Let's take a look back in history, 40 years ago, to the year 1985. Let's start with late winter, early March. At that time, I was a 14-year-old student with broad interests, and I remember very well that this spring felt different from previous ones — primarily because of what could be seen and heard in the Soviet Union and Soviet-occupied Estonia at the time.

But did you already realize back then that this spring was different?

Actually, I wanted to say that the contrast with 1983 or 1984 was very clear, even to a school student. I remember that the years 1983 and 1984 were particularly oppressive in the context of Soviet rule.

One after another, the Soviet leaders of the time — Brezhnev, Andropov and Chernenko — died.

But just this morning, I was speaking with someone who was a university student in 1985, and they recalled how their professor, Marju Lauristin, said in a lecture that March: "A few days ago, Mikhail Gorbachev became the leader of the Soviet Union, and now things are going to start happening!" The students, however, thought, "Come on, what is this talk? One old communist has simply been replaced by a younger communist — what's going to happen? On the contrary, the screws will just be tightened further."

I actually remember it like this — was it March 11, 1985? Officially, Mikhail Gorbachev was appointed general secretary of the Communist Party on March 10, but, as was typical in the Soviet Union, the announcement came later. One evening on "Vremya," the news anchor read out the announcement of the new CPSU general secretary in an exceptionally solemn and grandiose tone. I remember my father saying something — though I don't recall the exact words — but if you say that Marju Lauristin said, "Now things are going to start happening," then I think my father said something similar.

He was someone who had seen a lot in his lifetime, and in hindsight, both Marju Lauristin and my father were probably right — because things really did start happening right away. The mood, the atmosphere, had already started to feel different, even from the time of Chernenko's funeral.

The contrast was so stark. Compared to Brezhnev, Andropov and Chernenko, Gorbachev was clearly from a younger generation. With him, there was no immediate fear that a state funeral would be held for him within a year.

Perhaps it's worth mentioning two things here. First, this entire program is dedicated to discussing perestroika, that transformative period at the end of Soviet history that fundamentally changed the Soviet Union, Russia and ultimately the entire world.

Second, for those who may not remember the mid-1980s very well, it was actually a time when three Soviet dictators — officially titled general secretary of the Communist Party — died in roughly one-and-a-half-year intervals. First, there was Leonid Ilyich Brezhnev, who had been in power since 1964 and died in 1982. Then came Yuri Andropov, who held the position for only a short time before passing away. And soon after, Konstantin Chernenko took over as the leader of the CPSU and the Soviet Union, but he too died after roughly a year in office.

At that point, the situation was starting to feel almost comical. But at the same time, it was becoming clear — even within the corridors of the Communist Party — that something had to change.

It's important to emphasize — especially for younger listeners — that the Soviet Union was not a multi-party democratic state. The Communist Party was the country's — how did Article 6 of the constitution put it? — the leading and guiding force. In other words, it was the only party in this vast country.

That's a very good point, because what was clear to everyone living in the Soviet Union in 1982, 1983 and 1984 was that this country had no intention of becoming more open, democratic or free — quite the opposite.

Continuing on the topic of personal memories, Yuri Andropov, as a former KGB chief, understood very well that the Soviet Union was facing massive economic problems: the price of oil, the country's overall demographic situation, the war in Afghanistan — which drained enormous resources — the burden of maintaining satellite states in the Eastern Bloc and many other issues. He spoke about these problems, but there was no sign of liberalization or openness. On the contrary, Andropov wanted to tighten control and crack down on inefficiency and absenteeism.

I remember that at the end of 1983, I was in Tallinn for an academic competition. To kill time after the competition — which took place at the 7th Secondary School on Hariduse tänav — I went to a movie theater at the beginning of Viru tänav in the Old Town. It was winter and I just needed a warm place to sit. They were showing, of all things — not a joke — a documentary about North Korea.

Then, suddenly, the lights came on and a patrol from the People's Militia (rahvamalev) entered the theater through two doors. They had red armbands on their coat sleeves and started checking people's documents to find out who was in the theater during working hours. This was the kind of thing that actually happened. People who couldn't properly explain why they were there were likely taken to the militia station.

