri historiallisena käsitteenä. Ongelmia ja näkökohtia’, Faravid. Acta Societatis Historiae Finlandiae Septentrionalis, 3 (1979), pp. 5–31; K.Zernack, Nordosteuropa. Skizzen und Beiträge zu einer Geschichte der Ostseeländer, Lüneburg: Nordostedeutsches Kulturwerk (1993); M.Klinge, ‘Der Ostseeraum als Kulturraum’, in J.Fligge and R.Schweitzer (eds), Bibliotheca Baltica, Beiträge zur Bibliothekstheorie und Bibliotheksgeschichte 10 (Munich: Saur, 1994), pp. 20–5; M.Klinge, The Baltic World (Helsinki: Otava, 1994);
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20. 21.
22.
23.
24.
25. 26.
27. 28.
29.
30. 31. 32.
33.
34.
S.Troebst, ‘Nordosteuropa: Geschichtsregion mit Zukunft’, NORDEUROPAforum, 1 (1999), pp. 53–69. See also M.Lehti, ‘Mapping the Study of the Baltic Sea Area’. See, for instance, Hackmann, ‘Mare germanicum?’ See Troebst, ‘Nordosteuropa’, p. 62. This is close to the regional approach of L. Hedegaard and B.Lindström (eds), NEBI-Yearbook: North European and Baltic Sea Integration, 1 (1998). R.Tuchtenhagen, ‘Nordosteuropa’, in H.Roth (ed.), Studienhandbuch östliches Europa, vol. 1: Geschichte Ostmittel-und Südosteuropas (Cologne/Weimar/ Vienna: Böhlau, 1999), pp. 73–80. On this notion and its history, see Lehti, ‘NonReciprocal Region-Building’. What follows is based mainly on Zernack, Nordosteuropa; Troebst, ‘Nordosteuropa’; and Kirby, Northern Europe in the Early Modern Period and Baltic World. See, for instance, J.Czaplicka, ‘Geteilte Städte und geteilte Geschichte. Zur Neustrukturierung des Erbes europäischer Städte in den osteuropäischen Grenzstaaten’, in Nordost-Archiv. Zeitschrift fir Regionalgeschichte, 6 (1997), pp. 343–50. Klinge, Baltic World. See B.Anderson, Imagined Communities. Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (London: Verso, 1983); Smith, Ethnic Origin of Nations. Good examples of the role of foundation myths in the early modern period are provided by P.Burke, ‘Foundation Myths and Collective Identities in Early Modern Europe’, in Stråth, Europe and the Other, pp. 113–22. N.Frei, Vergangenheitspolitik. Die Anfänge der Bundesrepublik und die NSVergangenheit (Munich: C.H.Beck, 1996). Materialien der Enquete-Kommission ‘Überwindung der Folgen der SED-Diktatur im Prozeβ der Deutschen Einheit’ (13. Wahlperiode des Deutschen Bundestages), 8 vols (Baden-Baden: Nomos, 1999). See, for example, the contributions by myself and Edmund Dmitrów in W. Borodziej and K.Ziemer (eds), Deutsch-polnische Beziehungen 1939–1945–1949. Eine Einführung, Einzelveröffentlichungen des Deutschen Historischen Instituts Warschau 5 (Osnabrück: fibre Verlag, 2000), pp. 235–64, 297–327. See H.Lübbe, ‘Der Nationalsozialismus im deutschen Nachkriegsbewuβtsein’, Historische Zeitschrift, 236 (1983), pp. 579–99. Quoted following the facsimile in A.Graβmann (ed.), Lübeckische Geschichte (Lübeck: Schmidt-Römhildt, 1989), p. 605. Cf. the inaugural lecture by Stefan Troebst, ‘Intermarium. Das östliche Mitteleuropa und das Meer’, at the University of Leipzig, 10 April 2000 (www.unileipzig.de/gwzo/t_antr.htm), reprinted in Geschichte und Gesellschaft, 28 (2002), pp. 435–69. I.Feldmanis, ‘Die lettische Historiographie’, in M.Garleff (ed.), Zwischen Konfrontation und Kompromiβ. Oldenburger Symposium: ‘Interethnische Beziehungen in Ostmitteleuropa als historiographisches Problem der 1930er/ 1940er Jahre’, Schriften des Bundesinstituts für ostdeutsche Kultur und Geschichte 8 (Munich: Oldenbourg, 1995), pp. 133–8. I am grateful to Inesis Feldmanis for a copy of his paper on Latvian historiography presented in Greifswald in December 2000. See J.Lejnieks, Rīga, kuras nav (Riga: Zinātne, 1998), p. 128.
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35. See O.Brandt, ‘Das Problem der “Ruhe des Nordens” im 18. Jahrhundert’, Historische Zeitschrift, 140 (1929), pp. 550–64. 36. T.Judt, ‘The Past is Another Country: Myth and Memory in Postwar Europe’, Daedalus, 121, 4 (1992), pp. 83–118; cf. also T.Judt, ‘Europas Nachkriegsgeschichte neu denken’, Transit, 15 (1998), pp. 3–11. 37. E.Oberländer (ed.), Hitler-Stalin-Pakt 1939. Das Ende Ostmitteleuropas? (Frankfurt-am-Main: Fischer Taschenbuch, 1989). On the Polish case, see also R. Rexheuser, ‘“Weiβe Flecken” in der jüngeren und jüngsten Geschichte Polens’ in C.Burrichter and G.Schödl (eds), ‘Ohne Erinnerung keine Zukunft’. Zur Aufarbeitung von Vergangenheit in einigen europäischen Gesellschaften unserer Tage (Cologne: Wissenschaft und Politik, 1992) pp. 125–45. 38. On the circumstances and the background see the reports in Gazeta Wyborcza, 15 November 1992. 39. See K.Brüggemann, ‘Von der Renationalisierung zur Demontage nationaler Helden. Oder: “Wie schreibt man estnische Geschichte?”’, Osteuropa 51 (2001), pp. 810–19. On the political impact see also H.Arumäe, ‘Noch einmal zum sowjetisch-deutschen Nichtangriffspakt’, in Oberlander, Hitler-Stalin-Pakt 1939, pp. 114–24, and S.Vahtre, ‘Die Geschichtskunde und die Historiker in Estland in den kritischen Jahren 1918/1919 und 1987/1989’, in E.Demm et al (eds), The Independence of the Baltic Sates. Origins, Causes, and Consequences. A Comparison of the Crucial Years 1918–1919 and 1990–1991 (Chicago: Lithuanian Research and Studies Center, 1996), p. 136. Vahtre points to the Baltic appeal from 1979. See also C.Madajczyk, Dramat Katyński (Warsaw: Ksiązka i Wiedza, 1989), also in German translation, Das Drama von Katyń (Berlin, 1991). 40. A.W.Johansson, ‘Neutrality and Modernity. The Second World War and Sweden’s National Identity’, in S.Ekman and N.Edling (eds), War Experience, Self Image and National Identity. The Second World War as Myth and History (Stockholm: Gidlund, 1997), pp. 163–85, here p. 181. Cf. also S.Ekman, ‘Skilful Realpolitik or Unprincipled Opportunism? The Swedish Coalition Government’s Foreign Policy in Debate and Research’, in ibid., pp. 188–208. An early reflection of the Swedish change in the debate on history may be found in M.Klinge, ‘Aspects of the Nordic Self, Daedalus, 113, 2 (1984), pp. 257–77. 41. Remember the quotation of Stalin: ‘The Hitlers will come and go, but the German people will remain’, which was one of the most popular political slogans in the early GDR. 42. J.Sobol, Ghetto. Schauspiel in drei Akten. Mil Dokumenten und Beiträgen zur zeitgeschichtlichen Auseinandersetzung (Berlin: Quadriga, 1984); C.Lanzmann, Shoah (Paris: Librairie Générale Francaise, 1987). 43. J.Assmann, Das kulturelle Gedächtnis. Schrift, Erinnerung und politische Identität in frühen Hochkulturen (Munich: C.H.Beck, 1999). 44. For the details of the agreement, see the home-page of the German Economy Foundation Initiative Steering Group: www.stiftungsinitiative.de 45. J.J.Lipski, ‘Dwie ojczyzny—dwa patriotyzmy’, in J.J.Lipski, Powiedzj sobie wszystko… Eseje o sąsiedztwie polsko-niemieckim (Gliwice: Wokół nas, 1996), pp. 36–73. German version ibid., pp. 185–228. The text was published first in Paris. Its importance exceeds the limited field of German-Polish relations; cf. its relevance for discussions on civil society in Poland, as outlined in J.Keane, Civil Society. Old Images, New Visions (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1998).
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46. H.Hirsch, Die Rache der Opfer. Deutsche in polnischen Lagern 1944–1950 (Berlin: Rowohlt, 1998). 47. J.Błoński, Biedni Polacy patrzą na getto (Cracow: Wydawnictwo Literackie, 1994, 1996) (a first version was published in 1987 in Tygodnik Powszechny). See in this context also E. and R.Traba (eds), Tematy polsko- ydowskie (Olsztyn: Borussia, 1999); K-P.Friedrich, ‘Das Pogrom von Kielce am 4. Juli 1946. Anmerkungen zu einigen polnischen Neuerscheinungen’, eitschrift für Ostmitteleuropaforschung, 45 (1996), pp. 411–21. 48. J.T.Gross, Sąsiedzi. Historia zagfady zydowskiego miasteczka (Sejny: Pogranicze, 2000); an English edition is published as J.T.Gross, Neighbors. The Destruction of the Jewish Community in jedwabne, Poland (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001). The Polish version can also be downloaded at www.pogranicze.sejny.pl/ jedwabne/ksiazka.pdf. On the jedwabne events, see K.Sauerland, ‘Jedwabne heiβt der Ort’, Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 22 December 2000, p. 43; ‘Diabelskie szczegoly’, Gazta Wyborcza, 18–19 November 2000, pp. 10–13. Cf. S. Garsztecki, ‘Gegen das Vergessen—Vergangenheitspolitik in Polen’, Neue Zürcher Zeitung, 14–15 October 2000. (This chapter was finished in the Spring of 2001, since when there have been many further contributions to the debate.) 49. The Polish and English contributions, and also some of the German, may be found on the website of the foundation Pogranicze that published Gross’ book: www.pogranicze.sejny.pl/jedwabne/index.html/ and www.pogranicze.sejny.pl/ english/jedwabne/index.htm 50. Gross in an interview with Helga Hirsch, ‘Befreiende Wahrheit’, Die Zeit, 19 April 2001, pp. 43–4; cf. also A.Michnik, ‘Wie schuldig sind die Polen?’, Die Zeit, 13, 22 March 2001, p. 7; similarly in English, Michnik, ‘How Deep the Guilt?’, The New York Times, 17 March 2001. 51. In Spring 2001, an exhumation took place as part of a further investigation into the atrocity. 52. See, for example, the essays by Adam Michnik in Letters from Prison and Other Essays, Societies and culture in East-Central Europe 2 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985); A.Michnik, Letters from Freedom. Post-Cold War Realities and Perspectives, Societies and Culture in East-Central Europe 10 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998). 53. The institute came into being in December 1998, after the Sejm overturned a presidential veto against the statute. 54. It has now been made one of three branches of the Institute of National Memory. See www.ipn.gov.pl 55. See M.Ludwig, ‘Nestbeschmutzende Staatsanwälte nehmen keine Rücksicht auf die Nationalität der Täter’, Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 9 May 2001. 56. K.Wóycicki et al, ‘Die polnische Abrechung mit der Geschichte nach 1989’, in H.König et al. (eds), Vergangenheitsbewältigung am Ende des zwanzigsten Jahrhunderts, Leviathan Sonderheft 18 (Opladen-Wiesbaden: Westdeutscher Verlag, 1998), pp. 291–308. 57. S.Grabowski, ‘Vergangenheitsbewältigung in Polen. Dossier und Analyse’, in König, Vergangenheitsbewältigung am Ende des zwanzigsten Jahrhunderts, pp. 261–90. 58. The trial came to an end when Lileikis died in September 2000.
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59. On this problem, see C.Dieckmann, ‘Der Krieg und die Ermordung der litauischen Juden’, in U.Herbert (ed.), Nationalsozialistische Vernichtungspolitik 1939–1945. Neue Forschungen und Kontroversen (Frankfurt-On-Main: FischerTaschenbuch, 1998), pp. 292–329. 60. See A.Anušauskas (ed.), The Anti-Soviet Resistance in the Baltic States (Vilnius: Du Ka, 1999); for the Soviet definition, cf. Bol’shaia Sovetskaia Entsiklopediia, 2nd edn, 10 (Moscow 1952), pp. 440–1. An International Commission for the Evaluation of the Crimes of the Nazi and Soviet Occupation Regimes in Lithuania was established by the president of Lithuania in 1998 (see: www.komisija.lt). In spite of the title, the commission also ‘look[s] objectively into crimes committed under occupation that impaired or could have involved Lithuanians’, as ELTA reported on 7 September 1998. 61. ‘The Year of Horror’ was the title of a Nazi propaganda publication: Baigais gads (Riga, 1942). German version: P.Kovalevskis, O.Noritis and M.Coppers, Dasjahr des Grauens. Lettland unter der Herrschaft des Bolschewismus 1940–1941 (Riga, 1943). See Markus Lux, ‘“Das Jahr des Grauens”. Die Auseinandersetzung mit der Vergangenheit in Lettland’, Zeitschrift fur Geschichtswissenschaft, 47 (1999), p. 810f. 62. Ibid.; also E-C.Onken, Revisionismus schon vor der Geschichte. Aktuelle Kontroversen in Lettland um die Judenvernichtung und die lettische Kollaboration während der nationalsozialistischen Besatzung, Galut Nordost, Sonderheft 1 (Cologne: Wissenschaft und Politik, 1998), and A.Ezergailis (ed.), The Latvian Legion: Heroes, Nazis or Victims? (Riga: Latvijas véstures institūta apgāds, 1997). 63. See the commission’s statement of 1999 on www.ushmm.org/assets/latvia.htm On the controversy elicited by the Latvian Legionnaires, see also Chapter 10 below. 64. See J.von Altenbockum, ‘Zwischen Holocaust und GULag. Lettland gerät bei der Aufarbeitung seiner Vergangenheit in Verlegenheit’, Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 18 January 2000, p. 14. 65. For details see www.ushmm.org/assets/latvia.html and www.mfa.gov.lv/eng/latvia/ history/commission.htm. In its inception, the commission consisted only of Latvian historians; it was, however, enlarged later. In Estonia, the International Commission for the Investigation of Crimes against Humanity was set up on President Lennart Meri’s initiative in October 1998; see www.vm.ee/eng/review/ 1999/99060612.htm 66. See the commission’s report of 4 May 2001 at www.historycommission.ee/temp/ conclusions.htm 67. I am grateful to Erwin Oberländer for providing me with information on the Latvian commission. 68. See Onken, Revisionismus schon vor der Geschichte. 69. See, for instance, the discussion in S.Berger et al. (eds), Writing National Histories. Western Europe Since 1800 (London and New York: Routledge, 1999), in particular the conclusions on pp. 281–304. 70. There has been a large debate on this since 1989. See, for instance, A.von Plato and W.Meinicke, Alte Heimat—Neue Zeit. Fliichtlinge, Umgesiedelte, Vertriebene in der Sowjetischen Besatzungszone und in der DDR (Berlin: Verlags-Anstalt Union, 1991).
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71. See also K.Gerner, ‘Hungary, Poland and the European Union: Images of the Past and Prospects for the Future’, Idäntutkimus, 6, 3/4 (1999), pp. 29–46 on Hungary’s lost territories. 72. By way of example, one can cite the work of the Baltic Academy in Lübeck. See D.Albrecht and M.Thoemmes (eds) …‘die Reiser, die wir pflanzen den Kindern, würden ein Garten. Im Licht.’ Zehn Jahre Ostsee-Akademie, Travemünder Protokolle 5 (Lübeck: Ostsee-Akademie, 1998). Now, its work is seriously jeopardized, as the organization of Pomeranian expellees lapses back to revanchist traditions. 73. In this cemetery, the Eagles of Lwów, young Poles who fought against the Ukrainians in 1918 are buried. The monument to these fighters, erected during the Polish period, was subject to endless negotiations between Polish and Ukrainian officials until the summer of 2000. Right in front of the Polish memorial, which is now being restored, a Ukrainian monument with a huge column of the Archangel Michael is going to be erected. That there are also resentments on the part of Polish people from the Kresy may be illustrated by the discussion about a commemoration plaque in the garrison’s church in Przemy l, Poland. 74. For more about the work of Borussia, see its journal: Borussia. Kultura, Historia, Literature 1 (1991). 75. Jagiełło/Jogaila was both Grand Duke of Lithuania and King of Poland. See A. Nikžentaitis, ‘Bohater czy zdrajca? Formowanie si na Litwie stereotypu Jagiełły w okresie XV-XX wieku’, Znak, 44, 3 (1992), pp. 40–7. On the broader background, see L.Donskis, ‘Concepts of Nationalism in Twentieth Century Lithuania’, in C.Williams and T.D.Sfikas (eds), Ethnicity and Nationalism in Russia, the CIS and the Baltic States (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1999), pp. 324–49. 76. J.Hackmann, ‘Stettin: Zur Wirkung der deutsch-polnischen Grenze auf die Stadtentwicklung nach 1945’, in G.Stöber and R.Maier (eds), Grenzen und Grenzräume in der deutschen und polnischen Geschichte. Scheidelinie oder Begegnungsraum? (Hannover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 2000), pp. 217–34. 77. V.Vareikis, ‘The Baltic Sea City System in Historical Perspective. The Case of Lithuania and Klaipëda’, in M.Åberg and M.Peterson (eds), Baltic Cities. Perspectives on Urban and Regional Change in the Baltic Sea Area (Lund: Nordic Academic Press, 1997), pp. 97–112. 78. M.Siliņa (ed.), Melngalvju nams Rīgā (Riga: SIA Rigas Nami, 1995), pp. 174–7. 79. See M.Lagerspetz, The Cross of Virgin Mary’s Land: A Study in the Construction of Estonia’s “Return to Europe”’, Idäntutkimus, 6, 3/4 (1999), pp. 17–28; and Brüggemann, ‘Von der Renationalisierung zur Demontage nationaler Helden’. 80. By way of an example, one can cite the conference on Umgang mit der Vergangenheit in Deutschland und Polen. Aufdecken oder Zudecken? held in Transodra on 16 September 1997, where the German and Polish approach was compared; cf. also E.Kobylińska (ed.), Erinnern, vergessen, verdrängen. Polnische und deutsche Erfahrungen, Veröffentlichungen des Deutschen Polen-Instituts Darmstadt 11 (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1998). 81. This group was initiated by the Germany-Poland Institute in Darmstadt in 1999. On the German reaction see Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 19 December 2000; on the Polish reaction, Rzeczpospolita, 13 December 2000.
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82. I.B.Neumann, Uses of the Other: The ‘East’ in European Identity Formation (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1999), p. 90f. et passim. Chapter 10 below deals with the same issue. 83. Its new text, approved by a decree of the President of the Russian Federation on 30 December 2000, was written by the author of the old Soviet anthem, with the melody remaining unchanged. 84. See www.memo.ru/about/index.htm for further information. 85. See http://karta.icm.edu.pl/pol/osrodek and also its journal Karta, 1 (1991), which sees itself as an independent journal with dissident roots. By presenting personal documents it aims to discuss ‘difficult national topics’ and particularly ‘resistance against twentieth-century totalitarianism’. 86. S.Boym, ‘Leningrad into St Petersburg: The Dream of Europe on the Margins’, in Stråth, Europe and the Other, pp. 311–23. On Memorial, see E.Fein, Geschichtspolitik in Russland. Chancen und Schwierigkeiten einer demokratisierenden Aufarbeitung der sowjetischen Vergangenheit am Beispiel der Tätigkeit der Gesellschaft Memorial, Osteuropa 23 (Münster: Lit, 2000); and K.E.Smith, Remembering Stalin’s Victims. Popular Memory and the End of the USSR (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1996). 87. See Boym, ‘Leningrad into St Petersburg’ and the contributions of Aleksandr Myl’nikov and Gleb Lebedev in Mare Balticum (1993). 88. This statement also holds true in the case of Kaliningrad and other north-western regions of Russia. In 1993 a monument to Aleksandr Nevskii was erected near Pskov, on the banks of the Velikaia river, facing towards the west. 89. Stråth and Sørensen, ‘The Cultural Construction of Norden’, p. 22. 90. Stråth, Europe and the Other, p. 25; and W.Lepenies, ‘Nützliches Miβverständis’ (on the discussion on Joschka Fischer’s speech at Humboldt University in May 2000), Die Woche, 2 June 2000, p. 8. 91. An expression of this might be a critical global memory, as O.Höffe, ‘Nationalstaaten im Zeitalter der Globalisierung’, Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung 25 July 2000, p. 14, argues. A similar approach with regard to Poland and her neighbours was undertaken by Wóycicki et al, ‘Die polnische Abrechung mit der Geschichte nach 1989’. 92. As a recent example, one could mention the textbook The History of the Baltic States (Tallinn: Avita, 1999), supported by the Council of Europe, the Open Estonia Foundation and the Soros Foundation in Latvia and Lithuania. On the discussion about textbooks, see Schwedisches Zentralamt für Universitäes-und Hochschulwesen and Finnlands Unterrichtsministerium (ed.), Geschichtsbild in den Ostseeländern 1990 (Stockholm: Gotab, 1991) and R.Maier (ed.), Nationalbewegung und Staatsbildung. Die baltische Region im Schulbuch (Frankfurt-OnMain: Moritz Diesterweg, 1995).
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4 From Modern to Post-Modern RegionBuilding: Emancipating the Finnish Nation from the State CHRISTOPHER S.BROWNING
THE CHALLENGES OF REGION-BUILDING Since the end of the Cold War questions of regional co-operation have inspired much debate as well as political action. This has particularly been the case in northern Europe, where regional acronyms and organizations have proliferated. The phenomenal growth and complexity of the ‘new’ regional politics has been confusing when trying to understand the place of the state within these developments. With the emergence of new spatial constructions such as transborder regions, twin cities, city networks, autonomous areas, regional councils and committees, each possessing agency within the international political space reserved in traditional international relations theories for the state, it is little wonder that the previously assumed dominance of the nation-state in the Baltic region has been questioned.1 Indeed, understood in its classical Weberian form the modern (nation-)state, with its assumed ‘monopoly of the legitimate use of physical force in the enforcement of its order’,2 has been characterized as on the defensive and in peril of annihilation. This is particularly evident when people talk of the ‘erosion’ of state sovereignty and the ‘redistribution’ of aspects of sovereignty to other ‘levels’ of governance, upwards to the supra-national level of the EU and Brussels and downwards to local and trans-border regions.3 The most enthusiastic see the death of the nation-state as imminent, to be replaced by what is sometimes termed a ‘Europe of Regions’. Such a view depicts the relationship between the nation-state and the regions as one of conflict over interests and resources, with the state inhibiting regional aspirations.4 The irony of this largely realist view is that the regions are presented as new Weberian states in the making. From a more post-modern perspective the ‘Europe of Regions’ argument is rejected and the state is sometimes characterized as becoming anachronistic in terms of its inability to control the increasing mass of trans-national interactions of a globalizing world. State borders appear increasingly obsolete and are ‘becoming so porous that they no longer fulfil their historical role as barriers to the movement of goods, ideas and people, and as markers of the extent and power of the state’.5 Furthermore, not only are interactions quantitatively out of the
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control of the state but there has also been a qualitative change in the nature of these interactions. New issues are on the agenda, which transcend state borders, require cross-national co-operation and are presumed to undermine the state more used to dealing with issues of territorial security and the preservation of sovereignty. Such areas include the environment, communications, research, education and economic and cultural development. From this perspective the modern world is transforming into the post-modern, in which the incongruence of new cultural, social, political, economic and environmental dynamics undermines the coherence of the territorially delineated modern states’ system.6 However, such a dichotomy between the nation-state and regionbuilding is misplaced. As noted elsewhere in this volume, the state continues to play a vital role in the region-building process, occupying a co-ordinating position between relevant regions and the international system and facilitating mutually agreeable responses to the uncertainties of globalization.7 As Heikki Eskelinen, Elisa Haapanen and Pavel Druzhinin have noted, states continue to set the rules of the game through signing treaties delineating possibilities of action for regions. Thus, it was only because Finland and Russia signed the Nearby Region Agreement in 1992, mentioning trans-boundary co-operation, that municipalities were free to engage in co-operative dialogue with local governments on the other side of the border.8 In fact, states also actively engage in regional co-operation that transcends state borders and weakens the traditionally understood bounds of state sovereignty. For example, the Barents Euro-Arctic Region (BEAR) has been an explicitly state-initiated project.9 That states participate in the ‘new’ regional cooperation should not surprise us, given the state’s virtual monopoly of resources. As Michael Mann has pointed out, regionalizes necessarily need to engage the nation-state to persuade governments that global and regional concerns are in the national interest.10 Thus, even the Northern Calotte, generally considered to be a region-building project outside the states’ remit, frequently requires tools and resources provided by the various central governments to facilitate co-operation.11 Ironically, both the modernist critique that sees the nation-state in competition with regions for sovereignty and the post-modern critique that sees the state dissolving in the face of globalization share conceptual restrictions. Importantly, both rely on an understanding of concepts such as sovereignty and the nation and state that remain static, with the nation-state understood in Weberian terms as a territorially sovereign power container. Both also posit a state obsessed with its own security that prioritizes national sovereignty understood in terms of territorial control.12 They therefore see the declining strength and importance of international borders as a challenge to state sovereignty and the precursor to the nation-state’s eventual demise.13 However, in uncritically accepting traditional notions of the nation-state (Weberian) and security (territorial sovereignty) they are unable to grasp that something fundamentally different is going on. It is mistaken to believe that since state borders are becoming ever more porous and losing their importance the state is therefore on the wane. That state borders are
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increasingly seen as sites of interaction, communication and integration, rather than of exclusion and isolation, is only problematic to the state if the state is seen in such a static Weberian form. Rather, the role of the state is not diminishing, but changing to embrace and promote such interaction. This is because the socially constructed meanings that we attach to the concepts of the state, nation, security, territory and sovereignty are also in flux in the post-Cold War world. As the meanings attached to these concepts have been re-envisaged, new possibilities for region-building have opened up that, rather than undermining the nation and state, are premised precisely on changing notions of them. This chapter attempts two things in respect of Finland’s relation to processes of regional co-operation. First, it will be shown that two different characters or types of region-building can be identified that are premised on different narratives of the link between the nation and the state in the construction of Finnish identity. The first of these may be termed modernist in nature and is a continuation of the character of region-building that the Finnish state supported before the end of the Cold War. Such region-building was premised on modernist and realist notions of the state and state security. Region-building was promoted to the extent that it was perceived to further the goals of state security policy. In the Finnish case, the foremost goal of foreign and security policy was to remove Finland from conflicts between the great powers, and region-building was promoted to the extent that it could further this aim. However, it was never intended to undermine the state’s sovereignty in terms of the state’s remit of governance or the state’s control of its territory. Such modern discourses of the nation-state persist today and amongst others can be seen to inform elements of Finland’s regional cooperation policies in the BEAR, the Council of Baltic Sea States (CBSS) and the EU. However, one can also detect post-Cold War narratives of Finnish national identity that facilitate a more post-modernist approach to regionbuilding and which undermine the modernist fusion of the nation and the state. Post-modern narratives of the Finnish self delink the nation from the state and in so doing open up new possibilities for our understanding of national security, sovereignty, the role of the state and the character of region-building that this facilitates. Rather than being tied to the modern project of continuing state sovereignty, such narratives are more concerned with the security of individuals and the nation than they are with that of the state. When based on such narratives, region-building focuses upon the cultural, social and economic welfare and development of people, not states. The second and primary task of this chapter is to try to account for the emergence of this post-modernist character of regional co-operation in Finnish foreign policy. In it, I will identify five factors that in the Finnish context have gone some way towards delinking the nation from the state and which have in turn enabled Finland to approach regional co-operation in Europe in much more open and diverse ways. These factors are: the end of the Cold War, the challenges of globalization, the post-modern turn in the social sciences, the reappraisal of Finland’s Cold War history, and the construction of a Finnish
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identity inclusive of the values entailed in the EU project. The result of this delinking has been that the state is increasingly replaced by the nation as the subject of security. In this process it becomes possible to conceptually delink sovereignty in terms of governance and territory from the state in such a way that the state is no longer held up as the sole final arbiter of social life. Of particular note in this respect, I will argue, is the way in which Finnish national identity has been reconfigured as an expression of Europeanness since the end of the Cold War, a development that must further be seen as explicitly connected to the reconfiguration and rearticulation of the meaning of Europe during this period more generally. First, however, it is important to give a brief account of the modernist approach to region-building that became solidified during the Cold War and can still be seen today. Essentially modernist region-building relied on the conflation and subordination of the nation to the state, which prioritized sovereign control of territory and the governance of Finnish society as the primary values. THE SERVILE NATION: PRIORITIZING THE STATE AS THE SUBJECT OF SECURITY Finnish history before the end of the Cold War was dominated by the prioritization of the state over the nation. The nation was understood to exist to serve the state and was subsumed under the state concept so tightly that it was difficult to conceptualize the two things as distinct. To this extent the state was the nation. The state was understood in very modernist terms. In particular, state sovereignty was seen to have two elements to it. First, there was sovereignty in terms of governance. The state was understood to have the power to compel the people’s obedience to its sovereign will.14 Second, the state was understood as territorially sovereign, meaning that it had the right to exclusive control over its territory.15 A number of international and domestic factors can be seen to have contributed to this conflation of the nation with the state and the nation’s subsequent subordination within the relationship. First of all, it is important to realize that the prioritization of the state over the nation as the subject of security was not unique to Finland, but was a central element of the states’ system. With the rise of Wilsonianisrn and the acceptance of notions of national self-determination, a nation could only become an actor in international politics through the acquisition of a state. The creation of a nationstate therefore became a prerequisite for a nation to be treated as a legitimate and equal actor on the international stage. Nation, state and sovereignty were thus conflated and the state ultimately became the essential component of national identity for which all else should be sacrificed.16 This prioritization of the state over the nation was further inscribed in modern theoretical discourses on international relations. In particular, the dominance of the realist paradigm, with its stress on the subjectivity of states in an anarchic and inherently dangerous international system, was important. This modern discourse was also
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institutionalized through the statutes of the United Nations (UN), which underlined territorial integrity and non-intervention as the highest values.17 Thus, in order to acquire a voice that was sanctioned by the UN, a nation had first to acquire a state. Once it possessed a state, that state had to be preserved at all costs in order to maintain the nation’s subjectivity in international politics. Consequently, the nation-state remained the final goal rather than simply being understood as a means for furthering cultural and social development. On this reading, so long as the state survived, so did the nation, and the people should be content. In the Finnish context, the nationalist narratives of Herder and Hegel also played an important part in subordinating the nation to the territorial state. Central here was the fact that both prioritized the nation over the individual, for the reason that it was only through the nation that they believed meaning and purpose was given to individual life.18 By this reading, history was the work of nations rather than individuals. Both authors, moreover, believed that the nation had a historical mission to develop itself. But whereas Herder saw such development as residing in cultural expression, Hegel saw the national mission in terms of a political project, the end-point of which was the attainment of a nationstate. In the course of Finland’s nineteenth-century ‘national awakening’, the Herderian project of the Kulturnation soon became mixed up with a Hegelian inspired one of the Staatsnation.19 As will become clear later, this prioritization of the nation-state over the individual provided state leaders with a powerful rhetoric to define just what the nation was and to exclude opponents as unpatriotic. The result was the development in Cold War Finland of an authoritarian paternalist culture, often labelled Finlandization, that demanded the ‘true’ patriot accept curtailments in the freedom of expression and uncritically adhere to the doctrine of the ‘official’ foreign policy line. With the nation characterized as an organism that could only flourish if all its parts worked in harmony, liberal individualism was, by contrast, considered dangerous. A pluralistic vision of national development was thus to founder on the demands of unity and conformity pursuant to the state mission of self-preservation. Herder’s theories also had the important effect of encouraging Finnish nationalists to develop territorial notions of the land of the Finnish people. For Herder, nations were ethnic and linguistic entities, the national characteristics of which derived from the physical environment in which they lived. Consequently, Finnish nationalists began mapping out the boundaries of Finnish territory. However, once the Hegelian Staatsnation project took hold, these boundaries became understood as highly exclusionary borders that employed Finns on the inside and demanded that foreigners be kept out. Finnish territory thereby came to be understood as something uniquely Finnish, which could not be shared. In this way, the idea of territorial sovereignty took hold. The pinnacle of the belief that national and state borders should coincide was expressed in notions of a Greater Finland during the interwar years. Greater
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Finland represented the ambition of Finnish nationalists to achieve the nationstate’s ‘natural’ boundaries, Finland’s Lebensraum, through territorial expansion to incorporate within the state Finland’s ethnic and linguistic kin in Norway, Sweden and Estonia, but most particularly across the eastern border in Russian Karelia, the mythical heartland of the Finnish nation.20 Such ambitions were to become a matter of practical politics during the Continuation War (1941–44), when Finland occupied Soviet Karelia and put into operation policies for the systematic Fennicization of the local population.21 The point is that discourses of Finnish national identity have not only been linked to a particular narrative of the primacy of state security, but have also been tied to a particular exclusionary understanding of a Finnish territorial homeland. The prioritization of the territorial state above the nation, and the subsequent subordination of the nation to the demands of the preservation of state security in these national narratives, provided a particular rationale for the conduct of Finnish foreign policy. More specifically, they framed the character of regional co-operation that could be envisaged. Ultimately, region-building too was subsumed under the dictates of the preservation of state security and state sovereignty. Co-operation within the Nordic Council, for example, was not allowed to infringe upon matters of foreign and security policy. Moreover, in the interests of preserving the national sovereignty of its members, the Council was left bereft of any actual decision-making power.22 At the same time, Nordic cooperation was valued in terms of the extent to which it would remove Finland from conflicts between the great powers. Being a member of the Nordic club helped to distance Finland from identification with the subjugated status of the Baltic and East European states and from the hightension area of continental Europe. Instead, Finland could be characterized as a peaceable Nordic country in an area of low tension.23 It was hoped that as a ‘Nordic’ country, Finland would be perceived as unthreatening by the Soviet Union, which in turn would leave it alone. Therefore, whilst the nature and extent of Nordic co-operation was limited by the state’s desire to preserve sovereign power in modernist terms of territorial governance, Nordic co-operation was also understood as an explicit security policy. Region-building was about reducing the level of tension and thereby the threat of an attack on state sovereignty, understood largely in territorial terms.24 FROM SERVILITY TO FREEDOM: BREAKING THE NATION-STATE NEXUS Such a ‘modernist’ rationale for region-building continues to inform aspects of Finnish regional co-operation today. For example, notions of confidencebuilding and lessening regional tensions in the quest for state security can clearly be identified in the rhetoric surrounding the BEAR, the CBSS and the Finnish initiative on the Northern Dimension. This fact has led Tapani Vaahtoranta and Tuomas Forsberg to argue that, despite the new situation occasioned by the end of the Cold War, ‘traditional national security issues are still on the top of
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Finland’s agenda’.25 The preservation of the nation-state in its modern guise therefore remains the goal and Finnish region-building policy is designed to complement the main elements of Finnish foreign policy: power balancing, nonprovocative behaviour, and the strengthening of common norms. In this vein, regional co-operation remains state-centric and relegates questions of the people’s welfare to a secondary and purely instrumental level. Such policies are valued to the extent that raising the economic and social welfare of Finns and their neighbours through regional cooperation contributes to ‘state’ security. If such policies do not contribute to state security, the rationale of such discourse is that they be discontinued. It is not surprising that the Finnish approach to regionbuilding continues to draw some of its rationale from modernist premises of state territorial sovereignty and the prioritization of the state rather than the nation as the subject of security. Today’s society has been heavily socialized into such narratives of reality. This makes it difficult to reinvent national identity (and consequently the role of the state) in nonmodernist, non-territorial terms that open the way to different types of regional co-operation. However, it seems clear that today not all region-building is ultimately premised on modernist understandings of the primacy of the state over the nation or that state sovereignty is always understood in exclusive territorial terms. Whilst the state remains important in terms of facilitating regional co-operation, agreeing to it and providing resources to enable it, in many issues covered in various regional initiatives traditional modernist concerns of the state appear largely irrelevant. A new logic of trans-border interaction can be discerned that simply bypasses the concerns of state-centric modernist narratives of social reality. To give just one example, one might note the development of crossborder cooperation between the towns of Tornio and Haparanda on either side of the Finnish-Swedish border at the head of the Gulf of Bothnia. In the period since Finland and Sweden joined the EU, these towns have redesignated themselves as a single ‘Eurocity’ and have engaged in a steady process of amalgamating the provision of services such as fire-fighting, sewage, heating and education, a process that simply ignores traditional concerns of national territorial sovereignty.26 The emergence of this new character of region-building, which focuses on ‘societal’ (soft) security and cultural issues, can be explained in terms of a gradual delinking of the nation from the state since the end of the Cold War. Whereas during the Cold War the state was seen as the ‘subject’ of security in region-building efforts, the nation has today begun to claim subjectivity for itself. As Ole Wæever puts it, ‘the nation has become a separate referent object, as a site of security reasoning and action’.27 Consequently, national sovereignty is no longer always seen to equate to state sovereignty. At the same time sovereignty and territoriality are also being separated as concepts, opening a way to viewing borders as places of interaction rather than exclusion.28 Putting aside continued modernist-style region-building, the rest of this chapter will explore the new post-Cold War, post-modernist character of region-
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building by analysing in the case of Finland a number of reasons why this delinking of the national idea from the modern state has occurred. My analysis will identify five separate (though in practice intricately intertwined) factors. Some of these, such as the structural change of the end of the Cold War and the effects of globalization, are widely familiar. Others, such as national conceptions of the idea of ‘Europe’ and the reappraisal of Cold War foreign and domestic politics, are more specifically Finnish. The End of the Cold War and the Challenges of Globalization The end of the Cold War has undeniably played an important part in contributing to the delinking of the nation from the state. The Cold War, as a conflict between two strictly defined and hostile politico-military blocs, easily fed into the modernist preoccupation with territorial sovereignty. As Gidon Gottlieb has noted, ‘in time of all-out war, the sov ereignty of states occupies center stage, just as their armed forces dominate the international scene’.29 With the danger of annihilation so immediate, there was little room for the consideration of more ‘liberal’ agendas such as human rights, economic development and environmental concerns. Not being of existential importance, these issues were deferred until the military conflict could be dealt with.30 Moreover, the Cold War left little room for tolerance of ambiguity. In the view of the protagonists you were either on one side or the other. In this regard, Finnish neutrality was often viewed with suspicion in the West and its efforts at bridgebuilding regularly seen as Soviet-inspired attempts to weaken the western alliance.31 However, with the end of the Cold War it became possible to envisage a form of politics between East and West that was based not in terms of mutually assured destruction and enemy images, but in terms of co-operation. This is to say that, rather than being cleaved apart by conflict, Europe instead became conceptualized as a meeting ground, a site of dynamism and reconciliation. Whilst during the Cold War states were preoccupied with territorial exclusiveness, today notions of cooperative security circumvent such questions of borders and therefore largely remove them from the agenda. The term security has rather come to embrace the previously deferred liberal agenda, which, rather than emphasizing borderlines, seeks to undermine them.32 Moreover, since Europe itself has been in the process of reconstitution, this has opened up space for the Finns to reconceptualize their own relationship with and understanding of Europe in constructions of Finnish national identity. As Esko Antola notes, the events of 1989–91 essentially knocked the stuffing out of Finland’s Cold War policy of neutrality. Not only did they provide a window of opportunity for adaptation to the new European environment, they made such adaptation imperative.33 Furthermore, as Francis Fukuyama has famously asserted, the end of the Cold War appeared to have transformed liberal democracy into the unchallenged standard of political legitimacy.34 This has further undermined the prioritization of the state over the nation and the preoccupation with security in terms of
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territorial sovereignty. In the first instance, the liberal democratic doctrine of individual freedom and popular sovereignty erodes modernist state sovereignty by refocusing sovereignty away from states (in practice their leaders) and locating it with the people (the nation).35 Such a relocation of sovereignty reclaims the people as the subject of security, while the state is repositioned as a facilitator of the people’s needs rather than vice versa. Thus, whereas during the Cold War it was possible for Finnish leaders to invoke the notion of state sovereignty to silence their critics, it is becoming increasingly difficult for them to do so now that sovereignty is no longer seen as theirs to invoke. By way of example, one can cite a recent change in approach towards the ‘Karelian question’. During the Cold War, Finnish leaders suppressed any discussion of the possible restitution of those parts of Finnish Karelia ceded to the Soviet Union under the post-war peace settlement, by warning that such discussion undermined national security. In the post-Cold War period, however, such invocations have been more restrained. Although Presidents Koivisto, Ahtisaari and Halonen have all argued consistently that border revision is not a meaningful political objective, and have tried to convince the public that opening the question is provocative and unhelpful to the development of Finnish-Russian relations, there has been no attempt to actually prevent such discussions. Indeed, the right to discuss such delicate political questions has been embraced.36 Embracing the notion of freedom of speech that had been rejected during the Cold War, President Ahtisaari noted in 1998, with respect to the question of territorial sovereignty over Karelia, that ‘it is part of civilized society that variant opinions too may be expressed… [I would be] the last one to deny the people any such discussion’.37 The state is, therefore, no longer seen to have the right to tell the nation what can and cannot be discussed. It is the nation, not the state, which is increasingly setting the agenda for such issues. The ‘victory’ of liberal democracy in the Cold War has also led to a widespread acceptance of and belief in democratic peace theory—the idea that liberal democracies do not go to war with each other. This is not because different liberal democratic nation-states cannot find anything to disagree about to justify war, but because resolving conflicts between liberal democracies through resort to war would violate their values and hence their identity.38 In such a liberal democratic community, the nation-state’s preoccupation with territorial security becomes irrelevant. Members rather seek mutually beneficial solutions to problems that tend to transcend state borders and promote cooperation. In this respect, Martin Shaw even contends that a ‘global state’ has emerged, consisting of a series of institutions and norms with a certain degree of ‘global reach and legitimacy…which function as a state in regulating economy, society and politics on a global scale’.39 Such institutions would include the UN, the EU, the Organization for Security and Co-operation in Europe (OSCE), the Council of Europe, the World Trade Organization (WTO) and so forth. Indeed, the Finns clearly anticipate that their own Northern Dimension Initiative might also develop into such a regulating pillar, serving to ‘civilize’ and condition states
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in the region to western norms and values. Shaw’s basic point, however, is that the idea of the nation-state possessing a monopoly on the legitimate use of force is being abandoned.40 Instead, authority is seen as being legitimately dispersed not along territorial borderlines, but according to issue areas that transcend state borders. Whilst the state continues to represent the nation in such institutions, it is notable that these institutions rather than the state are often seen to posses final authority. Increasingly, therefore, with the end of the Cold War sovereignty is not always seen in territorial terms. In this respect, Finnish security policy has undergone a dramatic reorientation since the end of the Cold War. Shifting away from the nonintervention policy of neutrality premised on a perceptual frame of the world as one of bordered sovereign states, Finland has begun to embrace the co-operative security institutions of the EU, OSCE and the Council of Europe. These institutions prioritize issues such as human rights, the rule of law, economic co-operation and the protection of the environment and sanction intervention in order to protect and enhance this new security agenda.41 According to Forsberg, the Finnish reaction to the NATO bombing campaign in Kosovo in 1999 proved to be a test case for this evolution in Finnish foreign policy.42 Initially, the reaction was somewhat reminiscent of the neutrality tradition, with the foreign policy élite seeking to distance Finland from the campaign. However, the position quickly changed to one of support. As President Ahtisaari argued, ‘the basic values of the Euro-Atlantic community are in danger. Violations of human rights are no longer an internal affair of states. The international community must be able to act accordingly.’43 The search for multilateral solutions has also been prompted by the challenges of globalization, the nature of which focuses attention on individuals, regions and nations as well as on the state. Not least, the dynamics of globalization threaten to undo the modernist intersection of sovereignty and territory by destabilizing the mediating role of borders between nation-states, since such borders simply cannot hope to control the multitude of trans-border interactions that globalization has brought about.44 It has become clear that with respect to many of today’s primary social, political and economic questions, the state is not necessarily the most efficient and effective actor. These issues are better dealt with at local, regional and global levels. In the words of Timo Kivimäki, one can say that as the challenges of economic, environmental and social interdependence have arisen to become central questions, the significance of the nation-state as a producer of political benefit has crumbled.45 However, this does not mean that the state has passed its sell-by-date. More correctly, the processes of globalization can be seen to promote the evolution of the state into a new form.46 In matters of globalization, the state has rather become a facilitator of action for the interests of the nation. As the Centre for Finnish Business and Policy Studies (EVA) put it, in a globalized world the role of the government is increasingly one of promoting and supporting the efforts of its citizens to operate internationally and to cope with the effects of globalization.47 With the state seen
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as a facilitator of national welfare, space is opened for the state to promote regional co-operation of a character that has nothing to do with questions of territorial sovereignty and the preservation of the state in modernist terms. Whilst questions of social welfare and societal security are put to the fore, questions of territorial sovereignty simply are not on the agenda. The Post-modern Turn and the Reimagination of Territory The delinking of the nation from the state and the emergence of a postmodern form of region-building after the Cold War has also been greatly facilitated by what is often termed the post-modern turn in the social sciences. The arrival of post-modernism and constructivism as major social science models in the 1990s provided analytical tools with which to question the modernist linking of the nation and the state and the prioritization of the state as the locus of security. Rather than being ‘natural’, foundations such as the reification of the state as the locus of security in international relations are shown to be socially constructed. As Pirjo Jukarainen puts it, the central contributions of the post-modern turn are ‘the recognition of complexity, contingency and relativity plus a willingness to give up the modern belief in the full controllability and predictability of things’.48 By showing that meanings are never ‘fixed’ or beyond negotiation and reconstruction, post-modern/constructivist approaches have empowered people to remake their world. By showing how social reality is created in our discourses, the post-modern turn has gone a considerable way towards reclaiming individuals, rather than the state, as the subject of security. There is nothing ‘natural’ about the modernist linkage between the nation and the state, and the reliance of national identity on state sovereignty is destabilized with the revelation that identity is what we make it. Indeed, along with the post-modern turn notions of multiple and overlapping identities were introduced into mainstream discourse, thereby undermining the Herderian/Hegelian claim that the essence of the individual only lay in the nation that in turn only found its essence through the state. The normative project behind the post-modern turn is to break down the exclusionary nature of borders as understood in modernist discourses and to show them as not clearly delineated at all.49 Consequently, as boundary markers of identity and difference have become conceptualized as more fluid, modernist understandings of territorial borders have also been destabilized, thereby opening up space for new attitudes to region-building. This is a development that has been nowhere more evident than in Europe. In particular, there has been a tendency on the part of scholars and politicians influenced by these post-modern/ constructivist discourses to talk in terms of frontiers rather than borders. This frontier metaphor opens up the conceptual map of space for innovation. Whereas borders divide and keep apart, frontiers conjure up images of continuity and interaction and therefore blur distinctions.50 As Pertti Joenniemi has argued, this new understanding of territoriality encourages the crossing of borders and
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interaction with those on the other side, rather than restricting such engagements. Central to this rhetoric is tolerance of diversity and difference, decentralization and fragmentation.51 Modernist notions of state security framed in terms of sovereignty are undermined when such narratives are invoked. That people now talk of ‘parcelling’ sovereignty out and of ‘overlapping’ sovereignties demonstrates that sovereignty is no longer seen exclusively in modernist terms. The idea that sovereignty can be dispersed is no longer necessarily seen as dangerous or as fracturing the state and national identity. Indeed, Wæever even talks of the emergence of a ‘post-sovereign’ politics inasmuch as sovereignty and state security are not subjects for discussion in some region-building projects.52 This illustrates the extent to which, in certain areas of region-building, it is the nation rather than the state that is the subject of security. Such a development has been furthered by the contribution to security studies made by the Copenhagen School during the 1990s. In particular, one can point to the School’s celebrated deconstruction of the nation-state concept by distinguishing between ‘state security’ and ‘societal security’.53 Since societal security is concerned with society’s preservation of its identity, it refocuses the nation as the subject of security and thereby undermines state sovereignty as the primary marker of nationhood. Post-modern approaches to region-building in the Baltic have been widespread and to a significant degree have been initiated by the Nordic academic community.54 As Marko Lehti highlights in Chapter 1 above, central to the process has been the invocation of evocative metaphors to create a ‘we-feeling’ across the region, metaphors which, by their very invocation, undermine state borders. For example, notions of a Baltic, Barents and New North region conceptually erase state borders within the region as part of the process of differentiating the Baltic/Barents/New North from elsewhere. Moreover, historical depth has been added through the use of a ‘new grammar’ that sees the Cold War as an unfortunate parenthesis in the historical space-time continuum. Now that it is over, the region can again embark upon the path towards its true destiny of peace and co-operation. According to the Finnish ambassador, René Nyberg, for instance, current regionalizing processes in the European North represent ‘a return to normality after the…abnormal state of affairs wrongly considered “normal” for so long’.55 Integral to this process has been the idealization of various historical epochs, such as Pomor and Hanseatic trade routes, the Viking age and the Kalmar Union. To use a more specifically Finnish example, politicians and academics nowadays regularly invoke the period when Finland was a grand duchy of the Russian Empire (1809–1917) and idealize the formerly extensive trade with St Petersburg.56 Such periods are constructed as historical ‘Golden Ages’ of regional peace and prosperity, when statist intervention was kept to a minimum, thereby enabling culture, economy, politics and identities to flourish. As Thomas Christiansen and Pertti Joenniemi note, such stories ‘seek to provide the Baltic and Barents regions with a certain naturalness’ and ‘advocate a variegated, non-statist regional geography’.57 Through such metaphors, borders
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become conceptualized as more porous and as sites of interaction, not exclusion. Moreover, the difference and otherness of bordering regions is given a positive value and becomes an opportunity to be explored and experienced. The promise of a better and more prosperous future based on friendship rather than enmity becomes the motivation for action. Transborder interaction has thus gained positive and humanist connotations, and is depicted as a process all can engage in. That such academic discourse has penetrated state discourse is clearly illustrated in Chapter 1, but is also evident in the following quote from a speech by Finnish secretary of state, Jukka Valtasaari, in May 2000: The new Baltic Sea Region is not something never seen before. It is an old reality restored. In warfare and economic interaction the region’s history goes back to the times of the Vikings, the Hanseatic League and the Kalmar Union. The divisions of the past fifty years are an exception. During the good times, the history of the Baltic Sea has brought its coastal states together and brought well-being to nations and their citizens.58 Thus, to the extent that such post-modern narratives have gained acceptance within the state, the state itself is actively engaged in promoting regional co-operation that undermines modernist territorial notions of state security and state sovereignty. Such narratives therefore promote a very different character of region-building compared with modernist narratives and provide the state with an altogether different function. Important in this post-modern narrative, however, is that the regions constructed are seen as complementing rather than competing with national identity. People are not being asked to choose between Finnishness and a Baltic, northern or European identity, but merely to see ‘Balticness’, northernness and Europeanness as a part of Finnish identity. Moreover, the boundaries of Baltic/ Barents/northern/European identity are also seen as fluid. Depending on the issue the frontiers of Balticness, for example, can move dramatically. Region-building therefore becomes inclusive and embraces diversity because it is no longer about territory but about issue areas.59 Various networks criss-cross state borders, making these borders increasingly redundant. At the same time, the fact that postmodern narratives empower actors other than the state to engage in regionbuilding further deterritorializes political space by blurring the traditional strict division between domestic and foreign politics.60 Moreover, whilst the post-modern turn has fed into the breaking of the nationstate nexus, and opened up space and provided narratives for a new, non-statist character of region-building, such deterritorialized region-building in turn further emphasizes the distinction between the nation and the state. As Wæver argues, with the state being increasingly bypassed, nations have to reproduce themselves in ways independent of the state. National security increasingly centres on ‘societal security’, that is, cultural reproduction and development, rather than state security. Moreover, a nation trying to reproduce itself will, on many issues
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of regional co-operation, simply not find the state involved as a relevant actor. Such deterritorialization of regional co-operation therefore further feeds a process in which nations are becoming increasingly independent of states.61 Concomitant with this deconstruction of the nation-state link, the post-modern turn has also facilitated a rethinking of the relationship between sovereignty and territoriality in understandings of national identity. To utilize another favourite metaphor of the literature, the current period can be described as one of neomedievalism. The medieval age is typically characterized as one of overlapping sovereignties and multiple loyalties. Territory was not imbued with the same meaning as in the modern period. Whilst the king had sovereignty on some issues, cities, manors, guilds and monasteries enjoyed sovereignty in other areas and the people’s allegiance was owed to each in turn. As Gottlieb notes, ‘the boundaries that mattered changed for different purposes—for levying armies, collecting taxes, monopolizing commerce, and holding court’.62 The notion of neo-medievalism is thus used to describe an emerging politics in which multiple actors assume various representative rights that undermine notions of territorial sovereignty. Whilst nation-states retain some functions, the EU, the UN, the OSCE and other regional bodies perform others. The idea that the nation-state should be the sole representative of its people towards the outside world has been undermined.63 In spite of this, territory does remain important in the construction of Finnish identity. The key point is that exclusive nation-state sovereignty over that territory is not. Finns are quite prepared to accept overlapping sovereignties on Finnish territory and to grant regions non-territorial rights and legal status. By way of an example, it is interesting to note that the question of sovereignty over the ceded parts of Karelia has not turned into the major conflictual political issue with Russia that some feared. Although there are still calls for the restitution of Finnish territorial sovereignty over these areas, this question has not assumed major proportions.64 This could be attributed at least partly to the fact that the coincidence of national territorial boundaries with state boundaries is no longer a major motivating idea of national identity for most Finns. To say this is not to imply that the territory of Karelia is no longer important to constructions of Finnishness. Russian Viena Karelia remains, for instance, evocative as the mythological heartland of the nation and its romanticization continues unabated. ‘Karelia tourism’ to the ceded areas is a boom industry and calls to preserve ‘traditional’ Karelian villages in Russia tear at Finnish heartstrings.65 However, whilst Karelia remains salient to Finnish culture, the precise location of the border is no longer so important.66 Consequently the idea of ‘sharing’ Karelia with its now predominantly Russian inhabitants becomes acceptable. Likewise, the removal of questions of sovereignty from Karelian issues enables a character of regional co-operation across the Russo-Finnish border that would arguably be impossible if modernist narratives of territorial sovereignty dominated. As things stand, though, the border populations have much to offer each other, not only in terms of economic co-operation, but also in terms of constructions of selfhood
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and belonging. As Forsberg puts it with respect to this ‘common territory’, ‘Finns have given to Russians some sense of historicity, Russians to Finns some sense of continuity.’67 By undermining the central conceptual pillars of modernist narratives, the post-modern turn has enabled Finns to reconceptualize the world and the construction of their identity. In short, to the extent that there has been a move away from constructions of national identity in terms of the Hegelian Staatsnation back towards nineteenth-century Herderian notions of the Kulturnation, then it has become possible to talk of regional co-operation in different ways. Security stops being seen in terms of preserving the state’s territorial integrity and becomes about societal security and national-cultural production. A central element of this has been the incorporation of notions of ‘Europeanness’ as an essential marker of Finnish identity, with Europeanness understood as being an open, amorphous and somewhat liberating marker that enables Finns to be Finnish, Nordic, Northern, Baltic and European all at the same time. Rather than seeing such heterogeneity as a threat to national identity, the post-modern turn has in fact imbued such diversity with a positive value. At the same time, the post-modern turn also needs to be seen in the context of the end of the Cold War and globalization, both of which have also pushed in similar directions. REAPPRAISING HISTORY: FINLANDIZATION REVISITED The delinking of the nation from the state and the nation’s reclamation of subjectivity in questions of security has also been supported by a period of historical revisionism that began in Finland following the end of the Cold War. This revisionism has subjected the policies of the past in foreign affairs and the effect they had on national identity (ostensibly on citizenship) to a vigorous critique. Revisionist critiques have focused especially on the hegemony President Kekkonen (1956–81) managed to gain in foreign and domestic policy and the restrictions this imposed on Finnish society in the name of preserving state security. At the same time, they can be seen as an attack on the ‘modern’ linkage between state and nation that was so thoroughly upheld in Finland during the Cold War. The Cold War linkage between foreign policy and domestic policy is now deemed to have hindered both national and individual development. The nation, it is argued, need not necessarily, and should not be, subsumed under the state. As a result understandings of the ‘nation’ and the ‘state’ are changing. To understand how and in what ways this is so, it is necessary to take a brief look at the revisionist understanding of Finland’s Cold War history and what became labelled in the West as its ‘Finlandized’ society. Revisionist critiques maintain that during the Cold War years, and especially during Kekkonen’s presidency, an ‘official religion’ of ‘national self-censorship and official admiration of the neighbour to the east’ was established across
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Finnish society.68 In fact, it is argued that ‘for a country with liberal democratic traditions there was an unnatural degree of consensus’ to the detriment of the consideration of different opinions.69 Self-censorship reached alarming proportions due to the steady integration of the media ‘with the state and its foreign policy’.70 All of these factors, it is contended, seriously undermined and damaged Finnish democratic institutions and traditions.71 Rather than having skilfully avoided the pitfalls of Cold War power politics to maintain a position of magnanimous neutrality, as was often claimed at the time, the revisionist critique contends that Finland in fact slid down the eastern precipice to become the propaganda mouthpiece of the Soviet totalitarian empire, with its expansionist communist ideology and agenda.72 The essence of Finlandization, however, was the active curtailment of dissenting voices in matters of ‘foreign policy’ by the political élite (the state). Kekkonen’s argument that matters of foreign policy extended into areas traditionally thought to be concerned with domestic politics, such as the composition of governments and questions of freedom of speech, acted to extend his remit of power considerably. Kekkonen actively engaged in moral diatribes against those dissenting from his hallowed foreign policy line, the aim being to silence critics of his autocratic leadership style by labelling them as irresponsible and dangerous, even treasonous, to the state through their potential to destabilize Finnish-Soviet relations.73 Blind adherence to the ‘official foreign policy’ in the name of the preservation of the state’s independence was presented as a national virtue and required a leap of faith on the part of the people to uncritically trust in Kekkonen as the sole arbiter in matters of foreign policy. The prioritization of the state over the nation was implicit in Finlandized Finland. With state sovereignty held up as the most important value, there was a powerful moral imperative for the people to accept sacrifices and restrictions in the name of preserving the state. As indicated, revisionist critiques argue that the sacrifices included democracy and freedom of speech, as Finland became the modernist nation-state par excellence. National strength was seen to rest in unity, not democracy. Thus, those defending Kekkonen’s unilateral hold over foreign policy argued that the party politicization of foreign policy and its subjugation to democratic procedures could only result in abortive and weak outcomes that would be harmful to the national interest.74 The obvious question was ‘who decides’ just what the national interest is? The exclusion of foreign policy from democratic procedures is now seen to have opened the way for legitimizing authoritarianism over democracy. The demands for national unity essentially served to make ‘everyone’ responsible for foreign policy. Society was told that patriots had a duty to obey. This was a powerful call for unblinking self-censorship in which consensus equated to the good moral citizen, factionalism to the bad. To criticize official foreign policy, to step outside the demands of collective responsibility, was thus characterized as showing a willingness to put the state’s security in jeopardy.
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The important point about the revisionist critique of Finnish Cold War history is that its negative description of the past linkage between the nation and the state stands as a prescription for a different future in which the values of Finlandized Finland will be replaced by new values and a new social conscience. The very description of post-war self-censorship and autocratic-style politics in Finland stands as an explicit injunction for the establishment of a more liberal democratic political system, with all that implies (open and transparent politics, support for freedom of expression, and the delinking of the media from the state).75 This can, of course, be seen to tie in with the victory of liberal democracy brought about by the end of the Cold War. Whereas previously state security and the preservation of state sovereignty were seen as the number one goals of the nation, such a national mission is now seen to have held back the development of democracy and liberalism in Finland. In this respect the state may even be seen as a potential threat to national identity and expression. National unity is no longer held up as the ultimate virtue of the patriot. Instead, the freedom to be different is being embraced.76 Through such narratives, security is once again refocused away from the state and placed on the nation and society. In terms of region-building, it can be argued that this critique of the predominance of the state over the nation in Finnish history manifests itself in the people’s willingness to see their rights protected by such regional organizations as the EU and OSCE against infringements by the state. This is to say that the value of the Finnish state is no longer self-evident. Rather than the nation working for the state, the relationship is reversed. To the extent that the state can contribute to societal security, it is valued. To the extent it is a hindrance, it can be abandoned and societal security can be pursued in other realms (region-building, for instance). The role of the state is thus conceptualized as a facilitator rather than as an end in itself. The rise of liberal democracy and the growing tolerance of diversity occasioned by the end of the Cold War, globalization, the post-modern turn and the reappraisal of Finnish Cold War politics has opened space for regional co-operation in a way that was not permissible before. ‘European’ Finland Finally, it is also possible to explain the new post-modern character of regionbuilding and the delinking of the nation from the state through an analysis of Finland’s ‘turn to Europe’ after the Cold War. Despite all the rationalist, interestbased arguments that were utilized during the referendum campaign on EUmembership, the deciding factor was whether the Finnish public perceived accession as a threat to national identity. In their comparative study of Finnish and Norwegian attitudes to the EU, Christine Ingebritsen and Susan Larson found that the Norwegians’ rejection of membership was largely due to a perception of the EU as a threat to Norwegian identity. By contrast, the Finnish ‘yes’ vote reflected the fact that a majority of Finns saw EU-membership as
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protecting and even enhancing their national identity.77 Important in this respect is the widely held view that Finland has been free to ‘return home’ to Europe and the West following the end of the Cold War. More specifically, the ‘coming home’ discourse reflects the idea that Finland’s Cold War neutrality was something of an aberration or even betrayal of the Finns’ organic western heritage and history.78 Defenders of Cold War neutrality insist that it was the best possible option then available to the Finnish élite, a policy that positioned Finland as far west as possible without unduly upsetting the Soviets. With the straitjacket of the Cold War removed, Finland is now free to return to the nation’s presumed cultural homeland in the West. However, being western implies, from this perspective, acquiring all that had been denied to Finland in the past. ‘Western identity‘is therefore largely equated with membership of ‘western’ institutions.79 The referendum in Finland thus came down to a question of civilizational affiliation: does Finland belong to the East or to the European West? As Max Jakobson has put it, those who voted ‘yes’ did so for the most part because membership was seen ‘to affirm Finland’s western identity’.80 It constituted a passport to the western European club, a way of dispelling the widespread perception that Finland is a part of the East. A ‘no’ vote on the other hand came to represent the threat of remaining isolated on Europe’s ‘eastern’ periphery.81 By contrast, the Norwegians could vote ‘no’ without having any need to question whether this would make them less western or European, since the debate in Norway simply was not framed in these East-West terms. In the Finnish case, moreover, the very logic of seeing westernness and Europeanness as lying in membership of western and European institutions provides a powerful rationale to engage ever more deeply with those institutions. It is therefore notable that the Finnish government has been quite clear about placing Finland at the heart of the EU, which is easily conflated with the idea that this also puts Finland at the heart of Europe. EU-membership, however, also entails the acceptance of a series of values and norms that serve to separate the nation from the state and open space for a nonmodernist character of region-building. This can be observed at two levels at least. Firstly, European integration is for the most part organized functionally, rather than territorially.82 The EU’s focus on regulating aspects of economy and society has broken down the state’s monopoly of governance and also serves to prioritize national societal security over state security. As a result of EUmembership, matters of foreign and domestic policy are increasingly blurred and the notion of the state as a unitary actor is undermined. Secondly, EU inteZ gration requires acceptance of a culture of co-operation and interdependence, of searching for common, rather than unilateral solutions to problems. The aim of co-operation moves away from the reproduction of the state to the development of societal security across the Union. Moreover, eligibility for membership requires acceptance of certain conceptions of identity, rights, democracy and equality. Applicant states are vetted to assess their ‘fitness’ as potential members.83 This entails the internalization of common values into conceptions of
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national identity. Not least, it means acceptance of cultural diversity, respect for differences and porous open borders. To be ‘European’ under the EU rubric implies that nation-states are liberal democracies accepting pluralist politics and solutions. It also implies acceptance of a more diverse approach to regional co-operation outside the remit of the modernist nation-state. As Joenniemi notes, in such a context the state is often relegated from playing a decisive role in regional co-operation to playing a supporting role.84 In terms of ‘fitness’, one might also note that EU-states are not supposed to have territorial claims on other states. This is considered to be somehow ‘un-European’. Thus, the Finnish desire to be considered respectable and European may also partly explain why the issue of territorial sovereignty over Karelia remains for the most part off the agenda in Finland. On the other hand, seeing such a construction of ‘Europeanness’ as a part of Finnish national identity, rather than a challenge to it, means that the nation has been able to adopt a rather active policy towards the EU, one that promotes further regionbuilding of a post-modern character.85 This complementarity between Finnishness, Europeanness and region-building can be clearly seen in the Finnish Northern Dimension Initiative (NDI). Through a series of co-operative projects of an environmental, economic, social, cultural and political nature, the NDI aims to stabilize northern Europe by integrating the Baltic states and Russia into the western democratic community. Whilst such policies can be interpreted on the basis of modernist narratives as preserving state security through more enlightened means,86 such a modernist frame also misses other aspects to this region-building initiative. The current construction of European identity embodied in the EU contains elements that provide another rationale for regional co-operation. Whilst the EU erects barriers to membership in terms of adherence to the norms and values of the EU enshrined in the club’s acquis communautaire, European identity embodied in the EU also stands as a ‘civilizing’ mission that seeks to depoliticize borders and is overtly inclusive. This is a fundamental part of what it is to be European today. Participation in projects such as the NDI, CBSS, BEAR and the Northern Calotte —all based on the acceptance of diversity and erasure of state borders—therefore gives the Finns a further opportunity to express and develop their European identity.87 At the same time, the Northern Dimension goes some way towards dissolving the Cold War division between East and West by envisaging a northern European region in which the EU extends its ‘European’ values to transcend that boundary and thereby make the eastern ‘other’ a part of the west European ‘we’. Indeed, the Finnish prime minister, Paavo Lipponen, has even hinted that this is Finland’s new national mission. According to him it is ‘Finland’s task…to bring Russia into the realm of European cooperation’.88 It is also clear that the EU expects Finland to play this bridging role. To a considerable extent, therefore, promoting region-building has actually become constitutive of Finnish national identity.
