In shadow of Ukraine war, Latvia turns wary eye on local Russians
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Gordon F. Sander Contributor
| Riga, Latvia
Fifteen months after Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine, the war there has worsened tensions in Latvia between the ethnic Latvian majority and the Russian-speaking minority.
Around a quarter of Latvia’s population are Russian speakers – a legacy of the Soviet Union. And the signs are that an increasing number of them are turning their backs on their motherland and on the Kremlin.
Why We Wrote This
A story focused onRussia’s invasion of Ukraine has sown mistrust in another former Soviet republic, Latvia, where Russian speakers are struggling against being stigmatized as pro-Moscow.
But not fast enough for many native Latvians, it seems.
Russian speakers complain of being stigmatized as pro-Moscow regardless of their real opinions, and of being the targets of the government’s “de-Russification” program, hostile to Russian language and culture, which has been stepped up since the Ukraine invasion.
A third of them feel “confused or angry,” one Latvian political analyst says. But the Latvian government insists Russian speakers have had since 1991 to learn the local language, and many still haven’t done so.
“It’s complicated,” says sociologist Juris Rozenvalds, who is himself half Russian and half Latvian. “To become a truly united society we [Latvians] first have to show that we are reaching out our hand and asking them to join.
“And that,” he says, “is not happening. Just the opposite.”
Fifteen months after Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine, the war there has worsened tensions in Latvia between the ethnic Latvian majority and the Russian-speaking minority.
Around a quarter of Latvia’s population are Russian speakers – a legacy of the Soviet Union. And the signs are that an increasing number of them are turning their backs on their motherland and on the Kremlin.
But not fast enough for many native Latvians, it seems.
Why We Wrote This
A story focused onRussia’s invasion of Ukraine has sown mistrust in another former Soviet republic, Latvia, where Russian speakers are struggling against being stigmatized as pro-Moscow.
“There are definitely more tensions between the two populations than there have been for a long time, perhaps since 1991,” when Latvia regained its independence, says Selma Levrence, a young Latvian social activist who works for the center-left Progressive Party.
This crisis is sharpening despite an apparent shift in opinion among the country’s Russian speakers. A recent poll found that only a third of them thought that Latvia should orient its foreign policy toward Moscow; 41% believed the country should align itself instead with the West, against the war, up from 34% last year.
“The Russian community was understandably conflicted at the start of the war,” says Juris Rozenvalds, a sociologist at the University of Latvia who is himself half Russian and half Latvian. “At first, most naturally identified with Russia because that is their country of origin.
“On the other hand, most Russians were shocked by what is going on in Ukraine,” Mr. Rozenvalds adds, and “both Russians and Latvians are giving humanitarian aid to Ukraine. The proportion of Russian speakers who support Ukraine is slowly but surely growing.”
Among them is Vera, who did not want to give her surname. She works at a toy store in Daugavpils, the most heavily Russian city in Latvia. “Before the war I thought that Putin was an excellent leader for Russia,” she says. “The war changed all that. I don’t like the war, and I don’t think the Russian people do either.”
Stigmatized and insecure
But extremists in the pro-Russia camp distract attention from people like Vera. Vandals recently desecrated the Bikernieki Memorial to the victims of the Holocaust with graffiti Z’s – the symbol of the Russian invasion – and last month smashed the facade of the Museum of the Occupation of Latvia, which recalls the country’s history under Nazi and Soviet rule from 1940 to 1991.
Such events point to “a definite downturn in inter-community relations,” says Maris Andzans, a political scientist at Riga Stradins University.
The result is that Russian speakers feel more stigmatized than ever, says Anna, a Russian who moved to Riga with her family before the war and now works in information technology.
“There is a bookseller in our neighborhood who used to speak Russian to me when I came into his store,” she says. “Now he insists on speaking in Latvian.”
“I recognize that that is his right,” says Anna, who has a temporary work permit that expires next year and also asked that her name not be used. “Still, it’s uncomfortable. Since the war started I have felt more insecure.”
Arina, another Russian national who moved to Latvia before the war to take a job in marketing, says she has suffered from a rise in Russophobia among her Latvian friends, which she finds understandable. “I sympathize with my Latvian friends in their anger at the Kremlin,” says Arina, who is of mixed Latvian-Russian parentage. “In this respect I consider myself a victim of the [Russian] regime, even though I have always been against the war.”
At the same time, she worries, “the war has given the green light to some of the more nationalistic Latvians to be more open about their concerns and frustrations about the Russians in their midst, which only adds fuel to the fire.”
Government campaign
“Latvian people now tend to associate everything Russian with the war,” says Ms. Levrence, the social activist, and this is feeding calls for more radical “de-Russification” of Latvian society.
That campaign, led by the government, has sped up since Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. “The war reactivated the dormant negative feelings about the Soviet times,” says Mr. Rozenvalds, the sociologist, prompting the destruction of Russian imperial and Soviet monuments and other efforts to expunge Moscow’s legacy, such as a campaign to eradicate Russian-language education.
Last August, the authorities blew up the 260-foot-high Victory Monument in central Riga, built to commemorate the Soviet Union’s victory over Nazi Germany, which occupied Latvia from 1941 to 1944. But Latvians saw the towering obelisk and adjacent Red Army soldier sculptures as celebrating the Soviet occupation from 1944 until 1991.
The government is also moving to eradicate Russian from Latvian schools, change Russian street names, and remove statues of Russian heroes such as the poet Alexander Pushkin.
“This,” Mr. Rozenvalds says, “has made the split between Russian and Latvian speakers deeper, at least in the short term.”
Latvia’s president, Egils Levits, however, insists that de-Russification is essential to the country’s existence. “We are a national Latvian state,” President Levits says. “The state language, Latvian, is a common language for all people living here.
“The war in Ukraine has made us more aware of this [Soviet] legacy,” he adds in an interview. “Pushkin has nothing to do with Latvia; why do we need a statue for him?”
“Basic human rights”
The government’s hostility to Russian language and culture, and its campaign to eliminate them, have drawn criticism from moderate Latvian quarters: “It has not been done in a coordinated, thought-out manner,” says Ms. Levrence. And it has offended many Russian speakers.
One-third of them feel “confused or angry,” estimates Dr. Andzans, the political scientist. Among them is Vitaly S., who asked that his full name not be made public.
“Before the war at least the Riga government respected our basic human rights,” says Mr. S., a Russian speaker born in Latvia who has refused to become a Latvian citizen. “But since Feb. 24 [2022] the nationalists have operated without restrictions.”
“It’s complicated,” says Mr. Rozenvalds. “And the extremists who are shouting ‘de-Russify Latvia’ are not helping. What does it mean in a society where one-third of the people speak Russian at home?
“Unfortunately,” he adds, “a part of society is of the opinion that the Russians haven’t learned our language in 30 years, so they don’t belong to ‘our tribe.’ But in order to become a truly united society we first have to show that we are reaching out our hand and asking them to join.
“And that,” he says, “is not happening. Just the opposite.”
This article was reported with the assistance of Anna Sicova.
