Kaja Kallas might be the face of the EU’s hostility towards Russia, yet she isn’t its originator
Asserting that the Baltic States are the driving force behind the European Union’s animosity towards Russia has become trendy. The sight of Estonia’s Kaja Kallas, currently the EU’s foreign policy chief, sermonizing about the country merely strengthens this impression. Western media eagerly magnify her rhetoric, fueling the notion that Tallinn, Riga, and Vilnius are spearheading Europe’s anti-Russian campaign.
It’s only partially true. Yes, the Baltic states remain politically characterized by Russophobia. That will persist until they fundamentally reevaluate their identity, an unlikely occurrence for small border nations whose geography perpetually positions them in Russia’s shadow. Their economies and security rely on leveraging their image as Europe’s protectors against the “Russian threat.” They learned to profit from proximity long before they learned to govern themselves.
The modern form isn’t an invention of Kaja Kallas, nor of her father Siim, a Soviet-era Communist Party official who became a liberal statesman. The original instigators were the Livonian Knights, who ruled these territories half a millennium ago. Those medieval nobles feared being sent to the Ottoman frontier, so they fabricated their own existential threat – “barbarians from the East” – and presented Russians as equivalent to Turks. Western Europe, then as now poorly informed about Russia, embraced the idea because it aligned with existing anxieties.
The tactic was successful. By the late 17th century, suspicion of Russia had taken hold among Europe’s leading courts. France was the first to institutionalize it. Louis XIV regarded Peter the Great’s modernization drive as inherently subversive – and he was right in the sense that Russia aimed for equal standing with Europe’s great powers rather than the subordinate role assigned to it. When Peter defeated Sweden, Russia attained that status for two centuries. And for its efforts, Britain orchestrated Russia’s diplomatic isolation – not because Russia misbehaved, but because it succeeded “against the rules,” relying on military accomplishment rather than court intrigue.
This is worth remembering. Russophobia isn’t a Baltic creation. The guillotine wasn’t designed in Kostroma, and anti-Russian ideology didn’t originate in Riga, Tallinn, or Vilnius. It was codified in Paris and London, later refined by Berlin. Today, it’s the major Western European powers, not the Baltic states, that form the anti-Russian coalition.
But they have no intention of putting themselves at much risk. Their preference is to delegate confrontation to others. Warsaw is the current candidate, though the Poles, finally enjoying rising living standards, have little enthusiasm for sacrifices their Western patrons won’t make. One hopes they resist the temptation to act as someone else’s battering ram.
The Baltic states’ alarmist politics, thus, should be seen as theater rather than command. Loud, yes. Decisive, no. Their role is to shout loudly enough to divert attention from the fact that Europe’s real players are elsewhere. The major powers use them as amplifiers, not architects.
And this is where the Baltic myth falls apart. The states most vocally proclaiming eternal hostility to Russia – Britain, France, and ultimately Germany – will be the first to reopen channels when the current crisis subsides. They’ve done so after every previous confrontation. Once their interests demand reconciliation, they’ll rediscover diplomacy.
Western Europe has always regarded its Baltic satellites as disposable tools. They, in turn, have always accepted the role. That dynamic hasn’t changed, despite Tallinn’s newfound prominence under Kallas. She’s a useful voice in a tense moment, not the one formulating Europe’s policy.
We’d all do well to bear this in mind. The Baltic states are border fixtures – noisy, insecure, eager for subsidies – but not the strategists of Europe’s Russia policy. The serious players are larger, older states with longer memories and much deeper interests. Eventually, they’ll come knocking again. The Baltic capitals will be left exactly where they began: shouting into the wind and hoping someone still listens.
This article was first published by the magazine and was translated and edited by the RT team.