Histories of Public Diplomacy and Nation Branding in the Nordic and Baltic Countries : Representing the Periphery [1 ed.] 9789004305496, 9789004305489

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Histories of Public Diplomacy and Nation Branding in the Nordic and Baltic Countries

Diplomatic Studies Series Editor Jan Melissen (Netherland Institute of International Relations ‘Clingendael’)

VOLUME 12

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/dist

Histories of Public Diplomacy and Nation Branding in the Nordic and Baltic Countries Representing the Periphery Edited by

Louis Clerc Nikolas Glover Paul Jordan

LEIDEN | BOSTON

Cover Image courtesy of Nikolas Glover, 2015.

This publication has been typeset in the multilingual “Brill” typeface. With over 5,100 characters covering Latin, IPA, Greek, and Cyrillic, this typeface is especially suitable for use in the humanities. For more information, please see www.brill.com/brill-typeface. issn 1872-8863 isbn 978-90-04-30548-9 (hardback) isbn 978-90-04-30549-6 (e-book) Copyright 2015 by Koninklijke Brill nv, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill nv incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Nijhoff and Hotei Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill nv provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, ma 01923, usa. Fees are subject to change. This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Contents Acknowledgements vii Contributors viii

Introduction Representing the Small States of Northern Europe: Between Imagined and Imaged Communities 3 Louis Clerc and Nikolas Glover

PART 1 1918–45: War and International Order 1 The Nationalisation of Swedish Enlightenment Activities Abroad: Civil Society Actors and Their Impact on State Politics 23 Andreas Åkerlund 2 Open Diplomacy and Minority Rights: The League of Nations and Lithuania’s International Image in the Early 1920s 40 Chiara Tessaris 3 Countering “The Obtuse Arguments of the Bolsheviks”: Estonian Information Work in Sweden, the United States and Britain, 1940–1944 60 Kaarel Piirimäe

PART 2 1945–89: Cold War, Diplomacy, Trade, and Culture 4 The Office for Cultural Relations: Representing Norway in the Post-War Period 81 Svein Ivar Angell 5 A Public Diplomacy Entrepreneur: Danish Ambassador Bodil Begtrup in Iceland, Switzerland and Portugal, 1949–1973 102 Kristine Kjærsgaard

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6 A Total Image Deconstructed: The Corporate Analogy and the Legitimacy of Promoting Sweden Abroad in the 1960s 123 Nikolas Glover 7 “Gaining Recognition and Understanding on her own terms”: The Bureaucracy of Finland’s Image Policy, 1948–66 145 Louis Clerc 8 American Mirrors and Swedish Self-Portraits: us Images of Sweden and Swedish Public Diplomacy in the usa in the 1970s and 80s 172 Carl Marklund

PART 3 Post-Cold War: Globalisation and Transnational Markets 9 Diplomacy and Diasporas, Self-Perceptions and Representations: Baltic Attempts to Promote Independence, 1989–1991 197 Una Bergmane 10 Walking in Singing: Brand Estonia, the Eurovision Song Contest and Estonia’s Self-Proclaimed Return to Europe, 2001–2002 217 Paul Jordan 11 Public Diplomacy vs Nation Branding: The Case of Denmark after the Cartoon Crisis 237 Mads Mordhorst 12 Benevolent Assistance and Cognitive Colonisation: Nordic Involvement with the Baltic States since the 1990s 257 Kazimierz Musiał

Concluding Reflections Small-State Identities: Promotions Past and Present 283 Christopher Browning Bibliography 301 Name Index 327 Subject Index 330

Acknowledgements Editing a collective volume…what a fine idea to discuss around a post-conference drink, and what a challenge it can turn into once deadlines start creeping close. The task can only be overcome by working with contributors who are not only insightful in their trade but also conscientious, generous with their time and thoughts, and above all patient. As editors, we have been lucky enough to gather such a group of people, and our first acknowledgments must go to them. This book is the result of a rich and engaging process – not only on a professional level, but also at a personal one. Aside from the authors, we wish to thank those who have made this book possible by bringing us together. Glasgow University’s David Smith should be singled out here, as he has been instrumental in our meeting and has supported our work all along. Cheers, Dave. We are also gratefully indebted to Richard Glover, who, on short notice and with astute suggestions, has generously helped us with our stylistic and semantic quandaries. A number of organisations have made our international cooperation possible. We would like to mention here the University of Turku, the Finnish Association of Communication Professionals Procom, and the Finnish Ministry for Foreign Affairs, who facilitated an initial get-together of the contributors in Helsinki and Turku. In the Ministry, Timo Heino has been especially helpful. At a later stage, Helge Ax:son Johnsons Stiftelse generously provided funds that allowed us to hold a workshop in Uppsala. Turku, Uppsala and London April 2015 lc, ng & pj

List of Contributors Andreas Åkerlund Uppsala University, has published articles on German-Swedish academic contacts and language teaching abroad. Funded by the Swedish Research Council, he is currently researching the relationship between public diplomacy and academic exchange. Svein Ivar Angell is Associate Professor at the University of Bergen and affiliated senior researcher at Uni Research Rokkansenteret. He has published extensively on Norwegian public diplomacy, as well as on nationalism and national identity. Una Bergmane PhD candidate at Sciences Po, Paris, is researching how French and us foreign policies dealt with the disintegrating ussr and the Baltic Question during the period 1989–91. Christopher Browning is Reader of Politics and International Studies at the University of Warwick. He has published widely on issues related to critical approaches to security, identity politics and critical geopolitics, with a particular focus on Europe and the idea of the West. He is currently researching the nexus between nation branding and ontological security. Louis Clerc University of Turku, works as a Senior Lecturer in Contemporary History. He has published on the history of international relations, with an emphasis on Franco-Nordic relations. He is currently researching Finnish and Nordic public and cultural diplomacy. Nikolas Glover Uppsala University, has researched and published on the history of Swedish public diplomacy. His current post-doctoral research, funded by Handels­ bankens forskningsstiftelser, concerns the Swedish business sector’s relations with the emerging Third World during the era of decolonisation.

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Paul Jordan obtained his PhD from the University of Glasgow in 2011 and published his first book, The Modern Fairy Tale, in 2014. His research interests include nation branding, the Eurovision Song Contest and nationalism in the post-Soviet space. Kristine Kjærsgaard Department of History, University of Southern Denmark, has published extensively in the field of Danish foreign and security policy, focusing on the un, human rights and foreign aid. She has worked on a biographic research project on Bodil Begtrup, and is presently researching the un Women’s Conferences since 1975 and their impact in Denmark. Carl Marklund Södertörn University, is a post-doctoral researcher in political science at the Centre for Baltic and East European Studies. He has published widely on comparative welfare state studies, especially images of the Nordic model abroad. Mads Mordhorst Associate Professor in History at Copenhagen Business School, has published several articles on nation branding and national identity in Denmark. His current research focuses on present uses of national identity and national history as commodities. Kazimierz Musiał Associate Professor at the University of Gdansk, specialises in Scandinavian Area Studies and the Baltic Sea region. He pursues research into higher education policies, networking and scientific cooperation in Northern Europe. Kaarel Piirimäe Tartu University, has published extensively on World War ii and the early Cold War, focusing on the Baltic States, “Big Three” diplomacy and propaganda. He is presently researching the origins of Estonia’s foreign policy at the end of the Cold War. Chiara Tessaris obtained her PhD from Columbia University, and specialises on East and Central European History and the Baltic States. Her research focuses on protection of minority rights, international cooperation in the interwar years and the League of Nations.

Introduction

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Representing the Small States of Northern Europe: Between Imagined and Imaged Communities Louis Clerc and Nikolas Glover One of the manifold consequences of the September 2001 terror attacks in New York and Washington was a new political interest for the United States’ image abroad. As America engaged in foreign conflicts, reaping an increasingly bitter harvest in Afghanistan and Iraq, the conviction grew that this image was somehow faulty and had to be managed through ‘public diplomacy,’ a branch of foreign policy that had seemingly been forgotten after the end of the Cold War. Ripple effects were felt to the far reaches of academia, as scholars started paying increasing attention to the definition, promotion and diffusion of national image by state and non-state actors. Combined with expanding research on the effects of globalisation and communication technologies on international relations, the field grappled with the concepts and associated practices of ‘soft power,’ ‘new public diplomacy’ and ‘nation branding.’1 The result was a newfound focus on what can be termed the practice of imaging communities. This has added important dimensions to the study of nation-states, which had previously been concerned above all with the historical emergence and domestic reproduction of imagined communities.2 Many studies of national imaging seem primarily concerned with improving current practices, meaning that academic work on public diplomacy or nation branding has often the feel of an applied science with short-term interests. The present volume, on the other hand, has emerged from a conviction that this growing field of research would benefit from expanding its chronological and geographical scope. We argue that closer historical examination is needed to understand the connections between contemporary practices of external national imaging and the broader cultural and political processes of imagining national community. This is certainly true when it comes to 1 Aronczyk, Branding the Nation; Bátora & Mokre, Culture and External Relations; Cowan & Cull, “Public Diplomacy”; Cull, The Cold War; Kaneva, “Nation Branding”; Melissen, The New Public Diplomacy; Nye, Soft Power; Pamment, New Public Diplomacy; Snow & Taylor, Routledge Handbook. 2 This refers to the seminal work Anderson, Imagined Communities; The distinction between imaging and imagining communities is taken from Glover, “Imaging community.”

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���� | doi 10.1163/9789004305496_002

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studying national practices beyond the Anglosphere, where researchers have tended to retain the professional terms and perspectives defined by and for the us experience. In these cases ‘public diplomacy’ in particular has become a useful, but also problematic, catch-all device.3 While certainly providing a level ground for comparison, it has led researchers to overlook the specificities of national histories and locally rooted terminologies. Thus, although the contributions to this book also use established, English-language concepts – ­‘public diplomacy,’ ‘branding’ – as points of departure, the purpose has been to highlight local, national, and regional histories that do not necessarily comply with how such practices are commonly understood today. The present volume emphasises the fact that national imaging practices have evolved independently in different national cases, rather than going through a single global trajectory of diffusion from an original “invention” of public diplomacy.4 Attempts to sell an image of the nation to foreigners have always involved different organisational patterns, varied interplay between external images and self-conceptions, and idiosyncrasies of domestic and foreign policy. In smaller states, an intuitive urge to see one’s nation through the eyes of others has translated into debates over content, organisational framework, methods and goals. Both technologically determinist chronicles of constant progress and sweeping observations about supposedly timeless practices fall short of explaining these variations of externally imaging and domestically imagining of the nation.

Representations in International Relations

The historical study of international relations has never been a quiet, neatly organised field.5 Within its confines, recent developments (at least in work 3 An example of this is the series of books using public diplomacy and soft power to cover a host of various practices in different settings, from Europe to Eastern Asia. See for instance Davis Cross & Melissen, European Public Diplomacy; Lee & Melissen, Public Diplomacy and Soft Power. 4 The “invention” thesis is suggested by the title of Dizard, Inventing Public Diplomacy. For English-language work seeking to provide comparative and transnational perspectives on different national trajectories, see e.g Bátora & Mokre, Culture and External Relations; Brown, “Four Paradigms of Public Diplomacy”; Gienow-Hecht & Donfried, Searching for a Cultural Diplomacy; Gienow-Hecht & Schumacher, Culture and International History; Kaneva, Branding Post-Communist Nations; Pamment, New Public Diplomacy; Paschalidis, “Exporting National Culture”; Villanueva-Rivas, Representing Cultural Diplomacy. 5 An excellent overview of the field in Finney, Palgrave Advances in International History.

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published in English), can be summarised as a two-pronged process of expansion: from a strict focus on state actors towards transnational groups and societies; and from a predominantly, some would say narrowly, political-strategic outlook to an interest in cultural, economic or social interactions across the borders of politically organised communities. The field has thus expanded significantly, by taking into account new actors and contexts, and sometimes by entirely shifting its focus toward non-political and non-state relations that have crossed or completely ignored national borders. In this process, domestic politics and foreign policy have also been brought together and studied as a continuum, as mutually related and in constant interaction with each other. Moreover, this development has been going on at the same time as scholars working in communication studies and cultural studies have produced important analyses of contemporary cultural, economic and political dynamics at work in discourses of ‘globalisation,’ ‘competition states’ and market-driven public sector reforms.6 The intention of the present volume is to contribute to the further cross-fertilisation of the field, by connecting the perspectives of international history with the growing literature on contemporary public diplomacy and nation branding. One way of tying these different approaches together is by placing the concept of representation at the centre of the volume. Diplomatic and international history has long been concerned with studying the actors, institutions and groups with various mandates to represent states, as well as the effect that they have had on decision-making at key junctures. At the same time, communication studies and cultural approaches have paid attention to the contents, interpretations and relations of power involved in various forms of representations of reality.7 These various ways of studying representation provide essential and mutually complementary perspectives when dealing with the historical field covered in this volume.8 Representing the nation has involved institutions, practices and processes – but also texts, images and narratives. National representations – both institutional and ­textual – have been formulated and disputed; they have become part of 6 See for instance Angell & Mordhorst, “National Reputation Management”; Aronczyk, Brand­ ing the Nation; Christensen, “@Sweden”; Jansen, “Designer Nations”; Kaneva, “Nation Brand­ ing”; Rose, “Branding of States”; Varga, “Marketization of Foreign Cultural Policy.” 7 A key treatise on representation in the first sense is Pitkin, Concept of Representation; in the second sense, Hall, Representation. Saward, Representative Claim, attempts to bring the two traditions together. 8 For other examples of this, see Glover, National Relations and Villanueva-Rivas, Representing Cultural Diplomacy.

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foreign policy decision-making processes; they have been used in domestic debates, and interpreted in foreign settings. Thus, nation-states have been represented both by their citizens and in various forms of domestic and foreign discourses, and the chapters in this volume support our contention that – at least in the case of the relatively small Nordic and Baltic countries – these practices of representation have involved a twoway dialogue between national imaginings and foreign images of the nation. This distinction between imagining and imaging provides us with an intuitively compelling heuristic tool – a deceptively neat dichotomy – with which the complicated and messy historical patterns of national representations can be examined.9 The ostensible distinction between the depoliticised and strategic imaging of the nation abroad and the political process of imagining and forging the nation at home, can be used to highlight similarly problematic juxtapositions that historical actors have been prone to use: between commercial advertising and actual national identity; external reputation management and internal political debate; between supposedly superficial nation branding and essential nation building. This volume thus seeks to provide examples of how, over time, Baltic and Nordic nations have been represented through an often fraught, two-way process of aligning domestic imaginings of the nation with external images of it. It touches on a battery of utilised or attempted means (advertising, letter-writing, exchange programs, publications, media contacts), labelled with a wide array of professional or technical terms, and rooted in the peculiarities of different societies. We will allow the historical actors to define what they were doing, in order to avoid shoehorning their specific activities and ideas into contem­ porary taxonomies. This approach allows us to highlight both tensions and continuities between ranges of historical practices on the one hand, and contemporary theoretical perspectives and analytical concepts on the other.

The Case Studies: Nordics and Baltics

The contributions to this book focus on a group of states rarely studied from the perspective outlined above.10 Our focus on the Nordic and Baltic States allows us to pay particular attention to the conditions under which relatively small countries have been represented in foreign relations. Secondly, it allows 9 10

See for instance Bolin & Ståhlberg, “Between Community and Commodity.” For a recent volume on how images of the Nordic region have circulated internationally, see Harvard & Stadius, Communicating the North.

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us more generally to consider the connections between broader economic and political historical shifts over the twentieth century and the changing ways in which imagined communities have been imaged abroad, and images, in turn, have been reinvested in the imagining of community. In the subfield of scholarly literature dedicated to small states, the international behaviour of the Nordic countries and their supposed ‘exceptionalism’ has been the object of a certain amount of scholarly attention. It has often centred on explaining why, in Christine Ingebritsen’s words, those states seem to “exercise collective authority beyond their borders that exceeds their military or economic might.”11 One thing Ingebritsen and others – most forcefully Christopher Browning – have emphasised as part of this Nordic “authority” is the importance of the Nordic states’ reputation in giving them a standing which exceeds their apparent capacities.12 Finland’s hosting of the Helsinki Accords in 1975, Sweden’s activism in the United Nations during the 1960s and 1970s, the Oslo peace process of the 1990s and Denmark’s hosting of the un Climate Change summit in 2010 are all examples of the role the Nordics have sought to play. Beside foreign policy, Nordic domestic policies (commonly those linked to the building of the welfare state) have constituted essential elements of their national reputation, often with reference to a supposedly unique, a-historical, and all-encompassing “Nordic model.”13 But, as this volume makes clear, the reputation of the Nordic countries – both in international politics and in scholarly work – has not been purely accidental. Nordic governments and opinion-formers have not only been captives of, but also captivated by, their own national image abroad, which they have made longstanding attempts to curate and promote among foreign observers.14 Not least for this reason, the Nordic countries look like particularly fruitful candidates for analysing historical formulations, projections and circulations of national images in international and domestic politics. This volume also includes the Baltic States. The Baltic States’ history is, of course, in many ways not comparable with the Nordic countries’ for a considerable part of the twentieth century. The debate on the Baltic States’ ‘Nordicity’ has nevertheless been on-going and there are good arguments for considering these states – at least before and after the Soviet occupation – as part of the 11 Ingebritsen, Scandinavia in World Politics, 1. 12 Browning, “Branding Nordicity.” 13 Hilson, The Nordic Model, 19–23; Marklund, “A Swedish Norden”; Harvard & Stadius, “Conclusion.” 14 See also Glover, National Relations; Marklund, “A Swedish Norden”; Marklund, “The Social Laboratory”; Marklund & Petersen, “Return to sender.”

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same geopolitical space as the Nordic countries; sharing with them common goals, practices, and constraints.15 Another reason to include the Baltic experience is precisely because of its broken trajectory. For all the obvious differences between the 1940s and the 1990s, the very fact that the Baltic States had to assert themselves to some extent ‘from scratch,’ in both cases because of the historic ruptures in which they were acting, provides us with a convenient parallel to the more continuous trajectories of for instance Sweden and Denmark. As the chapters in this volume suggest, despite the differences, a comparison between the Baltics and the Nordics at the beginning and the end of the twentieth century suggests similar ideals of national ‘modernity’ or ‘Europeanness’ on either side of the Baltic Sea. The regional perspective thus serves to underline the important historical point that the way in which nations have ­historically been represented has not only been determined by domestic develop­ments, but also by changing international norms and structures. Thus, despite the obvious contrasts in the histories of these case studies, some immediate similarities do present themselves. The first thing that stands out is the recurring, at times almost desperate, concern for gaining recognition and finding ways of being perceived abroad as attractive – or simply to be perceived at all. If us public diplomacy has evolved in close connection to the experience of wars (both ‘hot’ and ‘cold’), the imaging of the Nordic countries seems to have been more evenly diffused over time. Although wars and crises have been important here too – as influential determinants of available resources and modus operandi – a concern for image seems nevertheless to have been integral to routine small-state foreign policies since the early twentieth century. On a daily basis the stuff of press columns dissecting ‘our image abroad,’ the concern for grabbing international attention, has repeatedly spilled over into politics and administration, and has been seen as a major policy challenge worthy of engagement and resources. The formulation of this challenge has been sparked by efforts to intervene in international political processes or to react to different crises. The roots of this concern lie in the resource constraints that these countries have had in terms of trade, diplomatic clout and human capital. If the community as a whole can be made more visible and appreciated abroad, so the reasoning has gone, then that in turn can be used to support individual private enterprises or as an asset in specific negotiations. Secondly, the persistent need to represent the nation overseas positively has  been inherent in attempts to stabilise or perhaps even shelter national identities in small and peripheral states. In an international system where 15

See for instance Paul Jordan’s and Kazimierz Musiał’s chapters in this volume.

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nation-states have shown considerable resilience as the most legitimate and significant components, recognition from abroad has been intertwined with the internal identity-formation of the countries studied here; there has been a mutually constitutive relationship between dominant autostereotypes and recurring xenostereotypes of the nation.16 The self-perception of being a ‘small state’ has thus added a specific dynamic to how and why the nation has been represented abroad which, we would contend, has set these histories apart from those of more assertive world powers. These small-state dynamics will be developed next, by outlining some of the main themes that emerge from the case studies dealt with in this volume.

The Toolkit: Networks, Blank Canvases and Stereotypes

The most obvious specificity of small states’ international behaviour is the clearer and harsher limitations put on their international freedom of action by the structures surrounding them. As the British Minister Plenipotentiary to the Baltic States, Hughe Knatchbull-Hugessen, wrote in September 1934, there is a “lives of the hunted” element in the attitude of most small states.17 Their diplomacy is often one of survival, of attempts to affirm one’s interests, to justify one’s existence, to elaborate one’s identity at home and in the eyes of foreigners. Historically there has therefore been what we choose to identify as a common ‘toolkit’ for representing the Nordic and Baltic nations abroad. These states have had to creatively make use of the means that they have had at hand, and as the chapters in this volume suggest, certain patterns can be identified. A first example of the ‘small-state toolkit’ is the use of networks and diasporas abroad as well as the action of independent ‘foreign relations entrepreneurs’ in and outside these countries. Una Bergmane’s chapter in this volume shows how diasporas have worked to represent the nation when the Baltic States lacked independent status. Andreas Åkerlund too discusses how transnational civil society networks actively shaped state initiatives to formalise and develop Swedish cultural relations with the usa and Germany. For much of the twentieth century Nordic and Baltic diasporas and cosmopolitan individuals provided their countries of origin with a most coveted asset: fluency in important foreign languages, functioning knowledge of foreign societies, and access to social networks abroad.

16 17

These concepts are used in Musiał, Roots of the Scandinavian Model. Quoted in Hiden & Salmon, The Baltic Nations, 88.

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A related resource in the toolkit is the reliance on single actors. These have been individuals imbued with the idea of defending the national interest and acting in a diplomatic or semi-diplomatic capacity; strong personalities who have been able to use their networks at home or abroad to co-ordinate public and private resources. Although Ambassador Bodil Begtrup, presented in Kristine Kjærsgaard’s chapter, had an official title, it is clear that she acted freely and very much on her own initiative when deciding how to represent Denmark in three very different national contexts. In Louis Clerc’s chapter, the influence of single individuals on the projection of Finland’s image abroad is apparent, as are the contours of a ‘networked corporatism’ working in parallel with official hierarchies. In Kaarel Piirimäe’s contribution, Estonian diplomats in the usa, the uk and Northern Europe were left with considerable leeway to disseminate strategically formulated representations of Estonia during the Second World War.18 In the confines of the national cases studied here, state and non-state actors, individuals and officials have tended to know each other and to find themselves around the same tables discussing and defining the collective interest. Thus, the bridging of national imagining and international imaging in these states has often been a political process in which influential single actors have been accustomed to seeing themselves as unproblematically speaking for, or even as, the nation as a whole. A second example of the toolkit’s devices is the mobilising power of ‘total,’ consensual national images. A limited population has meant that the notion of a single, defined national image has been closer at hand than for the more heterogeneous economic, political and cultural circles of larger nations. Among the influential networks outlined above, it has seemed plausible that the nation’s relatively few overseas representatives – both private and official – should instinctively agree on what national characteristics are to be seen as the   most relevant to foreign publics, and on ways to convey that message. Effectively capturing and distilling the nation through slogans and strategic stereotypes has thus been a persistent, elusive goal in the representation of  these nations. This is reflected particularly in Nikolas Glover’s, Mads Mordhorst’s and Paul Jordan’s respective chapters in this volume. The fact that these total images, most recently re-packaged as ‘brands,’ had to be crafted in confrontational dialogue with domestic publics is an important theme that runs through all three of these chapters.

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In Carl Marklund’s chapter, the international stardom of Olof Palme in the early 1970s suggests the way a small country like Sweden can become conflated with a single, famous political personality able and willing to act as the country’s billboard.

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A third tool is the deceptively promising use of the blank canvas: if you are unknown, it might be easier for you to make yourself known for the ‘right’ reasons. Small states in general and the Nordic countries in particular might have an easier time presenting themselves to the world, as they are already perceived as innocuous and benign international actors. Small states can be easily imagined as being more dependable, less duplicitous and less imperialistic than their larger counterparts. This perception has been an important part of the toolkit of national representation, and has served to legitimise coordinated image projections overseas. Chiara Tessaris’ chapter provides the example of how Lithuania could ‘introduce’ itself to the international community as an admirably multi-ethnic entity – not least thanks to the fact that so little was known abroad about the country. Svein Ivar Angell in his chapter discusses how the international reputation of Norway’s tradition of peace was harnessed and consolidated by the Office for Norwegian Cultural Relations in the postwar decades. However, as is suggested by debates over the Danish rule in Iceland (Kjærsgaard) or the position of the Russian population in Estonia (Jordan), small states can never take the world’s benevolence for granted. Sweden is a good example of the uncontrolled nature of foreign perceptions, a case dealt with by Carl Marklund in this volume. His chapter shows how Swedish and us identities (as there have in fact been several of these at any given time) have been mutually constitutive rather than simply sent from one country and received in another. The image of Sweden in us debates seldom had much to do with what Sweden actually ‘was.’ Rather Sweden was used to define what was and what was not ‘anti-American’ – while, across the Atlantic, the usa was being used in a similar way in discussions of Swedish national identity and politics. The promise of being able to project a coordinated image – so apparent in the Nordic and Baltic countries over the recent decade – has thus left these states with both an advantage and a risk: the low level of interest in and knowledge of them and their being perceived as harmless, has meant that they can easily be picked up and filled with meaning in foreign contexts. Some small states can in this way seemingly swiftly become ‘popular.’ At the same time however, they instantly lose control of ‘their’ image in the process. A seemingly successful image can become a liability when it begins living a life of its own in the national politics of foreign societies. So if the ‘blank canvas’ has been used as a resource in foreign policy, then so too have entrenched xenostereotypes – both sympathetic ones and derisive ones. This gives us a fourth characteristic, more than a tool, which is the conscious or unconscious matching of projected national images with notions about these countries pre-existing abroad. In the case of the Nordics, as

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illustrated in Kazimierz Musiał’s chapter, there has clearly been something of a Nordic noblesse oblige that has pushed representatives of these states to pursue policies and to emphasise issues that they know resonate well with their pre-existing image amongst foreign publics. While the Swedes seek to export policies of gender equality, Finns talk-up the country’s education system or Lapland’s landscapes, and Norwegians emphasise their peace mediation efforts. The result has been that these countries have tended to represent themselves in ways that confirm existing xenostereotypes. Thus, adhering to international notions of altruistic Nordic ‘exceptionalism’ has often been the outcome of rather prosaic realpolitik – the necessity for small states to act in character. Crucially, this compliance with international expectations has simultaneously been used in domestic politics to strengthen national selfperceptions (Marklund) or to nudge Nordic societies in certain directions corresponding to established xenostereotypes. Challenging less flattering national stereotypes has also been an important determinant of national representation(s). The formulation and pursuit of policies specifically aimed at projecting an image that contrasts with existing xenostereotypes has been a way of attracting attention and thereby increasing the possibility of influencing others (Jordan). For the Baltics, but also to some extent for Finland, the pressure has been to combat recurring international representations of their ‘Eastern’ character, and to dispel persistent doubts about their claims to being ‘real’ nations. For this reason, efforts to represent themselves as like other European nations have been just as compulsive as the recurring Scandinavian attempts to set themselves apart from run-of-the-mill Europe (Musiał; Piirimäe; Tessaris). From this perspective, representing the nation as ‘normal’ rather than ‘special’ has often been a prime objective for the Baltic States. The contributions in this book provide several examples of how both the fear of appearing ‘out of character’ as well as the fear of affirming the ‘wrong’ stereotypes has strongly influenced policy decisions and self-perceptions in northern Europe. In both cases, images abroad have been strategically used to represent the nation, with lasting effects on how the nation has been imagined in domestic politics. This complex interplay around central notions of national definition make the Nordic and Baltic Countries all the more interesting as case studies of national imaging processes.

Chronological Framework

As an integral part of official and semi-official foreign relations, national representation evolves and changes with the ebb and flow of the international

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environment, cultural and technological change, and strategic developments. An important element in the architecture of this book is its division into three chronological parts. This periodisation is necessarily artificial, but in our view it enables us to highlight some of the more significant shifts in the efforts of the Nordics and Baltics to use their image. (1) 1918–1945: War and international order. At the international level, the first half of the century was characterised by two opposing forces: on the one hand the calamitous maelstrom of two World Wars and, on the other, the attempts to regulate and protect national sovereignty through the formation of the League of Nations and the United Nations. Both of these forces set the tone for Nordic and Baltic national representation(s) in an era when Estonia, Finland, Latvia, Lithuania and Norway gained their full political independence (which, by the end of it, the Baltics had once again lost). On the one hand they sought recognition as ‘real’ nation-states in the international order (Piirimäe; Tessaris). On the other hand, they combined informal and formal channels of persuasion through the use of language and culture to win sympathy for their cause among foreign publics and the civilized community of nations (Åkerlund). The main preoccupation at the level of official actors seems to have been the projection of ideal nations, most of the time in order to satisfy an unreflective need to gain recognition among cultured elites and decision-makers abroad. This was an era of externalised ethnic nationalism and cultural propaganda activities, in which channels of influence consisted of informal contacts within relatively closed circles of national representatives who belonged to the same social stratum of cosmopolitan elites. The field was dominated by what today would be called ‘content providers’: writers, intellectuals, and diplomats. Cultural distinction, national self-definition and the instrumental necessities of elite diplomacy occupied centre-stage, while trade promotion was conducted mostly by private or semi-private actors. The comprehensive nature of the war efforts also led to the centralised production and dissemination of war propaganda and to organisational concentration, putting an end years of small-scale civil society initiatives with parsimonious public backing. In the Nordic countries the institutions dealing with overseas cultural relations have their origins in organisations and networks created during the War.19 The Baltics, on the other hand, were dissolved as autonomous states as a result of the Soviet invasion. Nevertheless, their 19

The Danish Society was founded in 1940, the Swedish Institute in 1945 (see Glover, “Inspector Gadget-like”). In the Norwegian and Finnish cases, the institutionalisation came later but the networks and experiences which led up to it was directly linked to the war experience. See Louis Clerc’s and Svein-Ivar Angell’s chapters in this volume.

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diplomats abroad continued their publicity and opinion-forming efforts, ensuring continuity between their pre-war work as official state representatives, and their activities as exiles during the 1950s and 1960s. As Una Bergmane shows in her chapter, this latter unofficial organisation would in turn come to play an important part in the mobilisation of international opinion for Baltic independence in the late 1980s.20 (2) 1945–1989: Cold War, diplomacy, trade, and culture. In the tense geopolitical stand-off of the Cold War, apolitical cultural (including academic) relations came to be seen as something of a security valve. Both the threats and the promises that the Second World War had exposed lived on during these decades. On the one hand the apparent effectiveness of propaganda promised to provide small countries with a means with which they could punch above their weight. Influencing perceptions of the nation became increasingly important in the diplomatic toolbox and in the preoccupations of the actors in foreign relations (Kjærsgaard). Tempered by the experience of the war, this policy field moved from an intuitive set of practices born out of national enthusiasm to a more organised and self-reflective professional field. Meanwhile, on the other hand, the dangers of being accused of deploying deceitful propaganda for sinister purposes were apparent. In the Nordic countries therefore, institutional and practical solutions were developed in an attempt to adapt the lessons of the war to peacetime conditions. The climate of cooperation between public and private actors that the World Wars had instilled was reconfigured, but remained an important basis for the attempt to ascertain legitimate representations of the nation abroad (Åkerlund; Angell; Clerc). The Cold War can be seen as the age of public diplomacy as Nicholas Cull has defined it – even if the concept itself was not deployed in the usa before the 1960s, and was seldom if ever used in the Nordic countries during these decades.21 As in the usa, traditional diplomatic objectives were the main driving force and the practices of national representation gradually became dominated by state structures.22 At the same time, the ideal was at least ostensibly to keep culture at arm’s length from politics.23 Unlike in the usa, commercial interests and trade promotion became a much more pronounced part of Nordic public diplomacy – most outspokenly so in Sweden and Finland, but eventually

20 21 22 23

L’Hommedieu’s study of Baltic exiles in the us during the Cold War makes the link between these two timeframes. See L’Hommedieu, “Exiles and Constituents.” See Cull, “Public Diplomacy.” See for instance Åkerlund, “The Impact of Foreign Policy.” Glover, “Inspector Gadget-like.”

Representing the Small States of Northern Europe

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also in Denmark and Norway. This was not entirely unproblematic as, at the same time in domestic politics, an important aspect of the expanding welfare state was a common Nordic cultural policy that pitted market interests and commercial logic against ‘authentic,’ popular, democratic cultural production.24 Thus, the unity of trade promotion and cultural projection abroad did not directly reflect what was going on at home (Glover). Throughout the Cold War, at least in Finland, Sweden and Norway, there was a gradual shift in expertise away from the ‘content providers’ of the interwar years. ‘Service providers’ became more influential as a mix of communication professionals (journalists, pr specialists) became involved in transforming the methods of traditional, by now disreputable ‘propaganda’ into the far less threatening and more technologically-oriented endeavour of ‘information’ (Angell; Marklund). One outcome of this was the centralisation of activities under official coordination (an institutional characteristic of the 1950s and 1960s in the Nordic countries in general), which was intended to increase the impact of national representations and make the cooperation between private and public efforts more rational. This process, however, never proceeded quite as smoothly as was anticipated (Clerc; Glover). (3) 1990–: Globalisation and transnational markets. With the crumbling of the Soviet Union and the Eastern Bloc in the 1980s, the independent Baltic States found themselves once again having to represent themselves as ‘proper’ nations, this time in an era of integrated European organisations, muchdebated globalisation and influential deregulated capital. As the 1990s progressed, the legitimacy and future of the nation-state were being increasingly questioned as “the state retreated from society.”25 New approaches to national representation had to be developed by applying the logic and methods that seemed to be so successful for the heirs of this new age: multinational private corporations (Mordhorst). If the beginning of the century had seen the attempt to legitimately project images of domestically imagined communities, the continued legitimacy of imagining national communities by the end of the century seemed to depend on how successfully they could project images of themselves abroad. In Estonia this tendency had the somewhat paradoxical effect that traditional political nation-building politics undertaken by a democratically elected government had to be conducted in the guise of an outsourced, privatised ‘apolitical’ nation branding campaign (Jordan). As the practices of commercial corporations were applied to international relations,

24 Duelund, “The Nordic Cultural Model,” 487–488. 25 Strange, Retreat of the State.

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it was repeatedly claimed that nations too had to develop and diffuse a “competitive image” in order to survive and prosper.26 It is in this context that Kazimierz Musiał’s contribution to this volume should be read. Not only did the Baltic States have to reinvent themselves in the post-Cold War era, but so did the Nordics – both as individual countries and as a distinct group. By 1995 Sweden and Finland had joined Denmark in the eu while Norway and Iceland remained outside, and the political and economic significance of a common Nordic region was not as evident as it once had been. Thus, in the same way that integrating with Europe held political promise for the Baltics, it posed a challenge for the position of the Nordics. Having lost their well-defined position in the order of the Cold War, they consequently reinvented themselves by collectively affirming their ‘special’ identity in the Baltics. This coincided with the strategic launch of a branded Nordic region, typical of an era in which the focus of policy makers and scholars was on global processes of transnational capital flows, the marketisation of politics and New Public Management.27 These processes seemed to be reshaping the very ecology of the international community, as nation-states came to be defined as “competition states” that had to meet completely new challenges and norms.28 Consequently, when the nation was to be represented abroad, the emphasis shifted from culture and diplomacy, to the promotion of trade and the diffusion of strategically developed self-images suited for the global competition for students, investment, exports, and tourists. The outline provides an intentionally tidy and brief overview of national representation in the northern Europe, focusing on major geopolitical shifts and organisational trends. However, it also rests on a series of alternative, less linear chronologies. Three such developments can be outlined here, all of which are relevant to understanding how national representation(s) have changed over time. One is the story of the changing definitions and practices of communication, which have reflected the shifting influence of different professions and technologies over time, and thereby influenced how nations have been represented. Here the development is not only a story of successive technological innovations (from printed materials to tv broadcasts and social media), but also a continuous process of actively taking in and abandoning these channels in an interplay between private actors, public authorities and financial 26 27 28

See e.g. Anholt, Competitive Identity; Olins, Trading Identities. Mandag Morgen, Nordic Region. See also Kazimierz Musiał’s chapter in this volume. Angell & Mordhorst, “National Reputation Management”; Cerny, “The Competition State.”

Representing the Small States of Northern Europe

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resources. As imaging the nation became increasingly professionalised, and the professional skills transited from the private to the public sectors, these two spheres became all the more intertwined. Secondly, the evolving dynamics between various incentives – most commonly diplomacy vs cultural relations vs trade promotion – suggest another possibility for chronological phases. A century-long drift can be identified, from a discourse that legitimised national representation efforts with reference to culture (‘enlightening’ and educating foreigners about our national soul), via diplomacy (using exchanges and events as a tool in high politics), to the bottom-line rationale of promoting commerce (‘selling’ the nation for the purpose of promoting economic growth). Although cultural, diplomatic and economic incentives have of course all been at play throughout the full period, their respective political clout and popular legitimacy have waxed and waned. Finally, we would like to suggest a dynamic evolution in the interplay over time between routine information work and ad hoc crisis communication.29 Representations of the nation have had different functions in times of upheaval (for instance during the World Wars and the collapse of the Iron Curtain), and in times of relative calm (e.g. during Détente and the post-Cold War optimism of the 1990s), which has been reflected in significantly different sources of funding, political expectations, and forms of national imaging. This contingent relationship between long-term visions and knee-jerk reactions explains the rather messy institutional chronologies that several chapter touch on. Combinations of ambitious initiatives, political compromises and bureaucratic inertia have characterised the institutional landscapes in the countries dealt with in this volume, explaining the flux and reflux of the borders of state intervention and coordination.

Historicising the Present

All historical research is conducted in the context of a certain time and place. This volume has been written in an era when nation branding has been endorsed by most Baltic and Nordic governments as the new mode of national representation. Indeed, James Pamment has suggested that the last decades have seen the emergence of an “Anglo-Scandinavian orthodoxy” in this area. 29

Taking the Finnish example, the ad hoc organisational framework and improvised communication efforts launched in the context of the 1939–1940 Winter War can be contrasted to the long term, routine information work developed during the Cold War towards Western capitals.

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Advised by British consultants, most countries in the northern European arc have embraced the practice of nation branding.30 The skilful sales pitches of branding consultants aside, the present volume suggests that an important part of the explanation for this spread of nation branding in Europe’s north is rooted in the specificities of the national experiences dealt with in this volume.31 If we take Christopher Browning’s analysis as a starting point, nation branding seems to be the late modern incarnation of the historical toolkit that has been identified here.32 The all-encompassing, ‘disciplinarian’ imperative of getting behind the national brand echoes the historical insistence of small nations on mobilising their citizens on behalf of the national interest.33 It also echoes the discourse of consensus around certain essential national characteristics that have been particularly pronounced in the Nordic countries. Nation branding has provided new, state-of-the-art ways to revisit the old question of international recognition, to debate and define the nation through the images that others seem to have of it. It has explicitly promised new ways of bridging foreign images and national imaginings in an efficient and inclusive fashion. Organisationally, nation branding à la nordique can be seen as having offered a way to inject a dose of legitimate, modern corporate ethos into a basically state-coordinated process. And what is particularly noteworthy about the collection of nations studied in this volume is how the corporate connotations and methods of branding have been instinctively appealing when the objective has been to enact a clean break with the past. In the post-Cold War geopolitical order, international management terminology and the late-capitalist aspirations that branding efforts articulate have provided an instant ‘normalisation’-discourse for formerly socialist Baltics and formerly ‘exceptionalist,’ corporatist Nordics alike. On the basis of these observations, we would like to conclude this introduction by emphasising the historical links between the longer history of representing the nation, and today’s nation branding efforts. Nations have always been imaged – or branded (in a generic sense) – but the process has become more theorised and self-reflexive, administered more professionally and institutionally entrenched. This evolution has mirrored developments in dip­ lomatic practices and technological change, but also fluctuations in the way national images have come to be professionally ‘managed’ domestically. 30 Pamment, “Scandinavian perspectives.” 31 See also Pamment, “What Became of the New Public Diplomacy?” 32 Browning, “Nation Branding, National Self-Esteem.” 33 Ibid.

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The more diplomats, opinion-formers and publics became aware of what today would be called the social construction of reality, the more complicated it has been to represent the nation in a legitimate way. ‘Propaganda,’ ‘information,’ ‘soft power,’ ‘new public diplomacy’ and ‘nation branding’ have at different historical points been (re-)conceived and formulated as solutions to different perceptions of national identity. They have had to adapt to more critical constituencies that have been less prone to accept the hegemonic status of national belonging. New venues have emerged as perceptions of the nation have evolved: national communicators have today not only to cater to the various well-defined segments of the domestic public, but also to media-saturated foreign consumers and Executive Lounge-frequenting transnational elites. While professionally conducted communication has promised new avenues for influencing opinions and forging strong relationships, it has also carried with it the seed of its own potential failure, since at each juncture the public has been framed as being more educated, discerning and sceptical than before. New practices, concepts and objectives have thus been introduced along the way, each time spurred by roughly the same challenge: how to represent the nation in a way that makes it both plausible and attractive to others; both appealingly different and reassuringly recognisable. Smaller states have had to be particularly sensitive to these changing international expectations, and particularly apt at improvising new ways of connecting international images and national imaginings. From this perspective, like the less subtle propaganda activities of the first half of the twentieth century, practices of what today is called nation branding are historically contingent and will, to a greater or lesser extent, come to be replaced by new approaches as international norms continue to change. The essence of nation branding does not lie in the novelty of its socially inclusive ideals or the unique efficiency of its technological tools; rather, that it reflects and reproduces a specific context of identities and new boundaries between the ‘cultural,’ ‘political’ and the ‘commercial.’34 Nation branding speaks to a certain time and to certain places, certain standards of efficiency applied to the public sector and goals fixed to its action, as once did the then modern practices of propaganda, information and public diplomacy. Nation branding, however, remains only one form of representing the nation. Despite the elements of novelty emphasised above, historicising nation branding as a recent iteration of a longer and broader trajectory of representing the nation provides important perspectives on the phenomenon – something that simply placing it in a static taxonomy alongside propaganda, 34

E.g. Angell & Mordhorst, “National Reputation Management”; Aronczyk, Branding the Nation; Jansen, “Designer Nations.”

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cultural, commercial or public diplomacy cannot do. By imaging the nation through the tools and concepts of the corporation, and thus constituting foreign public opinion along the lines of a consumer index, nation branding has aimed at depoliticising contemporary national representation through commercial discourses – not unlike the way in which, during the Cold War, representations were defused through supposedly apolitical institutions of ‘cultural diplomacy.’ Whereas now many consider it problematic that private consultants influence official interpretations of the nation, the role of governments in directing and defining the flows and expressions of national culture during the Cold War was equally problematic to many actors at the time. Bearing this parallel in mind, it is apparent to us that national representations, and their stipulated distinctions at specific points between ‘cultural’ and ‘public’ diplomacy, ‘trade promotion’ and ‘national promotion,’ ‘branding’ and ‘diplomacy’ should always be approached critically – and therefore historically. In this way we can explore how they have reflected, reproduced, and often accelerated major social, political and economic evolutions.

PART 1 1918–45: War and International Order

∵

chapter 1

The Nationalisation of Swedish Enlightenment Activities Abroad: Civil Society Actors and Their Impact on State Politics Andreas Åkerlund

The Case for Historicising Public Diplomacy Organisations

The importance of foundations, associations or semi-state organisations for the foreign policy interest of the United States has repeatedly been stressed in histories of us public diplomacy. Giles-Scott Smith goes as far as to brand the involvement of private institutions and foundations in the exchange policies of the usa in the 1950s as a “unique feature of us public diplomacy activities.”1 This involvement might appear unique, but foundations, associations and other civil society actors have always played an important role in European politics as well, maybe more so in the case of small states with tight budgets. But what does this mean for our understanding of the field? It is obvious that what is commonly referred to as public diplomacy cannot be understood as the politics of autonomous state actors, such as ministries or diplomats, but rather as a complex web of relations between states and civil societies, or between public and semi-public entities. This chapter is concerned with this kind of state-private relations in a Swedish context. More specifically it will trace the establishment and work of the Enlightenment Board (Upplysningsnämnden) (1935–1945) with a special focus on its relations to civil society actors. This small Board has a special position within the history of Swedish public diplomacy as it was the first attempt of the Swedish state to organise what was referred to as ‘cultural propaganda’ or ‘enlightenment’ during this era.2 The Board therefore relied heavily on the 1 Scott-Smith, Networks of Empire, 88. See also Dizard, Inventing Public Diplomacy, 5–8 for a similar argument. 2 The term ‘public diplomacy’ is of a later date than the period discussed in this chapter. It is also mainly used in a North American/Anglo-Saxon context. While the terminology used by Swedish actors is all but consistent, various forms of ‘enlightenment’ (upplysning) are the terms most commonly used, alongside ‘propaganda’ or ‘cultural policy/politics’ (kulturpolitik). For a discussion of the Swedish terminology see Glover, National Relations, 26. In this article ‘public diplomacy’ is used when discussing the literature in the field, whereas the historical descriptions use the terminology of the historical actors.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���� | doi 10.1163/9789004305496_003

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expertise of, and collaboration with, existing private initiatives. This makes it possible to explore the relationship between state administration and civil society at a point when the latter had the upper hand, and consequently poses a number of questions. What impact have civil society actors had on the work of the Enlightenment Board and thus on Swedish enlightenment activities and cultural propaganda as a whole? How have their expertise, ideologies and fields of interest shaped state policies? Ultimately, the question is to what extent the state-private collaborations of the 1930s shaped post-war Swedish policies – and possibly even contemporary ones. In order to answer these questions, there is a need to conceptualise the relationship between state policies and civil society actors. Hans-Manfred Bock has argued that that the relations between the nation state and these actors are not as one-dimensional as associations and foundations simply carrying out policies formulated by the state. Rather, the relative autonomy of these actors has been a necessary prerequisite.3 Edward H. Berman goes even further in his analysis of the Carnegie, Ford and Rockefeller foundations in the usa – known as the ‘big three.’ According to Berman these foundations have significantly influenced the direction of us foreign policy as well as numerous countries in the so-called Third World, through their support for certain forms of area studies and developmental theory as well as their importance for international exchanges and universities abroad.4 Looking back, it is easy to see that many of the organisations active today in fields such as international educational and cultural exchange, language training or the running of cultural centres are far older than the state policies aimed at promoting the nation abroad. The French Alliance Française was established in 1881, the Italian Società Dante Alighieri in 1889 and the large us foundations such as the Carnegie Endowment or the Rockefeller Foundation were founded in 1910 and 1913 respectively.5 The politics and communication practices of any given state must therefore have developed in relation to these civil society actors. Studying the history of national public diplomacy institutions is an important task as it can help us explain the trajectory and focus of state policies today. Clearly notable in recent attempts to create taxonomies of public diplomacy practices, comparisons of different national approaches, or organisational 3 Bock, “Transnationale Kulturbeziehungen,” 10–11. 4 Berman, Influence. 5 For the Alliance Française see Bruézière, L’Alliance française; for the Società Dante Alighieri see Salvetti, Immagine nazionale; for the us foundations see most recently Parmar, Foundations. For an overview see also Paschalidis, “Exporting national culture.”

THE Nationalisation of Swedish Enlightenment Activities

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frames for external state communication is that although these approaches have managed to map interesting similarities or differences between nations, they do not possess the ability to explain these differences. One example is Nicolas J. Cull, who divides public diplomacy into five distinctive areas: listening, advocacy, cultural diplomacy, exchange diplomacy and international news broadcasting. Although several of these aspects are found in the efforts of almost every nation, he claims that some aspects are more dominant in certain nations than in others. As an example he groups the old European powers of Great Britain and France around the concept of ‘cultural diplomacy,’ whereas the dominant concept for the usa and Japan are grouped around ‘advocacy’ and ‘exchange’ respectively.6 This might well be the case, but the logical question following this recognition is, of course, why? Clearly, there are various factors which influence the way nations are represented through enlightenment activities, cultural politics, public diplomacy or national image management. One very important factor in a European context, though often forgotten in us research, is the strong connection between language, culture and nationalism in countries such as France or Germany. Hence, the historically strong focus on schools and language teaching abroad in these states.7 This connection was even more important in countries with large diaspora groups such as Italy or Germany. A closer look at Società Dante Alighieri for instance shows that this organisation originally worked with Italian emigrants in the Balkans and the Americas. Sweden should definitely be included in this group where language, culture and nation have been strongly connected. The historical similarities are sprung from the the existence of Swedish-speaking communities in Finland, Estonia and North America and the formation of the Swedish National Association for the Preservation of Swedishness Abroad (Riksföreningen för svenskhetens bevarande i utlandet), founded in 1908 with the Società Dante Alighieri as role model.8 There is thus an important difference between France, Germany and other European countries on the one hand and the United Kingdom and the United States of America on the other. This is also stressed by Robin Brown in a recent paper dealing with the possibilities of international comparison within public diplomacy studies. His conclusion is that “starting points and path dependencies matter.”9 This statement highlights that there is a historical development behind the activities of any given state, which includes the interaction between 6 7 8 9

Cull, “Public Diplomacy,” 32–33. See for instance Michels, Von der Deutschen Akademie for the German case. For this association and the Pan-Swedish movement see Kummel, Svenskar i all världen. Brown, “Four Paradigms of Public Diplomacy,” 15–16.

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a number of actors and intertwined processes of administrative, cultural and political nature. Hence another important factor, the one which will be explored in this article, is the organisational context in which a certain state establishes its public diplomacy efforts. In order to understand the different models or organisational forms present in different nations today, we must see the present institutions in a historical perspective. It is only when we investigate how and in what political and administrative circumstances these organisations developed that we will be able to understand their present forms and main areas of emphasis. This is the point where the civil society actors such as associations and foundations become important not only as forerunners or state collaborators, but as actors in their own right.

Sweden: A Private Initiative

The relationship between state and civil society in the case of Sweden is particularly interesting as the initiative to establish a state unit for cultural enlightenment came from outside the state administration. In October 1930 Sven Tunberg, a history professor at Stockholm University College, and Vilhelm Scharp, a Swedish lecturer in Berlin, submitted the first proposal for a state committee for cultural exchange to the Swedish Ministry for Foreign Affairs. In the proposal they criticised the fact that state resources for information abroad were used for the ministry press department while cultural propaganda was left to private interests.10 Although this proposal was supported by Swedish ambassadors, it remained overlooked until 1933, when the National Socialist takeover of power in Germany made the issue of Swedish cultural representation abroad more pressing. A year of discussions followed between representatives of the state and a number of private organisations such as the Swedish Tourist Association, the Swedish General Export Association, the Church of Sweden, and the nationalist National Association for the Preservation of Swedishness Abroad. These discussions resulted in the creation of the first Swedish state unit for the 10

Swedish National Archive (ra), Ministry for Foreign Affairs (ud), P 1008, Memo by Scharp and Thunberg regarding the Swedish cultural propaganda abroad. The press department had been the central actor in Swedish information policy and news exchange at least since World War i. The best study of the press departments censorship and propaganda activities and thus attempts to influence the image of Sweden abroad during the first decades of the twentieth century remains Kilander, Censur och propaganda.

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enlightenment of foreign publics; the ‘Enlightenment Board’ in 1935. The Board was organised under the Ministry for Foreign Affairs and the Ministry for Education and Ecclesiastical Matters and was backed by the ‘Culture Council’ (Kulturrådet) consisting of 25 representatives from the organisations mentioned above, but also from the Church, universities and academies.11 The Council also appointed three out of five Board members. This type of organisational structure was no anomaly in the Swedish context as the country has a long history of corporatist politics. Civil society and popular movements have traditionally had an important impact on various political fields, such as welfare and popular education.12 The question is in which way this particular setting influenced the emerging field of state-supported enlightenment abroad. The Enlightenment Board was the first state unit working explicitly within this field, but during its 10 years of existence it relied heavily on the work and knowledge of already existing organisations and initiatives. In this initial phase, the Enlightenment Board and the Ministry for Foreign Affairs in general were largely forced to cooperate, or at least coordinate their work, with different non-government actors possessing more experience, well-established ­contacts abroad and a better infrastructure than the state. This coordinating function and collaboration between state and private actors points forward to how the Swedish Institute was organised when it was established in 1945; although in this case, corporatism was taken further and built into the very structure of the institute.13 In this article I will be looking at two cases, both involving the Board and its relationship with civil society actors. The first case is the collaboration with the National Society for the Preservation of Swedishness Abroad regarding lectureships at foreign universities and the other is the coordination of scholarship policy with the American-Scandinavian and Sweden-America Founda­tions. These cases are interesting not only because they differ in the relationship between state and civil society, but also because they can be used to show how the decisions of the 1930s are visible in Sweden’s post-war organisation of public diplomacy, hence showing the importance of path dependency as discussed by Robin Brown.14 11 See ra, Enlightenment Board (Upplysningsnämnden, un), volume 1 for conference protocols and other documents regarding the establishment of the board. 12 See for instance Rothstein, “State Structure.” 13 See Glover, National Relations, esp. Chapter 2 and 3. 14 Brown, “Four Paradigms of Public Diplomacy,” 16.

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Language Lecturers Abroad: From “Swedishness” to State Politics

The establishment of the Enlightenment Board was closely related to discontent with the Swedish support for Swedish-lecturers at foreign universities. Having been present at foreign universities since at least the first decade of the twentieth century, the state had shown little interest in their teaching of Swedish abroad. The organisation supporting the lecturers financially – through scholarships, travel grants and book packages – as well as organisationally – through conferences or textbook production – was the National Association for the Preservation of Swedishness Abroad. Founded in 1908, the Association worked for the maintenance of the Swedish language amongst emigre Swedes in the diaspora, Swedish-speaking minorities in Finland and Estonia, as well as for the promotion of Swedish and Swedish culture in general amongst foreign publics, mostly in an academic setting. As discussed above, this kind of association, its aims and activities were by no means unique to Sweden, but are found all over Europe starting in the 1880s. The central figure for lecturer support was the professor of antiquities in Gothenburg, Vilhelm Lundström, who acted as a fundraiser, conference organiser and point of contact for both lecturers and foreign universities. The representative function of  the lecturers was very clear for Lundström, who often referred to them as  Sweden’s cultural attachés.15 The first example of a foreign lecturer sent to Germany with support from the Association goes as far back as 1920 when Ivar Lundahl started teaching in Jena. In 1930 the Association formalised their lectureship programme by forming a special Lecturer Board headed by Lundström.16 This situation began to be sharply criticised from the end of the 1920s. The Association was perceived as weak and the organisational structure had proven problematic when it came to questions such as the lecturer’s voting rights, pensions, validation of the years served abroad upon their return to Sweden and (re-)entering into the civil service. By increasing the interest of the state in making Sweden and the Swedish language known abroad, some lecturers hoped to win certain benefits and better organisational support. It is in this context that the first proposal for a state organisation made by Scharp and Tunberg in 1930 should be understood. As described above, this proposal was

15 Lundström, Allsvenska linjer, 188. See also Åkerlund, Mellan akademi och kulturpolitik, 79–108 for a general description of the relationship between the Association and lecturers abroad. 16 Limberg, “Svenska lektoraten,” 92 and 111.

THE Nationalisation of Swedish Enlightenment Activities

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turned down by the state administration, illustrating the limited interest shown at the time by the Swedish state in these issues. Political developments on the continent, however, led to a change in attitude from the government. The National Socialist rise to power in 1933 and the following politically motivated cleansing of university personnel in Germany had severe consequences for the Swedish lecturers in the country. The lecturer in Greifswald, Stellan Arvidson, was dismissed in 1933 and there were plans to replace his colleague in Berlin, Scharp, with the Swedish Nazi demagogue Malte Welin. Meanwhile, the lecturer in Jena, Nils Kjellman, attempted to benefit from the situation, trying to convince his colleagues to sign a document in which the “cultural attachés” of Sweden sided with the nsdap and pronounced their support for the “German revolution.”17 There was thus an obvious risk that positions spoken of in terms of official Swedish “cultural attachés” would soon be politicised in a National Socialist direction, and this was a most undesirable development for the Swedish government. Fundamentally, this was a question of who was to represent the nation abroad, and who was to appoint these representatives. This political development led to a change of policy and accelerated the decision to establish some kind of state agency. In the Swedish case, it was therefore not the Second World War as such which sparked the development towards more state control, but the spread of European fascism preceding the war.18 As soon as it had been established in 1935, the Enlightenment Board had a number of issues on its table regarding the lecturers abroad. There was the delicate question of whether Sweden should try to influence the assignment of lecturers even though they were officially employed by foreign universities. If Swedish authorities were to demand this, other countries could demand the same influence in Sweden. On the other hand, not trying to influence the process could lead to the assignment of unwanted persons, such as the Nazi supporter Welin. The solution was in the end to launch a recommendation system, in which only lecturers who had been approved by the Board would receive benefits when returning to Sweden and entering the civil service.19 The Board would then have an indirect influence over the appointments 17 See Åkerlund, Mellan akademi och kulturpolitik, 113–132; Åkerlund, “Das Berliner Schwedischlektorat.” 18 A similar development can be seen in the US as the Division of Cultural Relations (1938) was founded partly as a response to the politics of Nazi Germany and fascist Italy in Latin America. See Ninkovich, Diplomacy of Ideas, 26–27. 19 The benefits included the right to count years of service as a basis for a higher salary when entering civil service and priority treatment for vacant teaching positions in Swedish

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abroad, as a lecturer without state approval could encounter difficulties upon his or her return to Sweden. This also meant that the option of establishing any form of bilateral agreements for lecturer exchanges with other states was discarded. The arrangement is interesting as it points to the limits of state control over what can broadly be defined as cultural representation of the nation. Formalising relationships on a state-to-state level could lead to an unwanted politicisation of a sphere which was intended to be perceived as apolitical. The main problem was, however, how the relationship between the Ministry for Foreign Affairs and the National Association for the Preservation of Swedishness Abroad was to be organised. Already at the preparatory conferences in 1934, Vilhelm Lundström had said that the Association’s Lecturer Board would not yield its control since it was the Association that ultimately administrated the funds collected for supporting the lecturers. Nevertheless, it was obvious that collaboration was necessary, and Lundström was consequently made a member of the Enlightenment Board along with his fellow member of the Association’s Lecturer Board, Carl Skottsberg (as a substitute). Both were appointed by the Culture Council. The initiators of the Enlight­ enment Board, Scharp and Tunberg, were also appointed. In April 1936, it was decided that any questions regarding economic support, vacant lecturer positions or nominations were to be considered by a group consisting of members representing the National Association as well as the Enlightenment Board. This was an interesting construction that can be understood as a pooling of resources. Lundström had the necessary international network, allocated funds as well as the experience dealing with foreign universities. The Ministry for Foreign Affairs could make lectureships attractive by offering civil service benefits and giving a recommended lecturer the aura of representing official Sweden.20 At the same time, the founding of the Enlightenment Board marked the start of a process in which the state administration incorporated an activity previously carried out by a civil society actor. After the outbreak of the war in September 1939, and especially after the death of Lundström in March 1940, the Ministry for Foreign Affairs began exercising a stronger influence over the lecturers abroad and especially those in Germany. The Swedish state took a position of strict neutrality during the Second World War, a position which was secondary schools. The system is described in detail in a memorandum on actions regarding Swedish lecturers abroad: RA, UD, P 1008, Preliminärt utkast beträffande åtgärder rörande de svenska utlandslektoraten, 25 October 1934. 20 Åkerlund, Mellan akademi och kulturpolitik, 142–143.

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not appreciated by either the Axis or the Allied powers.21 Sweden consequently needed to work for the acceptance of this policy in all parts of Europe. Immediately following the outbreak of war, the secretary of the Enlightenment Board, Sven Dahlman, stated that the the Board’s new objective was to work to enhance an understanding of Swedish neutrality policy abroad. Consequently in 1940 the Board was subordinated to the new wartime state authority for information control. From this point on the Enlightenment Board, which until that point had been a corporatist construction with the Culture Council appointing the majority of its members, was transformed into a state agency. The death of Lundström, who had been against the formation of the Board from the outset, facilitated the collaboration between the Board and the Association to a point where it is difficult to pinpoint a clear division between the two organisations. State support to foreign lecturers was generous during the war, consisting of special cabinet passports, travel grants and life insurances. In some cases it even included the postponement of obligatory military service for individual lecturers as well as extra rations of food and alcohol being flown in from Stockholm to the embassy in Berlin. The sheer volume of various resources spent on them by the Ministry for Foreign Affairs during the war indicates that the lectureres were seen as nothing less than an integrated part of the Swedish propaganda effort, the main purpose of which was to  ensure and legitimise Sweden’s policy of neutrality. The lecturers also proved useful for the ministry as informants about the general atmosphere in Germany.22 When the Swedish Institute was founded in 1945 and the Enlightenment Board was dissolved, the responsibility for lecturers abroad was transferred to the new organisation. The decision to placing the lecturers under the remit of the institute was taken against the expressed opinion of the National Association for the Swedishness Abroad, which advocated maintenance of the status quo and proposed continued collaboration between the state and itself. The Association’s justification for this was that being a small organisation, it could act more swiftly and discreetly than any state or semi-state organisation. This argument was ignored and a division of labour was established where the Swedish Institute was responsible for the academic teaching of Swedish abroad and the National Association focused on supporting Swedish primary and secondary schools as well as adult education abroad. The only remnant of the old 21

For the Swedish relations to Nazi-Germany in general see Åselius, “Sweden and Nazi Germany”; Åmark, Att bo granne med ondskan. For the relationship with the Western Powers see Johansson, “Sverige och västmakterna 1939–1945.” 22 Åkerlund, Mellan akademi och kulturpolitik, 202–228.

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system was that the Association held one of the posts in the Lecturer committee of the Swedish Institute.23 What had happened during the course of a decade, roughly stretching from 1935 to 1945, was that the Ministry for Foreign Affairs transferred the organisational power over lectureships abroad from a civil society actor, over the Ministry itself, to the newly founded semi-state body that was the Swedish Institute.24 Thus, in this case, state-society collaboration led to the state taking over responsibility and influence from the collaborating association. This transfer also turned the responsibility for lecturers abroad into one of the most important fields of work for the Swedish Institute, and this remains the case today. This history shows that the reasons why Swedish lecturers abroad came to be important for the Swedish state are to be found in political development in Germany following the National Socialist takeover and the ability of Scharp and Tunberg to state their case to the Ministry for Foreign Affairs. The establishment of the Enlightenment Board and the attempts of this unit to control and support the lecturers are then to be understood as ad hoc reactions to the present situation rather than part of a long term Swedish strategy. One could in fact see state interest in the lectureships as a kind of crisis management when the functioning system of cultural representation through the lecturers in Germany threatened to collapse under the pressure of fascism. This would also explain the almost complete takeover of the responsibility for the lecturers. As the war broke out, the lecturers proved useful for propaganda and intelligence purposes. Though the choice to support university lecturers abroad in the first place had not been made by the Ministry, but by the National Association in the early 1920s, it clearly illustrates the importance of the existing structures created by one civil society actor for the Swedish state’s public diplomacy efforts.25

Establishing Educational Exchange: The Parallel System of Swedish-us Exchange

In 1938, the Swedish parliament decided to make state grants available for foreign academics who wanted to visit Sweden for the purposes of conducting 23 24 25

Limberg, “Svenska lektoraten,” 132–133. For the Swedish Institute in general see Glover, National Relations. That other forms of support for language teaching abroad were possible is indicated by the example of the German Deutsche Akademie, which instead of supporting university teachers established private language schools. These also functioned as cultural institutes. See Michels, Von der Deutschen Akademie, 90–99.

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research. This initiative came from the Enlightenment Board. In part, the motivation for introducing these grants was that they were a response to the activities of other countries. Germany and France already offered grants to Swedish citizens, and the United Kingdom, Poland and Italy had declared that they would also do so once there was a reciprocal offer from Sweden. Sweden also had cultural agreements with Hungary and Czechoslovakia which included exchange elements. The main argument presented by the Board however was that a scholarship programme for foreigners was one of the best ways to make Sweden, Swedish culture and society known abroad.26 This argument clearly shows that the primary function of the new scholarships was their contribution to the newly established policy field of Swedish ‘enlightenment activities’ or ‘cultural propaganda’ abroad. It is for instance notable that at this point, when the grants were launched, no arguments were made about the Swedish need for international contacts in higher education and research. Funds were assigned for 21 scholarships for the academic year 1938–1939. Two scholarships per country were allocated for Denmark, Finland, Norway, United Kingdom, France, Czechoslovakia and Germany and one each for Iceland, Italy, Poland and Hungary.27 In addition to these 18 regular scholarships, extra funds were assigned for three further scholarships for Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania.28 According to the rules laid down by state authorites, anybody who studied the Swedish language, history, literature, law or society would have prioritised access to the scholarships, illustrating the prime objective of enhancing knowledge about Sweden abroad. The political character of the scholarships was further accentuated by the fact that the state allowed representatives of the countries in question to designate scholarship recipients.29 One of the most puzzling facts of this programme, however, is that the usa was conspicuous by its absence. The country is not mentioned, neither in the minutes of the Enlightenment Board’s meetings, nor in the final proposal to Parliament. The reason for this omission was that exchange with North America was already institutionalised through two collaborating foundations, the American-Scandinavian Foundation, founded 1911 in New York and the Sweden-­America Foundation founded 1919 in Stockholm. Dag Blanck has pointed out these foundations should be understood in the context of 26 27 28 29

Bihang till Riksdagens protokoll vid lagtima Riksdagen i Stockholm år 1938 (Appendix to the Parliament minutes and protocols for the year 1938), paragraph 247, 565–566. RA, UD, I 798, Copy of a letter from his Royal Majesty to the State Treasury, 8 September 1938. See documents in RA, UD, i 807. RA, UD, I 798, Copy of a letter from his Royal majesty to the State Treasury, 8 September 1938.

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transatlantic migration from Scandinavia during the 19th century, as well as a growing interest in Scandinavia within us academia. The founders of the American-Scandinavian foundation were either descendants of immigrants or academics specialising in Scandinavian issues or both.30 Blank traces the origins of its Swedish counterpart – the Sweden- America Foundation – to a reorientation of parts of the Swedish economic and academic elite, away from Germany and towards the usa. The main purpose of both foundations was to fund and facilitate perpetual scholarship programmes for academics alongside other activities such as the translation of Scandinavian literature into English and the running of the Swedish-American News Exchange bureau in New York.31 The relationship between the Enlightenment Board and the SwedenAmerica Foundation developed differently from those between the Board and the National Association for the Preservation of Swedishness Abroad discussed above. It was not that the Board had previously ignored us-Swedish exchange. From having been virtually non-existent, correspondence between the Ministry for Foreign Affairs and the Sweden-America Foundation escalated from around 1939. From this year on, the foundation was consulted on a variety of questions regarding Swedish-American cultural contacts. In December 1940 the Ministry awarded the Sweden-America Foundation a subsidy totalling 1,500 sek (Swedish krona) designated for three scholarships for Swedish persons already present in the United States. Another 500 sek were given as an addition to the general grants of the foundation in order to make it possible for the foundation to support grant holders to the same extent as it hade done during the prewar years. One of the stated criteria for issuing these grants was the personal ability of the recipients to participate in enlightenment work on behalf of Sweden.32 Both of these scholarship forms were awarded after recommendation from the Enlightenment Board. What is interesting with this way of acting is that the Board made no attempts to incorporate the exchange of the Sweden-America foundation with the existing exchange programme of the Ministry for Foreign Affairs; on the contrary, it used the Foundation to channel state money to the Swedish-us exchange system. Unlike the National Association, which was more or less forced to give up its sole control over the foreign lecturers, the Sweden-America Foundation was kept separate from the Enlightenment Board and the Ministry for Foreign Affairs. 30 Blanck, “Scholars Across the Seas,” 113–114. 31 Blanck, Sverige-Amerika Stiftelsen, 14–23. The Swedish post-war orientation towards the U.S. when it comes to enlightenment activities is mentioned in Glover, National Relations, 218. 32 See RA, Sweden-America Foundation (Sverige-Amerika Stiftelsen, SAS), E1:16, Letter from Oskar Thorsing (Ministry for Foreign Affairs) to the Swedish-American Foundation, 7 December 1940.

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This exception of the United States from the regular state exchange programme and the close collaboration between the Ministry for Foreign Affairs and the foundations continued after the end of the war. One of the most striking post-war examples is the establishment of the King Gustaf V scholarships with the help of the so called “Coffee Fund.” During the Second World War, the Swedish consulate in New York had organised the transportation of cargo packages from persons living in the United States, Canada and Mexico to their relatives and friends in Sweden. There were 12 different types of standardised packages, which contained various items such as soap, fat and dried fruit, with the most common item being coffee. The packages were sent with Finnish boats to Petsamo, transported from there to the northern Swedish border and then distributed by the Swedish state postal service. Between 1940 and 1944, a total of 194,571 packages were sent from North America to Sweden this way. Due to the standardisation of packages, ranging from $1.90 for a package containing only coffee to $6.50 for the largest ones; the uncertainty of prices during war; and the possibility to rationalise purchases and packaging, a large surplus was created. Since there had been no intention of making a profit, the so-called Government Cargo Clearance Committee proposed that this surplus of roughly $36,000 was to be donated to the American-Scandinavian foundation and used for scholarships to Sweden for us citizens.33 The proposal was accepted by the Swedish government as well as the foundation, whose representative proposed naming the scholarships after the Swedish king.34 In the rules for the donation it was stated that the scholarships were to be given to applicants studying the Swedish language, Swedish history and Swedish art and literature.35 The exclusion of natural sciences and medicine shows a strong resemblance to the rules of the state scholarships, described above, aimed at Europe. The most striking thing about the donation to the American-Scandinavian foundation is that it took place at the same time as the Swedish Institute was being built up. Alongside its responsibility for general information on Sweden and Swedish culture and language abroad, the institute also established various visitors’ programmes and long-term scholarships for foreign academics. These long-term scholarships were at first coordinated with the existing scholarships of the Ministry for Foreign Affairs until 1957 when responsibility for all state scholarships was transferred to the Swedish Institute. During the late 33 34 35

RA, SAS, E1:35, Memo by Manne Lindholm (Government Cargo Clearance Committee, Swedish Consulate New York), 7 June 1946. Ibid., Copy of letter from the Swedish Embassy in Washington to the Ministry for Foreign Affairs, 24 September 1947. Ibid., Memorandum of the ASF, 29 September 1947.

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1940s and 1950s the majority of these scholarships were offered to Scandinavian and West European countries, with a small minority offered to Latin America and Canada. This orientation only started to change around 1960 when exchange with the Soviet Union was initiated.36 This means that the pre-war division of labour, where Swedish-us exchange took place through the two Swedish-us exchange foundations and exchange with the rest of the world was managed by the Swedish Institute, was maintained until 1972. In that year, the so-called guest scholarships, a scholarship programme open to applicants from the entire world, was established.37 The previous bilateral scholarships, which were never offered to us citizens, continued however to exist alongside this new programme. What is obvious is that when si took over the scholarship system from the Ministry for Foreign Affairs during the 1940s and 1950s, it also inherited the division of labour established by the Enlightenment Board in 1938 where exchange with the usa would take place within the existing private foundations for Swedish-us exchange. The donation of the Coffee Fund in 1947 shows that the Swedish state had no intention of changing this situation, but instead chose to maintain the existing order and to channel state funds through the American-Scandinavian Foundation instead of through the newly-founded Swedish Institute. This is remarkable not least because the Swedish state was one of the main forces behind the Swedish Institute and one would expect the state administration to support this project instead of a North American foundation. And it is even more remarkable, since improving Swedish-us relations was one of the most urgent motives behind the establishment of the Swedish Institute.38 It was also contrary to how the Swedish state had treated the National Association for the Preservation of Swedishness abroad regarding foreign lecturers. Conclusions The two examples discussed in this chapter show that the existence of civil society actors has strongly impacted Swedish state politics within the field of 36

This is visible in the SI annual reports from the period that contains accounts of the origins of scholarship holders. During the period 1945–1960, roughly 88% of scholarship holders came from Scandinavia or Western Europe. For an overview over the Cold War scholarship policies see Åkerlund, “The impact of foreign policy.” 37 Rylander, Stipendier skapar relationer. 38 Glover, National Relations, 32.

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enlightenment and cultural propaganda abroad. Not only does this point to the importance of non-state actors within this field, often stressed in existing research, but it also suggests that the existence of associations and foundations to some extent determines state policies.39 Although these civil society actors are frequently active in the international arena, they have to be studied in the context of national histories. The cases described in this article are intimately connected to Swedish 19th century history. The existence of Swedishspeaking minorities abroad – most notably in Finland and Estonia, but also to some extent in the usa – and the idea of a close relationship between language and national identity laid the basis for the formation and activities of the National Association for the Preservation of Swedishness Abroad.40 This explains why the promotion of the Swedish language abroad was so central for this association. The fact that the majority of the Swedish lectureships abroad were located in Germany on the other hand has to be explained through the significant German academic interest in Scandinavia.41 The two Foundations for Swedish-us exchange described in this chapter are also only understandable within the larger context of Swedish 19th century migration to North America. Although similar organisations with similar ideas and ideologies might be found in other countries, their geographical orientation or modes of working are never identical. Thus when the Swedish state started to intervene in this field, the strong focus on Swedish language teaching at universities abroad or on exchange with the United States were the results of broader historical developments. The intentions of the Enlightenment Board to influence the appointment of lecturers abroad; its support to the already appointed lecturers; and the choice not to include the United States in the state scholarship programmes can therefore not be said to have been part of a grand state strategy for external communication, but a mere adaptation to existing initiatives. This argument is further strengthened by the ways in which the Swedish Ministry for Foreign Affairs chose to handle the questions of lecturers abroad and international exchange in the 1930s. As mentioned earlier, the (re)actions 39 40

41

For the importance of non-state actors, see e.g. Melissen, “The New Public Diplomacy,” 12; Bock, “Transnationale Kulturbeziehungen,” 10–11. Until at least 1945, a common Swedish reference to the Swedish-speaking minority in Finland was ‘Finland’s Swedes’ (Finlands svenskar), implying that they were seen primarily as Swedes living outside the country. From a Finnish perspective, these groupes were officially referred to as ‘Swedish-speaking Finns.’ See Åkerlund, “Die Lektorate,” for the development of the lectureships in Swedish at German universities.

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regarding the lecturers were to a large extent of an ad hoc nature. The political turmoil in Germany after the National Socialist takeover and influential voices within the lecturer corps obligated the Ministry to act. The result was the forced collaboration between the National Association and the Enlightenment Board, in order for the state to gain some semblance of control over the lecturer appointments. The corporatist character of the Board, in which representatives for the National Association and other civil society actors were given influence and responsibilities within the state administration, was a welltested setup in the Swedish context. State control was gradually strengthened during the war as the Culture Council was dissolved and the Enlightenment Board and foreign lecturers were incorporated into the war propaganda efforts in the service of neutrality. What the examples discussed in this chapter also show is that for civil society actors the collaboration with the state could have very different outcomes. For the Association, the collaboration turned out to have a detrimental outcome, as the Ministry for Foreign Affairs after the war decided to transfer all the responsibility for the lecturers abroad to the Swedish Institute. The reasons for the Swedish Institute even involving itself with foreign lecturers after the war are therefore found in the pre-war era. These reasons were a combination of a perceived institutional weakness of the National Association, the rise of German National Socialism in the 1930s and the political radicalisation of German academia at the end of the Second World War. The increasing state control over cultural matters in Nazi-Germany thus provoked the Swedish state to take control of what was seen as their foreign policy interests, in this case the work of the National Association. In a broader perspective, the interwar years were a period in which many European states, especially fascist dictatorships, took control and reshaped the old nationalist associations of the 19th century. In Italy, the Società Dante Alighieri was from 1929 de facto controlled by the Ministry of Education and the nsdap in Germany rapidly took control of cultural institutions working with foreigners, such as the Alexander von Humboldt-Stiftung, the daad or the Deutsche Akademie.42 In the end, it seems as if the politics of these dictatorships provoked a similar reaction amongst the liberal democracies as well. Sweden is one of the examples of this development.43

42

43

For Italy, see Hoffend, Zwischen Kultur-Achse und Kulturkampf, 56–57. See also TotaroGenevois, Cultural and Linguistic Policy, 43–44. For Germany, see Laitenberger, Akademischer Austausch; Michels, Von der Deutschen Akademie. This idea is further elaborated in Åkerlund, Från nationell föreningsverksamhet, 33–39.

