The following is a guest contribution and reflects the author’s views alone. For information on how to submit a piece to the Opinion section, click here.
The pursuit of moral purity often drives more unjust actions. We strongly disagree with Veronika Kitsul’s recent Opinion piece, in which she argues that the Department of Slavic Languages and Literatures must end its Russian language program in Estonia and refrain from sponsoring programs in any post-Soviet states.
To our knowledge, she has no first-hand experience with the program. As members of the Estonia program’s first cohort and students of Slavic studies, we believe that Princeton’s Russian Summer Program in Tallinn is worth preserving.
Kitsul touts Estonia as a unique nation with its own cultural identity. We certainly agree with her sentiment. But how do we know that? Upon our return, a family friend asked one of us if Estonia was part of Russia. Surely, we could have answered “no” even before our stay, and perhaps even elaborated on some Wikipedia history.
But for Americans with no Eastern European background, it would have been impossible to articulate further on Estonia’s unique cultural quirks, how the two nations differ in practice, and what life was like on the ground. That is something we learned by actually going to Estonia. Ironically, studying the language of Estonia’s former occupiers gave us a deep appreciation of the nation itself, beyond anything that a Baltic Studies 101 class could teach.
Contrary to Kitsul’s claims, the program is run by Tallinn University and not Princeton — it is a collaborative partnership, not a one-sided initiative. Next summer’s calendar indicates Estonian movie nights, food workshops, and trips across the country. Princeton supplements these excursions with trips to Tartu, Estonia, and Riga, Latvia — bastions of Baltic culture — and students almost certainly pursue further cultural exploration.
The learning from those formal experiences pales next to the lessons of simple day-in-day-out existence in-country: the sunset concert full of reminiscing retirees, the nights with a host brother’s high school dropout friends, the tight-knit community of local “hardcore” weightlifters. If there exists an ethical responsibility to learn from our hosts, Princeton’s partnership in Estonia meets it.
Kitsul implicitly assumes that Estonian culture is monolithic and singular; a nation of Estonian speakers of Estonian ethnicity. She claims that marketing Estonia’s “Russian side” diminishes “Estonia’s independent cultural identity.” The situation is more complex.
Estonian identity does not exist as an isolated singularity. Estonia is a small state, and it has grappled with larger powers since its birth. Germans conquered Estonia in 1227, both Christianizing and enserfing the native peoples. By 1625, Estonia came entirely under Swedish rule, and from 1721 until the early 1990s, it was occupied by the Russians. For better or worse, Estonian culture requires us to grapple with its fragile existence. To remove “Russian” from Baltic culture is to pick out dissolved salt from water.
Culture aside, Princeton’s program in Estonia is crucial for the study of the Russian language. The U.S. Department of State classifies Russian as a language “critical to our national security and prosperity.” Russia dominates the headlines, and not enough people speak its language. If we desire a just peace in Ukraine, Estonia, and other former Soviet states, we need informed thinkers with experience in Russian language and culture.
We know from a wealth of studies that studying abroad does just that. Students have a summer away from the typical responsibilities of school with the best possible resources. Tallinn, the capital of Estonia and host of Princeton’s Russian program, is undeniably a suitable location.
Data shows that about 44 percent of Tallinn speaks Russian as a mother tongue. What some may denigrate as “linguistic colonialism” from afar is, for the locals, simply the melange of cultures that makes up their real life. Interacting with these people — the majority of whom consider themselves Estonian — is real language and cultural learning.
Finally, Kitsul argues that we should replace Russian language courses with instruction in Estonian, Latvian, and Lithuanian. This, of course, would be welcome, but is similarly impractical. Princeton has only two students currently enrolled in each of its Bosnian-Croatian-Serbian, Polish, and Ukrainian language classes.
If the goal is increasing interest in Baltic cultures, Princeton’s Estonia partnership is an excellent way to raise awareness of the region by funneling students from the Slavic Department’s largest language group.
We can certainly contemplate the broader ethics of how to precisely engage with the Russian language without further polarization or entrenchment of conflict. But on the topic of the language program in Tallinn, our opinion is simple: The culture of a small nation should not be inaccessible to students merely to prevent association with its former oppressors.
Kitsul is letting perfect be the enemy of the good. In attempting to cancel Princeton in Estonia, we damage access to Baltic culture, Russian language study, and ultimately, the world’s chances for peace in the region. Princeton in Estonia must go on.
William Aepli ’26 and Astor Lu ’26 attended Princeton’s Russian Summer Program in Tallinn in Summer 2023 as Monty Raiser ’92 scholars. Aepli is minoring in Russian, East European, and Eurasian Studies. Lu is minoring in Slavic Languages and Literatures. They can be reached at willaepli[at]princeton.edu and al6058[at]princeton.edu respectively.
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Veronika KitsulBy advertising Estonia as an alternative location to practice Russian, the University fails to treat Estonia as it is: a sovereign nation with its own cultural identity and historical trauma related to Russian domination. Princeton is not taking a stand against Russian imperialism — it’s simply finding a more palatable way to continue supporting it.
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