Nora

Hello, my name is Nora Maria. I'll be 19 in December. There are many Noras in my generation, but I was named after Ibsen's play. My mother says, "After a woman who decides to decide for herself."

Eighteen-year-olds don't know anything about Ibsen and only go to the theater when their teacher forces them to. Have you heard or read something like that before? Of course you have. That's what my generation is like. But I am not. And that kind of statement hurts even those my age who truly don't go to the theater or read books.

My mother's grandfather was a schoolteacher (back then, they used the beautiful word koolmeister), my father's grandfather was a writer (back then, they said kirjanikuhärra, a term of respect), my mother's father was also a writer and my father's father is an actor. My father teaches physics, my mother teaches Estonian. There's also a conservator, an art historian and a dancer in our family — my sister. My father loves to dig in the garden and jokes that no one in our family has lifted a shovel for money in four generations.

Am I that fourth generation?

Sometimes it feels like my generation has already been written off. We're the ones with panic disorders, attention deficits and anxiety. Honestly — if someone isn't anxious living in today's world, they must be a person without a conscience. My slightly older friends — some of whom I have never actually seen or touched — are fighting against palm oil plantations in Southeast Asia, for abortion rights and access in the U.S. or to save a patch of forest right here in Rannu.

Am I that fourth generation?

Looking at my parents' friends — intellectuals in every sense of the word — it seems to me that rescuing gorillas from plantation owners is far easier than creating and sustaining Estonian culture. Because gorillas are cute. Who wouldn't want to save a mother gorilla with her baby?

But who wants to save Estonian theater? Literature? Me?

Am I supposed to fight to keep my grandfather's books on the mandatory reading list? Tell me, why do I even feel like I have to... fight? And why is it a fight?

Silence

At the same time — if anyone has the right to speak out and to worry about the next hundred years of Estonian culture, then it is me. For a hundred years, my family has preserved Estonian culture, nurtured it, safeguarded it in museums, renewed it in literature and on the stage.

Maybe it's not just my right, but my duty to be this fourth generation.

In my childhood, of course, we celebrated Christmas, raised the flag on both independence days and set it on the dining table as well. But I don't remember those occasions very clearly. The truly exciting days were February 19, May 19, August 19 and November 19. Those were the days when my parents' friends gathered around our big dining table: laptops were opened, wine was poured and grant applications for the Cultural Endowment were submitted. There was endless conversation — one person reading aloud from their new poetry collection, another describing an interesting key change in a symphony they were working on.

I grew up with these people. They are my people. But they are growing quieter and quieter.

Jorge, a good friend in Argentina, once told me: miners used to keep canaries in cages to warn them of poisonous gases seeping into the tunnels. "But there's a common misconception," Jorge insisted, "that the canaries would start singing louder or screaming." No, it was the opposite: "Carbon dioxide creeping into the tunnel would put the birds to sleep."

It's not the birds' cries you have to notice — it's their silence.

I have a feeling that if, a hundred years from now, we still want to talk about Estonian culture in a meaningful way, we will first have to master the art of listening to silence.

My family has had exemplary silent ones and guardians of silence. Some who, during the occupation, were unable to work in their chosen professions. In literature class, the teacher now says mysteriously: he remained silent. Some who stayed silent about a mutual friend translating under a false name. And, of course, those who had nothing left but silence. The camps, the mines, the taiga, the unmarked graves.

No, it's not silence itself we need to listen to. We must listen to hushed resignation. The moment when an intellectual decides: I no longer want to, I no longer have the strength — go on without me.

Damn it

No! The moment you start writing about Estonian culture, ten sentences in, you find yourself right back in that same place: we're dying out, dear friends, we're dying out. And I resist — I stomp my feet and raise my voice. What is wrong with us? Why are we whining?

We have the freedom to say, think, write, act and compose exactly as we please. There is no other country in the world where a poet can publish their first collection with state funding. Where a poet can publish a second and a third, apply for state support to work in their field, to study and grow. Actors complain, they protest, but how many theaters have actually closed their doors? A handful. A handful of directors, a handful of composers... Wait a minute.

If a canary screams that its theater is shutting down, then nothing is really wrong.

It's not the noise you have to listen for. Not the noise, but the hush.

And when the general clamor is so loud, the hush goes unheard.

Can you hear it? Can you notice when, in some small town in Estonia, a rehearsal hall sits empty tonight — because no one comes to rehearse anymore?

