An Englishman in Latvia
An Englishman in Latvia
On Russians
In a polarising world, this podcast episode will cover a sensitive and difficult topic: Russians in Latvia. Since February 2022, when Russia again attacked Ukraine, the question of the allegiance of Latvian-resident Russians has been a main political topic. Latvian laws have been tightened on residency, cross-border business and travel to and from Russia. You would need the rigour of a distinguished professor not to take sides. As someone who was a diplomat and then worked in human rights law, I will try to give a balanced perspective.
Thanks for listening!
On Russians
In a polarising world, this podcast episode will cover a sensitive and difficult topic: Russians in Latvia. Since February 2022, when Russia again attacked Ukraine, the question of the allegiance of Latvian-resident Russians has been a main political topic. Latvian laws have been tightened on residency, cross-border business and travel to and from Russia. You would need the rigour of a distinguished professor not to take sides. As someone who was a diplomat and then worked in human rights law, I will try to give a balanced perspective. But like many people, I have a conscience and morals. You will find me at the Freedom Monument in Rīga on 24 February, protesting the Russian invasion of Ukraine three years ago.
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The story of Russians in Latvia spans centuries, shaped by imperial conquests, ideological battles, and shifting identities. By the 17th century, Old Believers — Russians fleeing religious persecution — settled in Latgale, forming some of the earliest enduring communities. Their presence expanded after Peter the Great’s victory over Sweden in the Great Northern War from 1700–1721, which brought Rīga and Vidzeme under Russian control. Under the Russian Empire, Baltic German nobles retained local influence, but industrialisation in the 19th century drew Russian workers to cities like Rīga, then the empire’s second-largest port.
Latvia’s independence in 1918 marked a new chapter. The Russian minority, now 10.5% of the population, gained cultural autonomy but grappled with divided loyalties. While some supported Latvia’s democratic project, others maintained ties to Soviet Russia, especially after Stalin’s 1940 occupation. World War II deepened fractures: many ethnic Russians collaborated with Nazi occupiers, while others joined Soviet partisans. Postwar Soviet rule from 1944–1991 transformed demographics, as Moscow incentivised mass Russian migration, diluting Latvians to just 52% of the population by 1989.
Since Latvia regained independence in 1991, its Russian community — 36% of the population today — has navigated fraught debates over citizenship, language, and belonging. About 200,000 remain non-citizens and are required to pass language exams to gain Latvian citizenship. More on that in a minute. Russia’s 2022 invasion of Ukraine intensified Latvia’s efforts to dismantle Soviet legacies, banning Russian-state media, removing Soviet monuments, and phasing out Russian-language education. Yet tensions persist: while 80% of Latvian speakers back Ukraine, only 25% of Russian speakers do, reflecting enduring cultural and political divides.
From Old Believers to Soviet migrants, Russians in Latvia embody a complex tapestry of resilience and adaptation — a narrative of coexistence and conflict that continues to evolve.
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Latvia has a significant Russian population, especially its largest cities of Rīga, Daugavpils, Liepāja, Ventspils and Jelgava. It is a myth for the Latvian government to portray Latvia as a mono-cultural society. According to 2022 data, ethnic Russians comprise 36% of Rīga (a decrease from 42% in 2006) and Russian is spoken as a first language in 54% of households. I live in a Russian part of Rīga called Imanta. It was constructed during the Soviet occupation as a dormitory suburb, although it has services like schools, shops and recreation facilities. It has plenty of pre-fabricated, cheaply-built tall apartment blocks, but small family homes are outside that area. My son goes to Rīgas Imantas Vidus Skola. Half his classmates speak Russian at home. Lessons are in Latvian with no lessons in Russian. I live in a small housing community of mostly well-off business people. In order of numbers, they are ethnic Russian, Belarusian, Ukrainian, Latvian, and Lithuanian, with me as the sole other. One of my neighbours is an MP - elected member of the Latvian parliament. Let’s call him by the nickname I gave him, which is a shortening of his family name - Rolo. A rolo, for a bit of cultural awareness, is an old brand of chocolate-covered toffee from my home country. Rolo is the leader of the ‘For Stupidity!’ party. Yes, another ironic change in my vocabulary. He is pro-Russia, pro-Putin, an anti-vaxer, anti-Ukraine, anti-Latvia. Maybe he should be in President Trump’s administration! He does drive a Harley-Davidson motorbike in summer, after all! None of the neighbours talk to Rolo, even the ethnic Russian ones.
