Estonia's singing revolution
On my last visit to Tallinn, while I was admiring the view from the terrace atop the city walls, a kindly middle-aged man approached. From a satchel on his shoulder, he pulled out a stack of music CDs, all recordings of Tallinn's famous Song Festivals. While he was eager to make a sale, my friend was even more intent that I learn the story of how singing helped lead his country to independence.
In 2018, the scrappy Republic of Estonia marks the 100th anniversary of its founding. Having endured 200 years of czarist rule, the unraveling of the Russian Empire and the turmoil of World War I, the Estonian people faced an uphill battle when they declared their republic in 1918. They quickly adopted a democratic Western European-style government and set about building a robust economy.
But when you are a small, humble nation lodged between two giants like Russia and Germany, simply surviving is a challenge. The good times didn't last -- in 1940 the Soviets marched in, and Germany invaded in 1941. By the end of World War II, Estonia found itself annexed again to its neighbor, now the Soviet Union.
Thus began a 50-year nightmare. Estonians saw their culture swept away, with Russian replacing Estonian as the language in schools. Russians and Ukrainians were moved in, and Estonians were shipped out. Moscow wouldn't even allow locals to wave their own flag.
But Estonians were determined to maintain their cultural identity. They had no weapons, but they created their own power -- remarkably -- by banding together and singing.
Song has long been a cherished Estonian form of expression, a way to keep hold of their national character, especially in the face of foreign domination. As long ago as 1869 (during another era of Russian subjugation), Estonians gathered in massive choirs to sing and to celebrate their cultural uniqueness. Later, during the Soviet era, a brave choir master, Gustav Ernesaks, had the nerve in 1947 to lead singers in Estonia's unofficial national anthem. For planting the seeds of the singing revolution to come, Ernesaks is still revered.
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Finally, as the USSR began to crumble, the Estonians mobilized again, using song to demand independence. In 1988, they gathered -- 300,000 strong, a third of the population -- at the Song Festival Grounds outside Tallinn. Locals vividly recall coming out to sing patriotic songs while dressed in folk costumes sewn years before by their grandmothers. The next year, the people of Latvia, Lithuania and Estonia held hands to make the "Baltic Chain," a human bond that stretched 400 miles from Vilnius, Lithuania to Riga, Latvia to Tallinn. Some feared a Tiananmen Square-type bloodbath, but the Estonians just kept singing.
This so-called Singing Revolution, peaceful and nonviolent, persisted for five years, and in the end, Estonians gained their freedom. It was a remarkable achievement: one million singing Estonians succeeded against 150 million Russian occupiers.
The spirit of song continues in Estonia. Every five years, the Song Festival Grounds welcome 25,000 singers and 100,000 spectators (the current amphitheater, built in 1959, resembles an oversized Hollywood Bowl). This is a national monument because of the stirring role it played in Estonia's fight for independence. I've visited Tallinn several times, and the thrill of this phenomenon -- and its historic importance -- continues to inspire me.
Thankfully, the Russians did not succeed in diluting Estonia into oblivion. I'd guess that today's Tallinn has more restaurants, cafes and surprises per capita and square inch than any Baltic city I've visited. Cruise ships have discovered Tallinn, and sightseers mob its cobbles most days.