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                                                                                COVER STORIES, Page 64

THE NEW RUSSIA: THE BALTICS


Latvia, Lithuania and Estonia hoped the end of communism meant
the beginning of a wonderful life, but now many people are cold
and fed up

By JAMES CARNEY/RIGA - With reporting by William Mader/London


    It seems incomprehensible. Less than three years after
declaring independence from Moscow and igniting the breakup of
the Soviet Union, Lithuanians voted their former communist
leaders back into power. But the victory of the freshly named
Democratic Labor Party does not presume a return to orthodox
communism. It testifies instead to the disappointment of the
great expectations in the three Baltic republics of Lithuania,
Latvia and Estonia that the end of Soviet rule would mean the
beginning of a wonderful life.

    But reality has betrayed expectations, and independence
has provoked new conflicts. On a cold afternoon in Riga's
Freedom Square, an old man holds a banner listing Russia's
crimes against the tiny nation of Latvia: OCCUPATION, GENOCIDE,
TERROR. A young Russian woman approaches him. She talks, he
shouts. His words vent the suppressed anger of a life spent
under Moscow's thumb. Russians, who make up nearly half the
population, must go, he says, or Latvia's culture will perish.
The young woman walks away crying. A Russian man born in Latvia
and determined to stay tries to argue. "You can't blame all
Russians," he says, his hands shaking. Then a Latvian woman, her
body bent from age, leans into the crowd to answer. "Take your
factories," she shouts, "take your tanks, take yourselves and
leave!"

    It is one measure of how much the world has changed that
Russians, who were masters of the Baltic republics for 50 years,
now complain bitterly of discrimination at the hands of the new
governments. In Latvia and Estonia, where Russians make up
sizable minorities, the debate over where and how to grant them
citizenship rights has soured relations with Moscow and strained
ties with Western nations that long supported Baltic resistance.
The struggle for independence has been replaced by the more
complex and often divisive task of building democratic states
from the communist debris. In all three countries, the promise
of a bright future that seemed so near has, in the past 12
months, been tempered by steep economic decline, social
polarization and political bickering.

    It was supposed to be better in the Baltics. No one
doubted the difficulty of exchanging Soviet authoritarianism for
market capitalism and democracy, but because of their European
heritage and compact size, Latvia, Lithuania and Estonia were
expected to make the transition with greater speed and less
hardship. Many Balts welcome an abundance of consumer goods and
the establishment of national airlines as signs of their
success. Estonia has even abolished the dual economy that split
society between the elite few with access to Western currencies
and the masses who could shop only with rubles. But consider:

    -- Political infighting and discontent over a
deteriorating economy catapulted Lithuania's former communist
leaders back into office on promises of restoring order and
slowing the painful process of reform. The government of
President Vytautas Landsbergis, who courageously led the
resistance to the bloody Soviet army crackdown in January 1990,
was unable to translate the skills of revolt into running a
country. Politics has shifted in the opposite direction in
Estonia, where the nationalist Fatherland coalition has taken
power with a pledge to "clean house" -- code words for removing
all former communists from office.

    -- All three countries are suffering a sharp drop in
industrial production, as well as chronic shortages of gas and
oil once provided cheaply and plentifully by Russia. In
Lithuania and Latvia, the energy crisis has forced many to go
without heat and hot water; in Lithuania, gasoline for private
cars is strictly rationed. In Estonia, where the introduction
of a new convertible currency has helped eliminate shortages of
consumer goods, inflation has made all but the most basic items
unaffordable for the average person.

    -- Soldiers of the former Soviet army remain in all three
countries, despite sporadic negotiations for withdrawal. Russian
President Boris Yeltsin, faced with nationalist and economic
pressures of his own, halted troop departures to punish Latvia
and Estonia for what he termed "blatant discrimination" against
ethnic Russians. Watching the political turmoil in Moscow,
Baltic leaders are plagued by the fear that a coup could lead
hard-liners to use the troops to retake the former republics by
force.

