Aarne Saluveer recalls the time his cult Estonian rock band, Karavan, was invited to perform in Moscow in the 1980s, on condition they sang in Russian. “We were on a roll, performing 250 concerts a year. We refused the Soviet authorities’ request. Estonian and English only, we said, knowing that if we relented we’d lose our sense of self because if the music doesn’t come from your heart, you die.”
Four decades on he is no less steadfast, but has swapped his keyboard and vocals to conduct more than 23,000 young choristers at Estonia’s Laulupidu youth song and dance festival in the capital Tallinn. The event, where Estonian choirs gather to sing the country’s folk songs, is a key expression of the Baltic state’s identity, and in the late 1980s played a vital part in bringing down communism when crowds took part in the country’s “singing revolution”.
Dressed in a traditional black-trimmed cream woollen coat under the at times rainy Tallinn sky, Saluveer brings together the mass of voices stretched along the vast oyster shell–shaped stage with his outstretched arms as Estonian songs once banned by the Soviets sweep across the festival’s grounds like palpable waves of joy.
The leading children’s choir master and music teacher refers to the spectacle – one of the largest choral events in the world – as a “booster against fear”. The first song festival was held 154 years ago as a national unification event when the country was under Czarist rule. Since the annexation of Crimea in 2014, and especially following the Russian invasion of Ukraine in February 2022, the small nation of just over 1.3 million with a 183-mile border with Russia has continued to feel its relevance.
The creation of a culture of üheshingamine or “breathing as one”, as the Estonian idiom born out of the festival says, is credited with having created a civil society by nurturing private initiative and trust. Most Estonians also believe it saved its language and culture from annihilation.
Estonian songs once barred by the Soviets sweep across the festival’s grounds as the audience joins in. Favourite songs are often repeated. The blue, black and white striped national flag, once forbidden, is held aloft or attached to babies’ prams and emblazoned on umbrellas.
Heidy Purga, the DJ and radio journalist turned culture minister, who sits in the front row, a traditional wreath of flowers on her head, swaying to Marillis Valkonen’s mellifluous Life is Flowing, along with the prime minister, Kaja Kallas, in traditional dress, describes a “new wave of patriotism”.
“Back in Soviet times you could be put in jail for waving our Estonian flag, and for singing certain songs. Going to jail for singing, can you imagine that? That’s why we sing, because we want to remain free as birds.”
The new patriotism she says, extends to providing military equipment for Ukraine – the defence budget was recently raised to 3% of GDP (higher than that of Germany) – and taking in Ukrainian refugees, currently about 60,000, which per capita is higher than any other European country. The Estonian Defence League, a voluntary national protection force has welcomed thousands of new recruits, especially women.
“People have realised sadly, that freedom is not obvious with a neighbour like Russia,” Purga says.
She says that the festival needs to be given greater attention, not least as the defence budget is significantly squeezing other expenditure, including hers. Only about 15% of music teachers, she points out, are under 35 years old, warning of a shortage in the near future if investment in music education is not increased.
One of the country’s most prominent music teachers is Lydia Rahula. At 75, she is the oldest participating conductor and has been involved in the celebration for 54 years. She recalls the “singing revolution” when, from June 1988, thousands, then hundreds of thousands, gravitated to the festival grounds for nightly gatherings. Songs such as Estonia’s national anthem, Mu isamaa, mu õnn ja rõõm (My fatherland, my happiness and joy), which was banned from the festival programme by the Soviets, were often performed anyway.
“Gradually we became more emboldened, thinking: if we sing, they won’t shoot,” says Rahula. The gatherings continued until the restoration of Estonia’s independence on 20 August 1991.
Rahula was with her Tallinn Boys’ Choir for the Baltic Chain, breaking off from their summer camp in central Estonia in August 1989 to join hands in the 430 mile (690km) human chain between Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania, a mass protest against occupation by the Soviet Union. “We simply wanted to be free,” she says. No shots were fired.
Among the singers are several mayors and politicians, including the foreign minister, Margus Tsahkna, taking a break from more pressing issues to sing with his university choir. Matu Granfield, 13, from the boys choir in Alutaguse, north-east Estonia, close to the Russian border, participating with his Tallinn cousins Kadri, 13, and 11-year-old twins Helena and Grete Kask from the Jakob Westholm School Children’s Choir, describes the experience as “intimidating but with an adrenalin rush you won’t get from anything else”.
Johanna Poll, Beatrice Hellrand, and Lembe Kullamaa, who study at Tartu university and are in their early 20s, describe the experience as “electric”, “emotional” and “grounding”.
“We grew up with stories our parents told us of the Baltic Chain and the singing revolution, and how they ‘sang themselves free’,” says Poll. “My mother always tells me where she stood when we drive past the spot.”
Kullamaa adds: “It’s taken on more significance for us since the war in Ukraine. I wouldn’t say we took our independence for granted but it makes you reflect on how lucky we’ve been to experience it and how precious our freedom is.”
Drone footage credit: Mikk Mihkel Vaabel
• This article was amended on 9 July 2023 to correct the spelling of Laulupidu.
