Daily life Latvia in the 1980s seems to have been ominous – infused with constant but ambiguous fear. There weren’t strict guidelines about what was and wasn’t allowed, but there was a distinct awareness that a misstep could get you into serious trouble. It wasn’t unusual to not even realize that you’d done something ‘wrong’ until finding your name on a list years later. The regime gave certain freedoms to feign a free and happy nation, but the line was very thin. Offences were subjective. This generation born into the regime didn’t know why it was this way or what exactly they feared – they didn’t understand the magnitude of Latvia’s history and the extent of the danger. Their parents remembered the horrors of invasions and deportations well, they knew how they got there and how bad it could get, but they kept these stories from their children to protect them: talk at school or with friends was exactly what could get them into trouble with informants. It was easier and safer to maintain silence. Yet, however subtle, the soviet threat was always right there, ready to push back if you pushed a little. You never knew who was an informant, when you were being watched or heard, by whom. While there were always suspicions you could never be sure. You were always looking over your shoulder, watching your step, your mouth and your neighbour. Lija sang in a choir from 1968 to 2000 and participated in all of the song festivals during those years. She said song gave her the spark of life she needed to survive. *
As a student, Lija and a group of friends wanted to keep a party going after a student dance. They wanted to sing another song, stay up a little longer. One of them knew the way to a rooftop of a building across from the Freedom Monument. They climbed up and sang into dawn. When peers heard what they had done they were horrified — what if someone had seen them? Heard them? They would have been expelled. But what were they doing wrong? As Lija says, they weren’t hurting anyone: young voices singing into the rising sun, next to the sky. * The Baltic countries have a long and strong relationship with song. Latvia’s oral tradition is one of the richest in the world. During the first awakening of Latvian national identity in the late 1800s Krisjanis Barons and his team travelled from home to home across the country recording oral folksongs, Dainas , onto small sheets of paper which they compiled, organised and published in six volumes, accumulating over 200 000 verses. Dainas are characteristically made up of four-line stanzas and accompany people through life’s rituals of work, changing seasons, birth, marriage and death. Janis, a folk musician, explains: “Song got you through life, or just through the day. Working in the mill is hard. To make the work easier you get a rhythm going with the millstone. Then you throw a melody on it. Then you add words to stick it to the man or make a joke. It’s a way to get through the physical labour and still smile at the end of the day. Song helps lighten burdens. You can change its words to tell a story. Song is always with you. Has always been with us.” * The Latvian Song and Dance Festival has been held since 1873, normally every five years. The main event, the final concert, is a sight to see. Choirs from around the country practice all year to join in Riga into a united choir of up to 50 000 participants, facing approximately 100 000 spectators. Traditionally folk songs and patriotic songs are sung in a celebration of Latvian national identity. Before 1918 the songs performed and emotions associated with them helped people maintain hope that an independent Latvia was possible.
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1985 Latvian Song and Dance Festival participants arriving.
Liepins family photographs
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