Nineteen years ago, at the end of April, I was sitting in my office at the Ministry of Defense when my Russian friend sent me a message: "Do you know, my sister got a mass text message saying: 'Pošli protiv estontsev!'" At the time, I urged Jelena to convince her sister in Narva to stay home and not take part in the mass unrest.

The threat level had already been high for some time. The Ministry of Defense website was down due to a cyberattack, ATMs had stopped working because of a similar attack and it was expected that something would happen at Tõnismägi where ethnic Russians had been called to gather. Incitement efforts were being coordinated directly from the Russian Embassy.

Even so, it all seemed unbelievable and surreal in our own country where by that point we had lived fairly successfully for more than a decade. We were prepared for it and we were not. Deep down, everyone probably hoped that what unfolded over the following two nights at the end of April would not actually happen. But it did. Just as it has now happened in many other places as well.

These memories do not fade. Nor do the memories passed down from generation to generation, whether of War of Independence monuments blown up in the 1940s or of other desecrated sacred sites that held deep meaning for our ancestors.

In the same way, memories do not disappear simply because a monument is removed and relocated from its original site, for example to a museum or cemetery. But such actions can help heal wounds that would otherwise be constantly reopened if we were continually forced to look, in our urban spaces, at monuments that are not ideologically our own, but instead remind us of a time when we had neither the right nor the freedom to decide for ourselves and our nation's well-being.

The communist terror regime that ruled Estonia was an occupying power that committed extraordinary crimes against the Estonian people. It imposed its rule through intimidation, through its imposed narratives and symbols and through the suppression and rewriting of Estonian identity and our historical narratives. We can say nothing less. The cultural wound inflicted on us as a nation by the communists and Bolsheviks runs very deep.

Why idolize a terror regime?

It seems that not everyone understands the pain and horror inflicted on our older generations. At the very least, it has not fully sunk in for everyone.

Recently, I took part in a discussion with students at Tallinn University about the fate of Soviet monuments and, more broadly, monument-related conflicts. The students listened with great interest. There were sensible arguments voiced there, but time and again the same worn-out clichés in defense of the Soviet legacy resurfaced: "Let us not behave toward them the way they behaved toward our War of Independence monuments."

But that means nothing less than preserving communist landmarks, using taxpayer money to ensure they do not decay and leaving in place street names that are incompatible with our cultural space. Such a comparison is inappropriate because it places the democratic and legitimate Republic of Estonia on the same moral footing as the criminal communist occupation regime that ruled Estonia for half a century.

The Soviet regime was a terror regime that committed extraordinarily violent crimes against the Estonian people: people were deported, raped, executed and killed. But crimes were committed against Estonian culture as well: books were burned, street and place names were changed, Estonian history and identity were suppressed and attempts were made to forcibly reshape them.

We see exactly the same thing happening in Ukraine when we think of Donetsk, Bucha and Mariupol — it reminds us of our own national wound. That is why we are able to identify so strongly with Ukrainians and support them. Can anyone imagine that after the liberation of Ukrainian territories occupied by Russia, someone there would propose preserving Z symbols and posters glorifying the Muscovite empire with St. George ribbons under the pretext of preserving layers of cultural heritage?

Just as Ukrainian culture is being destroyed in occupied Ukraine, the symbols of Soviet power in Estonia were the weapon used to suppress Estonian culture. There can be no neutral or nostalgic interpretation of these symbols. The cultural wound is so deep that we as a nation have still not fully recovered from it.

At the meeting with students, there was also discussion about the value of so-called "dark heritage" and the idea that the Soviet period cannot simply be erased. Strangely, this argument about preserving cultural layers only ever seems to arise when Soviet occupation symbolism is being discussed. But where do we see the swastika? That layer is banned; no one is demanding its preservation. We have not allowed memorials to be erected to soldiers who fought on the German side after being conscripted. The layer of remembrance for those fallen Estonian men is hypocritically ignored by those who seek to valorize the Soviet layer.

If we in Estonia have decided to equate the crimes of communism and Nazism, then we should also treat the symbols of those ideologies equally. Unfortunately, that means the removal of Soviet symbolism remains unfinished work. While decisive action was initially taken after the restoration of independence, the state then found itself facing a new reality. Much time and energy in the years following regained independence went into building a modern Estonia and the removal of old symbols fell into the background.

For example, the infamous Bronze Soldier and the Narva tank remained in place. As we later learned, the controversy surrounding the Bronze Soldier began creating divisions within Estonian society, culminating in ethnically charged unrest in 2007. This was a direct consequence of preserving the layers associated with Soviet monuments.

A monument at the same time depressing and rousing

Had decisive action not been taken, at least initially, after the restoration of independence, the urban landscape today would be quite oppressive. Can we imagine having to pass, every day at Balti jaam, grim soldiers with rifles at the ready? Or that a larger-than-life Lenin with outstretched arms would still tower beside Solaris Center? Every monument to a foreign occupying power is a wedge driven into the sense of unity among our people.

Can we imagine that now, in the midst of what is happening in Ukraine, nearly 30 years after the restoration of independence, we would still be telling Estonians in the capital of Estonia to stay home on a pleasant May evening because the city center might be unsafe? That would be neither reasonable nor logical in a free Estonia — at least not when we ourselves have had the opportunity to change the situation, to turn the wheel and remove symbols associated with communism from public places important to us.

When we pass a landmark that gives us positive emotions, that instills faith and hope, pride in our ancestors, we draw subconscious optimism from it — the strength to carry forward what we believe in and what they believed in; the values we have stood for throughout history.

I am glad that the new generation can walk every day past the Estonian War of Independence Victory Column rising on Freedom Square, one of Estonia's most important representative squares, even if they may not consciously think about it in their daily lives.

I am glad that today we are able to visit the Memorial to the Victims of Communism at Maarjamäe to remember and honor our ancestors. In Estonia, it is difficult to find a family or lineage untouched by that dark and cruel era, one without its own tragic story; many do not even have a grave where they can lay flowers. With its silence, light and lists of names, the memorial provides the sense of peace and unity that we in Estonia so greatly need right now. And I am glad that, in the creation of both monuments that strengthen national unity, I have been able to apply my skills and make my own contribution.

Public space and mental health

There is currently much discussion about mental health and efforts to find ways to alleviate related problems. Often, however, the key lies in prevention. If situations that weigh on mental health did not exist in the first place, there would be no reason or need to begin treating the resulting problems later on. Mental health is often shaped by emotions, memories and lived experiences.

If, on our daily journey from home to work, we had to pass a landmark that reminded us of a dark past, bringing back negative memories from childhood or school years, we would probably choose another route if possible. But that option is not always available.

Often, we are not even consciously aware that such exposure to negative memories and imagery can weigh on us subconsciously. Instead, we search elsewhere for causes to treat, without realizing or acknowledging that the physical environment surrounding us affects our minds far more than we may wish to admit.

A monument does not always have to be physical, larger than life or tangible. It is also possible to create monuments to our ancestors in spirit and through deeds — by preserving memories and traditions. In the same way, preserving the nation and carrying forward a sense of national identity is itself a monument to those to whom we owe gratitude for allowing us to stand on our own free land. Above all, this is how we carry forward the spirit, thought and idea of Estonianness. Monumentally.

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