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In the case of Swedish-us exchange the outcome was rather different. The Ministry was happy to leave this matter to the already existing exchange foundations. It is hard to determine why this decision was made, but it seems as if the Ministry chose to focus on European exchanges, where scholarships were non-existent, instead of seeking to control the existing North American programmes. In stark contrast to the National Association, the AmericanScandinavian and the Sweden-America Foundations seem to have benefited from the newly awakened state interest. This is illustrated by the state contributions to scholarships and the Ministry for Foreign Affairs’ increased requests to seek advice from and dialogue with the foundations. It is clear that the decisions made in the 1930s affected the organisation of Swedish post-war enlightenment work in general and the work of the Swedish Institute in particular. Whereas foreign lecturers were the responsibility of the Institute from day one and joint responsibility with the national Association was rejected, exchange scholarships to the usa remained the responsibility of the American-Scandinavian and the Sweden-America Foundation for almost another 30 years. Once established, the division of labour and the resulting collaboration pattern between state and civil society actors is a stable structure that has endured for decades. However, the establishment of the Enlightenment Board and the disempowerment of the National Association for the Preser­ vation of Swedishness Abroad also show that the state will act and change these established structures in times of perceived political crisis.

chapter 2

Open Diplomacy and Minority Rights: The League of Nations and Lithuania’s International Image in the Early 1920s Chiara Tessaris When the League of Nations was created in 1919 it was entrusted it with ambitious tasks. The League was to maintain peace, create a new international order transcending the narrow national interests of individual governments, and promote principles of democracy and formal equality among nations. From now on, the settlement of territorial disputes among states had to take into account the consent of the governed, in order to counterbalance the traditional tenets of Great Power politics. The League was also accountable before international public opinion; the advent of parliamentary democracy made public opinion a new and powerful factor in conducting states’ foreign policies and this clearly affected the League’s work. Lithuania’s international image, as it was represented at the League’s headquarters in Geneva, is explored here in relation to the emergence of open diplomacy and international guarantees for minority protection. These were two pillars of the new international order that the League was expected to uphold and promote. Since new members were admitted to the League on the condition that they met several requirements among which minimum standards of minority protection, this chapter analyses the League’s influence on Lithuania’s strategies to obtain international support for a twofold foreign policy agenda. The argument is that the image of the nation promoted abroad was instrumental to establishing the legitimacy of Lithuanian territorial claims to the multiethnic territory of Vilna, and to obtaining the still pending de jure recognition. At the Paris Peace Conference in 1919, the Lithuanian delegation had claimed Lithuania’s historical right to statehood based on the continuity between the early modern Grand Duchy of Lithuania and the modern Lithuanian nation. In Geneva, Lithuanian diplomats and politicians had to ‘adjust’ this ideal historical nation to conform to the standards of the League of Nations and the new way of conducting diplomacy that the League represented. As a result, the Lithuanians invested their efforts in convincing the League and international public opinion that if historical rights entitled them to statehood, then their commitment to granting national minorities extensive rights made them worthy of admission to the League and the right to rule over Vilna.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���� | doi 10.1163/9789004305496_004

Open Diplomacy and Minority Rights



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Historical Outline

On 5 September 1920, Poland decided to bring the conflict with Lithuania over the city of Vilna before the League of Nations. As a result of the break-up of the Russian Empire and the great changes brought about by the First World War, the city and the region of Vilna had become a battlefield between Poland and Lithuania. The Poles insisted that the city was Polish while the Lithuanians claimed it as their historical capital. During the First World War, the Germans had taken possession of the region until their military collapse in the autumn of 1918. In Vilna the Lithuanian provisional government (Taryba) proclaimed the independence of Lithuania on 16 February 1918, while still under German occupation, but the Taryba had to retreat to Kaunas as the Bolshevik army entered the city in January 1919. The Vilna question became a territorial dispute that the Allies tried to solve in Paris by drawing several demarcation lines, but these did not bring peace to the region, and the question remained unresolved until Poland brought it before the League in 1920. The high expectations that the Lithuanian public placed on the League were soon disappointed. The Council of the League of Nations decided to administer a plebiscite on the issue if Poland agreed to withdraw its troops from Vilna, where the Polish general Lucien Zeligowki had established a provisional government of Central Lithuania. As both parties eventually refused to agree to this plan, the League dismissed the plebiscite idea and instead offered to negotiate a federalist solution in Brussels presided over by the former Belgian Minister of Foreign Affairs, Paul Hymans. The Lithuanian and Polish governments accepted the invitation and discussed the Hymans federalist project, but opposition from the Lithuanian public and the unrest that the negotiations caused in the country forced the government to reject the final draft of the Hymans project on 24 December 1922. Ultimately, on 14 March 1923, the Conference of the Ambassadors ratified the de facto frontier recommended by the Council of the League of Nations, leaving the Grodno, Lida and Vilna districts to Poland.

The Issue: The Recognition of Civilized Nations

In 1920, the Great Powers were waiting for the League to settle the border dispute between Poland and Lithuania before making their final decision regarding to the latter’s de jure recognition. Thus, the League became Lithuania’s only chance to gain international recognition and to establish the kind of state that Lithuanian politicians and nationalists imagined: one with Vilna as its capital.

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Representing Lithuania at the League of Nations thus had important implications for Lithuanian diplomacy. This meant that, on the one hand, during the negotiations, Lithuanian diplomats had to adjust their arguments and strategies to meet the League’s requirements for new states aspiring to admission in the club of the ‘civilized’ nations. On the other hand, they were also actively promoting the image of a Lithuania supportive of national minorities to win international public opinion to their cause, thus pressuring the League by using the organisation’s own weapon; its accountability before international public opinion. The claim that the national minorities of Lithuania and of the Vilna region supported the Lithuanian nation-building process served both these purposes and became a key component of the Lithuanian delegation’s strategy to counteract Polish objections against the outright assignment of Vilna to Lithuania. For this reason, during the negotiations in Brussels the Lithuanian delegation renewed its government’s commitment to grant cultural autonomy to all minorities living in Lithuania.1 This was not the first time that the Lithuanians made this kind of offer in an international setting. Jewish and Lithuanian leaders had found a common interest in opposing Polish occupation and had started to collaborate. In exchange for Jewish support on the Vilna question at the Paris Peace Conference in August 1919, the Lithuanian delegation approved the Declaration on the Rights of the Jews of Lithuania and guaranteed that it would be ratified in the Constitution.2 In Paris, beyond obtaining de jure recognition, the Lithuanian delegation sought to counteract Poland’s attempt to organise a plebiscite in Vilna following the Bolshevik retreat. The Lithuanian government was in fact hoping to convince the Great Powers that a plebiscite was unnecessary. Lithuania, the delegation explained in Paris, had the historical as well as the legal right to rule over Vilna and its population was – so the Lithuanian government claimed – not Polish but overwhelmingly Jewish and wholeheartedly supportive of a Lithuanian independent state with Vilna as its capital. In reality, Lithuanian-Jewish domestic public opinion was heavily divided on the issue of whether to support a Polish or a Lithuanian-ruled Vilna. However, the 1 League of Nations’ Archives, Palais des Nations, Geneva (lna), 11/R 588, doc. 13267–13269, Polish-Lithuanian Conference, Documents Submitted by the Lithuanian Delegation, Brussels, 30 May 1921, 13–14. Cultural autonomy, also called non-territorial autonomy, was a solution that aimed at reconciling ethnic diversity within a single democratic state framework by granting minorities extensive national rights and state-sponsored institutions to administer their affairs. It represented an alternative means of allowing national minorities to express their cultural identity when the principle of national-self-determination could not apply. Hiden & Smith, “Looking beyond the Nation State,” 388. 2 The following developments draw on Liekis, A State Within a State, 124–126.

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Lithuanian Zionist parties, as well as the Comité des délégations juives auprès de la Conférence de la Paix, supported the Lithuanian delegation, because they saw in cultural autonomy the best way to secure autonomous Jewish national rights in Lithuania.3 In the following years, 1920–1922, championing Lithuanian generosity towards minorities had a broader significance than it had in 1919. In Geneva the Lithuanian delegation, headed by Minister of Finance Ernestas Galvanauskas, saw in cultural autonomy more than a trump-card for gaining Vilna.4 Above all it was seen as a key factor in establishing Lithuania’s credentials for facilitating de jure recognition, and admission to the League of Nations. As a result, the diplomats’ targeted audience was no longer only Jewish domestic and international organisations but also the League of Nations itself – and consequently international public opinion. The image of Lithuania that the delegation was projecting in Geneva was a response to how the League’s itself was imagining that the new states emerging in East Central Europe from the ashes of the Habsburg and Romanov empires should look like. As far as the League was concerned, the question at stake was not so much whether the new states’ borders respected historical rights, but the extent to which in these largely multinational states national minorities would be duly respected. For this reason, on 15 December 1920, the Assembly recommended that in the event of the Baltic and Caucasian states and Albania being admitted to the League, these states were expected 3 Besides the equality of civil, political, and national rights regardless of nationality, religion, and language, the Declaration granted equal representation to the Jewish population, the right to participate in governmental and judicial institutions and the establishment of a Jewish Ministry for their particular concerns. In terms of political rights, Jewish communities were recognised as a juridical body entitled to receive subsidies from the state. The Comitė des délégations juives auprès de la Conférence de la Paix was established at the end of March 1919, and encompassed all the deputations, except for the Alliance Israelite and the British Foreign Committee. After the Peace Conference it continued to serve as a forum for sensitising international public opinion on Jewish suffering in the new states. Ettinger, “Jews as a National Minority,” 941. 4 Ernestas Galvanauskas played a major role during the negotiations of the Polish-Lithuanian dispute under the League of Nations. He was therefore in the best position to negotiate the Hymans’ plan, and thanks to his diplomatic skills was also able to win the respect of the League’s officials (lna, 11/S 7, Report of the Military Commission, 24 December 1921, 5). Unlike his predecessor, the diplomat and nationalist Augustinas Voldemaras, Galvanauskas was a liberal and a supporter of cultural and political federalism, which often made him rather unpopular at home: in the early 1920s federalist plans had lost ground to more radical nationalist positions both in the Lithuanian and Polish political circles (Martisius & Martisius, “Ernestas Galvanauskas,” 136–138).

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to take the necessary measures to enforce the principles of Minorities Treaties and place them under the auspices of the League of Nations.5 This decision reflected the League’s notion that it was necessary to remedy the injustice of the Versailles peace settlement which “had been unable to arrange for each race to form a single state or to prevent several races from coming together within the boundaries of the same state.”6 While this situation was acknowledged as a violation of the rights to self-determination and to self-government of peoples, the director of the League Secretariat’s Minority Section Eric Colban observed that it “inevitably raises the problem of transforming about 30 million individuals into loyal citizens of the countries to which they belonged.”7 The League’s system was therefore based on the assumptions that winning minorities’ loyalty was still possible and crucial to guaranteeing international peace. After all, East Central Europe was expected to play a crucial role in containing Bolshevik and German expansionism and it was therefore important to prevent instability in the region by removing any potential causes of national conflicts. The League’s role in protecting minorities also reflected the peacemakers’ conviction that this new organisation had the right and duty to replace the former Ottoman, Habsburg and Romanov empires’ guiding of their peoples. Jan Christian Smuts acknowledged that, if admittedly there were significant differences in the degree of “civilisation” among the three empires’ subjects, they were nevertheless “mostly untrained politically and many of them (…) either incapable of or deficient in power and self-government.”8 After the defeat of Napoleon, the notion that world leadership lay with Europeans became fundamental to a new understanding of international order and to the new techniques of international rule with the aims of helping to preserve order among sovereign states. Its principles, as John Stuart Mill suggested, were explicitly stated as applying only to civilized states. After all, joining the community of states through the doctrine of international recognition was possible only when a state was brought within the realm of law by increasing civilization.9 The peacemakers’ outlook on this question notwithstanding, neither Lithua­ nians nor the Estonians deemed it necessary to undergo any ‘civilizing mission.’10 5

lna, 26/R 1365, Procès-verbaux of the Committees of the First Assembly, Eighth Meeting, Geneva, 15 December 1920, 11. 6 Ibid. 7 Ibid. 8 Smuts, The League of Nations, 3; Lynch, “Woodrow Wilson,” 419. 9 Mazower, “An international civilization,” 554–555. 10 On Estonia, see Smith, Estonia: Independence, 14.

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They were, on the contrary, eager to prove to the League and international public opinion that they already possessed proper credentials to join the club of ‘real’ nations. In an interview held in London with the representative of the Comité des délégations juives [‘The Committee of Jewish Delegations’], in March 1921, Galvanauskas stated that “Kaunas is committed to granting cultural autonomy to all minorities living in Lithuania;” Jews constituted 13 % of the total population but there were also other nationalities, namely Lithuanians, Poles and Belarusians.11 The Lithuanian government, therefore, considered it its duty to create the conditions under which all minorities could develop their own national culture, “because this would consolidate their loyalty to the state.”12 Hoping for the impact that this could have on international Jewish public opinion in particular, Galvanauskas presented cultural autonomy as “the only political solution possible and might make Lithuania an example for other nations.”13 This campaign to win the support of international public opinion was intended to complement the intense diplomatic effort conducted behind closed doors to gain admission to the League. In a note on 14 December 14 1920, the Lithuanian delegate Augustinas Voldemaras had informed the League that his government was ready to enter negotiations with the Council in order to define the scope and details of the implementation of its international obligations for the protection of minorities. This included his government’s willingness to ratify the final Constitution which was to include the institutions of cultural autonomy for Jews, Belarusians and Poles that had already been given legal expression in the Lithuanian Provisional Constitution of November 1918 as well as in the fundamental principles of the constitution adopted by the Lithuanian Constituent Assembly.14

Open Diplomacy: Promoting and Abandoning an Innovation

In the new post-First World War international system the League was expected to settle disputes following the principles of national sovereignty, self-determination 11

lna, 41/S 339, “Le President du Conseil Lithuanien sur l’autonomie en Lituanie,” in Bulletin des Délégations juives auprès de la Conference de la Paix, n. 16 March 1921, 8. Emphasis added. 12 Ibid. 13 lna, 41/S 339, “La Lituanie veut tenir ses engagements relatifs a l’autonomie des minorités nationales,” in Bulletin des Délégations juives auprès de la Conference de la Paix, n. 18 August 1921, 2. 14 lna, 41/R 1653, Memorandum submitted by Augustinas Voldemaras to the Council, 21 December 1920, 1.

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and protection of minorities as a counterbalance to Great Power politics. In March 1921 the Dutch newspaper De Masbode expressed the opinion that in this respect, the League deserved credit for suggesting that the Vilna dispute be settled through a plebiscite, a decision that reflected the organisation’s commitment to this principle.15 In the minds of its architects, the League of Nations was however meant to be more than a mere system of dealing with disputes and preventing aggression in order to maintain international peace. Rather, it was expected to become a great institution; an ever visible, living, working organ of the polity of civilization promoting a new way of conceiving diplomacy that implied, among other things, the repudiation of secret diplomacy.16 For those like Viscount Robert Cecil who rejected the discredited alliance system and the principle of balance of power, the League had to create a public international arena in which diplomacy was thrown open to public opinion.17 This new way to conduct diplomacy had important implications. On the one hand the new organisation had to become the rallying point for the exchange of ideas and for the discovery of a common ground among states upon which international cooperation and progress would be feasible.18 On the other, public opinion was expected to play a greater role in international diplomacy and conflict resolution. The power of the League resided in public opinion and if this proved wrong, Cecil claimed, then the entire idea was wrong. He believed that if necessary, a state’s own people would turn against their government forcing it back onto the path indicated by the League.19 Along similar lines, Jan Christian Smuts, one of the major contributors to the drafting of the League’s Covenant and at the time member of the Imperial War Cabinet, argued that no super-state was proposed because states would have to be controlled, not by compulsion from above, but by consent from below.20 Not surprisingly then, the eyes of European public opinion were on the League’s work from its beginnings, at times as a formidable ally but more often as an unforgiving judge of the organisations’ activities. Open diplomacy was not the only challenge for the League. The application of the democratic but very vague principle of self-determination to settle border disputes could also prove hard to tackle as it raised the question of what 15 lna, Commentaires de la Presse, n. 52, De Masbode, 3 March 1921. 16 Walters, History of the League of Nations, 28. 17 Howard, War and the Liberal Conscience, 87. 18 League of Nations, Ten Years of World Co-operation, 398–399. 19 Howard, War and the Liberal Conscience, 87. 20 Northedge, The League of Nations, 35.

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constituted a legitimate basis for territorial claims. This debate did not involve just the League and the disputants; it caught the interest of the international press and European statesmen who joined in, reflecting a fascinating image of an age in search of new answers to problems previously settled by secret treaties between governments. No longer were things so simple, and if historical rights did not constitute a legitimate base for territorial claims – as British Prime Minister Lloyd George remarked in an address to the House of Commons in 1921 – then what did, and who was to decide?21 Did national self-determination, for instance, mean national sovereign determination, which entitled each nationality to possession of its own sovereign state? Or did it mean autonomy within the given state structure?22 According to De Masbode the fact that it was so difficult to organise the Vilna plebiscite only proved how little the principle of self-determination was known among the nations and how significant was the work that needed to be done to improve this situation.23 The failure of the plebiscite plan arose from the Polish and Lithuanian reluctance to collaborate, and this was even more regrettable considering that the former was one of the founders of the League and the latter had appplied for admission. The intense effort that the League had put into trying to act impartially had not been taken into account by these two countries.24 The British press too commented on the reaction of the disputants and “at the resolution of a meeting where Vilna representatives of various parties had decided to support General Zeligowski in opposition to the arbitrary whims of the League of Nations.”25 The French daily Les Dernières Nouvelles was more concerned that, at the upcoming talks, the Poles “will try to impose their idea to revive the Polish-Lithuanian union of the xvith century” on the Lithuanians, who distrusted them so deeply as to consider this view a threat to their independence.26 The newspaper concluded that since the divergences between Poles and Lithuanians over Vilna were no less profound than those that divided Poland and Soviet Russia over the Belarusian and Ukrainian territories “the League is the only hope.”27 21

Lloyd George’s comments were reported in a Times article (“The Need for Calm,” The Times, 16 May 1921). He was referring to the Upper Silesian dispute between Poland and Germany. 22 Johnston, “Reflections on Wilson,” 207. 23 lna, Commentaires de la Presse, n. 52, De Masbode, 3 March 1921. 24 Ibid. 25 “Conference on Vilna,” The Times, 12 April 12 1920. 26 lna, Commentaires de la Presse, n. 77, Les Dernières Nouvelles, 22 April 1921. 27 Ibid.

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The Times agreed that Vilna stood for more than a simple frontier dispute. The situation was far more complicated and drawing borders would have not solved the problem nor guaranteed peaceful coexistence between these two countries because If Vilna, the most appropriate capital for Lithuania, is left to Poland, the Lithuanians will consider themselves robbed of their birthright and will remain Poland’s bitterest enemies. If Vilna is given to Lithuania, the Lithuanian Poles, who are the largest section of the population, and the most highly developed socially, will refuse to allow themselves to be placed against their will in the hands of the Kaunas government, which they hate and despise. In either case, there will be trouble.28 The situation was even more complicated, The Times argued, because if on the one hand it was impossible to revive the old Polish-Lithuanian federation that “most Poles regard as impracticable and Lithuanians greatly resent,” on the other hand the majority of the Poles in Poland and in Vilna were also impatient with any suggestion of leaving Vilna connected in any way with Lithuania. The Morning Post held no high expectations regarding the conference and warned those who saw in the League a panacea for all quarrels were bound to soon be disappointed.29 In an article sarcastically entitled the “Vilna Comedy,” the newspaper argued that they were observing “a League which is to establish peace in the world, but cannot even establish peace in Vilna.”30 The telegram of the Lithuanian Prime minister Antanas Smetona published in the Frankfurter Zeitung wasn no kinder in anticipating that “it is obvious that the Brussels Conference on Vilna will be unsuccessful, because the League will not be able to enforce the withdrawal of Zeligowski.”31 Le Petit Parisien however noted more optimistically that: the League’s new way of conducting diplomacy based on direct and honest talks between men of good will that had at heart the fate of their country and of humankind has given excellent results and their goodwill has prevented further bloodshed.32 28

lna, Commentaires de la Presse, n. 89, “Vilna Conference to Resume. Compromise Essential,” The Times, 5 May 1921. 29 lna, Commentaires de la Presse, n. 51, The Morning Post, 9 March 1921. 30 Ibid. 31 lna, Commentaires de la Presse, n. 53, Frankfurter Zeitung, 21 March 1921. 32 lna, Commentaires de la Presse, n. 38, Le Petit Parisien, 4 March 1921.

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The League was clearly expected to repudiate the ‘old system’ based on secret treaties and alliances, with one that relied on open diplomacy. Publicity would be its driving force, by providing public discussion and public documents with which world opinion could judge its results. Open diplomacy, however, entailed several risks. The League’s Secretariat carefully evaluated the extent to which the press needed to be informed about and involved in the upcoming negotiations at Brussels. In spite of the widespread interest surrounding the dispute, the League decided before the opening of the talks to give little publicity to the matter.33 League officials were aware that the international public opinion’s benevolent support depended upon their accomplishments and the equity of their decisions. They had closely followed the debate in the press, especially regarding the evaluation of the League’s work. They were particularly concerned by The Times’ severe criticism of the League’s lack of publicity when it came to the presence of Polish troops in Vilna, because “plain facts like these ought to be made public as soon as they are apparent,” the newspaper argued.34 Henry Cumming from the League’s Information Section did not argue against British criticism and chose instead to take immediate action. Cumming believed that The Times’ article clearly indicated the importance of frankly and promptly providing all the available information on the question, especially since the Polish and Lithuanian press bureaus in the various capitals of the world were distributing tendentious versions of the daily developments. The Council had to develop a bolder policy of publicity in this respect, he argued.35 He therefore sent off preliminary notes providing information about the upcoming Council meeting to all the League of Nations Unions, the British Foreign Office Press Bureau and a select list of the European newspapers.36 Cumming’s immediate reaction notwithstanding, League officials were not of one mind regarding the role of publicity in the negotiations. Some in the Political Section of the Secretariat believed that the interest of the Press in the upcoming talks in Brussels had to be encouraged for several other reasons. Having some journalists present could be useful because the more the disputants realised that their conflict had attracted the attention of Western Europe, the less they would be inclined to solve it without considering Western public opinion.37 Secretary-General Eric Drummond shared this faith and suggested that the press be not only duly informed but also admitted to the proceedings 33 League of Nations, Ten Years of World Co-operation, 403. 34 lna, 11/S. 5, “Vilna Muddle. The League’s authority Flouted,” The Times, 19 February 1921. 35 lna, 11/S. 5, Henry Cummings to Paul Comert, Geneva, 21 February 1921. 36 Ibid. 37 lna, 11/S. 6, Paul Mantoux to Abraham, Brussels, 12 April 1921.

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of the Conference. He hoped that Hymans would agree that “it is the only method of making both parties reasonable and if both or either party is not, the press will make it clear on whom the onus of a failure rests, saving the League’s prestige.”38 Drummond was aware that open diplomacy “represents an innovation” and he did not underestimate the fact that the somewhat ungrateful task Hymans was undertaking was of great importance for the reputation of the League. Yet, “in the circumstances of the present case,” he remarked, “the effect might be very beneficial, because admitting certain selected men from the press is the best chance of securing a settlement.”39 But many within the Political Section held a different view. Considering the hostile attitude of the disputants and that the League “is left to its own devices because we cannot rely on the support of Western Europe,” they were inclined to use publicity with greater caution.40 Granted, withholding information from the press and leaving public opinion in suspense about the negotiations admittedly could run counter to the interests of the League.41 It was, however, important to create a congenial atmosphere for the parties to freely express their views without fear of the feelings and reactions that these might stir among their respective publics. The Secretariat finally decided that publicity should therefore be extremely limited especially at the opening of the conference.42 Thus from Brussels, the League delegation headed by Paul Hymans reported to the Political Section that “in our interaction with the press, we have let them understand that they cannot expect daily reports on the talks, and the journalists I have met seem to have understood the problem.”43 The delegation instead prepared a summary for journalists and the representatives of the telegraphic agency in Brussels. This explained the nature and evolution of the dispute and informed them that on 20 April the negotiations between the Lithuanian delegation, headed by the Ernestas Galvanauskas, and the Polish delegation, headed by Count Wladyslaw Sobanski, would open in Brussels under the presidency of Paul Hymans “whose role is not to mediate nor arbitrate the dispute, but only to assist the discussion of the issues at stake and to facilitate reconciliation of the two countries in the interest of European peace.”44 38 lna, 11/S. 6, Eric Drummond to Mantoux, Geneva, 11 April 1921. 39 lna, 11/S 6, Drummond to Hymans, Geneva, 12 April 1921. 40 lna, 11/S. 6, Paul Mantoux to Abraham, Brussels, 12 April 1921. 41 lna, 11/S. 6, Paul Denis to Drummond, Brussels, 19 April 1921. 42 Ibid. 43 Ibid. 44 lna, 11/S. 6, Communiqué à la presse, Geneva, 20 April 1921.

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The Politics of History

The decision to shield the Brussels negotiations from the interference of international public opinion meant that the League was the only powerful audience able to make influence their outcome. Hence, persuading Paul Hymans, the Council and the Assembly of the League of Nations of their statehood and “indisputable historical rights to the Vilna territory” became the Lithuanian delegation’s main goal between 3 March 1921 and December 1922. Claiming a right to sovereignty over a territory implies that the entity seeking this right possesses the power to win international support for its decisions about life within this territory and about the use and enjoyment of this territory and the resources it contains. Given the significance of the potential consequences, such a claim must be backed by powerful justifications.45 This lends still more power to ideology, explaining why the disputants’ arguments and counterarguments were so vital and so much more important, in influencing the League than the already successfully negotiated economic and military conventions. The Lithuanians’ argument was based mainly on ‘historical rights,’ whereas the Polish delegation appealed ot the ethnographic principle, claiming that the Vilna population was overwhelmingly Polish and as such had the right to choose which state to belong to. The failed attempt to organise a plebiscite in Vilna in late 1920 had led the League to conclude that the Polish-Lithuanian dispute could be solved only through the establishment of strong political and economic ties between Poland and Lithuania. Well aware of Lithuanian reluctance to enter into a federation with Poland, the League decided to invite the two parties to negotiate a political and territorial agreement that would accommodate their mutual claims over Vilna and future relations without infringing Lithuanian sovereignty.46 The Council of the League entrusted Paul Hymans with the task of drafting a project that envisioned the creation of a Lithuanian federal state consisting in two autonomous cantons of Kaunas and Vilna organised on a basis similar to that of the Swiss cantons, with the central government having the same powers as the Federal Government of Berne and with Vilna as the federal capital.47 The League saw the Hymans Plan as the best way to balance Lithuania’s claims over Vilna with Poland’s wish to create a federation. The scheme also 45 46 47

Gans, “Historical Rights,” 61. lna, 11/R 588, Report by Paul Hymans on the Brussels Conference, 20 April to 3 June 1921, 1–2. For more details concerning Hyman’s scheme, see Ibid., 4.

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served to provide a political, rather than administrative, solution to the problem of Lithuanian and Polish coexistence in the ethnically mixed Vilna region.48 To show respect for Lithuanian sovereignty, the plan gave Lithuania the option to decide between retaining one parliament elected by universal suffrage, or admitting a certain number of delegates from the cantons to a House of Representatives.49 But it also attempted to reconcile political loyalties with cultural and linguistic differences within the Lithuanian federal state, and thus neutralise nationalistic antagonism. Hymans regarded Belgium and Switzerland as viable models of bilingual and even trilingual countries where peaceful coexistence of several languages was possible because language alone was not a marker of national identity. Switzerland in particular seemed the best example of a country where autonomous cantons not only did not weaken strong national identity but even strengthened patriotism.50 As negotiations progressed and the volume of exchanged memoranda increased, it became clear that what the Polish delegation was really contesting was the legitimacy of the Lithuanian modern state created in 1918, which included Vilna. The Polish delegate Szymon Ashkenazy explained to Hymans that the Vilna territory had for centuries formed a voluntary union with Poland and its “overwhelmingly Polish population had expressed the wish to be united to Poland.”51 Hence, by granting Vilna to Lithuania, the Hymans plan was violating its population right to self-determination. In addition, from the Polish perspective, the Kaunas government was as illegitimate as the Lithuanians’ claims over Vilna because Lithuania’s independence was born out of the end of the German occupation, that had maintained peace in the country, and the Treaty of Moscow signed with Soviet Russia in July 1920.52 In addition the Lithuanians had always claimed territories in which they were a minority. For this reason, Poland was more than willing to support an “independent Lithuanian state but within ethnographic boundaries.”53 The Polish memorandum also denied any historical continuity between the early modern Grand Duchy of Lithuania and the modern Lithuanian state. It argued that the term Lithuania was currently being improperly used to denote 48 49 50 51 52 53

lna, 11/R 588, Polish-Lithuanian Conference, Eleventh Session, Brussels, 24 May 1921, 2. Ibid., 3. Ibid., 4. lna, 11/R 622, Archives of the Military Commission of Control, Résolution de la Commission des Affaires Étrangères, n.d. [context suggests mid-March 1921]. Emphasis added. lna, 11/R 588, Polish Lithuanian Conference, Annex to the 10th Session, Polish Memorandum, Brussels, 23 May 1921, 41–42. Ibid., 42.

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the “Historical Lithuanian state, known as the Grand Duchy of Lithuania,” which had been joined to Poland almost from its inception. A second meaning of the term instead designated the ethnographically Lithuanian territories that had only recently come to constitute the modern Lithuanian state. The Grand Duchy, meanwhile, had never been a Lithuanian state as its founders were most likely of Norman origin and had never ruled the vast conquered territories stretching from the Baltic to Kiev and Moscow.54 In addition to priority and duration, the Lithuanian counterargument also emphasised the cultural significance of Vilna city and region in the formation of their identity as a historical nation.55 As head of the Lithuanian delegation, Galvanauskas explained that for over four centuries it had been the capital of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, the seat of the Grand Duchy’s legislature and judiciary, and had formed a political and administrative unit entirely separated from the autonomous Slavic regions of the state. This unity was retained even under the Tsarist domination when the districts of Kaunas, Vilna and Grodno came under the name of ‘The Northwestern Territories,’ and Vilna remained the seat of the Tsarist governor-general.56 In the opinion of the delegation, which also reflected the views of Lithuanian modern nationalism, only Vilna could be considered the political and intellectual centre of the rebirth of the present Lithuanian state, because, among other reasons, it was the symbol of the Lithuanian struggle for statehood against Polish and Russian domination over several centuries.57 However, including Vilna as the historical capital of the new modern Lithuanian state raised the problem of legitimising such a claim over what was a multiethnic territory in which the Lithuanian population was only a minority. For this reason the Lithuanians refuted Polish claims of representing the majority in the region, on the grounds that this statement neglected to take into account the presence of Vilna’s Belarusian and Jewish minorities and that the population’s repeated exposure to political oppression and persecution was another reason why language did not reflect national identity.58 Galvanauskas also emphasised that far from being a Polish city, Vilna had, 54 Ibid. 55 lna, 11/R. 588, “Lithuania’s Rights to Vilna and its Territory,” Memorandum presented by the Lithuanian Delegation, Brussels, 14 May 1921, 6. About the uses of history, ‘priority,’ and ‘duration’ in territorial claims, see Burghardt, “Territorial Claims” and Gans, “Historical Rights.” 56 lna, 11/R. 588, “Lithuania’s Rights to Vilna and its Territory,” Memorandum presented by the Lithuanian Delegation, Brussels, 14 May 1921, 1. 57 Ibid., 1–2. 58 Ibid., 6.

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historically speaking, rather played a significant role in bringing together different nationalities who had all contributed to Lithuanians’ efforts to create their own state.59 For this reason, and finally, the Lithuanian delegation argued that unlike the Poles, Lithuania did not need to resort to violence to establish its sovereignty rights over Vilna: in December 1920 when Zeligowski announced his intention to hold elections in the city, Jewish and Belarusian minorities had expressed the wish to see Vilna reunited with Lithuania and resented participating in a consultation that was meant to ratify the Polish occupation.60

From Cultural Autonomy to Sovreignty

Jewish international public opinion alone rewarded the Lithuanians’ campaign in favour of minority rights, a campaign that was less successful with the League. In September 1921, at the Second Assembly of the League of Nations, the Jewish Joint Foreign Committee supported Lithuania’s admission to the League and in his speech the Jewish diplomat Lucien Wolf explained that Lithuania had international Jewish support because it had inserted ample provisions for Minority Rights within its Constitution. Moreover, “in Lithuania the rights of the Jewish minority have been realised by the Government with a solicitude and sympathy which marks that state as a bright example to the whole Eastern Europe.”61 However, the Lithuanians had overestimated the strong impression that the promise of cultural autonomy would make on the League. During an informal meeting with Eric Colban, the Lithuanian-Jewish delegate at the League of Nations, Max Soloveitchik hinted that granting Vilna to Lithuania, which was committed to granting cultural autonomy would be the solution to the dispute. “The particular situation in the Vilna district,” he argued, “requires a minority rights system of a more far reaching nature than the Minority Treaty” – the treaty that Poland had signed in Paris and that the Allied Powers had placed under the auspices of the League of Nations.62 Colban replied that even if the 59 60 61

62

Ibid., 1–2; 11. Ibid., 11. The Joint Foreign Committee (jfc) declared that it wholeheartedly supported the candidature of Lithuania, offered no objection to that of Estonia, but refused to support Latvia to which the jfc had already sent several notes of complaints of the ill-treatment of the Jews (lna, 41/R 1621, Report of the Secretary and Special Delegate of the Joint Foreign Committee on Jewish Questions dealt with by the Second Assembly of the League, 8 November 1921, 5). lna, 41 R 16531, Max Soloveichik to Eric Colban, 12 August 1921.

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League in principle had no objection to cultural autonomy, it was vital that the Lithuanian government immediately declared its willingness to see the stipulations of the League’s Minority Treaty applied to the whole territory, thus not making it conditional upon any settlement of the Vilna question.63 The League was thus in fact far from impressed by Lithuania’s apparent generosity and had no intention of letting the Lithuanians use cultural autonomy as leverage to negotiate a territorial settlement that suited their own wishes. Despite Colban’s insistence, however, the Vilna question and issue of cultural autonomy proved to be fatally intertwined. On 24 December 1922 the Lithuanian government notified the League that it was impossible for Lithuania to accept the Hymans scheme: “which is entirely alien to the progress of Lithuania’s own history and to the conditions of its present life.”64 As the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Petras Klimas, explained, although Lithuania was ready to enter an alliance with Poland compatible with the interests of the two states and the pacification of Eastern Europe, it could not do so at the expense of her sovereignty and independence.65 In the hope of avoiding the collapse of the Hymans plan, the League had granted Lithuania admission in September 1922, which meant that the Baltic state was obliged to sign a Minority Treaty to be place under the League of Nations. After the dismissal of the Hymans plan however, the Lithuanians started to retreat from their commitment to ratify cultural autonomy and – even more tellingly – from their promise to place it under the League of Nations. The new Lithuanian Constitution, adopted on 1 August 1 1922, contained two paragraphs regarding minority rights that embodied positive declarative principles, but did not mention any specific provisions for national autonomy institutions.66 This demarche reflected the domestic shift of political balance. The coalition of Populists and Christian Democrats that won the elections, held on 10–11 October 1922, of the first Lithuanian Parliament, no longer needed Jewish support and therefore Jewish-Lithuanian collaboration

63 64

65

66

lna, 41/S 346 Colban to Drummond, Report of a private conversation between Colban and Soloveitchik, Geneva, 28 September 1921. lna, 27/R. 1411, C/16/5/Secret Sessions of the Council, Verbatim Report of the Fifth Meeting of the 16th Session of the Council, Narouschevitch to Paul Hymans, Geneva, 12 January 1923, 4–5. lna, Collection de documents relatifs au differend entre la Pologne et la Lithuanie, vol. 477, Acting Minister of Foreign Affairs Petras Klimas to Paul Hymans, Kaunas, 24 December 1922, 1. Gringauz, “Jewish National Autonomy,” 237.

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lost importance.67 Belarusian-Lithuanian relations also severely worsened.68 Tension ran high between the Jewish and Polish factions that contested the election results. The electoral commission that arbitrated the case resolved to remove several seats from both the Polish and Jewish lists, and in protest several representatives decided to leave the Parliament.69 In spite of their worsened international position following the rejection of the Hymans plan and the need for allies, the Lithuanians became far less accommodating and even more determined in upholding their sovereignty rights against what they now considered an infringement of Lithuania’s sovereignty by the League. In a significant reversal, they now believed that acceptance of the international community did not grant the League the right to impose on them a Minority Treaty because Lithuania, like the other two Baltic States, did not owe its creation and independence to the Peace Conference, but to an arrangement which it had been able to make with Russia.70 The Lithuanian delegate at Geneva therefore claimed that having earned their right to independence set the Baltic States apart from other cases such as that of Poland and Czechoslovakia. For this reason, in May 1922, the Lithuanian government only submitted a declaration on minorities that did not mention any provisions for national autonomy.71 Finally, in December of 1923, Galvanauskas officially confirmed that the Lithuanian Parliament had resolved that the declaration did not need further ratification, because article 73 of the Lithuanian Constitution already embodied the same rights.72 Jewish international public opinion followed the events surrounding the negotiations of the Lithuanian minority treaty at Geneva with close interest. The disappointment in Lithuania’s retreat from its previous commitment extended from Europe to the United States, affecting the League of Nations as well. From London, Lucien Wolf, on behalf of the Joint Foreign Committee, expressed his hope that the League succeeded in obtaining from Kaunas the ratification of a Minority Treaty similar to the one ratified by Poland. 67 Liekis, A State Within a State, 180–182. 68 Ibid., 178–179. 69 Ibid., 183. 70 lna, 41/S 346, Confidential letter, Colban to Rostings, London, 30 January 1922, 1. 71 lna, 41 is. 372, Annex 339 to the 18th Session of the Council, 11–17 May 1922, 1–4. The draft guaranteed full and complete protection of life and liberty to all inhabitants of Lithuania without distinction of birth, nationality, language, race or religion, and national minorities enjoyed the equal right to maintain, manage and control, at their own expense or to establish in the future, charitable, religious and social institutions, schools and other educational establishments. 72 League of Nations, Official Journal 5, no. 2 (1924), 333.

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The circumstances seemed to require it because the unfriendly attitude of the Lithuania government towards the large Jewish community offered almost an exact parallel to that in Poland, and hence the guarantees for the minorities ought to be the same. Wolf however was looking beyond the limits of the Lithuanian case and was concerned that any concession given to Lithuania along the lines of those already given to Finland, Latvia and Estonia might result in the progressive dismantling of the minority protection system in Central and Eastern Europe.73 American-Jewish circles, less informed about the real circumstances of Lithuanian domestic politics and more dependent on information received from Geneva’s Jewish Telegraphic Agency, accused the League of allegedly persuading Lithuania to abandon or to strictly modify the clause dealing with the recognition of its minorities, in fear that granting them broad powers would result in similar demands by other national groups in the Baltic States.74 The League obviously resented this publicity, which reflected negatively and erroneously on its work.75 To the Minority Section, the allegations seemed even more inappropriate considering that the only movement against Lithuania’s minority policy was from within the country itself.76 The Lithuanians instead defended their decision before the disappointed Jewish international public opinion with the same determination that they had displayed with the League. Admittedly, not everyone in Lithuania agreed with the government’s view. The Nationalist Augustinas Voldemaras expressed his disappointment in Lithuania’s loss of prestige in the eyes of international public opinion and for “this injustice inflicted on minorities,” which in his opinion was likely to severely jeopardise Lithuania’s chances of gaining control of Vilna and Memel since How can we expect to see our complaints against Zeligowski’s elections for the Vilna Diet taken into account? How can one convince the League of Nations and the Great Powers that what Zeligowski is doing is wrong, if Lithuania acts in the same way? If we don’t respect the rights of others, we will bring upon ourselves the greatest oppression and we will give up the only weapon in our hand. We should be well-aware that if there is no justice in Lithuania, there won’t be any Lithuania at all. Therefore if we fight for legality and justice, we fight also for the independence of Lithuania.77 73 74 75 76 77

lna, 41/R 1653, Lucien Wolf to Colban, Report of a conversation with Simon Rosenbaum, 10 December 1923. lna, 41/S 346, Manley Ottmer Hudson to Rostings, Cambridge, 8 May 1922, 2. lna, 41/S 356, Hudson to Rostings, Cambridge, 8 May 1922. lna, 41/S 346, Rostings to Hudson, Geneva, 19 May 1922. “Pažanga-Žemadirbius nori išvaryti iš Šeimo”, Krašto Balsas, 31 October, 1922.

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Voldemaras was however an isolated voice. Galvanauskas’ reply to the bitter criticism of the Comité des délégations juives instead reflected the view of his government that considered cultural autonomy superfluous. In his attempt to justify the new political trend and the suppression of a proposed Jewish Ministry, Galvanauskas claimed that it was not a retreat from previous commitments, but a necessary measure to protect the Jews. Keeping a Jewish Ministry would have created a precedent that could endanger their safety by encouraging anti-Semitism. It would have also represented an obstacle to the creation of a joint Ministry for all minorities that the Lithuanian government intended to create “as soon as the right moment comes.”78 Conclusion In order to gain international support for their still incomplete nation-building process, Lithuanian diplomats at Geneva adjusted their strategy to the new post-war international value system. They did so by supporting their claims to a historical right to statehood and by championing cultural autonomy as evidence of their commitment to create a truly modern and democratic state worthy of joining the club of ‘civilized nations.’ Their strategy was the response to a very different international system from the one in which they operated at the Paris Peace Conference, where the Great Powers discussed the Vilna dispute behind closed doors, regardless of the moods of international public opinion, and evaluating the Polish-Lithuanian dispute mostly through the lenses of the Russian and Polish questions. The League’s commitment to settling territorial disputes by seeking to take into account the wishes of the populations concerned, as well as the its accountability to international public opinion, created a completely different setting for advocating the creation of the Lithuanian modern state. At Geneva historical rights did not lose their central role in Lithuanian claims to statehood, but cultural autonomy offered a new opportunity to democratically bolster those claims with the support of national minorities, international public opinion and international Jewish organisations. Notwithstanding the inevitable importance of international support to claims to self-determination and, consequently, the role that the international value system plays in shaping how diplomats frame their claims, small states’ stubbornness and resilience in pursuing their own agendas should not be 78

lna, 41, S. 339, Interview with Motzkin, Secretary-General of the Comité des délégations juives, and the Lithuanian Prime Minister Ernestas Galvanauskas, Bulletin des Délégations juives auprès de la Conference de la Paix, 13 August 1922, 10.

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underestimated.79 Counterintuitive as it might seem to supporters of the ‘might makes right’ principle, small nations may prove to be willing and determined to go the full distance. The Lithuanian delegation at Geneva adjusted their arguments to international standards in the hope of improving their communication’s effectiveness, but they were far less accommodating when it came to accepting a settlement that did not fulfilled their hopes. The determination with which they refused not only the Hymans plan but also the signing of a League’s Minority Treaty that would have given Geneva the right to interfere in Lithuania’ domestic affairs demonstrates the non-negotiable nature of their claims. The price paid was high; the dismissal of the Hymans plan had serious repercussions on Lithuanian foreign politics and resulted in the loss of Vilna and permanent international isolation. In the interwar years, contrary to what the Lithuanians had hoped, Soviet or German assistance – the only options available after March 1923 – did not compensate for the loss of French and British support. Not surprisingly, by 1928, the Soviets had lost all interest in the Vilna dispute and Germany forced the Lithuanians to cede Memel in 1939. In October of the same year Stalin granted the Lithuanians Vilna, but the joy was short-lived. Nine months later Lithuania was forced to join the ussr, thus losing its independence for over fifty years.80 79

An example of how the international system frames diplomatic claims is provided by the way the international system’s secular nature, liberal and republican values has shaped the Israeli and Palestinian strategy of dismissing any reference to religious arguments in support of their claims (Frisch & Sandler, “Religion, state,” 92). See also the impact of the international human rights discourse on the Kosovar Albanian Peaceful Movement, as discussed in Mertus, “Improving international peacebuilding efforts,” 337–338. 80 Senn, The Great Powers, 230.

chapter 3

Countering “The Obtuse Arguments of the Bolsheviks”: Estonian Information Work in Sweden, the United States and Britain, 1940–1944 Kaarel Piirimäe1 Introduction After the occupation and annexation of the Baltic States by the Soviet Union in 1940, a number of Estonian diplomats refused to return home as the new authorities demanded. They continued as representatives of the pre-1940 republic, the legal existence of which in their view had not been broken by the Soviet invasion. From the perspective of the idea of state continuity in international law, the presence of such representatives was significant in itself but, as circumstances permitted, those diplomats also worked actively for the restoration of their country.2 Possessing no hard power to influence peace settlements in the region, propaganda and information work (informatsioonitöö) were the most important means of persuading the great powers to respect the Baltic nations’ right to self-determination. This chapter examines the Estonian propaganda campaign, analysing the arguments that the Estonian actors employed by placing them in the context of the contemporary discourse on sovereignty and national self-determination. Considering the diplomats’ lack of resources after the demise of their country, it is tempting to highlight the Estonian campaign as an effort that was predestined to fail. Many other countries, even those occupied by Germany, were able to muster substantial resources for the purposes of national propaganda, even in exile. Drawing on the Dutch example, David J. Snyder suggests that the failure to influence policy was not related to any deficiencies in propaganda, but to the simple fact that ‘soft power’ was no substitute for ‘hard power.’ Even while the Dutch could draw considerable positive public attention to their national programme of rebuilding their colonies in the Far East, the lack of troops on the ground denied them real opportunity to affect the peace settlements in the 1 Research for this article was supported by the projects “Phoenix from Ashes? The Concept of National Self-Determination in World War Two” (Programme ermos) and “Estonia in the Era of the Cold War” (SF0180050s09). 2 McHugh & Pacy, Diplomats Without a Country.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���� | doi 10.1163/9789004305496_005

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region.3 Similarly, a very effective propaganda campaign on the part of the Baltic States could not have compensated for the absence of real power to change strategic realities in the eastern Baltic. Clearly, Estonia could not sustain a propaganda effort even on the scale of the Dutch one but there have probably been precious few propagandists ever entirely satisfied with their funding. If we consider Estonia’s main adversary, the Soviet Union, the results are in many ways surprising. According to sources from Russian archives, Moscow had four employees in 1943 responsible for directing publicity across the entire United States. In a report characterised by a deep inferiority complex, the Russians complained that the English had 2000 and even Chile had more.4 What distinguished the case of Estonia was the sheer magnitude of the national crisis Estonia found itself in – perhaps unique in the European context but characteristic of the historical experience of the Baltic nations in the twentieth century. The crisis related to the loss of independence was greatly amplified by developments in political ideas. As Eric Hobsbawm has noted, the Second World War was in many ways “an apogee of nationalism,” witnessing great nations mobilising the entirety of their material and human resources in a total clash of national wills.5 At the same time, and precisely because of this phenomenon, the war also marked the end of the era of nationalism in Europe. According to Carsten Holbraad, the Second World War was a watershed, after which “it was widely accepted that nationalist feelings and policies had been the bane of the first half of the twentieth century.” This bane had to be combated by building transnational political structures. “Many people in the mid1940s even believed,” Holbraad observes, “that the time had come to abandon the traditional concept of sovereign states in favour of some form of international integration.”6 The great challenge that the Estonian diplomats faced was the need to argue for the independence of the Baltic States when nationalism was being equated with particularism and international instability. Small states seemed to be particularly vulnerable to the charge of needlessly fragmenting political and economic systems. The problem, in other words, was how to propagate the nation amongst foreign elites who had developed an instinctive dislike of anything that smacked of the nationalism of small states. 3 Snyder, “The Problem of Power.” 4 Gosudarstvennyi Arkhiv Rossiiskoi Federatsii (Central Archives of the Russian Federation, garf), f. R8581 (Soviet Information Bureau), op. 2, delo 10, Report by F. Orehov, first secretary of the Soviet embassy in Washington, 9 May 1943. 5 Hobsbawm, Nations and Nationalism, 131–162. 6 Holbraad, Internationalism and Nationalism, 111; Sluga, Internationalism in the Age of Nationalism, 79.

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As I will be discussing below, the views of E.H. Carr and Walter Lippmann are particularly illuminating in this respect, not least because of their support of Baltic nationalism earlier in their careers. Estonian diplomats seldom conceptualised their activities, which they described as “propaganda” or “information work.”7 In general, the diplomats seemed to view propaganda quite unproblematically; it had no sinister meaning for them. It was not about having to lie abroad for the good of their country – as Lord Henry Wotton once famously quipped about ambassador’s work – but simply about telling the truth in a persuasive way. In a memorandum describing effective propaganda to which the Estonians should aspire, August Rei pointed out that the best propaganda “did not try to impinge on the reader by being overbearing, but persuades by facts and arguments.”8 One can, however, observe differences in style between the diplomats, depending on their personal inclinations as well as on their surrounding environment. Following the press, collecting article clippings and writing to editors took up much of the working day of the Estonian minister in London, August Torma.9 It has to be noted, however, that in his peculiar role of ‘diplomat without a country,’ Torma had fewer official duties to perform than an ordinary envoy. Perhaps his emphasis on press work was a function of his isolation from the Foreign Office in London. The Estonian consulate in New York, which was fully recognised by American authorities, saw less reason to resort to propaganda as a means of indirectly influencing the us government. “The first task [of the diplomats] is to inform the us government authorities,” explained Kaarel Robert Pusta in 1943 to an American-Estonian audience, adding, “they cannot react to every objectionable article [in the Press].”10 It was not only about setting priorities under monetary restraints. It also appeared that managing press relations was considered, certainly by Pusta, as a somewhat lowly affair compared to entertaining important people and writing elegantly-crafted booklets lasting longer than the evening news. When Pusta worked as minister to France in the early 1930s, one of his younger colleagues observed that his relations to the French press were “close to zero.”11 7 Orav & Nõu, Tõotan Ustavaks Jääda, 494–498. 8 Ibid., 554–555. 9 Tamman, The Last Ambassador, 129. 10 Eesti Rahvusarhiiv (Estonian National Archives, era), 1583-2-22, “Kas on Eesti õigused kaitstud välismail” speech by Kaarel Robert Pusta at the Estonian Society for Education in New York, 16 May 1943. 11 Medijainen, Saadiku saatus, 150. The colleague was Georg Meri, father of the future Estonian president Lennart Meri, who visited the Embassy in Paris in 1932. This suggests that Pusta may have had a distaste for journalism.

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The Position of the Diplomats

The difficulties in making the Estonian voice heard were formidable. According to Philip M. Taylor, the Second World War saw the greatest propaganda battle in the history of warfare.12 Total wars require special measures by governments to mobilise people and suppress dissent. Great nations invested immense resources in their attempts to sway public opinion and, from the perspective of smaller actors, the contest was an asymmetrical one.13 Of course, Estonian diplomats in exile had no access whatsoever to national wealth back in the homeland. In addition, the success of their work depended on the attitude of their host nations towards foreign activity on their soil. Already in 1940 the diplomats had recognised that, deprived of the central authority to supervise them, foreign-policy activities had to adapt to local conditions. The Foreign Delegation set up in Stockholm in 1940 by Alexander Warma, August Rei and Heinrich Laretei declared its intent to co-ordinate the work of all diplomats.14 In actual fact it trusted August Torma in London, Johannes Kaiv and Kaarel Robert Pusta in New York and Washington, and other diplomats to work on their own responsibly. This chapter focuses on the trio in Northern Europe: Warma, Rei and Laretei; and the diplomats in the United Kingdom and the usa: Torma, Kaiv and Pusta. There were only three other diplomats on the Nazi-occupied or Nazi-dominated continent, all other legations had closed.15 The Estonian diplomats who remained at their posts were hardly in a position to conduct traditional diplomacy to influence their host nations’ governments. The only major states that still recognised the Estonian envoys were the usa and the United Kingdom. The us government maintained that Soviet actions had been illegal, had not changed the status of the Baltic ministers, and therefore it continued to discuss political matters with the Baltic envoys.16 There were well-meaning officials in the State Department, who looked at the Baltic States with sympathy. For example, the Baltic ministers were on friendly terms with Loy W. Henderson, the assistant head of the European division, 12 Taylor, Munitions of the Mind, 208. 13 For examples of these national campaigns, see Cull, Selling War; Brewer, Why America Fights. 14 Orav and Nõu, Tõotan Ustavaks Jääda, 494–498. 15 Hilpus, “Eesti välisesindused;” Medijainen, Saadiku saatus. August Koern acted as an unofficial representative in Denmark, Johan Leppik’s conducted cultural propaganda in Italy, and Karl Selter lived in Switzerland. 16 Juda, “United States’ non-recognition,” 272–290.

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who had a Latvian wife since his posting in Riga before the war. However, Henderson’s influence in Washington was deplored by the Soviet embassy. In 1943 Maxim Litvinov was able to solicit the help of Eleanor Roosevelt to persuade the State Department to send him away to Bagdad as the us ambassador to Iraq.17 The impact of such officials was considerable in establishing the us policy of non-recognition toward the annexation of the Baltic States in 1940, but that policy did not prevent President Franklin D. Roosevelt from pursuing a ‘realistic’ policy of co-operation with the Soviet Union later during the war.18 This meant, in other words, that at the same time as the usa refused to recognise the Soviet annexation, it did not actively criticise Soviet conduct nor raise the matter in bilateral relations with the Soviet Union. The British on the other hand, who by 1942 de facto recognised the Soviet annexation, no longer considered the Baltic envoys representatives of their respective national governments. Since August 1941 the Foreign Office officials were instructed not to discuss political matters with the Baltic ministers, and in August 1942 the names of the Baltic envoys were removed from the main body of the diplomatic list. Following the Soviet request to liquidate the Baltic embassies, they were included in a special annex of the list under the group of persons with a “diplomatic character.”19 The British authorities used the Baltic ministers purely in their own interest and they could not be viewed as diplomatic representatives in the true meaning of the word. The Swedish government closed down the Baltic embassies in 1940 and began negotiating a settlement with the Soviet Union about financial claims resulting from the Soviet nationalisation of Swedish property in the Baltic States after the annexation, with the purpose of granting de jure recognition of the border changes.20 Minister Heinrich Laretei was forced to hand over the embassy to the Soviet authorities and had to find an income in the private sector. Foreign policy activities in Stockholm were picked up by August Rei, the last Estonian envoy in Moscow. He was able to secure funding from the Estonian 17

18 19 20

Oral history interview with Loy W. Henderson, 14 June and 5 July 1973, by Richard D. McKenzie. Available online via the Harry S. Truman Library: http://www.trumanlibrary .org/oralhist/hendrson.htm. For Roosevelt’s recognition of a Soviet sphere of influence in the Baltic, see for example Dallek, Franklin D. Roosevelt, 455; Kimball, Forged in War, 146. The National Archives, Kew (tna), FO 371/32735, “Representatives of the Baltic States,” Memorandum by the Secretary of State, 27 June 1942. Kangeris, “Sweden, the Soviet Union.” Kangeris claims the policy was based on the longestablished tendency to view eastern Baltic as part of eastern culture and accepting Russian interests as natural.

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business tycoon Klaus Scheel, who was of Baltic-German origin.21 Rei had no official status in Sweden but had a position of informal influence resulting from his political career in independent Estonia. However, on account of the Swedish policy of goodwill vis-à-vis the Soviet Union, there was no way he could directly influence the course of Swedish foreign policy in the Estonian interest. Furthermore, pro-British Estonian activists of the younger generation feared that Rei would compromise the Estonian cause by his contacts with Scheel, whom the Allies might suspect of secretly working for the Nazis.22

Discursive Context: The Political-ideas Debate

In devising their propaganda activities, and in formulating arguments for independence in particular, the diplomats had to take account of the general direction of the international debate on sovereignty, self-determination and the future of the small state. There were aspects in the political discourse of the time that were not particularly encouraging from a Baltic point of view. In contrast to the First World War, the utility of promoting self-determination was no longer taken for granted.23 From the late 1930s onwards many erstwhile liberals had turned against the 19th century liberal values, associated with President Woodrow Wilson, which had apparently underpinned the peace settlements of 1919. That peace was associated with the creation of several small states in east-central Europe, including Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania. E.H. Carr, one of the first British officials to recommend that the Baltic States be recognised, had by the 1930s become an advocate of Realpolitik and an outspoken critic of small states.24 As a leader writer for The Times (London) from 1940, he wrote a number of initiated comments and editorials on the problems of self-determination and the role of the small state in the international system. It was Carr who expressed the opinion, in July 1940, that the Baltic States had “come into being at a period which, in its enthusiasm for the panacea of self-determination, seriously 21 22 23 24

Kalm & Velliste, Eesti ärimees aegade tuules, 245–247; 253–255. Ronimois to ‘Kaval’ and E. Sarv, 2 February 1944, quoted in Orav & Nõu, Tõotan Ustavaks Jääda, 1040–1044. See Chiara Tessaris’ chapter in this volume. Cf. University of Birmingham Information Services, Special Collections Department, Papers of E.H. Carr, “Autobiographical sketch;” “Nationalism, the World’s Bane,” Fortnightly Review, 133 (new series), January–June 1933; Haslam, The Vices of Integrity, 46–48; Jones, E.H. Carr, 23, 85–87.

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underestimated the difficulties inherent in the creation of tiny national units.”25 Carr pointed out that the new means of total war had made the protection of small states militarily impossible. He also thought that “tiny” states could not ensure their citizens a decent standard of living and that they worked against the inevitable trend towards larger markets and economic units. “To abandon altogether the principles of self-determination enshrined in the [Atlantic] Charter would be an act of cynicism which would bring its own penalties,” Carr acknowledged, but “to assert them at the expense of planned military security and economic organisation would be still more disastrous.”26 Walter Lippmann, one of the most influential American publicists of his era, had been among the first American officials to support the creation of the Baltic States in 1918.27 By the 1930s he had turned his back on Wilsonian liberalism and resumed the critique of nationalism that he had already developed in his pre-war book The Stakes of Diplomacy.28 In U.S. War Aims, published in 1944, he thought Wilson and his supporters, despite their laudable passion for justice, had only brought about disorder and international anarchy. “To invoke the general principle of self-determination, and to make it a supreme law of international life,” Lippmann wrote, “was to invite sheer anarchy;” it was “deeply un-American and uncivilizing,” a license to “intervention and aggression,” and could be used to promote the dismemberment of “practically every organised state.” Drawing the principle to its logical conclusion and finally into absurdity, he maintained that there would be no end to the “atomization of human society,” as within the minorities who have seceded there will “tend to appear other minorities who in their turn will wish to secede.”29 Intellectuals like Carr and Lippmann, reflected a common position among the influential elites with whom the exiled Estonian diplomats were trying to engage on behalf of their cause. Most commentators during the Second World War thought the new international order should be based on a universal respect for human rights rather than on the wider recognition of national rights.30 On 3 September 1939 Winston Churchill had declared the war to be a battle to “establish, on impregnable rocks, the rights of the individual.”31 25 “Russia on the Baltic,” The Times, 25 July 1940. 26 “Interpreting the Charter,” The Times, 20 March 1944. 27 Arens, “Wilson, Lansing ja Hoover,” 65. 28 Lippmann, The Stakes of Diplomacy, 67, 195; Lippmann, The Good Society, 141–146. 29 Lipmann, U.S. War Aims, 173–174; Steel, Walter Lippmann, 409–411; Porter, “Beyond the American,” 557–577. 30 Keylor, “The principle of national self-determination;” Mazower, “The strange triumph,” 379–398. 31 Parliamentary Debates: House of Commons, Vo. 351, cc. 294–296.

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National rights were quite another matter. In contrast to the First World War, there were few incentives to raise the banner of national self-determination in Allied propaganda or war aims. In a situation where they had to go against both the realities of strategic relations in Europe and intellectual critics of the very existence of smaller national units, the challenge for Estonia’s representatives was daunting, to say the least.

Publications in Sweden and Finland

It was the diplomats’ task to monitor the development of the politicalideas debate and adjust Estonian arguments as circumstances demanded. Nevertheless, the Foreign Delegation, resulting from its desire to co-ordinate all activities outside Estonia, still tried to formulate universal guidelines for Estonian propaganda abroad. Since September 1941 the Delegation had thrown its lot in with the western Allies. By that time Rei, Laretei and Warma had come to the conclusion that the Nazis had no intention of restoring self-determination in the Baltic lands and, anyway, were the weaker side in the conflict.32 The corollary to this thesis was that Estonia should appeal to the Western powers to decide on the peace settlements in the eastern Baltic region, hoping that the Soviet Union would not come out of the war as a major victor. This was essentially the strategy of 1917–1918 which had seen the consecutive collapses of Russia and Germany. Before June 1941 propaganda had been wilfully neglected by the Northern trio. Fearing Soviet retribution against their relatives and terror against people at home, they had decided in September 1940 to develop resistance in “complete silence and secrecy” in order to not provoke the Soviets.33 Grounds for holding back publicity were removed after the Soviets were ejected from Estonia by the Wehrmacht. Nevertheless, plans for counter-propaganda were first discussed as late as April 1942. It was decided that material should be collected which could be used to counter the argument, launched by Moscow and reiterated by Western commentators, that Russia needed the Baltic States for military-strategic reasons and for the purpose of developing international trade.34 In August the delegation added the need to prove “Estonia’s right and ability to independent existence and its [Estonia’s] importance in international 32 33 34

Protocol no. 6, 11–16 September 1941, quoted in Orav & Nõu, Tõotan Ustavaks Jääda, 507–511. Orav & Nõu, Tõotan Ustavaks Jääda, 494–498. Protocol no. 8, 14 April 1942, quoted in Orav & Nõu, Tõotan Ustavaks Jääda, 516–517.

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life” in general.35 In order to assemble the required material, assistance from Estonia and from other diplomats was requested.36 But the three diplomats still seemed lukewarm about entering the contest with the Soviet propaganda machine. In September Warma wrote to Hans Ronimois, an economic specialist at the University of Tartu in Estonia, pointing out that it was not particularly clever to challenge the “obtuse arguments” of the Bolsheviks, but that the time would come (for example, at a peace conference) when Estonian counter-arguments would be called for. For this purpose ‘objective’ counter-arguments had to be developed to counter the following arguments: (1) the strategic argument that Russia needed to control the Baltic States or Estonia to protect Leningrad; (2) the economic argument that Estonia could exist only on foreign loans; (3) the trade argument that Estonia had constituted not a bridge but a barrier between East and West; (4) the social argument that the Estonian Republic lagged behind the Soviet Union with regard to the development of public health and social insurance; and (5) the civilizational argument that the cultural development of inter-war Estonia had been modest. The counter-arguments had to be addressed to Western audiences in an attempt to represent Estonia as a strong and legitimate political entity between East and West. The abstracts Warma requested had to be easy to read and written in a matter-of-fact manner in a calm tone.37 By October priorities had shifted: the strategic arguments were no longer as important as arguments pertaining to ethnography and the economy. It was also highly desirable to underline the essentially “democratic and individualistic mentality” of the Estonians and their efforts in co-operating with other small states.38 Emphasis was now placed on demonstrating the basically Western outlook of Estonians, for which ethnographic and historical evidence had to be employed, as well as on Estonia’s economic ties with the West. The co-operative and peaceful nature of Estonian nationalism had to be substantiated. Implicit in this approach was the recognition that small-state nationalism had been attacked from various quarters as being narrowly exclusive, and that their policies of isolation and neutrality had made them easy prey for the German invasion.39 35 36 37 38 39

Protocol no 9, 22 August 1942, quoted in Orav & Nõu, Tõotan Ustavaks Jääda, 535–536. Warma to Klesment, 3 August 1942, quoted in Orav & Nõu, Tõotan Ustavaks Jääda, 529–536. Warma to Ronimois, 25 September 1942, quoted in Orav & Nõu, Tõotan Ustavaks Jääda, 537–539. Warma to Ronimois, 14 October 1942, quoted in Orav & Nõu, Tõotan Ustavaks Jääda, 541. Doman, “The World We Approach;” Spykman, America’s Strategy, 463; Seton-Watson, Eastern Europe, 411.

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It fell on August Rei to write the pamphlets. Without proceeding from the guidelines of the foreign delegation, he concentrated on two themes: the fate of religion in Soviet-occupied Estonia and the ‘elections’ of July 1940. The first topic was chosen for its appeal in religious circles, where people tended to be particularly critical of the Soviet Union. This was true for Sweden and Britain, as well as for the United States.40 Both Rei in Stockholm and Torma in London used the Church to spread information on the nature of the Soviet regime in the Baltic States. It was hoped that the churches would influence government. Indeed, in 1942 church leaders had pleaded with Churchill not to sign a pact at the peace table with Stalin that promised to support Soviet claims to the Baltic States.41 It was also possible to influence the Anglican Church by proxy through the Church of Sweden. When Torma’s friend George Bell, Bishop of Chichester, visited Sweden in 1942 he was constantly asked about the lack of vigilance in England concerning Russia’s aggressive plans for Finland and the Baltic States and about the great danger Russia presented to the world.42 Estlands kyrka under Sovjetväldet 1940–1941 [‘The Church in Estonia under Soviet rule 1940–1941’] (1943) was the first piece of writing from the pen of August Rei during the war, even if the published pamphlet was officially authored by Rei’s countryman in Sweden, the physicist Harald Perlitz. Erling Eidem, Archbishop of Uppsala, wrote to Perlitz that it was his aim to educate the leading Christians of England about the Soviet regime in the Baltic States and that Perlitz’s books were useful for that purpose.43 The printing house of the Swedish Church paid the author 150 Krones.44 A translation of the book was published in 1943 as a chapter in Torma’s book The Church in Estonia, the only writing by Torma which the British Foreign Office allowed to be printed.45 Rei’s pamphlet was also published in the usa in 1944. Rei’s other main effort was directed at disproving the Soviet argument, first put forward by Molotov in a speech on 1 August 1940, that Estonia, along with Latvia and Lithuania, had applied to

40 Miner, Stalin’s Holy War, 207. 41 Churchill Archives Centre, Cambridge, uk, prem 4/32/9, Archbishop of Westminster to Prime Minister, 17 March 1942. 42 Bishop Bell wrote in July 1942 about his experience in Sweden in the Chichester Diocesan Gazette, which was apparently outside the domain of the Press Censor. For Bell’s views on the Soviet Union, see Chandler, The Church and Humanity, 150–155. 43 Harald Perlitz papers, Library of the University of Tartu (hpp-lut), f. 138, s. 16, Archbishop of Uppsala to Harald Perlitz, 27 March 1943. 44 hpp-lut, f. 138, s. 16, “Contract between Harald Perlitz and the Printing House of the Swedish Church.” 45 Torma & Perlitz, The Church in Estonia.

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join the Soviet Union after free parliamentary elections based on the democratic franchise.46 This argument was, according to Rei, central to Moscow’s claim to the Baltic States and at the same time it allowed the Kremlin to pretend it was abiding by the principles of the Atlantic Charter. The result was a pamphlet which documented the organisation of the elections by Soviet agencies with admirable precision and pin-pointed the instances in which the electoral law of the Estonian Republic had been violated. It argued to considerable effect that the elections had been illegitimate and could not be taken as representative of the true opinion of the people. In addition, Rei noted by way of conclusion that the Baltic peoples had proved their “capacity for managing their lives peacefully as independent national states as well as of their ability to make valuable contributions to the general civilization.”47 By stating that “national liberty and political independence are the most sacred and most precious assets, absolutely invaluable, that a people can possess,” he however showed himself to be somewhat out of touch with the discourse of the time. As the contemporaneous arguments of Carr and Lippmann suggest, national independence was no longer considered to be an absolute ideal even in the democratic West, as it had to be balanced against the wider needs of security and stability. Rei’s pamphlet Have the Baltic Countries Voluntarily Renounced Their Freedom was published in Sweden in 1943 and in the usa in 1944. Its impact is hard to assess. For Hans Ronimois, Rei’s activities as a publicist had misfired: “All the articles have spread mainly in Sweden. Their impact in countries important to us – the usa and Great Britain – is to my knowledge non-existent.” Ronimois cited “a foreign journalist” in whose opinion Rei’s style was emotional and pathetic, unreadable for Anglo-Saxons.48 Ronimois was perhaps a little unfair as there was little Rei could do to circulate his writings more aggressively in the United Kingdom, which was uninterested in such publicity, or even in the usa where such a campaign would have required substantial resources.

Campaigning in the United States

Kaarel Robert Pusta was probably Estonia’s most effective campaigner. He moved to the usa from Paris in autumn 1940 after the fall of France, the 46 Molotov, Nõukogude Liidu välispoliitika, 6–7. 47 Rei, Have the Baltic countries, Conclusion. 48 Ronimois to ‘Kaval’ and E. Sarv, 2 February 1944, quoted in Orav & Nõu, Tõotan Ustavaks Jääda, 1040–1044.

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press welcoming him as “another distinguished fugitive from totalitarian invaders.” At a meeting of the Baltic-American society in Washington, with journalists attending, Pusta denied that the promulgation of the principle of self-determination in the First World War had brought on the Second World War. It was the “destruction of that right,” Pusta claimed, which had caused the war: “Europe must be reconstructed once again on the basis of selfdetermination…there is no other valid basis.”49 Pusta was able to take part in the study of European problems and in the preparations for a peace settlement, albeit as a witness and local expert rather than as someone with actual power or influence. On 15 September 1941 he presented a paper at a private meeting of the Council of Foreign Relations’ project group “War and Peace Studies.” This group was tasked by the State Department to advise policy-makers on future peace settlements. Pusta laid the groundwork for themes that would recur in Estonian propaganda later in the war. He introduced the Baltic question as the collective task of securing the freedom of the Baltic Sea – an idea August Torma would copy in his memorandum in 1942. The concept was as old as the Baltic States themselves. Indeed, Pusta noted in a letter to his former colleague Ants Piip: “As you can see, we proceed from pretty much the same arguments we had with you in 1918 and later.”50 It is possible that to some extent at least Pusta may have been inspired by the French discourse, present from the beginning of the twentieth century until the late 1930s, which had focused on the fear of the Baltic Sea becoming, as a result of political fragmentation and small-state weakness, a Russian or in the worst case a German lake.51 Pusta was receptive to these ideas during his time as the Estonian minister in France in 1918–32. Whether the discourse was entirely understandable in the United States in 1941 or later is another question. Walter Lippmann, for example, thought the days of neutrality in world politics to be definitely over. He did not expect small states, acting individually or collectively, to be able to have independent foreign policies at all or to become guardians of the balance of power between competing power blocs.52 There was certainly much logic in linking the question of the freedom of the Baltic nations to the ‘freedom of the seas,’ a principle Churchill and Roosevelt had invoked in the Atlantic Charter. This stood for the right of non-riparian states to traverse the waters of the Baltic Sea and profit from its commerce. 49

For examples, cf. Washington Evening Star, 19 October 1940; Times Herald, 22 October 1940; Washington Post, 22 October 1940. 50 era, 1583-2-20, Pusta to Piip, 24 October 1941. 51 Clerc, “Mediation and Intervention;” Stoker, “Unintended Consequences.” 52 Lippmann, U.S. War Aims, 81.

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Of course, Pusta hoped that the Western powers would commit themselves in the long term to defending a sort of open-door policy in the eastern Baltic. As an important tool in consolidating the freedom of the Baltic Sea, Pusta advanced the idea of a Baltic Union which, as an integral part of a future European Union, would involve a “complete mechanism” of military, political and economic “alliances.” Integration was, for Pusta, the only viable alternative to the great power coalitions which in his view had failed disastrously in the 1930s. This allowed Pusta to present the Baltic States as co-operative partners in a future Europe. A similar idea, the idea of the “Baltic League,” had been invoked in 1918 and Pusta had also been a well-known advocate of the idea of European integration since its inception by Aristide Briand in 1929.53 As for the Russian strategic argument, Pusta discerned no useful purpose in the occupation of Estonia for Russia’s defences in 1941. “Estonia proved to be a trap for the Russian army,” Pusta noted, while the siege of Leningrad had begun before the conquest of the Estonian territory.54 Pusta’s pamphlet, The Soviet Union and the Baltic States, published in June 1942, constituted an answer to the Soviet publication The Soviet Union, Finland and the Baltic States, which had been printed in London by the Soviet Information Bureau. The latter was a biting denunciation of the Baltic States’ foreign policies before 1940, accusing the bourgeois governments of turning their countries into places d’armes “fully ripe for submitting without resistance to any demands made by Hitler for furthering the attack he was preparing on the Soviet Union.” Moscow had therefore been wholly justified in withdrawing its support for self-determination, which it had sincerely maintained since 1917, and demanding the change of governments in 1940.55 In reply, Pusta again framed the issue in terms of the necessity of keeping the Baltic Sea from being dominated by any single power. This, along with the independence of the Baltic States, was the best guarantee against the recurrence of Russo-German wars. Pusta’s concept sounded much like the idea of a cordon sanitaire. Refuting Soviet allegations of pro-Nazi leanings, he maintained that the Baltic States had neither the means nor the interest for any conspiracy directed against the security of Russia. Pusta failed to discuss whether the Baltic States would be able to defend their neutrality effectively, which could be expected of buffer states and which had been the concern of the Soviet pamphlet. He seemed to suggest that Britain and the United States should be prepared to 53 Lehti, Baltic League, 141–142; Piirimäe, “Federalism in the Baltic.” 54 See also era 1582-2-21, Pusta’s talk “Estonia and the Baltic in the battle for civilization” on the Boston radio in February 1942. 55 Soviet Information Bureau, The Soviet Union, Finland and the Baltic States, 2–4.

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defend the Baltic States – a far-sighted idea in the context of the 1990s but a thoroughly utopian one in the 1940s. The 53-page treatise was widely distributed, its first edition being sent by post to 793 notable persons in politics, the press and academia. The following year, Pusta personally distributed 157 copies, the Estonian consulate 90 copies and Pusta’s Polish contact prof. K. Jedrzcjewski 350 copies. The Finnish legation received 700 copies and the Polish legation 300 copies. The Russian Institute in the usa received only one. In September 1943, when the second edition came out, 509 brochures were sent to Senators and Representatives.56 This was an impressive campaign, considering the figures. It had no impact on the policies of the Roosevelt administration which was geared towards establishing a long-term partnership with the Soviet Union and used the Baltic States as bait to lure in Soviet goodwill and confidence. However, such activities may well have contributed, through the legislative and opinion-making elites, to the consolidation of the policy of non-recognition of territorial changes in the Baltic, a legal position that was quite at odds with the actual policy of the executive branch of the government.

Publicity by Proxy in Britain

In Britain the collapse of the Baltic States in the summer of 1940 was hardly noticed. The Home Intelligence Reports on Opinion and Morale conducted by the Ministry of Information detected no reactions to the Soviet occupation and annexation among the public.57 Indeed, it was the era of the collapse of France with the subsequent air war over the Channel, so few people paid attention to what was happening elsewhere.58 In view of the dire strategic situation, the British government was looking for new allies on the continent and had no interest in provoking the Soviet Union. On 23 July, when August Torma handed in his memorandum of protest against the Soviet occupation, the Foreign Office asked him not to go public, despite journalists giving him the opportunity 56 57

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era, 1622-2-3, “Distribution of the Soviet Union and the Baltic states by Kaarel Robert Pusta,” account by John Felsberg, Inc. (publisher of the pamphlet), autumn 1943. Library of the University of Cambridge, Home Intelligence reports on opinion and morale, 1940–1944, reports for June–August 1940. The report of 28 June only recorded a general bewilderment and an attitude of indifference towards the Soviet annexation of Bessarabia and Northern Bukovina, though on 1 July and 20 July many people were said to be interested in Stafford Cripps’ mission to Russia. “Soviet demands to the Baltic States,” The Times, 17 June; “Soviet troops in the Baltics,” The Times, 19 June; “Occupied Baltic States,” The Times, 5 July.

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to do so.59 The same happened in 1941 when the Baltic ministers protested against the German occupation of their countries.60 The Foreign Office wanted to avoid publicity in order to not give the Soviets any pretext for raising the issue of recognising their claim to the Baltic States, a claim which they considered difficult to resist. Assurances were procured from the Baltic ministers that they would not show their memoranda to the press. Foreign Office records show that the British were prepared to terminate the diplomatic status of the Baltic ministers if their activities proved embarrassing to His Majesty’s government.61 Without access to the press, the Baltic ministers had to find other indirect means of influencing government policy. Although elections had been suspended until the end of the war and censorship and propaganda had stifled and distorted open debate, the coalition government could not entirely ignore opinion in the country. It had to observe the mood of Parliament in particular.62 Early in 1942 the Polish government in exile, a role model for the Baltic actors, caused considerable ferment in Parliament, militating against Anthony Eden’s secret negotiations with the Soviet government over the western Soviet border. The result of this Polish pressure – direct and by proxy through conservative and catholic lobbies – was that Eden safeguarded the Polish position during the negotiations.63 Torma tried to work through his informal networks to influence the opinion of important people who could in turn influence the decision-makers. He became proficient in drafting memoranda and writing private letters to editors, bishops and politicians. He addressed one of his best memoranda in May 1942 to Lord Cecil, the famous proponent of the League of Nations who was organising an International Assembly to discuss the European set-up after the war.64 The document was distributed widely among Torma’s contacts. Twenty copies were made available to Reverend Arthur S. Duncan-Jones, Dean of Chichester.65 It was more detailed than the memorandum he had written for 59 Tamman, The Last Ambassador, 104. 60 era, 1583-2-10, Torma to Pusta, 18 September 1941. 61 Piirimäe, “Second Front in the West,” 316–319. 62 Jefferys, The Churchill Coalition. 63 It was this safeguard that caused the deadlock in the negotiations, as a result of which territorial questions were dropped in the British–Soviet treaty signed in May (James, Victor Cazalet, 283; Piirimäe, “Balti riikide küsimus,” 180–181; Harvey, The War Diaries, 118). On the background, see Prazmowska, Britain and Poland. 64 era, 1583-2-21, Lord Cecil to Torma, 2 June 1942. 65 era, 1583-2-21, Torma to C.W. Judd, Secretary of the London International Assembly, 26 June 1942. In early June, the Archbishop of Cius had thanked Torma for his interesting memorandum, which helped him in his work of “keeping the Holy See informed.”