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CONCLUSION Through a case study of Finland, this chapter has argued two principal points with respect to region-building in the European North. In the first instance, it has sought to show that we can better understand regional cooperation policies by seeing them as justified by two distinct narratives of the relationship between the nation and the state in constructions of national identity. When premised on modernist narratives that fuse the nation to the state and prioritize the state as the subject of security, the goals of region-building are the preservation and reproduction of the territorially sovereign nation-state. By contrast, when premised on postmodern narratives that untie this nation-state link and undermine the idea that the state is the essence of the nation, a different character of regional co-operation becomes possible, one which dissolves state borders, ignores questions of territorial sovereignty and privileges goals of societal security. Rather than being the ‘aim’ of region-building, under the influence of post-modern narratives the state becomes a means and a facilitator of national development. Secondly, the chapter has provided an account of the emergence of postmodern-style region-building in Finnish foreign policy since the end of the Cold War. Five issues were raised: the structural change created by the end of the Cold War: globalization; the post-modern turn; the reappraisal of Cold War Finnish history; and the construction of a Finnish identity inclusive of the values entailed in the EU project. Although analysed separately here, it is important to realize that these areas have been interdependent. Thus, both the end of the Cold War and the reappraisal of Finnish history, with its critique of the previous autocratic power of the state, provided a spur to the emergence of pluralist politics and the delinking of the nation from the state. Also important in this process were the post-modern turn and its empowerment of individuals to remake their world, and norms of European identity that emphasize tolerance and diversity. This is not to argue that the state is dying or that the modernist character of region-building based on the modern nation-state is doomed to give way to region-building premised on post-modern narratives. The state remains vital to region-building even when post-modern narratives are in play. The state’s dominant control of resources makes it a vital partner in such projects. Likewise, the modern nation-state is not necessarily doomed to give way to the postmodern. Whether region-building assumes modern or post-modern characteristics depends on the particular questions under discussion. If the issues raised are those of existential military threats, then questions of territorial sovereignty come to the fore and nations are likely to define themselves in terms of the preservation of the state. However, to an increasing extent the questions dealt with in regional projects are different. Concerns of military threats and sovereignty are replaced by a different security agenda focusing on economic, social, environmental and cultural problems. Such questions are ‘post-sovereign’ as they concern much more than states,89 and with respect to such an agenda in
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which many more actors find a voice, national identity is therefore inevitably constructed in relation to this richer environment of which states are just one part. NOTES 1. P.Jukarainen. ‘Borders Change—So Do Space, Identity, and Community’, in H. Eskelinen, I.Liikanen and J.Oksa (eds), Curtains of Iron and Gold: Reconstructing Borders and Scales of Interaction (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1999) pp. 57, 58–9. 2. Quoted in M.Shaw, ‘The State of Globalization: Towards a Theory of State Transformation’, Review of International Political Economy, 4, 3 (1997), p. 499. 3. G.Gottlieb, Nation Against State: A New Approach to Ethnic Conflicts and the Decline of Sovereignty (New York: Council on Foreign Relations Press, 1993), pp. 15–16. 4. H.R.Nilson, ‘Nordic Regionalization: On How Transborder Regions Work and Why They Don’t Work’, Cooperation and Conflict, 32, 4 (1997), p. 402. 5. T.M.Wilson and H.Donnan, ‘Nation, State and Identity at International Borders’, in T.M.Wilson and H.Donnan (eds), Border Identities: Nation and State at International Frontiers (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), p. 1. 6. Jukarainen, ‘Borders Change’, p. 57. 7. Nilson, ‘Nordic Regionalization’, p. 402. 8. H.Eskelinen, E.Haapanen and P.Druzhinin, ‘Where Russia Meets the EU. Across the Divide in the Karelian Borderlands’, in Eskelinen et al, Curtains of Iron and Gold, p. 333; V.Tikkanen and J.Käkönen, ‘The Evolution of Co-operation in the Kuhmo-Kostamuksha Region of the Finnish-Russian Border’, in P. Ganster, A.Sweedler, J.Scott and W.Dieter-Eberwein (eds), Borders and Border Regions in Europe and North America (San Diego: San Diego State University Press, 1997), pp. 169–70. One can also note that the EU remains a highly inter-governmental forum. 9. L.Heininen, ‘The International System and Co-operation in Change’, in L. Granberg (ed.), The Snowbelt (Helsinki: Kikimora Publications, 1998), p. 205. 10. M.Mann, ‘Has Globalization Ended the Rise and Rise of the Nation-State?’, Review of International Political Economy, 4, 3 (1997), p. 490. 11. T.Kivimäki, ‘Integration and Regionalization in the Northern Calotte’, Northern Dimensions (1998), p. 76. As Kivimäki notes, those engaged in regional cooperation in the Northern Calotte actually fear being abandoned by the state. Such regional co-operation, he continues, is therefore not about competing with the state over sovereignty and the locus of identity for the people of the region, it is rather about engaging with regional neighbours across the border with respect to shared problems, a process in which the state plays an encouraging role. 12. Tikkanen and Käkönen, ‘Evolution of Cooperation’, p. 175. 13. Wilson and Donnan, ‘Nation, State and Identity at International Borders’, p. 1. 14. Following Michael Mann, it is important to make one clarification here. As Mann notes, nation-states have rarely exerted, or even sought to exert, complete control over society. Rather, they have tended to leave the governance of certain societal functions to other institutions. For example, in the process of its secularization the
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15.
16.
17. 18.
19.
20.
21.
22. 23. 24.
state relinquished certain of its powers over moral regulation to the church. Likewise, economic life has also generally been outside the remit of the state: as he notes, we call it ‘private property’. Consequently, noting these limitations to the remit of governance of the nation-state, Mann relabels it as the ‘modest nationstate’. See Mann, ‘Has Globalization Ended the Rise and Rise of the NationState?’, pp. 477–8. Gottlieb, Nation Against State, pp. 14–15. More specifically on the relationship between territoriality and sovereignty, see T.Forsberg, ‘Beyond Sovereignty, Within Territoriality: Mapping the Space of Late-Modern (Geo) Politics’, Cooperation and Conflict, 31, 4 (1996). As Forsberg notes, territoriality is often seen as a necessary appendix to sovereignty (and nationalism) and is rarely discussed in its own terms. Yet ‘sovereignty does not mean the same as territoriality nor does territoriality presume sovereignty’ (p. 364). Power need not be organized territorially (as in the case of nomadic societies), a point that will become clear later in this chapter. See M.Lehti, ‘Sovereignty Redefined: Baltic Co-operation and the Limits of National Self-Determination’, Cooperation and Conflict, 34, 4 (1999), pp. 418–20. For a more detailed analysis of how the state went from being conceived as an instrument of security to the subject of security such that security became an attribute of the state and not of individuals or the nation, see B.McSweeney, Security, Identity and Interests: A Sociology of International Relations (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), pp. 18–22. Lehti, ‘Sovereignty Redefined’, pp. 425–6. As Herder put it, ‘every human perfection is national’. Quoted in W.A.Wilson, Folklore and Nationalism in Modern Finland (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1976), p. 29. On Hegel, see R.Rocker, Nationalism and Culture (Montreal: Black Rose Books, 1998), pp. 193–6. P.Joenniemi, ‘Finland in the New Europe: A Herderian or Hegelian Project?’, in L.Hansen and O.Wæever (eds), Between Nations and Europe: Regionalism, Nationalism and the Politics of the Union (London and New York: Routledge, 2001). See M.Rintala, ‘Finland’, in H.Rogger and E.Weber (eds), The European Right: A Historical Profile (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1974), p. 421. M.Engman, ‘Karelians Between East and West’, in S.Tägil (ed.), Ethnicity and Nation Building in the Nordic World (London: C.Hurst & Co., 1995), p. 232; A. Paasi, Territories, Boundaries and Consciousness: The Changing Geographies of the Finnish-Russian Border (Chichester: J.Wiley & Sons, 1996), pp. 110–12. H.Ojanen, The Plurality of Truth: A Critique of Research on the State and European Integration (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1998), p. 271. O.Wæever, ‘Nordic Nostalgia: Northern Europe after the Cold War’, International Affairs, 66, 1 (1992), pp. 84–5. A parallel can be made here with Finland’s integration policy vis-à-vis the EC. Economic integration with the EC was valued because integration was believed to promote European stability and to raise the threshold for Soviet infringements of Finland. That integration also produced economic benefits for the population was a secondary consideration. Furthermore, the Finnish approach to integration was highly cautious. Until the end of the Cold War there was never any question of
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25.
26.
27. 28. 29. 30. 31.
32.
33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38.
giving up political powers to the EC. On the one hand, this was a result of a neutrality policy and the Soviet Union’s view of the EC as part of the western enemy bloc. On the other hand, the desire to preserve the nation-state’s sovereignty was also important. The sovereignty of the nation-state was sacrosanct. Similarly, trans-boundary regional co-operation with the Soviet Union was also overwhelmingly state-directed and was only promoted to the extent that it supported the official foreign policy doctrine of promoting friendship and peaceful relations, and thus enhanced Finnish state security with the eastern neighbour. See, V.Tikkanen. ‘Europe of Citizens: A Realistic Alternative or a Utopia? Amphitheatre as a Metaphor of the Kuhmo Case’, in L.Heininen and J.Käkönen (eds), The New North Europe: Perspectives on Northern Dimension (Tampere: Tampere Peace Research Institute, 1998), p. 105; Tikkanen and Käkönen, ‘Evolution of Cooperation’, p. 169; Eskelinen et al, ‘Where Russia Meets the EU’, p. 332. T.Vaahtoranta and T.Forsberg, ‘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 Politic, 1998), p. 191. One might also note here that Finnish rhetoric in respect of EU integration often assumes very modernist tones, with an emphasis on preserving state sovereignty in the face of fears that sovereignty over decision-making is gradually being eroded by Brussels. R.Ronkainen and B.Westman, ‘Tornio-Haparanda—A Unique Result of City Twinning’, in Vital North! Security, Democracy, Civil Society (Calotte Academy and the Finnish Academy for European Security, 1999), pp. 10–13. O.Wæever, ‘Identity, Integration and Security: Solving the Sovereignty Puzzle in EU Studies’, Journal of International Affairs, 48, 2 (1995), p. 406. Lehti, ‘Sovereignty Redefined’, pp. 427–8. Gottlieb, Nation Against State, p. 15. S.Dalby, ‘Geopolitical Discourse: The Soviet Union as Other’, Alternatives, 13 (1988), p. 424. For example, with respect to western scepticism surrounding the Finlandinspired CSCE process and the Helsinki Final Act of 1975, see H.P.Krosby, ‘Finland and Détente: Self-Interest Politics and Western Reactions’, Yearbook of Finnish Foreign Policy (1978), p. 40. T.Christiansen and P. Joenniemi, ‘Politics on the Edge: On the Restructuring of Borders in the North of Europe’, in Eskelinen et al., Curtains of Iron and Gold, p. 96. E.Antola, ‘From the European Rim to the Core’, Northern Dimensions (1999), pp. 5–6. F.Fukuyama, The End of History and the Last Man (London: Hamish Hamilton, 1992), p. 42. Gottlieb, Nation Against State, p. 21. T.Forsberg, ‘Karelia’, in T.Forsberg (ed.), Contested Territory: Border Disputes at the Edge of the Former Soviet Empire (Cheltenham: Edward Elgar, 1995), p. 215. President Ahtisaari quoted in Ilia Sanomat, 20 July 1998. Finnish foreign policy since the end of the Cold War has embraced democratic peace theory. President Ahtisaari (1994–2000) was particularly keen on the idea,
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39. 40. 41.
42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49.
50. 51. 52.
53. 54.
55.
56.
57.
however, the concept has gained acceptance across the foreign policy élite. See Vaahtoranta and Forsberg, ‘Finland’s Three Security Strategies’, pp. 194 and 203. Shaw, ‘State of Globalization’, p. 504. Ibid., p. 506. C.Archer and Ø.Jager, ‘The Security Policy Doctrines in the Nordic and Baltic Countries: Stability and Change’, in L.Hedegaard and B.Lindström (eds), The NEBI Yearbook 1998: North European and Baltic Sea Integration (Berlin: Springer, 1998), p. 452. T.Forsberg. ‘Finland and the Kosovo Crisis: At the Crossroads of Europeanism and Neutrality’, Northern Dimensions (2000), pp. 41–9. President Ahtisaari quoted in Forsberg, ‘Finland and the Kosovo Crisis’, p. 42. S.Sassen, Losing Control? Sovereignty in an Age of Globalization (New York: Columbia University Press, 1996), p. 5. Kivimäki, ‘Integration and Regionalization in the Northern Calotte’, p. 78. Shaw, ‘State of Globalization’, p. 498. Centre for Finnish Business and Policy Studies (EVA), Globalization and Finland (1998), pp. 47–8. Jukarainen, ‘Borders Change’, p. 58, my emphasis. Ibid. For a comprehensive analysis of the construction of the Finnish-Russian border as a site regulating self-other relations, see Paasi, Territories, Boundaries and Consciousness. Christiansen and joenniemi, ‘Politics on the Edge’, p. 97. Pertti Joenniemi cited in Forsberg, ‘Beyond Sovereignty, Within Territoriality’, p. 374. O.Wæver, The Baltic Sea: A Region after Post-Modernity?’, in P.Joenniemi (ed.), Neo-Nationalism or Regionally: The Restructuring of Political Space Around the Baltic Rim (Stockholm: NordREFO, 1997), p. 319. Wæver, ‘Identity, ‘Integration and Security’, p. 405. I.B.Neumann, Uses of the Other: ‘The East’ in European Identity Formation (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1999), p. 132. As Neumann notes, ‘A number of these programs [for the transformation of northern Europe] took the Baltic Sea as their geographical base and were presented under labels such as the new Hanse, the Baltic Sea region, Mare Balticum, the Euro-Baltic Region, and the Scano-Baltic Political Space. A tightly knit epistemic community of ‘Nordic’ foreign policy intellectuals played a conspicuous role in producing the knowledge that was used to prop up these several ideas. Their battle cry was that under present post-modern conditions, state sovereignty is relativised in favour of a new European medievalism in which different political issues are settled on different political levels.’ Emphasis mine; R.Nyberg, ‘The Dynamic Baltic Sea Region: What Belongs Together is Now Growing Together’, speech at Greifswald, 30 March 2000. Available at http://virtual.finland.fi/news/showarticle For example, see M.Klinge, Finlands historia 3. Kejsartiden [Finland’s History 3. The Imperial Period] (Helsinki: Schildts, 1997). See also M.Lehti, The Petersburgian Europe in Finnish Identity’, in P.Joenniemi (ed.), Saint Petersburg, Russian Europe and Beyond (St Petersburg: St Petersburg University Press, 2001). Christiansen and joenniemi, ‘Politics on the Edge’, pp. 97–8.
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58. J.Valtasaari, ‘The Finnish Presidency: Lessons for the Future of the EU and Baltic Sea Region’, speech given on 25 May 2000 to the Wilton Park Conference on the Baltic Sea Region and EU policy between the Finnish and Swedish presidencies. See http://virtual.finland.fi/news/showarticle.asp?intNWSAID=4753& intNWSCategoryID=2 59. Christiansen and Joenniemi, ‘Politics on the Edge’, p. 100. 60. P.Joenniemi and A.Sweedler, The Role of Cities in International Relations’, in S.Perko (ed.), Nordic-Baltic Region in Transition: New Actors, New Issues, New Perspectives (Tampere: Tampere Peace Research Institute, 1996), pp. 116–17. 61. Wæver, ‘Baltic Sea’, p. 323. 62. Gottlieb, Nation Against State, pp. 37–8. 63. Forsberg, ‘Beyond Sovereignty, Within Territoriality’, p. 367. 64. For example, see the internet publication ProKarelia, the aim of which is to publicize debate on the Karelian issue and to promote the restitution of Karelia, Petsamo and old Salla to Finland, http://procarelia.net 65. See J.Oksa. ‘The Changing Border and the Many Images of Karelia’, in Eskelinen et al., Curtains of Iron and Gold, p. 293. 66. Pertti Joenniemi draws this conclusion from an analysis of texts prepared by the Karelian Association. He notes that, as opposed to before the end of the Cold War, the texts of the association now convey the impression that Karelia can be a part of the Finnish ‘us’ without the altering of statist borders. Although the insistence on territorial sovereignty has not altogether vanished, the increasing emphasis on cultural, social and economic co-operation has resulted in a ‘domestication’ of the border that undermines the border’s importance in the construction of the Finnish self. With growing co-operation and interaction the border no longer defines ‘us’ from ‘them’, but rather constructs a common ‘we’ transcending the territorial divide. P.Joenniemi, ‘The Karelian Question: On the Transformation of a Border Dispute’, Cooperation and Conflict, 33, 2 (1998), p. 199. 67. Forsberg, ‘Beyond Sovereignty, Within Territoriality’, p. 376. 68. R.E.J.Penttilä. ‘Official Religions’, Books From Finland, 1 (1992), p. 41. 69. M.Majander, ‘The Paradoxes of Finlandization’, Northern Dimensions (1999), p. 88; J.Tapaninen, ‘End of the Line’, Books From Finland, 2 (1994), p. 113. 70. E.Salminen, The Silenced Media: The Propaganda War between Russia and the West in Northern Europe (Harlow: Macmillan, 1999), p. 171. 71. E.Toivanen, ‘Finland’s Quest for Security’, in Walter Goldstein (ed.), Security in Europe: The Role of NATO after the Cold War (London: Brassey’s, 1994), p. 64. 72. Majander, ‘Paradoxes of Finlandization’, p. 89. 73. For example, one of the most effective methods by which the web of Finlandization was cast was through Kekkonen’s ‘naming’ of Finnish citizens and politicians who he deemed had endangered his foreign policy line. Indeed, Kekkonen even published two volumes of letters he had written to such miscreants, urging them to cease their activities, which were apparently so harmful to the national interest. This was highly symbolic. In the public gaze these ‘irresponsible’ miscreants, who had failed to live up to the national ideal, were condemned and subjected to public humiliation and exclusion. Penttilä, ‘Official Religions’, p. 43. 74. Cited in D.Anckar, ‘Foreign Policy Leadership in Finland: Towards Parliamentarization?’, Cooperation and Conflict, 19 (1984), p. 224. 75. Salminen, Silenced Media, p. 171.
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76. As Pertti Joenniemi puts it, ‘There are clear indications that the longing for strict unity has declined and instead there appears to be more tolerance for diversity’. Joenniemi, ‘Finland in the New Europe’ (forthcoming). 77. C.Ingebritsen and S.Larson, ‘Interest and Identity: Finland, Norway and European Union’, Cooperation and Conflict, 32, 2 (1997), pp. 214–15. 78. For example, see T.M.S.Lehtonen (ed.), Europe’s Northern Frontier: Perspectives on Finland’s Western Identity (Jyväskylä: P.S. Kustannus, 1999). The foreword to this recent publication notes that ‘it would appear that the worst tensions have now relaxed and that the country has taken its natural place as part of western Europe, to which it is bound by centuries of history’ (p. 5; emphasis added). 79. For more on this idea of Finland ‘coming home’ to Europe and the West, see C. Browning, ‘Coming Home or Moving Home? “Westernising” Narratives in Finnish Foreign Policy and the Re-interpretation of Past Identities’, Cooperation and Conflict, 37 (2001). M.Jakobson, Finland in the New Europe (Westport, CT: Praeger, 1998), p. 111. 81. Ingebritsen and Larson, ‘Interest and Identity’, pp. 217–18. Christiansen and Joenniemi, ‘Politics on the Edge’, p. 101. 83. Ibid., p. 90. On the need of applicant states to accept the acquis communautaire of the EU, see Chapter 12 below. 84. Joenniemi, ‘Karelian Question’, p. 200. 85. Joenniemi, ‘Finland in the New Europe’. 86. For such an interpretation, see T.Forsberg and H.Ojanen, ‘Finland’s New Policy: Using the EU for Stability in the North’, in G.Bonvicini, T.Vaahtoranta and W.Wessels (eds), The Northern EU: National Views on the Emerging Security Dimension (Kauhava: Ulkopoliittinen Instituutti und Institut für Europäische Politik, 2000). 87 L.Heininen and J.Käkönen, ‘Introduction: What New Northern Europe?’, in their New North Europe, pp. 9–10. 88. Quoted in E.Ristimäki. ‘Recognising Cultural Diversity’, Focus on the Northern Dimension (ARSIS 1/1999), p. 4. 89. Wæver, ‘Baltic Sea’, p. 328.
5 The Encounter Between the Nordic and the Northern: Torn Apart but Meeting Again? PERTTI JOENNIEMI and MARKO LEHTI
The northern part of Europe has been quick to capitalize on the new openness of the post-Cold War years. Numerous region-building projects have been instigated across the previous East-West divide, and borders appear to have become rather malleable. Indeed, one could say that over the last few years, the region has turned into a veritable laboratory of spatial politics.1 One of the moves challenging long-established constellations and markers of political space is the Northern Dimension Initiative (NDI), launched by Finland in 1997 and subsequently approved by the European Union. Integral to the NDI has been talk of a new northern Europe comprising not only the Nordic countries but also the Baltic states and north-west Russia as well as parts of Germany and Poland. The resulting tension between this new northernness and more traditional markers (West, East, but more especially Nordic) brings forth a host of questions to be sorted out both conceptually and concretely in terms of spatial practices. Looking at today’s northern Europe, it also appears that the influence of the traditional logic of realpolitik, involving divisive, statist borders clearly indicating who is ‘inside’ and who is ‘outside’, has declined in importance. The categories of ‘us’ and ‘them’ are no longer as strictly separated from each other as they used to be, and it may also be observed that the needs of the former do not automatically take priority over the latter. Such a hierarchy has now become far less distinct, as exemplified by an increasing number of trans-border projects or the fact that the Finnish-Russian border has turned into an EU border where various freedoms are supposed to carry the day.2 The hierarchy that used to be there is sidelined by approaches featuring more equality and parity between ‘us’ and ‘them’, as previous divisions are replaced by a multiplicity of overlapping jurisdictions. It may be recalled, however, that these recent challenges are not altogether novel. The Cold War constellation was not entirely divisive; it left some room for formations that deviated from the prevailing bipolarity. The most essential exception in this regard was undoubtedly Nordic cooperation. Denmark, Finland, Iceland, Norway and Sweden were never fully in line with the rules of the Cold War period and instead followed what might be termed a Sonderweg. This is to say that the logic of realpolitik was partly set aside in not being applicable to intra-Nordic relations and the sphere of the joint Nordic ‘we’. By forming a
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grouping of their own, the Nordic countries injected variety into the political landscape as early as the 1950s. Our purpose in what follows is to use Norden and nordicity as signposts for tackling recent changes in the unfolding of political space in Europe’s North. The aim is to subject both the old and the new to critical reflection. How do the various representations evoked during recent years relate to the already established ones?3 More particularly, it can be asked how Nordic co-operation ties in with the other regional vehicles that have emerged since the end of the Cold War. Are the current moves of debordering to be seen as an extension and a follow-up of earlier moves present already in nordicity, or do they contain some entirely new elements, thereby profoundly altering the political landscape in the European North? The two concepts nordicity and northernness, are clearly related (Norden means literally ‘the North’) and have a certain symbolic and historical affinity. Both originated from the North-South division of the world that dominated European spatial imagination from antiquity up until the gradual emergence of a new East-West division during the early modern period. In ancient Greece and Rome, and for centuries thereafter, the North denoted a veritable cultural and economic backwater, a sphere inhabited by uncivilized barbarians. This image of extreme peripherality was challenged during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, when the North acquired a more positive aspect and became a resource in the identity-building processes of realms and nations. In the nineteenth century, however, it ceased to function as a master-signifier of Europeanness and again assumed a connotation of remoteness and peripherality. Into the space vacated moved nordicity, which has pushed northernness further to the fringes in the course of the past 200 years. Today, the reimagining and return of the North is unsettling the position of nordicity. A certain rapprochement seems to be underway between two markers that have over time drifted apart, yet is their relationship complementary or competitive? What will happen to the Nordic ‘we’ now that communality in a specific part of Europe is increasingly grounded on the cardinal marker of northernness, as seems to be the case? Nordicity and northernness each coin a rather different ‘we’, although they are obviously not strict opposites. Our analysis explores the encounter between the two representations of political space, tracing the ‘we’-identities that follow and relating them to each other. More generally, it outlines the contours of the political landscape that unfold due to the new relationship between the two markers. In our view, nordicity and northernness should be treated as historically constituted narratives. The words used to define regional constellations are in fact more than words, for ‘with words we create and share views of reality’.4 Individuals as well as societies use narratives for anchoring their identities in time and space. ‘We’ can exist and be somebody only through such stories, stories which define who we are, what we are and where we are.5 The encounter between the Nordic and the northern can thus be regarded as an ongoing
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negotiation about such a ‘we’. Both narratives endeavour, in their own way, to define an identity. When talking about major cartographic markers such as the North, the East, the Orient or areas such as the Balkans, it should be remembered that these are cultural constructs which lack objective geographical definitions. Their meaning is not constant but contingent. Although such labels have been around more or less constantly, the meaning attached to them has differed over time. Edward Said has shown this to be the case in his classic study of the Orient. Said coined the term orientalization to refer to the process by which this marker has been provided with connotations of Europe’s ‘other’. Heavily shaped by romantic mysticism, orientalization yields a certain image, leading to spatial discourses and, ultimately, social action.6 It is a historically contingent process displaying elements of continuity as well as interruptions and variations. By the same token, one can point to the existence of varying narratives on the location and meaning of ‘the North’ and ‘northernness’. It seems possible, for instance, to talk of a process of northernization, whereby the cartographic extent of the North was progressively narrowed during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Northernization imbued the North with connotations of considerable peripherality somewhere at the margins—if not outside—of Europe, whilst the space hitherto denoted by this marker was progressively Nordicized during the course of the twentieth century. Attempts to give the northern marker greater centrality are described here under the label of Europeanization, whilst the building of linkages with the former socialist countries (above all Russia) is termed an easternization of the North. Furthermore, it is possible to distinguish between nationally-delimited forms of the North as well as unifying constructions that provide space for larger communities. The former operate in terms of exclusion and the latter with inclusion as the basic move, although the borderlines often tend to be somewhat diffuse. Nordicization in particular has brought about discourses and spatial practices that mix rather easily and overlap with nationally based configurations. If the North is to be viewed as a contingent construct, any definition of it requires one to outline the genealogy of the North and northernness. Only in this way can one uncover the variety of meanings attached to the term and pinpoint continuums and interruptions in the northern tradition. In this chapter we first probe the relationship between nordicity and northernness as two related narratives and chart the unfolding of the contest between them, particularly in the post-Cold War years. Secondly, the recent broadening and return of the North, evidenced above all by the European Union’s Northern Dimension, is explored. Finally, by examining the genealogy of the northern marker, we place the contest between nordicity and northernness in a European perspective.
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NORDEN: A COMMUNITY OF DESTINY The Nordic configuration has an established history and has, over time, assumed distinct institutional forms. It is, however, often depicted in terms of sui generis, a case in a category of its own. The presuppositions behind such a marker are rarely explored. The Nordic case is obviously there and yet it remains somewhat evasive, an entity and a set of spatial practices that are quite hard to pin down conceptually and locate in a broader context.7 In essence, political Norden has constituted an effort to keep German influence at bay. Its history can be traced at least as far back as the days of the Kalmar Union, from 1397 to 1523, although one may stretch it even further back in time.8 In the 1830s nordicity assumed the form of Scandinavianism, a mainly student and academic-led movement that sought to establish a unified Scandinavian polity. The futility of this aim was demonstrated when SwedenNorway refused to extend help to Denmark during the Schleswig-Holstein war of 1864, at which point the relevant state actors largely lost interest in the Nordic option. With their withdrawal, however, various non-statist forces and interpretations gained ground, a development that ultimately provided Norden with the features of a rather horizontal, ‘bottom-up’ type of entity. A rich network of Nordic Associations, for instance, has furnished nordicity with features of a popular movement. Amongst the milestones of nordicity, one can also cite the efforts to form a neutral group at the beginning of the 1930s and, more recently, the founding of the inter-parliamentary Nordic Council by Denmark, Norway and Sweden in 1952. Finland and Iceland joined this body some years later. The establishment of this institutional framework paved the way for an active period of Nordic cooperation, which gave rise to a common labour market (1954), common social security provision (1955) and a passport union (1957) allowing Nordic citizens to travel freely within the Nordic area. Plans to develop integration through the establishment of an economic area were discussed throughout the 1960s, but these efforts failed. By way of compensation, a Nordic Council of Ministers was established in 1972.9 With the foundation of the Council of Ministers, the state-to-state nature of Nordic co-operation became more apparent. In essence, this co-operation is comprehended as a quite intense yet informal pattern of social and cultural interaction as well as a we-feeling among Nordic citizens. The latter aspects amount to a trans-national ‘we’, a joint identity and a kind of second-order nationalism that extends beyond the usual confines of the respective nationstates. Iver Neumann articulates the relationship by arguing that ‘the Nordics are liminars to one another. They are neither simply “us” nor “them”, they are something in between, something grey area-like.’10 Neumann also stresses that borders are constantly reproduced between the Nordic societies. Enmity has not given way to a complete and uncomplicated picture of amity, and yet the Nordics still tend to feel ‘at home’ with each other. This feeling of forming a close-knit
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community is not dependent on the formal structures of Nordic co-operation, but rather constitutes something that envelops these structures. Although less visible, it is nonetheless an important, if not the most important, part of nordicity. Norden has assumed, in a number of ways, a kind of domestic quality; on occasions there exist almost no borders at all in cultural and institutional terms. Due partly to the fact that it has stayed aloof from Europeanness, the Nordic configuration has been able to establish a constructive and harmonious relationship to nationhood in each of the countries concerned. Civil servants, for instance, can pick up the phone and talk to their counterparts in other Nordic countries almost as easily as they communicate with their own co-nationals. In this respect, the Nordic configuration clearly stands out as a deviation from the ordinary, sovereignty-geared forms of political space. It has been able to achieve quite permeable internal borders, although one should add that this applies first and foremost to the sphere of mental and identity-related borders. The Nordic ‘we’ that extends, as an idea and identity, across national borders has not been particularly conducive to economic integration, cross-border regionalization or other spatial practices. In other words, its transactional borders have not been very malleable. Inasmuch as the Nordic configuration has no explicit centre, its external borders also display a degree of openness. It is, however, possible to argue, as Sverre Jervell does, that the Nordic sphere has historically been delimited by the German and the Russian spheres.11 Uffe Østergard follows the same reasoning when he claims that the idea of the Nordic group has been largely based on defining a space of its own in relation to Germany and central Europe.12 Øystein Sørensen and Bo Stråth follow a related pattern of thought, but apply a less geographical departure and approach to the delineation of borders. In their view, the Nordic ‘model’ represents a particular variant of Enlightenment modernization. They depict Norden as being part of a larger civilizational sphere, although it is linked up on terms of its own. In particular, they emphasize Norden’s success in avoiding the extremes of fascism and Bolshevism, noting that ‘in Scandinavia the tension between freedom and equality was better contained than elsewhere’.13 Such an approach explains why the word model is so frequently used to describe the essence of Norden and nordicity.14 The labelling and delineation of Norden within the modern project is part and parcel of the view that it represents a particularly successful variant of modernity, consistent with high levels of growth and welfare, planning and other forms of rationality. It has been depicted as being avant-garde, an exemplary vehicle for delivering progress and a kind of ‘third way’ between hardcore capitalism and eastern socialism.15 This in turn implies that the East and the West function as key co-ordinates upon which the definition and anchoring of the Nordic case rest. Norden is not seen as a negation, but rather as an improved version of the other variants of modernity. In Stråth’s view, nordicity is not an element that is there in addition to the (primary) national identities. Rather, it is built into what it means to be a Dane,
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Swede, Norwegian, Finn or Icelander. In this regard, argues Stråth, Norden functions ‘as a demarcation from Europe, a democratic, Protestant and egalitarian North against a Catholic, conservative and capitalistic Europe’.16 This move of singling out Nordic specificity and portraying it as something distinct from German, or more general European, ‘otherness’ corresponds to commonly held views. The idea of Norden as a ‘third’, a separate entity neither part of this nor that, is deeply embedded in the debates on the basic meaning of nordicity.17 Norden is thus singled out as a rather special group of small, highly developed and peaceful nation-states with a detached relationship to the realpolitik logic as well as the dominant European centres of power. This image of Norden as a kind of ‘anti-Europe’, a sphere beyond the ordinary rules of inter-state relations, was strengthened during the years of the Cold War.18 The bifurcated setting of that period allowed the Nordic actors to depict themselves as a neutral or semineutral group of countries with a somewhat detached relationship to the blocs and major areas of East-West tension. In sum, therefore, Norden has to a large degree been pitted against neighbouring countries and Europe more generally. The argumentation varies, but the effort has invariably been one of singling out an outside and an inside. It is the depiction of Norden as distinct from its environs that has allowed it to turn into a dominant spatial representation and a set of temporal and spatial practices in Europe’s North. Its internal closeness and coherence are a function of an external environment perceived in terms of ‘them’, a sphere quite different from the Nordic one. LINKING UP WITH A NEW ENVIRONMENT The upkeep of the Nordic configuration has become increasingly problematic in an era where Europeanness and nordicity are no longer so easily identifiable as two distinct spheres. Danish, Finnish and Swedish membership of the European Union already indicate clearly that the relationship can no longer be comprehended in basically exclusive terms. A majority of the Nordic states now apply strategies of participation instead of trying to stay aloof, although the establishment of a negotiated relationship still appears to entail a number of difficulties. In some of the campaigns against EU-membership, Norden may still be represented as an alternative sphere to be kept separate from the ‘inferior’ EU and continuously developed on terms of its own. It may be observed, however, that these conceptualizations of Norden are not broadly shared, and generally fail to find a positive echo on the part of the respective Nordic establishments. The question nevertheless remains: what is Norden now that the confrontation in central Europe has ended and the key concepts underpinning the formation of political space in Europe at large are those of democracy, human rights and a market economy? One of the major issues to clarify here is whether Norden’s status as a separate sphere of co-operation was premised on the Cold War. If so, can the marker of nordicity endure now that the rigidity of that period has given
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way to co-operative constellations on a broader European scale? Are there elements in the Nordic configuration that will allow it to adapt to the new, less bounded conditions, or is ‘the land of the future’ destined either to shrink into something rather insignificant or perhaps to disappear altogether? Various Nordic actors have recently been forced to ponder these questions. In this regard, opinions have frequently appeared more polarized in the Danish, Norwegian and Swedish debates than they have in Finland and Iceland. This is perhaps because nordicity has occupied a more central and bordered place as part of the national ‘self within the former grouping than it has in the latter. Although the differences are not very systematic, there nevertheless seems to be some grounds to argue that the three Scandinavian peoples are more prone to think in categories of ‘either/or’. They are inclined to feel that nordicity has to be traded for Europeanness or preserved as a separate sphere of its own if Norden is to have a future, whereas the two categories are not so sharply distinguishable as opposites when viewed through Finnish or Icelandic eyes. Rather, the Finnish or Icelandic approach appears to be one of ‘both/and’. The Finnish Norden has not been as strictly bordered as the Scandinavian one.19 This has made it possible to perceive Finland’s membership of the European Union as the next step—or another route—on the road towards Europe. In other words, membership is not comprehended as implying the abandonment of Norden, but as a continuation and a follow-up of earlier moves of integration. It represents, in the Finnish case, a fulfilment of something that started with Finland becoming part of Nordic cooperation. The Icelandic Norden is also less bounded, or, at least, bordered in a different manner. Nordic affiliation provides Iceland, for reasons of history, with an important anchorage. It operates, above all, as a counterweight to a heavy dose of Atlanticism. The relationship to Europe, and the EU in particular, remains somewhat detached, but this does not imply that Iceland would feel the need to preserve, for the sake of nordicity, barriers against European influences to the same extent as the Scandinavians proper. This is because Europeanness and nordicity are basically seen as complementary representations of political space.20 Norden has been called upon to accept that it is no longer as hegemonic and detached as it used to be. It stands profoundly challenged in having to compete for space with representations that are explicitly intended to lower the borders around the Baltic and Barents Seas and in Europe more generally. One aspect of the process of adaptation and debordering consists of reducing Norden’s internal orientation. Change along these lines has already come about without much effort, as intraNordic co-operation has been significantly crowded out by an increased emphasis on the EU.21 To compensate for this decline, co-operation with the external environment has been increased. Nordic co-operation and European integration have been taken to be complementary in character, as indicated for example by the efforts to square the tension between the Schengen Accord and the Nordic passport union. Here, the aim has been one of including
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Norway, a non-member of the Union, among the Schengen countries. More generally, the task has been comprehended as one of linking the Nordic entity with a contemporary European governance made up of a three-level game between regions, national governments and European institutions.22 Whilst some successes have been scored, attempts to forge a co-ordinated Nordic approach in relation to the Baltic countries and the EU have often been less than successful. The Nordic group has managed to achieve some degree of joint co-operation with the Baltic states since the early 1990s, mainly in the form of regular joint meetings of foreign ministers. Previously known as 5+3, this forum has recently been renamed, and is now known simply as the grouping of eight. However, the November 2000 meeting of the Nordic Council set clear limits to this process of integration and debordering by rejecting a proposal to admit the Baltic states to full membership of the organization. The reforming and debordering of the Nordic constellation is not only apparent in the sphere of inter-state relations, but applies also to some societal and nonstatist spheres. This is clearly evidenced in the changes introduced by the Nordic Associations. New associations have recently been established in the Baltic countries and Russia (St Petersburg, Murmansk and Kaliningrad). Interestingly enough, these newcomers have been allowed to join the already existing associations, and have done so on basically equal terms. They have thus been comprehended as being quite close to the Nordic ‘family’. The emergence of these new associations bears witness to something rather important. Namely, that nordicity is moving beyond its previous boundaries, be they cultural, legal or institutional. Norden has thus availed itself of the possibility to reach out and compete for space outside the borders of the Nordic countries themselves. These borders no longer stand as outer limits, but operate as zones of contact enabling Norden to reach out and link up with other actors. The changes introduced are truly profound in that they deprive the Nordic configuration of its previous modern clarity and unambiguous character (to the extent that it possessed one in the first place). With the demise of its previous well-bounded essence, the Nordic configuration increasingly turns into one constellation among many. Rather than being ‘half-in and half-out’ as it used to be, it now nuzzles up rather close to ‘Europe’.23 The reforms introduced and the reorientation of Nordic co-operation may have given the configuration some new life, but has it been rescued for good and provided with a durable position within an increasingly pluralist setting? This is hardly the case. Much of the evidence points towards an uncertain future, for while nordicity is in high value and continues to occupy an essential part of the various national ‘selfs’ in the Nordic countries, the efforts of translating these strengths into operative political clout seemingly leave much to be desired. A considerable number of voices have argued that Norden has become redundant and the word crisis keeps echoing around.24 Having been better than Europe, Norden is now quite often comprehended as being inferior. No longer so obviously ‘the land of future’, Norden is frequently called to compete with new
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initiatives that have seen the light of the day in northern Europe, such as Baltic Sea or Barents co-operation. It thus remains uncertain whether the Nordic configuration will be able to pass the test of time. THE RETURN OF NORTHERNNESS The reinvention of the North is, in part, rooted in other contemporary spatial and temporal discourses. The unifying approach to tackling the Baltic Sea region and the establishment of the Council of Baltic Sea States (CBSS) provided a good starting point for the reconfiguration of political space in northern Europe. The Norwegian initiative concerning a Barents Euro-Arctic Region (BEAR) contributed further to these challenges by coining a new northern North, which, although premised on a restrictive reading of northernness, is a distinctly European configuration with a rather flexible eastern border. Moreover, the discourse on a far broader and more co-operative Arctic region constitutes part of the same pattern, although it severs—in the first place—borderlines that have been running across the Arctic itself. It is the NDI, however, that constitutes the single principle effort to introduce a wider vision of the European North. It does not only comprise the old Nordic grouping, but also incorporates parts of Russia and the Baltic states. In some visions, the southern shore of the Baltic and even Scotland are included. However, it is the enrolment of north-western Russia within such a neoNorth, thereby binding parts of Russia to an EU-Europe, that stands at the core of the initiative. One has to refrain from too far-reaching conclusions, since the NDI is still in its infancy. An abstraction has been turned into a diplomatic initiative, which has successfully evolved into a set of discourses. The concept landed officially on the EU’s agenda in December 1997, when the Luxembourg Council obliged the Commission to prepare a report on the Northern Dimension. A year later, such a report was introduced at the Vienna European Council, which decided that the EU now had a Northern Dimension requiring further development by the Commission. The European Parliament, meanwhile, prepared a report of its own. It stressed, to some extent in contrast to the views of the Commission, that the Northern Dimension should have a regional role, for example in creating and strengthening cross-border co-operation in line with the Euroregions in central Europe.25 A ministerial conference, uniting representatives from the Nordic EU-member states, Iceland, Norway, Poland, Russia and the Baltic countries, was held in Helsinki in November 1999. A variety of functional issues pertaining to energy, raw materials, the environment, border controls, employment, transport and infrastructure provided much of the substance of the meeting. The EU summit in Helsinki in December 1999 took stock of the results, and the Commission then charted out an action plan, subsequently approved at the Feira summit in June 2000.26 Sweden organized, during its presidency, another meeting of foreign ministers in Luxembourg in May 2001, in order to review the results, and
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Denmark hosted a meeting on the question of Kaliningrad during spring 2000 in Copenhagen. The EU Commission issued a communication entitled The EU and Kaliningrad’ in January 2001. Northernness has thus been proposed and accepted as a means of qualifying some aspects of the European Union. Round one has brought northernness on to the EU’s agenda, albeit so far in a rather diffuse manner. The North figures both as a northern North encompassing the Barents and Arctic dimensions, and as a wider vision extending to the Baltic Sea region. Some further steps will be taken, and it remains to be seen how far they will carry. The initiative is still far from having reached any self-conscious status or identity of its own. There is a set of discourses but no clear-cut region, polity or budget line within the Union that would affirm and delineate it in a factual sense. Northernness may still turn out to be one of the ideas coined and launched into the debate that in the end amount to very little in terms of spatial practices. The impact will perhaps not reach beyond some local effects. The ‘otherness’ of the North and the way in which the marker has been traditionally comprehended may remain so prominent that no firm and positive linkage to Europe will emerge.27 Nonetheless, it can be observed that what used to be a blank spot on the Union’s mental map is getting contours of its own following the entry of Finland and Sweden in 1995.28 It has been accepted that northernness is a sphere of its own and one that requires specific policies. The cardinal representation utilized is not —as might be expected on the basis of previous constellations—that of westernness. The discourse is not about the West occupying new ground by pushing easternness further towards the East and northernness to the North. It is also notable that the alternative chosen has not been nordicity, a concept that has traditionally been exclusive rather than inclusive in essence.29 Nordicity has not been on a level with the other cardinal markers on the compass. It would also be more political and would not serve as a platform for linking simultaneously up with ‘Europe’ and the East, since nordicity is limited to the traditional cooperation between the Nordic countries. Instead, the new discourse makes use of a marker that has long been at the fringes of a system dominated by East-West rivalry. The new reinvented northernness is broader, less political, more differentiated and, most importantly, European. The launch of the NDI indicates that Finland, at least, believes in the potential inherent in the old/new image of northernness and feels at home with a certain marginality.30 The initiative embraces the idea of a multi-perspectival Europe and feeds, more broadly, on the contemporary conditions of globalization and regionalization. The diplomatic process now set in motion also resonates with a broader discourse. Edward James Crockford, editor of the new business journal Northern Enterprises, argues that ‘northern Europe is pop’.31 He is confident that the label of northernness will carry a commercial publication. Further proof is offered by Yngve Bergquist, who runs a hotel built from ice in Jukkasjärvi in northernmost Sweden. In an interview with Scanorama, Bergquist states that the
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building of the hotel has changed the character of a previously rather quiet place: ‘Winter used to be a problematic time here. Now it is our main attraction.’32 The emergence of northernness in a European context entails a considerable dose of discursive power. It allows ‘Europe’ to be defined from yet another perspective. It is hence not surprising that this endeavour is also to some extent controversial. The NDI, for instance, downgrades both the Barents and the Baltic Sea vehicles of co-operation into sub categories of a broader and clearly European northernness. This move is not entirely in harmony with the Danish and Swedish efforts—apparent since the start of the 1990s—to elevate Balticism into a central departure for region-building in northern Europe.33 Norden, for its part, is vulnerable to the return of northernness. Its aspiration for (relative) exclusivity means that it needs to stay apart, yet how can it do so if Norden also becomes a sub-category of a broader northern constellation? The challenge is a difficult one, since efforts to stay aloof or, for that matter, too harsh rebuttals of the invitation to merge with northernness would render nordicity open to accusations of denying its own roots. Northernness operates in terms of both/and. It aims to reach out and relink to ‘Europe’, rather than restricting itself in the way that Norden used to do. Northernness aims at drawing on shared experiences rather than being constructed against some category of ‘otherness’. It can embrace markers such as Norden and operate as a very wide policy framework that also encompasses the Baltic Sea, Barents and Arctic vehicles of regional co-operation. In this situation, it does not follow that nordicity will be able to insulate itself. Indeed, the return of northernness as a concept that both aims to restore lost unity and calls for a negotiated relationship with ‘Europe’ leaves Norden with little option but to link up and to accept a symbiotic ‘both/and’ relationship with the new marker. This is despite the fact that such an ‘outside-in’ type of move (if seen from a Nordic perspective) appears to deprive Norden of much that previously justified its existence. The more general reason for Norden’s decline lies in the fact that it is relatively border-dependent and closely attached—despite being in some ways a counter-move—to the logic of realpolitik. It has been feeding on the existence of quite distinct divisions—those of the East and the West, NATO and the Warsaw Pact, as well as capitalism versus socialism. Norden thus encounters difficulties when faced by a graded political landscape with rather vague borders and a new cardinal marker aspiring to shape Europe’s North in spatial terms. Norden has suffered from the post-Cold War situation, which has brought neither the replacement of old divisions nor the emergence of new ones. Northernness, for its part, operates on different premises. It aims at undermining previous borderlines, including those essential for the old Norden. Northernness is clearly premised on inclusive moves in its endeavours to reach out, in the form of the NDI, both in a southern (central Europe) and eastern (Russia) direction. The initiative is tantamount to debordering, as it aspires for a softening of the external borders of the European Union. It is part and parcel of recent debates on a new Europe, with flexible and transparent borders, and merges with spaces that
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are both ‘in’ and ‘out’.34 Above all, northernness does not aspire to a distinct sphere of its own, but rather forms an integral part of a broader European setting. A CONTEST IN THE MARGINS The return of the North can be comprehended as the revival of an image that used to label a considerable area of Europe prior to the Napoleonic Wars. This development raises interesting questions as to the relationship between the current neo-North and its ancient predecessor. In order to clarify this relationship, it is necessary to review some of the northern narratives used in the past and to expose the continuums and interruptions in the genealogy of the North. How has the northern image been used to outline various temporal and spatial coordinates? What kinds of political spaces have been carved out on the basis of the northern marker during past centuries? Back in the mid-eighteenth century the North was imagined as a political arena —a kind of sub-playground of power politics. The prime actors in the game were Sweden, Denmark, Prussia, Poland and Russia, at that time all major European powers in their own right. The usage of the North to outline political space formed an integral part of the then dominant discourse on international relations, one premised on a balance of power between empires and other major actors. International relations was understood as a kind of Newtonian system, with its own mechanical equilibrium. This perspective was applied to Europe as a whole but also included a number of sub-systems, among them the northern one,35 The North thus had a role in outlining some aspects of Europe. This usage of the North as a marker dominated the political language of the entire eighteenth century, before fading out during the midnineteenth century. In the eyes of contemporaries, St Petersburg, Berlin, Copenhagen and Stockholm were all more or less part of the same political scene. For example, when Alexander I intervened in order to help Europe subdue Napoleon, he was seen as arriving from the North rather than the East.36 This image was blurred and downgraded during the Enlightenment, which bolstered and extended the position of easternness at the expense of the North. As Larry Wolff has demonstrated, Eastern Europe was invented during the late eighteenth century, when a variety of travellers and academics found and defined a space between the Occident (West) and the Orient—a space carrying characteristics of both Europe and Asia. The co-ordinates of this eastern Europe consisted of St Petersburg in the north and Crimea, the Balkans and Azov in the south.37 It covered Russia, Poland, Hungary and the Balkans, although it was understood as a cultural zone rather than a political sphere. For westerners, Eastern Europe represented—as is still the case today—a backward society whose existence allowed them to prove discursively their own superiority while locating an ‘other’ to be patronized. Since easternness was loaded with rather
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negative connotations, it could not serve as a basis for positive identification for those who fell into this newly defined sphere. The transition from the dominance of the North to the broadening of the East spanned many decades. Given the choice between belonging to the North or the East, a considerable number of people still saw themselves as northern European at the start of the nineteenth century. The North also continued to dominate the writing of history, which remained quite state-centric up until this period.38 Despite entering the discourse as an attribute of Europe, easternness did not immediately turn into a cardinal signifier outlining political space. The East and the North were initially not exclusive poles and the boundary between them remained vague. Whilst recognizing that these two markers overlapped, Larry Wolff claims that the North retreated rather quickly.39 Robin Okey, on the other hand, maintains that the transition period was in fact much longer. The Crimean War, it seems, strengthened perceptions of Russia as an eastern rather than a northern actor, although the process remained incomplete at least until 1917, when Soviet Russia was excluded—and excluded itself—from the rest of Europe.40 Although the Second World War did blur the picture to some extent, the Cold War reconfirmed the easternness of the Soviet Union. This imagining of a separate eastern Europe and the drawing of lines between Slavic and nonSlavic lands contributed to a relocation of the North,41 which now became synonymous solely with Norden. As Berndt Henningsen has demonstrated, northernness has had a further use as an identity marker. This can be traced all the way back to the sixteenth century, when the idea of the North was adopted to outline essential features of Swedish state identity. This understanding flourished further during the late seventeenth century. Olof Rudbeck, a professor of Uppsala University, is singled out as a key myth-builder by virtue of his four-volume work Atlantica, which did much to attach the new northern attribute to Sweden. In the words of Henningsen, Rudbeck’s goal ‘was to prove the political and moral superiority and the superior civilization of the North in general and of Sweden in particular’. In order to justify such claims, he devised a new Creation story that located Paradise in the North. Rudbeck also applied familiar images from classical literature, for example by identifying the North with Plato’s legendary sunken Atlantis. The claim that Sweden was the original home of all the Goths and that they had emigrated further to the south, the east and the west after having inhabited Swedish soil, added to the story. Sweden was thus depicted in terms of a vagina gentium, or cradle of humanity.42 These Rudbeckian moves were quite successful in the sense that Gothicism figured among the Swedish foundational myths for centuries. The Gothic theory also claimed that the Scandinavians and the Germans shared common origins.43 The North was provided with connotations of a true centre in the context of Europe-making—in other words, it was Europeanized. The Rudbeckian North had the function of legitimating the power of the ruling dynasty and was therefore political in essence.
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The background for the emergence of such narratives is obvious. Sweden had achieved the status of a European great power during the Thirty Years’ War and practically dominated the Baltic World. The accrued posture called for the coining of myths providing meaning to the policies pursued. The task was not simply to justify Sweden’s role in the Baltic region, but also to stress values relevant vis-à-vis central Europe. The Rudbeckian version of the Creation story corresponded to the needs of the situation. In his book, Rudbeck laid the ground for a new foundation myth, and invented new mega-narratives that bolstered the position and meaning of Sweden. These narratives contained several elements defining what Sweden was basically about. For example, the metaphor of Louis XIV as the Sun King was reproduced by depicting Charles XI of Sweden as the King of the North Star.44 After the Battle of Poltava in 1708, Sweden lost its position as a great power. This not only impacted on the political map but also left similar marks in the minds of people. The northern myth, however, remained part of the discourse, receiving yet another emphasis. The Gothic myth continued to battle with claims concerning the eminence of the North—or the employment of Sweden in that context—but besides this Europeanization of the North, features of northernization also appeared in the Swedish discourse. This is to say that northernness was also seen as carving out a sphere located in the northernmost North, wherein ‘the experience of nature and the mysticism of the northern lands became a major element and an expression of the political and social selfconcept’.45 Northern nature was provided with transcendental features, the duality of eternal light and eternal darkness being employed to underline its divine characteristics. According to Montesquieu’s famous theory, nature and climate do not only mould the characteristics of people, but also the essence of the political system. The wild northern scenery was thus depicted as the source of Gothic values, that is freedom but also religious innocence and piety. In the minds of contemporary observers, all these features made the North—with Sweden as its prime representation—superior in relation to the South. Despite the decline in political status, claims of moral superiority survived, providing a breeding ground for a variety of Swedish foundation myths. One variant of this can clearly be seen in the Nordic discourse about the superiority of the welfare state model. In any case, northernness remained an important aspect of the Swedish state identity. It provided connotations of naturalness in legitimizing dynastic power, while also signalling qualities that were seen as making Sweden politically and morally superior to other realms. A whole variety of northern qualities were invoked to define the Swedish people, although not yet in the form of laying the ground for the construction of a national identity. Whilst it was primarily used to bolster Sweden’s character as a state, the northern marker did also function as a source of bonds and unifying elements with some nearby nations and states. This is to say that the application of northernness was not simply restrained to the northern North. It reached further out in both southern and western directions,
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although Sweden obviously remained the point of gravity. What northernness seemed to lack was any eastern dimension. No common sphere was outlined to link Scandinavia, the Gothic lands, and Russia. ROMANTIC GAZE TOWARDS THE NORTH The North apparently underwent a considerable decline in status due to the increasing prominence given to the East during the second half of the nineteenth century. This decline in status left the North available for other purposes during the era of Romanticism, and a new northern myth was employed as part of the construction of national identities in Scandinavia as well as in Germany and Britain.46 Jöran Mjöberg distinguishes between three different phases in this usage of northern myths. Initially, during the first half of the nineteenth century the myths were mostly nostalgic and romantic and were used to construct Scandinavian or German unity. In the second half of the century they were used to support a more liberal and Utopian dimension of national identity. Finally, during the early twentieth century, northern myths were increasingly used for populist, sometimes even racist purposes. The clearest example of the latter was the Nazi use of selected northern themes to support claims of racial superiority. As a result, the northern myths were pushed aside after the Second World War.47 They fell into disrepute and held their ground only in Scandinavia, although even there in a much altered form. Northern motifs thus became exclusively Nordic in the aftermath of the Second World War. The early nineteenth-century romantic myth of the North invoked images of a misty land full of mythical heroes. The basic tenets were much the same in all cases, although in Britain Celtic poems were at the centre of the new narrative whereas in the German world it was the Gothic heroes that fulfilled this role. In Scandinavia the Old Norse of the Viking era grew in reputation through the medium of heroic stories like the Edda Saga. This nostalgia for a past glory assumed numerous expressions in the literature and fine arts of the nineteenth century. Helmeted Viking soldiers, with their swords and spears, and mythic northern gods were seen through a new romantic prism.48 The roots of Scandinavian identity were no longer linked to the Christian tradition; instead, the old pagan past was elevated. The Gothic past had already been present prior to this new twist, but the barbaric past had then been regarded as something shameful in the context of the classical and Christian traditions. The new representation was about a glorious past, a superiority and distinctiveness of the North in relation to the South during the Viking period. The new usage did not only aspire to add some Scandinavian cultural motifs to established representations, but was also aimed at laying the ground for new identities. A distinctly political dimension was added to the alleged return of the North’s lost golden past. The respective movements seeking to construct a unified Germany and a unified Scandinavia were riding on the same
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foundational myths. The new Nordic one was equated with the ancient spirit of freedom, fostering courage and preserving national independence, all of which can be seen as representing patriotic values.49 This discourse on northernness contained a kind of double move; as well as narrowing down the North to Norden, it nevertheless also represented a kind of Europeanization of the North, through the argument that the North constituted a true Europe. More particularly, the North was used for the first time to create bonds between the Scandinavian kingdoms. According to Henningsen, the old Gothic myth did not disappear, despite now having looser linkages to Sweden; it was just de-Swedicized with Swedish Gothicism being turned into Nordic Scandinavianism.50 In view of the scant success achieved in this regard, the same Nordic myths later came to function as a source of distinct national identities— particularly in Sweden—during the second half of the nineteenth century. Although the Scandinavian emphasis did not entirely disappear during this latter period, the discourse pertaining to northernness was again primarily restricted to the national scene. There are several examples of the North being employed in order to define Sweden: the Swedish national anthem Du fjällhöga Nord (You Mountainous North) from 1844; Nordiska Museet as a label for the Swedish national museum in 1873; and the so-called Nordic Games of 1901–26, which portrayed winter sports as an expression of Scandinavian identity at its best.51 Another remarkable expression of the use of northernness in national narratives can be found in the school of Scandinavian painting called ‘The Northern Light’, which elevated the image of northern nature with its white nights into a symbol of the nation. The movement also idealized and stereotyped the picture of country life, which was purported to represent the nation’s soul. The aim of such an idealization was to narrow down the high North and make it available for nationalist purposes.52 The employment of the high North within a national and Nordic context has been a recurrent feature ever since. The ‘true’ northernness has thus provided the ground for a variety of images used in a spatially differentiated manner. The Nordic configuration has subsequently lost most of its nationalistic features, but also some of its links to the old Nordic myths. It can hence be comprehended as an increasingly postnationalist construction.53 As argued earlier, the welfare state model has stood out as the main attribute of Norden during the post-Second World War years. A relationship loaded with tensions can be traced between Norden and the North, although the strains have been less explicit over time. Norden’s civilizational claims have allowed it to be distinguished from the North as well, a move that has contributed to northernness being severed from its previous linkages to ‘Europe’. The North has, in this context, been provided with connotations of extreme peripherality—darkness, winter and barren, primitive conditions. The emergence of Norden thus contributed to the northernization of the North, which has been transformed into a liminal marker and relegated to a sphere outside the Enlightenment in order to serve as Norden’s other.
