Kärt Koppel

 In the days leading up to the Baltic Chain my mother truly started to believe that something big and unprecedented was about to take place. The idea that Estonia could actually become an independent nation was a new one at the time, and in a way a frightening one – we couldn't imagine what independence might bring with it. Everyone on my mother's side of the family had twice been deported to Siberia, in 1941 and 1949. They'd had their homes taken away from them, and my grandmother lost her parents and was raised in an orphanage. The injustice of it, the anguish, the pain – they were all deep-rooted. My mother was plagued at times by fear of the repressions that might follow.

Mihkel Piir 

My father was one of the firebrands who spurred people to take part. He must have had two or three hundred colleagues, but most of them shied away from getting involved. Intermovement supporters told scare stories about the all-seeing eye and long arm of the KGB, which is to say frightening them off with threats of repressions. They even told my father they'd be coming for him before long, that he'd be arrested as a political agitator and be given a lengthy sentence. Since a lot of people were afraid, they came up with excuses as to why they couldn't take part. Those who did get involved were mostly hot-headed youngsters who feared nothing and older people whose better days were behind them. So as not to turn up empty-handed, my father arranged for some placards to be made featuring the swastika and the hammer and sickle on a red background and about the 50th anniversary of the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact. There wasn't a single Russian person on the whole bus apart from the driver, who was just doing the job he was told to do.

Vaike Aller

It's startling to think that it will take around 700 people to make up a single kilometer in the chain. Are the people even capable of undertaking something on that scale?

Karmen Kisel

When I think about it today, I can pinpoint with perfect accuracy the first time I ever grilled meat patties. It was on the 23rd of August, 1989. I was 16, and I was at home during the last week of the summer holidays. My mum was working long, grueling days, and we'd not long buried my dad, earlier that spring. He'd died after a severe illness. For a few days there'd been talk on the radio and on TV about this big event that was going to spur the world into action – a human chain stretching through all three Baltic States. I don't know whether it was just school holiday boredom or some deep-held desire for freedom, but there was nothing I wanted more than to join the chain. I didn't want to go on my own though, and all my friends were still away in the country, so I had to get mum to agree to go with me. But she'd still been against the idea the night before, saying that it was on a working night and she'd come home and have to start making dinner and when would there be time to get there and so on. It was my mum who basically did all the cooking in our place, since she was so good at it, and looking back it doesn't surprise me that even as a 16-year-old I'd barely been let near the stove. But that morning, after mum went off to work, I looked for a cookbook, grabbed some mince out of the freezer, peeled some potatoes and checked what we had in the fridge. By the time mum got home, there were meat patties, boiled potatoes and cream sauce on the table. I'd even made a tomato and cucumber salad. And they were nice, too – both my mum and my little sister said so. After that, to my surprise, mum had nothing against going and joining the chain. We left home, which at the time was on Nõmme Road, and made our way on foot to Järvevana Road. And there we stood, at the intersection with Viljandi Highway. We sang songs, we waved at the people who drove past, we came up with suitable rallying cries and later, when it got dark, we lit candles and held onto them. It all felt great. And then afterwards we walked home again. I remember that day so clearly. Partly, no doubt, because of the pride I took in making my own meat patties, but I guess mostly because me and my mum got to spend such an uplifting evening together. It was actually one of the first bright moments in our lives since dad had died. From that day on I started cooking more often, and I still make great meat patties.

