by CKR
Traditions are constantly being renewed, pace the purists who would freeze them at certain preferred points in time. “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” is now a traditional part of Christmas in the United States. Gene Autry first recorded it in 1949. The mix and style of the arts displayed at Indian Market change slightly every year. Both Rudolph and the newer manifestations of Indian art can be attributed to commerciality, but I would guess that at least one reader has some fond Christmas memories attached to that song.
I love folk costumes. They require all the varieties of needlework, most of which I do more or less competently, so figuring out how they’re done and how I might incorporate them into a project is part of the fun for me. In most places they are worn only for special occasions or exist only as heirlooms, grandmother’s wedding dress in a box.
When I went to Estonia for the first time, I saw postcards in a series that was clearly modern, but the photos looked straight out of the nineteenth century: folk costumes of the various regions. Men and women posed formally against filmy gray painted backgrounds of trees and small houses. Some were in stiff dance poses. I quickly overcame an initial temptation to track down the entire series (how many cards, I had no idea). I don’t recall on which trip I learned about the song festivals, but I knew that I would have to attend. The singers and dancers in the accompanying dance festival would be attired in those folk costumes. I also love to sing and to listen to others.
I’ve given a bit of song festival history before. The festivals are a remarkable example of people using their culture to regain their independence. This could only be done in the context of both respect for tradition and a willingness to change.
The song festivals began in 1869, part of the romantic nationalist movement sweeping across Europe out of Germany. Elias Lönnrot in Finland collected folksongs and stories and wove them together into a national epic, The Kalevala. Friedrich Kreutzwald followed in Estonia with the similarly-compiled Kalevipoeg , Son of Kalev.
It’s hard to believe how many folksongs Estonia has. I keep buying used songbooks to find the music and words for some of the songs I like and half-know. Some of the songbooks contain not a single song that I’ve heard. But I’ve also found two songs that I sang at summer camp: in English, of course, but the translations are surprisingly close.
The song festivals continued after Estonia became independent from Russia in 1922 and after it was reabsorbed by the Soviet Union in 1945. The Soviet Union needed showpieces to indicate its support of what were called “the nationalities,” everyone but the Russians. The Soviets insisted on some modifications to the program. Besides the well-loved Tuljak, the 1947 program included “Stalin, Lead Us to Iron Will.”* The 1969 centennial song festival included a Ukrainian song and one from the Russian Revolution. It was good Soviet form to include sister republics.
Through the Soviet times, though, most of the songs were Estonian. Gustav Ernesaks composed and arranged songs in the folk traditions during the forties and fifties. And the Estonians wore their nineteenth-century costumes for the song festivals.
The song festivals allowed people to come together from across the country in ways that the Soviets might not otherwise have allowed. Tens of thousands from across the country were accommodated in Tallinn during the festivals, requiring housing and food. Tents at the song festival grounds and army cooks provide some of that today.
And so the Estonians learned to move people in large groups. This knowledge came in handy for the Baltic Chain in 1989, the largest demonstration against Soviet rule.
Coming together to sing their songs also built a feeling of solidarity. I’m willing to believe all sorts of things about singing, including that humans sang before they talked. Singing in a group is one of the wonderful human experiences. And, closely related, is a language of one’s own, separate from the occupiers’.
Estonian belongs to the Finno-Ugrian language family, not the Indo-European of Russian and English. There is a saying that Estonians and Russians believe that Estonian is the most difficult language in the world. A number of jokes compare the Estonian language to those of their neighbors. I won’t repeat them, because they are uniformly uncomplimentary to the neighbors. A language that the occupiers don’t understand can be quite an advantage. Russians are as resistant to learning new languages as Americans are.
The Estonians maintained their own identity and history through their language and the song festivals. The language changed during the Soviet times, and some of the other things did too. Photos of the various song festivals show differences in skirt length and in the men’s caps. Ernesaks and Veljo Tormis introduced new songs. But now the song festivals are changing faster. One day of the festival is “world music,” including Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus and Sibelius’s Finlandia. The second day, though, is all Estonian music. Tuljak is required.
I had the great good fortune to buy a cd with Tuljak on it during my first visit. It is about a wedding in a village. Its tempo changes dramatically around a dance melody that sets anyone’s foot to tapping. Before I could read the cd material to find that it is an Estonian favorite, I knew it was one of mine. It is one of the happiest songs ever written, even if you don’t understand Estonian. It was written by Miina Härma in the late nineteenth century. Long enough to be a tradition.
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* “Raudtahtel Stalin juhtis meid.” I’m not sure my translation is correct, but I think it’s close. If anyone wants to correct me, I’ll take it.