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the us ambassador John Winant in January 1942 and included a lot of material about ethnography, history, and the political and social setup of the country. Villibald Raud, one of Torma’s untiring critics, commented that the piece was an excellent and wise literary achievement but unfortunately far too meek and totally out of step with the requirements of the time.66 Nevertheless, the memorandum received many compliments. The Swedish ambassador let it be known that he had sent the document to his government and added that it was a “tragic situation that at the same moment in history Finland should be pleading for ‘strategic frontiers’ and Estonia the non-importance of such frontiers.” Considering developments in mechanised warfare, he considered Torma’s argument the easier to sustain.67 Interestingly, Torma may have been more successful in reaching the Swedish government through the diplomatic corps in London than his colleagues in Stockholm. E.H. Carr, on the other hand, expressed sympathy and respect for Torma’s views, though found it difficult to agree entirely “about the limits of what is practicable.”68 Torma’s friend Hampden Jackson, who helped edit the draft, found the document “the most impartial that has ever come from a Legation.”69 The writing was indeed balanced and realistic. Drawing on the available statistical data, the Estonian minister demonstrated that Estonia had neither depended on the Russian economic hinterland, as E.H. Carr had been arguing, nor had constituted a barrier in East–west trade. On average, Estonian citizens had bought twenty times more British goods than citizens of the Soviet Union. This left no doubt as to where the natural markets for the Baltic peoples laid. It also cleverly raised expectations of profit from post-war trade in the eastern Baltic. Besides seeking to correct some myths about how the Baltic States depended on Russia, Torma appealed to liberal tradition in British foreign policy. He quoted William Gladstone to the effect that Christian civilization rested on the idea of the equality of nations, great and small. He also referred to Anthony Eden’s speech in Coventry in August 1941 in which the Foreign Secretary had promised, invoking the Atlantic Charter, to exclude “all idea of hegemony or

66

Raud to Pusta, 3 August 1942, cited in Tamman, The Last Ambassador, 131. Following the request of the Soviet authorities in Tallinn in July 1940, Torma had dismissed Raud from his job as councilor and consul general of the legation – something that Raud did not forgive lightly. 67 era, 1583-2-21, Swedish ambassador to Torma, 29 June 1942. 68 era, 1583-2-21, E.H. Carr to Torma, 26 June 1942. 69 Tamman, The Last Ambassador, 131.

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zones of leadership, whether in the East or in the West.”70 No doubt he was hinting that Foreign Secretary’s actions contradicted his words – contrary to public promises Eden was trying to negotiate a mutual assistance treaty with the Soviet Union that included clauses delivering the Baltic States to the Soviet sphere of influence. He demonstrated a good deal of realism by concluding with the observation that “the direct interest of the Western democracies in the Baltic is perhaps not as evident as their interest in some other parts of Europe.” Nevertheless, he expressed the hope that “it would be difficult for them to dissociate themselves altogether from what happens in the Baltic,” because “history shows that any serious upheaval in the Baltic region is likely to affect the peace in Europe.”71 Not being personally able to contribute to the press, Torma used his friends as ghost writers to get across the Estonian point of view. He was particularly successful among the clergy. At the beginning of 1942 Cardinal Hinsley (Archbishop of Westminster) and Arthur Headlam (Bishop of Gloucester) – a highly influential Anglican theologian and chairman of the Council of Foreign Relations of the Church of England – had protested against the treaty with Moscow.72 But Torma’s main allies were to be found in the Diocese of Chichester. It was the Dean of Chichester Arthur Duncan-Jones, author of The Struggle of Religious Freedom in Germany (1938), who was his most active supporter in the British public. In April 1943 he defended the Baltic point of view in the liberal Manchester Guardian after A.J.P. Taylor, the famous Oxford historian, had argued for the strategic necessity of the Russians to control the “Baltic provinces.”73 Conclusion This controversy in the Manchester Guardian played an important role in reminding the British public about the Baltic States, but it was not enough to counterbalance the weight of gratitude and sympathies felt towards the Red Army and the Soviet Union for helping defeat Nazi Germany and drawing the war to a close. The prestige of the Soviets was high everywhere in Western

70 Cf. Sunday Times, August 31, 1941. 71 era, 1583-2-21, Torma memorandum, May 1942. 72 Churchill Archives Centre, prem 4/32/9, Archbishop of Westminster to Prime Minister, 17 March 1942; tna, FO 954/25A, Eden to Churchill, 14 May 1942; Ibid., Churchill to Eden, 13 May 1942. 73 Cf. Manchester Guardian, 24 April 1943; 7 May; 12 June; 22 June.

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Europe, not only in Britain.74 Home Intelligence Reports on Opinion and Morale for autumn 1944 reflect a general satisfaction with the successful operations of the Red Army in the Baltic States and a lack of interest in the situation of the nations affected. No sympathy was felt even for the Finns.75 The Swedish public was much more interested in the Baltic question than the British public. According to a report by the American embassy in Stockholm in 1943, the prospect of the Soviet Union occupying the Baltic States and settling down “a few miles to the east of Stockholm” had a “panicky effect on many Swedes.” However, it was also noted that a “more realistic Swedish orientation towards Russia” was developing, which recognised the need to adjust to the great emerging power.76 Such adjustment also meant discouraging any Baltic political activities in Sweden which might embarrass the Swedish government in relations with the Soviet Union. Even admitting that there was nothing the Estonian diplomats could do to persuade the Western Allies to help restore Baltic independence, it can nevertheless be argued that they did make several strategic mistakes which diminished the effect of their efforts. The Foreign Delegation seemed to work at a leisurely pace, assuming until the end of 1942 and even until mid-1943 that the war would leave both Germany and Russia exhausted. In Sweden, the first propaganda pamphlets appeared as late as 1943. At the same time, the September 1941 prediction that Germany could not win and that Estonia should therefore direct its appeals to Western audiences was a farsighted one. Estonian diplomats could have been more active in the United States, where they enjoyed unhindered access to the press – something that was denied to Torma in Britain. It is possible that Pusta and Kaiv felt uncomfortable in dealing with publicity; back in 1932 Pusta had been criticised for his lukewarm attitude towards journalism. On the other hand, it is also true that the diplomats had no resources for mass propaganda. As Pusta explained to the Estonians in New York, they could not advertise their books or hope to print their publications in hundreds of thousands of copies. They could not even expect to fill the front pages of the mainstream press – there were always more important news items coming in from the theatres of war around the globe. The diplomats therefore had to be smart and target those people who dealt with the Baltic 74 75 76

Grosbois, “Belgian Diplomacy,” 64. Home Intelligence Reports for 5, 12 and 19 October 1944. On Finland see the reports for 14 and 21 September. us National Archives, College Park (usna), Decimal 860N, 1940–1944, “The United States, champion of Baltic rights – some Swedish speculations regarding the Moscow Conference,” Despatch of the American Legation, Stockholm, October 20, 1943.

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States professionally.77 Focusing on the foreign-policy elites was what Pusta, Torma and Rei instinctively tried to do. Pusta’s effort to inform the Senators and Representatives was an astute choice. Rei’s and Torma’s strategy of working with the churches was also clever, as religious leaders were among the opinion-formers most sympathetic towards the Baltic cause. In order to be persuasive, the Estonians had to use arguments that would be intelligible in particular political and cultural contexts. In this respect, these Estonian diplomats were sometimes successful, sometimes not. Declaring national independence to be a sacred and inviolable principle, as Rei did, sounded quite naïve at a time when people were discussing measures for limiting sovereignty for the sake of international security. Also, when arguing for neutral Baltic States playing the role of a buffer, Pusta could have thought more about how neutral Estonia would defend its neutrality effectively, or what would persuade the West to defend Estonia’s neutrality against the Soviet Union. Torma, perhaps the most realistic of the Estonian diplomats, in fact brought out the bitter truth: Western democracies simply had little direct interest in the region. There only remained the hope that they would not dissociate themselves altogether from Baltic affairs which were likely to affect the stability of Europe for years to come.

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era, 1583-2-22, “Kas on Eesti õigused kaitstud välismail,” speech by Kaarel Robert Pusta at the Estonian Society for Education in New York, May 16, 1943.

Part 2 1945–89: Cold War, Diplomacy, Trade, and Culture

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chapter 4

The Office for Cultural Relations: Representing Norway in the Post-War Period Svein Ivar Angell1 The Office for Cultural Relations with Foreign Countries (Kontoret for kulturelt samkvem med utlandet) was founded by the Norwegian Parliament in 1950 and placed under the jurisdiction of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Charged with being responsible for promoting Norway’s international cultural relations, the organisation reflected the post-war belief in the importance of culture and education as a way of preventing international conflict.2 This chapter examines the efforts of the Office to represent Norway until approximately 1970. It does so by highlighting the institutional setup of the Office, the interpretation of culture that it promoted, as well as the official representations of Nor­way that the Office articulated – both as an organisation and in its published narratives. Research on the history of Norwegian foreign policy in the era after the Second World War is extensive. However, there has been little investigation of Norway’s efforts to engage systematically in international cultural relations.3 Against this background, it is important to explore how and why the Office for Cultural Relations with Foreign Countries was established and to examine its activities and achievements more closely. In the first section of this chapter I provide a brief background, before proceeding to discuss when and how the Office was established and organised. I then explain two concepts which are particularly relevant for studying the Office’s representations of the nation: cultural relations and the Norwegian peace tradition. In the next section I analyse some of the narratives of Norway that were produced by the Office. I  argue that the particular themes selected were also related to supposedly international perceptions of Norwegian culture, which in turn were reflected in national perceptions of cultural identity. In the final section I discuss the 1 I would like to thank Professor Emeritus Helge Ø. Pharo, University of Oslo, for insightful comments on an early draft of this chapter. I am also indebted to Ragnhild Eitungjerde Høyvik, who provided access to source material on the foundation of the Office for Cultural Relations. 2 These themes were typical for what was considered a new era of peace. See for instance Glover, National Relations, 37. 3 See for instance three of the volumes in the six-volume work on the history of Norwegian foreign policy: Sverdrup, Inn i storpolitikken; Eriksen & Pharo, Kald krig; Tamnes, Oljealder.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���� | doi 10.1163/9789004305496_006

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shift that occurred in the late 1960s regarding the main motives for the Office and its organisational set-up.

Historical Background

The Office was not the first Norwegian foray into the field of cultural relations. Following World War I, the Norwegian Foreign Service had established a system of press attachés and cultural attachés at a number of its embassies.4 And although these positions were soon withdrawn for economic reasons, contributions were made in the interwar years by private organisations and individuals, all of whom helped to promote Norway’s international relations. For instance, Foreningen Norden (The Nordic Association) financed an exchange programme between Norway, Sweden and Denmark for students, teachers and other academics.5 When the German occupation of Norway during the Second World War forced the Norwegian government into exile in London, it became acutely important for the government to maintain its status and the reputation of Norway in the world. Accordingly, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs established an information office in London, as well as press attaché posts in the usa, France, the United Kingdom, Sweden, Denmark and Argentina. Cultural attaché positions were also created in the uk, the usa and the ussr.6 The development of strong cultural relations with the United Kingdom was a priority during the German occupation. For instance, an information campaign launched by the Norwegian Ministry of Foreign Affairs’ press office sought to promote Norwegian society through the publication of a large number of books, pamphlets and other materials; these were intended to help the British learn about Norwegian history, literature and institutions. The press office also launched the periodical The Norseman, which included contributions from both British and Norwegian writers.7 4 Sverdrup, Inn i storpolitikken, 239–240. 5 Hansen, Drømmen om Norden, 86–87. 6 Sverdrup, Inn i storpolitikken, 239–240. 7 Foreign Office, Survey of Anglo-Norwegian Cultural Relations, 9. The activity of the Norwegian Press Office represents a striking contrast with the activity conducted by, for instance, Estonian diplomats in London during the war. The British Government assumed that Esto­ nian envoys – due to the Soviet occupation from 1940 – no longer had a government to represent, a fact which made Estonian cultural propaganda practically impossible. For one thing, such a contrast illustrates that Norway’s efforts to promote cultural relations also coincided with Great Britain’s strategic interests. See Kaarel Piirimäe’s chapter in this volume.

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In Norway, as in so many other countries, the conclusion of the Second World War introduced an era of political repositioning and institutional change. When Norway joined the North Atlantic Treaty Organisation (nato) in 1949, this posed a new set of foreign policy challenges. Norway shared a northern border with the ussr, and as the only NATO-member to do so, it was important not to provoke its powerful neighbour. At the same time, Norway was obligated, just as its fellow nato members were, to be an active, credible and cooperative partner. Norway’s relationship with the usa was of particular importance in this respect.8 Meanwhile, Norwegian state institutions underwent a period of expansion and reconfiguration. The ongoing changes were reflected in how Norway was officially represented abroad. When the government returned to Oslo, the press service that had been established in exile became a permanent part of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Furthermore, the Norwegian Trade Council (Norges Eksportråd), established in 1945, was charged with rebuilding the Norwegian international commodity markets that had been damaged during the long period of conflict. This organisation was intended to encourage cooperation between the private sector and the government. According to its charter, the Trade Council was an official institution financed by export taxes and grants from the state budget. But rather than being organised as an ordinary section within the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, it was given a relatively autonomous role.9 Besides the Trade Council, the responsibility for Norway’s international relations in the immediate post-war period was spread across different ministries.10 The political and administrative leadership of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs believed that such efforts needed better coordination and that this could best be achieved through the establishment of a single institution for managing Norway’s cultural commitments and international responsibilities.11 Accordingly, in 1946 Foreign Minister Halvard Lange of the Labour Party appointed a preparatory committee to consider how such an international institution should be structured. 8 Eriksen & Pharo, Kald krig, 31–32. 9 Sverdrup, Inn i storpolitikken, 239. 10 For instance, the Ministry for Church and Education had the responsibility for educational exchange. 11 Stortingsmelding, 78, Om virksomheten ved Kontoret for kulturelt samkvem med utlandet 1. juli 1950–30. juni 1956, Stortingsforhandlinger 2C, 1956, 3–4; Stortingsmelding, 1, Utenriksdepartementet, utenriksrepresentasjon og andre utenriksformål, Stortingsfor­ handlinger 1A, 1950, 13; Angell, “Norges omdømme,” 97.

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Establishing a State-Funded Office for Cultural Relations

Charged with uniting Norway’s international cultural efforts and forming one administrative unit, the preparatory committee planned the establishment of a cultural institute that would either be fully or partially funded by contributions from industry organisations and private companies. The Swedish Institute, founded in 1945, was seen as a model.12 The establishment of a similar institute in Norway, however, turned out to be problematic. At the time when the committee started its work, Norway was under obligation to several of the new international organisations established in the immediate post-war period. For instance, it seemed impossible for Norway to delegate the management of its relations with the new United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organisation (unesco, founded in 1945) to a semi-private institution.13 No such obligations had been part of the framework conditions when the Swedish Institute was set up. Furthermore, obtaining private funding in Norway was more difficult than anticipated. Several industrial companies favoured the establishment of an institute but found it impossible to contribute financially. Some of the companies that were approached for support replied that due to war damage and the heavy task of reconstruction, it was simply impossible to contribute.14 The prospect of privately funding the institute was particularly unrealistic due to the fact that the Norwegian shipping sector – one of the largest merchant fleets in the world – did not want to contribute. The main reason for this seems to be that the shipping companies wanted to avoid any kind of international attention regarding their activities that could be beneficial to competitors. In one letter the leader of the preparatory committee, Odd Hølass, claimed that shipowners regularly insisted that the best thing was to keep a low profile and not to advertise the size of the Norwegian fleet.15 This reaction from the Norwegian private sector is worth reflecting on. The comparison with the establishment of the Swedish Institute highlights the conditions needed for establishing a privately funded institute in Norway. On 12

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Archives of The Norwegian Ministry of Foreign Affairs (nmfa), I.A.II., Administrasjon, komité til opprettelse av kulturkontoret, 1945–1949, Odd Hølaas interview with ntb (Norwegian News Agency). See also Eitungjerde Høyvik, “Fram fra skjoldets skygge,” 29. nmfa, I.A.II., Administrasjon, komité til opprettelse av kulturkontoret, 1945–1949, Minutes from committee meeting, October 1948. nmfa, I.A.II., Administrasjon, komité til opprettelse av kulturkontoret, 1945–1949, Letter, 3 November 1948. nmfa, I.A.II., Administrasjon, komité til opprettelse av kulturkontoret, 1945–1949, Letter to Hilmar Reksten, n.d.

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the whole, the Norwegian discourse of modernisation had, since the early twentieth century, been dominated by democratic and political values, whereas the Swedish discourse was characterised by economic and technological values.16 While Swedish industry was characterised by several technology-based companies able to assert themselves in the international arena, Norwegian industry was not. The nature of Swedish companies was therefore such that the promotion of self-interest also worked to promote Sweden’s interests.17 Swedish industrialists had a long tradition of collaborating with the state, through a system often referred to as ‘organised capitalism.’ It has been claimed that in Sweden, industrialists were able to negotiate with democratic institutions on an equal footing. Norwegian industrialists, by contrast, had to adapt to these institutions.18 These national contrasts were expressed in the respective establishments of the Swedish Institute and the Norwegian Office for Cultural Relations. The Swedish Institute was dependent on good relationships with businesses and was accordingly subject to constant negotiations about its aims and activities. This was not so much the case in Norway. The differences were also reflected institutionally, as the Swedish Institute had its own board with representatives from the commercial as well as cultural spheres.19 The Norwegian Office, by contrast, reported to Parliament every fifth year, and until the late 1960s, no actions were taken to re-conceptualise or reorganise it.20 In contrast to other cultural institutes of its kind, the Norwegian Office thus enjoyed a considerable degree of stability and continuity during the decades after the Second World War. 16 17

See Angell, Den svenske modellen, 325–333. Towards the end of the Second World War, the Swedish export sector in particular pushed for a more effective organisation to promote Sweden abroad (Glover, National Relations, 31). 18 See Sejersted, Social Democracy, 19–22. It is striking that even by the 1960s, when plans were drawn up for joint Scandinavia Pavilions at the World Exhibitions in Montreal (1967) and Osaka (1970), the Swedish private sector was convinced that such participation was good for business, whereas its Norwegian counterpart was far from enthusiastic (Glover, “Unity Exposed,” 224–225). 19 Glover, National Relations, 180. 20 See Stortingsforhandlinger vol. 7A, 1957, 391–392; Stortingsforhandlinger vol. 7B, 1961, 3569–3579. This was also the case in the aftermath of a committee appointed to evaluate the Office in 1958. The committee claimed that the results achieved by the Office could be better, but it viewed the organisational arrangements as satisfactory, and it did not contest the Office’s overall mission, namely, to improve Norway’s cultural relations. Stortingsmelding, 63, Om virksomheten ved Kontoret for kulturelt samkvem med utlandet 1. juli 1956–31. desember 1960, Stortingsforhandlinger 3B, 1960–61, 39, 48.

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Due to the lack of private funding for a Norwegian institute, the preparatory committee put forward an alternative proposal in 1949 based on full public financing, suggesting that the organisation be established as part of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs instead. This proposal was approved by Parliament, which also decided that the new Office should be granted considerable autonomy. Moreover, the Office was not merely to be an administrative unit, but was given the mandate to initiate measures over and above what other sections of the Ministry could do.21 On the whole, Parliament clearly saw the benefit of establishing the Office for Cultural Relations and its operating budget can be described as relatively generous. Its annual budget for the term 1951/52 was nearly 800,000 nok (Norwegian krona). The press office, by comparison, had an annual budget of about 150,000 nok.22 The Office for Cultural Relations originally had a staff of 15. Erling Chri­ stophersen, an academic and diplomat, was its first executive Director. Its establishment implied that certain responsibilities needed to be reassigned and redistributed. While the Office may have been charged with taking care of “all information activities…not of [a] political or topical nature,” its remit was still very wide.23 For example, the Office was assigned a number of tasks from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs’ press service, including those related to Norway’s participation in international art and trade exhibitions, the production of publications for promoting Norway abroad, and for providing photographic services. It was also asked to perform tasks previously done by the Ministry for Church and Education. In addition, the Office managed Norway’s bilateral cultural agreements. It was placed in charge of Norway’s relations with unesco, cultural issues related to the Council of Europe, and it served as the Norwegian Secretariat to the Nordic Cultural Commission. Working closely with the National Association of Tourism in Norway and the Trade Council, the Office distributed information pamphlets and material related to these institutions at Norwegian embassies and consulates.24 21

22 23 24

Stortingsmelding, 1, Utenriksdepartementet, utenriksrepresentasjon og andre utenriksformål, Stortingsforhandlinger 1A, 1950, 13; Stortingsmelding, 78, Om virksomheten ved Kontoret for kulturelt samkvem med utlandet 1. juli 1950–30. juni 1956, Stortings­ forhandlinger 2C, 1956, 3–4; Eitungjerde Høyvik, “Fram fra skjoldets skygge.” Angell, “Norges omdømme,” 98. Stortingsmelding, 78, Om virksomheten ved Kontoret for kulturelt samkvem med utlandet 1. juli 1950–30. juni 1956, Stortingsforhandlinger 2C, 1956, 4–5. Stortingsmelding, 78, Om virksomheten ved Kontoret for kulturelt samkvem med utlandet 1. juli 1950–30. juni 1956, Stortingsforhandlinger 2C, 1956, 4, 6–22. The National Association of Tourism was an organisation run by both public and private actors within the tourist industry.

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The overall organisation of the Office may seem to suggest that at the time of its establishment, the Norwegian authorities regarded the cultural, political and commercial elements of Norwegian representation abroad as largely distinct areas of interest. However, Norway’s focus on culture was in reality closely connected to its efforts to promote itself both politically and economically: its cultural agenda was also a way to realise its general foreign policy goals. The first report on the Office’s activities, for instance, acknowledged that Norway’s cultural relations across international borders had provided “increased value… in difficult times by its salutary effects on the economic and political fields.”25

Culture as a Project of Civilization

The establishment of the Office and the work it performed reflected a broader, international contemporary understanding of the power of culture and education to prevent international conflict. In the report reviewing the work of the Office for Cultural Activities in the period 1956–60, this belief was clearly indicated: With the prevailing mistrust and lack of understanding between people, caused largely by inadequate information and knowledge about one another, it is important that the objectives [of the Office] are pursued with even greater strength.26 One effect of these professed commitments to openness and understanding is perhaps that of the 17 bilateral treaties on cultural exchange that Norway signed between 1945 and 1966, three were with the Eastern-bloc countries of the Soviet Union, Czechoslovakia and Poland. Treaties were also signed with one-party states such as China, Yugoslavia and Spain, while less detailed agreements were formed with Bulgaria, Hungary and Romania.27 25 26 27

Stortingsmelding, 78, Om virksomheten ved Kontoret for kulturelt samkvem med utlandet 1. juli 1950–30. juni 1956, Stortingsforhandlinger 2C, 1956, 3–4. Stortingsmelding, 63, Om virksomheten ved Kontoret for kulturelt samkvem med utlandet 1. juli 1956–31. desember 1960, Stortingsforhandlinger 3B, 1960–61, 2. Stortingsmelding, 77, Om virksomheten ved Kontoret for kulturelt samkvem med utlandet 1. januar 1961–31. desember 1966, Stortingsforhandlinger 3C, 1966–67, 7. In the report on the activities of the Office in 1960 it was said that the view of culture as a forum for building trust had been a decisive factor in the ‘the cultural exchange adopted by countries with different political, economic and social structures to our own’ (Stortingsmelding, 63, 1960–61, 2).

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Norway’s overtures towards these non-democratic countries must be seen within the wider context of an international commitment to cultural contact during the Cold War period. States, both eastern and western, were keen to increase contact and cooperation. In 1959 the u.s. State Department defined the concept of ‘cultural diplomacy’ as being characterised by ‘“the direct and enduring contact between people of different nations” designed to “help create a better climate of international trust and understanding in which official relations can operate.”’28 The Office for Cultural Relations at this time, however, seldom used the term cultural diplomacy, preferring instead to refer to such contact as ‘cultural relations,’ a term emphasised by the name of the Office itself. Norway’s overall mission, it claimed, was to allow the participation of citizens in cultural relations, and to establish contact with people and institutions in other countries.29 The Office did not use the term upplysning, ‘enlightenment,’ as the Swedish Institute did. Yet the most prominent activity covered by the term ‘cultural exchange’ in the Norwegian context was educational and scholarly exchange. This gives some idea of whose version of the concepts of culture and cultural relations formed the basis of the Office, and, at the same time, what wider purposes this activity was intended to serve. Educational co-operation was a central part of the cultural exchange treaties. Scholarships were issued to students from other countries who wanted to study in Norway, and Norwegian students were offered similar foreign scholarships to study abroad. Awarded for up to one year, their purpose was “to create a better mutual understanding of the other country’s culture, society and industry.”30 Yet these arrangements must also be seen in relation to a general objective of encouraging the internationalisation of Norwegian higher education in the post-war period, particularly at the University of Oslo.31 In 1947 the University of Oslo began holding a summer school for students from the usa, largely in response to the fact that a considerable number of Norwegian students had gained the opportunity to study in the usa from 1945 onwards.32 Several of the students attending summer school stayed at the 28 Gienow-Hecht & Donfried, “The Model of Cultural Diplomacy,” 13–14. 29 Glover, National Relations, 40–1, 184–187. 30 Stortingsmelding, 77, Om virksomheten ved Kontoret for kulturelt samkvem med utlandet 1. januar 1961–31. desember 1966, Stortingsforhandlinger 3C, 1966–67, 8. 31 Larsen, “Jubileumshistorie,” 25–26. 32 Ibid., 25. Exchanges of students between Norway and the usa were governed by the Fulbright Agreement. In 1949 the Fulbright Programme opened an office in Oslo, the first office of its kind in Scandinavia. Ibid., 27; Stortingsmelding, 77, Om virksomheten ved

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University of Oslo through the following year. In the early 1950s, however, when recruitment to the summer school programme dwindled, the cultural exchange treaties represented an opportunity for the university to recruit more foreign students, including students from countries other than the usa.33 141 foreign, non-US, students came to Norway in the period 1950–56, receiving grants through the cultural treaties. These exchanges also gave Norwegian authorities a channel for promoting Norway. The authorities prioritised giving grants to students who had the proper personal skills “to promote the understanding of Norway in their home country and vice versa.”34 The cultural exchange treaties from the early 1950s therefore gave opportunities to promote Norway as a country in which to study, and they did so across a broad geographical range. Nevertheless, the usa must still be said to represent the main orientation for Norwegian cultural exchange activity. This orientation, as it was expressed by the establishment of the summer school program, was justified through referring to shared democratic values between the usa and Scandinavia. Such an orientation should be seen in the light of a general re-orientation of academic life in the aftermath of the Second World War. The centre of gravity in international and intellectual cooperation had shifted towards the uk and the usa.35 It has also been claimed that unesco operated in its pioneering years largely as a “disseminator of liberal-democratic ideas of…Anglo-American origin.”36 Norway was one of the countries in which the political, cultural and educational heritage seemed particularly compatible with such ideas. This formed a basis for re-orienting Norwegian scholarship from the French and German traditions towards the Anglo-Saxon tradition.37 The re-orientation also involved a new focus on the social sciences and an enhanced understanding of the role of scholarship: they were seen as contributing to democratic politics.38 It is therefore reasonable to claim that the orientation of Norwegian scholarship towards the usa was an important context for the establishment of the Office for Cultural Relations. What was striking in this respect was that the director of the Office, Erling Christophersen, himself a biologist and geographer, Kontoret for kulturelt samkvem med utlandet 1. januar 1961–31. desember 1966, Stortings­ forhandlinger 3C, 1966–67, 8. 33 Larsen, “Jubileumshistorie,” 25. 34 Stortingsmelding, 78, Om virksomheten ved Kontoret for kulturelt samkvem med utlandet 1. juli 1950–30. juni 1956, Stortingsforhandlinger 2C, 1956, 22. 35 Thue, In Quest, 164. 36 Ibid., 167. 37 Ibid., 176. 38 Ibid., 190.

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held a PhD from Yale University. Christophersen had also been Norwegian Cultural Attaché in Washington.39 Furthermore, his second-in-command for a period was the social scientist Sten Sparre Nilsson, himself a representative of the new orientation in the social sciences during the post-war period.40 Another point worth mentioning is that Stein Rokkan was one of the members in the Office’s evaluating committee, appointed in 1958. Rokkan was the personification of the new orientation in social science in the post-war period. Another member of the committee was Helge Sivertsen, who was about to become Minister for Church and Education. Sivertsen was one of the leading politicians who dealt with Norwegian education and research in the 1950s and 1960s, a fact which underlines the prominence of these fields in the activity of the Office.41 In addition to supporting collaboration in education and research, the Office supported academic work in other ways. Study visits covered a variety of disciplines, including teachers’ education, museum administration, art, architecture, agriculture and industry. The exchange of art and artists between Norway and other treaty states was an important area of interest, and the Office actively organised and financially supported art projects.42 As well as visual art, Norwegian musicians and ensembles toured abroad and financial support was given to musicians from other countries who wished to tour in Norway. On some occasions, support was provided in conjunction with other institutions, such as the Bergen International Music Festival. Financial support on a smaller scale was provided to theatre and ballet ensembles in Norway and other treaty countries.43 Norwegian Culture and Peace Building The establishment of the Office for Cultural Relations was based on a particular understanding of how culture could be used in the post-war era to build 39 40 41

42 43

Larsen, “Jubileumshistorie,” 27. See also Norsk Biografisk Leksikon, “Erling Christophersen” (available at https://nbl.snl.no/Erling_Christophersen). See for instance Universitetet i Oslo, “Sten Sparre-Nilson.” Stortingsmelding, 63, Om virksomheten ved Kontoret for kulturelt samkvem med utlandet 1. juli 1956–31. desember 1960, Stortingsforhandlinger 3B, 1960–61, 35. See also Norsk Biografisk Leksikon, “Helge Sivertsen” (available at https://nbl.snl.no/Helge_Sivertsen); Stortingsmelding, 77, Om virksomheten ved Kontoret for kulturelt samkvem med utlandet 1. januar 1961–31. desember 1966, Stortingsforhandlinger 3C, 1966–67, 8–12. Stortingsmelding, 77, Om virksomheten ved Kontoret for kulturelt samkvem med utlandet 1. januar 1961–31. desember 1966, Stortingsforhandlinger 3C, 1966–67, 16–17. Stortingsmelding, 77, Om virksomheten ved Kontoret for kulturelt samkvem med utlandet 1. januar 1961–31. desember 1966, Stortingsforhandlinger 3C, 1966–67, 21.

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and promote peace through international relations. The founding of the Office, however, was also informed by domestic politicians’ perceptions of Norway’s role within the international community, in particular, the country’s apparent reputation for being committed to peace. In 1950 the Ministry of Foreign Affairs stressed how international perceptions placed Norway under a special obligation: Norway’s reputation as a cultural nation is excellent. In a number of fields – especially during the interwar period – our country has strengthened its reputation by standing always at the forefront of working for peaceful progress. At international conferences…Norway has frequently been able to appreciate its opinions being given an influence greater than its population size would warrant…this reputation obligates us to the rational development of our cultural relations with foreign countries.44 The quotation reflects another interpretation of the concept of culture which might be said to be defined within a foreign policy context; it reflects an understanding which Norwegians had of their country and their culture as one that nurtured the will to work for international peace.45 Such a self-understanding had deep roots extending far back in time, even before the establishment of Norway’s own foreign policy institutions in 1905.46 Later, in the period between the First and Second World Wars, Norway intended to play a role in establishing international law as a component of inter-governmental relations. Domestically, these efforts were also seen as a strong asset.47 Studies of Norwegian foreign policy have focused extensively on how this understanding had an impact on political practice, and which broader rhetorical purposes it served. Norway’s peacekeeping efforts from the late 1970s were for instance rooted in what was called a “policy of engagement.”48 Several historians have argued that Norway’s foreign policy role and its support for peace prior to 1970 must be seen within the context of Norway’s own overarching 44

Stortingsmelding, 1, Statsbudsjettet for budsjetterminen 1950–1951, Utenriksdepartementet, utenriksrepresentasjonen og andre utenriksformål. Kap. 117, Norsk institutt for kulturelt samkvem med utlandet, Stortingsforhandlinger 1A, 1950, 13. 45 Angell, “Norges omdømme,” 100–102. 46 During the Swedish-Norwegian Union (1814–1905), Norway did not have its own foreign policy institutions. 47 Fure, Mellomkrigstid, 189; Riste, “Ideal og eigeninteresser,” 60–61. 48 Lange, Pharo & Østerud, “Utenrikspolitikken,” 7.

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strategic and economic interests.49 From this perspective, the country’s involvement in peace efforts can be interpreted as an expression both of a belief in the importance of positive international relations and of government self-interests. In other words, the argument is that the country’s peace tradition formed part of a foreign policy strategy. Collaboration, social and economic cohesion, and peaceful conflict resolution have been actions of strategic importance. Norway’s involvement in events such as humanitarian development aid-projects from the early 1950s and onwards have helped to boost the country’s profile and esteem, but they may also have served other political purposes.50 Treating this as a backdrop against which to view the Office for Cultural Relations, it can be claimed that the establishment of the Office was an opportunity – determined by the specific historical circumstances of the post-war era – for a small state like Norway to build and strengthen its strategic international relations. The establishment of the Office also reflected that Norway saw cultural exchange as particularly important for creating trust between nations. A 1956 parliamentary report on the activities of the Office suggests precisely this: It has…become more and more obvious that in a democratic age like ours, it is ultimately not agreements between governments that determine whether we will achieve the goals we have set ourselves, but the degree of understanding and trust that can be created between people.51 Norwegian authorities anticipated that Norway could play an international role also due to the fact that it did not have a colonial past. During the 1950s and 1960s, as European colonies in Asia and Africa won their independence, Norway sought to play an active part in the transition. In 1960, for example, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs reported that the Office for Cultural Relations was involved in the so-called “(Far) East–west Project,” in association with unesco, 49

50 51

Svenbalrud, “Foundation and Ornament,” 38. Such a view is the opposite of the one put forward by the historian Olav Riste. Riste sees the appeals for intergovernmental reconciliation and international law as a ‘missionary impulse’ stemming from the fact that it was simply easier for Norway as a smaller state to advocate conflict solutions based on humanitarian ideals than it was for larger nations burdened by more complex and complicated political histories and obligations (Riste, “Ideal og eigeninteresser,” 60–61). Lange, Pharo & Østerud, “Utenrikspolitikken,” 19–20. Stortingsmelding, 78, Om virksomheten ved Kontoret for kulturelt samkvem med utlandet 1. juli 1950–30. juni 1956, Stortingsforhandlinger 2C, 1956, 3.

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“to create mutual understanding of Eastern and Western cultural values.” The Ministry claimed that Norway had “a favourable starting position” as an active intermediary because its “relations with countries in the Far East…[are] not characterised by the same contradictions as [those of] the former colonial powers.” This position also supported Norway’s argument for undertaking important projects for reducing illiteracy in African countries: There is no reason to conceal the fact that unesco expects active contribution from the Nordic countries, both because Scandinavia has a highly developed education system and because the Nordic countries are not politically compromised in the former colonial areas.52 To describe Norway as a “high-ranking cultural nation” implied that Norwegians understood themselves as possessing specific cultural characteristics that enabled them as a nation to play a key peace-building role on the international stage. At this point the emphasis on the “highly developed” educational system is also striking. Such an emphasis coincides with a strong focus on education that was expressed through the cultural exchange programmes managed by the Office. We turn now to explore specific examples of how Norway’s culture and traditions were presented in the country’s outreach material.

Narrating Norway: A Democracy Determined by the Natural Environment

The production of publications and films for foreign publics was the primary way in which the Office for Cultural Relations with Foreign Countries began to promote Norway internationally. But what kind of narratives about Norway were produced in the 1950s and 1960s? Like other countries in the same period, Norway sought to portray itself in a balanced manner. On the one hand, the country had to be seen as unique in order to stand out on the international stage and as such attract attention. On the other hand, the narratives about the country had to be intelligible and meaningful to the surrounding world, meaning that Norway also had to be represented as internationally ‘normal.’53

52

Stortingsmelding, 63, Om virksomheten ved Kontoret for kulturelt samkvem med utlandet 1. juli 1956–31. desember 1960, Stortingsforhandlinger 3B, 1960–61, 3–4. 53 Glover, National Relations, 42–43.

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A dominant theme in several publications in the 1950s and 1960s was Norway’s harsh living conditions; it was claimed that the climate and geographical setting determined several key aspects of Norwegian life.54 For example, a brochure from 1957 about the Norwegian State Traveling Theatre (Riksteateret) used Norway’s demanding environmental conditions as a backdrop for discussing the aims of the Theatre. “Distances are great and the population scattered,” the authors wrote. Covering an area twice the size of England, the Theatre served a nation of small, scattered towns: “Living conditions such as these create a cleft between town and country, and raise serious problems for a modern democracy with its principle of equal opportunity for all.” The traveling theatre, the pamphlet suggests, is an important measure for making life “more attractive in the remoter districts.”55 Evidently, the representation of the demanding conditions for the traveling theatre, along with other similar representations from the same period, was a means of portraying Norway as unique. On the other hand, the emphasis on Norway’s harsh living conditions was probably also deemed to catch the attention of foreigners; they might not know much about Norway, but they would probably already be familiar with the significance of difficult living conditions. In this sense, the portrayals of Norway as exemplified by these publications served to make the relationship between Norway’s environmental characteristics and its social conditions more understandable to a foreign audience. The book Norway – An introduction to the main branches of the Norwegian economy can be interpreted in the same way. First issued in 1957 (several editions followed, also in other languages than English), the book was probably the most widespread publication produced by the Office during its first two decades. What makes this book particularly interesting is the way in which the country’s natural conditions were described as determining Norwegian society in so many respects. The book contained detailed presentations of Norway’s agriculture and forestry, fishing and whaling, power generation, industry and tourism, as well as details about society and the economy. The point of departure was the introductory chapter entitled “Land and people.” It began succinctly: “Norway is a northern country, a maritime country, a mountainous country. These are among the geographical features that determine the life and work of people.”56 It went on to note that Norway was sparsely populated, and 54 55

Angell, “Norges omdømme,” 101–102. Norwegian Office for Cultural Relations, Riksteateret. Environmental conditions were also presented as key determining factors for Norwegian manufacture and design (Aars, Norwegian Arts). 56 Knudsen, Norway, 5.

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that this had posed specific challenges to infrastructural development and the distribution of welfare services across the country. Overcoming these obstacles had necessitated the organisation of cooperative solutions. Even “individualists [such] as farmers and fishermen,” the book claimed, had “learnt in recent years to stand together in cooperative purchasing and marketing arrange­ ments.”57 The message was clear: Norway was a country with a highly developed distribution system for social and primary resources and this is was social response to the direct demands imposed by the natural environment. This message was enhanced by the book’s clarification of how Norway’s mixed economy worked and how its model of social cooperation functioned: although the country had been ruled by Labour Party governments since 1935, the nationalisation of industry had not been regarded as a key objective. Instead, the book explained, the economy depended on both public and private capital. This structure relied on close cooperation between different social parties – a cooperation that helped prevent industrial disputes and strikes. In fact, it was the combination of individualism and cooperation “in nearly every important field of economic and social endeavour’ that accounted for Norway’s good economic conditions and its egalitarian society.”58 Norway – An introduction, it can be argued, was an attempt to promote a narrative of a particular tradition of Norwegian democracy. It is striking too that this tradition was presented as an almost inevitable response to the geographical and topographical demands of the natural environment. Meanwhile, the emphasis on social cooperation implied that Norway was part of a wider, Scandinavian version of democracy. This concept of Scandinavian democracy as a middle way between the communist East and the capitalist West was given increased weight in the post-war period. Scandinavia was now portrayed as practicing the “democracy of the middle,” combining the political freedom of the West with ideals of economic and social levelling practised by neighbours to the East.59 This vision of Scandinavia was formulated in a book written in 1949 by some of the leading historians and social scientists in Norway, Sweden and Denmark. In 1958 the joint Scandinavian volume was published in English, 57 58

59

Ibid., 8. “It is an egalitarian society that has been built there. None can expect to grow rich, for taxes are heavy, but, equally, none is likely to suffer dire poverty, for there is work for practically all and social insurance benefits for the jobless, the sick, and the old. Compared with a century ago, even 50 years ago, there has been an utter transformation, economically and socially, and it is with a sense of achievement and with confidence that further progress is possible, that Norwegians face the future” (Ibid., 11). Kurunmäki & Strang, “Introduction,” 18–19.

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with financial support from the Office for Cultural Relations, The Swedish Institute and the Danish Institute.60 As has been pointed out by Kazimierz Musiał, the image of Scandinavia as representing a middle way was a xenosterotype; it was formulated by a foreign public, basically in the usa in the inter-war period, but it also became an autostereotype, that is, a Scandinavian (originally Swedish) self-image.61 The way Norway was portrayed from the 1950s onwards evidently confirmed that this concept had by then become an integrated part of Norwegian self-perception. It was also evident that the relationship between Norwegian national imaginings and images of Scandinavia and the Nordic were dynamic rather than static. The theme of the Norwegian peace tradition was framed by a similar dynamic relation. Historians have argued that around 1950 Norwegian and Nordic foreign aid policies towards the global South were directly aligned with the strategic interests of the usa in the decolonised areas. Against such a background, the Nordic countries on one occasion were characterised by the Eisenhower administration as prominent examples of Western democracy.62 Doubtlessly, such a characterisation fuelled a Norwegian self-perception as a nation promoting peace and democracy during the Cold War period.63

The Discomfort of the Unmodern

The Office for Cultural Relations showcased Norway’s democracy and its tradition of promoting peaceful international relations as political characteristics of Norwegian society. When it came to Norwegian art, the Office publicised the composer Edvard Grieg (1843–1907). In the 1950s, Grieg was the only internationally renowned Norwegian composer.64 He was referred to frequently in reports issued by the Office in the 1950s and 1960s, and the committee reporting

60 Lauwerys, Scandinavian Democracy. 61 Musiał, Roots of the Scandinavian Model, 236. 62 Eriksen & Pharo, Kald krig, 186. 63 See Fetscher, “Peace Prophet,” 10. 64 The report on the activities of the Office for Cultural Relations for the period 1950–1955 noted that royalties amounting to almost 1.2 million nok had been collected by tono (the Norwegian Performing Rights Society) for performances of Grieg’s music abroad. During the same period, the total royalties collected on behalf of all other Norwegian composers amounted to less than 500 000 nok (Stortingsmelding, 78, Om virksomheten ved Kontoret for kulturelt samkvem med utlandet 1. juli 1950–30. juni 1956, Stortings­ forhandlinger 2C, 1956, 32).

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on Norway’s international cultural relations in 1958 also acknowledged his importance.65 Grieg’s international status was not entirely uncomplicated, however. For some, what Grieg represented as an artist was inconsistent with the narrative of Norway they wished to convey. This points to another tension with which the narrators of the nation had to cope: between, on one hand, portraying inherited traditions, and on the other, portraying the Norway’s quintessentially modern characteristics.66 In a brochure issued by the Office in 1957, it was claimed that Grieg had wanted to present Norwegian folk music, the Norwegian countryside and the Norwegian national characteristics “in a musical language that would be understood throughout Europe.” Grieg was “like a breath of fresh mountain air from the North” – a perfect blend of “national self-expression” and natural mysticism presented with “the emotional intensity demanded by the age.”67 The publication Music and Musicians in Norway Today, written by Arne Østvedt and published in 1961 by the Office, presented an alternative vision of Grieg and the cultural nationalism he represented. The composer was now portrayed as an obstacle to the breakthrough of modernism, which was being experienced in other European countries at beginning of the twentieth century. Instead, not least because of Grieg’s influence, Norwegian national romanticism continued to develop in the interwar years, whilst modernism remained a “negligible…source [of] inspiration for Norwegian composers.” Consequently, Østvedt saw the arrival of modernism in Norway in the late 1930s as an important step for Norwegian music. For him, a composer like Harald Sæverud (born in 1897) represented a new generation of Norwegian composers freed from the confines of national romanticism – and, by implication, the confines of Edvard Grieg.68 From this perspective, Sæverud represented a ‘good’ or balanced combination of the traditional and the modern that was also convenient when presenting Norwegian culture to a foreign public. It is, however, striking that a publication like this exposed such outspoken national self-examination. In part, this may have been due to a desire in the era following the Second World War to reject romanticism and its association with more traditional forms of nationalism. The war had demonstrated the catastrophic consequences of 65

Stortingsmelding, 63, Om virksomheten ved Kontoret for kulturelt samkvem med utlandet 1. juli 1956–31. desember 1960, Stortingsforhandlinger 3B, 1960–61, 45. 66 Angell, “Norges omdømme,” 102. 67 Norwegian Office for Cultural Relations, Edvard Grieg. 68 Østvedt, Music and musicians, 6–7.

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aggressive nationalism, and the Office for Cultural Relations clearly also sought to indicate that Norway too was moving towards new forms of cultural expression.69 The publications produced by the Office were efforts to promote a positive image of Norwegian culture abroad. At the same time, they reflected a desire to capture and even redefine Norwegian imaginings of the nation. Topics related to Norwegian music, as we have shown, were discussed in the context of the nation’s relationship to the wider world. Anxiety about how Norway was perceived by foreigners led to a particular kind of self-reflection and would form the basis for a future cultural re-orientation.70

From Cultural Relations to Information Policy

From about 1950 until the mid-1960s, there was almost no parliamentary debate over the activity of the Office for Cultural Relations. This changed towards the end of the 1960s. In 1967, a number of Members of Parliament claimed that Norway was still not visible enough on the international stage, and that the country had particularly been overshadowed by Sweden and Denmark. Norway, they argued, needed to review the way it communicated with the outside world and to expand the range of information it was producing, particularly information related to its economic activities. Having recently applied for membership of the European Economic Community (eec), it was now seen as crucial that Norway inform the international community about its economy and local production.71 To achieve this new national objective, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs began reorganising the way in which information was managed and to define new objectives for how the information was to be used. These actions culminated in 1969 with the establishment of the Norwegian Information Council, a body charged with assisting the Ministry of Foreign Affairs with information management services. The Council was intended to function as a coordinating body for similar activities conducted by other actors in this field. Several 69

70 71

Against a background such as this, it could be seen as advantageous to initiate discussions about Norway and the way in which it was portrayed. Such initiatives illustrated the will to depict the country as ‘objectively’ as possible. See Glover, National Relations, 18–9. Conservative legislator Paul Thyness was particularly vocal in demanding the review, but it is difficult to discern any political faultlines in the debate (Stortingsforhandlinger 7A, 1967–68, 703–705).

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ministries were represented as well as the Norwegian Press Association, the Norwegian Broadcasting Corporation and trade organisations associated with the industrial, shipping, fishing, and agricultural sectors.72 The composition of the Council implied that the organisational setup of the efforts to promote Norway to the outside world was to be brought more in line with how the Swedes had reorganised their overseas information.73 More interests, particularly commercial ones, were taken into account. Other organisational changes were also indicative of this new orientation. The Office for Cultural Relations now merged with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs’ press office to form a new division called the Press and Culture Department. This department was to act as a media liaison; it was responsible for distributing news items, organising press conferences and interviews, assisting foreign journalists and arranging visits for journalists to Norway. Importantly the department was also assigned responsibility for “political and commercial information operations abroad” and the management of “information related [to] contacts…with…international organisations in which Norway is [a] member.”74 Norway’s previous focus on strengthening cultural relations with foreign countries was thus at least at a rhetorical level effectively reduced to being only a single area within a wider spectrum of interests. The dissemination of business publications and information become a new priority. This new priority must be seen in relation to the fact that information management became a more general concern in the Norwegian state administration in the 1960s. The first report on information management in the Norwegian civil service had been published in 1962.75 Indeed, ‘information’ became one of the catch-words of the 1960s. It acted as an umbrella term for ideas about transmitters, receivers and how representations could be truthful.76 This new discourse on information also influenced the government’s conceptualisation and interpretation of Norway’s efforts to promote itself internationally. For instance, in 1973 the Ministry of Foreign Affairs contended that how Norway was presented to the outside world was an issue of increasing importance to the diplomatic work it was performing. Norway was strengthening 72

Stortingsmelding, 74, Opplysningsarbeid om Norge i utlandet, Stortingsforhandlinger 3E, 1972–73, 6–10. 73 Glover, National Relations, 180. See also Nikolas Glover’s chapter in this volume. 74 Stortingsmelding, 74, Opplysningsarbeid om Norge i utlandet, Stortingsforhandlinger 3E, 1972–73, 6. 75 Finans- og tolldepartementet, Statens informasjonstjeneste. 76 See Allern, Når kildene byr opp, 67; Grunig & Hunt, Managing Public Relations, 22; Glover, National Relations, 187.

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and widening its international contacts and cooperation, and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs believed that making “Norway’s place and setting visible” in the outside world was vital.77 Fulfilling this goal was not deemed an easy task, however. As the former Prime Minister Lars Korvald complained in a parliamentary debate in 1974, Norway was still deeply misunderstood abroad. Many people, he said, still think that “Norway is the country with skiers, Sami, high mountains, folk dancing and reindeer.” The aim of activities related to spreading information abroad should therefore, according to Korvald, be to create ‘a more nuanced and comprehensive’ understanding of Norway.78 Conclusions The founding in 1950 of the Office for Cultural Relations with Foreign Countries was spurred by a need to improve and coordinate Norway’s communication with the outside world. The Office and the work it performed reflected the belief that culture could help promote peace and prevent future conflict. It was hoped that these objectives could be achieved in the international arena by strengthening and improving cross-cultural understanding. Norway’s efforts in this field must be seen against the backdrop of a new faith in culture as a conflict-preventing force in the aftermath of the Second World War. Accordingly, the efforts must also be seen in the context of the establishment of similar institutions in other countries, particularly in Denmark and Sweden. Unlike these other institutions, however, the Norwegian Office was organised as a public institution under the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Such an organisational setup could be said to be coincidental, the result of the difficult tasks of reconstruction in the aftermath of the war. Yet it must also be seen in light of the Norwegian discourse of modernisation and the dominant impact of political values. The Office’s organisation as a public institution also influenced the way it portrayed Norway to the surrounding world, highlighting the country as a society in which democracy was determined by its natural environment. At the same time, Norway was domestically being imagined as a nation committed to peace and democracy. The strong focus on cultural, educational and scholarly exchange, which was particularly important for the Office until the mid-1960s, should be understood in the same light. Such a

77 78

Stortingsmelding, 74, Opplysningsarbeid om Norge i utlandet, Stortingsforhandlinger 3e, 1972–73, 7. Stortingsforhandlinger 7B 1973–74, 2289.

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focus was furthermore related to a particular domestic perception of Norway as a ‘cultured’ nation. Another crucial aim of the Office was to project a modern and attractive image of Norway and its society to the surrounding world. The analysis of the published narratives, however, has also shown that the Office’s representations of Norway were neither static nor simple one-way projections. On the one hand, the imaging of Norway was clearly adapted to how Scandinavia was being imagined by foreign publics at the time. On the other hand, the changing ways in which Norway was imaged abroad during the 1960s indicate that geopolitical developments and domestic political changes also affected how Norway was being imagined by Norwegians. This chapter has outlined Norway’s efforts to promote itself and its cultural relations to the surrounding world in the post-war period. The analysis contributes to research on Norwegian foreign policy in this period in several ways: Firstly, it shows how the activities of the Office highlight the significance of a supposed Norwegian peace tradition as a concept determining Norwegian foreign policy. Secondly, the analysis of the Office’s activities sheds light on the tension between political altruism and realism in Norway’s foreign policy. Thirdly, the analysis shows that the Office understood the concept of culture to be a central aspect of Norway’s foreign relations. Although culture was defined in a supposedly non-political manner, the promotion of Norwegian culture was seen as way of realising general foreign-policy goals. Lastly, the analysis has revealed some of the dynamics between domestic and foreign perceptions of Norway.

chapter 5

A Public Diplomacy Entrepreneur: Danish Ambassador Bodil Begtrup in Iceland, Switzerland and Portugal, 1949–1973 Kristine Kjærsgaard This chapter provides a case study of public diplomacy at the individual practitioner’s level. It examines the career of the Danish ambassador Bodil Begtrup (1903–1987) and how she publicly sought to represent Denmark in her consecutive postings in Iceland (1949–1956), Switzerland (1959–1968) and Portugal (1968–1973).1 Begtrup’s inventive strategies and flexible representations of Denmark provide an illustrative example of diplomatic entrepreneurship in the face of limited resources and very different publics. The chapter will show how the same actor, representing the same nation, found herself having to pursue public diplomacy through different channels and with different purposes in three countries at different points during the Cold War. By establishing personal networks, creatively inventing traditions and continuously adapting her practices to changing contexts, Begtrup’s work highlights how official images of the nation have been adapted to foreign imaginings of it. Furthermore, the chapter will show how national representations were not always confined to large-scale government programmes, but also undertaken at the ground-level by individual actors.

A Diplomat of the Public

The chapter will use the term ‘public diplomacy’ for the activities aimed at representing the Danish nation conducted by Begtrup, because as a diplomat she repeatedly sought to work through public channels. The concept itself was not used by Begtrup or the Danish Foreign Service. In fact, neither Begtrup nor the Ministry of Foreign Affairs used any specific terminology to describe the ambassador’s public engagements. Therefore, the concept will be applied here 1 The chapter is based primarily on Begtrup’s private papers, the archives of the Danish embassies in Reykjavik, Bern and Lisbon and the files of the Home Service concerning relations with Iceland, Switzerland and Portugal in the Archives of the Danish Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���� | doi 10.1163/9789004305496_007

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analytically rather than historically, as it provides a practical way of capturing the broad array of activities and communication practices that Begtrup used to represent Denmark to foreign publics.2 The term public diplomacy happens to be particularly fitting in the case of Begtrup as in a very real sense she was a diplomat of the public. As the chapter will show, her public engagements were to a large degree initiated by Begtrup herself, rather than by the Danish Ministry of Foreign Affairs. One reason for this independent behaviour was most likely that she was not a trained diplomat but, rather, a representative of civil society – something that crucially affected how she engaged with publics abroad. She had entered the world of diplomacy first in the League of Nations and later in the un as a representative of the Danish Women’s National Council, and her background was thus that of an internationally oriented ngo activist rather that of a career diplomat. She was politically appointed to her first post as envoy to Iceland because her husband declined the post and proposed her instead. She was often at odds with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in which she felt that she was never really accepted.3 There is an interesting parallel in Begtrup’s career to the experience of Sweden’s Alva Myrdal (1902–1986) who was also a social scientist, a member of the Swedish Social Democratic party, active in the un and unesco (1948–1955), appointed ambassador (to India in 1956–1961), shared a career with her husband, and as a board member of the Swedish Institute (1961–1963) was involved in public diplomacy activities.4 Like Myrdal, Begtrup was able to use her position in order to act as something of an independent diplomatic entrepreneur. Drawing on the economist Joseph Schumpeter’s emphasis of the role of the entrepreneur as a key agent in the foundation of economic growth, Kenneth Weisbrode argues that the concept can fruitfully be transferred to the history of diplomacy. In Schumpeter’s analysis, the entrepreneur is defined by his or her ability to create innovation and change by reordering and reconfiguring existing social elements. Weisbrode seeks to use the Schumpeterian concept to capture and explain the development of various forms of diplomacy; ‘old’ and ‘new,’ and various forms within these two diplomatic modes. This approach, I argue, is well suited also for the analysis of Begtrup’s public representations of 2 While most definitions of public diplomacy focus exclusively on foreign publics as targets, Bátora includes in his definition also the activities of a state at home, arguing that if an image of a state is to be attractive to other nations, it also needs to be attractive to a domestic audience (Bátora, “Public Diplomacy,” 60). 3 Midtgaard, “Biography and Transnational Agency,” 123–124. 4 Glover, National Relations, 120–122. For a biography of Alva Myrdal see Hirdman, Alva Myrdal.

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Denmark.5 Acting as a diplomatic entrepreneur she had great discretion when personally representing Denmark outwards, and choosing which characteristics of Denmark, Danes and their history, culture, characteristics and commodities she found most relevant to convey to different publics.

The International Arena

Begtrup’s international diplomatic career took place in the context of Denmark’s foreign policy reactions to the dual developments of the Cold War and European integration, most notably efta and the eec. In 1945 Denmark’s key priority was to base its security policy on the new collective security organisation, the United Nations (un). However, as the Cold War and the mutual distrust between the great powers tended to undermine the function of the un, Denmark chose reluctantly to sign the North Atlantic Treaty in April 1949, after an attempt by the three Scandinavian countries to establish a Scandinavian Defence Union was abandoned. The reluctance towards joining nato was due to Denmark being geo-strategically situated between East and West and to scepticism over the actual security guarantee of the Alliance. This guarantee remained uncertain until 1955 when West Germany joined nato, moving the Allied defence line considerably further east than the Rhine. Danish scepticism led to a number of reservations towards nato, including a rejection of Allied troops and bases on Danish soil in peacetime. However, allowing the usa to store so-called “munition of a special kind” in Greenland to a large extent made up for these reservations.6 In 1963 Denmark joined nato’s working committee on cultural relations with the Eastern Bloc, which had been established in 1960 in response to the launch by the Soviet Union of ‘cultural diplomacy’ as a foreign policy tool. In 1962, Denmark had concluded its first bilateral agreement of cultural cooperation with the Soviet Union. Over the coming decade the Danes entered into cultural exchange agreements with several other Eastern European countries, leading to the launching of a series of socio-cultural exchange programmes. These were especially aimed at the younger generation and tended to focus on representations of ‘modern Denmark’ – public housing, welfare institutions and folk high schools. The overall purpose was to advance East–West relations

5 Weisbrode, Old Diplomacy Revisited, 5, 6, 11. 6 Denmark’s post-war security and market relationships can be found in Olesen & Villaume, I blokopdelingens tegn; Midtgaard, “Nordic cooperation;” Villaume, “Denmark and nato.”

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and promote change in the Communist bloc.7 In the light of this formally established cultural policy towards Eastern Europe during the 1960s, it is all the more striking that a corresponding policy was not formally developed towards West European countries. Whether Begtrup drew direct inspiration from the Eastern cultural policy during her career as a diplomat is unclear, but evidently the policy did raise the issue of how and why cultural ties between nations were to be promoted by state representatives. With regard to foreign economic policy, Denmark was a small, open economy dependent on foreign trade. Agricultural products constituted the most important exports, and the uk and West Germany were the most significant markets. Economic growth was considered vital for the development of the welfare state which formed a key part of what the Danish historian Bo Lidegaard has termed the national “survival strategy” or internal defence of the nation. The continued expansion of the welfare state also served as a domestic power base for the Danish Social Democratic party. In 1960 Denmark, together with the uk, joined the European Free Trade Association (efta). However, with West Germany forming part of the European Economic Community (eec), Denmark’s exports became divided between the two European market blocs. Since agricultural products were not part of the efta agreement, but did constitute a key component in the eec with its Common Agricultural Policy, Denmark did not perceive efta-membership as sufficient from an economic perspective. For this reason the government early on showed an interest in joining the eec, but remained sceptical of the political implications of an “ever closer union” as envisaged by the Treaty of Rome. Ultimately, Danish eec membership would nevertheless be worth it – but only on the condition that the uk also became a member. This would after all be the ideal situation; Denmark’s two main European trading partners joined in a single integrated market bloc. Consequently, Denmark applied for membership when the uk did so in 1961. However, since France vetoed British membership, Denmark only joined the eec in 1973 – the year Begtrup retired – following the re-application of both Britain and Denmark.8 Against this background, Iceland, Switzerland and Portugal provide an intriguing platform for analysing Begtrup’s representations of Denmark. When Begtrup arrived in Reykjavik in 1949, Iceland had only recently severed its formal ties with the Danish Crown. Iceland had become an independent state in 7 Denmark’s cultural policy towards the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe is analysed in Rostgaard, “Dansk kulturdiplomati.” 8 Olesen & Villaume, I blokopdelingens tegn; Laursen & Olesen, “A Nordic Alternative;” Olesen, “efta 1959–1972;” Lidegaard, “Velfærdsstaten;” Rasmussen, “The hesitant European.”

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1918, but remained in a union with the Danish monarchy until 1944. After gaining the status of a fully independent sovereign republic, scepticism towards Denmark as a former colonial power was rife in Iceland. In contrast, Denmark’s relations with Switzerland during 1959–1968 posed Begtrup with a different set of challenges. During her time as ambassador, Danish-Swiss relations went from largely non-existent to becoming framed as particularly significant within the commercial context of efta. Rather than engaging in the politics of a shared heritage as in Iceland, her posting to Switzerland demanded of Begtrup that she act on behalf of Danish commercial interests. Finally, when she came to Portugal she found herself once again having to reorientate her work. Although commercial issues remained important, the political context was completely different: Portugal was a dictatorship, and was being subjected to criticism in the un for its colonial policies by, among others, the Danish government. Rather than representing an imperial power as was sometimes the case in Iceland, or an irrelevant one as was sometimes the case in Switzerland, Begtrup was now a representative of democracy, development and anti-colonialism. Her personal and professional capacity to adapt to these different missions and in that process to adapt her representation of Denmark accordingly, constitutes the focus of this chapter.

Iceland, 1949–1956: Repairing Relations

Begtrup was appointed Denmark’s envoy to Iceland as of 1 January 1949, and from 1955 had the title of ambassador. Prior to her departure neither the government nor the Ministry of Foreign Affairs gave her much information as to the purpose of the mission to Iceland. Begtrup had to prepare for the post on her own. She had limited prior knowledge of Iceland, but was fortunate to have learned the Old Norse language in school. Therefore, the Icelandic language was reasonably accessible to her and her knowledge of Old Norse may well have influenced her perception of what united the two countries and which initiatives might contribute to healing relations between them. She perceived the skills required for undertaking the mission in broad terms, well beyond traditional diplomatic skills of negotiation: she would have to muster “all the know­ ledge, sentiments, humanity” she could, making use of her full life experience.9 Begtrup soon came to learn that the common Icelandic perception was that representatives of the Danish state still had imperial ambitions. Therefore she found it necessary to make a credible impression in her approach to 9 Begtrup, Kvinde i et verdenssamfund, 85.

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Danish-Icelandic affairs in general and to seek to counter an imperial image of Denmark in particular.10 In her memoirs she recalls that Going to Iceland after the Second World War meant carrying out a historical, political and human mission in a place where the perception of Copenhagen and the history of Denmark were very different from mine. One met unfamiliar assessments of everything Danish and I had to justify and explain the actions of Danish Kings, civil servants and merchants [towards Iceland] through history.11 A profound bitterness towards Denmark was expressed by and nurtured in the Icelandic public, in the press, at meetings, in plays, and in statements by adults as well as children.12 Begtrup’s response was to work for Danish redemption, something she did publicly in various ways. As I will illustrate below, these included her engagement in revising popular perceptions of DanishIcelandic joint heritage and promoting the position of the Danish language in Icelandic schools. In both cases she drew on her background as an activist, with experience of establishing and utilising personal networks within civil society.13 The president of the Icelandic women’s movement was among the people welcoming Begtrup at the airport when she first arrived as ambassador, and during her years in Iceland this was an international network she continued to nurture. She went to meetings with the Icelandic Women’s Association and in her farewell speech Begtrup emphasised the continued role that contacts between Danish and Icelandic women would play in further improving Icelandic-Danish relations.14 According to her memoirs, the farewell party at the Icelandic Women’s Association was a token of the fact that she very well might have succeeded in overcoming some of the Icelandic distrust of Denmark during her time in Reykjavik.15 Begtrup’s use of personal networks was a way of breaking down perceptions of a hierarchical relationship between Denmark and Iceland. In order to promote a more consensual rather than imperial interpretation of Denmark’s and 10

Danish Labour Movement’s Library and Archives (lmla), Copenhagen, HF, box  29, Begtrup to Frisch, 18 February 1949. 11 Begtrup, Kvinde i et verdenssamfund, 85. 12 Ibid., 80. 13 See also Midtgaard, “Biography and Transnational Agency,” 123–127. 14 Danish National Archives (dna), Bodil Begtrup (BB), box 19, file: Speeches and lectures concerning Iceland, Speech manuscript: “Leaving Iceland.” 15 Begtrup, Kvinde i et verdenssamfund, 140.

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Iceland’s joint heritage, Begtrup became actively involved in attempts to return historic Icelandic manuscripts from Denmark and even promoted the actual rewriting of Danish-Icelandic history in Icelandic textbooks. These activities will be discussed next. The issues of the Icelandic manuscripts represented one of the major, if not the major, controversies in the Danish-Icelandic relationship. The manuscripts were collected and donated by will by Arne Magnusson (1663–1730) to the University of Copenhagen in the 17th century. After its independence, Iceland requested that the manuscripts be returned to Iceland, but the Danish authorities resisted. Begtrup sided with Icelandic opinion on the issue and believed that a return of the manuscripts was vital for the Icelandic perception of Denmark and for the development of friendly relations. Together with the Danish Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and like her predecessor C.A.C. Brun, she sought to reduce the hostile image of Denmark presented by Icelandic journalists. Her argument was that their negative presentations of Denmark would only strengthen the position of opponents in Copenhagen against a return of the manuscripts.16 In these efforts she took advantage of the popularity in Iceland of the world-known Danish physicist, Professor Niels Bohr, who visited Iceland in August 1951. Bohr took an interest in the Old Icelandic literature, to the great appreciation of a number of Icelandic professors. When he was received and decorated by the Icelandic president, the university hall was overcrowded. Begtrup and Bohr agreed to propose to the Danish Minister of Education that the government and the opposition should agree informally to return the manuscripts. Following the same rationale of rebranding shared Danish-Icelandic heritage, Begtrup promoted a revision of Icelandic history books with the purpose of changing the negative image of Denmark among the broader Icelandic public. At the time, Icelandic historiography was dominated by the former politician Jónas Jónsson, whose books, according to Begtrup, were one-sided and very antiDanish.17 Begtrup approached the Nordic Association (Foreningen Norden) which had worked since 1919 on the issue of the revision of history textbooks in the Nordic countries. However, the process advanced too slowly for the rather impatient Begtrup, who therefore also approached the Danish and Icelandic Ministries of Education. She proposed a mutual approach in which both Icelandic and Danish histories would be revised based on the desired changes in both countries. In principle, the Danish Minister of Education was positive to the proposal. However, he stressed that the Danish school system was based on 16 lmla, HF, box 29. Begtrup to Frisch, 18 February 1949. 17 Begtrup, Kvinde i et verdenssamfund, 115.

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the teaching philosophy of N.F.S. Grundtvig (1783–1872) the ‘father’ of the Danish folk high schools – according to which Danish teachers enjoyed the right to teach history according to their own perception of history and could not be given instructions. This position rendered the approach of mutuality with the Icelandic authorities difficult, and Begtrup thus ultimately found that she did not receive sufficient support from the Danish state level.18 Both the issue of revising textbooks on history and the return of the manuscripts were resolved after Begtrup had left her post in Reykjavik. For although the Icelandic Ministry of Education was interested and did agree to her proposed mutual approach , Jónas Jónsson objected to a revision and progress did not begin until the 1970s. As late as 1983 the old history books were being used in 40% of Icelandic schools.19 Meanwhile, the manuscript controversy was not settled until 1971, when the Icelandic Parliament agreed to the negotiated conditions that followed two verdicts by the Danish Supreme Court.20 Even if Begtrup and her fellow advocates of a return of the manuscripts were not initially successful, their agency testifies to a focus on being able to present “a national gesture” as Begtrup termed it, with the purpose of changing the hostile Icelandic image of Denmark as an imperial power.21 Following on from her involvement in the textbooks issue, Begtrup also became engaged in the issue of the teaching of Danish in Icelandic schools. Indeed, there were clear links between these efforts. Having been involved in initiating exchanges between Danish language teachers in Iceland and Denmark, Begtrup noted by 1963 that these exchanges had begun to positively counter the hostility towards Denmark that otherwise characterised Icelandic history classes.22 In this initiative then, she ultimately was most successful. As with the issue of the manuscripts, her efforts on behalf of Danish language teaching were a result of her own initiative. Teaching Danish had become mandatory in Icelandic schools in 1946 following the abolishment of the union between Denmark and Iceland. However, Begtrup learned that Icelandic teachers could well improve their Danish. She approached the Danish Society (Det danske selskab) with the purpose of recording readings of Danish literature, but disagreed with the Society’s intention to let various Danish actors 18 Ibid. 19 Ibid., 140. 20 Davídsdóttir, Håndskriftsagaens saga, 81, 87; Hálfdanarson, “Værsågod Flatøbogen.” The majority of the Icelandic manuscripts were returned during the period 1971–1997. 21 lmla, HH, box 25, Begtrup to Hedtoft, 22 August 1951. 22 dna, BB, box  12, file 2. Letter from Begtrup to Kristelig Dagblad’s Chief Editor Bent A. Kock, 4 November 1963.

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read classic Danish literature. This, she argued, would not be what ordinary people in Iceland needed or wanted. With support from the Copenhagen School Directory (Københavns skoledirektorat), Begtrup instead arranged for a Danish teacher to read the selected texts in more colloquial Danish, and the recordings were distributed to Icelandic schools. Furthermore, it was arranged that the same teacher was to regularly visit Iceland in order to tour schools around the country, staging readings of Danish literature.23 Begtrup’s emphasis on representing informal, colloquial Danish rather than its high cultural equivalent was evident elsewhere too. Having being told by the Bishop in Iceland that he had learned Danish by reading popular Danish magazines, Begtrup managed to get the Danish publishing company Guten­ berghus to send any surplus editions of its magazines to Iceland. Approximate 175 copies of two women’s magazines were distributed on a weekly basis to hairdressers, schools and hospitals displaying scenes and stories from ordinary Danish daily life to ‘ordinary’ people in Iceland. The idea was to shift the focus among the readers from the state to the people of Denmark. This practice was continued by Begtrup’s successor from 1956.24 Not only did Begtrup promote the dissemination of Danish through readings and recordings, but she was also fond of using face-to-face contacts and setting up networks. Exchanges between Icelandic and Danish teachers at all educational levels took place. Danish teachers were invited to Iceland by Icelandic schools and Icelandic teachers went to Danish folk high schools and stayed in Danish homes to improve their Danish and learn about life in Denmark.25 Moreover, Begtrup received Icelandic Danish teachers at the embassy. As noted in 1955 by the Icelandic newspaper Timinn, Begtrup’s receptions for teachers at the embassy had become a unique tradition. Begtrup showed “great kindness and obligingness” besides her knowledge of Icelandic literature and culture. She stressed the importance of cooperation between Icelandic teachers and the embassy and expressed the value she attached to the role of the teachers in promoting Danish literature and culture in Iceland. By opening the embassy up to Icelandic teachers she provided them with a place to meet and get to know each other, which was particularly welcome to these Danish language teachers who had no formal organisation and thus no natural meeting place of their own.26 23 Ibid. 24 Ibid. 25 Begtrup, Kvinde i et verdenssamfund, 113. 26 dna, BB, box 19, file: Speeches and lectures concerning Iceland. Translation from Timinn, 4 March 1955.

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Whereas the exchange of teachers was continued by Begtrup’s successor, it was not until after 1973 that “a Danish cultural policy towards Iceland” – as it was termed within the Danish Ministry of Education – was formally developed. The same report noted that a cultural policy in a way was already in place, even if it had to be “much more systematic and coordinated.” It argued that such a policy should continue to focus on the very themes – the Danish language and teacher exchanges – that Begtrup had concentrated on in the 1950s.27 Thus, it seems fair to argue that Begtrup’s diplomatic entrepreneurship had a lasting impact, determining the content of the Danish cultural policy towards Iceland when it was formalised in the 1970s.

Switzerland, 1959–1968: Increasing Exports

Begtrup was appointed ambassador to Switzerland and Austria from 1 June 1959. Soon however, this was limited to Bern as the Ministry of Foreign Affairs chose to establish an independent embassy in Vienna. Begtrup was more than reluctant about going to Switzerland. She saw it as an uneventful post in a country with no traditional relations with Denmark. She was very conscious of this and thought a lot of about “what to make of her assignment.”28 As in Iceland, Begtrup was very much focused on establishing personal contacts and reaching the ordinary Swiss population. However, it was difficult, she observed, since she and her husband did not, as they had in Iceland, “know everybody.” In addition, her new host county posed some other major challenges. She noted that it was hard to impress the Swiss, since “Switzerland has been long admired by tourists but the Swiss do not care if their country is admired.” She was dissatisfied with the official residence in Bern, not least compared to her residence in Reykjavik, finding it less suitable for official engagements. She received limited assistance from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and considered it a problem that the Ministry was supposed to be in charge of export campaigns which she thought should rather be organised by representatives of Danish industry and agriculture in direct cooperation with the embassy. Finally, in other countries a female ambassador would be able to reach the general public through existing women’s associations. In Switzer­ land, however, this approach was difficult due to the continued opposition to 27

28

dna, BB, box  19, file: Speeches and lectures concerning Iceland. Report by a working group attached to the international office of the Danish Ministry of Education. 2 February 1973. dna, BB, box 28. Diary. 7 January 1959; 18 January 1959; 15 February 1959.

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women’s suffrage. Despite this being a political issue that was particularly close to Begtrup’s heart, it did not form part of the stated mission of the Danish embassy. Hence, the gendered nature of Swiss public life significantly limited Begtrup’s possibilities for interacting with the Swiss public. Despite this however, as I will be discussing below, Begtrup did manage to establish contacts with the Swiss women’s movement as a way for her to establish points of contact between Danish state representation and Swiss civil society.29 Despite Begtrup’s initial sense that Denmark was a very peripheral country from a Swiss perspective, things soon began to change. The establishment of efta from 1960 formed a new basis for commercial cooperation between the two countries, and throughout the period 1959–1968 Danish relations with Switzerland centred primarily on trade.30 It was also during the period, while Begtrup was stationed in Switzerland, that the Danish Foreign Service in general moved towards an increasing focus on cultural activities as instrumental for trade promotion.31 In 1959 Danish exports to Switzerland were small. The main ambition of the Danish embassy in Bern was to increase the level of exports of Danish agricultural products. Danish public diplomacy was to support this endeavour. Several Danish agencies were involved in these commercial efforts, more so than in the Icelandic case, but at the same time there was no formally adopted strategy towards the Swiss population or market agents. Begtrup noted that the Swiss public had money to spend and demanded quality products. Even if efta would probably create goodwill for Danish products, according to Begtrup this goodwill would not come into play unless price and quality met the expectations of Swiss consumers.32 Furthermore, she was convinced that trade, even within the context of efta, depended on increasing mutual acquaintance between the two populations. Therefore, as in Iceland, Begtrup focused heavily on personal contacts and on reaching the broader Swiss population. As she explained in a speech to Swiss women:

29 30

31 32

The quotes in this paragraph are from dna, BB, box 28. Dairy. 31 January 1959; 8 August 1959; 11 August 1959; 20 August 1959; 8 November 1959. The effect of European integration on the direction of Danish public diplomacy at this point has clear parallels with the Swedish case during the same period (Glover, National Relations, chap. 5). Glover, “Inspector Gadget-like,” 13. dna, BB, box  6, file: Speeches and talk during the appointment as ambassador to Switzerland Presentation of considerations concerning the export of Danish poultry to Switzerland, 26 August 1960.

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with the establishment of efta Denmark and Switzerland have become new neighbouring countries. However, for trade to increase, mutual trust is necessary and to foster mutual trust, the two populations need to get to know one another, not only as tourists, but also concerning daily life for a common understanding of mutual benefit.33 It seems reasonable that this perception of the necessity of establishing trust amongst the broader public had its origins in Begtrup’s being a diplomat of the public; in her background in ngo activism. Her activities in Switzerland were in accordance with this perception. They were aimed at both Swiss import companies and the broader public. They included, firstly, trade weeks, secondly, exchanges and, thirdly, cultural education. Among these, the so-called Danish Weeks stand out. Danish Weeks were arranged in Zürich in 1962, in St. Gallen in 1963, in Bern in 1965 and in Geneva in 1966. In cooperation with the Danish Agricultural Export Council (Landbrugets Afsætningsråd) Begtrup was also involved in showcasing Danish products in Swiss shops.34 The Danish Weeks were arranged after an invitation from Switzerland, as the Swiss government shared the Danes’ interest in increasing inter-European trade. Prior to the Danish Weeks, similar Dutch and Portuguese Weeks had taken place. Importantly, according to Begtrup, the products were not only commercial products. They also expressed, she emphasised, “the Danish people’s mind, work and way of life.”35 She considered it central to “humanise” Danish products by relating them to the Danish mentality, and she stressed that relations between countries were not only to be managed by state representatives, but also had to rest on encounters between ordinary citizens.36 The purpose of the Danish Weeks was therefore to show “modern Denmark” by way of demonstrating a wide range of products to both Swiss import companies and the broader public. The products included Danish agricultural products, design, silver, textiles, and furniture. They were accompanied by Danish postmen dressed in red uniforms, symbolically delivering their greetings from Denmark to Switzerland.37 The displays were selected to project an image of a nation in 33 34

dna, BB, box 19, file Political material concerning Iceland 1939–1945. Begtrup speech, n.d. dna, BB, box 21, file: Speeches and lectures held on different occasions during her time as ambassador in Switzerland. Outline of the activities of the Danish embassy in Bern, 20 May 1966. 35 dna, BB, box 21, file: Speeches and lectures held on different occasions during her time as ambassador in Switzerland. Speech at the “Danish Week” in St. Gallen, n.d. 36 Ibid. 37 Begtrup, Kvinde i et verdenssamfund, 149.