The numbers

"Nora, don't be such a bluestocking," says Liisa. Liisa works at the Statistics Office. "Talk numbers, rely on something concrete, where are your references?"

Alright then.

When Bolt lost a significant portion of its revenue during the COVID crisis, it requested €50 million in state support. The former prime minister said Bolt was an important employer. The prime minister said they could go suck an egg. Bolt found a wealthy investor. But Nordica went bankrupt. Just like Estonian Air. And the mess at Eesti Energia is so bad that no one even dares say it out loud.

Liisa, here you go, a number, complete with a reference: state subsidies for bus companies in 2023 came to €74 million.

State and municipal subsidies for theaters in 2023 were €56 million. But no one tells bus companies that if they can't make ends meet, their drivers should start selling company-branded T-shirts.

Nora. You got upset.

My generation is made up of young people who grew up in a global village. In that dream of the '90s. We've always been used to the idea that there's no such thing as an Estonian market or a U.S. market — just a single global marketplace where we all sell and buy together.

The state doesn't interfere in the economy. The market regulates itself. You know the speech.

Or does it?

If a Chinese company decided to import a thousand shipping containers of cheap, striped Muhu skirts into Estonia, the government would step in with subsidies and tariffs. Muhu souvenirs must be protected. Domestic producers first. That's normal. That's market logic. The state can't just stand by while local businesses get steamrolled.

In that context, it seems to me that culture isn't even considered part of the Estonian economy. A Netflix subscription costs €7 — you can watch whatever you want, as much as you want. A theater ticket costs €30 — you see one show, and if you don't like it, you don't get your money back. A book — €30. A vinyl record — €30. But TikTok is free. Instagram is free. Not really — we pay for social media with our generation's attention span. And the reserves are fast running out.

How did we get here?

How did it happen that young people were left out in the cold, and then everyone acts surprised when an entire generation has attention deficit issues because of TikTok?

Because culture isn't treated as an industry but as a sacred ornament dangling from the Estonian state. No one dares touch it. There's no money as it is — what if you reach out and the whole thing crumbles? But unnoticed, the money keeps shrinking. Inflation. Indexed salaries. The cost of running the state keeps going up.

Better make the sign of the cross, bow three times, and whisper: the preservation of the Estonian language and culture through the ages, the Estonian language and culture...

The sacred must not be touched. The sacred and money don't go together. The sacred is sacred. The sacred is for the priests to protect.

On opening night, the ark of wisdom is brought out for the world to see. People say that once, at the launch of a new Andrus Kivirähk book, manna rained down from heaven.

Sacred curse

Next year, there will be elections. Want to bet how many times a week the preamble of the Constitution will be quoted in the media? (Photo: gazes into the distance, eyes clear, spirit determined.)

God, how tired I am of that preamble. I am so tired of the way culture is treated as sacred and untouchable, while Estonian filmmakers are expected to compete with Netflix, Disney, AppleTV and HBO. Netflix's revenue in 2023 was $34 billion. An Estonian director bought new winter boots and some candy for their child with their earnings. I am so tired of the fact that exporting Estonian culture is left to the personal initiative of enthusiasts. As long as we continue framing culture as less than other economic sectors, we have no reason to imagine Estonian culture existing 100 years from now. Because in 100 years, Estonian culture will not exist — Tõnis Vilu cannot compete in the free market against Paul Muldoon. Without Estonian Literary Magazine, Tõnis Vilu cannot compete with anyone at all.

Oh, I have heard them, I have seen them — those little coughs, those furrowed brows across the table when someone dares to utter the words creative economy. Economy! But culture is not an economy. Culture is something high and untouchable. Cultural people don't think in economic terms. And indeed, they shouldn't have to — it's not their job. They have studied acting, composing, writing haikus, and can do all of that at a world-class level. It is the state's responsibility to protect cultural people.

We export electrical equipment, timber and grain. But it is Estonian culture that determines whether people want to import our products. No one wants to buy a Chinese watch, but they would buy a Glashütte watch. An American car has a powerful engine and is big. You could buy the same size car from China — but who would want to? An American car means Route 66, an American car means Steve McQueen. An American car is not just any car — it's a 1968 Ford Mustang GT 390 Fastback. A Chinese car is just... made in China.

Culture means diplomatic ties between nations. And a country's security depends on its diplomatic ties. If national defense were left solely to the military general staff, then Estonia's defense capability would be measured in artillery shells. Meanwhile, all of Ida-Viru County is quietly watching Vadim Shmelov's latest patriotic war film via VPN and couldn't care less about our shells.