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Norden has therefore been quite dependent on border-drawing vis-à-vis the North. As Brit Bergreen has observed in the Swedish context, the features associated with Norden have been more frequently found south of the limes norrlandicus, a symbolic, cultural and to some extent also economic line that divides northern Europe into two different spheres: a truly northern one and another more to the south.54 The features most commonly associated with the northern side of this divide have been suppressed, whereas those located to the south have been elevated and utilized in representations depicting what Norden is basically about. NORTHERNIZING THE NORTH The Northern motifs have not only been used in grounding Scandinavian identities, but also had a role in the cases of Russia and Finland. Russia was depicted as a northern realm already during the early modern period. However, the myth of the North really only emerged in Russia during the era of Romanticism. In this regard, the defeat of the Napoleonic Grand Army in 1812 gave rise to the metaphor of winter as a particularly Russian season. A ‘poetry of winter’ subsequently flourished in Russian literature. Around this time, St Petersburg was often referred to as the Northern Palmyra, a name derived from the mythical Syrian city of the same name. This Russian North was clearly identified with winter, darkness and a cold climate; in this respect, it differed from the tales of Scandinavian romanticism.55 Even during the Soviet period, some remnants of this romantic image of the North—and particularly the northernmost North—survived. Under Stalin, for instance, the myth of a heroic Soviet Union challenging the extreme conditions of the North was constructed, with the scene of the drama depicted as the ‘Red Arctic’.56 These features of the Soviet-Russian discourse represented a northernization as well as an easternization of the North, in which northernness also acquired some positive connotations. More recently, the northern theme has returned to Russian identity rhetoric. It has been particularly apparent within the new northwestern supraregion (including, among others, St Petersburg, Karelia, the Pskov region and Kaliningrad) where northern themes are used as a symbol of the region and its uniqueness. Finland constitutes a case of its own as far as narratives on the North are concerned, although some influences from the Scandinavian discourse can be traced. Northernization of the North has been an integral part of Finnish identity politics since the Swedish era, although Finland hardly had an identity of its own prior to the partition of Sweden in 1809. From the mid-nineteenth century onwards, northernness assumed a dual role in the construction of a Finnish national identity. Nordic and Scandinavian bonds were kept open, but nothing similar to the Swedish limes norrlandicus can be traced. This is because in the Finnish case, the elevation of northernness was not there in order to assert the superiority of a state or nation in relation to the South. Rather, it had the function
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of expressing the true nature of Finland as a nation (the state emerged in an unambiguous form only in 1917). In this regard, a myth of a pioneering people, one feeling at ease with northernness, was constructed. It did not struggle with any outside actor, but sought purpose and meaning in its northern location. According to the constitutive myth, the Finns have—despite a cold climate, persistent crop failure and widespread poverty—succeeded in overcoming their difficulties. They have managed—so the story goes—to remain a proud and honest nation in the North. This kind of narrative resonates with an early nationalistic rhetoric that idealized the common people. The harsh environment, it was claimed, hardened the nature of the Finns, fostering both humility and persistence, while also giving scope to claim the moral high ground.57 Northernness has kept its place in Finnish identity, where it remains associated with idealized images of a wild and untouched nature. The endeavour has not been one of drawing lines and attempting to deny the peripherality of the country. Instead, a certain detachment and wilderness has continued to define the Finnish relationship to the rest of Europe. Although some details have changed, the late nineteenthcentury image of a land of never-ending forests and lakes still provides the country with a certain specificity.58 The foundational myth was based on the view that nature shapes the people. The northern location is thus seen as distinguishing the Finns from other European peoples, perhaps most especially the Swedes. Swedish influences are depicted as having introduced features of western civilization to Finland, yet the national movement obviously sought to construct Finnishness as something distinct from Swedishness. Northernness offered a good ground for such border-drawing. Although the mystification of northern nature has clearly been a feature of Swedish identity-building, this aspiration has been far more pronounced in the case of Finland. If, on the one hand, a northern location implied standing aloof from civilized Europe, the uncivilized and wild North nevertheless stood for something dynamic and respectable. The constitutive rhetoric assumed a clearly racial dimension during the inter-war period, when, to take one example, the success of Finnish athletics was interpreted as demonstrating some of the qualities of the Finnish race rather than resulting from training or other factors.59 These racist interpretations vanished entirely in the years following the end of the Second World War. At the same time, moreover, narratives increasingly escaped official control and took a turn of their own, finding expression, for example, in pop songs, movies and anecdotes. These people-oriented interpretations turned poverty, hard drinking and taciturnity into national virtues.60 Finland’s economic success—particularly visible in the 1980s and more recently—undermined many previously central elements in the national story and paved the way for new ones. The end of the Cold War and the new linkages to Europe, mainly in the form of EU-membership, have further fuelled this process. Nordicity has also long been a part of narratives on Finnish identity. The Finnish Swedes in particular associated themselves strongly with Scandinavianism during the nineteenth century. However, nordicity appears to
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have assumed a somewhat different, less bordered meaning in Finland. Unlike in Scandinavia, Nordic elements were used primarily to link Finland up with the West and separate it from the East—i.e., the function of border-drawing against the South or the West was not so apparent.61 Although the Nordic welfare model has been part of the Finnish self-definition during the last few decades, nordicity lost some of its value in Finnish narratives following the end of the Cold War. This is because membership of the EU anchors Finland firmly in the West and does the job of border-drawing towards the East even more convincingly than affiliation to Norden. The growing salience of rightist values and an emphasis on integration, as well as the importance of global markets, implies that the Nordic welfare model is now held in lower esteem.62 In its place new elements have been added to the national story, with the international telecommunications company Nokia and success on global markets providing essential building blocks. The Nokia story represents, in this perspective, a very different move. It too is a success story, but not in relation to the challenges posed by a northern location. The northern landscape has lost its key constitutive posture and been redefined as a base for high technology production aimed at conquering European and other markets. In this way, the North is opened up and serves as a frame and a site for departures of selffulfilment in a rather broad international context. The demise of the Nordic identity has thus left Finland open to new interpretations, whilst the decline of previous border-drawing has paved the way for new depictions of northernness. NORTHERN IN THE PLURAL As the preceding analysis demonstrates, there have been several variations on the northern theme during the last four centuries. These variations share a number of common elements, yet also display important differences. The more historical narratives of northernness, most notably the Gothic myth, implied participation in the contest for centrality in Europe. In this regard, they seem to have been relatively successful in turning the North into a broadly recognized marker of European political space. The northernization of the North, by contrast, implied a withdrawal from the European scene. The first moves along these lines date back at least to the seventeenth century. In this connection, northernness was employed as a move of exclusion and detachment during the construction of national identities. A tendency towards northernization is clearly discernible in the Finnish and Russian narratives and traces of it can be found in the Swedish narratives, although in all cases peripherality was given some positive connotations. Leaning on northernness implied assuming a relatively favorable position in the semi-periphery. Consequently, it meant staying aloof from any notions concerning barbarism or a totally backward location. All of these narratives can be seen as identity stories employed in order to define the spatial and temporal co-ordinates of a state or a nation. However, they have varied considerably in terms of their articulation of the past, and it is hard to
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discern any clear unifying elements. The oldest Rudbeckian narrative, for instance, was based on the Bible, whereas the romantic North emphasized the mythical Norsemen (although the Gothic myth did link the two stories to some extent). The Nordic narrative has carried at least some echoes of such a distant past, but has basically been anchored in the recent era of social democracy, economic success and peaceful development. Images of a distant past are especially vague in the case of the Finnish foundation narratives, although some influences may be traced to Kalevala mythology (Finno-Ugric myth) and the stories elevating the pioneering spirit of Finnish peasants.63 In sum, a clear difference exists between the Europeanizing and northernizing discourses on the North; the northernized North appears to lack a distinct past narrative, and possesses nothing comparable to the Gothic myths of the Europeanized North. What are the spatial dimensions of the narratives employed? It appears that most of them are political in essence and thus used in order to define a state or a political nation. The question arises, however, as to whether they just had the function of defining a territorial state or pertained to a much wider North. In this respect it seems that there was some discrepancy in the case of the eighteenthcentury discourse. The North—if comprehended in a strict cartographic sense— was devoid of images of a northern nature; northernness, on the other hand, defined mostly Sweden but also vaguely gave shape to a larger community of peoples sharing a Gothic past. In the nineteenth century northernness defined a much larger political community—that of Scandinavia—although it was simultaneously used to define nations, individual states and a community of emerging nation-states. Although elements of the northern rhetoric were present in Germany and Britain at this time, it can nonetheless be argued that the North was not yet altogether clearly delineated as a political space. In the case of twentieth-century Norden, a distinct relationship is rather obvious. The emergence of a clearly defined Nordic grouping necessarily implied a more exclusive conception of northernness. Whereas the North of the heroic Norsemen was in many ways a fuzzy and open project, the Nordic variation emerged through closure. This conception of Norden as an exclusive space has prevailed until recent years. How does the post-Cold War rhetoric on the North and northernness resonate with previous narratives premised on such a marker? It seems that nordicity and northernness increasingly appear in tandem, although some distinctions prevail. With the position of both the East and the West having been to some extent undermined following the end of the Cold War, northernness has been offered an opportunity to enhance its position. It neither aspires to a separate existence at some remote corner of Europe, nor aims to locate itself in a Europe that is already defined and fixed. Instead, the northern marker has become a vehicle for partaking in a struggle for political space now that the standing of the two previously dominant co-ordinates and cartographic signs has diminished. Northernness aims to conquer space at the expense of East and West and aspires for the position of a cardinal marker of Europeanness. As such, it increasingly
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defines the meaning and position of a number of other representations, including the Nordic one. This confrontation, however, tends to be rather soft and indirect. This is because northernness—particularly when purported to be something essentially European—operates in a rather smooth manner. It has certainly not achieved the position of a firmly grounded and wellestablished representation. On the contrary, it is in many ways less real than Norden. A Europe with northernness as one of its core constituents remains uncertain, visionary and at best in the making, although these ‘weaknesses’ do not seem to play into the hands of nordicity. Northernness can to some extent lean on its history of having once competed for centrality, but above all, it purports itself as something new and exciting. Norden, by contrast, is increasingly perceived as belonging to a Europe of the past.64 Pirjo Jukarainen has confirmed the existence of a broader discourse underpinning the Northern Dimension. Reviewing the debates in a Nordic scholarly journal, she concludes that Norden appears to have fewer and fewer advocates and summarizes the discourse with the claim ‘Norden is Dead—Long Live the Eastwards Faced Euro-North’.65 Norden no longer seems to be equipped with the power to Nordicize northernness and use border-drawing as a means of carving out a distinct place for itself. It thus appears that Norden will ultimately turn into something of a sub-category of a broader northern configuration. It may become far less distinct and statist than previously; indeed, it might have to adapt itself to a (neo-)regional pattern of co-operation. Ideas along these lines have recently been presented by a group of Vise men’ established by the Nordic Council of Ministers in order to stake out a future for Nordic cooperation. CONCLUSION A comparison between past and present discourses on the North helps to shed light on the current, often parallel use of the Nordic and the northern markers and the encounter that follows. If the Nordic marker has remained largely unaltered until recently, it is increasingly challenged by talk of a Northern Dimension and, more broadly, of a New Northern Europe. The boundaries of the new region are somewhat diffuse, but that is not the crux of the issue. What the NDI rhetoric constructs and outlines is a neo-North, a regional construction that is spatially perhaps even more open and flexible than most of the other new post-Cold War regional vehicles. Thus, whereas the Nordic spatial discourse has been exclusive and to some extent closed, the new North displays very different qualities. It seems fairly obvious that the marker of northernness is being reinterpreted. The aim here is not just one of claiming a linkage to Europe, but also of turning northernness into one of the cardinal signs outlining Europeanness at large. The North aspires to a certain inclusive standing, although without fully abandoning its traditional peripherality and its ‘real’ self. Such aspirations are clearly embedded in the Northern Dimension Initiative as well as the more general
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discourse on the role of northernness in a European context. The neo-North coined during recent years expands in a variety of directions, and does so without explicitly leaning on the ‘otherness’ of the South. Instead, the North and the South are usually purported as being co-constitutive. Both are seen as defining their respective mega-regions, although the encounter is not very explicit as southernness has not (yet) reached out in the same way as northernness. In general, one can say that the growing eminence of northernness does not contribute to any clear constellation premised on a bifurcated relationship between ‘us’ and ‘them’. What is underway is not a process in which a configuration based on the North and the South as its cardinal markers would substitute the one premised on the centrality of the East and the West. The past is not returning in the sense that the constellations that were there prior to the Napoleonic Wars would be on their way back. What seems to be there is simply the formation of a less crystallized and bifurcated constellation, with northernness adding to the plurality of Europeanness. A fundamental problem pertaining to the current NDI is that it impacts upon spatial practices grounded largely in a functional and utilitarian reasoning and the identity-related aspects remain quite hidden. This is to say that the regionbuilders leaning on such a marker tend to appeal to joint problems such as pollution, crime or health on the one hand, and on the possibilities of utilizing the rich resources of northern Russia on the other. No narrative has been coined in the context of the NDI that would aim at reconfiguring the past and linking into earlier historical experiences. There is nothing like the Hansa of the Baltic Searelated discourse or the elevation of the Pomor period, when imagining a Barents region. Since there is no oviously identity-related rhetoric present in the discourse on the NDI, people do not feel that the matter is one of considerable urgency and relevance in relation to who ‘we’ are in the post-Cold War period. The top-down quality of the initiative further strengthens such impressions. Moreover, there is no easily recognizable ‘otherness’ present in the discourse, since it is basically about inclusion and far less about exclusion. It resonates with broader discourses concerning globalization and localization and feeds on the need to redraw the customary maps. The North has been seen as offering a tempting vision and providing anchorage for a set of discourses that is gradually becoming part of concrete spatial practices. Yet a number of linkages remain rather loose. This also applies to the relation between the North and the South as well as the relationship between the Nordic and the northern configuration, but goes equally, for example, for the position of northernness in the Finnish identity project. There are still many that think of Finland as having finally found its way ‘home’ in now being part of the western camp, and northernness has not been brought in—despite the Northern Dimension Initiative—as a marker that also defines Finland’s own position in the new EU-related constellation. Northernness itself seems to harbour some plurality. There are certainly different views present as to its meaning and location, and in this sense
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northernness forms a forum and platform for different interpretations that clash and reconstruct each other. The vigour that can to some extent be traced in the recent discourse on northernness may be explained by the fact that each of the participating states and nations can employ and project their own images. They may claim, in the context of the northern marker, that there is a certain continuity. The marker allows them the utilization of their own national narratives and, in that sense, a nationalization of the North. All essential actors may upgrade and inject their own story pertaining to some age-old aspects of Scandinavia, Finland or Russia, and the same goes for the actors around the Baltic rim, including Britain. There is, in addition to the nationally grounded usages, also a post-national North in the discourse, although it appears to lack clear temporal and spatial co-ordinates. It hence remains a rather vague image if compared to the nationalized North. Usually the North has been either northernized or Europeanized, but in the current discourse both dimensions are present simultaneously. The relationship is no longer one of either/or. The North does not remain, in the current discourse, separate from Europe. It appears that the European marker has been opened up for influences originally produced in the context of a rather northernized North, and now the two seem to coexist without one giving in to the other. No doubt, the discourse on northernness includes some inconsistencies but this state of affairs primarily contributes to northernness being open to different alternative interpretations. Thus, the current discussion does not merely consist of one or two ways of using the North and northernness. There are, in fact, several interpretations at play. A plurality of concepts is applicable in redefining one’s own position in the new Europe. The unifying element present in all these discourses consists of the claim for a position based on the equality, or in some cases perhaps even the superiority of the North vis-à-vis the South. On the one hand, the definitions concerning the spatial scene differ significantly not only in a cartographic sense but also in principle. The same goes for northernness as an identity narrative. Various mixtures of the northern narratives seem to coexist. Northernness is clearly in a state of ferment, and it is difficult to forecast whether a more unified and comprehensive understanding will see the light of day in the near future. In any case, previously hegemonic discourses have lost most of their centrality, and nordicity—as opposed to the North—appears to be one of the markers that has clearly lost in standing. Essential relationships are thus on their way to being renegotiated. Some previously distinct and firm concepts, such as the Nordic one, have turned more uncertain and have to struggle to relate to a number of at least partly competing departures, such as the Baltic, Barents and Northern narratives. We are clearly in the midst of an era of naming, as new myths and narratives are invented for constructing a new Europe. ‘It is possible to draw a circle on a map and define this circle as new and await events’, says Sverre Jervell, one of the ‘founding fathers’ of the Barents Euro-Arctic Region.66 Northernness seems to be part of exploiting the new openness in furnishing time and space with meaning. The northern
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narratives offer an alternative option in a Europe where the general trend has seemingly been one of swapping easternness for westernness. This latter approach raises the obvious question of whether everyone in Europe can be ‘western’. Whereas easternness has lost ground and is no longer available for positive usage, northernness seems to offer nations the potential for gaining centrality in the new Europe without prejudicing one’s own uniqueness. The contest between the Nordic and the northern is a rather open one, engaging a broad variety of actors, and it indicates more clearly than during stable periods that geography is much more than mere ‘geography’. The latter is not a given, but an act of ‘earth-writing’ that contains relations of power and identity. Some avenues are opened up whereas some remain closed, with northern Europe currently displaying a rather dynamic and turbulent pattern. NOTES 1. A.Bailes, ‘The Role of Subregional Co-operation in Post-Cold War Europe: Integration, Security, Democracy’, in A.Cottey (ed.), Subregional Cooperation in Post-Cold War Europe (London: Macmillan, 1998), p. 183. 2. T.Christiansen and P.Joenniemi, ‘Politics on the Edge: On the Restructuring of Borders in the North of Europe’, in J.Eskelinen, I.Liikanen and J.Oksa (eds), Curtains of Iron and Gold: Reconstructing Borders and Scales of Interaction (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1999). 3. For previous efforts along similar lines, see I.B.Neumann, ‘Den Østelige EUutvidelse fra Norden till Nordeuropa’, in EUs udvidelse mod Øst og Norden fra prestigepolitik til brobyggning (Copenhagen: Nordic Council, 1992); O.Wæever, ‘Nordic Nostalgia: Northern Europe After the Cold War’, International Affairs, 68, 1 (1992) and O.Wæever, ‘Between Baits and Brussels: The Nordic Countries After the Cold War’, Current History, 93, 586 (1994). Neumann focuses on the Nordic case and Wæver on the possible move from Nordism to Balticism. 4. K.Hacker, ‘Political Linguistic Discourse Analysis’, in M.E.Stuckey (ed.), The Theory and Practice of Political Communication Research (New York: New York University Press, 1996), p. 33. 5. E.Ringmar, Identity, Interest and Action. A Cultural Explanation of Sweden’s Intervention in the Thirty Years’ War (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 1996), pp. 75–8. 6. E.W.Said, Orientalism (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1978). 7. L.Rerup, ‘Nationalisme og skandinavisme intill første verdenskrigs udbrud’, De Nordiske Fælleskaber. Den jyske Historiker, 69–70 (1994). 8. H.Gustafsson, Nordens historia. En europeisk region under 1200 år (Lund: Studentlitteratur, 1997). 9. S.Jervell, ‘Norden og samarbeid mellom nordiske land’, in Norden i del nye Europa. En rapport fra det danske og svenske utenrikspolitiske institut og universitetet i Reykjavik (Oslo: Europa-programmet, 1991), p. 35. 10. I.B.Neumann, ‘State to Region: How to Save Formal Nordic Co-operation’, in L.Hedegaard and B.Lindström (eds), NEBI Yearbook 2000. Yearbook on Northern and Baltic Sea Integration (Berlin: Springer Verlag International, 2000), p. 245.
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11. Jervell, ‘Norden og samarbeid mellom nordiske land’, p. 15. 12. U.Østergard, The Geopolitics of Nordic Identity—From Composite States to Nation States’, in Ø.Sørensen and B.Stråth (eds), The Cultural Construction of Norden (Oslo: Scandinavian Univerisity Press, 1997), p. 29. 13. Ø.Sørensen and B.Stråth, ‘Introduction: The Cultural Construction of Norden’, in their Cultural Construction of Norden, p. 3. 14. L.Mjøset, Norden dagen derpå (Oslo: Universitetsforlaget: Samfundslitteratur, 1986). 15. P.Joenniemi, ‘Norden as a Post-Nationalist Construction’, in P.Joenniemi (ed.), Neo-Nationalism or Regionality? The Restructuring of Political Space around the Baltic Rim (Stockholm: NordREFO, 1997), p. 5. 16. B.Stråth, ‘Nordiska Rådet och nordiskt samarbete’, De Nordiska Fællesskaper. Den Jyske Historiker, 69–70 (1994), p. 208. 17. Jervell, ‘Norden og samarbeid mellom nordiske land’; Rerup, ‘Nationalisme og skandinavisme intill første verdenskrigs udbrud’; Østergard, ‘Geopolitics of Nordic Identity’. 18. Wæver, ‘Between Baits and Brussels’. 19. M.Engman, ‘Är Finland ett nordiskt land?’, De Nordiske Fællesskaber. Den jyske Historiker, 69–70 (1994). 20. Cf. F.Magnússon, ‘Nation, lokalsamhälle och klass. Om isländska identitetsuppfattningar 1880–1940’, in A.Linde-Laursen and J.Nilsson (eds), Nationella identiteter i Norden—ett fallbordat projekt? (Stockhom: Nordiska Rådet, 1991), p. 26; V. Wåhlin, ‘Island, Færøerne, Grønland og det nordiske’, De Nordiske Fællesskaber. Den Jyske Historiker, 69–70 (1994). 21. H.Mouritzen, ‘The Nordic Model as a Foreign Policy Instrument: Its Rise and Fall’, Journal of Peace Research, 32, 1 (1995). 22. P.Stenbäck, ‘The Nordic Community and Nordic Co-operation in Light of the Development of European Integration’, in The Nordic Countries and the New Europe (Copenhagen: Nordic Council of Ministers, TemaNord, 1997), p. 553. 23. See A Öppet för varldens vindar. Nordiska ministerrådet, Köpenhamn (NORD, 2000), co-operation adds to dimensionalism in the sense that it operates with two conp. 15. This report from the Nordic Council of Ministers on the future of Nordic cepts—the Nordic Dimension and the Northern Dimension—without specifying the relationship between these two in any detail. 24. P.Joenniemi, ‘Norden—en europeisk megaregion?’, in Norden ar död. Länge leve Norden! (Stockhom: Nordiska Rådet, 1994); P.Jukarainen, ‘Norden is Dead—Long Live the Eastwards Faced Euro-North’, Co-operation and Conflict, 34, 4 (2000); Mouritzen, ‘Nordic Model as a Foreign Policy Instrument’; Neumann, ‘State to Region’; Wæver, ‘Nordic Nostalgia’; Wæever, ‘Between Baits and Brussels’. 25. H.Haukkala, ‘Introduction’, in H.Haukkala (ed.), Dynamic Aspects of the Northern Dimension (Turku: Jean Monnet Unit, 1999), p. 14; S.Moisio, ‘Pohjoisen ulottuvuuden geopolitiikka: pohjoinen periferia ja uuden euroopan alueellinen rakentaminen (On the Geopolitics of the Northern Dimension: the Northern periphery and the Construction of a New Europe)’, Terra, 112, 3 (2000), p. 125. 26. T.Forsberg, ‘Soft Means to Hard Security: Finland and the Northern Dimension of the European Union’, paper presented at a seminar entitled Regional Security in Border Areas of Northern and Eastern Europe, Pskov, 6–8 July 1999; H. Ojanen, ‘How to Customise Your Union: Finland and the Northern Dimension of the EU’,
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27.
28.
29. 30. 31. 32. 33.
34.
35.
36.
37. 38.
39. 40. 41. 42. 43.
Yearbook of the Finnish Institute of International Affairs (Forssa, 1999), pp. 14– 16. Cf. Y.Haila, ‘Pohjoisen toiseus (The Otherness of the North)’, in M.Seppälä (ed.), Muukalaisia arktiksessa (Porin taidemuseon julkaisuja no. 34. Painohäme Oy, 1996); S.Sörlin, ‘Framtidslandet. Norrland och det nordliga i svenskt och europeiskt medvetande’, in I.Karlsson (ed.), I kontinentens utkant. Forskningsnämnden (Uppsaöa: FRN-Framtidsstudier, 1986), p. 111. W.Jann, ‘Common Security in the Baltic Sea region: A View from the German Länder’, in Common Security in Northern Europe after the Cold War—The Baltic Sea Region and the Barents Region (Stockholm: Olof Palme International Centre, 1994), p. 182. B.Henningsen, ‘The Swedish Construction of Nordic Identity’, in Sørensen and Stråth, Cultural Construction of Norden, p. 97. Cf. N.Parker and B.Armstrong, Margins in European Integration (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 2000). E.J.Crockford, ‘A Historic Shift in Europe’s Centre of Gravity’, Northern Enterprise (autumn 1999), p. 5. Scanorama (2000), p. 22. See Chapter 1 above, and also D.Arter, ‘Small State Influence within the EU: The Case of Finland’s “Northern Dimension Initiative”’, Journal of Common Market Studies, 38, 5 (2000), p. 687. T.Christiansen et al., ‘Fuzzy Politics Around Fuzzy Borders: The European Union’s Near Abroad’, Cooperation and Conflict, 33, 4 (2000). The United States made a similar move by introducing the Northern European Initiative in 1998. See P.Van Ham, ‘Testing Cooperative Security in Europe’s North: American Perspectives and Policies’, in D.Trenin and P.van Ham, Russia and the United States in Northern European Security, Programme of the Northern Dimension of the CFSP, vol. 5 (Helsinki: The Finnish Institute of International Affairs, 2000). J.Black, The Rise of the European Powers 1679–1793 (London: Edward Arnold, 1990), p. 158; M.Lehti, ‘Competing or Complementary Images: The North and the Baltic World from the Historical Perspective’, in Haukkala, Dynamic Aspects of the Northern Dimension, p. 32. R.Okey, ‘Central Europe/Eastern Europe: Behind the Definitions’, Past and Present, 137 (1992), pp. 110–11; M.Kivikoski, ‘Onko Itä-Eurooppaa enää olemassa?’, in P.Kettunen, A.Kultanen and T.Soikkanen (eds), Jäljillä. Kirjoituksia historian ongelmista. Osa 2. (Turku: Kirja-Aurora, 2000), pp. 165–6. L.Wolff, Inventing Eastern Europe. The Map of Civilization on the Mind of the Enlightenment (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1994). This is indicated for example by A.L.Schlözer’s Allgemeine nordische Geschichte published in 1771. This book dealt with the history of Sweden, Denmark, Prussia and Russia (Kivikoski, ‘Onko Itä-Eurooppaa enää olemassa?’, p. 166). Wolff, Inventing Eastern Europe, p. 5. Okey, ‘Central Europe/Eastern Europe’, pp. 110–11. D.Kirby, The Baltic World 1772–1993. Europe’s Northern Periphery in an Age of Change (Harlow: Longman, 1995), p. 2. Henningsen, ‘Swedish Construction of Nordic Identity’, pp. 97–101. O.Petri, ‘Ruotsin kronikka’ and O.Rudbeck, ‘Atland eli Manheim’, in Skandinavian kirjallisuuden kultainen kirja (Helsinki: WSOY, 1930); P.Hall, The
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44. 45. 46.
47.
48. 49. 50. 51.
52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58.
59. 60.
Social Construction of Nationalism: Sweden as an Example (Lund: Lund University Press, 1998), p. 254. There also existed alternative interpretations. For example, Olaus Petri, a sixteenth-century historian, took a contrary view by arguing that the Goths had emigrated to Sweden and never left. On Gothicism in Europe more generally, see C.Kidd, British Identities Before Nationalism: Ethnicity and Nationhood in the Atlantic World, 1600–1800 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), pp. 211–49. Henningsen, ‘Swedish Construction of Nordic Identity’, p. 110. Ibid., pp. 107–12. It has to be remembered, however, that Gothicism has a longer tradition in Germany and in England. Already during the era of the Enlightenment a variety of terms like ‘the northern nations’, ‘all the nations lived under the Gothic polity’ and ‘the legal kingdoms of the North’ were used for coining a larger ‘we’, a Gothic Europe, in England. Kidd, British Identities Before Nationalism, pp. 211–16. J.Mjöberg, ‘Romanticism and Revival’, in D.M.Wilson (ed.), The Northern World. The History and Heritage of Northern Europe AD 400–1100 (London: Thames & Hudson, 1980). This negative burden of the past poses an obstacle to the reawakening of the northern narratives in Germany. Ibid.; U.Østergaard, ‘The Nordic Countries in the Baltic Region’, in joenniemi, Neo-Nationalism or Regionally?, pp. 33–6. Cf. Hall, Social Construction of Nationalism, pp. 17–8. Henningsen, ‘Swedish Construction of Nordic Identity’, p. 105. Ibid., pp. 95–6; B. Stråth, ‘Scandinavian Identity. A Mythical Reality’ in N.A. Sørensen (ed.), European Identities, Cultural Diversity and Integration in Europe since 1700 (Odense: Odense University Press, 1992), pp. 45–53; Østergard, ‘Nordic Countries in the Baltic Region’, pp. 28–36; M. Lehti, ‘Kansojen kilvoittelu kunniasta. Kansallisuusaatteen ja urheilun pyhä liitto’, Historiallinen Aikakauskirja, 3 (2000). Early Finnish nationalism had similar features. For example, the Finnish national anthem Maamme (Our Country) from 1846 does not depict Finland as such, but plays with images of the northern landscape (M.Klinge, Kaksi Suomea (The Two Finlands) (Helsinki: Otava, 1982), pp. 102–3). Henningsen, ‘Swedish Construction of Nordic Identity’, pp. 112–14. P.Joenniemi, ‘Norden as a Post-Nationalist Construction’, in Joenniemi, NeoNationalism or Regionally? B.Bergreen, ‘Sommer-Norden og Vinter-Norden’, in K. Hastrup (ed.), Den nordiske verden 1(Oslo: Gyldendahl, 1992), pp. 193–200. R.Pyykkö, ‘The North in Russian Cultural Tradition’, in Haukkala, Dynamic Aspects of the Northern Dimension, pp. 69–76. J.McCannon, Red Arctic. Polar Exploration and the Myth of the North in the Soviet Union 1932–1939 (Oxord: Oxford University Press, 1998). M.Klinge, The Finnish Tradition. Essays on Structures and Identities in the North of Europe (Helsinki: SHS, 1993), pp. 232–3. H.Mikkeli, ‘Metsäturkki ja sen juron parturit. Näkemyksiä metsäluonnon ja kansanluonteen suhteesta 1800–1900-luvulla’, Historiallinen Aikakauskirja, 3 (1992). Lehti, ‘Kansojen kilvoittelu kunniasta’. H.Salmi and K.Kallioniemi, ‘Pohjan tähteiden tuolla puolen. Suomalaisuuden strategioita populaarikulttuurissa’, in H.Salmi and K.Kallioniemi (eds), Pohjan
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61.
62. 63.
64. 65. 66.
tähteet. Populaarikulttuurin kuva suomalaisuudesta (Helsinki: Kirjastopalvelu, 2000). For more about the early phases of Finnish Nordic orientation see M.Lehti, 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 (Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 1999), pp. 498–500. P.Kosonen, Pohjoismaiset mallit murroksessa (Tampere: Vastapaino, 1998), pp. 38–9. The role of the popular novel Täällä Pohjan tähden alla (Under the Northern Star) by Väinö Linna appears to have played an important role in revitalizing past stories, mostly dating back to the nineteenth century. Wæver, ‘Nordic Nostalgia: Northern Europe after the Cold War’, p. 96. P.Jukarainen, ‘Norden is Dead—Long Live the Eastwards Faced Euro-North’, Cooperation and Conflict, 34, 4 (2000), p. 378. S.Jervell, ‘Top-Down or Bottom-Up Region-Building? Some Notes on the Barents Co-operation’, in Multilayered Integration. The Subregional Dimension. Summary of an Inter-Governmental Conference, Bucharest (Warsaw: IESW, Warsaw Centre, 1996).
6 Looking for Neighbours: Origins and Development of Latvian Rhetoric on Nordic ‘Closeness’ VALTERS ŠČERBINSKIS Although Latvia as a country has naturally always had neighbours in a geographical sense, the search for neighbours in broader, philosophical terms has exercised the minds of politicians and the active section of Latvian society since the late nineteenth century. In addition to those states with which Latvia has or has had a natural land border (Estonia, Lithuania, Russia and Belarus plus Poland during the inter-war years), Latvian intellectuals have tried to attach the ‘neighbour’ label to states that could not be regarded as such from the traditional, geographical perspective. This category includes, in the first place, Sweden and Finland, and, more recently, the whole of Scandinavia and the Nordic countries. The idea that these countries were ‘near’ and ‘right next door’ originated in a natural desire to gain as neighbours peoples that, from the Latvian point of view, were in every sense exemplary, and with which there was no mutual ill-feeling or contention. Since the birth of ideas, their transformation into political schemes and the origin of various myths usually occur on a purely theoretical level, the ‘search for neighbours’ can be regarded as rhetoric, one meaning of which suggests the use of beautiful but empty words, commonly without any practical application. In spite of this negative connotation, however, the neighbours rhetoric does shed light on the efforts and desire of the Latvian élite—intellectuals and political leaders—to create a spatial image, a wished-for or dream location, and a region to which they want to belong and with which they want to associate themselves. A topical question for the historiography of Latvia and, more widely, for that of other post-Soviet countries of Eastern Europe, concerns the possibility of parallels between pre-Second World War events and those after 1991. Thus, in our case, is it possible to identify similarities between the 1920s and 1930s rhetoric on the Nordic countries and that of the post-1991 years? Another hitherto unanswered question relates to the influence of historical precedents on events in present-day Latvia—the transfer of historical myths to the 1990s and the degree to which they affect various spheres of life. An attempt can be made to answer these questions by looking at the long-term development of Latvian rhetoric.
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THE ‘AGE OF THE SWEDES’ AND BALTICSCANDINAVIAN ORIENTATION The region known at the end of the twentieth century as the Nordic countries has throughout its historical development been viewed with different emphases. Nonetheless, regardless of the considerable distance in time, it seems that the deepest impression on the Latvian psyche has been left by the so-called ‘good old Age of the Swedes’. This is based on events more than three hundred years ago, when the lands populated by the Latvians experienced a period of domination by the Swedish crown. During this time, Stockholm conducted certain reforms in conquered Livonia and demonstrated liberal policies towards the local peasantry. Inevitably, this left an impression on the psychology of the indigenous peasants. In the nineteenth century, when the ancient past of the Latvians was glorified, the time of Swedish rule was also included. The first history books to appear were written by authors who had been brought up and inspired by national romanticism. Later, in the first half of the twentieth century, the myth of the good Age of the Swedes was most vividly depicted in school textbooks. The classic history textbook for secondary schools before the Second World War ended the chapter on Swedish rule in Livonia with the words: ‘In view of all this, we can understand why Latvian peasants had fond and thankful memories of the good old Age of the Swedes.’1 The well-known Latvian historian Arveds Švābe, writing on the Age of the Swedes from a viewpoint clearly in line with the needs of the 1920s and 1930s, highlighted many positive achievements during the comparatively short period of Swedish rule.2 This exaggeratedly positive and uncritical view of seventeenth-and eighteenth-century Sweden continued to be upheld by Latvians in exile after the Second World War. In a very popular and widely read Latvian history book by historian Uldis Ģērmanis that has been published in a new edition following the restoration of independence, the chapter on Swedish rule is entitled ‘Latvian Support for the New King’.3 In a primary school book, which has also run to several editions, the chapter ‘The Age of the Swedes’ begins with the words: ‘“Tell me, Granddad, what was the Age of the Swedes,” little Dzintars asked his grandfather. “Oh, that was a good time,” sighed grandfather.’4 For a proper appreciation of this phenomenon, we should bear in mind that practically all generations of the twentieth century, with the partial exception of the years of Soviet occupation, were taught at school from these textbooks. Thus, the image of the ‘good old Age of the Swedes’ has unavoidably shaped the general development of views on Sweden and Scandinavia in general. According to the viewpoint expressed in these textbooks, Sweden in the seventeenth century was associated with a degree of democracy, education and the seeds of general welfare, while relationships with contemporary Sweden were also treated in a generalizing manner. It is no surprise that precisely these values passed from
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school textbooks to articles in the press, academic publications and political speeches after the Second World War and the reattainment of independence. Only in the early 1930s did pride in a period of history that the countries had in common simmer down, at least at the level of political speech-making. The Latvian envoy in Stockholm, Kārlis Zariņš, in a report to Riga describing the 12th anniversary celebrations of Estonian independence, made the following critical comment about Estonian speeches: Here we may also remark that the Estonian speakers at national celebrations always and everywhere praise the Golden Age of the Swedes. The Swedes are described as having brought culture and learning to Estonia. It seems to me that Estonia is going a bit too far with its compliments. Thus, a local diplomat who was sitting next to me at yesterday’s Estonian celebration whispered in my ear that the Estonians seem to have had no culture before the time of Gustav Adolf and that after the fall of Carl XII everything seems to have stood still until Estonia became independent. This seemed to him the gist of the lecture. I explained to my colleague that this was not the case but that on such solemn occasions positive aspects only are highlighted. This is true, but I should state that in our national celebrations in recent years we have not voiced any praise for a Swedish Golden Age. We talked of this extensively in the first years of our independence, but now we emphasise our real Latvian culture and its special features… Now we are an independent and sovereign people and we must show the world outside our culture and our capacity for existence, with less talk of external influence.5 However, within this rhetoric interpretation of current events and conditions was gaining importance alongside the use of history. Scandinavian countries were positively represented in the press during the nineteenth century. In 1879, returning from a trip through Denmark and Sweden, the prominent Latvian social activist Fricis Brīvzemnieks wrote that better acquaintance should be made with the Danes, Swedes and Norwegians. Not only because they ‘are almost our nearest neighbours’, but also because much could be learned from them.6 Under tsarist Russia, however, modern Scandinavia remained distant and little known to the average Latvian. After the First World War and independence Sweden made no real attempt to become involved in Latvian politics. On 3 January 1920 Kārlis Ievinš, head of the Latvian Information Office, wrote ‘understandably, Sweden itself is of little importance to us and perhaps it is not worth spending precious money on propaganda here, because society here is not going to be pulled out of the Germanophile mire in which it so willingly wallows’.7 Yet, even if Stockholm’s reticence was never in doubt from the very beginning, from time to time ideas concerning Swedish interest appeared in the Latvian press in connection with the possibility of a union of Baltic (Sea) states. These ideas, however, were founded
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more on wishful thinking among the Latvians than on political realities. Indeed, rhetoric on a common region was constantly developed, and assumed a political shape from the very start. Already in 1919 it was discussed in one of the major newspapers, Latvijas Kareivis (Latvian Soldier). The authors of this article considered a union between the eastern Baltic and Scandinavia as entirely natural, employing the Baltic Sea as a connecting element.8 However, already in the early twentieth century the emphatic reserve on the part of Scandinavia, including Sweden, led Riga to seek other avenues for cooperation. There was no hope of a military and political alliance with the Scandinavian countries. In spite of this, the wish for closer co-operation with Stockholm in a great variety of fields was recognized. In order to characterize such efforts to form closer links with the respective countries, a special term, tuvināšanās, translated as rapprochement, was coined. Without any doubt, one of the most important sources for such rhetoric was the reports sent to Riga by Latvian envoys. Particularly during the time of residence in Stockholm of Latvian envoy K.Zariņš, the Foreign Ministry obtained reports of ‘a friendly and favourable attitude regarding the Baltic states’ among various circles in Swedish society.9 Zariņš even regarded a visit by a delegation of scouts and the activities of the Swedish-Latvian Society as steps in the direction of rapprochement.10 However, it cannot be denied that the development and continuation of this rhetoric was stimulated by the favourable stance of particular politicians in Stockholm. A report from Zariņš depicts Swedish foreign policy as consisting of two different orientations. In April 1927, for instance, he wrote that none of the Scandinavian countries wished to talk of ‘any sort of close political-military alliance, instead the Scandinavian countries are engaged in disarmament at the expense of their eastern neighbours’. At the same time Sweden was, in his view, showing evidence of its wish not to distance itself entirely from the Baltic states.11 Sweden’s symbolic connection with Latvia was emphasized during King Gustav’s visit to Latvia in 1929. Enthusiastic and hopeful articles appeared in the press about Sweden, and in such cases historical memories were unavoidable. Although the visit was practically devoid of actual political significance, in the social consciousness it was interpreted as a token of the King of Sweden’s friendship. Thus, Zariņš wrote in August 1929: This topic could be the subject of whole volumes, but a few may ask, what was the real gain from these exalted visits? People who expect tangible results from everything immediately and on the spot will perhaps feel that their hopes have been disappointed, but we should not forget that rapprochement between two peoples and states cannot be established at once: it needs time and gradual, persevering work. These visits, one might say, have laid a cornerstone for closer Swedish-Latvian co-operation and friendship. It is important that we have been able to generate enthusiasm among the cool Swedes by our warmth, capacity for work and abilities.
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The Swedes have certainly been able to establish that across the Baltic Sea there lives an energetic and cultural brother people of the Swedes, whose culture and capacity for work can be highly rated.12 More important than the lack of real foundation for these visions within regional politics is the fact that the envoy’s continually optimistic reports on the successful progress of rapprochement helped to maintain the view in Riga that there was still some hope left for a military-political alliance some time in the distant future. The positive image of Sweden as a country was also exploited in the press, though it must be said that this was almost entirely outside the context of Latvian-Swedish relations. Social activist Jāni’s Dāvis, following a visit to Sweden, emphasized that the country was one of the most beautiful in Europe, that it was a national state without corruption and the oldest state in Europe. He also noted that Sweden had never known serfdom and had a respectable level of general welfare and a highly developed economy.13 Such values found great sympathy in nationalist and agrarian circles. In late-1930s Latvia the idea of rapprochement was applied to the Nordic countries rather than just Sweden, although the latter nevertheless occupied the dominant position within the Nordic group from the perspective of Riga. In the late 1930s Riga was carefully following all developments in the Nordic countries, and it is precisely at this time that the term itself appeared, at this stage already encompassing Scandinavia and Finland. The reports from envoys pedantically related goings-on at conferences on education, inter-parliamentary meetings of the Nordic countries, and Nordic Press Congresses.14 Exchange of information was an important aspect of building relationships. In 1938 envoy Vilis Šūmanis requested information from Finnish foreign minister Rudolf Holsti concerning a Nordic meeting on economic co-operation under extraordinary conditions. Holsti answered that secret military questions had been discussed. Šūmanis replied that the Finnish envoy in Riga received all material without exception concerning meetings between the Baltic states. According to the report from the Latvian envoy, Holsti had agreed and promised to ask permission from Swedish foreign minister Rikard Sandier.15 Another clear example of joint Baltic-Nordic activities are the conferences on intellectual co-operation. Considerable attention was also given to the 5th Nordic Education Week in Estonia in 1938. The event, as reflected in an account by Edgars Krieviņš, the envoy in Tallinn, clearly showed Estonian efforts to join the Nordic countries.16 In the 1930s there were more and more events involving joint participation by the Baltic and Nordic countries, such as Nordic and Baltic Youth Red Cross Conferences and SwedishBaltic Student Conferences. All of these events had a certain resonance in Latvia, thereby accustoming Latvian society to a Scandinavian presence, at least in the field of culture. At the same time, clear limits were set upon the Latvians’ and Estonians’ integration into the Nordic group. In 1928 both applied for membership in the most prominent Nordic association, Föreningen Norden, but their application was
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rejected. Interestingly, the Swedes and Finns supported the membership bid, while the Norwegians in particular opposed it.17 The Latvians were morally willing to accept Sweden, unlike other countries of the region, as their ‘elder brother’, and to admit its dominance. The historical role of Sweden and its superiority in terms of statebuilding was recognized. The course of events in the 1930s permits a more precise definition of the idea of rapprochement that was so widespread in Latvian rhetoric. This was taken to mean the strengthening and furtherance of cultural and economic co-operation. Rapprochement, in accordance with the political views of the 1920s and 1930s, was an important precondition for a close agreement between states. At the same time, the term was a capacious one, wide-ranging and often meaning very little, and for this reason it was very convenient. The Baltic-Finnish Orientation Another more specific and to some extent more down-to-earth aspect of the Nordic rhetoric is related to Finland and its notional role in Latvia’s foreign policy. Already from the late nineteenth century, when we can begin to speak of a Latvian press, Finnish history, political events, economic life, popular traditions and art were widely reflected in Latvian publications. For the most part, this was presented as an example for Latvians to follow. There is no doubt that people’s own experiences and accounts by others in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century provided an important foundation for the views that dominated in the 1920s and 1930s regarding Finland. Historian Edgars Andersons emphasizes the example of Finnish democracy as reflected in the views of prominent politician Miķelis Valters, the first person to publicly voice the idea of an independent Latvia.18 In looking to the creation of a parliamentary system in Latvia, Valters relied directly on Finnish experience.19 Dozens of other Latvian political emigrants found refuge in Finland during the 1905 revolution and afterwards. These included a large part of the political élite of the future independent Latvian state. With the establishment of an independent state, Finland, along with Estonia and Lithuania was right from the beginning included in the vision of a joint Baltic states region. Political accident offered those who were charting Latvian foreign policy a unique opportunity—at least it seemed so to them—of establishing an alliance with Finland, and some time in the more distant future, with Sweden as well.20 In the first half of the 1920s, Latvian foreign policy was marked by unsuccessful attempts to establish a league of Baltic states, which was conceived as a counter-force to potentially aggressive neighbouring great powers in the form of the USSR and Germany. To a significant degree the guiding hand behind the foreign policy line in Riga, Zigfrīds Meierovics, was one of the originators of the idea of the Baltic League. Great hopes were aroused in 1920, when, on his return from the Helsinki Conference, Meierovics described the meeting as a
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serious step towards the formation of a regional alliance. The Bulduri Conference in August/September of that same year established a framework for broad co-operation in the region at the level of resolutions, but also defined the limits that each country placed on the process of rapprochement In May 1921 a review of political events by the foreign ministry concluded that relations with Finland were ‘very warm’.21 At the same time, we should not underrate the foreign ministry and its capacity for judging the practical result of this relationship. In August 1921 the ministry’s review of political events notes that ‘not very much has yet been attained in rapprochement with Finland. Latvia aims to create an alliance with Finland in a political sense, as well as rapprochement in the economic sphere. All efforts and means should be applied to furthering such rapprochement.22 The East Karelian crisis and the Warsaw Conference (March 1922) that followed represented the culmination of Latvian hopes, but these were dashed because of opposition to the Warsaw Accord within the Finnish parliament. The myth of a Finnish desire to enter into a militarypolitical alliance with the Baltic states had proven an utter disappointment. It is worth noting that only after the Warsaw accord politique in 1922 did the first publications appear in Latvian newspapers giving a negative view of Finland. Just prior to this, in 1921, we find the largest number of articles in Latvian periodicals devoted to Finland of any year during the inter-war period. Almost all of these contain very positive information about Finland and a view of a geographical, political and, in a wider sense, spatial unity between Latvia and Finland.23 Already in the mid-1920s stagnation in Latvian-Finnish relations can be observed in comparison with the earlier part of the decade. Nevertheless, the press continued to develop a very positive image of Finland. Particular Finnish politicians helped to maintain an illusion of joint activity. Even taking into account diplomatic language, the assertion by envoy Gustav Idman in 1928 that Finland ‘congratulates most heartily‘Latvian and Estonian accession ‘to the cultural bloc of Scandinavian countries’ and that this was supported by adherents both of the Scandinavian and Baltic orientations in Helsinki, was a very audacious claim.24 In the 1930s Latvian enthusiasm towards Finland waned somewhat. However, this did not change the general attitude towards the country. In many spheres Finland remained the ideal northern country. Latvian Olympic wrestler Edvīns Bietags provides a graphic characterization of this attitude in the country’s largest newspaper, Jaunākās Ziņas. all will understand the joy that is to be felt on receiving an invitation to an international Greco-Roman wrestling contest in that major sporting country —the granite land of Finland. Finland is the country that all wrestlers long for, because only there can one learn, even though the fights themselves might be lost.25
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The Finnish-Scandinavian rhetoric in Latvian society was initially connected with political considerations, but later passed more into the cultural realm. From 1934, the authoritarian Kārlis Ulmanis regime, establishing its foreign policy framework, declared an orientation towards the Baltic and towards neutrality. This can be seen from publications at the time of the Winter War, when the Latvian press evidently sympathized with the Finns, but because of government pressure was forced to refrain from commenting on events.26 The idea of the ‘closeness’ of Scandinavia and Finland was maintained primarily by intellectuals and cultural figures and was furthered to a significant extent by diplomatic representatives in the respective countries. Most of them were nationalists in search of imagined equal partners, ‘neighbours’, ‘friendly peoples’. Yet, although the idea of Latvia’s Scandinavian orientation never really disappeared, the changes in official policy in the years of the authoritarian regime following the coup of 1934 were characterized by the development of a pragmatic approach. Reports from envoys no longer contained optimistic scenarios for developing relationships, and at the Foreign Ministry ideas were no longer being generated regarding historical and seemingly preordained Latvian-Finnish and Latvian-Scandinavian connections. THE SOVIET OCCUPATION AND THE PERIOD SINCE THE RESTORATION OF INDEPENDENCE The events of the Second World War significantly altered Latvian views on the country’s place in Europe and its connection with the Nordic countries. The Soviet occupation of 1940 not only destroyed the rhetoric about the Nordic countries that had been so common, but also exterminated a large section of its most active proponents. During the Second World War German propaganda stimulated glorification of the Finns. However, contacts with Finland were insignificant, and it seemed selfevident that the Finns had little interest in Latvia. At the end of the war, the non-communist resistance movement did briefly associate Sweden with the possibility of escape from occupation, yet such feelings soon gave way to a sense of disappointment in foreign policy thinking on the part of Latvian exiles.27 The island of Gotland became a place of salvation for many refugees, while a significant number of Latvians ended up in occupied Denmark. However, most of them were exposed, from the very first days, to the harsh realities of life as refugees in a foreign country. Although these countries admitted refugees, they were not about to challenge Latvia’s incorporation into the Soviet Union. The rhetoric on international questions amongst the exile community gave particular attention to Finland. Events were followed actively during the 1950s and 1960s, when the interpretation changed from ‘Finland is still holding out’ to ‘the Kremlin is speaking through the mouth of Helsinki’. In occupied Latvia, meanwhile, increasing SovietFinnish co-operation meant that Finland came to be viewed as a satellite of the USSR. Thus, as a result of German and Soviet
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propaganda and, above all, the changed post-war circumstances in the region, the markedly positive rhetoric affirming the Latvian wish to associate with the Nordic countries all but disappeared. As soon as independence was restored, a wide variety of ideas were expressed regarding Latvia’s place in Europe. Firstly, many emphasized historical links with Germany, and the latter’s increased role and widened sphere of influence following reunification. Secondly, the idea was developed of a special relationship with the USA. Thirdly, mainly pro-Soviet, ethnic Russian and former business circles argued for the maintenance of close connections with Russia. Another special link for Latvia—the Baltic—was incorporated into all of the previously mentioned versions. Finally, throughout the period since the restoration of independence there has again been the idea of Latvian involvement in the Nordic group of countries. It should, of course, be noted that various combinations of these versions were possible. The years since independence have witnessed important changes in Latvian perceptions of the Nordic countries. Up until the Second World War, Latvia had little interest in Denmark and Norway, and, apart from a small volume of trade, there were virtually no other links. This situation changed dramatically after 1990. In comparison with what was, from the perspective of Riga, a demonstrably reticent stance on the part of Sweden, particularly with regard to military co-operation, Denmark, Norway and Iceland with their rapid and vigorous activity brought to the forefront what had previously been the Scandinavian periphery. Wide publicity and sympathy was gained by Iceland, the first country to recognize Latvian independence on 22 August 1991, followed by Denmark (24 August), Norway and Finland (25 August) and, finally, Sweden (27 August).28 The image of Finland in particular has altered considerably following the restoration of independence. The concept of Finlandization now began to be discussed in the Latvian press, with clear negative connotations. Much of what had been seen as positive in official policy during the Soviet years was now mechanically given a negative interpretation. Nevertheless, it was precisely at this time that Latvian accession to the Nordic bloc began to take on definite form, as one of the country’s strategic aims. Already at the very beginning of the 1990s newspapers gladly reported that the US Department of State was including the Baltic in its Nordic Department. At a press conference in autumn 1990, the Latvian foreign minister, Jānis Jurkāns, declared that ‘the road to Europe lies through the Scandinavian gate’. Economic co-operation was particularly emphasized, with Denmark identified as the most responsive partner. In this regard, the minister concluded that Copenhagen should become the central focus for Latvian co-operation with Scandinavia.29 In the political sphere, on the other hand, the situation was more complicated: apart from ‘heartfelt [moral] support’, no other form of help was to be hoped for from Scandinavia. Thus, although the Nordic states were working hard to increase their profile in the Baltic republics at the start of the 1990s, their activities created an ambiguous
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situation. On the one hand, the undeniable interest concerning the Baltic was met with enthusiasm in Latvia. On the other hand, the official view from Stockholm on political matters was in stark contrast to the aims of the independence activists. In the early 1990s this view was often reflected in the Latvian press. The head of Sweden’s Foreign Policy Institute, Bo Holdt, in a lengthy interview in August 1990, in which he spoke about Latvia’s prospects of obtaining full independence, emphasized that the security interests of the USSR had to be respected.30 In 1991 two articles appeared in the newspaper of the Latvian Popular Front, Atmoda, which together graphically demonstrated the Swedish and Finnish attitude. An article by Sydsvenska Dagbladet journalist Annik Tunborg entitled ‘Why are We Silent on the Baltic?’ was an extended criticism of the Social Democratic government, decrying the lack of support for Baltic political independence.31 The second article was by the professor of journalism at Tampere University, Aimo Ruusunen, who, under the title ‘Friend, Neighbour or Outsider?’ characterized the policy of Helsinki as unfavourable towards the Baltic, even though ‘the Finnish people itself is not as egotistical as the government’. Ruusunen also predicted that the old-fashioned and conservative policy of the Finnish government towards the Baltic was unlikely to change in the near future.32 These examples serve to characterize a period in which a reticent stance on the part of the Nordic countries seemingly ruled out any possible political rapprochement between the Baltic and Nordic countries. However, in ten years of independence, views on the Nordic countries have changed and become more pragmatic. Continued economic interest on the part of the Scandinavian countries has strengthened opinion regarding the advantages of co-operation. On 1 October 1999 six Nordic companies (Sonera, Varner Gruppen, ICA/Hakon Gruppen Linstow ASA, Den Norske Stats Oljeselkap, SEE and Neste Oy) were among the 12 largest investors in the country. Moreover, their total investments in Latvia were more than twice as large (US $489 million as against US $207.4 million) than those of the other six leading companies.33 In the late 1990s newspapers increasingly began to report other forms of economic involvement.34 There was no longer any surprise at Norwegian or Finnish economic activities, and in 2000 the activities of Icelandic businessmen in Latvia began increasingly to be reflected in the press. Since thousands of Latvians have now stayed for various lengths of time in the Nordic states, either studying, working or holidaying, these countries have become very familiar to people in Latvia. These facts, one could argue, merely serve to underline the convictions of the more active section of society regarding Latvia’s affiliation to the wider region. Although Latvian rhetoric has not especially emphasized the need for rapprochement with the Nordic countries, in practice this has occurred as a matter of course. As late as the mid-1990s the Nordic countries had an imprecise status within Latvian foreign policy, being conceived within the context of generalized cooperation between the Baltic Sea states.35 By the latter part of the decade, however, four cornerstones of Latvia’s foreign policy had crystallized within the
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rhetoric of the country’s foreign policy makers—integration into NATO and the EU, regional co-operation and good neighbourly relations with Russia. Whilst promotion of intra-Baltic states co-operation sometimes also appeared among these strategic aims, it was wider regional co-operation that assumed a more significant role as an independent element in official rhetoric. In this respect, the Nordic countries were perceived as the next circle of regional co-operation after the Baltic states. This co-operation was justified primarily on the basis of globalizing tendencies and the need to view Latvia’s development within the context of the region as a whole. Thus, to a degree, it may be argued that political rapprochement is not an invention or initiative on the part of Latvia or the Nordic countries, but is, rather, a product of global trends. Moreover, the official perspective in Riga holds that the Baltic and Nordic states are united by common views on the development of the region as an integral component of European and transatlantic process es. Here, the greatest attention has been given to bringing the level of social welfare closer to Nordic standards. With regard to transatlantic processes, the generally positive or at least neutrally positive attitude of the Nordic countries has been emphasized as a guarantee of security for the region. In particular, the foreign policy position of Finland following its accession to the European Union has been used as evidence that previously neutral states are now changing their stance on political security guarantees and welfare creation. Thus, in 1997 foreign minister Valdis Birkavs echoed the view of the Finnish president, Martti Ahtisaari, that ‘Finland’s accession to the European Union has cardinally altered the country’s foreign policy position and security situation. Now the geographical position of Finland, next to Russia, no longer affects the country’s foreign policy choice to the degree that it did only a few years ago.’36 Latvian rhetoric also recognizes that future cooperation might lead to the development of ‘a significant regional group within Europe’.37 Such statements suggest that Latvian actors still support the goal of further integration with the community of Nordic countries, regardless even of the latter’s sometimes sceptical position towards NATO or the EU. Finland’s Northern Dimension Initiative (NDI) of 1997 injected an interesting new aspect into discussions on regional co-operation. Whilst the NDI was perceived by Riga as offering a possible framework for closer economic, financial and trading links, it also raised suspicions that the interests of all the countries were not being observed on an equal basis. In a press interview foreign minister Birkavs emphasized the need to frame discussions of the NDI in such a way as to ensure that ‘new dividing lines would not emerge within the region, artificially disrupting historically developed paths’.38 In fact, there was no widescale discussion of the Northern Dimension in Latvia, and the initiative obtained no broader resonance. At most, it was regarded as an additional element in Riga’s rhetorical plans for co-operation with the Nordic countries. The authors of a conceptual framework for the country’s long-term development published in late 2000—a whole string of well-known figures in scientific and political circles (including figures in power)—emphasized that
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Latvia’s full integration into the community of Nordic countries (and into a democratic Europe) was to be considered a significant factor in Latvia’s system of international relations. Latvia, from the point of view of globalization and localization, forms part of the northeastern edge of the European economic area, which continues northwards from western Europe, connecting with Finland (Scandinavia). Thus, Latvia’s place in the world is determined by its membership of northern Europe, the authors underline.39 By northern Europe the authors evidently meant the Nordic countries, thus clearly marking out the direction for Latvian foreign policy. The document points out that, in effect, Latvia is already a northern European country, only it has not yet ‘completely integrated’ into the ‘community of northern European states’. This statement, it seems, refers primarily to possibilities for greater political co-operation. The promotion of cultural links, so popular in the 1920s and 1930s, is today regarded as selfevident, and no longer appears in comments by the makers of foreign policy. CONCLUSION For over a century now the rhetoric of Latvia’s Nordic ideologues has developed along two routes, with two imagined regional alliances that, in accordance with the rhetoric of the 1920s and 1930s, would be possible in the future. First, the spatial image of the Baltic was taken to include Finland, which in the 1920s and 1930s was considered as a Baltic state and was definitely separated from Scandinavia. Finland’s markedly positive image, in line with the spirit of the age, and the hope for development of close political co-operation were the foundations for this. It should be noted that Finland was the responsibility of the Baltic Department at the Latvian Foreign Ministry, and in many foreign policy news pages Finland was to be found in the Baltic states sections. The second direction included Scandinavia—Sweden and, to a lesser extent, Denmark and Norway. Although the rhetoric on the good old Age of the Swedes in the seventeenth century remained a viable connecting element, it was almost the only aspect on which Latvian foreign policy ideologies could make a case for a ‘historical’ connection with Scandinavia. However, it should be noted that the existence of Baltic-Finnish and Baltic-Scandinavian (Swedish) regional alliances were not in principle antithetical. Many authors considered that the involvement of Finland in particular would be the first step towards involving Scandinavia in regional co-operation. Since 1991 conditions have changed significantly. The Baltic-Finnish region has disappeared from Latvian rhetoric, and instead Baltic-Scandinavian regional co-operation has re-emerged, with Denmark, Norway and Iceland as equal partners. The rhetoric has also become significantly more pragmatic in essence, and is no longer based on cultural and historical considerations or abstract judgements regarding peoples. At the beginning of the twenty-first century economic interests are considered to be far more important factors. In the course of the twentieth century the social status of those generating ideas of
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rapprochement with the Nordic countries has changed. In the 1920s and 1930s it was mainly marginal figures within the state administration, non-conformists, intellectuals and envoys who talked of the Nordic countries and the Baltic as being close and possibly belonging to one region. Following the restoration of independence, however, key members of the ruling élite have increasingly become far more involved in publicizing such views. In essence, we may say that comparisons between the 1920s–1930s and the period of restored independence show changes in the lexicon and accents of rhetoric, rather than a change of substance. Scandinavia and Finland, as in earlier historical periods, have been depicted as desirable neighbours for Latvia. Yet it is only since the early 1990s that close contact with these countries has been considered as an opportunity to move closer to western Europe.40 In the early 1920s, by contrast, rapprochement with the traditional Nordic community was largely regarded as an end in itself. If the Nordic countries are today not regarded as Latvia’s most important partners, they—along with the two other Baltic states —are certainly seen as its ‘most natural’ ones. In Riga the Baltic region is usually considered as a kind of sub-region of the Nordic countries, comparable with the close Nordic community. Regionalization itself is perceived as a natural process of world development, independent of Latvia, which it is necessary to join in order to survive. Whereas pre-war regionalist aspirations were based more on cultural considerations, these appear to be of comparatively negligible importance nowadays, with the Nordic rhetoric no longer employing a historical justification for closeness. Rather, the issues of achieving guarantees for national security and economic welfare have come increasingly to the forefront since the start of the 1990s. As part of the policy of gaining integration into European and transatlantic organizations, the Nordic countries have been assigned the role of a connecting element to these broader structures. It is mainly from this perspective that they appear in the foreign policy rhetoric of politicians in Riga. NOTES 1. 2. 3. 4.
F.Zālītis, Latvijas vesture (Riga: Zvaigzne, 1991), p. 130. A.Švābe, Latvijas vesture. 1. daļa (Riga: Avots, 1990), pp. 170–92. U.Ģērmanis, Latviešu tautas piedzīvojumi (Riga: Jēņasēta, 1990), p. 147 L.Paegle, levads vesturē pamatskolâm (Riga: Valtera un Rapas a/s izdevums, 1924), p. 143; on the Swedish era see also A.Plakans, The Latvians. A Short History (Stanford: Stanford University/Hoover Institution Press, 1995), pp. 47–9. 5. Latvijas Valsts vestures arhīvs (LVVA; Latvian State Historical Archives), 2574. f, 3. apr., 762. 1., 39. lp. 6. Balss (newspaper), 28 April, 2 May, 5 May and 9 May 1879. 7. Consul K.levinš to minister Z.Meierovics, 3 January 1920. LVVA, 2574. f., 3. apr., 50. L, 48. lp.
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8. For more about discussions on the Baltic League more generally and in Latvia in particular, see M.Lehti, 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 (Frankfurt-am-Main: Peter Lang, 1999), pp. 137–49, 192–212. 9. Political survey on Sweden by envoy K.Zariņš, 31 January 1930. LVVA, 2574. f., 3. apr., 762. L, 15. lp. 10. Envoy K.Zarrņš to minister F.Cielēns, 7 January 1927; ibid., 592. 1., 44. lp. 11. Envoy K.Zarrņš to minister F.Cielēns, 8 April 1927; ibid., 286. lp. 12. Political survey on Sweden by envoy K.Zariņš, 28 September 1929; ibid., 705. L, 131., 132. lp. 13. Jaunākās Ziņas, 4 August 1928. 14. Envoy J.Tepfers to head of the Political Dept. of the Foreign Ministry, A. Stegmanis, 3 January 1939. LVVA, 2574. f., 3. apr., 2323. 1., 2.–4. lp.; envoy V. Salnais to minister V.Munters, 20 August 1938; ibid., 2320. 1., 21.–43. lp.; Verhandlungsreferat des VII. Nordischen Pressekongresses in Helsinki 10.–20. 1939; ibid., 2598. 1., 1.–3. lp. 15. Head of the Baltic Dept. of the Foreign Ministry, V.Māsēns, to Acting Minister A.Bērzinš, 9 September 1938; ibid., 2321. 1., 8. lp. 16. Envoy E.Krievinš to the Baltic Dept. of the Foreign Ministry, 30 July 1938; ibid., 2330. 1., 8.-12. lp. 17. Latvian Consulate in Norway to the Foreign Ministry, 26 September, 6 October 1928; ibid., 1632. f, 2. apr., 1. 1069, 33–4, 55. lp. 18. E.Andersons, ‘Dr Milķelis Valters (1874–1968)’, Jaunā Gaita, 69 (1968), pp. 3–9. 19. Regarding Valters’ views and writings on the subject of Finnish parliamentary democracy, see S.Boge, ‘Parlamentārās valsts iekartas jautajumi MiĶeļa Valtera “Vēstulēs par Somijas kultūru” (1914)’ in Latvijas Vēsture Institūta Žurnāls, 2 (1999), pp. 58–72. 20. See Lehti, Baltic League, pp. 260–96. 21. Survey of the Director of the Political Dept., V.Šūmanis, 11 May 1921. LVVA, 2574. f., 1. apr., 22. 1., 17. lp. 22. Survey of the Director of the Political Dept., V.Šūmanis, 30 August 1921; ibid., 63. lp. 23. V.Ščerbinskis, ‘Image of Finland in the Latvian Periodicals. 1919–1929’, Faravid (1998/1999), pp. 343–59. The number of articles reached 118 in 1921, in accordance with figures for the Latvian press, and in the following eight years it varied between 30 and 60 articles per year. See also E.Andersons, ‘Finnish-Baltic Relations, 1918–1940’, Scandinavian Studies, 1 (1981), pp. 51–72. 24. Jaunākās Ziņas, 20 October 1934. 25. Ibid. 26. For an analysis of the Latvian press during the Winter War, see V.Ščerbinskis, ‘Ziemas karš un Latvija: 1939–1940’, Latvijas Arhivi, 1 (1999), pp. 114–18. 27. One significant factor in this regard was Sweden’s decision to extradite to the USSR those Latvian refugees who had served in the German armed forces. 28. Dokumentipar Latvijas valsts starptautisko atzsanu, neatkarī bas atjaunošanu un diplomātiskiem sakariem. 1918–1998 (Riga: Nordik, 1999), pp. 222, 225, 230–1, 247. 29. Neatkarīgā Gīna, 12 September 1990. 30. Latvijas Jaunatne, 4 August 1990.
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31. Atmoda, 11 April 1991. An unusual and vivid impression of Stockholm’s policy was given in the Riga press by Vice-Consul M.Engelbuktson’s declaration that Sweden would as a ‘benign neighbour’ accept people from the Baltic into the country, should a ‘really critical situation’ arise. See Latvijas Jaunatne, 18–20 February 1991. 32. Ibid. 33. R.Zīle, I. Šteinbuka, R.Počs et al, Latvia Entering the Twenty-First Century (Riga: Nacionalais Medicīnas Apgāds, 2000), p. 94. 34. For example, see the article on the stockmarket in Diena, 28 November 2000. 35. See V.Birkavs, ‘Latvijas ārpolitika: jauna situācija, jauni izaicinajumi, jaunas problāmas’, Latvijas Vēsture, 5 (1996), pp. 37–49, where he emphasizes four main directions of foreign policy: European economic integration, European political integration, co-operation within the Baltic Sea Region, and relations with Russia. 36. V.Birkavs, ‘Latvija—Baltijas regiona valsts mainīgā Eiropā’, Latvijas Vēsture, 1 (1997), pp. 40–8. See, also Latvijas Vestnesis 5 November 1997. On economic cooperation see ‘The Road to the European Union Around the Baltic Sea’, Latvia — Baltic State, 1 (1998). 37. Latvijas Vēstnesis, 26 February 1999. 38. Neatkarī gē Rī ta Avīze, 4 June 1999. 39. ‘Latvija: no vlzijas uz darbību. Valsts ilgtspejfgas attīstības koncepcija’, Diena, 14 December 2000. 40. On Baltic perceptions of the Baltic Sea region as some kind of ‘waiting room’ for the EU and NATO, see also O.Wæever, The Baltic Sea: A Region after PostModernity?’, in P.Joenniemi (ed.), Neo-Nationalism or Regionalism. The Restructuring of Political Space Around the Baltic Rim (Stockholm: NordREFO, 1997), p. 312.