Andropov, Chernenko and Brezhnev were, in some ways, almost comical figures, but their power seemed eternal, unbreakable and unshakable. And then suddenly, a different approach emerged. You could feel it from the very first moments — not just in terms of the generational contrast, but in many other ways as well.

How do you remember that time? What was the change for you?

At that time, I was already working in journalism. In the spring of 1985, I was at the newspaper Säde, and by the fall, I had moved to Noorte Hääl. But in the Ajakirjandusmaja — the Journalism House — where all editorial offices in Tallinn were located at the time, at Pärnu maantee 67a, there was no immediate sense of change.

I think one major difference between perestroika in Estonia and, broadly speaking, in Russia — where it was officially introduced as "renewal" by Gorbachev — was that the Russian press embraced it much more quickly. The Russian media started influencing society significantly earlier than the Estonian press, which was largely due to the attitudes of the local authorities, namely the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Estonia. Things here remained quite stagnant, probably until 1987.

It wasn't until later — 1988 or so — that certain topics started to emerge. For example, Madis Jürgen's stories about violence in the Soviet army or Tõnis Avikson's reports on Chernobyl — those came much later. By that time, the Soviet Union's central press had already woken up.

Yes, it's an interesting paradox. In my own life, I don't recall many times when I looked toward Moscow or Russia — at that time, the Soviet Union — with any sense of hope. But I think that between 1985 and 1988, many people, both in Russia and in the Soviet-occupied territories, may have felt exactly that.

And as you described, the reason was simple: in Moscow, at the very center of the Soviet Union, changes were happening at an astonishing and completely unexpected pace. Suddenly, articles were being published on topics that, just a year earlier, would have been unthinkable. Discussions about Stalinist-era repression, Soviet history in general — films and literary works that had been shelved for decades were finally being released.

That was called glasnost, or openness.

Exactly. But before glasnost, there was an administrative reform known as acceleration — or uskorenie in Russian — as well as economic reforms, which were broadly referred to as hozraschyot, meaning self-management or self-financing.

Strangely enough, from Estonia's perspective, these changes were seen with a sense of hope. They provided an opportunity for Estonia to move toward its own goals. In 1985, to be fair, there were certainly people who hoped and believed that Estonia would one day be free, but there weren't very many of them.

I think you're absolutely right.

Of course, when it comes to Estonia — and especially being here in the ERR studio — I have to say that, in my opinion, Eesti Televisioon (ETV) played a key role in leading these changes and gradually breaking the backbone of public opinion control.

You could say that it all started in the late 1970s and early 1980s with the program "Ajurünnak" ("Brainstorm"). But when we move into the perestroika era, Rein Järlik's series "Viiekümnendad" ("The Fifties") and "Surma ei otsinud keegi" ("No One Sought Death") were pivotal.

I think those came in a different order — "Surma ei otsinud keegi" was still clearly made under the constraints of Soviet censorship, while "Viiekümnendad" was, in today's terms, a remarkably honest piece of work.

Yes, or "Vaatevinkel" ("Point of View") or "Mõtleme veel" ("Let's Think Again"), which aired between 1987 and 1989. The first episode of "Vaatevinkel" was broadcast on December 5, 1985. Even "Terav pilk" ("Sharp Look"), which started in 1985, played a role.

Then in 1988, "Panda" appeared on television, with Juhan Aare covering environmental issues, the phosphate mining controversy and all those critical topics. 

I would actually place a key turning point in Estonian journalism even earlier and in a broader context. What comes to mind for me — perhaps influenced by my age at the time — are the youth studio programs like "Kontakt" ("Contact") and "Pärastlõunal" ("In the Afternoon").

Cultural liberalization, if only in the realm of pop culture, was so significant that it sent a clear signal: things were now fundamentally different.

Of course. And I think the reason why television — specifically Eesti Televisioon — was able to play such a crucial role in shifting public opinion was that many of its programs were live broadcasts. This meant that censorship could only be applied after they had aired.