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the process of re-imagining itself. During the late 1950s and the 1960s Denmark underwent a ‘second industrial revolution’ with industrial exports overtaking agricultural exports in the early 1960s, the development of the social welfare state and profound social and cultural changes.38 The products on display in Switzerland were in part selected to reflect this ongoing development. The Danish Weeks and their novel methods for displaying Danish products (the products were not shown in one large hall, but were taken into the streets where each small shop showed different Danish products) were supported by the Danish Industrial Council (Industrirådet), the Agricultural Council (Landbrugsrådet) and the Craftsmen’s Council (Håndværkerrådet). The Ministry of Foreign Affairs was at first sceptical, but came to support the idea.39 It is not clear what made the Ministry change its mind; whether it was Begtrup from Switzerland – i.e. from ‘the outside in’ – or the Danish trade organisations – i.e.‘from the bottom up.’ As demonstrated elsewhere in this volume, private or semi-private actors played a key role in shaping both Swedish and Finnish public diplomacy during this period, and the autonomous status of the Danish Society suggests that this was the case in Denmark too. Taking into account the wide room for manoeuvre which Begtrup clearly had, it seems reasonable that both Danish trade organisations and individual diplomatic entrepreneurs like Begtrup wielded a similar influence in the shaping of Danish public diplomacy. This could more than likely have included the concrete act of deciding to take Danish products into the streets of Swiss cities. Besides exhibiting Danish products, Begtrup used the Danish Weeks to present Danish cultural traditions. In Bern, for instance, she introduced the Danish Week by pointing to the Danish cultural habit of “nurturing friendship by inviting friends to dinner parties.” With this introduction, she welcomed the participants to enjoy the Danish specialties sent to Bern from Denmark.40 Furthermore, she told the Swiss public that the economic ties between Denmark and Switzerland represented a continuation of longstanding trade relations between the two countries.41 This reference to a long, shared history is in stark contrast to the way Begtrup had interpreted Danish-Swiss relations

38 Christiansen, Grænseløs kulturudveksling, 116–120. 39 Begtrup, Kvinde i et verdenssamfund, 149. 40 dna, BB, box 21, file: Speeches and talks held on different occasions during the time as ambassador in Switzerland. The ambassador’s speech at Schweizerhof, 10 September 1965. 41 dna, BB, box 21, file: Speeches and lectures held on different occasions during the time as ambassador in Switzerland. Article in the Swiss newspaper St. Galler Tagblatt, n.d.

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before arriving in Bern. In this sense, the ‘invention of tradition’ seems to have been a conscious part of Begtrup’s public diplomacy strategy.42 Besides the Danish Weeks, minor cultural events took place with the aim of increasing Swiss imports of Danish products. The Danish Institute (Det danske Institut) in Zürich with which the embassy had a well-established cooperation, played a major role in these events. This was due in particular, according to Begtrup, to the high level and individual involvement of the head of the Institute’s Zürich office, H.J. Schultz, who arranged journeys and lunches for representatives of Swiss import companies and food journalists.43 These personal contacts were important, and according to Begtrup, they resulted in Swiss import groups re-directing their orders to Danish companies. Personal contacts and exchanges also contributed to reducing scepticism within Swiss agriculture of the entry of foreign products.44 The ‘ordinary’ Swiss public was also targeted within the cultural-educational sphere. The Danish Institute in Zürich together with the Institute in Edinburgh were considered the two key Danish institutes for the promotion of Danish. In Zürich key businessmen and people in general interested in learning Danish took language lessons to a level where they were able to translate Danish literature. H.J. Schultz taught at the universities in Bern and Zürich and gave a large number of lectures about Danish culture and society.45 Despite her initial misgivings, Begtrup did manage to engage with Swiss women’s associations as a key part of Swiss civil society. In September 1960 she accepted an invitation by a Social Democratic women’s association in St. Gallen to give a talk about Denmark. This was her first meeting with a large group of Swiss women. It is worth noting that she met with a group of Social Democratic women which suggests that, as an ambassador and state representative, she drew both on her engagement in the Danish women’s movement and her contacts with the Danish Social Democratic party. In her talk she presented the history of Denmark since the Reformation with a focus on the legal, political and social status of women.46 In November 1963 she was pleased, she 42

This is a reference to the concept developed in Hobsbawm & Ranger, The Invention of Tradition. 43 dna, BB, box 21, file: Speeches and talks held on different occasions during the time as ambassador in Switzerland. Overview of the division of labor at the Embassy in Bern, 1 May 1966. 44 dna, BB, box 12, file 2: Correspondence to and from ambassador Bodil Begtrup. Begtrup to Jens Christensen, 6 June 1966. 45 Christiansen, Grænseløs kulturudveksling, 126. 46 dna, BB, box  21, file: Speeches and talks held on different occasions during the time as ambassador in Switzerland. Lecture on Denmark to Social Democratic women in St. Gallen.

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explained to the (female) Danish Minister of Trade, to celebrate her sixtieth birthday with the President of the main Swiss women’s association, as this was the first time she had talked in public about her passion for women’s rights in Switzerland.47 Later she gave other talks to the United Swiss Women’s Associations, an umbrella organisation for the different cantons. This further deepened her connections with Swiss civil society.48 Begtrup’s sought to reach the Swiss public in her official speeches. In these she usually first mentioned how Switzerland and Denmark had become new neighbours within efta which meant that the two countries had mutual economic interests. Furthermore, “it was her mission to unite the new economic cooperation between our people with a human understanding.” She managed to point to the existence of a Danish-Swiss tradition or long-term relationship by referring to Swiss scientists or artists who had moved to and settled in Copenhagen – even if in fact there were very few. Furthermore, she mentioned her personal experience in the League of Nations in Geneva during the interwar years. She had the impression, she said in Graubünden, that the “Swiss and Danish people during the post-war years through travels and cultural connections had become more closely related.” In Graubünden she stressed her hope that the “smaller European countries would ensure the protection of human rights and democracy.”49 Aside from this reference, Begtrup did not speak of Switzerland and Denmark as sharing a small-state status.50 However, it is worth noticing that Begtrup did strategically construct a Swiss-Danish commonality of a ‘small state identity’ when it was contextually relevant and possible to deploy. This was possible in the Swiss case, but not in the Icelandic case where it would have clashed with Icelandic perceptions of Danish ‘imperialism.’ Symptomatically, summing up in June 1968 her work in Switzerland in her farewell-speech before leaving Bern for Lisbon, she stressed her focus on 47 48

49

50

DNA, BB, box 12, file 2: Correspondence to and from ambassador Bodil Begtrup. Begtrup to Groes, 4 November 1963. dna, BB, box 21, file: Speeches and talks held on different occasions during the time as ambassador in Switzerland Speeches to the United Swiss Women’s Associations, 15 May 1964 and 19 March 1965. dna, BB, box 21, file: Speeches and talks held on different occasions during the time as ambassador in Switzerland. The ambassador’s speeches at the official reception in Graubünden, 19 March 1965. dna, BB, box 21, file: Speeches and talks held on different occasions during the time as ambassador in Switzerland, the ambassador’s speeches at official receptions (Geneva, 25 October 1963; Thurgau, n.d; Schaffhausen, 14 June 1963; Soloturn 29 January 1968; Graubünden 19 March 1965).

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establishing closer ties between Denmark and Switzerland “through a deeper knowledge of the Swiss people, their institutions, cultural interest, and their domestic and foreign policies.”51 She did try to acquaint herself with the Swiss public through her visits to the various cantons during which she showed an awareness of various regional differences within Switzerland. She emphasised that “in order to get to know Switzerland one has to know the different cantons.” Her activities were adapted according to this, and she framed the content of her engagements to suit the different characteristics of cantons. Her focus on getting to know the Swiss people and the cantons was noted by the Swiss press. It made headline in Soloturn: “The cantons as the key to Switzerland.” Basler Nachrichten noted that she probably knew Switzerland better than many Swiss…maintained personal contacts in all cantons and in all parts of the country and to all other areas of our Swiss diversity. …This interest was linked with a sincere understanding; yes we dare use the word, with a love for Switzerland.52 The Danish embassy in Bern from 1959–1968 developed into a truly commercial embassy with the employment of a trade attaché. Danish exports to Switzerland increased.53 Whereas this development is likely to be explained mainly with reference to the structural presence of efta, the practices of the embassy in Bern appear to have been crucial. It initiated efforts to increase Danish exports, and determined the means to do so: Danish cultural activities were to be subordinated to the requirements of export promotion.

Portugal: Enacting Modernisation

Begtrup was appointed ambassador to Portugal in July 1968 and was once again displeased with her new posting. Lisbon was considered a retirement post, and the claim by the Minister of Foreign Affairs that Lisbon offered interesting commercial tasks was simply not true according to Begtrup. Her colleagues agreed, arguing that the Minister’s assertion reflected a misunderstanding since “an 51 52 53

dna, BB, box 21, file: Speeches and talks held on different occasions during the time as ambassador in Switzerland. Speech prior to the departure from Bern in June 1968. dna, BB, box 20, file: The years as ambassador in Switzerland, 1959–1968. Material concerning the work in Switzerland. SZ/GT, 30 January 1968; Basler Nachrichten, 1 July 1968. dna, BB, box 12, file 2: Correspondence to and from ambassador Bodil Begtrup. Begtrup to Udenrigsråd Tscherning, 2 April 1963; Begtrup, Kvinde i et verdenssamfund, 150.

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expansion of trade could not be expected and political assignments were close to zero.”54 Not least the absence of democratic rule in Portugal limited the possibilities of conducting diplomacy in public. Begtrup identified political lethargy among the Portuguese public: “Salazar’s dictatorship has led to a stagnation of public life, an apathetic attitude to participation in politics which often turns into endless discussions or complete silence.”55 Hence, in the Portuguese case, Begtrup had to take on the role of representing a democracy that sought relations with a non-democracy. She had to engage in the difficult task of seeking a dialogue with what she saw as an apathetic counterpart. The embassy in Lisbon conducted Danish-Portuguese relations primarily at a state-to-state level. This did not mean that public diplomacy in Portugal did not take place, but it did so to a lesser degree than in Iceland and Switzerland. Begtrup tried to be open to Portuguese democratic forces, but as a state representative she could not be associated with them. In contrast to Iceland in particular, but also to Switzerland, she had little contact with Portuguese women’s associations. The evidence of these contacts is limited, and they are only mentioned in her memoirs. Here she claims that her limited contact with the women’s associations was due to the fact that they were religious organisations. However, she does not explain whether she avoided seeking contact with these associations or whether she tried but was rejected. Since it was her overall impression that the perception of her as a female diplomat in Portugal was shaped very much by the Catholicism of the country, it is likely that traditional Catholic faith was an obstacle to contact with women’s associations that she did not manage to overcome. Whereas she did not manage to engage with Portuguese women’s associations, she did succeed, again according to her memoirs, in having some contact with four women in the Portuguese parliament. However, also on this point her memoirs are not particularly informative.56 It may be noted, though, that her possibilities in Portugal of publicly approaching women were almost the opposite of those in Switzerland, where she successfully engaged the Swiss women’s civil society. On the other hand, in Portugal there were actually – even if only a few - female mps to engage with, which was not the case in Switzerland at the time. Begtrup’s management of 54

dna, BB, box 22, file: Correspondence, notes, speeches etc. concerning work in Portugal. Begtrup to the Minister of Foreign Affairs, 26 April 1968; Summary of travel LisbonCopenhagen-Zürich, 16–20 April 1968. 55 dna, BB, box  22, file: Material concerning the Nordic attitude to Portugal’s colonies. Report from Begtrup to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs: Portugal at the turn of the year, n.d (context suggests 1970–1971). 56 Begtrup, Kvinde i et verdenssamfund, 177.

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relations with women in the two countries bears evidence, again, of her ability to adapt her strategies and relations to the options available. There is little evidence of cultural events through which the Portuguese public was approached. In the absence of cultural ‘resources’ with which she could attract interest, Begtrup had to make the most any opportunities that arose. According to her memoirs, she was fortunate to be able to draw on the travels of the world famous Danish writer and poet Hans Christian Andersen in Portugal in 1866. Andersen had described his journey in his memories. This particular chapter of Andersen’s memoirs was translated into Portuguese during Begtrup’s stationing in Lisbon and used to gather the descendants of people with whom Andersen had been in contact.57 Her use of Andersen may very well be termed ad hoc public diplomacy.58 It did not represent a well-thought through strategy, but was rather an expression of a wish to take advantage of a cultural asset which was at hand by pure chance. In addition, as in Switzerland, she mentioned how Denmark was among Portugal’s traditional customers – not least of port wine – and referred also to the increase in trade since the establishment of efta. In this way, she adapted national narratives to the relevant diplomatic context. Again she sought to invent a tradition while at the same time point to contemporary relations and the possibilities of future cooperation. In addition to making the most of improvised cultural resources, Begtrup’s public diplomacy initiatives in Portugal also concerned agricultural trade. She found that conditions for the expansion of agricultural relations were good, as Portuguese agricultural agents were aiming to renew their cattle stock and improve farming conditions. In cooperation with the Danish Agricultural Export Council with which she had worked during her years in Bern, Begtrup managed to bring a group of black brindled cows to be exhibited in Portugal. Denmark also participated in exhibitions in Madrid and in the largest annual agricultural show in Santarém which included an exhibition of “propaganda material and agricultural products.”59 The participation in these exhibitions 57 58 59

Ibid., 178–179. For a later example of how Denmark has used Andersen in its public diplomacy, see Mads Mordhorst’s chapter in this volume. dna, Danish Minister of Foreign Affairs, Lisbon Diplomatic Representation. 1960 69 Port. 6/3-1978 119 D 1. file: 69. Port. 6/3 Agricultural exhibitions in Santarém. 8 September 1960 – 2015 December 1978. Letter from Begtrup to the President of the Danish Agricultural Export Committee Lau-Jensen, 28 August 1969; Ibid., Notice. 25. August 1969; From Begtrup to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, no. 12. Denmark’s participation in the Portuguese agricultural exhibition in Santarém June 1970; Excerpt of overview. Point 7: The agricultural exhibition, June 1971.

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led to several contacts with both large-scale and small-scale farmers. These farmers were then framed as the target public when Begtrup and Danish agricultural agents arranged for Danes to come to Portugal to give lectures on various technical aspects of agriculture.60 What is striking about the Portuguese case in general, and the DanishPortuguese agricultural relations in particular, is the wider political agenda that Begtrup placed them in. Portugal’s economic development was far behind the highly industrialised countries and former colonial powers, France, the uk, the Netherlands and Belgium. For this reason, Begtrup noted, it was more difficult for Portugal to relinquish its colonies. Political forces in Portugal that envisaged a modern Portugal independent of colonial trade, would need foreign support. Along with larger states in Europe, Denmark would be able “through public information, [and] in particular in the field of agriculture, to contribute to supporting the forces that saw a future for an economically independent Portugal.”61 Interestingly, Begtrup at the same time, by referring both to Hans Christian Andersen and technologically deterministic modernisation theory, articulated at once a traditional and modern Danish identity, which she employed sideby-side in her efforts to manage relations with the Portuguese public, agricultural agents and political decision-makers. Her activities in Portugal have parallels to Danish development aid in which technical aid formed a key part.62 It may well be argued that Denmark undertook a parallel approach to the ‘global South’ and the ‘European South.’ This further suggests that public diplomacy formed part of Danish development thinking in both of these geographic areas similar to the way in which the Swedish Institute and the British Council integrated overseas information efforts into development aid.63 Compared to Iceland and Switzerland, Begtrup’s public diplomacy in Portugal was not just aimed at serving Danish foreign relations and trade interests, but was to contribute to the very economic and political progress of Portugal itself and the emancipation of its African colonies. Begtrup believed in the emancipatory potential of ‘public information,’ as she called it, not only to manage relations with the Portuguese public, but even to promote democratic development in a non-democratic state and to end Portuguese colonial rule. 60 Begtrup, Kvinde i et verdenssamfund, 173. 61 dna, BB, box  22, file: Material concerning the Nordic attitude to Portugal’s colonies. Report from Begtrup to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, 11 November 1970; Portugal at the turn of the year, n.d (context suggests 1970–1971). 62 Bach, Olesen, Kaur-Pedersen & Pedersen, Idealer og realiteter, 126–129. 63 Glover, “Inspector Gadget-like,” 11–12.

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Despite Begtrup’s enthusiasm, however, the process towards an economically independent Portugal was slow. However by 1973, Begtrup could report no more than that “an interest in undertaking reforms and in seeking impulses from abroad – in particular from Scandinavia – is awakening.”64 Conclusion In Iceland, Switzerland and Portugal Begtrup sought to invent traditions and construct relationships suitable for different diplomatic contexts and purposes: to change negative Icelandic perceptions of Danish imperialism, to increase Danish exports to Switzerland and to contribute to the modernisation of Portugal. Negative Icelandic perceptions of Denmark as its former colonial master suggest that the notion of the small state needs to be understood in relational and relative terms. Even if Denmark may be characterised as a small state, it had a problematic history and a relationship with another small state which needed redeeming. The small state factor also played out in the Swiss case in which the perception was that Denmark, as a small state, had a commercial disadvantage in terms of competitive advantages and visibility in the eyes of the Swiss public. Danish public diplomacy initiatives were to a large degree produced at the practitioner’s level and involved cooperation with several domestic and foreign actors. Until the early 1970s the Danish government and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs remained rather uninterested in public diplomatic initiatives – at least in the three cases examined here. From a Danish perspective, Iceland, Switzerland and Portugal were to a large degree peripheral states and as such something of diplomatic ‘blank canvasses.’ For Begtrup this was both a blessing and a curse. She received limited support and resources, but was free to act and pursue issues and strategies that she personally found important. The lack of a centralised Danish public diplomacy left room for actors such as Begtrup to autonomously represent Denmark. It is in this sense that Begtrup can be understood as a diplomatic entrepreneur. Her activities may be termed public diplomacy because she acted as a diplomat towards various publics. However, her activities were entrepreneurial due to the lack of centralisation and coordination and the room this left for independent agency. With the absence of coordinated policies from above, she 64

dna, BB, box  22, file: Material concerning the Nordic attitude to Portugal’s colonies. Report from Begtrup to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, 5 February 1973.

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could draw on her experience both as a women’s activist and from her participation in international organisations. She had a broad transnational network of internationally oriented women, diplomats and politicians and rich experience of network formation. The approach and formation of her contacts, strategies and activities seems very much to be influenced by her background as an activist and for this reason she was less prone to automatically accepting the established norms of the Danish Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Her entrepreneurial drive resembled to a large degree what is often today referred to as ‘new diplomacy,’ a term used to describe a twenty-first century approach to international relations characterised by networking, flexibility, rapidity and mobility. However, the novelty of this new diplomacy has rightly been questioned, and Begtrup’s entrepreneurial diplomacy supports this critical approach.65 She was a diplomat whose initiatives, as early as the 1949–1973 period, drew on personal relations, cooperation with a variety of actors, and cultural resources in efforts to present useful variations of national representations towards different public audiences abroad. 65 Weisbrode, Old Diplomacy Revisited, 3–4.

chapter 6

A Total Image Deconstructed: The Corporate Analogy and the Legitimacy of Promoting Sweden Abroad in the 1960s Nikolas Glover In the spring of 1967, an exhibited print by the well-known leftist artist Carl Johan de Geer was confiscated by the police in Stockholm. It depicted a burning Swedish flag, capped by three slogans: “Dishonour the flag,” “Betray the Fatherland,” “Dare to be non-nationalist.” The flag itself had one word sprawled across it: Kuken, slang for penis. The motif was judged to be in breach of the Swedish constitution (by defiling the flag) and de Geer was fined in court.1 The episode sets the historic scene for this chapter. In the second half of the 1960s, self-proclaimed anti-patriotic sentiments like those voiced by de Geer were gaining widespread popularity among artists-cum-activists and within the growing movements of the New Left.2 Meanwhile, publicly funded “Sweden-information abroad” was expanding in scope and ambition.3 This chapter focuses on the relationship between these two developments, showing how practitioners in the field of Sweden-information navigated between the imperatives of efficient communication and democratic legitimacy. At the heart of this challenge lay the need to manage the diverging demands of the government’s foreign policy objectives, the export industry’s commercial interests, and a politically active cultural scene that was insisting that it should not have to cooperate with either.

Managing Diverging Demands

In many respects, representing Sweden abroad in the early 1960s was a thankful task: affluent, ambitiously reformist and technologically advanced, the country 1 “Konsten att göra uppror,” Svenska Dagbladet, 2 December 2007. 2 In Sweden as in the rest of Europe (Garavini, After Empires, 91; 113–114). 3 Sverigeinformation i utlandet och kulturellt utbyte¸literally “Sweden-information abroad and cultural exchange” was the label used to describe any activities – private or public – that were aimed at promoting Sweden abroad and at making the country known and appreciated among foreign publics. It included the work of government ministries, public agencies, semipublic organisations and private commercial and/or non-profit associations with international contacts. The term was loose and as such not bound to specific institutions but rather to a broad set of activities and (by implication, good) intentions. © koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���� | doi 10.1163/9789004305496_008

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had a positive reputation among political progressives in many Western countries.4 Prime Minister Tage Erlander was for instance informed by one of his advisors that his visit to the usa in 1961 had “finally convinced” Americans that “the welfare state had evolved from a crisis solution to a construction for the future.”5 However, by the end of the decade that construction was facing fierce criticism from within. Like many countries of Europe and North America, Sweden was going through rapid socioeconomic changes, and the political landscape was changing fast as a growing number of extra-parliamentary groups and public intellectuals gathered under the banner of the New Left. An important part of this mobilisation was taking place in the name of a politicised interpretation of ‘culture,’ distinct from the bourgeois aesthetic ideals of old and opposed to the modern forces of capitalism.6 The Social Democratic government, which had been primarily responsible for the swift and rapid expansion of the welfare state after the Second World War, found itself being outflanked by the new movements which were questioning the very welfare solutions and consensus-oriented politics that had come to define Sweden abroad. Meanwhile, as these political groups and representatives of the arts were pressuring the government with demands of socialisation, the radical redistribution of wealth and increased spending on cultural life and public goods, the prominent export-driven Swedish industry was eager to see an increase in state-funded export promotion.7 European integration was gaining pace and competition on the world markets was intensifying. Thus, while major private actors were asking for more active and effective promotion of Swedish capitalism, the New Left was criticising the government for not doing enough to practise solidarity and spread democratic socialism. Despite a marked increase in government support during the decade, practitioners of the sprawling public-private field of Sweden-information found themselves with something of a legitimacy-deficit due to these widening ideological fissures in Swedish society. Quite simply: representing the nation was easier said than done as Sweden became increasingly politically polarised. As will be discussed below, employees of the semi-official Swedish Institute, 4 Marklund, “The Social Laboratory”; Marklund & Petersen, “Return to Sender,” 253. 5 Swedish National Archives (ra), Marieberg, Upplysningsberedningen och Kollegiet för Sverige-information i utlandet (Ub/SiU), (Series) FIa (vol) 105, Öberg to Erlander, 22 September 1965. 6 Bergman, Kulturfolk; Funke, “Swedish Business,” 95–96. For respective syntheses in English of the Swedish and Scandinavian ‘1968,’ see Östberg, “The Long ‘1968’” and Jørgensen, “The Scandinavian 1968,’ 7 Aktuellt om Sverige-information i utlandet (Hereafter: Aktuellt), 4 (1967), 2; Aktuellt, 7 (1968), 38.

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diplomats at the Ministry for Foreign Affairs, and the representatives of the newly formed Collegium for Sweden Information Abroad (under the Ministry for Trade) had to try to appease both the industrialists and the radicals. From corporate pr and marketing came what can be denoted a centripetal communicative ideal, advocating coordinated and concerted projections of Sweden, based on strategy and professional know-how. From the political activists and public intellectuals came a centrifugal communicative ideal which advocated popular participation, public debate and the portrayal of conflict instead of consensus. In the following I will examine how these two ideals were expressed, and how the imaging of Sweden abroad was shaped by the turbulent national imaginings at home. A general trend over the decade was that the consensusoriented image of Sweden espoused by the private sector and the government became undermined by the increasingly politicised view of culture that gained widespread popularity in the second half of the 1960s. The main source for this chapter is a periodical that was edited within the Information Division of the Ministry for Foreign Affairs: Aktuellt om Sverigeinformation i utlandet [‘News about Sweden-information abroad,’ hereafter referred to as Aktuellt]. This was a free bulletin with news, commentary and reports that concerned information work and cultural exchange that was produced between five and eight times a year from 1967.8 Aktuellt was originally intended to simply provide a calendar of upcoming events and campaigns. Quite soon, following the requests of its readers, it evolved into something more than that; supplying reports from completed projects, reprinting articles and debates from the Swedish and the foreign press, providing overviews of the opinion-climate in other countries, and reproducing excerpts of the Collegium’s executive decisions and relevant parliamentary bills.9 As its readership consisted first and foremost of practitioners in the field of Swedeninformation, and with many of the key actors at the Collegium, the Swedish Institute, the Ministry for Foreign Affairs and the General Export Association contributing, the bulletin provides a vivid account of this diverse field of exchanges, information practices and promotional activities. As will be argued in this chapter, one of Aktuellt’s core functions seems to have been to legitimise how Sweden was being represented abroad by seeking to involve key opinionforming circles at home.

8 It was succeeded in 1973 by the similar but less attractive publication produced by the Swedish Institute, Aktuellt om Sverigeinformation (1973–80), and then by the more calendarlike Sverige-information i utlandet (1981–5). 9 Aktuellt, 1 (1971), 2.

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The chapter is constructed as follows. It begins by outlining the centripetal ideals shaping the field of Sweden-information during the 1960s: the institutional coordination and the professional techniques that were being used to direct efforts towards target publics. It then proceeds to show how the objective of making Sweden “relevant” abroad led to an emphasis on letting interpretations of the nation determine the contents of Sweden-information. This focus on interpretations was in turn also linked to what the chapter then goes on to examine: a centrifugal communicative ideal that was gaining influence towards the end of the decade. According to this logic, a democratic process rather than an efficient outcome legitimised publicly funded Sweden-information. The relationship between the different forms of communication and the historical context of their emergence are discussed in a concluding section.

Total Image: A Political Initiative with Corporate Means

In 1962 an ambitious new organisation was launched to coordinate the various institutions involved in ‘Sweden-information and cultural exchange.’ The immediate political impetus was Sweden’s increasingly active foreign policy, and the country’s position as a neutral trading partner with the countries involved in European market integration.10 The new body, ‘the Information Collegium,’ was the outcome of Parliament’s drive to reorganise and boost what today would be called Swedish public diplomacy or Sweden-promotion [offentlig diplomati; Sverigefrämjande].11 It was to facilitate the integration of work being done by the Ministry for Trade, the Ministry for Foreign Affairs, the Swedish Institute, the General Export Association, the Tourist Traffic Association and the Federation of Swedish Industries.12 The bureaucratic logic behind the Information Collegium was straightforward enough: the impact of these separate organisations’ work would be amplified if they were encouraged to pool their resources. The Director of the Information Collegium was given a key role; to distribute its funds so as to coax 10 Glover, National Relations, 107–115. 11 The organisation was originally entitled the Enlightenment Committee, and was a temporary public body that would evolve into the permanent ‘Collegium for Sweden Information Abroad’ in 1965. For simplicity’s sake, both incarnations – the Committee and the Collegium – will in the following be referred to as a single continuous body: ‘the Information Collegium.’ 12 Glover, National Relations, 112–119. Later the foreign press services and the Swedish public broadcasting company’s international division would also be included in the Collegium.

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the organisations into cooperating with each other. As the Director between 1962 and 1970 Kjell Öberg later formulated it, his challenge was that “everybody would be in favour of coordination, but nobody would want to be coordinated.”13 The idea was that a more integrated and concentrated image of Sweden was necessary, and that it could be achieved. As one of the Collegium’s architects put it, Sweden’s foreign policy and the changing international markets meant that the present era was “a critical period,” which demanded that the state take action. “The need for a total image of Sweden where all the important aspects are present, comes across as all the more pressing than before.”14 Consequently, rather than going directly to existing institutions, an important portion of the increased overseas information funding would be administered by the new Collegium. A memorandum dated 5 October 1962, the day that the Collegium held its first official meeting, stated that the task was simultaneously to spread knowledge of Sweden, raise others’ understanding of Sweden’s actions and policies, promote Swedish exports, and increase the flow of tourists and other visitors to the country. It then emphasised that no clear line could be drawn between these aims. “On the contrary, it will be one of our prime tasks to eradicate such distinctions, so as to allow one aim to be co-ordinated with the next.”15 These efforts to streamline the organisation and programs of Swedeninformation and project a total image of Sweden can be characterised as following a centripetal logic explicitly adopted from the private sector. For a country commonly depicted as socialist, the analogy between the nation and a commercial corporation – Sverige ab [‘Sweden Ltd’] – was remarkably popular in the early 1960s. The same autumn as the Collegium held its first official meeting the Director of the Swedish Institute was telling the Institute’s members that according to the public relations literature, ‘corporate image’ was all about building “a comprehensive image of an organisation or a firm.” “Public relations,” he informed his audience, was defined as “the deliberate, planned and sustained effort to establish and maintain mutual understanding between an organisation and its public.” This was precisely what the Institute was doing

13 14

15

Öberg, “Det finns många Sverigebilder,” 122. This observation is an apt description of what was going on in Finland at this time too. See Louis Clerc’s chapter in this volume. ra, Ub/SiU, FIa:1, ‘P.M. åtgärder för neutralitetspolitisk och handelspolitisk upplysning,’ memorandum produced within the Press Department of the Ministry for Foreign Affairs undated (probably January 1962), 1 (emphasis added). Attached to a letter from de Besche to Dahlman. ra, Ub/SiU, FIa:1, ‘P.M. med synpunkter på svensk upplysningsverksamhet i utlandet,’ memorandum produced within the Enlightenment Committee, 5 October 1962.

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on behalf of Sweden, meaning that it had been “following in the footprints of these new prophets [of pr] without knowing it.”16 Over the course of the decade it was primarily the Information Collegium, rather than the Institute, that emphasised the parallels between publicly funded Sweden-information and the practices in the corporate sector. The October 1962 memorandum noted that “our message should on the one hand articulate Swedish reality but on the other be selected and formulated so that it is relevant at the receiving end.”17 This approach was later elaborated: the international arena was to be seen as a set of “information markets,” in which different methods could be used to “sell” Sweden.18 Noting in 1966 that public funding for overseas information efforts had tripled over the last three years, Kjell Öberg posed the question: “What currency can that money buy us?” He answered simply: “The image of Sweden is the currency.”19 A concrete example of this approach to communication was the major export-oriented campaigns, or “integrated information programs” as Öberg called them, in the usa, France and West Germany.20 Each was adapted to the respective national context.21 The campaigns and Collegium were examples of how Sweden-information was being professionalised and increasingly run by communication experts with a technical view of how to represent Sweden.

Professional Communication

The centripetal logic stemmed from the modern theories of communication and state-of-the art corporate practices that were being deployed by the Collegium. In 1963 systematic research on mass communication was still something of a novelty in Sweden, with no academic institutions specifically dedicated to it.22 The Collegium was therefore launched while communication 16

ra, Arninge, Svenska institutet, Hemmamyndigheten, AI:2, Tallroth, speech at the Council Meeting, 20 November 1962, 6. For a similar, virtually contemporaneous proposal to use public relations practices in the promotion of Sweden, see ra, Ub/SIU, FIa:1, Hägglöf, ‘Föredrag av ambassadören Gunnar Hägglöf vid exportreklamdagen,’ transcript of public speech, 9 March 1962. 17 ra, Ub/SIU, FIa:1, ‘P.M. med synpunkter på svensk upplysningsverksamhet i utlandet,’ memorandum produced within the Enlightenment Committee, 5 October 1962. 18 Upplysingsberedningen, Reorganisationen, 9. 19 “Bilden av Sverige,” Pressklubbens Årsbok (1966), 84. 20 Ibid., 85. 21 See e.g. Borghede, Sydtysklandsaktionen; Sjögren, Meet Modern Sweden. 22 Nowak, Masskommunikationsforskning, 11.

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was beginning to become an area of specialisation in its own right. “A central problem,” explained the Collegium’s Peter Hallberg to the readers of Aktuellt, “is how information reaches and affects recipients. This is also a problem that the scientific communication discipline deals with.” Hallberg was announcing that the Collegium had invited practitioners of Sweden-information to attend an introductory course on the science of communication; this “rather new area of research with close ties to psychology, sociology and pedagogics.”23 The course was led by two academics, Kjell Nowak and Michael Wächter, and combined lectures on theory as well as workshops around concrete case studies taken from Sweden-information campaigns and publications.24 Wächter and Nowak seem to have been something of pioneers in popularising primarily us communication research in the Swedish context, giving public courses on the topic from the early 1960s.25 The course which they held on behalf of the Collegium in January 1972 was the first time practitioners of official Swedeninformation were introduced to “the discipline known as communication science or information technology.”26 It centred on a transmission-model of communication, and trained the participants to identify themselves as “senders,” formulate their “message” and to determine the most appropriate “target groups” abroad.27 Communicating Sweden was in this sense formulated largely as a linear, directed process with measurable outcomes. The analyses of communication specialists were drawn on elsewhere too. In 1969, Håkan Berggren at the Swedish Information Service in New York wrote in Aktuellt about a study that he had conducted which was based on fifty-nine in-depth interviews with North American communication scholars and representatives of tv and Radio. Competition is increasing. Competition for people’s time, over the capacity to convey messages, to increase knowledge and awareness levels. The speed of development and the mutability of situations, mean that we have to keep reassessing our objectives and our means.28 Berggren’s emphasis on competition was largely based on the experiences of private companies. He drew the conclusion that public institutions, such as 23 Aktuellt, 5 (1971), vii. 24 Aktuellt, 5 (1971), vii. 25 Wächter, Inte bara ord, 5. 26 Aktuellt, 1 (1972), 19. 27 See documents in ra, Ub/SiU, FIb:13, “Kommunikationskursen i Skokloster 1972,’ 28 Aktuellt, 5 (1969), 13.

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nation-states, faced the same challenges. This application of methods and arguments of the corporate world was common in the pages of Aktuellt. In one opinion-piece, Peter Hallberg argued that practitioners of Sweden-information had to look at themselves “as if we were a businessman who has to make a profit. If we put ourselves in his position, a marketing perspective will follow as a natural consequence.”29 Another concrete example of how the analogy between the nation and modern corporations was used was in 1970, when Aktuellt provided space for Rolf Åkeby to discuss his experiences working with the graphic design of the Collegium’s recent promotional campaign in West Germany. Åkeby began by explaining that organisations and firms for a long time had recognised the necessity of being easily identified. One way of avoiding the risk of “drowning in the flow of information” had been to coordinate the design of their printed materials. This insight – despite the Information Collegium’s vision of projecting a total image of Sweden – had yet to be applied in Sweden-information, according to Åkeby. A uniform graphic “Sweden profile,” consisting of a recognisable symbol, distinct colours and a particular typography, should be used in all official and semi-official publications. Åkeby conceded that the flag was the most widespread symbol, but argued that it worked less well when publications were in black and white. Alternative national logotypes were therefore worth considering – for instance the ‘S’ that had been designed by an advertising agency for the German campaign. Although Åkeby’s suggestion was not wholly embraced, the first responses to it that Aktuellt published accepted its basic premises. Hans Johansson of the Swedish Information Service in New York agreed that finding a symbol for a country was complicated but just as necessary as it was for a commercial enterprise. Lars Johansson of the General Export Association pointed out that the use of a Sweden-symbol was completely in line with “the principles that these days are consistently used in the field of information – not least in mass communication – i.e. to seek ‘the lowest common denominator’” when aiming to achieve recognition.30 Communication theory and graphic profiling aside, methods used in market research were also applied and reported on in the pages of Aktuellt. Roughly 3% of the Collegium’s budget in the financial year 1970–1 was reserved for attitude surveys and measuring the outcome of information efforts. Although this was a small percentage, Peter Hallberg predicted that it would increase steadily each year. He argued that there was a need for more market surveys to determine the “topics, media and target groups,” and “as far as possible [provide] assessments 29 30

Aktuellt, 1 (1972), 33. Aktuellt, 1 (1971), 17; Aktuellt, 1 (1972), 22–26.

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of already conducted efforts.”31 Extensive surveys were for instance used to measure the reception of a new periodical that was produced to promote Sweden in the usa. Launched in August 1967, Sweden Now initially had a printrun of around 30 000 copies, ten times per year and was sent out to key opinionformers, universities, companies and other selected institutions. It did not confine itself to promoting Swedish products and industry but sought also to include a wider range of social and cultural topics.32 By 1970, the results of three separate surveys could be presented in Aktuellt. One involved written feedback from subscribers, one consisted of analyses of the magazine by 300 journalism students at the University of Michigan, and a third rested on in-depth interviews with the magazine’s readers, conducted by a firm in Philadelphia.33 Aktuellt consistently reported on the results of various attempts to gauge the image of Sweden overseas. A major focus of interest in this respect – dealt with elsewhere in this volume – was the conflicting reports from the United States and the strong expressions of both pro and anti-Swedish sentiment that followed from the government’s outspoken criticism of the Vietnam War.34 From the pavilions at the World Exhibitions, the most common questions about Sweden posed by the visitors were registered and reported through Aktuellt, as were the results of exit polls that sought to capture the visitors’ perceptions of Sweden.35 In 1968 a consultancy firm delivered the results of its survey of Dutch images of Sweden in general and among Dutch importers of Swedish goods in particular.36 Later the same year, readers of the bulletin could read what 400 inhabitants in Tokyo thought about Sweden, and learn that they thought the country to be “a welfare paradise” but “technologically underdeveloped.”37 And in 1969 a surge in Sweden-interest was being reported in the French press.38 This phenomenon, ‘Suédomanie’ as it was being labelled in France, led the Collegium to conduct an ambitious interview survey in the country, something which would allow it to compare the results with those of a survey of the 31 Aktuellt, 1 (1972), 33. 32 Aktuellt,7 (1968), 26–27. 33 Aktuellt, 3 (1970), 19. 34 See Aktuellt, 4; 5; 6 (1968); 3; 5 (1969); 1 (1972) and Carl Marklund’s chapter in this volume. 35 Aktuellt, 7 (1968); Aktuellt, 5 (1970), 22. For the Collegium’s involvement in planning the Scandinavian Pavilions at the 1967 and 1970 World Exhibitions, see Glover, “Unity Exposed,’ 36 Aktuellt, 1 (1968), 8–9. Aktuellt, 3 (1968), summarised a survey conducted among Belgians. 37 Aktuellt, 4 (1968), 2. For reports of the image of Sweden in West Germany, see Aktuellt, 2; 5 (1969). 38 Aktuellt, 5 (1969), 10.

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French image of Sweden in 1963. In the course of the decade, it was reported in Aktuellt, French knowledge of Sweden had increased and attitudes towards the country had indeed become more favourable.39 The form and contents of the image of Sweden in different countries was not merely a matter of national-narcissistic curiosity, but theoretically derived from the science of communication. In the words of the Collegium, research was crucial for understanding “the individual characteristics of different information markets.” These markets demanded different representations of Sweden: “while in the United States we find it expedient to emphasise Sweden as a country of private enterprise, we seek for instance in Africa to spread knowledge of ‘socialism in Sweden.’”40 The success of planned, centripetal communication therefore rested on identifying how Sweden was relevant in different contexts.

The Quest for Relevance

After interviewing communication experts in the usa, Håkan Berggren at the Swedish Information Services in New York concluded that all efforts in Swedeninformation must be shaped according to two criteria: “1) what are the recipients interested in and 2) what do we have to offer?”41 The message being imparted should be adapted to suit the context in which it was to be received. One means of ensuring this, as Berggren himself concluded, was through individual encounters. “The study fully supports the notion that the personal visit and the personal contact is the most important medium when it comes to informing opinion-forming circles.”42 In accordance with this emphasis on the need for face-to-face contact, various programs were launched in the usa. Beginning in 1970, the Swedish Information Services in New York ran a series of events called ‘Workshop Sweden,’ which consisted of informal meetings between visiting Swedish professionals and their us counterparts. At each workshop a Swede held a 15 minute presentation on “a problem, a tendency or something else within his area of 39 Aktuellt, 2 (1972) , 29–30. 40 Upplysningsberedningen, Reorganisationen, 10. 41 Aktuellt, 5 (1971), 17. 42 Aktuellt, 5 (1969), 13. Berggren’s focus on “opinion-forming circles” reflects a general inclination among Swedish representatives to think in terms of a two-step flow of communication: by targeting elites they could influence broader public opinion (Glover, National Relations, 221–222).

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specialty,” after which an hour’s session of questions and discussions followed.43 The wider Swedish public too was invited to participate in face-toface encounters with foreigners. In December 1969 the campaign ‘Sweden at Home’ was launched by the Swedish ambassador to the usa. 1 000 families in Sweden agreed to host us tourists in their homes for a few days, the idea being to allow their visitors to acquaint themselves with everyday Swedish life. Already by June 1970 the coverage which the campaign had garnered in us newspapers meant that it could be declared a publicity success.44 Drawing similar conclusions to Berggren’s about the importance of personalising the representation of Sweden, Peter Hallberg stressed one of the most important lessons that he had taken with him from Nowak and Wächter’s course on communication theory: The communicator’s – that is, the sender’s – perception of his own personality often plays as important a role in his actions as his actual personality, and the recipient’s interpretation of the message can well be more dependent upon his perception of the sender than on the message’s content.45 The notion of a “perceived personality” that was more important than (and distinct from) “actual” personality was a key explanation for the careful analyses of the image of Sweden in different national contexts. It avoided any strong claims about the essential character of Swedish society, and instead located the focus on how Sweden was interpreted. Only by knowing how Sweden’s personality was perceived could what it had to offer be determined, and its significant characteristics be communicated. In the words of a handbook co-authored by Kjell Nowak, the recipients’ attitudes determine how they react to information, and it is therefore crucial that the campaign officer beforehand can describe the recipients in this regard. This means that he has to have a description of the recipients’ existing cognitive structure – their evaluations of various objects and their perceptions of how these objects relate to each other.46 43

44 45 46

Aktuellt, 1 (1971), 26–27. A pilot version of this workshop dealt with the issue of black people’s experience of visiting Sweden, as portrayed in a film by American film producer Jack Jordan. See Aktuellt, 4 (1969), 14. Aktuellt, 3 (1970), 25. Aktuellt, 1 (1972), 19. Nowak & Wärneryd, Kommunikation och påverkan, 86.

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For this reason, Swedes had to acquaint themselves with foreigners’ perceptions of their country if Sweden-information was going to be effective. One of Aktuellt’s functions was to contribute to this end. The bulletin encouraged its readers to stay in contact with foreign publics’ perceptions by providing translated articles from German, us and French newspapers that covered Sweden’s social and economic conditions, as well as annual summaries of the foreign press coverage of Sweden.47 Furthermore, Aktuellt provided examples of how Sweden was being discussed in new books written by foreign authors.48 A prominent example of this was the generous space dedicated in 1972 to British-South African correspondent Roland Huntford’s dystopia The New Totalitarians. Published in Swedish in 1971, Huntford’s account pictured Sweden as the real life incarnation of Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World. It immediately stirred an intense debate in Sweden, its rash and sweeping generalisations dividing opinion.49 Aktuellt provided a summary (written by an intern at the Ministry for Foreign Affairs) of Huntford’s book, followed by three critiques of its contents. Rather than simply dismissing the book, the critics put a great deal of effort into disputing Huntford’s analysis. One of them acknowledged that the book in fact challenged Swedes to subject ourselves to necessary self-examination which allows us to heed the warnings even from exaggerated and skewed renditions [of Sweden]. Even misunderstandings can teach us something about ourselves, things we would otherwise not be made aware of in time. So thank you, Mr Huntford.50 Even the scornful perspective of Roland Huntford could thus be used in the work of raising Swedish self-awareness, and thereby help identify the relevance of Sweden abroad. The generous space dedicated to Huntford also served another purpose: to publicly prove that practitioners of official Sweden-information were open to assessing their own work and the country they were representing. Although 47

48 49 50

“Pressklipp” in Aktuellt, 1; 2; 4 (1971); “Sverige i världspressen” in Aktuellt, 5 (1971) and 1; 2; 3 (1972). Each year Aktuellt summarised the annual report produced by the Ministry for Foreign Affairs of how Sweden had been portrayed in the foreign press over the last twelve months. See Aktuellt, 2 (1969); 2 (1970); 2 (1971); 2 (1973). Aktuellt, 2 (1968), 12–14; Aktuellt, 4 (1971), 8–11. For more on the reception of Huntford in Sweden, see Hale, “Brave New World” and Carl Marklund’s chapter in this volume. Aktuellt, 2 (1972), 13.

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analysing the image of Sweden in its various foreign guises was an important component in the planned centripetal communication of the country, Aktuellt’s willingness to reprint controversial opinions and perceptions also served the objective of involving vocal groups in Swedish society that were claiming that social conflict, criticism and debate were more representative of Sweden than a well-defined, consensus-driven corporate image. From their perspective, the very notion of purposefully communicating Sweden’s perceived personality was precisely what was wrong about official national representations – as will be discussed below. This led to a parallel communicative trend in Aktuellt during this era: the attempts to legitimise Sweden-information by also providing space for a centrifugal perspective on Sweden. In an era when a recurring theme in public debates was the questioning of ‘the establishment,’ Aktuellt sought to affirm the cultural credentials of Sweden-information by repeatedly questioning them.

Debating Culture

By so explicitly embracing the corporate analogy, the Information Collegium was inevitably going to attract the same ideological critique as was being levelled at the advertising industry. If advertising in general was being accused of creating “illusory happiness and alienation from ‘true human needs,’” then the same could be said about attempts to present a harmonised image of Sweden, rather than mediate the reality of social conflicts.51 Information, in the view of the New Left, could not be dissociated from politics, while culture could and should be dissociated from commercial interests.52 In an attempt to subsume these opinions, Aktuellt followed the example of the cultural sections of the daily newspapers during the 1960s, and opened up its pages for debates.53 The move can be seen as an attempt to integrate rather than alienate those who saw ‘culture’ as something opposed to – rather than part of – the total image of Sweden. Varsågod att debattera! “Go on, debate!” In February 1968, Aktuellt challenged the public and the media to critically discuss the form and content of Sweden-information abroad. The reason was that a journalist in the evening paper Expressen had complained about Sweden’s presence at the recent Montreal World Exhibition and demanded that in the future information be 51 52 53

The quote is from Funke, “Swedish Business,” 97. For politicised views of the relationship between culture and commerce in Sweden at this point, see Bergman, Kulturfolk, 50–52. Östberg, “The Long ‘1968,’” 342; 243.

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provided before similar ventures were undertaken. The editors of Aktuellt replied with disbelief: had journalists and newspapers not constantly been contacted about the plans for forthcoming campaigns and events in Swedish overseas information work? Had not ongoing discussions about Montreal and the upcoming World Exhibition in Osaka been openly conveyed in the pages of Aktuellt? The media has shown “little interest, to say the least,” in debating these issues, even though “this is our most fervent wish.”54 Aktuellt’s desire for critical assessments and deviating opinions would be fulfilled over the coming years. Indeed one of the bulletin’s main purposes seems to have been to make Swedish public diplomacy truly public, by providing a forum for debating the very legitimacy of Sweden-information. In May 1968 the pro-business, conservative broadsheet Svenska Dagbladet published two essays about the field of Sweden-information that Aktuellt subsequently reprinted the same month. The two essays, written by journalist Tom Selander, were based on an analysis of what the author called “The pr of Sweden Ltd” and the “internal Cold War” that he claimed was going on between the organisations responsible for it. Critical of the opaque division of labour, Selander slated the political unwillingness to fundamentally reform the field.55 Concluding the first of his two essays, Selander proposed “a pointed summary” of the state of affairs in the field of Sweden-information: it is unclear who is supposed to decide what we are to say, there is disagreement about what the message should contain, and we lack an effective distribution system to reach the right addressees.56 In Selander’s view, the Swedish Institute seemed to be the problem. This was an interpretation that its Director Per-Axel Hildeman hardly surprisingly rejected in his response. Selander’s notion of “Sweden Ltd” and the focus on some sort of net “total effect” in the form of a trade surplus was narrow-minded, he explained in Svenska Dagbladet. This was a “typically Swedish” perspective, he claimed, as it ultimately focused on the country’s economic dependency on exports. Rejecting such a myopic interpretation, Hildeman argued instead that particularly in the cultural sphere and in exchange programs, Swedeninformation was worth so much more: it constituted a crucial component of international peace efforts.

54 Aktuellt, 2 (1968), 1;7. 55 Aktuellt, 4 (1968), 22. 56 Ibid.

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General information and cultural exchange do in the long run have a positive effect on our relations with other countries and therefore automatically also on our trade relations. How that process works is something we know little about and can do little to affect – aside from intensifying our cultural contacts.57 A similar emphasis on the fundamentally uncontrollable nature of cultural relations was espoused later that year, also in Svenska Dagbladet, by another leading representative of the Institute. Like Hildeman’s, this article was reproduced in Aktuellt. The Swedish Institute was not simply a propaganda machine or a producer of objective information about Sweden, explained Head of Production Lars Björkbom, but rather it wished to instigate discussions about Sweden. “We believe that Sweden’s face abroad should be debatable, rather than be supplied as a finished product.” Therefore, rather than simply giving foreign publics what they expected, Björkom explained that the objective was to challenge them. In the 1950s “we thought that Swedish handicraft would suffice as the face of our culture. Now we have initiated a long series of ‘sabotages’ against traditional handicraft.”58 From the horizon of the politicised scene of Swedish arts and culture, merely providing uncontroversial representations of a singular Swedish culture was considered suspect. By “sabotaging” images of Sweden abroad, Björkbom and his colleagues sought to win domestic legitimacy among the artists and designers they were charged with representing. They would still be promoting Sweden – but doing so in a counter-cultural fashion that sought to engage with the criticism of national chauvinism that was being pronounced by the likes of Carl Johan de Geer. Similar acts of sabotage are found in the printed publications of the Institute at this time, which offer national selfdepreciation, ironic takes on Swedish history and tongue-in-cheek riffs on “Swedish sin.”59 In a clear attempt to sabotage the corporate approach being advocated by the Collegium, the Swedish Institute funded the production of the short film Flim – A very important person, which was labelled “a satire of Swedish consumer society.” The debates that the editors of Aktuellt sought in 1968 peaked during the following spring thanks to the scenes surrounding the aborted inaugural exhibition at Sweden House in central Stockholm. Sweden House was a building 57 Aktuellt, 5 (1968), 10. Emphasis in the original. 58 Aktuellt, 7 (1968), 37. 59 Lindén, A Swede am I; Torekull & Frantzén, Love in Sweden; Wizelius, Sweden in the Sixties. For more on this, see Glover, National Relations, 155–172.

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that embodied the centripetal communicative ideal by being specifically designed and erected to house all the organisations working to promote Sweden abroad.60 The young artist Pär Stolpe had been commissioned by the Swedish Institute on behalf of the Collegium to plan and set up an exhibition of “Sweden in the eyes of the world” to mark the formal opening of Sweden House in May 1969. As he described his project at the planning stage, it clearly represented a centrifugal take on the image of Sweden; how incarnations of it were mediated abroad, travelled across Swedish borders and circulated within Sweden. Stolpe worked on his multimedia installations for almost a year. Only days before the grand opening – to which leading industrialists, politicians and members of the Royal family were invited – the catalogue came from the printer’s and awakened the suspicions of the Director of the Collegium. For starters, Carl Johan de Geer – of “Dishonour the flag”-fame – had provided the illustration for the front cover. Inside the catalogue, details emerged of the ideologically charged content which criticised everything from greedy Swedish big business to the autocratic welfare state. In line with how the manipulative nature of advertising was being exposed by other activists, the exhibition made a point of juxtaposing the “propaganda” of the official tourism image of Sweden against the harsh truths of Swedish “reality.”61 Although Stolpe indeed had promised an exhibition of multiple images of Sweden, the prominence he attributed to politicised, critical images was too much for the commissioning bodies – not least because the exhibit was so dependent on corporate sponsors from the Swedish export industry. The Institute and Collegium urgently postponed and then ultimately cancelled the exhibition after allowing it to open for a single day. Stolpe and his colleagues managed to make this reaction a major issue in the media, and a heated debate ensued about what the image of Sweden was, in whose eyes it was relevant, and what portrayals of Sweden could and should be supported with public funds. This debate was exacerbated by the fact that the external façade of Sweden House had been adorned by a state-commissioned mural by Siri Derkert. Derkert had chosen to dedicate her work to the international peace movement, and in it – as de Geer had done in his work – she explicitly opposed the Swedish conscript army by voicing support for all conscientious objectors [vapenvägrare]. Overall, in stark contrast to the rest of Sweden House, Derkert’s wall was intended to be seen – in the words of her biographer – as “a window of opposition against tourism and commerce.”62 60 61 62

Stolpe’s exhibition is discussed in Glover, National Relations, 146–154. “Propaganda och verklighet,” Foto och filmteknik, 1 (January, 1970), 36. Sjöholm Skrubbe, “Personligt och politiskt,” 195–196.

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Clearly, Stolpe’s exhibition and Derkert’s mural could be seen as intended to sabotage the image of Sweden, and as such they managed to draw attention to the arbitrary distinction between authorised acts of sabotage and unauthorised ones.63 This was not lost on the editors of Akuellt. Central themes of contention in the media debate concerned whether corporate sponsors should pay for a socialist critique of the state and whether public funds should promote the agenda of rich capitalists. The different viewpoints were reproduced in Aktuellt with no editorial comment, including articles with such accusatory headlines as “Suppression of opinion?”, “Is this a conspiracy?” and “Censorship!”64 Even if Stolpe’s exhibition had been closed down, the official bulletin dedicated to the field of Sweden-information chose to keep the debate surrounding that decision alive. Not only did Aktuellt in this way reproduce debates from the national media, but the editors also sought to instigate their own. They commissioned responses to Åkeby’s notion of introducing a uniform Swedish graphic profile, and these critical opinions were also given space in the bulletin. The Swedish press attaché in Ottawa was for instance far from convinced: I have for a long time argued that there is no virtue in trying to compete with Colgate and Ford and other prominent employers of pr and advertising. It is far too easy to end up in bad company, particularly on this continent.65 This attaché was not alone in criticising the analogy that was being made between the nation and the corporation. While Tom Selander in his essays in Svenska Dagbladet rather matter-of-factly had referred to “Sweden Ltd,” this was a highly misleading concept according to the Swedish Institute’s Per-Axel Hildeman, who saw it as partisan. It led to a single-minded focus on “export silver” which in Hildeman’s view was “more tragic than amusing.”66 In 1971 the bulletin initiated a discussion about the purpose and direction of Sweden-information abroad by providing interviews with different influential 63 64 65 66

See for instance Jan Myrdal, “Högervinden – är det en dålig vind?,” Aftonbladet, July 27 (1969). See issues Aktuellt, 4 and 5 (1969). Aktuellt, 1 (1972), 22–26. Aktuellt, 5 (1968), 10. Director Per-Axel Hildeman’s view of the Swedish Institute’s position in the field of Sweden-information at this point clearly differed from his predecessor’s, who (as quoted above) in 1962 had declared that the Swedish Institute was conducting public relations on behalf of Sweden’s corporate image.

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individuals active in the field.67 One question these industrialists, diplomats and civil servants were asked to answer was: “Should we speak about Tensta?” Tensta was a recently erected suburb of Stockholm which had received a great deal of criticism for representing the ultimate example of depressingly souldestroying functionalist urban planning.68 The question was intended to challenge the respondents to discuss to what extent Sweden-information should deal with topics that were politically contentious. By raising such a provocative subject, readers were encouraged to reflect on the rhetorical question that the editors of Aktuellt had opened the debate with: “is the Sweden-informer an angel of peace,” “an ethnocentric,” or “just a normal egoist trying to do something good for his country?” During these years, there seemed to be no generally accepted answer to this question. Aktuellt, at least, was not going to provide one.

Conclusion: Communicating Conflicts

This chapter has examined the communication practices, as well as the debates surrounding them, in the field of Sweden-information during the late 1960s and early 1970s. They reflected the professionalisation of the field as well as the political disputes of ‘1968’ – disputes that ironically enough were going on while the country was gaining an international reputation for a consensusoriented ‘Swedish model.’ It provides a case study of how different political groups within the institutional framework of a corporatist state contested the means and purposes of national representation abroad. Although in theory – as reflected in the setup of the Information Collegium – they should all be interested in cooperating for the common good of the image of their country abroad, the political reality even in a ‘small state’ like Sweden has been more complicated than this.69 The Information Collegium only survived for approximately one decade. The initial belief in its mandate of total coordination in 1962 was outdated by the beginning of the 1970s. The widening schisms between a self-proclaimed, ring-fenced sphere of autonomous culture on the one hand and the consensusoriented total image sought by the export industry proved impossible to bridge. The Collegium lacked the institutional authority and the financial muscle to 67 68 69

Aktuellt, 5 (1971), 3–7. Ibid., 9; Aktuellt, 1 (1972), 28–32. In this sense it complicates Peter Katzenstein’s compelling theory of “small-state democratic corporatism.” See Katzenstein, Small states.

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forcefully maintain meaningful coordination. The significant state funds which it originally controlled gradually waned along with the government’s optimistic belief in being able to engineer an immediate impact on the image of Sweden.70 By 1972 the Collegium had played out its role, a new private-public venture for export promotion was formed to replace it (the Swedish Trade Council), and the Swedish Institute was allowed to pursue its cultural work independently of such explicitly commercial considerations. In the 1990s coordination was once again on the agenda in Swedish public diplomacy: export promotion, tourism and cultural diplomacy were to be aligned. When the new official body for institutional cooperation, Nämnden för Sverigefrämjande i utlandet (nsu), was being planned, the Information Collegium was held up as a historic precedent.71 Again the ideal of a total image followed in the path of institutional coordination, and by the early 2000s the nsu was enthusiastically engaged in deploying the methods and terminology of nation branding.72 The parallels between the present setup and the early 1960s are striking, not least in the way the corporate analogy has returned as a fashionable symbol for representing the nation in a professional, modern and inclusive way.73 The nuances of these similarities require a study in their own right, as it would lend necessary historical depth to claims that today’s commercial nation branding is a direct result of globalisation and a neoliberal world order.74 The tensions that ultimately led to the abandonment of a total image of Sweden in the early 1970s have here been discussed in terms of two partly contradictory communicative ideals. The strategic promotion of Sweden, embodied in the Collegium, followed a centripetal ideal of co-ordinated campaigns and distinct messages, applying the expertise of the corporate sector. In contrast, particularly as a result of the politicised cultural scene, a centrifugal logic 70

For retrospective accounts of this, see Öberg, “Det finns många Sverigebilder”; Ramel, Pojken i dörren, 154–163. 71 Utrikesdepartementet, Svenska bilder, 50. 72 Svenska institutet, Sverigebilden 2007, 4; Aronczyk, Branding the Nation, 156–157; Glover, “Imaging Com­munity”; Pamment, New Public Diplomacy. 73 The participatory ideal in practice remains elusive. The “curators of Sweden,” those “average Swedes” allowed to tweet from “@Sweden,” regularly touted as “the world’s most democratic twitter account” by the Swedish Institute as part of its nation-branding work, are in fact vetted by a three-person committee and requested to refrain from discussing politics (Christensen, “@Sweden,” 40–42). 74 For all the strengths of Aronczyk, Branding the Nation, this critical study of nation branding only posits that the corporate analogy is a twenty-first century reinvention of the nation – it does not seek to prove that this in fact is the case.

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was also articulated. Rather than seeking to streamline efforts, this ideal – espoused by sections of the Swedish Institute and by the editors of Aktuellt – emphasised the political necessity of including varied, self-reflexive and critical voices about Sweden and Sweden-information. Whereas the centripetal logic saw a value in representing national unity, the centrifugal logic invited practitioners to partake in questioning the notion of a united Sweden. These two ideals were not completely incompatible. ‘Public relations,’ after all, was a field that was intent on building relationships with the public – something that could well be done through staging provocations and debates.75 And the theoretical importance placed on mobilising the citizenry and on inter-personal contacts – as in the case of the Sweden at Home programme – dovetailed with the ideals of deliberative and direct participatory democracy that were being promoted by the New Left. Commercial communication and political communication should therefore not be held too rigorously apart. This was also, after all, a period in which the modern techniques of effective communication were being deployed by the Social Democratic government in its efforts to expand the welfare state. Along with an increasingly ambitious cultural policy that sought social inclusion through active “cultural democratisation,” a new state information policy dictated that public institutions had a responsibility to democratise citizens’ access to knowledge about how society worked and about what rights they had.76 Moreover, politics aside, even from a commercial perspective the distinction between the corporate ideal of selling Sweden on the world’s information markets on the one hand, and the Swedish Institute’s will to “sabotage” the image of Sweden abroad on the other, should not be overemphasised. It is important to point out that during what has been called ‘the global 1968,’ representing anti-nationalist tendencies such as Stolpe’s was not wholly illogical even from a marketing perspective. If the target groups wanted anti-nationalistic counter-culture, then that was what they would get. The creative ideals of the advertising world during this period were not that different from those of the radical street artists.77

75

As illustrated by the way in which the alleged success of the official Swedish Twitter account has been intimately linked to its ability to stir (the right kind of) controversy (Christensen, “@Sweden,” 38–39). 76 For “cultural democratisation,” see Bergman, Kulturfolk. For information policy, see the result of the public inquiry launched in 1967: Informationsutredningen, Vidgad samhällsinformation. 77 Frank, Conquest of Cool, 90.

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Despite these overlaps however, in Sweden the very language of pr and marketing did come with connotations that many politicians, artists and intellectuals considered ideologically reprehensible. As part of the political battles going on at the time, the advertising industry in Sweden was being subjected to accusations from the New Left of being a producer of false consciousness, a proponent of social distinctions and a catalyst for over consumption.78 Consequently, the professional projection of a national image that seemed so rational in the first half of the 1960s was out of step with the political climate only a few years later. By the end of the decade – according to all the political parties in Sweden – ‘culture’ was to be kept separate from ‘commerce,’ as the latter otherwise risked corrupting the former.79 So although drawing a corporate analogy between the nation and a commercial enterprise might have been common in Aktuellt, it was an analogy that by the end of the decade was criticised from within the field itself. In the midst of the crosscurrent between the interests of industry and the ideals of the New Left, the only way official representatives of Sweden working in and around the Collegium could seek to maintain legitimacy was to encourage open debates about what they were trying to do and how they were doing it – as the frank exchanges in Aktuellt bear witness to. Aside from ideological and professional reasons then, this move was also most pragmatic. Reporting on surveys, market analyses and literature reviews were not only the ideal ‘best practices’ of the profession, but also ‘only-possible-practices.’ They allowed the public diplomats to avoid having to define the nation in their own terms – instead they let the potential consumers of Sweden-information do so for them. In an era when intellectuals and cultural activists were framing all forms of national promotion as expressions of unsavoury jingoism, the increased public investments in Sweden-information could be legitimised in terms of dealing with “perceived personality” and merely representing the nation in a way that made it “relevant” to others. Thus, despite the criticism that it invoked, the attraction of the corporate terminology and the setup of the Collegium lay, from the government’s perspective, not least in the promise of resorting to expertise that could claim to be above the politics of the day. According to the original plans for the Collegium, the Director was to have “a feel for the PR-business,” and use it to bridge the Collegium’s “diverging interests.”80 ‘pr,’ then, was construed as not taking sides in the conflicts between ‘culture’ and ‘commerce,’ but rather as having the 78 See Funke, “Swedish Business,” 97–98. 79 Bergman, Kulturfolk, 251. 80 ra, Ub/SiU, FIa:1, Hartvig, ‘P.M.,’ 22 January 1962.

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ability to unite them. According to the communication expertise, images of Sweden among foreign target groups were considered important as they could be used to determine which aspects of Sweden were relevant. The findings – be they located in surveys, literature reviews or news cuttings – could in turn be used as vital counterweights to the differing representations of the country circulating in public debates at home. The detailed reports of what others were saying provided neutral ground: by indirectly letting others decide what was important about Sweden, official representatives could avoid taking sides in domestic conflicts.81 In short, flexibility when it came to imagining the nation was a professional virtue: the true image of Sweden, after all, lay abroad – not in Sweden itself.82 81 82

An inverted version of what Carl Marklund calls “diversionary public diplomacy” in his contribution to this volume. Whether today’s nation branders display the same flexibility remains to be seen. The present total image of Sweden – built around such “keywords” as “progressive,” “caring” and “open” – might well soon have to be disbanded, given that a political party with historic ties to the neo-Nazi movement has established itself as the third biggest party in the Swedish parliament. Once again then, the public diplomats’ desire to project a total and attractive image of Sweden is being undermined by the Swedish flag: this time not by the leftists defiling it, but by the rightists claiming to honour it.

chapter 7

“Gaining Recognition and Understanding on her own terms”: The Bureaucracy of Finland’s Image Policy, 1948–66 Louis Clerc Big powers struggle over their ideologies and to increase their influence. Small countries try, by spreading information, to achieve a favourable image and enjoy the benefits of it in political and commercial fields.1 matti kohva

Introduction When considering the situation of their country in the first decades of the Cold War, most members of Finland’s political, economic, and cultural elites did agree on the need to project overseas a coordinated image of their nation. Most also had the ambition to move away from the staples of pre-war Finland’s international image – forests, Paavo Nurmi, Sibelius and sauna - towards a more modern image. But beyond these shared concerns, constant debate was the norm: the national image had to be coordinated and supported, but by whom, why, and how? As the Finnish government and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs tried to bring into being an ‘image policy’ destined for foreign audiences, and new tasks emerged with the expanding in range and variety of Finland’s foreign relations, attempts to centralise activities were disputed by actors within and outside of the official apparatus. Made more urgent by the necessities of Finland’s precarious geopolitical situation, the question of how to project an image of Finland thus became with the end of the war a disputed political and administrative process. Debates were played out through a series of committees, initiatives and organisations that tried to foster coordination and reflected the difficulties of coordinating an imagined community with the necessities of its imaging overseas.

1 Archives of the Finnish Ministry of Foreign Affairs (Ulkoasiainministeriön arkisto, uma), box 19 A 1978, file Suomen ulkomaantiedotustoiminnan neuvottelukunta, pm, Finland: Infor­ mation Channels and Image Abroad, Matti Kohva, n.d.

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There is a large field of literature dealing with Finland’s foreign relations during the Cold War. However, aspects pertaining to the nation’s image policy have seldom attracted academic interest.2 The field is difficult to capture in terms of terminology, but also in terms of organisational responsibilities: concerns over the national image remained undefined but seemingly ubiquitous amongst those Finns involved in foreign relations. The specificity of Finland’s decision-making system, based on strong networks of personal relations overriding official hierarchies, also works to complicate the researcher’s task. The most basic questions (who does what?) take on a life of their own in the multifaceted and interconnected environment of a small polity, where politics and the orientation of official activities are more dependent on the relations, actions, and whims of individuals. Terminology For the purpose of providing a temporary structure to this empirical turmoil, Harto Hakovirta’s ‘image policy’ has been chosen here as the main analytical device. Defined in the 1970s, image policy designated the Finnish officials’ efforts at various levels to promote their country’s image amongst targeted foreign publics for economic and political purposes, and to coordinate the work of other, non-state actors towards the same ends.3 Through wide areas of competencies, state coordination would try to harness the efforts of various entities towards specified goals, building an image policy in the same way the Finnish state had a ‘social’ or a ‘foreign’ policy. Demands for coordination were especially voiced in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, as we will observe. Analytical notions aside, a variety of terms were used by people in the field to designate a process of which contours were always more intuitively felt than analysed. ‘Propaganda’ has a long history in Finnish debates, and it was used widely until the late 1960s to designate general efforts to spread information about specific subjects.4 It would often be preceded by an adjective which could make it ‘cultural,’ ‘commercial’ or ‘national.’ ‘Information’ in the sense of structured, curated information tailored to an audience (tiedottaminen), was 2 The image policy of independent Finland was a central subject of the two-volume chronicle of the Finnish Ministry of Foreign Affairs’ Press and Culture Bureau between 1918 and 1981 (Lähteenkorva & Pekkarinen, Ikuisen poudan maa; Lähteenkorva & Pekkarinen, Idän etuvartio?). 3 Hakovirta, “Finland as a ‘friendly’ neighbour.” 4 The term is used for example in Hakulinen, Propagandan käsikirja.

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the second most used term and clearly the one favoured in official circles after the 1950s. While the term points to a desire to move away from wartime propaganda and tap into the vocabulary of media and communication professionals, it is hard to delineate. Inside general ‘information work overseas’ (kansain­ välinen tiedotustoiminta), officials would group anything from cultural exchanges to day-to-day communication and media relations. Besides these bureaucratic notions, expressions with deep roots in the historical definition of the Finnish nation were widely used to refer to every Finn’s national duty to work on behalf of ‘Finland’s image’ (Suomi-kuva, a term that can be compared to its Swedish equivalent, Sverige-bild).5 References to ‘Finland’s image’ can be traced back to the activities of the nationalist generation of the early 1900s, protagonists also speaking about ‘enlightening’ foreigners (valistus-työ), i.e. telling them the truth about Finland. If the more bureaucratic terms reveal that image policy was conceived as unidirectionally ‘informing’ foreign societies in order to influence their perceptions of Finland, at least part of it was in nature the cultural reflex of a small nation willing to exist and be acknowledged in the eyes of others. Industrial actors, economic organisations and the Ministry of Trade and Industry did use more specific terms to designate the use of Finland’s image as part of a general process of ‘trade and export promotion’ (kaupan-, vienninedis­ täminen), while cultural actors at various levels would start early on after the war to speak of ‘cultural exchange’ or ‘cultural exports’ (kulttuurivienti) - this last term referring both to the need to sell Finnish artistic productions and to ‘export’ cultural notions about Finland. The Cold War also saw the emergence of the vocabulary, practices and professionals of public relations, carried by the first groups of Finnish pr specialists from the boardrooms of export companies into the Finnish wartime propaganda arsenal, and from then on into attempts to influence the way the Finnish state sold the national image abroad.6

A Post-war Context

From the turn of the century to the country’s independence in 1917, defining an image of Finland and spreading it abroad had been an ad hoc activity, managed by individuals and networks, dominated by and barely distinguishable from the process of elaborating a national identity for domestic consumption.7 5 About this concept, see Glover, National Relations, 67–91. 6 Melgin, von Hertzen & Åberg, Vuosisata suhdetoimintaa, 70–98. 7 Laamanen & Railo, Suomi muuttuvassa maailmassa, 76–114.

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After 1917, an independent administration was created within the newly established Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Its goals were to organise Finland’s official relations with the foreign media and to spread general information about the country, its people, history, culture, economy. The point was to fill a perceived void, to make Finland known through an ill-defined, improvised and reactive image policy centred in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, that included day-today public and media relations (with the domestic and foreign media), communication on specific aspects, and vaguer attempts at spreading as much information as possible toward an often badly defined ‘foreign public.’ The Ministry of Foreign Affairs’ Press Bureau (Sanomalehtiasiain toimisto), alongside the network of Finnish diplomats, wasn’t by far the only participant in this general activity towards foreign audiences, although it tried to develop as a node of coordination. The Press Bureau, as it was called, developed immediately after 1917 as a dependency of the Ministry’s Political Department. It gathered former journalists and language-skilled literati, but its limited resources and low status inside the Ministry complicated the coordination of image policy across the range of official and private actors: for example, diplomats working on Finland’s image in the field would not always coordinate their activities with the Ministry’s ‘pressmen.’ The Bureau had also to work on an ill-defined brief, comprising both official relations with the foreign media and a body of tasks linked with outreach to foreign audiences, cultural relations, and “bolstering Finland’s image” abroad.8 Publication work was commissioned, endorsed and funded by the Bureau, the pressmen using cultural, economic, political elements to talk about Finland, assisting the ambassadors in their daily information work, influencing the writings of others. These were the times of yearbooks, picture-books and statistical indexes, of movie-showings in ambassadorial facilities, of coordinated hosting of foreign delegations.9 The tone was emphatic, nationalist, the goals unclear but wide in scope: to spread information – any information – about Finland abroad. Target audiences remained unspecified and improvisation reigned. A lot happened outside this sphere of official policy, and images of the new nation were for instance used to prop up the commercial activities of chambers of commerce, export-based companies, or trade promotion organisa­ tions. The oldest of these was the Finnish Foreign Trade Association (Suomen Ulkomaankauppayhdistys), created in 1919 and renamed after the war as the Finnish League of Foreign Trade (Suomen Ulkomaankauppaliitto, sul).10 8 Nevakivi, Ulkoasiainhallinnon historia, 258f-299. 9 An example of these yearbooks: Leiviskä, La Finlande en 1937. 10 Cf. Jensen-Eriksen, Suvikumpu & Forsström, Suuri suunnanmuutos, 70–72; Jensen-Eriksen, Lappalainen, Nurmiainen & Siltala, Kansallinen kapitalismi, 222–239; Aunesluoma,

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Cultural organisations and personalities, on the other hand, worked to spread an image of Finland’s cultural achievements and foster cultural contacts.11 Worries about the national image would pervade the activities even of private Finns, abroad and at home, and some of these private individuals gathered in the 1930s on the fringes of public action in the hope of complementing official propaganda efforts. Semi-public organisations emerged out of the initiative of nationally concerned citizens working in the field of public relations and communication. During the 1930s these sought to develop a ‘national propaganda’ in cooperation with the Finnish state,12 their work centring first on the preparations for the summer Olympics due to take place in Helsinki in 1940. The Soviet attack on Finland in November 1939 sent a shockwave through this whole field and started a process of merging image projection activities into a wartime organisation centred on the Finnish Army’s Headquarters and the Government’s propaganda and censorship machinery: a State Information Agency (Valtion Tiedoituslaitos) was created in June 1941 to gather all government wartime propaganda and organise censorship.13 Most overseas propaganda would be centralised in the agency, and this wartime experience of increased centralisation cast a shadow on post-war developments. The organisations and personalities emerging on the fringes of officialdom and active in the wartime propaganda machinery remained eager to continue acting on behalf of Finland’s image also once the war was over. They considered image policy important, saw their public relations knowledge as able to rejuvenate the field, and aimed at increased centralisation. This being said, Finland also entered the post-war era with a general defiance of overarching centralisation, in reaction to what was seen as excessive wartime meddling by state authorities. However, the most important shift in the continued development of Finland’s image policy came in the wake of September 1944. Coming out of its conflict with the Soviet Union, the government was forced to completely overhaul its foreign relations as Finland only narrowly escaped becoming a satellite state.14 While the treaty signed between Helsinki and Moscow in the spring of Vapaakaupan tiellä, 30–31. sul has been the subject of two official histories: Jauri, 25 vuotta määrätietoista työtä and Remes, Lähimarkkinoita ja kaukomaita. 11 Melgin, “Propagandaa vai julkisuusdiplomatiaa?,” 31–74. 12 Julkunen, Talvisodan kuva, 378; Herlin, Kivijalasta harjahirteen, 123–208. 13 Eino Jutikkala gave a witness account of the work of this organisation in Jutikkala, Valtion tiedoituslaitoksen salainen sotakronikka. For more specifics, see Kirves, “Päivittäinen myrkkyannoksemme,” 13–62; Herlin, Kivijalasta harjahirteen, 152–153. 14 For general accounts about Finland during the Cold War, see Meinander, A History of Finland; Rentola, “From Half-Adversary;” Nevakivi, “Finland and the Cold War;” Maude, Finnish Dilemma.

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1948 committed the country to defending itself against any attack aimed at the Soviet territory, it also stabilised relations with Moscow. The agreement affirmed the Finnish government’s will to remain outside of great powers’ conflicts, and left it with the possibility of upholding a fairly beneficial interpretation of this settlement. Through a series of crises in the 1950s and 1960s, Finland found its place between necessary relations with the ussr and no-less essential economic, political and cultural links with the West. In domestic politics, the new president elected in 1956, Urho Kaleva Kekkonen, managed to stren­ gthen his position as the guarantor of peaceful relations with the East and as the prime mover in both domestic and foreign politics. In the late 1940s, however, policy-makers in Britain and the usa had more or less given up on Finland, whose relationship with the ussr was seen merely as a more refined form of Soviet domination.15 The Finnish diplomatic and political world slowly realised the quandary: while the East had to be convinced that Finland was loyal, the West had to be convinced it was truly neutral. The country’s affirmed neutrality policy, presented as a sui generis position between West and East, generated a new need to communicate in order to ward off Western accusations of submission to the East. Finland, wrote the diplomat Max Jakobson, was “at the mercy of the itinerant columnist, who after lunch and cocktails in Helsinki is ready to pronounce himself upon the fate of the Finnish people.”16 This same columnist had to be made into an ally, to be fed the right information about Finland. Thus, if President Urho Kekkonen and his inner circle centralised most of the political relations with Moscow, diplomats and politicians worked on relations with the West, attempting to cast Finland’s strategic posture not only as the only solution in a difficult situation, but also as a desirable equilibrium: Finland’s peaceful relations with the East left her free to pursue relations with the West and an active policy in international organisations.17 15 For the British example, see Vares, “Is This the Top;” Rentola, “Great-Britain.” 16 Jakobson, “Substance and Appearance,” 1034. 17 Jakobson, Finnish Neutrality, 52. Some Finns at various levels of responsibility were always ready to react to opinions they regarded as giving the wrong image of Finland’s war sufferings, difficult choices, and neutrality policy. While Max Jakobson took the moral high ground with characteristic diplomatic suavity, the cultural diplomat Kalervo Siikala would often meet with biting sarcasm what he considered Western condescension and ignorance. On 16 May 1968, following an editorial in the New Statesman, Siikala sent the following letter to the editor: “Sir, Your editorial May 10th discussed the effects of an eventual American isolationism which might abandon Western Europe to the role of a greater Finland. May I suggest that most of us do not feel in any way abandoned. Having somehow managed the Winter War and its aftermath with the Russians on our own, with

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Finnish diplomacy toward the Western bloc for the most part became an exercise in communication, the need to convince animating the deeds and words of most Finnish diplomats and politicians.18 Images of the nation emerged as a necessary resource, something to be carefully monitored by state authorities for political and diplomatic purposes, and considered by all in their dealings with foreigners. Geopolitical constraints did not only affect the dealings of politicians and diplomats with foreign audiences. The state actors involved themselves in efforts to create a wide-ranging domestic consensus over matters of foreign policy, economic and social relations.19 Official committees and organisations attempted to re-shape an image of Finland not only for foreign audiences, but also for the Finns themselves. For a new foreign policy to be credible, the population also had to be convinced to ‘act neutral’ and to support a consensus on some basic elements of political and social relations.20 The writer Matti Kurjensaari described Jakobson telling him that the Finns themselves had to be convinced they were “really” neutral before foreigners could be convinced.21 Controlling images of the nation was not crucial only in political and diplomatic terms. As the range of Finland’s international relations expanded, nonpolitical, economic, and administrative relations taking place in the new international organisations, became more important. The technical ministries and private actors managing those domains were increasingly involved in foreign relations: experts in their field, they sometimes lacked the time or the will to fully coordinate their activities with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and its generalists.22 Finland’s economy between the 1950s and 1970s also underwent a process of opening up to foreign trade and finding its way back into Western markets.23 The 1950s and 1960s witnessed an insistence in official trade policy on general export promotion toward the West, something that called for more sympathy and old clothes from the West, we now do quite well with them in peace.” (Archives of the Center Party, Keskustan ja Maaseudun Arkistot, kma, Kalervo Siikala, Box Aineisto 1957–58 ja 1962–69, Kalervo Siikala to the editor of the New Statesman, 16 May 1968). 18 Nevakivi, Ulkoasiainhallinnon historia, 189. In 1970, Jakobson began his contribution to an edited volume by describing the un as a stage where Finland had to play a specific role: Mylly, Suomi ja kansainväliset järjestöt, 21. The same argument is made in Jakobson’s memoirs of his un years: Jakobson, 38. kerros. 19 Rainio-Niemi, “Small State Cultures of Consensus,” 62–63. 20 Ibid., 252, 263–326. 21 Kurjensaari, Kansankunnan kaapin päällä, 211. 22 Kalervo Siikala developed the idea in a book fittingly entitled “The various ways of getting together”: Siikala, Kanssakäymisen muodot. 23 Aunesluoma, Vapaakaupan tiellä, 152–239; Kaukiainen, Sotakorvauksista vapaakauppaan, 19.