Ene Mekk 

Our Baltic Chain story started in the village of Plika in Valga County. My parents-in-law had bought a little house in Puka municipality. They'd both just reached retirement age, given up their jobs in town and, having both been born on farms, returned to their natural environment. We spent every free moment in summer in the countryside, doing work that needed doing, going swimming and things. There were always loads of kids in the house and in the yard – our kids, our friends' kids, our relatives' kids, random kids. Alongside our jobs in the big smoke we had our own little corner of a field in the country, where we grew carrots and rows of cucumbers covered in plastic, plus potatoes and cabbage and turnips. We'd never used to listen to the radio out in the yard when we were there – as city folk we were happy to listen to the birds singing – but there was so much going on in the summer of 1989 that we found some batteries for the radio and plonked it on the pile of bricks outside. When it was sunny we were almost always outdoors, working in the field, half-listening to the news on the radio. And as we listened it became clearer all the time that something big was in the works. We know of course that a human chain was being planned through Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania for that day. But because we had little kids, which made finding time to do any work hard enough to begin with, we didn't have any intention of taking part, despite the fact we were so close to the route the chain would be taking. So on we toiled, that sunny summer day, and the radio kept playing, and news kept coming in about who was gathering where and how many people had already turned up. No doubt we all harbored our own thoughts and feelings about it. Deportations and the break-up of families were something our own parents knew about only too well. And through it all there was the sense of something big, something unheard of happening. Could it all actually be possible? And then, all of a sudden, we decided: we had to be part of it! We quickly put away our tools and cleaned ourselves up; there was no time for anything more than that, because on Toompea the members of the government and the organizers were ready to start. And that was when the thing that everyone in our family has remembered most about the Baltic Chain these last 30 years came to pass. My father-in-law, Endel Mekk, was a machinist by profession, having worked as a bus driver in Tartu and up in the control booth of a Zil crane. He was always a very good driver, obeying every road rule. His car of choice was a yellow four-seater – which now had to fit 11 people. There was no talk of whether or not we could cram ourselves in: if we all had to fit, we would! So there we were, sardines in a tin, three adults on the back seat with four kids on their laps, grandma Ärna in the front passenger seat with two kids on her lap. Endel, luckily, was able to drive without anyone sitting on his. We still laugh about the moment one of the kids wanted to scratch a mosquito bite on his shin but couldn't find his own leg. We drove via Pikasilla to Tõrva, not far beyond which we had to stop, since there was no time to keep driving and looking for somewhere to park – the Baltic Chain statement was already being read out over the car radio. We pulled up next to a field, ran across the road and joined the chain. I vividly recall how many people there were, stretched out as far as the eye could see in both directions. We all stood there, shoulder to shoulder, hands clasped tightly together. There were blue, black and white flags, and placards about the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact and demanding our freedom. There was so much excitement, and so much hope. The feeling of being part of it was just so amazing.

Ilmar Järg

It's midday on August 23 in Ulvi. People are starting to gather. Some are speaking in hushed tones; others can be heard miles away. Some are vacillating – should they go or not? Two older ladies from Miila wander away. "We've already been to Siberia once," they say. "We're not going again." Others are umming and ahhing, too. Even Põlula school teacher Anna, whose husband was shot and killed by communists in their own front yard, decides not to go. But I, Ilmar Järg, member of the Estonian Communist Party, get on the bus. We're a mixed crowd: five teachers from Põlula School, one doctor, two traders, three leaders from the local office and seven people from the Rägavere state farm. To all intents and purposes, we're the village brains trust. We set off as if we're heading to the Song Festival, flags flying and singing away. People are even packing themselves into the backs of trucks. We park the bus and continue on foot. We never make it to the spot allocated to us. The street we come to is three deep in people. We try pushing our way through, but they won't let us, because school kids have lined themselves up at the front. So we make our own chain – a fourth one. People keep pouring in. Latecomers force their way into our chain; one short woman squeezes in with four kids in her wake. She grabs my hand and apologizes in Russian. She's from Kiviõli and barely speaks a word of Estonian. But both of us cry "Vabadus!" ("Freedom!"), and both of us are happy. We drive back through someone's yard and across a potato field and eventually reach the Rakvere road. And what do we see? Parked along the edge of the forest are buses, and people making fires. Around one of them, we notice, are several circles of people – clearly Russians – all holding hands. They wave to us. We stop. They tell us they're from Narva but didn't make it on time and so formed their own chain here. We don't join them, but continue on our way home.