But with print journalism, every article had to go through a censor before the printing presses could even start. Censorship at the time wasn't just about preventing certain sensitive numbers from being published — like the actual number of Soviet troops stationed in Estonia. It was also very much political censorship, where authorities closely monitored the content of articles to control what was being written.

Culturally, there was also the liberation of literature, theater and other more politically engaged arts. This was clearly felt — it started moving forward across a broad front, almost spontaneously. And ultimately, it was this cultural wave that led to political liberation or at least laid the groundwork for the political movement that followed.

Well, yes, because cultural figures were often the driving force behind these changes. We know, for example, about April 1-2, 1988 — the Joint Plenum of Estonian Creative Unions — which in many ways was a turning point, a moment when it felt like many of the previous boundaries had disappeared.

And of course, if you think about the books that started being published, the poetry collections — those played a huge role in breaking down barriers as well.

In fact, even before the 1988 Joint Plenum of Creative Unions, there were the Writers' Union congresses several years earlier. These may not have been as free, but in the context of the time, they were, for many people — though it sounds strange in today's language — almost radicalizing. People listened.

That's how it worked — everyone was watching, looking for signs of change, of openness, of liberalization or simply new opportunities, whether in culture, the economy or society. And when they saw those signs, they would push the boundaries further, setting new markers for how far it seemed possible to go. And this kept happening — every day, every week, those boundaries were being moved forward.

And yes, at a certain point, many people in Estonia were looking toward Moscow. They were reading Ogonjok, Literaturnaya Gazeta, Komsomolskaya Pravda, Argumenty i Fakty — noting that if the central Soviet press could write about these topics, name these names, make these kinds of proposals, then we should be able to as well.

At the same time, the Writers' Union congresses were discussing the Estonian language, culture, the bleak demographic situation at the time and Estonia's history. All of this helped push the boundaries even further.

Up until 1985, it was clearly a society ruled by fear. Many people — some because they simply didn't care, but even those who strongly opposed the regime — were afraid to speak out.

In a way, the situation was similar to what we see in Russia today.

From the comfort of Estonia, we might ask why so few people in Russia publicly protest the war in Ukraine. But if we think back to the 1980s, many people in their hearts opposed the Soviet Union's war in Afghanistan, resented the fact that young Estonian men were being sent there by force. More than 1,000 Estonian boys were drafted and sent to Afghanistan. But there were no public demonstrations in Estonia calling for peace, no rallies with banners saying Miru mir ("Peace to the world") or demanding the withdrawal of Soviet troops. There was a deep-seated fear.

I remember very well how that changed for me on August 23, 1987, at the first Hirvepark demonstration, organized by the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact Disclosure Group (MRP-AEG). It took place in Hirvepark in Tallinn. I went there to see what it would be like.

I saw the Tallinn police regiment, which was part of the Soviet Union's internal forces. I saw their trucks, with conscripts sitting in the back under canvas covers. I saw riot shields, batons. And I thought — what's going to happen now?

But when the demonstration ended peacefully, the crowd dispersed and those police trucks simply drove away, I realized: something fundamental had changed.

I think Toomas described the feeling of losing fear very well — that moment that likely struck different people in different places at different times. But indeed, the Hirvepark demonstration on August 23, 1987, was the kind of event where many people realized: This can be done and nothing will happen.

The Soviet regime suddenly seemed toothless, powerless — perhaps even unwilling to crack down in the same way it had just three or four years earlier, when several people in Estonia had been sentenced to long terms in forced labor camps.

And ultimately, at that first Hirvepark demonstration on August 23, 1987, people were carrying banners demanding freedom for Enn Tarto, Lagle Parek and Mart Niklus. For many, it was the first time they even learned that such political prisoners existed.

It's also fascinating how the process of liberation followed such bizarre and paradoxical paths. Some people may have been aware of these political prisoners simply because the Soviet regime itself found it necessary to publish mocking and derogatory articles about them in Estonian-language media.

But even those stories were appearing in a way that, in 1985-1986, would have been unimaginable just four or five years earlier.