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work on influencing foreign perceptions of the nation.24 Finland also suffered from a dearth of funds hampering its industrial development: attracting foreign loans, either from private circles or from international organisations, also meant more image work.25 Finally, there was a cultural dimension to this process, starting especially in the 1960s when the Ministry of Education tried to open Finland up to intellectual, cultural and technical cooperation. As a consequence, the definition of the national image for foreign audiences became a complex crossroad of cultural, political and economic endeavours and incentives, caught between the attraction of and opposition to increased state coordination. This complexity extended to target audiences, as difficult choices had to be made between cultural diplomacy for opera goers and ex­change students, trade promotion for buyers of pulp processing plants, and diplomatic efforts to convince foreign diplomats and journalists that Finland was a genuinely neutral country. Barely born yet as an institutional field in its own right, Finland’s image policy was already a crowded field, projected onto a backdrop of realpolitik.

Re-centring the Press Bureau, 1944–9

Against this background, official efforts to coordinate the representation of the nation tended to become more pervasive. It became increasingly accepted that the state, if devoid of the necessary resources to carry out such tasks, at least had to function as a coordinator.26 Official committees, which will provide this chapter’s chronological tempo, were one such instrument used to bridge the gap between state and society, and to bring various actors around the table under state supervision.27 In the immediate post-war years, the first debates centred on the role of the Press Bureau and on the best ways to coordinate the activities of different organisations. As the Finnish government decided in December 1944 to disband its wartime propaganda organisations, of which only the State Information 24

The goal was especially to find new goods to export to Western markets beyond the staples of wood and paper products. Cf. Sauramo, ‘Suomalaisten yritysten kansainvälistyminen ja kotimaiset investoinnit;’ Finland’s National Archives (Kansallisarkisto, ka), Kauppa- ja Teollisuusministeriö (ktm), Box Ulkomaankauppatoimisto Hf 2, Vientituotteiden mark­ kinoinnin edistäminen, muistioita ym. 1949–1984…, pm, Vientimarkkinoita koskevasta infor­ maatiosta, 31 May 1965. 25 Jensen-Eriksen, Läpimurto, 207. 26 Rainio-Niemi, “Small State Cultures of Consensus,” 326. 27 Ibid., 194–202.

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Centre (Valtion tiedotuskeskus) remained under the authority of the Govern­ ment, the responsibility for most official information activities aimed at foreign audiences seemed due to settle back into the Press Bureau and the network of ambassadors and press attachés.28 The Press Bureau produced two reports in 1948–9 to reflect on this situation,29 both being informed by a survey among ambassadors asking them to assess the country’s official information efforts.30 Both these documents affirmed the necessity to move on from what they described as the Bureau’s impotence during the 1930s and to achieve a better coordinated image policy, adapted to the new strategic context. This would demand more resources but also official coordination over a wider range of actors, and the reports envisaged several ways to coordinate action across what they described as the field of “international information.” In a third report, submitted in 1952 by the former head of the Bureau Urho Toivola, self-scrutiny took a more dramatic turn.31 Toivola regretted the lack of accurately worded and up-to-date publications about Finland and the limited knowledge of the country observable in most countries. In the new post-war world, Toivola insisted, “the forces of propaganda” were “the only force[s] at Finland’s disposal that might help influence its situation.” These had to be harnessed in order to convince others to recognise Finland’s neutrality. The lessons of the 1939–40 Winter War showed that propaganda did work for Finland, and Toivola wished for both efficient official public relations and sophisticated 28

In 1963, Finland had press attachés in London, Moscow, Paris, Stockholm, Washington, and Cologne (for the activities of press attachés in Washington in the late 1950s, cf. Jakobson, Veteen piiretty viiva, 44–46). Despite its being a division of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the Bureau’s employees were still kept at arm’s length by other diplomats. They were not considered members of the carrière, and after 1945 the Bureau’s directors rose from the ranks of its press attachés. However, both Max Jakobson (Head of the Bureau from 1958 to 1962) and his successor Matti Tuovinen (1962–72) climbed the ladder to become Directors of the Ministry’s Political Department. This reflects both their personal competences and Kekkonen’s interest in image policy: the President’s hand can be discerned in both Jakobson’s and Tuovinen’s recruitment and later career progression. 29 Nevakivi, Ulkoasiainhallinnon historia, 269–273; uma, box  5 E 9, 1949, pm, Ulkoasiain­ ministeriön sanomalehtiasiaintoimisto: tehtävät – organisaatio – uudistustarpeet, 3 August 1949, Heikki Brotherus; Ibid., pm, Ulkoasaiainministeriön sanomalehtiasiaintoimiston toiminnasta, v. 1946–1948, 17 June 1948, Lauri Hjelt. 30 uma, Box 19 G 1948, circular letter 39/1948, 3 September 1948, and materials received from various embassies. 31 uma, Box  19 A Tiedotustoiminta yleensä, pm, Suomea esittelevistä julkaisuista, 22 November 1952, Urho Toivola.

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general publications targeting specific foreign audiences.32 The emphasis, however, had to be on a modern and democratic Finland: force-feeding foreigners the same nationalist narrative that had been a staple of pre-war publications seemed ill-suited to a new international context where the Soviet Union dominated every aspect of Finnish foreign relations.33 Obviously trying to ward off critics concerning the continued existence of the State Information Centre (which was seen by many as a continuation of the wartime propaganda arsenal in all but name), the Finnish government also started to review its information work in the late 1940s.34 A committee was formed under veteran diplomat Asko Ivalo in which the wartime public relations specialists mentioned above figured prominently. The committee’s conclusions were to demand more openness amongst civil servants to the “new science” of public relations and a better division of labour between existing organisations. The committee however concluded that no centralised official organisation would be necessary to manage “official information and propaganda activities.”35 Finally, a committee dealing with “information work” was created in October 1948 to study the position of culture and the arts in the country’s foreign relations, the development of “intellectual exchanges and the improvement of scientific and artistic cooperation with other countries.”36 It did not reflect only on relations with the Western countries, but emphasised the necessity of 32

This memory of the Winter War as a “national information success” is still deeply entrenched in the lore of the Press Bureau (Interview with Petri Tuomi-Nikula, Head of the Department for Communication and Culture of the Finnish Ministry of Foreign Affairs, 8 April 2010). 33 For a stridently nationalist presentation of Finland’s history aimed at foreign audiences, see Perret, Portrait de la Finlande. In 1948, debates surrounding Arvid Enckell’s Democratic Finland already showed a will within the Press Bureau to emphasise different aspects of Finland, to be more factual in tone, and to downplay nationalism and especially the antiSoviet tone of earlier publications (See documents in uma, Box 19 G. Kirj., file La démocra­ tie en Finlande, Tri Arvid Enckell’in käsikirjoituksen julkaiseminen). 34 See stt’s history: Jussila, “Puolivirallisia uutisia.” Despite stt being formally private, Jussila calls the agency a semi-official news outlet and a trustworthy colleague of the Finnish government. 35 Komiteamietinnöt moni. 1945:32, Valtion tiedotustoiminnan uudelleen järjestämistä harkitsemaan asetetun asiantuntijalautakunnan mietintö, Asko Ivalo, Tauno Nurmela. Report given November 1945. 36 uma, Box  19 A Tiedotustoiminta 1956, pm, Tiedotustoimintakomitea, 28.3.1961, Max Jakobson, annex 1, luonnos; Komiteamietinnöt moni. 1949:9, Suomen ulkomaisia kulttu­ urisuhteita tutkimaan asetetulta komitealta, Erik Lönnroth, Heikki Brotherus. Report given May 1949.

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using culture as a bridge to the ussr. The conclusions demanded the creation of a post in the Ministry of Education to manage international cultural relations, artistic and scientific exchanges, and to coordinate the work of private actors. These conclusions fell largely on deaf ears: in his memoirs, diplomat Heikki Brotherus describes his frustration at the general apathy that met the committee’s conclusions, drawing a grim picture of Finland’s cultural isolation in the immediate post-war period. Well into the 1950s, ‘cultural propaganda’ and ‘cultural relations’ remained stranded between the Press Bureau, the Ministry of Education and various private actors and organisations.37

Debating Centralisation: The Salminen and Virkkunen Committees, 1950–6

Examining the question of how to organise peacetime image policy, this first group of committees aimed at finding a way of coordinating different activities under the loose heading of information work. Culture and trade promotion were still involved only in passing and were reined in by the all-encompassing necessities of Finland’s strategic position in the Cold War. The committees also reflected how Finnish leaders saw their country’s identity in the wake of the war: Finland had to be re-imagined and therefore re-imaged as a neutral, modern, peaceful country. However, these reports had left the administrative frame pretty much untouched. While they contributed to extending the reflection on “international information” towards a wider image policy, other voices located on the margins of officialdom had already gone beyond that in proposing increased state coordination across a wide field of actors. These centralising voices came from organisations in contact with the Ministry of Trade and Industry and from a group of veterans of the wartime propaganda organisations, already involved in the late 1930s semi-official propaganda organisations and who after 1944 gathered into an organisation of public relations specialists, Tiedotusmiehet ry.38 Motivated by shared war experiences, they operated in a Finnish decision-making system characterised by close personal and intellectual proximity between individuals across politics, culture, trade, and diplomacy. Familiarised in the 1930s with the developing science of communication and pr, they thought themselves able to help and used their criss-crossing webs of personal relations to direct Finnish foreign 37 Brotherus, Ritarikadun salaisuudet, 134. 38 Melgin, von Hertzen & Åberg, Vuosisata suhdetoimintaa, 40–70; Herlin, Kivijalasta harja­ hirteen, 212.

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policy towards a coordinated image policy. Beyond mundane concerns about sales and diplomacy, selling Finland’s image to foreigners seemed to them as an essential aspect of “national enlightenment,” and as such a duty each Finn had to fulfil. Initiatives between 1945 and 1949 centred on an informal group led by Arvi Salminen, a civil servant in the Ministry of Education. Other members of this circle came from the arts (theatre director and writer Arvi Kivimaa), the academic world (professor L.A. Puntila), and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs (diplomat Heikki Leppo).39 Tiedotusmiehet ry publically criticised the Ivalo committee’s conclusions, emphasising in an appendix to the 1945 report the necessity of better coordinating and adequately funding information work destined to foreign audiences.40 The main proposal emphasised was then the creation of a Finnish Institute gathering all the actors of “international information and cultural relations” in accordance with the model of the Swedish Institute. Salminen’s group was by far the most centralising, forcefully opening up the range of activities to be included in Finland’s image policy – from cultural exchanges to diplomacy and trade promotion. Through active lobbying along its networks, Salminen’s group put the Finnish Institute at the centre of debates for most of the 1950s. Coordination was also discussed in the spheres of economic information and trade promotion abroad.41 After the war, the Ministry of Trade and Industry and the Ministry of Transportations and Public Works had taken into their orbit a group of coordination committees and private organisations working on public funds to manage trade and tourism promotion.42 Both ministries had also developed in-house offices working on strengthening Finland’s image 39

40 41

42

See the documents of the committee, including its final report, in ka, L.A. Puntila, box  577, Tieteellisen tutkimuksen organisaatiokomitea, Suomen Instituutti. One of the reports circulated by the group, dated 15 April 1956, is also reproduced in the annex of the 1961 Jakobson report (uma, Box 19 A Tiedotuskomitea 1956, file Komitea ulkomaille suun­ tautuvan tiedotus- ja valistustoiminnan kehittämiseksi ja tehostamiseksi: asetettu 28 6 1956, I, pm, Suomen Instituutti, 15 April 1956.). Komiteamietinnöt moni. 1945:32, annex, Tiedoitusmiehet ry:n liite. uma, Box Fb 58, 41958 E3, Taloudellisen tiedonantotoiminnan organisoiminen, ohjeet, file Ohjeet taloudellista tiedoitustoimintaa varten, 1937–1950 I, Ragnar Smedslund to E.O. Raustila, 17 July 1950. The Finnish Tourist Association (Suomen matkailuyhdistys) and the event organiser Finnish Fairs (Suomen Messut) are good examples of such organisations. See documents in uma, Box  5 E 9, 1948–1949–1950; uma, Box  19 A Tiedotustoiminta 1956, file Tiedotu­ stoimintakomitea: Komitea ulkomaille suuntautuvan tiedotus- ja valistustoiminnan kehit­ tämiseksi ja tehostamiseksi: asetettu 28.6.1956, pm, Suomen matkailuyhdistys, 11.10.1956, Jorma Tolonen; ka, ktm, Kauppaosasto, Box Hi 1, Matkailu 1947–1972.

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as a country of origin for goods, a place to invest, and a tourism destination. The Ministry of Trade and Industry in the early 1950s founded an office for “export development” and a coordination committee to manage commercial exhibitions abroad (Suomen vienninnäyttelylautakunta). In some economic sectors – for example design – public and private actors worked together on campaigns and exhibitions abroad.43 Concerned about the coordination of these activities, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs’ Trade Policy Department initiated an inquiry into trade promotion together with the Ministry of Trade and Industry.44 The committee was set up in 1945 under Matti Virkkunen, the head of the Trade Policy Department, and gathered the representatives of industrial lobby groups.45 Its final report pointed to the importance of trade organisations and the role that private companies played as major avenues of commercial and national promotion. The main problem was once again coordination: how could state authorities better coordinate the work of these private actors? Virkkunen’s conclusion, delivered in March 1949, went in the same direction as the Salminen report: there was a need for general organisation under the aegis of the state, more coordination, and more resources so that activities to bolster Finland’s image could be carefully calibrated.46 This strong drive for centralised state coordination in the years 1948–50 did not go down well with some actors, especially sul’s long-time director Jaakko Kahma.47 Invited to participate in Virkkunen’s committee, Kahma contributed a dissenting opinion that brought scathingly to life the protests amongst some private actors against state-led centralisation.48 sul had emerged from the war with a network of commercial agents abroad, often located in places where 43 44

45 46 47

48

Davies, “Geographical notion,” 101–116; Melgin, “Propagandaa vai julkisuusdiplomatiaa?,” 172–174. uma, Box  19 A Tiedotustoiminta 1956, file Tiedotustoimintakomitea: Komitea ulkomaille suuntautuvan tiedotus- ja valistustoiminnan kehittämiseksi ja tehostamiseksi: asetettu 28.6.1956, file v. 1946, pm, Kauppalinen tiedoitustoiminta, July 1946. Ibid., file Ulkomaankaupan tiedotuskomitean mietintö, Report draft, Ulkomaankaupan tiedoituskomitea mietintö, 4 December 1946. Ibid., Final report, 12 March 1949. Little has been written on Jaakko Kahma, who cuts the non-conformist figure of a liberal free-trader, openly pro-American in a Finnish context dominated by state action, protectionist tendencies, and relations with the Soviet Union. A few elements in Jauri, 25 vuotta määrätietoista työtä, 39. uma, Box  19 A Tiedotustoiminta 1956, file Tiedotustoimintakomitea: Komitea ulkomaille suuntautuvan tiedotus- ja valistustoiminnan kehittämiseksi ja tehostamiseksi: asetettu 28.6.1956, pm, Eriävä mielipide, 23 March 1949, Jaakko Kahma.

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the official arm of the Finnish state would not reach for a number of years. These agents had often done more than advertising SUL-members’ products, and part of their activities was dedicated to advertising Finland as a nation, an economic actor, and a member of the international community. In its four years of existence, Kahma wrote, Virkkunen’s committee had been unable to fathom the importance of these networks for commercial propaganda and more generally Finland’s international image. In the strongest possible terms, he denounced what he saw as a power grab by state institutions eager to bring sul’s activities under ministerial control.49 Kahma’s dissenting opinion brings to life the conflicts existing within a developing machinery of post-war consensus and corporatism;50 while coordination will develop in the 1950s and 1960s, these conflicts will merely recede under the surface.

The Enckell Committee and Debates about the Finnish Institute, 1956–8

For most of the 1950s, discussions on the coordination of “national information” efforts centred on the idea of a Finnish Institute. In 1955, a group of deputies took up the matter in Parliament, asking what the government was doing for Finland’s image abroad. Reports were circulated, emanating mostly from Arvi Salminen’s group, lamenting the Press Bureau's lack of resources, the lack of coordination, and advocating the creation of a Finnish Institute following either a Swedish model (an independent organisation funded by both state and private funds) or the Norwegian one (a state committee linked to the Foreign Service).51 Stalin’s death, Kekkonen’s ascent to the Finnish presidency, and the prospects of Finland joining various international organisations in the mid-1950s boosted these discussions.52 On 13 January 1956, President Juho Kusti Paasikivi asked the government to think the matter through. In April 1956, under the leadership of a new President – Kekkonen had been elected in March – the Finnish government organised a 49

ka, ktm, Kauppaosasto, Box Hf2, Suomen Ulkomaankauppaliitto, 1947–1949, 1971–1978, pm, Muistio, ktm, April 1947. 50 See Kettunen, “The Nordic Model.” 51 uma, Box 19 A Tiedotuskomitea 1956, file Komitea ulkomaille suuntautuvan tiedotus- ja val­ istustoiminnan kehittämiseksi ja tehostamiseksi: asetettu 28 6 1956, I, pm, Instituutimietinnöt, 21.4.1955; Ibid., pm, Suomen Instituutti, 15 April 1956. For a comparison between the Swedish and Norwegian solutions, see Angell’s chapter in this volume. 52 Ibid., Pöytäkirja Suomen koskevan ulkomaille suuntautuvan tiedoitus- ja valistustoiminnan kehittämistä ja tehostamista suunnittelevan komitean kokouksesta, 28.9.1956.

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seminar on the issue. Salminen participated alongside the representatives of different ministries (Education, Trade and Industry) and export associations. In his intervention, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs’ First Secretary, R. Seppälä, outlined an ambitious blueprint, concluding that “efficient commercial advertisement has nowadays to be cloaked under cultural advertising. The promotion of exports demands that cultural relations be strengthened.”53 In the mid-1950s, the idea of an all-encompassing Finnish Institute coordinating the many threads of image policy seemed to be gathering support. Opposition came especially from the private interests that Salminen and others were seeking to involve in their plans. J.O. Söderhjelm, from the Association of Wood Processing Companies, expressed only cautious support for the idea of a Finnish Institute and demanded that the position and financial contribution of the private sector would be re-evaluated. Salminen replied that the Institute would mostly be a coordinating organisation for state activities, while business circles and private actors would remain on the margins – the new organisation, he concluded, would replicate the state-funded Norwegian model. On 28 June 1956, these considerations were passed on to a “committee for the development and strengthening of information and enlightenment activities aimed at foreign countries,” organised under the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and led by the career diplomat and former wartime propagandist Ralph Enckell.54 This group included a number of members of the Salminen’s group: Salminen himself, as well as Kivimaa and the historian and writer Eino Suolahti. The committee’s difficult mandate was well summarised by Enckell in the opening words of their first meeting: Finland’s information work had to be made more coordinated and efficient, without it becoming an official monopoly that would turn foreign interlocutors away.55 However, due to Enckell’s busy schedule and frequent trips abroad, the committee’s discussions had stalled by late 1957. Debates started again under the impetus of the head of the Press Bureau, Osmo Orkomies, who had worked in the wartime propaganda organisations before becoming press attaché in Stockholm and ambassador in 53

54

55

Lähteenkorva & Pekkarinen, Idän etuvartio?, 102–103; uma, Box 19 A Tiedotuskomitea 1956, file Komitea ulkomaille suuntautuvan tiedotus- ja valistustoiminnan kehittämiseksi ja tehostamiseksi: asetettu 28 6 1956, i, pm, Suomen koskevan ulkomaille suuntautuvan tie­ doitus- ja valistustoiminnan kehittäminen ja tehostaminen, 12.4.1956, Yrjö Kaarne. On the organisation of this committee, see uma, Box  19 A Tiedotuskomitea 1956, file Komitea ulkomaille suuntautuvan tiedotus- ja valistustoiminnan kehittämiseksi ja tehosta­ miseksi: asetettu 28 6 1956, i, Valtioneuvoston pöytäkirja, joka laadittiin ulkoasiainminis­ teriön esittelystä, 28.6.1956. Lähteenkorva & Pekkarinen, Idän etuvartio?, 102.

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1944.56 Seeking to give the project new momentum, and looking once again towards getting private interests on board, Orkomies organised a seminar on “national information” in March 1958. In the debates, participants covered a wide array of distinct practices, from day-to-day public relations, contacts with foreign media, long-term information campaigns, cultural and academic exchanges, to trade promotion. Orkomies ended the seminar with a forceful defence of the idea of a Finnish Institute, clearly advocating cooperation between private and public actors in an independent organisation.57 Most interestingly, he reminded everybody that, while “international information” had to combine public and private efforts, its importance to the national interest demanded that the state be the main coordinator. In regular meetings between 1957 and 1958, the committee mapped the potential field of “international information,” surveyed its actors’ activities and resources and essentially rejuvenated the project of a Finnish Institute.58 Writings and reports circulated describing the information systems of various Nordic countries, especially Sweden and Norway, and a draft organisation plan for the Institute was drawn up and distributed.59 The idea had clearly been seriously debated within the Ministry for Foreign Affairs as a way to complement the work of the Press Bureau and maybe attract new resources.60 The tip of the project sharpened into an ambition to gather public and private actors into an independent organisation, reduce the Press Bureau's role to that of an official spokesperson more fitting to its resources, and manage cultural relations, trade promotion and the dissemination of general information about Finland through the Institute. Funding would come from both private and public actors with an emphasis on the public

56 Huovinen, Kuka kukin on 1978, 677. 57 uma, Box 19 A Tiedotuskomitea 1956, file Komitea ulkomaille suuntautuvan tiedotus- ja val­ istustoiminnan kehittämiseksi ja tehostamiseksi: asetettu 28 6 1956, i, pm, Lähetysneuvos Osmo Orkomiehen alustus Suomen Ulkomaankauppaliiton neuvottelutilaisuuden Suomen tiedotustoiminnan ulkomailla, 12.3.1958. 58 See transcripts of proceedings in uma, Box 19 A Tiedotuskomitea 1956, files Komitea ulko­ maille suuntautuvan tiedotus- ja valistustoiminnan kehittämiseksi ja tehostämiseksi, pöytäkirjat and Tiedotustoiminnankomitean pöytäkirjat. 59 Ibid., pm, Ulkomaisten kulttuurisuhteiden ja tiedoitustoiminnan organisaatio Pohjoismaissa, 15.4.1955. 60 Ibid., pm, Ulkomaille suuntautuvan tiedoitustoiminnan tehostaminen, 24.4.1960, Max Jakobson, Annex 1, Luonnos Suomen Instituutiksi.

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sector. Despite its independence, the Institute would be a public operation, manned by civil servants. Reactions to these plans were not entirely positive. Most of the animosity seems to have stemmed from a strong reluctance towards anything reminiscent of wartime censorship. The press especially did not buy into the idea: in March 1958, the country’s main daily, Helsingin Sanomat, set the tone by calling the Institute a “useless organisation.”61 Doubts had already been raised 10 years before as to the possibility of replicating the example of the Swedish Institute: was there enough money and skilled personnel in Finland to do so?62 Once again, while everybody agreed on the necessity to communicate more and do it more efficiently, a state-led organisation was deemed by many as the wrong way of doing it. Finland already had dozens of organisations managing trade promotion and cultural relations, wrote the article: why not let them do their work? Faced with these critics, the idea of a Finnish Institute faded away in the late 1950s. With Orkomies leaving the Bureau in 1958, the committee itself became practically defunct in the two last years of the decade.63

Setting the Course: Max Jakobson and International Information, 1960–1

The committee experienced a new surge of life after January 1960 under its new Chair, the former press attaché in Washington Max Jakobson, by then Orkomies’ successor at the head of the Press Bureau. Jakobson brought new energy to the debate, helped by his strong support for Kekkonen’s policy of neutrality, his useful networks in the President’s close circles, and his experience as a journalist and press attaché. He changed the committee by attracting two younger diplomats, Aarno Karhilo and Ilkka Pastinen, who largely shared his views on Finland’s international situation: Kekkonen’s cautious policy of neutrality, dealing with Moscow in order to be left leeway towards the West, was the wisest way forward, something both Western opinions and domestic 61 62

63

“Tarpeeton laitos,” Helsingin Sanomat, 16 March 1958. In October 1949, commenting on a seminar organised by Tiedotusmiehet ry on the question of the Finnish Institute, the Swedish-speaking daily Hufvudstadsbladet, while praising the intention, wondered where would the money and personnel come from (“Finlandsinstitut bra sak, men var ta pengar och folk?,” Hufvudstadsbladet, 21 October 1949). uma, Box 19 A Tiedotustoiminta 1956, pm, Tiedotustoimintakomitea, 28 March 1961, Max Jakobson.

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audiences had to be convinced of. The three diplomats formed a smaller working group that would write first a draft report in March 1961, then a final report for the government in May.64 Apart from Jakobson’s obvious qualities as an intelligent and efficient organiser, Finland’s political situation between 1958 and 1962 clearly spurred his work. The need to assert the country’s neutrality in the eyes of foreigners was made keener by a series of crises with the Soviet Union (the so-called Night Frost crisis in 1958 and the Note Crisis of 1961), Finland’s moves towards the un and other international organisations, and the 1961 FINN-EFTA treaty making Finland an associated member of the European Free-Trade Association. In his semi-biographical account of these years, Jakobson discusses the President’s worries about the image of the country and the emphasis Kekkonen placed on convincing foreigners of Finland’s neutral status.65 In this troubled period, image policy was thus reconceived by Jakobson’s group as a primarily diplomatic, political, and national concern. Like every other report published in official circles since 1944, Jakobson’s 1961 report started from the general notion that “information directed towards foreign countries and its funding should remain within the duties of the state.”66 Foreign communication was deemed essential for the “national, political, economic and civilizational” interests of a small country; at stake were the country’s diplomatic position, its cultural self-definition, its image as an attractive place for business and tourism, and the reputation of its export industries.67 Despite the mass of private organisations in the field, the necessities of Finland’s Cold War position made the organisation of “systematic and continuous information” a public prerogative: only the state could guarantee continuous funding and a network of envoys that could spread information, control its coherency and provide feedback. However, Jakobson clearly deviated from Salminen’s and Orkomies’ conclusions concerning the Finnish Institute:68 64

uma, Box 19 A Tiedotustoiminta 1956, pm, Tiedotustoimintakomitea, 28 March 1961, Max Jakobson, annex 1, luonnos.; Ibid., file Komitea ulkomaille suuntautuvan tiedotus- ja valis­ tustoiminnan kehittämiseksi ja tehostamiseksi. Asetettu 28.6.1956, pm, Yhteenveto tiedotus­ toimintakomitean mietinnöstä, 26 May 1961, Max Jakobson. 65 Jakobson, Veteen piiretyn viiva, 39–46. 66 Ibid. 67 See uma, Box 19 A Tiedotustoiminta yleensä, File Ulkoasiainministeriön tiedotustoiminta, 1960, 1961, 1962, 63, 64, 65, Vuosikertomus Suomen ulkomaantiedotustoiminnan lautakunnan toiminnasta vuodelta 1963, 31.12.1963, Matti Tuovinen. 68 Ibid., file Komitea ulkomaille suuntautuvan tiedotus- ja valistustoiminnan kehittämiseksi ja tehostamiseksi: asetettu 28 6 1956, i, pm, Ulkomaille suuntautuvan tiedoitustoiminnan tehostaminen, Max Jakobson, 24 April 1960; Ibid., pm, no title, 18 May 1960, Max Jakobson.

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using his mandate and his relations with the upper echelons of Finland’s policy-making, he quickly dispatched the idea. The committee noted the unwillingness of business circles to provide funding, the impossibility of creating dedicated foreign networks for a new organisation that would depend on others to distribute its material, and the fact that many things would remain in the hands of other actors (for example cultural relations located in a special bureau in the Ministry of Education Jakobson hoped to see develop). The report proceeded from there to identify what should be the organisational structure and scope of Finland’s ‘international information:’ informing the foreign media about Finland; publishing and distributing enough material abroad on Finland’s development and conditions; advertising Finland at exhibitions and conferences, and developing cultural contacts were highlighted. A strengthened Press Bureau could act as a discreet overseer and manage the most ‘diplomatic’ tasks, but technical activities – cultural relations and trade promotion – should be left to private actors or the specialised ministries to manage. This functionalist coordination, where each actor would be left to fulfill whatever ‘function’ it performed best, would bring flexibility to the system while allowing loose coordination based on informal and personal contacts and avoiding clashes between different interests. The principle of state coordination would not disappear: the Jakobson report, on the contrary, forcefully underlined the importance of coordinated representation in Finland’s foreign relations. However, while coordination with other actors needed to be infused with a sense of national urgency in order to keep everybody in line, coordination mechanisms had thus to remain as smooth and consensual as possible. In the small circles of Finnish economic, political, diplomatic and cultural leadership, coordination would stem from the personal proximity of the main individuals in charge. The communication efforts of the state authorities would also have to become more sophisticated, their tone less nationalistic, and the dissemination of information less indiscriminate. Jakobson highlighted a sober and limited vision of the Finnish authorities’ image policy: efficient action had to concentrate on foreign journalists, opinion leaders, politicians and business circles. This policy would replace the injunction to “make Finland known” with a limited, realistic and professional effort aimed at providing specific publics with controlled information relevant to them. Finland’s image had to be curated in a context where the slightest slip of the tongue could ruin diplomatic efforts, but the idea of providing every foreigner with state-approved facts was unrealistic. The committee emphasised new images to be concentrated on: a country on its way to prosperity, caring and socially egalitarian, with a lively cultural life, and

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ready to act in international relations as a neutral, pacifying influence.69 These themes were already present in the Press Bureau’s material: in one of the main publications distributed in the late 1950s, the leaflet Speaking of Finland, the country was described as an established democracy, economically pros­perous and industrialised, with an evolved co-operative movement, a functioning welfare-state and an ideal mix of natural resources and modern advances, capitalism and state-funded safety nets. The war was quickly glossed over, while the 1948 Treaty with the Soviet Union, neutrality and the “new relations” with Moscow were described at length.70 These ideas could be found also in trade promotion brochures. These elements were also well in sync with attempts by the Finnish authorities at reshaping the national self-definition of domestic audiences.71 The Jakobson report renewed long-standing demands for more resources for the Press Bureau – this time, for a change, quite successfully.72 The Bureau’s resources doubled in 1962 and its activities stepped up. A service providing ready-made press articles was started, Finnish Features, and publication activities became more discriminating in their intentions and targeted audiences.73 One of the report’s demands however, the creation of two more press attachés – one in Africa, presumably in Cairo, and the other in India – would not be implemented until the 1970s. In general debates, Jakobson’s conclusions were deemed more realistic than Salminen’s and Orkomies’ efforts. Talouselämä, an economic magazine linked to sul, gave a good picture of reactions amongst trade promoters and export companies:74 it praised Jakobson’s work and drew the ideal picture of a decentralised field where communication activities would be modest and thrifty, sophisticated and efficient, and technical organisations would be free to operate separately. ‘General information’ could be left to the Press Bureau and the rest decentralised. Jakobson also seemed to find the right equilibrium from the 69

The contours of this “new Finland” was developed in uma, Box  19 A Tiedotustoiminta yleensä, File Ulkoasiainministeriön tiedotustoiminta, 1960, 1961, 1962, 63, 64, 65, pm, Suomen ulkomaille suuntautuvan tiedotustoiminnan organisaatio, toimintamuodot ja aihepiirit, December 1964, Mikko Immonen. 70 Kihlberg, Speaking of Finland. 71 Moisio & Harle, Missä on Suomi?, 154. 72 uma, Box 19 A Tiedotustoiminta yleensä, File Ulkoasiainministeriön tiedotustoiminta, 1960, 1961, 1962, 63, 64, 65, pm, Ulkomaille suuntautuva tiedotustoiminta 1962. 73 uma, Box  19 A 1978, pm, Ministeriön artikkelipalvelusta, 5 February 1963, Pauli Opas; Lähteenkorva & Pekkarinen, Idän etuvartio?, 129–143. 74 Luotonen, Kevytmielistä kirjoittelua; “Kauppa ja kulttuuri,” Talouselämä, 22/1961. The same elements were developed in “Suuri teollisuuslaitos käyttää mainostansa suhteellisesti enemmän kuin valtio omaansa,” Uusi Suomi, 48/1961.

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point of view of the timber producers and their associations: in a private letter, Erik Serlachius, a member of the committee, described Söderhjelm’s satisfaction and referred to the necessity of being “realistic,” and letting the private sector work.75 While some private organisations would still reproach Jakobson for his state-centred viewpoint, most were satisfied that state-led coordination would not be institutionalised into a centralised organisation.76

A Thousand Flowers Bloom: Coordination in the 1960s

In 1962, when Jakobson left the Press Bureau to become the head of the Ministry’s Political Department, he had unquestionably left his mark. While the idea of a Finnish Institute had been buried, a more elaborate image policy had been clearly set on track, and loose coordination between different actors had won the day against the wartime generation’s efforts to centralise information activities. The Press Bureau was left to concentrate on ‘general information’ useful for diplomatic purposes, while others were invited to coordinate and organise their actions through informal relations. Jakobson’s successor at the head of the Bureau, Matti Tuovinen, continued his work. He showed the same unwillingness towards centralised, top-down coordination, and counted on his personal networks, Kekkonen’s support and a series of loose coordinating institutions to achieve a coherent image policy.77 The new head of the Press Bureau extended his personal reach to several organisations: he joined the boards of tourism and trade promotion organisations, of the association of Finnish lecturers abroad ukan, and of other organisations involved in relations with foreign audiences.78 Tuovinen also had close contacts with sul and specialised ministries, and continued Jakobson’s work of relations with foreign diplomats and journalists. As such, on the basis laid down by the Jakobson report, the Press Bureau could hope to position itself as the discreet centre of a loosely coordinated image policy. Some of this decentralisation was also the Ministry of Foreign Affairs being sidelined by other Ministries. The Ministry of Education’s activities, for instance, 75 uma, Box 19 A, tiedotutoiminta 1956, Erik Serlachius to Max Jakobson, 10 May 1961. 76 Ibid., pm, Eräitä ajatuksia ulkomaista suhdetoimintaa koskevasta muistiosta, 29.4.1961, unsigned. See also Ibid., Reino Routamo to Aarne Karhilo, 8 April 1961. 77 Tuovinen spent his entire career close to Kekkonen, loyal to a towering figure he knew personally and who had recruited him in the 1950s (Interview with Matti Tuovinen, 24 September 2013; Suomi, Salaisuuksien vartija, 7–11). 78 Frick & Merke, Suomea pitkin palloa; Tuomikoski & Raanamo, Kielisillan rakentajat.

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gained considerable overlap with those of the Press Bureau because of the difficulties of clearly dividing the Bureau’s activities into “general information” or “cultural information.” The division of labor became clearer when the Ministry of Education developed facilities for managing international cultural relations and Finland’s administrative commitments to international cultural organisations. As so often in Finland, strong personalities played key roles: in 1962, the former Finnish delegate to unesco Kalervo Siikala became the head of Finland’s unesco committee, a branch of the Ministry of Education and the main organisation for the management of international cultural relations.79 Influenced by his work in unesco, Siikala brought with him a vision of external cultural relations centralised in the Ministry of Education, and organised as a two-way process of slowly “opening” Finland while at the same time presenting Finnish culture to the world. He worked to strengthen his position and to develop a distinct International Office inside the Ministry of Education, finally created in 1966 to manage the administrative aspects of international cultural relations (grants, exchanges, hosting of foreign cultural personalities, production of films and publications on Finnish cultural life, organisation of ‘non-commercial’ exhibitions, etc) as well as a less-clearly defined activity of propagating knowledge about Finnish culture and the Finnish language.80 While this activity still overlapped with the publication activity of the Press Bureau, it concentrated more on scientific, intellectual, and artistic cooperation. Disputes over areas of competence were unavoidable in such an arrangment. While cultural work at embassies remained under the aegis of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the Ministry of Education had its own contacts and often managed things independently - an administrative nuisance that became a real foreign policy problem once the Helsinki process made culture and human rights important issues of the East–west divide. In the field, however, personal relations and ad hoc coordination often gathered various actors around common conceptions and projects. Before the creation of the Ministry of Education’s International Office, Tuovinen pursued coordination through two committees. In December 1962, following Jakobson’s prescriptions and after a decision of the Government, the Finnish Board for International Information (Suomen ulkomaantiedotus­ toiminnan lautakunta) was created.81 Under Tuovinen’s chairmanship, it 79 80

81

See documents in ka, Suomen UNESCO-toimikunta. Numminen, Autio & Heikkilä, Opetusministeriön historia, 67–85; Autio, Opetusministeriön historia, 437–447; Lähteenmäki, Suomi tiedottaa, 116–129 ; Niemi, “Ministeriöiden kansainväliset suhteet Suomessa,” 161–166; Siikala, Uolia & Welin, Kansallisen kulttuurin. uma, Box  19 A Tiedotustoiminta yleensä, Vuosikertomus Suomen Tiedotustoiminnan komitea v. 1962, 28 December 1962, Matti Tuovinen.

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gathered Kalervo Hentilä from the Ministry for Trade and Industry’s Trade Department, Ragnar Meinander from the Ministry of Education, and Siikala.82 The goal was the coordination by civil servants of the official side of image policy, and a larger advisory commission was adjoined to it in April 1963, the Finnish Advisory Committee for International Information (Suomen ulkom­ aantiedotustoiminnan neuvottelukunta), to ensure that private actors would remain involved. In these organisations, civil servants mingled with tourism promoters, journalists, trade promoters, travel agencies and cultural associations, all under the coordination of the Press Bureau.83 These bodies were mostly used for the organisation of campaigns, specific events, and general publications on Finland such as the 100 years anniversary of Jean Sibelius’ birth and the celebrations of 50 years of Finland’s independence in 1967.84 In the atmosphere of a general professionalisation of practices, the goal was also to strengthen the know-how of official and private communicators and to develop a “culture of communication and public relations” in the Finnish state in cooperation with pr specialists from the private sector. In February 1965, the advisory commission organised a meeting for these pr professionals, where various actors expressed their ideas on communication and public relations. The questions discussed were quite technical, with a lot of attention paid for example to the ways various organisations could share their lists of correspondents for the distribution of material.85 Once again, the organisations involved reaffirmed their willingness to cooperate without the creation of a general coordinating body. Public reactions to this loose coordination were ambiguous in the 1960s: the same press which denounced attempts to create a centralised information agency was quick to use any offhand comment made about Finland by foreigners to demand more information work. Tensions with the private sector had not abated either.86 But the model inherited from Jakobson’s work was felt to be the most efficient and least harmful way to coordinate activities. For Siikala, especially, it compared favourably to any solution that would have situated 82 83

84 85 86

kma, Kalervo Siikala, Box Aineisto 1957–58 ja 1962–69…, pm, Suomen ulkomaantiedotus­ toiminnan lautakunnan vuosikertomus vuodelta 1965, Tuomo Tammi, Matti Tuovinen. uma, Box 19 A Tiedotustoiminta yleensä, File Ulkoasiainministeriön tiedotustoiminta, 1960, 1961, 1962, 63, 64, 65, pm, Vuosikertomus Suomen ulkomaantiedotustoiminnan neuvotteluku­ nnan toiminnasta vuodelta 1963, 31 December 1963, Matti Tuovinen. kma, Kalervo Siikala, Box Aineisto 1957–58 ja 1962–69…, pm, Suomen ulkomaantiedotus­ toiminnan lautakunnan vuosikertomus vuodelta 1965, Tuomo Tammi, Matti Tuovinen. kma, Kalervo Siikala, Box Aineisto 1957–58 ja 1962–69…, pm, Suomen ulkomaantiedotus­ toiminnan lautakunnan vuosikertomus vuodelta 1965, Tuomo Tammi, Matti Tuovinen. kma, Kalervo Siikala, Box Aineisto 1957–58 ja 1962–69…, Kalervo Siikala to Max Jakobson, 13 August 1963.

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cultural relations entirely under the aegis of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, which he described as a French model of seeing cultural diplomacy as an expansion of foreign policy.87 He was convinced of the need to coordinate “cultural policy” and cultural foreign relations into a sophisticated policy of cultural exchanges and ‘internationalisation’ of Finland,88 a genuine cultural diplomacy which he worked to develop.89 With international travelconstantly on the increase, Siikala hoped that each Finn abroad would become an ambassador for his or her country.90 In the eyes of both Tuovinen and Siikala, the creation of the Ministry of Education’s International Office was a sign that the advisory commission was no longer essential as each organisation’s prerogatives had now been clearly laid out. In April 1966, Tuovinen wrote that the field had now stabilised around a number of organisations which cooperated well enough without the need for an architecture of coordinating committees.91 The Press Bureau was then free to concentrate on its public relations activities and the gentle marshalling of initiatives and funding: all non-political activities, from trade promotion to cultural relations, would be centred in the appropriate ministries and organisations. In 1969, when the University of Turku organised a seminar on the different ways Finland communicated with the world, private, semi-public and public organisations gathered around what they described as a common, national attempt at influencing foreign notions of Finland. Disputes and debates were suppressed for the sake of coordinating “Finland’s image.”92 87 88 89 90

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kma, Kalervo Siikala, Box Aineisto 1957–58 ja 1962–69…, Booklet, Finland’s International Cultural Relations, Kalervo Siikala. kma, Kalervo Siikala, Box Aineisto 1957–58 ja 1962–69…, pm, Kulttuuri-ideologia ja kulttu­ uripolitiikka opm Virolaiselle, 20 April 1968. kma, Kalervo Siikala, Box Aineisto 1957–58 ja 1962–69…, pm, Kulttuurisuhteet ja kansain­ välinen vuorovaikutus, Kalervo Siikala, June 1964. Efforts were made then to, for example, brief students and researchers sent abroad on Finland’s image. See for example ka, Suomen UNESCO-toimikunta, Box  540 19:23, ks 9, Suomen oloja käsitteleviä monisteita ja painotuoteitta, booklet Suomen ylioppilaskuntien liitto: Tiivistä tietoa Suomesta. Tiedotuspäivät ulkomaille lähteville stipendiaateille ja asian­ tuntijoille, Helsinki, Kouluhallituksen kokoushuone, 7–8.4.1959. Siikala stated elsewhere that “…the main responsibility for building an image of Finland lies with each actor in the field of culture.” (kma, Kalervo Siikala, Box Aineisto 1957–58 ja 1962–69…, pm, Virallinen kulttuuripolitiikka ja Suomen kuva ulkomailla, n.d). kma, Kalervo Siikala, Box Aineisto 1957–58 ja 1962–69…, Sending slip, Matti Tuovinen to Kalervo Siikala, 25 April 1966; Ibid., Valtioneuvoston yleinen istunto. Esittelylista Ulkoasiainminiseröstä - Suomen ulkomaantiedotustoiminnan lautakunnan lakkaut­ taminen, 21 April 1966. This seminar resulted in a book; Lähteenmäki, Suomi tiedottaa.

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In 1967, speaking to a meeting of Tiedotusmiehet ry, Tuovinen underlined how the current system left each actor the possibility of managing its own work on behalf of Finland’s image.93 He pointed out that, with Finland increasing foreign trade, communication activities were moving away from “general propaganda” to an emphasis on trade and tourism promotion. The state should coordinate and support this evolution, but not strive to control everything. While various reports still regularly dissected the field, the precepts laid out by Jakobson in 1961 still held at the end of the decade.94 Conclusion As the result of inquiries and debates in the 1950s and 60s, image policy in Finland in the 1960s oscillated between at least three different poles of activities, techniques, and incentives. Firstly, the management by diplomats and the Press Bureau of ‘image diplomacy’ and official public relations; secondly, cultural relations; and thirdly, trade and tourism promotion.95 Loose state coordination tried to bring the actors drawn to these different poles closer to each other in a Cold War context where the national image and a concern for the national interest infused everything. The centralised result desired by the war generation was not reached, however, but the field stabilised around a continuous dialogue between the state as discreet coordinator and a number of private actors that were gradually brought to cooperate with state authorities.96 The two international crises of 1958 and 1962 confirmed the sense that something crucial was at stake in matters of national representations. Reports ordered by public actors during the first phase did not only aim at coordinating the management of national images in diplomacy and foreign policy, but also more largely in foreign relations – meaning the entire gamut of

93 94

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uma, Box 19 A 1978, file Tiedotusmiehet ry, Speech, no title, 1967, Matti Tuovinen. For example, see uma, Box 19 A, Tiedotustoiminta yleensä, File Ulkoasiainministeriön tie­ dotustoiminta, 1960, 1961, 1962, 63, 64, 65, Report, Suomen ulkomaille suuntautuvan tiedotu­ stoiminnan organisaatio, toimintamuodot ja aihepiirit, Mikko Immonen, December 1964; uma, Box 19 A Tiedotustoiminta yleensä, File Ulkoasiainministeriön tiedotustoiminta, 1960, 1961, 1962, 63, 64, 65, pm, Vuosikertomus Suomen ulkomaantiedotustoiminnan lautakunnan toiminnasta vuodelta 1963, 31 December 1963, Matti Tuovinen. See for instance documents in uma, Box  19 A Tiedotustoiminta yleensä, File Kauppallisiin sihteereihin ja avustajiin suuntautuva tiedotustoiminta. Jyrkinen, “Suomi-kuva ja sen rakentajat,” 40 et al. Niemi, “Ministeriöiden kansainväliset suhteet Suomessa,” 62 et al.

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relations between societies separated by national borders.97 That also meant coordinating the activities of private actors. Relations between private and public actors, however, were not always up to the standard of what Peter Katzenstein has called an “ideology of social partnership” in his analysis of small-state democratic corporatism.98 On the contrary, low-key, constant tension was the norm – tensions between different actors in the official sphere, and tensions between officials and the private sector. Eventually, centralised administrative coordination was abandoned in favour of a loose coordination, the efficiency of which was achieved through the continuous use of personal connections and networks. Limited resources and the degree of kinship coming from working in relatively small confines also seemed to justify the Finnish authorities’ ad hoc policy, taking in and mustering private initiatives, fostering cooperation between different levels of society: diaspora networks, informal ambassadors, private organisations and cultural associations.99 This intrusion of private actors into the diplomatic process, described by Pascal Ory as a “decentralisation” of diplomacy linked to recent phenomena of globalisation, appears to have been the norm already in the mid-twentieth century in a small state stretched for resources and engaged in a rapidly expanding range of international relations.100 Some important private actors, especially the export industries, resisted coordination more or less actively despite a shared sense of the importance of a coordinated national image. This resistance was rooted in the general state of relations between export organisations and state authorities, which did not always go smoothly. As the sphere of state intervention expanded, economic actors tended to push back. In the realm of ministries and public organisations, the Press Bureau had to cope with the growing importance of cultural and trade promotion actors, increasingly engaged in foreign relations and mapping out their own prerogatives in the dissemination of national images. These actors, however, while resisting central coordination, would at the same time agree on the principle of image policy, and on the main contours of which image of Finland was to be projected. Despite the continuous debates, the various sides largely imagined Finland in very similar ways and the image of the nation they sought to project was never really a matter of dispute.

97 98 99

To borrow a distinction from Hart, Empire of Ideas, 12. Quoted in Ingebritsen, Scandinavia in World Politics, 13. An interesting parallel is to be found in the Swiss case, where Pauline Milani highlights the same tensions and characteristics: Milani, Le diplomate et l’artiste. 100 Tobelem, L’arme de la culture, 9–11.

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Finnish image policy thus appears as an instrumental, unidirectional endeavour in which (to use R.T. Arndt’s distinction) ‘informationists’ dominated over ‘culturalists.’101 The altruistic preoccupations expressed for instance by the Norwegian foreign policy establishment would find no equivalent in Finland.102 Cultural diplomacy as advocated by Siikala would stand as the sole area where a limited idealistic ring could be heard and where the building of relationships seemed to be the main goal. Apart from that, the Finnish authorities’ image policy was more about the dissemination of information than the fostering of exchanges: foreign audiences were kept at arm’s length in a oneway process. The reason for representing Finland, as it appears in the debates and reports exposed here, was unflinchingly linked to selling goods, explaining foreign policy choices, exposing Finland’s cultural achievements, and relating a preferred national narrative: to once again quote Jakobson, the country had to use images to overcome “the difficulty of gaining recognition and understanding on her own terms.”103 There was no Finnish agenda, ideological or otherwise, to spread to the world; a vague sense of the moral superiority of smaller states in comparison to bigger powers, and an often condescending urge to educate foreigners about Finland’s realities, can hardly be described as ideologies. Well into the 1960s, Finnish authorities and most actors working with them saw their work as a sophisticated form of propaganda, infused like so much of Finland’s foreign relations during the Cold War with the hardnosed “realism” described by Henrikki Heikka as one of the pillars of Finnish foreign policy debates.104 101 Arndt, The First Resort of Kings, 75. 102 For the Norwegian case, see Angell’s chapter in this volume. 103 Jakobson, “Substance and Appearance,” 1044. 104 Heikka, “Republican Realism,” 91–119.

chapter 8

American Mirrors and Swedish Self-Portraits: us Images of Sweden and Swedish Public Diplomacy in the usa in the 1970s and 80s Carl Marklund

Introduction: “But Do We Want to Change America into Sweden?”

In early spring 2013, the influential British newspaper The Economist joined the growing ranks of international observers claiming that the longstanding view of the Nordic countries as ‘socialist’ is mistaken and obsolete. The newspaper noted that the Nordic countries, including Sweden, have scaled down welfare expenditure, pushed through tax cuts, and promoted economic growth through increased labour market flexibility. The Nordic countries are thus on the way to transforming the supposedly Social Democratic Nordic welfare state model into a more liberal “super model” – in itself a good reason “why the world should look at the Nordic countries” despite their global insignificance and apparent smallness, according to this British newspaper.1 Nevertheless, the socialist stereotype of Sweden remains widespread in conservative political and ideological quarters, not the least in the usa.2 For example, when us President Barack Obama proposed partial government ownership of the auto industry, the banks and insurance companies as a way to save these branches of the economy from recession in February 2009, several us conservative political commentators sounded the alarm, warning that the Democrats were on the road towards turning the usa into a socialist state. In his program The O’Reilly Factor, Fox News Channel television host Bill O’Reilly asked rhetorically: “We’ve got to defeat this recession. But do we want to change America into Sweden?”3 1 “The next supermodel,” The Economist, 2 February 2013. The degree of transformation can of course be debated and claims to this effect play a significant political function in the Nordic countries themselves, see for example Greve & Kvist, “Has the Nordic welfare model been transformed?” 2 While this socialist stereotype sometimes applies to ‘Europe’ as a whole for us conservatives, small states such as Sweden may be more prone to such stereotyping due to limited knowledge about these societies among the broader us public, providing a kind of small-state ‘blank canvas.’ 3 The O’Reilly Factor, Fox News Channel, 19 February 2009; “Stockholm syndrome,” abc News, 20 April 2009. © koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���� | doi 10.1163/9789004305496_010 .

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At present, then, there are at least two competing images of Sweden prevalent in contemporary us debate. On the one hand, there is the conservative us understanding that Sweden – and to a lesser extent the Nordic countries more generally – represent some form of socialist system. By inference, any policy inspired by Swedish or Nordic precedents can thus be rhetorically branded as socialist in the usa, even if the policy in question would in Sweden itself rather be understood in terms of deregulation or neoliberalism.4 On the other hand, there is the progressive us view that Sweden – again together with the other Nordic countries – represents a ‘third way,’ combining comparatively high tax levels, relatively generous universal welfare provision, and progressive social values with high levels of competitiveness, innovation, market freedom, and socio-economic mobility. Likewise, this characterisation is made irrespective of the political profile of the respective Nordic governments.5 Possibly, this image is akin to European descriptions of the usa as ‘capitalist,’ regardless of whether the current administration happens to be Democratic or Republican. In view of this observation, this chapter addresses the reciprocal relationship between American images of Sweden and Swedish attempts at shaping those images. Here, Swedish public diplomacy has been tasked with the complex challenge of achieving two distinct aims vis-à-vis a multifaceted ‘global opinion.’ On the one hand, it makes use of and relies upon already pre-existing views of Sweden as socialist and solidaristic in some regions, such as in the Third World. On the other hand, it aims at nuancing this image and eventually directing it away from the old image of the socialist Swedish model, to a new one of Sweden as an efficient, free, prosperous, and ultimately liberal society for parts of the world such as the usa.6 This chapter tracks various views of Sweden as evidenced in us public debate, primarily through media reporting. Particularly valuable source material can be found in the reports compiled annually by the Press Bureau of the Swedish Ministry for Foreign Affairs from 1968 intermittently until 2002, tracking the press reporting on Sweden and things Swedish for official use at home. Combining these two sets of sources – us press reporting on the one hand and Swedish official ‘reports on reporting’ on the other – does not only provide insights into the development of views of Sweden abroad, it also allows us to trace how these images were relayed back to Sweden with a view of identifying the perils as well as the promises of providing ‘Sweden-information’ and ‘Sweden-publicity’ abroad as elements of official Swedish public diplomacy. 4 Wästberg, “Beyond the insults: Swedish Model 2.0.” The Local, 16 September 2009. Available at http://www.thelocal.se/20090916/22120. 5 Egerstrom, Prosperity Ahead. 6 Marklund, “From the Swedish model to the open society.”

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The diversity and richness of this material makes it necessary to focus on particular themes and individual media events. The chapter first looks at a series of high-profile issues in American-Swedish relations, ranging from the Swedish criticism of the usa’s involvement in the Vietnam War, via the us questioning of Swedish Cold War neutrality, to the increased Swedish concern with the image abroad of domestic Swedish conditions from the late 1960s and onwards. In particular, it underlines the significance of Swedish Prime Minister Olof Palme (1969–1976, 1982–1986) as a key media figure in all three of these contexts.7 It then turns to the growing international criticism of the ‘Swedish model’ during the late 1970s and early 1980s, including the non-socialist governments of 1976–1982, and Swedish attempts at dodging or ignoring this criticism. Finally, the chapter revisits the gradually more relaxed American-Swedish relations of the late 1980s, culminating in the Swedish charm offensive directed at the us public in conjunction with the 350 years’ commemoration of the founding of the New Sweden colony in 1988 and Prime Minister Ingvar Carlsson’s official visit to the White House. Here, affinities and similarities were reasserted on both sides, in a clear attempt to affirm the end to earlier tensions. Ranging from Palme to Carlsson, the chapter relies on these experiences of Swedish information efforts abroad to raise more general questions about the (im) possibility of purposive public diplomacy and active image management in framing perceptions about states, societies, and peoples. First, it follows up on the preceding phases of the history of Swedish public diplomacy as analysed elsewhere in this volume. Secondly, the chapter theorises on the importance of mutually constitutive images in any attempt at public diplomacy and the tendency towards auto-exoticisation on the part of public diplomats. In particular, it analyses the way in which representations of the nation abroad can be used as a ‘diversionary tactic’ in domestic political debates. By attracting the attention of foreign audiences, critically engaging with global opinion, and representing Sweden’s official foreign policy position as aligned with a significant and outspoken public opinion at home, public diplomacy fulfilled an important function in forming a remarkably persistent globally competitive identity for Sweden as being particularly progressive, solidaristic, or even ‘socialist.’ This identity or ‘brand’ served both as an asset and as a liability throughout the period under examination here.8 7 For discussions on Palme as a media figure, see e.g. Elmbrant, Palme; Åsard, Politikern Olof Palme; Östberg, När vinden vände; Berggren, Underbara dagar. 8 This identity soon evolved into a self-fulfilling prophecy, in which the government was regularly expected by public intellectuals and the media to take a progressive, solidaristic position on various global matters while promoting economic and social policies which could serve as an example, or a model, for foreign politicians. This identity could in its turn evolve into a disciplinarian argument in domestic Swedish policy debates, where foreign interest in the Swedish model became a political resource in its defense at home.

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The Swedish Image in the 1960s and the 1970s

By the time Olof Palme became Prime Minister in September 1969, Sweden already had a long record of generating positive interest abroad. Moreover, during the 1950s and 1960s Swedish officials had, with some considerable success, consciously sought to support the favourable view of Sweden that was already internationally widespread, not the least in the usa.9 As the polarisation between negative and positive views of Sweden grew during the 1960s however, Swedish official representatives began to worry about Sweden’s international reputation. Partly in response to this concern, the Swedish Ministry for Foreign Affairs began to compile annual reports entitled Sverige i utländsk press (‘Sweden in the Foreign Press,’ hereafter referred to as siup).10 The purpose of these news reports was not to provide full coverage of foreign ‘published opinion’ – as distinct from ‘public opinion’ – on Sweden, but to chart trends in the so-called Sverigebild (‘the Swedish image’ or ‘the image of Sweden’). The first report noted that while there were several competing Swedish images in some places, people in many other countries had no idea about Sweden at all. While official Sweden had neither the capacity nor the intention to alter or construct anew the Swedish image abroad, implying a kind of arm’s length principle with regard to Sweden-information activities, it was nevertheless considered valuable to monitor the most common “misconceptions” about Sweden internationally.11 The core issue concerned Swedish criticism of us engagement in the Vietnam War and corresponding us criticism of Swedish neutrality. In February 1968, Olof Palme, who was then the Minister of Education, participated in an anti-war demonstration in Stockholm and was photographed together with the North Vietnamese ambassador to the Soviet Union. At the time, the Swedish Ministry for Foreign Affairs was engaged in a classic example of behind the scenes diplomacy – what the Swedes called silent diplomacy – to bring North Vietnam and the usa to negotiations (codenamed Operation Aspen). The usa was irritated by the Swedish moves to acknowledge North

9 Ottosson, Sverige mellan öst och väst; Lundberg & Tydén, Sverigebilder; Andersson & Hilson, “Images of Sweden;” Almqvist & Linklater, Images of Sweden; Glover, National Relations. 10 Originally called Sverige i utländsk press (Stockholm, Press- och informationsenheten, Utrikesdepartementet) 1968–1987, the publication’s title was changed into Sverige i utländska media in 1988, later Sverige i utländska medier (Hereafter: siup). 11 siup 1968, 1; see Nikolas Glover’s chapter in this volume.

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Vietnam, to offer aid of 45 million usd, and to provide asylum for us deserters and draft dodgers.12 Together with official Swedish criticism of the us engagement in Vietnam, these events led to an abrupt end to the previously cordial American-Swedish relations, resulting in the severing of diplomatic ties until early 1970.13 In April 1970, to make matters worse, the incoming us ambassador to Sweden, Jerome H. Holland, was attacked by anti-war protesters who reportedly used racial slurs. A surge of anti-Swedish reporting in mainstream us press followed that incident.14 With ordinary channels of diplomatic contact damaged by these altercations, other instruments and arenas for political communication became all the more important.15 In an attempt to control the situation, Palme undertook an unofficial visit to the usa in June 1970. From the publicity point of view, Palme’s trip was considered a major success by the Press Bureau of the Swedish Ministry for Foreign Affairs, generating some 700 articles and making Palme a well-known media figure in the usa.16 Importantly, the trip allowed Palme to engage actively with the American audience, speaking directly to us media, and explaining the Swedish position on Vietnam among other things. He spoke at the National Press Club, the Women’s National Democratic Club, both in Washington, D.C., as well as at his alma mater Kenyon College in Ohio. Palme also got airtime on nationwide television programs such as the Meet the Press and Today shows on nbc network and The David Frost Show on the Group W television stations.17 12 13

14 15 16 17

See e.g. Nordenmark, Aktiv utrikespolitik; Bjereld, Kritiker eller medlare?, 110–122; Möller, Sverige och Vietnamkriget; Björk, Vägen till Indokina. us media widely reported on Swedish press criticism as being a consciously guided and officially orchestrated campaign, despite Swedish official claims that the Swedish media was simply exercising its freedom of speech and that Sweden’s neutrality did not forbid Swedish politicians to express sentiments in line with the public opinion of that country. “Sweden’s hate America campaign,” us News & World Report, 18 March 1968, 78–79; “When friends fall out,” Newsweek, 25 March 1968, 34; “A u.s. critic at Sweden’s helm,” us News & World Report, 13 October 1969, 22–23; “Where Anti-u.s. action backfires,” us News & World Report, 10 November 1969, 95–96; “Swedish leader on a tightrope,” us News & World Report, 15 June 1970, 58–59. For discussions of the us counter-critique, see e.g. Jerneck, Kritik som utrikespolitiskt medel; Ohlsson, Over there; Logevall, “The Swedish-American conflict,” 421–445; Leifland, Frostens år; Thorsell, Sverige i Vita huset; Jerneck, “Sitting on the balcony.” siup 1968; siup 1969. siup 1970; siup 1971; siup 1972. siup 1970, 21. Ibid., 24.

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Palme’s visit saw violent protests by anti-communist us trade unionists of the International Longshoremen’s Association (ila), who threatened to refuse to handle Swedish goods in American ports. The ila enjoyed the support of conservative columnist Victor Riesel, who had been instrumental in pitting workers against students at previous anti-war rallies, following the Kent State shootings in May 1970 that had taken place in Ohio only a few weeks before Palme’s visit to that state. By being denounced by ila and Riesel, Palme and Sweden naturally generated sympathy from the us anti-war movement.18 A later visit by Palme to the United Nations in New York during the autumn of 1970 served as a kind of control device to test the media impact of the summer trip. The Swedish Ministry for Foreign Affairs reported that the us press coverage on Palme and Sweden was considerably calmer but also more favourable than during Palme’s June visit, confirming the perception that continuous direct contact between Swedish politicians and the us press and public did pay off. Unsubstantiated and ultimately false rumours of Swedish attempts at liberating downed us pilots from North Vietnamese internment may also have contributed to this shift in us opinion.19 In June 1972, the Swedish Prime Minister hosted the United Nations Confe­rence on the Human Environment in Stockholm. The conference had been in preparation since 1968, but with the notable exception of Indira Gandhi, it did not gather many heads of states and governments. However, it did draw some 1 300 journalists to the Swedish capital, giving Palme an opportunity to situate the current tension between Sweden and the usa in the broader context of the global North– south conflict, citing us military involvement in Vietnam as a form of environmental warfare.20 While this generated widespread negative press in the usa – us critics spoke of “political pollution” taking over environmental degradation – press in the Third World applauded Palme. In July 1972, the readers of the influential magazine Afrique Asie, founded by Franco-Egyptian journalist Simon Malley in 1969 and edited in Paris, voted Palme “l’homme de l’année 1972.” He had already been named “the ‘Nehru’ of the Seventies” by the Indian press.21 This, Afrique Asie explained, was to be seen as recognition of Sweden’s solidarity with the Third World, and the fact that Palme had proved that rich Western countries did not necessarily have to subscribe to egotistical exploitation.22 The accolade, and the reasons given for awarding it, provides a fitting illustration of how the image of 18 19 20 21 22

Ibid., 17. Ibid., 25. siup 1972, 58. “The ‘Nehru’ of the seventies,” The Hindustan Times, 11 April 1970. siup 1973, 52; see also siup 1969.

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Sweden as a nation began to fuse with the image of Palme as an international statesman in the emerging global public opinion of the early 1970s. On 23 December 1972, Palme called the us bombings of Hanoi and Haiphong a “form of torture” comparable to Nazi war crimes, causing the Nixon Administration to delay the arrival of the new Swedish ambassador to the usa. The majority of American press voices declared Palme’s comparison tactless and undiplomatic, New York Daily News nicknaming him “the peacenik Premier of Sweden.” The newspaper commented that “[w]e seem to recall they smugly sat out World War ii and turned a neat profit doing business with Hitlerite Germany,” i.e., implying that the Swedes should consider their own reputation before criticising others.23 With regard to the Vietnam War, Palme’s initiative has been seen as something of a failure as it did little to end the bombings but caused a new freeze in American-Swedish relations.24 Predictably however, us opponents of the Nixon Administration began to speak in favour of Sweden. In this sense, Palme’s criticism of us policies in Vietnam can be seen as an attempt to engage in a kind of global public diplomacy through addressing us public opinion directly.25 By bringing Swedish public opinion – expressed through a petition of some 2.7 million Swedes against the us bombings in 1973 – into contact with the American liberal opposition at a time when us public opinion was already deeply divided, Sweden’s and Palme’s stance became part of the American political landscape. In January 1973, The Washington Post reproached the us State Department for having stated that “[w]e are dealing here with an unfriendly country” while speaking of Sweden, noting that: This is, of course, nonsense. …For Sweden is anything but an unfriendly country. …But the way to cope with a friend’s disagreement is, at the least, to get in closer touch, to try to explain, not to react in pique and close off the symbolic channel of communication between nations.26 The Washington Post continued by noting the obvious double standards of the Nixon Administration in freezing diplomatic relations with Sweden while 23 24 25

26

New York Daily News, 3 January 1973, cited in siup 1973, 54. Jerneck, “Sitting on the balcony.” See also siup 1972, 47. Palme’s position on Vietnam gave him access to American public, rather than barring him completely from it. See for examples interviews with Olof Palme e.g. “Why Sweden is critical of U.S. role in Vietnam,” us News & World Report, 22 June 1970, 48–49; “Neutral but not silent,” Time, 29 January 1973, 23. “Behind the rift with Sweden,” The Washington Post, 12 January 1973.

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maintaining full diplomatic contacts with its Cold War enemies, such as the Soviet Union and the People’s Republic of China, not to mention questionable alliances with human rights violating regimes in for example Latin America, Greece, Spain, and South Africa.27 By now, Palme had become a global media figure in his own right. In interviews with us news outlets, including the influential Time Magazine, Palme pointed out that Sweden had also protested against the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia in 1968. He expressed regret that the new Swedish ambassador to the usa, Yngve Möller, a Social Democratic newspaperman, and “someone who could represent Swedish public opinion,” had not been welcomed in the usa.28 Having failed to put Möller in Washington, the Swedish government made a fairly overt attempt at old-fashioned public diplomacy damage control by simply inviting a selected journalist, Ofield Dukes of St. Louis Sentinel, on a two-week tour of Sweden in 1971. Dukes’ visit provided Palme with the opportunity both to reminisce about his own experiences of “white bigotry” during his travels around the American south in the 1940s as well as to discuss contemporary us policy priorities, contrasting the resources spent on the space program with the efforts directed at domestic issues, such as the “race problem” and the war on poverty.29 To some us observers, as already mentioned, the freezing of diplomatic relations between Sweden and the usa seemed disproportionate. As such, they provided some comic relief to the massive external and internal problems facing the country in the aftermath of the moral defeat in Vietnam. In February 1973, satirist Art Buchwald noted that “every country needs an enemy to call its own” in order not to fall apart. Now, Buchwald worried that the usa would find itself disorientated as us President and long-time hawk Richard Nixon was busy negotiating peace not only with North Vietnam, but also with Mao’s China and Brezhnev’s Russia. Luckily enough, Buchwald reported with relief, United States National Security Advisor Henry Kissinger and his aides had identified the next great danger to America and its values: “It’s Sweden.” The Swedish aggression was just all too obvious for the Nixon Administration to ignore: Ideologically, Sweden is against everything we believe in. They’re for free medical care, free help for the poor, free homes for the aged and free love for everyone. The United States cannot sit by and allow them to spread 27 28 29

“Why Sweden?” The New York Times, 5 September 1973. siup 1973, 59–62. Dukes, “Palme says it’s a question of U.S. will and resources,” St. Louis Sentinel, 9 November 1971.

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their message to the rest of the globe. …The fbi has incontrovertible evidence that Sweden has financed Swedish massage parlors all over the United States. These parlors are being used to lull American men into a false sense of security. Swedish films have been used to subvert the young and the disenfranchised. We know for a fact that the Sexual Revolution is being plotted and administered directly from Stockholm.30 To make matters worse, Buchwald observed in his delightfully acerbic take on us foreign policy, the Swedes had also done “the unforgivable” by criticising “President Nixon’s Christmas bombing of Hanoi.” There could be no question of resuming diplomatic relations with Sweden “as long as Sweden continues to enslave its people and spread its diabolical massage parlors around the world.”31 Buchwald’s reference to Swedish enslavement echoed Roland Huntford’s much publicised 1971 book The New Totalitarians. Basing his work on classic dystopias such as Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World (1932) and George Orwell’s 1984 (1947), Huntford argued that Sweden approached these nightmarish visions of a thoroughly collectivised society, where powerful elites manipulated the population into what to feel and think, seeking to replace family life and traditional values with rational, socialistic mores. Serious social problems such as crime, drug abuse, mental illness, and venereal disease were the end result, Huntford claimed.32 Huntford’s views on Sweden became so central to the image of Sweden abroad that the officials of the Press Bureau of the Ministry for Foreign Affairs began to refer to this type of “Sweden criticism” as “the Huntford theses.”33 As coincidence would have it, the credibility of Huntford’s eloquent but highly exaggerated criticism received unlikely support from a 1972 report on the relationship between the human environment and psychological well-being, commissioned by the Swedish Government and written by Swedish psychiatrist Hans Lohmann. In the us press, Lohmann’s report was often presented as providing official confirmation of Huntford’s basic view of Swedish society as cold, heartless, and manipulated.34 However, ironically enough and in direct contrast to Huntford, Lohmann located the causes for maladjustment in the Swedish 30

Buchwald’s text on how the so-called “yellow danger” was about to be replaced by the “yellow-haired danger” was also published in Washington Post and New York Post. Buchwald, “Sweden as an enemy?” The Free Lance-Star, 10 February 1973. 31 Buchwald, “Sweden as an enemy?” The Free Lance-Star, 10 February 1973. 32 Huntford, The New Totalitarians; see also Nikolas Glover’s chapter in this volume. 33 siup 1972, 14–17. 34 Ibid., 18.

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welfare state in competitive capitalism and technological advancement, citing Palme favourably on the goal of the welfare state to ensure “quality of life” as a countermeasure to capitalist modernity. In vain, Lohmann repeatedly sought to clarify his disapproval of the “Huntford theses” in several letters to the editors of us newspapers which incidentally tended to work at cross-purposes with regard to Lohmann’s intentions, rather confirming us observers in their belief that Sweden indeed had serious problems.35 In this complex interplay between generalisations on global developments, (inter)national stereotypes, domestic political needs, global media events, and individual political statements, the consequences of personal reputations, individual fates, and freak occurrences proved virtually impossible to foresee, let alone control, for Swedish public diplomats. For example, in 1976, the Press Attaché of the Swedish Embassy in Washington believed that the visit to the usa scheduled for April of the newly installed King Carl xvi Gustaf was poised to generate positive attention in the usa.36 But reports on Swedish tax policies and “tax spies” in conjunction with the taxation issues that vexed internationally acclaimed cultural figures such as film director Ingmar Bergman and author Astrid Lindgren, largely nullified the expected returns. Inspired by their altercations with the Swedish tax authorities, both Time and Newsweek ran specials on “Sweden’s Surrealistic Socialism” and “Utopia’s Dark Side,” respectively, elaborating on the Huntford theses later that summer.37 The randomness of the process by which images of societies are formed and transmitted was further enhanced by the importance of individuals and their degree of ‘star quality.’ Palme, Lindgren, and Bergman were well-known, media-friendly, verbally proficient figures with an international reputation. They apparently managed to have, at times through their personal efforts, more impact on the image of their country than any official attempts at managing that same image. While these individual activities had a demonstrable effect upon the image of Sweden abroad, it is also evident that Palme and the Swedish Ministry for Foreign Affairs made use of public diplomacy and direct outreach to us public opinion in an attempt to compensate for the freezing of traditional diplomacy. 35

Ibid; Lohmann, Psykisk hälsa. Frederick Hale has studied in detail how Swedish officials responded to Huntford’s diatribes, but does not discuss the role played by Lohmann’s report. Hale, “Brave New World,” 167–190. 36 Kastrup, Med Sverige i Amerika, 326. 37 “Utopia’s dark side,” Newsweek, May 3 1976, 18–19; “Sweden’s surrealistic socialism,” Time, June 7 1976, 6–11; siup 1976, 14–21. For a discussion, see Einhorn & Logue, Modern Welfare States, 306.

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The increased importance placed on us public opinion in the absence of direct diplomatic contacts is reflected in the voluminous and detailed analysis of us media reporting on Swedish foreign policy in the siup series during these “years of frost.” Seen in this way, public diplomacy can indeed be understood as a kind of complementary or even compensatory diplomacy, once ordinary channels for diplomacy have broken down or otherwise been compromised.

The Swedish Model in the Early 1980s

The Swedish image abroad became increasingly complex from the mid-1960s to the mid-1970s, giving rise to both hopes and concerns at home. The usSwedish tensions of the late 1960s and the early 1970s contributed to a global fusing of an originally positive interest in Palme, the supposedly ‘socialist’ welfare state, small state neutralism, active foreign policy, and Third World solidarity in many places around the world – not the least in France – with an emerging criticism of Swedish domestic policies. This brought about an increased entanglement between the image of the country of Sweden and the notion of a particular ‘Swedish model’ of social, political, and economic organisation. With regard to traditional, closed-door diplomacy, normal contacts were reestablished between Sweden and the usa in 1974, well before the Centre-Right election victory in September 1976.38 At the top level, the us relations with Sweden improved substantially.39 For example, Secretary of State Kissinger paid an official visit to Palme for a day in May 1976 in a bid to improve relations amidst widespread popular Swedish protest.40 Secretary of Defense Caspar Weinberger’s visit in October 1981 was marked by “elaborate demonstrations of Swedish military power” in sharp contrast to the anti-war protests which greeted Kissinger five years earlier.41 However, the end of the Vietnam War in 1975 and the change of government in Sweden 1976 did little to change popular views of country in the usa. While American reporting on Sweden declined during this period, the relatively negative view of Sweden lingered on in the us press. Familiar themes, such as 38 Thorsell, Sverige i Vita huset, 205ff; see also Wachtmeister, Som jag såg det. 39 Leifland, Frostens år, 145–170; 179–183. 40 Kissinger’s visit was followed by visits by Prime Minister Ola Ullsten, Vice President Walter Mondale, King Carl xiv Gustav, and Vice President George H.W. Bush in the coming years. 41 “For Weinberger, Swedes stress armed might,” The New York Times, 19 October 1981.

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supposedly slanted and pro-Soviet Swedish neutrality, Swedish support of Third World liberation movements, and the alleged coordination of Soviet and Swedish initiatives on disarmament and nuclear free zones were noted unfavourably in the us press, alongside more isolated events such as the the illegal transfer of us technology to Comecon states via Swedish companies.42 Additionally, Sweden’s growing economic problems in the wake of the 1979 energy crisis led to a labour market conflict in the spring of 1980 with circa 19 % of the Swedish workforce either on strike or locked out. This conflict gained widespread attention in the us press, where it was widely interpreted as a sign of both the shortcomings of the Swedish model as well as mounting internal Swedish discontent with its socio-economic system.43 For example, Marquis Childs, author of the 1936 bestseller Sweden: The Middle Way returned with a sceptical review of Swedish society in his 1980 book Sweden: The Middle Way on Trial.44 Yet, the Swedish crisis of the 1980s – which does not appear to have been very much worse than what the uk and the usa went through at the same time – did not seem to signal the “death” of the Swedish model to the mainstay of American observers, with the obvious exception of fringe radicals on the extreme right. Rather, it was Swedish journalists, politicians, and public officials who wrote its obituaries. Several titles on the “fall of the Swedish model” were produced by Swedish academics for the international scholarly community.45 Prominent Social Democrat (and later Prime Minister) Ingvar Carlsson warned that the international reputation of Sweden as a model society had been shaken by the inability of the bourgeois government to handle the labour conflict of 1980, underscoring the importance of foreign exemplarity in Swedish domestic politics.46 Significantly, the notion of the ‘image of Sweden’ was no longer reserved for foreign policy issues, but migrated to domestic political debate around this time, as did the concept of ‘the Swedish Model.’47 1983 turned out to be a new high tide of international attention directed at Sweden.48 Just as a decade earlier, foreign interest again focused on negative issues. Unlike in 1973, however, it was not Swedish foreign policy that primarily troubled international observers. Now, it was mainly Sweden’s domestic 42 43

siup 1980; siup 1981; siup 1982. “Swedes discover their dark side,” The New York Times, 24 February 1980, 5; “Sweden is crippled by labor disputes,” The New York Times, 2 May 1980, 1; “Swedes ponder causes for the shattering of mostly harmonious labor relations,” The Wall Street Journal, 7 May 1980, 18; “Wage pacts end Swedish labor crisis,” The New York Times, 12 May 1980, 3. 44 Childs, The Middle Way on Trial. 45 Lundberg, “The rise and fall,” 1–36; Korpi, “Economic growth,” 97–118. 46 “Sweden’s ‘biological problem,’” The Washington Post, 17 May 1981, K1. 47 See e.g. Expertgruppen för forskning om regional utveckling, Offentlig verksamhet. 48 siup 1983, 44.