Imanta is a safe place to live. I don’t worry about knife crime or kids on scooters stealing people’s mobile phones and watches, as I would in my birth city of London. There is an element of passive-aggressive behaviour, but that’s just a Slavic characteristic. We will have some fun with my ‘How to Spot a Russian’ soon.
When parents of a Latvian child at my son’s school complained about bullying by a Russian boy, the head teacher said it was up to the parents to fight it out. That is oh so Russian! For Latvian schools, bullying is an issue for parents to resolve, not the school. The parents moved their child to another school.
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We need some context now in this narrative. The majority of these Russians are ethnic Russians. Many are 2nd or 3rd generation, born in Latvia. Their parents moved to Latvia during the occupation to work in large-scale businesses and factories. They were migrant workers, not there for ideological reasons. Many of these ethnic Latvians are full Latvian citizens. They support Latvia and the EU. But not all. Latvia also has a massive refugee population that, in official circles, they do not like to talk about. 195,159 people, 10% of the population, hold ‘Non-citizen passports’. They can travel on those passports within the EU and beyond but are technically not Latvian citizens.
Those who only hold Russian nationality are finding it harder to stay in Latvia. Around 3,500 Russian citizens were asked to leave Latvia by November 2023 due to not meeting new language requirements or failing to submit documents for the extension of residence permits. Approximately 4,650 Russian citizens need to take steps to maintain their residency status by submitting documents and passing language tests by June 2025. The current entry ban on Russian citizens without EU residency permits has been extended until March 2025, and I expect it will be extended further.
Going to a supermarket in Imanta or neighbouring Zolitude, the predominant language heard is Russian. That does not mean that they all support Putin or even Russia. Many don’t. But there is a hidden support. Fireworks are illegally let off on Russian celebrations. Thousands queued up at the Russian Embassy in Rīga last year to vote for Putin in the Russian presidential co-called elections. Many coaches were nearby, having brought Russians from other Latvian cities to Rīga to vote. I was opposite the Russian Embassy, making a video and silently protesting.
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I came across a very interesting story in the excellent LSM news service. This is my summary of it.
We’re witnessing a remarkable shift in personal identity in Latvia—one name change at a time. Take Kristaps Zemdaugavietis, who was known as Vladislavs Podvinskis until recently. His story reflects a broader trend across Latvia, where thousands are choosing to shed their Slavic names for Latvian ones, especially since Russia’s invasion of Ukraine in 2022.
“You don’t carry the burden of having a Russian name anymore,” Kristaps explains, describing how his former name often led to assumptions about his identity—from bank tellers automatically addressing him in Russian to subtle changes in how people treated him. His new family name, which poetically means “under the Daugava” in Latvian, makes his family unique in the country. No one else has that name!
The numbers tell a striking story: while roughly a thousand people annually changed their names before the 2022 war, that figure has doubled in recent years. The Ministry of Justice reports that many want to distance themselves from their Slavic origins.
This isn’t Latvia’s first wave of name changes. During the 1920s and 1930s, under President Ulmanis’s regime, thousands of Latvians changed their German-origin surnames to Latvian ones. Even government officials joined in—the president’s secretary changed his surname from Cimermanis to Rudums.
Today’s process is straightforward: Apply to the local registry office, and you can emerge with a new identity within a few weeks. This is a powerful testament to how global events can reshape personal identities, one signature at a time.
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An interesting piece of research on recent polling data from Latvia about Alexander Lukashenko, Belarus’s authoritarian leader.
