FROM THE ESTONIAN border city of Narva, it is a swift swim to Ivangorod in Russia, though why any Estonian would willingly swim to Russia is a question worth pondering in all its geo-political complexity.
I went to Narva because I wanted to stare into Russia from the edge of Estonia. I would have loved to stroll across and have a look at Estonia from the edge of Russia too, but entry to Ivangorod is not a pleasure easily granted. So I contented myself with standing in the shade of the 13th-century Hermann Castle and gazing up at the 14th-century Ivangorod Fortress, as they faced each other across the swirling, dark-chocolate waters of River Narva. It was a grim sight.
Narva is symbolic of the troubled history the Russian and Estonian cultures have shared over centuries. The Russian occupation of Estonian territory since 1721, which continued into the last century when Estonia won its independence—not once, but twice—from the Soviets, has left a lasting imprint on the city. Narva has served on the frontline of the clash between the Catholic European North and Orthodox Slavonic East, on and off for centuries, suffering much for its unfortunate perch at the gateway between two worlds.
In 1917, Narvans chose to attach themselves to the soon-to-be independent Estonia. In 1944, during the Second World War, the city was all but destroyed, mainly from Soviet bombardment. And in 1991, when Estonia regained its independence from Moscow after the breakup of USSR, Narva stayed with Tallinn. Today some 70,000 people, more than 80 per cent of them ethnic Russians, live in Narva. It is closer to St Petersburg than Tallinn, culturally Russian, geographically Estonian.
A LITTLE TO my left, across the river, stretched the Friendship Bridge, which connects Estonia and Russia. In popular culture, the bridge is also famous for being the centrepiece of a 2018 crime TV series (Moct and Sild in Russian and Estonian, respectively), a remake of a Danish-Swedish series.
There was a queue of trucks stretching from the Ivangorod side. I could also see pedestrians walking across. This must be the cross-border traffic I had read about. Unlike ‘regular’ Estonians, those living in the border areas are permitted to travel across. Many have families on the other side. Ivangorodians are also said to regularly work and shop in the better-off Narva.
This affinity with Russia, while it saves them visa fees, comes at a cost for the Narvans. Estonians, ever suspicious of Moscow for excellent historic reasons, keep the ‘Russians’ at arm’s length. Estonian citizenship rules discriminate against the Russian-speakers, and a significant proportion of Narvans are not citizens, holding either ‘grey’ (Estonian alien) documentation or a Russian passport.
All that notwithstanding, Narvans reportedly prefer being ‘stateless Estonians’ than living in Ivangorod. There are better facilities this side, economic stability, less potholes on the road, a lot less corruption. One indication of all this was the very promenade I was walking on.
Some years ago, the European Union had given Narva and Ivangorod money to build a walkaway along their respective riverbanks, in the hope it would help promote cross-border harmony and tourism. The Narvan promenade, now complete, cost only $830,000—or so the New York Times tells me. Ivangorod, on the other hand, billed the EU nearly $1.2 million, and achieved the remarkable feat of finishing a promenade eight times shorter. Make of that what you will.
THERE WAS ANOTHER interesting thing about the promenade. Estonia, proud of its EU membership, had also constructed a European Esplanade, for “the solidarity of European states”, with a floor lamp representing each of the 28 EU nations. I was curious to have a final look at it, particularly at the friendly dedication to Great Britain, before it got torn up.
So I hurried along the promenade, earning curious—and admiring, I must say—glances from the afternoon walkers on the riverside: mothers pushing strollers, babushkas in long winter coats, gedushkas in baggy jeans, young, middle-aged and old couples, groups of grim-looking men, children in colourful puff jackets, and no tourists. I was pretty sure my dark Indian goodlooks were as alien to the Narvans as common sense to Conservatives.
The esplanade was at the beginning of the promenade, a little way past a playground for children with lion sculptures. The floor lamps, circular and evenly spaced with etching in concrete around them, were arranged according to the year a nation joined EU. The names of the nations were written in Estonian. It took some walking back and forth, but I soon found the engraving for SUUP BRITANIA (1973) next to IIRIMAA (Ireland, fancy!), Prantsusmaa (France), and Saksamaa (Germany).