Looking back at 1986-1988, it's clear that within the Soviet nomenklatura and the ruling system at the time, there was an understanding that things had to be discussed — but in a way that still kept public emotions and thoughts under control. They tried to feed people pre-approved narratives.

But once that process began, it was like toothpaste being squeezed out of the tube — there was no way to put it back in.

I remember what happened after the Hirvepark demonstration on August 23, 1987. In Noorte Hääl, there was a section called Toimetuse Postist ("From the Editor's Mailbox"), where readers' letters were published. After the demonstration, they printed a letter from a 10th-grade student named Ronald Pavluhhin — at least, that was the name given. In his letter, he basically said, Look, it's completely normal — Gorbachev is talking about glasnost and perestroika, openness and reform, so why wouldn't a public gathering like this be normal too? And now I've learned who Parek, Niklus and Tarto are.

At that time, however, publishing a letter like that still had consequences. The editor-in-chief of Noorte Hääl was summoned to the Agitation and Propaganda Department of the Estonian Communist Party's Central Committee — or whatever it was officially called — and was given a serious reprimand.

Shortly afterward, Noorte Hääl published several so-called reader letters condemning the demonstration, an obvious attempt to balance things out under pressure.

Looking at Estonia's history, I think we can divide that period into two phases. The first was the perestroika era before June 1988, when Karl Vaino was still the head of the Estonian SSR. The second phase began after June 1988, when Moscow replaced him with Vaino Väljas. Those were two very different times.

I'd like to talk more about the retreat of the atmosphere of fear because that's something that feels important to remember today. Am I wrong in saying that even during the Brezhnev era, in the early 1980s — and even more so by 1984-1985, not to mention 1986-1987 — the atmosphere in the Soviet Union, at least in Estonia, was significantly freer than what we see in Russia today?

I sometimes read about the punishments handed down by the current Russian regime and the reasons for these sentences — the severity of the penalties — is striking. Often, someone has simply said something about the war in Ukraine to another person, someone reports it and the court hands down a seven-year prison sentence.

Today's Russia is clearly a far more repressive regime than the Soviet Union was in the 1980s — no matter which year we're talking about. That much is obvious.

But of course, that doesn't mean that the Soviet Union of the 1980s was in any way pleasant either.

The retreat of fear had actually begun even before Gorbachev, to some extent. Yes, there were political prisoners and their numbers grew in the early 1980s, year by year. But behind closed doors, in private conversations or even in smaller workplaces, making jokes about the regime, criticizing it or mocking it generally didn't lead to repression.

What did lead to repression was public defiance — public protests or openly voiced criticism.

Repression could also mean something as simple as being denied a travel permit. If you wanted to go on a tourist trip to another socialist country, you might not be allowed. Or if you wanted to visit an aunt in a Western country, you could be refused.

For younger listeners, it's important to remember — there was no Schengen system back then. Traveling abroad wasn't a right; it was a privilege granted by the authorities.

But at some point, the fear of the Soviet regime disappeared completely.

As I fast-forward through that period in my mind, there came a moment when people started clearly dividing into different political directions. The first and broadest movement was the heritage protection clubs, which, I believe, were also the first to publicly display the blue-black-white flag. Then there were those involved in activism against the planned phosphate mines. And some people had already begun engaging in purely political activities.

One of the regime's main tools — the KGB — summoned many of these people for "conversations." Even though I was very young at the time, I, too, was called in by the KGB in the spring of 1987 because I had participated in the May 1 parade with the "wrong" slogans. I imagine that just two or three years earlier, such a summons would have been very ominous. But I don't remember feeling any fear at all. Even at home, when I told my parents about it, they simply shrugged — So what? What did they say?

This shift was widespread — it was happening everywhere. People began to feel, you could say, practically free within the prison of the Soviet system.

The Soviet regime had lost all meaning.

And it all stemmed from the moment when Mikhail Gorbachev declared that the Soviet system needed reform.

I read somewhere the recollections of Rein Sillar, the last chairman of the Estonian SSR KGB, about that time and how Soviet power came to an end. He recalled that the turning point must have been either the massive demonstration at the Tallinn Song Festival Grounds in June 1988 or the Eestimaa Laul (Song of Estonia) event.

