Last week, work began to cover the ceiling painting and Stalinist stucco décor in the hall of the Mere Cultural Center. The building, long known as the [Soviet Navy] Officers' House, was constructed on the ruins of one of prewar Estonia's showcase cinemas, the Grand Marina. The cinema was almost completely destroyed during the bombing of Tallinn.

The event sparked renewed debate on social media over whether it is barbaric to cover up and hide a piece of history. Some argue that doing so makes us no different from the occupiers who destroyed art.

First, nothing is being destroyed. Covering or removing something is not destruction. Placing it in a museum is not destruction either.

Second, how could the Estonian state, by removing signs of the occupation era on its own soil, behave in the same way as foreign occupiers who destroyed our national symbols? They truly destroyed them — from blowing up monuments to chopping books into pieces with axes.

We would be "the same" only if we marched into Latvia or Finland tomorrow and began smashing their artworks and monuments. If we killed, deported and expelled a third of their population and filled the country with works glorifying Estonians and Estonian supremacy. And if, 70 years later, Latvians or Finns wanted to quietly cover those signs, would they be barbarians? Cleaning up one's own public space at home is in no way comparable to how occupying forces behave in a conquered country. Such comparisons are at best superficial and at worst deliberately misleading.

Third, people often confuse art created during the Soviet occupation with works that glorify a criminal foreign regime. These are not the same. During those fifty years, Estonians managed — despite censorship — to create good literature, music, art and theater. Even in difficult conditions, creative life persisted, and that creativity helped sustain the spirit of resistance. Removing from public space a work that glorifies a regime responsible for crimes against humanity does not mean anyone wants to condemn all art created during the Soviet era. What is strange, however, is the desire to live in shared public space surrounded by red stars, red flags and works honoring murderers — and to treat their presence as something admirable.

Fourth, when Estonia regained independence, we quickly discovered that foreigners were often most interested in the Soviet‑era layer of our heritage. Western Europeans and other visitors were fascinated by places that had long been closed and where terrible things had happened — places they could now explore safely. Over time, we have shifted our image from a former Soviet republic toward a forward‑looking Nordic country, but that old image has not disappeared. The more we cling to the outer layer that glorifies the Soviet era, the more we reinforce the perception of being a former union republic.

The unavoidable truth is that many people here do not understand the problem. Half a century of Soviet propaganda and normalized violence has left its mark. All the more reason to recognize that defending occupation symbols rewrites the history of the Republic of Estonia with the slogans of a foreign power.

Perhaps the simplest comparison makes the point. What happened in Estonia during and after the war is what is happening now in Ukraine. What we perceive as history is their present reality. The same foreign power is trying to impose itself just as brutally and with the same methods as it once did in Estonia and elsewhere. This means it is not history. Every work glorifying Stalin and the Soviet Union reflects the current agenda of the war criminals in power in Russia. Ceiling and wall paintings of Soviet officers and the proletariat are merely waiting for a signal to come alive again and step off the walls.

It would be better not to encourage them by shouting for their protection and thereby emboldening them for new crimes.

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