    Malaise and exhaustion have settled over much of the
Baltics. Prices are prohibitive, economic reform is achingly
slow and political development has stalled. "Life hasn't
suddenly become bright and easy," says Kaupo Pollisinski,
spokesman for the Bank of Estonia. The struggle for independence
has left many Balts politically apathetic. "For two years I went
to every demonstration," says Lauri Sillak, a 23-year-old
Estonian artist. "I like independence, but I'm tired of politics
now." The republics expected a disproportionate amount of
attention from the West, but that has waned, and some Baltic
leaders are worried that Europe and the U.S. may neglect the
very countries in which economic and political reform has the
best chance. "It will be a long time," says Latvian journalist
Valdis Berzins, "before we live on a par with the rest of
Europe."

    The protracted debate over local Russians has distracted
Baltic leaders' attention from other issues. A majority of the
1.8 million ethnic Russians are faced with the prospect of
becoming unwelcome foreigners. In Lithuania, where the alien
population of 20% poses little threat, all inhabitants received
instant citizenship. But in Estonia and Latvia, where
non-natives make up 40% and 50% of the population respectively,
the citizenship issue is highly charged.

    Last spring the Estonian government granted citizenship
only to those inhabitants, and their descendants, who had lived
in the republic during its brief period of independence between
the two World Wars. All others, most of them Russians who
immigrated during Soviet rule, were left out and could not vote
in recent elections. Estonia's naturalization rules are
relatively lenient, however -- just three years' residency,
knowledge of Estonian and an oath of loyalty. In Latvia, where
fears of Russian political and cultural dominance are
justifiably greater, parliament is considering a draconian
16-year residency period.

    These moves have drawn criticism not only from Moscow but
also from the West -- an ominous sign for nations pinning their
hopes for the future upon integration with Europe. "What they
are doing is a form of civilized ethnic cleansing," says a
senior British diplomat. "It's a repugnant form of nationalism."

    The Balts view the issue differently: Russian migration
was the means by which the Kremlin subjugated them. "Is making
Latvian the official language a deprivation of human rights?"
asks Viesturs Karnups, director of the Latvian Department of
Citizenship. Argues Estonian journalist Tarmu Tammerk: "There
is a misperception in the West. Most Russians here have come to
terms with the fact that this is a foreign country."

    So far, the Russian communities have not organized any
broad-based resistance movement to protest the alleged
discrimination. The main reason is economic: for all the
hardship in the Baltics, most Russians know that life across the
border is far worse. "We're between two fires," says Dmitri
Klenski, an Estonian-born Russian. "There is nothing for us in
Russia, and no one wants us in Estonia."

    If the Baltic governments manage to reform their economies
without incurring dire levels of poverty and unemployment, the
citizenship conflict may wane. Estonia, aided by its close
cultural ties to Finland, has moved the most swiftly, issuing
its own hard currency, the kroon, backed by gold reserves. That
has complicated exchanges with Russia but helped increase
foreign investment and trade.

    Even so, a harsh winter could force the government to
raise home-heating prices beyond the means of many Estonians.
Already the country's new poor line up outside soup kitchens in
the capital of Tallinn for what may be their only meal of the
day. "There is real poverty here," says Yevgeni Urbanus, a
director at one of the kitchens, as he surveys the elderly
people who have brought their own jars for the soup.

    Energy shortages have hit hardest in Lithuania, where
sparring between nationalists and the conservative Democratic
Labor Party has often paralyzed economic reform. Because Russia
cut off fuel supplies for much of the summer, reserves in
Lithuania have run alarmingly low. The country also relies on
the dangerously designed Ignalina nuclear-power plant for
virtually all its electrical energy; several minor accidents
have sparked fears of another Chernobyl. Angered by rising
prices and political gridlock, voters were ready to give another
chance to Algirdas Brazauskas, the Communist Party chief who
broke with Moscow in 1989 and supported independence.

    Despite their small size, the Baltic nations have loomed
large as bellwethers in both the Soviet and the post-Soviet
eras. Now the world looks to them for clues about the potential
for reform in all the other former Soviet republics.

    What the world sees is not always reassuring. The
Lithuanian elections serve as a warning that there is a limit
to the burdens people will endure for the sake of political and
economic reform. But even though hardship and turmoil have
plagued their first 12 months of freedom, the Baltic states
sacrificed too much in the struggle for independence to forfeit
their dreams of a better life. Few Balts, after all, would trade
their nation's future -- however uncertain -- for its past.