There
is something
convincingly modern about Estonia's snappy, e-democratic stature, at
once miniature and minimalist. On the matter of his own, in some
cases traumatic, post-Soviet economic reforms, the former Estonian PM
Mart Laar quotes "the well-known slogan: 'Jut do it'. In other
words, be decisive about adopting reforms, and stick with them
despite the short-term pain they may bring."2
One might quibble with his use of Nike's commercial branding as a
metaphor for massive economic restructuring, but that aside, Laar's
position is cannily expressed: a mix of excruciating, permanent
austerity and openness to incoming foreign capital. The ebullient,
bookish Laar presided for two years over the kind of radical shock
therapy that usually wound up landing state assets in the hands of
gangsters. Estonia, however, suffered no such repercussions. Laar,
who claimed to have only read one book on economics before taking
office (unsurprisingly by Milton Friedman), plunged giddily into that
brave new world. He took over from Leszek Balcerowicz, Poland's
finance minister and implementer of shock therapy there, the concept
of an "extraordinary politics" - the idea that during a
post-revolutionary lull a still under-represented, overwhelmed
populace can be stunned into tolerating terrible hardships in the
name of national liberation. The implementation of shock therapy
depended on the absence of that very thing which was its supposed
"historical mission" to create - an organised, democratic
"civil society".
As
part of the Soviet Union, and a relatively well-integrated part with
a 40% Russian population (one that still troubles Estonian
nationalists), Estonia had weathered the economic fall-out from the
hard, final years of anti-communist struggle better than much of the
former Socialist bloc. A simple referendum was enough to make Estonia
independent in 1992. Crucially Estonia managed to dodge the poisoned
chalice of massive borrowing from the IMF and indulged instead in the
kind of austerity programme that European governments today would
almost universally
admire. The country became a laboratory for a new, distinctly
European free-market utopia: "Estonia reduced trade tariffs and
non-tariff barriers and abolished all trade restrictions, making the
nation a free-trade zone."3
Europe's combination of welfare states and social markets has been
celebrated by commentators from Jurgen Habermas to Tony Judt, not
merely as a practical variant of capitalist accumulation but as
constituting a qualitatively different 'civlisational' project to,
say, the ruggedly individualist United States. Estonia is evidence
that the real differences between European social welfarism and more
cut-throat, liberal capitalism are being eroded, not only as a
consequence of the long downturn, but also as part of a general
structural adaptation of European capital to a much more competitive
world market. The accession of so many apparently 'unsuitable'
national economies to the EU - so-called 'basket cases' such as
Greece, Cyprus and Hungary, but also 'under-developed' countries like
Romania and Bulgaria - has by no means been carried through out of
benevolence on the part of member states (in fact they have been
punishingly tight-fisted throughout the unnecessarily protracted
process, often boasting of how little aid they've given), but in fact
because easy access to cheap labour is essential for Europe's
competitiveness. In the case of Estonia, European capital is only
interested so long as wages and taxes are kept low.
Following
the 2008 crash Estonia clawed its way back to growth in the only way
it knows how: by slashing public sector wages, raising the pension
age, and restricting access to health benefits.4
The resulting conditions combine extensive liberalisation of capital
with repression and atomisation of the working class. Just 17% of the
workforce is unionised in a country ravaged by 15% unemployment. Such
precariousness obviously results in isolation and vulnerability for
large numbers of working people. A familiar enough story, of course,
but what's surprising is the general chorus of celebration of these
very conditions. While the EU bears down on the likes of Italy for
its fiscal imprudence, Estonia is duly celebrated, despite having
similar levels of unemployment. Indeed, signs suggest the situation
of Estonian workers is not only to be thought of as permanent but is
increasingly viewed as a model to be emulated. Estonia could even be
a sign of Europe's future, where long-term unemployment is
structurally normalized. The Estonian political class's avowed
modernity and wonkish obsession with tech-wizardry closely resemble
the young, ardent right-wingers gathered around the present British
Chancellor (their potent euro-scepticism aside, of course). Here then
is a free market liberalism-on-steroids that presents itself as the
progressive radical alternative to welfare state stagflation. Estonia
in 2013 is a microcosm of what a future entrepreneurial Europe might
look like.
Though it is
tempting, and very often morally necessary, to analyse the 'failures'
(Azerbaijan; Belarus) or 'near-misses' (Ukraine) of postsocialist
liberalisation within the former USSR (leaving aside the Warsaw pact
states), the sheer weirdness of the success stories merits a decent
look. Tallinn's medieval Old Town, consisting of the hill-perched
administrative district of Toompea and the surrounding lower town, is
a thing of intricate beauty. Contemporary Tallinn is an amalgam of
constant efforts at restoration, dating as far back as its
incorporation into the Swedish Empire in the 16th century, right up
to the work done following a particularly brutal bombing campaign by
the Soviets in 1944. Unlike many of Europe's plushly restored
capitals, Tallinn's history of reconstruction and restoration is an
integral part of the place itself. Despite this very history of
reconstruction, it today exudes a certain commodified medievalism,
stemming less from the architecture than those flogging their wares
among its alleys. Whole streets are congested with 'traditional'
German beer-halls. Bored undergrads in mock-up peasant dress hang
around in gaggles awaiting their next victim. You are invariably
served by a 'busty wench' with perfect English. The older female
employees are made to dress-up as fisher-wives and washer-women.
Swarms of American and Japanese tourists deal with such affronts to
local dignity with a professional brusqueness. It is with a sinking
sense of inevitability that you squeeze yourself into an alcove to
allow a legion of British men to march past, each member bearing the
legend "Sami's Stag-do". Strip-bars, that decidedly
non-medieval east European tradition, are noticeably prevalent. Beer
is served in clay flagons or mock chalices.