Picture this: in Latvia, a country next to Belarus, more than one in five residents actually approve of Lukashenko’s dictatorship. Let’s break that down - 21% of people living in Latvia view him favourably, while 45% disapprove. But here’s where it gets really interesting - a full third of respondents couldn’t, or probably wouldn’t, express an opinion about him at all.
The most striking revelation comes when we look at the ethnic breakdown. Among ethnic Latvians, 61% view Lukashenko negatively. But flip to the Russian-speaking population, and you’ll find nearly 40% supporting him. This isn’t just numbers - it’s a window into how these communities see the world around them differently.
What makes some Latvians, particularly Russian speakers, view Lukashenko positively? Experts suggest several factors. For one, Lukashenko isn’t as polarising a figure as Putin, especially since Russia’s invasion of Ukraine pushed Belarus into the background. There’s also a linguistic connection - Lukashenko’s use of Russian creates a sense of familiarity among Russian speakers.
Most intriguing is that 34% of respondents claimed to have no opinion about Lukashenko. As experts suggest, this silence might not be simple indifference - it could be people concealing their true views, knowing that supporting a dictator isn’t exactly popular in Latvia, especially after Belarus’s failed 2020 revolution.
This polling data isn’t just about numbers—it’s about how different communities within Latvia view authority, democracy, and their relationships with neighbouring countries. It reminds us how complex these issues are, especially in a country where multiple cultural perspectives intersect.
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How to spot a Russian.
Please don’t take this quiz seriously. Or, if you are a Russian, don’t sue me for slander. It is just a bit of fun based on my observations.
A Russian man will be wearing a handbag, without fail. They are technically called cross-body bags or man bags.
Russian women tend to have round faces and long black hair.
Russian men tend to have no hair and appear to spend lots of time down the gym.
Russian women love shiny black puffer jackets with tight black trousers. Brand names need to be big and bold. A petite Russian woman was walking down the street with a sweatshirt that said ‘Klein’ (small, in German). I smiled!
Although it is less frequently seen nowadays, Russian men have liked shell suits (shiny tracksuits) from the last century. They also love light blue coloured clothes, wear socks with sandals and running shorts from Chariots of Fire. In summer, of course!
Russians love Adidas three-stripe clothes. The louder, the better.
Poorer Russians drive old BMW three series cars. Wealthy Russians drive Lexus. Where I live the parking spaces are full of Toyotas, as I call these Luxury Export USA vehicles (yep, that’s what Lexus stands for).
All Russians drive aggressively. They also like a good fisticuffs. Beware!
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The crack of pneumatic hammers and demolition explosives echoed across Riga’s Victory Park on an August morning in 2022. A 79-metre obelisk crowned with Soviet stars swayed, then collapsed in a cloud of dust. Ethnic Russian onlookers wept as Latvian politicians applauded. This moment encapsulates Latvia’s break with its Soviet past—a reckoning decades in the making, accelerated by Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. From toppled monuments to rewritten street signs, Latvia is undergoing a transformation that reshapes both its landscape and national soul.
Latvia’s relationship with Russia remains haunted by the trauma of Soviet occupation. The 1940 annexation under the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact brought mass deportations —15,424 Latvians exiled to Siberia in June 1941 alone, including intellectuals, military officers, and even Esperanto enthusiasts. Families like Inara Verzemnieks endured generational rupture: grandmothers fleeing westward, great-aunts surviving Siberian labour camps. These stories became foundational to Latvia’s post-1991 identity as a victim of Soviet imperialism.
The initial de-sovietisation wave in the 1990s removed overt Communist symbols but left contentious relics. Soviet victory monuments remained, their continued existence polarising Latvian society. For ethnic Russians, these sites honoured ancestors who fought Nazism. For ethnic Latvians, they glorified occupation—a narrative sharpened by the 2022 invasion of Ukraine. As Rīga’s Vice-Mayor Edvards Ratnieks declared: “We cannot have names glorifying Moscow while Russia bombs Kyiv”.
