Fear inspires an artful twist
The conversion of factories into cultural venues rarely raises eyebrows these days, but the Kreenholm complex in Narva, Estonia, is not just any relic of industry. Once the world’s largest cotton mill and a poster child of Soviet might, it stands on an island in the river that now makes up the European Union’s eastern border. Russia is just a stone’s throw away, leaving Narva — where 90 per cent of the population is ethnic Russian — caught between two worlds.
Kreenholm’s imposing atmosphere appealed to Jarmo Reha, 27, a theatre director from Tallinn, the Estonian capital. He recently commandeered the site for his production Oomen, which saluted the ghosts of industry with actors hammering on iron while the Narva Boy’s Choir sang the socialist anthem The Internationale.
The performance was well received by visiting critics, but some condemned the use of Kreenholm as “blasphemy,” Reha said in an interview. The factory’s former workers complained that events were being imported from the capital, yet no one was reaching out to the local population. Thousands in the city lost their jobs after the mill was privatized, and it closed for good in 2010. “It’s an open wound,” Reha said. It’s the kind of tension that Narva is becoming accustomed to as it becomes the latest front in a simmering culture war in the former Soviet bloc. Estonia is lavishing money and attention on Narva to attract investment to the city, fearing that its neglected Russian minority is prone to Kremlin influence.
The arts are central to the strategy. Kreenholm hosted the inaugural edition of Station Narva, an alternative music festival, this fall. A cultural program funded by the Ministry of Culture has also been established there, bringing in artists and exhibitions. Vaba Lava Narva, a theatre in a former military factory, opened in December. A campaign is underway to make Narva one of the European Union’s capitals of culture by 2024.
Helen Sildna, who is leading the campaign, said there was a “soft power” dimension to the cultural initiatives. “From a defence perspective, building a happy, prosperous community in our border area is crucial,” she said. “But from a human perspective, it’s the decent thing to do anyway.”
After years as a Soviet satellite, Estonia, a nation of just 1.3 million people, is anxious to safeguard its language and identity — and that has meant a residual suspicion of its Russian-speaking minority.
Until recently, Narva was stigmatized as a hotbed of crime and opioid addiction, closer not only in distance but also in mentality to Russia. The rest of Estonia stayed away.
But Russia’s annexation of Crimea in 2014 was “like a bell ringing that woke people in Estonia up,” said Jaanus Mikk, chief executive of Narva Gate, a property developer renovating Kreenholm. “Politicians started to think about Narva, and it helped the city a lot — more funds and projects came in.”