Urve Udu

This van was driving around with loudspeakers on it, blaring out nationalist songs and, in between them, the statement: "The occupation continues!" It frightened me; stunned me into silence. It sent shivers down my spine, and to this day I have no memory of whether any other statements blasted from that van. All I could think was that the army would turn up and send us all packing. But nothing happened. It was a beautiful day, and more and more people arrived. I found my father, and we spent the whole day together. Speeches were being given on the steps of the Tsentrum shopping center. Helle Pikkoja, the manager of the public library, read out a poem about bread and flowers on the table. And there were blue, black and white flags flying. There was a feeling of elation in the air. It's all still so clearly etched in my memory. I'll never forget those moments in Rakvere or later on the bus. My heart was thumping in my chest and I was gripped by a sense of nervous anticipation – could we really get our country back? It all seemed so inconceivable. Everyone, me included, was struck by the powerful feeling of togetherness that day. We had something to aim for, an end point in sight. The Baltic Chain holds such a special place in my heart, and I'm so proud that my father and I, and all those people from our village, stood there side by side in that human chain linking all three Baltic States. I was one person among the two million. I was one point along that more than 600-km pathway – a pathway to the future, and a better tomorrow.

Reet Kallo

We made our own Estonian flag, which was the first one I owned. I remember buying the blue, black and white fabrics I needed for it. The blue one was the hardest to get, and the flag was made from calico rather than silk. I sewed it together and my husband made the pole for it, in two halves so that it would fit in the car. He made a lovely little top piece for it as well, and painted the pole white.

Harry Ahland

The bus we set out in from Tartu broke down and we were picked up by other buses. On the one I ended up on I heard Russian being spoken as soon as I stepped in the door. I started chatting to them and discovered that my three companions on this journey of solidarity were all from Moscow: one Tatjana Savšukova, her son Sergei and her daughter-in-law Minel. They supported our endeavors with all their heart and wanted only the best for Estonia both economically and politically. Standing in the chain I hear Russian being spoken by other people, too.

Asta Niinemets

When the bus broke down the first time, we put some of our lot on other buses or foisted them onto passing drivers. We managed to fix the bus though and drove on, at one point picking up people along the way ourselves. But then the bus broke down again, leaving 130 people in the middle of nowhere once more. We were the last bus on that road, so there was no hope of anyone coming along and helping us from the direction we'd come from. So we stopped cars going the other way, and they were only too glad to help – even those who were on their way home turned straight around and drove people to the chain. I'm grateful to them all. I'd particularly like to thank the driver of the truck with 'Estotrans' on the side. He had a load of furniture in the back that he was taking to Tallinn from Viljandi. But he stopped when he saw us flagging him down, turned around, managed to squeeze 70 people in between the bits of furniture and took us to our part of the chain between Õisu and Taikse.

Iiris Saluri

August 23, 1989 and the Baltic Chain... It wasn't a question of whether we'd take part, but how we'd get there. I'd become a first-time mother just over a month earlier. I had a one-month-old son, Siim Kaarel, who I felt so much responsibility for – for his future and for mine, part of ensuring which was taking part in the Baltic Chain. I remember it was a working day, and my eyes bore holes in the clock waiting for going-home time, I was so excited. Everything had been very precisely planned: everyone in the village had been assigned a car to hop into so that we could all drive to the Viljandi road to be links in the chain. Me, my one-month-old and his father were meant to be going with one of his colleagues, because we didn't have our own car at the time. My mum was a bit anxious, saying she didn't think it was a good idea to take the baby along with me to such an event, but there was no way I was going to leave him at home. Sure, no one knew how long we'd end up standing in the chain for, or what would happen, whether we'd all be carted off direct to Siberia or shot on the spot, but those were things that older people worried about. We believed and we needed to do something to open up the window of opportunity to the free world. I'd borrowed a baby carrier from my relatives, one of those ones that wraps around and lets you hold your baby in front of you. They'd made it based on the patterns printed in Nõukogude Naine ('Soviet Woman') magazine. I was a walking food factory for him at the time, and I was able to take extra nappies, so as soon as his father got back from work we were ready to go. Our bit of the chain was near the Seli turnoff on the Viljandi road. There were so many people there, in equal parts excited and nervous. We sat the radio we'd taken with us on the roof of the car and took our places in the line. Our little guy switched from his father's chest to mine, and at the appointed time we grabbed his tiny little hands and made him part of the chain as well. The feeling of being part of it, the pictures I have of it in my head, they're still so clear to me, although I don't think anyone took an actual picture of us. We were so in the moment that we remembered every detail, even if we didn't record it. I'm so glad my son and I got to be part of that enormous chain. I hope he took something away from it, despite how young he was, and that now, 30 years later, he's just as proud as I am to be able to say he had a part in making history at just one month old, that his hands were a link in a human chain that ran all the way from Tallinn to Vilnius. He's been rewarded for it with the opportunity to grow up in a free Estonia.