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problems that came under scrutiny. Reports concentrated on individual phenomena considered typical of the Swedish welfare state, such as taxation, surveillance, computerisation, intrusive child custody and overly bureaucratic regulation of private consumption. Again, Sweden was depicted by numerous journalists and commentators as Orwellian – obviously in eager expectation of the magical year 1984. This theme became so prevalent in us and Western European press clippings that the press officers at the Ministry for Foreign Affairs termed it “the 1984 syndrome” in their annual compilations.49 They were thus acutely aware that there were serious problems in the international image of Sweden by the mid-1980s. But they were also keen to point out that Sweden no longer generated as much negative press in the usa itself. Now, it was rather Western European media that frowned upon Sweden, according the the Ministry.50 This appears a somewhat too positive interpretation, as us newspapers increasingly began to comment upon new problems in Swedish society, including emerging racism and xenophobia.51 Importantly, the Ministry for Foreign Affairs failed to note that American social scientists, previously turning to Sweden for social policy solutions, now began to report an increased sense of self-doubt and bewilderment among their Swedish colleagues in view of mounting social problems. This theme figured prominently in the important and widely circulated journal of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences, Dædalus, in its 1984 special issue on the Scandinavian countries. Notable Swedish and Scandinavian scholars and publicists were invited to provide commentary on the declining fortunes of these societies which for so long had been held in high esteem by us academics and intellectuals.52 By the mid-1980s, the Swedish model, including its proverbial socialism, had evolved into a given frame for the Swedish image – a fixture which foreign reporters on Sweden had to relate to, and a point of reference which Swedish public diplomats could not escape.

Swedish Self-portrait in the Late 1980s

In February 1986 Olof Palme was assassinated – a tragic and traumatic event that in retrospect has been considered a serious blow to the welfare state in Swedish popular historiography. As such, it shook Swedish self-perceptions 49 50 51

52

Ibid., 44–71; siup 1984, 101–109. An alternative label was “the 1984 reports.” siup 1983, 67–69; siup 1984, 109. “The road to serfdom,” Forbes, 7 November 1983, 161; “The talk of Stockholm,” The New York Times, 25 November 1983; “Sweden’s quiet way,” The New York Times, 24 January 1984; “Clouds of doubt over Sweden’s Garden of Eden,” The New York Times, 2 January 1985. Graubard, “The Nordic Enigma.”

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to the core.53 In March 1987, Palme’s successor, Ingvar Carlsson, argued that Sweden was troubled by two big problems – the unsolved assassination of his predecessor and the recurring allegations of illicit trafficking and kickbacks in various Swedish arms deals with Iran and India.54 Carlsson worried that Sweden’s reputation abroad may be suffering, as both events challenged the international view of Sweden as a proponent of social stability and world peace.55 Officially in response to the need for economic evaluation of government funding of Sweden-information and cultural exchange, Carlsson’s government formed a committee tasked with overviewing the image of Sweden abroad.56 However, this originally outward oriented project soon evolved into a rather introspective endeavour. One report, entitled Sverigebilder: 17 svenskar ser på Sverige [‘Swedish Images: 17 Swedes Look at Sweden’], provided an insight into the thoughts of key representatives of the Swedish cultural and diplomatic elite on their homeland.57 This tendency towards self-reflection through foreign outlooks – which can be seen as an exercise of classic Verfremdung or post-colonial auto-exoticisation – generated a simultaneous surge of publications by anthropologists, ethnologists, and sociologists on Sweden and ‘Swedishness’ at the end of the 1980s.58 References to the image of Sweden abroad became a crucial component in attempts at reimagining the nation at home and regaining a sense of self-identity. The increased uncertainty about the character of Swedish life and Swedish identity which set in during the 1980s apparently upgraded another dimension of the task of public diplomacy: to not only disseminate information about 53 Östberg, “Olof Palme i sin tid.” 54 Ingvar Carlsson cited in Sverigeinformationen, 7. 55 No siup was produced for 1985, most probably due to the excessive workload faced by the Ministry for Foreign Affairs in the early months of 1986 in the aftermath of the assassination of Prime Minister Palme. However, the relaxation of utopian associations did not only reduce foreign interest, but also decreased foreign desires to unravel the hidden ‘dystopia’ in the Swedish ‘paradise.’ siup 1986; siup 1987; Marklund, “The Social Laboratory.” 56 Sverigeinformationen. 57 It is significant that Ambassador Bo Heinebäck, the chief of the Swedish Ministry for Foreign Affairs’ Press and Information Unit, chose to entitle his opening chapter “Omvärlden är vår spegel” [“The surrounding world is our mirror”], Heinebäck, “Omvärlden.” 58 Daun & Forsman, “Gustav Sundbärg;” Daun, Bra och dåligt; Daun, “The Japanese of the North;” Daun & Ehn, Blandsverige; Daun, Svensk mentalitet; Frykman & Löfgren, Den kultiverade människan; Gaunt & Löfgren, Myter om svensken; Löfgren, “Svenskhetens konjunkturer,” 21–34; Himmelstrand & Svensson, Sverige.

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home abroad, but also to bring information back to home. Through the eyes of the Other, the Self would possibly become more understandable. This renewed interest in Swedish ‘self-portraits’ for internal as well as external usage actualised an untimely return to long antiquated ideas such as ‘national character,’ not only through mining historical accounts but also by generating new narratives at a time when nationalism was being deconstructed as invented tradition and imagined community elsewhere. In this paradoxical combination of multiculturalism and essentialism, marketing and reconstructing, promoting Swedishness abroad appeared fully compatible with deconstructing it at home.

1988: The Year of New Sweden If there’s one thing the Swedes seem to spend a lot of time thinking about, it’s their image overseas. They even have a special term for this – the Sverigebild – or literally the picture of Sweden…Foreign readers might wonder what all the fuss is about: after all Austria and Israel have far more to worry about when it comes to their image. But the Swedes seem particularly sensitive to outside opinion and, in a rather masochistic manner, appear to lap up criticism.59

The increasingly negative reporting about Sweden abroad during the 1980s appears to have affected the self-confidence of official Swedish information efforts, as reflected in the above quote of the Stockholm correspondent of The Financial Times. The tone in official publications on Sweden changed accordingly. They abandoned the cheerful, if sometimes misplaced breeziness of the previous decade in favour of a less fancy editorial line of factual, even outright boring titles.60 Tellingly, and in contrast to earlier practice, the Swedes did not for example attempt to ‘hijack’ Scandinavia Today, a 15-month celebration of Scandinavian cultural and intellectual life starting in autumn 1982, sponsored by the us National Endowments for the Arts and Humanities. Swedish participants appeared rather content to ride the Scandinavian bandwagon.61 This, however, did not suit Swedish business interests well. Swedish exports and fdi in the usa expanded at a rapid pace, not least as a consequence of the 59 60 61

Sara Webb cited in siup, 1987, 1; Lundberg, Bilder av Sverige, 14. Svenska institutet, Sweden in brief (1981; 1984); Kastrup, Med Sverige i Amerika, 338–339. “New York to Celebrate Scandinavia,” The New York Times, 6 September 1982. For examples of earlier ‘hijackings,’ see Marklund, “Swedish Norden.”

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devaluation of the Swedish krona by the incoming Social Democratic government in 1982. In autumn of 1983, the ceos of a number of Swedish subsidiaries abroad called for more information efforts on the part of the state, in order to project a better Swedish image abroad and to boost business.62 These demands were met with little interest from the Ministry for Foreign Affairs and the Swedish Institute. As a consequence, a number of Swedish corporations, in cooperation with American Express, established the private foundation Positiva Sverige as a means of promoting us tourism to Sweden.63 In 1983, the Stockholm Chamber of Commerce and liberal think tank Timbro with connections to the Swedish Employers Association took the initiative to commemorate the signing in April 1783 of the Treaty of Amity and Commerce between Sweden and the usa. The initiative emphasised the importance of economic and technical contacts between the American and Swedish business and research sectors. It was also endorsed by incoming Prime Minister Olof Palme, who provided a chapter entitled “Swedish-American Relations” to the ensuing publication, where he explained his long-time admiration of the us ideals of creativity and liberty as well as reaffirming his position as a “critical friend” of American democracy.64 Around the same time, a series of initiatives were being taken in the usa to commemorate the founding of the Swedish colony New Sweden (in present Delaware) in 1638. Behind these efforts lay long-serving executives of Swedish public diplomacy, notably Tore Tallroth, and Swedish-American civil society organisations and businessmen, including Curtis Carlson, founder of the hospitality business Carlson Companies. In 1985, when the prominent Wallenberg banking family through its holding company Investor ab began providing support in the form of logistics and human resources, the Swedish National Committee for New Sweden ‘88 could officially begin its operations.65 The Swedish Federation of Industries also provided support for the printing of the periodical New Sweden News for the duration of the celebrations. A highly acclaimed Washington, D.C.-based public affairs and strategic communications agency, Susan Davis Companies, was hired to manage the contacts with the us media. The agency published New Sweden News, and organised the 62 63 64 65

“Svenska chefer i utlandet: Nationens rykte nyckel till export,” Dagens Nyheter, 7 September 1983. See issues of the short-lived bulletin Sverigebilder: Nyhetsbrev från Stiftelsen Positiva Sverige. Lindmark & Tallroth, Swedes Looking West; “The U.S. and Sweden,” Department of State Bulletin, No. 2073 1983, 1–7. Odelberg, “Newgammalt drar västerut,” Upp & Ner, No. 12–1 1987/1988, 23–26.

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publicity for the celebrations, including the planned state visits. The launching of the New Sweden jubilee was furthermore to be coordinated with a royal Swedish visit to the usa in April 1988. In May 1986, the us Congress decided to ask us President Ronald Reagan to declare 1988 “The Year of New Sweden,” which eventually happened on 23 December 1987. Preparing the ground, First Lady Nancy Reagan visited Sweden in July 1987, followed up in September by Prime Minister Ingvar Carlsson visiting the usa. At this point, the restoration of cordial relations between the two countries could finally be confirmed.66 Despite these high-profile measures, big Swedish companies often preferred to organise their own activities for the upcoming jubilee, frustrated by the lack of coordination and shared purpose between Swedish and Swedish-American sides of the operation.67 The sheer size of the undertaking appears to have overwhelmed the organisers themselves. It involved a multitude of different forms of cooperation between public authorities, business interests, private persons, and civil society organisations. The jubilee ended up being mainly focused upon royal pageantry and cultural events, which appears to have generated less us publicity than anticipated on the Swedish side. This emphasis represented a significant break with the distinctly more politically charged presentations of Sweden in the 1960s and 1970s, with their focus on the performance of the Swedish welfare state and its underlying values.68 In conjunction with the massive celebrations in April 1988, a two-page advert in the form of an article was placed in Wall Street Journal. It demonstrated that Sweden had again returned to pole position in the six years since the Social Democratic comeback in 1982. The article underlined that Sweden’s success in the world had been achieved in “economic, industrial, and scientific fields and not through political power.” Accompanied by “A Message From King Carl Gustaf xvi [sic!]” where the monarch noted that “Swedish society is based economically on a strong industry, more than 90 % of which is privately owned,” the article claimed that Sweden had again become the third richest country in the world after the usa and Switzerland in terms of gdp per capita, one of the strongest economies in the oecd, with the lowest unemployment rate, and a sound financial balance. On the basis of these impressive economic figures, the anonymous advert concluded that “[t]oday, Sweden serves as a 66 67 68

U.S. Congress, Public Law 99–304. Swedish National Archives (ra), Marieberg, Nationalkommittén New Sweden 1988 (1984– 1989), (Series) Ö 1, Svenska pressklipp, 1987–1988, (vol) 2: Industrin. New Sweden Commemorative Commission, New Sweden ‘88; Sverige i utländska media 1988, 68.

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model to many in economic policy, labor relations and, above all, industrial efficiency. Big business in Sweden is strong, active and profitable.”69 A survey of the the us press clippings from this time show that the concept of the Swedish model was again activated, but this time less with regard to the possible exemplarity of Swedish social policies, but rather with reference to its economic and technological prowess.70 Yet, to the Swedish backers of the commemorations, the two could hardly be separated.71 The Wall Street Journal article approvingly cited a New Sweden jubilee booklet, entitled Sweden Works, in which Prime Minister Carlsson compared the Swedish model to the bumblebee, noting that “[t]heoretically, its wings are too short and its body too fat for it to be airworthy. And yet it flies.”72 “The paradox is this,” the article went on to state, “the export industry supports a substantial part of the welfare state. The welfare state, in turn, supports the export industry by providing good education, peaceful labor relations and a generally favorable business climate.”73 In some sense, the article placed in Wall Street Journal thus told the familiar story of the Swedish model, with a strong focus on business, efficiency, and innovation as well as tradition, very similar to the way it had been presented in the 1950s and 1960s. In another respect however, the New Sweden commemorations represented a fresh start for marketing the Swedish image in the usa. The main difference was that American policy-makers were not expected to be interested in copying or learning from the Swedish model, whether it was freemarket or not. Now, the intended audience appears to have been business interests and foreign investors.74 This impression is further supported by the 69 70

71

72

73 74

“New Sweden ’88,” The Wall Street Journal, 11 April 1988, 7. ra, Nationalkommittén New Sweden 1988 (1984–1989), (Series) Ö 2, Amerikanska pressklipp, 1987–1988, (vol) 12: “Foreign clippings” on the Jubilee (April–June 1987), “American clippings” (February–June 1988). Nevertheless, representatives of the Swedish labour movement sometimes complained that business dominated the presentation of Sweden in the usa, see e.g. “Arbetarrörelsens arv har förskingrats,” Dagens Nyheter, 11 April 1988. This metaphor has later gained widespread currency in Swedish public debate, see e.g. Kielos, “Flight of the Swedish bumblebee.” Sweden Works was produced by the Sweden Works Project Group, and counted Michael Hinks-Edwards and Victor Kayfetz among the otherwise anonymous contributors. They were probably Ministry for Foreign Affairs officials, presented somewhat vaguely as “a London-based industrial analyst” and “a Stockholm correspondent for various British publications.” Sweden Works Project Group, Sweden Works. “New Sweden ’88,” The Wall Street Journal, 11 April 1988, 7; “70,000 new firms,” The Wall Street Journal, 11 April 1988, 13. For a typical discussion of the imperative of attracting fdi, see e.g. Oxelheim, The Global Race.

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simultaneous establishment in 1988 of the nationwide Swedish-American Chamber of Commerce usa (sacc-usa).75

Conclusion: American Mirrors and Swedish Self-portraits

During the time period surveyed in this chapter – roughly speaking from Palme to Carlsson – American-Swedish relations oscillated from warm and friendly via cool and reserved to hot-tempered and back again. It is not possible to ascertain here to what degree Swedish public diplomacy contributed to either exacerbate or mollify these mood swings. Similar views of the Other have circulated throughout the period. But the political and social significance of these views have varied considerably over time, underscoring the importance of the context, alongside the content, of any exchange of public opinion across international borders. Here, the interrelations, reciprocity, and transfers between Swedish ‘intentions’ and American ‘receptions’ of Swedish images in usa – that is, the mutually constitutive circulation of ideas and images of the intended audiences and those who tried to affect these ideas – have played a key role.76 Public diplomacy is, as these experiences show, to some degree concerned with foreign and domestic public opinion about the values, positions, and foreign policy choices as communicated through the traditional diplomacy of a given country. This makes it difficult to maintain a strict analytical separation between public diplomacy and traditional diplomacy. The composition of the multifaceted, yet distinct, Swedish image has been a central concern of Swedish public diplomats throughout the time period surveyed here. It has been composed of foreign and domestic impressions of various phenomena such as the Swedish model, Swedish neutrality, Swedish socialism, Swedish sex, and of how life in general happens to unfold in a place called Sweden.77 Here, Swedish public diplomacy has apparently been successful in embracing and promoting the Swedish image with regard to its welfare state component. But it has largely proven itself unable to control the ‘socialist’ component, once the latter entered into global circulation as a kind of ‘meme.’78 Swedish public diplomacy directed at the usa has long been 75

Not to be confused with the Swedish-American Chamber of Commerce, Inc. also known as sacc New York, established in 1906. 76 Marklund & Petersen, “Return to sender.” 77 Glover, National Relations. 78 Nicholas J. Cull identifies “‘memes’ as ideas capable of being spread from one person to another across a social network.” Cull, “Public diplomacy.”

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tasked with the challenge of juggling these two aspects of the image. This task has been further complicated by the necessity of speaking to two distinct American audiences at the same time; to both sceptical us conservatives as well as sympathetic American liberals. Another complicating factor has been the dual aspects of both Sweden and the usa – internal as well as external – activated in this transatlantic circulation of ideas and images: In the 1970s, the key confrontation in AmericanSwedish relations concerned Swedish as well as us foreign policy. Domestic policies played a less prominent role. By the 1970s, and in marked contrast to earlier Swedish public diplomacy, Palme neither sought to deny nor to nuance the American scripting of Sweden as a ‘socialist’ country – a characterisation he sometimes openly embraced at home, most notably in the election campaigns of 1973 and 1982, respectively.79 As the us criticism of Sweden refocused in the 1980s from Sweden’s stand on international issues to the handling of Swedish domestic problems, these concerns were reversed. Now, American journalists cared less about Swedish neutrality than about the Swedish model, by now firmly coded as socialist both abroad and at home despite its mixed economy. Here, Swedish public diplomacy apparently responded to a deeper set of anxieties at home about the paradoxes of Sweden, the Swedish model and Swedishness – an anxiety which apparently could be to some degree soothed by a measure of auto-exoticisation on the part of public diplomats. The public diplomacy of small states is primarily tasked with capturing attention. Here, conveying a concentrated ‘total image’ and a clear message can naturally be a key advantage. However, strong visions abroad – whether positive or negative, true or false – can also become traps that limit the freedom of movement of the nation’s diplomats. It then becomes the obvious task for public diplomacy to nuance the concentrated image which has begun to live a life of its own by providing a more pluralistic and fragmented narrative. The New Sweden Commemoration was not only an attempt at rejuvenating the Swedish image in the usa by reframing the Swedish model as a free-market and explicitly non-socialist welfare state. Importantly, the New Sweden Commemoration was also an attempt to use the image of Sweden abroad as a tool for domestic policy objectives. Knowing that us views would reverberate in Swedish debates, Prime Minister Carlsson could engage a foreign audience to make important political points at home. Views in the usa were thus relevant in Sweden for two reasons: first, for political usage at home; and second, for attracting business interests and foreign direct investment. Both of these objectives came together in the 1988 Swedish charm offensive, 79

Strand & Resén, “Socialdemokratiska,” 275.

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which served as a kind of ‘Swedish self-portrait’ reflecting internal Swedish aspirations towards change and using the intended American audience to enable introspective self-reflection. On a general level, these objectives may distinguish small state public diplomacy from the goals of great power public diplomacy. Foreign images and selfreflections abroad appear to have played a mutually constitutive role for the small-state domestic identity politics of Sweden, where the importance assigned to foreign interest in the country gradually seems to have outsized the original foreign interest itself. It is in this small-state context that foreign views can indeed become political resources in domestic debates. If seen from this perspective, the slightly obsessive Swedish interest in relatively random ‘sonar pings’ of Sweden and things Swedish in foreign public debate and media becomes politically sagacious and socially relevant.80 Partly due to successful profiling of Sweden as a critic of human rights violations and defender of the rights of small states in global politics, the foreign ‘total image’ of the domestic Swedish model developed into an ideological resource for various political actors at home – partly because of its clarity, its simplicity, and its persistence as guaranteed by the relative distance between Sweden itself and various foreign audiences. This image was also far more stable than the Swedish society it professed to depict. As such, it could serve as a point of fixture for domestic political debate: on the one hand, the Swedish model had evolved into an ‘iron cage’ for representations of Swedish society abroad, as a kind of hyper-reality that sometimes took precedence over the mundane reporting on actual Swedish life, possibly in part due to the perceived lack of internationally newsworthy material from this comparatively calm corner of Earth. On the other, this socio-political model also worked as a particular kind of nation brand, preceeding the professional business of ‘nation branding’ as it is known today. The New Sweden Commemoration was criticised by voices on the left for selling out the welfare state and socialism. Critics saw it as an illegitimate bid to conceptually move Sweden to the right. Interestingly, similar concerns were heard on the right at the height of the ‘years of frost’ of us-Swedish relations in the early 1970s. Conservative critics then claimed that domestic concerns motivated Palme’s criticism of the usa, rather than any desire to affect us wartime policies, in a bid to move Sweden to the left.81 In both cases, the imaging of Sweden abroad was understood as largely deceptive, rather attuned to ‘deflecting’ 80 81

Gustafsson, “Sverigeinformation;” Lundberg, Bilder av Sverige, 14–15. For an influential statement of this thesis, see Bohman, Inrikes utrikespolitik. For a critical analysis, see Bjereld & Demker, Utrikespolitiken som slagfält.

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inner problems and relaying political messages back home than to engage with foreign audiences as such. Traditionally, International Relations analysis of “diversionary foreign policy” has focused upon the use of force as a means of deflecting domestic problems or gaining domestic legitimacy.82 However, we may also consider the use of criticism of foreign agents as a tool of public diplomacy alongside the more traditional goal of attraction.83 If small states indeed have to fight for attention, one way of doing so is simply to make trouble, to raise uncomfortable issues and to make moral judgments where others are sticking to Realpolitik, thus engaging with or awakening global opinion. By singling out specific political problems overseas, such as us aggression in Vietnam or the apartheid regime in South Africa, official Sweden did not only speak its mind and reflect domestic public opinion, but it also made itself attractive at home and abroad. This understanding of public diplomacy as a type of ‘diversionary domestic policy’ differs from most cases of public diplomacy and nation branding which are usually uncontroversial and benign, often bordering on the bland, in their avoidance of any deliberatively provocative moves. Here, the Swedish high-profile public diplomacy of the 1960s and 1970s provides a rather sharp contrast not only to the cases of Finland and the Baltic States analysed elsewhere in this volume, but also to the ‘normalising’ message relayed at the New Sweden Commemoration in the late 1980s. These shifts may indeed reflect domestic political concerns. But the blandness of the late 1980s also resembled the mostly successful Swedish public diplomacy efforts in the usa of the early 1960s – a benign message combining the freedom of capitalist economy and liberal democracy with the security and social care of the welfare state. This attracted the attention of both us conservatives and liberals and caused the first outburst of American antiSwedish sentiment among the former in the early 1960s, due to their view of the welfare state as a theoretical impossibility as it challenged the very roots of their ideological beliefs. Republicans reacted strongly to Swedish domestic policies because of the successful combination of freedom and security through the welfare state that those policies appeared to present. This made it important for us conservatives to attempt to disprove that the Swedes actually managed to achieve what they were claiming to achieve.84 The diverse representations of Sweden in both these cases – Palme’s criticism of the usa and Carlsson’s embrace of free market ideology – were, because of the presence of the globalising media, just as much attuned to affect the 82 Smith, “Diversionary foreign policy.” 83 Jerneck, Kritik som utrikespolitiskt medel. 84 For a discussion of this, see Marklund, “A Swedish Norden,” 263–287.

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national imaginings of Swedish constituents as they were intended to shape the foreign public’s image of Sweden. In the first case, it was a question of situating Sweden as a progressive and solidaristic country in a world troubled by Cold War tension and North–south inequality. The quarrel with the Americans served to strengthen this profile of Sweden abroad and at home. In this way, Palme’s personal and Sweden’s official stance on the Vietnam War underlined how Sweden was more American than America itself – more liberally American, that is.85 Again, Sweden thus became simultaneously attractive and dangerous to us observers, less in its own right, and more as an ‘American mirror,’ by reflecting another possible America. In the second case, the ‘Swedish self-portrait’ as seen in the usa could serve as a mirror for the utopian domestic project of revamping the supposedly stagnating Swedish model of old, into a new vision of an open, efficient and competitive society. In this sense, both these experiences of Swedish public diplomacy directed at us audiences exemplify the way in which public diplomacy can be understood as not only a way of reaching out and engaging with foreign audiences as is traditionally held. On a fundamental level, public diplomacy can also be concerned with providing a particular kind of ‘heterotopia,’ as an ‘other space’ for internal political projections and cultural self-reflections: just as the reflection that you see in the mirror does not exist, yet the mirror is a real object that shapes the way you relate to your own image.86

85

86

A possible parallel could be found in Swedish social scientist Gunnar Myrdal’s 1944 formulation of ‘the American Creed’ as a specifically us moral standard which the discrimination against African-Americans violated. See also siup 1973, 51. Foucault, “Of other spaces, Heterotopias.”

part 3 Post-Cold War: Globalisation and Transnational Markets

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chapter 9

Diplomacy and Diasporas, Self-Perceptions and Representations: Baltic Attempts to Promote Independence, 1989–1991 Una Bergmane

Competing Stories

While the Cold War system rapidly unravelled in Eastern Europe, the spring of 1990 also saw things quickly unfolding inside the ussr, especially in the Baltic Republics of the Union. On 11 March Lithuania became the first Soviet Republic to declare its independence, while Estonia and Latvia declared their intention to start a gradual process towards independence on 30 March and 4 May respectively. Ripe with the promise of momentous geopolitical change, these Baltic evolutions were welcomed with some skepticism in Western Europe. On 25 May, when François Mitterrand met with Mikhail Gorbachev in Moscow, a journalist from the Swiss newspaper Journal de Genève noted that Mitterrand, invited during the joint press conference to comment on the “Baltic question,” remained “very ambivalent” and made two contradictory statements regarding Baltic independence.1 In this situation the Western States were not only trapped between the Baltic claims of independence and their own wish to support Gorbachev, but, as we shall see,658F they also had to deal with two incompatible narratives – the Soviet one and the Estonian/Latvian/Lithuanian one – of what had happened in the summer of 1940.2 In April 1990, about two months before Gorbachev and Mitterrand met in Moscow, the Director of the European division at the French Ministry of Foreign Affairs had already outlined this conundrum in a ten-pages long report devoted to the Soviet and Baltic perceptions of their common past and as yet undefined future. In this very detailed and surprisingly empathic document, 1 “MM. Mitterrand et Gorbatchev en désaccord sur l’Allemagne,” Journal de Genève, 28 May 1991. 2 This ambivalence of supporting both the Baltics and Gorbachev was apparent in the April discussions between Mitterrand and George W. Bush: George Bush Presidential Library (gbpl), The White House, Memorandum of Conversation, subject: meeting with president Mitterrand of France, 19 April 1990.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���� | doi 10.1163/9789004305496_011

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Jacques Blot explained that the conflict in the Baltic Republics originated from two incompatible views on the legitimacy or illegitimacy of Soviet power in Lithuania, Latvia and Estonia.3 According to the Soviets, the Baltic States willingly joined the ussr in 1940, were an integral part of the ussr and thus their claims for independence were shameless attempts at secession.4 Meanwhile, the Baltic version of the story was very different. In 1940, they were occupied and illegally annexed, and so from a legal point of view they had never been part of the ussr; therefore their claims for independence were an attempt at restoring historical justice. The fact that most of European countries as well as the usa and Canada had never recognised the annexation of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania reinforced the Baltic argument.5 Not only did these two narratives determine the dynamics in the Baltic Republics, but they also became an important foreign policy tool: in 1989–1991 the Balts and the Soviets presented these stories to their international interlocutors in order to justify their actions and reactions regarding the possible independence of the Baltic States. In 1999, John Arquilla and David Ronfeldt argued that the conflicts of the future may increasingly be about whose story wins.6 This chapter argues that, as the Baltic/Soviet example shows, already in 1991 the “competition between stories” was an important part of their foreign policy making. The conflict between the Balts and the Soviets in 1989–1991 was, of course, far from being just a debate about history in the presence of foreign diplomats. The fight for or against Baltic independence was fought in the Supreme Soviets, in street demonstrations and referendums, under the Soviet economic blockade and finally on the barricades in January 1991. However, at the international level the questions of image and legitimacy were of crucial importance for the Balts as well as for the Soviets. As far as Gorbachev was concerned, there was a direct link between his possibility of obtaining the financial help that the ussr needed and his capacity to maintain his image as a safeguard of positive change in the Soviet Union. The Baltic Question was one of his weakest points as there was a visible contradiction between the democratisation of the ussr and the refusal to take into account the vindications of the democratically 3 French National Archives (fna), AG 4/CD 242, dossier 4, Direction d’Europe, le directeur Jacques Blot, note a /s: pays baltes: le conflit des deux légitimités, Paris, 3 April 1990. 4 “L’indépendance de la Lituanie: M. Gorbatchev refuse de négocier,” Le Monde, 14 March 1990. 5 On the illegality of the Soviet rule in the Baltic and Western non-recognition policy see: Mälksoo, Illegal Annexation; Hough, “Annexation of the Baltic States”; Ziemele, State Continuity and Nationality; Hiden, Made & Smith, The Baltic Question; L’Hommedieu, “Roosevelt and the Dictators.” 6 Arquilla & Ronfeldt, The Emergence of Noopolitik, 53.

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elected Baltic governments. Thus Gorbachev took his time to delegitimise the Baltic claims and actions, and to insist on the eventual negative implications of their independence.7 In turn, the Balts had to engage in dialogue with the international community in order to promote their side of the story. But there were serious differences between the Baltic and the Soviet situations: the ussr could act on the international scene by using its territorial, economic and military weight, and Gorbachev’s international prestige was merely a complementary tool. For the Balts, on the other hand, the only option was to act through attraction and persuasion. Furthermore, during the years of 1989–1991, the Baltic countries were going through a transition period of gradually recovering their sovereignty, which complicated their communication with foreign publics and governments. This chapter will trace the actors who presented the Baltic independence project to the West in a situation when these states’ official possibilities to represent their nations externally were limited. It will then analyse the main narratives that these actors used to diffuse a positive image of coming Baltic independence. Finally the chapter will examine how the Soviet use of force in Vilnius and Riga contributed to the victory of the ‘Baltic story.’ As this chapter will show, the situation and international status of the Baltic countries in the period between 1989 and 1991 were very specific, due to both internal and international transitions toward full sovereignty. However even in this particular context Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania used the “toolkit” discussed in the introduction: they relied on their Diaspora abroad and despite the limited possibilities of coordinating different actors involved in the promotion of Baltic independence, they tried to project a common, unique image of Baltic Europeanism. The analysis is mostly based on examples of Baltic actions in France and the usa. In 1989–1991 the usa was the main target of Estonian, Latvian and Lithuania attempts to promote their independence project. This was first of all due to the political clout of the us and its international role of superpower, and secondly because a large and active Baltic diaspora lived in the usa. France, in contrast, had no strong historic links with the Baltic States nor did it have large Lithuanian, Latvian or Estonian communities within its national borders. For this reason, Baltic ‘issue framing’ in this country had to be initiated from scratch. Nevertheless, the Lithuanians, Latvians and Estonians did 7 gbpl, National Security Council Files, Rice Files, Baltics Other; 1989–1990, Embassy in Moscow on Kennedy’s meeting with Gorbachev, 31 March 1990; fna, Présidence de la République, Conférence de Presse conjointe de François Mitterrand et de Mikhaïl Gorbatchev, Moscou, 25 May 1990, 5 AG 4/CD 242, dossier 4.

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deploy considerable efforts to gain French support. First of all, this was because they perceived France to be a key player in international relations at the end of the Cold War, and secondly because they saw the establishment of cultural links with France as an important step on their way “back to Europe.”8 My analysis of Baltic actions in France and in the usa is based on documents from Estonian, Latvian and Lithuanian Diplomatic and National Archives, French Diplomatic and National Archives and Archives of George Bush Library as well as interview with Baltic diaspora activists and diplomats. Both Baltic and French /American archives hold letters, statements and declarations made by Baltic governments that reflect the strategies and the discourses that Estonian, Latvian and Lithuanian diaspora and governments used to convince American and French decision makers. Telegrams form French Embassies around Europe reveal reactions of different European states regarding Soviet use of force in the Vilnius and Riga in January 1991. Actors ‘Baltic States’ consists of two concepts. The first word ‘Baltic’ has been the subject of numerous deconstruction attempts. It has often been argued that despite their geographic proximity, the three countries are too different to be gathered under the same ‘Baltic’ label.9 However in this chapter the word ‘Baltic’ is used for two reasons. Firstly, in 1989–1991 the international community as well as the Soviets were dealing with the Baltic Question and did not separate the Lithuanian, Latvian and Estonian issues. Annexed by the ussr in 1940, the three countries were the only Soviet Republics that in the Western perception did not legally belong to the ussr. They were the only ones with experience of statehood within living memory and the first ones to challenge the integrity of the Soviet Union.10 Secondly, in light of their shared history of occupation and the similar challenges they faced in the quest for independence, all three populations showed a considerable degree of solidarity when their leaders were bound to cooperate. In other words, I argue that the external actions of the Estonians, Latvians and Lithuanians in 1989–1991 can be analysed together since their situations in relation to the ussr were similar, they

8 9 10

Interview with Ambassador Malle Talvet-Mustonen, Estonian representative in Paris 1990–1991, Tallinn, 5 March 2010. For the most recent rejection of the concept, see Purs, Baltic Facades. Muiznieks, “The influence of the Baltic popular movements.”

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were similarly perceived in the West, and because their leaders opted for coordination and cooperation. However, while analysing ‘Baltic’ external actions in 1989–1991, it remains necessary to consider whether is correct to use the concept ‘states’ during this period. According to international law, during the Soviet rule the Republic of Estonia, Republic of Lithuania and Republic of Latvia existed de jure.11 However, none of the three was able to exercise sovereignty. Prior to 1990 they had no effective government and no control over their territories and populations. After the victory of the independence movements in the February/March 1990 elections, all three countries were ruled by governments that actively worked towards the restitution of independence, but their room for manouvre was limited. Until the end of August 1991 these governments did not have full control over their territory, populations and means of communication, and their economy was still integrated with the Soviet system. Latvian historians used the poetic term “the twilight of independence” for describing the period of 1939–1940, when Latvia, as well as the two other Baltic States, gradually lost their independence.12 In the period 1989–1991 these states also experienced a similar era of transition, this time of ‘dawn,’ as they slowly re-emerged onto the international stage. This is an important observation for understanding the era of 1989–1991. Since they did not have the full capacity to exercise their sovereignty, Baltic attempts to reach out to the international community should not be seen merely as the foreign policy actions of three small states. Firstly, from a very practical point of view, it should be taken into account that the conditions in which their foreign ministries were working were extremely difficult. Secondly, in such a context, communication with the international community had a particular meaning – the ‘speech act’ itself was an affirmation of sovereignty. As Lennart Meri, Estonian Minister of Foreign Affairs at the time, declared: “We restore contacts around the world. We don’t do this for you, but for us. By restoring contacts, we are restoring Estonia.”13 Under the leadership of Meri, Estonians were the first of the Balts to give an institutional frame to their external action. In 1988, the Estonian Institute was established; officially it was designated to create cultural exchange with foreign countries. Unofficially, it served as a ‘shadow’ Ministry of Foreign Affairs and a training facility for the future diplomats of independent Estonia. In contrast, in Latvia and Lithuania members of the independence movements 11 12 13

Hough, “Annexation of the Baltic States,” 301. Gore & Stranga, Latvija. Meri, “Allocution d’ouverture,” 9.

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created their first contacts with the West during private travels and their communications with diaspora communities. Following the elections in 1990, foreign policy in all three countries was conducted by the respective ministries of foreign affairs. The issues they had to deal with, due to the transitory situation of their states, were not only political but also extremely practical. Lack of experience in diplomacy, lack of funding, and a lack of means of communication all had to be addressed while at the same time trying to convince the West to recognise the independence of the Baltic States. Still seeing the world through the lens of the East–west logic of the Cold War, the Balts reached out to those who they saw as ‘Westerners’; the governments and the publics of the European and North American countries. Their capacity to capture the attention of these target groups, however, was limited by the constraints discussed above. In this situation, important help came from Balts living outside the ussr. These communities became key actors in the process. At the end of the Second World War more than 140 000 Latvians, 75 000 Estonians and 60 000 Lithuanians left their countries.14 They formed a well-organised Baltic diaspora and created numerous associations around the world.15 Well integrated into their new countries, the members of the Baltic diaspora understood Western societies, values, discourses and languages much better than the citizens of the ussr. Thus in the period between 1990–1991 the diaspora provided important help for the new ministries not only in terms of material and practical support but also by helping them to frame the Baltic question in a way that would be appealing to the governments and societies in France, in the usa and elsewhere.16 Furthermore, the Western non-recognition policy had meant that Baltic diplomatic representations had been maintained in Washington, symbolically

14 Kasekamp, A History of the Baltic States, 139. 15 Some of the most important being: the American Latvian Association, the Baltic American Freedom League, the Baltic Appeal to the United Nations, the Baltic World Council, the Estonian-American National Committee, the Joint Baltic National Committee, the Lithuanian-American Republican National Federation, the Lithuanian American Council, the Supreme Committee for the Liberation of Lithuania, and the World Federation of Free Latvians. 16 Interview with Ambassador Ojārs Kalniņš, information coordinator at Latvian Legation in the us (1991), Riga, 30 October 2012; Interview with Ambassador Clyde Kull, Advisor to Estonian Minister of Foreign Affairs (1990–1991), Brussels, 2 April 2014; Interview with Ambassador Aina Nagobads-Abols, Latvian Representative in France (1990–1991), Paris, 27 February 2010.

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acting in the name of the long gone pre-Second World War governments.17 Indeed, in 1940 the usa decided to apply the funding principle of the Stimson doctrine ex injuria jus non oritur (‘law does not arise from injustice’) to the Baltic case, and thus Baltic legations in Washington representing the independent Republics kept their official status all through the Cold War.18 In 1990 and 1991, despite their mixed feelings towards institutions created under Soviet law, the legations took a decision to cooperate with the pro-independence governments in the Tallinn, Riga and Vilnius. In sum, Baltic attempts to reach out to foreign publics to advocate for their independence project were led by many actors: the Estonian Institute; the governments in Riga, Tallinn and Vilnius; Latvians, Estonians, and Lithuanians inside the ussr, as well as their compatriots around the world and the longstanding legations in Washington. These people who engaged themselves in Lithuania’s, Latvia’s and Estonia’s independence cause lived in different countries, had different backgrounds and life experiences. Yet, to a certain extent they all shared a feeling of belonging not only to the Baltic nations but also to the Baltic States proclaimed in 1918. For example, already in 1987 Aivars Jerumanis, Latvian consul in Los Angeles (appointed by the Latvian legation in Washington), stated on the occasion of the 68th anniversary of the proclamation of the Latvian Republic: “the light that was emitted during the years of Latvian independence cannot be extinguished…It will continue to shine as a beacon for every Latvian who yearns to be free.”19 Self-identification as Estonians, Latvians and Lithuanians, as well as citizens of the states that had disappeared from the international stage in 1940, shaped the way the Balts presented their independence project to the West.

Content and Techniques

Jozef Bátora has emphasised that “public diplomacy is more effective when the images and messages that a country uses to promote itself are embedded within both locally and globally attractive values.”20 For the Estonians, Latvians and Lithuanians in 1989–1991, comforming to internationally accepted values was not just an issue of being more or less effective in their public diplomacy, 17 18 19 20

See Kaarel Piirimae’s chapter in this volume. For more on this question, see McHugh & Pacy, Diplomats Without a Country. “We are Latvians and that Sacred Land by the Baltic Sea is Ours,” Baltic Bulletin, March 1988. Bátora, “Public Diplomacy,” 55.

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but a fundamental question of ‘to be or not to be.’ As they had no means to impose themselves on the international community, they had to persuade foreign publics and governments to accept them by explaining how their independence corresponded with the values and interests of Western democracies. During the years of Soviet rule in the Baltics, the diaspora in the usa several times changed its strategy for the framing of the Baltic problem. The first efforts, carried out by Baltic diplomats, who after 1940 stayed in the usa, were focused on the illegality of the annexation of the Baltic States by the ussr.21 Later, in the sixties, a new generation of young Lithuanian, Latvian and Estonian professionals established Baltic Appeal to the United Nations (batun) by making reference to the un Declaration on the Granting of Independence to Colonial Countries and Peoples and demanded the “decolonisation of the Baltic states.”22 After the adoption of the Helsinki Final Act, human rights issues emerged as an important basis for criticism of the Soviet Union not only in the West, but also within the Soviet bloc itself. Thus several Baltic diaspora organisations in the usa developed a strategy to link the question of Baltic independence to human rights and the major political controversies of the time in order to better attract the attention of the American press.23 From 1981 until 1991, the Baltic American Freedom League organised annual human rights Conferences that served as platform not only to voice their concern about human rights in the Baltics, but also to delegitimise the Soviet regime, held responsible for human rights abuses and to propose the independence project as an alternative.24 When it became clear in 1989 that popular movements in the three Baltic States had chosen independence as their main goal, members of the diaspora insisted on the illegality of the Soviet rule argument and voiced their disapproval every time the Baltic States were treated as part of the Soviet Union. A few examples of these actions can be provided. When an atlas including a Soviet map with the three Baltic States inside the ussr borders was published 21 22 23

24

L’Hommedieu, “Exiles and Constituents,” 178. “Activists (batun).” “Report by Baltic Leaders on Human Rights Activities in the Soviet Occupied Baltics,” Baltic Bulletin, May 1984; “The role of human rights in the Helsinki process, Ambassador John D. Scanlan’s address.” Baltic Bulletin, May 1985; “World Federation of Free Latvians asks Reagan for Representation at the May 1985 Human Rights Meeting in Ottawa,” Baltic Bulletin, May 1985. See for example: “Eighth Annual bafl Human Rights Conference,” Baltic Bulletin, June 1989.

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in France, letters of protest were sent to the publishing house.25 In 1984, the Balts sued the Los Angeles Olympic committee when it refused to allow Baltic dance groups to take part in the opening ceremony along with other performers from California’s “ethnic communities.”26 Whenever there was an article treating Estonia, Latvia or Lithuania as Soviet Republics, Baltic activists sent angry letters to the editor of the publication in question.27 batun flooded American and European governments with information about the illegality of Soviet rule in the Baltic States.28 In 1990 and 1991, the Joint Baltic National Committee requested and obtained two meetings with the us President. During these meetings they sought stronger us support for Baltic independence and argued that the Baltic States were “special cases” within the Soviet Union and should as such be treated the same way as Poland, Hungary and Czechoslovakia.29 The fact that in 1989–1991 the Baltic States were actually not in the same situation as Poland, Hungary and Czechoslovakia made their task particularly difficult. While Poland, Hungary and Czechoslovakia were de iure and de facto independent states, Estonia, Latvia and Lithuanian were enclosed within the borders of the ussr. Their independence was not recognised and thus they had no voice in the Westphalian system of sovereign states. Furthermore, their claims for independence and foreign support seemed to go against the main principles of this system: inviolability of territory (of the Soviet Union) and noninterference in internal affairs. Thus the main task of the governments in Riga, Tallinn and Vilnius as well as for the diaspora activists was to persuade the Western world that contrary to what the Soviets were stating, their independence would not challenge these basic rules of the system. The main Baltic argument against Gorbachev’s claim that Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania were preparing for secession was that the illegality of Soviet actions in 1940 that rendered Soviet rule illegal in 1990. As Vytautas Landsbergis, the leader of Lithuanian pro-independence movement Sajudis wrote in his memoirs: “We were invaded and wanted to get free…The ussr was not composed of 15 republics but at most 12. The other three were independent countries that had been invaded.”30 25

Interview with Ambassador Aina Nagobads-Abols, Latvian Representative in France (1990–1991), Paris, 27 February 2010. 26 Telephone interview with Jaak Treiman, Estonian Honorary Consul in Los Angeles, 24 April 2013. 27 Interview with Mari-Ann Kelam, Leading Estonian Diaspora Activist in the usa, Tallinn, 16 July 2013. 28 Hiden, Made & Smith, The Baltic Question, 144. 29 gbpl, National Security Files, Hutching Files Robert Baltic States (2) Memorandum of Conversation, Meeting with Baltic American Leaders, 11 April 1990. 30 Landsbergis, Un peuple sort de prison, 212–213.

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On 11 March 1990, when Lithuania proclaimed its independence it explicitly stated that it was not a new state but the same one that lost its independence in 1940. The same was later done by Latvia and Estonia.31 From this perspective, the Balts were not outlaws trying to penetrate the international system, but rightful members of it, claiming historical justice. As was pointed out by Lennart Meri in Paris in November 1990, “A united and stable Europe is possible only once all European nations are free.”32 He went on to write in the draft of a speech given on the same occasion: We have been asked: why don’t you want to live the way you have lived for the last 50 years?…Why do you want to enter Europe? Join the csce? Join the European parliament?…Ladies and Gentlemen if you can ask this question it means that the Berlin Wall still exists in your hearts.33 This historical reference to the pre-Second World War republics was not just a foreign policy tool used to improve the image of the Baltic States. Constant affirmation of the continuity between the republics proclaimed in 1918 and the ones that were seeking international recognition in 1990–1991 was sought due to the need to feel the reassuring “sense of continuity and order in events”; what Anthony Giddens has called “ontological security.”34 Continuity of the Baltic States was a narrative that helped the Lithuanians, Latvians and Estonians to make sense out of their history and define their place in the world. On 2 October 1990, for example, the three Ministers of Foreign Affairs in a joint statement declared that Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania, as former members of the League of Nations, were bound to the continent of Europe by their culture, heritage and history and thus sought their rightful place in a united Europe.35 31 “Lietuvos Respublikos Aukščiausiosios Tarybos Akto Dėl Lietuvos nepriklausomos valstybės atstatymo” [Supreme Council of the Republic of Lithuania, Act of Restoration of Independence of Lithuania], Vilnius, 11 March 1990, available online: http://www.lrs.lt/ datos/kovo11/aktas.htm; “Latvijas Padomju Sociālistiskās Republikas Augstākās Padomes deklarācija par Latvijas Republikas atjaunošanu” [Supreme Council of the Socialist Soviet Republic of Latvia, Declaration on the Reestablishment of the Independence of the Republic of Latvia], Riga, May 4, 1990, avalable online http://likumi.lv/doc.php?id=75539; fda, Europe 1986–1990, urss 6591, Supreme Council of Estonia, Resolution on the State of relations between the Republic of Estonia and ussr, 30 March 1990. 32 Estonian Diplomatic Archives (eda), Dossier 4134, Declaration de la République d’Estonie, Paris, 19 November 1990. 33 eda, Dossier 4134, Draft of speech by Lennart Meri in French, 1990. 34 Giddens, Modernity and Self-Identity, 36. 35 Lithuanian Diplomatic Archives (lda), esbk Ministru Tarybos Niujorko (90. 10.1–2) susitikimo dokumentai, Statement by the Foreign Ministers of the Baltic States, 2 October 1990.

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This perception of the past as an explanation of the present and defining element of the future was not limited to the emerging political elites in Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania, it also had a deep impact on the societies of the three countries. The opportunity offered by Perestroika and Glasnost to challenge official Soviet history was seized by public intellectuals and human rights activists for rethinking the place of the Baltic nations within the ussr.36 The revelations of Soviet crimes against humanity committed in the Baltics – most notably the mass deportations of 1941 and 1949 – led to the first mass gatherings in the three countries. The first one of these was organised in Riga by Latvian human rights activists on 14 June 1987 to commemorate the deportations of 1941. On 23 August of the same year simultaneous demonstrations occurred in Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania to mark the anniversary of the Molotov-Ribbentrop pact of 1939.37 From 1987 to 1991 the crucial dates of 25 March (deportations of 1949), 14 June, and 23 August were marked by increasingly impressive demonstrations. This reflection on the past had an impact on perceptions of the future: injustice and sufferings under Stalin (and later) led to the rejection of past and future Soviet rule. The commemoration of the dead went hand in hand with the commemoration of the loss of independence in 1940. Starting from 1987 the anniversaries of independence in 1918 were marked by mass gatherings in the capitals of the three Baltic Republics. In this period of reaffirmation of national identity, the Estonians, Latvians and Lithuanians identified themselves as citizens of the pre-Second World War Republics, victims of Russian/ Soviet aggression. The most prominent example of this self-identification was the so-called Citizen Committees, a grassroots movement that gathered registered citizens of the 1918 Republics and their descendants in Estonia and in Latvia. Furthermore, the Russian/Soviet other was seen as opposed to Europe and European values.38 Thus the narrative of a “return to Europe” – the real home of Estonians, Latvians and Lithuanians – became an important part of the movement’s internal discourses as well as external communication. In August 1989 a human chain named the Baltic Way was formed from Tallinn to Vilnius via Riga to mark the 50th Anniversary of the MolotovRibbentrop Pact. On this occasion the Reform Movement of Lithuania (Lietuvos Persitvarkymo Sąjūdis, hereafter Sajudis), the Latvian Popular Front and the Estonian Popular Front for the Support of Perestroika (Rahvarinne Perestroika Toetuseks hereafter Rahvarinne), issued an appeal to the “nations of the

36 Lindpere, Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact. 37 Kasekamp, A History of the Baltic States, 161. 38 Mole, The Baltic States, 166.

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world.”39 The document was drafted by the Rahvarinne, ratified by all three popular movements and then sent by Sajudis to the usa. The New York Times published an excerpt from the document that dealt with the brutality and illegality of the soviet rule, while the Associated Press quoted a passage on the Baltic States and Western memory: The Soviet Union has done everything to remove the republics of Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania from the memory and the map of Europe, from your libraries and textbooks, your sense of justice, your grief and your minds.40 In the us Senate, Senator Jesse Helms drew his colleagues’ attention to the question posed at the end of the appeal: “Have you not noticed our absence?”41 The document reflected all the main arguments that Estonians, Latvians and Lithuanians were deploying at the international level to support their claims for independence. In the first part of the text, the Balts argued that the illegality of the Soviet actions in 1940 made Soviet rule illegal in 1990. Independence in the past was an argument for independence in the future. The document stated that the Balts had stayed faithful to human rights and democracy through the years of Soviet oppression. In the second part, the authors of the appeal explained what the Baltic Way was. According to them, it was the “parliamentary way for the restoration of statehood” and democracy, the way to Europe, “our common home.” It was insisted that the Baltic Way was not “a threat to anybody.” The text was also marked by an effort to make the Western readers feel guilty and responsible for the Baltic situation, and referred to the Soviet presence in the Baltics as a form of colonialism. Thus the text of the 1989 appeal codified the main arguments of the three independence movements. After 1990, the Baltic governments seized every opportunity to emphasise the legal status of their countries in each and every declaration and letter addressed to foreign governments. In the following, I will illustrate this persistence by giving some examples of how Baltic politicians worked to raise awareness for their cause in France during that period.

39 40

41

“Appeal to the Nations of the Word,” Baltic Bulletin, August 1989. “Baltics Call Soviet Annexation a ‘Crime,’ Equate Hitler, Stalin,” The Associated Press, 22 August 1989; “Baltic Citizens Link Hands to Demand Independence,” The New York Times, 24 August 1989. Senator Helms (nc), “The Dark Legacy of Hitler and Stalin in the Baltic,” Congressional Record, 9 September 1989, S20780.

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Convincing the French

In 1989, while preparing for meetings with French officials in Paris, the future President of Estonia Lennart Meri put on paper the main arguments in favour of the Estonian independence. The first one was the illegality of Soviet actions in 1939–1940 and the other was the possibility of obtaining the renewal of Baltic independence without harming or humiliating the Soviet Union.42 In February 1990, when the leader of Sajudis Vytautas Landsbergis wrote a letter to President François Mitterrand to inform him that Lithuania was seeking “its independence and historical justice,” the letter carried symbolic weight by being co-signed by the Foreign Minister of Lithuania’s last government before the Soviet occupation.43 In light of the hesitance of the international community to recognise the reestablishment of Baltic statehood, Lithuanians, Latvians and Estonians restated relentlessly and insistently their historical argument.44 In May 1990, by re-establishing the Baltic Entente of 1934, the three Baltic countries demonstrated their unity in the face of Moscow’s threats.45 In their joint letter to Mikhail Gorbachev, their leaders explained that Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania wanted to recover their independence as all the other countries that had been occupied during the Second World War had done.46 On several occasions – when the Soviets broke off the negotiations with Estonia in August 1990, when the Treaty on the Final Settlement with respect to Germany was signed, and when force was used in Vilnius and Riga in January 1991 – they asked for a “3+4” conference (referring to the three Baltic States plus the four victorious nations of the Second World War – ussr, France, Great Britain and the usa) that would deal with the status of Lithuania, Latvia and Estonia in the 42 43 44

45 46

Private Archive of Ruth Lausma-Luik, Notes of Lennart Meri from 1989. fda, urss (1986 – 1990), Letter from V. Landsbergis et J. Urbsys to F. Mitterrand, 20 February 1990. lda, F3, A3, L2, esbk Ministru Tarybos Niujorko, Statement by the Foreign Ministers of the Baltic States, 2 October 1990; lda, 1990_203_502, Minister of Foreign Affairs of Latvia Janis Jurkans, Appeal to the people of the World, 11 January 1991; eda, Taustamaterjal Prantsusmaa, 1990–1991, 4.1.3.-7, Press statement of Arnold Rüütel, Chairman of the Council of the Republic of Estonia, 29 May 1991; lda, 1991_265_261, Jaak Leiman, Acting Prime Minister of Republic of Estonia, Ivars Godmanis, Prime Minister, Republic of Latvia, Gediminas Vagnorius, Prime Minister of the Republic of Lithuania to the President of the usa, 11 July 1991. lda, Papers of Ivars Godmanis, F 270, A 8, L 48, Declaration on Unity by the Republic of Estonia, the Republic of Latvia and the Republic of Lithuania, Tallinn, 12 May 1990. eda, Taustamaterjal Prantsusmaa, 1990–1991, 4.1.3.-7, Joint letter to Mikhail Gorbachev, Tallinn, 12 May 1990.

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same way that the “2+4” conference (two Germanys and the four victors) dealt with the German Reunification.47 In 1990 and 1991 Baltic governments continually sent letters to various Heads of State either to thank them for their “firm” position on the Baltic legal status or to ask for their opinion on the Baltic issue. This strategy aimed at using the international responses as an argument in negotiations with the Soviets and to ensure that democratic countries would not forget nor change their opinion on the legal status of the Baltic question. For example, in June 1990 the Chairman of the Supreme Council of Estonia and the Estonian Foreign Minister wrote to the French President to thank him for his clear position in favour of the Baltic States.48 As we have seen in the introduction to this chapter, Mitterrand’s stance on the Baltic Question was in fact not at all clear. The idea behind the Estonian action was to claim that Mitterrand was a great supporter of the Baltic countries, knowing that it would be hard for the French President to publicly deny such an assertion. In the same way, a letter sent on 5 November 1990 by the Lithuanian President to Mitterrand can be considered a rather devious attempt to explain to Mitterrand his own actions. In this letter, Vytautas Landsbergis insists that by signing the Franco-Soviet treaty, France has shown “noble and generous support to the struggle of Lithuania for freedom and democracy,” since the treaty recognised the borders of Lithuania.49 Obviously, France had no intention of recognising the borders of Lithuania by signing a treaty of cooperation with the ussr. However, it was difficult for Mitterrand’s administration to send a letter and explain that France did not want to “show noble and generous support” to the struggle of Lithuania for freedom and democracy. In parallel, the Balts were following a strategy – at first sight contradictory – of attempting to dissociate their countries from the Soviet Union without openly opposing Gorbachev. Until January 1991, the Balts had a hard times convincing the West that Gorbachev “might not be as good as the West thought.”50 Unable to do anything to question Gorbachev’s prestige, the Balts tried to explain that their 47

Ibid., Letter from Lennart Meri, Minister of Foreign Affaires of Estonia to Roland Dumas Minister of Foreign Affaires of France, Tallinn, September 20, 1990; fna, 5 AG 4/CD 242, The Government of the Republic of Estonia, Soviet delegation breaks negotiations between Republic of Estonia and the Soviet Union, Tallinn, 7 September 1990. 48 fna, 5 AG 4/CD 242, dossier 1, Président du Conseil Suprême de l’Estonie Arnold Ruutel, Ministre des Affaires Etrangères d’Estonie Lennart Meri au Président de la République Française François Mitterrand, Tallin, 3 June 1991. 49 Landsbergis, Un peuple sort de prison, 435–436. 50 Interview with Mari-Ann Kelam, leading Estonian disapora activist in the usa, Tallinn, 16 July 2013.

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independence project was actually going in the same direction as Gorbachev’s policies. The expression used in their 1989 Appeal to the World, “Europe as the Common Home” made reference to Gorbachev’s own rhetoric. In April 1990 during a meeting with the President of the usa, representatives of the Baltic diaspora explained that “We stand with you in seeking improved East–west relations and bringing democracy to Eastern Europe. But the independence of the Baltic States is not a roadblock to this process.” For them, the Baltic struggles and Gorbachev’s struggle were identical, and they rhetorically asked: “If the Lithuanians fall, what hope is there for Russians?”51 A year later during a meeting with President Mitterrand, Anatolijs Gorbunovs, president of the Latvian Supreme Council, stated that Latvia fully supports Gorbachev’s attempts to democratise the ussr and wished to help him in this process.52 The results of Baltic attempts to make their independence project attractive to the West were limited by their lack of resources and by the ultimate problem of small states, well described by policy advisors Mark Leonard and Andrew Small when analysing the case of Norway: “for large countries like the United States, the uk or China, public diplomacy is mainly focused on changing images and ‘rebranding’ – but Norway’s central public diplomacy problem is that of invisibility.”53 In January 1991, the Balts obtained visibility in a very tragic way, when the ussr tried to break the independence movements by force. Ironically, the Soviet use of force in Vilnius and Riga contributed more to the positive foreign perception of the Baltic drive for independence, than all the Estonian, Latvian and Lithuanian arguments about international law and common values put together.

January 1991: The Beginning of the End

The Soviet use of force in the Baltics and the reasons behind it are still subject to debate between historians but the main facts are the following: on the evening of 12 January 1991 (in the context of the increasing soviet pressure on the Baltic republics) Soviet forces headed to the broadcasting tower in Vilnius.54 After arriving at the building the tanks were faced with several hundreds of 51 52 53 54

gbpl, President records, National Security Council, Hutching, Robert L., Files, Subject files, Baltics States, Meeting with Baltic American Leaders, 11 April 1990, Roosevelt Room. fna, 5 AG 4/ CD 314, dossier 13, Entretien du Président de la République avec M. Gorbunovs Président de la République de Lettonie, 16 May 1991. Leonard and Small, Norwegian Public Diplomacy, 1. See for example: Lasas, “Bloody Sunday”; Knight, “The kgb, Perestroika,” 67–93.

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unarmed civilians who had come to defend it. The tanks started to move through the crowd and the soldiers opened fire. 14 people were killed, 160 more were wounded and the tv tower was taken by force. Early in the morning of 13 January, Rahvarinne, the Popular Front of Latvia and Sajudis called on the citizens of the three republics to defend the freely elected parliaments. During the day thousands of volunteers from the countryside arrived in the capitals. On the night of 13 January barricades were built around key buildings in the three cities. A week passed in fear and uncertainty. People remained at the barricades day and night, taking turns to have some sleep in churches and schools. Soviet troops continued their tactics of harassment without undertaking direct attacks. On 21 January, in an attempt to seize the Latvian Ministry of Interior, the Special Forces of the Soviet Ministry of Internal Affairs (omon) killed 5 people and injured 11. In many respects, the Soviet use of force in Vilnius and Riga was a key moment in the Baltic struggle for independence. It did not itself bring recognition for the cause, but it gave more legitimacy and visibility to Baltic claims. As Kristina Sphor noted, it represented the moral victory of the Balts.55 The Soviet use of force in the Baltics was a huge blow to the legitimacy of Soviet rule and Gorbachev’s prestige. Even though the Soviets chose to attack the Baltic States in January 1991, at the beginning of the Gulf War, the foreign press paid considerable attention to the events that took place in Vilnius and Riga. The reactions of the French and American press were driven by the impression that the use of force in the Baltic region meant a change in Gorbachev’s policies, a step back from reforms, or even the end of the perestroika.56 Prior to 1991 the non-use of force by the Soviet government had been seen as the norm in the West, and Gorbachev’s conforming to it was one of the elements of his positive image in Europe and North America. When this norm was discarded in the Baltics, it seemed that an important change had occurred in the Soviet policies. European and North American governments voiced their outrage and Mikhail Gorbachev later wrote to François Mitterrand that the “climate” created by western reactions to the events in the Baltics reminded him of “the worst moments of the Cold War.”57 55 56

57

Readman, “Between Political Rhetoric,” 25. “A Repeat of Hungary 1956?,” The Washington Post, 15 January 1991; “Faire le ménage dans l’empire éclaté: Budapest 1956,” Quotidien de Paris, 12 January 1991; “The New Old Face of Tyranny,” The New York Times, 14 January 1990; “Suez et Budapest: les conflits croisés de 1956,” Le Monde, 15 January 1990. fna, AG 4/CD 242, dossier 4, Traduction non officielle de la lettre de Mikhaïl Gorbatchev à François Mitterrand, 5 February 1991.

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Following such events, the European Parliament blocked a $1 billion European Community food-aid package to the Soviet Union, Canada suspended its offer of technical assistance and a $150-million line of credit to the Soviet Union and the usa warned his Soviet counterpart that if violence continued to be used, the usa would freeze export and import credit guarantees and commodity credit corporation guarantees.58 Finally and most importantly, for the first time in a number of democracies – such as the Scandinavian countries, Finland, France and Poland – civil society was moved by the events in the Baltic States. Paradoxically, the attempts made by the Balts themselves to explain their independence project by appealing to international law and human rights had much less impact on public opinion than the shock of seeing Gorbachev’s name being connected with tanks attacking civilians. Events in Vilnius and Riga brought back disturbing memories of 1956 and 1968 and made foreign publics question if Gorbachev had not taken the path of his predecessors.59 In the Netherlands and in Slovenia the press announced the end of perestroika and democracy in ussr.60 The same conclusion was reached in the main French newspapers. In the articles entitled “Gorbachev the Bolshevik” (La Croix), “Death blow to the Perestroika” (Le Monde), “Gorbachev has chosen the empire over democratisation” (Le Figaro), the French press argued that the limits of perestroika began were the existence of the empire was in question.61 The New York Times went even further and on 14 January announced “The New World Order was born in Washington on Sept. 11, 1990, and was shot dead in the streets of Vilnius on Jan. 13, 1991.”62 Photos of Soviet tanks crushing Lithuanian civilians gave a new meaning to the Baltic argument about the illegitimacy of the Soviet rule and had a particular 58

59

60 61

62

“Baltic Assaults Lead Europeans to Hold Off Aid,” The New York Times, 23 January 1991; “Ottawa suspends credit to Soviet Union,” The Toronto Star, 22 January 1991; Bush, All the Best, 507–508. fda, Europe (1991–1995), urss 7667, td Prague 50, Situation en Lituanie: réactions en Tchécoslovaquie, 14 January 1990; Ibid., td Budapest 19, Réactions hongroises à l’intervention militaire soviétique en Lituanie, 15 January 1991; “A Repeat of Hungary 1956?,” The Washington Post, 15 January, 1991; “Faire le ménage dans l’empire éclaté: Budapest 1956,” Quotidien de Paris, 12 January 1991; “The New Old Face of Tyranny,” The New York Times, 14 January 1990; “Suez et Budapest: les conflits croisés de 1956,” Le Monde, 15 January 1990. fda, Europe (1991–1995), urss 7667, td, La Haye 24, Objet: évènements en LT - réactions néerlandaises, 17 January 1991. “Gorbatchev le bolchevique!,” La Croix, 15 January 1991; “Lituanie: le tour de vis du Kremlin,” La Croix, 13 January 1991; “Coup de grâce pour la perestroika,” Le Monde, 15 January 1991. “The New World Order Dies,” The New York Times, 15 January 1991.

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impact on those states that felt endangered themselves by Soviet actions, as well as those that felt culturally close to the Balts. Small manifestations, from a few dozens to hundreds of people, took place in Sofia and Oslo. Even more extensive demonstrations were staged in Czechoslovakia, where several thousand people marched in the streets of Prague on 13 and 14 January.63 In Finland, the Baltic question was particularly sensitive because of the discrepancy between public sympathy for the linguistically and culturally close Estonia, and the government’s strategy of keeping a neutral position vis-à-vis “Soviet internal problems.” The demonstrations in Helsinki went on not only in front of the Soviet Embassy but also next to the President’s palace, where people called for his resignation.64 In Sweden, where there was an important Baltic community, smaller demonstrations had already been held in Stockholm for several months, but after the shootings in Vilnius up to 5 000 people assembled, including the Swedish, Latvian and Estonian Ministers of Foreign Affairs.65 Whereas the heads of Latvian and Estonian diplomacy, with the authority to create governments in exile, chose Sweden as the place to stage this function, the Lithuanian Minister headed to Poland, where he was warmly welcomed by the parliament there. It was in Poland where the largest demonstration outside the Soviet Union took place: between 10 000 and 15 000 people protested in Warsaw, Wrocław and Gdansk, marking not only Polish support to the Baltic nations, but also a huge step towards historic reconciliation between Poland and Lithuania.66 In 1991, European and North American reactions towards the use of force in the Baltic were harsher than when force was used in Tbilisi in 1989 or Baku in 1990.67 Thus to a certain extent it can be argued Estonians, Latvians and Lithuanians had succeeded in framing their situation as a special case among the Soviet Republics. Perhaps even the perception that they – unlike Georgia and Azerbaijan – were ‘actually’ European, played a part in prompting the strong foreign reactions. Approximately 7 months after the January events, during the August putsch, most of the Soviet Republics declared their independence. 63

fda, Europe, (1991–1995), urss 7667, td Oslo 16, Lituanie, 14 January 1991; fda, Europe (1991–1995), urss 7667, td Prague 50, Situation en Lituanie: réactions en Tchécoslovaquie, 14 January 1990. 64 fda, Europe (1991–1995) urss 7667, td Helsinki 13, Réaction finlandaise à l’intervention militaire soviétique en Lituanie, 15 January 1991. 65 fda, Europe, 1991–1995, urss 7667, td Stockholm 21, objet: aggravation de la situation en Lituanie: premiers réactions suédoises, 15 January 1991. 66 For more about the historical disputes between Poland and Lithuania, see Chiara Tessaris’ chapter in this volume. 67 Altstadt, Azerbaijani Turks, 224.

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Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania were the only ones to obtain immediate recognition from the international community. Conclusion In the period from 1990 to 1991, when the governments of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania were seeking international support and recognition of their independence, they had to face challenges both material (a lack of financial resources coupled with Soviet control of their territory and means of communication) and non-material (Western confidence in Gorbachev, lack of experience in diplomacy and communication, invisibility). These issues were on the one hand due to the ‘smallness’ of the Baltic countries but on the other they reflected more generally the difficulties of unrecognised states to act on the international stage. In this particular situation, non-state actors such as the Baltic diaspora emerged as important players in the efforts to make the independence project attractive to the West and obtain international recognition. As the governments in Tallinn, Riga and Vilnius were not in a position where they could launch large, well-coordinated campaigns to persuade what they saw as the ‘Western World,’ they had to rely on the support of numerous diaspora organisations abroad and different individuals who came forward to help their kin states. The actions of these various actors were coordinated only on an ad hoc basis, however the examples of their activities in the usa and France show that they were constantly and persistently repeating the same main arguments: the illegality of the annexation of the Baltic States by the ussr in 1940 meant the illegality of the Soviet rule in 1990. They appealed to international law, historical justice and the unity of Europe and affirmed their European identity and commitment to democracy and human rights. The public identification of the Baltic independence project with the values of the Western world was not only an attempt to gain Western support but also an attempt to define the identity of Estonians, Latvians and Lithuanians and to project the Baltic self-image to the outside world. In this context the lines between the internal dynamics of imagining community and external action of imaging the nation, and between state and non-state actors, became blurred. However, even with the diaspora’s help, Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania were far from being influential enough to convince the international community to recognise their independence. While American and French decision makers agreed with the idea that the ussr in 1940 illegally annexed the Baltic States

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and that eventually they should become independent, they were still hesitant to act against Gorbachev – the man who in their eyes was the guarantor of positive change in the ussr.68 Ironically, the Soviet use of force in Vilnius and Riga ultimately contributed more to the positive foreign perception of the Baltic drive for independence, than all the arguments about international law and common values. The use of force in the Lithuania and Latvia made the American and French press as well as their governments question Gorbachev’s capability and/or willingness to carry on with Perestroika. Gorbachev’s resulting loss of credibility contributed to the Baltic cause but was not enough to obtain independence and win against the first and last Soviet President. Only after Gorbachev was considerably weakened by the failed coup d’état in August by Boris Yeltsin, did the international community recognise the independence of the Baltic States. The fact that Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania were the only Soviet republics to obtain this recognition already in late August/early September makes it possible to argue that the three Baltic States had managed to obtain what they wanted: to be seen as a ‘special case’ by the international community.

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gbpl, The White House, Memorandum of Conversation, subject: meeting with president Mitterrand of France, 19 April 1990.

chapter 10

Walking in Singing: Brand Estonia, the Eurovision Song Contest and Estonia’s Self-Proclaimed Return to Europe, 2001–2002 Paul Jordan Introduction Following independence in 1991, the Estonian government embarked on a process of nation and state building which took place within the institutional and rhetorical specificities of ‘returning’ to Europe. For Estonia, and other newly sovereign countries to emerge from the ruins of the Soviet Union, the notion of returning to Europe represented a clean break with the communist past and the beginning of membership of long-standing European institutions and frameworks.1 The return to Europe discourse was not only aimed towards the practical long-term goal of joining the European Union, it also accompanied the re-direction of trade flows away from the former Soviet Union towards Western Europe. Ultimately, it was perceived by the Estonian government at the time that this was the most stable way of guaranteeing security and sustainable development for the country.2 In other words, the way in which Estonia was being imaged abroad during this era was intimately linked to the way it was being re-imagined at home. It is the two-way nature of the relationship between these domestic and international processes of representing Estonia which this chapter concerns itself with. The particular geopolitical and economic context of post-communism in which Estonian independence was restored, made the government especially keen to project and build its image on the world stage. It did this by launching a nation branding campaign in 2001, Brand Estonia, in order to craft a specific image of the country in the run-up to eu accession negotiations, and to capitalise on the publicity gained by staging the Eurovision Song Contest (esc) in Tallinn in 2002.

1 See Smith, The Return to Europe as well as Eglitis, Imagining the Nation, and Una Bergmane’s chapter in this volume. 2 Rüütel, Estonia, 197.

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Nation branding, the phenomenon by which governments engage in selfconscious activities aimed at producing a certain image of the nation state, can be understood as a commercial practice which has emerged since the end of the Cold War as a means for a nation state to redefine and reposition itself within the master narrative of globalisation.3 Most typically, nation branding is used to promote tourism, foreign investment and boost exports.4 It essentially seeks to communicate a nation’s policies and culture to an international audience, and can be termed the commercial face of international diplomacy. In much of the current literature on nation branding, states and nations are viewed as similar to goods which can have a brand attached to them.5 As nation branding strategist Simon Anholt argues, If the development of exported brands is supported and encouraged by government, and written as a key component into a consistent, imaginative and well-managed national brand strategy, it can make a real difference to the country’s long-term prospects.6 I take issue with this since, in the case of the nation (as a political community and social entity), questions of power such as who decides/purports to speak on behalf of the nation are brought into focus. How does this fit in with the notion of popular sovereignty supposedly at the heart of the national project? Based on a comprehensive set of interviews, along with an analysis of published sources, this chapter seeks to explore the problematic relationship between these processes of nation branding and nation building in Estonia by analysing the perspectives from both ‘above’ and ‘below.’7 The first perspective addresses the viewpoints of political figures, opinion leaders, and individuals involved with Brand Estonia and the esc in order to ascertain 3 Bolin & Ståhlberg, “Between Community and Commodity;” Jansen, “Designer Nations.” 4 Dinnie, Nation Branding, 7. 5 For recent critical literature on nation branding more generally see Bolin and Ståhlberg, “Between Community and Commodity;” Kaneva, Branding Post-Communist Nations; Aronczyk, Branding the Nation; Jordan, The Modern Fairy Tale. 6 Anholt, Brand New Justice, 11. 7 Interviews were carried out in Estonia between 2007 and 2008 as part of fieldwork for my doctoral research. The so-called elite level interviews included key politicians, media representatives and opinion leaders directly involved with both Brand Estonia and the esc. The public level respondents were drawn from a random sample and provide a snapshot of views of a specific subject at a specific point in time. Due to the sensitive nature of some of the topics discussed, only first names have been provided for public respondents. For more information on the original research design see Jordan, “The Eurovision Song Contest.”

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what visions they propagated of the national political community and the nation state. However, this is only one part of the story. Much of the recent literature on issues of nationhood and nationalism in the post-Soviet region has stressed the need to examine issues at the ‘ordinary’ level too. Rogers Brubaker, in his work on Transylvania, argues that a perspective from ‘below’ is needed if we are to truly understand the nature of identity processes in these countries.8 This is why the chapter also provides examples of popular perceptions of the Estonian branding campaign. In the Estonian case we have a country with diverse populations that hold differing understandings of national identity and recent history, and where attempts to build national solidarity and the launch of Brand Estonia were orchestrated simultaneously. This is why it is vital that the perspective both from above and from below be brought together. I argue that the dual processes of re-imagining and re-imaging Estonia created a tension between political figures such as Prime Minister Mart Laar and President Lennart Meri, who were on the one hand keen to ensure ethnic Estonian dominance in the political sphere, whilst on the other sought to integrate Estonia with Europe by emphasing respect and tolerance towards minorities. There was, as we shall see, a paradox between imaging the nation as liberal-democratic – in terms of economic policies and ensuring the rights of ethnic minorities – and imagining an independent Estonia that was staunchly in the hands of ‘real’, meaning ethnic, Estonians. Branding a nation is thus inevitably a more fraught activity compared with the branding of commercial goods, especially so when the brand as such is a work-in-progress.

Brand Estonia in the Context of the Return to Europe

Nation branding is dependent on certain political discourses and in the Estonian case, the development and launch of Brand Estonia coincided with a wider process of nation and state building in a post-Soviet context. The notion of returning to Europe reinforced the principle that the country was making a clean break from the Soviet past. The return to Europe discourse not only signalled the highly concrete political intention of joining the European Union, it was also symbolic; the ultimate recognition of belonging to a European family.9 In its quest for eu membership, Estonia set out on a course to prove its so-called “European credentials” a strategy that was common among many post-communist, eu-aspirant 8 Brubaker, Nationalist Politics, 9. 9 See Eglitis, Imagining The Nation.

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nations.10 Buoyed by the attention the country was receiving as a result of thorough-going economic reforms, Prime Minister Laar began to actively court global attention in an attempt to re-image and bolster Estonia’s reputation in the world.11 Using money from a World Bank loan the Estonian government bought a supplement in Newsweek magazine in 1993. The headline bore the slogan “Estonia: The Little Country That Could” which represented the challenges Estonia had faced and the progress it had made against the odds, cultivating an image of Estonia as an economic trailblazer. In 1997 Estonia was invited to join eu accession talks, ahead of neighbouring Latvia and Lithuania. It is noteworthy that it was at this point that the term ‘Nordic’ came to be used to describe Estonia by members of the political elite. In particular Laar, a neo-liberal, fiercely anticommunist, Estonian nationalist, played a pivotal role moving Estonia away from its Soviet past by constructing an image of Estonia as Nordic. “Estonia is like Finland, a Nordic country since they were similar geographically, linguistically and culturally and in terms of their recent history.”12 The rejection of the Soviet past was consistent with the Estonian discourse that the Soviet period was illegal and represented an artificial separation of the country from its western European neighbours. Closely associated with this rejection was the othering of the Russian speaking minority, which formed a central part of early nation building practices in Estonia. As early as 1989, Estonian politician Tiit Maade was quoted as saying that Russian people were “untamed and wild and tended to spread like a blob over every territory they can find.”13 Such language was meant to invoke an image of Estonia as more civilized in comparison to ‘barbarian Russians.’ Effectively by othering the Soviet past, Estonian politicians were also othering the presence of Russian speakers living in the country. As Laar later explained: It was especially important to make such people [Russian speakers] face the reality. It was essential for them to understand that the Soviet Union was gone forever and that they were living in an independent country.14 During Soviet rule the demographics of Estonia changed dramatically. In 1945 ethnic Estonians constituted 94 % of the population. However as a result of 10 11

Lauristin, “Re-visiting;” Ociepka & Ryniejska, Public Diplomacy. On the neoliberal economic policies of Estonia during this period, see Jansen, “Designer nations” 12 Laar, Estonia, 58. 13 Ibid., 107. 14 Ibid., 296.

