The Future of the Past

If we were to tell the history of Estonia as the story of a land, not a nation, it would serve the truth and free us from the constraints that otherwise affect us.

The main problem with Estonian historical consciousness is not that historical science is going through a bad patch or that its research results have not been promoted properly. These factors might aggravate the problem, but it is not my business to criticise historians. After all, we are a small nation so we cannot boast uniform high-quality coverage in every discipline. Nevertheless, Estonian historians have been consistent in publishing fine analyses in the past and even in spite of the Soviet authorities. All of them were not exceptionally successful in promoting historical findings, but we have had our share of talented narrators who managed to bring history closer to ordinary folk, for example Eduard Vilde, Lennart Meri and Jaan Kross.
The complicating factor is not connected with the fact that the system – historiography, historical studies, narration and interpretation of history – does not function all that well, but concerns the very heart of the system, i.e. its operating principle.
It seems to me that in a small border state like Estonia, national historical narrative is always narrow-minded and, in practice, impossible as it inevitably leads to a dead end. Of course, these traits do not characterise only the national histories of small states: they are shared by larger countries with glorious historical traditions. Already for some decades the great national histories have been supplemented with others – ‘smaller’ histories – which try to extend their limits.
National history is fiction to the same extent as the novel (which was, incidentally, born at the same time and is, therefore, its twin brother) because in both cases the main protagonist is fictional (though always based on real life).
As we all know, the nation as such became the central figure in history when the old order in Europe was collapsing and its former heroes – anointed sovereigns – lost their attraction. The ancient chronicles of royal and aristocratic dynasties are, indeed, full of make-believe stories, similar to all those genealogies that, without exception, contain forgeries and omission, as they stretch too far back into the past (to Adam, Abraham, Caesar, Saint Louis or some Grand Duke of Kiev). Even so, a family history has a real and human basis (at least up to a certain date): heredity, traditions passed down from generation to generation, estates and genes.
However, in comparison with semi-fabricated ruling dynasties, a nation is a totally fabricated phenomenon. It is created by historians, writers and democratic or populist politicians and, in its own way, it is grounded in reality – at least in the present reality. However, the weak point of every historical narrative is the fact that history is written backwards, going from the present back to the past; it is written for the present and from the present point of view. History is the present fitted with the clothes of the past. Often enough, and the more so when looking from afar and through narrowed eyes, the clothes look almost tailor-made.
Naturally, those who (in some ways unaware and unwillingly) created national history were faced with a grave literary problem: how to tell the story of such an amorphous collective entity as a nation. The solution offered itself inconspicuously in the form of the chronicles written in the days of yore: the hero – i.e. the nation – was personified by national heroes, great men and sometimes women (well, great women…). In a way, they are the members of the national dynasty. Hence, the history of that dynasty is the history of the whole nation, starting from the ancient times, the Franks or the Proto-Finno-Ugrians.
Historical narratives have always been predominantly polemical: history has been written down in order to prove something (one’s right to do something, as expected). The history of the ruling dynasties had to justify their inalienable right to their land and people. Rights were upheld by traditions: it is done this way, because it has always been done this way, or our family has ruled over you from the beginning of time. National history has to demonstrate that a certain nation – actually the current politico-cultural community – has an inalienable right to a certain territory. In essence, that is all. The purpose of national history is to prove that this or that nation has a time-honoured tradition of inhabiting this or that territory. ‘We’ have lived here for five thousand or who knows how many thousands of years. Certainly, it is impossible to substantiate such claims by genealogical (or genetic) evidence because if we moved just a little bit further away from here, the whole picture would be so mixed that we might find out that everyone has an inalienable right by blood to whatever piece of land, at least in Europe. Instead, the language and cultural and heroic continuity are emphasised. Similarly to Abraham, who gave life to Isaac, and Saint Louis, who was the forefather of many Louises, Lembitu gave birth to Jakobson and Kristjan Jaak Peterson to Juhan Liiv, and so on.
Yet there are some drawbacks you have to take into account if you want to tell the history of a piece of land through the prism of a nation. Large nations have to accept that their great men were usually active in huge areas and, therefore, their national history encompasses big chunks of whole continents. In our case the trouble is that all through history, great men have resided here and ruled over us, but it is very hard to assimilate them into our current national persona, i.e. to consider them Estonian. So they have to be disregarded. In addition, since the annals of the history of the common people are quite sketchy and superficial, there is not much to talk about; the more so that the existing data do not fit into the pattern of history which has to be, by default, heroic. So, we have to focus on single courageous acts of fighting which created local heroes who may be truly considered national role models.
That is why the Estonian national narrative of history is lacking in detail: par la force des choses. It is as if history was awake only for a few moments before falling into its Livonian sleep of death yet again (‘thou sleepst, thou sleepst, poor soul’). We have our ancient fight for independence and chroniclers have mentioned the names of some local chieftains or leaders. The next significant event is the national awakening. Of course, we could spin a few yarns about one or another great or not so great figure who is known to have lived between those two periods, for example the warrior Ivo Schenkenberg or the educator Forselius. But we cannot base a separate historical epoch on these characters. Jakobson’s ‘six-hundred-year-long night of slavery’ is an ingenious expression that demonstrates the impossibility of a continual national narrative of history in our case., It was precisely a night: nothing could be seen. Because there were no heroes who would lighten that night. Or, to be more precise, there were heroes, but they do not suit us.
