When members of Mart Laar's second government took office, they were given a copy of "Yes, Minister" by Jonathan Lynn and Antony Jay. For the ministers, it was both a comedy and, in some ways, a practical guide that helped explain how public-sector bureaucracy works.

In the book, Jim Hacker heads the Department of Administrative Affairs. He wants the best but constantly finds himself trapped in absurd situations. One thing, however, cannot be held against the characters: a lack of passion. Their enthusiasm overflows whether they are waiting by the phone for an important call or trying to figure out why a newly opened hospital has no patients. Even an invitation to pop in for a drink with the PM's adviser is accepted with enthusiasm, despite the inevitable dressing-down.

Watching today's political maneuvering and party switching in Estonia, however, one quickly gets the sense that the spark and enthusiasm are long gone. Passion is not renewable energy but a rapidly depleted fossil fuel. Modern politics, to borrow a line from the Estonian punk band Propeller, is guided by "cold calculation and strict discipline."

To some extent, this loss of momentum is inevitable. Gone are the days when the country had to be built from scratch and inner conviction kept office lights burning late into the night. Over 35 years, many things have settled into place and it is no surprise that people have settled as well.

There are exceptions, but on the whole politics has increasingly become a matter of earning a living in a particular field. There is nothing shameful about that. Everyone wants something to put on their bread and seeks a place in life where they can earn it more easily. Someone who gets up before dawn and works hard deserves respect, even if their eyes no longer sparkle. The same applies when that person's profession is politics.

Still, to accept politicians' lack of enthusiasm in the midst of yet another election campaign would be close to heresy. Voters prefer candidates who seem to operate around the clock like the Energizer Bunny and can still string together coherent sentences after a sleepless night.

On a weekend morning, a prospective candidate rises early to brave the cold and hand out tea, pancakes and pens from a party-branded tent outside a shopping center. Then comes a party council meeting, where they enthusiastically listen to the leader's speech and propose a brand-new plan to revive the Estonian economy, a fresh recipe so simple that no one else could possibly have thought of it because everyone else is obviously wrong.

And once that Smaug's hoard of hidden treasure has been discovered, the one that will supposedly bring prosperity to schools, clinics and rescue stations, the politician's work for the day is done.

It sounds noble to say that a politician's employer is the people, but in practice, for most functions, the real boss is the political party. In that sense, switching parties is a pragmatic move not very different from a baker crossing the street to work in a competing bakery. Condemning party swappers and pointing fingers at them is a relic of an earlier era when some politicians really were driven by pure enthusiasm.

From time to time, the argument resurfaces that politics does not pay well enough, that the private sector offers higher salaries and that lawmakers and other politicians should therefore receive pay raises to attract talented people. In the previous parliamentary term, when salaries were somewhat lower, there was even a member of parliament who occasionally drove a taxi during parliamentary sessions to earn extra money.

Yet when Estonia's average gross monthly salary this year, according to second-quarter figures, stands at €2,243 and the salary of an ordinary member of the Riigikogu is €6,655.81, it is easy to see that the overwhelming majority of working people in Estonia will never come close to that level of income during their careers. Against that backdrop, the notion that financial motives play no role in a political career sounds rather thin.

Finally, one must also admire the optimism of parliamentary candidates. In the most recent election, in 2023, a total of 968 candidates competed for seats in the Riigikogu, more than nine candidates per seat. As a rough guess, perhaps only one in four of them had anything resembling a realistic expectation of being elected.

But why did the remaining three quarters, hundreds of people, take part? They invested their time, attended campaign events and paid candidate deposits. Quite a mystery, isn't it?

Or perhaps somewhere inside those hardened political hearts there is still a small remnant of that lost passion and burning conviction.

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