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7 Regional Security: All or Nothing at All? JOHN HIDEN
Although questions of Baltic security go far beyond Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania, the restored independence of these ‘small’ countries still lies at the heart of all meaningful discussions of the region since the fall of the Soviet Union. This reality is not always palatable in the capitals of the larger European players; that it cannot be ignored is evident from the now tired mantra about the safety of the Baltic republics being the litmus test for the ‘New Europe’. Accordingly, the three Baltic states are central to what follows Baltic leaders are all too well aware from their countries’ history between the two World Wars of the price exacted for not fully coordinating their resources and security. In the cautionary words of Estonian president Lennart Meri in 1995, the restored Baltic states urgently needed to co-operate to avoid the risk of repeating the mistakes of history. Not long afterwards a similar sentiment was echoed by the then president of the European Parliament, Klaus Hensch, who also added that closer co-operation between Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania would speed up their reintegration into Europe.1 It can be argued, however, that the scepticism behind such strictures takes its cue partly from the negative balance drawn in virtually all studies of the Baltic alliance schemes planned and attempted during the 1920s and 1930s. The notion of folie à trois is now firmly enshrined in the collective historical memory of Baltic regional bloc-building between the two World Wars.2 It still casts a faintly gloomy pall over the popular reception of today’s Baltic Council of three foreign ministers and the Baltic Assembly, made up of parliamentarians from each of the three states. How to dispel this? The answer first needs to take in a wider perspective. From that it can readily be seen that the record of Baltic disunity has been exaggerated by insufficiently stressing Europe’s shortcomings. Thus, what turned out to be a disappointingly minimalist Estonian-Latvian defence agreement of 1923 or, to take another obvious example, the much maligned Baltic Entente of 1934, could only be as effective as the European context allowed, just as that hugely changed environment now facilitates more ambitious plans for co-operation in the region.3 Among these must be numbered Baltbat and Baltron.4 Conversely, the displacement of the ‘hard’ inter-war security threat by the ‘softer’ one of economic, social, minority and welfare challenges of the post-
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Cold War world, prompts the thought that the historical experience of the Baltic states in working together on such issues as customs duties, transport and rail links, even intellectual property rights, is of potential interest to current policy makers. For example, does the history of the ‘Baltic clause’ of the 1920s, which restricted the scope of trade treaties with foreign states to allow the development of a special trade relationship between Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania, not raise questions as to whether comparable modifications will be required of the 1993 Baltic Free Trade Agreement when one or more of the Baltic countries joins the European Union?5 The general point here is that the three Baltic states are not so much repeating the ‘mistakes of history’ as resuming a process that was rudely interrupted by the Second World War and the ensuing Soviet occupation. Odd indeed if no dispute arose, be it over sea borders or the location of oil terminals. Moreover, these local difficulties pale in comparison with the EU’s own indecisiveness since 1990 about when and how best to involve the Baltic states in the larger European project. In fluctuating between whether the Baltics should ‘join’ Europe singly or en bloc, European Union decision makers have themselves contributed to the cracks in the unity of the three states in the decade following the restoration of Baltic independence.6 While politicians in Tallinn, Riga and Vilnius know full well that security begins at home, the experience of the inter-war years and the ten years since the restoration of independence confirms that it cannot end there, no matter how close the co-operation between the three countries becomes. Are matters improved by setting Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania in a wider regional security framework? From the earliest moves towards independence in 1917–18 the Baltic countries were conceived in security terms as part of a larger bloc. The impending collapse of the Russian Empire towards the end of the First World War itself provided the major impulse to find new groupings for the states emerging from the ruins of tsardom. Thus Germany, in playing the nationalities card to undermine Russia, sponsored from 1916 the Liga der Fremdvölker Russlands. Including within it prominent Baltic figures, the Liga aimed to group the nationalities on Russia’s western border under German tutelage. Many contemporaries regarded such a Mitteleuropa as indispensable to the viability of the emergent nations.7 Not surprisingly, the aspirant Baltic states came to reject dependence on any large power, particularly a Bolshevik-controlled Russia. Fear of the latter above all provided the impulse for new Baltic regional groupings after the fall of Germany in 1918.8 In the event the hopes of the Baltic countries for a neutral bloc proved difficult to reconcile with the conflict of interests between one likely member of such a bloc, Poland, and the two major powers, Germany and Russia. That fact made it all the more pressing for the three Baltic states to forge a closer relationship with Finland and Sweden.9 The historical record of these two states towards Baltic security is, however, sadly lacking in foresight, apart from a brief
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flurry of common sense shown by the Finnish foreign minister and Progressive Party leader Rudolf Holsti. Holsti’s efforts helped in no small way to bring about the signature of an accord for mutual defence in Warsaw in March 1922 between Finland, Poland, Estonia and Latvia. On the subject of the coming Warsaw conference, Holsti told British officials that it was indispensable that, before sending their representatives to attend the Genoa conference, the governments of Poland, Finland and the Baltic states should have co-ordinated their policy and arrived at a general understanding, in order to be certain of their position and be able to explain it when the Russian representatives put forward what was expected to be a political offensive against these countries.10 Finland’s subsequent failure to ratify the accord and its consequent lapse confirmed, however, that Holsti was not in tune with the majority of Finnish opinion.11 Here was a lost opportunity, for, as Finnish historians have long been aware, there existed the potential for Finland and Estonia to act together to close the narrow sea passage between them, thus impeding the Red Fleet’s access to the Gulf of Finland.12 At the same time, from our longer perspective the Warsaw Accord is a landmark in the evolution of regional security schemes. Holsti’s thinking foreshadows the neo-realism of today’s Finnish policy makers. To be fair, the failure of most of Holsti’s contemporaries to risk supporting the Baltic countries was in keeping with wider European opinion during the 1920s. Few informed observers felt that the Baltic countries would long remain independent of Russia. Thus Edmund Ovey, an official of the Northern Department of the British Foreign Office, regretted that ‘Finland is giving ear to the dangerous voices tempting her to throw in her lot with the Baltic states… I feel most strongly that such a course would have lamentable results both for Finland and the peace of Europe.’ Of the Warsaw Accord he commented dismissively: ‘There is no known reason why Finland should join embraces with a drowning man or men. The interest of the drowning men is naturally different.’13 That today’s Finnish leaders are hardly under such intense pressure is all too evident from the Helsinki government’s initiative on the so-called ‘Northern Dimension’ of the European Union. Arguably still more damaging to earlier regional security schemes was Sweden’s coolness. Again, as in Finland’s case, one isolated voice of sanity was raised. The Swedish leader Hjalmar Branting tried hard to persuade the Riksdag during debates on the League of Nations that Sweden had to try to ‘embrace a foreign policy other than the old neutrality—not least because new conditions have arisen…nations are banding together and forming a new basis for the preservation of peace.’14 Ultimately traditional policy prevailed, causing the Swedish foreign minister, Östen Unden, to comment in 1935 that ‘the apostles of neutrality will never be numbered among the liberators of mankind.’15
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However, during the first half of the 1920s some contemporaries detected a revival of Sweden’s past expansionist and restorative policies, evident for example in the abortive effort to keep the Åland Islands. Sir Mansfeldt Findlay, head of the British Legation at Oslo, had no doubt that Sweden’s call for the Baltic Sea as a mare clausum was also a barely disguised bid for hegemony. He felt that given the weaknesses of both the German and Soviet navies during the 1920s, any success in keeping non-riparian shipping from the Baltic promised to make Sweden a dominant power. When Findlay’s remark was met with the comment ‘but then history never repeats itself, he confessed that such reactions ‘caused me the most profound astonishmen’.16 Is history then repeating itself and can we, as some young Baltic scholars have argued, detect a revival of the Swedish imperium behind its hyperactive Baltic diplomacy today and its sponsorship of regional initiatives like the Visby summit in the spring of 1996? There is little doubt that Swedish influence in Baltic affairs is now greater in relative terms than it was between the two World Wars. During those years Sweden was constrained in part by strong British and German economic presence. At this time also Britain and Germany dominated Baltic trade and economic life.17 Today, however, the British are less omnipresent while Germany, like Sherlock Holmes’ celebrated dog in the night, is not really barking in the Baltic. It is supportive of the Baltic countries, assisting ‘the development of market economies and functioning legal and administrative systems’ and helping them towards European integration, but Berlin is primarily concerned with its relationship with Moscow.18 For all this, the setting up of the Council of Baltic Sea States (CBSS) marks a phase in the development of regional security that would have been wholly inconceivable between the World Wars. Thus Russia, Germany and Poland, whose inter-war conflicts did so much to disrupt stability in the Baltic Sea Area (BSA), are now members of the same organization as Finland, Sweden, Denmark, Norway, Lithuania, Latvia and Estonia. At last the three Baltic countries are part of a larger bloc. Even if the CBSS remains far from perfect, it promises to be an important vehicle in tackling regional environmental, economic and welfare issues. Indeed, the CBSS agenda is yet one more indicator of where arguably the real ‘security’ issues now lie and material put out by the Swedish Foreign Ministry for the Visby conference stressed the importance of the 50 million inhabitants of the Baltic region as a possible bridge between the 350 million souls of the European Union and the 250 million people in Eastern Europe.19 Whilst the CBSS provides another forum for the Baltic-Russian dialogue, it can never be the motor for ‘hard’ security in the region; it cannot substitute for Europe-wide systems of security, in spite of the wishful thinking of some west European political leaders. Just as history shows the limits to what can be achieved in terms of co-operation between the three Baltic states without support from the region, so it shows too the interdependence of the region and Europe. An insecure state is an insecure region is an insecure Europe. The Baltic
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countries, through their own struggles for independence and the restoration of independence, have earned their place among the builders of the new security architecture. The historical record reveals beyond doubt the folly of not recognizing this fundamental right of the ‘small states’. Western reluctance to bring the Baltic countries into the inter-war security systems reflected a stubborn belief that the ‘Baltic problem’ was part of the ‘Russian problem’. There were doubts about the viability of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania even in 1921, when they were recognized. John Duncan Gregory, of the Northern Department of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, said in his ‘Record of Interview with three leading Lithuanians’ that in our view the great plain Europe covered by Russia and the states that had seceded from her was clearly a single economic unit and must ultimately be recognized and treated as such. Russia, Poland and the Baltic states would be compelled by necessity to regulate their life on this principle, and eventually build themselves into a single economic organism.20 In parenthesis, there was a very different analysis by a leading Baltic German politician and newspaper editor, Paul Schiemann who commented that it was better for the very existence of the Russian people that the old state fall into different parts. Arguing that Russia could only build a future through working within and not through restoring old borders, he specifically attacked Europe’s widespread assumption that Russia would have to recover its Baltic shores. If we wish to remain trapped in this thinking then we would have to return to the origins and to the ideas which made the catastrophe of world war unavoidable and which would necessarily bring similar misfortune in the future.21 Sadly, Gregory’s view was more typical of attitudes in Europe. It required much work during the 1920s and 1930s for the Baltic countries to confound such thinking. They did so, even to the general satisfaction of observers in the Bank of England, by building private enterprise economies that were recognized as being on a par with parts of Scandinavia by 1939.22 The Baltic economies were then destroyed by the Soviet invasion during the Second World War. In spite of this impressive historical record in 1990 the Soviet blockade of Lithuania was once more met with gloomy predictions of economic ruin for the Baltic states should they try to make it alone.23 The remarkable progress of all three Baltic countries towards meeting the conditions for entry into the European Union and the shift in their trade patterns towards Europe exposes once more the wrongness of seeing their economic existence as dependent on Russia. This is not to say that they would not also benefit from more economic intercourse with Russia, should the opportunities arise. That the Baltic countries no longer have to
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convince Europe about their viability as states is, however, a vindication of their earlier history if ever there was one. It is all the more ironic that this fundamental reality has not significantly speeded up the inclusion of the Baltic countries into NATO. History once more provides points of comparison. Students of the ‘to be or not to be’ NATO members debate will find the discussion in 1920–21 of whether or not the Baltic countries should be allowed to join the League of Nations instructive. To take but one example, that of the then Estonian prime minister, Ants Piip, who in December 1920 asked for British support for his country’s application for League entry. His justification was the need to deter Soviet attacks against Estonia’s independence and to encourage the Estonian people. ‘On the whole’, a Foreign and Commonwealth Office official noted, ‘Prof. Piip’s arguments for admission to the League are not very convincing.’24 The Foreign and Commonwealth Office response was in fact diplomatic speak for unwelcome arguments, in that Europe as a whole feared becoming involved in any future Russian-Baltic conflict if the Baltic states became League members. That they were admitted at the end of 1921 is partly explained by the fact that the nature of the League’s commitment to the security of its members was in fact ambiguous. In that sense at least the League of Nations has more points of comparison with the European Union than with NATO. However, the nearest equivalent to any ‘hard’ security arrangements in the 1920s—the Locarno treaties —never in fact directly included the Baltic countries. This particular item of security ‘architecture’ was negotiated primarily between Britain, France and Germany in 1925 and not only was it never extended to the Baltic countries but it also failed to increase the security of the central European states, who were associated with the arrangements, Poland and Czechoslovakia. Moreover, the USSR was not party to Locarno but perceived it, with some justice, as being directed against Soviet interests. To put this another way, European security policy after the First World War was creating what would today be referred to as a ‘grey area’ between Russia and the West.25 At the same time as they were being kept outside Europe’s hard security system, the Baltic states nevertheless became integral parts of the west European trade bloc. In finding their niche in world markets they also necessarily opened wider the gap between themselves and a Soviet Russia bent on limiting discourse with the West in the name of ‘Socialism in one country’. Cynically, too, given western reservations about protecting the Baltic states, these countries were intermittently regarded as useful barriers against the spread of communist ideology, if ultimately forced into making unwanted security arrangements with the Soviet Union during the 1930s.26 The question arises as to whether or not we have witnessed some rather interesting general parallels with the 1920s in the contemporary processes of EU and NATO enlargement. Until around the middle of 1995 there was considerable encouragement from the West for the Baltic countries to speed up preparations to join both organizations. The ensuing six years, however, were marked by a
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display of schizophrenia on Baltic issues reminiscent in many respects of the inter-war period. Thus official optimism was almost entirely devoted to making the right noises about European Union entry; it would have been difficult for the EU not to do this, given the progress in privatization and democratization in the three Baltic states. Exactly when the Baltic states would be full members of the European Union, however, remained unclear right up until 2002. The suggestion that it would be when they are ‘ready’ was not as helpful as it might have been given the elasticity of this term’s application. Everything ultimately rested upon when the EU said the Baltic states were ready and that decision, careful appearances notwithstanding, has not been a purely economic one. What is more, an increasingly explicit distinction was drawn between Europe’s economic and security systems. We have by now all become depressingly familiar with the mantra that EU and NATO enlargement are quite distinct issues. Like many prayers, it reflects wishful thinking, in this instance perhaps mainly of west European political leaders and other Eurocrats. It is emphatically not a distinction that the Baltic countries have welcomed, even if they have been increasingly forced to pay lip service to it. The West’s determination to separate EU enlargement from that of NATO and the Baltic states’ preference for joining both were motivated by a common cause: concern with Russia and how it might react. Difficult as it often is to interpret Russia’s actions, its insistent portrayal of NATO enlargement in the Baltic as hostile to Russia’s ‘interests’ became a given in security discussions during the 1990s. Moscow’s opposition has been singularly successful in slowing down the cause of NATO enlargement to the Baltics, although western governments have liked to point out that by contrast Russia is not against EU enlargement. Indeed, after the carrot of earlier Baltic entry to the EU was dangled before the three countries, the emphasis in Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania on meeting the demands of the acquis inevitably diverted some attention from the issue of NATO membership. Yet the Baltic countries still found themselves under pressure to increase the percentage of GDP on defence spending to the level of 2.5 per cent in preparation for the fine day when they would be able to pass through NATO’s famous door. The essentially political nature of this delaying process is now transparent. As well as pandering to the concerns of Russia in the BSA, the fitful nature of policy on enlargement also reflects an identity crisis in the EU and in NATO. And it is by no means all observers who are convinced that a Russia still desperately in need of reform can be as untroubled as the pundits say it is by the prospect of a more rapid integration of the three Baltic countries into the EU. The Russian foreign ministry as recently as November 2000 pointedly referred to Latvia’s EU aspirations while making ill-founded attacks on the Latvian president for allegedly justifying the behaviour of former Latvian SS-members.27 Russia’s punitive trade measures against the Baltics add to such doubts. And
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what of the security issues arising when full Baltic re-entry into Europe makes the borders of the Baltic countries those of the EU? The prime minister of Hungary recently charged westerners with not always understanding his people’s ‘profound longing for Europe’ and continued: ‘Europe is like that grandfather’s watch that was taken away by a Russian soldier.’ All too obviously, Viktor Orban’s words apply equally to the Baltic countries. Estonians, Latvians and Lithuanians would emphatically endorse his verdict: The Europe of today is truncated and it shall remain so until it incorporates those countries which traditionally belonged to it.’28 It should also be just as obvious by now that, as in the inter-war period, when it comes to the security of the Baltic countries it remains very much a matter of all or nothing at all. A Baltic entry into the EU without full admission to the main security system in Europe would offer no solution, only a postponement. Thankfully, since this was written, 11 September has convinced the rest of Europe of this fundamental truth. NOTES 1. Baltic Times, 18–24 April 1996. 2. An exception is provided by M.Lehti’s 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 (Frankfurt-am-Main: Peter Lang, 1999); cf. J.Hiden, ‘Baltic Security Problems Between the Two World Wars’, in J.Hiden and T.Lane (eds), The Baltic and the Outbreak of the Second World War (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), pp. 1–20. 3. Cf. the optimism of the Latvian foreign ministry of the early 1920s about the prospects for Baltic co-operation, ‘La Lettonie en 1921’, Ministere des AffairesEtrangeres; on the relevance of Baltic solidarity, P.Schiemann, ‘Eine Schicksalswoche’, Rigasche Rundschau, 15 May 1926. Both in H.Donath (ed.), Paul Schiemann. Leitartikel, Reden und Aufsätze, vol. 2, 1919–1933, part 10, November 1925–September 1926 (Frankfurt-am-Main: H.Donath, 1989). 4. See the communication signed by Baltic defence ministers on 2 April 1997 on mutual co-operation and plans to improve inter-operability. Baltic Times, 10–16 April 1997. Cf. H.Rebas, ‘Barriers to Baltic Co-operation—Opportunities for Surmounting Them’, in T.Jundzis (ed.), The Baltic States at Historical Crossroads (Riga: Latvian Academy of Sciences, 1998), pp. 331ff. 5. Cf. R.Brenneisen, Aussenhandel und Aussenhandelspolitik der baltischen Staaten mit besonderer Berücksichtigung der Beziehungen zu Deutschland’, Weltwirtschaftliches Archiv, 30 (1929), pp. 366–87; J.Hiden, The Baltic States and Weimar Ostpolitik (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987), p. 189; ‘Baltic Economic Life Between the Wars. Lessons for Today’, Estonian Independent, 21 February 1991. 6. Cf. the strictures made in 1991 by K.Featherstone and J.Hiden, East Meets West. Policies for a Common European Home (London: Fabian Society, 1991) in the chapter entitled ‘The EC Agenda and Eastern Europe’.
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7. See S.Zetterberg, Die Liga der Fremdvölker Russlands 1916–1918. Ein Beitrag zu Deutschlands Antirussischen Propagandakrieg unter den Fremdvölkern Russlands im Ersten Weltkrieg (Helsinki: Finnish Historical Society, 1978); B.Mann, Die baltischen Länder in der deutschen Kriegszielpublizistik 1914–1918 (Tübingen: J.C.B. Mohr, 1965), pp. 68–70. 8. Cf. remarks by K.Pusta, ‘Die Baltenstaaten im europäischen Staatenbund’, Baltisches Handbuch (Danzig, 1930), p. 102; V.Sidzikauskas, ‘Our Tradition of Cooperation’, Baltic Review, 1 (1953), pp. 35ff. 9. See K.Hovi, Interessensphären im Baltikum. Finnland im Rahmen der Ostpolitik Polens 1919–1922 (Helsinki: Finnish Historical Society, 1984). 10. Foreign and Commonwealth Office (hereafter FO), Rennie report of 30 January 1922. FO 371/8104 N1675/82/63. 11. Cf. Ovey’s memo of a talk with Holsti, ‘Finland and its Future Foreign Policy’, 23 August 1921. FO 371/6776; Hiden, Baltic States and Weimar Ostpolitik, pp. 107, 122. 12. M.Turtola, ‘Aspects of Finnish-Estonian Military Relations in the 1920s and 1930s’, in J.Hiden and A.Loit (eds), The Baltic in International Relations Between the Two World Wars (Stockholm: University of Stockholm Press, 1988), pp. l0lff. 13. See Ovey’s minute of 26 January 1922. FO 271/8104 N762/82/63. 14. Quoted in T.Norman, ‘A Foreign Policy Other than the old neutrality. Aspects of Swedish Foreign Policy After the First World War’, in Hiden and Loit, Baltic in International Relations, p. 236. 15. Ibid., p. 249. 16. Findlay report of 12 October 1921. FO 370/6781 N11636/11096/63 17. Cf. H.G.Schröter, Aussenpolitik und Wirtschaftsinteresse. Skandinavien im aussenwirtschafltichen Kalkül Deutschlands und Grossbritaniens 1918–1939 (Frankfurt-amMain: Peter Lang, 1983). 18. Cf. the remarks by A.Krohn, ‘Germany’, in A.Krohn (ed.), The Baltic Sea Region. National and International Security Perspectives (Baden-Baden: Nomos, 1996), pp. 100ff. 19. So far there have been three summits of the CBSS, at Visby in 1996, Riga in 1998 and Kolding in Denmark in 2000. 20. Memo of 9 April 1920, in Rohan Butler, J.P.Bury and M.E.Lambert (eds), Documents on British Foreign Policy, 1919–39, series 1, vol. 11, Upper Silesia, Poland and the Baltic States, January 1920-March 1921 (London: HMSO, 1961), pp. 352–5. 21. P.Schiemann, ‘Russland und Wir’, Rigasche Rundschau, 14 September 1920, in Donath, Paul Schiemann, vol. 2, part 2. 22. See the material in J.Hiden, ‘On Banks and Economic Trends in Latvia 1918– 1940’, in P.Falk and O.Krantz (eds), Transformation and Integration in the Baltic Sea Area (Umeå, 2000), pp. 148–9. 23. See J.Hiden, ‘The Baltic Republics. The Long View’, Arguments and Facts International, 1, 4 (1990), pp. 2–3. 24. FO note on report from Lonergan (Tallinn) of 4 December 1920, detailing a conversation with Piip on the previous day. FO 371/5374 N4253/6/59. 25. For a valuable survey, see R.Schattkowsky (ed.), Locarno und Osteuropa. Fragen eines europaischen Sicherheittsystems in den 20er Jahren (Marburg: Hitzeroth, 1994).
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26. The limits to which the Baltic states could function as a barrier are clearly exposed in Adolf Koester’s report of 21 February 1924 on the recent meeting of Baltic and Polish foreign ministers in Warsaw. In ‘Auswartiges Amt Akten betr Probleme’ (Randstaatenbund einschliesslich Finnland und Polen), vol. 2, Foreign Office microfilm K243/K071524–7. 27. See the report in the Baltic Times, 2–8 November 2000. 28. Speech reported in the Independent, 8 December 2000.
8 Estonia and Europe: A Common Identity or an Identity Crisis? VAHUR MADE
For Estonians, the notion of belonging to Europe has always posed a dilemma. Estonia can be incorporated into the grand scheme of Europe by telling the story of historical connections across the Baltic Sea, such as Viking treks, Christianization through German conquest in the thirteenth century or the Hansa trade which involved four Estonian towns—Tallinn, Tartu, Pärnu and Viljandi. Today, Estonian political leaders frequently invoke these historical traditions in order to justify current moves towards integration with European co-operative structures such as the EU or NATO. However, any approach that treats belonging to Europe as axiomatic necessarily avoids more awkward questions as to the connection between Estonian and European identity. While some maintain that this link is already firmly established in the minds of Estonians, others insist that Estonia’s ‘European identity’ remains a vague construction still very much in the process of formation. By examining the historical evolution of narratives on Estonian nationhood, this chapter will examine how ‘Europe’ and Estonia’s immediate neighbours have figured in the discursive construction of national identity. It will also argue that contemporary processes of European integration and globalization have posed a serious challenge to more traditional narratives and their constituent elements, giving rise to a full-scale identity crisis.1 A likely outcome of this crisis, I suggest, will be a shift away from modernist, ethnocentric discourses towards more ‘postnational’ narratives open to different cultural influences and focused on active participation in international decision-making. National narratives—‘the story of our nation’—are integral to the contingent and shifting construct known as national identity. As other chapters in this book make clear, national identity is grounded in collective interpretations of historical, political, cultural and economic reality, and is forged in the interplay between the ‘self and the ‘other’.2 The search for suitable narratives connecting Estonia to Europe has been one of the key issues of Estonian identity-building during the twentieth century, especially during the 1990s, when attempts have been made to distance Estonia from its Soviet past and draw boundaries against Russian influence. At the same time, ‘Europe’ itself remains a moving target: its political boundaries are still indeterminate, and its cultural identity is constantly reshaped in the interaction between different national and regional identities.3
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As Ole Wæever has argued, the image of Europe articulated in a particular country has to be compatible with the pre-existing collective identity of the nation-state.4 In the case of Estonia, the task has been one of balancing the heritage of different historical periods and experiences of foreign domination in order to come up with a workable solution satisfying both ‘national’ demands and the requirements of international communication. In this regard, my analysis of national narratives will focus upon the role of the four external cultural influences—German-Lutheran, Nordic (Finnish-Scandinavian), Russian and Baltic—which have done most to shape the development of Estonian identity. A BALTIC EUROPE IN ESTONIAN IDENTITY One reason for the Estonians’ difficulty in defining Europe may be a relative absence of positive narratives concerning the Baltic Sea. Although Estonia is a Baltic country with a long coastline, the sea did not really figure in discourses on national identity until the inter-war period and still remains something of a stranger to this day. This is despite the best efforts of key actors such as President Lennart Meri, who has emphasized the essential role of the Baltic Sea as a bridge between Estonia and Europe. Rather than looking West, traditional understandings have connected the Estonians’ ancestry to the East European mainland. In this regard, different generations of Estonians have learned from history books that their forefathers migrated to the present-day territory of Estonia either from the south-east or directly from the East.5 By this reading, the Baltic Sea constitutes a limit, a border to a wandering forest or steppe people. Still, the Estonians do have their own narratives of the past, which give a special meaning to all their Baltic neighbours. The German Dimension In the years before 1940, the period of German dominance starting in the thirteenth century was usually depicted as 700 years of slavery. In this regard, the GermanHanseatic trade around the Baltic Sea found no place in the national narrative. All the links that historians David Kirby and Matti Klinge today describe as building bricks of the Baltic World constituted the elements and systems of other nations as far as Estonian historical writing was concerned. The Hanseatic legacy was certainly not considered as a source of political co-operation or vivid cultural exchange between Estonians and their neighbours. Already during the nineteenth century, however, some attempts were made to create the picture of an ancient Estonian society searching for contacts with Europe through western communication. In his celebrated ‘First Fatherland speech’ of 1868, Carl Robert Jakobson—one of the leaders of the Estonian national movement—made reference to ancient Estonian-European contacts having been cut off by the German conquest.6 In the course of the late nineteenth and twentieth centuries, the story of the struggle against the German invasion of
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1208–27 received special national recognition. These ancient battles were regarded as a ‘war of liberation’ against foreign domination. Estonians were also presented as independent political actors in the Baltic Sea region, with vivid relations to Scandinavia, Finland and Novgorod. The message was clear: German conquest interrupted the existence of an independent nation and blocked free communication between the Estonians and the rest of Europe for centuries. The German nobility maintained its ruling position in local society until 1918, exercising economic and political decision-making powers even under the rule of the Swedish and Russian Empires. During the First World War many Baltic Germans closely associated themselves with the expansionist goals of the German Empire, advocating the complete subjugation of the Estonians, Latvians and Lithuanians to Germany during 1918. The conflict reached its climax in 1919, when the Estonian Army clashed with a joint force of Baltic Germans and German Freikorps in northern Latvia. In the same year Estonia carried out a radical land reform that deprived former German landowners of their estates. This development was hailed as the end of the 700-year slavery.7 During the inter-war period, and especially in the 1930s, Estonia underwent a quite notable cultural transformation. Hitherto dominant German and Russian cultural influences strongly diminished, and the Estonian intelligentsia orientated itself instead towards the Nordic countries and the rest of western Europe. These moves were supported by state cultural policies. By the 1930s, for instance, the majority of literary translations were already being made from English, French or the Nordic languages. When the bulk of the Baltic German population departed for the Reich following the conclusion of the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact in 1939, many Estonians greeted this event as marking the final end of German political dominance. In the course of 1940–41, however, the Soviet occupation and the first mass repressions carried out by the Red Army and the NKVD did much to erase the formerly prevalent anti-Germanism. In its place came overwhelming popular opposition to Soviet Russian dominance. In today’s Estonia attitudes towards the German past have changed and the centuries of German domination are most commonly depicted as a cultural link to Europe. For instance, although there is widespread historic evidence of religious influence from Russia during the period from the eighth to the twelfth centuries, contemporary discourses on national identity emphasize that Christian religion was only permanently established in the territory of Estonia and Latvia following the German (and Danish) invasion of the early thirteenth century. According to a recent work by Rein Ruutsoo, the spread of western culture in Estonia was an urban phenomenon that slowly developed during seven centuries.8 The towns established by German and Danish burghers constituted a new element in the local cultural landscape. The majority of city dwellers did not speak the Estonian language and had only casual contacts with the still largely rural indigenous population. By dint of their special legal autonomy from the landlords and their active participation in Hansa trade, Tallinn and other urban
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centres brought in central and West European—mainly German—cultural influences. These influences gradually diffused from the towns to the (also mainly German) rural nobility, before finally filtering down to the ‘Estonian’ peasantry. In the late nineteenth century and during the inter-war years Estonians saw these ancient Hanseatic towns merely as relics of foreign dominance.9 Today, however, this past is viewed with a certain pride and the Hanseatic days are celebrated in Tallinn. Similarly, most authors today would agree that the Baltic German heritage served as a clear example to the emerging Estonian public sector from the late nineteenth century onwards. The apparatus of the Estonian Republic bore a strong German imprint between the wars, and this is again apparent in the state restored after 1991. In this regard, one should particularly emphasize the significance of the German legal tradition to the creation of the Estonian national legal system. In the period since the Second World War, however, German influence has tended to lose its independent meaning for Estonian identity and has become subsumed within a wider western sphere. The Nordic (Finnish-Scandinavian) Dimension The idea of connecting Estonia to the Nordic cultural area has been attractive to Estonian intellectual circles since the beginning of the twentieth century, when Nordicism was presented as an alternative to the then dominant Germanism (see also the Latvian situation in chapter six). In this connection, Finland has assumed a particular role. As well as conceptualizing Finland as a link to Scandinavia, Estonians have emphasized the high degree of ethno-linguistic similarity, a kinship brotherhood, between themselves and their neighbours. This feature has created a basis for expanding cultural and political co-operation between the two countries during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries (see also chapter one). In addition, one can argue that the agrarian nature of both Estonian and Finnish society has resulted in similar attitudes to world political affairs. A lack of requisite human and material resources has prevented both nations from pursuing ambitious and belligerent regional policies.10 Moreover, Estonia and Finland have never been involved in violent conflict with each other. In the period since its emergence as an independent state, Estonia has enjoyed correct political relations with the Scandinavian countries. The 150 years of Swedish rule during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries have retained a highly positive image within Estonian national mythology. In the aftermath of World War One many key Estonian political actors supported the idea of a Baltic-Finnish-Scandinavian federation, first proposed by Jaan Tõnisson at the opening session of the Estonian Land Council on 25 August 1917.11 Later, in the 1930s, the geographer Edgar Kant also associated Estonia with a common ‘Baltoscandian’ area.12 Yet the Scandinavian response to such aspirations has never been very favourable. Whilst the Baltic states did assume a growing importance for Sweden after 1918, a truly active and multidimensional policy of
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co-operation was only launched after Estonia and its neighbours regained their independence in 1991. In the past decade the Nordic dimension has again assumed a particular prominence in the speeches and writings of certain Estonian political actors, the most notable being Toomas Hendrik Ilves, the minister of foreign affairs.13 Academics, too, have lent support to this political orientation through claims that the descendants of today’s Estonians migrated to the shores of the Baltic from the West rather than from the East or south-east.14 However, this new regionalizing narrative seemingly does not correspond to international reality in the eyes of the Estonian public. For, while most Estonians attach considerable importance to co-operation with the Nordic countries, this does not necessarily mean that they regard Estonia as part of the Nordic grouping. The Nordic countries for their part clearly share this understanding. This became obvious at the Reykjavik meeting of the Nordic Council in November 2000, when a proposal to grant Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania full membership of the organization was voted down by a strong majority.15 The Russian Dimension Today’s Estonian-Russian relations are dogged by controversies over politics, culture, security, history and mentality. In this regard, Samuel Huntington’s widely cited work on the clash of world civilizations has served as a theoretical justification for Estonian identity-building projects seeking to draw firm boundaries against Russian influence.16 At the same time, it is clear that Russia has strongly influenced Estonian society in the course of its history, and that this influence has not only entailed the building of an ‘iron curtain’ between Estonia and Europe. Moreover, in historical perspective Estonia has had both western and Russian orientations in its trade. This dual identity in the field of economics has often been used to define the country’s place on the geopolitical map.17 In today’s international situation, the challenge is to present this Russian dimension in a positive light, and—above all—to present it in a European context. Amongst the positive connections which can be cited, some—such as good knowledge of the Russian language and long-standing contacts in the spheres of culture and economics—stem from 1940–91, the period of the Soviet occupation. In a longer historical perspective, one can point to the existence of an Estonian Orthodox Church, and traditions of co-operation with the cultural élite of Moscow and St Petersburg. Between 1858 and 1918 the major wave of Estonian emigration was to the interior of the Russian Empire rather than to America. Of the approximately 200,000 Estonians living in Russia in 1917, 50, 000 were concentrated in St Petersburg, which became a leading centre of Estonian academic and cultural life during the second half of the nineteenth century.18 At the academic level, more Estonians studied and taught in St Petersburg than anywhere else. Their number was clearly greater than in Tartu,
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Riga and Helsinki, the favourite destinations for Estonian students during the twentieth century. The same period also witnessed some notable instances of co-operation between Estonian and Russian political parties. In 1904, for instance, an Estonian-Russian electoral bloc removed German parties from power in Tallinn City Council. Similarly, Estonian representatives co-operated closely with all of the major Russian parties in the Russian state Duma.19 Indeed, these experiences of co-operation were so strong that the question of Estonian national statehood remained open right up until November 1918. The correspondence of Estonian foreign representatives from August/September of that year clearly demonstrates that the idea of union with a democratic Russia was still present.20 As the Bolshevik regime consolidated its power in Russia, however, the attractiveness of such a union steadily diminished. The Soviet Russian attack on Estonia in November 1918 and the ensuing War of Independence set the seal upon a political turn towards the West. It was in 1918–19 that the Estonians first experienced the usefulness of western partnership. Finland and Denmark sent volunteers to fight the Red Army, while the British fleet operated in the Gulf of Finland and supported Estonian troops. This was a historic landmark, for it suggested that Estonia had some significance in the eyes of the western Great Powers. The independent Estonian Republic subsequently tied itself closely to the international political systems of the West (most notably the League of Nations) whereas Russia—along with Germany—became viewed as an existential threat.21 A naïve belief that ‘if we are troubled by Russia, the West will help’ somehow entered the consciousness of the Estonian public, carrying on into the Second World War and, to some extent, even into the Cold War period. All in all, one can say that in spite of their more distant common past with Russia, Estonians have used the recent experience of Soviet domination as the main argument for integration into the EU and NATO over the past decade. National narratives continue to construct boundaries against Russia and Russians, while defining Estonia’s location in Europe. However, it seems that tensions might be softening and that the common past might receive new meanings in the future. The Baltic Dimension Present-day Estonian historians such as Eero Medijainen cite the unfavourable climate of European international relations as one of the main factors behind the ill-heartedness of Baltic political co-operation during the inter-war period.22 Be that as it may, one could argue that dominant perceptions of Baltic co-operation have been little different when set against the altogether more favourable European context of the post-Cold War era. Whilst there exist numerous similarities between Estonian and Latvian—though not Lithuanian—historical development and nation-building, the resources and geopolitical positions of the
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Baltic nations have been so similar as to reduce any interest in mutual cooperation.23 Although periods of political tension have inevitably tended to bring the three countries under the same umbrella, Baltic unity has never been a strong identity factor for most Estonians. Indeed, Baltic co-operation has attracted its fair share of criticism over the last century. The bestknown example is a set of articles published in the late 1930s by the politician and journalist Ilmar Tõnisson, who directly warned of too close co-operation with Latvia and Lithuania and proposed instead the Scandinavianization of Estonian foreign policy.24 In the course of the past decade, similar views have been expressed both by the Estonian prime minister, Mart Laar, and foreign minister, Toomas Hendrik Ilves. The latter in particular has declared in his speeches how Estonia is a Nordic but not a Baltic country. These views have, however, recently aroused criticism amongst the wider public, thereby demonstrating that the question is not yet so clear-cut.25 THE FIGHT OVER EUROPE ‘Peripherality Syndrome’ Narratives on Estonian national identity have been strongly influenced by what I would term ‘peripherally syndrome’, a phenomenon that derives from the historically rooted East-West division of Europe. According to the traditional understanding, Western Europe constitutes the centre, the European core, whereas Eastern Europe is the side-player or European periphery. The Cold War and its aftermath have further bolstered this understanding, since emphasis has been given to the role of the West as the political and economic motor of EU integration, the centre for European industry and investment resources, and the bridgehead for transatlantic co-operation. In the Estonian case, the peripherality argument is frequently used in support of moves to integrate more closely with the European core. At the same time, however, it greatly complicates such efforts. First of all, it is notable that in Estonian national narratives, ‘Europe’ is frequently portrayed as something mystical and far away. It is Britain, France, the Pope in Rome, but not the country’s immediate neighbours. Yet, as already noted, peripherality syndrome has also influenced Estonian understanding of regionally and regional co-operation. Neighbouring countries and nations have traditionally been considered as either dangerous (Russia, Germany), having no real interest in Estonia (Sweden, Denmark, Lithuania, Poland) or as being just as peripheral as Estonia (Finland, Latvia). There are three main facets of this peripherality syndrome. Firstly, in geographical terms, Estonia (along with the other Baltic states) is defined as lying very far away from western Europe and being a neighbour to Russia. Western European countries are perceived as having no historically based vital
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interests in the region, and they are reluctant to develop any in order to avoid any conflict of interest with Moscow. Such perceptions are further strengthened by the fact that during the past decade British, French and German investments in the Estonian economy have been far smaller than Finnish and Swedish contributions. This is considered as definite proof of the Baltic states’ low level of attractiveness for the core. A second facet relates to the smallness or weakness of the Baltic states. In the eyes of its larger neighbours—Russia, Germany and the Scandinavian countries —Estonia is not perceived as an equal partner because it is too small and has too few resources. In the case of Germany and Russia in particular, the smallness/ weakness aspect has been nourished by memories of the inter-war Treaty of Rapallo, the events of 1939 and the suspicion that, even in contemporary European affairs, Germany and Russia may take important decisions without taking Baltic interests into consideration. The Nordic countries for their part are regarded as a closed club. Unwilling to accept the Baltic states into their ‘inner circle’, they prefer to cultivate a kind of ‘big brother—little brother’ relationship with them. This attitude is reinforced by the third dimension of peripherality syndrome, which I would term the Iron Curtain aspect. For fifty years Estonia was under Soviet occupation and the rule of a communist regime. During that time, the country is perceived to have lost the momentum of economic and social development compared to states on the other side of the former Iron Curtain. Isolationism vs. Europeanism As well as being influenced by peripherality syndrome, the Estonian debate on Europe has also been characterized by a vacillation between, on the one hand, isolationist and nationalist narratives and, on the other, more pro-European and cosmopolitan approaches. From the middle of the nineteenth century Estonian society slowly began to absorb new cultural influences alongside German ones.26 The emerging national press, the experience of participation in local authorities and the work of Estonian scientists, writers, artists and students in Russian and West European universities brought in new ideas. Simultaneously, the campaign of Russification by the tsarist authorities at the end of the nineteenth century served to give greater impetus to the Estonian national movement.27 Amongst the nineteenth-century thinkers who sought to establish Estonian closeness to Europe were figures such as Jakob Hurt, Villem Reiman, Carl Robert Jakobson and Juhan Luiga. For Reiman, the Estonians were among the oldest nations in Europe, and had enjoyed western contacts long before the German invasion. He even imagined a direct Latin heritage for the Estonian tradition, while maintaining that, had the Scandinavian political dominance of the Baltic Sea survived beyond the Viking age, Estonia would have grown into a Nordic country.28 This Europeanism, however, was highly abstract and still rather exceptional. Germany and the western-oriented élites of imperial Russia served as its best-
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known examples in Europe, and yet Baltic German political domination, at least, was viewed as an obstacle to Estonian aspirations.29 Although the industrialization, urbanization and technical modernization of the 1880s and 1890s brought modern western European political trends such as socialism and liberal democracy to the Baltic provinces, the Estonian national movement remained largely isolationist in its ideas. The demand for Europeanism was limited to the spheres of education and technical modernization.30 Isolationist thinking was mainly agrarian in nature. It regarded the new western European influences as being in competition with traditional peasant culture. As one of the leaders of the national movement, Jaan Tõnisson, put it, the future of the Estonian people lay in small-scale farming and enterprise. By this reading, cultural closeness to Europe, with its accent on urbanization, was somewhat dangerous.31 The underlying logic of this argument was based on the gradual social change taking place in the Estonian countryside at the end of the nineteenth century. Following the abolition of serfdom in 1816–19, the wealthiest peasants had managed to collect the necessary capital to buy their farms from their landlords. For Tõnisson, the establishment of a wealthy and nationally minded peasantry would open up new perspectives for Estonian rural culture. The isolationist narrative thus found its sources in a glorification of the ‘traditional and pure country life’. Such narratives were challenged at the start of the twentieth century by ‘Young Estonia’ (Noor Eesti), a movement of writers and poets with strong links to western Europe. The emergence of Young Estonia ‘signalled paradigmatic innovations in the identity structure of the Estonians’.32 To be Estonian was no longer to be a silent and passive peasant, speaking an exotic and funny-sounding language. Now, for the first time, the term Estonian was explicitly associated with the term European.33 Perhaps more significantly still, the scale of ‘Europe’ was radically widened. No longer was it simply Germany and German influence. Other European states, most notably Finland, Sweden, Great Britain and France, were also seen as parts of the overall picture.34 The intellectuals of Young Estonia admired cultural developments in these latter countries and regarded the Baltic-German, Russian and isolationist-agrarian conceptions as old-fashioned and unacceptable. Theirs was an urbanized and modernized world-view embracing all the trends of western European cultural life. By rebelling against the older generation, Young Estonia created a European myth that survived and flourished during the first period of Estonian national independence. The cultural policy of independent Estonia in the 1920s and 1930s gave more colours to the picture of Europe. It was at this time that Estonians discovered the possibility of ‘playing with Europe’, choosing and mixing different cultural influences while simultaneously presenting their own ideas to the wider European cultural community. The impact of this cultural opening cannot be underestimated. It was arguably one of the main factors that prevented Estonian culture from succumbing to Russifying pressures during the ensuing period of Soviet occupation. It also meant that when the movement for the restoration of
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independence emerged in the late 1980s, Estonia was portrayed as a country that formed an integral part not just of the German Kulturraum, but also of western civilization as a whole. To say this is not to imply that isolationist narratives have lost their power. In the 1990s, for instance, sociological research on identity found that Estonians still attached far greater importance to their distinct language and ethnic culture than they did to other components such as religion and ideology.35 In the light of modern history, it seems, many Estonians still perceive themselves as objects rather than subjects of political development, viewing compromise with other powers as the basis for national identity and existence.36 What has changed during the course of the past century is the essence and social basis of isolationism. Rather than being simply an agrarian-based discourse, it is now targetted more against foreign commitments per se, being suspicious of any kind of external influence that might diminish the domestic decision-making power of Estonians. This stance could be described as a kind of ‘world scepticism’ embracing suspicion of the European Union, fear of Russia and antiAmericanism, as well as a generalized fear of other possible future ‘foreign’ encroachments yet to be identified.37 The isolationist and pro-European narratives continue to define the parameters of contemporary debates on the essence of Estonian national identity. The extension of the European integration process to the former Eastern Bloc states during the 1990s has provided a wholly new context for Estonian foreign relations and domestic state-building. However, the pro-European arguments advanced by the bulk of the political élite have yet to translate into widespread identification with the EU among the general population. At a time when the reestablishment of Estonian national statehood remains very much a work in progress, processes of globalization are viewed by many as alarming. There is a common understanding that European integration can succeed only if it is consistent with the preservation of distinct national identities.38 Yet many fear that EU-membership will deprive Estonia of its sovereignty and leave the country ill-placed to defend its interests. Such fears have increased following the December 2000 Nice Summit, which—despite opening up a clearer perspective for enlargement—further strengthened the position of larger member states within the EU decision-making process. At the time of writing, the possibility of a negative vote in a future referendum on EU-membership cannot be excluded. In a public opinion pole conducted in May 2000, 38 per cent of respondents said that they would vote for EU-membership in a referendum, 22 per cent were against, while a further 34 per cent had yet to make up their minds. A similar survey from March 2001, however, found that 51 per cent of respondents were now against EU-membership, as opposed to 37 per cent in favour.39 Assuming that accession to the EU does actually take place, Estonia still runs the risk of being cast as a ‘reluctant European’ within an enlarged Union. One possible way of avoiding this fate would be to follow the Finnish example by developing an image of Estonia as an ‘East-West mediator’. Were the EU-Russia
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relationship to move in the direction of a free trade or even an association agreement in the short to medium term, Russia might lose its image as the ‘other civilization’ and come to be viewed more as an integral part of the networks and systems of the ‘New Europe’. Against this background, Estonia’s eastern border would be conceptualized as just another administrative boundary rather than a dividing line against an alien culture or the front line in a new Cold War. Estonians in turn would gain the possibility to view EU-membership not as a shelter against the Russian threat (clearly the dominant perception since 1991), but as a catalyst to the expansion of links with St Petersburg and other regions of north-western Russia. Whether or not an enlarged EU actually develops this kind of ‘eastern dimension’ depends partly upon the internal dynamics of the Union itself, but perhaps largely upon the future course of Russian domestic development. In recent years, Estonia has sought to market itself as a possible channel for EURussian interaction.40 However, the continued absence of economic and political stability in Russia has served to undermine the potential of the ‘bridge’ concept. In particular, the attractiveness of this idea seems to have declined greatly following the 1998 economic crisis in Russia. Against this background there are signs that greater co-operation with Latvia and Lithuania might actually provide the Estonians with a more viable ‘niche’ within the New Europe. The growing importance of the ‘Baltic dimension’ is especially apparent in the economic sphere. The foreign capital currently pouring into Estonia is finding that the new and wider markets, which it seeks, are most easily attainable in Latvia and Lithuania. Nordic investors in particular have already started to expand outwards from Estonia into other Baltic markets. Having obtained a majority holding in Hansabank—Estonia’s largest bank— Swedish financial giant Swedbank now plans to move the company’s headquarters from Tallinn to Riga.41 Since many other firms look set to follow suit, it is hardly surprising that Estonian business circles have begun to lobby for a more Baltic states-oriented foreign policy.42 CONCLUSION As the writer Olev Remsu puts it, Estonians have yet to clarify the position of their nation within the western world.43 Yet, if popular identification with the EU is still not well established, a retreat into isolation is hardly viable within the current international context of interdependence. The globalization of political and economic relations will influence every state and region, even those opting for fanatical isolationism. Similarly, the current process of European integration demands active participation from all the states concerned, be they existing Union menbers, candidate countries or participants in some other EU-centred network. Against this background, it seems inevitable that peripherality will cease to be a nominator of Estonian national identity.
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Yet globalization and European integration challenge not only the notion of peripherality, but also the very essence of boundaries between different nations, states, regions, cultures and civilizations. Contemporary world and European politics can be characterized as a process of ‘constant bargaining’, whereby nations and states have to recognize the needs of other parties in order to gain support for their own interests. In order to achieve this, even the bitterest of past enemies have to find a means of coexistence and mutual co-operation. Under these circumstances, it seems, isolationist discourses stressing national exclusivity will also steadily lose ground. Obviously, such fundamental changes do not take place overnight. Old grievances cannot be eradicated simply by stating that the world is different now. Nonetheless, the sheer multitude and rapid growth of international links at all levels means that to downplay exclusivist historical-cultural discourses is increasingly becoming a practical requirement. Lars-Erik Cederman’s concept of ‘bounded integration’ may prove useful here: Estonians now have a chance to participate in the grand project of European demos-building, and ‘post-national’ ideas can be more solidly established through systematic educational, language and media policies.44 Traditional narratives on nationhood will not disappear. However, they are losing their value in the political, economic and even cultural spheres, since these require a vital framework of global communication in order to survive and develop. NOTES 1. In the post-modern world, as pointed out by Robert Dunn, traditional identities are largely destabilized, leading to identity crises. See R.G.Dunn, Identity Crises: A Social Critique of Postmodernity (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1999), pp. 106–41. 2. See Chapters 12 and 9. 3. P.M.Lützeler, ‘Contemporary Intellectuals and Writers on a Multicultural European Identity’, in The Question of European Identity , Working Papers 1 (Florence: EUI 1998), p. 2. 4. O.Wæever, ‘Explaining Europe by Decoding Discourses’, in A.Wivel (ed.), Explaining European Integration (Copenhagen: Copenhagen Political Studies Press, 1998). 5. See for example L.Jaanits, S.Laul, V.Lõugas and E.Tõnisson, Eesti esiajalugu (Estonian Prehistory) (Tallinn: Eesti Raamat Publishers, 1982), pp. 52–3 and 76–7; Eesti Entsüklopeedia (Estonian Encyclopaedia), vol. 2 (Tartu, Loodus Press, 1933), p. 849; Eesti Entsüklopeedia, vol. 2 (Tallinn: Estonian Encyclopaedia Press, 1987), pp. 459–60. 6. See C.R.Jakobson, Kolm isamaa kõnet: kriitiline valjaanne käsikirjast kommentaaride ja järelsōnaga (Three Fatherland Speeches: Critical Publication of the Manuscript with Commentaries and Postscript) (Tallinn: Eesti Raamat Publishers, 1991), p. 23.
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7. T.U.Raun, Estonia and the Estonians (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1987), pp. 109–11. 8. R.Ruutsoo, ‘The Estonians: Identity of Small Nation in Past and Present’, Anthropological Journal of European Cultures. Mare Balticum: Societies in Transition (II), 6, 1 (1997), p. 74. 9. M.Lehti, ‘Tallinn võõra tsivilisatsiooni koldena. Tallinn soomlaste silmade läbi 19. sajandi teisel poolel’ (Tallinn as a Source of a Alien Civilization: Tallinn through the Finnish Eyes in the Second Half of the Nineteenth Century), in Vana Tallinn, 7, 11 (Tallinn: Estopol, 1997), pp. 60–2. 10. K.Alenius, Ahkeruus, edistys, ylimielisyys. Virolaisten Suomi-kuva kansallisen herddmisen ajasta tsaarinvallan päättymiseen (n. 1850–1917) (Hard-working, Progressive, Arrogant. The Image of Finland in the Eyes of the Estonians from the Period of National Awakening to the End of the Tsarist Era (approx. 1850–1917) (Oulu: Pohjoinen, 1996). 11. H.Arumäe and T.Arumäe (eds), Jaan Tõnisson Eesti vdlispoliitikas 1917–1920: Dokumente ja materjale (Jaan Tõnisson in Estonian Foreign Policy 1917–1920: Documents and Materials) (Tallinn: Jaan Tõnissoni Instituut, 1993), p. 10. 12. E.Kant, ‘Eesti geopoliitilisest ja geoökonoomilisest asendist, eriti Venemaa suhtes’ (On the Geopolitical and Geoeconomic Position of Estonia, Especially vis-à-vis Russia), Akadeemia 6, 1990, pp. 1229–50. 13. See, for instance, Chapter 1. 14. M.Pau, ‘Eestlaste pärinemine Uuralitest on müüt’ (The Estonians’ Descent from the Urals is a Myth), Sōnumileht, 28 April 1997; T.Teder, ‘Keelest, rahvusest ja kontidest’ (On Language, Nationality and Bones), Sōnumileht, 9 October 1996. 15. Only 11 out of 87 members of the Nordic Council supported Baltic membership. 16. Samuel Huntington describes a civilizational dividing line that runs between the Catholic-Lutheran and Orthodox parts of Europe. This line follows the Estonian eastern border and separates Estonia from Russia. S.P.Huntington, The Clash of Civilizations and the Remaking of World Order (London and New York: Touchstone Books, 1998), p. 159. 17. According to the data of the Estonian Board of Statistics, Russia has consistently been Estonia’s third or fourth largest trading partner. However, the Russian share has started to diminish since the 1998 financial and economic crisis in Russia, which also hit many Estonian companies severely. In 1995 Estonia sent 17.7 per cent of its exports to Russia and bought 16.1 per cent of its foreign goods from there. In the first half of 2000 these figures have declined drastically—exports to 2. 2 per cent and imports to 9.3 per cent. See http://www.stat.ee 18. H.Kulu, Eestlased maailmas. Ülevaade arvukusest ja paiknemisest. (Estonians in the World. An Overview of Numbers and Location) (Tartu: Tartu University Press, 1992), pp. 22, 26. 19. T.Karjahärm, Ida ja lääne vahel: Eesti-Vene suhted 1850–1917 (Between East and West: Estonian-Russian Relations 1850–1917) (Tallinn: Estonian Encyclopaedia Press, 1998), pp. 157–64 and 250. 20. The Declaration of Independence was made as early as 24 February 1918. V. Made, Külalisena maailmapoliitikas: Eesti ja Rahvasteliit 1919–1946. (As a Guest in World Politics: Estonia and the League of Nations 1919–1946) (Tartu: Tartu University Press, 1999), pp. 61–2.
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21. D.J.Smith, Estonia: Independence and European Integration (London and New York: Routledge, 2001), pp. 149–51. 22. See E.Medijainen, Eesti vdlispoliitika Balti suund 1926–1934 (The Baltic Direction in Estonian Foreign Policy) (Tartu: Tartu University Press, 1991); E.Medijainen, Maailm prowintsionu peeglis: Rahvusvahelised suhted ja Eesti vdlispoliitika karikatuuridel 1918–1940 (The World in the Mirror of the Provincial: International Relations and Estonian Foreign Policy as seen in Cartoons 1918–1940) (Tallinn: Kleio, 1999). 23. Lithuania’s background is very different, connected to Roman Catholic Christianity, Poland and central Europe. 24. I.Tõnisson, ‘Eesti valispoliitika’ (Estonian Foreign Policy), Akadeemia, 3, 6 (1937). 25. M.Laar, ‘Pankrot Balti moodi’ (Bankruptcy Baltic Style), Eesti Ekspress, 18 April 1996; T.H.Ilves, ‘Jōulumaa ehk vaimse geograafia enesemääramine’ (YuleLand or the Self-determination of Mental Geography), Eesti Ekspress, 24 December 1998. 26. The fate of the term the Baits (die Balten in German) should be noted here. The Germans living in three Baltic provinces of Russia (Estonia, Livonia, Courland) started to use this term for their national identification at the end; of the nineteenth century. Curiously, after the Second World War the term came to be used in order to identify the exiled Estonian, Latvian and Lithuanian communities in the West and as such was quite popular among the Baltic emigrants. Nowadays it has almost totally lost its original German essence. 27. For the historic development of Estonian identity, see also P.Vihalemm, ‘Changing National Spaces in the Baltic Area’, in M.Lauristin and P.Vihalemm (eds), Return to the Western World: Cultural and Political Perspectives on the Estonian PostCommunist Transition (Tartu: Tartu University Press, 1997), pp. 129–35. 28. V.Reiman, Missuguste teede kaudu tuli meile kultura? (How Did Culture Reach Us?) (n.d.), pp. 1–35. 29. J.Hurt, ‘Mis keeles ja mis ulatuses tuleb meie rahvakoolides õpetada?’ (In What Languages and in Which Amount Should the Teaching be Carried Out in Our Schools?), in Jakob Hurda kõned ja avalikud kirjad (Speeches and Letters of Jakob Hurt) (Tartu: Loodus Press, 1939), p. 62. 30. T.Karjahärm, ‘Eestlaste regionaalse identsuse ajaloost’ (On the History of the Regional Identity of Estonians), Looming, 5 (1995), p. 679. 31. J.Tõnisson, ‘Talupoja rahvus’ (The Peasant People), Postimees, 4 January 1911. 32. Ruutsoo, ‘Estonians’, p. 75. Among the leading figures in Noor Eesti were Gustav Suits, Villem Reiman, Bernhard Linde, Friedebert Tuglas, Johannes Semper and Johannes Aavik. 33. ‘Let us be Estonians, but let us also become Europeans!’. Cited by Gustav Suits in G. Suits, ‘Noorte püüded’ (The Endeavours of the Young), Noor-Eesti, vol. 1 (Tartu, 1905), p. 17. 34. For the ideological background of the Estonian national movement at the beginning of the twentieth century, see M.Graf, Eesti rahvusriik. Ideed ja lahendused ärkamisajast Eesti Vabariigi sunnini (The Estonian National State. Ideas and Solutions from the Period of Awakening to the Creation of the Estonian Republic) (Tallinn: Estonian Encyclopaedia Press, 1993); T.Karjahärm and V. Sirk, Eesti
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35.
36.
37.
38.
39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44.
haritlaskonna kujunemine ja ideed (The Formation of the Estonian Intelligentsia and its Ideas) (Tallinn: Estonian Encyclopaedia Press, 1997), pp. 254–97. See for example M.Lauristin, ‘How Open is Estonian Society?’, Open Society Forum (Tallinn: AEF, 1996), pp. 41–8; U.Lieber and H.Palang, ‘Mental Maps: Estonian Students About Europe’, Yearbook of the Estonian Geographical Society 29 (Tallinn: Estonian Academy Publishers, 1995), pp. 148–66. M. Hint, ‘Identiteedi järjepidevuse imperatiiv’ (The Imperative of Identity Continuity), in L.Utno (ed.), IV Valis-Eesti kongress (29–30. juulil 1999 Tallinnas). Ettekannete kokkuvōtted (Tallinn: Tallinna Pedagoogikaülikool, 1999), pp. 6–7; K. Kesküla, ‘Identiteedivaakumis’ (In the Vacuum of Identity), Eesti Ekspress, 20 November 1998. On the resistant and persistent nature of Estonian nationalism, see also the special issue of the Journal of Baltic Studies, 23, 2 (summer 1992) on the comparative study of nationalism. R.Ruutsoo, ‘Euroopa Liit ja Eesti rahvusriik’ (The European Union and Estonian Nation State), in R.Ruutsoo and A.Kirch (eds), Eesti Euroopa Liidu lavepakul (Estonia on the Threshold of the European Union) (Tallinn: Institute of International and Social Studies, 1998), p. 36. Postimees, 28 March 2001. The Estonian government does not plan to hold a referendum on EU membership before 2003 (Postimees, 17 March 2001). See Chapter 9. S.Vedler, ‘Hansapank kolib peakorteri Riiga’ (Hansapank Moves its Headquarters to Riga), Eesti Ekspress, 2 November 2000. S.Vedler, ‘Võta vaiksemalt, ministrihärra!’ (Be Quiet, Mr Minister!), Eesti Ekspress, 16 November 2000. O.Remsu, ‘Identiteedikriis’ (Identity Crisis), Eesti Päevaleht, 8 February 1996. L-E.Cederman, Nationalism and Bounded Integration: What it Would Take to Construct a European Demos, RSC Working Paper no. 34 (Florence: EUI, 2000), pp. 14–16.
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9 Paradise Regained: The Conceptualization of Europe in the Lithuanian Debate INGA PAVLOVAITE
If one were asked to locate the centre of Europe on the map, I doubt whether Lithuania would be the most obvious answer. It ought to be. For, according to the French National Geographical Institute, Europe’s centre lies just 25 kilometres north of Vilnius, Lithuania’s capital. Ever since the institute made this discovery in 1989, the country has proudly celebrated the location, attracting hundreds of tourists to the little hill, and erecting a post-modern international sculpture park to give the place a contemporary atmosphere. The strategy has worked, and today the centre of Europe is one of the most successful tourist spots in Lithuania. But apart from being a sightseeing must, this cultural detail illuminates the interesting question of Lithuania’s relationship to Europe. In this chapter I seek to determine what ‘Europe’ actually means in newly independent Lithuania by discussing how this concept is articulated in the country. The dominant discourse among the political élite in Lithuania has been consistently Euro-positive since 1990. Moreover, in contrast to western Europe, where integration has been proceeding within an established nation-state framework, Europe has come to play the major role in the process of Lithuanian state formation from ‘year zero’. It is noteworthy that in the Central and Eastern European (CEE) context Europe is conceptualized primarily in terms of integration with the European Union (EU). Belonging to the EU-club is supposed to vindicate the processes of state formation in CEE and to have cast away the historical injustices of the communist past. Given the dominance of this discourse, it is all the more important to examine the discursive meanings assigned to Europe and to analyse how this concept is constructed in the applicant countries. TOWARDS A DISCURSIVE ANALYSIS OF LITHUANIA’S EUROPE From a constructivist perspective, identities are formed in social interaction when large-scale human collectivities make assumptions about and interpret ‘reality’ and ‘world’. Political behaviour does not follow rational calculations of material power and exogenously given interests, but is largely shaped by how people understand and make sense of the world around them.1 Constructivists claim that
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identity and interests are mutually constitutive in the sense that through interaction ‘identities and interests are shaped and reshaped’.2 In order to analyse the conceptualization of European integration in Lithuania, this chapter will study the public discourse amongst the Lithuanian élite, that is, individuals occupying key positions in the Lithuanian political system, as well as leading intellectuals and other prominent public figures.3 By focusing on these critical discursive articulations, one is most likely to expose the dominant visions and views on ‘Europe’ expressed by the major political actors in the country. These political élites are of crucial importance in the process of policy formulation and implementation in the new polity. Whilst the discourse analysis approach has been widely accused of a preoccupation with ‘cheap talk’, the discourse is in fact a system structured according to a set of rules that allows for and delineates a limited range of possible discursive articulations.4 Moreover, such discursive rules not only condition the choices made, but also bind the actors to the major discursive practices of the past.5 In other words, discourse is not a random articulation of meaningless and easily renounced statements, but functions as a highly structured and constraining space. Discourse analysis is therefore bound to illuminate these structures and their interrelations within texts. In this chapter I look for references to European integration in the Lithuanian debate and seek to examine their relation to the dominant identity of the society. My main interest is in how national identity is influenced by the ongoing, widening and deepening process of integration. What is the place of ‘Europe’ in these rather stable constructions of what constitutes the legitimate political order, of who is included (‘we’) and who is excluded (‘the other’)? Discourse analysis has produced a threefold answer to this question. The first analytical argument focuses on the self-other dichotomy in the construction of collective identities. According to this line of reasoning, ‘we’ need to have ‘the other’ in order to construct ‘us’.6 To identify the content of being, say, French, German or British, the border of inclusionexclusion is drawn in the national discourses as a powerful constitutive element of national identity. In the case of Lithuania, I will argue, the underlying conception of European integration is that it constitutes a ‘return to Europe’—a legitimate, reliable and safe way of distancing Lithuania from Russia and of overcoming Lithuania’s most recent communist past. The second answer from the contructivist camp is the argument that national identity constructions vis-à-vis Europe have to be compatible with the preexisting collective identity of the nation-state. The version of ‘Europe’ articulated in the discourse of a particular country is dependent on the constellation of certain basic ‘we’ concepts, such as state and nation, at a given point in time.7 My intention in the empirical part of this chapter is to show how the project of Europe is articulated within the Lithuanian concepts of state and nation.
