I was recently in Georgia. To be honest, I didn't just visit — I stayed for about a month. I must say I chose the worst possible time to be in Georgia. Late June and July are the hottest period, and I often suffered in temperatures reaching 37 degrees.

I spent time in several parts of Georgia, from Adjara to Kakheti, and in some places in between. In plain language, I was in the far south near the Turkish border and then a bit in central Georgia. In April I was in Kazakhstan, mainly in the northern part, around the city of Karaganda. And a few years ago I spent several months in Moldova.

Sometimes it is useful to spend longer periods in different former Soviet republics. It gives reason to reflect on quite a few things.

As many surely know, economically and institutionally the Baltic states are the most developed among the fragments of the former Soviet Union. It is hard to say who holds the leading position; Estonians would of course like to think it is the Republic of Estonia. The same claim cannot be denied to Lithuania or Latvia.

But there is one thing in which Estonia stands out most: here the Soviet Union is the least important reference point. By that I mean that although the Soviet past is mentioned fairly often, compared with the post‑Soviet countries I have visited, it is still pleasantly rare. One could say Estonia has left the Soviet past behind and looks forward.

Georgia is a complete catastrophe in this regard. It is very hard to find anyone over forty who does not sooner or later start talking about the Soviet Union, comparing life "under the communists." And "communist" is not always a swear word in Georgia.

I have of course met people, mainly entrepreneurs, who say things are better now, that they can run their business without restrictions and success depends mainly on willingness and skills.

In many cases the comparison with today's Georgia is that "it was better under the communists." There are entire regions where the collapse of the Soviet Union meant not only the disappearance of jobs but also electricity, gas and cheap subsidised food. I have met people who say things are better now, but many do not.

In Kazakhstan, comparisons with Soviet times also come up constantly, though not in a positive way. Kazakhs still remember how they were not only a minority in their own homeland but second‑class citizens. Russians, Ukrainians and even a few Estonians who had arrived from across the Soviet Union constantly reminded Kazakhs that they should be grateful for being brought "civilisation" and "culture," turning nomadic herders into "civilised" people.

All this came with the suppression of Kazakh culture and language. Islam, central to Kazakh identity to the point where it is sometimes hard to draw a line between being Muslim and being Kazakh, was pushed underground.

Kazakhs themselves say that Kazakh sufism saved Islam and thus Kazakh identity. Since nomadic herders could not regularly attend mosques, a tradition developed where the local religious authority was the oldest man in the family, the aksakal. Thus mosques, mullahs and imams were not critical for being Muslim. Prayer and Islamic customs survived the Soviet era among Kazakhs.

In Moldova, emphasising Soviet heritage is highly political and characteristic of pro‑Russian politicians and their supporters. Moldova shows clearly where cultivating Soviet heritage leads: it brings Russia increasingly into the life of the state and its people.

About half the population of Moldova believes the country has only one path of development — together with Russia, through difficulties toward the stars. There is also an economic reason: Russia is an important market for Moldovan goods, more important than the European Union.

It should also be mentioned that in all the countries above, Russian is the first language used to communicate with foreigners. It is ironic that Georgians like to say Russian is disappearing and English is taking over, but in practice it is very hard to manage outside central Tbilisi and Batumi's tourist areas without Russian.

All this leads to an interesting mental geography. For Estonia and most Estonians, Russia is clearly "the other" country, somewhere beyond the border, with which nothing much connects us anymore and about which we do not know much.

In Moldova, Kazakhstan and Georgia, Russia is "one of us," a foreign country in the same way Estonians tend to view Latvia. As a colleague once told me years ago in Kazakhstan: "For us, the Soviet Union is the Homeland." With a capital letter. In the shadow of that Great Homeland, Russia slips ever deeper into these countries, and the boundary between the Soviet Union and Russia fades — in a positive sense.

A Russian tends to be a different kind of foreigner in these countries than a citizen of any random European state. Georgians, Kazakhs and Moldovans share music with Russians, from Kino to Soviet‑era pop, jokes that everyone understands, well‑known films and even shared terminology — the word "comrade" still appears in Russian conversation, and various coins are still called kopecks.

I would dare say that while Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania have mentally turned their backs on Russia, most former Soviet republics have not. Yes, propaganda seeps through every crack here too, and there are those who idealise Russia, but in Estonia there is a clear distance toward Russia. For many Georgians, Kazakhs and Moldovans, by contrast, Russia occupies the same space and world.

And that world shines through everywhere in Georgia, Moldova or Kazakhstan. Russian pop music plays in every second taxi, Soviet pioneer songs sound in children's playgrounds, walls are plastered with posters for concerts by Russian artists, and many people eagerly watch Russian television. Still one of us.

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