Of course, Prague
also has medieval theme restaurants. Warsaw's Old Town is entirely
reconstructed (having been completely torn down by the Nazis in
1944). Budapest is far too much of a tumultuous, living beast to be
reduced to tourist fodder, but even its famous Fisherman's Bastion
was constructed entirely for ornamental purposes. There is in every
capital city a certain contest between modes of historical
representation, one a display of culture, the other of power. Neither
can be absolutely distinguished from the other, and the result is
various forms of compromise: at some point the function of
fortification is adapted to that of decorative triumphalism (the
archetype being Berlin's Brandenburg Gate). What makes
contemporary-medieval Tallinn different is its historical modesty:
lacking the imperial history of Berlin, Vienna or even Budapest,
Tallinn's claim to fame rests solely on its encapsulation of the
medieval. You might be tempted to describe Tallinn's old town as a
sort of "Estonia Land", a picturesque image of the country
as it would like to be seen, were it not so lacking in historical
specificity. Better might be to call it simply "Europe Land",
condensing as it does something of the merry German consumption of
pork and beer with the sun-dappled cobbles of France; the spires and
cottagey intimacy of the Netherlands with the Baltic ports of Poland.
Some restaurants offer freshly-minted medieval coinage with which you
can claim a free cocktail. Novelty foot-stompers ring everywhere from
loudspeakers, exhorting all to drink and eat heartily. It is this
pan-medievalism that foists an unfair perception on Tallin: that of a
generic non-place, a soothing, deracinated soup of comfortingly
familiar Euro-tropes. While it is all very pleasant it lacks the
coarseness, the rough edges of Europe's (and Estonia's) real history:
a history, in the case of Tallinn as much as anywhere else, of
domination by foreign powers.
In Helsinki, an
hour by boat over the gulf, we had, in one of those peculiar European
coincidences, bumped into someone I knew from university. He told us
that, with the long summer days (properly dark only at two), a sense
of hysteria descended over residents of the Finnish capital. Tallinn
was much the same, though with cheaper booze. The flood of
increasingly inebriated wanderers never seemed to abate. The light
seems to last forever in the lanes of Tallinn, a feat that entirely
eludes Prague. At times in the Czech capital the very existence of
light seems apocryphal, a fog-mirage decomposing in the late, wet
morning. What light there is - grey and frumpy - appears to emanate
not from the heavy sky, but from the dull stone of the buildings
themselves. Tallinn in summer, on the other hand, is a cacophonous
light-stage, its fresh sea skies beckoning the clouds north. The sun
continues to creep between walls until well into the night, its
angles of shadow growing vertiginously sharper, as dizzy drinkers
stumble from one bar to the next. By two it betrays a hint of Kavos
or some other Greek island, where an interminable, cheap party grinds
on and on forever.
At a sprawling
outdoor museum just outside the centre, where we went for some
authentically cultural respite, dozens of lovingly preserved examples
of Estonian domestic architecture sit like herds of sheep in rolling
fields. Estonia has a long tradition of wooden housing and the museum
does its best to fit in every example. They are brought in from the
real world and nursed like wounded birds in this peculiar sanctuary.
In reconstructed, ranch-like homesteads (garrulous fowl and the
occasional pig trotting past) they put on surreal medieval folk
rituals for baffled tourists. Audience participation is obligatory.
For most of the older Americans, arriving by the coach-load and
hurriedly ferried into the pens by tour guides, this entailed sitting
and clapping with whatever jollity they could muster. For me, like an
awkward teen roped into a final cruise holiday with his parents, this
meant line-dancing and high-kicking to a tune from an old
cassette-recorder. This routine, surely exhausting for the blonde,
traditionally-clad dancers, repeats itself maniacally every fifteen
minutes. As you wander round the exhibits you realize the entire
place is a performance. Peaking into one reassembled 19th-century
town house I was confronted with a costumed couple engaged in an
argument over lunch, a performance that would continue even after I
left.
Our tour of
Estonia eventually took us, on the only bus of the day, to the tiny
village of Altja (permanent population: 21). There on the shores of
the Baltic we climbed big erratic boulders, hopping over the lapping
tide, and went on a hunt for beavers (final tally: 1). Altja is
tucked away in the heart of Lahemaa, a national park in the north of
the country. Here, surely, we would discover a more authentically
Estonian Estonia, away from all the peasant costumes, crap beer and
tourists. Upon finding the local inn - which looked more like a
dishevelled barn - I was intrigued. We went inside to get a drink.
Upon entering we found ourselves in a surprisingly well-turned out
beer hall. It was then we caught sight of the bar staff: two blondes
faithfully kitted out in mediaeval costumes. Upon seeing us they
promptly kicked off a medieval fanfare. "Welcome," they
chorused, and proceeded to take our orders in perfect English. We
could only assume that, even in the depths of the forest, Estonia has managed to do something very peculiar to itself: the real Estonia has become, authentically, a medieval parody. Whereas with other tourist faves, a reality was supposed to exist beneath the surface, hidden from the view of tourists, Estonia embodies fully the myth of its plastic, pan-European aspirations. In reaching out
to Europe, has Estonia lost its essentially Estonian character? Has
it become a place where one is either an entrepreneur or a
(mock-)peasant, serving endless beer and pork to German and Japanese
tourists?
1'Estonian
exceptionalism', The Economist, text
available here: http://www.economist.com/node/18959241
2Laar,
'Estonian Success Story', Journal of Democracy, available
on J-Stor
3ibid.
4Moulds,
'Estonia and Latvia: Europe's champions of austerity?', Guardian
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