a secret home
24th February is the Estonian Independence Day. It counts up from 1918, its first ever declaration of independence. Usually what happens is that everyone stays home from school/work, relaxes, watches the military parade from TV with one eye, and then the President's reception ("the penguin parade") in the evening. A casual type of patriotism.
In Italy I didn't do much anything apart from a few long phonecalls home. I guess I could have made my friends eat mashed potatoes and mince-meat sauce with me, but didn't feel the date to be too pressing. Will do later. Independence day is such a casual thing after all.
Then one of the Estonian newspapers published an article claiming that people who spend a longer amount of time abroad will become more patriotic and start to regard their home country as the best place in the world. I found it from Emigrant's blog who had found it from Oudekki's blog. My first thought was to snub the whole thing as just another of the bluntly one-sided claims one comes across in the media. I'm absolutely not going to say that the Estonian rudeness, tiny-country mentality, the President's speech or national sports will start to bring tears to my eyes just because I haven't set foot to the country for the last 5 months. It's two years that I'm in and out of the country for shorter or longer periods. The only pride that I've felt during this time for what one could call the "Estonian mentality" was in Lithuania: there the people were even ruder.
Then I started to think about it a bit more. So what is it really that would make me want to live in Estonia again? Staying abroad does give one an ability to compare and appreciate things for what they're worth; it dissolves the defaults and makes it (sometimes painfully) clear that there are other ways of living than the habitual one. This is how I understood that the sulky waitress that bangs your food on the table after having you wait for 40 minutes is only normal in Eastern Europe; but that being able to use free wireless all those 40 minutes is a rare and wonderful luck. That it's actually possible to go out in the evening without sitting in endless cigarette smoke and having endless beers. And all that.
Of course national identity jumps all the way up on the priority list the moment the person leaves the country. It's no longer obvious where they're from. Every introduction brings up an affirmation to the heritage and becomes a part of: a) how the person perceives herself;
b) how others perceive the person.
Someone who has tried not mentioning their precise country of origin will know what I mean.
A: So, where are you from?
B: Northeast Europe.
(That's never enough, ever, even if A failed geography in elementary school.)
A: Aha, which country then?
B: Estonia.
A: Ee...
B: It's in the northeast of Europe.
A: Aha...
If I decide not to reply, or be vague ("you know, around there, near Sweden"), I'll certainly feel guilty for not admitting to my nationality, and A will feel uncomfortable for not being able to tag a stereotype to me (strangely, this uncomfort doesn't extend to tags that say "country x" or "Estonia" - as long as there is a tag, A will be happy because he'll feel that he knows who he's dealing with).
Repeating this dance every few days will definitely affirm, affirm and keep re-affirming my national identity, even if I eventually might forget the taste of black bread and lose interest in Estonian news. This way, being Estonian has turned into something very personal. Not secret - here I am, tagging "Estonia" to my name with every new acquaintance - but personal in the sense that there are only a few who know more about the country than the name. Who could come close to understanding what makes the place special after all.
There's just no explaining it. If I try to describe what spring is in Tartu, I end up in an incomprehensible rant, substituting missing words with bland clichés. I try to put to words the mid-exam-session feeling of staying up until the wee hours; roaming the streets by night; feeling, rather than seeing, the sun rising at 3:30 am; the feverish energy of not having slept enough; the fresh grass under tired feet; the liberation of yet another exam passing; the blinding sunlight; feeling the city getting ready for summer and sleep.
If someone asks me what I miss, I usually turn it all into a joke and say something small. Good bread. Convenient prices. The culture media. I avoid lapsing into what I really miss. But if I return, it will be for the friends and family. Family and friends. And, charged deep into a known city or landscape, the secure feeling of memory and continuity.
In Italy I didn't do much anything apart from a few long phonecalls home. I guess I could have made my friends eat mashed potatoes and mince-meat sauce with me, but didn't feel the date to be too pressing. Will do later. Independence day is such a casual thing after all.
Then one of the Estonian newspapers published an article claiming that people who spend a longer amount of time abroad will become more patriotic and start to regard their home country as the best place in the world. I found it from Emigrant's blog who had found it from Oudekki's blog. My first thought was to snub the whole thing as just another of the bluntly one-sided claims one comes across in the media. I'm absolutely not going to say that the Estonian rudeness, tiny-country mentality, the President's speech or national sports will start to bring tears to my eyes just because I haven't set foot to the country for the last 5 months. It's two years that I'm in and out of the country for shorter or longer periods. The only pride that I've felt during this time for what one could call the "Estonian mentality" was in Lithuania: there the people were even ruder.
Then I started to think about it a bit more. So what is it really that would make me want to live in Estonia again? Staying abroad does give one an ability to compare and appreciate things for what they're worth; it dissolves the defaults and makes it (sometimes painfully) clear that there are other ways of living than the habitual one. This is how I understood that the sulky waitress that bangs your food on the table after having you wait for 40 minutes is only normal in Eastern Europe; but that being able to use free wireless all those 40 minutes is a rare and wonderful luck. That it's actually possible to go out in the evening without sitting in endless cigarette smoke and having endless beers. And all that.
Of course national identity jumps all the way up on the priority list the moment the person leaves the country. It's no longer obvious where they're from. Every introduction brings up an affirmation to the heritage and becomes a part of: a) how the person perceives herself;b) how others perceive the person.
Someone who has tried not mentioning their precise country of origin will know what I mean.
A: So, where are you from?
B: Northeast Europe.
(That's never enough, ever, even if A failed geography in elementary school.)
A: Aha, which country then?
B: Estonia.
A: Ee...
B: It's in the northeast of Europe.
A: Aha...
If I decide not to reply, or be vague ("you know, around there, near Sweden"), I'll certainly feel guilty for not admitting to my nationality, and A will feel uncomfortable for not being able to tag a stereotype to me (strangely, this uncomfort doesn't extend to tags that say "country x" or "Estonia" - as long as there is a tag, A will be happy because he'll feel that he knows who he's dealing with).
Repeating this dance every few days will definitely affirm, affirm and keep re-affirming my national identity, even if I eventually might forget the taste of black bread and lose interest in Estonian news. This way, being Estonian has turned into something very personal. Not secret - here I am, tagging "Estonia" to my name with every new acquaintance - but personal in the sense that there are only a few who know more about the country than the name. Who could come close to understanding what makes the place special after all.
There's just no explaining it. If I try to describe what spring is in Tartu, I end up in an incomprehensible rant, substituting missing words with bland clichés. I try to put to words the mid-exam-session feeling of staying up until the wee hours; roaming the streets by night; feeling, rather than seeing, the sun rising at 3:30 am; the feverish energy of not having slept enough; the fresh grass under tired feet; the liberation of yet another exam passing; the blinding sunlight; feeling the city getting ready for summer and sleep.If someone asks me what I miss, I usually turn it all into a joke and say something small. Good bread. Convenient prices. The culture media. I avoid lapsing into what I really miss. But if I return, it will be for the friends and family. Family and friends. And, charged deep into a known city or landscape, the secure feeling of memory and continuity.
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