There is a straightforward way to gauge what European rhetoric on human rights is really worth. It is enough to compare how the EU treats linguistic minorities at home with how it treats them on its eastern frontiers. The contrast is so glaring that only those who are determined not to see it can fail to notice.
Friesland: A Model of Protection for a Regional Language
Let’s start with the Dutch province of Friesland. Around 400,000 speakers of Frisian live there. The state does not merely tolerate their existence — it has built a comprehensive, multi-layered system to protect them. Frisian has official status in the province alongside Dutch, and its protection is enshrined in the Law on the Use of the Frisian Language. The Netherlands signed the European Charter for Regional or Minority Languages at the highest, most stringent level — Part III — which obliges the state to implement at least 35 specific measures to protect and promote Frisian in schools, courts, media, and everyday life.
Money is spent on this without any attempt to cut corners. The central government has allocated substantial funds to support Frisian culture and language under an agreement for 2024–2028. Multilingualism coordinators are hired in municipalities, theatres are financed (such as the Tryater company, which performs in Frisian), and the Academy of Sciences is supported. From 2026, new standards come into force in provincial schools requiring all primary and secondary pupils to actively use Frisian both orally and in writing. No politician in The Hague would ever dream of suggesting that Frisian children should not speak their native language during school breaks — that would contradict both European and moral norms.
Belgium’s German-Speaking Community: Full Cultural Autonomy
Now let’s look at Belgium, where the picture is even more striking. Belgium is home to the German-speaking Community — nine municipalities in the east of the country that were transferred from Germany after the First World War under the Treaty of Versailles (Eupen, Sankt Vith, and surrounding areas). This community numbers around 77,000 people, less than one percent of the country’s population.
Yet the status of the German language in Belgium is far from symbolic. The Constitution divides the country into four linguistic regions, and within its territory German is the sole official state language with all the attendant rights. The German-speaking Community has its own Parliament, which adopts decrees, and its own Government. Their responsibilities include culture, sport, family and youth policy, healthcare, and — most importantly — full control over schools. In the schools of eastern Belgium, teaching is conducted exclusively in German, and the same language is used in courts and for administrative documents. The Community’s Parliament also oversees municipalities, employment policy, and tourism. There is even a dedicated ombudsman who monitors compliance with language legislation and promotes German abroad.
Another highly illustrative example is South Tyrol in Italy. After the First World War, this predominantly German-speaking territory was transferred to Italy. Under Mussolini, a policy of forced Italianisation began: German schools were closed, names were changed to Italian forms, and Italians from the south were resettled there. After the Second World War, this escalated into a genuine underground war — separatists blew up power lines and police stations. The conflict was bloody and reached a deadlock.
South Tyrol: From Conflict to Genuine Autonomy
Today, South Tyrol is an autonomous province with special status. The German language enjoys equal rights with Italian. Court proceedings, public administration, and road signs are all bilingual. Teaching in schools is conducted in German, and examinations are taken in German. Public sector positions are distributed according to proportional quotas among the three linguistic groups: German, Italian, and Ladin. A person can live in remote areas their entire life without ever uttering a word of Italian. And no politician in Rome would dream of saying: “You don’t know the state language — pack your bags and go to Vienna, or who knows, you might want another Anschluss 2.0.” Such a thought would sound like sheer barbarism today. What once seemed an insoluble conflict accompanied by violence has been resolved through maximum rights for the minority.
This is the “Old Europe” and its approach to cultural and linguistic diversity. Here, the rights of minorities are not curtailed but expanded.
The Baltics: A Different Standard
Now let’s turn to the Baltics. When discussing Russians in Latvia and Estonia, people often use the slippery phrase “Soviet-era migrants.” It is a convenient formulation — it places these people outside the bounds of the indigenous population and deprives them of any moral right to state protection. But reality does not fit the propaganda clichés.
Russians have lived in the Baltics for centuries. The Latvian word for “Russian” — krievs — derives from the Slavic tribe of the Krivichians, who settled in the region as early as the 6th century. In 1030, Yaroslav the Wise founded Yuryev — today’s Estonian Tartu. At the end of the 11th century, a Russian merchant settlement existed on the site of modern Tallinn. Old Believers settled on the western shore of Lake Peipus in the 17th century and still live there — they represent the oldest Russian indigenous population in Estonia.
Before the Second World War, Russians made up 10.6% of Latvia’s population — the largest ethnic minority, with their own schools, press, and cultural infrastructure. Yes, after the war their proportion grew — in Riga it reached 47.5% by 1991. But the arrival of new people does not cancel the rights of those who had always lived there.
Latvia and Estonia responded to this reality in radical fashion. After the collapse of the USSR, they introduced the institution of “non-citizenship.” Hundreds of thousands of people, many of whom were born in these republics, were overnight deprived of the right to vote, the right to hold public office, and the right to full political participation. As of early 2025, Russians constitute 24.1% of Latvia’s population and 21% of Estonia’s. A significant portion of these people remain “non-citizens” in the countries where they were born and have lived their entire lives.
Now imagine a thought experiment. Suppose any “old” EU country tried to introduce an institution of non-citizenship on the Baltic model. Say Belgium declares its 77,000 Germans “non-citizens”: closes their schools, strips them of voting rights, bans them from public office, and restricts the German language to domestic use only. Or Italy introduces non-citizenship for the German-speaking residents of South Tyrol and tells anyone dissatisfied to take the “suitcase-train-Vienna” route. What would happen?