Nora, again. From the present to the future.

If, before the end of the century, we find ourselves bowing to a foreign power, it won't be because we ran out of artillery shells. It will happen because we failed to resist foreign culture. Or, worse — because the foreign became so familiar that we no longer wanted to resist. Ukraine is not at war because Mutin is Punn (an Estonian meme and play on words suggesting Vladimir Putin is a dick and a campaign to raise money for Ukraine — ed.) or because there's coal in Donbas. Ukraine is at war because the Soviet Union didn't collapse there in the early '90s. The Soviet Union is collapsing there right now.

No matter how fast technology advances or how drastically the climate changes, one thing is certain — change brings more change. Maybe it will be faster, maybe slower, but in the whirlwind of transformation, the ones who survive are those who have strong, friendly connections with others.

We say about someone: They are a cultured person. That really just means we share the same value system — that to both them and us, culture means the same thing. The same principle applies to international diplomacy: Estonia is a cultured country means that Estonia is not left alone.

God, how terrified I am that one day I will have children, and Estonia will be alone in the world.

Alone, like Ukraine.

Words, words, words. Promises. And still — alone.

Until 2090

If we can learn from our mistakes — if we finally pull up our pants, blow our noses and recognize our culture as an equal among other economic sectors — then we have a reason to talk about Estonian culture a hundred years from now. Otherwise, we don't.

It sounds so horrifying, so paradoxical, but Estonian culture must not be sacred. Culture must move and evolve.

The sacred is a living corpse.

My generation will have children by 2050 at the latest. I might become a grandmother sometime around 2070. There will probably be fewer children born in the future, and even at 50, childbirth won't be a big deal. Around 2090 will come the turning point — the horizon of foreseeable history. That's when the people who still remember the early part of the century — our present, 2024 — will start to die. The people who now participate in cultural life, either as administrators or creators. I have no doubt that Estonian culture will last until 2090 — if nothing else, then at least due to the nostalgia of the elderly. Most likely, Estonian culture will still resemble what it is today. The codes and values will be similar, just as I understand what the language reform movement meant, I have read "Pipi and Uhhuu" in school and tried to read "Truth and Justice."

Around 2050, the ones who dreamt of Reagan as a swan falling into Thatcher's bed after the Singing Revolution will start to die.

Oh, sing of ruin, woman, proclaim the fall, Nora!

The children of Khrushchev's baby boom in the 1960s. The children of the baby boom in the 1980s. The highly educated women in their fifties from Tartu — the ones who, statistically, are still reading literature. One after another, they will all die. And then comes us.

There are few of us, we are cynical and we have anxiety disorders.

Maybe by then, we no longer have a free Estonia. But not having a country has never stopped Estonian culture. If anything, it has been the opposite — when someone tries to press our faces into the mud with their boot, we lift our noses to the stars. Out of sheer defiance, we lift them.

But maybe by then, states as we know them no longer exist at all. Budget-wise, a sovereign state could just as easily be formed by Apple, Amazon or Google. In many ways, they are states within states already.

What will be the job description of Estonia's cultural attaché in the Kingdom of Apple in the year 2080?

They cannot be just a bureaucrat. They must be broad-minded, artistically educated, knowledgeable in marketing, history, technology and media. It is unthinkable that this person could be just a glorified paper-pusher.

In the hypothetical Kingdom of Apple, cultural life will be much more vibrant because the reason big companies are big is that they are, in essence, cultural enterprises.

An American is either a Republican or a Democrat, but all of them own an iPhone. Apple's distinct design language — its clean matte colors, its rounded edges, its restrained elegance — unites people into one... No, not a nation, but certainly a nationality.

Today, we talk about the Apple and Samsung ecosystem, where different devices communicate seamlessly. But just as well, we could talk about the Apple and Samsung state, with its own symbols, colors and power structures — even if, physically, that state does not exist anywhere.

To have culture, a country is not necessary.

But Apple and Samsung need technological innovation to ensure that people continue living in their "states."

AI is building an invisible nation.

Bureaucrats will not be needed. AI will administer.

Administrative intelligence

Small culture

It won't take 50 years for a young person to give up on acting. To fall silent. Or to decide not to study directing at BFM. To hush. Or to stop writing poetry because they feel that no one really cares. That they would be abandoning themselves on the job market.

It is happening today.

But this isn't the end. It's only the end of great culture.

