As Russia intensifies its hybrid pressure on Europe, Estonia and Latvia—two of NATO’s smallest members—find themselves once again on the front line of history. Decades after regaining independence from Soviet rule, both nations are confronting a new wave of influence from Moscow, targeting their sizable Russian-speaking populations through propaganda, cyberattacks, and political manipulation. In response, Tallinn and Riga are tightening language laws, curbing Kremlin-linked organizations, and reinforcing social unity as a matter of national survival. For Estonians and Latvians abroad, especially in North America, these developments are more than headlines—they’re reminders of why their parents fled, and why safeguarding their homelands remains a shared mission across oceans.

In the heart of Estonia’s capital stands Hotel Viru, a Brutalist high-rise that once embodied a peculiar duality of the Cold War era. Opened in 1972 as Tallinn’s first “skyscraper,” the Viru was a bold Soviet attempt to showcase modernity and welcome foreign visitors – all while serving as a clandestine nest of KGB surveillance. During the Soviet decades, virtually every foreign tourist in Estonia laid their head in this 23-story hotel, oblivious to the fact that even the ashtrays might be listening.

Demi Lovato’s power ballad “Skyscraper” became an international anthem of resilience in 2011 – a song that millions of fans found strength in during dark times. Yet, few realize that behind this American hit stands an Estonian creative force: singer-songwriter Kerli Kõiv.

On the evening of August 23, 1989, an astonishing sight unfolded across Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania. Nearly two million people joined hands to form a 675-kilometer human chain stretching from Tallinn through Riga to Vilnius – a peaceful protest known as the Baltic Way.

The term “Baltic countries” today commonly refers to Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania, three small nations on the eastern coast of the Baltic Sea. This usage emerged only in the 20th century. Before World War I, the idea of a unified “Baltic” group of nations did not really exist – Estonia and Latvia were known as the Baltic Provinces of the Russian Empire, while Lithuania was often grouped with Poland. After World War I, however, a cluster of newly independent states formed on the Baltic Sea’s eastern shore. Finland, Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania – all gaining independence around 1917–1918 – were initially all considered “Baltic states” in the interwar period.

At its height in the mid-1600s, the Swedish Empire stood as one of Europe’s great powers — a northern giant whose reach extended from Scandinavia to the Baltics and deep into Central Europe. Its rise reshaped the cultural, legal, and academic landscape of the region, leaving traces still visible today in universities, languages, and laws across Finland, Estonia, and Latvia. Yet, behind the golden glow of what some remember as the “good old Swedish times” lay centuries of war, heavy taxation, and cultural tension. This article explores how Sweden’s imperial ambitions forged both enlightenment and hardship — a legacy that continues to define the shared history of the Nordic and Baltic worlds.

In the 19th century, as European nations rediscovered their folk roots, two kindred peoples – the Finns and Estonians – sang their nations into being through epic poetry. Finland’s Kalevala (first published 1835, expanded 1849) and Estonia’s Kalevipoeg (1857–1861) are national epics born of oral folklore and Romantic nationalism.

A grassroots emblem born on the internet, shaped by old symbols and new kinship—and why it still resonates in Finland, Estonia, and elsewhere even without official backing.

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.