I think it was more likely the June event because, for many people, that was a true wake-up call.

By the way, the irony of history — or fate — is in the fact that, officially, what was that event actually supposed to be?

It was officially an event to send off the Estonian delegates to the 19th Conference of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU), organized by the Popular Front (Rahvarinne). At that event, people shouted at Indrek Toome, who was a CPSU Central Committee member and the ideological secretary: "Say the same thing in Moscow!"

Rein Sillar, who was then the head of the Estonian SSR KGB's Fifth Department — essentially the ideological counterintelligence unit — later recalled the moment. He was sitting in his office at Pagari tänav, the KGB headquarters, listening to a radio communication link with his colleagues stationed at the Song Festival Grounds.

At first, a colleague reported, "There are 10,000 people here." A little later, "Now it's 20,000." Then there was a long pause.

Sillar, growing impatient, asked over the radio, "What's going on? Have you started drinking or what?"

And then came the response — in Russian: "Rein Antsovich, this is the end of Soviet power."

The exact wording was probably a bit more colorful, but in short, tens of thousands had gathered — by the end, nearly 100,000 people were there.

I'd like to explore two directions from here — the Popular Front and the regime itself.

Actually — though this sounds grim in today's context — the KGB, even in a province like Estonia, didn't employ stupid people. It was still a highly selective and demanding repressive institution.

The same Rein Sillar, along with his colleague observing from the Song Festival Grounds, must have understood that this wasn't just a local joke — this really was the end of Soviet power.

But when exactly did they realize it?

I think it was around that same moment — 1988 — when Moscow had already replaced Estonia's leadership.

That happened just a few days or weeks before the Song Festival Grounds event, right?

I think those who had access to the best information about what was happening in Estonia — who understood Estonian society and, more broadly, the state of the entire Soviet Union — realized that the kind of country the USSR had been was gradually disappearing.

Could we also say that they essentially had a choice — either let the system collapse and try to find a way out from under the rubble or attempt to prop up the regime, as we saw happening in some other regions of the Soviet Union?

But the latter path would have required brutal violence.

Yes, I think so.

If we fast-forward for a moment to January 1991 and consider the events of January 13 in Vilnius, when the KGB special unit Alpha and Soviet paratroopers killed 13 people defending the Vilnius TV tower — that was a very clear choice.

And to this day, we still don't know exactly who was behind that decision.

Allegedly, it was Gorbachev himself who gave the order.

Exactly. How much of it was Gorbachev and how much was Dmitry Yazov, the Soviet defense minister at the time, or Vladimir Kryuchkov, the head of the KGB? We don't know for sure. But someone made that choice.

At the same time, in Estonia in January 1991, we also saw that...

...or even on that June evening in 1988, or on August 23, 1989.

Yes, or even February 24, 1988.

But on February 2, 1988, in Tartu, the militia still set dogs on people.

Yes, they were out there with dogs.

But at the same time, it's a big question — why did things in Estonia... I wouldn't say they went completely peacefully. When I talk to the Estonian border guards who were stationed at Luhamaa, Murati or Ikla when Riga's OMON — the Soviet Interior Ministry's special police unit — attacked our border posts, there was real violence used against them.

So no, we can't say that it all happened without conflict. But we can say that no one was killed here, unlike in Vilnius or Riga, where people lost their lives.

Indeed, we have other examples as well — from Kazakhstan, Georgia, Armenia and Azerbaijan.

But the speed at which the Soviet Union collapsed is, I think, an important lesson for any future collapses of Russian regimes. We just don't yet know how to draw those parallels.

The interesting question here is: what period do we actually consider the collapse of the Soviet Union?

I think the final collapse happened within a matter of weeks in the fall of 1991.

On the other hand, by that point, the Soviet Union had already ceased to function as a governing authority. It no longer exercised control over its own territory.

Did it still hold power in the Caucasus? In the Baltic region?

