Thirty-six years ago this month, I was trudging the snowbound streets of Vilnius in the dying days of the Soviet empire. Lithuanians, like their Latvian and Estonian neighbours, were seizing the chance to put their long-lost countries back on the map.
It seemed a long shot. These brave, scruffy, unarmed people were up against the might of the Kremlin and also western opinion. Our decision-makers were betting on the supposedly reformist Mikhail Gorbachev, not on “nationalists” who wanted to break up the Soviet Union and all too likely (they feared) replace it with warring fiefdoms and mafia-ridden chaos.
We could hardly have been more wrong. Lithuania not only regained its independence but thrived, joining the European Union and Nato and overhauling much of western Europe. Vilnius, a decaying wreck when I first visited, is now the biggest and richest city in the Baltics, humming with opportunity and excitement. In 2024 an opinion survey ranked young Lithuanians as the happiest in the world, citing work-life balance, excellent free education and the opportunities presented by thriving tech startups.
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Now a new poll says Lithuanians are the most optimistic people in Europe. Admittedly, that is a low bar. Of the 11,000 people in 24 countries surveyed by FGS Global, a PR firm, almost two-thirds think the “best years are behind us” and more than three-quarters think democracy is in decline. Nearly everywhere a majority (73 per cent in Britain) thinks their country is headed in the wrong direction. In Lithuania, by contrast, half (49 per cent) of those surveyed said their country was heading in the right direction; they also gave high scores for trust and belief in democracy.
Many Britons still struggle to tell the Baltics and Balkans apart. But we should pay closer attention to the Lithuanians, not just for their mood but their success. Along with Latvia and Estonia, they are forging ahead at a time when we wallow in stagnation.
We can be quite careless about our freedoms; the traumas of the past mean Lithuanians cherish theirs. “We know we need to hold on to democracy because other options would be much worse,” says a friend. Few alive today recall the dark days of 1940 when Britain trembled on the precipice of national extinction. Lithuanians toppled into that abyss and stayed there. In the late 1940s the Soviets deported 130,000 people — 5 per cent of the population — to Siberia; equivalent to 3 million Britons today. Repression continued to the end. In January 1991 Soviet forces killed 14 Lithuanians during an attempted pro-Kremlin putsch. They are national martyrs now.
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Lithuanians are not starry-eyed about their politicians. Gleeful antisemitic remarks by the gadfly leader of a small hard-right party, Remigijus Zemaitaitis, for example, have sparked shame and outrage. The sensitivity is merited given that Nazi occupiers and local collaborators murdered the 200,000-strong Jewish population in 1941. Mass protests last year caused the resignation of the party’s comically unsuited nominee for culture minister. Prosecutors later successfully convicted Zemaitaitis for anti-constitutional statements. In few European countries have civil society and public institutions shown such resolve in dealing with obnoxious politicians.
Unlike us, Lithuanians never took a holiday from history. Russia was a menace even in the 1990s (they warned us; we didn’t listen). It carries out repeated propaganda and sabotage attacks in Lithuania.
But vigilance plus agency forges resilience. Margarita Seselgyte, a Lithuanian pundit, cites the “habit of living in a dangerous and constantly changing environment”. Having survived the intolerable and achieved the seemingly impossible, Lithuanians are accustomed to aiming high. They think big, too. The Grand Duchy of Lithuania was the largest country in Europe in 1430; Lithuanians recall that as if it were yesterday. Like their Baltic neighbours, they feel Ukraine’s anguish acutely. But they are not intimidated. A 5,000-strong German brigade is now based in Lithuania, and US and Polish forces are frequent visitors. The country spends a stonking 5.38 per cent of GDP on defence. Lithuanians are queueing to join the reserve forces.
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One of the volunteer officers is my friend Giedre Kaminskaite-Salters. A hotshot London lawyer, she moved back home to run a Swedish multinational company’s regional division. “This is about the journey we’ve made and what’s still ahead of us,” she says. “We’ve caught up and overtaken some of the countries we used to look up to, like Portugal and Spain … and we know we won’t stop here, we’ll keep on chasing and overtaking. So there’s the sense of excitement and ambition you feel in a race … we’re determined to win.”
Lithuanians have their worries. Suicide rates, though falling, are still the highest in the EU, chiefly among the over-50s scarred by Soviet-era life and upbringing and struggling in the new economy. Low birth rates mean a demographic squeeze. That means more immigration. (On a visit this month I encountered a Pakistani taxi driver who spoke fluent Lithuanian.) They worry about us too: our gaping defence weaknesses, the Brexit shambles, the loss of purpose and grip, our dreadful public services (another factor pulling British Lithuanians to move back home).
I find that blush-making. We in Britain live so safely. We are so much bigger and (for now) richer. We have squandered so much and are willing to sacrifice so little. I wish we could borrow a bit of the Lithuanians’ gutsy, resourceful spirit. And their optimism.