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Finally, constructivist research introduces the concept of discursive nodal points as centres of the discursive space of a national political debate. In such nodal points, various meta-narratives pertaining to basic questions of how the world operates are drawn together in an attempt to fix the meaning of legitimate European governance.8 In a nutshell, ‘Europe’ is reproduced in and enabled by such nodal points, where it becomes a sort of keyword connoting and legitimizing more concrete policy articulations. Applied to the Lithuanian case, the discursive nodal point perspective enables us to identify ‘Europe’ as standing for full-scale political, economic and societal modernization. RETURN TO EUROPE AND DISTANCE FROM THE EAST: FAMILY TIES AND VOLCANO NEIGHBOURHOODS In Lithuania, European integration is largely presented as a return to the country’s ‘natural’ place of belonging—the family of European states. ‘Return to Europe’, however, is not only a discursive practice designed to assert the Europeanness of Lithuania, but also serves as a way of distancing oneself from the ‘other’ in the form of Russia and Lithuania’s own communist past. By contrast, the adjacent discourses on Belarus, Kaliningrad and the so-called ‘Northern Dimension’ are not so much moves to delineate ‘we-ness’ and ‘otherness’, as attempts to portray Lithuania as an outpost of Europe that deals with emerging regional challenges in an effective and European manner. Drawing on historical experiences, Russia and anything east of the Lithuanian border is presented in the public debate as dangerous and threatening.9 More recent developments have not been encouraging either. As Mark Cichock has noted, ‘the policy of [the] Russian Federation towards the Baltic states has been characterised by a steady pattern of intimidation and dominance’.10 It is, therefore, hardly surprising that the ‘otherness’ of the East is formalized at the level of constitutional law through a clause that explicitly prohibits the Lithuanian state from entering into any alliances with countries in the postSoviet space. This postulate is reiterated in the Lithuanian law on national security.11 In the light of recent history, the ‘East’ stands for an immediate threat to the nation and the sovereign state. It is the proximity to Russia that Lithuanian politicians are referring to when they speak of Lithuania being situated on a ‘volcano’.12 The most recent developments under the Putin presidency have been perceived in Lithuania as the continuation of Russia’s otherness. In June 2000, for instance, when the Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs declared that the 1940 Soviet takeover of Lithuania had not constituted an occupation, its statement sent shock waves through the Lithuanian political establishment.13 The Lithuanian reaction was unequivocal: the old Russia is back. An editorial in the leading Lithuanian daily claimed that ‘the spirit of militaristic and ideological communist revenge is alive in Russia…destabilizing Russian-Lithuanian relations and the whole world’.14 The deputy chairperson of the Lithuanian Parliament, Ruta
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Jukneviciene, made a similar claim when she stated ‘today it is clear that Putin’s Russia pursues aggressive diplomacy towards its neighbours’ and compared Russia’s current policies to those of Stalin.15 Russia’s status as the ‘other’ has thus persisted throughout the post-communist transition. In the light of this ‘threatening Russia’ discourse, ‘Europe’ stands in Lithuania for an escape from its volcano neighbourhood. A further prominent feature of the public discourse is the construction of European integration as a unique opportunity for Lithuania to return to its natural place of belonging, from which it was removed by the Soviet empire. Here, Lithuania is identified as part of European civilization on the basis of its shared cultural heritage, values and identity. The Law on the Basics of National Security, for instance, includes among its guiding principles the statement that ‘the Lithuanian State, established many centuries ago and resting on the Christian cultural foundation unifying Europe, is an integral part of the community of European nations’.16 Lithuania’s chief negotiator in the EU accession process speaks about ‘the inherent historical and cultural gravitation of the Baltic nations in Europe’s development’.17 A further statement from the Minister of Foreign Affairs could pass for a manifesto on ‘European Lithuania’: ‘Lithuania and Europe are bound together by common values, common history, common aspirations for the well-being, stability, and security of their peoples… they also face common challenges.’18 In sum, European integration represents the ultimate vindication of a centuries-long Europeanization of Lithuania, not least because at last the ‘presence in Europe will be institutionalized to a degree unwitnessed since the late middle ages’.19 In terms of the self-other dichotomy, however, ‘Europe’ ends on the state’s eastern border, and EU-membership represents the institutionalization of this move. Although the EU is conceptualized as providing security guarantees against potential aggression from Russia, NATO membership is seen as the ultimate and more relevant goal in hard security terms.20 However, membership in the two organizations—NATO and the EU—is presented as mutually constitutive. ‘Membership of NATO enhances the protection of the market, trust, encourages investment in the safe space, and speeds up the preparations for EU membership’, claims the chairman of the Lithuanian parliament.21 The basic argument here is that inclusion under the Euro-Atlantic umbrella will bring security guarantees and consolidate ‘European Lithuania’. Europe is therefore constructed as a means of overcoming enforced estrangement in the past and achieving distance from the East. Having said this, the ‘East’ is by no means a homogeneous construction in the Lithuanian discourse. Whilst ‘menacing Russia’ is a powerful constitutive bloc of national identity, discourses on the other eastern neighbours, Belarus and the Ukraine, are somewhat different, as are those relating to the Kaliningrad oblast’. In the case of Belarus, a twofold discursive practice exists. Firstly, the country is viewed as a stepping-stone for Russian expansionist imperialism, especially in connection with the recent Russian-Belarussian union treaty, ‘the signing of which is a
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challenge to and worsening of the international situation’.22 Moreover, due to the undemocratic nature and dubious legitimacy of President Lukashenka’s rule, Belarus is seen as a problematic, non-European state that poses traditional ‘eastern’ threats: chaos, authoritarianism and the violation of basic democratic rights. These discursive developments correspond to the general tendency of CEE actors to portray the neighbouring country to the east as non-European in order make themselves, appear more European.23 The Lithuanian-Belarusian relationship is, however, a complex issue that touches on fundamental questions of national identity. Interestingly, Lithuania and Belarus share more or less the same history; in the Middle Ages they formed the core of the Lithuanian Grand Duchy, the last pagan realm in Europe, of which a majority of the population were Orthodox Christians and the official language a form of Belarusian. Lukashenka’s government today is constructing its narratives of the past on the basis of the Soviet era, but Belarusian nationalists continue to look to the Grand Duchy for the origins of Belarus. The fact that Lithuanians and Belarusians are competing over the same past makes border-drawing and the proving of one’s own superiority through Europeanness a truly important national issue. Consequently, in relation to Belarus Lithuania is constructed as a bastion of European values, values that guide its behaviour towards the troublesome neighbour. The official discourse is one of helping Belarus in the process of democratization, as seen, for instance, in claims that ‘Lithuania can act as the mediator between the Belarussian government and the opposition.’24 The Lithuanian foreign ministry also widely publicizes concrete, low-profile steps (electoral training, human rights conferences, municipal contacts, training of journalists, university co-operation) aimed at ‘contributing to the development of democracy, rule of law, the creation of civic society and the re-establishment of the OSCE norms in Belarus’.25 In other words, Lithuania presents itself as a teacher of European norms acquired at the school of Europe.26 Here, a hierarchical chain reaction seems to function. The implication is that we, the Lithuanians, have been model pupils of ‘Europe’ and can now pass the knowledge on to the less fortunate people of the East. An analogous discursive development is also evident in relation to the Ukraine. Unlike Belarus, the Ukraine is not construed as a threat, largely on account of its more democratic post-Soviet transition and, more importantly, continuing Ukrainian arguments for greater independence vis-à-vis Russia and the CIS and association with the EU and NATO. This stance allows Lithuania to construct itself as the mentor for the Ukraine in its quest for Europeanness.27 The discourse on Lithuania schooling its eastern neighbours in proper European norms and conduct is most evident in the approach to Russia’s Kaliningrad exclave, which Lithuania has developed within the context of the EU’s Northern Dimension Initiative (NDI). In recent years, at least, the debate on Kaliningrad has been marked by an explicit attempt to internalize the Russian ‘other’ and bring it closer to the European self. Firstly, the existence of a Russian exclave on Lithuania’s western border is not presented as a direct threat to state
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sovereignty. With military transit issues now settled by the Russian-Lithuanian treaty, the Lithuanian élite now expresses a willingness to help solve the problems Kaliningrad poses to the whole region. These include ‘an economy that lags behind…severe social problems, an unstable legal environment and unattractive investment climate, the inability to pay debts, corruption, crime, smuggling…and a military complex which until recently dominated the region’s industry’.28 Although such lists appear intimidating, it is clear that the discussion is no longer couched in terms of direct threats to each other’s basic identity, but instead highlights problems ‘that we can deal with together’. A second factor of crucial importance in this regard is the construction of the ‘self. In relation to Kaliningrad, the Lithuanian political élite again presents its country as an outpost of Europe that possesses the necessary expertise to deal with the oblast’. As a future part of the eastern rim of the European Union, it is argued, Lithuania ‘acknowledges the special responsibility, which will thus be entrusted…that of safeguarding the EU’s values and integrity’.29 The Lithuanian political élite concurrently emphasizes its own joint initiatives with the Russian side as well as ones within the frame of the Northern Dimension. In this regard, the recent Nida Initiative is an illuminating example of how ‘Lithuania will encourage the Kaliningrad region…to participate further in regional and subregional co-operation’. For Lithuania, the Northern Dimension provides a perfect opportunity to display its Europeanness and internalization of cooperative norms.30 It is indeed interesting to observe how the Lithuanian élite presents the country’s relations with Kaliningrad to an international audience. In his January 2000 article in the Washington Times, for example, Vydaugas Usackas, the deputy minister of foreign affairs, noted that ‘at the height of the 1998 Russian economic crisis, Lithuania provided humanitarian assistance to Kaliningrad’s schools, kindergartens and its hospitals by sending truckloads of medicine and food’.31 This sounds very much like the EU acting, for example, in Bosnia. Even more indicative is the following statement by the deputy foreign minister, Oskaras Jusys, who recalled that ‘we agreed to maintain consultations on these issues of [European integration] and [to] organise study visits for Kaliningrad Region officials and lawyers to get acquainted with the enforcement of EUstandards in Lithuania [and] Eurostudy programmes for higher schools of the Region’.32 Lithuania’s relations with Kaliningrad are thus mooted as the trial test and model for socializing the Russian ‘other’ and helping ‘to develop a genuine strategic partnership between Europe and Russia’.33 This, undoubtedly, strengthens and consolidates the Lithuanian vision of itself as the carrier of ‘Europe’ in the region, reproduces and reinforces the ‘European Lithuania’ and marginalizes the ‘threatening Russia’ discourse. The ‘East’ thus appears to be an ambiguous construction in the Lithuanian case, since discourses on the eastern neighbours are very heterogeneous, ranging from the concept of volcano neighbourhood to self-construction as a European outpost in the region. In turn,
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these ambiguities allow for the variations in a Lithuanian foreign policy towards Russia, which has hovered around a confrontation-accommodation axis. Finally, a ‘return to Europe’ in the form of EU-membership represents a way of overcoming the Soviet past of Lithuania. The president of Lithuania claims that ‘today, European integration is giving us a historical chance to do away with the temptations of the Soviet past, with the old thinking, the old habits’.34 Such rhetoric should be seen in the light of a general discourse on the newly born state, where ‘every value that had to do with the former regime was officially condemned and rejected’.35 Against this background, ‘Europe’ stands for progress, prosperity and security. It has become a cultural and political must to the extent that disagreements between political parties often hinge on the degree of ‘Europeanness’. To be ‘European’ is becoming a sort of Lithuanian idée fixe, something which is inherently good and valuable in itself. However, as I describe in the section that follows, ‘Europe’ is in fact a far more problematic concept than this simple ‘paradise regained’ vision would suggest. NATION/STATE AND EUROPE: HOW PERFECT A MATCH? Ole Wæver asserts that ‘domestic articulations of a project for Europe are made in accordance with long-held concepts of state and nation’, since any new policy has to resonate with a nation’s self-defining narratives or the state’s vision of itself.36 The future of European integration therefore depends on the match between different articulations of ‘Europe’ within national and trans-national discourses. The major contribution here is a three-layered theoretical construction of the integration of ‘Europe’ into the national identities of European states.37 At the deepest level is the core concept of state/nation, that is, what do the concepts of state and nation mean in a particular country, and how are they related to each other?38 Here one will find the basic founding myths and self-visions of a nation. The second level refers to the relationship between state/ nation concepts and the concept of ‘Europe’. Is the latter viewed as something to which the state/nation belongs (internal relation), wants to distance itself from (external), or does not relate to at all? Finally, on the third level we find the meaning of the concept of ‘Europe’ itself. Is it a Europe of nation-states, a European federation, or some other model? The basic argument is that these constructions of the ‘self and of ‘Europe’ directly influence the policies that a particular country pursues. With regard to the state/nation constellation, I will argue that in the Lithuanian case the nation is articulated in ethnic terms and that, from this point of view, the state is seen as the protector of the ethnic nation. Another ‘founding element’ is the notion of sovereignty and independence firmly entrenched in Lithuanian identity. At the second level, the dominant position is that the Lithuanian nationstate unfolds in an integrating but state-based Europe. On the third level, the conception of Europe, the picture is somewhat murkier in that no coherent visions
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of Europe have been offered. There are, however, some initial attempts that deserve attention. Finally, I analyse the most influential alternative discourse. This is one that refers to the same basic configuration of cultural nation/ protective state, but emphasizes the threat which ‘Europe’ poses to Lithuanian identity. For this reason, it is in favour of staying outside the EU or, at best, in favour of low-profile inter-governmental co-operation. Ethnic Nation and Protective State In order to understand the key concepts of nation and state within the Lithuanian political discourse, it is necessary to keep in mind the experiences of state formation over the past 100 years. The Lithuanian state emerged in 1918 following a process of cultural politicization in which the nation was consolidated around the then dominant ideology of ethnic nationalism. The nation was reinvented/resurrected mainly by rural intellectuals. Celebrating national history, language and traditions under the broad label of culture, they waged a struggle against the competing narrative of ‘Lithuania in the Polish Commonwealth’, which attempted to construct Lithuanianness as an integral part of the Polish culture and past.39 Thus, as jurgaitiene and Wæever have noted, ‘the formation of the nation preceded in the case of Lithuania the formation of the state and actually caused its very existence… This gave priority to the ethnic dimension of the nation over the civic one.’40 By this understanding, the state is dependent on the nation, yet the nation also needs the state in order to protect its interests. In short, ‘the ideology of ethnic nationalism made the ethnic nation the cause and the essence of the state’. Only complete freedom of national decisionmaking is able to secure this ‘ethnic nation/protecting state’ constellation.41 These primal notions of state/nation are still valid today. The revolutionary struggle from 1986/87 onwards, while initially couched in terms of economic autonomy from the USSR, soon became marked by a pronounced emphasis on national culture, collective memories and symbolic politics.42 ‘State-seeking nationalism’ legitimized the formation of an independent Lithuania in exactly the same way as after the First World War, by invoking the notion of a homogeneous cultural nation with distinct political and cultural interests, and therefore a right to its own state that will realize, express, and protect these interests.43 An analysis of crucial texts drafted since the restoration of statehood supports this contention. The Law on the Basics of National Security of the Republic of Lithuania, passed in 1996, defines national security as ‘the creation of conditions for a free and democratic development of a nation and state’ (Article 1). The ‘ethnic nation’ concept is further reinforced by the statement that ‘the Lithuanian Nation’s aspiration has been to safeguard its freedom, to guarantee the secure development of its ethnic land, to foster its national identity, to develop its natural creative power and to contribute to world progress’ (italics mine). The ethnic nationalist conception of the nation as territorially based, culturally
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constituted, is thus entrenched at the level of constitutional law. The ‘state as protector’ concept also receives this status, through the provision that ‘an independent democratic Lithuanian state must ensure a secure existence of the Nation, as well as its distinct and free development’. Article 2 of the Lithuanian Constitution states that ‘sovereignty shall be vested in the People’, while Article 3 stipulates that ‘no one may limit or restrict the sovereignty of the People or make claims to the sovereign powers of the People’. These provisions demonstrate that ‘independence with maximum freedom’ is one of the crucial constitutive blocs of newly independent Lithuania.44 Other scholars have shown how the sovereignty discourse has prevailed in the Lithuanian debate over the past decade, partly due to the recent formation of the state. In this respect, it seems plausible to talk about an integration dilemma.45 Saved by Europe? The dominant discursive move in Lithuania’s relation to Europe can be summarized as the argument for a ‘Lithuanian nation state that acts/unfolds in an integrating, co-operative, but state-based Europe’. It is characterized by four specific features. Firstly, there exists an explicit discourse on what Lithuania wants from ‘Europe’. Here the catchwords are ‘economic integration’ and ‘political stability’—in other words, those aspects of the integration process that are beneficial to Lithuania in ‘rational’ terms. The official foreign ministry newsletter explains that the country wants to join the EU, ‘in order to create a secure environment for the country and its people, to safeguard the continuity of statehood and to ensure its future development and prosperity’.46 One might just as well say ‘in order to be safer, richer and to preserve national identity’. Professor Jonas Cicinskas, a member of a leading think-tank, is equally explicit when he states that ‘we invest today in order to receive tomorrow all the aid for an agricultural sector and a country below the EU average…this is the most successful of our investments, and only the most impatient cannot see it’.47 In sum, it is pragmatic considerations that dominate the reasoning for joining the EU. This rationale for EU-membership is also evident in the historical construction of the EU in the Lithuanian discourse, as ‘a powerful economic bloc’ and ‘a new Europe—peaceful, secure and prosperous’.48 These discursive articulations of the nature and historical foundations of ‘Europe’ become convenient steppingstones to legitimizing the bid for membership of such an attractive club. ‘Europe’ also provides the Lithuanian nation and state with an arena in which to voice its concerns and problems and make Lithuania more visible and distinguishable. It provides Lithuanian foreign policy with more ‘flesh’ and with the possibility to speak as a part of Europe. In other words, it does not only represent the internal consolidation of Lithuania, but also confers the possibility for an external strengthening of the state. These specific articulations of ‘Europe’ also connect to the ‘return to Europe’ and ‘distance from the communist past’
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discourses, since they secure a firm anchorage or even an institutionalization of ‘European Lithuania’. The main argument here is that European integration presents Lithuania with the opportunity to conduct a ‘European’ foreign policy within the framework of the EU’s Common Foreign and Security Policy (CFSP). Through ‘Europe’, Lithuania will gain a more powerful voice and a say in foreign policy matters that as a small country it does not possess on a unilateral basis. A recent official policy statement from the Lithuanian Ministry of Foreign Affairs is unambiguous in this respect, noting that ‘a more effective CFSP will give an opportunity for Lithuania and other candidate countries to expand the scope of their national foreign policy’.49 In a similar vein, Usackas has claimed that ‘being part of the united and globally influential voice of more than two dozen states will guarantee that Lithuania’s interests…can be raised and heard more effectively’.50 Partly in response to the alternative, Euro-sceptic discourses (see below), the ruling élite emphasizes those aspects of the EU most likely to resonate with the founding concepts of nation and state. Above all, ‘Europe’ is supposed to enhance the protective function of the Lithuanian state in relation to its titular ethnic nation. According to Cicinskas, ‘integration is…the step to ensuring the survival and prosperity of state and nation in today’s Europe and the world’.51 Here, emphasis is placed upon the cultural diversity and language protection inherent in the European project. In his address at the opening of negotiations between Lithuania and the EU, for instance, the foreign minister, Algirdas Saudargas, stated that ‘Lithuania will seek to make the Lithuanian language an official language of the Union.’52 For his part, Usackas claims that Europe is a ‘salad bar’ providing ‘a sound guarantee for Lithuanian culture, expression and contribution to what is generally called the European civilization’.53 In sum, the dominant Lithuanian discourse envisages a Europe based on interstate co-operation. European integration is conceptualized primarily and almost exclusively as an inter-governmental project, pursued for pragmatic reasons, that takes account of the distinct identities of member states.54 However, one can also identify a discursive practice on the part of Lithuanian élites that expresses full support for deepening European integration, or a ‘Europe without borders’.55 There is, therefore, a basic ambiguity in the dominant discourse on European integration in Lithuania. In his state-of-the-nation address in April 2000, President Valdas Adamkus asserted that as part of the process of European integration ‘the division between domestic and foreign policy is disappearing’. This is by no means an isolated statement.56 Such claims form part of a discursive practice aimed at internalizing ‘Europe’ and transforming it from the traditional foreign policy domain to part of the ‘self. While the dominant version of a ‘Europe of nation states’ is consistently maintained, the increasing volume of statements about the preservation of national culture in the project of European integration and the ‘Europe without borders’ discourse point to the fact that European integration will be more than mere co-operation on an interstate basis. From this it follows that the Lithuanian nation/state constellation is likely
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to be transformed in a European system of governance, and that the traditional relationship will have to be rethought in an evercloser union. This contradiction in the dominant discourse is one that is shrewdly exploited by alternative, Euro-sceptic forces. A rationalist would probably explain this contradiction by employing the ‘cheap talk’ argument. By this reading, Lithuanian élites employ a clever dual strategy: internationally, they are ‘good Europeans’, arguing for an ever-closer union; domestically, meanwhile, they are ‘good Lithuanians’, emphasizing limited co-operation and the preservation of the ethnic nation in a co-operating but essentially state-based Europe. Yet there are two problems with this rationalist argument. First of all, empirical findings show that both kinds of statements are made concurrently on the domestic and the international stage. Secondly, even if such a dual strategy really exists, both discursive practices about ‘Europe’ eventually tie the hands of the élite and make it very difficult to back off and pursue entirely different discursive articulations. In other words, the discursive structuring processes do not allow smooth fluctuation between the positions without the two discursive practices coming into open conflict. The ambiguity is thus more easily interpreted as emerging from the discursive constraints under which Lithuanian political actors are operating. In conceptualizing the widening and deepening process of European integration, they have to relate to the founding discursive configuration of the nation-state. The nationalistic nature of the latter makes the coming of an ever-closer union appear problematic and threatening. One possible solution to this contradiction is to acknowledge the postsovereign nature of European governance and to argue for the preservation of the ethnic nation in these new structures. However, the full espousal of a multi-level governance approach to Europe or any other lessstatist model of the EU will inevitably contradict the founding ideology of ethnic nationalism based on a strict mechanism of inclusion/exclusion. Given the young age of the state, this constitutes the most serious challenge to a successful eastern enlargement. Even more so since alternative discourses are already gaining form and substance. ‘SHE’S NOT THAT INNOCENT’: ALTERNATIVE DISCOURSES ON ‘EUROPE’ The most influential alternative discourse on ‘Europe’ in Lithuania is rooted in the same concept of Lithuanian ‘self’, but its outcomes and discursive practices clash with the dominating version of ‘Europe’. This seems to confirm Waever’s assertion that in European countries, both the pro-and anti-EU sides relate to the same basic constellations of the nation and the state.57 To be sure, the opposition discourse on European integration consists of several strands, but its predominant message is that the Lithuanian nation-state is threatened by an evolving European state. Member of parliament Rimantas Smetona, one of the more prominent Euro-sceptics, has warned that ‘the EU is moving in the
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direction of a superstate!’58 In this case, ‘Europe’ neither stands for the final return to Lithuania’s natural place of belonging, nor does it lead to the modernization of the Lithuanian nation-state. Instead, the argument is that Lithuania does not have to return anywhere, since it has always been part of Europe. Or, in the rhetoric of the Euro-sceptic National Democrats, ‘the Lithuanian state was, is and will be in Europe, in the middle of Europe—between East and West’.59 For these alternative voices, located mainly on the right and far-right of the political spectrum, ‘Europe’ represents a threat to the nation-state in economic and cultural terms. Several other discursive moves follow. Firstly, the case is made for an ‘economic nationalism’ which claims that open borders and the abolition of state subsidies in the process of integration will lead to the destruction of valuable traditional sectors of the Lithuanian economy, such as agriculture. ‘Europe’ will get a cheap labour force, whereas Lithuania will get nothing in return. What is more, it will surrender the control of its economy to Brussels. ‘An Accession to the EU that will ruin Lithuanian agriculture is unacceptable,’ writes the chairman of the Farmers’ Party, a major winner in the local elections of 2000, which has been consistently calling for a more Eurorealist approach and a more combative stance in the EU-membership negotiations. It mainly argues that Lithuanian agriculture should accede to the EU on more favourable terms and accuses the governments of a ‘sell-out’ to Brussels.60 Secondly, ‘Europe’ is understood as a threat to national identity and culture that undermines the sovereignty of the Lithuanian state. In his state-of-the-nation address in 2000, President Adamkus quoted a letter that he had received from a concerned citizen: ‘what has the EU brought to us? Pornography, drug addiction, mafia, egoism, the destruction of our national culture.’61 The importance of this nationalistic resistance to integration is thus growing to such an extent that it was addressed by the head of state in a crucial public statement. Its primary argument is that ‘Europe’ puts the state-building process in peril by destroying the traditional constellation of nation/state. Sometimes the comparisons include rather radical statements such as ‘we bowed to Moscow, now we bow to Brussels’ (evoking the image of another occupation); ‘we will protect the provision of the constitution that Lithuania is an independent democratic state… we will fight against the destruction of Lithuanian independence…we are for the equal and useful co-operation with all European states’.62 Insofar as this construction is linked up with the basic ‘we’-concepts of nationhood, its appeal seems likely to resonate among the population, although an April 2000 opinion poll showed that support for EU-membership was growing, with only 14.5 per cent of respondents saying that Lithuania should never join the EU.63 The opponents of European integration have not yet reached a consensus about the nature of the relation between the EU and Lithuania. On the one hand, it has been argued that Lithuania must terminate membership negotiations and seek its own position in the globalized world.64 On the other hand, more recent developments suggest that Euro-sceptics have come to accept membership as
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such, but merely want more leverage for Lithuania during the membership negotiations, in which terms and conditions are seen as imposed by Brussels. For example, it is claimed that ‘we are for active interstate co-operation, for international treaties and organizations…that do not require the destruction of sovereignty…we against the creation of one common European state, one common European nation…we for the new National Europe’.65 One recent move by the Euro-sceptic camp has been to convene an international conference calling for an alliance of CEE states ‘in order to negotiate more successfully with the EU and resist the centralisation of the EU’.66 ‘EUROPE’ AS A DISCURSIVE NODAL POINT The discursive nodal point perspective offers additional interesting insights into the Lithuanian discourse on European integration. It argues that political debate is characterized by central concepts ‘around which meaning gets stabilized… through the binding together of discourses on other, more general concepts’.67 Its contribution to research on the EU lies in the proposition that ‘European governance’ serves as one such discursive nodal point around which ‘the meaning of “politics”, “economy”, and other essential ingredients of the western liberal tradition get renegotiated in order to provide a new point of fixation’.68 Moreover, the concept of ‘Europe’ itself is reproduced in this nodal point. Applied to the Lithuanian case, the discursive nodal point approach enables us to identify the dominant conception of ‘Europe’ as standing for a full-scale political, economic and societal transformation and the internal consolidation of the state and society. In fact, this conception of ‘Europe’ is so dominant that no credible alternative models of modernization have emerged during the last decade. Furthermore, I would argue that the discursive nodal point of ‘Europe’ serves to reinforce the conception of ‘we’-ness, that it reflects a desire to become ‘European’ through internal development into a ‘normal European state’. ‘Europe’ has acquired a near-mystic, taken-for-granted status in the Lithuanian discourse on economic, political and social transformation. The basic argumentative structure is the construction of ‘Europe’ as the legitimating principle and point of reference when speaking about the progress and achievements made. Thus, President Adamkus has claimed that the EU ‘is the guarantee of progress and future prosperity… The only way to escape the backwardness of the province is to board the fast Europe train.’69 In his own article on the Lithuanian vision of Europe, Usackas argues that ‘the EU is…a model for democratic, economic and social reforms in Lithuania’.70 In this way, ‘Europe’ becomes a catchword for social and economic modernization. Modernization requires that ‘Lithuania adheres to democratic practices [and] puts every effort into strengthening its market economy as the basis for competition within the internal market’.71 The official Lithuanian position scrupulously lists the progress achieved in all spheres of economic, administrative and societal transformation. However, in the context of the ‘European school’, this
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is an obligation. I will therefore analyse ‘European modernization’ in lessconstraining contexts, where it embraces three concurrent reform programmes put forth in the name of ‘Europe’. In the economic sphere, prospective membership of the EU has led to the emergence of a reformatory discourse that calls for wholesale liberalization and the opening up of the economy to the outside world, as well as a reduced role for the state in the management of the economic system. In an address to parliament in January 2000, the then prime minister, Andrius Kubilius, argued for fully fledged privatization on the grounds that ‘private economy and initiative are conceived in the modern European world as conditions for the state’s success’ (italics mine). Kubilius also appealed to the left-wing opposition on the basis that in western Europe, even left-wing parties support privatization and a lessstatist economy.72 In another speech, he specifies more concretely what needs to be privatized and reformed, namely, the two remaining state banks, Lithuanian airlines, railroads, energy and gas sectors. Furthermore, the government envisages the integration of the country’s infrastructure into the European rail and other transportation systems. The creation of favourable conditions for domestic and international business, as well as constant and reliable banking and monetary policies, is also constantly emphasized as part of the Europeanization of the Lithuanian economy.73 Administrative and legal reform is also a significant element of the ‘European modernization’ discourse. Here, emphasis is placed upon the improvement of public bureaucracies, the fight against corruption and the thorough implementation of the acquis communautaire in order to ensure that Lithuanian laws meet European standards.74 Finally, political and societal transformations are also conceived in terms of European norms pertaining to the internalization of democratic practices and the development of civil society. This discourse mainly relates to internal political consolidation, smoothly functioning democracy, free press and viable NGOs.75 Lithuanian élites point to ‘democracy in practice’: a democratically elected government, a functioning party system, the freest media in the CEE, a stable ethnic environment and the existence of 2, 000 NGOs.76 From the above analysis it can be seen that the discursive nodal point of ‘Europe’ draws together different and broader discourses into a coherent unit and is perceived as a value in itself, the future condition of Lithuania that is the only way to define and legitimize its ‘modernization’ course. ‘Europe’ is the crucial and dominating meta-narrative of how politics, economy and society should be shaped in the independent Lithuania, and functions as a firm anchor for domestic reforms on an unprecedented scale. CONCLUSION In this chapter I have identified three discursive developments that link ‘Europe’ with the crucial elements of Lithuanian identity. Firstly, I noted how European
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integration is presented as a return to Lithuania’s ‘natural’ place of belonging. This discourse concerns the true nature of Lithuanian identity, which, due to common values, a common history and a common heritage is constructed as part of the European self. Such a move also represents a means of distancing Lithuania from the ‘other’, in the form of the East, Russia and the communist past that are deemed to threaten ‘European Lithuania’. Further to the establishment of the ‘Lithuania in Europe’ idea, one can trace the emergence of a discourse portraying the country as Europe’s outpost in the East and the transmitter of European values and norms to the surrounding region. This development is especially present in the discourse on Kaliningrad, where Lithuania is modelled as a European state that behaves according to the appropriate principles and assists Kaliningrad in solving its problems. Secondly, the discourse on ‘Europe’ relates this concept to the basic constellation of nation/state and argues that ‘Europe’ will protect the ethnic nation and secure the protecting state. Given the importance of the sovereignty discourse in Lithuania, ‘Europe’ is primarily conceived as an inter-state cooperation project. It is at this point that the most influential alternative discourse gains ground, through its arguments for economic nationalism and the preservation of national identity in a sovereign nation-state. Finally, ‘Europe’ also functions as a discursive nodal point knitting together more general discourses of how ‘we’ should develop, of where ‘we’ should go and where this will take ‘us’. In more concrete policy terms, the discursive nodal point binds together discourses on the modernization of the country in the economic, political and administrative senses. To sum up, identity politics in the post-Cold War Lithuania have centred around the notion of a ‘return to Europe’. Efforts within Lithuania to include the country in the European ‘self should be seen as attempts to overcome the threat of marginalization and association with the East. The use of the past is instrumental in this respect, since the argument of shared European past and heritage legitimize moves to confer a European identity upon Lithuania. Concurrently, the discourse on ‘Europe’ and European integration is ‘fitted’ within the existing building blocs of Lithuanian identity and the main narratives of modernization in post-communist Lithuania. Here ‘Europe’ is conceptualized as a kind of ‘promised land’ or regained paradise that guarantees freedom, security, democracy and well-being in Lithuania. ‘Europe’ thus assumes a central role in identity politics, by becoming a main reference point in the issues of ‘who we are’ and ‘how we live’ in the post-Cold War Lithuania. NOTES I would like to thank the Copenhagen Peace Research Institute for research assistance and especially Iver Neumann, Grazina Miniotaite and Thomas Diez in particular for their valuable comments and suggestions on this chapter. Responsibility for all arguments and views remain mine.
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1. E.Adler, ‘Seizing the Middle Ground: Constructivism in World Polities’, European Journal of International Relations, 3, 3 (1997), pp. 324, 329. 2. O.Wæever, Concepts of Security (Copenhagen: Institute of Political Science, University of Copenhagen, 1997), p. 23. 3. By the discourse I mean publicly made utterances and speech acts, for example, interviews, articles, reports, policy statements, public statements, speeches, etc. My focus is on the ‘central’ statements about the Lithuanian nation-state and the political and social order that relate to, incorporate, or refer to the European integration. Discourse analysis enables the researcher, unable to get into the heads of political actors, to study tangible and accessible utterances from the public debate. See O.Wæever, ‘Explaining Europe by Decoding Discourses’, in A.Wivel (ed.), Explaining European Integration (Copenhagen: Copenhagen Political Studies Press, 1998), p. 107. 4. H.Larsen, Foreign Policy and Discourse Analysis, France, Britain and Europe (London and New York: Routledge, 1997), p. 14. 5. Wæever, ‘Explaining Europe’, pp. 107–9. On the constructed EU and NATO interest in enlargement, see K.M.Fierke and A.Wiener, ‘Constructing Institutional Interests: EU and NATO Enlargement’, Journal of European Public Policy, 6, 5 (1999), pp. 721–42. For the ‘rhetorical entrapment’ of the EU as regards enlargement to the East, see F.Schimmelfennig, ‘International Socialisation in the New Europe. Rational Action in an Institutional Environment’, European Journal of International Relations, 6, 1 (2000), pp. 109–41. 6. Parallel to the construction of Europe as a ‘we’ concept, the political identity of European member states has been simultaneously built against an ‘other’, be it Russia or Europe’s own past. See I.Neuman, ‘European Identity, EU Expansion, and the Integration/Exclusion Nexus’, Alternatives, 23 (1998), pp. 397–416; I. Neuman, Uses of the Other. ‘The East’ in European Identity Formation (Minnesota: Minnesota University Press, 1999); Wæver, Concepts of Security, chs. 9 and 10. 7. Wæever, ‘Explaining Europe’; Larsen, Foreign Policy and Discourse Analysis; U. Holm, ‘The French Garden is no Longer What it Used to Be’, in K.E.Jørgensen (ed.), Reflective Approaches to European Governance (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1997); T.Risse, D.Engelmann-Martin, H-J.Knopf and K.Rosher, ‘To Euro or Not to Euro? EMU and Identity Politics in the European Union’, European Journal of International Relations, 5, 2 (1999), pp. 147–88. 8. T.Diez, ‘Europe as a Discursive Battleground: The Study of Discourse and the Analysis of European Integration Policy’, unpublished manuscript for submission to Cooperation and Conflict. 9. G.Miniotaite, ‘The Security Policy of Lithuania and the ‘Integration Dilemma’, COPRI Working Paper no. 5 (Copenhagen, 2000), p. 27. 10. M.Cichock, ‘Interdependence and Manipulation in the Russian-Baltic Relationship: 1993–97’, Journal of ‘Baltic Studies, 30, 2 (1999), p. 89. 11. ‘Constitutional Act on the Republic of Lithuania’s Non-Alignment with PostSoviet and Eastern Alliances, adopted by the Supreme Council and Reconstitutent Seimas of the Republic of Lithuania’, 8 June 1992; ‘Republic of Lithuania Law on the Basics of National Security’, adopted by the Seimas, 19 December 1996. All translations of documents from the Lithuanian debate are mine.
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12. President Adamkus’ recent talk about ‘living on Vesuvio’ is not an isolated statement. V.Adamkus, ‘Only the New Politics Can Lead to the Future’, state-ofthe-nation address of the President of Lithuania, 20 April 2000, http://rope.lt/ Iiet_integracija/straipsnis20000420.php.3 13. ‘Signs of the Time’, Lietuvos Rytas, editorial, 14 June 2000, http://www.lrytas.lt/ 20000614/lzenklai.htm It should be noted, however, that there is also a view amongst one section of the Lithuanian élite, especially members of the former Democratic Labour Party (ex-communists, now joined with social democrats), that the Lithuanian side itself is provoking the confrontational politics from the Russian side, especially in the context of the recently adopted law on compensation demanded from the Russian federation for Soviet occupation damage. I thank Grazina Miniotaite for pointing this out. 14. Ibid. 15. Lietuvos Rytas, 15 June 2000, http://www.lrytas.lt/20000615/aktl5_as.htm 16. ‘Republic of Lithuania Law on the Basics of National Security’. 17. V.Usackas, Deputy Minister of Foreign Affairs, Republic of Lithuania, chief negotiator for Lithuania’s accession to the EU. ‘The European Union From a Lithuanian Perspective’, 8 June 2000, http://www.urm.lt/eu-negotiations/ art0608.htm 18. A.Saudargas, Minister of Foreign Affairs of the Republic of Lithuania, opening statement at the Conference on Accession to the European Union, Brussels, 15 February 2000, http://sme.eunet.be/lt-mission-eu/MissionEC/press/ 000215statement.html 19. J.Cicinskas, ‘Lithuania Has to Use the Opportunities of Europe’, Lietuvos Rytas, 20 May 2000, htttp://rope.euro.lt/liet_integracija/straipsnis20000525.php3 20. Entirely typical in this regard is the claim by Vytautas Landsbergis, chairman of the Lithuanian parliament, that ‘when we talk about the real security today, we think only about NATO’. Speech at the international conference NATO’s Role in the Changing Environment of European Security, Vilnius, 19 May 2000. http:// www.lrs.lt/chairman/kalbos 21. Ibid. 22. V.Landsbergis, opinion of the Seimas chairman on the signing of RussianBelarussian treaty, 9 December 1999, http://www.lrs.lt/chairman 23. Neumann ‘European Identity’, pp. 405–7; Schimmelfennig, ‘International Socialisation’, p. 131. 24. V.Landsbergis, cited in Lietuvos Aidas, 29 July 1999, http://www.aidas.lt/990729/ _0001ltnews.html In an address to the 45th General Assembly of the Atlantic Treaty Association in Strasbourg on 20 October 1999, Lithuanian Deputy Foreign Minister Vygaudas Usackas urged the Belarussian authorities ‘to create an atmosphere of confidence vis-à-vis the opposition…and to prepare a package of laws for free and fair parliamentary elections’. See http://www.urm.lt/new/address/ 1020str.html 25. ‘Foreign Policy. Relations Between Lithuania and Belarus’. Presentation on the web-pages of the Lithuanian Foreign Affairs Ministry, 17 April 2000, http:// www.urm.lt/political/belarus.htm 26. The metaphor of a European school for CEE states is taken from Schimmelfennig, ‘International Socialisation’, pp. 129–30. 27. Lietuvos Aidas, 29 April 2000, http://www.aidas.It/20000429/_0003Imews.html
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28. V.Usackas, ‘Linking Russia with New Europe’, Washington Times, 12 January 2000, http://www.urm.lt/new/address/0112was.htm 29. Usackas, ‘The European Union From a Lithuanian Perspective’. 30. Ibid. The Nida Iniatiative is a joint proposal by Lithuanian and Russian diplomats that calls for more attention and special care to be given to the Kaliningrad region. For the original document, see ‘Lithuanian and Russian Diplomats Coordinate Proposals on the EU Northern Dimension Initiative’, press release of the Lithuanian Ministry of Foreign Affairs, 9 February 2000. 31. Usackas, ‘Linking Russia with New Europe’. 32. O.Jusys, Deputy Minister of Foreign Affairs of the Republic of Lithuania. Statement at the conference ‘Northern Dimension and Kaliningrad—European and Regional Integration’, Copenhagen, 1–18 May 2000, http://www.urm.lt/new/ address/0517cop.htm 33. Usackas, ‘European Union From a Lithuanian Perspective’. 34. Adamkus, ‘Only the New Politics Can Lead to the Future’. 35. K.Jurgaitiene and O.Wæever, ‘Lithuania’, in H.Mouritzen, O.Wæever and H. Wiberg (eds), European Integration and National Adaptations. A Theoretical Inquiry (New York: Nova Science Publishers Inc., 1993), p. 195. 36. Wæever, ‘Explaining Europe’, p. 105. 37. Due to its near-universal character, this theory is applicable to the discourse analysis of any European country. For the French case, see Holm, ‘French Garden’. On Britain, see Larsen, Foreign Policy and Discourse Analysis. 38. Wæver, ‘Explaining Europe’, p. 113. 39. In fact, ‘true’ Lithuanian patriots maintained that the state re-emerged, since they claimed continuity from the medieval Kingdom of Lithuania. On the Lithuanian ‘national awakening’, see A.Lieven, The Baltic Revolution. Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania and the Path to Independence (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1993), pp. 54–82; Jurgaitiene and Wæever, ‘Lithuania’, pp. 187–8; P. Subacius, Lietuviu Tapatybes Kalve (Vilnius: Aidai, 1999), pp. 71–81; T.Snyder, ‘National Myths and International Relations: Poland and Lithuania, 1989–1994’, East European Politics and Societies, 9, 2 (1995), p. 339. On the central role of language in the Lithuanian nationalist struggle, see S.Spires, ‘Lithuanian Linguistic Nationalism and the Cult of Antiquity’, Nations and Nationalism, 5, 4 (1999), pp. 485–500. 40. Jurgaitiene and Wæever, ‘Lithuania’, p. 187 (italics mine). 41. Ibid., pp. 185, 188. 42. K.Gerner and S.Hedlund, The Baltic States and the End of the Soviet Empire (London and New York: Routledge, 1996), pp. 88–90; J.Hiden and P.Salmon, The Baltic Nations and Europe. Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania in the Twentieh Century (Harlow: Longman, 1991), p. 150. 43. See, for example, Hiden and Salmon, Baltic Nations and Europe, pp. 160–1. On ‘state-seeking nationalism’, see C.Tilly, European Revolutions, 1492–1992 (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1993), pp. 46–51. 44. Jurgaitiene and Wæever, ‘Lithuania’, p. 185. 45. Miniotaite, ‘Security Policy of Lithuania’. 46. ‘Lithuania. Ten Years of Challenges and Achievements. March 1990-March, 2000’. Newsletter of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of Lithuania, 1, 3 (March 2000), http://www.urm.lt/new/newsl/newsl7.htm
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47. Cicinskas, ‘Lithuania Has to Use the Opportunities of Europe’. 48. Ibid.; Usackas, ‘European Union From a Lithuanian Perspective’. 49. ‘Political Dialogue Between Lithuania and the EU’, presentation by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, 30 May 2000, http://www.urm.lt/eu/dial.htm 50. Usackas, ‘European Union From a Lithuanian Perspective’. 51. Cicinskas, ‘Lithuania Has to Use the Opportunities of Europe’. 52. Saudargas, opening statement. 53. Usackas, ‘European Union From a Lithuanian Perspective’. 54. Ibid. 55. V.Usackas, ‘EU Membership Expands the Potential for Lithuania’, Lietuvos Rytas, 9 May 2000, http://www.urm.lt/es-derybos/kalbos/0509ryt.htm. In this article, Usackas asserts that ‘Lithuania has the chance to become part of this unprecedented project [to create a unified economic and social space]’. 56. Adamkus, ‘Only the New Politics Can Lead to the Future’. See also Usackas, ‘European Union From a Lithuanian Perspective’. 57. Wæever, ‘Explaining Europe’, pp. 118–32. 58. T.Ignatavicius, ‘EU Enemies have Proposed to Create a New Union’, Lietuvos Rytas, 29 May 2000. 59. ‘Programme and Political Principles of the Lithuanian National Democratic Party’, http://lndp.lms.lt/programa.html 60. ‘Farmer’s Party is not willing to support Lithuania’s membership of the EU’, Lietuvos Rytas, 22 June 2000. 61. Adamkus, ‘Only the New Politics Can Lead to the Future’. 62. ‘Programme and Political Principles of the Lithuanian National Democratic Party’. 63. Figure taken from http://rope.euro.lt/liet_integracija/vnaplausos.htm 64. ‘Programme and Political Principles of the Lithuanian National Democratic Party’. 65. Ibid. 66. Ignatavicius, ‘EU Enemies have Proposed to Create a New Union’. 67. Diez, ‘Europe as a Discursive Battleground’. 68. Ibid. 69. Adamkus, ‘Only the New Politics Can Lead to the Future’. 70. Usackas, ‘European Union From a Lithuanian Perspective’. 71. Saudargas, opening statement. 72. A.Kubilius, speech to Parliament, 12 January 2000, http://www.lrvk.lt/aktualij/ savaite/kalba.html. The left and centre-left of the Lithuanian political spectrum, notably the Social Democratic Party, strongly oppose the privatization of strategic objects, especially in the energy and gas sector. Such calls for slowing privatization, coupled with arguments for greater public spending, clash with the EU’s demands for rapid restructuring, continuing privatization and sound economic and fiscal policies. 73. A.Kubilius, speech at the Adenauer Foundation’s conference, Lithuania in the Twenty-First Century Europe—Foreign Policy Priorities in the Road to EU and NATO, http://www.lrvk.lt/aktualij/savaite/kalba2.html; see also ‘Programme of the Government of the Republic of Lithuania for the Years 1999/2000’, http:// www.lrvl.lt/programa/programa.html
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74. See, for instance, President Adamkus’ speech to the British Chamber of Commerce, 17 May 2000, at http://www.president.lt/111876.htm 75. Ibid.; ‘Programme of the Government of the Republic of Lithuania’. 76. Spires, ‘Lithuanian Linguistic Nationalism and the Cult of Antiquity’.
10 The Baltic States in Russian Foreign Policy Discourse: Can Russia Become a Baltic Country? VIATCHESLAV MOROZOV
THE DISCOURSE OF ‘FALSE EUROPE’ Using the famous phrase coined by Carl Bildt, one may call the relations between Russia and the Baltic states a litmus test for the success of the regionbuilding process around the Baltic Sea.1 The stage for future cooperation, as well as for a still conceivable future conflict, is shaped by today’s discursive practices, which have their roots in history and in the foundation myths of every nation involved. The Baltic states have been assigned a very specific role in the Russian debate on international affairs. In the dominant Russian foreign policy discourse, they have an extremely negative image. Estonia and Latvia first and foremost, but also Lithuania, play the role of an embodiment of the ‘false Europe’, to use Iver Neumann’s term.2 The juxtaposition between a ‘true’ and a ‘false’ Europe has been a persistent theme in the Russian debate at least since the nineteenth century, and has been very important for the definition of Russia’s self and its place in Europe. Whilst the content of both notions has changed in line with shifts in the political situation, the ‘false’ Europe has always been used by politicians as a foil against which they can portray themselves as defenders of European values. One of the most characteristic examples of this discursive game was the Russian membership of the Holy Alliance, which allowed the tsarist regime to play the role of a defender of ‘true’ European values, such as monarchy and order, against the barbarian revolutionaries. Nor was such logic alien to the communists. The Soviet reaction to the creation of the European Community in the 1950s, for instance, can be interpreted in terms of a ‘truly European’, peaceful and co-operative USSR criticizing a ‘fake’ project of ‘European unity’ inspired by the United States and driven by capitalist greed. This posture in a way helps to overcome the feeling of inferiority that is always present in Russia’s attitude towards Europe, beset by an ambiguous sense of belonging and exclusion. The first major attempt to ‘bring Russia back to Europe’ was started by Peter the Great at the turn of the eighteenth century, but one of its most significant results was to elicit a growing concern amongst Russian intellectuals at the imperfection of Russian ‘Europeanness’. This
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concern found its most striking expression in the writings of Piotr Chaadayev, who bemoaned the inability of the Russian people to develop independently and urged the Russians to identify with Europe.3 Chaadayev’s writings were among the first position statements in a long discussion between westernizers and Slavophiles that has continued right up to the present day. The basic content of the two standpoints may be characterized by their attitude to the allegedly nonEuropean traits in the Russian culture. Whereas westernizers have viewed these as a burden and looked for ways to bring Russia closer to the ‘civilized world’, Slavophiles and their heirs have celebrated the unique features of Russian civilization as an advantage that would eventually enable Russia to move ahead of the ‘decaying West’. Today, the topic of the Baltic states and their attitude towards Russia is also actively exploited by domestic actors in their search for political capital. Those in power use this game to legitimize current foreign and domestic policy, which can be made to look more ‘European’ against the background of a ‘false Europe’. The oppositionists, for their part, have quite often bolstered their own popularity by arguing that the government’s policy is playing into the hands of the ‘false Europe’. This confrontational approach to the Baltic states is therefore deeply entrenched in Russian history, political culture and the domestic political situation. At the same time, the idea of Baltic Sea co-operation is very popular among the Russian foreign policy élite. Russia is a keen participant in various regional organizations, where its representatives often work side by side with those of the Baltic states. The existence of this dense institutional network and the amount of practical co-operation actually taking place has prompted some authors to argue that the unique situation in the Baltic region provides Russia and Europe with an opportunity to overcome the legacy of the Cold War and create a new, security community to the benefit of both sides.4 It has been pointed out by many, however, that the attainment of this goal would require Russia to give up its great power ambitions and learn to play by new rules, treating its Baltic partners as peers regardless of their size and military might. In a way, it could be said that if Russia wants to use Trenin’s ‘Baltic chance’, it must become a Baltic country—no more and no less than one among the equal participants of the Baltic region-building project.5 This would also involve a further, perhaps more profound change in political thinking. According to Ole Wæever, the Baltic region-building project can be described as a post-modern phenomenon. This is firstly because the region itself is a network, and a largely non-state network, that has been created in a spontaneous manner through a growing number of separate interactions and without any overall plan or superior authority. What is expected from the state in such a network is, in the first instance, self-limitation and non-interference. Secondly, the network is an open one, with no strict criteria for membership. Thirdly, the region handles security by means of desecuritization:
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We do other things together, and possibly we thereby transform the security relationship even without declaring this a security strategy. … Security is a reason for co-operating about something else which is formally not security, and by this ‘crowding out’ security, it is actually handled. Finally, in the case of the Baltic Sea region one can observe a blurring of the notions of centre and periphery. Instead of ‘an empire-like structuration of Europe with a centre [in Brussels, or possibly in the ‘booming banana’ region] and concentric circles around it’ we get the Northern Dimension project, which, without trying to put the Baltics in the centre, nevertheless defies its peripheral status.6 Thus, in place of the modern concern with spheres of influence and the discourse of an objectively given national interest framed according to a strict division of the inside and the outside, the Russian foreign policy élite should adapt to the post-modern environment of the early twen-ty-first-century Baltic region, where borders are blurred, identities shifting and uncertain and the hierarchy of actors ill-established. A number of questions arise if one is to consider this perspective as a political option. Is, for example, the federal government in Moscow prepared to consent to an intensification of cross-border interactions in which regional and subregional authorities, as well as non-state actors, would be involved and which could not be so strictly controlled by the centre? Are there people—at the central as well as at the (sub-)regional levelble of thinking in terms of the new categories? Is the West—inasmuch as it remains the West in the current post-modern setting—prepared, after all, to embrace a new Russia and to do away with the East-West divide? Or is the policy of tariffs, visas and military precautions—in short, the policy of exclusion—going to continue forever, thereby creating a vicious circle of disillusionment and isolationism in Russia, which could in turn provide the West with a justification for doing nothing and remaining firmly fortified as the West? The scope of this chapter, however, is limited to just one of the questions that have to be addressed if the prospects of Baltic regionalism are to be taken seriously. This question concerns the relations between Russia and the Baltic states and in particular the place of the Baltic states in Russian foreign policy discourse. Can Russia do away with its practice of using the Baltics as a ‘false Europe’ for the sake of such greater gains as becoming a part of a wider European political and economic space, even if this would involve giving up the country’s great power identity? There are too many factors in play to give a definite answer to this question, but I would be inclined to answer it in the negative. This pessimistic view is based on the conclusion that the great power discourse puts any Russian political actor in a much more advantageous position than do painstaking attempts to grasp the post-modern reality of the Baltic region and—an even more challenging task—to reshape the dominant discourse accordingly.
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In what follows I will examine the discursive practice of ‘false Europe’ with particular reference to the 1998 crisis in Latvian-Russian relations. I will then analyse the concept of continuity in the Russian state-building tradition and perceptions of Russian national interests in the Baltic Sea region. The importance of continuity for the Russian selfunderstanding, I argue, defies any attempt to prove that reconciling oneself to reality offers the fastest route to future prosperity. The national interests of Russia in the Baltic region, deduced by some liberally minded experts from their analysis of ‘objective’ factors, do not necessarily have to correspond to the national interests of Russia as an eternal great power, which are socially constructed in the dominant foreign policy discourse. However, the calculation of costs and benefits is very likely to determine Russia’s policy on low-key issues, which do not affect her selfperception and self-definition. Limited regional co-operation is therefore possible even without regionalism in the proper sense of the word. The scope of this chapter is limited to the dominant foreign policy discourse. This means, firstly, that the main focus will be on the statist thought expressed in texts by derzhiavniki—the proponents of great power ideology. Since this school of thought is by far the most powerful one in today’s Russia, I almost entirely leave out more marginal viewpoints—totalitarian as well as liberal. Furthermore, my study is limited to discourses, and therefore I do not aim to deal with actors’ interests and motives for action. If one agrees with Ole Wæever, then once we have embarked upon discourse analysis, the question of what the actors actually think and what are their ‘real’ goals should not concern us at all, otherwise the methodology is flawed. However, in order to be consistent I have to consider the stated aims of the actors and the results they achieve through their policies, because this theme is an integral part of the discourse. The notion of the layered discourse structure, developed by Wæver, is also very useful for the analysis of the Russian foreign policy discourse, since it enables one to deal rather successfully with the problem of change in discursive analysis. ‘The deeper [discursive] structures’, Wæever writes, ‘are more solidly sedimented and more difficult to politicize and change, but change is always in principle possible since all these structures are socially constituted.’7 The notions upon which the deepest levels of the discursive structure are based are also shared by the bulk of the society, and questioned only by marginal opposition circles, political or intellectual. Hence, I argue that the great power discourse and the notion of continuity of the state-building tradition belong to the deeper layers of the discoursive structure, and thus limit the future policy options most rigidly. THE BALTIC STATES IN THE RUSSIAN DISCUSSION: THE 1998 CRISIS In their studies of Russian-Baltic relations, both written before 1998, Dimitrii Trenin and Alexander Sergounin point out that the balance of interests in Russian society is in favour of a co-operative approach towards the Baltic neighbours.
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According to Sergounin’s analysis, the Russian business community—both the major oil and gas exporters and the small traders—were at that time ‘interested in the maintenance of good relations with the Baltic Sea countries’.8 Although some groups within Russian society certainly were inclined towards ‘concentrating attention on the problem side of Russian-Baltic relations’, these were only marginal opposition factions, such as the Communist and Liberal Democratic Parties. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs, on the other hand, sometimes played into their hands merely in order to appease the Duma or to demonstrate a semblance of consensus in foreign policy.9 Despite a gradual slide towards derzhavnost’—more in rhetoric than in practice—there still was a chance that ‘as Russia progresses with its reforms, the need for a more constructive and coherent policy in the area could emerge’.10 Relations between Russia and the Baltic republics reached their peak during the conservative communist coup of August 1991, when the Russian Federation —still officially part of the USSR—recognized the independence of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania. The Baltic cause was used by President Yeltsin in his struggle for power against the Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev, but Russian liberals expressed their genuine solidarity with the Baits in the common fight for freedom. However, as bilateral relations developed after the collapse of the USSR, issues such as troop withdrawal, minority rights, territorial disputes and smuggling began to cloud the horizon. On the one hand, Russia claimed for itself the role of guarantor of security and stability in the entire post-Soviet space, which was perceived in the Baltic states as a pretext for interference in their internal affairs. On the other hand, the nationalist governments in Latvia and Estonia refused to automatically grant citizenship to the majority of Russian speakers residing in these countries, thereby evoking disenchantment on the part of their former allies in Russia. As early as 1993, Russian society began to entertain bitter feelings towards the Baltic states, ranging from disappointment on the part of the ‘democrats’ to covert hatred among some of the most radical ‘patriots’.11 The ‘false Europe’ discourse was one of the most characteristic ways of expressing these sentiments: the decision of the Council of Baltic Sea States in March 1993 to appoint a high commissioner for human rights and minorities, which was taken at Russia’s urgent request, can be interpreted as an example of this discursive practice. In 1998/99, however, the situation changed in some very important respects. The acute crisis in the relations between Russia and Latvia during this year united almost the entire nation around the discourse on the Baltic states as an embodiment of ‘false Europe’. The same pattern was repeated on a wider scale the following year, when the wars in Kosovo and Chechnya consolidated society behind the government’s foreign policy and made any opposition to the confrontational attitude politically unfeasible. In view of their significance, a brief consideration of the events leading up to the Russian-Latvian crisis is in order.