In the Baltic region, it definitely no longer exercised control. In Central Asia, however, it held on almost until its very last breath.

It's very difficult to pinpoint exactly when Karimov or whoever else was in power there finally took the Moscow phone off the hook for good and brought the local KGB under their own control.

But another fascinating story is that of the Popular Front — an unbelievable tale that started with a television program...

The Popular Front emerged from the television program "Mõtleme veel" ("Let's Think Again").

It all started with a single television broadcast on an April evening in 1988, and from there, it spread like wildfire across Estonia, even organizing that massive demonstration at the Song Festival Grounds.

Similar popular movements in support of perestroika — that was their official title — emerged across the Soviet-occupied territories. Maybe not in every remote corner of Russia, but certainly in Latvia, Lithuania, Ukraine and even parts of the Caucasus.

How did this happen? Was it something in the air, a shared spirit of the times? Or was there a deliberate push from somewhere at the center?

I don't actually believe that there was any deliberate push behind it, because... what would have been the goal of such a push? To weaken the Soviet Union?

It's possible that if someone had already realized by that point that, as you said, Soviet power was over, they might have started looking for forces that could help dismantle the Soviet Union in an organized way.

I don't know. I'm not much of a believer in conspiracy theories.

It seems to me that by the time the Popular Front was formed in Estonia — or similar movements emerged in other corners of the Soviet Union — the situation was already ripe for it.

You could say that, on the one hand, people were driving the events, but on the other hand, the events were also carrying the people along. Everything unfolded in such a natural way — at least when we look at what happened in Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania.

In the end, this outcome felt inevitable.

Many Estonians like to think that we were the ones who dismantled the Soviet Union.

Well, that's certainly a nice thought.

But did we actually do it?

In my opinion, it would be extreme parochialism to look at the collapse of the Soviet Union solely from an Estonian perspective.

There were all the Eastern Bloc satellite states — the Warsaw Pact countries, the so-called socialist states — where everything was also starting to crack.

After all, the Berlin Wall fell during that same period.

Discontent in Moscow was greater before it was in Estonia.

In Romania, Ceaușescu and his wife were executed after ruling the country with an iron grip for decades. And then there was Hungary, Poland — the same pattern.

On one hand, maybe it's too simplistic to say this, but by that time, the entire Soviet system had already exhausted itself to the point where collapse was inevitable.

And then came the August Coup of 1991, when they tried to overthrow Gorbachev — that was just the final nail in the coffin of the Soviet Union.

It was like pulling the last matchstick from the pyramid — everything just collapsed uncontrollably.

Or as people say nowadays, the last straw that broke the camel's back.

Looking at it again from an Estonia-centered perspective, we can be fairly certain that on August 23, 1987 — the day we've been discussing — when many people felt that fear was gone, most still couldn't imagine that in just a few years, Estonia would de facto be an independent, sovereign country. That it would no longer be a Soviet republic, an occupied territory. How do you remember this transition?

Let's set our observation period between March 11, 1985, and March 11, 1990. On one end, we have the appointment of a new general secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. On the other, we have the gathering of the Estonian Congress (Eesti Kongress) — the legislative body representing Estonia's legal citizens — at the Estonia Concert Hall. That's just five years.

Somewhere in between, a widespread conviction emerged among Estonians that there was no alternative to the full restoration of independence. But that realization didn't come all at once, nor did it happen for everyone at the same time, right?

No, of course not.

Even highly competent people — many of whom later became Riigikogu members and played undeniable roles in restoring Estonia's independence — went through a period when they seriously debated the idea of a union treaty. They discussed what kind of agreement would best define Estonia's relationship with the Soviet Union. The Estonian press was full of articles about it.

Then, at some point, that idea just disappeared because it was no longer relevant. And from there, everything moved forward. In my opinion, it all unfolded so logically.

Take November 16, 1988, when the Supreme Soviet of the Estonian SSR adopted the Declaration of Sovereignty. That declaration still framed Estonia as being within the Soviet Union.

But just a year later, it was publicly declared that Estonia's incorporation into the USSR in 1940 had been illegal — a blatant violation of international law.

