Why do studies show that Estonians are growing alienated from their own country and don't feel like they're part of society? A country is supposed to be its people. The divide arises from the fact that the government sees itself as the state instead. In contrast, the government treats the people here as a kind of foreign community that must be integrated according to its own vision. What's more, if the people refuse to integrate, the government seems intent on replacing them.

How else can one interpret a situation in which, despite high unemployment, the government pushes through an increase in the foreign labor quota? Those coming to Estonia from other countries must integrate regardless, so perhaps they're more likely to fall in line with the government's vision along the way.

Ties to the state severed

It increasingly seems as though those in power have forgotten that the Estonian people are the state — they are its highest authority. It is the government's duty to represent and serve the people who live and work in this land. It is the government that must integrate with — and even assimilate into — its people.

The Estonian people are (fortunately) still physically present — we live in our towns and villages, raise children, pay taxes, go to work. But our physical presence on Estonian soil no longer automatically implies a connection to the state, the nation or its future. Alienation from our country has become not just an individual experience, but a national symptom. How did we get to the point where we're talking about integrating our own people into their own country — not through language learning or citizenship, but through spiritual awareness, a sense of responsibility and a shared meaning and joy?

More and more of us are thinking about moving away, giving up, letting go — and many have already followed through. Planning for the future has become confusing and difficult, even for those who felt confident just a year ago. The issue is no longer just economic hardship but a deeper shift. Am I truly needed here or am I simply an object to the government — expected to give endlessly, receiving nothing in return?

The past few years have been exhausting for our people. The economic downturn continues, prices keep rising and taxes are going up. Coalition support has hovered near 20 percent for months, and this isn't just the government's problem — it reflects a deeper crisis of trust between the people and the state.

People are asking louder and louder: "What exactly are we doing here? What is Estonia's common cause as a community?" When these questions go unanswered in any clear or substantive way, the result is that citizens become spectators rather than participants in their own country.

Estonians have always been nationally conscious alongside their homes, families and work. But now that connection seems broken. The state feels distant, its decisions opaque, its shared goals blurry, and trust has vanished.

We live in Estonia, but we no longer feel that we live as Estonia. That feeling can't be fixed with ad campaigns or slogans like "proud to be Estonian" or "stop whining." It requires a systematic, well-considered approach to reintegrate the people into their own national space — mentally, morally and practically.

We cannot speak of spiritual presence in the state if, even in matters concerning the use of our own land, the voice of the people is absent from political reality. In recent years, we've witnessed increasingly deep divisions — over the Rail Baltica route, the placement of wind farms, logging volumes and changes to environmental protections. These aren't just environmental issues; they're questions of identity.

How is our shared space — our homeland — being used? That cannot be decided with 20 percent support and without a clear electoral mandate. When the people's involvement in these debates is merely formal or invisible, the feeling grows that the state is something happening above us, not with us.

Good governance requires that people feel heard. That their opinions carry weight — especially on issues that concern their hometowns, living environments and heritage. Without that, participatory democracy becomes an illusion, as if democracy exists only on election day, followed by four years of silent waiting and endurance. Such a system does not foster a spiritual bond — it breeds cynicism.

We need new freedom

Against this backdrop of alienation, we cannot ignore the issue of e-voting. One of the symbols of Estonia's digital state is increasingly being overshadowed at home by cracks in public trust. Questions about the transparency of electronic vote counting, the verifiability of the systems and the possibility of independent audits remain unanswered.

Everything is cloaked in a veil of convenience — "but it's easier, more comfortable, faster this way" — yet it is precisely that convenience that has created the perfect breeding ground for doubt, a slow-acting worm that quietly erodes societal trust.

Spiritual presence in the state also means feeling that, as a citizen, I am not merely clicking — I understand and trust the process in which my voice counts. When people do not see how their voice or actions can bring about change, they give up. Not out of indifference, but from exhaustion.

If we truly want the Estonian people to feel that Estonia belongs to them, we must build a country in which individuals feel not like subjects being managed, but like co-thinkers, co-responsible citizens and co-creators. Only then can we once again find the alertness and vitality that once gave us our freedom. What we now need is a new kind of freedom — a sense of inner, meaningful, affirmative presence in our own country. And that can only arise if we truly believe that this land, this way of life and this future are ours to shape.

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