The obsession with national history has had an extremely counterproductive effect on our historical narrative. Most of the time we have had no history. Nonetheless, the past exists. But to whom does it belong? Or should we ask: to what?
Indeed, I do think that it would be much more beneficial and enlightening to treat history straightforwardly and honestly – not from the perspective of a nation, but from that of an area of ground (anyway, it is already being done: our history is labelled ‘Estonian history’, while ‘history of the Estonian nation’ would be the more accurate term), in which case all awkwardness and oddities would disappear, for example, from the last volume of the multi-volume work Estonian History, which covers the 18th century and the beginning of the 19th century. We can read from that book comprehensive descriptions of the then rulers of Russia, including Estonia and Livonia. Historians display no lack of enthusiasm when portraying the lives and works of the governors(-general) of these provinces. However, when depicting peasantry and countryfolk, they restrict themselves to age-old ethnographic and social clichés. In short, life was hard for the common people.
The situation becomes even more complicated when we turn to the Baltic Germans, the then elite of Estonia. What should we say about them and how personal should we get? There are some internationally renowned great figures among them, for example Baer, who are virtually our national heroes. But what about all the petty and narrow-minded Junkers who, despite everything, played a leading role here? We have a story, but we cannot tell it because the heroes are not that suitable.
These worries would all be over if a land’s history were treated and presented through the prism of an area of ground, not a nation (of course, the story would still involve people, but the land would provide the framework, basis and location for their actions, while there would be no limits to the language, nationality, sex and social status of the heroes). Compared with a nation, a piece of land has one advantage: above all, land has existed in the past as an area of solid ground (the shift of the Earth’s axis can be disregarded, as it would be nonexistent during historical time), having had its share of sunshine and its own particular nature which human beings and their cultures have had to adapt to. The fact that we define the boundaries of Estonia as corresponding to the territory of the present Republic of Estonia (or that of the pre-war republic, if you like) does not stop us from going back in time as far as we want to  to the Ice Age and even further. The area where all the respective events took place remains the same. It does not matter that a great multitude of events, which were not necessarily connected to each other, occurred simultaneously.
It follows that our land actually constituted several countries or belonged to different states. Nothing prevents us from recounting the history of Järva or Hiiu, similarly to that of Estonia. Or the history of Tallinn. Or Harjumägi. Or the history of a farm, a field or a pasture. Indeed, even lands are affected by changes over time (let us not forget the ‘brief’ climatic periods our national history still has not bothered to incorporate), but the changes are neutral in human or moral terms. They do not interfere with our search for truth.
Then again, would such a history be interesting? A history without a succession of all those famous heroes? A so-called archaeological history or a soil sample?
I think that it would be because, in addition to proving political and pragmatic claims, historical narration has always had another aim – a mental one. This involves a quest for truth and understanding, similarly to other arts and sciences in their true meaning.
If we were to tell the story of a land, not a nation, it would serve the truth and free us from the constraints that otherwise affect us and force us to ignore one thing or another. However, such a history might not answer the ideological needs of nation-building. But do we have to continue with that? Have we not already succeeded in doing that? Is that not a task we have accomplished years ago, even though we still keep at it with dogged persistence?
The story of a land would be completely different from a teleologically consistent story that would demonstrate that everything was already set and predetermined from the very beginning, from Lembitu, Kolyvan, Lyndanisse and the Vikings. The story of a land would be a story of total unpredictability, of endless dynamics, development and transformation, of people who migrate and settle permanently, of religious faithfulness and changes of heart. A story of those who came and went (nobody stayed or will stay), who fought their fights which, deep down, are always against the unknown, who won some and lost some. And then came new people, who spoke this or that language, who believed they were someone or someone else. They accumulated wealth, they learned, they gave birth to yet other human beings, kinsfolk, communities, cultures, countries and states as well as raised them. And then they started all over again. But all this happened right here.
National history is unconsciously presented as if people always knew what they were doing and as if, from the beginning of time, they had been striving for the present where we are now. Thus we, and all the rulers and the elected, in particular, might be easily deluded into thinking that we will be among those famous historical figures described in history books whose actions seem so purposeful. However, people have never known what the future brings and only grope for wisdom. And so do we.
National history feeds your pride and self-esteem, but it can also blind and harden you. A land’s history would nurture humility and acceptance of change, variability and, more importantly, unknowing.
It seems to me that right now it would be mentally much more challenging to search for, excavate and X-ray the true history of our land than to concoct yet another national history. Thankfully, historians and others are already active in this field.
But would such an earthly history of human instability and transformation rob us of our inalienable right to our land? I am convinced that, paradoxically, such a history would assert our rights much more firmly than the chronicles of national continuity. We have a right to be here because we are here at the present moment. Because we are the only ones who know this land and who can tell, sing and remember its history. Of course, deep down we know that it is not a matter of having the right, for man has taken all rights upon himself. But that is deep. Down.