And from there, things kept progressing. At a certain point, as you said, it became clear to the majority of Estonians that the only future for Estonia was as an independent state — meaning the full restoration of the Republic of Estonia.

It was an absolutely extraordinary time. Those who lived through it and remember it are truly lucky.

There were many shifts during this transition period, including in the image of perestroika's central figure — Mikhail Gorbachev. Globally, but especially in Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania — and eventually even in Russia — he went through several transformations in public perception.

At first, there was a great deal of hope tied to him in Estonia. But the first real blow to that optimism may have come as early as 1987, during his one and only visit to Estonia. He toured Tallinn and visited the Estonia model sovkhoz. During that visit, in meetings with people, he revealed himself as a classic great-power chauvinist — very different from the image people had of him back in April or May 1985, when they saw him unexpectedly step out of a limousine on Nevsky Prospekt in Leningrad, casually chatting with ordinary citizens.

This shift in his image was dramatic and mirrored the broader shift in public sentiment.

It raises the big question: did Gorbachev ever intend or even remotely plan for the events that unfolded? Or, as you put it so well earlier, was he simply carried along by the events — someone whose personal will, for better or worse, didn't really determine much in the grand scheme of things?

I can't imagine that when Gorbachev became the leader of the Soviet Union in March 1985, he went home that evening and said to his wife, Raisa, "All right, Raisa, now the work begins — we're going to dismantle the Soviet Union and bring this country to an end." No, I just can't see that as having happened.

I think he understood that the Soviet Union was rotten, full of problems and in desperate need of — using his own words — renewal, acceleration, openness, all of that. But I believe he wanted to preserve the Soviet Union.

That was always his goal. Even if you look at him in 1991, when he was still trying to negotiate a union treaty with the republics that were willing to sign, his intention was still to hold the Soviet Union together.

I've read a great deal — both in-depth and more surface-level analyses — about perestroika, the Soviet Union, its collapse and various biographies of Mikhail Gorbachev.

From all of that, it actually seems to me that, after the succession of deceased Soviet dictators, Gorbachev may have been the first true ideological communist.

It's paradoxical that he ended up dismantling communism — although, to be fair, it had never existed in the first place.

And by the way, an interesting thing — I was just talking to someone earlier today and perestroika came up in the conversation.

They asked me where I was headed, and I said, "Anvar Samost invited me to the show." Then they said they had been thinking about something — what if Gorbachev, [Eduard] Shevardnadze — who was the Soviet foreign minister during Gorbachev's time — and several others around him were, in some way, products of Khrushchev's Thaw?

That was the era that had shaped them, the memory that carried them through the 1970s and into the 1980s, influencing the decisions they made.

And when you start thinking about it... why not? That actually makes a lot of sense.

Let's take another look at Russia — a constant question for Estonia: how to exist next to Russia? There's one question that I just can't shake. Back in the late 1980s and early 1990s, I followed Russia very closely and many people were extremely hopeful about its future. I myself remained quite optimistic even up until around 1995-1997. It seemed like an enormous and complex country, full of problems — but things appeared to be moving in the right direction, getting better. But they didn't.

And now you want to ask why things didn't get better? I'm not a Russia expert — I wouldn't dare to give a definitive answer. I think we're stepping onto very slippery ground here.

But the hope was enormous.

Well, of course, there was hope — huge hope. But analyzing now why that hope didn't materialize? Does Russia have some inherent peculiarity? What if Yeltsin had made a different choice regarding his successor? What if, in 1993, he had chosen a different path instead of ordering tanks to fire on the parliament? What if he hadn't run for re-election? What would have happened then?

We just don't know.

But Estonia's path was different. Latvia's path was different. Lithuania's path was different.

Things turned out much better for us.

The Baltic states have done the best, I think. And that's clear to see! Of all the former Soviet republics, the Baltic states have fared the best.

They were occupied by the Soviet Union — I'd like to clarify that point.

Yes. And in that sense, I think we have every reason to be extremely proud of ourselves.

--

Follow ERR News on Facebook and Twitter and never miss an update!