I was pleased to learn so much Estonian in so little time (Rootsi is Sweden and Soome Finland, in case you want to test my Estonian further, ha!), but it looked like Narvan landscapers will have some diplomatic digging up to do when Brexiters have their way. While 11 vacant spots had been left at the end to accommodate new nations, I did not get the impression that there was an exit strategy to the promenade—for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out how they would mask Brexit without leaving a gap on the esplanade. Surely a load of nations will have to be transplanted to maintain the even spacing of the floor lamps on the avenue?
Adding ‘Crime against Narva’ to the long list of gripes I have against Theresa May (’Crime against diplomacy’ and ‘Crime against dancing’ being two other notable ones on the list), I walked towards a long, red-bricked I could see in the distance.
PASSING A CARPARK half-full with KIAs Hondas, Citroens, and a couple of Fords, I approached the red building from the side. It was named ‘Narua Soudebaas’. A plaque informed this was a prison once, where ’10,000’ political prisoners and intellectuals ‘from 9 countries repressed by the Soviet Union’ were jailed ‘from who 1000 perished and are buried in unnamed graves’. It was interesting to note the plaque made this point not just in English and Estonian, but also in Russian—lest the Russian-only residents and visitors not get the narrative, I suppose. I wondered what the Russian patriots among the Narvans—and there are many who admire Putin’s former muscles—thought of that. Did their version of history differ?
I walked to the end of the building, then returned to the Bridge of Friendship, and climbed up. I was now atop the city wall. The long queue on the bridge had abated. I could see the sidewalls and tower of the Hermann Castle clearly, rising up from a hillside covered with leftover snow, across the fenced-off main road.
I took a small path that ran around blocks of Soviet-era flats. The whole area was fenced off, cutting access to the E20 and the bridge across, channelling visitors towards the Estonian border checkpoint that I could see in the distance. Eventually, after walking across what could have been someone’s backgarden and wandering through an empty side street or two, I found myself in a cavernous parking lot adjacent to the checkpoint.
Feeling an urge to check out the local refreshment (there are no Indian restaurants in Narva, by the way—I checked), I headed to the only cafe I saw open, a colourful place called SHAW@RMA, where, in fluent Russian through an interlocutor, I ordered, and rapidly consumed, a sizeable shwarma for €6.50. Then, feeling at peace with the world—it was the most delectable wrap I have ever eaten, made no doubt by the gods, brimming with meaty goodness, moist with cucumber sauce, and served in crunchy lavash bread all the way from St Petersburg—I wandered out towards the checkpoint, hoping to negotiate a more open crossborder policy between Estonia and Russia.
I cut across the parking lot, which was near-empty. Besides three coaches and six or seven smaller vehicles, and a few travellers hurrying towards the restroom, the place was pretty much deserted. At the checkpoint, too, there were no vehicles queuing.
I nosed around for a bit, showing more curiosity than is generally considered healthy at checkpoints, but nobody waved a gun at me. Nobody shouted either. In fact, I saw no one till a vehicle drew up the E20 from the Ivangorod side, when two guards, a man and woman, emerged from one of the booths to carry out the exercise that border guards all over the world do so—stare at your passport as if they think it is fake, stare at you as if they know you are fake, stare some more at the passport, then stamp the passport with the air of someone doing you a favour and letting you in just this once. I am kidding. The Estonian guards were relaxed. They got the driver to open the boot, asked for documentation, and that was it.
For a nation that leaves in perpetual fear of a Russian invasion, actively maintaining a 16,000-strong voluntary defence force trained in guerrilla warfare, not to mention a special operations force (“They can get to Tallinn in two days. But they will die in Tallinn”), the border checkpoint was eerily underwhelming. It certainly was more welcoming than a few other border posts I have checked out elsewhere.
By now the light was beginning to fade and I had a 200-km drive ahead of me to Tallinn. As I made my way to the hire car I had parked by the riverbank, I could see Ivangorodians walking towards the checkpoint, with bags of shopping in both hands. It must be strange to live in a place where you had to cross a border to do your weekly shopping.