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On 3 March 1998 police in Riga dispersed a demonstration of mostly Russianspeaking pensioners, evoking furious condemnation from the Russian authorities. The tension between the two countries escalated further when, on 16 March, about 500 veterans of the Latvian Waffen-SS units formed during World War Two marked the 54th anniversary of their battles in Riga with a memorial service at the Dom Cathedral and a flower-laying procession to the Freedom Monument.12 The Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs sharply criticized the government of Latvia for authorizing the memorial gathering, while President Yeltsin’s spokesman, Sergei Yastrzhembskii, expressed concern about the ‘silence’ of other European countries over the march. Yastrzhembskii questioned whether the lack of condemnation of the march indicated that the verdicts at the Nuremberg trials were no longer deemed binding under international law and whether Europe was willing to invite ‘a country whose government panders to SS remnants’ into the ‘zone of democracy’. The official reaction to the events had three characteristic features. Firstly, it was somewhat disproportionate, especially at the early stage. Secondly, Russian politicians and diplomats appealed to the norms of the new Europe, set out in documents such as the 1990 Paris Charter and embodied in institutions such as the OSCE and the Council of Europe, in order to justify their criticism of Latvia. Thirdly and finally, any suggestions for settling the matter through dialogue were swept aside. In the meantime other political actors tried to capitalize on the campaign launched by the authorities. Moscow mayor, Yurii Luzhkov, in particular made the most of these events. Luzhkov took the initiative in urging the government to reduce the flow of goods through Latvia by exporting them via Kaliningrad and St Petersburg. Speaking to a nationalist gathering in front of the Latvian embassy in Moscow on 28 March, Luzhkov accused the Latvian authorities of ‘pursuing a consistent policy of genocide’ against the Russian-speaking population and told journalists that he favoured ‘all possible measures…except force’ to protect Russian speakers in Latvia. He even went so far as to compare Riga’s policies to Pol Pot’s rule in Cambodia [sic!]. Political passions grew further after 6 April, when a memorial to Jewish victims of the German Nazi occupation was vandalized in the Latvian port of Liepaja and a bomb attack occurred outside the gates of the Russian embassy in Riga. Other regional bosses now rushed behind Luzhkov to rail at Latvia. An unprecedented campaign to boycott Latvian-made products unfolded in Moscow. At the request of the city administration, apparently supported by a majority of Muscovites, stores in the Russian capital stopped selling Latvian merchandise, and signs saying ‘No Latvian goods’ appeared in many shop windows. However, despite this extraordinary campaign, the success of Russian diplomacy in terms of delivering the outcome everyone was allegedly striving for (i.e. improving the situation of the Russian speakers in Latvia) was very modest. At one stage the western response appeared favourable for Russia: President Jacques Chirac of France, Chancellor Helmut Kohl of Germany and
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Foreign Lamberto Minister Dini of Italy all condemned the veterans’ march in Riga. The OSCE’s high commissioner on national minorities, Max der Stoël, also issued a statement denouncing the legionnaires’ parade and warned Riga of possible international isolation if the Latvian laws on citizenship and language were not amended. Latvia had little choice but to comply. A bill to amend the citizenship law was introduced in April. However, as the Russian rhetoric grew harsher, the international community closed ranks and the Latvian government was flooded with messages of support from the US, the EU and other western governments. The changes to the Latvian citizenship law, implemented on 10 November 1998, brought only marginal improvements in the situation of the country’s Russian speakers. The controversial ‘windows’ system for naturalization of noncitizens was abolished, children of non-citizens born after independence obtained the right to gain citizenship automatically if their parents so request, and simpler language tests were introduced for older residents wishing to apply for citizenship. However, even these minor amendments have led to a threefold increase in the number of citizenship applications (5,590 in 1998, 15,170 in 1999), and in the number of persons who have successfully obtained citizenship (4,439 in 1998, 12,427 in 1999).13 The changes were interpreted by some Russian commentators as a major victory for Russian diplomacy, and ‘the solidarity of the world public with Moscow’ was particularly emphasized.14 The fact that the liberalization of the citizenship law was to some extent counterbalanced by amendments to the language law introduced in 1999 was largely ignored, although the Russian foreign ministry has harshly criticized Latvia for the new bill.15 In any case, the August 1998 Russian economic crisis served to turn the attention of the Russian public away from the problems of ‘compatriots’ in the Baltic states. There are varying hypotheses about the driving forces behind the 1998 controversy. In this regard, most of the credit should certainly go to the ‘oil theory’. In January 1998 the city authorities of the Latvian port of Ventspils had announced higher oil tariffs, which, in combination with lower oil prices, would have inevitably lead to a drop in oil transit through this main Latvian port, even without taking any political factors into account. After the crisis the loading costs were reduced, which led some Latvian leaders to the conclusion that the crisis was deliberately initiated by the Russian oil lobby.16 Another part of the game was the attempt by Russian oligarchs to gain control over the Ventspils oil terminal, which was entering the process of privatization.17 On the other hand, the crisis was clearly used by the oil lobby to advance preparations for the controversial Baltic Oil Pipeline System (BOPS) project, which envisages the construction of several new Russian oil terminals in the Gulf of Finland as substitutes for the Ventspils port.18 The project is heavily dependent on state support and therefore on swings in the political situation. However, this study is less concerned with the reasons for the crisis in LatvianRussian relations than it is with its consequences, most notably the way in which
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it effected the basic patterns of the foreign policy discourse. In this respect, what is important is Yurii Luzhkov’s success in reshaping the discourse, which led to an enormous growth in his popularity outside Moscow after 1998. Whilst it would be an exaggeration to attribute this growth solely to Luzhkov’s antiLatvian campaign, the latter still provided the Moscow mayor with a unique opportunity to present himself as a tough politician struggling to defend the interests of all ‘compatriots’, no matter where they live. Other politicians had little option but to follow suit. The 1998 crisis in Latvian-Russian relations was not just an attempt to ‘distract public opinion from the nation’s serious problems’.19 What appeared from the outside as an agreement between key political actors was in fact an acute competition between them to promote their own—and diverse—political agendas. By proclaiming their own adherence to European values such as human rights and the anti-fascist legacy, Russian political actors attempted to single out the Baltics as the black sheep of the European family, thereby increasing their own legitimacy by assuming the right to speak on behalf of the ‘true Europe’. This move was facilitated by the fact that the attitude of Russian society in general towards the basic democratic values was at that time relatively unproblematic. At the same time, the aspiration to adopt the role of ‘true Europe’ has not led Russia’s leaders much further than appeals to the OSCE and other European institutions. In the end, the preferred outcome was traditional power-political action, and the sanctions introduced against Latvia met with much greater approval at home than the awkward attempts to use multilateral diplomacy. THE BALTIC STATES AS A ‘FALSE EUROPE’ IN THE CURRENT DEBATE The 1998 crisis was quite possibly the first instance of internal consolidation against an ‘external other’ in the whole post-Soviet history of Russia. The relatively mild economic sanctions that the Duma imposed on Latvia were supported by a broad popular movement to boycott Latvian goods. A similar, but much more pronounced, phenomenon of consolidation can be observed as a reaction to the wars in Kosovo and Chechnya. In 1999 and early 2000 Russia found itself in a deep identity crisis. The political élite was still unprepared to give up its aspiration to turn Russia into a ‘truly European’ country, and thus had to justify its actions from the point of view of European values. This task, however, has proved to be increasingly difficult in a situation where the Russian government’s conduct is sharply criticized by the same institutions that have quite recently been presented to the public as embodiments of the ‘true Europe’. Under these circumstances, the government has opted for a confrontational position vis-à-vis the West. It staged a dramatic break with NATO, allowed for serious doubts to be expressed about the value of Council of Europe membership, and has on occasion even adopted an antagonistic attitude towards the OSCE and the EU. If disagreement with the western partners/rivals was nothing new, the
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bitterness of the antiwestern rhetoric in the mainstream media reached a record high for the entire post-Soviet period. The state has thus moved to occupy the position previously held by its nationalist critics to enhance their profile on the domestic scene. It is hard to judge to what extent this move is deliberate, and how strong was the pressure of the external factors, above the reality of the Kosovo conflict. However, this question seems to be relevant only if one aims at some kind of an evaluation of Moscow’s policy from a normative viewpoint. To analyse the Russian foreign policy discourse vis-à-vis the West, and the role played in this discourse by the Baltic states, it is sufficient to say that even if the government adopted this new position half-heartedly, it did its best to avail itself of the new situation. Vladimir Putin’s rapid ascent to the Russian presidency would have been unimaginable without his demonstratively tough stance against western pressure during the Chechen conflict. This fact clearly shows the extent to which the new discursive practice adopted by the government resonated with deeper discursive structures in Russian society. The November 1999 summit of the OSCE and the decision by the Parliamentary Assembly of the Council of Europe (PACE) to propose Russia’s exclusion from the council were major tests for the self-image of Russia as a European country. In this situation the lasting theme of the Russian-speaking minorities in the Baltic countries has been especially instrumental in the search for legitimacy by the Russian foreign policy élite—a search that was still conducted by ‘European’ means, but led to clear power-political conclusions. On the eve of the Istanbul summit of the OSCE, the Russian press was full of alarmist statements.20 However, after it emerged that the outcome of the summit could be interpreted as a success, the tone changed. Instead of emphasizing the alleged anti-Russian bias of the OSCE, Russian diplomats and commentators returned to the old tactic of playing up their standard human rights agenda and discarding the charges against Russia as a fiction. The situation in the Baltic states has been assigned a particular role in this argument. The director of the Department for Pan-European Co-operation of the Russian foreign ministry, Vladimir Chizhov, writing on the outcome of the Istanbul summit, emphasizes that ‘[f]rom the point of view of Russia, respect for human rights is a major aspect of the OSCE’s activity’, and goes on to praise ‘the activity of the organization on the issue of respect for the rights of the Russian-speaking population in the Baltic countries’.21 These rights are depicted as by far a more important problem for the OSCE than the alleged human rights violations by Russian forces in Chechnya. This, in turn, means that Russia is construed as a far better European than the Baltic states, and that the Baltics’ right to enter European institutions may be contested. Expecting a harsh critique of Russian conduct in Chechnya to be voiced at the Helsinki summit of the European Union in December 1999, the Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs made a preemptive move by calling upon the EU not to open membership talks with Latvia. The request was of course ignored by the European Council, but it gave the Russian press a chance to
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comment on the role of international organizations, which, ‘to be fair, … episodically point out the antidemocratic policy of the Latvian authorities. However, this is done from time to time and without that particular insistency, which the western human rights advocates demonstrate while appealing on a range of issues to Russia.’22 The Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs later made similar hints regarding Estonia’s prospective membership of the Union.23 The unreserved support for the Chechen cause expressed by some political forces in the Baltic states has been interpreted by the Russian press both as proof of the prevailing anti-Russian mood in the Baltics and as an extra indication of Chechen wickedness.24 The two arguments have thus become mutually reinforcing. Baltic support for the Chechens has also been used to justify the hard-line Russian policy towards these countries. In this regard, an Izvestiya article written in October 1999 claimed that ‘if Moscow did not react so oversensitively to attempts by Baltic deputies to advance the Chechen question within their parliaments, a majority of the legislators in Lithuania, Latvia and Estonia would rapidly vote to recognize the independence of Chechnya’.25 More or less the same points can be made regarding the prospects of NATO membership for the three Baltic countries. The desire of the Baltic states to become members is interpreted as additional evidence of their anti-Russian inclinations, while any statement on behalf of the NATO members confirming a willingness to admit the Baits is taken as an indication of the expansionist nature of the alliance. After the start of the 1999 campaign in Yugoslavia, Russian public opinion came to view the North Atlantic alliance as a definitely hostile body that violates the norms hypocritically proclaimed by its member states and threatens Russia by the very fact of its existence.26 For instance, a report compiled in 1999 by Sergei Karaganov’s influential Council on Security and Defence Policy declared that ‘in the present post-Yugoslavian conditions, NATO enlargement will already be interpreted not simply as a nonfriendly act, but even as a preparation for aggression’.27 Although such harsh rhetoric is absent from the 2000 report, a negative attitude to the alliance certainly remains.28 Sometimes, the picture of the Baltics as a possible NATO bridgehead can be created or reinforced by a very simple manipulation, whereby two different angles are selected when considering the significance of the Baltic states for Russia and the West. Thus, Konstantin Voronov describes Russian interests in the Baltic region in terms of trade and transit, whereas western concerns are described exclusively from the military-strategic viewpoint.29 In a similar fashion, Russian scholars make enormous efforts to prove that the allegedly anti-Russian behaviour of the Baltic states is part of a much larger game in which control over the entire world is at stake. Perry, Sweeney and Winner, for instance, are absolutely right when they claim that Russia’s diplomatic ventures towards the Baltics are inspired at least partly by a desire to engage in the same areas where Washington is active.30 US diplomatic initiatives in the region are closely monitored, and the situation in general is clearly interpreted as a zero-sum game. This was especially apparent when the US
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deputy secretary of state, Strobe Talbott, rejected accusations of pro-Nazi trends in the Baltic states, provoking an angry response in Russia.31 This attitude is, of course, a legacy of the Cold War period, when the strategic importance of northern Europe (especially from the point of view of air and strategic missile defence) meant that the United States and the Soviet Union constantly scrutinized each other’s moves in the military-political game.32 Even the US political establishment, notwithstanding its much greater self-confidence in the current historical situation, has still to rid itself of residual Cold War thinking. For Russia, this task is even more challenging. In 1997 Marina Kuchinskaya of the Russian Institute of Strategic Studies produced a detailed and generally balanced account of western efforts to create a regional security structure which might—at least temporarily—serve as a substitute for NATO membership for the Baltic states. Whilst Kuchinskaya does not insist that these efforts are directed against Russia, she nevertheless depicts all moves by regional actors (be it Sweden, Finland, Denmark or the Baltic states themselves) as being deliberately designed to implement geostrategic plans worked out in Washington. As such, her analysis cannot but leave the reader with the impression that some kind of hostile conspiracy is being realized in the immediate vicinity of Russia’s frontiers. That even attempts to appease and engage Russia with the help of Finland and Sweden are taken as evidence of an ‘aspiration to squeeze Russia out of the (military-political) security system being created in the region’ demonstrates the extent to which Russian interpretations of international reality are still framed in terms of global rivalry between the great powers.33 According to Kuchinskaya, these plots are designed on the one hand, to fill the ‘Vacuum of influence’ that has arisen following the demise of the USSR and the Warsaw Treaty Organisation and to secure western preponderance, and on the other hand to create the preconditions for possible American military intervention upon the aggravation of crisis situations.34 The argument that various European bodies are biased against Russia in turn facilitates the process of explaining international sanctions to the public at home. Thus, the April 2000 decision by PACE was rationalized as a result of work by anti-Russian forces, represented by ‘a whole group of deputies, adversely programmed in advance, especially from the Baltic countries, Holland, Great Britain, Hungary’.35 It is absolutely clear that without mentioning the Baltic countries in the first place, the phrase would lose most of its emotional appeal. There is no doubt that a similar image of Russia as a ‘false Europe’ exists in the Baltic states, and that the two mirror images are mutually reinforcing. The political reality of the Baltic states gives Russian policymakers and commentators an ample choice of topics upon which to base their criticism. As well as the problems of the Russian-speaking minorities in Estonia and Latvia and the Latvian SS veterans’ marches, one can also mention the controversial
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sale of a shareholding in Lithuania’s Mažeikiai oil refinery to a US-based company. This decision evoked outrage on the part of the Russian company LUKoil, and was interpreted by Russian experts as ‘a glaring example of the political motivation prevailing over the economic one’.36 The trial of 77-year-old Vasilii Kononov for allegedly killing Latvian civilians while fighting for the Red partisans during the Second World War, and the warning by the Latvian president, Vaira Vike-Freiberga, on 30 April 2000, that Russia might use military force against Latvia and the other Baltic states, have also received much public attention. Even the liberal weekly the Moscow News, which usually takes a very balanced attitude towards the Baltics, has published perplexed articles on these two topics.37 Among the routine statements by the Russian foreign ministry condemning the Baltic states for various ‘unfriendly acts’, most strongly worded are those in which the memory of the anti-fascist struggle is evoked. In its reaction to the Waffen-SS veterans’ marches or to Kononov’s trial, Moscow has stopped just short of accusing Riga of a profascist position. Indeed, it has gone so far as to assert that nationalism in Latvia is entering a phase of openly advocating Nazism.38 The value of these official statements, however, is very much reduced by the fact that it has become almost a ritual to cite Latvia or the Baltic states as a whole in response to any charges against Moscow or simply at regular meetings with western politicians. Russian diplomats raise the issue of the alleged human rights violations of the Russian-speaking population in Latvia and Estonia at every possible occasion: at a meeting with the Finnish foreign minister and the UN High Commissioner for Human Rights, with the Council of Europe SecretaryGeneral Walter Schwimmer, at the Council of Baltic Sea States sessions, and apparently every time they speak or write about the OSCE.39 On such occasions, it is the violation of European standards that the Baltic states (especially Latvia) are accused of: consider, for instance, such newspaper headlines as ‘Riga against the European standards’ or ‘Latvian nationalists want to deceive Europe’.40 Sometimes, Russian leaders really stretch the point by using Latvia and Estonia as an excuse for their own failures. This was arguably the case when acting president, Vladimir Putin, responded to a message from some 200 US Congressmen asking him to combat anti-Semitism by calling on US ‘lawmakers to resolutely condemn the leadership of those countries where anti-fascist veterans are prosecuted while former Nazis remain unnoticed’.41 Yet perhaps the most flagrant example of the utilitarian approach to Baltic problems was a vote taken by the Duma during mid-November 1999, one month before the Russian parliamentary elections. On this occasion, the lower house adopted a resolution condemning Latvia’s draft language law and a bill supporting Russian citizens in Latvia, while voting in the second reading to impose sanctions on Latvia. After the voting, the chairman of the Duma Foreign Affairs Committee, Vladimir Lukin, reportedly said to the Latvian prime minister, Andris Skele: ‘do not take these things to heart, it’s pre-election time with us!’42 It is against this background that the Russian press uses casual slander against the ‘human rights
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violators from the Baltic countries’ as small change while discussing other topics, such as irregularities in the privatization of the company Aviakor.43 The confrontational attitude towards the Baltic states is thus deeply entrenched in Russian political culture and the domestic political situation. To prove the case for a co-operative approach to Baltic issues is a much more challenging task than to stay within the ‘false Europe’ discourse. It would, moreover, involve an even braver symbolic move, since anyone rejecting the notion of the Baltic states as a ‘false Europe’ has to be ready to sooner or later face the question of Russia’s own imperfections as a European nation. The implication here is that if there is no one ‘worse than us’ in the European family, we must either recognize our failures and be open enough to discuss them, or else dissociate ourselves from the mistakes committed by the government, citing our own separate identity in response to any charges. Both options are basically open to actors in the Russian north-west, but there are other problems connected with this reidentification process that cannot be ignored. THE IMPORTANCE OF CONTINUITY FOR RUSSIAN STATE-BUILDING Although it is quite normal for Russian analysts to speak of the Baltics as ‘ethnocratic states’, only perhaps the most extreme nationalists would argue that these countries are the worst example of ‘ethnocracies’, even compared with some CIS states.44 The reason for the special position of the Baltic states in Russian foreign policy discourse can be attributed at least partly to a lack of knowledge about Baltic history and the current situation. As Dmitrii Trenin notes, there ‘is currently no serious study in Russia of the social, political and economic developments in the Baltic states. There are no specializing research centres. There is no dialogue between the élites. Such is the background for this discussion.’45 The language barrier is arguably an important factor in this regard. Very few Russians—at least in academic and political circles—can boast a knowledge of Estonian, Latvian or Lithuanian, which means that the state of the public mind in all three Baltic societies remains very much a mystery for the average Russian observer. It is no coincidence that perhaps the only article free of accusatory intonations published in any of the professional journals of the Russian foreign affairs community over the past several years was written by a specialist from Archangelsk who is conversant in Latvian.46 However, there are deeper foundations to this mistrust than simply a lack of knowledge. They have to do with the uncertain boundaries of the Russian political community and the disputed nature of Russia’s state and societal identity. The reason for the identification with the non-citizens of the Baltic states is never fully explained, but it is obvious that neither considerations of ethnicity nor of religion or language play the key role here. The relationship between the state and the nation—at least as far as the dominant Russian foreign
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policy discourse is concerned—is different from both the German and the French models, although it is definitely closer to the latter. It is difficult to imagine a kulturnation being built in such an ethnically and religiously diverse country, and the fact that Russia is a state of many ethnic groups (mnogonatsional’noye gosudarstvo) is constantly emphasized in official statements. Attempts by various Russian nationalist groups to achieve mobilization along ethnic lines have failed, most probably because the state identification has always been more important for Russians than the ethnic one.47 Whatever the explanation for these failures, the Russian state has nearly always relied upon and striven to bring about an inclusive community of citizens rather than an exclusive association of ethnic Russians.48 The nation is thus understood in political terms, as the community of all the citizens of Russia (rossiyane), and not only of the ethnic Russians (russkiye). At the same time, the very importance of this terminological distinction between rossiyane and russkiye demonstrates that ethnicity still has a role to play in the Russian political process. This ethnic dimension, with language as the key criterion of ethnicity, is also very much valid for the discourse about the ‘compatriots’ in the former Soviet republics. In each case, the distinction between ‘compatriots’ and ‘locals’ is made neither on purely legal nor on purely ethnic grounds. To give just a couple of examples, Russian-speaking citizens of Lithuania or Kazakhstan would still be counted as ‘compatriots’; and while Ukrainians in Ukraine are certainly ‘locals’ (and potential ‘oppressors’), in Latvia or Uzbekistan they would be considered ‘compatriots’. In fact, it is political loyalty to ‘Russian statehood’ that allegedly links ‘state-minded people’ (gosudarstvenniki) and the protagonists of the great power ideology (derzhiavniki) within Russia to ‘compatriots’ in the Baltics.49 The very term sootechestvennik (compatriot) is derived from otechestvo (fatherland or patrid), a concept which, unlike rodina (motherland), has a distinctly political meaning.50 Even an ethnic Latvian residing somewhere in central Asia could be treated as a ‘compatriot’, provided that he or she identifies with the Russian rather than the Latvian state. This is, at any rate, the essence of the definition of sootechestvennik as set out in the law ‘On the State Policy of the Russian Federation in Relation to Compatriots Abroad’.51 This remarkable document deserves to be quoted in some detail. Article 1 of the law defines ‘compatriots’ as ‘persons who were born in one state, residing or having resided in it and carrying the features of common language, religion, cultural heritage, traditions and customs, as well as the descendants of the specified persons in a direct descending line’. The more specific definition of ‘compatriots abroad’ includes Russian citizens residing abroad as well as all ‘persons having been citizens of the USSR, residing in the states that have formed part of the USSR, who have accepted citizenship of those states or have become stateless persons’. Under Article 3, ‘recognition of … onging to the compatriots’ is deemed a matter of free choice for former Soviet
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citizens, who can confirm this status by obtaining a special certificate issued by Russian diplomatic missions abroad. Those ‘compatriots’ who are formal citizens of Russia are expected to take part in Russian national elections, while all compatriots are supposed to unite on the basis of their Russian political identity.52 This kind of identification is highly ambiguous in the political space of the FSU as it is presently structured. For instance, although they may feel at home in Kazakhstan or Estonia, ‘compatriots’ will still use expressions like ‘our president, Vladimir Putin’.53 However, all these controversies can be solved if the present situation is perceived as temporary, while the Russian state is interpreted in Hegelian terms, as the ultimate raison d’être of the Russian nation (rossiyane), an eternal living organism that can go through bad times but which never dies and is therefore never reborn, and can never be rebuilt from scratch. Kamaludin Gadzhiev writes about this sacral nature of the state in the following way: The very idea of statehood is endowed with a deep philosophical, I would say ontological, sense… The great empires incarnate the very spirit of the peoples who created them… Without them [these peoples] would disappear for us without a trace in the dense fog of history. The same can be said about Russian statehood, which in the course of centuries has become an embodiment of the Russian idea and, at the same time, its base structure and engine.54 At the same time, this is a paternalistic state that takes care of its faithful wherever they find themselves at the moment in question. This actually constitutes quite a heavy burden for the present Russian government, which openly recognizes that it does not know what to do with the ‘compatriots’ but is still unable to renounce this responsibility. A more moderate—and more modernist—position is also present in the discourse, yet it is somewhat at the margins. The report of the Council on Security and Defence Policy for the year 2000 insists that ‘any state is obliged to assign the primary significance to its own interests and to its citizen taxpayers as compared with the inhabitants of other countries’.55 This statement, however, is intended to counterbalance the argument that the building of the Baltic Oil Pipeline System (BOPS) would be economically damaging to the mainly Russian-speaking employees of the Baltic transport industry. Such statements certainly demonstrate a new departure in the understanding of the relationship between nation and state; however, as argued in the next section, the insistence on the primacy of the national interest does not make this position any more receptive to the post-modern reality of the Baltic Sea region. The prevailing understanding of the state-society relationship has immediate consequences for the discourse on the Baltic states. Placing the Russian state at the top of their hierarchy of values, adherents to the great power ideology are unwilling or unable to renounce the legacy of the USSR. For them, the Soviet
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period is part of the 1,000-year history of the Russian state. The most extreme— and perhaps the most consistent—statement of this position, one which goes beyond the utilitarian approach of the columnists, can be found in the works of such conservative theoreticians as Natalia Narochnitskaya. Arguing for a ‘full legal continuity’ with the pre-revolutionary Russia, Narochnitskaya goes as far as to say that ‘the recognition of the Baltic states not as seceding parts of the Soviet Union, but as restored pre-[World] War [Two] states’ was an infringement of the Helsinki Final Act, which was committed for one reason alone—‘to dilute the obstacles to the entry of parts of historic Russia into NATO’.56 Moreover, Narochnitskaya maintains that the incorporation of the Baltic states into the USSR in 1940 was ‘absolutely legitimate. [What was] illegitimate was the separation of the Baltics in 1920…signed by the Bolsheviks, who were then recognized by no one in the world, and the semi-fascist [sic] Baltic regimes, established by the Kaiser’s bayonets’.57 This is, of course, an extremely radical statement, which can lead very far if taken as a guide to foreign policy action. Fortunately, Russian foreign policy makers are not prepared to go down this road, even if they share the same basic assumptions about the nature of the nation-state relationship held by radical writers such as Narochnitskaya. What is more, this way of thinking often works as a constraint in their case. To be fair, Russian diplomacy is able to use international institutions that exist in the field of minority rights protection, as shown previously. However, the very notion that ‘compatriots’ should be protected by international norms, rather than by the paternalistic state to which they purportedly owe their allegiance, is somewhat alien to the Russian discourse. Given the idea of continuity between the Russian Empire, the USSR, and today’s Russian Federation, the rights of Russian speakers abroad tend to be interpreted as an internal matter, where outside interference is not welcome. The issue is made even more complicated by Russia’s sensitivity to any critique of its own democratic record. The idea of continuity provides Russian observers with an additional argument against the trials of former communists for crimes allegedly committed during the Soviet period—including events such as the killing of civilians in Vilnius in January 1991.58 At the same time, Russian diplomacy is unable to avail itself of the simplest and potentially the most powerful argument against the claims for compensation that are periodically advanced by circles in the Baltic states—namely, to state that today’s Russia is not responsible for the policy of the communist leadership of the USSR. This latter line of reasoning is present, but it is at the margins of the debate. Meanwhile, most scholars, journalists and even foreign ministry officials have to engage in terminological games, trying to prove that the events of 1940 cannot be called ‘occupation’ or ‘annexation’, advancing rational justifications for Stalin’s foreign policy, or debating the significance of the Tartu peace treaty.59 The Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs sometimes hints at the possibility of drawing a line between the USSR and the Russian Federation, yet in other instances tends to interpret
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criticism of Soviet totalitarianism as ‘antiRussian’.60 The very fact that the Russian participants in the debate so readily accept this awkward position of having to justify Soviet policies in the Baltics proves that dissociating themselves from the Soviet past is a difficult task for them.61 Even the legacy of anti-fascist resistance, so often evoked by Russian commentators in their critique of contemporary developments in the Baltic states, is important mainly because it provides the Russian side with an unproblematic reference point in Soviet history. The Second World War (or, more precisely in this context, the Great Patriotic War) is one of the key foundations of national identity in today’s Russia. The victory over Nazism is still interpreted primarily in national terms, as a great triumph of Russian arms. Against this background, it becomes a convenient tool for anyone wishing to downplay the importance of the Soviet repression of the Baltic peoples in the 1940s, or at least to counterbalance the painful process of coming to terms with these injustices. Even when Russian commentators are trying to be polite while discussing the current state of affairs, they are not free from this uneasiness with the past.62 The importance of continuity within the Russian state-building tradition demonstrates that the modern discourse about the Baltic region is much more deeply rooted in society than may seem to be the case at first glance. As Valerii Solovei has argued, Russian society still has to build its own nation-state and form a national identity, but this modern task has to be achieved at the same time as integration into the post-modern global community.63 Facing the post-modern world of shifting identities at a time when nation-building is still incomplete, Russian society feels utterly insecure, since all its security concerns ‘take the form of worries about identity’.64 Identity is actually in question when Dmitrii Suslov writes about ‘the norms, the principles and the aims’ of Russia’s development that are cardinally distinct from the west European and north American ones, simply by reason of objective differences in historical development. For instance, such properties of the Baltic region as the declining significance of sovereignty and territoriality, the autonomy of subregional actors, blurring state borders etc. …are by no means applicable to contemporary Russia and, moreover, present a danger to her. The theories and models that have been developed by the west European scholars on the basis of west European experience and using west European terminological tools…are extremely dangerous in cases where they are mechanically transferred to an alien environment that is objectively not ready to receive them.65 This alarmist attitude to the outside—to the ‘alien’, which is quite often found within the form of foreign missionaries or Islamic minorities or Jews—seeks solutions in the ideology of strengthening the state (something that both Wæver and Solovei are very cautious about). In the absence of any other reference
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points, this search finally ends up endorsing the Soviet past as the only legitimate statehood for the nation. The symbolic adoption of the ‘new’ anthem of the Russian Federation on the eve of the third millennium is, against this background, a very characteristic move. The wordless Patriotic Song by Glinka, which served as the Russian anthem for seven years, was replaced with the music of the former Soviet anthem, composed by Aleksandr Aleksandrov and first played in 1944. The new text of the anthem was written by a co-author of the original version, Sergei Mikhalkov, who already had experience of editing old poetry to adapt it to new circumstances (at that time, the task was to do away with the reference to Stalin). According to opinion polls, half of Russia’s population prefer Aleksandrov’s melody to a number of other choices. About one third of the population, moreover, think that the Soviet regime was a legitimate power, a people’s power, and ‘their’ power (svoya vlast’), while the present Russian government was named legitimate by only 12 per cent of respondents, a people’s power by 3 per cent, and ‘their’ power by 2 per cent.66 Yet even the Soviet symbols have to be anchored in deeper layers of history: according to some reports, Zyuganov’s Communist Party has tried to prove that the Red Flag was introduced as the national symbol by none other than Saint Vladimir, the Kievan prince who baptized Rus’ at the end of the tenth century.67 It is difficult to see how this longing for firm foundations, so characteristic of today’s Russia, can be reconciled with the post-modern Baltic project. The symbolic meaning of the return to Soviet attributes can hardly be overestimated in the Baltic context, where it certainly works in favour of perceiving the Baltic states as a historical nonsense, a breakaway part of the empire that is to be returned to its rightful place once things return to ‘normal’ and Russia is strong again.68 Ironically enough, such a return of the empire can also be interpreted as a return to Europe. Roman Szporluk makes a crucial point when he writes that ‘while Peter [the Great] and his successors saw joining Europe as remaking Russia in the image of Europe that was “the other”, their Soviet successors make Russia European by creating a Europe in the image and likeness of Soviet Russia’.69 Thus, when the Baltic states are depicted as a ‘false Europe’, despite all the post-Cold War rhetoric that is used, the reference point for the Russian discourse may still be the Russian/Soviet empire as a’truly European’ political organism. A society that feels its identity is under threat revolts against desecuritization and uncertain borders.70 Instead, it tends to treat any problem as a security challenge, and to make co-operation conditional on the main security issue. In the case of Russia, this is NATO enlargement, which is constantly mentioned by Russian authors as the main obstacle in the way of Baltic co-operation.71 The emphasis on state security is manifest, for example, in Russian suggestions for multilateral security guarantees for the Baltic states, made in 1997.72 Even the Council on Security and Defence Policy has called these proposals ‘oldfashioned’ (v starom rusle): however, as late as in 2000 they were quoted as proof of Russian goodwill by so prominent a Baltic affairs analyst as
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Konstantin Voronov.73 The council itself, despite its critical attitude to the 1997 proposals, has been unable to offer an alternative that would correspond to the new spirit of Baltic Sea Area politics. Even western analysts agree that in purely military terms Russia has legitimate grounds to worry about future Baltic membership of NATO, at least from the point of view of air defence, nuclear defence early warning systems and vulnerability to tactical nuclear weapons.74 For Russian authors, this pragmatic analysis also has a strong historical dimension. It is not uncommon, for instance, to link the expansion of the alliance to the German crusades of the thirteenth century, and to suggest ‘lessons of history’ such as ‘every time a Baltic territory emerges under the dominance of a western power, it becomes a bridgehead for an invasion of Russia’s mainland’.75 Under these circumstances, any compromise becomes unstable and every project runs the risk of being sacrificed to the superior security task of opposing NATO enlargement. A shift in favour of an alternative identity not directly based on the idea of Russian/Soviet statehood would almost certainly require the kind of dramatic break with the past only previously witnessed in Germany after the Second World War. It should be emphasized that there is no talk about some shared ‘Baltic identity’.76 This would, of course, be impossible to develop for Russia and the Baltic countries, which still reciprocally play the role of the ‘other’ in their respective national narratives. What is necessary is simply a new identity that can enable an actor to play by the new rules of the post-modern Baltic region. Metaphorically speaking, it could be argued that in order to become a Baltic country, Russia has to secede from itself, in the same way as the Baits seceded from the empire in 1990–91. This sense that a discontinuum is necessary in order to ‘go Baltic’ is fully recognized by more liberally minded Russian intellectuals, and it does not make their life any easier.77 To be sure, there are factors that can facilitate this transition, most notably the economic benefits that can be expected as a result of becoming a Baltic country. However, caution should be taken when discussing these incentives, especially when elusive notions such as national interest come into play. THE BALTIC STATES AND RUSSIA’S NATIONAL INTEREST It would be very difficult to make a case against Trenin’s argument that ‘traditional geopolitics represents a field where it is now extremely difficult for Russia to play, and especially to win’.78 To put it in Lena Jonson’s terms, there certainly exists a gap between Russia’s declared ambitions as regards the Baltic states and its actual capabilities.79 However, this fact does not have any great significance for Russian foreign policy discourse. As shown above, the discursive practice of the ‘false Europe’ does not require that the stated aims are achieved in order to be successful. The only event that can—and most probably will—be interpreted as a diplomatic fiasco is the eventual accession of the three
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Baltic states to NATO. The Russian military might be already prepared to face the enlargement of the alliance as a reality, but other actors would certainly whip up emotions about any decision of this kind.80 In all other spheres, as long as Russian diplomacy can use the Baltic states as a source of legitimacy for both the internal and external policies of the Russian state, the success or failure of its Baltic policy as such is a matter of secondary importance. It is often argued that co-operation is consistent with national interests on both sides. Trenin maintains that ‘the interests of all parties involved clearly contrast with their mutual perceptions… The areas where [their] interests coincide are rather large, and first of all in the economic sphere’.81 He pins his hopes on the ability of ‘members of the élites with a pragmatic and up-to-date thinking’ to ‘come forward to meet each other, in order to accomplish concrete tasks in the mutual interest… We thus tend to see the key to a positive change not so much in a symbolic reconciliation, as in the attainment of coinciding and similar interests’.82 This argument proceeds from the assumption of a given, ‘objective’ national interest that, at least in the final analysis, determines any state’s foreign policy. However, even if we treat national interest as an exogenous factor, it is still not self-evident that Russia should act according to her interests in the Baltic Sea Area. The Russian state as a whole can have more high-ranking priorities that contradict its specific interests in the Baltics. Many analysts today would argue that ‘preserving strategic stability’ and holding out against the looming ‘unipolar world’ may require a more confrontational stand in the face of the West, and especially of its ‘satellites’ bordering Russia. Moreover, as shown by Arkadii Moshes, the impact of economic interdependence on political relations may not always be positive.83 The benefits of co-operation in the Baltic Sea region are recognized by the Russian foreign policy élite, sometimes genuinely, in other cases just for the sake of political correctness. However, the effect of this recognition is neutralized by geopolitical considerations. This ambivalence could hardly find a clearer manifestation than in an article by Anatolii Trynkov, where he defines the Russian interests in the Baltic region twice and in two different ways. The initial definition is quite dovish: ‘to contribute in strengthening stability and increasing co-operation in the region’.84 Yet then, after exhibiting all the fears that exist in the Russian strategic studies community about possible encroachments on the military status quo in the Baltics, he produces a different list of priorities. Here, the preservation of the territorial integrity of the Russian Federation and safeguarding of the existing military balance and of the transport links between Kaliningrad and Russia come first, ahead of the development of neighbourly relations in the Baltic region.85 The same uncertainty is typical as far as the Russian attitude to future EU enlargement to the Baltic States is concerned. As pointed out by Perry, Sweeney and Winner, the Baltics’ value as a bridge between Russia and Europe ‘will be dependent upon Russia’s willingness to overcome its sense of having lost its
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empire and to accept the Baltic states as equal partners’.86 However, Russia’s uneasiness with the future Baltic accession stems precisely from the fact that the world is still perceived in terms of spheres of influence. Official Russia still hopes for a ‘civilizing’ impact of EU-membership on the Baltic states that could lead to an improvement in Baltic-Russian relations, as well as to some new openings in the Russia-EU dialogue.87 At the same time, the future enlargement also makes Moscow nervous about ‘a bloc of states attached to the residual antiRussian rhetoric’ entering the Union, and about the fact that great power politics towards the Baltic states becomes virtually impossible.88 In the Council on Foreign and Security Policy’s recent report, the desire of the Baltic states to become Union members is, in the space of a few pages, first put on par with their aspiration for NATO membership (which basically means severely condemned), then hailed as opening new prospects for an improvement of economic relations with Russia. This is followed by the argument that the cause of unstable economic development in Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania should also be sought in their policy of strengthening ties with the Union in a situation where they are ‘practically inseparably linked to Russia’.89 The EU, all the benefits of closer cooperation notwithstanding, is still suspected of encroachment upon the Russian sphere of influence. This brings me to an even more important problem, one which—at least partially—invalidates the significance of shared interests for the prospects of the Baltic region-building project. This is again, as Trenin himself puts it, the ‘traditionally strong historical consciousness’ possessed by many groups both in Russia and in the Baltic countries.90 This passing remark explains a lot. National interest is rarely determined on the basis of a rational calculation of costs and benefits. The starting point in this process is to find an answer to the question ‘Who are we?’, a definition of the society’s identity vis-à-vis the outside world. This definition is based on historical narratives and is therefore highly resistant to voluntary change. Or, to use the methodological framework developed by Wæever, the great power discourse constitutes a deep layer in the discursive structure of Russian foreign policy, and therefore too much pressure is needed to change this structure in accordance with pragmatically defined notions of national interest in the Baltic region.91 Once again, one can only agree with Trenin when he writes that ‘Russia needs to understand that, even if the world is becoming “multipolar”, it is not and is unlikely to become again a first-class world “pole”’.92 However, such an understanding cannot simply be achieved on the basis of a political decision—it can only come about as a result of a slow process of social change involving the deeper level of discursive structures. In the early 1990s westernizers led by the then foreign minister, Andrei Kozyrev, acted on the assumption that Russia was part of the ‘civilized’ world. However, it can be argued that the westernizers themselves were no more than a copy of the derzhavniki, whose main distinction from the latter lay in the fact that they hoped to achieve great power status within, and not in confrontation with, the western camp. When this proved to be impossible, the Russian foreign
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ministry under Kozyrev switched to imperialist rhetoric, especially as regards the Baltic states and the post-Soviet space in general.93 As early as 1992 President Yeltsin’s liberal adviser Sergei Stankevich insisted on Russia’s right and duty to protect ‘compatriots’ abroad in such strong words that Nikolai Rudensky even found it possible to compare Stankevich’s statements with those of Hitler.94 The grip of the great power ideology on Russian westernizers is still quite strong: being now in opposition to the present Russian government, Andrei Kozyrev still calls for Russia to ally itself with NATO and the West in order to keep its great power status, and mourns the fact that Russia is humiliated on the world stage and is sliding towards the ‘pole of the international outcasts’.95 Thus, the discursive practice of the westernizers was actually a modification of the great power discourse, which proves that the latter indeed belongs to a deep level of the discursive structure, in Wæver’s terms. Looking from this perspective, it is difficult to suggest that Russia might become one of the participants in the new Baltic region-building project at any time in the near future. Baltic regionalism, of course, does have the potential to become part of the political agenda at the local level: in this sense, although Russia cannot become a Baltic country, St Petersburg and especially Kaliningrad can become Baltic cities. However, the centralizing tendencies at work within the Russian Federation since the last presidential elections could stand to deprive the regionalist feelings in these cities, provided that such feelings exist in the first place, of any political significance. It should also be noted that Moscow has always been deeply suspicious of what it regards as ‘separatist’ trends in the regions. In this respect, the idea of granting EU-membership to Kaliningrad, put forward by the Swedish trade minister, was perhaps a little too post-modern for the central government.95 Both Russia and the EU have so far been inclined towards homogeneity in territorial matters, and clear-cut borders of a Schengen type therefore look preferable to both.97 Russian apprehension about the possible loss of the Kaliningrad exclave manifests itself from time to time in various sources.98 For instance, the 1999 official strategy paper on the development of relations with the EU emphasizes the need to protect the interests of the Kaliningrad oblast’ as part of Russia, even if it becomes a ‘pilot region’ for EURussia co-operation.99 Russian discussions about the prospects for Baltic Sea regional cooperation thus remain trapped within the modernist discourse, which sees the Baltic project as a zero-sum game in which the national interest is a clear priority, and explicitly endorses the goal of ‘us’ gaining at ‘their’ expense. In its most recent report the Council on Security and Defence Policy acknowledges the sad fact that ‘the Russian [otechestvennyi] political class so far has a vague understanding of the opportunities, which have opened up for Russia as a whole and for St Petersburg in particular as a result of the Baltics turning into a dynamic region for trade and investment’. ‘The urgent necessity to galvanize external economic links with the aim of strengthening their positive influence on polities’ and the desirability of ‘blurring negative mutual stereotypes’ are also
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recognized. However, the report does not go any further. The region is seen as an arena of ‘acute competitive struggle’ between various economic actors, and the key objective of Russia’s policy in the region is formulated in terms of securing ‘commercial benefit for Russian exporters’ and ‘building up relations on the basis of observing the country’s national interest’. One of the focal points of the report is the BOPS project, which is unreservedly endorsed on the grounds that it will allow Russia not only to boost employment in the north-west and to strengthen the position of its ‘own producers and exporters’, but will ‘manipulate export currents’ and consequently ‘strengthen Russia’s influence in the Baltic States’. All arguments against the project are interpreted as being occasioned by ‘pressure from the West’, and the ‘negative influence of the outside forces [read: the US] operating in the region’. The lack of any understanding of the Baltic region as a trans-border network is also manifest in the proposal ‘to unite St Petersburg and the Leningrad and Kaliningrad oblasti into a single economic complex’ and even to create for that purpose a special structure within the newly created NorthWestern Federal District.100 This proposal not only smacks of attempts to administer integration, it also completely ignores the international dimension. Having said all this, there is still no doubt that positive co-operation between Russia and the Baltic states, as well as the other participants in the Baltic Sea region-building project, is possible—in fact, it is already taking place and progressing. The Council of the Baltic Sea States, for example, has a very positive image in Russia.101 The prospect of the Baltic states’ accession to the European Union still raises far more hopes than fears. The joint RussianLithuanian Nida initiative should be especially mentioned in this respect. The statement adopted at the meeting of Lithuanian and Russian deputy foreign ministers in Nida on 9 February 2000 calls upon the EU to incorporate joint proposals for co-operation between Lithuania and Kaliningrad into the action plan on the Northern Dimension. The statement invited ‘the European Commission, the EU member states, Lithuanian and Russian state institutions, regional authorities and businessmen to take an active part in the implementation of these projects’.102 This quote leaves the impression that Russian diplomats are starting to grasp that multiplicity of actors constitutes a key feature of Baltic Sea region-building. Another interesting document is the Russian position paper presented to the Council of the European Union in November 1999. From this document, it appeared that the Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs had moved behind its hitherto passive and utterly utilitarian attitude to the Northern Dimension, which had basically consisted of attempts to secure investment in various projects in Russia, including the controversial BOPS project circumventing the Baltic states.103 In the November 1999 paper, by contrast, an innovative attitude is manifest in proposals to include Russian firms in public procurement schemes in the Northern Dimension countries and to let them take part as subcontractors in projects financed by the European Investment Bank, PHARE, INTERREG and the EU structural funds, as well as to extend the EU regime for small and medium-sized enterprises to projects within the Northern
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Dimension framework.104 The offer to make Kaliningrad a pilot region for EURussian co-operation is also indicative in this respect. A trend towards the desecuritization of Baltic policy is also evident in the Council on Security and Defence Policy’s report of 2000, quoted earlier: the negative attitude towards NATO enlargement, for instance, is not emphasized in the document.105 It is too early to decide whether these Russian initiatives represent a shift towards a more post-modern attitude to the processes underway in the Baltic region. For the most part, these co-operation proposals still await realization, and have encompassed only low-key issues that do not require compromises in the field of high politics.106 In such sensitive issues as the rights of Russian-speaking minorities, territorial disputes or the assessment of Soviet policies towards the Baltic states, there remains too much at stake for the Russian foreign policy élite to make any significant concessions. In the final analysis, these sensitive issues have to do with the selfdefinition of Russia as a European (great) power. Dmitrii Trenin is absolutely right to identify the need ‘to gradually ease mutual fears and anxieties, rooted in historical experience and, in such a way, to make the military security dimension in the Russia-Baltic relations unimportant’ as a precondition for the further tasks of ‘turning the Baltic states into a firm connection between Russia and the West and forming a model of comprehensive co-operation between the Baltic Sea states, a model of the wider Europe in its northern sector’.107 Yet the modernist geopolitical thinking that forms the foundation of Russian foreign policy is based precisely on those fears and anxieties that the Russians have vis-à-vis the West in general and the Baltics in particular. To change the image of the outside world— and of Russia herself—is a task that will seemingly require a generational change in Russia’s leadership. At the same time, this view is not entirely pessimistic. For instance, it does not allow for the nightmare scenarios that anyone who explores the topic still feels obliged to produce.108 If the discourse in question is conducted in a desperate search for identity, and if this identity cannot be established without reference to Europe—including the new post-Cold War norms of the wider Europe—then a future clash between Russia and the West may perhaps be likely elsewhere, but not necessarily in the Baltic region. Moreover, since the Russian state has already occupied the position of a committed critic of the Baits, having squeezed its radical opponents out of this playing field, it will not allow them or anyone else to retake this ground again. Indicative in this regard is the fact that Moscow’s reaction to the trials of the elderly partisans, to the sharp comments by the Latvian president about Russian intentions against the Baltic states, and even to the spying scandal initiated by Estonia at the end of August 2000 by no means resembled the violent response to the events of March 1998. In early April 2000 the bill on economic sanctions against Latvia, drafted two years earlier, was finally rejected by the Duma, apparently to everyone’s relief.109 Amidst the unfolding contretemps caused by Lithuanian claims for compensation for Soviet-era damages, the two countries
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agreed on 7 June 2000 to a more open exchange of military information.110 Offers for increased co-operation made by senior Russian navy officers, moreover, should not be interpreted solely as attempts to hamper the process of the Baltic enlargement of NATO.111 Other news that may point in the same direction are reports that Moscow is currently working on a border co-operation concept that stresses the importance of Euro-regions as an instrument of building cross-border ties.112 CONCLUSION Under current conditions it seems that the Baltic states are indispens-able for Russia in their role as an embodiment of the ‘false Europe’. Their importance is to a large extent due to the fact that Russian society is able neither to associate itself fully with Europe, nor to define itself in opposition to European values. Europe can neither be ‘self’ nor ‘other’ for Russia, and hence the need for smaller others, for ‘false Europes’, is constantly there. The fact that Russian commentators assume the right to pass judgements on the Baltic states from the position of a ‘true Europe’, though, does not necessarily imply that Russian foreign policy discourse becomes structured in European terms. Russia does appeal to the norms of the new Europe, but stops short of applying the same norms to her own policy. The Baltic states fit into the role of the ‘false Europe’ not only because of their complicated past and problem-laden present, but also because their very existence constitutes a challenge to two very important dogmas of the modernist Russian foreign policy discourse: those of the continuity of the Russian statebuilding tradition and of Russia’s role as a great power in world affairs. The current Russian attitude towards the Baltics thus means that it is hardly possible for Moscow to use the ‘Baltic chance’ in order to integrate into European institutions and processes. The post-modern nature of the Baltic regionbuilding discourse is very difficult to comprehend for the Russian foreign policy élite, which is still trapped in the modern discourse of national interest, of inside/ outside, with statist security high on the agenda. Learning how to play by the new rules and to act like one of the equal partners in the Baltic region—on an equal footing with ‘small’ states like Estonia or even Sweden—would require a painful break with the past, a too dramatic identity shift that cannot happen overnight. Russia cannot become a Baltic country—at least in the foreseeable future. There are stronger chances of St Petersburg or Kaliningrad becoming Baltic cities. However, their regional élites have not been grown in some exclusive Baltic greenhouse—they are part of the Russian governing class that has it roots in the Soviet nomenklatura. These élites may be quicker to recognize reality if that reality puts enough pressure on them, which may be the case in Kaliningrad. In St Petersburg, however, local mythology is extremely closely linked to the story of Russia’s greatness, to the country’s glorious past. The city does not want to become a capital once again, but it takes pride in having once been the capital
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of imperial Russia. The renaming of the city, so much celebrated by Pertti Joenniemi as a sign of an ‘opening up towards Europe’, has also resulted in Peter the Great becoming an important symbolic figure in local narratives, a required character for any solemn speech or public show.113 The figure of this Russian tsar, of course, also has a particular significance for the story of Russia as a great Baltic power. It was, after all, Peter who hacked through the ‘window on Europe’ by taking the Baltic lands over from Sweden, and who established Russia as a great power on the Baltic Sea. In this respect, I am very sceptical of the visions put forward by such authors as Svetlana Boym, whereby St Petersburg appears as a European alternative to Russia’s capital, a democratic city with ‘a newly invented Petersburgian identity, developing contacts with the countries of the Baltic region rather than with Moscow’, whose nostalgia is ‘prospective’, and forward-looking.114 It is no coincidence that the conservative ‘other’ in Boym’s paper is represented by the current city administration under Yakovlev, and the alleged European self of the city by the former mayor, the late Anatolii Sobchak. Boym’s vision is representative of a small and inward-looking group of cosmopolitan intellectuals, who are becoming increasingly marginalized. Opinion polls show that in recent years the St Petersburg ‘man in the street’ has had much more in common in his political views with the citizens of peripheral Russia, while only Moscow has remained more liberal in its outlook. This can be best proved by the figures from the last parliamentary and presidential elections, the only reservation being that in the latter case the city voted for a native St Petersburger. As the city approaches its 300th birthday, its imperial past provides an inexhaustible propagandistic resource. In a way, St Petersburg occupies a central position in the Russian discourse about history and politics, and it is not clear whether it is ready to swap this position for a role as one of the centres of a complicated and messy Baltic region that is still under construction. Co-operation in the Baltic Sea Area will go ahead, and Russia will take an active part in it, but only in the kind of low-key areas that do not put too much pressure on Russia’s self-esteem as a great power. By way of conclusion, it can be argued that the general prospects of co-operation in the Baltic Sea region, as far as Russia is concerned, will to a great extent depend on internal developments within Russia itself. This has to do not only with the popular slogan of ‘stability’, which is so often promoted by Russian affairs analysts as the key to a predictable and cooperative foreign policy. The dominant position in Russian foreign policy discourse, despite its isolationist overtones, cannot so far be thoroughly defended without an appeal to the European ideological legacy, including the use of such notions as democracy and human rights. One can probably agree with Dmitrii Trenin when he argues that the worst fears of the policy-makers in Moscow are connected not with some hypothetical military intervention, but with the possible isolation from Europe.115 The lack of any meaningful opposition to the dominant viewpoint does not prove its strength, but
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rather demonstrates that specific features of the state-civil society relationship have to be taken into account when analysing the Russian domestic situation and Russian foreign policy. There are firm grounds for believing that the Russian government will stir up anti-western and anti-Baltic passions every time it feels vulnerable on some international or domestic issue. If the worst predictions come true and some kind of authoritarian regime—even the most ‘stable’ one—takes root in Russia, this will sooner or later lead to the country’s growing international isolation. To compensate for that, Russia will repeatedly turn against the Baltic states, and its role in regional co-operation will continue to be that of a ‘spoiler’.116 Accordingly, only a government that does not feel particularly exposed on its human rights record will be able to wholeheartedly engage in the Baltic region-building project. NOTES I am grateful to all the participants of the Mapping the Baltic Sea Region network, and especially to Pertti Joenniemi, for their comments and encouragement. I should also like to mention that work on this chapter has been partly conducted at and supported by the Copenhagen Peace Research Institute. 1. C.Bildt, ‘The Baltic Litmus Test’, Foreign Affairs, 73, 5 (1994), pp. 72–85. 2. See I.Neumann, Russia and the Idea of Europe. A Study of Identity and International Relations (London and New York: Routledge, 1996). 3. P.Chaadayev, ‘Filosoficheskiye pis’ma’, in P.Chaadayev, Polnoye sobraniye sochinenii i izbrannyye pis’ma, vol. 1 (Moscow: Nauka, 1991), pp. 320–440. 4. See D.Trenin, Baltiiskii sham. Strany Baltii, Rossiya i Zapad v Skladyvayushcheisia Bol’shoi Yevrope (Moscow: Moskovskii Tsentr Carnegie, 1997); P.Joenniemi, Bridging the Iron Curtain? Co-operation Around the Baltic Rim, COPRI Working Paper 22 (Copenhagen: Copenhagen Peace Research Institute, 1999); S. Medvedev, ‘Catholic Europe, Marginal Russia, and Postmodern North. An Essay on the Origins and Limits of the European Project’, Northern Dimensions, 1, 1 (1998), pp. 44–61. 5. The term ‘Baltic states’ is used here only to refer to Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania, while the notion of a ‘Baltic country’ implies a sort of Baltic identity that may theoretically be developed by any of the nations in the region. 6. O.Wæever, ‘The Baltic Sea: A Region after Post-Modernity?’, in P.Joenniemi (ed.), Neo-Nationalism or Regionally? The Restructuring of Political Space Around the Baltic Rim (Stockholm: NordREFO, 1997), pp. 293–342, see in particular pp. 303– 15. The Northern Dimension was, of course, not there at the time when Wæver’s article was written. A more recent description of the post-modern nature of Baltic region-building, albeit a little bit too complimentary to US policy in the region, may be found in P.Ham, ‘Testing Co-operative Security in Europe’s New North: American Perspectives and Policies’, in D.Trenin and P.Ham, Russia and the United States in Northern European Security (Helsinki and Bonn: Ulkopoliittinen instituutti and Institut für Europäische Politik, 2000), pp. 83–8.
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7. O.Wæver, ‘Identity, Communities and Foreign Policy: Discourse Analysis as Foreign Policy Theory’, in L.Hansen and O.Wæever (eds), European Integration and National Identity: The Challenge of the Nordic States (London and New York: Routledge, 2002). 8. A.Sergounin, ‘The Russia Dimension’, in H.Mouritzen (ed.), Bordering Russia: Theory and Practice for Europe’s Baltic Rim (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1998), pp. 50– 1. 9. Trenin, Baltiiskii shans, p. 25. 10. Sergounin, ‘Russia Dimension’, p. 71. See also H.Adomeit, ‘Russia as a Great Power in World Affairs: Images and Reality’, International Affairs, 71, 1 (1995), pp. 35– 68. 11. For an overview of Russia’s policy towards the Baltic states prior to 1998 see, for example, V.Malachov, ‘Russia’s Identity and Foreign Policy: Perceptions of the Baltic Region’, in Joenniemi, Neo-Nationalism or Regionally?, pp. 139–80, or Sergounin, ‘Russia Dimension’, pp. 27–50. 12. The account of the events of 1998 is based on Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty (RFE/RL) Newsline and the Latvian Telegraph Agency Daily Press Report, as well as on the BHHRG August 1998 report: British Helsinki Human Rights Group, ‘Latvia 1998: Nationalism and Citizenship’, http://www.bhhrg. org/latvia/ latvia1998/in troduction. htm 13. Latvian Naturalisation Board, Information on Naturalization Process (January 1, 1995—December 31, 1999), http://www.np.gov.lv/en/fakti/stat_uznemti_98.htm 14. Sovet po vneshnei i oboronnoi politike, Rossiya i Pribaltika—II (Moscow: Sovet po vneshnei i oboronnoi politike, 1999), www.svop.ru/doklad8.htm, part 3.5. See also A.Moshes, Overcoming Unfriendly Stability. Russian-Latvian Relations at the End of the 1990s (Helsinki and Bonn: Ulkopoliittinen instituutti and Institut für Europäische Politik, 1999), pp. 45–6. 15. See Diplomaticheskii Vestnik, 8 (1999), p. 26; A.Reutov, ‘RF protiv novogo latvi iskogo zakona o yazyke’, Nezavisimaya gazeta, 12 December 1999, p. 6. The law, signed by the president on 20 December 1999, strengthens the position of Latvians within the public sphere, and in those areas of the private sector where public health, safety etc. are concerned. It states, in particular, the state language is to be used at public events and takes the maximum share of radio and TV broadcasts in foreign languages. One of the most controversial provisions is the requirement that employees must have certain language skills in order to be allowed to take up specific jobs. 16. C.M.Perry, M.J.Sweeney and A.C.Winner, Strategic Dynamics in the Nordic-Baltic Region: Implications for US Policy (Dulles: Brassey’s, 2000), p. 71. 17. A.Jansons, ‘Latvian-Russian Relations in Trouble. For How Long?’, Baltic Review, 15 (1998), p. 5; Moshes, Overcoming Unfriendly Stability, p. 63. 18. RFE/RL Newsline, vol. 2, part 1 (Prague: Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty, 1998), 9 April. 19. Perry et al., Strategic Dynamics., p. 59. 20. See, for instance, D.Gornostaev, ‘SShA khotiat sdelat’ OBSE instrumentom davleniya na Rossiyu’, Nezavisimaya Gazeta, 13 November 1999, pp. 1 and 6; E. Tregubova, ‘Khartiya—nash rulevoi’, Kommersant, 18 November 1999, p. 1. 21. V.A.Chizhov, ‘Stambul’skii sammit’, Mezhdunarodnaya Zhizn’, 12 (1999), pp. 39– 40.
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22. Reutov, ‘RF protiv novogo latviiskogo zakona o yazyke’. 23. Diplomaticheskii Vestnik, 3 (2000), p. 37. 24. See, for instance, V.Dolinskii, ‘Baltiya na storone Chechni’, Nezavisimaya Gazeta, 9 October 1999, p.6; Diplomaticheskii Vestnik, 2 (2000), p. 39. 25. N.Lashkevich, ‘Chechenskaya karta baltiiskikh deputatov’, Izvestiya, 14 October 1999, p. 4. 26. See I.Mogilevkin, ‘Bor’ba za rossiiskoye prostranstvo’, Mirovaya Ekonomika i Mezhdunarodnye Otnosheniya, 3 (2000), pp. 99–100. 27. So vet po vneshnei i oboronnoi politike, Rossiya i Pribaltika—II, part 5.12. 28. So vet po vneshnei i oboronnoi politike, Baltiya—transyevropeiskii ‘koridor’ v XXI vek (Moscow: Sovet po vneshnei i oboronnoi politike, 2000). At the time of writing it is still hard to predict what will be the wider international implications of the terrorist attacks that took place in New York and Washington on 11 September 2001. However, the most recent statements by President Putin suggest that Russia might drastically change its attitude towards NATO in the wake of these events. 29. K.Voronov, ‘Baltiiskaya politika Rossii: poisk strategii’, Mirovaya ekonomika i mezhdunarodnye otnosheniya, 12 (1998), pp. 19–20. 30. Perry et al., Strategic Dynamics, p. 62. 31. See e.g. M.Yusin, ‘Amerika vstupilas’ za pribaltov’, Izvestiya, 9 June 2000, p. 4. 32. Van Ham, Testing Co-operative Security’, pp. 60–2. 33. M.Kuchinskaya, ‘Baltiiskaya karta SShA, in V.Krivokhizha (ed.), SShA v novom mire: predely mogushchestva (Moskva: Rossiiskii institut strategicheskikh issledovanii, 1997), p. 430. 34. Ibid., p. 417. 35. D.Gornostaev and V.Katin, ‘Rossiyu ne mogli nakazat’, poetomu postaralis’ oskorbit”, Nezavisimaya Gazeta, 8 April 2000, p. 6. Cf. S.Yastrzhembskii, ‘Chechne nuzhna obyediniayushchaya figura’, Evropa, 2 (2000), p. 9. 36. Sovet po vneshnei i oboronnoi politike, Baltiya—transyevropeiskii ‘koridor’ v XXI vek, p. 9. 37. See Yu. Vasilyev, ‘Osobennosti natsional’nogo primireniya’, Moskovskiye novosti, 29 February 2000, p. 9; Ye. Vostrukhov, ‘Nesvobodnaya glavnokomanduyushchaya’, Moskovskiye novosti, 9 May 2000, p. 12. 38. Diplomaticheskii Vestnik, 4 (2000), p. 47, cf. pp. 39, 45; 2 (2000), p. 41; 7 (2000), p. 74. The Estonian authorities, too, are accused of ‘pro-Nazi feelings’. See, for instance, Diplomaticheskii Vestnik, 3 (2000), p. 37. 39. Diplomaticheskii Vestnik, 5 (2000), pp. 12, 53; RFE/RL Newsline, vol. 4, part 1 (Prague: Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty, 2000), 11 May; Diplomaticheskii Vestnik, 4 (2000), p. 57; 7 (2000), p. 27; Chizhov, ‘Stambul’skii sammit’, pp. 39– 40; Ye. Gusarov, ‘Helsinkskii protsess vo vneshnei politike Rossii’, Diplomaticheskii Vestnik, 7 (2000), pp. 92–4; Diplomaticheskii Vestnik, 8 (2000), pp. 82–3. 40. V.Sokolov, ‘Riga protiv yevropeiskikh standartov’, Nezavisimaya Gazeta, 18 May 2000, pp. 1–2; V.Dolinskii, ‘Latviiskiye natsionalisty khotiat obmanut’ Evropu’, Nezavisimaya Gazeta, 31 August 1999, p. 6. 41. RFE/RL Newsline, vol. 4, part 1, 23 March. 42. RFE/RL Newsline, vol. 3, part 2 (Prague: Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty, 1999), 22 November.
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43. D.Kosyrev, ‘Pochti bessmyslennyi dokument’, Nezavisimaya Gazeta, 28 April 2000, p. 1; S. Simonov, ‘“Aviakor” poshiol ko dnu?’, Nezavisimaya Gazeta, 23 August 2000, p. 4. 44. T.Poloskova, ‘Diaspora i vneshniaya politika’, Mezhdunarodnaya Zhizn,’ 11 (2000), p. 79. 45. D.Trenin, ‘Russia and the Baltic States: Security Aspects’, in T.Jundzis (ed.), The Baltic States at Historical Crossroads: Political, Ecomomic and Legal Problems in the Context of International Co-operation on the Doorstep of the Twenty-First Century: A Collection of Articles (Riga: Academy of Sciences of Latvia, 1998), p. 554. 46. V.Simindei, ‘Latviiskii vneshnepoliticheskii kurs: period stanovleniya’, Mirovaya Ekonomika i Mezhdunarodnye Otnosheniya, 6 (1999), pp. 25–9; cf. V. Simindei and M.Selkova, ‘Strany Baltii i Rossiya: vzgliad na problemy v otnosheniyakh’, Baltiiskiye Issledovaniya, 1 (2000), pp. 28–35. 47. See N.Melvin, Russians Beyond Russia. The Politics of National Identity (London: Royal Institute of International Affairs, 1995), pp. 4–24; A.Semionov, ‘Rossiya vspomnila o “svoikh”’, Nezavisimaya Gazeta, 22 October 2000, p. 8. 48. A.Migranian et al., ‘“Russkii faktor” v rossiiskoi politike’, NG-stsenarii, 6 (2000), 14 June, pp. 1(9), 7(15). 49. Cf. Melvin, Russians Beyond Russia, p. 22. 50. S.Medvedev, ‘A General Theory of Russian Space: A Gay Science and a Rigorous Science’, Alternatives, 22, 4 (1997), p. 527. 51. Published in Diplomaticheskii Vestnik, 9 (1999), pp. 24–32. 52. See V.Lebedev, ‘Sootechestvennikam ne do Rossii’, Nezavisimaya Gazeta, 21 December 1999, p. 5. In this regard, the unwillingness of Russian speakers to act as a unified force at the local elections in Estonia is interpreted as a failure. See N.Lashkevich, ‘Russkiye sporiat i teriayut ochki’, Izvestiya, 20 October 1999, p. 4. 53. V.Sokolova, ‘Migratsionnyi reserv’, Izvestiya, 22 November 2000, p. 3. 54. K.Gadzhiev, Geopolitika (Moscow: Mezhdunarodnye otnosheniya, 1997), p. 343. 55. So vet po vneshnei i oboronnoi politike, Baltiya—transyevropeiskii ‘koridor’ v XXI vek, p. 31. 56. N.Narochnitskaya, ‘Politika Rossii na poroge tretyego tysiacheletiya’, in T. Shakleina (ed.), Vneshniaya politika i bezopasnost’ sovremennoi Rossii (7991– 7998), vol. 1, part 1 (Moscow: Moskovskii obshchestvennyi nauchnyi fond, 1999), p. 256. 57. Ibid., p. 266. 58. V.Sokolov, ‘V Litve sudiat nevinovnykh’, Nezavisimaya Gazeta, 25 April 2000, pp. 1 and 6. 59. In academic literature the fact of annexation is sometimes recognized, but the term ‘occupation’ is entirely rejected. See S.Chernichenko, ‘Sobytiya v Pribaltike 1940 goda kak predlog dlia diskriminatsii russkoyazychnogo naseleniya’, Mezhdunarodnaya Zhizn’, 3 (1998), pp. 62–7; Diplomaticheskii Vestnik, 7 (2000), p. 62; S.Konstantinov, ‘Silovoi variant ne byl yedinstvennym’, Nezavisimaya Gazeta, 3 August 2000, p. 8; RFE/RL Newsline, vol. 4, part 2(Prague: Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty, 2000), 2 February; Diplomaticheskii Vestnik, 3 (2000), p. 31. See also Konstantinov, ‘Silovoi variant ne byl yedinstvennym’; V.Sokolov and A.Litvinov, ‘Moskve pora potrebovat’ ot Vilniusa kompensatsii’, Nezavisimaya Gazeta, 28 June 2000, pp. 1 and 6; Diplomaticheskii Vestnik, 7 (2000), p. 62.
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60. See Diplomaticheskii Vestnik, 4 (2000), p. 52; Moshes, Overcoming Unfriendly Stability, p. 31. 61. This situation is by no means unique in Russia’s relations with the Baltic states. See, for example, a very interesting article by historian Vladimir Grivenko, in which he tries to be ‘objective’ while writing about Soviet aggression against Poland in 1939 and the post-World War Two territorial changes. He states at the end that the present Russian authorities should not be held responsible for the Bolsheviks’ policy, but stops short of developing the point: V.Grivenko, ‘100 tysiach kvadratnykh kilometrov i drugaya arifmetika’, Dipkuryer NG, 14 (2000), 28 September, p. 5(13). 62. See A.Trynkov, ‘Estoniya nadeyetsia na Putina’, Nezavisimaya Gazeta, 5 April 2000, p. 6. 63. V.Solovei, ‘Modern i postmodern v rossiiskoi politike’, Nezavisimaya Gazeta, 22 November 2000, p. 3. 64 . Wæver, ‘Baltic Sea’, p. 317. 65. D.Suslov, ‘Region Baltiiskogo moria kak faktor evropeiskoi bezopasnosti’, Baltiiskiye Issledovaniya, 1 (2000), pp. 26–7. 66. A.Stepanov, ‘Kak vy gimn svoi propoyote, tak strana i zazhiviot’, Izvestiya, 21 November 2000, p. 4. 67. A.Sadchikov, ‘Vladimir Krasnoye Solnyshko IF, Izvestiya, 23 November 2000, p. 1. 68. Malachov, ‘Russia’s Identity and Foreign Policy’, p. 162. 69. R.Szporluk, ‘Introduction. Statehood and Nation Building in Post-Soviet Space’, in R.Szporluk (ed.), National Identity and Ethnicity in Russia and the New States of Eurasia (Armonk and London: M.E.Sharpe, 1994), p. 10. 70. It is interesting that Yurii Deriabin mentions ‘joint understanding as regards the geographical framework of the Northern Dimension’ amongst the important achievements that may facilitate the realization of the concept, and then goes on to discuss the borders of the Northern Division region in some detail: Yu. Deriabin, ‘Severnoye Izmereniye’ politiki Emopeiskogo Soyuza i interesy Rossii, Doklady Institūta Evropy, no. 68 (Moscow: Exlibris Press, 2000), p. 14. 71. See, for instance, ibid., p. 40; Suslov, ‘Region Baltiiskogo moria’, p. 3. The latter author, though, seems to be receptive to the logic of desecuritization as well. 72. See Voronov, ‘Baltiiskaya politika Rossii’, p. 29; cf. Perry et al., Strategic Dynamics, p. 62. 73. So vet po vneshnei i oboronnoi politike, Rossiya i Pribaltika—II, part 5.1; K. Voronov, ‘Komu zhe ne khvatayet dialoga?’, Dipkuryer NG, 10 (2000), 1 June, p. 6 (14). 74. Perry et al., Strategic Dynamics, pp. 63–8. 75. A.Pikaev, ‘Russia and the Baltic States: Challenges and Opportunities’, in B. Hansen and B.Heurlin (eds), The Baltic States in World Politics (Richmond, CA: Curzon, 1998), p. 137. 76. Suslov, ‘Region Baltiiskogo moria’, pp. 20–1. 77. Malachov, ‘Russia’s Identity and Foreign Policy’, p. 146. 78. Trenin, Baltiiskii shans, p. 36. 79. L.Jonson, ‘Russia and the “Near Abroad”: Concepts and Trends’, in Hansen and Heurlin, Baltic States, pp. 112–32.
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80. P.Goble, ‘Messages Sent, Messages Received’, RFE/RL Newsline, vol. 3, part 1 (Prague: Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty, 1999), 25 January. 81. Trenin, Baltiiskii shans, p. 20. 82. Ibid., p. 27. See also ‘Sovet po vneshnei i oboronnoi politike’, Rossiya i Pribaltika —II, parts 4.20, 7.1; ‘Sovet po vneshnei i oboronnoi politike’, Baltiya— transyevropeiskii ‘koridor’ v XXI vek, pp. 36–7; D.Trenin, ‘Security Co-operation in North-Eastern Europe: A Russan Perspective’, in D.Trenin and P.Ham, Russia and the United States in Northern European Security (Helsinki and Bonn: Ulkopoliittinen instituutti and Institut für Europäische Politik, 2000), p. 38. 83. Moshes, Overcoming Unfriendly Stability, p. 57f. 84. A.Trynkov, ‘Kaliningradskaya oblast’ v sisteme obespecheniya natsionalnoi bezopasnosti Rossii’, in V.Krivokhizha (ed.), Problemy vneshnei i oboronnoi politiki Rossii. Sbornik statei 4 (Moscow: Rossiiskii institut strategicheskikh issledovanii, 1997), p. 146. 85. Ibid., pp. 150–1. Cf. V.Vershinin, ‘Russia’s National Interests and the Dynamics of Russo-Baltic Relations’, in Jundzis, Baltic States at Historical Crossroads, pp. 534– 5. 86. Perry et al., Strategic Dynamics, p. 73. 87. Trenin, ‘Security Co-operation in North-Eastern Europe’, pp. 38–9. 88. I.Ivanov, ‘Rasshirenie Yevrosoyuza: stsenarii, problemy, posledstviya’, Mirovaya Ekonomika i Mezhdunarodnye Otnosheniya, 9 (1998), p. 32. See also Trenin, ‘Security Co-operation in North-Eastern Europe’, pp. 35–6. 89. Sovet po vneshnei i oboronnoi politike, Baltiya—transyevropeiskii ‘koridor’ v XXI vek, p. 12. 90. Trenin, Baltiiskii shans, p. 20. 91. Wæever, ‘Identity, Communities and Foreign Policy’. 92. Trenin, ‘Security Co-operation in North-Eastern Europe’, p. 51. 93. Sergounin, ‘Russia Dimension’, pp. 59–61. 94. N.Rudensky, ‘Russian Minorities in the Newly Independent States. An International Problem in the Domestic Context of Russia Today’, in Szporluk, National Identity and Ethnicity, p. 72. 95. A.Kozyrev, ‘Bessmyslitsa “mnogopoliusnogo mira”’, Moskovskiye Novosti, 22–28 February 2000, p. 7; A. Kozyrev, ‘Polius izgoyev’, Moskovskiye Novosti, 8–14 February 2000, p. 5. 96. L.Pagrotsky, ‘Snabbspår till EU for Kaliningrad’, Dagens Nyheter, 28 March 2000, p. 4. 97. P.Joenniemi, ‘Kaliningrad, Borders and the Figure of Europe’, in J.Baxendale, S.Dewar and D.Gowan (eds), The EU and Kaliningrad. Kaliningrad and the Impact of EU Enlargement (London: Federal Trust, 2000), pp. 157–71. 98. See Voronov, ‘Baltiiskaya politika Rossii’, pp. 21 and 36; Trynkov, ‘Kaliningradskaya oblast’ v sisteme obespecheniya natsionalnoi bezopasnosti Rossii’, pp. 150 and 156–7; Pikaev, ‘Russia and the Baltic States’, pp. 149–50; V. Pozdorovkin and Yu. Arutiunov, ‘Kaliningradskii faktor v sotrudnichestve Rossii so stranami baltiiskogo regiona’, Diplomaticheskii Vestnik, 1 (2000), p. 69. 99. Ministerstvo inostrannykh del Rossiiskoi Federatsii, ‘Strategiya razvitiya otnoshenii Rossiyskoi Federatsii s Evropeiskim soyuzom na srednesrochnuyu perspektivu (2000–2010 gg.)’ Diplomaticheskii Vestnik, 11 (1999), pp. 25–6.
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100. Sovet po vneshnei i oboronnoi politike, Baltiya—transyevropeiskii ‘koridor’ v XXI vek, pp. 3, 22, 28–9, 35–7 (emphasis added). 101. See, for instance, Pozdorovkin and Arutiunov, ‘Kaliningradskii faktor v sotrudnichestve Rossii so stranami baltiiskogo regiona’, p. 67; P.Cherniakov, ‘Resheniya Baltiiskogo soveta’, Dipkuryer NG, 7 (2000), 25 April, p. 2(10). 102. Diplomaticheskii Vestnik, 3 (2000), p. 13 (emphasis mine); cf. Lithuanian Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Press Release, ‘Lithuanian and Russian Diplomats Coordinate Proposals on the EU “Northern Dimension” Initiative’, 9 February 2000, http:// www.urm.lt/new/press/2000–02–09.htm 103. See Deriabin, ‘Severnoye Iznereniye’ politiki Evropeiskogo Soyuza, p. 19. 104. Ibid., pp. 52–3. 105. So vet po vneshnei i oboronnoi politike, Baltiya—transyevropeiskii ‘koridor’ v XXI vek. 106. For a definition of ‘high polities’, see H.Mouritzen, ‘High Politics in Northern Europe: Recent Developments and their Interpretation’, in L.Hedegaard and B.Lindström (eds), The NEBI Yearbook 1999, North European and Baltic Sea Integration (Berlin: Springer, 1999), pp. 259–75. 107. Trenin, Baltiiskii shans, p. 37. 108. See ibid., pp. 34–6; Trenin, ‘Security Co-operation in North-Eastern Europe’, pp. 48–9; Sergounin, ‘Russia Dimension’, pp. 69–70. 109. RFE/RL Newsline, vol. 4, part 1, 6 April. 110. RFE/RL Baltic States Report, vol. 1 (Prague: Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty, 2000), 14 June. 111. RFE/RL Newsline, vol. 4, part 1, 1 August; RFE/RL Baltic States Report, vol. 1 (2000), 20 September. 112. RFE/RL Russian Federation Report, vol. 2 (Prague: Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty, 2000), 20 September. 113. P.Joenniemi, ‘Finland, Europe and St Petersburg in Search for a Role and Identity’, in N.Baschmakoff et al. (eds), Peterburg—okno v Evropu. Sbornik statei, Studia Slavica Finlandensia, vol. 13 (Helsinki: Institute for Russian and East European Studies, 1996), pp.101–8. For more discussion about the changing image of St Petersburg, see P.Joenniemi (ed.), St Petersburg: Russian, European and Beyond (St Petersburg: St Petersburg State University Press, 2001). 114. S.Boym, ‘Leningrad into St Petersburg: The Dream of Europe on the Margins’, in B.Stråth (ed.), Europe and the Other and Europe as the Other (Brussels: Peter Lang), pp. 311–23. 115. Trenin, Baltiiskii shans, p. 37; Trenin, ‘Russia and the Baltic States: Security Aspects’, p. 558. 116. C.Walker, ‘Can Putin Move Russia Beyond Obstructionism?’, RFE/RL Newsline, vol. 4, part 1 (Prague: Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty, 2000), 23 March.
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11 Post-Soviet Geo-politics in the North of Europe PAMI AALTO
This chapter introduces the notion of ‘post-Soviet geo-politics’ and discusses its import in depicting post-Cold War developments and processes in the north of Europe. To this end, I make a distinction between structured, formal and practical forms of geo-politics and discuss how they are manifested in relations between the Baltic states, Belarus and Russia (including its Kaliningrad exclave). In this analysis the notion of post-Soviet geo-politics emerges as a multifaceted phenomenon that is leading to the construction of new symbolic and material (territorial) boundaries in the region. The spaces marked by these boundaries are not inaccessible, since they are affected by competing phenomena and processes such as liberal politics and regionalizing initiatives. The chapter concludes by arguing that the notion of post-Soviet geo-politics is capable of opening up some interesting viewpoints on regional developments and processes. However, insofar as this notion clearly does not exhaust the diverse space of post-Soviet politics, it is best understood as a metaphor. THE CONTEST OVER ORDER IN EUROPE Although the term ‘post-Soviet geo-politics’ rarely appears in its own right in scholarly literature, it is not difficult to relate the notion to certain types of developments and processes within the post-Soviet space. Post-Soviet reality has not conformed to some purportedly harmonious project of building a Common European Home and bridging East and West in the way that many predicted back in 1992–93. Compared to the Cold War era, there is undeniably more openness and interaction and a lesser degree of tension. Even so, the enlargement processes of the European Union (EU) and the North Atlantic Treaty Organisation (NATO) effectively work to delineate and dissociate the ‘East’ from the ‘West’. Moreover, Russia’s response to the NATO enlargement process in particular lends credence to the overall argument of this chapter—namely that, in structural terms, what is taking place in contemporary Europe can be interpreted as a contest over order. To put it in Gearóid Ø Tuathail’s terms, this contest represents the contemporary form of structural geo-politics, or in other words, the contemporary geo-political condition in Europe.1
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When speaking of the contemporary form of structural geo-politics, Ó Tuathail means the currently dominating global processes that condition how states practice their foreign and security policies. These include globalization, informationalization, the increasing importance of technology, and the emergence of new ‘risk society’ types of threat in the international arena. My aim is not to examine the ways in which European states are coping with these largescale challenges, but rather to discuss how the contest between the political ordering projects of the EU and Russia shapes the structural level in the north of Europe. As a point of departure, one can say that the EU order project is clearly taking a new shape compared to the character of EU integration during the Cold War period. Whether we prefer to understand the EU as having originally been launched as a peace project with the intention of mitigating the destructive effects of age-old Franco-German rivalry or mainly as a project intended to produce economic benefits for the participating states, the fact remains that qualitatively new changes in European integration are underway. These changes are about efforts to create an EU-led order with certain rules, norms and practices for the participants and prospective entrants to follow and commit themselves to, and neighbouring powers as well as more distant ones to respect and take into account. The Copenhagen criteria for EU-membership candidate status and the related Agenda 2000 process specify the EU’s core rules and norms. The organizing assumption is the Union’s character as an association consisting of ‘European’ states. The specific criteria for membership candidate status include in political terms the stability of institutions guaranteeing democracy, the rule of law, human rights and respect for and the protection of minorities. In economic terms, they include the existence of a functioning market economy capable of coping with competitive pressures and market forces within the Union. Finally, the Union expects candidates to be able to take on the obligations of membership, including the goals of political, economic and monetary union.2 These are the most prominent tools employed in order to discipline and educate prospective entrants like the Baltic states.3 To complement the picture of a new order project, these criteria are accompanied by the declaration that, in institutional terms, the EU must itself possess the necessary capacity to absorb new members. This aim of developing the EU into a more capable political agent is reflected in efforts to deepen the Union in the foreign and security policy fields after the failure to act decisively in the Kosovo conflict.4 It is also apparent in the still unfinished business of improving EU decision-making procedures by moving away from unanimous decision-making towards qualified majority voting, and in moves to instil greater institutional efficiency more generally.5 Lastly, one might note the way in which the Union uses loans and TACIS funding to ‘stabilize’ and bring order to its outer circles of influence, such as the members of the Commonwealth of Independent States (CIS).
