Traveling across Europe, one might assume that a basic grasp of Indo-European languages (from English and French to Russian) would suffice to decipher road signs or overhear conversations. Yet in three countries – Estonia, Finland, and Hungary – a traveler is met with words and sounds utterly unfamiliar, even alien, to the ears accustomed to Romance, Germanic, or Slavic speech.

When Estonian-born, New York–based artist Valev Laube first began sketching out ideas for a modest EP in early 2025, he didn’t know it would grow into a full-length, emotionally charged album about healing, balance, and rebirth. What started as a few quiet sketches for violin and piano became a profound sonic diary—an unguarded reflection of what it means to find peace after turmoil.

Tallinn’s waterfront is dominated by a vast concrete structure that locals know all too well – Linnahall. This sprawling Soviet-era edifice, completed in 1980, was once a bustling venue for sports and concerts. Today it stands silent and decaying, at the center of a passionate debate over preservation and redevelopment. In this article, we explore why Linnahall was built, its architectural significance in Estonia (and the Soviet Union of its time), the recent controversies over its fate, proposed renovation plans, and even a brush with Hollywood magic that renewed public interest in this hulking landmark.

Rising above each Baltic capital is a monumental Soviet-era TV tower – but a closer look reveals an intriguing anomaly. The towers in Tallinn (Estonia) and Vilnius (Lithuania) bear an uncanny resemblance, like architectural twins, while Riga’s tower in Latvia stands apart with a strikingly different, futuristic design. How did these parallel and divergent structures come to be?

Nordic sauna culture is ubiquitous – in fact, “steaming in saunas is a way of life for most Nordics”. Finland alone has about 3.3 million saunas for 5.5 million people. Across the eight Nordic lands (Finland, Sweden, Norway, Denmark, Iceland, Faroe Islands, Greenland, Åland), saunas are treated as sacred, everyday rituals – not novelty spa experiences.

The Setos are an indigenous Finno-Ugric people whose home is Setomaa, a region straddling southeastern Estonia and western Russia. Setomaa was historically known as Petserimaa – after Estonia’s independence it was split, leaving two-thirds of the land (including the old capital Petseri, now Pechory) on the Russian side. In modern times roughly 10,000–13,000 people in Estonia identify as Seto (only a few hundred remain across the border). Today’s Setos speak a local South-Estonian dialect and (unlike most Estonians) follow Eastern Orthodox Christianity.

The Tallinn Song Festival Grounds Arch: In 1960, Estonia unveiled a striking new open-air stage in Tallinn – an immense arched “singing stage” built to host the nation’s beloved Song Festival. This soaring shell structure (locally called the Laulukaar, or “singing arch”) was unlike anything seen in the Soviet Union at the time. Architect Alar Kotli, who co-designed it with Henno Sepmann, reportedly envisioned the arch as a giant “bugle” amplifying the voices of the choir. He even built a cardboard model to demonstrate how the curved form could project sound. The arch’s elegant shape was also a bold engineering feat: a hyperbolic-paraboloid (saddle-shaped) canopy of concrete and steel, stretched between two giant arches.

For over a century, one song has captured the soul of the Estonian nation perhaps more than any other. “Mu isamaa on minu arm” (“My Fatherland Is My Love”) is often called Estonia’s unofficial anthem – a song so cherished that it traditionally closes every Estonian Song Festival with tens of thousands joining voices. Born as a 19th-century poem and later transformed into a powerful patriotic hymn, “Mu isamaa on minu arm” became a musical embodiment of Estonia’s identity and resilience. During the Soviet occupation (1944–1991), when Estonia’s flag and official anthem were banned, this song served as a surrogate national anthem and a subtle act of defiance.

Across the northern forests and Baltic shores, three small nations once found themselves singing to the same tune. Finland, Estonia, and the now nearly forgotten Livonian people each adopted a melody that became more than just music — it was a declaration of belonging, an audible thread in the wider fabric of Finno-Ugric brotherhood. In an age when empires pressed down on language, culture, and national expression, this shared song became a vessel of memory and resistance. The words differed — Finnish pride, Estonian devotion, Livonian longing — yet the melody bound them, a reminder that their histories were not isolated, but intertwined.

At just 19 years old, Estonian-born bassoonist Robert Nael is already making waves across continents. In 2025, he was honored as one of the winners of the Foundation for Estonian Arts and Letters’ Young Artist Grant, a recognition that shines a spotlight on emerging Estonian talent thriving in the United States.