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increasing immigration of Russian speakers into Estonia from other parts of the Soviet Union, the share of ethnic Estonians had fallen to 61 % by 1989.15 This led to polarisation in Estonian society and growing resentment amongst ethnic Estonians, many of whom claimed that the nation was under threat.16 eu accession meant that the issue of the Russian minority in Estonia came to the foreground of political debate. According to Marju Lauristin, the Russian minority did not feature at all in the considerations of the Estonian government during the early 1990s with no official policy or statement issued between 1992 and 1996.17 By the millennium, this had changed with the implementation of the Integration Programme of Estonian Society 2000–2007 in March 2000. The return to Europe discourse forced the Estonian government to provide some concessions to the Russian speaking minority in return for wider European integration. This can be seen in the fact that the original terms of the Law on Aliens were significantly relaxed. Furthermore, in 1998, it was ruled that children born after 1991 in Estonia to non-citizens were to be given automatic Estonian citizenship. Thus, the coalition government which passed the integration programme in 1998 was the same government which introduced restrictive citizenship laws in the early half of the decade. The notion of returning to Europe clearly forced the Estonian government to walk a tightrope between national assertion (i.e. Estonian-led state building processes), on the one hand, and the demands of European integration on the other. Whilst Estonia arguably did make great strides in terms of economic reform and navigating the various power structures of Europe, as exemplified by the early invitation to join eu accession negotiations in 1997, the country still remained relatively unknown in Europe and the world at large. It was in this context that Enterprise Estonia, a government agency responsible for promoting Estonian interests overseas, launched the Brand Estonia campaign with the slogan, Welcome to Estonia: Positively Transforming, to capitalise on the publicity that Estonia garnered from hosting the esc in 2002 in the run-up to eu accession talks.

Dave Benton: A Model Estonian

In May 2001, Estonia won the esc with the English language song Everybody, performed by ethnic Estonian Tanel Padar and Aruban immigrant Dave 15 Smith, Estonia: Independence, xxiii. 16 Smith, The Return to Europe, xi. 17 Lauristin & Heidmets, Challenge, 22.

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Benton. Dave Benton is an interesting case in point, because he is to date the only black person to win the esc. It is also noteworthy that he represented Estonia, which like many countries in Eastern Europe, does not have an established black community. Benton and Padar also had backing singers and dancers, 2xl, two of whom were ethnic Russian speakers. The Estonian Eurovision entry in 2001 can therefore be seen as a representation of multiculturalism to a European public. However, the discourses surrounding Dave Benton were paradoxical. At the same time that he was held up as a symbol of Estonian multiculturalism, groups representing the interests of Russian speakers in Estonia complained that they were being discriminated against.18 Considering the ongoing move towards eu accession, Dave Benton could be held up as a perfect symbol for Estonia’s integration model at the time. Integration and multiculturalism were considered essential European values and it could be argued that Benton embodied both of them. He was a foreign national who moved to Estonia, learned the language, and was consequentially accepted into society. By belonging to an ethnic minority, he could further be held up as representing Estonia’s multicultural credentials, useful at a time when the Estonian government were coming under increasing pressure to extend citizenship to its stateless persons, the majority of which were Russian speakers. This opportunity was not lost on Estonian politicians. Signe Kivi who was the Minister of Culture from 1999 until 2002 stated that she was proud that Benton represented Estonia and that there were no issues regarding public attitudes towards him: I was proud when we won – it is a huge event for anyone to win. I liked the fact that we had a white Estonian and a black Estonian resident. It supported the opinion of Estonia being liberal and friendly. It was a good image to show Estonia’s multiculturalism…There was no issue with Dave’s colour.19 Dave Benton himself emphasised that he had tried to learn Estonian as soon as he arrived in the country. In this way he directly reflected the dominant opinion of the Estonian political establishment, which was that language was the key to integration in the country and that those who did not speak Estonian did so out of choice: I had to integrate here. I moved here to stay, to live…you have to speak Estonian…I speak it with my children…I started to speak in my second 18 Jordan, The Modern Fairy Tale, 80. 19 Signe Kivi, Interview, Tallinn, 26 November 2007.

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week of being here…there are Russians here for ten years who still don’t speak it, they still don’t know it.20 Benton’s comments regarding Russians suggest how he agreed with the opinion of Estonian politicians who believe many Russian speakers simply did not make the effort to learn Estonian. Overall then, Benton’s victory and the subsequent national and international attention that he received could be used by the Estonian government to support its political agenda at the time. Benton provided a timely embodiment of the message that Estonia was a liberal, multicultural country more than fit to join the eu. Not only that, but Benton also seemed to be willing to send the same message to the Russian speaking population as the government was: mastering Estonian was required for anybody who wanted to be accepted into Estonian society. Eurovision gave me a boost in the eyes of the Estonian people…you start using more and more the norms of the country. You can’t ask them to change their norms of culture to suit yours, you have to change yours to suit theirs…my opinion is that you [Estonians] have all the rights, it’s your own country.21 Benton’s reference to ethnic Estonian ownership of the country is telling. Despite the fact that many Russian speakers had been born and raised in Estonia and are Estonian citizens, Benton clearly did not consider them Estonians. His views illustrate how othering continued to be used against those who were, in theory at least, full citizens of the political community. In the eyes of the government, David Benton’s victory in 2001 at the esc clearly resulted in a fortuitous occasion to promote a particular political agenda by grabbing positive international media attention through pop cultural events. This combination was to be strategically and ambitiously used again the following year, when – in accordance with the rules of the competition – Estonia by dint of having won in 2001 took on the role of hosting the esc in 2002.

The Eurovision Song Contest: A Platform for Nation Branding

The potential of Benton’s victory in 2001 was immediately seized upon by Prime Minister Laar, who proclaimed to a jubilant crowd waiting to welcome the victorious team back to Tallinn “We demolished the Russian empire by 20 21

Dave Benton, Interview, Tallinn, 15 November 2007. Dave Benton, Interview, Tallinn, 15 November 2007.

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singing; now we are not knocking on the door of Europe but will simply walk in singing.”22 Immediately after Estonia won, Laar was reported to have said “now the name Estonia will be on everyone’s lips.”23 Laar saw the opportunity to use the media attention that would follow from hosting the esc to launch a full-scale campaign to re-brand Estonia in the eyes of the European public. Using the esc to promote the image of the host country was in itself nothing new. The competition allows the host countries the opportunity to showcase themselves, pioneer new broadcasting techniques and present a positive international image of the nation state to a global audience.24 Thus it was hardly surprising that Laar made the explicit link between the image of Estonia and eu accession when it came to staging of the esc. Estonian officials had to confirm in June 2001 by the latest whether Estonia would be staging the event in Tallinn in 2002. Given that the Western European press had already reported that Estonia was “too poor to host Eurovision,” there was pressure on Estonian Television on to ensure that the event was successfully staged.25 Failure to host the event would have clearly have been damaging to Estonia’s international standing, cultivating an image of Estonia as a “Former Soviet republic” rather than a “future eu member,” or as Göran Bolin suggests, “a poor Eastern relative” of the European Broadcasting Union.26 It is with this background that the preparations for the 2002 esc began. Estonian Television not only had to prove that it was capable of producing a slick international television show but also had to do this against a backdrop of uncertainty in terms of technical expertise and infrastructure and in front of the gaze of the international media. A significant part of the problem was solved when Swedish national broadcaster svt stepped in to provide technical support for the broadcast, a move which was portrayed as Nordic development assistance in the Estonian press.27 Closer analysis of the content of esc 2002 provides a unique insight into both the construction of Estonian national identity and the self-image of the country, as well as the exclusion of the ‘other’, namely Russia and the Soviet past. The theme chosen by Estonian Television for the 2002 esc was “the modern fairy tale” which provides an interesting point for analysis. The fairy tale, a 22 “‘Everybody’ eurotriumf!” Õhtuleht, 14 May 2001. 23 “Tallinn’s Euro Vision,” The Observer, 28 April 2002. 24 Jordan, The Modern Fairy Tale, 62. 25 “Estonia ‘too poor’ to host Eurovision,” The Telegraph, 27 May 2001. 26 Bolin, “Visions of Europe.” 27 Jordan, The Modern Fairy Tale, 90. For more about Swedish and Nordic assistance to the Baltics, see Kazimierz Musiał’s chapter in this volume.

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distinctly European construction, served two purposes in Estonia’s case; to present Estonia as European and also to other the Soviet past through the continuous reinforcement of Estonia’s so-called happy ending.28 The use of the fairy tale theme at the esc links in with nationalist discourses which portray nations as primordial, where historical and national actors have awoken from periods of repression – Soviet rule in the Estonian case – to realise their destiny. Moreover it is interesting that the more traditional narrative of nationhood was wedded to a more future-oriented discourse of economic dynamism in Estonia through both the esc and Brand Estonia. Given that the period from 1991 can be characterised as that of a return to normalcy, to quote Daina Eglitis, any reference to the past would inevitably have invited discussions concerning Soviet rule, something which Estonian politicians had strived to move away from since independence.29 The modern fairy tale theme then, was entirely reflective and representative of the wider historical and political processes going on in the country. It is noteworthy that whilst Estonian politicians were articulating discourses of multiculturalism in the run-up to eu accession through the liberalisation of restrictive citizenship laws, there was absolutely no representation of multiculturalism in the esc broadcast itself. Mention of this would undoubtedly have needed to address the Russian speaking minority. Furthermore the clips which were chosen featured diverse regions of Estonia and yet Narva, the third largest city in Estonia, with a majority Russian speaking population, was conspicuously absent. Specific mention of the fairy tale theme was also made in the official programme booklet for the 2002 contest: If Estonia were a fairy tale, it could perhaps be likened to Sleeping Beauty. Having awoken from the ice cold slumbers of Soviet Rule, Estonia today is a bold, young country, vibrant with creative energy and eager to take its place in Europe.30 Could Russian speakers readily identify with a programme which consistently emphasised Estonia’s so-called happy ending or more specifically, the triumph of good over bad, in the fairy tale theme? None of the Russian speakers interviewed for this work had strong feelings on the fairy-tale theme, while ethnic Estonians readily identified with it, which in itself is telling.

28 Quentel, “Translations,” 97. 29 Eglitis, Imagining the Nation, 8. 30 Vilbre, Official Programme, 12.

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I thought the show was impressive, Estonia looked good but I am very curious why they did not show anything of Narva in those clips. We are the third city. They showed Tallinn, ok I understand and Tartu too but why not us? It’s a border town, an interesting place for people to see I think. They showed nature and forests but not my hometown.31 For me it is better to say that I think I am Estonian-Russian. It means that I am a Russian speaker who lives in Estonia…I can say that if we win something it’s my victory too. A good example was the year 2006 when we won some gold medals in the Winter Olympic Games. I heard our Prime Minister on the radio say that he is proud about Estonians and all Estonians can celebrate. He did not use the phrase “Estonian people” so when I heard this I understood that I am not welcome to understand it actually in his point of view [sic] I remember how it [Eurovision] was presented, our country, [Estonia] they really did not mention national minorities but I am not sure if it was a good place to do that…I was very proud about my country…People always know that I am Russian because I look like a Russian person, I have dark hair and my skin is a little bit different from Estonians. When I use Estonian language I speak with an accent which always gives some information about my origin. I cannot say that I was discriminated because of this.32 The second respondent cited above, Dima, an Estonian citizen who spoke fluent Estonian, was on paper officially integrated into Estonian society. However, his testimony reveals that deeper divisions remain despite his affiliation with Estonia. Here, he is talking about Estonia but his interview response suggests that his difference, in this case his typical Russian features, are seen by others and, as such, he is sensitive to semantics; “Estonians” versus “Estonian people.” Both Dima’s and Dimitry’s testimonies show that the situation of the Russian speaking minority in Estonia was more complicated than the multicultural discourse surrounding Dave Benton the previous year had suggested. Integration, it would seem, was not merely a question of learning the language. The content of the opening sequence and the short video clips, or ‘postcards’, shown between each national entry during the esc, underscored this fact. Reflecting the fairy tale theme, the postcards resembled tourist advertising campaigns; promoting scenery, cityscapes and other places of interest for the potential visitor, and offering representations of an essentialised national heritage. Each clip told the story of a fairy tale but with a modern Estonian 31 32

Dmitry, Interview, Narva, 22 November 2007. Dima, Interview, Tallinn, 27 November 2007.

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twist, towards the end of the film a slogan was shown on-screen which related to the theme of the postcard in question. The intended message of these clips reflected the narratives of Brand Estonia and rhetoric of Estonian politicians: that Estonia was modern, positively transforming and Nordic with a twist. For example the Estonian sauna was featured directly before the Finnish entry, serving to promote Estonia as the home of the sauna whilst at the same time aligning the country closely to Finland and the Nordic sphere. More pointedly, however, the clip screened directly before the Estonian entry told the story of Sleeping Beauty. Rather controversially the clip broadcast before the Russian entry was entitled Freedom. This particular film told the story of a goldfish in captivity, a modern take on Alexander Pushkin’s fairy tale. The man in the clip feels compelled to release the fish as the slogan “Freedom” appears immediately before that of the Russian flag. When questioned about this, Juhan Paadam, Executive Producer of the 2002 esc stated that it was a deliberate decision to screen that particular image at that particular time.33 The 2002 esc afforded the Estonian government a platform to directly influence foreign images of the country, on its own terms, for the first time since independence. The images chosen to portray Estonia served to distance the country from its past and present it as a modern European nation. In doing so, Estonian Television effectively portrayed Russian speakers as villains, a reflection of the wider political context in which Estonian politicians were operating. The esc then, was a large-scale pop cultural event that was strategically used to project a particular image of Estonia abroad, while also sending clear messages to the domestic public about what did and did not constitute real Estonia. All this was part of a wider, ambitious campaign to brand the country, as I will be discussing next.

Welcome to Estonia: Positively Transforming

Brand Estonia was commissioned by Enterprise Estonia in 2001 in order to capitalise on Estonia hosting the 2002 esc. The campaign had the aims of achieving greater direct foreign investment in Estonia, expanding Estonia’s tourist base beyond Scandinavia and also broadening the scope for Estonia’s export market.34 Enterprise Estonia commissioned uk-based consultants Interbrand to conduct a six month study in order to ascertain the strength of 33 Jordan, “The Eurovision Song Contest,” 134. 34 Dinne, Nation Branding, 233.

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Estonia’s image abroad at that time and what the essence of the nation branding campaign should be. The study found that many respondents considered the ‘Baltic’ regional grouping for Estonia to be “limiting” and “potentially limiting” and that understanding Estonia as a Nordic country would be more fitting “temperamentally and geographically.”35 In particular, the negative description of the term ‘Baltic’ corresponded to the rhetoric of politicians such as Meri, Laar and Toomas Hendrik Ilves who spoke frequently of Estonia as a Nordic country in the run-up to eu accession talks. Estonia’s “brand essence” was captured in two words – “Positively transforming” – which were intended to highlight the post-Soviet transition in Estonia, described as “revolutionary, positive and welcome change against all odds.”36 “Positively transforming” therefore connected what was going on inside Estonia to the outside world, to those being targeted and encouraged to invest in Estonia. Alongside the slogan, a logo was also devised, “Welcome to Estonia,” in the shape of the country itself. A group of brand narratives were also developed to articulate the positive transformation that Estonia had undergone.37 The first, “a fresh perspective,” highlighted Estonia’s wide opportunities to the investor.38 The second narrative presented Estonians as having a “radical, reforming and transforming attitude.” The third promoted Estonia as having “a Nordic temperament and environment.” Crucially this section boldly stated that Estonia “has always been part of the web of Northern Europe…an accident of history links us in the minds of most people with the East instead of the West.”39 Focusing on the Nordic influence on Estonia not only distanced Estonia from the Soviet past but also from Baltic regionalism in the run-up to eu accession. The almost dismissive tone of the narrative presents Soviet rule as a mere footnote in Estonian history, which reflected the attitudes of the government at the time. The fourth and penultimate narrative defined Estonia as “a resourceful self-starter by nature,” an attractive place for overseas businesses to invest. The final narrative was entitled “A European society” and presented Estonia as a country juxtaposed between East and West with a “deep heritage rooted in European tradition,” therefore offering Estonia’s geopolitical position as an advantage. It is worth noting that the “Eastern” character of Estonia was never expanded upon and yet the Nordic/Western attributes of Estonia were heavily emphasised throughout the campaign. Each 35 Enterprise Estonia, Estonian Style, 65. 36 Dinnie, Nation Branding, 233. 37 Ibid. 38 Enterprise Estonia, Estonian Style, 65. 39 Enterprise Estonia, Estonian Style.

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of these narratives was then translated into verbal and visual branding. Posters featuring the Welcome to Estonia logo and “Positively Transforming” slogan appeared on billboards abroad, at airports with the logo being added to the side of Estonian Air aircraft as well as on t-shirts and other merchandising. In the introductory chapter of the Brand Estonia report, the notion of Estonia as a Nordic nation was reinforced further.. The report emphasised that the choice of images to represent Estonia were deliberately designed to capture the brand essence of Estonia as Nordic: “All photographs capture the feeling of Estonia as a country with a powerful and charismatic personality, essentially, Nordic with a twist.”40 The choice of colours was also deliberate, since “this is another way of saying that Estonia shares a similar pastel-centred colour palette with our Nordic neighbours.”41 The Brand Estonia report also included a section titled “What they think of us” which included images based on the results of research conducted by Interbrand in order to gain an insight into Estonia’s international image, which in turn, informed the content of Brand Estonia. Images of Lenin, heavy polluting industry and a country with an antiquated workforce featured heavily; exactly the sort of images that Estonian politicians had been trying to dispel since independence. The Brand Estonia campaign can therefore be seen as a project which was a part of the return to Europe process. It distanced Estonia from its Soviet past by presenting the country as Nordic.

The Contested Business of Branding

Brand Estonia was heavily criticised in the press and by the Estonian public when it was launched in 2002.42 In particular, controversy centred on the 13.31 million kroon cost of the campaign as well as the use of a uk-based company, Interbrand.43 An analysis of the views of some members of the Estonian public provide not only an interesting insight into how Brand Estonia was received internally but also highlights some of the more salient narratives of national identity in a post-Soviet context. Public level respondents widely criticised the campaign and in particular the logo, “Welcome to Estonia.” Many of those interviewed commented upon the typeface of the logo, stating that it resembled

40 Ibid. 41 Ibid. 42 Jordan, “The Eurovision Song Contest,” 83. 43 Ibid., 86.

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something from the 1970s which was at odds with their understanding Estonia as a forward-looking Nordic country: What does it [the logo] actually mean? It doesn’t make you think about anything. Words that you don’t really associate with anything. It reminds me of adverts from years ago…embarrassing.44 It also appears that many respondents did not believe the campaign to be value for money. “It was a total waste of money,” one respondent opined, “They [Interbrand] got a lot of money and they came up with a stupid logo.”45 Another explained: I thought it was garbage…the company in England saw them coming really. They just did a half-assed job of it and charged full prices. It was the tax payer who paid of course.46 Many respondents among the public had the impression that the campaign simply ceased and had no follow-up after 2002. This further consolidated the view that the project had not worked and was a waste of resources. However not all respondents were so dismissive in their approach. Whilst many continued to express dissatisfaction with Brand Estonia, there were some who believed that there was a genuine need to promote the country. Nobody can argue that Estonia didn’t need a campaign. The question is whether the campaign was properly done, whether it was effective enough or appropriate for the task at hand.47 Clear divisions emerged between the often very critical public, and the political and economic elite, with politicians such as Mart Laar, Signe Kivi, the then Minister of Culture, and Evelin Ilves, Project Manager of Brand Estonia (and later First Lady of Estonia) all voicing their support for the initiative.48 Perhaps unsurprisingly, Laar blamed his successors for any failure associated with Brand Estonia. “The government after me cancelled this promotion campaign. This was a bad mistake…it needed to continue.”49 He conceded that people 44 45 46 47 48 49

Riina, Interview, Tallinn, 08 April 2008. Margit, Interview, Tallinn 17 November 2007. Maimu, Interview, Tallinn, 08 April 2008. Meelis, Interview, Tallinn, 08 April 2008. Jordan, “The Eurovision Song Contest,” 87. Mart Laar, Interview, Tallinn, 12 November 2007.

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viewed it as a waste of money but did not offer evidence of any counter arguments he might have launched against the critics at the time: When you promote your country, the people can have very different opinions…the government must have the courage to do unpopular decisions even knowing the campaigns will not bring a lot of popularity at home…it was seen as a waste of money and when you are a politician you want to take popular decisions…the programme for promoting a country is a long lasting process…you must invest for years and years and decades and decades.50 Media criticism of Brand Estonia was leveled rather unsurprisingly at the project manager for the campaign, Evelin Ilves, who effectively became the public face of the initiative in Estonia. Like Laar, she deflected any apparent failure of the campaign, even going so far as to suggest that the Estonian public simply did not understand the concept of branding. Lots of people didn’t like it; they said it was strange and not something Estonian. I think the problem was the basic lack of knowledge. People just did not know what is marketing, branding, how do these things work? It was something which was quite new for ordinary people and politicians as well…when we introduced our project…it was so hard to explain what is branding, why we need it, how it works.51 Signe Kivi echoed the rhetoric of both Laar and Ilves and stated that she believed the campaign was not given a chance since the media focused on the price tag which in turn influenced public opinion. It was widely criticised as the budget was large and many people saw it as a waste and this view was promoted in the media. However I think it was a very important campaign and I was pleased with it. …It was important to start something professional to promote Estonia since we were so unknown in the world…In my view it was not a waste of money as it was based on solid research and I just don’t think it was given a chance to succeed.52 Further analysis of these interviews demonstrates that the Estonian politicians bought into the argument of branding consultants such as Wally Olins and 50 Ibid. 51 Evelin Ilves, Interview, Tallinn, 20 November 2007. 52 Signe Kivi, Interview, Tallinn, 26 November 2007.

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Simon Anholt that the promotion of a country is a long-term programme of work and requires considerable investment over a sustained period of time. Simon Anholt in particular has positioned himself as an expert in the field, and has effectively revolutionised the way that governments think about the international image of a country, offering them a solution for economic development in the future through nation branding.53 Thus, the mantra that continuous investment is needed, has not only been internalised by politicians such as Laar and Kivi, but also plays into the interests of branding consultants themselves. Laar’s assertion that investment in nation branding “comes back in different ways” is not only difficult to qualify, it also deflects criticism of the campaign that he approved. Since the effects of such campaign are said to be so long term, and therefore effectively impossible to evaluate, they can never really be proven to have failed.54 Elite level respondents then, in their defence of Brand Estonia, apportion blame for any apparent failure of the campaign to negative media coverage and a lack of understanding of basic marketing principles amongst the Estonian public. They did not offer any counter argument or defence against critics at the time of the campaign or in interviews for this work. Clearly, the aims of the campaign were not effectively communicated to the public. Paradoxically then, for a group of influential and resourceful actors convinced of the need for nation branding, their efforts to actually brand that practice was not particularly successful. Pille-Triin Mannik, who was a Programme Coordinator for the Tallinn 2011 European Capital of Culture, believes that the lack of communication was a major downfall in the development of Brand Estonia. Something went very wrong in the internal communications. I don’t think it was such a big disaster but at the time, the result is the logo and the whole concept linked to it is not actually bad, it just got very bad publicity…there was a whole discussion about the campaign, it got very much stuck on the price tag and this is what people remember. This was also a time when the quality of life was not very high so it was painful to see that sum being mentioned on the campaign or on a logo, there might have been some negative attention towards it because it was not designed in Estonia actually.55 From the outset, the director of Interbrand’s London office, Penny Harris, was keen to point out that the company were aware of their position as an outsider 53 Aronczyk, Branding The Nation, 32. 54 Aronczyk, “Living The Brand,” 52. 55 Pille-Triin Mannik, Interview, Tallinn, 13 August 2008.

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and aimed to be sensitive to the views of the Estonian public. “We are very sensitive to the fact that we are an outside company, but we hope we can provide objectivity and an international viewpoint that will help achieve the best solution.”56 The responses given here highlight that attempts at sensitivity on the part of Interbrand were not internalised amongst a significant proportion of the Estonian population. Rather unsurprisingly, Interbrand considers that the campaign was not only a success internationally but also domestically and contends that it promoted a new commonality between ethnic Estonians and Russian speakers who responded favourably to the campaign.57 It is not evident what this claim is based on, as my own research rather suggests that many Russian speakers did not have a connection to the representations of the country portrayed through Brand Estonia: I think the idea of promotion is good but…I did not like this brand trademark…too old-fashioned…I understand maybe I have a different understanding of things since I speak Russian.58 This lack of connection is not surprising given that Brand Estonia effectively ignored Russian speakers. Although consulting companies working with nation branding campaigns like to portray themselves as independent experts, autonomous of the political powers in the country in question, in the case of Estonia, Brand Estonia was developed in close consultation with the Estonian government; Prime Minister Laar sanctioned the initiative and Evelin Ilves was installed as the project manager. Given that the launch of the campaign was timed to coincide with Estonia hosting the esc in May 2002, Signe Kivi, as Minister of Culture, was also a consultant to the project. As such Brand Estonia was effectively a political mouthpiece for the Estonian government. In sum then, whilst the ‘return to Europe’ discourse led Estonia to liberalise both its economy and its citizenship policies in order to adapt to the eu, the equally market-liberal practice of nation branding offered the government an opportunity to ensure ethnic Estonian dominance at least when it came to Brand Estonia. Whilst ethnic Estonian respondents were overwhelmingly critical of the campaign – they did identify with Estonia as a Nordic country – many of them aimed their criticism at the logo that resulted from the campaign precisely because it was not seen as representative of that Nordic identity.59 56 “Brits to develop national brand,” The Baltic Times, 11 October 2001. 57 Jansen, “Designer Nations.” 58 Dimitri, Interview, Narva, 27 November 2007. 59 Jordan, The Modern Fairy Tale, 43.

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On the other hand, Russian speakers appeared to be almost apathetic in their response to Brand Estonia. The response quoted above, “maybe I have a different understanding,” is telling and suggests that differences between ethnic Estonians and Russian speakers run much further than just language and formal citizenship. An analysis of nation branding therefore illuminates ‘topdown’ or official/elite and ‘bottom-up’ public/ground-level perspectives on nationhood and nation-building and, as such, shows that branding a nation is far more politically problematic than the business-oriented consultants working with nation branding seem willing to admit. Conclusion If we take the argument that nation branding has become “a historically specific form of producing images of the nation,” then this raises questions concerning the relationship between nation branding and nation building since the two logics, of nationalism and nation branding, exist simultaneously.60 In the case of Estonia, the economic liberalisation of the country and re-imaging of the state as liberal and modern through Brand Estonia meant nationalising the image of what it meant to be Estonian. The depictions which formed the basis of Brand Estonia were based on the ethnic narrative of the nation and, as such, were in tune with the rhetoric of Estonian politicians such as Mart Laar, Signe Kivi and Lennart Meri during the 1990s. In their view, Estonia was Nordic and the Soviet past needed to be buried. The discourses that the nation branding and the esc engendered in Estonia in 2001 and 2002 thus represented specific elite-driven paradigms of nation building which were manifested through the othering of the Soviet past as well as by the airbrushing out of the Russian speaking minority. Brand Estonia promoted what Estonia is, but by doing so, highlighted what Estonia is not. In other words political liberalisation in Estonia went hand in hand with actively confining how the nation was to be imagined. The cases of the esc and Brand Estonia exemplify how the Estonian government used de-politicised forums for conducting its politics. Whilst scholars such as Melissa Aronczyk and Sue Curry Jansen rightly claim that nation branding leads to national identity being outsourced to private actors, which in itself is democratically problematic, this was not the case in Estonia. Here we see Brand Estonia and the esc effectively being used as a mouthpiece by the democratically elected Estonian government. In one sense this makes it 60

Bolin & Ståhlberg, “Between Community and Commodity.”

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more palatable from a democratic point of view, however on the other hand, the portrayal of branding as commercial rather than political leads to the accusation that the Estonian government was effectively masking its political project by hiding it behind Interbrand’s commercially oriented campaign. At a time when the Estonian government was paying lip service to multiculturalism through the introduction of integration programmes, Brand Estonia in fact represented a very deliberate attempt to convey a certain narrative of Estonia to the international community which bore an admittedly friendly, but nevertheless distinctly nationlist, message. One of the main criticisms of nation branding is that the slogans employed can be used to describe almost any location. This is not the case with the Estonian campaign; it was not a generic message, it reflected what was going on in Estonia at a specific moment in time. As such it prompts the legitimate question: what makes one country Nordic and another not? Could it be that there is no claim to call Estonia Nordic other than for the purposes of pr? It could be argued that Estonia was so proactive in marketing the country as a Nordic state that any attempt by its neighbours would risk charges of plagiarism should they have adopted the same strategy. However, if we take the criteria, defined by Mikko Lagerspetz, of geographical location, historical ties, linguistic affinity, Lutheran faith, social development (the Nordic model), Nordic cooperation, legal and administrative tradition and gender equality, then Estonia can indeed arguably be considered to be ‘more Nordic’ than its Baltic neighbours.61 Subesequently it is no coincidence that the term Nordic sat far better with ethnic Estonian respondents interviewed for this work, than the term ‘post-Soviet.’ This is a reflection not only of how Estonian national identity was constructed outwards, but also a product of Estonian nation building. The esc can be seen as a platform for the expression of ‘Europeanness’ and in the case of newly-sovereign states; it acts as a tool for nation building and a platform for nation branding. Through Estonian participation, victory and hosting, the esc was one of the symbols of Estonia’s return to Europe.62 The representation of Estonia through the esc was that of a fairy tale, a country which had escaped its evil captor, the Soviet Union, and found a happy ending, reflecting the political rhetoric from nationalist politicians. Ethnic Estonians identified with this content, whereas Russian speakers were less certain, even apathetic towards it. As such these groups lacked a common Estonian national identity. Those Russian speakers that did not speak fluent Estonian were the 61 62

Lagerspetz, “How many Nordic countries?” Lauristin, “Re-visiting.”

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source of great anxiety for many ethnic Estonians interviewed whilst those who did speak fluent Estonian were still somehow singled out, as the testimonies in this chapter demonstrate. Russian speakers therefore represented a form of hybridity – not quite Estonian and not quite Russian – signifying that integration issues were more complicated than the slogans of Brand Estonia seemed to suggest. Brand Estonia was and remains unpopular amongst the Estonian public at large. The campaign was arguably poorly communicated to the nation. As the responses detailed in this chapter demonstrate, far from being a successful Machiavellian attempt to manipulate the image of the country, the Estonian public effectively ‘saw through’ the campaign and rejected the brand imposed upon them. These active citizens did not buy into attempts to re-image the country and were consistently critical of the campaign as a whole. Whilst this might be seen as a failure for politicians such as Mart Laar to push a certain political agenda, the active participation of Estonians in the democratic process and the open criticism of the branding campaign does however demonstrate that democratic rule in Estonia was consolidated, which in itself has a more lasting legacy than any branding campaign could ever claim to have. This analysis of Brand Estonia and the esc has highlighted some of the more salient narratives of identity politics. In an ever-changing Europe where meanings and identities are shifting rapidly, this chapter is offered as a preliminary step to understanding some of these key debates in specific contexts and at specific moments in time.

chapter 11

Public Diplomacy vs Nation Branding: The Case of Denmark after the Cartoon Crisis Mads Mordhorst

Prelude: From Imaging to Imagining Denmark

The Danish state has engaged in imaging activities for as long as it has existed. In fact it can be argued that Danish elites were involved in this type of activity even before Denmark became a state. The first history of Denmark, Gesta Danorum [‘Deeds of the Danes’] was written by Saxo Grammaticus in the late 12th century, at a time when Denmark was riven by tribal wars. It was written in Latin and the target audience were the European elites of the nobility and the church. The aim of Gesta Danorum was, as Saxo writes in the preface “to glorify our fatherland,” and to tell the tales of the Danish kings and their heroic achievements.1 Commissioned by the Danish warlord King Valdemar and his foster brother Bishop Absalon in an attempt to gain international support for their claim to the Danish throne, the Gesta Danorum purported to demonstrate that Denmark was a long-established dynasty. The work fulfilled its purpose and Valdemar and Absalon achieved hegemonic power in Denmark. However, the story of Gesta Danorum does not end here. In the following centuries it became a cornerstone of Danish assertions to pre-eminence among the Scandinavian countries. During the DanishSwedish wars from the late 14th century to the beginning of the 19th century, the Gesta Danorum was used as a form of branding – to use a contemporary term – not only in propaganda against the Swedish kingdom, but in communications with other royal and princely houses in Europe too. The DanishSwedish wars ended with the Napoleonic wars in 1813–1814, when Denmark declined in political power and lost Norway to Sweden as well as its pre-eminence among the Scandinavian countries. Instead of fading into oblivion, however, the Gesta Danorum was translated into Danish in 1864 and became a cornerstone in the internal process of nation building. In the following decades Saxo’s myths and legends were integrated into schoolbooks and became a part 1 Saxo, Boisen & Horn, Danmarks riges krønike, 12.

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of ‘the history of Denmark,’ and as such a key to how the nation came to be collectively imagined. Today, Saxo’s text has again been re-framed. In 2004 the Danish government found that Danish culture and identity were under pressure; Denmark was turning into a multicultural society and increasing globalisation was perceived as a threat to Danish culture and history. To counteract these perceived negative foreign influences, the government decided to create a cultural canon comprising the most essential components of the Danish cultural heritage.2 The initiative introduced a fixed history curriculum for Danish primary schools and Gesta Danorum was to be included.3 Instead of being aimed at foreign elites for the purpose of specific political aims, the targeted readership was now the broad domestic public, and the goal was to shape national identity against the backdrop of a dominant discourse of globalisation. The case of the Gesta Danorum illustrates that when the state changes, the ways of representing it do too; in fact, objectives of internal imagining and external imaging can trade places. We can thus use states’ communication activities to analyse what type of state is communicating and for what purpose. This in turn, as we shall see, affects the state’s institutional landscape and even discourses about what the state should be.

Denmark: A State in Transition

This chapter argues that the emergence of concepts such as nation branding and new public diplomacy in recent decades is a sign of changes in the role and purpose of states. At the structural and institutional level, it analyses how changes in the purpose and framework of communication in the Danish case created a need for a new institutional and organisational setup. This setup conflicted with the one that had evolved during the processes of nation building.4 It explores how the Danish state tried to adapt its international communication, while balancing between the discourse of globalisation and specific events such as the Cartoon Crisis in 2006 and the global financial crisis in 2008. Chronologically the chapter focuses on the decade from 2002 to 2013. In 2002, ‘new public diplomacy’ surfaced in discussions of the post-Cold War world order within the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Inspired by international discussions, especially those in the usa, this led to Denmark beginning to 2 “Danskerne skal have en kulturkanon,” Ritzaus Bureau, 9 December 2004. 3 Undervisningsministeriet, Rapport fra Udvalget til styrkelse. 4 For similar developments in the Estonian case, see Paul Jordan’s chapter in this volume.

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engage in new public diplomacy. In the aftermath of the Cartoon Crisis a nation branding program replaced the new public diplomacy agenda. Due to internal criticism, the financial crisis and the lack of measurable results, the program was terminated towards the end of 2013. The first section discusses how the discourse of globalisation challenged traditional understandings of the nation-state through the emergence of what has been called the “competition state.”5 It furthermore argues that the present changes in what today is called the state’s reputation management can be seen as part of this pattern. The next section will briefly describe how some general changes in Danish foreign policy after the Cold War together with globalisation discourses inspired a turn towards new public diplomacy from around 2002. Section three focuses on how the agenda in the aftermath of the cartoon crisis in 2007 changed from public diplomacy to nation branding, drawing on a different discourse and organisational setting. Section four analyses the problems the nation branding program faced. It further analyses how the financial crisis together with tough evaluation criteria changed the agenda of the program and became one of the reasons for closing it down towards the end of 2013.

The Competition State and the Discourse of Globalisation

The collapse of state socialism in Eastern Europe led to the end of a dominant Cold War discourse that focused on a politically divided world. During the following decades it was replaced by discourses about globalisation as the most prominent narrative of our time. To what degree the world truly has become globalised is not the subject of this chapter. It is sufficient to note that states increasingly have acted as if something called globalisation is taking place. This produces other sub-discourses, associated with neoliberalism – such as national competitiveness and new public management – which states have embraced in their attempts to prevail in the global competition. The discourses are thus performative and can be seen as catalysts in the transformation of states into more market-oriented units. In this process the institutional setup both between states and within each state has been reconfigured. Following Foucault’s notion of biopolitics, it is possible to argue that discourses of globalisation actively form a state under the supervision of the market, rather than a state which supervises the market.6 Phillip Cerny calls the

5 Cerny, “Paradoxes of the Competition State.” 6 Cerny, “The Competition State,” 7–8; Foucault, The Birth of Biopolitics.

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result of this transformation “the competition-state.”7 The competition state perceives the mobilisation of all possible resources as the main step in the global competition for prosperity. In this perspective the nation or state is itself a resource or a means for mobilisation and not an end in itself. This mobilisation, however, needs active strategic communication and branding. As the leading nation branding consultant Simon Anholt asserts: Today, the world is one market. The rapid advance of globalisation means that every country…must compete with every other for its share of the world’s consumers, tourists, investors, students, entrepreneurs, international media, of other governments, and the people of other countries.8 In order to belong to the winners, states must actively deploy strategic communication, because it is essential to be noticed in the market. If they do not, they risk falling into oblivion and becoming losers in the global race for market shares. This, at least, is what Anholt and other professional nation branders have been successfully arguing while – it should be pointed out – at the same time offering their services as consultants to these states. In the globalisation discourse then, there is a consensus regarding why new efforts should be made when imaging the state abroad. It remains more open how this should be done, as is apparent in the burgeoning number of concepts in the field, such as ‘nation branding,’ ‘public diplomacy,’ ‘competitive identity,’ ‘brand states,’ and so on. Among these concepts the most dominant – globally, as well as in Denmark – have been new public diplomacy and nation branding. Even though there are indeed similarities between the two concepts, they differ in that while nation branding was the brainchild of consultancies working with the branding of private companies and commercial products, the concept of public diplomacy is rooted in the logic and culture of politics.9 As I will be arguing below, these differences became apparent in Danish foreign policy in the early 2000s.

Danish Reputation Management after the Cold War

The fall of the Berlin Wall and the end of the Cold War spelt the end of an epoch in Danish foreign policy. One of the main objectives during the Cold 7 Cerny, “Paradoxes of the Competition State.” 8 Anholt, Competitive Identity, 1. 9 For an analytical overview of the differences see Angell & Mordhorst, “National Reputation Management.”

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War was to find pragmatic solutions in a divided world, and due to Denmark’s geopolitical position, literally straddling the border between East and West, this entailed treading carefully.10 In contrast to Sweden, Norway and Finland, Denmark from 1973 belonged to both the eu and nato. In effect this meant that eu membership determined much of the country’s economic policy and foreign trade, and nato membership determined much of its foreign policy. In this institutional setting Denmark engaged in a complicated balancing act, often becoming an outlier in both nato and the eu.11 This political pattern in Denmark’s foreign policy changed after the Cold War. Since then, Denmark has been engaged in what has been labelled as an “activist foreign policy.”12 As the Danish Prime Minister Anders Fogh Rasmussen framed it; The post-Cold War reality is basically of a unipolar nature. The usa is the only power with a truly global reach – militarily, economically as well as culturally. There are a number of regional centres of power, around the usa including the eu. This is the fundamental global reality.13 Instead of balancing between East and West, Denmark began to see itself as a close ally of the usa and a prime member of nato. A direct consequence of this change was the Danish Parliament’s decision in March 2003 to join the American war against Iraq. The decision followed a heated political debate, and was taken by a divided Parliament. This was a clear indication of how the new active foreign policy would be pursued, and was a break with the Danish parliamentary tradition of seeking consensus on central foreign policy matters.14 Alongside the changes in Denmark’s foreign policy agenda, new ideas concerning reputation management evolved. How, then, could this new political agenda be linked to Danish economic and ideological interests? In contrast to the active foreign policy, in which events such as the fall of the iron curtain, 9/11, and the Iraq war shaped the discourse, the visions and ideas about reputation management were framed by the discourse of globalisation. These considerations 10

For more on Denmark’s position in the first half of the Cold War, see Kristine Kjærsgaard’s chapter in this volume. 11 Petersen, Europæisk og globalt engagement. 12 Ibid. 13 “Visioner om Danmarks active Europapolitik,” speech by Anders Fogh Rasmussen at Copenhagen University, 23 September 2003. Available at http://www.stm.dk/_p_7451. html. For more about Danish active foreign policy in the Baltic region, see Kazimierz Musiał’s chapter in this volume. 14 Friis, Between Interests and Values.

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evolved among the employees of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and were aired in public during the summer of 2003 at a meeting at the Ministry with invited representatives of the media and the cultural sector. The concepts of new public diplomacy, cultural diplomacy and soft power seem to have inspired various initiatives taken after the meeting.15 One example of this, from 2003, is the DanishArab Partnership Programme (dapp), the goal of which was to strengthen “dialogue, partnerships and mutual understanding between Denmark and the Middle East and North Africa.”16 Another idea was to mobilise the cultural sector more actively and harness it as a resource in the marketing of Denmark. This called for new cooperation and coordination between the Ministry of Culture and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and the laws and institutional setup of the cultural sector had to be changed in order to achieve this ‘modernisation.’ Thus the Minister of Culture, Brian Mikkelsen oversaw the reorganisation of Danish subsidiesfor art and culture, and centralised them in a new unit, The Danish Arts Council. The Council’s main task was to upgrade and coordinate international cultural exchange.17 A few weeks after the Arts Council was established Mikkelsen announced in an interview that he was “extremely critical” of how the funds for international cultural work had previously been put to use.18 Too much had been spent on administration and too little on artists. He therefore demanded that the Arts Council fully investigate the issue and come up with solutions for greater efficiency. This job was assigned to a committee appointed by the Arts Council. The members of the committee were civil servants – one from the Ministry of Culture and two from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs – and none were professionally active in the cultural sphere they were set to investigate. Among them was Uffe Andreasen, who had introduced the concept of public diplomacy at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.19 It was therefore natural that the Foreign Minister, Per Stig Møller, was responsible for making the committee’s conclusions public. Public spending on art and culture was re-framed, no longer spoken of in terms of ‘subsidies’ but rather as a tool of public diplomacy. He argued that marketing Denmark culturally would put it on the global map:

15 Andreasen, Diplomati og globalisering. 16 Det Arabiske Initiativ, “Danish-Arab Partnership Programme.” available at http://www .detarabiskeinitiativ.dk/english/. 17 Folketinget (The Danish Parliament), Lov nr. 230. 18 “Kritisk minister kulegraver kulturstøtten,’” Berlingske Tidende, 7 August 2003. 19 Kunstrådet, Rapport.

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Public and cultural diplomacy are important side elements to a modern foreign policy. Just consider how H.C. Andersen has contributed to Denmark’s image in terms of quality, creativity and imagination.20 He added that, “[i]t is an essential factor for attracting tourists, investment in new workplaces, and a skilled workforce that Denmark be known as a place with a vigorous artistic and cultural environment.”21 To achieve these economic effects and make Denmark ‘visible,’ cultural diplomacy had to be upscaled and activated, and Denmark was to host major public events. It was hardly coincidental that Per Stig Møller mentioned the Danish author of fairy tales, Hans Christian Andersen.22 2005 was the 200th anniversary of his birth, and therefore a perfect opportunity to put the new, assertive cultural diplomacy to the test. The chairman of the anniversary celebration was Poul Bache, who headed up the newly established Arts Council and acted as secretary on the Arts Council committee. Thus the strategy for the anniversary celebration was in line with the ideas of the Foreign Minister and the recommendations from the committee; it was seen as an opportunity for Denmark to make its mark on the international stage. In addition to honouring the famous author, the overarching idea of the celebration was to draw a connection between H.C Andersen and the values that Denmark aspired to be known for. The value selected was “the promotion of literacy,” and more than 160 international celebrities around the world were appointed “H.C. Andersen Ambassadors.” The central event was the opening show that was broadcast internationally. Marketed as a charity event, the profits from the show were earmarked for the fight to eradicate illiteracy. The show, however, ended up with a large financial and cultural deficit. First of all, the organisers had problems getting international stars to participate, and ended up hiring Tina Turner for 5.8 million Danish krone (ddk) as the principal name. The Danish public took a dim view of this choice: how was this in the spirit of H.C. Andersen? This reflects how the event was so geared towards an international public that little attention was paid to the interests of the domestic public. Secondly, the organisers were unable to sell all the tickets to the show, and consequently, the venue was half empty when it was broadcast. Instead of earning funds to end illiteracy, the show ended with a deficit of 13 million ddk. Afterwards, most media reactions were unspurprisingly 20 “Mobilen er bedst til kultureksport,” Politiken, 12 July 2004. 21 Ibid. 22 For an earlier example of trying to use Andersen, see Kristine Kjærsgaard’s chapter in this volume.

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critical. An editorial in the daily newspaper Politiken stated that the anniversary had become a “cliché of a candy-bar, which is exported these days in order to ‘put Denmark on the world map’…H.C. Andersen’s birthday has turned into a parody of Event-Denmark, in the year 2005.”23 The opposition parties expressed similar reactions, and the Minister of Cultural Affairs sought to justify himself by blaming the organisers of the event.24 A later evaluation showed that some of the international aims had in fact been achieved, but also that the use of a national icon to brand Denmark abroad had turned out to be problematic, as it caused tensions within Denmark. It was not that Andersen himself had a polarising effect among the Danish public, but it was the act of deploying this central figure in Denmark’s cultural heritage for purpose of commercial branding that sparked domestic controversy.25 The H.C. Andersen case showed how difficult it can be to convert internal cultural identity into international political, cultural and economic value. This, however, does not seem to have influenced the Ministry of Foreign Affairs’ visions for upgrading its public diplomacy efforts. In Denmark, as in most other parts of the world, globalisation had gradually become an increasingly dominant discourse. In 2005 the government appointed a ‘Globalisation Council’ to create a strategy for Denmark, focusing on how the country could foster a society that would be able to keep up with global competition. The final report, Progress, Innovation and Cohesion, published in April 2006, also featured a chapter focusing on international relations that drew on the Foreign Minister’s ideas on public diplomacy as the primary way to enhance Denmark’s reputation in international arenas.26 As the report was published, however, Denmark had just experienced the Cartoon Crisis. This was the most heated international political conflict Denmark had been involved in since the Second World War, and turned out to be pivotal in the development of the Danish strategy for state-sponsored international communication, away from the field of public diplomacy and towards nation branding.

The Cartoon Crisis

In January 2006 Denmark found itself at the centre of a global political conflict known as the Cartoon Crisis. It started with the publication of twelve satirical 23 “H.C. Andersen. Tillykke trods alt,” Politiken, 6 April 2005. 24 “Magtesløs kulturminister kritiserer Anker Boye,” Ritzaus Bureau, 11 May 2005. 25 Frandsen, Nu skulle vi høre! 26 The Danish Government, Progress, Innovation and Cohesion, 31–32.

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cartoons depicting the prophet Mohammed in the Danish newspaper JyllandsPosten on 30 September 2005.27 At this point the cartoons only caused a minor internal controversy in Denmark involving parts of the Muslim community and the newspaper. However, the cartoons were being disseminated internationally, and the domestic controversy became an international political confrontation on 12 October 2005, when eleven ambassadors representing Muslim-majority countries asked for a meeting with the Danish government. Prime Minister Anders Fogh Rasmussen responded by refusing to meet with the ambassadors, citing the principle of free speech. This angered Foreign Minister Per Stig Møller – who had launched the dialogue-based dapp back in 2003 – as well as others in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, who found that the refusal to meet with the ambassadors did not correspond well with the vision of seeking dialogue. The decision had been taken, however, and there was no other option than to back the Prime Minister.28 The refusal to meet with the ambassadors sparked an international crisis. The cartoons were regarded as blasphemous and denounced by Muslims all over the world; they demanded that the Danish government apologise and the Danish government refused. Thus the conflict became deadlocked. The crisis escalated and culminated in a boycott of Danish products and demonstrations in the Middle East and other Muslim countries. In connection with the demonstrations at least 139 people died. At the peak of the conflict, the burning of Danish flags and embassies became front-page news all over the world. Furthermore, traditional Danish allies were divided about supporting Denmark. Former us President Bill Clinton called the cartoons “horrifying” and “disgraceful,” and the cbs tv program 60 Minutes featured a 15-minute spot portraying Denmark as an arrogant country living in its own fairy tale.29 This was not what the ‘active foreign policy’ had intended to create nor how the Danes were used to being depicted. The crisis thus ignited a national debate over Danish values and Danish identity. It showed that Denmark was part of a highly interconnected world, where small actions on the national level could spread uncontrollably and become a global issue. Moreover it showed that cultural politics and business interests were embedded in each 27

For an overview of the conflict, see for example “Tidslinje: Muhammed-krisen,” Berlingske, 25 February 2008. An updated version is available at http://www.b.dk/nationalt/tidslinje -muhammed-krisen. 28 In Per Stig Møller, a television program broadcast by dr (Danish Broadcasting) on 26 November 2013, Per Stig Møller stated explicitly that he had considered the Prime Minister’s decision a mistake from the very beginning. 29 “Clinton kalder Muhammed-tegninger ‘skammelige,’” Ritzaus Bureau, 30 January 2006.

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other. It was not only Denmark’s political reputation that was at stake; Danish exports were also threatened. Prime Minister Fogh Rasmussen demanded total support for official Danish policy and thundered against the lack of principles among the Danish industrial leaders, who were accused of valuing profits over free speech.30 Even though the Prime Minister did not mention any specific companies or people, there is little doubt that he was referring to the Danish dairy company Arla. The Middle East was a key market for Arla, who suffered huge losses throughout the boycott. Feeling caught in a political conflict, the company tried to distance itself from the official Danish policy, running advertisements in Middle Eastern media expressing respect for Muslim culture. The reaction from the Danish government was harsh; Jens Rode, spokesman for the ruling Liberal Party, called Arla’s campaign a “pathetic genuflection to filthy lucre,” elaborating that “Arla is willing to sell its own grandmother in order to do business in dictatorial states.”31 However, the Prime Minister’s attack did not only offend Arla; large segments of Danish business life were anxious about the effects the conflict might have on Denmark’s international standing. Niels Due Jensen, Chairman of the Board of Directors in Grundfos, one of the largest Danish companies, gave voice to this anxiety in an interview: “This sad conflict is on the way to ruining the Danish reputation and goodwill – a goodwill that has been painstakingly built up over many years. We show a lack of respect for other peoples.” Furthermore Jensen was not merely concerned about international conflict, but also about the internal consequences of the Prime Minister’s actions: This case is contributing to a dangerous polarisation in Denmark. The case is not only about Denmark’s reputation in the rest of the world, but just as much about the situation here in this country.32 Thus, there was a conflict of interest between on the one hand a business community pushing for political dialogue internally in Denmark and for international diplomacy with Muslim communities, and on the other hand, a government insisting on political loyalty from the business community. Shortly after the peak of the crisis in the spring of 2006, the government took the first steps towards establishing a nation branding program to rebuild 30 31 32

“Fogh anklager forfattere, erhvervsliv og medier,” Berlingske Tidende, 26 February 2006. Henriksen, “Arla kan flytte.” For more about Arla and the Cartoon Crisis see: Mordhorst, “Arla.” “Muhammed-tegningerne: Frygter for Danmarks renomme,” Politiken, 28 February 2006.

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the Danish image and address the issues raised by the business community. In an interview, the Prime Minister explained: The picture that has been painted of Denmark is false. So we must simply handle this pro-actively and make the picture accurate. In my view we can be proud of the values on which Danish society is built and therefore it is important to articulate what Denmark is; otherwise it will be difficult to sell Danish products.33 Two elements in this quote are central. The first is the distinction between ‘false’ and ‘true’ images. This distinction is used to legitimise the handling of the Cartoon Crisis and to portray it as being in accordance with Danish traditions and values. The other element is the transition in the argument, which starts at the political level, moves on to the level of values and identity, and ends at the level of economics. The importance of Danish values is thus not their intrinsically good character, but that they can serve as a brand for export; they metamorphose from the political and cultural level into the economic field. The aim of the Prime Minister’s initiative was to integrate the political and corporate sector into a single nation branding program. This became explicit in a debate in Parliament, where the Prime Minster was confronted with the contention that the problems with Denmark’s reputation were not caused by false images, but were a product of the political changes in Danish foreign policy, and, moreover, that a branding campaign was an attempt to hide this. The Prime Minister’s answer was that in his opinion Denmark’s reputation was excellent and the Cartoon Crisis should be viewed as a window of opportunity: There is at the moment a focus on Denmark, and we must try to use this actively. That is why I have initiated a strategy, which will secure a focused, active and global marketing of Denmark, and this will be done in close corporation with the corporate sector.34 Here Fogh Rasmussen used the corporate language of nation branding to appease the companies impacted by the Cartoon Crisis, in order to engage in a form of political damage control. The ambition of actively imaging of Denmark abroad was used to shape the way in which the nation was to be collectively imagined at home.

33 “Fogh vil rette op på Danmarks ry,” Børsen, 31 March 2006. 34 Folketinget, §20 spørgsmål, S3707.

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The Action Plan for the Global Marketing of Denmark

The result was the Danish nation branding program that started one year later. The program was adopted in a broad political settlement and was framed as an offshoot of the Globalisation Council’s report Progress, Innovation and Cohesion, as was the appropriation – 412 million dkk over a three-year period – which was syphoned off from the Danish ‘globalisation program.’ In reality the nation branding program differed in several ways from the proposals in the report by the Globalisation Council. The Cartoon Crisis and the subsequent cross-party political negotiations over how to respond to it had refocused Danish reputation management away from public diplomacy towards nation branding. This new direction found its point of departure in the logics of commercial marketing. The first indication of this shift in perspective was that it was Minister of Economic and Business affairs, Bendt Bendtsen, not the Foreign Minister, who launched the political settlement behind the new program in January 2007. The reasoning in the press release was: In the age of globalisation he who lives quietly is too easily forgotten and overlooked. Broad familiarity with Danish strengths and skills are therefore essential to the growth that must finance welfare in the future.35 This is the same line of argument found among the nation branding consultancies; that the only response to the economic threats of globalisation was marketing and strategic communication. The focus was on the economic aspects, while the political events that constituted the Cartoon Crisis were airbrushed out of the picture. Whereas Danish public diplomacy had focused on convincing others of Denmark’s policy choices, the nation branding effort sought rather to maximise the economic returns from it. At the launch of the Danish nation branding initiative “Action Plan for the Global Marketing of Denmark” in April 2007, the connection between the logics of commercial branding and market orientation became more evident.36 As the Ministry of Economic and Business Affairs stated, branding Denmark 35 36

Økonomi- og Erhvervsministeriet, Offensiv Global markedsføring. Økonomi- og Erhvervsministeriet, Handlingsplan for offensiv markedsføring. Quotes taken from the English internet version, available at http://www.evm.dk/arbejdsomraader/ internationalt-udsyn/markedsfoering-af-danmark/hogm-2007-2012 (accessed 19 September 2014). This document is referred to below as Økonomi- og Erhvervsministeriet, Action Plan.

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could not be achieved by merely brushing up the already existing images of the country. What was needed was a thorough re-branding: “In too many countries Denmark is known for butter, bacon and H.C. Andersen – this is not enough.”37 It is striking that no reference was made to the recent Cartoon Crisis, but only to ongoing historical, economic shifts. The purpose was thus to re-brand Denmark as a modern nation in the forefront of current global competition: The plan is to create a clearer and more positive image of Denmark in areas in which a better image will provide specific advantages in the global competition for qualified labour, tourists, students, investments and global market share.38 The goal of branding Denmark was thus mainly to attract resources to the state of Denmark. At stake, however, was not the political state, but the state as a commercial actor on the global market. In this perspective the export companies went from being ends in themselves to being considered means. The intentions behind the Action Plan were thus to adapt the strategic imaging of Denmark to the global economic discourse of competition. The overall aim was to improve Denmark’s position on the Nation Brand Index, a ranking system developed by Simon Anholt to benchmark country brands and pit them against each other. The objective was that Denmark should improve on its current postion of lying in fourteenth place, and reach the top ten by 2015. There is some irony in using the Nation Brand Index as benchmark in the Danish case. The Cartoon Crisis was used and analysed by Simon Anholt, who was surprised to see how little it influenced the perception of Denmark in the longer run. This led him to conclude that its image was extremely stable, and that therefore nations in general were nearly impossible to brand.39 The vocabulary and stated objectives of the Action Plan were thus directly drawn from the fields of marketing. Compared with the focus on exports and the private sector, which originally had been suggested by the Prime Minister, the scope of the Plan had also been widened to include attracting resources. This expansion required an institutional and organisational setup that integrated the political and economic fields in new ways. In practice this created obstacles of various kinds.

37 38 39

“Forlig om markedsføring,” Ritzaus Bureau. Økonomi- og Erhvervsministeriet, Action Plan, 10. Anholt, “Denmark’s International Image.”

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In line with the Prime Minister’s idea that the goal was to benefit the business community, leadership was placed at the Ministry of Economic and Business Affairs. Four other ministries were also appointed to the task force: the Ministries of Foreign Affairs, of Culture, of Education, and of Science, Technology and Innovation. At the organisational level then, it seems above all that the Ministry of Foreign Affairs lost influence as a consequence of the Action Plan. The purpose of the Ministry’s involvement was that it cover the field of public diplomacy, which had been allocated only 7 % of the funds.40 This share was further reduced to 2 % in 2010. More importantly, public diplomacy was not seen as an independent field but as a tool for branding Denmark. The Action Plan emphasised that the public diplomacy “initiative will take its starting point in Danish positions of strength, e.g. in energy and the environment.”41 Furthermore the public diplomacy unit was supposed to function as an international press office of the branding program, in effect reducing the public diplomacy unit to a propaganda office.42 The Action Plan did not mention that parts of what the Ministry of Foreign Affairs saw as essential to public diplomacy efforts were not included in the nation branding program. This particularly concerned the dapp, which retained an annual budget of 100 million ddk after the Cartoon Crisis. This was partly a consequence of quite typical institutional power struggles between the ministries, but it also points to differences in the logic of nation branding and public diplomacy.

Incoherencies in the Action Plan

Although the Action Plan was in theory intended to include practices of public diplomacy, its overall emphasis directly counteracted this ambition. The original document nowhere mentioned the context of the Cartoon Crisis, and the wording was completely de-politicised. It was as if creating as much distance from the Cartoon Crisis as possible was a goal in itself. Although the Middle East had been explicitly pointed out as politically significant in the report Progress, Innovation and Cohesion, the region was not mentioned in the Action Plan.43 Instead, the main target publics were specified as the citizens of the

40 Økonomi- og Erhvervsministeriet, Action Plan, 8. 41 Ibid., 34. 42 Ibid. 43 The Danish Government, Progress, Innovation and Cohesion, 106–108.

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bric and oecd countries, who were selected for economic rather than political reasons. When applying a political logic, the bric and oecd countries can be described as a relatively specific target audience at the global level, but from a marketing perspective the combination constitutes a painfully diverse and incoherent audience. Not only do the cultures of countries such as South Korea, Sweden, Australia, India and Brazil differ to a degree that makes it nearly impossible to direct a common marketing campaign towards them but tourists and investors are also very different target publics. A tourist would typically look for places to vacation with a slightly different culture – why else go on vacation? An investor, on the other hand, would view cultural differences as potential transaction costs; investments are not made because of cultural differences but despite them.44 Nevertheless, following the same quintessentially market-oriented logic, instead of political goals and values, the Action Plan offered a “communication platform” created by the consultancy Red Associates. The firm had been hired to define and describe ‘Danishness,’ and condense it into distinctive, positive images, because despite any differences that there might have been in marketing a product or a business enterprise or a country, there is one thing that stays the same: the focus is on putting across positive and relatively simple messages.45 This is a fundamental idea in branding: to focus on simple, distinct messages in order to differentiate your product and make it visible in the market. In this context, the use of a single communication platform is a common tool in private companies’ corporate-branding strategies. However, there is of course a significant difference between creating a platform for a company and for a nation. A private company has a top-down government structure, where management can define whether its employees’ communication is in line with the brand vision or not. In a political system where different actors determine the communication platform, the opposite tendency is most common: that anything can be argued to be in line with the agreed brand vision. The Danish case provides a good example of this. Instead of a single brand vision and core message, Red Associates suggested that the Danish brand should be centred on four themes, derived from a perception analysis of the 44 45

Mordhorst, “Nation-branding,” 31–32. Økonomi- og Erhvervsministeriet, Action Plan, 26.

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target audience: ‘Responsible and balanced,’ ‘High quality,’ ‘Experimental and proactive,’ ‘Environmental awareness, simplicity and efficiency.’46 These themes were to constitute the platform that all activities should take as their point of departure. However, their rather wide-ranging and internally contradictory nature meant that in reality, the wide variety of initiatives in the Action Plan made it difficult to discern any distinct message. After all, the themes of responsibility and balance on the one hand, and experimenting and proactivity on the other, in many ways contradicted one another. In effect this meant that it was more or less impossible in practice to deviate from the communication platform – rendering it rather pointless. One reason for this fragmented – and therefore inclusive – platform was most likely that the various initiatives included in the Action Plan were in part negotiated in a political settlement. This process had followed a political logic, characterised by struggles for power between competing parties and policy areas. Consequently, when comparing the settlement with the agenda of the different parties, a significant overlap is apparent between the various initiatives in the Action Plan and the individual parties’ programs. In tourism, for example, special efforts were made to enhance coastal and urban tourism, even though it is difficult to see how coastal tourism is connected with the rest of the plan. Enhancing coastal tourism, however, was a key point for the Danish People’s Party, and this was most likely why more than twice as much was allocated for coastal tourism (33 million ddk) as for public diplomacy. So whereas the theory of branding calls for coherence and cohesion, democratic political practice works according to a very different logic. A concrete example of how the split between the national/political level and commercial/marketing level caused problems was the viral branding campaign ‘Karen’ launched in the autumn of 2009. The tourism organisation Visit Denmark, which was a central actor in the nation branding program, launched a video on YouTube featuring a young girl named Karen who was searching for the father of her baby. According to the video, the child was the product of a one-night stand between Karen and a tourist the previous summer. From a viral-branding perspective, the video became a huge success with more than 200.000 hits the first two days, but when it was disclosed that the video was fabricated and in fact an official national advertisement, a media storm arose in Denmark. Much of the media and public were furious; not only did they feel that they had been tricked by the tourist industry, since Karen was an actress, but they also felt that the video sent the message that Denmark was a promiscuous 46

Ibid., 27; See also ReD Associates, “Danish Ministry of Foreign Affairs,” available at http:// www.redassociates.com/cases/danish-ministry/.

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and irresponsible nation. The Minister for Economic and Business Affairs publicly denounced the video and in the end it was withdrawn and the ceo of Visit Denmark had to resign.47 The case of ‘Karen’ illustrates the tension between the branding program’s objective of attention-grabbing by achieving immediate, measurable impact (in this case by counting how many people had viewed the video), and public diplomacy’s objective of building long-term relationships and nurturing a ‘good reputation’ (ie. for instance not being regarded as promiscuous and immoral). For while public diplomacy works on establishing connections and networks over the long term, the task of branding is essentially to achieve differentiation. A further example of how these two principles clashed can be found in the 2009 World Outgames, the gay Olympic Games that were held in Copenhagen. Seen from the nation branding perspective, the games were a huge success; Denmark was branded as one of the most liberal countries in regard to lgbt communities. However, seen from the public diplomacy unit in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, whose main objective was to re-establish good relations with Muslim countries, the World Outgames were problematic. This celebration of gayness did not make their job easier, which highlights the extent to which public diplomacy and nation branding differ in their approach to representing the nation; where branding stresses symbolic events and differentiation, public diplomacy stresses continuous dialogue and community. As in other commercial branding activities then, the idea of hosting events like the World Outgames was to create and control distinctive images and narratives of Denmark. At the tactical level the Action Plan’s work with such events was considered an efficient way to do so, and also adhered to the recommendations of Simon Anholt and other leading nation branding consultancies involved in the initial stages of the program.48 The idea was to invest in “creating a larger number of more attention-grabbing events of world class calibre.”49 This was again a strategy which put the Danish state at the centre rather than the exporting companies. Initially the branding program succeeded in this endeavour; in addition to the Outgames, Denmark also hosted the International Olympic Congress and the Climate Conference in Copenhagen in 2010 (cop 15). However, it is one thing to host an event, another to control the narrative and images surrounding it, especially in a political environment. This was clearly illustrated by the example of cop 15. 47 48 49

“Røde ører hos Visit Denmark,” Jyllandsposten, 15 September 2009. For a discussion on the problematic use of Anholt and other consultants in the field see: Mordhorst, “Nation-branding” and Angell & Mordhorst, “National Reputation Management.” Økonomi- og Erhvervsministeriet, Action Plan, 4.

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The idea of hosting cop 15 was to create a brand narrative starring Denmark at the centre of the global struggle against climate change. In a wider brand perspective this narrative ought to have generated commercial as well as political advantages for Danish companies and the Danish state. This did not happen. The brand narrative went from “Hopenhagen” to “Brokenhagen.”50 Blaming the Danes’ hosting of the conference for its collapse probably overestimates Danish political influence. There is little doubt, however, that the Danish attempt to use cop 15 in a national branding campaign contributed to the collapse. The result was not only a political fiasco; it also damaged the reputation of Denmark directly. At the subsequent un conference in Bonn in June and July 2010, which was intended to mend fences after cop 15, at least a dozen references to Copenhagen were removed from the final document. John Nordbo, the chairman of the climate program at the influential conservation organisation wwf, stated that: [t]he climate negotiators don’t think that Copenhagen deserves the honour of being mentioned in the documents. It is a punishment for the way in which Denmark as chair country handled cop 15.51 Whether the actual hosting of cop 15 was to be seen primarily as a positive measurable impact of the branding campaign, or whether its rather embarrassing legacy was to be notched up as a major blow to the Danish public diplomacy agenda, depended on the evaluation method used. The issue of measuring impact, as I will be discussing next, was however never completely settled.

Evaluations and a New Agenda after the Financial Crises

At the organisational level the difference in the political approach of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the market-oriented approach outlined in the Action Plan was expressed as a disagreement about how to measure and evaluate impact. In the economically oriented branding paradigm, efforts are traditionally measured in cost-benefit analyses on a relatively short-term basis. In the Danish nation branding program the demand for this kind of output rose after an evaluation in 2009; hard figures were needed concerning the effects in regard to, for example, attracting tourists and investments in Denmark. Public diplomacy, on the other hand, works with long-term relations, and paves the 50 “Brokenhagen,” bt, 19 December 2009. 51 “København er blevet et fyord,” Berlingske, 6 December 2010.

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way for attracting resources rather than seeking direct returns. Output is therefore more difficult to measure. This was the main reason that the funding for public diplomacy fell after the evaluation in 2009.52 In 2010 the Action Plan was evaluated, as agreed in the original political settlement. As has been shown above, the Action Plan was already composed in marketing and branding terms, and where economic impact and effect measurement is an integral part of the discourse. The overall target in the Action Plan had been to improve Denmark’s ranking on the Nation Brands Index, but Denmark’s position had not improved at all. The evaluators found that it was unlikely that the branding program would succeed in this regard.53 Instead, they recommended rewriting the success criteria to contain more specific outputs that could show “value for money.” Thus for example, the targets could include such specific goals as 400 000 more tourists per year, increased exports, and 400 new jobs related to the branding efforts in 2011 and 2012. In order to achieve these targets, the evaluators recommended investing in initiatives that could show more direct pay-offs. Consequently the public diplomacy efforts were further reduced.54 Another reason why the profile of the nation branding program was changed was because the evaluation took place at the peak of the global financial crisis. The crisis had generally begun to limit the buzz around branding as such, meaning that it was no longer seen as a universal solution, but rather as a thrifty option for economically hard-pressed policy makers. With the changes, however, it became increasingly difficult to see the disparate Danish initiatives as a single coherent branding program with the goal of establishing a distinctive profile in the global marketplace. The overall idea of creating a coherent branding strategy was in fact being replaced by a number of more or less independent initiatives. In 2012 the entire nation branding campaign was evaluated.55 Despite the new focus on short-term effects and specific measures it proved difficult to see whether the targets had been fulfilled. The conclusion was that the general goal of improving Denmark’s image might have been achieved, but could not be measured. In the wake of the evaluation, the programme was quietly closed down. The buzz around the concept of nation branding had dissipated, partly because no nation branding programs could show measurable effects. Together with a political climate inflected by the financial crisis, this meant that no politician would agree to fund a branding campaign whose effects could not be measured. 52 53 54 55

Pluss Leadership, Evaluering af Handlingsplan, 54–56. Ibid., 7. Ibid., 56. Copenhagen Economics, Evaluering af Handlingsplanen.

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Conclusion: Representing the Competition State

The Danish strategies of reputation management illustrate some of the general challenges of representing small states in a self-proclaimed era of globalisation. Changing a national image is a long-term process and requires long-term investment. As the Danish case shows, it is very difficult to maintain such a consistent perspective in a political environment. I would argue that nations over time have gradually developed something that can be denoted as brands, which in general are more consistent, durable and important than any commercial brands – something the long and diverse history of the Gesta Danorum suggests. Just take the fact that individuals are willing to sacrifice their life for the sake of their nation: that, if anything, is surely the proof of a ‘strong brand.’ Part of the brand’s strength, however, has always been its perceived immutability rather than dynamic malleability. Whereas commercial brands might be able to be strategically manipulated within a foreseeable timeframe, there is so far little evidence that the same can be said about national brands. Nation branding and new public diplomacy deal with country images in a global setting and in international arenas. As should by now be apparent, however, the national setting too is crucial to the process. In Denmark the dual processes of domestically re-imagining the nation in the post-Cold War era on the one hand, and the ambition of outwardly re-imaging the nation in response to the Cartoon Crisis on the other, did overlap but did not necessarily coincide. It is not clear whether the nation branding programme was directly implemented because of the crisis, or whether the crisis was merely a pretext for establishing the programme. What is clear, however, is that the nation branding program functioned more as internal Danish damage control than it contributed to healing the problematic international image of Denmark. In fact it looks as if the nation branding program did everything it could to distance itself from the Crisis – and that this, in some sense, was an end in itself. Instead it was left to the much less publicised Danish-Arabic partnership program – which in reality belonged to the sphere of new public diplomacy – to improve the image of Denmark in the regions affected by the Crisis. This chapter has highlighted a general internal rift in the official representation of Denmark. It runs between the political and commercial fields, which follow separate paths, logics and institutional aims. The relationship between them clearly shows that the way in which Denmark has been imaged abroad has reflected how Danish elites have come to imagine their country: not so much as a traditional nation state, but rather as a competition state.

chapter 12

Benevolent Assistance and Cognitive Colonisation: Nordic Involvement with the Baltic States since the 1990s Kazimierz Musiał Introduction In recent years there has been increased political attention paid to the uses of public diplomacy by different countries for improving their economies, projecting identity, and achieving other policy goals. Within this framework this chapter seeks to explain Nordic involvement in/with the Baltic States in the past two decades. The communicative practice, interactions and building relations among these states provides a case that can be studied with respect to how states or associations of states understand cultures, attitudes and behaviour, build and manage relationships, and influence opinions and actions, which more or less intentionally advance their interests and values.1 The analysis in this chapter is anchored in the domain of international relations, with focus on the interdependencies created by the development aid and assistance that the Nordic states granted to Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania when they broke free from the Soviet Union. The increasing tendency on the part of the Nordic states to act as agenda setters in the Baltic region is also discussed, which allows for viewing their actions as active international policy or, to use more contemporary terminology, as skilfully exercised public diplomacy. It proved all the more successful as the Baltic republics desired international recognition and longed to become fully-fledged parts of the West. The analysis of how norms and agendas propagated by the Nordic countries have become accepted in the Baltic States is pursued here with a working hypothesis claiming that the assumed civilizational achievement of the allegedly superior Western standards, gained from the cooperation with the Nordic states, made the Baltic actors readily accept the infusion of local institutions with Nordic norms, values and practices. The process was rapid and mostly one- directional to the extent that instead of mutual learning, typical for partners that cooperate on an equal footing, the Nordic countries carried out an action that I describe as cognitive colonisation of the Baltic elites and publics. 1 Gregory, “Public Diplomacy,” 274.

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This meant that the political landscape and the decision makers’ agendas have been saturated with institutional structures, metaphors and other discursive short-cuts favourable to the Nordic countries – which represented Western Europe – to the extent that they became parts of the taken-for-granted cognitive schemas.2 Their institutional embeddedness was possible because a symbolic system, garnished with the English language functioning as a lingua franca of the Western civilisation, was transmitted along with Nordic assistance, which consisted of patterns of behaviour, signs and meanings, delivered together with modes of their interpretation.

Analytical Tools, Theoretical Insights and Empirical Facts

Drawing on the available theories, the unbalanced relationship between the Nordic states and the Baltic republics in the 1990s could be interpreted as a lighter version of ‘small state imperialism’ (småstatsimperialism), similar to what had been practiced several decades earlier by Norway and Denmark with respect to Greenland, Iceland and the Faeroes.3 In its classical definition, small state imperialism involved attempts to maximise welfare, expand territory (or territorial influence) and establish a hegemonic power position.4 Taking into account the significant difference in social and economic capital between the Nordic countries and their Baltic counterparts, especially the third of these objectives could well be corroborated. With some caution also the first element could be substantiated as some authors point to the fact that in the Nordics’ cooperation and assistance strategy their self-interest was no less important than joint gains. Known as a policy of “adjacent internationalism” – meaning Nordic internationalism with a visible Baltic dimension – in practice it often meant providing assistance in a number of policy areas that have been crucial for the Baltic States but in which Nordic interests were just as important or motivated by the ‘neighbourhood interest’ of looking after one’s own backyard.5 Furthermore, the Nordic interests were guaranteed in the long-term perspective

2 For a study of how ideas permeate cognitive schemas in public policy see Campbell, “Ideas, Politics.” 3 The term was used as an analytical device in 1978 in Nilsson, Grönlandsfrågan. 4 Nilsson, Grönlandsfrågan, 9. 5 Hassler, The Strategy of Assistance and Löfstedt, “What factors.” See also van der Hoek & Chong, “Cost-Effectiveness.” The term ‘adjacent internationalism’ was introduced by Annika Bergman in 2002: Bergman, “Adjacent Internationalism.”

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through the learning process, where the Baltic States in time became more aware of the donors’ preferences and adapted to their policy goals. Yet the perspective offered by the small state imperialism approach is not sufficient. The main reason for this is that Nordic-Baltic relations have in fact evolved and – as I will be discussing below – have included an ever more dialogic relationship between the Nordic benefactors and norm setters on the one hand, and Baltic recipients and norm followers on the other. Most importantly, the Baltic republics – although initially placed in a weaker position in the relationship and resembling cygnets groomed by the Nordic swans – since the turn of the millennium have been able to strengthen their autonomy and at least discursively establish themselves as equal partners.6 Considering these circumstances, I would argue for analysing Nordic-Baltic relations as a case of the efficient use of the Nordic power of attraction (symbolic power) backed up by targeted investment strategies (economic power), which eventually resulted in acceptance and implementing the new norms and standards (created dispositions) on the part of the Baltic States. By relating to Pierre Bourdieu’s sociological instruments, this analysis advances a novel argument that communication patterns and institutionalisation of the NordicBaltic relationship can be comprehended through the theoretical lens of habitus and different capitals (powers) operating in the social fields.7 This perspective allows for interpreting the extraordinary Nordic assistance to the Baltic States in the 1990s as an act that simultaneously established the hegemonic order for the benefactors and recipients, rather than only being a disinterested act of giving benevolent development aid. Further, it may be argued that a helping hand offered by the Nordic agenda setters acted within a distinctive cognitive frame, warranted by a portfolio of habitus, different capitals and temporal dispositions, thereby effectively generating social practices, establishing hierarchy, creating rapport and determining Nordic-Baltic relations for a long time. The category of habitus, which Bourdieu defined as “systems of durable, transposable dispositions…structures predisposed to function as…principles which generate and organize practices and representations that can be objectively adapted to their own outcomes,” has been mostly applied to individuals.8 Here I refer to collective categories of the societies that possess social capital and persistent cultures, as they have been constructed by Ronald Inglehart and 6 The metaphor of Baltic cygnets and Nordic swans was coined by Clive Archer in 1999: Archer, “Nordic swans.” 7 Bourdieu’s categories have been developed in several of his works since the 1960s. For examples, see Bourdieu, Logic of Practice and Practical Reason. 8 Bourdieu, The Logic of Practice, 53.

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others, thereby drawing attention to the historical aspect of the accumulation of collective values which produce attitudes and dispositions that can be ascribed to national or regional communities and cultures.9 Cognitive framing is derived from theories that tell us how narrative frames and conceptual metaphors are created and fixed. Framing refers to the social construction of social phenomena often by influential social actors or organisation and it is regarded as an inevitable process of selective influence by means of specific frames. In this function a frame is a psychological device that offers a perspective and manipulates relevance to influence subsequent judgment. By inviting an observer to view the topic from a certain perspective it not only offers a perspective but manages the observer’s alignment in relation to the subject, thereby leading to what I call ‘cognitive colonisation.’ Directing the viewer to consider certain features and to ignore others, perception is organised around the frame and may be resized to fit within the constraints of the framework. By structuring the communicative practice, it co-creates the picture and influences judgment and information received. In this way newly encountered and diverse elements are linked to an already known and persistent background which becomes a point of reference for the individual.10 In the case of Nordic-Baltic relations such frames were provided in several domains, the most interesting being institutionalisation of political life, patterns of democratic governance, education and schooling, rule of law and social welfare, not to mention the overall communicative frame provided by the use of English, a Western lingua franca, instead of Russian that the citizens of the Baltic republics were far more familiar with. They framed Nordic values and patterns of behaviour as superior, initially by channelling them through information offices of the Nordic Council in the Baltic States and Russia, and later by engaging Baltic decision makers, politicians and the general public in a dialogue.11 An interesting example of a frame-provider is the Council of the Baltic Sea States (cbss) which has offered a forum of dialogue among all states in the region since 1992. In 1994, the organisation established a post of cbss Commissioner on Democratic Institutions and Human Rights, including the Rights of Persons belonging to Minorities (from 2000, the Commissioner on Democratic Development), who finished working only in 2004, when the Baltic 9

See for instance, Inglehart, Culture Shift; Inglehart, Modernization; Inglehart & Welzel, Modernization. A pathbreaking work introducing Bourdieu in International Relations studies appeared only in 2013: Adler-Nissen, Bourdieu. 10 Triandafyllidou & Fotiou, “Sustainability and modernity.” See also a compact definition at http://world-information.org/trd/06. 11 Kononenko, Norden’s high five, 11–19.