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The CIS states are concomitantly subject to another ordering project with different aims, rules, norms and practices. The Russian-led order project in the territory of the Former Soviet Union (FSU) is crystallized in Russia’s ‘Near Abroad’ policy, military doctrine, Foreign Policy Concept and National Security Concept. The ‘Near Abroad’ policy is ostensibly designed to protect the human rights of the 25 million Russians living as minorities within the non-Russian successor states to the Soviet Union. In strategic terms, however, it seeks to exercise control over the territory of the FSU and to limit the role of outsiders within this sphere.6 The gradual emergence of a coherent Near Abroad policy signified the attainment of a consensus on foreign and security policy matters among the Russian élite. In official documents, at least, the Near Abroad concept applies only to the 12 members of the CIS, although quite a few Estonian scholars suspect that the Baltic states are in fact also viewed within the same framework.7 As early as 1993, Russian military doctrine considered ‘human rights violations’ towards ‘ethnic compatriots’ (sootechestvenniki) in the Near Abroad as a sufficient cause for a just war.8 The 1997 National Security Concept gave further justification to such a sphere of interest policy, and the new Foreign Policy Concept adopted in January 2000 continues along the same lines when it speaks of ‘ensuring comprehensive protection of the rights and interests of Russian citizens and compatriots abroad’.9 The most recent versions of the National Security Concept and the military doctrine—published in January and April 2000, respectively—drop the term ‘ethnic compatriots’ and speak only of Russian citizens abroad.10 However, for some observers they also manifest the rise of a more assertive Russia by reserving the right to first use of nuclear weapons in cases where all other means of countering aggression are exhausted.11 Finally, one should note that the numerous CIS agreements and declarations, as well as the 1999 Russian-Belarusian Union State Treaty, also connote important ordering ambitions.12 These order construction projects by the EU and Russia are interlinked but in no case entirely mutually constitutive of each other. Both projects respond not only to each other’s process of construction, but also to further phenomena such as domestic, political and economic pressures, identity-building needs and global great power rivalry. Notwithstanding its somewhat indeterminate character, the EU order project is ultimately a far more conscious and carefully thought out response to these phenomena than its Russian counterpart, which is conspicuous for its lack of any mutual agreement on an overall purpose. In any case, neither the EU nor the Russian project can escape their role as parts of the European security complex, the latter concept referring to ‘a set of units whose major processes of securitization, desecuritization, or both are so interlinked that their security problems cannot be reasonably analysed or resolved apart from one another’.13 There is a clear geo-political content to these two order construction projects. For Ole Wæever, the EU has the appearance of a soft empire, and is therefore perhaps not so far removed from the club of traditional geo-political powers such
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as Britain and Russia.14 For others, the presentday EU is essentially engaged in territorial and boundary-constructing activities, most especially when it comes to the question of enlargement.15 In sum, it may be that the supposedly ‘postsovereign’ elements in EU-integration are in retreat and that the EU is in the process of becoming a geo-political subject with explicit territorial ambitions and strategy. As regards the construction of the Russian-led order within the territory of the FSU, the initial ‘post-sovereign’ elements in the building of supranational CIS institutions quickly assumed a rather different shape in 1993, when Russia started to turn the organization into an instrument for maintaining its self-defined sphere of influence by trying to control the sovereignty of the other CIS members.16 With the Russian leadership often displaying inconsistency and a lack of any clear ideas as to how to develop the organization on a more practical plane, and with various economic problems interfering, CIS co-operation has in any case been rather thin on results. Furthermore, the majority of the CIS member states—with the notable exception of Belarus—have more recently become interested in either maintaining their remaining degrees of sovereignty, going for alternative regional arrangements such as the GUUAM group, or approaching the EU and NATO.17 In order to examine the construction of this contest over order between the EU and Russian projects and its manifestations in the north of Europe, I will employ a ‘critical geo-politics’ approach. Critical geopolitics is the product of a heterogeneous group of scholars in political geography and international relations who are united by their commitment to using critical, constructionist, or post-structuralist approaches in order to challenge assumed knowledge of the world.18 Critical geo-politics is thus about the analysis of space and place ‘in a manner which seeks to resist the linguistic and epistemic conventions prevailing in the world of “real polities’”, and the search for ‘alternative accounts of phenomena defined as “geo-political”’.19 By placing the accent on the political and contested nature of the processes of constructing geo-political order, critical geo-politics is prone to dismiss suggestions that there is something essential or inevitable in the contest over order in contemporary Europe.20 Rather, this contest is actively constructed by geopolitically coloured agency and processes. In the section that follows I discuss two forms that such actitivities can take: formal and practical geo-politics.21 FORMAL GEO-POLITICS The increasing attention devoted to the geo-political aspects of the EU and Russian ordering projects can be seen against the background of a Renaissance of geo-political scholarship within the discipline of international relations more generally.22 In much of this emerging literature, the meaning of the concept of geo-politics is understood in the traditional sense of formal geo-politics. The formal geo-political tradition is manifested in a body of literature stretching from the late nineteenth century to the present day, from figures like Rudolf Kjellén,
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Halford Mackinder, Friedrich Ratzel and Nicholas Spykman to Zbigniew Brzezinski, Henry Kissinger, Sergei Karaganov and Anton Surikov. It depicts geo-politics as the formal, materialistic and highly specialized knowledge of supposed geographical determinants of history and political developments. This long tradition of scientist, geographical determinism is now continued in a somewhat altered and more sophisticated form in the so-called ‘new geopolitics’ literature. The new geo-politics involves the search for global trends and ‘causal forces’ in politics, economics, culture, ecology and the environment, with a view to identifying objective determinants of geo-political division and feasible policy options enabling statecraft to navigate in the prevailing conditions. However, in the same fashion as the formal geo-political tradition, ‘new geopolitics’ attempts to offer a Cartesian, panoptical ‘God’s eye’ view on global developments. Moreover, its proponents often display a synchronic, ahistorical conception of the world as consisting of essential geographical entities, whether heartland powers in eternal conflict with maritime powers or variously defined ‘pan-areas’ competing with each other. Many such writers—though not all—also support the realist thesis that nation-states are the irreducible basic units within this global game.23 Making use of a critical geo-politics approach, by contrast, directs one to focus on how the current work in new geo-politics actually contributes to the construction of the contest over order. In a nutshell, ‘new geo-politics’ provides a formal and theoretical backbone to the construction of geopolitical division, thereby lending it a natural and seemingly inevitable essence. To illustrate this function of new geo-politics scholarship in Russia, one can mention as interesting examples the existence of a section for geo-politics and security in the Russian Academy of Sciences, the 1995 issue in the Russian journal Polis dedicated to geopolitics, and the books by Aleksandr Dugin, Konstantin Sorokin, Vladimir Zhirinovskii and Gennadii Zyuganov, which, alongside more militarily and technically tuned analyses, have all added fuel to Russian debates.24 Russian geopoliticians have also played an active role in the formulation of Russia’s Near Abroad policy, military doctrine and Foreign and National Security Concepts. The 1997 version of the National Security Concept actually stated that considerations of ‘security’ must take into account not only geo-political, but also geo-economic, geo-environmental, geo-ecological and geo-technological factors.25 The 2000 Security Concept dropped the excessive obsession with explicit formal geo-political terminology, but naturally remains interested in maintaining Russia’s territorial integrity, with various sources of possible threats to it identified and analysed.26 In Russia, geo-political ideas continue to receive not only scholarly but also popular attention in the geo-politics sections of the Russian press. Moreover, they are surely not completely alien to Belarusians either.27 On the EU side, explicit evidence of formal geo-politics is markedly thinner, since the new geo-politics has not managed to penetrate strategic studies circles in the same way as it has in Russia. Nevertheless, one can easily point to the
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widely prevalent discourses spurred by Samuel Huntington’s thesis of the fundamental cultural divide between western Christian and Slavic-Orthodox civilizations. Huntington’s thesis, referring in this context to the allegedly stark contrast between ‘Europe’ or the EU, and Russia, has resonated well with some of the core ideas in the EU order project.28 His geo-political narrative eloquently captures and crystallizes the historically strong tendency to conceive of Russia as the ‘other’ displayed by those constructing ‘Europe’, as well as the current discourses and institutional practices of EU enlargement that reproduce this tendency.29 To this can be added the strategic planning of NATO, which employs the same type of civilizational reasoning based on ‘European’ rules and norms and is directed at expanding the western sphere of interest within the European security complex.30 One can also point to Huntington’s followers within European academia and the way in which the Baltic and other CEE applicant countries have embraced similar ideas.31 Indeed, it could be argued that Huntington’s analysis allows one to grasp many of the important components of the EU order project. In order to locate the north of Europe within the EU-Russian contest over order, one could look at international relations analyses of the ‘Russian challenge’ facing those north European states currently on the fringes of the EU order (Finland and Sweden) or seeking inclusion within it (the Baltic countries). Such analyses use these states’ immediate geographical environment and distance to power centres within it as explanatory variables.32 If one is looking for a more explicit formal geo-political tone, a glance at the book The New Geo-politics by the Finnish ex-military officer Osmo Tuomi tells us that geography still has an ‘objective influence’ in the Baltic region. In this regard, the Baltic states are in a ‘strategic centre of gravity’, making them geopolitically entrapped ‘grey zone’ states.33 And, sure enough, the kind of de facto traditional geopolitical perspective advanced by Tuomi more often than not does guide the perceptions of the most powerful Baltic élite groups.34 PRACTICAL GEO-POLITICS In contradistinction to formal reasoning, practical geo-politics is about the tacit and unremarkable use of geo-political terminology by policymakers and intellectuals of statecraft, essentializing places, regions and identities, and putting forward contested notions like ‘East’ and ‘West’ as objective depictions of the world. Practical geo-politics often looks innocent, but the way in which Baltic, Belarusian and Russian actors define their own place in the contest over order in contemporary Europe is in fact tantamount to constructing that very order, in very much the same way as formal geo-political analyses. These practical definitions of one’s own place include both historical and spatial narratives.35
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Pre-Soviet/Soviet vs. Post-Soviet Realities Baltic and Russian actors display considerable variation in terms of their orientation towards time. All, however, share the same tendency of looking at history in order to find reference points for themselves, which, nevertheless, often contradict each other. In this respect, it is Russia that probably has the greatest historical burden. The contemporary Russian Federation is juridicially a new state, but in practice the self-declared successor to the tsarist Russian and Soviet empires. As regards post-Soviet discourses, the first clearly discernible position was put forward by pro-westerners such as Andrei Kozyrev, Russia’s foreign minister until 1996. For Kozyrev, the Soviet era was an unfortunate episode interrupting Russia’s centuries-old quest to join the ‘West’. This Atlanticist, future-oriented position was quickly marginalized and superseded by a new nostalgia for a glorious past, either in the form of imperial Russia or the Soviet Union. Subsequently, a consensus emerged that closer CIS integration might provide the best means of restoring past greatness.36 However, disappointment at the increasingly slow progress and often inescapable obstacles impeding such integration gave rise to voices insisting that the CIS should not be the only priority. In the late 1990s these voices converged within a yet broader consensual discourse that was often termed ‘Eurasianism’.37 This discourse originates in nineteenth-century Slavophilism. Its supporters include those currently out of highest political power, such as the communists, those seemingly influencing the political process, such as representatives of the new Russian right (e.g. Aleksandr Dugin), and those more or less democratic statists who have continued to enjoy power in Russia. This broad support base means that Eurasianism is a very flexible, even ambiguous discourse that can take several forms. Its basic nature was well captured by Dugin himself when commenting on the policies of the former Russian foreign minister and prime minister, Yevgenii Primakov: Today, Eurasianism is coming softly… Primakov’s policy is Eurasianist policy. This is left-wing economic policies at home, helping Arab states abroad, orientation toward the East, helping traditional friends like Serbia, strengthening the integration of the former Soviet Union. This is Eurasianism, the policy of the heartland.38 In short, Eurasianism reflects a longing for lost great power status, preferring almost any period, from Muscovite Russia to the Soviet era, to the present impoverished and weak Russian state. Primakov’s policies appear more consistent with broadly understood Eurasianism than do those of the current president, Vladimir Putin, who is seeking to strengthen the state while striving for a pragmatic, ‘selective engagement’ with other powers and international organizations. Even so, Putin’s priorities might yet resonate—at least to some degree—with the Eurasianist discourse.39 On the one hand, Putin’s pragmatism
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means that he refuses to downplay the problems inherent in the goals of CIS integration and reunifying the eastern Slavic nations. At the same time, he still seems intent on pursuing these goals by establishing strategic alliances with would-be great powers in Asia and through his refusal to abandon the RussianBelarusian Union State project which has encountered considerable problems during its supposed period of introduction early in the new millennium. As regards the Belarusian side, nationalist toying with the idea of true Belarusian sovereignty during the early 1990s proved shortlived, and was soon replaced by a combination of pan-Slavism and nostalgia towards the Soviet era. President Alyaksandr Lukashenka’s authoritarian-populist or ‘sultanist’ regime has brought with it the adoption of Russian as the state language, and a new coat of arms and flag devised with Soviet models in mind.40 According to the Union Treaty of 1999, the latter are to be replaced by a new common coat of arms, flag and national anthem. The union bodies will use only the Russian language. A single currency and uniform tax policy are to be created by 2005 and a joint military doctrine by the year 2006.41 Whereas current Russian and Belarusian political élites have retained a generally positive attitude towards the Soviet past, their Baltic counterparts usually portray the Soviet era in wholly negative terms. Former Estonian president, Lennart Meri gave a telling example of this attitude in a speech given at Paldiski during the ceremonies marking the final transfer of the town’s former Soviet military facilities from Russian to Estonian control in September 1995: in 1939 ended quiet little Paldiski’s worry-free life. For half a century Paldiski changed into a submarine base and Soviet nuclear submarine training centre… A town, on whose sleepy pre-World War Two streets bloomed camomile, had gathered into itself the power of the evil empire, power of which there was enough to destroy several worlds and several mankinds. This is today the distant past… Today ends the drama which began in 1939.42 In a search for more appealing historical reference points than the ‘evil empire’ of the Soviet Union, Lithuanian political élites are sometimes prone to look back many centuries, to the time of the ancient Grand Duchy of Lithuania and the subsequent Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. However, it is the second period of independent statehood from 1918 to 1940 that ultimately serves as the most important reference point for the Lithuanian élites. The period of inter-war independence has equal significance in Estonia and Latvia. For all three Baltic nations, it not only offered a basis for the restoration of statehood during the disintegration of the Soviet Union, but also an experience of democracy that is an important asset in European integration.43 In this way, the Baits try to convince the ‘Europeans’ (principally the EU and NATO) that they share the same heritage and have lived through the same democracy-building experience, only to be kidnapped by the ‘East’ for 50 years.44 Yet the accent on restoration has given
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rise to laws assigning the titular languages the status of sole official state language and, in Estonia and Latvia, citizenship legislation that privileges citizens of the inter-war republics and their descendants. These developments have evoked frustration amongst the bulk of the Slavic minorities residing in the Baltic states, while simultaneously complicating relations with Russia. In short, the main disagreements in Russo-Baltic relations can be traced to disputes over the interpretation of historical events, such as the 1920 peace treaties of Tartu and Riga, the events of 1940 and the ensuing Soviet period in the Baltic states.45 Of course, one should bear in mind that political interests have a major role in the existence of these disputes. Russia vs. the Small Baltic States The space aspect is dominated by the fact that Russia lacks clear boundaries. Russian settlements have always flowed and intermingled with those of the indigenous peoples due to the lack of natural geographic boundaries in the ‘pivot area’ of the Eurasian heartland separating different groups. In addition, Russians have traditionally considered the differences between themselves and other eastern Slavs to be rather insignificant.46 This fuzziness and openness comes out quite nicely in the two terms Russians may use to refer to themselves: russkie— Russian by ethno-cultural identity—and rossiiane, Russian by belonging to Rossiia, the Russian state and territory.47 As Sergei Medvedev puts it, in Russia space reigns supreme. Consequently, Russian space is an amorphous ‘conglomeration of peripheries’ with an inherent tendency to spread.48 Crucially, this perception of easily expandable Russian space and boundaries is coupled with an understanding that Russia’s current boundaries are sacred and inviolable: Russia can freely expand, but a shrinking Russian space is a fundamental threat.49 Smaller states bordering Russia can easily become prey to Russia’s ambiguous spatial extent. Belarus’ President Lukashenka, for his part, seems to be actively striving for such a fate. Belarus has abolished customs stations from its border with Russia, authorized the Russians to ‘assist’ in controlling the western border, and rented them two military bases for 25 years.50 The Russian leadership, however, acknowledges the formidable economic problems involved in implementing the 1999 Union Treaty fully, while the Russian public does not seem particularly enthusiastic either.51 In clear contrast to the Belarusians, Baltic leaders have signalled their determination to keep a firm hold over their small but geostrategically important territories. Only Lithuania’s territory is used as a transit corridor to Russia’s Kaliningrad exclave, with the necessary rules specified in an annually renewed Russian-Lithuanian agreement.52 The increasing Lithuanian-Russian understanding over the previously thorny Kaliningrad issue is evident in the joint ‘Initiative of Nida’, a proposal that deals with the question in the context of the EU’s Northern Dimension Initiative and
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its attempts to turn Kaliningrad into a ‘pilot Euro-region’ in Russian-EU relations.53 However, the Russian-Belarusian union project has the potential to interfere with this growing Lithuanian-Russian-EU co-operation. Belarus has signed an agreement with Russia on long-term co-operation with Kaliningrad. Belarusian farmers will be allowed to lease land in the exclave, while in the maritime sector Belarus will be allowed to lease harbour wharves and start a fishery company. This relative merging of Belarusian and Kaliningradian spaces means that the EU might also be obliged to develop a Belarus strategy if it is to include Kaliningrad within the EU order in one form or another. Indeed, Russia’s suggestion that the Northern Dimension Initiative should be extended to cover Belarus makes this scenario appear all the more likely.54 When one adds to this the development within Kaliningrad itself of a regional (though predominantly economically based) identity, distinct from a simple identification with Russia proper, the picture becomes even more unsettled.55 In all of their dimensions, the Kaliningrad and Belarus questions thus demonstrate that the ambiguous and shifting nature of Russian space is set to persist. As regards the Baltic side, Lithuania was able to agree a border treaty with Russia in 1997 due to the relatively good relations between the two countries. Essentially, these relations rest on the absence of any major minority disputes, since Soviet-era immigrants and their descendants were given an automatic entitlement to Lithuanian citizenship after independence. In contrast to Lithuania, Estonia and Latvia levelled implicit territorial claims against Russia following the attainment of independence. These claims originated in the Estonian and Latvian interpretations of the 1920 Tartu and Riga peace treaties. For its part, Estonia began to demand the restoration of the borders of the preWorld War Two republic, which encompassed territories around the town of Ivangorod (Jaanilinn) on the right bank of the Narva river and the Pechory (Petserimaa) region ceded to Estonia by Russia in 1920. In a similar vein, Latvia requested the restitution of the town of Pytalovo (Abrene) and its surrounding territories, which were ceded by Russia under the 1920 Treaty of Riga.56 The common denominator in these claims is that the ‘lost’ territories are small, and not even particularly valuable in the economic or geostrategic sense. The point is simply that the de facto post-Soviet material boundaries did not seem to coincide with the perceived symbolic boundaries, especially given that in the Estonian case, the Tartu treaty and its borders were viewed as the ‘birth certificate of Estonia’ that could not be compromised.57 By the same token, Pechory also has an important symbolic meaning for Russia and ‘Russianness’, since one of the leading Russian Orthodox monasteries is located there. More recently, Estonian and Latvian perceptions of a contradiction between material and symbolic boundaries have disappeared. Estonia and Latvia have both accepted (in 1994 and 1997 respectively) their existing borders as legitimate demarcations between the ‘East’ and ‘West’. The broader Estonian and Latvian publics also generally subscribe to this altered position; after all, the ‘lost’
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territories are currently inhabited almost entirely by Russians, and so their restitution would affect the still rather delicate ethnic balance in both countries. The considerable pressure exerted by, for example, the EU and NATO has definitely helped in reaching this understanding, as both of these organizations expect prospective membership candidates to be free from overt border disputes and minority problems. Hence, at present, material and symbolic boundaries seem to coincide more or less neatly as far as the Baits are concerned. For the time being, at least, Russia too seems to have accepted the post-Soviet boundaries and to have agreed not to try to alter them violently. The prevalence of this attitude was confirmed by Russia’s passive policy in connection to the ‘autonomy’ referendum in the Russian-speaking towns of Narva and Sillamäe in north-eastern Estonia in 1993.58 NEW BOUNDARIES IN THE NORTH OF EUROPE For Samuel Huntington, boundaries are based on primordial identities that are conferred by birth and, therefore, highly resistant to change. For instance, he claims that Slavic-Orthodox Russians cannot become Estonians. Consequently, the two groups are likely to end up on opposing sides in any large-scale political conflict.59 Huntington’s followers argue that the underlying reason for the Soviet Union’s collapse was the fundamental civilization conflict between ‘the RussianSoviet empire, the “New Byzantium” of the twentieth century and Baltic and other East European nations, representing the western traditions of individual autonomy and civil society’. Such authors also provide various forms of empirical evidence purporting to support Huntington’s thesis that, culturally, Russians have different world-frames from the ‘north Europeans proper’. Russians, it is said, tend to follow different communication styles in negotiations, try to bundle all issues together in a holistic fashion, and in meetings often adopt abstract decisions without any recommendations as to their implementation.60 For the former Estonian foreign minister Jüri Luik, at least, these observations provide an accurate depiction of the problems that the Baits perceive in their relations with Russia.61 Both formal and practical geopoliticians who articulate stereotypes of this kind take part in the construction of symbolic boundaries in the north of Europe. In broad terms, these boundaries correspond to Huntington’s ‘civilizational fault line’ separating the Baltic states from Russia and Belarus, albeit for rather different reasons than he and his followers suggest. In most cases, Baltic political élites wish to dissociate their place firmly from that of the eastern Slavs; consequently, they erect rather impermeable symbolic boundaries based on a perception of primordial identities. For these Baltic élites, place does indeed seem to have a distinct meaning compared to the one held by eastern Slavs, especially those in Russia and Belarus.62 It is a place in need of firm boundaries. This remains the case even though Baltic élite groups today have greater opportunities to articulate more open-ended and malleable identities. These
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opportunities derive from the fact that Russian political élites and intellectuals of statecraft have toned down their discourses towards the Baits quite considerably from the late 1990s onwards. In this connection, one should note that discourses in favour of reintegrating the whole FSU were clearly defeated in the Duma elections of 1999.63 Interestingly, some recent reports suggest that even Vladimir Zhirinovskii now views Estonia as an independent and a good-neighbourly state.64 On the whole, however, it would be fair to say that Russian political élites continue to view the Baltic states as falling in some sense into Russia’s ‘sphere of interest’. This is evident in the persistence of voices resisting these countries’ bids for membership of NATO. Such voices have not disappeared in Russia, although the official position was altered just prior to the events of September 2001 in the US. An important source for such a new, not approving but perhaps instrumentally motivated, more tolerant approach was Putin’s interest in developing relations with the institutionally understood ‘Europe/ West’, EU and NATO. If the Russian side has continued to view the Baltic states in somewhat oppositional terms, Baltic political élites have yet to entirely abandon their tendency to infer Russia’s intentions from its relatively large capabilities and huge spatio-territorial resources, a mode of thinking that is characteristic for a conflictual setting.65 In fact, they can derive support for such thinking from discursive practices within the EU itself. The Agenda 2000 process in particular treats Russia as the Union’s ‘eastern neighbour’, thereby confirming the Baits’ notion of an ‘East/West’ boundary separating them from Russia and Belarus.66 The symbolic boundaries produced by formal and practical geopoliticians in the European north thus appear to be relatively impermeable and still somewhat reminiscent of Cold War thinking. However, it is important to note that apart from the undeniably political acts of the formal and practical geopoliticians, there are also competing phenomena and processes at work that influence the shape of the boundaries currently in the making. Among such phenomena, one can refer to liberal politics and regionalization. A liberal politics of rational economic calculations and trade interests clearly works to hinder the proposed merging of the Russian and Belarusian spaces. For example, the declared prospective monetary unification of the Russian and Belarusian economies did not advance during the first half of 2000, largely because of Lukashenka’s insistence that the Belarusian National Bank be authorized to function as an emission centre alongside Russia’s Central Bank. This was something that the Russian side simply could not accept, and later developments have witnessed a further shift in Russian economic interest away from the direction of Belarus and towards the EU. This disparity between discursive and institutional acts naturally evokes confusion among the Baltic élites, who display mixed signs as to whether they wish to translate the already constructed symbolic boundaries into firm and impermeable material boundaries in their entirety. In the early 1990s the more nationalistic and right-wing élite groups then in power in Estonia and Lithuania were not particularly active in
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Table 1 The Baltic States’ Foreign Trade with the CIS and the EU (1991, 1996, 1998) (in percentages)
Source: M.Lauristin and P.Vilhalemm (eds), Return to the Western World. Cultural and Political Perspectives on the Estonian Post-Communist Transition (Tartu University Press, 1997), p. 321.
promoting trade relations with Russia or the CIS at large, viewing these with a certain degree of suspicion. Rather, after the forced, long-run economic dependence on Moscow during the Soviet era, they saw their task as one of reorienting the Baltic states’ foreign trade towards the ‘West’ more generally, and to the EU in particular. One of the likely grounds for this policy was the allegedly important role played by Russian companies in promoting the geostrategic interests of the Russian state.67 These reservations notwithstanding, Baltic-CIS trade relations were rather active throughout the 1990s, until Russia’s economic meltdown in late 1998 forced the Baits to cut eastern ties even more drastically (see Table 1). The Baltic states’ prospective EU-membership might, however, connote increasing trade barriers in Baltic-CIS relations. This is because, in geoeconomic terms, the EU is and remains a trading bloc. The question of whether or not increased trade barriers will be erected greatly depends on the extent to which the economic clauses in the EU-Russian Partnership and Co-operation Agreement (PCA) are actually implemented. For, although the clauses allow for the creation of a free trade area between the EU and Russia, the agenda they introduce is in many respects more limited than the one already evident in EUBaltic relations. To use Peter Wennersten’s analogy, the EU treats the Baltic states within a framework of inclusion, and accepts that they are ‘learning’ to
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behave according to the EU rules so successfully that they can be invited into the ‘cosmos’ of order, peace, and prosperity with considerable European financial assistance, effort and commitment.68 This means the end of the currently still functioning simplified border-crossing regime between Lithuania and Kaliningrad, due to the EU requirement that candidate countries adopt the rules of the Schengen acquis. A similar arrangement on the Estonian-Russian border was terminated towards the end of 2000. In sum, therefore, liberal politics may serve both to erode and to reinforce material boundaries, with no clear pattern to this variation. Furthermore, such shifts in material boundaries are bound to feed into the symbolic side too. Regionalization also represents open-ended phenomena and processes. To take just one example, Finland’s original Northern Dimension Initiative (NDI) served as a way of ‘customizing’ the Union to suit Finland’s own needs and interests.69 Yet, however much one might associate the NDI with regionalizing dynamics and the erosion of boundaries, there is no obvious reason why Russia could not use the initiative to advance its own agenda for the construction of order to the European north. Indeed, Russia’s relatively radical and ambitious response to the initiative surely gives some room for such an interpretation. It is, however, unlikely that Russia could use the NDI to halt the penetration of the EU order into the Baltic states’ domestic policies.70 It thus transpires that regionalization and liberal politics work in parallel with geo-politics. These three phenomena are interrelated in the most profound sense. Consequently, any comprehensive account of regional developments in the European north should address all three. CONCLUSION: POST-SOVIET GEO-POLITICS AS A METAPHOR Developments in the European north exhibit several geopolitically coloured aspects. In the widest sense of structural geo-politics, these manifest themselves in the ‘contest over order’ between the EU and Russia. At first sight, the EU order-building project looks to be overtaking the Russian one, which, among other things, suffers from the already mentioned fragmentation in orientations and priorities among CIS members.71 In the formal sense of the term, echoes of ‘new geo-politics’ practised by Huntington and others are evident everywhere. Finally, one can say that practical geo-politics is by no means absent from the picture, and that the forms it is taking testify to the persistence of fairly traditional geo-political desires in the region.72 In broad terms, one can say that, so far, the most powerful Baltic political élites and intellectuals of statecraft have mostly defined their own place in the ‘contest over order’ in ways that favour strictly defined territorial control and national sovereignty. Conversely, the Russian notion of time and space is something of which they mostly disapprove and are afraid. Therefore they have launched the NATO membership bids, which, if successful, might allay their perception of the
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Russian threat, and their tendency to perceive their ongoing inclusion into the EU order in terms of sovereignty support rather than compromise. This attitude is of course subject to change as interaction with the EU increases over time. With frustrating experiences of various aspects of EU governance likely to lie ahead, it is conceivable that Euro-sceptic voices will grow more powerful than they are now. Indeed, there are already a few signs that this might be happening. In May 2001, for example, the deputy speaker of the Estonian parliament and one of the main presidential candidates, Peeter Kreitzberg, signed an appeal for a moratorium on the country’s already well-advanced membership negotiations with the EU.73 Although Kreitzberg ultimately lost the election to Arnold Rüütel (formerly Estonian president during the late Soviet era), his opening may yet prove significant in terms of giving greater political space to alternative options for countering the perceived Russian threat to Baltic sovereignty. Nevertheless, one should bear in mind that Lithuanian-Russian relations have throughout the post-Soviet era displayed lesser degrees of behaviour manifesting territory and sovereignty-related conflicts than Estonian-Russian or LatvianRussian relations. Although Russian companies and the Lithuanian government have been at loggerheads over the privatization of Lithuania’s oil industry, the relatively open-ended attitude that Lithuania has displayed over the Kaliningrad question gives grounds to believe that there are credible alternatives to boundaryconstructing practices in the Baits’ practical geo-politics. In the cases of Russia and Belarus, by contrast, traditional geopolitical desires relate to sphere of interest politics rather than mere control over one’s own territory, political space and national sovereignty. However, instead of perceiving Russia and Belarus as being intent on building empires at the expense of neighbouring smaller states, one could opt for the interpretation that Russians and Belarusians actually show some post-modern inclinations in favour of ambivalent statehood and fuzzy spaces. In the final analysis, to what extent do the structural, formal and practical forms of geo-politics shape the relations between the post-Soviet states in the north of Europe? In this chapter I have argued that by speaking about the operation of geo-politics and post-Soviet geopolitics in particular, one does not have to exclude other phenomena and processes, such as liberal politics and regionalization. The notion of post-Soviet geo-politics is, therefore, best understood as a metaphor. Whilst it depicts certain aspects of recent and contemporary regional developments, it must remain an aspect view. This, however, does not invalidate its analytical and practical value in enabling us to obtain a more multifaceted and nuanced picture of processes underway in the region. Quite simply, post-Soviet geo-politics is there, and should be studied from multiple angles and with a critical attitude, rather than given a free rein. It stands to reason that this understanding of post-Soviet geo-politics as a metaphor challenges the approach of the formal geo-political tradition and ‘new geo-politics’ literature, both of which view geo-politics as an objective, immobile and relatively static determinant of policy options and outcomes. In the
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policy relevant sense, one might say that the more both scholarly and practical geopoliticians get their voices heard and accepted by political élites and the broader public, the more room and scope there is for critical geo-politics. The first task for the scholar is to show the political and contested nature of acts by formal and practical geopoliticians. As long as we are able to discern the politics that lies behind order construction to the north of Europe, we remain open to alternative courses of action and regional development. NOTES For useful comments, I would like to thank all the contributors to this book. Thanks are also due to Eiki Berg, Simon Dalby, Vilho Harle, Mika Luoma-aho, Sami Moisio and Gearóid Ó Tuathail (Gerard Toal) for fruitful conversations on critical geopolitics. Responsibility for all the arguments and views expressed remains mine. This chapter is partly supported by the Academy of Finland project, ‘Identity Politics, Security, and the Making of Geopolitical Order in the Baltic Region’. 1. The term structural geo-politics and the critical geo-politics approach that is applied in this chapter are introduced in G.O.Tuathail, ‘Understanding Critical Geopolitics: Geopolitics and Risk Society’, Journal of Strategic Studies, 22, 2/3 (1999), pp. 117–23; see also O.Tunander (ed.), Geopolitics in Post-Wall Europe: Security, Territory, and Identity (Oslo: PRIO and SAGE, 1997). 2. J.Löfgren and G.P.Herd, Estonia and the EU. Integration and Societal Security in the Baltic Context (Tampere: Tampere Peace Research Institute, 2000), pp. 20–1. 3. S.Moisio, ‘Geo-Conceptual Change and the Political Formation of the Eastern Dimension of the European Union’, paper presented at the ISA 2000 conference, 14–18 March, Los Angeles. 4. A.Wivel, ‘Theory and Prospects for Northern Europe’s Small States’, Cooperation and Conflict, 35, 3 (2000), p. 338. 5. The Inter-governmental Conference (IGC) of the EU that finished with the Nice Summit in December 2000 failed to institutionalize majoritarian decision-making rules in the fields of defence and taxation policy. These reforms are, however, likely to stay on the agenda. For a good review of the EU’s institutional development, see for example P.Lynch, N.A.Neuwahl and G.Wyn Rees, ‘Conclusions: Maastricht, Amsterdam and Beyond’, in P.Lynch, N.A.Neuwahl and G.Wyn Rees (eds), Reforming the European Union—From Maastricht to Amsterdamm (Harlow: Longman, 2000), pp. 241–2. 6. L.Jonson, ‘Russia and the “Near Abroad”: Concepts and Trends’, in B.Hansen and B.Heurlin (eds), The Baltic States in World Politics (Richmond, CA: Curzon Press, 1998), pp. 112–15. 7. See, for instance, K.Hallik, ‘Eestimaa Venelased: kas Eestimaa või Venemaa vähemus’, in M.Heidmets (ed.), Vene kiisimus ja Eesti valikud (Tallinn: Eesti Avatud Ühiskonna Instituut, TPÜ Rahvusvaheliste ja Sotsiaaluuringute Instituut and TPÜ Sotsiaalosakond, Projekt Vera, 1998), pp. 203–38; T.Velliste, ‘The “Near Abroad” in the Baltic Republics: The View from Estonia’, in D.M.Snider and
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8. 9.
10.
11. 12.
13.
14.
15.
16. 17.
18.
A.O.Brundtland (eds), Nordic-Baltic Security: An International Perspective (Washington, DC: CSIS, 1994), pp. 57–62. M.Salomaa, Teräksenkovaa politiikkaa. Läntisiä arvioita Venäjän sotilaspolitiikan suunnasta (Helsinki: Gaudeamus, 1995), pp. 146–7. H.Heikka, ‘The Evolution of Russian Grand Strategy and its Implications on Finnish Security’, Northern Dimensions (1999), p. 35; ‘Foreign Policy Concept of the Russian Federation’, International Affairs (Moscow), 46, 5 (2000), pp. 1–14. ‘Kontseptsiia Natsionalnoi Bezopasnosti Rossiiskoi Federatsii, Utverzhdena Ukazom Prezidenta Rossiiskoi Federatsii No 24 ot 10.04.2000 goda’ (http:// www.scrf.gov.ru/Documents/Decree/2000/24-l.html); ‘Voennaia Doktrina Rossiiskoi Federatsii, Utverzhdena Ukazom Prezidenta Rossiiskoi Federatsii, ot 21 Aprelia 2000 g.’ (http://www.scrf.gov.ru/Documents/Decree/2000/706-l.html). J. Kipp, ‘Russia’s New Military Doctrine: Context, Content, and Conclusions’, paper presented at the ISA 2000 conference, 14–18 March, Los Angeles. The CIS treaties include for example a collective security treaty signed in Tashkent in 1992 and a collective security concept approved in 1995. Together, these documents actually represent a collective defence arrangement; see R. Sakwa and M.Webber, The Commonwealth of Independent States, 1991–1998: Stagnation and Survival’, Europe-Asia Studies, 51, 3 (1999), pp. 379–415. The Russian-Belarusian Union State project is also open to other willing parties. The Union State Treaty was preceded by a similar type of declaration by Belarus, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan and Russia in 1996, which, however, largely remained a symbolic act lacking institutional content. The concept of securitization refers to a successfully constructed ‘security situation’, in which agents perceive a threat to a valued referent object such as the state or national identity. Securitization allows for the use of extraordinary measures and for bypassing of the normal bargaining process of politics. Desecuritization refers to the taking of issues out of such security agenda. See B.Buzan, O.Wæever and J.de Wilde, Security. A New Framework for Analysis (Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner, 1998), pp. 21–48, 201. O.Wæever, ‘Imperial Metaphors: Emerging European Analogies to PreNationState Imperial Systems’, in Tunander, Geopolitics in Post-Wall Europe, p. 86. M.Luoma-aho, ‘Euroopan Unioni: politiikan kohteesta poliittiseksi toimijaksi?’, (University of Newcastle/University of Lapland, 2000); Moisio, ‘Geo-Conceptual Change’; cf. T.Christiansen and P.Joenniemi, ‘Politics on the Edge: On the Restructuring of Borders in the North of Europe’, in H.Eskelinen, I. Liikanen and J.Oksa (eds), Curtains of Iron and Gold. Restructuring Borders and Scales of Interaction (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1999), p. 101. Jonson, ‘Russia and the “Near Abroad”’, p. 118. The GUUAM group includes Georgia, Ukraine, Uzbekistan, Azerbaijan and Moldova. See T.Kuzio, ‘Promoting Geopolitical Pluralism in the CISGUUAM and Western Foreign Policy’, Problems of Post-Communism, 47, 3 (2000), pp. 25–35. P.Aalto, Constructing Post-Soviet Geopolitics in Estonia: A Study in Security, Identity, and Subjectivity, Acta Politica 19 (Helsinki: Department of Political Science, University of Helsinki, 2001), ch. 1; J.Häkli, ‘Manufacturing Provinces: Theorizing the Encounters Between Governmental and Popular “Geographs” in
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19. 20.
21.
22. 23.
24.
25.
26. 27. 28. 29.
30.
31.
Finland’, in G.Ó.Tuathail and S.Dalby (eds), Rethinking Geopolitics (London and New York: Routledge, 1998), p. 131; Moisio, ‘Geo-Conceptual Change’. J.Häkli, ‘Discourse in the Production of Political Space: Decolonizing the Symbolism of Provinces in Finland’, Political Geography, 17, 3 (1998), p. 334. Aalto, Constructing Post-Soviet Geopolitics, ch. 1; V.Harle and S.Moisio, ‘Poliittisen maantieteen ja kansainvälisten suhteiden tutkimuksen rajapinnalla— näkökulmia suomalaisen geopolitiikan tutkimuksen kehitykseenn’, Alue ja Ympäristö, 28, 2 (1999), pp. 3–21; Moisio, ‘Geo-Conceptual Change’. Apart from these two forms, O Tuathail also introduces popular geo-politics, which is about the active legitimation and reproduction of practical geo-political knowledge in the mass media, popular culture and schoolbooks, as well as everyday understandings and images of other peoples and places. This aspect, however, remains mostly outside the scope of the present chapter. See O Tuathail, ‘Understanding Critical Geopolitics’, pp. 113–17. G.Sloan and C.S.Gray, ‘Why Geopolitics?’, Journal of Strategic Studies, 22, 2/3 (1999), pp. 1–2. G.Ó.Tuathail, ‘At the End of Geopolitics? Reflections on a Plural Problematic at the Century’s End’, Alternatives, 22 (1997), pp. 39–41; Ó Tuathail, Thinking Critically About Geopolitics’, in G.Ó.Tuathail, S.Dalby and P.Routledge (eds), The Geopolitics Reader (London and New York: Routledge, 1998), p. 2; Ó Tuathail, ‘Understanding Critical Geopolitics’, pp. 110–13; Ó.Tuomi, The New Geopolitics (Helsinki: National Defence College, 1998). A.Dugin, Osnovy geopolitiki: geopoliticheskoe budushchee Rossii (Moscow: Arktogeia-Tsentr, 1999); K.E.Sorokin, Geopolitika sovremennosti i geostmtegia Rossii (Moscow: Rossien, 1996); V.Zhirinovskii, Poslednii brosok na iug (Moscow: Pisatel’, 1993); G.Ziuganov, Derzhava (Moscow: Informpechat’, 1994); for examples of the military and other studies, see J.Erickson, ‘“Russia Will Not Be Trifled With”: Geopolitical Facts and Fantasies’, Journal of Strategic Studies, 22, 2/ 3 (1999), pp. 242–68. National Security Concept of the Russian Federation, endorsed by the Russian Federation President’s Decree, no. 1300 (dated 17 December 1997) (http://www. nupi.no/russland/russland.htm); Erickson, ‘“Russia Will Not Be Trifled With’”, p. 256. ‘Kontseptsiia…’ (see note 10). Exchange of views with Dr Viachaslau Pazniak during a panel in the ICCEES World Conference, 29 July-3 August 2000, Tampere. S.E.Huntington, ‘The Clash of Civilizations?’, Foreign Affairs (Summer 1993), pp. 22–49. Aalto, Constructing Post-Soviet Geopolitics, ch. 6; Moisio, ‘Geo-Conceptual Change’; I.B.Neumann, ‘European Identity, EU Expansion, and the Integration/ Exclusion Nexus’, Alternatives, 23 (1998), pp. 411–13. M.C.Williams and I.B.Neumann, ‘From Alliance to Security Community: NATO, Russia, and the Power of Identity’, Millennium: Journal of International Studies, 29, 2 (2000), pp. 357–87. See, for instance, C.A.Leeds, ‘Worldframes and Cultural Perspectives with Specific Focus on Scandinavia and Russia’, in O.Knudsen (ed.), Stability and Security in the Baltic Sea Region. Russian, Nordic and European Aspects (London: Frank Cass,
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32. 33. 34.
35.
36.
37.
38. 39. 40.
41.
42. 43.
1999), pp. 78–98; Moisio, ‘Geo-Conceptual Change’; Neumann, ‘European Identity’. H.Mouritzen, ‘Focus and Axioms’, in H.Mouritzen (ed.), Bordering Russia: Theory and Prospects for Europe’s Baltic Rim (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1998), p. 4. Tuomi, New Geopolitics, pp. 63–9. P.Joenniemi, ‘Old and New Arms Control: The Case of the Baltic Sea Region’, paper presented at the second Nordi-Baltic Peace Research Conference, 24–27 September 1998, Vilnius, p. 11; R.Väyrynen, The Security of the Baltic Countries: Cooperation and Defection’, in Knudsen (ed.), Stability and Security in the Baltic Sea Region, p. 217. In the ensuing brief analysis of patterns of practical geo-political reasoning, I mainly look at officially promoted discourses at the inter-state level, largely bypassing alternative discourses that are not adopted officially, and which therefore are not always empowered in a similar way. For an analysis of the intra-state contest between official and alternative discourses on the case of Estonia, see Aalto, Constructing Post-Soviet Geopolitics, ch. 4. V.A.Kremenyuk, Conflicts in and Around Russia. Nation-Building in Difficult Times (Westport, CO: Greenwood Press, 1994), p. 72; Wæver, ‘Imperial Metaphors’, p. 73. C.Clover, ‘Dreams of the Eurasian Heartland: The Reemergence of Geopolitics’, Foreign Affairs, 78, 2 (1999), pp. 9–13; D.Kerr, ‘The New Eurasianism: The Rise of Geopolitics in Russia’s Foreign Policy’, Europe-Asia Studies, 47, 6 (1995), pp. 977–88; G.Smith, The Masks of Proteus: Russia, Geopolitical Shift and the New Eurasianism’, Europe-Asia Studies, 47, 6 (1999), pp. 977–88. Quoted in Clover, ‘Dreams of the Eurasian Heartland’, p. 13. See, for instance, A.Melville, ‘Foreign Policy Options for the Putin Regime’, paper presented at the ISA 2000 conference, Los Angeles, 14–18 March. S.M.Eke and T.Kuzio, ‘Sultanism in Eastern Europe: The Socio-Political Roots of Authoritarian Populism in Belarus’, Europe-Asia Studies, 52, 3 (2000), pp. 527–34. Eke and Kuzio report that presently only about 10 per cent of Belarusians use the Belarusian language as the preferred language of everyday communication, and that there are cases of people having been assaulted physically for speaking Belarusian in public. Linguists point out, however, that in practice the majority of the people use a hybrid, with borrowings from both the Russian and Belarusian languages. NUPI, ‘Russia, Belarus sign union treaty, 8 December 1999’, chronology of events, database of the Centre for Russian Studies (http://www.nupi.no/russland/ russland.htm). Russia and Belarus have also agreed to set up a joint financialindustrial group called Defence Systems, which will merge two Belarusian and 17 Russian weapons companies and produce and sell modern air defence equipment. See ‘Russia and Belarus to cooperate closer in production of defence equipment, 11 February 2000’, chronology of events, database of the Centre for Russian Studies (http://www. nupi.no/russland/russland.htm). L.Meri, ‘Speech in Paldiski 26 September’, in E-LIST (2365); ‘Speeches, pressinfo’ (
[email protected]). Cf. G.Miniotaite, ‘Lithuania’, in Mouritzen, Bordering Russia, p. 182. In this connection, it should be noted that the authoritarian periods of rule within the Baltic states during 1918–40 are less frequently mentioned.
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44. See, for instance, remarks by the Estonian Prime Minister Mart Laar contained in ‘Europe is a civilization, not a market’, extracts from a lecture given to the French Institute of International Affairs, Paris, Independent, 23 June 2000. 45. In the early post-Soviet years, Estonia expected the 1920 Tartu Peace Treaty between Estonia and Soviet Russia to function as the basis of inter-state relations in the post-Soviet era. Russia recognized the ‘historical significance’ of the treaty, but refused to subscribe to the idea of legal continuity, which was effectively put forth in Estonia’s position. Instead, Russia referred to the 1991 agreement on mutual recognition between Estonia and Russia, reached in the midst of the Baits’ struggle to secede from the Soviet Union, and which proceeded from a pragmatic ‘tabula rasa’ principle, with citizenship and equivalent rights guaranteed for Soviet-era immigrants and also for their descendants. The Latvian case follows a broadly similar logic. These Estonian-Russian and Latvian-Russian disputes also result in differences over the interpretation of the 1940 events. Russia prefers to speak of the Baltic states as having voluntarily joined the Soviet Union, whereas the Baits speak of ‘occupation’, a position supported by the fact that an overwhelming majority of states never recognized the 1940 incorporation de jure. Finally, in line with the Baltic élites’ negative view of the Soviet era, Estonia and Latvia suggested in the early 1990s that as the Soviet Union’s selfdeclared successor state, Russia should pay compensation for the environmental damage caused by Soviet/Russian troops. By contrast, the Russian side implied that any such damage was compensated for by the Soviet-era contribution to infrastructure building in the Baltics. 46. D.J.B.Shaw, ‘Geopolitics, History and Russian National Identity’, in M.J. Bradshaw (ed.), Geography and Transition in the Post-Soviet Republics (Chichester: John Wiley & Sons, 1997), p. 36. 47. Other possible terms are, e.g., rysskoiazychnye (Russian-speakers), sootechestvenniki (compatriots/ethnic compatriots), and grazhdane (citizens). See R.Brubaker, Nationalism Reframed. Nationhood and the National Question in the New Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), pp. 142–4. 48. S.Medvedev, ‘A General Theory of Russian Space: A Gay Science and a Rigorous Science’, Alternatives, 22 (1997), pp. 523–4. 49. P.Baev, ‘Old and New Border Problems in Russia’s Security Policy’, in T. Forsberg (ed.), Contested Territory. Border Disputes at the Edge of the Former Soviet Empire (Cheltenham: Edward Elgar, 1995), p. 86. 50. Helsingin Sanomat, 9 July 1995. 51. NUPI, ‘Russia-Belarus Union: Political Will not Matched by Resources, 30.6. 2000’, chronology of events, database of the Centre for Russian Studies (http:// www. nupi.no/russland/russland.htm). 52. A.Park and T.C.Salmon, ‘Evolving Lithuanian Security Options in the Context of NATO, WEU and EU Responses’, European Security, 8, 2 (1999), p. 116. There is also a visa-free, simplified border crossing regime between Lithuania and Kaliningrad. 53. P.Joenniemi, S.Dewar and L.D.Fairley, The Kaliningrad Puzzle: A Russian Region within the European Union’, COPRI Working Papers 6 (Copenhagen: Copenhagen Peace Research Institute, 2000). 54. Ibid., pp. 17–18. It is notable that in many of his statements, President Lukashenka seems to view Kaliningrad as almost a part of Belarusian territory.
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55. I.Oldberg, ‘The Emergence of a Regional Identity in the Kaliningrad Oblast’, Cooperation and Conflict, 35, 3 (2000), pp. 283–4. 56. These territories were subsequently transferred to the Russian Republic of the USSR under border revisions effected in 1945 following the resumption of Soviet control over the Baltic states. They therefore currently form part of the Russian Federation: Pechory/Petseri and Pytalovo/Abrene within the Pskov oblast’, and Ivangorod/Jaanilinn within the Leningrad oblast’. 57. P.Aalto, ‘Beyond Restoration: The Construction of Post-Soviet Geopolitics in Estonia’, Cooperation and Conflict, 35, 1 (2000); T.Forsberg, ‘Comparison of the Annexed Territories’, in Forsberg, Contested Territory, p. 250. 58. See A.Sergounin, ‘The Russia Dimension’, in Mouritzen, Bordering Russia., pp. 68–71. The whole Narva and Sillamäe referendum episode was not actually very much about the rise of secessionist moods at all, but instead a desperate effort to stay in power by the local authorities and an attempt to turn Tallinn’s eye to the problems faced by the troubled region; for more, see D.Smith, ‘Russia, Estonia and the Search for a Stable Ethno-Politics’, Journal of Baltic Studies, 29, 1 (1998), pp. 3–18. 59. Huntington, ‘Clash of Civilizations?’, p. 27 60. M.Lauristin, ‘Contexts of Transition’, in M.Lauristin and P.Vihalemm, withK. E.Rosengren and L.Weibull (eds), Return to the Western World. Cultural and Political Perspectives on the Estonian Post-Communist Transition (Tartu: Tartu University Press, 1997), p. 29; for a more comprehensive set of reasons for the Soviet collapse, see R.Reuveny and A.Prakash, ‘The Afghanistan War and the Breakdown of the Soviet Union’, Review of International Studies, 25, 4 (1999), pp. 694–6, and Leeds, ‘Worldframes’. 61. J.Luik, ‘Negotiations with Russia’, in R.Grönick, L.Koskinen, N.Granlund and I.Fjuk (eds), The Baltic States as New Actors in the Nearby Environment. Building Cooperation Instead of Confrontation (Tallinn: Ignar Fjuk Architects Ltd, 1994). Luik was in charge of Estonian-Russian inter-governmental negotiations during the early 1990s. 62. V.Nollendorfs, Time and Place in Latvian Folklore and in Exile Latvian Literature’, Humanities and Social Sciences, Latvia, 2, 11 (1996), p. 69; cf. T.Unwin, ‘Place, Territory, and National Identity in Estonia’, in G.H.Herb and H.Kaplan (eds), Nested Identities. Nationalism, Territory, and Scale (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 1999). 63. Löfgren and Herd, Estonia and the EU, p. 90. 64. The Estonian MP Juhan Aare quoted in Sōnumileht, 15 April 1998. 65. A.Wendt, ‘Collective Identity Formation and the International State’, American Political Science Review, 88, 2 (1994), p. 389. 66. Moisio, ‘Geo-Conceptual Change’. 67. Löfgren and Herd, Estonia and the EU, p. 91. 68. P.Wennersten, The Politics of Inclusion: The Case of the Baltic States’, Cooperation and Conflict, 34, 3 (1999). 69. H.Ojanen, ‘How to Customise Your Union: Finland and the Northern Dimension of the EU’, Northern Dimensions (1999). 70. Löfgren and Herd, Estonia and the EU. 71. This is visible for instance in the not so significant intra-CIS trade. Jonson, ‘Russia and the “Near Abroad”’, p. 123.
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72. For a comprehensive discussion of modern and post-modern forms of geopolitics, see O Tuathail, ‘At the End of Geopolitics’. 73. Postimees, 16 May 2001.
12 Clash of the Boundaries? The European Union and Russia in the Northern Dimension HISKI HAUKKALA
Foreign policy with us does not proceed from the directions and priorities of a developed statehood. On the contrary, the practice of our foreign policy…will help Russia become Russia. (Sergei Stankevich, March 1992, cited in Richter, ‘Russian Foreign Policy’, p. 96) The European Union welcomes Russia’s return to its rightful place in the European family in a spirit of friendship, cooperation, fair accommodation of interests and on the foundations of shared values enshrined in the common heritage of European civilisation. (Common Strategy of the European Union on Russia, 1999) Democracy in Russia is neither likely nor necessary for Western interests; but moderation is. (Robert O.Keohane, ‘Redefining Europe: Implications for International Relations’, 1994, p. 239) As the first quotation above illustrates, in 1992 Russia was a new state with new borders and, perhaps most importantly, it was without a historically determined role for foreign policy. In other words, Russia was without an identity.1 As James Richter has quite rightly pointed out, the situation had changed by 1994, when Russia had once again ‘become Russia’ as a country that wanted to preserve its great power status. This assessment is, however, only partially right. It is true that Russia has become more assertive vis-à-vis its ‘Near Abroad’ and taken a more independent stance on issues of wider international significance. Yet the process of forming the identity of Russia is far from complete. The recent policies of the Putin regime have shown that Russia is still seeking its place in the world.2 Unlike the beginning of the 1990s, when the United States was the focal point for Russia’s foreign policy, it is now the European Union that seems to be the most important interlocutor. This could reconfirm the comment by Sergei Stankevich, quoted at the start of this chapter, that Russian identity could still be —and indeed quite likely is—shaped by Russia’s relations with foreign countries and thus especially with the European Union.
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There is, of course, nothing revolutionary in arguing that (national) identities are relative, that is, that they are forged in the intercourse with other identities.3 What makes the case of the EU and Russia special, however, is the fact that this relationship is intimately bound up with the fundamental questions ‘What is Europe?’ and ‘What is Russia’s place in Europe?’ These questions have perhaps never before been so acute as they are today, at a time when Europe is once again in the process of delineating its borders through the ongoing process of EU enlargement. The EU-Russia relationship is based on the notion of ‘strategic partnership’. This partnership in turn is to be based on ‘universal European values’. For example, according to the EU’s Common Strategy on Russia (CSR), the partnership is to be built on the ‘foundations of shared values enshrined in the common heritage of European civilization’.4 Similar references to shared values can be found in the Partnership and Co-operation Agreement (PCA) as well as the official communiqués of EU-Russia summits. These common values are mainly western liberal values, such as democracy, respect for human rights and individual liberties, and (social) market economy. At first sight, the notion of European values seems to refer to something fixed, constant and stable. This, however, is not the case. The notion of common values as the basis for EU-Russian relations is misleading inasmuch as both actors are engaged in a process of radical change. Moreover, the processes at work are entirely different. Whereas the EU is striving for deeper and deeper integration, Russia is battling with the effects of disintegration. Whereas the EU can be seen to be moving towards a post-modern and post-sovereign political system,5 the Russian project is still deeply modern in its essence. Although the relationship has some elements of continuity, these elements are usually a source of mutual frustration, which have led to a vicious circle of diminishing mutual expectations in EU-Russia relations.6 For example, the PCA suffers from an unrealistic end goal, which is the establishment of a free trade area between the European Union and Russia. Paradoxically, the reason for this state of affairs is that the Russian economy, supposedly the main beneficiary of a free trade area, cannot face up to fierce competition in open markets with the European Union, at least not in the foreseeable future. Moreover, the implementation of the PCA has frequently become bogged down in numerous, especially trade-related, disputes. Hence, one could say that the notion of a strategic partnership between the European Union and Russia is a purely rhetorical exercise, whereas the reality behind it is a constantly moving and complex target. An identity is of course not something that is forged by external factors alone. That is why it is important to take a look at the internal processes at work in both Russia and the European Union. On the one hand, Russia is still a long way from completing its transformation, the end state of which cannot even be guessed at yet. President Vladimir Putin has sought to gain a firm grip on the rudder of a turbulent Russia, but the consolidation of the Russian state will be a long process.
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Externally, this has so far resulted in a more assertive Russia, which has nevertheless chosen to direct its foreign policy towards the West, and especially towards the European Union. However, the measures that are required for the internal restructuring of the Russian economy and Russian society might in future go against the major currents of rule of law, democracy and human rights, which, in the eyes of the European Union, are considered to be central elements in the EU-Russia relationship. Thus far, the level of awareness about the European Union has been rather low in Russia. However, at the very time when this awareness is slowly rising, the elements of change within the European Union itself are picking up speed. Eastern enlargement together with the evolution of the European Security and Defence Policy (ESDP) are processes that will transform the European Union into an altogether different entity in the future. Whilst this is not necessarily a detrimental thing, it will complicate Russia’s ability to comprehend and consequently take part in the European project. This chapter is divided into four sections. The first section examines the factors relevant to identity-building in Russia; the second takes a comparative glance at the similar challenges faced by the European Union, with particular emphasis on the process of enlargement. The third section seeks to address the question of EU-Russia relations from the perspective of northern Europe. It is, after all, in the North where the European Union and Russia literally meet and share a common border of 1,300 kilometres. In addition, this interface/border is likely to grow larger (and thus more complex/complicated) in years to come due to the ongoing EU enlargement. This raises questions about the role and nature of the EU’s outer boundaries in relation to Russia, regardless of where they ultimately may lie.7 It will be argued that the future border will have a lot of exclusionary characteristics, whereas the Northern Dimension Initiative (NDI) can be seen as an attempt at preserving the inclusive nature of the European project vis-à-vis Russia. RUSSIA: THE AGONY OF TRANSITION In the summer of 1999, on the eve of the Finnish EU presidency, Finnish diplomat René Nyberg wrote an article about Russia’s place in Europe. Despite the many problems and shortcomings in Russia’s transition, he nevertheless managed to find four undeniably positive developments in the country: (i) Russia had no established ideology; (ii) there was no censorship in Russia; (iii) there was no state terror in Russia; (iv) Russia’s borders were open, and, according to Nyberg, it would not be an easy task to close them again.8 Today, all these causes for joy are being questioned in Russia. Recent events, most notably the August 1998 economic and political crisis together with the expansion of NATO and the war in Kosovo, have resulted in the disappearance of genuine liberal westernizers from positions of power in Russia.9 Yet, despite these setbacks, Russia seems to be ambivalent, hovering between the geo-
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economics fit for a globalized world and an old-fashioned geopolitics in which military might still plays a leading role. For example, the latter part of the 1990s witnessed a restructuring of the Russian economy in which energy, mineral and timber industries were privatized. This has lead to an emergence of new business élites in Russia, which are beginning to be more and more active in foreign policy questions. Although these élites are anything but homogeneous, they nevertheless seem to favour the geo-economic interpretation of international relations over the geopolitical one.10 Even in this respect, however, the recent signals have been mixed, as the liberal economic reform proposals of the government have been matched by a drive for renationalization or at least tighter political control of strategically important industries and natural resources. For example, the period 2000–01 saw repeated attempts to bring the energy giant Gazprom under stricter governmental control. The academic debate on Russia’s identity is usually focused on the question of whether Russia is European (and thus in dire need of learning from the West) or Eurasian, with perhaps a special messianic mission to ‘save the western world from itself’.11 Usually, the answer given is the non-conclusion that Russia is both European and Asian. However, when the analysis is extended to the level of dayto-day politics, it appears that the basic decision has already been made: in terms of history, religion, culture, demography, industrial potential and trade Europe constitutes the frame of reference and the main direction for Russian activities. Moreover, the presidency of Boris Yeltsin and the more recent Putin regime have made it clear that Europe is the main partner of Russia and Europe is the reference group to which Russia itself wants to belong.12 Regardless of this fundamental desire, Russia’s rapprochement with the European Union and the West in general remains far from certain. There are other questions regarding Russia’s identity that still have to be answered and choices that have to be made before Russia finds its place in Europe. Russia’s Borders After the dissolution of the Soviet Union, Russia was at a loss. Although it had voluntarily surrendered most of the Soviet sphere of influence, the whole process of letting go was not done in a coherent manner, something that suggests a lack of serious political consideration or premeditation. As a result, there was, and still is, no consensus concerning where the outer borders of Russia should lie.13 This debate has both internal and external dimensions. Following the dissolution of the Soviet Union, Russia is ethnically more homogeneous than it has ever been in the modern era, and yet the events in Chechnya have shown that Russia has tremendous difficulties in letting go of the remaining non-ethnic Russian populations within the Federation.14 Of course, this question involves factors other than simple ethnicity, such as the perceived threat of Islamic fundamentalism, the existing oil pipeline infrastructure and a strategically important location. Even so, the intervention in Chechnya still demonstrates a
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strong determination to maintain the territorial integrity of the Federation at all costs. It is often said that Russia has to make a choice between trying to continue being an empire or developing into an ‘ordinary’ nation-state. This dichotomy must be accompanied by a caveat, insofar as it is highly unlikely that Russia could ever become a nation-state in the European sense of the term. Instead, Russia could develop into some kind of hybrid, which indeed seems to be the direction in which it is heading. Putin’s decision to create seven super-regions has aroused concern that he is deliberately destroying the standing of existing regions. It is, therefore, possible to foresee a new era of Russification in which the constitutionally strong rights of minorities are trampled in order to create a stronger, patriotic and ethnically more homogeneous Russia, built on the alliance between a centralized and authoritarian state and the Orthodox Church.15 Furthermore, there is a visible rise in racism, anti-Semitism and xenophobia in Russia. A nation-wide poll conducted in April 2000 showed that 43 per cent of respondents perceived non-ethnic Russians as a possible security threat for the country.16 In addition, the fear of foreigners so well known during Soviet times seems to be making a comeback in the form of ‘spy mania’.17 For example, Putin has made some remarks concerning the introduction of legal sanctions against Russian citizens having too close relations with foreigners. On 14 April 2000 he said: ‘If the minister of foreign affairs is caught maintaining contacts with representatives of foreign states outside the framework of his official duties, he… like any other citizens of the Russian Federation, will be subject to certain procedures in line with the criminal law.’18 If the internal dimension of the debate concerns the legitimacy of existing state borders, externally the question is one of where the legitimate, mainly security related interests of Russia stop. During the twentieth century the Soviet Union used the notion of ‘legitimate security interests’ as a shield or cover for blunt interference in the affairs of its neighbours. In addition to this burden of history, the existence of some 25 million ethnic Russians in the territory of the Former Soviet Union (FSU) seems to have blurred the line between domestic and foreign policies in contemporary Russia.19 In fact, in the early 1990s the Russians introduced the ‘Near Abroad’ concept, which has been used to describe the area of the FSU where Russia must be entitled to play a leading role in order to protect and enhance its ‘vital national interests’. Whereas originally this aspiration was cloaked in the ostensibly altruistic aim of acting as a guarantor of peace and security in the FSU, the emphasis has subsequently been placed more bluntly on national interests.20 During the early part of the 1990s the vehicle for achieving this domination was to be the Commonwealth of Independent States (CIS). However, the CIS has proved to be a rather inefficient tool for controlling the countries of the ‘Near Abroad’ and thus more recently Russia has been taking a more assertive stance in its bilateral relations with its neighbours.21 In particular, Russia uses huge gas debts and the presence of Russian troops in some CIS countries to influence the
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internal development of its neighbours. It is also engaged in building new oil and gas pipelines and harbours, which could be used to bypass politically difficult neighbours and thereby to undermine their economic position and independence from Russia. Strategically important states, such as Belarus, the Ukraine, Georgia and Moldova have recently found themselves under heavy economic and political pressure from Moscow.22 In 1999, for instance, Gazprom’s price for 1,000 cubic metres of gas varied from $26.90 for Belarus, to $77.50 for western Europeans and $80 for the Ukraine—a clear sign that the price of gas is being used as a political tool in relations with both Belarus and the Ukraine, albeit for different political reasons.23 Yet it is only fair to point out that there are two alternative interpretations of Russia’s actions in its ‘Near Abroad’. First, rather than seeking regional hegemony for its own sake and thus possibly exacerbating the instability in the region, Russia’s new assertiveness can be seen as a reflection of Russia’s own insecurity vis-à-vis its turbulent and chaotic neighbours, which at times seem to teeter on the brink of turning into veritable failed states.24 Secondly, as Dmitri Trenin has argued, Russia’s Near Abroad policy owes much to an ideological component in prevailing foreign policy thinking, namely, the emphasis laid on multi-polarity and the (futile) hopes of making Russia one of the future prominent poles in world politics has led to a situation where Russia is trying to reintegrate the FSU back into Russia instead of integrating itself into something which Russia could be an integral part of—Europe.25 Trenin’s analysis, however, seems to be only partially true. The growing coolness that Putin has demonstrated towards Belarusian President Lukashenka’s plans for reintegration of the two states serves as an indicator that Russia might be letting go of its empire after all. Russia seems increasingly reluctant to expand its territories, especially if the expansion translates into additional financial burdens for the central government.26 The Nature of the State in Russia In 1994 Zbigniew Brzezinski urged the Russians to answer the question ‘What is Russia?’ To make matters simpler, he also suggested that Russia can be either an empire or a democracy, but it cannot be both.27 Now that the first decade of transformation is over, it seems evident that the question is yet to be answered. In other words, Russia has one basic choice, between an autocratic and centralized or a democratic and regionalized Russia. In 1998, Finnish President Martti Ahtisaari articulated this view when he argued that Russia faced a choice of either decentralization by design or disintegration by default.28 Yet it is important to keep in mind that regionalization alone does not automatically guarantee the democratization of Russia. The post-Soviet experience so far suggests that the regions themselves have been engaged in centralizing political power, thus effectively imitating old Soviet structures on a local level.29
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During the first decade of its short existence, the Russian Federation has been a federation in name only. In reality, the centuries-old centralized tradition of ruling in Russia was carried over from the Soviet Union. However, Boris Yeltsin was forced to turn to the regions as part of his search for allies in the power struggles of 1989–93, urging regional leaders to ‘take all the sovereignty you can swallow’ in exchange for their support.30 In addition, the gradual failing of the Russian state during the last decade has led to a de facto process of regionalization in which the regions have started forging their own external economic relations and even foreign policies as a means of survival.31 Moreover, the regions have been active in the codification of a host of regional constitutions, which have lead to a situation where there is no unified legal space in Russia.32 It is, therefore, hardly surprising that regionalization has a very negative connotation in Moscow, where it refers to an unwanted and uncontrolled process of devolution entailed by the erosion of central power. Furthermore, it is feared that regionalization will result in an increased likelihood of secessionist conflicts, especially on the outskirts of the Federation.33 Claiming that these trends could result in the disintegration of the whole state, President Putin has sought to counter regionalization by establishing seven super-regions, headed by presidential plenipotentiaries who supervise the work of elected regional governors. In addition, he curbed the powers of regions by limiting their fiscal autonomy, removing their control over special police units and local administrative courts and stripping governors of their right to sit in the Federation Council, the upper house of parliament. It is becoming clear that the power of the regions is effectively being curtailed and that uncontrolled devolution is reverting to centralization. Although some commentators have remained optimistic about the regions’ prospects for holding on to their autonomy, developments during 2000–01 suggested that the tide has already turned.34 This is not necessarily a bad thing in itself, since a functioning state in any country requires a certain amount of centralization. Centralization does start to be a problem, however, if it is used to hamper democracy in Russia. As a starting point, take the idea that true democracy entails more than simply holding elections at regular intervals. Vitalii Tretyakov has coined the phrase ‘administered democracy’, which refers to Russia as a democracy (elections, freedom of speech and media together with the possibility of changing the political leadership), which is ‘corrected’ by the ruling class.35 During Putin’s term of office it has become obvious that the President is in fact ‘administering’ local elections by intervening and forcefully pushing for preferred candidates, especially in strategically important regions.36 Moreover, elections are not just about electing, but also and perhaps more importantly about ejecting, leaders through a popular vote. This function is yet to be tested in Russia, but M.A.Smith has already expressed some doubts as to whether Putin will actually allow himself to be subjected to an electoral defeat and thus cede power in the future.37 When it comes to Putin’s role in actually
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turning the clock back towards authoritarian rule in Russia, however, the verdict is mixed. Michael McFaul, for instance, has argued that Putin cannot be labelled an ‘antidemocrat’. Rather, he is merely indifferent to democratic principles and other western norms, believing that the good end justifies the bad means in the transformation of Russia.38 Yet the difference between being an ‘anti-democrat’ and being merely indifferent towards democracy might in reality be a line drawn in water, with the end result being the same: a creeping paralysis of a still frail Russian democracy. Putin’s ‘indifference to democratic principles’ has been most apparent in the battle over the ownership of Russia’s last independent television channel, NTV. Owned by oligarch Vladimir Gusinsky’s Media-Most company, NTV sought to give alternative news coverage—especially on events in Chechnya—which challenged the official version continuously aired by the two government-owned channels, ORT and RTR.39 NTV’s woes (including tax raids by armed police and the imprisonment of Gusinsky) began in June 2000 and culminated in the hostile takeover of Media-Most by state-owned Gazprom in April 2001. The takeover was followed by the prompt dismissal of NTV’s chief executive, Yevgenii Kiselyov, and the closure of two of Media-Most’s most important publications, the daily Sevodnya and the weekly Itogi.40 Whilst the whole affair has been camouflaged as a natural and purely economic dispute between a debtor (Gusinsky’s Media-Most) and its creditor (Gazprom), it seems evident that the process has indeed been politically motivated. The intention has clearly been to muzzle the critical voice of NTV in order to control the information disseminated via television, which over the last decade has displaced the print media to become by far the most important source of information for ordinary Russians. The closed newspapers have sought refuge on the Internet, where they have continued their existence. It remains to be seen, however, whether this will be enough to secure the continued freedom of the press in Russia, or whether the role of the independent media will be reduced to mere dissidence in the future. What makes all these trends even more ominous is the fact that Putin seems to be engaged in forging a new, state-controlled ‘national idea’. The embryo of this new concept is the Yedinstvo (Unity) movement, which has grown out of the original Medved (Bear) electoral movement in the December 1999 Duma elections to become a fully fledged political party. According to Putin, Yedinstvo is the bulwark of state power, and should expand its membership so that the population can be closely linked to the state via the party.41 So far, the movement has failed to transform itself into a credible party of power. Even so, the mere suggestion by Putin that such a development would be favourable and feasible for Russia highlights certain undeniably authoritarian tendencies. More recently, there have been signs that Yedinstvo might be getting some wind into its sails, following its merger with three other parties, including its fiercest rival, the Fatherland-All Russia Party headed by Yurii Luzhkov and Yevgenii Primakov.42
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Russia’s External Orientation As indicated earlier, the Russian Federation had a clear western orientation to its foreign policy during the early 1990s. This approach has since been challenged and an increasingly assertive Russia has emerged. Furthermore, the central role of the United States in Moscow’s calculations has waned to some extent, as the European Union has risen more and more to the forefront of external policy. Despite this shrunken significance, however, the United States remains a crucial interlocutor for the Russians. The relationship is a very complicated one: although the former superpower rival has excelled in every field of international relations, Russia’s possession of a vast nuclear arsenal alone means that it wants to maintain a special and still rather competitive bilateral relationship with Washington.43 The main theme of Russian foreign policy seems to be the growing multipolarity of the international system. Although the most excessive rhetoric of multi-polarity has decreased following Yevgenii Primakov’s departure from the post of prime minister, the idea still provides the basis for most of Russia’s diplomatic manoeuvres.44 During recent years Russia has endeavoured to create special ties and ‘strategic partnerships’ not only with the European Union, but also increasingly with other possible counter-poles to perceived US hegemony, such as China and India. In reality, however, the Russian quest for multi-polarity is based on flawed logic, for three intertwined reasons. Firstly, Russia no longer finds itself in a position where its status as one of the central poles in the international system can be taken for granted. Secondly, despite its attempts to forge special bilateral relations with other non-western poles, such as India and China, Russia has no other realistic partner comparable to the European Union, which in turn is very unlikely to develop into an independent counter-pole to US hegemony. Thirdly, and consequently, the ‘Eurasian option’ that Russia is supposed to have is a myth, albeit one with some enduring qualities. It is extremely hard to perceive that Russia could either choose an autarchic path of Eurasianism or be able to forge strategic partnerships with China and/or India in order to topple the US hegemony. Where is Russia Going? First, it must be admitted that Putin has instilled at least a certain measure of superficial order into the crumbling federation. But this internal order has come at the price of growth and there are alarming signs of authoritarian measures, such as harassment of the press and other media, together with some imprisonments and Soviet-style forceful admittance into mental institutions for those who are inconvenient for the ruling élite. However, the economy, after drifting from one crisis to another during the 1990s, has taken a turn for the better. This recovery has been achieved mostly by selling crude oil at the unusually high price of over $30 per barrel. Nevertheless, together with the
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amazing and enduring popularity of the second war in Chechnya, it constitutes the basis of Vladimir Putin’s popular support, which has remained at an unprecedentedly high level of around 70 per cent throughout his presidency. Recent growth and the overall popularity of the current political leadership have therefore provided Putin and his government with an economic breathing space. This should be exploited in order to carry out important structural adjustments, otherwise the golden opportunity at hand may be lost for good.45 Having said this, it is still too early to predict which course Russia will ultimately take, either in the economic sphere or the political sphere. The end result will depend on a complex interplay between the aforementioned challenges together with a host of new, as yet unseen dilemmas. What can safely be said is that Russia will most likely continue to be a unique, puzzling entity during the years to come. Time is certainly one of the most important factors to be taken into account when pondering Russia’s future. Most people, including many experts, have been misguided in their expectation that miraculous results can be achieved in Russia almost overnight. To put these expectations into perspective, it is useful to cite the former British ambassador in Moscow, Rodric Braithwaite, who has drawn an analogy with another long and painful transformation. According to Braithwaite, ‘the Americans took a decade to write their Constitution, and another 70 years and a civil war to find out what it meant’.46 Whether, in an increasingly globalized world economy, Russia can afford to wait for almost a century before completing its transformation is an altogether different matter. There is also another point to be made about the importance of time in the case of Russia. Hélène Carrère d’Encausse has convincingly argued that it is partly because of time that the reforms and revolutions from Peter the Great to Lenin have failed. Transforming Russia proved to be such a vast and time-consuming challenge that leaders have invariably sought to speed up the process by resorting to extremely harsh and unacceptable methods. In this way, they have ended up ruining the very thing they were trying to accomplish.47 It remains to be seen whether Vladimir Putin has the patience to allow the necessary time for the reforms, and whether he will be given sufficient time himself. Will Putin too be rushed into seeking the transformation of Russia by force? THE EUROPEAN UNION: ESTABLISHING THE BOUNDARIES OF ORDER The European Union, like Russia, is also engaged in a quest for its identity. Many of the basic choices being made are very similar: the EU does not know where its outer borders lie, nor does it know the final extent of its political authority. In addition, the nature of the European Union’s external relations is yet to be solved. It is increasingly evident, however, that no agreement about the ‘ultimate’ nature of the European project is forthcoming. Instead, it seems that the European Union is drifting away from the idea of a unified and harmonized
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Europe towards increased pluralism, as the member states have embarked on a quest for growing flexibility. This may result in refragmentation within the united Europe.48 Thus, for the first time it seems possible that the European Union could be losing sight of the common goal and the sanctity of the acquis communautaire, which should be binding on all member states. This opens up a world of new possibilities, as the European Union might be forced to give up of its aim of bringing all of the European nations under one roof. This growing European disunion, as Robin Niblett calls it, opens up new avenues for EU external relations, as it could be used to tie Russia more firmly into the outer circles of the European project.49 Enlargement The Cold War and its bipolar overlay has served western Europeans very well, for it meant that they could take the concept of ‘Europe’ as their own property without having to bother to think about where the outer limits of European integration really lay.50 This all changed with the end of the Cold War, as the European Union was flooded with membership applications from the Central and Eastern European (CEE) states. A decade later, the European Union and its member states have still not been able to decide where the ultimate boundaries of European integration actually lie. The decision by the Helsinki European Council of December 1999 to expand the group of negotiating countries to 12 (plus Turkey waiting in line) does not reflect a true strategic choice on the future composition of the European Union.51 This is because at least two of the ‘outsiders’, Croatia and the Ukraine, are still pressing hard for eventual membership, whereas consensus exists within the EU that one of the already accepted ‘insiders’, Turkey, is not likely to become a member in the foreseeable future.52 These examples seem to verify the argument put forward by William Wallace in 1992 that the EU does not really have any criteria for determining which countries can get in and when enlargement should ultimately stop.53 Enlargement, of course, does not take place in a political vacuum, since it has both direct and indirect repercussions for the unfolding of European political space and emerging new identities. Especially crucial amongst these effects is the creation of possible dividing lines between those states that are accepted as members and those that are left out. This is where the question of Russia’s place in Europe and the nature of its future relations with the European Union become central. The enlargement process also carries implications for the European Union, which can be seen as having an international presence but not a clear-cut international identity that would help it formulate consistent policies and implement them in a coherent manner.54 Far from seeking a common European interest, existing member states seem to be pushing for the kind of increased ‘flexibility’ that will allow them to evade the most difficult questions and
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concentrate instead on co-operation within differing coalitions of the willing and able. We are thus witnessing the emergence of a Europe in which different states are engaged in different, often overlapping networks, sometimes pooling their sovereignties, sometimes protecting them. Moreover, it appears that in this context supra-and sub-state actors are becoming increasingly relevant in Europe.55 In spite of these emerging post-modern characteristics, the EU endeavour is still very much a modern, territorial one. For example, the internal market and the Schengen Convention reflect strict territorial delineations. Moreover, the models for further institutional reforms put forward in the aftermath of the disappointing Inter-governmental Conference (IGC) of 2000 exhibit strong tendencies towards some kind of a federal structure in the future. These blueprints reveal that at least some of the member states seem willing to engage in a process of reproducing state-like elements at the supra-national level as well. The ongoing eastern enlargement is an exercise in drawing the outer boundaries of Europe. For example, Turkey has been invited to become in time a member of the European family, whereas Russia and the Ukraine have been excluded. The meaningmlness of such a final exercise is questionable however, as Doron Rabinovici has highlighted when commenting on the role of geography in European integration: With the exception of Australia, all the other continents are larger and home to more people. They are independent land masses, their physical reality is beyond question. Europe is the refutation of all geographical insights as to how a continent should appear. It is, as has often been remarked, nothing more than an appendix to Asia: a mere bulge. That’s why the desire to adapt the European Union to its natural borders can only be meaningless. There are no natural borders. They are sheer invention, random demarcation. In the age of globalisation and the electronic revolution why should Europe want to hide behind a mountain range or cling to a strait?56 Yet EU enlargement is not just about drawing boundaries. As Pami Aalto argues in Chapter 11 of this volume, it is also about establishing (or imposing) 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. This process is, in fact, exclusionary in essence, for it seeks to lower the disparity in standards between the EU and the applicant countries while simultaneously erecting ‘normative’, or even ‘digital divides’ against the outsiders.57 The emergence of these divides cannot be attributed to a conscious process of alienation on the part of the EU; rather, it is because the outsiders lack the pull of prospective membership, and the resultant push of both positive and negative conditionality that is built into the accession process, that they increasingly come to lag behind.
