The history we are taught is not a chronicle of achievements, but a chronology of conquests. Anglo-Saxon England arises with William the Conqueror in 1066. A century later, Latvia arises with the invasion of the Knights of the Sword and the eventual promotion of the Bishopric of Riga (1186) to an ecclesiastical state under Bishop Albert in 1201—a date Latvians know as intimately as the English know 1066.
For the eight centuries afterwards, the Baltics—and Latvia in particular—sat at the crossroads of regional and global superpower greed and fear, a perpetual battleground over trade and security interests.
Our folk songs spring from this history. One war-bound youth consoles his betrothed not to weep, another sings a cheerful goodbye to his homeland. A battle survivor speaks of blood-red skies dawning and of soldiers’ sorrows. An orphaned girl sings fondly of her parents; a young boy plays soldier. Latvians do not sing of growing old and gray.
In the late 1500’s, a traveler wrote that between Riga and Tartu (Estonia), “no cock was left to crow, no dog was left to bark.” After the bloody Russian capture of Riga in 1710, annexing Livonia, historians estimate a mere 90,000 Latvians were left alive.
Yet, always, love of duty prevails over war; love of life prevails over death. Through this maelstrom, Latvians have doggedly and unceasingly clung to their language, their culture, and their homeland.
The “call home” is a power every Latvian knows. At the end of WWI, a Latvian battalion inside Soviet Russia found themselves stranded—faced with surrender—when Latvia declared independence. They marched to the Pacific and circumnavigated the globe to get home.
Our first millennium was one of tribalism. Our second millennium was one of servitude. What of our third millennium?
The fractious ineffectiveness of Latvia’s first modern independent government was no accident. The cohesion of focus on the goal of freedom dissipated once independence came. Through his vision and selfless dedication, Kārlis Ulmanis provided the unity of purpose that allowed Latvia to achieve remarkable progress.
Once more we have freedom, and seemingly, once more, our sense of purpose appears dissipated. It is with remorse that we watch Latvian legislators pass laws to put profit into their own pockets. Recall the easing of the tariff on imported sugar—as Latvian business profits rose, Latvian sugar beets rotted in fields to be plowed under. In America, at the end of the Civil War, these people were called “carpetbaggers.”
The biggest industrial investment in Latvia’s history will be a pulp mill. What better metaphor for grinding up Latvia’s riches—leaving the waste, exporting the wealth? (What of the corruption pulp logging has already engendered?) If lumber were harvested, milled and finished, and then either exported or further manufactured into products—adding Latvian ingenuity and labor—that would generate prosperity for a far larger citizenry and serve a greater good. As it stands, Latvia’s “gold” is being refined and taken away, while we are left with nothing but dross and some tax revenue.
What empires did for nearly a millennia we now supplicate business to do freely. Political independence means nothing if we subvert it into economic dependence. Latvia will not rise from the profits of free enterprise “trickling down” to its people and to the state—Latvia will rise only if the interests of the people and the state come before those of individuals and businesses. Latvia will not rise as a “service” or “transit” economy (the economic collapse in Russia has brought home the frailty of that plan)—Latvia will rise only if it produces agricultural and manufactured goods imbued with the truly unique added value of Latvian creativity and industriousness. This behavior cannot be legislated; it must come from the heart—out of love of duty, as our folk songs teach us.
No culture has a richer treasure trove of folk designs and patterns. No culture has produced or preserved as many ancient songs, stories, ballads, and sayings. Linguists now believe Latvian may be the oldest surviving Indo-European language—making Latvian the oldest of any of the surviving modern European cultures.
Politicians toss out Latvianized English to appear erudite; as one pontificated on TV, my relatives told me they knew him personally and he was “dumb as a boot.” They don’t vote anymore because “they’re all like that.” University professors demand Latvianized English by grading it higher than Latvian—you can’t get an “A” without it. We have nurtured and preserved our heritage through centuries of repeated near extinction—at times through the acts of a single individual. Are we so full of ourselves that we now have the insolence to jettison our heritage to indulge academic and intellectual foppery?
The creativity, the vitality, the tenacity of the Latvian people is like no other. Notwithstanding my Swedish blood and Silvija’s Polish and Lithuanian blood, we are completely Latvian. Every Latvian is a testament to the power of this cultural identity. Even as foreign powers waxed and waned across the Latvian landscape, their subjects—Poles, Lithuanians, Swedes, Danes, Norwegians, Russians, Germans—saw the true value of the land, its people and culture, and chose to settle there; through the generations, their progeny, too, became proud heirs to the Latvian heritage.
Let us open ourselves to our history, our culture—our heritage. In the next millennium, let us use all the means at our disposal to ensure that the world once again knows of Latvia. Let Latvia and its leadership work diligently and unceasingly to capitalize on the most valuable, the most potent, the most productive of all its resources—Latvians themselves. There can be no greater purpose—nor greater or more lasting reward.