Anne-Marie Riitsaar

My name's Anne-Marie Riitsaar and 30 years ago I was one of the two million links in the Baltic Chain. I was eight years old at the time. I still remember that day and how it felt so clearly. I'll try and put it into words for you. I'm from a mixed family: my dad's Estonian and my mum's Russian. Although I've spoken both languages fluently since I was little, I was teased and bullied a lot at the Estonian-language school I went to for my Russian roots. One horrible boy told me that when Estonia regained its independence I'd be deported to Russia. Not that I knew exactly what 'deported' meant; a smarter girl than me explained that it involved you being stuck on a train and sent to live in Russia. This made me anxious. Why Russia? I'd never even been there, and didn't have any relatives there either. For a little kid who can't yet see the bigger picture, such talk makes you scared of the whole nationalism thing. On the morning of the August 23, 1989 me and my whole family got in our clapped-out Zhiguli and headed out of Tallinn. My parents explained that we were going to take part in the Baltic Chain – a long line bringing together the people of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania to express the Baltic States' desire for freedom to the rest of the world. I thought to myself: why does mum want us to be sent away to live in Russia? I asked her, in a timid voice, what 'independence' meant. She answered, in a way she hoped an eight-year-old would understand, that in an independent country everyone forged their own destiny; that if you worked hard at school, you could choose for yourself which university to go to and what to study, and what to become and where to do it; that you could travel around the world, learn other languages and get to know other people, and then the fact I spoke two languages wouldn't be something that got in my way, but open up the door to friendships. She glanced in the rear-view mirror and, seeing that I was deep in thought, slyly added that in an independent country I could go to the shop and buy as many bananas as I liked. Which, to me, sounded like something out of a fairy tale – especially the bit about the bananas! When we reached our bit of road it was full of people holding hands. We slowed down and rolled down the windows. We were instantly showered with candy that people were throwing our way. Everyone seemed so elated – smiling, laughing, singing and hugging one another. It was contagious. We parked the car and joined the crowd. A man was holding a multi-colored flag and waving it slowly back and forth. I'd never seen one like it before. I asked him what flag it was, what it meant, and whether I could wave it for a bit, too. Based on what he told me, I realized that it was the perfect flag for the occasion, since if the white represented the people striving for happiness, then it was directly connected to my dream of shops full of bananas. Now that I've traveled all over the world, learnt five languages, obtained a Master's degree in preventing the spread of nuclear weapons at a foreign university, landed my dream job in the United Nations and eaten so, so many bananas, I know that it all started 30 years ago when I was one of the two million links in the Baltic Chain – with a mouth full of candy, a heart full of hope and a blue, black and white flag in my hand.

Jaan Lehtaru

I was with the Sinejärve branch of the Southern Estonian division of the University Student Construction Group at the time. The day before, I'd been left at home to prepare five or six placards to hold while we were standing in the Baltic Chain. I used whatever I had to hand to make them – mostly charcoal for the words and drawings. I had to draw everything from memory, so my portraits of Hitler and Stalin weren't the most accurate, but at least they were recognizable. I even wrote a poem for us to use as a slogan. It had been bubbling away in me waiting to come out for a long time: "Ei streik, ei suur vene hõim suuda muuta me meelt, paisata kõrvale enda valitud teelt, sest vabadus meile on kõik ja meiega kaasas on õiglus ja võit!" ("No strike, no huge Russian tribe can change our minds, push us from our chosen path, because freedom means everything to us and we have justice and victory on our side!") We made ourselves special black uniforms to wear for the occasion, with blue, black and white on the sleeves. My mum helped out on that front; she lived 20 km away from where our group was based. We hopped on the bus that the local workmen were using and drove from Karksi-Nuia to the Latvian border, where our places had been allocated by the road in the village of Lilli. Everyone was excited, lighting torches and making fires – into which we all later ceremonially threw our placards with their slogans.