The demolition of Rīga’s Victory Monument, built in 1985, marked a turning point. The obelisk had hosted annual May 9 Victory Day rallies, attracting thousands of Russian speakers. Its destruction, mandated by a 2022 law banning totalitarian glorification, provoked starkly different reactions. The then-Latvian President Egils Levits called it “a steady reminder of deportation and repression,” while Dmitry Prokopenko of the Russian community lamented lost heritage: “Rīga is half Latvian, half Russian—one part should respect the other.”
This physical decommunisation extends beyond monuments. Maskavas iela (Moscow Street), a major thoroughfare since 1860, became Latgales iela in 2024, reclaiming its pre-Soviet name tied to Latvia’s eastern region. Nearby streets honouring Pushkin and Gogol now bear Latvian luminaries: linguist Kārlis Mīlenbahs, painter Vilhelms Purvītis, and journalist Emīlija Benjamiņa. Each renaming erases Russian imperial references, asserting indigenous cultural narratives.
De-Russification extends into policy. Post-2022 reforms require Russian citizens to pass Latvian exams (to level A2) to retain residency. By 2025, schools must teach exclusively in Latvian, phasing out Russian-language curricula that once served 38% of students. Education Minister Anda Čakša frames this as decolonisation: “We must consolidate Latvians against Moscow’s hybrid warfare.”
Non-citizens, who are primarily elderly Russians, face starker choices. Inessa Novikova, 74, typifies their dilemma: learn Latvian or risk deportation. While officials argue this promotes integration, critics note it exacerbates marginalisation. In Daugavpils, where Russians form 50% of residents, Mayor Andrejs Elksniņš warns: “Forcing Latvian in schools may deepen divisions, not heal them”.
Latvia’s parliament mirrors this schism. Ethnic Latvian parties frame de-Russification as corrective justice. “Soviet memorials aren’t history—they’re weapons,” argues National Alliance MP Kaspars Spunde. Conversely, Russian-led parties like Harmony decry “cultural genocide,” with MP Miroslavs Mitrofanovs insisting: “Our grandparents’ WWII sacrifice deserves respect”.
A 2024 University of Latvia study found that 82% of ethnic Latvians support monument removals, compared to 11% of Russians. For Latvians, the 1940-1991 period represents occupation; for many Russians, it’s a time of interethnic harmony and Soviet pride. This mnemonic divide fuels tensions, which became evident when Rīga removed Victory Park flowers after May 9, sparking clashes between pro-Ukrainian activists and Russian mourners.
Latvia’s actions align with broader Baltic de-sovietisation but carry unique risks. With 150,000 stateless Russians, policies could feed Kremlin narratives of “oppressed compatriots”—a pretext used in Ukraine. Yet leaders like PM Evika Silina prioritise Euro-Atlantic integration, noting Latvia has donated €392 million militarily to Ukraine, surpassing 1% of GDP. The cultural shift is palpable. Bookstores now highlight works on Latvia’s 1918-1940 independence, while museums reframe Soviet-era artefacts as occupation relics. As historian Vita Zelče notes: “We’re not erasing history, but ending Russia’s monopoly on interpreting it”.
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I intentionally left the chapter on de-Russification until the end of this episode. It concerns a difficult political reality.
Latvia’s de-Russification is neither tidy nor complete. For ethnic Russians, it manifests as linguistic anxiety and lost landmarks. For Latvians, it’s catharsis—an assertion of sovereignty after centuries of domination. The outcome hinges on balancing security with inclusion: Can a nation forged in opposition to empire cultivate pluralism? As Rīga’s last Soviet statues fall, that question lingers—unanswered but urgent.
Many Latvians fear that if Trump's US hands Ukraine to the Russians, Latvia will be the next country to be re-colonised after Russia rebuilds its military. I’m highly critical of the aggressive, despotic Russian government. I have also become critical of the US's new coercive, transactional, power-based foreign policy. Just look at my posts on Bluesky! We live in dangerous times with Putin and Trump.
Latvia is a multicultural country, and that is something to be celebrated. It is also a safe place to live, where good Latvian and Russian traditions have become entwined. Latvians love a good Shashlik (barbecued meat on sticks)! May that continue for decades.