The grand culture — of song festivals and operas — is being replaced by small culture. And small doesn't mean lesser in meaning, but it is more localized. Small culture is stencil art and amateur films; small culture is self-published books and self-distributed music; small culture is the Estonian-language Wikipedia and YouTube.

We actually know small culture very well. Small culture is Jannsen and Koidula, Juhan Jaik, the young Mägi and the forever-young Pärsimägi. Small culture is the resistance to the grand, official culture during the occupation. Symphonies recorded in kitchens. Samizdat. Luuletus.ee.

Small culture has given up on state support because these creators don't believe in the state anymore. They know, they've seen that the state doesn't care. They will never write a new "Truth and Justice" — there's no money for that — but they will write "Pombi ja Üdsimärdi nõiad."

They will never receive a house from the state for their work, like Tammsaare. Or like Palusalu and Salumäe. Or a house or an apartment like Luts and Vilde and Mälk.

Small. Ghostly in the cityscape. Strange sounds. Colors. Light.

Not Staatsoper Unter den Linden, but that basement in Kreuzberg where Elias connected eight accordions to ChatGPT.

This is already happening. A hundred small theaters. A thousand self-publishing poets. This isn't a sign of cultural wealth — it's a sign of stagnation.

By the end of the century, Kivirähk will be read the way Tammsaare is now, and Tammsaare is a joy only to philologists, not to people. My generation doesn't believe in him. We don't know what a plow is or why, in every damn situation, someone has to secretly cry under a spruce tree. Our generation cries publicly.

We are both cynical and empathetic at the same time.

In this world at the end of the century, the blessed Krõõt no longer calls piglets home with a bright, clear voice. In this world, Jaan eats soap and fucks Luise.

There will be so few of us left at the century's end.

My generation.

Nora, you are afraid.

Beyond that, there is darkness.

You are the fourth generation.

2090-2124

Thirty-four years. Almost twice as long as I have lived. Beyond that — darkness. The edge of visible history.

My grandfather used to say: If you must step into darkness, go backward — face the light. That way, you won't fall. And you won't be afraid.

Alright then, Nora. Look this way. It's fin de siècle again, my dear.

When the war ended, we believed the world had finally settled. But they believed that after Versailles, too. A new war and a new peace. A hot peace. A cold war. We were silent here.

My children were born. Estonia was the backwater of the world and life was as dull as a Chekhov play — those same plays they still kept performing back then. The midday of the century, the hum of crickets, the scorching heat, windows and doors wide open, the dog panting on the floor, the whistle of a Rail Baltic train at the horizon.

We waited for unicorns and another Tiger Leap. But Estonian playwriting no longer existed. The Estonian novel no longer existed. Our cherry orchard had been sold off as summer home plots. We sold it ourselves. We couldn't even wait for the auction.

We told Lopakhin to go to hell.

Who was it that had the idea? That Big Idea.

That the Estonian state should represent the rights of creative works made on Estonian soil and the creators working here. That rights and patents would stay here for 50 years, but the creators would get their money.

American screenwriters no longer had to strike. No one had to abandon art because they had kids and a mortgage.

Come to Estonia. Come and create. We will help protect your rights.

And suddenly, our forests, our beaches, our retreat houses and creative centers were filled with Hollywood screenwriters. German novelists. Korean indie musicians. They couldn't afford an agent, couldn't battle producers and studios in court, but they could afford a plane ticket to Estonia.

By the middle of the century, Estonia had become the Switzerland of intellectual property.

Estonian lawyers fought for writers and painters in the courts of America, Asia and Europe — won them the millions they deserved. And the state profited. The state profited handsomely.

Film studios paid Estonia for rights. The rights of Pulitzer and Nobel Prize winners were bought from the Ministry of Culture. Software companies moved their creative divisions and coders to Estonia.

In Käbi retreat house in Roosna-Alliku, they wrote the code that took humankind to Mars.

Was it real? Or is this just an old person rambling?

It must have been real. It was real!

I remember those hushes in the middle of the century. I heard them. And I was worried. I noticed when playwrights went silent, when poets stopped publishing.

But they came back. Because faith came back.

A state that had seemingly ceased to exist for half a century came back.

Honestly, I'm too old now to understand whatever the hell it is my grandchildren use to create their culture.

I don't even care anymore. I have turned my gaze to the past, trying to understand the century behind me.

What was the most important thing? The thing that saved us? That saved the Estonian language and culture?

We killed the sacred. That damned preamble.

Nora, we killed the sacred — and the canaries began to sing again.

The essay was originally published in Sirp magazine.

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