There are three states, on the eastern border of NATO and the European Union, that have been watching what has happened in Crimea and Ukraine, since 2014 and especially since 2022, with much more attention than average. Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania do not want to, and cannot, take Russian military actions lightly.

The common fate of the ‘three Baltic sisters’

The three Baltic republics have an extremely shared history over the last 300 years: between the early and late 18th century they became part of the Russian Empire, all three declared independence in 1918 (recognised by Moscow in 1920), all three were invaded and occupied first by the USSR (1940-1941), then by Germany (1941-1944), to become part of the Soviet state again as RSS. A period that many people remember with regret if not resentment, given the not exactly accommodating Soviet policies, and the subordination of the Baltic peoples to the Russian one (Russification, repression, deportations, political control). In 1991, it was precisely the Baltic republics that were the first states to see their independence recognised by the USSR.

In 2004, all three together again joined the European Union and NATO.

From 2014 to 2025: the strategic response

The history of the Baltic republics made it impossible for them to take what happened to Ukraine lightly. Lithuania, which had suspended military conscription in 2008 to switch to a professional army like much of Europe, retraced its steps in 2015. After the annexation of Crimea it reintroduced conscription, 9 months of service, priority to volunteers but with the possibility of calling by lot.

Latvia followed a few years later: in 2023 the first contingent, from 2024 a compulsory national service for males returns, formally, but with a new logic – first volunteers are sought, then, if they are not enough, the age group is fished out.

Estonia, which had never completely eliminated it, has meanwhile expanded its numbers and ambitions.

The event that changes perspective: Ukraine under attack

On 24 February 2022, after the invasion of Ukraine, they do not wait a minute. In the first 24 hours, the Baltics denounce the invasion as a security crisis of their own: they invoke NATO Article 4, a strong counter-propaganda effort, a national emergency is declared in Lithuania. In the first weeks, that reading is transformed into lasting norms and positions: laws, media regulation, NATO reinforcement on the eastern flank.

In 2022 a path of detachment from Russian energy services begins: from May 2022 the Baltics no longer buy Russian electricity and between 2022 and 2023 they zero out Russian gas; the most symbolic and critical technical link – dependence on the Russian grid for electricity frequency – is finally severed on 8-9 February 2025 with synchronisation to the European continental grid. All this, of course, in cooperation mainly with Poland and the Nordic countries.

Joint withdrawal from the Ottawa Convention

Another decision makes it clear how much the three states consider their own security threatened: in 2025, the Baltics take a step that would have been unthinkable a few years ago. Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania deposit their notification of withdrawal from the Ottawa Convention on anti-personnel mines with the UN on 27 June 2025; the withdrawal becomes effective at the end of December (six months later, as stipulated in Art. 20).

In the deposited notifications, the rationale is stated in no uncertain terms: ‘deterioration’ of regional security and the need for maximum defensive flexibility, with mines seen as a necessary tool to be able to slow down and channel a possible invasion. A choice that has attracted criticism, from organisations committed to humanitarian law.

Warfare as a budgetary priority

National expenditures also leave no doubt: Lithuania, with the 2026 budget approved on 11 December 2025, puts 4.79 billion on the table: 5.38% of GDP, the highest percentage in its post-independence history. Latvia sets 2.16 billion for 2026, or 4.91% of GDP, again, a record for the state. Estonia approved a programme in 2025 that brings defence spending to an average of around 5.4% of GDP from 2026 to 2029, yet another national record figure.

A policy that also passes through the most visible images: Latvia has built a 280-kilometre barrier along its border with Russia, in addition to the 145-kilometre barrier along the border with Belarus. In Lithuania, a number of bridges on the border with Russia and Belarus have been prepared so that explosive charges can be placed on them: all this is part of the Baltic Line of Defence plan, a network of obstacles and positions designed to slow down, channel and break up a land advance from the very first kilometres, buying time for the national response and for NATO reinforcements.

Deterrence by Baltic denial

Institutional sources explicitly describe it as strengthening the Baltic external border and NATO’s eastern border, with ‘anti-mobility’ installations along the borders with Russia and Belarus. The doctrinal framework is that of ‘forward defence / deterrence by denial’ and the new NATO regional plans: deny space from the start. It is not contemplated that one can lose position in order to regain it later.

A line of defence that is articulated in several ways: physical obstacles (anti-tank ditches, trenches/embankments, anti-vehicle barriers, ‘dragon’s teeth’, barbed wire, exploitation of swamps/forests/river crossings), fortified points, preparation of the territory to deny mobility to the enemy (pre-positioning of materials, preparation of bridges and key roads) for rapid intervention in a crisis.

Verba volant; concrete, barbed wire and anti-personnel mines manent.

