What does it mean to be Estonian? Even if we manage to define it, to draw a clear and confident line around "Estonianness," would all Estonians fit inside that boundary? Or would some inevitably be left outside the very definition meant to include them?

The exchange of views on this topic on ERR's portal has been illuminating. Tiiu Hallap writes in the piece "The Estonian and the Tuareg" that Estonianness cannot truly be acquired if one is not born into it. Marek Tamm offers a more flexible understanding of belonging in his article "Is it possible to become an Estonian?" William Buescher approaches the question through personal self-identification in his text "I am an Estonian."

Reading these essays as someone who has lived in Estonia for nearly seven years, who speaks the language, works in the cultural sphere and has started a family here, I am not observing this debate from the sidelines. I stand within it.

So: Where does Estonianness begin, and where does it end?

Lived knowledge — the tacit layer

Hallap builds her argument on what she calls tacit knowledge — an inherited, unspoken layer of belonging. A shared historical memory. Emotional reflexes. Deep instincts shaped by collective experience.

There is truth in this. Not everything can be consciously learned or acquired. Some things are absorbed in childhood — through atmosphere, through repetition.

But what exactly belongs to this invisible layer? Is it sauna culture? Cold winters? Snow? A certain relationship with silence? More reserved social codes?

Sauna culture also exists in Finland. Snow belongs to much of the Northern Hemisphere. Silence and emotional restraint are hardly unique to Estonia — and if they were, I would already be a "super-Estonian." As soon as we try to isolate a trait as uniquely Estonian, we find parallels elsewhere.

The discussion becomes even more interesting when we reverse it. When a person leaves Estonia and lives elsewhere for decades, new reflexes inevitably form. If an Estonian lives in Canada for 15 years, speaks English daily and is immersed in Canadian society, does that person's tacit layer remain the same as that of someone living in Tartu or Tallinn? If not, then who are they? Simply "less Estonian" and nothing else?

When I turn this question toward myself and Iran, the paradox becomes personal.

My relationship with my country of birth has changed over the past decade. I follow news from Iran closely. I feel anxiety when Israel bombs Iran or when the United States threatens it, just as I feel anxiety over Russia's aggression toward Estonia. Yet I no longer live in Tehran's everyday reality. I would struggle to navigate daily life there. In Tallinn, I move with confidence, but in Tehran I would increasingly feel like a visitor.

Hallap's tacit layer changes over time. In my daily habits and way of life, I am now closer to a typical Estonian than to a typical Iranian.

If tacit belonging changes over time, then it cannot be entirely fixed. And if it can shift, then the boundary becomes less absolute as well.

Political definition

Politically, the question may seem simple. Citizenship defines membership. If a person fulfills the legal requirements and receives an Estonian passport, then in the eyes of the state, that person is Estonian.

Yet political views cannot function as a reliable measure of national identity either. Hallap emphasizes attitudes toward Russia as a decisive emotional marker. Undoubtedly, Estonia's historical experience has shaped collective sensitivities. But there is no nation in the world in which all citizens share identical political views. Estonians do not think alike about Russia, about Europe, about domestic politics or about the country's future.

If political alignment were a prerequisite for Estonianness, many Estonians themselves would fall outside the boundaries of that definition.

Cultural designation

Perhaps Estonianness lies in cultural participation — in knowing the history, mythology, literature, music and shared references.

I have read Estonian mythology, from "Kalevipoeg" to the legend of the Old Man of Lake Ülemiste. I am familiar with Estonian composers ranging from Arvo Pärt and Ester Mägi to Erkki-Sven Tüür and Tõnu Kõrvits and writers from A. H. Tammsaare to Mati Unt and Andrus Kivirähk. I speak, read and write in Estonian. I am even composing works inspired by Estonian mythology and folklore. Yet I have encountered Estonians who have never read "Kalevipoeg," who know little of Taara or Uku or who are unfamiliar with contemporary Estonian composers.

Does that make me "more Estonian" than they are? Of course not. But it demonstrates something important: cultural literacy varies enormously within any nation.

When I turn this question once again toward Iran, the paradox becomes personal yet again. I love Persian poetry, mythology and culture. Yet I know many Iranians who cannot quote a single line of classical verse and have never read the "Shahnameh." Does that make them less Iranian?

There is no country in which all citizens are equally familiar with their cultural heritage.

Language and accent

Language may seem a stronger marker. Estonian can be learned. It is possible to speak it fluently, to think in it and even to dream in it. Hallap mentions accent. My accent in Estonian is, of course, not that of a native-born resident of Tallinn. But whose accent is the "real" one?

Saaremaa has its own dialect. Võrumaa its own linguistic tone. They differ from one another as well as from Tallinn. Is any one of them more "authentically" Estonian than the others? Accent varies even among native speakers.

Globally, the question becomes even more complex. If someone speaks English, are they American, British or Australian? If someone speaks Farsi, are they Iranian, Afghan or Tajik? Languages often cross state borders.

If language does not clearly coincide with national borders, how can it serve as a final measure of nationality?

Music and belonging

As a composer, this question becomes especially concrete for me.

In Iran, publishing music requires state approval. Because of my critical stance toward the Iranian government, my work effectively does not exist there. At the same time, my entire catalog is registered with the Estonian Authors' Society. Is institutional affiliation a measure of cultural identity?

My musical language has been shaped by the Farsi language, Persian mythology and Iran's cultural memory. At the same time, living in Estonia and actively participating in its cultural life has inevitably shaped my sound. The Estonian forest — its light and its silence — is inescapable in my music.

The fact that I was not born in Estonia seems to count against my music's "Estonianness." The fact that I no longer live in Iran seems to count against its "Persianness." Perhaps music itself does not recognize such borders. Perhaps it carries both histories at once. Or perhaps it simply reflects a world in which identities overlap, intertwine and refuse to submit to a single definition.

Global situation

We must also acknowledge the broader context: we live in an unprecedentedly interconnected world.

From radio and television to the internet, cultures have become globally intertwined. Many of us have grown up with the same music, the same films and books, using the same digital platforms. Perhaps that is precisely why the debate needed to imagine a very distant and exotic culture. In reality, almost every country mentioned already contains something familiar.

When my father-in-law asks whether I experienced culture shock when I moved to Estonia, I always answer no. I recognized much of the lifestyle and many of the cultural codes already. Estonia, like most societies, has developed in interaction with a global — especially Western — framework. Moving from one Westernized society to another does not mean starting from zero, but building on common ground.

No such thing as absolute nationality

Ultimately, there is no such thing as an absolute Estonian. More broadly, there is no absolute member of any nation.

Even if we could define a state of "complete" Estonianness, many Estonians themselves would not fit within it. Political borders do not fully coincide with cultural belonging. Identity is not a black-and-white condition. It is a spectrum — fluid, contextual and changing over time.

Origins and choice

And yet I must admit that on one point I agree with Tiiu Hallap: something does not change.

I did not choose to be born in Iran. I did not choose Farsi as my mother tongue. No one can ask me why I was born there or why I speak that language. That part of my identity was given to me.

My Estonianness, however modest or evolving it may be, is a choice. I chose to build a life in Estonia. I chose to learn the language. I chose to engage with this culture. Even if some imagined "measure of Estonianness" were to declare me fully integrated decades from now, one fact would remain unchanged: this part of my identity is not inherited, but chosen. My Iranianness is passive — it was given to me. But my Estonianness is active — I stepped toward it.

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