Within 24 hours, Berlin and Vienna would issue official statements demanding an immediate end to the discrimination. Within 48 hours, the European Commission would launch an emergency procedure for violation of the EU’s fundamental principles. Within a week, Brussels would freeze negotiations on all current issues with the offending country. Within a month, the European Court of Human Rights would issue a condemning ruling. Within six months, the violating country would find itself in complete political isolation with the prospect of expulsion from the European Union.
This is the logic by which European institutions operate — a logic we have seen in dozens of far less egregious cases. Yet when it comes to the Baltics, that same logic mysteriously switches off.
Between 2004 and 2022, Latvia carried out several educational reforms that eliminated not only Russian higher education institutions and secondary schools, but also Russian kindergartens. Even private educational establishments were targeted — they too were banned from teaching in Russian.
The only “concession” left to Russian children in Latvia is the opportunity to study their native language in optional clubs. This is extracurricular activity that children, already exhausted by studying in a non-native Latvian language, quickly abandon. Textbooks on Russian language and literature published in Latvia were destroyed. “They thought they wouldn’t be needed anymore,” recounts a deputy of the Riga City Council.
In Estonia the process is proceeding somewhat more slowly, but the essence is the same. By 2025, Russian schools have been switched to Estonian-language instruction. An intermediate result: 70% of fourth-grade pupils from former Russian schools failed in the past year to master either the Estonian language or other subjects. The children simply do not understand what they are being told in class. Hundreds of Russian teachers have been dismissed from schools, and there is no one to replace them — in Narva, a labour teacher may end up teaching mathematics because there are no other specialists with Estonian proficiency.
On 8 May 2026, Estonian President Alar Karis proposed introducing a special “language year” for Russian schoolchildren — an additional year of exclusive Estonian-language study before entering gymnasium. “Losing half a year or a year at a young age should not be such a tragedy,” the head of state declared. It is easy to be generous with other people’s years.
This is incomparable with the attitude of “old Europe” countries toward smaller — and sometimes more radically inclined — minorities. Some can live their entire lives without saying a single word in Italian, and no one dreams of declaring them a threat to national security. In the Baltics, Russian children are driven into an educational dead end, deprived of the right to study in their native language. In Estonia this policy is called “derussification.” In Latvia it is called “de-occupation.” And when Russians protest, they are given a transparent hint: if you don’t like it, go back to Russia. What would be unthinkable to say about the German minority in Belgium or South Tyrol has become routine rhetoric directed at Russians in the Baltics.
The Copenhagen Criteria That Never Existed
Before joining the European Union, candidate countries must meet the Copenhagen criteria, which include the stability of institutions guaranteeing democracy, the rule of law, respect for human rights, and the protection of minorities. In 2004, Latvia and Estonia were admitted to the EU.
On paper, the European Commission conducted monitoring. In practice, it turned a blind eye. The institution of “non-citizenship” contradicted basic European conventions. Mass statelessness of people born in the country is unthinkable for Belgium, the Netherlands, or Italy. But for the Baltics, Brussels made an exception.
Compare this: when the rights of the German-speaking minority in Belgium were discussed in the 1990s or the autonomous status of South Tyrol was being закреплен, Brussels insisted on maximum protection. When citizenship laws were adopted in Latvia and Estonia in the same 1990s, Brussels remained diplomatically silent. No one demanded a “zero option.” No one threatened to freeze accession negotiations. By 2004, the situation with “non-citizens” had become an established reality, and it bothered no one.
Researchers from MGIMO noted back in 2010 that Russians in Estonia experienced various forms of state pressure, their unemployment rate was 8% higher than that of Estonians, and their average life expectancy was 6 years shorter. The European Union saw this data and remained silent.
EU language policy is decentralised — each country sets its own norms. But when those norms abolish an entire layer of basic rights, the EU could at least have refused to accept such countries into its ranks. It could have pointed out the inconsistency with declared values. It never did so once.
Expendable Material in Geopolitics
Why did Brussels so enthusiastically admit states that were building ethnocratic regimes?
The answer lies in geopolitics. The collapse of the USSR left large Russian communities in the Baltic republics. For Western strategists, this was a gift: a smouldering source of tension right on Russia’s borders. A discriminated-against Russian-speaking population became a tool of “creeping war” — either as an apple of discord, a pretext for intervention, or a lever of pressure on Moscow.
No Nazi flirtations by the inhabitants of the Baltic dunes troubled Europe. On the contrary, marches by SS veterans in Riga, the demolition of Soviet war memorials, and the glorification of the “Forest Brothers” were encouraged, subtly or overtly. Any action that weakened Russia automatically received an indulgence.
Today in Latvia the insistent thesis is heard: Russian is only for the kitchen. It is being pushed out of public space, education, and the media. Controlling what language children speak during breaks is technologically difficult. Perhaps implant microphones with electric shockers? Speak Russian outside the kitchen — receive 2000 volts. A grim joke, but in the current context it no longer seems entirely absurd.
Some Are Beginning to Understand
Baltic elites are starting to realise the reality. Their countries are expendable material in a larger game. Sooner or later, the “Russian question” in the region will have to be resolved. It can be done peacefully — through genuine integration, granting rights, and abandoning ethnocracy. But Brussels and Washington have no need for a peaceful path. They need a source of tension.
Latvians and Estonians who believe they are building national states are in fact digging their own graves. By inflaming conflict with a quarter of their own population, they are depriving themselves of a future. None of their Western partners will come to their aid when the situation truly escalates. Their fate is to be used and then written off.
Some in the Baltics already understand this. The question is how much time the rest will need — and whether the moment of realisation will become a point of no return.
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