The internal border: Russian speakers and security

In the Baltic States, there is a further peculiarity that makes them not only a military but also a social ‘frontier’: the presence of Russian minorities and, above all, of large Russian-speaking masses. It is a theme that inevitably recalls the post-2014 Ukraine, where Moscow used the ‘protection of Russian speakers’ card as a political justification for military actions. In the Donbas, for example, ethnic Russians were not in the majority in the 2001 Ukrainian census (in Donetsk, ethnic Russians were 38.2%; in Luhansk, around 39.0%), while Russian was largely dominant as a native language (74.9% in Donetsk; 68.8% in Luhansk).

In Crimea, on the other hand, ethnic Russians were around 60% in the 2001 Ukrainian census. When a minority (or a local majority) perceives that its linguistic identity is in collision with the state, external leverage becomes more plausible and more dangerous.

And what has really changed after 2022? In the Baltics, integration (language, schooling, residence, citizenship, media) stops being just social policy and becomes, openly, a piece of the national security architecture.

And we are not talking about micro-minorities:

• In Latvia, ethnic Russians are listed at 23% and native Russian speakers at 37.7%.
• In Estonia, Russian is the mother tongue of 29 per cent and, adding those who speak it as a foreign language, it reaches 67 per cent as an overall competence.
• In Lithuania, ethnic Russians are at 5%, but Russian still remains a non-marginal language (the CIA World Factbook estimates the number of ‘native speakers’ at 6.8% in 2021).

In Latvia, the decisive breakthrough comes mainly through school, residence and information space.

After the invasion of Ukraine, Riga accelerated the transition to ‘Latvian only’ schooling: UN experts (OHCHR) on 8 February 2023 criticised the drastic downsizing of minority language education. On 23 April 2024, the government initiated the phase-out of Russian as a second foreign language at school from 2026/2027.

Latvia ties specific cases of residence permit renewal to a Latvian A2 test, explicitly motivating with integration and national security in the context of war and disinformation. In the information space, there is talk of public media content only in Latvian and languages of the ‘European cultural space’ from 1 January 2026; at the same time, there are plans to move content in foreign languages (including Russian) to digital and to close down linear broadcasts in Russian at the end of 2025.

In 2026, the tax squeeze also arrives: no more reduced VAT at 5 per cent for books in Russian, which will change to the standard rate, 21 per cent.

Estonia: schools and politics as security infrastructure

In Estonia, the system is similar, but in a cleaner form: schooling and political affiliation are treated as security infrastructure. The Ministry of Education describes the transition to education in Estonian: start in 2024 and completion by 2030. On 26 March 2025, the Riigikogu (Estonian Parliament) passes a constitutional amendment revoking the vote in local elections for third-country nationals resident in Estonia and, from the next round, also for stateless persons.

This is not a subtlety: it is a clear signal that the ‘border’ is not just a military trench; it is also a redefinition of who fully belongs to the political community, just as Russian remains a language known by two thirds of the population.

Vilnius in the midst of hybrid warfare

In Lithuania, identity friction tends to be lower because the Russian minority is much smaller (5% ethnic Russians in the 2021 census).

But it would be a mistake to think that the problem here is negligible: the Soviet legacy left Russian as a widespread competence even beyond ethnic Russians, and in a hybrid war this matters a lot (for media consumption, social networks, vulnerability to disinformation). Moreover, precisely because internal pressure is lower, Vilnius tends to treat the issue more geopolitically than ethnically: less daily identity clash, more attention to external risk and information space.

On the razor’s edge: security vs. resentment

The risk in all three countries is generalisation: slipping from ‘containing the Kremlin’s influence’ to ‘distrusting Russian speakers’ is a matter of little. And even when there are solid reasons for raising one’s guard, the side effect is the air that gets dirty: daily suspicion, self-censorship, resentment. This is not an abstract impression: Latvian intelligence (MIDD) itself has gone so far as to issue guidance to citizens on how to recognise possible saboteurs/spies, a sign of a very high perceived threat climate.

Herein lies a tragic paradox: the Baltics cannot ignore their minorities, and the feared risks are concrete and plausible, not paranoid. But the more the climate of tension grows, the more resentments and identity reactions increase, and the easier it becomes to fuel precisely those extremisms that are feared. If a public policy is experienced as collective punishment (‘you are Russian-speaking therefore you are suspect’), Russian propaganda is already halfway there: a linguistic rift becomes a loyalty rift. An intelligent balance requires selective toughness against hostile networks and propaganda, but also credible channels (including linguistic ones) that bring Russian speakers into the Baltic civic space instead of pushing them out.

History repeats itself, especially when the border between Europe and the Russian empire, between Europe and the Soviet union, coincides with that between the European Union/NATO and Russia. And the ‘frontier’ is not just a line on the map, it is a permanent condition. It is power grid and energy independence, military leverage, but it is also school, language, media, political rights. It is the point at which geopolitics becomes everyday administration.

The Baltics cannot afford naivety. But neither can they afford the opposite mistake: turning security into resentment. Because, at that point, they would no longer be defending the border: they would only be preparing the ground for those who would like to cross it without firing a shot.