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Moving on to a more analytical level, Ole Wæever has used a very interesting ‘imperial metaphor’ to describe the European Union and its enlargement. According to Wæever, the ‘EU Empire’ can establish its rule in a radial manner through differing zones of order.58 Although not entirely apposite, Wæver’s imperial analogy is useful in highlighting the fact that the EU does not have to accept new members in order to be able to impose its order on others.59 Moreover, the EU has not become an empire by the traditional means of conquest, but rather by means of invitation.60 The logic of ‘imperial overstretch’ is therefore not entirely applicable to the European Union.61 Nevertheless, each successive enlargement creates new borderlines beyond which the EU order has to be imposed if the European Union is to feel secure and to be able to do business with its new neighbours. The imperial analogy also helps us to imagine the nature of the future EU outer border. This border can either be hard, like the traditional bor ders of nation-states, or it can be soft, porous and flexible, allowing for significant interaction and transaction with outsiders. Wæver’s model tends to point to the latter variant. Current reality, on the other hand, is more ambiguous, for while the official EU rhetoric calls for open borders, enlargement has the potential to create a significant new dividing line in Europe. In addition to the aforementioned ‘normative divide’, there is a very real and hard Schengen border, which will make interaction between the European Union and Russia more difficult in the future. Yet it can be argued that the final extent of the territory of the European Union is not important per se. Rather, these delineations of ‘European-ness’ become important only in relation to those countries and regions, be it Russia or others, that are excluded from the process. I will now examine how the ongoing evolution of the EU’s identity has effected the identity-building processes at work in Russia and vice versa, with a special emphasis on Northern Europe. THE EU-RUSSIAN BORDER IN NORTHERN EUROPE: THE ROLE OF THE NORTHERN DIMENSION It is commonly understood that a national identity is forged in the interplay between the ‘self’ (inclusion) and the ‘other’ (exclusion).62 This basic understanding of the mechanism of identity formation should be nuanced by James Richter’s assertion that external factors influence the politics of national identitybuilding by either reinforcing or undermining competing images of national identity.63 It is here that the European Union’s relationship with Russia becomes important. From this perspective it becomes clear that although the EU seems to lack any actual ‘levers’ with which to influence Russia, it can still make a certain impact through its own policies, depending on what kind of images of the ‘self in Russia it can reinforce. In this regard, I will argue that of all the different sectors and policies, the nature of the European Union’s outer boundaries is one of the most important issues when it comes to the possibilities of influencing Russia’s
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future progress. The more porous and flexible the border, the easier it will be to integrate Russia into European structures, and vice versa. This latter point is especially important, since there is evidence that the traditional fear of encirclement is making a comeback in Russia. The first round of NATO enlargement in 1997 fuelled these fears in relation to Europe, while the southern, Islamic world is perceived as threatening due to events in the Caucasus. In addition, the East (China and Japan) is also viewed with suspicion, as the fear of Chinese infiltration in particular is widely felt in the Asian parts of Russia.64 It is isolation, rather than military conquest, that Russia fears the most. This fear has been especially acute in relation to Europe and the West and is clearly visible in Russia’s reactions towards the US plans to construct a National Missile Defence (NMD). Instead of rejecting NMD outright, Moscow has put forward counter-proposals for a modified system that would allow for Russian participation in the project. What makes this fear of isolation and exclusion even worse is the fact that the repeated manifestations of Russia’s European vocation and calling have gone unnoticed in Europe.65 Even during the periods of heavy fighting in the second war in Chechnya, Russians remained open to the concerns of the European Union and were willing to discuss these concerns quite openly.66 Moreover, Russia has repeatedly indicated its willingness to assume an active role in the reformulation of European political space, a role it has usually been denied. In particular, the marginalization of the Organization for Security and Co-operation in Europe (OSCE) (the only organization dealing with security-related issues in Europe of which Russia is a full member) in European affairs has been interpreted as another sign of Russia’s growing exclusion from Europe. In a similar vein, there has been a growing realization that it is EU rather than NATO enlargement that will most likely cut Russia off from the rest of Europe. The positive attitude towards EU enlargement initially voiced by Moscow has thus begun to fade.67 EU enlargement has two faces: on one hand it is about inclusion, extending the European network and tying nation-states peacefully together. This process is, however, based upon the assumption of growing similarity between the applicant countries and the European Union. The process of enlargement is built on both positive and negative conditionality, which is intended to ensure that the end result (membership) equals assimilation to the values and standards of the EU family. The insistence on learning from Europe and thus becoming the same as Europe is, however, very difficult for Russia. As was shown earlier, the insistence on becoming similar goes against some of the still important traits of political and philosophical thinking in Russia. Moreover, the vastness of this challenge combined with the growing speed of deepening integration with Europe make the goal of actually becoming the same something of a distant horizon, one which is always retreating no matter how hard Russia tries to reach it. Consequently, enlargement is perceived from the Russian side as a form of exclusion: it is about extending a normative and highly institutionalized wall that
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will isolate Russia from the rest of Europe.68 A case in point is Kaliningrad, wedged between Poland and Lithuania, which is set to become an isolated enclave of Russia within an enlarged Union. The European Union can thus be seen as being caught in an inclusion-exclusion paradox, trying to include Russia as far as possible in the European project while knowing that at least in the foreseeable future it cannot become a full member of the EU-family.69 To make matters worse, this EU inclusion-exclusion paradox has a Russian counterpart in the form of the ‘attraction-repulsion syndrome’—the historical struggle between, on the one hand, a desire to ‘cure’ Russia by making it more ‘European’ and, on the other, a deep suspicion of the perceived cultural threat of Europe.70 The European Union and Russia are thus profoundly different ‘others’. The EU cannot and does not want to make Russia a member, nor does Russia want to become one.71 Yet the existence of an ‘other’ does not necessarily have to rely on an enemy image.72 Although the former East-West hostility has yet to be completely erased, it has nevertheless lost much of its former salience, and this development constitutes one of the biggest successes of post-Cold War Europe. It is therefore by no means preordained that the meeting of the two ‘others’ will result in a perpetually reinforced mutual hostility between the respective identities. Instead, it is entirely possible that the two can come together in a reconstructive process based on co-operation and positive interaction leading to intersubjective understandings and shared norms.73 Instead of acting as a separating wall, the EU-Russia border could be perceived as a ‘marketplace’ in which the two identities might learn to understand and appreciate the differences to be found in the ‘other’.74 A process of this nature, however, necessarily requires mutual trust. It is in creating this atmosphere of trust between the European Union and Russia where processes such as the Northern Dimension enter the picture. The Finnish Northern Dimension Initiative (NDI) can be seen as an attempt to create an entirely new logic in EU external relations and thereby help to solve or at least alleviate the inclusion-exclusion paradox.75 Instead of exacerbating the exclusionary aspects of the European project, the NDI is built on the assumption of growing positive interdependence in Northern Europe, especially between the European Union and Russia. Although there is nothing inherently positive about interdependence per se, the NDI’s emphasis on the commonalities that actually stem from the very differences between the EU and Russia marks an interesting new departure.76 For example, the fact that Russia’s economy is seriously lagging behind Europe’s, resulting in a vast gap in living standards, is seen as a phenomenon that should bind Russia more strongly to Europe instead of being one that creates separation. Moreover, when compared to the other external policies of the Union, the NDI is notable for having actively sought to accommodate the outsiders’ view as well as that of the EU and its member states. In November 1999, for example, the Finnish EU presidency organized a foreign ministers’ conference, that allowed the partners to present their views and position papers prior to the Helsinki
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European Council meeting. This facilitated the drawing up of guidelines for the development of an action plan, which was later adopted at the Feira European Council in June 2000. It seems that the Kaliningrad region is fast becoming the test case in terms of gauging both the extent of mutual trust between the European Union and Russia and the NDI’s potential for practical problem-solving. Whereas in 1994 the Swedish prime minister, Carl Bildt, argued that the three Baltic states constituted the ‘litmus test’ of Russia’s true intentions towards Europe, at the beginning of a new millennium the focal point of the test was to be found in the Kaliningrad region. However, this time the test did not relate only to Russia, but also to the European Union and its ability to come up with innovative solutions.77 The ‘marketplace’ logic introduced above also requires a shift away from traditional state-centric inter-governmental transactions. Increasingly, it seems, the EU-Russian border is losing the role ascribed to it by modern conceptions of territoriality (i.e. ‘a container of statehood’) and becoming a locus for crossborder co-operation in the form of dynamic, fluid, network-like regions.78 What makes these developments promising is the fact that the Russian perception of cross-border co-operation is generally positive. However, at the level of central government especially, there remains an underlying fear of hostile alien infiltration or ‘cultural-religious, economic and demographic expansion by neighbouring states to Russian territory’, as Aleksandr Avdeyed, the first deputy foreign minister of Russia, has put it.79 Once again, the Northern Dimension has the potential to become a facilitator for this multi-level game in northern Europe. The idea of increased co-operation at the local level between, for example, indigenous peoples or regional councils in the North has been on the NDI’s agenda from the outset. Thus far, however, it seems that local and regional actors themselves have been more active than state governments in coming up with new ideas and networks. Indeed, at times states have appeared more concerned with protecting their sovereign prerogatives than actively encouraging networking under the aegis of the Northern Dimension.80 Finally, the NDI has the potential to offer Russia the kind of meaningful role in European affairs that it has actively sought but has hitherto been denied. The fact that Russia’s own representation of its identity as a great power has repeatedly been sidelined and neglected is in itself a destabilizing factor, not only for the North but also for Europe as a whole. Virulent nationalism, it seems, flourishes in places where economic inequalities are exacerbated by insecurity over identities.81 Moreover, as Erik Ringmar has so convincingly argued, actors who feel that their very existence is threatened can be prone to desperate measures, even war, in order to assert a version of their identity that has otherwise been left unnoticed or has even been ridiculed.82
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CONCLUSION This chapter has argued that the notion of common European values cannot provide a viable foundation for strategic partnership between the European Union and Russia. The EU emphasis on mutual values, moreover, is not merely counterproductive, but might also in the long run prove dangerous. As things stand, the emphasis on common values could be seen as a case of EU double standards. These values are employed as a yardstick for criticizing the lack of progress in Russia, and yet their very existence actually precludes Russia from taking full part in the European project. This is because Russia is viewed as being too different from the rest of the Europe to begin with, thus making it ‘unintegratable’. It therefore seems very difficult for the European Union and Russia to overcome the East-West divide once and for all. One reason for this lies in the persistence of the mutually shared ‘enemy image’ of the Cold War era. Although the latter image has lost much of its previous urgency, it is still far from redundant, and continues to exercise a firm grip on both sides of the East-West divide. Given time, it might also give rise to selffulfilling prophecies, with potentially disastrous consequences.83 Paradoxically, it is the European Union that appears to be the weaker partner in EU-Russian relations. This is due on one hand to the fragmented nature of the EU’s own strategy, or rather policy, towards Russia. At best, the EU is only at the beginning of a learning process, which might in time lead to a coherent policy.84 As long as the European Union is unable to solve the inclusionexclusion paradox, however, it is unlikely that any such policy will emerge. On the other hand, it appears that Russia is learning the EU-game. Moscow has been very active in coming up with proposals for further co-operation, ranging from negotiating a new basic treaty of relations on the basis of the PCA and the two respective strategies that the two have crafted for each other, to declaring Kaliningrad a pilot region in EU-Russia relations. In all these initiatives the North serves as the focal point or interface. This testifies to the importance of northern Europe and the NDI as a marketplace and a meeting ground for the European Union and Russia. The title of this chapter suggests that there could be a ‘clash of the boundaries’ between the European Union and Russia. Based on the argument above, it would seem safe to conclude that such a clash is not forthcoming. Nevertheless, the relationship contains a lot of problematic elements, most of which pertain to the nature of the future EU-Russia border in the North, especially after the ongoing eastern enlargement. Much will therefore depend on whether the European Union and Russia can learn to meet each other on that border as equal partners who accept and respect their differences without being threatened or feared in the New Europe.
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NOTES I would like to thank Toby Archer and the editors of this book for helpful comments on an earlier draft of this chapter. 1. J.Richter, ‘Russian Foreign Policy and the Politics of National Identity’, in C.A. Wallander (ed.), The Sources of Russian Foreign Policy After the Cold War (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1996), p. 69. 2. An illustrative case in point is the multitude of different, even paradoxical national symbols that Russia has come to choose under President Putin: the twoheaded eagle of the tsars, the old Soviet national anthem, although with new lyrics, and the tricolour flag, which represents liberalism and its values. Moreover, Putin has reinstated the red flag for the Russian armed forces, albeit without the hammer and sickle. 3. Cf. I.B.Neumann, ‘Russia as Central Europe’s Constituting Other’, East European Politics and Societies, 7, 2 (1993), p. 349. 4. Common Strategy of the European Union on Russia, part 1. The document is available at http://www.europa.eu.int/comm.external_relations/ceeca/com_ strat/ russia_99.pdf 5. W.Wallace, ‘Europe After the Cold War: Interstate Order or Post-Sovereign Regional System?’, Review of International Studies, 25, special issue (1999), p. 203. 6. See I.Leshukov, ‘Can the Northern Dimension Break the Vicious Circle of RussiaEU Relations?’, in H.Ojanen (ed.), The Northern Dimension: Fuel for the EU?, Programme on the Northern Dimension of the CFSP, no. 12 (Helsinki and Berlin: Finnish Institute of International Affairs and Institut für Europäische Politik, 2001). 7. A note on terminology. According to Anssi Paasi, a ‘“boundary” has up to recent times been understood typically as a line of physical contact between states, which affords opportunities for co-operation and discord between states.’ It is used in this chapter in this sense, as an interface between the European Union and Russia. Although the term boundary emphasizes separation whereas the other commonly used term, frontier, refers to a zone of open contact, the use of the term boundary is justified over frontier as the EU-Russia border has many inherently exclusive characteristics as well. Quote taken from A.Paasi, ‘The Political Geography of Boundaries at the End of the Millennium: Challenges of the De-territorializing World’, in H.Eskelinen, I.Liikanen and J.Oksa (eds), Curtains of Iron and Gold. Reconstructing Borders and Scales of Interaction (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1999), p. 13. 8. R.Nyberg, ‘Russia and Europe’, European Security, 8, 2 (1999), p. 16. 9. M.Light, S.White and J.Löwenhardt, A Wider Europe: the View from Moscow and Kyiv’, International Affairs, 76, 1 (2000), p. 79. 10. S.Medvedev, Business Elites and Russia’s European Policy, UPI Working Papers 26 (Helsinki: Finnish Institute of International Affairs, 2000). 11. Cf. I.B.Neumann, Russia and the Idea of Europe. A Study in Identity and International Relations (London and New York: Routledge, 1996); C.Pursiainen, Venäjän idea, Utopia ja missio (Helsinki: Gaudeamus, 1998); R.Taylor, ‘The Double-Headed Eagle: Russia—East or West?’, in R.Bideleux and R.Taylor (eds),
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12.
13. 14.
15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20.
21.
22. 23. 24. 25.
26.
27. 28. 29.
European Integration and Disintegration: East and West (London and New York: Routledge, 1996). This conclusion is supported by, for example, S.Medvedev, Russia’s Futures: Implications for the EU, the North and the Baltic Region, Programme on the Northern Dimension of the CFSP, no. 8 (Helsinki and Berlin: Finnish Institute of International Affairs and Institut für Europäische Politik, 2000). Chapter 11 also analyses the Eurasian discussion. Richter, ‘Russian Foreign Policy’, p. 75. Some 81.6 per cent of the population in Russia is ethnically Russian compared to the 51.4 per cent in the Soviet Union. Taylor, ‘Double-Headed Eagle’, pp. 252–3. At the same time the Russian Federation has formally acknowledged the existence of 128 ‘nationalities’ (ethnic groups) in Russia. S.G.Simonsen, ‘Putin’s Leadership Style: Ethnocentric Patriotism’, Security Dialogue, 31, 3 (2000), p. 377. Ibid., p. 379. Russia Votes website http://www.russiavotes.org Economist, 25 November 2000. Quoted in M.A.Smith, Putin’s Regime: Administered Democracy, CSRC Analytical Papers, 2000, see http://www.ppc.pims.org/Projects/csrc/E108-MAS.htm W.Russell, ‘Russian Relations with the “Near Abroad”’, in P.Shearman (ed.), Russian Foreign Policy Since 1990 (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1995), p. 53. For an in-depth analysis of the changes in Russia’s foreign political thinking during the 1990s, see H.Heikka, Beyond the Cult of the Offensive: The Evolution of Soviet/ Russian Strategic Culture and its Implications for the Nordic-Baltic Region, Programme on the Northern Dimension of the CFSP, no. 10 (Helsinki and Berlin: Finnish Institute of International Affairs and Institut für Europäische Politik, 2000). For an overview of the evolution of the Russian policies towards the ‘Near Abroad’ and the CIS, cf. A.A.Pikayev, ‘The Russian Domestic Debate on Policy Toward the “Near Abroad”’, in L.Jonson and C.Archer (eds), Peacekeeping and the Role of Russia in Eurasia (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1996). Economist, 30 September 2000. J.B.Dunlop, ‘Reintegrating “Post-Soviet Space”’, Journal of Democracy, 11, 3 (2000), p. 42. This point has been made, for example, in S.Sestanovich, ‘Giving Russia its Due’, National Interest, 36 (1994), p. 5. D.Trenin, ‘Security Co-operation in North-Eastern Europe’, in D.Trenin and P. Ham, Russia and the United States in Northern European Security, Programme on the Northern Dimension of the CFSP, no. 5 (Helsinki and Berlin: Finnish Institute of International Affairs and Institut für Europäische Politik, 2000), p. 51. According to the Financial Times (1 December 2000) Putin commented that ‘the creation of a union state demands the voluntary renunciation of a certain amount of sovereignty, so we first need to think 100, or 1,000 times and only then act’. Z.Brzezinski, The Premature Partnership’, Foreign Affairs, 73, 2 (1994), p. 72. M.Ahtisaari, ‘For the EU, the Focus Now Must be on Russia’ International Herald Tribune, 18 December 1998. J.Perovic, Internationalization of Russian Regions and the Consequences for Russian Foreign and Security Policy, Russian Study Group at the Center for Security Studies and Conflict Research, Regionalization of Russian Foreign and Security Policy, Project’s Working Paper no. 1 (April 2000), pp. 13–14.
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30. Quoted in G.W.Lapidus and E.W.Walker, ‘Nationalism, Regionalism, and Federalism: Center-Periphery Relations in Post-Communist Russia’, in G.W. Lapidus (ed.), The New Russia: Troubled Transformation (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1995), p. 83. 31. Cf. Medvedev, Russia’s Futures, p. 82. 32. A.Stepan, ‘Russian Federalism in Comparative Perspective’, Post-Soviet Affairs, 16, 2 (2000), p. 144. 33. T.Tairov, ‘Turbulence in Russia and Border Cooperation’, in L.Heininen and G.Lassinantti (eds), Security in the European North: From ‘Hard’ to ‘Soft’ (Rovaniemi and Stockholm: Arctic Centre University of Lapland and Olof Palme International Center, 1999), pp. 172–3. 34. Cf. C.Kupchan, ‘Devolution Drives Russian Reform’, Washington Quarterly, 23, 2 (2000). 35. Tretyakov’s ideas have been analysed in Smith, Putin’s Regime. 36. Financial Times, 16 November 2000. 37. Smith, Putin’s Regime. 38. M.McFaul, ‘One Step Forward, Two Steps Back’, Journal of Democracy, 11, 3 (2000), p. 30. 39. For closer analysis of the role of the media in Russian politics during the ascension of Vladimir Putin, see K.Nordenstreng, E.Vartanova and Y.Zassoursky (eds), Russian Media Challenge (Helsinki: Kikimora Publications, 2001). 40. Economist, 21 April 2001. 41. Smith, Putin’s Regime. 42. Newsweek, 7 May 2001. 43. A.Piontkovski, ‘Season of Discontent: Asymmetrical Perceptions’, Russia Journal, 5 August 2000, online version, http://www.russiajournal.com/start/columns/ article_73_3 357p.htm 44. For an analysis of the development of multi-polarity in Russian foreign political thinking, see Heikka, Beyond the Cult of the Offensive, especially pp. 65–90. 45. Economist, 12 May 2001. 46. R.Braithwaite, ‘Russian Realities and Western Policy’, Survival, 36, 3 (1994), p. 16. 47. H.Carrère d’Encausse, ‘Russia and Europe in a Historical Context’, in T.Casier and K.Malfliet (eds), Is Russia a European Power? The Position of Russia in a New Europe (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1998), p. 15. 48. R.Niblett, ‘The European Disunion: Competing Visions of Integration’, Washington Quarterly, 20, 1 (1997), p. 91. 49. Ibid., p. 107. 50. W.Wallace, ‘From Twelve to Twenty-Four? The Challenges to the EC Posed by the Revolutions in Eastern Europe’, in C.Crouch and D.Marquand (eds), Towards Greater Europe? A Continent Without an Iron Curtain (Oxford: Basil Blackwell Publishers, 1992), p. 34. 51. The countries are Bulgaria, Cyprus, Czech Republic, Estonia, Hungary, Latvia, Lithuania, Malta, Poland, Romania, Slovak Republic and Slovenia. 52. Financial Times, 8 November 2000. 53. Wallace, ‘From Twelve to Twenty-Four?’, p. 40. 54. On EU’s presence in international arena, cf. D.Allen and M.Smith, ‘Western Europe’s Presence in the Contemporary International Arena’, in M.Holland (ed.),
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55. 56.
57.
58.
59.
60.
61.
62. 63. 64.
65.
The Future of European Political Cooperation: Essays on Theory and Practice (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1991); and especially in northern Europe see E. Antola, ‘The Presence of the European Union in the North’, in H.Haukkala (ed.), Dynamic Aspects of the Northern Dimension, Jean Monnet Unit Working Paper no. 4 (Turku: Jean Monnet Unit, 1999). The point about identity has been made forcefully by J.Zielonka, Explaining Euro-Paralysis: Why Europe is Unable to Act in International Politics (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1998). Wallace, ‘Europe After the Cold War’, p. 218. D.Rabinovici, ‘There are no Natural Borders’, in M.Blaisse, M.Shepstone and M.Newton (eds), Europe: Experience and Expectation (Amsterdam: Praemium Erasmianum Foundation, 1997), p. 122. ‘Normative divide’ refers to Russia’s inability to make her laws and regulations in line with EU standards whereas the ‘digital divide’ warns that Russia is seriously lagging behind in the ongoing information technology revolution. Both terms are catchwords coined by the Finnish Ministry for Foreign Affairs. O.Wæever, ‘Imperial Metaphors: Emerging European Analogies to Pre-NationState 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, 1997), p. 64. According to Teemu Palosaari, the EU is using these ‘grey zones’ in order to control the problems that stem from neighbouring areas without having to grant them full membership and European identity. T.Palosaari, ‘Comment: Northern Dimension as a Tool for Building Grey Zones Between Membership and NonMembership’, in H.Ojanen (ed.) The Northern Dimension: Fuel for the EU?, Programme on the Northern Dimension of the CFSP, no. 12 (Helsinki and Berlin: Finnish Institute of International Affairs and Institut für Europäische Politik, 2001). Paraphrase of term coined by Geir Lundestad for the United States of America. See G.Lundestad, Empire by ‘Integration’: The United States and European Integration 1945–1997 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998). For more on the concept, see P.Kennedy, The Rise and Fall of the Great Powers: Economic Change and Military Conflict from 1500 to 2000 (London: Fontana Press, 1988), p. 666. I.B.Neumann, ‘European Identity, EU Expansion, and the Integration/Exclusion Nexus’, Alternatives, 23, 3 (1998), p. 399. Richter, ‘Russian Foreign Policy’, p. 70. M.Bowker, Russian Foreign Policy and the End of the Cold War (Aldershot: Dartmouth, 1997), p. 206. According to British daily newspaper the Independent, there is an ongoing infiltration by Chinese illegal immigrants to the Russian Far East as the Chinese population of 250 million seeks to gain new space at the expense of the 10 million Russians living in the region. Independent online 10 December 2000. Available at http://www.independent.co.uk/news/World/Rusia/ 2000–12/takeoverl01200.shtml For an extensive account of Russia’s European vocation and calling, see S. Medvedev, ‘Catholic Europe, Marginal Russia, and Post-modern North. An Essay on the Origins and Limits of the European Project’, Northern Dimensions 1998— The Yearbook of Finnish Foreign Policy (Helsinki: Finnish Institute of International Affairs, 1998).
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66. H.Haukkala, ‘The Making of the European Union’s Common Strategy on Russia’, in H.Haukkala and S.Medvedev (eds), The EU Common Strategy on Russia: Learning the Grammar of the CFSP, Programme on the Northern Dimension of the CFSP, no. 11 (Helsinki and Berlin: Finnish Institute of International Affairs and Institut für Europäische Politik, 2001). 67. Trenin, ‘Security Co-operation in North-Eastern Europe’, p. 35. 68. I.B.Neumann, ‘The Geopolitics of Delineating “Russia” and “Europe”: The Creation of “the Other” in European and Russian Traditions’, in T.Casier and K.Malfliet (eds), Is Russia a European Power? The Position of Russia in a New Europe (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1998), pp. 43–4. Although Neumann’s original argument dealt with NATO enlargement, I nevertheless find his conclusions appropriate for the EU as well. 69. Esko Antola mentions the term ‘inclusion-exclusion dilemma’. I, however, find the word paradox more helpful as it highlights the nature of this ‘dilemma’ more accurately. Antola, ‘Presence of the European Union’, p. 130. 70. N.S.MacFarlaine, ‘Russia and European Security’, in H.Ehrhart, A. Kreikemeyer and A.Zagorski (eds), The Former Soviet Union and European Security: Between Integration and Disintegration (Baden-Baden: Nomos, 1993), p. 26. 71. For example, a study published by the Forward Studies Unit of the European Commission enumerates five scenarios for Europe 2010, which foresee the EU memberships of, for example, Ukraine, Israel, Morocco and Lebanon—but no Russia. Thus Russia indeed seems to be the ‘eternal other’ for Europe; one which cannot be included, not even in the wildest dreams. G.Bertrand et al, Scenarios Europe 2010. Five Possible Futures for Europe, European Commission Forward Studies Unit, Working Paper, July 1999. 72. Neumann, ‘European Identity, EU Expansion’, p. 399. 73. L.Aggestam, ‘A Common Foreign and Security Policy: Role Conceptions and the Politics of Identity in the EU’, in L.Aggestam and A.Hyde-Price (eds), Security and Identity in Europe: Exploring the New Agenda (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 2000), p. 92. 74. O.Tunander, ‘Post-Cold War Europe: Synthesis of a Bipolar Friend-Foe Structure and a Hierarchic Cosmos-Chaos Structure?’, in Turnander et at., Geopolitics in Post-Wall Europe, p. 27. 75. For more detailed description of the Northern Dimension, cf. Ojanen, Northern Dimension: Fuel for the EU? 76. Hugh Miall has argued that the effects of interdependence can be either positive and foster a sense of common interests, or negative and result in a sense of vulnerability and threat, depending on the way it is managed. H.Miall, ‘Wider Europe, Fortress Europe, Fragmented Europe?’, in H.Miall (ed.), Redefining Europe: New Patterns of Conflict and Cooperation (London: Pinter and Royal Institute of International Affairs, 1994) p. 5. 77. C.Bildt, The Baltic Litmus Test’, Foreign Affairs, 73, 5 (1994). There is hardly any need to go into the extensive debate about Kaliningrad in the context of the Northern Dimension, as the debate on the topic is already as wide as it is comprehensive. For more on the topic, cf. J.Baxendale, J.Dewar and D.Gowan, The EU and Kaliningrad: Kaliningrad and the Impact of EU Enlargement (London: Federal Trust, 2000); L.D.Fairlie, ‘Will the Use of the Northern Dimension Solve the Kaliningrad Dilemma?’, Northern Dimensions 2000—The Yearbook of Finnish
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78. 79.
80. 81.
82.
83.
84.
Foreign Policy (Helsinki: Finnish Institute of International Affairs, 2000); P.Joenniemi. ‘Kaliningrad: A Pilot Region in the Russia/EU Relations?’, in Ojanen, Northern Dimension: Fuel for the EU?; P.Joenniemi, S.Dewar and L.D. Fairlie, Kaliningrad Puzzle—A Russian Region within the European Union (Karlskrona and Mariehamn: Baltic Institute of Sweden and Åland Islands Peace Institute, 2000). S.Medvedev, ‘Across the Line: Borders in Post-Westphalian Landscapes’, in Eskelinen et al, Curtains of Iron and Gold, p. 54. Avdeyed’s comment can be interpreted as referring more to China and the ‘southern dimension’ in general rather than to northern Europe. A.Avdeyev, ‘International Economic Relations of the Russian Regions’, International Affairs, 46, 3 (2000), p. 168. H.Haukkala, ‘Comment: National Interests Versus Solidarity Towards Common Policies’, in Ojanen, Northern Dimension: Fuel for the EU?, p. 111. O.P.Richmond, ‘Emerging Concepts of Security in the European Order: Implications for “Zones of Conflict” at the Fringes of the EU’, European Security, 9, 1 (2000), p. 53. E.Ringmar, Identity, Interest and Action: A Cultural Explanation of Sweden’s Intervention in the Thirty Years War (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996). For an elaboration of the security argument in EU-Russia relations, see M. Light, ‘Security Implications of Russia’s Foreign Policy for Europe’, European Foreign Affairs Review, 3, 1 (1998), especially p. 58. Haukkala, ‘Making of the Common Strategy on Russia’, pp. 66–8.
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Index
Adamkus, Valdas 206, 208, 209 Ahtisaari, Martti 109, 110, 165, 278 Åland Islands xiii, xv, 173 Aleksandrov, Aleksandr 234 Alexander I, Tsar of Russia 138 amber 75 Andersson, Åke 27 Arājs Commando 87 Archangelsk 229 Arctic/Arctic Organisations 33, 34, 135, 142 Atlantic 9, 13, 21 Atlantis 139 Australia 87, 284 Azov 138
Euro-Faculty (Riga) 24; Grouping of Eight (‘5+3’ Meetings of Nordic and Baltic Foreign Ministers) 60, 133; Helsinki Commssion (RELCOM) 20, 27; Parliamentarians, meetings of 17, 23, 27; Union of Baltic Cities 27; Visby Summit (1996) 173, 174; Yule land 37–38, 75, 184, 186 Baltic Sea Regional Co-operation, and Organisations (Interwar Period): Baltic Entente 171; Baltic League 30–3 160, 171–5, 184; Baltoscandia 3, 31, 59, 61, 75, 157–2; Helsinki Conference (1920) 160; Rapallo, Treaty of (1922) 187; Warsaw Accord (1922) 160, 172 Baltic States 2, 4, 9, 14, 15, 16, 21, 23, 23, 24, 25, 31, 32, 34, 35, 47, 52, 53, 57, 58, 59–68, 78, 79, 83, 106, 126, 133, 134, 135, 158, 163, 164, 169, 171, 172, 174, 175, 177, 187, 216, 217, 220, 224, 225, 227, 228, 229, 231, 232, 235, 235, 238, 239, 241, 249, 251, 252, 255, 256, 258, 261, 262, 263; Popular Fronts 14, 59, 60, 163 Baltic States Co-operation and Organisations: Baltic Assembly 169; Baltbat 171; Baltic Council 60, 169; Baltron 171 Bank of England 175
Balkans 2, 128, 138 Baltic Germans 16, 89, 180, 182–6, 185, 188, 235 Baltic Oil Pipeline System (BOPS) 59, 65, 223, 231, 238 Baltic Sea Area, the concept of 30, 34–7, 78–2, 89–3; Baltic World, the 9 Baltic Sea Regional Co-operation and Organisations (Contemporary Era) 20, 119; Amber Gateway 38–1; Baltic Sea Seven Islands Co-operation Network (B-7) 27; Baltic Sea States Sub-Regional Cooperation 24, 27–28; Council of the Baltic Sea States 22–4, 25, 34, 47, 53, 58, 65, 102, 106, 134, 173–7, 238;
309
310 POST-COLD WAR IDENTITY POLITICS
Barents Euro-Arctic Region (BEAR) 2, 4, 58, 9–22, 102, 106, 119, 134, 149 Barents Sea 79, 80, 112, 133 Bavaria 12 Belarus 11, 62, 88, 154, 198, 200–4, 249, 253, 255, 256, 257, 259, 261–5, 265, 277 Berlin 1, 6, 32, 138, 173 Bērzinš, Indulis 38 Bildt, Carl 23, 57, 216, 288 Birkavs, Valdis 38, 39, 165 Black Sea 11 Błoński, jan 85 Bonaparte, Napoleon 138; Napoleonic Grand Army 142 Bornhom 20 Bosnia 202 Bothnia (Gulf of) 107 Branting, Hjalmar 173 Braudel, Fernand 9, 78, 80 Brīvzemnieks, Fricis 156 Brussels 66, 99, 208, 218 Brzezinski, Zbigniew 254, 278 Bulduri 160 Cambodia 222 Catalonia 12 Chaadayev, Piotr 217 Charles XI, King of Sweden 139 Charles XII, King of Sweden 156 Chechnya 221, 224, 225, 276, 281, 286 Chernobyl 25 China 280–4, 285 Chirac, Jacques 222 Chizhov, Vladimir 225 Cicinskas, Jonas 205–9 Commonwealth of Independent States (CIS) 3, 12, 51, 201, 229, 252, 253, 256, 262, 264, 277 Conference on Security and Co-operation in Europe (CSCE) (see OSCE) Copenhagen xiii, 23, 25, 29, 47, 135, 138, 163; Copenhagen School (Nordic Peace Researchers) 20, 27, 49, 112 Copernicus Group 89
Council of Baltic Sea States (CBSS) 12, 22, 23, 24, 25, 27, 28, 34, 47, 53, 55, 58, 61, 65, 66, 102, 106, 119, 134, 173–7, 221, 228, 238; Visby Summit (1996) 173, 174 Council of Europe 50, 51, 109, 110, 221, 224, 228; Parliamentary Assembly of 224, 227 Cracow 88 Crimea 11, 138, 139 Croatia 283 Czechoslovakia/Czech Republic 15, 18, 36, 175 Danzig 79, 80 Dāvis, Jānis 158 Denmark 17, 18, 21, 23, 23, 28, 30, 32, 34, 35, 53, 56, 58, 60, 79, 127, 129, 132, 135, 137, 138, 156, 162, 163, 166, 173, 182, 185, 187 Derzhavniki 219, 220, 237 Dini, Lamberto 222 Dugin, Aleksandr 254, 256–60 Duma 220, 228, 240, 261, 280 Eastern Europe, image of 11, 13, 18, 21, 36–9, 50–5, 54, 68, 126, 138–1, 198–4, 249–6, 260–4, 284, 288 Edda Saga 140 Egypt 84 Ellemann-Jensen, Uffe 22, 37, 47, 51 Engholm, Björn 17, 18, 19, 22, 23, 27, 30, 53, 75–9 environmental policy 24–7; RELCOM 20 Estonia 2, 6, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 23, 24, 28, 33, 35, 39, 58, 59, 60–67, 105, 154, 156, 159, 160, 161, 169, 171, 172, 174, 177, 180–98, 216, 220, 225, 227, 228, 229, 231, 236, 241, 252, 257, 258, 259, 261, 263, 264; Debates on National Identity 36–38, 86– 9, 89, 180–4, 187–3 European Investment Bank 239 European Union (EU) xvi, 2, 3, 6, 11, 12, 19, 21, 22, 33, 36, 37, 38, 47, 49, 50, 51, 52, 53, 54, 56, 57, 59, 61, 63, 64, 66, 67,
INDEX 311
68, 78, 90, 99, 102, 103, 107, 109, 110, 113, 116, 117, 118, 126, 132, 133, 144, 148, 164, 165, 171, 174, 175, 176, 177, 180, 185, 187, 190–4, 195, 199, 201, 202, 203, 205, 207, 208–12, 216, 222, 224, 235–40, 237, 238, 239, 249–4, 252, 253, 254, 255, 258, 259, 261, 264, 272– 97; Acquis communautaire 119, 209, 282; Agenda 2000 251, 261; Common Foreign and Security Policy (CFSP) 205; Common Strategy on Russia (CSR) 273; Copenhagen Criteria 251; enlargement 11, 63, 66, 67–1, 164–8, 175–80, 186, 190–4, 195, 199–3, 202, 205–13, 225–9, 234–8, 236, 249–4, 255, 262–6, 274, 282–90; European Monetary Union (EMU) 58; European Security and Defence Policy 274; EU Commission 28, 135; EU Parliament 34, 135, 169; Feira European Council (2000) 135, 287; Helsinki European Council (1999) 135, 225, 239, 283, 287; Inter-governmental Conference (2000) 283; INTERREG 239; Luxembourg European Council (1997) 135; Nice European Council (2000) 190; Partnership and Co-operation Agreement with Russia 262, 273, 288; PHARE 239; Schengen Accord 11, 37, 67, 133, 237, 262, 283; TACIS 252; Vienna European Council (1998) 135 Findlay, Sir Mansfeldt 173 Finland xiii, xvi, 2, 3, 9, 14, 15, 16, 19, 20, 21, 25, 28, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 38, 47, 49, 50, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 61, 66, 67, 83,
88, 99–27, 127, 129, 132–5, 136, 142–7, 145, 148, 149, 154, 158, 159, 160, 161, 163, 164, 165, 166, 167, 172–6, 182, 183–7, 185, 187, 226–30, 255, 263, 274, 278, 287; Nearby Region Agreement with Russia 101; Swedes in 144; debates on National Identity 102–7, 110, 113–16, 114–18, 117, 143–7 Finlandization 104–6, 115–18, 163 Finno-Ugric Peoples 15, 145, 183–7 Former Soviet Union (FSU) 52, 230, 237, 252, 253, 261, 277 Fortum 59 France 21, 175, 187, 189, 197, 222, 229, 251 Freikorps 182 Fukuyama, Francis 6, 50, 52, 108 Gazprom 275, 277, 279 Gdansk 18, 89 Geertz, Clifford 54–7, 61 Genoa Conference (1922) 172 Genscher, Hans Dietrich 22 GUUAM 253 Georgia 277 geopolitics 60, 251, 254–8 Ģērmanis, Uldis 155 Germany, Federal Republic of 2, 9, 17, 18, 19, 21, 22, 23, 28, 30, 32, 33, 34, 35, 50, 53, 56, 58, 78, 80, 84, 85, 88, 89, 89, 90, 126, 130, 162, 173, 187, 197, 222, 229, 235, 249; German Democratic Republic (GDR) 18, 81, 85, 88; pre-1918 140–4, 146, 171–5, 182, 189, 232; Third Reich 50, 81, 83–6, 85, 86, 140, 162, 182; Weimar Republic 50, 160, 172, 173, 175, 185 Gorbachev, Mikhail 59, 220 Goths 139–3 Gotland 79, 162 Great Britain (see United Kingdom;
312 POST-COLD WAR IDENTITY POLITICS
see also entries under England and Scotland) Greece (ancient) 127 Greenland 34 Gregory, John Duncan 174–8 Greifswald xiii, 18 Grimm, Jakob 81–82 Gross, Jan Tomasz 85 Gusinsky, Vladimir 279 Gustav V, King of Sweden 157–1 Gustav II Adolf, King of Sweden 156 Halonen, Tarja 109 Hansa (Hanseatic League) xiii, 8, 16, 17, 19, 20, 27, 30, 34, 38, 53, 58, 67, 75–9, 78, 79, 81–4, 112, 113, 148, 180, 181, 182, 183; ‘New Hansa’ (1989-) 17–20, 27, 53, 75 Haparanda 107 Havel, Vaclav 36 Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich 104–6, 111, 114, 231 Helsinki xiii, 16, 17, 24, 135, 160, 161, 162, 163, 173, 185, 232, 287 Hensch, Klaus 169 Herder, Johann Gottfried 75, 81, 104– 6, 111, 114 Hirsch, Helga 85 Hitler, Adolf 237 Holdt, Bo 163 Holsti, Rudolf 158–2, 172 Houston, Texas 39 Hungary 11, 18, 138, 177, 227 Huntington, Samuel 6, 37, 52, 184, 255, 260–4, 264 Hurt, Jakob 188 Iceland 38, 60, 127, 129, 132–133, 135, 162, 163, 166 Ida-Virumaa 65 Idman, Gustav 161 Ievinš, Kārlis 157 Ilves, Toomas Hendrik 37, 61, 63, 64, 65, 67, 184, 186 India 280–4 Ingria/Ingrian Finns 15
interwar period, experiences of 14–15, 30– 3, 82, 105, 157–4, 166–70, 169–9, 182, 189 International Monetary Fund (IMF) 51 Istanbul 225 Italy 21, 222 Ivangorod (Jaanilinn) 67, 259 Jagiełło/Jogaila 88 Jakobson, Carl Robert 182, 188 Japan 285 Jedwabne 85 Jervell, Sverre 21, 29, 149 Jews 83–6, 85, 86, 87, 222, 233 Jukneviciene, Ruta 199 Jurkāns, Jānis 163 Kalejs, Konrad 87 Kalevala 145 Kaliningrad 80, 134, 135, 143, 198, 200, 201–5, 210, 221, 235, 237–2, 239, 241, 249, 259, 263, 265, 286, 287–1 Kalmar 24, 25 Kalmar Union 67, 80, 112, 113, 129 Kant, Edgar 184 Karaganov, Sergei 226, 254 Karelia/Karelians 15, 16, 17, 67, 88, 105, 108–10, 113–16, 118, 143, 160 Katyń 83 Kaunas xiii Kazakhstan 230, 231 Kekkonen, Urho 114–17 Kielce 85 Kiev 234 Kirby, David 9, 79, 181 Klaipeda (Memel) 84, 89 Klinge, Matti 9, 79, 80, 181 Kohl, Helmut 222 Koivisto, Mauno 109 Kola Peninsula 16 Kononov, Vasilii 227 Kosovo 110, 221, 224, 251, 275 Kosovo Polje 31 Kotka 17, 18, 20, 22, 27 Kozyrev, Andrei 237, 256 Kreitzberg, Peeter 264 Kremlin 62, 162
INDEX 313
Krewo (Union of) 80 Krievinš, Edgars 159 Kubilius, Andrius 209 Laar, Mart 186 Larsen, Berit Brørby 58 Latvia 2, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 23, 24, 28, 33, 35, 36, 59, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 78, 82, 154–72, 169, 171, 172, 173, 174, 177, 182, 183, 184, 186, 187, 191, 216, 219, 220–6, 224, 225, 227, 228, 229, 236, 239, 258, 259, 260, 264; debates on national identity 38–1, 86– 9, 89, 155–9; Amber Gateway 38–1 League of Nations 2, 56, 173, 175, 185 Lenin, Vladimir 282 Leningrad Oblast 16, 59, 65, 238 Liepaja 222 Lileikis, Aleksandras 86 Lipponen, Paavo 33, 34, 119 Lipski, Jan Józef 85 Lithuania xiii, xv, 2, 14, 15, 16, 17, 23, 24, 28, 33, 35, 38, 61, 79, 86–9, 88, 89, 154, 160, 169, 171, 173, 174, 175, 177, 182, 184, 186, 187, 191, 195–215, 216, 220, 225, 227, 229, 230, 236, 238, 258, 259, 262, 263, 264, 286; debates on national identity 86, 88–1, 203–14 Livonia 18, 155 Locarno Treaties 175–9 Louis XIV, King of France 139 Lübeck 18, 19, 30, 79, 81 Luiga, Juhan 188 Luik Jüri 63, 261 Lukashenka, Alyaksandr 200, 257, 259, 262, 277 Lukin, Vladimir 228 LUKoil 227 Luzhkov, Yurii 221–6, 280 L’viv/Lwów 88 Mannikkö, Matti 79, 80 Mažeikiai 227 Media-Most 279 Mediterranean 9, 11, 29, 75, 78
Meierovics, Zigfrīds 160 Memel (see Klaipeda) Memorial 89 Meri, Lennart xvi, 1, 2, 36, 60, 63, 64, 89, 169, 181 Mikhalkov, Sergei 234 Miłosz, Czesław 89 Moldova 277 Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact 83, 182, 187 Montesquieu 139 Moscow 32, 52, 53, 59, 60, 62, 63, 64, 89, 173, 185, 187, 208, 218, 221–5, 224, 228, 237, 239, 241, 262, 278, 286, 288 Murmansk 134 Narodnyi Komitet Vnutrennykh Del (NKVD) 83, 87, 182 Narva 67, 259, 260 national identities 31, 39, 106, 114, 131, 141, 180–4, 187, 197–1, 202–6, 230–4, 273, 285–90 National Histories (Myth of Golden Age) 29–3, 90, 104–6, 155–9, 182, 234 National Missile Defence (NMD) 286 Netherlands 227 Nevskii, Aleksandr 89 Nida Initiative 201, 238, 259 Nokia 144 Nordic Associations 60, 129, 133–6, 159 Nordic Council xiii, 21–3, 58, 59, 60, 105, 129–2, 133, 147, 184 Nordic Games 141 Nordic Identity 55–59, 75, 89–3, 127, 129– 3, 142, 146; crisis of 1, 56, 132–6, 137; and Finland 105–7 Nordic Near Abroad 49–2 Nordic Passport union 133 Nordic States/Norden 1, 3, 4, 13, 18, 21, 23, 35, 37, 47, 49, 50, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60, 61, 62, 66, 67, 68, 78, 89, 105–7, 126–56, 154, 155, 158, 159, 162, 163, 164, 165, 167, 182, 184, 187; Baltic policy 3–4, 23–5, 60, 66, 133, 157–2, 162–7, 183–7 North/Northernness 4, 13, 127–30, 135–8, 138, 143–7, 145–53;
314 POST-COLD WAR IDENTITY POLITICS
Yule land 37–38, 75, 184, 186 North Atlantic Treaty Organisation (NATO) 2, 3, 6, 11, 33, 37, 38, 50, 51, 52, 53, 55, 57, 61, 61, 63, 64, 68, 78, 110, 137, 164, 165, 175, 176, 177, 180, 185, 199–3, 201, 225–30, 232, 235, 235, 237, 239, 239, 249, 255, 258, 261, 275, 285, 286; enlargement 11, 63, 66, 67–1, 164–8, 175–80, 186, 190–4, 195, 199–3, 202, 205–13, 225–9, 234–8, 236, 249–4, 255, 262–6, 274, 282–90 Northern Calotte (Nordkalotte) 79, 101, 119 Northern Dimension Initiative (NDI) 2, 33– 8, 47, 49, 58–1, 66, 106, 126, 135–9, 147–1, 165, 173, 201, 238–3, 263, 287–1 Norway 21, 24, 56, 57, 105, 117, 127, 129, 132, 133, 156, 159, 162, 163, 164, 166, 173 Novgorod 182 Nuremberg (International Military Tribunal) 84, 221 Nyberg, René 112, 274–8 Nyen 79 Olsztyn 89, Organisation for Security and Co-operation in Europe (OSCE) 56, 109, 110, 113, 116, 200, 222, 223, 224, 228, 286; Helsinki Final Act 232; Istanbul Summit (1999) 225; Paris Charter (1990) 221 Orban, Victor 177 Orient 11 Oslo 27, 173 Ottoman Empire 11 Ottowa 33 Ovey, Edmund 172 Paldiski 257 Palmyra 142 Pärnu 180 past, use of 6–7, 29–4, 35, 38, 58, 67, 75– 78, 80–4, 82–9, 89–2, 112–14, 148, 155– 9, 181–6, 184, 200, 203, 231–6; Goths 139–4;
Hansa (Hanseatic League) 17–19, 30, 75–9, 78; Kekkonen and Finland 114–17; Vikings 30, 67, 140, 145–9; World War Two 83–9, 221, 227–1 Pechory (Petserimaa) 259–3 Peter I, Tsar of Russia 217, 241, 282 PHARE 239 Piip, Ants 175 Plato 139 Pol Pot 222 Poland 4, 9, 16, 18, 24, 28, 34, 78, 79, 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 88, 89, 89, 90, 126, 135, 138, 154, 172, 173, 176, 187, 203, 258, 286; borderlands 88–1; debates on national identity 83–8, 88–1 Poltava (battle of) 139 Põlvamaa 65 Pomor trade 112, 148 Porvoo 59 post-modern Turn 112–14 Primakov, Yevgenii 256–60, 280 Primorsk 59 Prussia 4, 80, 88, 138 Pskov xiii Pskov Oblast 62, 143 Putin, Vladimir 52, 63, 199, 224, 228, 231, 257, 261, 272, 274, 275, 276, 277, 278, 279, 280, 281, 282 Pytalovo (Abrene) 260 Rapallo, Treaty of (1922) 187 Red Army 182 region-building 2, 5, 7, 26, 38, 49, 101–3, 106–8, 113, 117, 118, 119–2, 149–3, 237 Reiman, Villem 188, Reykjavik 184 Riga xiii, 16, 18, 20, 24, 30, 80, 82, 156, 157, 158, 162, 164, 165, 167, 171, 185, 191, 221–5; Treaty of (1920) 258, 259–3 Ringmar, Erik 12, 26, 288 Romania 18, 83 Rome 37, 127, 187 Rönneby 20
INDEX 315
Rudbeck, Olof 139–2 Russia xiii, 2, 3, 4, 6, 9, 11, 14, 23, 24, 28, 30, 34, 36, 37, 38, 47, 49, 51, 53, 57, 58, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 78, 79, 80, 83, 87, 89, 101, 113–16, 119, 126, 128, 135, 137, 142, 148, 149, 162, 164, 165, 173, 174, 175, 176, 177, 181, 184, 185, 186, 187, 190–4, 197, 198–5, 210, 216–52, 249–4, 255, 257, 258, 261, 262, 272–97; and Baltic Sea Area 217–1, 235–41, 242; and Baltic states 52–5, 61–6, 175–80, 184–9, 191, 198–2, 220–6, 258–3; debates on national identity 229–6, 237, 239–4, 258, 276–83; Eurasianism 52, 61–5, 256–60; Near Abroad 63–67, 252, 272; Northwest Federal District 238; Orthodox Church 276; relationship to Europe 52, 216, 217, 218–2, 224–8, 227–1, 235, 240, 252–6, 256, 264–8, 273–8; Rus 79, 234; RSFSR 61, 62, 139, 172, 260; Tsarist Empire 89, 112, 138–1, 140, 156, 171, 182, 185, 188, 216, 232, 256; Union Treaty with Belarus 200, 252, 257, 259 Russians: (in Baltic States) 63–7, 162, 221–8, 228, 230, 231, 258; (in FSU) 230, 252; (in USSR) 61–5 Rüütel, Arnold 264, Said, Edward 128 St Petersburg xiii, xiii, xv, 11, 16, 89, 112, 134, 138, 142, 143, 185, 191, 221, 237– 2, 241–6; as Leningrad 20 Sandier, Rikard 159 Saudargas, Algirdas 206 Savisaar, Edgar 66 Scandinavia xiii, 4, 9, 17, 21, 23, 24, 31, 33, 36, 56, 57, 58, 59, 78, 79, 131, 140–
4, 144, 149, 154, 156, 157, 158, 159, 161, 163, 166, 167, 182, 183 Schengen Accord 11, 37, 67, 133, 237, 262, 283 Schiemann, Paul 174 Schleswig-Holstein 12, 17, 18, 19, 22, 30, 53, 129 Schwimmer, Walter 228 Scotland 12, 34, 135 Security 52, 57, 61, 63–7, 68, 113–15, 169– 4, 174–80, 198–2, 205, 234–8, 237–2, 252–6, 274, 277 Serbia 31, 257 Shoah 84 Sillamäe 260 Skele, Andris 228 Smetona, Rimantas 207 Sobchak, Anatolii 241 Sobol, Joshua 83 Sorsa, Kalevi 17, 23, 27 sovereignty 12, 99–3, 102–4, 107–11, 111– 15, 116, 119–2, 126, 191–5, 264–8 Stalin, Josef 142, 199, 232, 234 Stankevich, Sergei 237, 272 Stavanger 24 Stockholm 138, 155, 157, 163 Stralsund 18, 79 Šūmanis, Vilis 158 Švābe, Arveds 155, Sweden 3, 17, 21, 23, 23, 28, 30, 31, 34, 35, 37, 50, 55, 56, 57, 58, 60, 61, 67, 68, 79, 80, 83, 89, 105, 107, 127, 129, 132, 136, 137, 138, 139–3, 142, 143, 146, 154, 155, 156, 157, 158, 159, 162, 163, 166, 172–7, 182, 183, 187, 189, 226–30, 237, 241, 253, 288; debates on national identity 139–2, 141 Syria 142 Szczecin 89 Talbott, Strobe 226 Tallinn (Reval) xiii, xiii, 16, 18, 19, 20, 24, 30, 79, 80, 159, 171, 180, 183, 191 Tartu xiii, xv, 34, 180, 185; Treaty of (1920) 60, 232, 258, 259–3 Tõnisson, Ilmar 186 Tõnisson, Jaan 184, 188–2,
316 POST-COLD WAR IDENTITY POLITICS
Tornio 107, Travemünde 20, Troebst, Stefan 79, Turkey 283–7 Turku xiii, xiii, xv, xvi Ukraine 11, 88, 200, 201, 230, 277, 283–7 Ulmanis, Kārlis 78, 82, 161 Unden, Östen 23, 173 Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR) 6, 13, 14, 18, 23, 24, 32, 35, 36, 50, 52, 57, 59, 61, 83, 86, 88, 89, 106, 109, 115, 139, 142, 160, 162, 163, 173, 176, 199, 204, 216, 220, 258, 275–9, 278 United Kingdom xiii, 38, 87, 140, 146, 149, 172, 173, 175, 185, 187, 189, 197, 227, 253, 281 United Nations Organisation 56, 104, 113, 228 United States of America 68, 162, 163, 185, 190, 222, 226, 227, 230, 231, 232, 246, 261, 272, 280–4; US-Baltic Partnership Charter 38 Uppsala 139 Usackas, Vydaugas 202, 205, 206, 209 Uzbekistan 230 Valtasaari, Jukka 113 Valters, Miíelis 159–3 Van der Stoël, Max 222 Venclova, Tomas 89 Ventspils 24, 223 Vike-Freiberga, Vaira 227, 240 Vikings 30, 35, 112, 113, 140–4, 180, 188 Viljandi 180 Vilnius/Wilno 84, 86, 88, 89, 171, 195, 232; Visby Summit (1996) 173, 174 Vladimir, Prince of Kiev 234 Vladivostok 14 Võrumaa 65 Vyborg/Viipuri 79, 80, 88 Wæever, Ole 27, 39, 61 Waffen SS 86–9, 177, 221, 227–1 Warsaw 88
Warsaw Accord (1922) 160, 172 Warsaw Pact 137, 227 Washington DC 227, 280 Weizsäcker, Richard Von 84 Wismar 79 Wolff, Larry 5, 9, 11, 12, 37, 138–1 World Trade Organisation 109 Yakovlev (mayor of St Petersburg) 241 Yalta 85 Yasrzhembskii, Sergei 221 Yeltsin, Boris 61, 65, 83, 89, 220, 221, 237, 275, 278 Yugoslavia 15, 226 Zarinš, Kārlis 156, 157, 158 Zernack, Klaus 79, 80 Zhirinovskii, Vladimir 254, 261 Zyuganov, Gennadii 234, 254