Maire Jõelaid

We never got to where we were meant to go, so at the last minute we just picked a spot where there were fewer people. We got out of the car, unrolled the poster we'd made and formed our link in the chain. Just traveling to get there and take part was more emotional than those moments speeches were made and the signal was given to form the chain that we heard over the radio. A woman from a farm alongside the road wandered past while we were all stood there caught up in the excitement of being part of the chain. I think she was going after her cow. If I'd been her and something like that had been happening right outside my fence I'd definitely have joined the chain, and even brought the cow along. For a moment I even thought about calling out to her and inviting her to join us, but by that point she was too far away. And she never once looked over at us anyway.

Vivian Siirman

I was born in 1984, so I was still pretty young when the Baltic Chain took place. I didn't get to take part, although I wish I had. My parents thought events could turn dangerous and that taking the kids along was out of the question. So that day we stayed at home, me and my sister, who was a year younger than me. Our great aunt, who lived in the same building as us, was our babysitter; she had bad legs, which was why she couldn't take part herself. Thankfully the organisers had thought about those who weren't able to take part – you could put a lit candle in your window to mark your 'participation' and that you were with the people standing in the chain in your thoughts at least. So there we were, the three of us, in our kitchen, listening to the radio with a candle glowing in the window overlooking the street. We made our own little Baltic Chain, holding hands and turning in a circle like we were playing ring-a-ring-a-roses. As a kid, holding one another's hands like that seemed like such an important ritual. Getting to light a candle and make our own little Baltic Chain in the kitchen compensated for the fact that I wasn't taken along to be part of an event that was so important to the people of Estonia. My memories of the Baltic Chain are also memories of my great aunt, whose stories of a childhood in the first Estonian Republic I grew up listening to and who was like a direct link for me to that time. Luckily she lived long enough to see her country's independence restored.

Ivi Gubinska

My father-in-law, who was Russian, was visiting us from Tartu. The night before, we'd agreed that we'd meet in front of the naval college on Freedom Square, since he didn't know Tallinn very well. He'd dressed up for the occasion, as I'd promised to take him along to a rally. We headed for Lasnamäe. At some point my father-in-law twigged that we weren't going to Town Hall Square. "Isn't it happening on the square?" he asked. I told him we were taking my brother's car and driving out of the city. At seven o'clock we all lined ourselves up between the trees. "Why have you brought me here?" my father-in-law asked. I told him that today was the day the Baltic Chain was taking place, where people would be holding hands all the way from Tallinn to Vilnius. Why Vilnius, he wanted to know. Why not Moscow? I tried to explain to him the idea behind the chain. Then Arnold Rüütel started giving his speech. My father-in-law knew who he was; Rüütel was a Tartu man, after all. He listened to the speech, dismissed the whole thing with a wave of his hand, reached for the briefcase he'd brought with him and pulled out a bottle of something stiff. Only the next morning did he fully understand what had unfolded the night before. He'd been to the shops and bought newspapers in both Estonian and Russian. He read them, side by side, and saw how differently the events were being reported. He came over to me and said, "What have you got me into here? I'm a card-carrying member of those occupying forces, don't forget!" He told me how he'd come across the border in 1929, having given the soldiers a not insignificant amount of spirits to be going on with. He told me what a pity it was to see all the beautiful gardens in Paldiski being bulldozed to make way for the military. "You have no idea just how immovable that iron curtain is between us and the rest of the world," he said. "You'll never be free." But when we regained our freedom, our pop, a representative of the occupying forces, was among the very first people to take the state exam in Estonian and get his grey passport. The certificate he got for passing took pride of place on his wall at home. And the story of how his daughter-in-law had taken him, an invader, along to the Baltic Chain, was one he told all his friends.

Interviews provided by Vabamu Museum.

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