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republics joined the eu. It is noteworthy, that despite the multinational character of cbss, it was always a Danish representative (Ole Espersen then Helle Degn) who held the post, thereby setting the Western and Nordic norms as standards for the Baltic States in these domains. While research recognising the domestic impact of international norms exists, which could partially explain the functioning and impact of external Nordic norms on the Baltic States, accepting habitus and temporal dispositions as spiritus movens lends an additional option to understand how the symbolic power in situations of asymmetrical power relations in the Baltic Sea region has been established and maintained.12 Some light can be shed on this, for instance, by Bourdieu’s claim about the impossibility of disinterested aid and assistance. He has argued that even if benevolent assistance is a part of habitus in wellestablished societies, it is always accompanied by a certain degree of an underlying give-and-take attitude. As a result, helping and assisting others has an inbuilt logic of costs and benefits and a disinterested act is hardly possible.13 Hence, Bourdieu’s claim allows for seeing Nordic assistance not so much as disinterested aid, but rather as an act establishing a hegemonic order and evoking expectations as to the correct behaviour between the benefactors and the recipients.

Political Contingencies and the Background of Nordic-Baltic Relations

Being a small state is not usually an asset in a world dominated by power relations where the international agenda has more often than not been set by major national players. Being a small state at the periphery of the mainstream of world politics makes the situation particularly precarious. Being so-called ‘transition countries’ like the Baltic republics, arguably makes the situation even more uncertain since the dynamic of change is imprinted in their status. Since 1991 in Eastern Europe, transition has meant a passage in the political, economic and socio-cultural domains from the Soviet authoritarian legacy to a Western-style democracy. Quite naturally, examples of good practice and role models were often sought in these parts of Europe where templates for transformation seemed to be on hand. The direction of the Eastern European search for inspiration in the West was not surprising because, as noted by György Szondi, countries in transition 12

For existing research on the domestic impact of international norms, see for instance Cortell & Davis, “Understanding the domestic impact,” 65–87. 13 Bourdieu, Practical Reason, 87–88.

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rely on the moral, financial, and political support of more developed regions or nations, called ‘center nations,’ such as the Western European countries. The less developed or transitional countries are often situated on the ‘periphery’ or ‘semi-periphery.’14 In the case of the peripheral Baltic republics the Nordic states quickly became role models and sources of inspiration in several domains as they epitomised Western European governance and welfare, and were close neighbours across the Baltic Sea.15 From the Baltic perspective it often remained unnoticed that for a long time the Nordic countries themselves used to function as a periphery in their relationship with the ‘centre nations’ of Europe, such as Germany or France.16 Yet, what spoke in favour of the Nordic countries functioning as role models, was that in more recent history they contradicted the ‘centre-periphery’ pattern of relationship between centre nations and smaller countries implied by Szondi. Especially in their dealing with the European Union they proved that small countries at the European periphery do not need to accept a one-directional transfer of norms, values and capital. What might have appeared particularly attractive to the Baltic republics was how the Nordic countries positioned themselves as successful agenda setters and ‘norm entrepreneurs’ with ‘social power,’ as Christine Ingebritsen put it.17 Indeed, the Nordic countries proved that being active in international arenas and creating multilateral dependencies could be an efficient means of managing relations with other countries, and thereby balancing out discrepancies in economic power and in other coercive instruments typically used in international policy making.18 Having had this experience, the Nordic countries were indeed exemplary role models for the Baltic republics emerging from the shadow of the Cold War.

The Nordic and Baltic States since the 1990s

Due to their specific peripheral position in Europe during the Cold War, the Nordic countries appeared to be wedged in between the two blocs, and pursued 14 15

Szondi, “Central and Eastern European,” 295. See Kukk, “Estonia in transition” and other contributions in Jervell, Kukk & Joenniemi, The Baltic Sea. 16 Kirby, The Baltic World. 17 Ingebritsen, “Norm Entrepreneurs.” 18 See Bergman, “Adjacent Internationalism” and Magnúsdóttir, Small States’ Power.

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a policy commonly referred to as “Nordic balance.”19 This geopolitical concept was based on Finland remaining under strong pressure from the Soviet Union; Norway and Denmark being members of nato; and Sweden remaining neutral. The balancing act in international politics went hand in hand with the ‘middle way’ domestic politics and progressive social policies that came to be known as the Scandinavian model. As described by Carl Marklund, this was efficiently communicated to the world as a peaceful way of overcoming the dichotomy between capitalism and socialism and guaranteeing social justice through meritocracy and social engineering.20 The end of the bi-polar world order, however, seemed to make all these concepts and labels irrelevant. For one thing it opened a window of opportunity for the Nordic countries to redefine their identities and geopolitical space of reference, for another it became clearer that the threat of irrelevance of the post-Cold War era could be met by marketing oneself in the post-modern fashion, with brands that made reference to issues that were apparently globally relevant; for instance, defending human rights, protecting the environment or counteracting climate change through sustainable development.21 ‘Active internationalism’ initiated by the Danes in the early 1990s must be seen as an attempt to provide Northern Europe with a strategic pattern of foreign policy making under new circumstances.22 In fact, seeking opportunities for Denmark to act as an active small state was present in Danish foreign policy already during the Cold War, which was then justified as a moral responsibility.23 The new label of active internationalism suggested a means of overcoming the peripheral position but, as rightfully noted by Uffe Ellmann-Jensen – the Danish Minister of Foreign Affairs who coined the term – it was necessary to set priorities, considering the limited resources and opportunities to exercise influence.24 When the three Baltic republics regained their independence, it became apparent that carving out a new political space of the Baltic Sea region was one of these priorities. Providing aid to the newly-sovereign Baltic republics, which emerged as underdeveloped, poor neighbours across the Baltic Sea, created an unprecedented opportunity for Denmark – and, to a large extent, also for the other 19 20 21 22

Brundtland, “Nordisk balanse før og nå.” Marklund, “A Swedish Norden” Musiał, “Reconstructing Nordic Significance” Holm, “Danish foreign policy activism,” 19–46. See also Mads Mordhorst’s chapter in this volume. 23 Branner, Småstatens udenrigspolitik, 18. 24 Udenrigskommissionen af 1. April 1989, Udenrigstjenesten år 2000, 40.

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Nordic countries – to give a new, ‘localised’ meaning to their renowned and institutionalised policy of assisting the developing world.25 It seemed all the more natural, as in the beginning of the 1990s the economic, social and political development gap between the five Nordic countries and the three Baltic republics was significant on almost every account. As noted by Pertti Joenniemi on several occasions in the early 1990s: These differences and discrepancies are so profound that it would be a false departure to assume that the Nordic and Baltic countries will soon be on a par with each other and capable of equitable relations.26 These discrepancies notwithstanding, the Baltic direction allowed the Nordic countries to apply development assistance principles to the European space.27 At the same time, focusing on rebuilding strong and democratic structures in the Baltic States gave Nordic internationalism and cooperation endeavours an ethical purpose and a sense of direction in the post-Cold War era.28 Yet, the reasons to help the Baltic States ranged from “the benevolent motive of serving the interest of the recipient country,” through to “the financial or career selfinterests of the individual…be it of a politician, a civil servant, or a private consultant,” and finally to the political and business self-interests of the donor states.29 It is tempting to suggest that by means of development assistance the Nordic states sighted a chance to construct their ‘near abroad’ in the Baltic republics, which was explicitly welcomed there. The term ‘Nordic near abroad’ should, however, be used with caution.30 In the Soviet rhetoric, securing the ussr’s ‘near abroad’ justified unlawful occupation of the Baltic lands and denoted a policy of controlling and shaping these territories for the benefit of the Soviet international and domestic interests. Historian David J. Smith suggested that speaking of a ‘Nordic near abroad’ might also be “construed as an attempt to control and shape these territories in a direction that enhances the Nordic nations’ own security, economic development and political influence within the wider Europe.”31 Seen from this perspective constructing special 25 For the case of Sweden see Dahl, “Activist Sweden.” 26 Joenniemi, “Baltic-Nordic Relations,” 44. 27 Petersen, Europæisk og globalt engagement, 621. 28 Bergman, “Adjacent Internationalism,” 74. 29 van der Hoek and Chong, “Cost-Effectiveness,” 4–6. 30 Allegedly used for the first time in Arter, Scandinavian Politics Today, 316. 31 Smith, “Nordic Near Abroad,” 50.

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Nordic-Baltic relations provided a window of opportunity for the Nordic community to secure its position against Russia, to secure economic influence in the fuzzy zone of the collapsed planned economies, to expand its area of political influence by predictable, rational and friendly partner states and, last but not least, to establish norms and set rules that would take Nordic values and interests into account. At any rate, in the beginning of the 1990s Nordic governments were provided with a new space which apart from the development assistance could be invested with new meanings pertaining to the Nordic self-understanding.

Baltic Sea Regionalisation

In an analysis of Nordic norm entrepreneurship in their relations with the Baltic States there is a need to pay attention to both the sending and the receiving end of these activities. Without the eager Baltic recipients, exercising Nordic active internationalism would be far less successful. The more the young Baltic governments welcomed the information stream, assistance and norms from the Nordic countries, the easier and more successful the Nordic norm-setting endeavour could be. The practical material and functional needs of the post-Soviet Baltic republics provided an ideal ground for the Nordic countries to play a role as emblematic of the West: as an epitome of freedom, democracy and wealth. The Baltic countries welcomed the post-Cold War interest and patronage of the Nordic states as possible providers of not only economic assistance and aid (economic capital) but also as facilitators of cooperation over the Baltic Sea (offering social capital). Providing an insight into the bilateral relations between separate Nordic and Baltic countries, Mare Kukk mentions Finland and Sweden’s assumed ‘responsibility’ for Estonia, while Denmark and Norway focused more on Latvia and Lithuania, though there was not any fixed pattern of bilateral cooperation on concrete educational, cultural and structural programmes and initiatives – economic assistance notwithstanding.32 The programmes were easier to implement on bilateral bases, with political support being easier to win in the donor countries. Due to economic hardships, the Baltic republics were ready to accept any sustained assistance that could help

32

Kukk, “Estonia in transition,” 155. According to Bergman, “Sweden ‘adopted’ Latvia in the process while Finland concentrated its efforts on Estonia and Denmark on Lithuania” (Bergman, “Adjacent Internationalism,” 205).

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in the establishment of foundations for their economy, security and Westernstyle governance.33 Like other Eastern European nations in the early 1990s, Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania suffered from their Soviet legacy not only because of the precarious state of their economies but also, more importantly, because of great social insecurity and lack of credible modernisation strategies. Kenneth Jowitt spoke of a “genesis environment” in the post-communist countries; a state of perfect de-structuration, where everything was possible and no privileged path into the future could be expected.34 It was widely recognised that the Soviet modernisation patterns of the previous decades did not develop rational bureaucracies, did not strengthen civil society and did not liberate the individual from the powers of the locality, tradition and the collective.35 In this situation ‘path dependency’ approaches to the transition, postulated by Claus Offe, appeared the most credible and acceptable. Offe argued that since perestroika and glasnost did not contain a clear and realistic theory on how the transition to the new social order should take place, the persistent problems of the Eastern and Central European countries in transition were being solved by copying Western European models of political, economic and cultural modernisation and applying them quite mechanically to their own situations.36 However, the problem with this approach was, as rightfully noted by Inka Salovaara-Moring that it represented a single trajectory fallacy, since the projected teleological end-state in the West did not in fact exist. At the time, no country in East and Central Europe had ever had any previous experience with ‘transition’ or ‘catching up’ with the West, so the applied solution was to ‘panoptise’ these countries in the Western gaze, by measuring their performance against benchmarks that were other than their own. Following these paths and meeting the requirements through the development of administrative, economic and other policies was felt to be an obligation “in order to be considered a good student of the West.”37 As a result, not only policy discourses or the newly emerging institutions, but also the epistemological sense-making that was adopted as having a universal and normative status, were in fact “surprisingly often…outcomes of Western ways of thinking.”38 The Baltic republics were a case in point. Their challenge of rebuilding states and economies was so profound that they saw it necessary to became 33 See Jervell, Joenniemi & Kukk, The Baltic Sea Area, 132–206. 34 Jowitt, The New World Disorder, 262–267. 35 Piirainen, Towards a New Social Order, 16. 36 Offe, Varieties of Transition, 135–138. 37 Salovaara-Moring, “Dead Ground,” 143. 38 Ibid., 148.

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norm-followers of their Nordic neighbours, who they perceived as transmitters of Western European models.39 Even for the Baltic troika’s internal cooperation, which was from the start of a rather declarative character, Nordic cooperation was used as a model for institutions like the Baltic Assembly, the Baltic Council of Ministers and the Baltic Council during the first five years after the restoration of independence.40 The Nordic Council had symbolic power and was expected to function as framework provider, which Mare Kukk described neatly in saying: This means that the Nordic countries, with their joint body, the Nordic Council, are ‘in charge’ and the most the Baltic states are able to do is to follow the pattern of the Nordic cooperation.41 Relations with the Russian Federation proved to be difficult, not least because of the problems with the significant Russian minorities which made it difficult to create social cohesion by the application of unifying nation-state narratives in the Baltic States.42 ‘Westernising’ narratives and a wish to become a part of the West, where the Baltic States would serve as “a bastion, beacon, or bridge” vis-á-vis the East, were declared to be national strategies.43 But escaping from the Soviet sphere of influence was hard to achieve, due to demographic and social legacies, economic dependencies and institutional colonisation by the inherited mindset of homo sovieticus. Distancing oneself from the Soviet past by accepting Western narratives of development was one thing, but building capacity to reach desired Western levels of democratic governance and economic affluence proved more challenging. Focusing interest and hopes on the Nordic states, who so openly declared their willingness to assist, seemed a natural and rational choice.

Assistance as Norm and Habitus in Nordic Societies

Official discourse framed Nordic assistance to the Baltic republics in the 1990s as a moral obligation and spontaneous reaction.44 Unconditioned assistance 39 40 41 42 43 44

See Kukk, “Estonia in transition.” Jakniūnaitė, “The Baltic States,” 2; Galbreath, Lašas & Lamoreaux, Continuity and change, 103–105. Kukk, “Estonia in Transition,” 153. See Vetik, Nation-building; Morris, “eu Enlargement,” and Paul Jordan’s chapter in this volume. Galbreath & Lamoreaux, “Bastion, beacon or bridge?” See Archer “Nordic Swans.”

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corroborated the patterns of providing development aid and helping the developing nations, policies previously identified as part of the Nordic brand.45 It went hand in hand with the Nordic auto-stereotype pertaining to “the regime of goodness” that in the conceptualisation of Terje Tvedt and Nina Witoszek’s work concerning Norway, could explain why the provision of foreign aid was regarded as natural and indisputable in this part of the world. Tvedt sees the phenomenon as a regime, thanks to which the self-affirming role of development aid, advocacy of human rights, and peace brokerage has regulated internal relations and become Norway’s official foreign policy. Witoszek has added that a unique and spontaneous will to provide humanitarian aid became a master-narrative of Norwegian identity because it was rooted in nature, peace and a Christian ethos.46 While these arguments have been developed to explain the Norwegian meta-narrative that legitimised and produced unquestioned norms, it may be argued that they also explain how the regime of goodness has formed the individual and collective habitus in most Nordic societies. All these societies have been founded on the protestant ethic, have developed a security community built on an increasing, mutual interdependence and a sense of peaceful coexistence and, last but not least, the Nordic citizens have undergone similar socialisation process in the twentieth century contained within the collectively created ‘rags-to-riches’ (or rather ‘rags-to-welfare’) development pattern.47

Environmental Protection and Green Growth

After the Soviet era, the Baltic States inherited a devastated natural environment and a mindset exhibiting little care for its conservation and protection. To counteract this, Nordic voices – referring to the region’s ecological interdependence – emphasised the mutual interest of all parties in the Baltic Sea drainage basin since the early 1990s.48 This was relatively easy as environmental care and sustainable development had been part of the Nordic (Swedish) 45 46 47

48

See Engh, “The Conscience of the World?”; Browning, “Branding Nordicity.” See Tvedt, Utviklingshjelp; Witoszek, Regime of Goodness. On the development of commonality in Northern Europe see Sørensen & Stråth, Cultural Construction. On the current common Nordic values see also Ringdal, Ervasti, Fridberg & Hjerm, Nordic social attitudes. See for instance how the activities of the Baltic University Program, directed from Uppsala, established environmental protection and sustainable development as a framework for the educational discourse concerning the region.

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export toolkit and legislative masterpieces both during and after the Cold War.49 Sustainable development and environmental protection norms became Swedish standards that were up-loaded to the European Union when Sweden joined. This was the opposite of the normal downloading of standards that has usually been the case with candidate countries mostly accepting the eu legislation and standards in the membership negotiations.50 To make the eu accept Sweden’s ecological and environmental protection norms, the country used its favourable image, made the most of the Council Presidency as an amplifier of those national interests, exploited the potential of its small national administration and, finally, it established and made the most of a close relationship with the Commission.51 No wonder that these ecological and environmental protection norms were also accepted as a blueprint for the Baltics. Accepting them from the Nordic countries has symbolised becoming modern and (Western) European; leaving behind the real and mental legacy of the systemic backwardness of the Soviet era. In this regard, Estonia is a case in point as a major part of its environmental policy-making takes place within the framework of international and regional cooperation. During the 1990s external financial assistance and technical expertise have played an important role in the development of Estonian environmental administration and policy. The cooperation with Finland was particularly remarkable, following unofficial cooperation between Finnish and Estonian environmental ngos that had already existed during the 1970s. In 1991 an intergovernmental agreement on environmental cooperation between Finland and Estonia was signed and it was the first international treaty Estonia signed after regaining its independence.52 This act established a pattern of relationships also in other domains, but being recognised by Finland as a partner and making the protection of nature an issue of mutual concern has set priorities in the policy arena for Estonia ever since. It lies beyond the scope of this chapter to map all the instances when the Baltic States have taken over external norms on environmental protection, but in addition to Finland, also Sweden, Denmark, and many international and regional stakeholders such as the eu, the International Monetary Fund (imf) and the European Bank for Reconstruction and Development (ebrd), have 49 50 51 52

See Ingebritsen, “Norm Entrepreneurs”; Eckerberg, “Sweden: Progression”; Glover, “Unity Exposed,” 232–235. Magnúsdóttir & Ţórhallsson, “The Nordic States,” 209; Lanfermann, “How does the developmental process,” 20–25. Magnusdóttir, “Small States’ Power.” Kontio & Kuitto, “Environmental Governance,” 97–98.

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been involved, especially during the first years of the transition. However, in the context of Nordic norm setting, the Estonian example is remarkable as the country has not only adhered to the environmental norms but it has also used them to act like a Nordic country for the purpose of imaging itself as one of them.53 Nowadays it is not so much environmental protection, but a green growth strategy that Estonia has embraced as a progressive Nordic norm. It is all the more important as this time it has been ushered in under the banner of the Nordic Council of Ministers for which green growth has become one of the priorities to promote.54 On 22 September 2011 the Nordic Council’s homepage announced that the “Nordic representations in the Baltic States boost green growth in the Baltic Sea Region” and that from 15–17 September 2011 the Estonian-Nordic Green Growth Festival ROHEVIK in Tartu and Tallinn looked to the kind of future that will be built on sustainable and environmentally friendly ways of life, with a focus on electric cars.55 Reading news like this leads to the conclusion that the discourse which earlier elevated environmental protection as a Nordic brand, now with the help from the Baltic partners, sees economic progress through green growth as a new Nordic marker in the world. Framing it as intrinsically progressive and coupling it with the alleged backwardness of non-Nordic states, allows the Nordic countries to maintain a hegemonic position in promoting Nordic values, strategies and outlooks in their near abroad.

Exercising Symbolic Power

Nordic norm entrepreneurship establishing Nordic-Baltic power relations have also rested on the direct transfer of institutional solutions, grafting them onto the body of newly re-born Baltic democracies. It included the renewal of 53

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The attempts of branding Estonia as a Nordic country go back to the former foreign minister (now president) Toomas Hendrik Ilves’ metaphor from 1998 of Estonia being a Yuleland and, in fact, a Nordic country. See Paul Jordan’s chapter in this volume. See the Nordic Prime Ministers’ 2011 initiative “The Nordic Region – leading the way in green growth”: http://www.norden.org/en/news-and-events/news/the-nordic-region-2013 -leading-the-way-in-green-growth. Nordic Council of Ministers, “Nordic representations in the Baltic States boost green growth in the Baltic Sea Region”: http://www.norden.org/en/news-and-events/news/ nordic-representations-in-the-baltic-states-boost-green-growth-in-the-baltic-sea-region.

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the holdings of the public libraries in Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania, the training of public service personnel, and enabling hundreds of civil servants, academics, politicians and future diplomats from the three Baltic republics to receive Western-style training and degrees. Assistance for public libraries and for integrating Baltic scholarship and academics into the Western epistemic community are analysed below as specific case studies. Assistance to the education sectors in the Baltic States was initiated in the 1990s. The aim was to give the republics a modern school management system, let them gain access to the (Western) European norms and standards and allow them to participate in a broader network of West–East co-operation promoting better understanding and mutual support.56 These aims seemed obvious in the light of the dilapidated state of their education systems at all levels where the Soviet style of teaching dominated, and outdated and poor infrastructure could not provide any promising point of departure. A contemporary eyewitness described the situation in Latvia as: The academic establishment is overstaffed, underpaid, and fearful of changes. It lacks internal and public support for purposeful and energetic actions…. From the Baltic perspective, it is almost impossible to suggest priorities. Almost everything can be included…. I see academic reform not so much as a grand program, but more as separate projects making a larger whole…. The libraries of the Latvian Academy of Sciences, Riga Technical University, and the University of Latvia are technically backward. They also lack traditions of service to the public, and they lack periodical resources.57 For anybody studying the state of higher education in the Baltic republics it was clear that the Soviet legacy in the Baltic countries had caused “more damage, and probably substantially more lasting damage, to higher education than was the case in Eastern Europe.”58 For these reasons the domains of education, higher education and research cooperation became critically important areas for assistance. One of the more successful cases has been Nordic-Baltic co-operation in public health training. Reporting on this in 2002 Lennart Köhler and Leena Eklund wrote:

56 Council of Europe, Legislative Reform Programme, 138–145. 57 Gundar King’s letter quoted from “Baltic Interlude,” in Quandt, Changing Landscape, 255. 58 Ibid.

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A mission from the Nordic School of Public Health (nhv) to the Baltic countries in 1992 ascertained that a postgraduate training programme in Public Health was needed and wanted by the new leaders of the liberated countries.59 The citation demonstrates how obvious the assistance appeared and to what extent the benefactors and the recipients accepted its framework, especially when it was buttressed with extra funding from the Nordic Council of Ministers, initial help from who/euro and personal and institutional support from the Baltic Ministers of Health and the Rectors and Deans of the Baltic universities. As a result, the BRIMHEALTH Programme (Baltic Rim Partnership for Public Health) was launched in 1993, from the beginning including Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, Poland and the area of St Petersburg. Despite the obvious discrepancy in know-how and equipment, the agreed memorandum of understanding institutionalised a very democratic structure of decision making and an advisory group consisting of representatives of all participating institutions. The advisory group was to review and approve all proposals for courses, the general curriculum and the strategic plan of BRIMHEALTH, as well as to select students to the courses. For all project participants it became clear that the strategy of the Nordic benefactors was not so much to impose norms, but rather to work together towards sustainable development of public health training, thereby securing the long-term success of this project. Initial assistance has been transformed into mutual cooperation.60 Apart from individual bilateral actions, such as the above mentioned BRIMHEALTH, a frequent point of departure for assisting the Baltic States was provided by common regional institutions, often initiated under the auspices of the Nordic Council. One of them was EuroFaculty, launched on the initiative of the Council of the Baltic Sea States in 1993. EuroFaculty offered training programmes in law, public administration and economics for civil servants, administrators and academics in the Baltic republics over the period 1993–2005. However, it was obvious that the apparent partnership of international donors, organised under the auspices of the Norwegian and Danish EuroFaculty directors, with the local universities in Riga, Tartu and Vilnius, actually remained externally shaped, driven and influenced by Western academic governance norms and agencies.61 No matter how benign the intentions behind the establishment of EuroFaculty might have been, due to the American, 59 60 61

Köhler & Eklund, “Brimhealth,” 152. Köhler & Eklund, “Brimhealth.” See Kristensen, Born into a Dream.

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British, German and Nordic donors’ advantages of cultural, as well as economic capital, the partnership was permeated by relations of power clearly favouring the hegemonic position of foreign teachers and directors. European norms of how to organise academic work and what to teach in order to provide ideas of good governance for all EuroFaculty students were channelled by Nordic administrators and reinforced later by attractive job openings. As it later turned out, EuroFaculty attracted outstanding Baltic students and made a significant impact on the Baltic university and political system. A former EuroFaculty student, Kaspars Balodis, became Dean of Law at the University of Latvia in 2002 and later, in 2006, Judge at the Constitutional Court in Latvia. Another EuroFaculty student, Vytautas Nekrosius, became Dean of Law at Vilnius University in 2003. EuroFaculty delivered highly qualified staff to the national banks and the central administration in the Baltic States, as well as to the World Trade Organisation and the World Bank. Several members of the Baltic parliaments are former EuroFaculty students. One of its first students, Nils Ushakovs became Mayor of Riga in 2009. Baiba Rivža became Minister of Education and Science in Latvia in 2006. Vjačeslavs Dombrovskis, the current Latvian Minister of Economy is also a EuroFaculty alumni and former Teaching Assistant. From the current vantage point one can see that many EuroFaculty graduates have become ‘translators’ and ‘brokers’ of Nordic ideas concerning good governance, public policy, academic quality and higher education in general. Thanks to the above mentioned prominent individuals and other, lesser known graduates and all those involved in the EuroFaculty programme in the recipient countries, the Western-sponsored education and training organised by the Nordic directors has had lasting success in the shape of all the participating students and local teachers. Through EuroFaculty it was possible to establish a reliable and solid agency in the Baltic States which is likely to remain friendly and favourable to the Nordic and other Western benefactors long beyond the life-span of the EuroFaculty project itself.62 While EuroFaculty was an example of norm setting in the domain of education, the case of reforming public libraries and information science education offers insights into yet another initiative to invest the Baltic republics with Nordic institutional patterns and meanings.63 A richer and more knowledgeable group of teachers arriving from the Nordic countries acted as modernisers coming to facilitate the transformation of post-Soviet Eastern Europe. The 62 63

Opinion based on personal interviews of the author conducted when he acted as an evaluator of the Nordplus programme in the Baltic States in 2010. Müller, Husem, Akre & Kretaviciene, “Transfer of knowledge.”

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systematic modernisation of Baltic libraries and Library and Information Science (lis) education started with Nordic assistance to the independent Baltic States in the 1990s. New study programmes aimed at education and retraining of librarians were introduced, new institutes created and staff employed to implement changes in both the educational and cultural spheres. During the Soviet past, the external influence on the libraries was political, economic and juridical, so after regaining independence the need to create new library legislation, recalibrate the whole information infrastructure and develop it towards the changing conditions was obvious. Ideas and assistance for realising reforms in lis education came from the Nordic countries, though extra close contacts on a bilateral basis were realised in partnerships between Estonia with Finland, Latvia with Sweden and Lithuania with Denmark.64 In many respects these partnerships functioned as a lifeline for the Baltic partners because, as in the case of lis institutions in Lithuania, after regaining independence they were in a position with very few resources for survival, and almost without students, as the situation of libraries was so poor that no one in his right mind would have dreamed of becoming a librarian.65 A key goal for the Nordic benefactors was to internationalise the curriculum and provide frameworks for continuing education, thus setting the agenda for the future pattern of Nordic-Baltic communication in this domain. One of the major obstacles to achieving this seemed to be a lack of funds for cooperation projects on part of the Baltic, to cover costs for visiting teachers and for travel and other expenses for participants. The fact that all Nordic countries had established special funds to support the development of democracy in the Baltic area came in handy, and the Nordic schools spent some of their own resources too.66 The internationalisation agenda required a common international language, which from the Nordic point of view was English. However, on the part of the Baltic partners their often insufficient command of English and their universal fluency in Russian that previously had been the common language in the academia, did not make this choice so obvious. Nevertheless, for different reasons English became a language of instruction and communication instead of Russian. Opting for English was beneficial for both parties, which arguably 64 Virkus & Harbo, “Internationalisation,” 231. 65 Ibid. 66 Ibid.

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created a durable disposition and framed the Nordic-Baltic communication in a new way. For the Baltic participants using English, while oftentimes learning it by doing it in a more dialogic learning environment provided by the Nordic teachers, meant distancing themselves from their Soviet heritage by acquiring skills that gave access to the Western cultural, civilizatory package. For the Nordic teachers, administrators and politicians using English allowed them to establish their dominance by proxy, i.e. they utilised the attractiveness of English as a symbol and bearer of values of the international and cosmopolitan West.67 Apart from the English language as a means of communication, the way of teaching reflected the Nordic tradition of dialogic relationships between teachers and students, and introduced problem-based learning into the curricula. These policies were successful to the extent that within a decade Baltic and Nordic colleagues were able to cooperate as seemingly equal partners, as seen for instance in Nordis-Net that supported PhD education and research through courses, seminars and mobility grants for research students and tutors in the Nordic-Baltic area.68 Conclusion As demonstrated above, in a post-Cold War setting the three Baltic republics have been particularly targeted by Nordic foreign policy activism and development assistance. The Nordic states have given their assistance individually, each in their own specific way, but they have also used the platform of common Nordic institutions, thereby branding ‘Nordicity’ and constructing their new ‘Nordic-Baltic identity’ in the context of Baltic Sea regional cooperation.69 The Nordic assistance and patronage of the Baltic States was accompanied by a discourse establishing a hegemonic symbolic power and was permeated by symbolic violence, to use the terminology offered by Bourdieu, which arguably has had a lasting effect on the ways and means of the region building in this area. The three Baltic republics have been discursively framed into the position of recipients of the norms and ideas, skilfully communicated by the Nordic norm entrepreneurs. Their symbolic capital was a form of power that was not

67 68 69

The author wishes to thank Nikolas Glover for drawing his attention to the symbolic value of the English language in this context. Virkus & Harbo, “Internationalisation,” 233. Musiał, “Reconstructing Nordic Significance,” 295–297.

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perceived as power but as legitimate demands for recognition, deference, obedience, or the services of others.70 Now, if Bourdieu is right about the economy of symbolic goods; then through establishing their symbolic power the Nordic benefactors certainly contributed to a lasting change in Nordic-Baltic relations by accumulating symbolic capital related to their ‘disinterestedness.’71 Thanks to this the Nordic agents were able to transform their initial economic and structural domination into emotional relations while their hegemonic position and norm setting was transformed into charisma and recognition. Disinterestedness being firmly established as a part of the Nordic habitus, which in the case of Nordic-Baltic relations was corroborated by the actual practice of substantial assistance, the Nordic involvement in the Baltic States should be interpreted more broadly than merely as benevolent and disinterested development aid. Bourdieu warns us that the social worlds, in which disinterestedness is an official norm, are arguably governed not by disinterestedness. He claims that behind the appearances of charity, virtuousness and benevolence there are concealed vested interests. From a sociological perspective the disinterestedness is possible only when agents with a habitus-based disposition to disinterestedness are rewarded for it.72 Looking at the Nordic-Baltic relationship it may be argued that Nordic benefactors have been rewarded first by gaining influence and later by transforming the power imbalance into a dialogic partnership among the five Nordic and three Baltic States (nb8). As a matter of fact, the reward may be even greater as the potential of the nb8 group could be instrumental in European politics in the future. For instance, nb8 appeared attractive enough for the British Prime Minister, David Camerron, who after the 2010 general election initiated the formation of a ukNordic-Baltic Forum (now called the Northern Future Forum). This annual and fairly informal forum has been seen as the deliberate building of an alternative power bloc within the eu.73 Even if this project may turn out to be unrealistic, in their dealings with the Baltic States the Nordics have certainly added a new dimension to an efficient use of soft power in international politics. Focusing on the dialogic partnership opens a discussion of the Nordic involvement with the Baltic States as a case of public diplomacy. While the Nordic countries have not explicitly used this framework or called their dealings with the Baltic States’ public diplomacy, I would like to test Nordic-Baltic relations with respect to 70 Swartz, Culture and Power, 43. 71 Bourdieu, Practical Reason, 93, and Bourdieu, The Logic of Practice, 122–134. 72 Bourdieu, Practical Reason, 87–88. 73 “Cameron flies to Stockholm to strengthen alliance,” Financial Times, 8 February 2012.

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four categories developed by Mark Leonard, a former British government consultant and adviser. In his instrumental and functional approach he mentions a hierarchy of impacts that public diplomacy can achieve, i.e.: (1) Increasing people’s familiarity with one’s country (making them think about it, updating their images, turning around unfavourable opinions), (2) Increasing people’s appreciation of one’s country (creating positive perceptions, getting others to see issues of global importance from the same perspective), (3) Engaging people with one’s country (strengthening ties – from education reform to scientific co-operation; encouraging people to see us as an attractive destination for tourism, study, distance learning; getting them to buy our products; getting to understand and subscribe to our values), (4) Influencing people (getting companies to invest, publics to back our positions or politicians to turn to us as a favoured partner).74 Referring to the first impact, it may be stated that thanks to the efforts of the individual Nordic countries, as well as to the collective efforts of the Nordic Council, both decision makers as well as the general public in the Baltic States were made familiar with their Nordic neighbours across the Baltic Sea. The mere fact that the Nordic states were among the first to recognise the independence of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania in 1991, meant that they at least momentarily attracted significant international media attention. The information campaigns about the Nordic countries delivered by the representatives of the Nordic Council and its information offices established a positive-laden image of this part of the world. These activities led to the conveying of particular images and notions pertaining to the Nordic autostereotypes, such as equality and prosperity, respect for democratic institutions and human rights, consensualism and peace-making skills. In terms of Leonard’s hierarchy of impacts, they served to increase the Baltic people’s appreciation of the Nordic countries and creating positive perceptions. As this chapter has demonstrated, Nordic norm entrepreneurs have been particularly successful in addressing Leonard’s third public policy goal by engaging a great number of politicians, educators, students and common individuals in the Baltic countries with the Nordic countries. Assistance in library infrastructure and personnel development, the establishment and maintenance of formal and informal ties – from reform of education for the needs of public administration to scientific co-operation and exchange of cutting-edge research achievements – all have contributed to encouraging the Baltics to see the Nordic countries, and recognise them as attractive destinations for tourism and study. Last but not least, it has also contributed to Baltic citizens acquainting 74 Leonard, Public Diplomacy, 9–10.

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themselves with, and subscribing to, Nordic values. Finally, with respect to the fourth of Leonard’s impacts; influencing people – the Nordic countries have gained the support of the publics of the Baltic States in backing Nordic positions (eg. human rights, green growth initiatives etc) and Baltic politicians commonly accept the Nordics as favoured partners.75 The apparent success of Nordic-Baltic relations since the 1990s provides possibly a Nordic recipe for successful engagement with the eu neighbouring states and candidate countries. The eu enlargement of 2004, that was significantly shaped by the Danish presidency of the eu in 2002, can serve as an example of utilising the potential that eu membership and the eu presidency can offer to a small state. Prior to the meeting in Copenhagen there were different visions of the enlargement process and it was far from obvious whether all Baltic countries or only Estonia should be admitted in the first group of countries to join the eu in 2004.76 Active agenda setting and pushing for the ‘big’ enlargement with 10 new members of the eu had a very practical result for Denmark: The active efforts made towards pushing the enlargement process forward, crowned by the final round of negotiations in Copenhagen, have generated a large degree of goodwill and trust towards Denmark from new Member States. This is a good starting point for Denmark’s ability to safeguard its interests in an enlarged and transformed eu. …Particularly with regard to relations with the three Baltic States, a basis exists for fostering cooperation, which eventually might bear resemblance to the solidarity and quality characterising Denmark’s relations with the other Nordic countries.77 Indeed, seen from the perspective of the now decade long membership of the Baltic States in the eu, Denmark and other Nordic states have skilfully used the window of opportunity which their particular relations with the Baltic States have offered. Already in 2010 the Nordic Council of Ministers could boast that: We have a very well-established cooperation framework. Besides the nb8 nations, several regional organizations are also active, including the Nordic Council of Ministers, the Baltic Assembly, the Nordic Council, the eu, the Council for the Baltic Sea States, the Council of Europe and nato.

75 Birkavs, V. & Gade, S., nb8 Wise Men Report. 76 See Musiał, “Poland as a Baltic Sea State,” 289–307. 77 Regeringen, A Changing World, 10.

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The practical cooperation is active in a wide range of spheres and on different levels.78 As this chapter has demonstrated, Nordic assistance, the concurrent transmission of values and the institutionalisation of Nordic norms have all managed to establish a hegemonic discourse where the roles of benefactors, who had a lasting disposition for development aid, and receivers, who had a temporal disposition to absorb norms and standards coming from the West, have been clearly defined and adhered to. At the same time, by entering into dialogic relationships with the Baltic partners in the recent years, the Nordic agents have been able to guarantee the sustainability of their symbolic power and capital. The relationship between norm setters and norm followers, know-how providers and know-how consumers that had been cognitively framed in the early 1990s, was transformed, at least discursively, into a community of nb8 in which there is a disposition for using equity and dialogue to set a new agenda for the common future. 78

Birkavs, V. & Gade, S., nb8 Wise Men Report, 3. Nordic-Baltic Eight stands for a regional co-operation format including five Nordic and three Baltic states for raising and reviewing regional issues by their official representatives and experts.

Concluding Reflections

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Small-State Identities: Promotions Past and Present Christopher Browning Recent years have seen a groundswell of academic analyses interested in what is often depicted as the new practices of nation branding and new public diplomacy in disciplines ranging from business studies and marketing to communication studies, sociology, political science and international relations. This interest has been driven by at least two connected developments: the introduction of new technologies fostering both the democratisation and proliferation of information and images around the globe, and the advent and multiplication of nation branding programmes as states seek to assert control over how they are seen and represented. Both processes are indicative of a renewed focus on images, representations and identities in social life and which, when positive, are seen as central in gaining recognition, enhancing reputation and succeeding in a globalised world. In contrast, it is argued that, just as negative images and a poor brand can be devastating for sales of consumer products and the companies that produce them, so too can they be for nations. Thus it was, it is argued, that Kazakhstan’s government took umbrage at what it perceived to be its negative depiction in the film Borat and in response to which it commissioned its own nation branding campaign to provide an alternative representation of the country.1 Likewise, African nations and commentators – encouraged in their conviction by various nation branding consultants – in turn, have increasingly begun to argue that problems of African underdevelopment may be as much caused by negative images associated with the continent as they are with legacies of colonialism and the structures of the capitalist international economic system.2 From this perspective, Africa’s development prospects require replacing images of war, famine, poverty and disease with those of African bankers driving fancy cars – only then, it is argued, will foreign investment be enticed into the continent.3 1 van Ham, “Place Branding,” 142–3. Although in this instance, and somewhat ironically, it appears that the film actually had a positive impact for tourism in Kazakhstan. However, as indicated below whether one should generalize from this to conclude that ‘any publicity is good publicity’ is much less certain and certainly not something the nation branding industry would itself wish to endorse. 2 For a critical analysis see, Browning, “Nation Branding and Development.” For an example of branding consultants emphasising the possibilities of nation branding for developing countries, see Anholt, Brand New Justice. 3 “Re-branding Africa,” African Business, 16 December 2009, 12–15.

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For many commentators there is much that appears new and novel about this apparent explosion in contemporary image politics. This book’s starting point is different, however, with the editors consciously seeking to add historical perspective to current debates, and in doing so, to sensitise us to the fact that states and nations have always, and necessarily so, paid attention to matters of image representation and identity cultivation in their relations with others. The result is a rich and highly informative volume, a principal message of which is that when analysing current practices of image projection, public diplomacy and nation branding, a historical perspective is liable to add considerable context and understanding to any conclusions drawn. In this concluding chapter I draw out a number of key themes, which the case analyses of small states/nations in northern Europe illuminate. The second half of the chapter therefore discusses issues connected to image promotion in small states, and the extent to which small states may face distinctive challenges, but also opportunities, in comparison to larger and more powerful states. It also draws together a number of insights about the very nature of image promotion processes and the extent to which such processes may (or may not) close down the space available for democratic politics on issues of national identity formation and projection, and which in turn may also impact on understandings of the nature and responsibilities of citizenship. The chapter ends by engaging with a provocation raised in Marklund’s chapter concerning “the (im)possibility of purposive public diplomacy and image management,” i.e. how much control can be exerted over the process, does it work, and if the results are often inconclusive why have states historically sought to engage in it, with enhanced emphasis today? To start, however, the chapter begins by engaging with the book’s historical orientation by discussing questions of labeling, taxonomy and the historicised and open approach to concept use advocated in the Introduction, and from which subsequent sections follow discussing the question of historical precedence and contemporary novelty, and how processes of national imag(in)ing are connected to changing norms of subjectivity.

Historical Contextualisation or Conceptual Clarity?

Particularly notable about this book is its embracing of conceptual profusion. Thus, while the editors note that representation, imagining and imaging constitute the key themes tying the various contributions together, these themes in turn become a catch-all for a diverse range of practice-based concepts, including: diplomacy, public diplomacy, new public diplomacy, nation branding, information work, enlightenment and propaganda. In turn, the editors have

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assiduously avoided defining and distinguishing between these various terms by tying particular practices to particular concepts. There are good reasons for this, because, as they rightly note, historically different concepts have been used to refer to different practices at different times, and sometimes to refer to the same sorts of practices. Thus, as noted in Clerc’s chapter on Finland, as ‘propaganda’ gained increasingly negative connotations after the Second World War it was replaced with the more neutral concept of ‘information work,’ even if in principle practitioners carried on doing much the same as before. This refusal to categorise and taxonomically differentiate between concepts and the various practices to which they might be attached makes sense given the editors’ emphasis on understanding practitioners in their own terms and in providing historical sensitivity to what are often proclaimed to be new and transformative processes of nation branding and new public diplomacy. Moreover, given the diversity of cases analysed, getting the contributors to agree on any taxonomical scheme likely would have been difficult. However, although the lack of categorisation and openness to conceptual pluralism illuminates the fact that contemporary concerns with national imagining, imaging and representation are far from lacking precedent, it can also occlude in other ways, not least by giving the undue impression that the various practices highlighted – however named – are all of a similar type, thereby missing a number of key differences. Indeed, without seeking to impose a taxonomy of conceptual definitions, it is, all the same, useful to emphasise some of the diversity in the range of practices and activities evident in the contributors’ analyses of national representation, imagining and imaging. Two differences, or observations, are particularly notable. The first concerns the actors and target audiences involved in these processes and which suggests that across the cases very distinctive practices can be identified. For example, several of the chapters (most notably Tessaris, Piirimäe and Bergmane) are essentially concerned with national image promotion in the largely closed forums of classical international diplomacy and where the target audience of such efforts is small and, by its nature, largely limited to a relevant international political elite. By contrast, Kjærsgaard’s chapter highlights how in some cases diplomats might actively seek to engage with a wider economic and civic audience, while Jordan’s chapter shows how Estonia’s use of the branding and imaging around the country’s hosting of the Eurovision Song Contest was essentially an attempt to speak to ordinary Europeans at large. As will be discussed further below, nuance also exists in terms of which agencies are involved in national identity projection/promotion processes and the nature of their connection to the state, be they official state representatives, civil society actors or diaspora communities. Setting that aside for now,

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while it might be suggested that the difference here is simply one of scale, arguably there are qualitative differences entailed when the scope of such practices is broadened out. In part this is because the goals and functions of such actions are liable to differ as one scales up or down, but also because the sorts of actions deemed suitable are likely to differ and to have different constitutive effects. Second, and arguably more fundamentally, the issue is not only one of which actors are involved and how, but that there are arguably different logics at play in some of the different practices analysed. This is most clearly identified by Mordhorst, who in particular highlights why being attentive to these differences matters. His chapter focuses on the shift in Denmark in the first decade of the new millennium, from an emphasis starting in 2002 on new public diplomacy, to its subordination in 2007 to a nation branding programme in the wake of the Mohammed Cartoon Crisis. At least in the Danish context, Mordhorst argues, the two have entailed quite different logics for identity representation and the nature of relations between self and other constituted. Thus, while he sees new public diplomacy as “rooted in the logic and culture of politics,” and as designed to explain and convince others of Denmark’s policy choices (thereby reducing the gap between self and other), the nation branding campaign was rather rooted “in the logics of commercial marketing” and designed to secure economic advantage by emphasising differentiation. In that context, the nation branding programme simply ignored the negative images and fallout of the Cartoon Crisis in favour of other (assumedly) more positive images. With the nation branding programme prioritised, attempts to explain the Danish position over the cartoons to the Islamic world were downplayed, arguably further inflaming the situation. As Mordhorst notes, what the episode highlights is how nation branding seeks to be fundamentally depoliticising (though perhaps in this case unsuccessfully) by avoiding/ignoring anything controversial, while at the same time seeking to secure market advantage by emphasising one’s differentiation and unique selling points. This, meanwhile, is in stark contrast to public diplomacy, which “stresses continuous dialogue and community.” Mordhorst’s conclusion is unequivocally that, in the Danish case at least, nation branding and public diplomacy were far from mutually supporting. Another tension between concepts and practices is highlighted in Jordan’s chapter, where his particular focus is on the relationship between nation branding and nation building and where it has been claimed by prominent representatives of the nation branding industry, that the terms are largely interchangeable.4 While Jordan does not categorically reject this view, implicitly he 4 Olins, “Branding the Nation,” 242.

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does suggest we should treat such claims circumspectly. In this respect, he suggests that while nation building is fundamentally about imagining the nation, nation branding speaks more to the imaging dimension, even if, like different sides of a coin, the two may be intimately connected and speak back to each other. What is notable in Estonia, he argues, is that nation branding campaigns – and marketing around the Eurovision Song Contest in particular – despite making a nod in the direction of multiculturalism, have overwhelmingly presented the nation in ethno-linguistic terms by explicitly excluding Russian speakers from the desired national image. This has sat at odds with nation building imperatives to include Russian speakers in the national project. Thus, rather than contributing to nation building, nation branding may well have undermined it. Of course, it could be argued that, insofar as those directing the nation branding activities have viewed the nation in ethno-linguistic terms, then such othering has been central to nation building, rather than opposed to it. However, as Jordan indicates, since Estonia has felt the need to embrace multiculturalism and minority rights as part of its claims to Europeanness, then there does appear to be significant tension between the country’s nation branding practices and the Europeanised conception of nation building the Estonian government claims to be implementing.

Historical Precedence and Contemporary Novelty

Understood in such ways Mordhorst’s and Jordan’s observations also provide a challenge to the book’s overall orientation, aimed as it is at suggesting that contemporary practices of national image promotion are not as new as often presented in the nation branding literature. In this respect, Mordhorst’s analysis of the Danish case supports the claims of a number of recent analyses that all suggest that the advent of nation branding is closely tied to the replacement of Cold War geopolitical discourses with discourses of globalisation and the spread of neoliberal economic markets.5 Central to this view is the idea that the ‘territorial state’ is transforming into the ‘competition state,’ a metaphor that depicts states as akin to companies competing for global investment and market share.6 Such claims, however, can at times appear overstated as, for instance, in van Ham’s claim that ‘power-oriented geopolitics’ is being emasculated by the 5 E.g. Aronczyk, “Living the Brand,” 41–65; Browning, “Nation Branding, National Self-Esteem”; Jansen, “Designer Nations,” 121–142. 6 Cerny, Changing Architecture; Fougner, “The State,” 165–185.

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emergence of a ‘postmodern world of images and influence.’7 Just a cursory look at global politics suggests classical geopolitics is far from dead, while as the historical chapters of this book amplify, a geopolitical world is hardly one devoid of a concern for images and their manipulation in order to achieve influence. It is therefore important to specify more clearly in what sense contemporary image and identity politics might be changing. The volume’s introduction provides one way of thinking about this, suggesting that prior to 1945 the emphasis for states in northern Europe was on “enlightening and educating” foreigners in order to secure recognition for their very existence, shifted during the high politics of the Cold War to “diplomacy” as a means to ensure security/survival, and since the collapse of the Soviet Bloc and the emergence of new discourses of globalisation, has seen a further shift towards “promoting commerce.” Such a chronology represents an ideal-type and is designed to capture trends, rather than suggesting categorical moments of transformation. This is emphasised not least in Glover’s chapter on Sweden during the 1960s, where he notes metaphors of the competition state were as evident then as today, with this suggesting that, at least in some cases, competition state discourses predated hegemonic discourses of globalisation and neoliberal economics. It is, however, still possible to suggest a number of changes. One of these concerns scope and intensity and where it is evident that the attention being devoted to image promotion has steadily increased over time, while states are also increasingly seeking to target wider and larger audiences, both geographically and socially. In both cases this is, no doubt, a direct result of the improved state of global communications and transportation networks extending interdependencies and enhancing connections between peoples and countries previously unconnected. Another change is that the shift from an emphasis on recognition, to security to commerce is not simply one of changing focus for practices of representation, imagining and imaging, but also suggests one in which territorial states are increasingly viewed as means rather than ends in themselves. In other words, whereas previously national image promotion was directed to upholding the very idea, existence and success of the state, now states and their various cultural assets are increasingly seen, not only as subordinated to market logics, but with a key role in reproducing them. In turn, this raises questions about the changing nature of norms of national subjectivity in international politics. 7 van Ham, “Branding Territory,” 252.

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National Imag(in)ing and Subjectivity

Particularly notable, here, is that different chapters point to the fact that over time there have been significant shifts in, both the constitutive rules of the international system, and in the normative criteria of statehood. In other words, not only has the nature of the international system changed, from a prioritisation of geopolitics towards greater emphasis being placed on economic competition, but what nations need to do and demonstrate in order to gain recognition for statehood – and thereby claim subjectivity – has also changed.8 For example, Tessaris’ chapter clearly demonstrates the authority of the League of Nations in the inter-war period for establishing the criteria upon which recognition of statehood and membership in the ‘club of civilized nations’ would be granted. As she notes, this affected debates in Lithuania on the appropriate nature of identity projection and imaging, as Lithuanian diplomats felt the need to “conform to the standards of the League of Nations,” standards that emphasised the protection of the rights of national minorities. Likewise, Bergmane’s chapter shows the same dynamic at play in the 1990s, as the Balts sought recognition for independence once more, and in doing so felt compelled to appeal to how their independence corresponded to Western values and interests. Such analyses therefore reaffirm the intersubjective nature of processes of national imaging and identity promotion and in particular the need for recognition and acceptance from a salient international community. At different points in time this has given outsiders considerable influence on what is deemed appropriate in particular national contexts. Indeed, Marklund’s chapter highlights the extent to which outsiders’ identifications and expectations about Sweden – in this case in the United States – in turn became utilised in Swedish domestic politics as a tool to beat opponents with by emphasising the need to live up to the externally projected image and others’ expectations. The normative content of external expectations has therefore also been important, both in terms of what sort of state identity and image is projected/ constituted, as well as in terms of what sorts of projection practices and messages have been deemed most relevant at different points in time. For example, for small nations seeking recognition for their very nationhood the key problem is often perceived as one of international ignorance. Discussing the inter-war 8 The shift from geopolitics to economic competition has elsewhere been depicted as one from a Hobbesian anarchy dominated by conflict in an environment where enmity and fear rule, to a more Lockean anarchy of competition between rivals and where threats of violence are largely off the agenda. See Moisio, “From Enmity to Rivalry?” 78–95.

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period, Clerc therefore notes that newly independent Finland’s major problem was being recognised as a nation and state as such, the first step to which was being made known. The emphasis during this period therefore became one of simply propagating information about Finland, with the primary purpose of establishing ‘we are here’ for foreigners. This, itself, reflected a longer running effort on the part of the nationalist movement from the late-nineteenth century onwards of simply seeking to make the pre-independence Grand Duchy of Finland and the Finns visible by participating in various international cultural events, like the Great International Exhibition held in Paris in 1900, at which Finnish art, architecture, folklore and information about the Finns and their land was disseminated to a broader European audience.9 Come the Cold War, Clerc notes that Finland’s recognition problem had changed. The issue now was not simply one of visibility, but one of the meaning and nature of Finland’s neutrality policy and relationship with the Soviet Union. Finnish information work therefore became increasingly directed towards explaining the nature of Finnish policy given its geopolitical position between East and West in the Cold War – efforts which resonate rather closely with classical understandings of public diplomacy (as reflected in Mordhorst’s chapter). It is important to emphasise that there is considerable emotional content evident in such practices and processes, since recognition for the claims nations make about themselves is often a considerable source of self-esteem and honour, while lack of recognition can generate feelings of shame, anxiety and insecurity.10 This is also where established, but historically contingent, norms of subjectivity become important in framing the types of identities, images and representations states are likely to project and the practices by which they might seek to do this. Historically, for example, norms of statehood have been overwhelmingly connected to upholding territorial sovereignty, while national prestige and international status has also often been connected to territorial expansion. This has tended to mean that national status, honour and selfesteem have been connected to military exploits. Indeed, such ideas have become so endemic that we tend to take them for granted. However, to the extent to which narratives about globalisation have become dominant, with the territorial state in turn reconceptualised as the competition state, then the established rules of the game and normative criteria of 9 Browning, Constructivism, 106; Paasivirta, Finland and Europe, 181; Griffiths, Scandinavia, 93. Although this is not to say such representations were politically neutral as it is evident that some cultural products (e.g. some subjects for paintings) were deemed to be inherently more ‘national’ – and therefore more worthy for inclusion – than others. 10 See Lebow, A Cultural Theory; Steele, Ontological Security.

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international subjectivity may also be changing. This is to say that in a world characterised in terms of global market competition, military exploits count much less – and may even be viewed as delegitimising – than entrepreneurial capacity, openness to trade and investment, and flexibility. In such a world, national self-esteem is as likely to be gained through attracting multinational corporations – or winning the Eurovision Song Contest – as it is through troop deployments. In turn, this is impacting on the types of stories nation’s seek to tell about themselves, and where the emphasis in nation branding programmes, at least, is increasingly on rejecting the traditional focus on nationalism and kinship ties in favour of presenting societies as cosmopolitan, multicultural spaces open for investment. In turn, this tends to shift the sorts of cultural products deemed appropriate for that task. A good example of this was a recent attempt in Finland to establish a new Guggenheim museum in Helsinki, in order to establish a reputation for the city as a place suitable for the consumption of international culture, and which in turn was designed to raise Helsinki to the elite level of international cultural capitals. In contrast, critics saw this as a blatant rejection of indigenous culture in favour of the importation of foreign brands appealing to a global cultural elite.11 This episode stands in stark contrast to the period at the end of the nineteenth century noted earlier, when the emphasis was rather on promoting those cultural products deemed to be the most distinctively and authentically Finnish. Although in both instances culture and identity were being strategically and instrumentally manipulated and deployed, for critics, while the earlier emphasis was on generating national kinship ties and gaining recognition for their existence from abroad, contemporary nation branding practices neglect (and may sometimes even reject) this element in favour of appealing to the consumptive desires of outsiders.12 Put differently, in such cases questions of kinship and national attachment therefore appear to have lost ground to an emphasis on market success. Indeed, in some cases it can even appear that the former is only deemed important insofar as it enhances the latter, whereas historically the relationship has been the reverse. Thus, rather than the ‘brand’ being valuable insofar as it enhances the ‘nation,’ the nation becomes valuable only insofar as it enhances the brand.

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“Small group demonstrates in Helsinki against proposed Guggenheim Museum,” Helsingin Sanomat International Edition, 12 March 2012. Such a view reflects Veblen’s analysis of the drive towards emulation in an age of conspicuous consumption. Veblen, Theory of the Leisure Class; Watson, “Desperately Seeking.”

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The Challenges and Potentials of Smallness

An implicit suggestion of a number of chapters in this book is that small states feel these pressures to conform to the normative standards of subjectivity operating in any given context more than larger powers. This is certainly evident in the chapters focused on the Baltic States, but also to some degree in those on the Nordic States. Indeed, as Lehti has noted elsewhere, while great powers may be preoccupied with legitimising their actions, small states are often faced with the task of legitimising their very existence.13 As such they need to be much more sensitive to the normative environment they occupy. Comparing Tessaris’ and Piirimäe’s chapters is instructive on this point. Focused on the years immediately following the end of the First World War and the creation of the League of Nations, Tessaris’ chapter highlights an environment in which national self-determination was being proclaimed as a constitutive principle of international society. It was, therefore, an environment relatively amenable to the constitution of new small states in Europe. By the 1940s, however, Piirimäe highlights the extent to which the normative environment had changed, and where nationalism was increasingly “equated with particularism and international instability,” but also with the fragmentation of political and economic systems more generally. This made fighting for continued recognition of the independence of the Baltic States increasingly difficult. Indeed, come the 1930s there was already a more general sentiment evident that the future lay with ever larger states, while the proliferation of small states in Europe after the First World War was viewed by many as an historical blip to be rectified.14 In the International Relations literature such sentiments have in turn encouraged a tendency to view small states as largely impotent objects, constantly buffeted hither and thither by the machinations and changing fortunes of the great powers. To this extent, the ability of small states to act freely is often presented as dependent upon the benevolence of larger powers. In short, being small is viewed as a major constriction and security problem.15 In such a context, in which classical power political discourses dominated, as throughout most of the twentieth century in Europe, it might be argued that image policy was of particular importance to Europe’s small states. Lacking sufficient traditional hard power resources, small states may have had an 13 Lehti, “Performing Identity.” 14 Cohen, Geography and Politics, 41. 15 E.g. Keohane, “Lilliputians’ Dilemmas,” 299; Knudsen, “Small states,” 184,187; Vital, Survival of Small States, 8–9.

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enhanced need to utilise their soft power assets in order to enhance their security and ultimately justify their continued existence. In this respect, the book suggests that when it comes to managing and manipulating images, identities and representations, small states may possess some distinct advantages. Some of these are practical and concerned with the ability of small states to project more coherent images. One suggestion is that this may be because they are culturally, socially, ethnically and politically more homogeneous, with this making agreement about national representations easier. However, insofar as difference and similarity is always socially constructed, and not absolute, such claims should be treated cautiously. Indeed, as discussed below, disagreements have not been uncommon. A second suggestion, and perhaps more promising, is that it is easier to coordinate messages when fewer actors are involved. As is evident in several chapters, the fact that personal networks extended, not only across political elites, parties and ministries, but also into the private and public sectors, certainly made coordination easier than might otherwise have been the case. Third, meanwhile, is the argument that since small states are often little known by international audiences they are less burdened by established perceptions. This means that those perceptions that do exist might be challenged more easily, while new images are also less likely to come in for close scrutiny and interrogation – essentially meaning that small states may be able to ‘get away’ with certain claims that larger, and better known, states might not. For example, as discussed in the Introduction, and as evident in Angell’s chapter on Norway, small states have at times sought to project images and identities of themselves as being particularly concerned with peace and its promotion. Their success in doing this is sometimes seen as a result of the fact that small states are often perceived as more benign, less ambitious and as having fewer hidden agendas.16 The Nordic states have been particularly adept in this regard, throughout the Cold War fostering an image of benevolent peace promotion, environmentalism and a ‘third way’ socio-economic welfare model marrying elements of Western capitalism and Eastern communism.17 Such an image has been maintained despite Finland’s wartime attempts at territorial expansion in the name of creating Greater Finland, Denmark’s continuing colonial legacy, Sweden’s proactive engagement in the arms trade and Norwegian environmentalism standing at odds with its role as a major oil exporter. One thing the above discussion therefore points to is that smallness is not necessarily a handicap, but can even be perceived as a strategic asset. Indeed, 16 17

Græger, Larsen & Ojanen, “Fourfold ‘Nuisance Power,’” 221. Browning, ‘Branding Nordicity,’ 27–51; Mouritzen, “The Nordic Model,” 9–21.

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rather than thinking of smallness in absolute or objective terms, it also often assumes the form of an identity. While self-identifying oneself as small is usually viewed as debilitating, with most of the theoretical literature in International Relations following this line, there is certainly no inevitability about this. Indeed, as various chapters highlight, a self-proclaimed small state identification has often been embraced. In the case of Finland, for example, and to draw on my own research, during the Cold War smallness was initially embraced and actively projected in order to distance the country from the Cold War by presenting it as harmless, as well as serving as an explanation in the West for the country’s close relationship with the Soviet Union. It then became the basis for greater activism in seeking to establish a role for Finland as a ‘bridge between East and West,’ while following the end of the Cold War, and riding the coattails of the phenomenal rise of telecommunications corporation Nokia, it became a synonym for innovativeness, entrepreneurialism and smartness.18 Seen from this perspective, therefore, there is nothing given about smallness, while there may even be good grounds to actively embrace and market a small state image and identity.

Disciplining Democracy and the Responsibilities of Citizenship

At the same time, assumptions evident within this volume that their size, assumed cultural coherence and tightly connected networks of political, social and economic elites means small states may have some advantages in the politics of national image and identity promotion, can in turn raise questions about the potential impact of such practices on the nature of democratic governance in small states. To this extent, it is worth noting that much contemporary academic critique of nation branding practices precisely warns that nation branding programmes seem to be fundamentally anti-democratic in orientation. Various factors are identified to support the claim, although two stand out. First, critics focus on who gets to frame the brand and where it is noted that, typically, modern day nation branding programmes are outsourced to foreignbased consultancies. As Jordan notes, in the case of Estonia this was Interbrand, while Mordhorst notes how responsibility for Denmark’s branding programme was placed with the Ministry of Economic and Business Affairs. This, it is argued, not only results in the prioritisation of commercial logics in debates about national identity formation, but privatises the process of what is deemed 18

For an overview see Browning, “Small, Smart and Salient?” 669–684; Browning & Lehti, “Beyond East–West,” 691–716.

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worthy to include in any branding campaign. At best critics argue that democratic participation is reduced to a form of pseudo-democratic co-creation, as consultants typically seek out inputs from social actors as to what they think about the nation. However, while such reaching out is meant as an inclusive move, critics like Volcic and Andrejevic argue it is illusionary at best, since once opinions have been gathered democratic inclusion in the process ends.19 In other words, once the information is in, the consultants set about determining the brand according to their own framing logics of what a national brand needs to do and look like, and where the emphasis is typically on what might sell, rather than what is perhaps most authentic. Second, critics note how in contemporary branding practices great emphasis is placed on the responsibility of citizens for the brand’s success. Citizens are therefore encouraged to ‘live the brand’ and to view themselves as ‘brand ambassadors.’20 Implicit, therefore, are notable elements of governmentality, where certain forms of citizenship behavior are to be encouraged and deemed more patriotic – because of their brand resonance – than others.21 Indeed, it is not hard to find examples in which such imperatives are taken to include the requirement not to criticise the country or its government for any failings.22 Critics therefore argue that nation branding has the tendency to prioritise demonstrations of cultural citizenship – for example in the form of conforming to national stereotypes depicted in branding campaigns – over the exercise of political citizenship, insofar as criticism is viewed as undermining brand coherence and effectiveness.23 Interestingly, the chapters in this book both support and challenge these views, and certainly suggest the need for more nuance in understanding how these processes and practices have evolved over time. A good place to start is with the question of who has undertaken these activities and whose voices count in imag(in)ing and representing the nation to others, and where it is evident that historically a wide variety of actors have been involved. Such actors have included the state, commercial and civil society actors, and even individual citizens. Particularly notable is that while critics of contemporary nation branding practices worry about the extent of top down state control, this certainly has not always been the case – although the general historical

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Volcic & Andrejevic, “Nation Branding,” 600–602. Aronczyk, “Living the Brand,” 54. Weidner, “Nation Branding.” For examples from Africa see Browning, “Nation Branding and Development.” Alegi, “A Nation To Be Reckoned With,” 415.

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trajectory does seem to have been one of the states increasingly trying to centralise and coordinate image promotion processes. At times such centralising impulses have been understandable, as is evident in Åkerlund’s discussion of how, prior to the Second World War, Swedish Nazisympathising lecturers in Germany became viewed as a problem for a country keen to establish its neutral credentials. As Åkerlund notes, at stake here was the question of “who was to represent the nation abroad, and who was to appoint these persons,” with this ultimately resulting in Swedish attempts to exert more centralising control. Another example is provided by Clerc, who points to the considerable expectations placed on Finnish citizens during the Cold War to ensure their actions did not contradict official lines of Finnish foreign policy, in particular in regard to the relationship with Moscow, and which became one element of the so-called Finlandisation phenomenon. Indeed, such expectations were, in this case, also at times accompanied by threats, including that of legal action against journalists and editors deemed to have published material defamatory to ‘foreign powers’ (a euphemism for the Soviet Union).24 However, while examples invoking Nazism may seem straightforward (although not always, as suggested below), other cases are perhaps less so and raise significant questions about what to do when citizens ‘go rogue.’ Glover’s analysis of tensions between demands for patriotism and activist antinationalism around the issue of Swedish image policy in the 1960s is particularly instructive in this respect. As he notes, the dilemma facing the government was that throughout the 1960s Swedish politics became increasingly polarised between those calling “for more active and effective promotion of Swedish capitalism” and those on the Left calling for more solidarity and emphasis on democratic socialism. While the former supported the projection of a ‘total image’ of Sweden akin to the marketing ideals of brand coherence favoured by contemporary nation branding consultants, the latter found such attempts to ‘sell Sweden’ abhorrent and actively criticised them – a political dispute notably giving the lie to generalisations about small state homogeneity and consensus. The response, Glover notes, was to try and make a virtue out of such divergent positions by welcoming critics to discuss their reservations in the Ministry for Foreign Affairs’ official publication for issues connected to promoting Sweden abroad. Embracing dissent within its pages therefore became part of a strategy of reaffirming the consensus culture and goal of total image projection, by adding a sense of irony and satire to the projection. To this extent, Glover argues, certain forms of dissent became ‘authorised,’ co-opted 24

For an extensive analysis see Salminen, Silenced Media.

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and made safe; others, however, remained ‘unauthorised,’ beyond the pale and could simply not be tolerated. The line between ‘authorised’ – and therefore deemed positive for national image projection – and ‘unauthorised’ dissent is, of course, a fine one and creates obvious tensions. A more recent example of this can be seen in Norway’s official embracing of the Norwegian ‘black metal’ music scene. Black metal is music that is both heavy and satanic, and whose adherents have often been openly sympathetic to neo-Nazi ‘white power’ agendas. During the 1980s and 1990s black metal became a notable sub-culture in Norway and was largely viewed by the establishment as anti-social and a criminal problem. Different bands and their fans fought and murdered each other, and burned down ancient Stave churches because they were viewed as offensive to their pagan beliefs. Starting in the 2000s, however, Norwegian diplomats reportedly began to receive an introduction and training in the history and personalities of Norwegian black metal, following the realisation that it was popular with particular foreign audiences keen to visit the land of their music heroes. Meanwhile, tourists can take tours of key record shops and desecrated churches.25 This re-scripting of the anti-establishment, anarchic, satanic and even racist elements of Norwegian black metal as a phenomenon ripe for consumption in the cause of national brand promotion is certainly intriguing, though also potentially disturbing in what it says about the ethical choices that such actions clearly imply.26 25

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Andreas Markessinis, “Norway to use black metal for nation branding,” 16 June 2011 (available at http://nation-branding.info/2011/06/15/Norway-to-use-black-metal-fornation-branding/). This is particularly evident in the wake of the massacre perpetrated by Anders Breivik on Utøya Island in 2011. As a footnote to this story it is worth noting that Varg Virkenes, otherwise known as Count Grishnackh and perhaps the best known figure on the black metal scene in Norway – not least because of his imprisonment for murdering a musician from another band – was subsequently convicted of inciting racial hatred against Jews and Muslims in France in 2014 and was reportedly sympathetic to Breivik and had received a copy of his manifesto before he committed the atrocity (“Norwegian neo-Nazi musician said to be an ‘Anders Breivik sympathiser’ arrested in France over fears he was plotting a similar massacre,” MailOnline, July 16 2013, http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article­2365720/Anders-Breivik-sympathiser-Kristian-Vikernes-arrested-France-fears-plottingsimilar-massacre.html). As a further footnote, it is also notable that Øystein Aarseth (aka Euronymous), the musician murdered by Virkenes, was a lead contender to have his image painted on the tailfin of one of the planes of Norwegian Airlines following the airline asking passengers to nominate their ‘tail heroes’ (“Black metal legend may become emblem of Norwegian airline,” The Guardian, 26 March 2012).

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Finally, it is also worth noting Marklund’s observation that it is not only citizens who may feel pressures to discipline themselves to the core images and messages. As he notes, once established, such images can generate expectations about a nation’s appropriate behaviour amongst key foreign audiences. Conclusion To conclude, however, it is worth reflecting on Marklund’s provocation concerning “the (im)possibility of purposive public diplomacy and image management.” All the chapters in this volume, save for Musiał’s (on which more below) engage with concerted efforts at national imag(in)ing. As we have seen, this has taken a variety of forms, from classic public diplomacy to hosting major cultural events like the Eurovision Song Contest, has involved a diverse array of actors and audiences across the public-private and state-civil society divides, and which has also demonstrated considerable variations in the degree of state coordination driving each process. Moreover, while the book clearly demonstrates that a concern with image promotion is not new, arguably it is on the increase, and, like Mordhorst, I would also subscribe to the idea that insofar as discourses of globalisation and the competition state in an era of neoliberal capitalism have the upper hand, then the underpinning logics of such practices are also transforming. However, despite such emphases, and the manifest importance states have attached, and continue to attach, to such practices, it is not always clear how successful such efforts are. As Marklund deftly notes in his own chapter, there can be considerable randomness in the realm of image policy. Thus, he notes how despite concerted efforts at developing coherent state-managed messages, these were largely surpassed by the “star quality” of Olof Palme and his ability to steal the show and become a focal point for foreigners’ perceptions of Sweden, even to the extent to which Palme, and what he represented politically, essentially became Sweden’s international image. Kjarsgaard has likewise pointed to the particular role of an individual diplomat in doing much the same for Denmark in Iceland, Switzerland and Portugal. Meanwhile, Åkerlund, Glover and Mordhurst have respectively pointed to the ability of academics, artists and the national press to substantially derail the work of the image managers, while various examples are given of how particular campaigns have backfired because of their unintended resonance with target audiences. Thus, while nations want to pursue image and identity promotion, plan for it, create structures and programmes to engage in it and try to control their national images, it is evident that this is not always easy.

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Indeed, critics of contemporary nation branding practices are unlikely to be surprised by this. As they point out, identifying successful cases of national brand promotion is notoriously difficult, with most branding programmes deemed to have failed (note Jordan’s chapter).27 The reason for this is arguably that branding and image marketing often lack sufficient substance on their own to be convincing, and are therefore easily forgotten, and which is perhaps one reason why branding programmes frequently end up reproducing national stereotypes despite the often proclaimed intention to escape them. At this point Musiał’s chapter is highly instructive. His contribution in many respects stands out from the rest of the volume because he actually has very little to say about formal practices of image promotion and policy. Instead, Musiał’s focus is on the ability of the Nordic states to export various norms to their Baltic cousins in the post-Cold War period, a process he terms “cognitive colonisation.” It is no doubt the case that their ability to do this was enhanced by an already established image of the Nordic states as stable, prosperous and peaceful, making them attractive examples and sources of inspiration. However, to the extent to which the image of the Nordic states was remade during this period, it was, he suggests, not so much a consequence of active image policy as substantive concrete economic and political engagement premised on targeted investment strategies and hands-on support. As has been discussed elsewhere, for the Nordic states engagement with their Baltic neighbours was in part a response to the perceived loss of role, identity and purpose they experienced with the end of the Cold War.28 While there were good environmental, economic, social and security incentives for active engagement with the Baltics, it was also driven by the need to re-establish a sense of identity and purpose, and in doing so also to reclaim the sense of progressive moralism central to Cold War conceptions of Nordicity. What is also notable about the period discussed in Musiał’s chapter is that while such active and substantive Nordic engagement was going on in the Baltic States, there was little emphasis on Nordic brand management or image creation. Indeed, as part of their attempts to join the European Union, Sweden and Finland actively played down a common Nordic dimension, as they were aware of concerns about a potential Nordic bloc being constituted. Instead, the Nordic states actively engaged in various other constitutive projects. Most notably, Denmark and Sweden took a leading role in promoting a new unifying Baltic Sea Region, grounding the region-building effort in historic discourses 27 28

Jansen, “Designer nations,” 130. Wæver, “Nordic Nostalgia,” 77–102.

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Name Index Aarseth, Øystein 297n26 Absalon, Bishop 237 Åkeby, Rolf 130 Andersen, Hans Christian 119, 243–44, 249 Andreasen, Uffe 242 Andrejevic, M. 295 Anholt, Simon 218, 231–32, 240, 249 Arndt, R.T. 171 Aronczyk, Melissa 234 Arquilla, John 198 Arvidson, Stellan 29 Ashkenazy, Szymon 52 Bach, Poul 243 Balodis, Kaspars 273 Bátora, Jozef 103n2, 203 Begtrup, Bodil context of career 104–6 diplomatic activities in Iceland  106–11 diplomatic activities in Portugal 106, 117–21 diplomatic activities in Switzerland 106, 111–17 and public diplomacy 102–4, 121–22 as single actor 10 Bell, George 69 Bendtsen, Bendt 248 Benton, Dave 221–23 Berggren, Håkan 129–30, 132 Bergman, A. 265n32 Bergman, Ingmar 181 Berman, Edward H. 24 Björkbom, Lars 137 Blanck, Dag 33–34 Blot, Jacques 197–98 Bock, Hans-Manfred 24 Bohr, Niels 108 Bolin, Göran 224 Bourdieu, Pierre 259, 261, 275, 276 Breivik, Anders 297n26 Brotherus, Heikki 155 Brown, Robin 25 Browning, Christopher 7 Brubaker, Rogers 219 Buchwald, Art 179–80

Cameron, David 276 Carlson, Curtis 187 Carlsson, Ingvar 174, 183, 185, 188, 189, 191 Carl xvi Gustaf, King (Sweden) 181, 188 Carr, E.H. 62, 65–66, 75 Cecil, Lord 74 Cecil, Robert 46 Cerny, Phillip 239–40 Childs, Marquis 183 Christophersen, Erling 86, 89–90 Churchill, Winston 66 Clinton, Bill 245 Colban, Eric 44, 54–55 Cull, Nicholas 14, 25, 190n78 Cumming, Henry 49 Dahlman, Sven 31 de Geer, Carl Johan 123, 137, 138 Degn, Helle 261 Derkert, Siri 138–39 Dombrovskis, Vjačeslavs 273 Drummond, Eric 49–50 Dukes, Ofield 179 Duncan-Jones, Arthur 74, 76 Eden, Anthony 74, 75–76 Eglitis, Daina 225 Eidem, Erling 69 Eklund, Leena 271–72 Ellmann-Jensen, Uffe 263 Enckell, Arvid 154n33 Enckell, Ralph 159 Erlander, Tage 124 Espersen, Ole 261 Fogh Rasmussen, Anders 241, 245, 246, 247 Galvanauskas, Ernestas 43, 45, 50, 53–54, 56, 58 Giddens, Anthony 206 Gladstone, William 75 Gorbachev, Mikhail 197, 198–99, 205, 209, 210–11, 212, 213, 216 Gorbunovs, Anatolijs 211 Grieg, Edvard 96–97 Grishnackh, Count 297n26 Grundtvig, N.F.S. 109

328 Hakovirta, Harto 146 Hallberg, Peter 129, 130–31, 133 Harris, Penny 232–33 Headlam, Arthur 76 Heikka, Henrikki 171 Heinebäck, Bo 185n57 Helms, Jesse 208 Henderson, Loy W. 63–64 Hentilä, Kalervo 167 Hildeman, Per-Axel 136–37, 139 Hinsley, Cardinal 76 Hobsbawm, Eric 61 Hølass, Odd 84 Holbraad, Carsten 61 Holland, Jerome H. 176 Huntford, Roland 134, 180 Hymans, Paul 41, 50, 51–52 Ilves, Evelin 230, 231, 233 Ilves, Toomas Hendrik 228, 270n53 Ingebritsen, Christine 7, 262 Inglehart, Ronald 259–60 Ivalo, Asko 154 Jackson, Hampden 75 Jakobson, Max 150, 151, 153n18, 161–65, 167–68, 171 Jansen, Sue Curry 234 Jensen, Niels Due 246 Jerumanis, Aivars 203 Joenniemi, Pertti 264 Johansson, Hans 130 Johansson, Lars 130 Jónsson, Jónas 108, 109 Jowitt, Kenneth 266 Kahma, Jaakko 157–58 Kaiv, Johannes 63, 77 Karhilo, Aarno 161–62 Katzenstein, Peter 170 Kekkonen, Urho Kaleva 150, 153n18, 158, 161, 162 Kissinger, Henry 179, 182 Kivi, Signe 222, 230, 231, 233 Kivimaa, Arvi 156, 159 Kjellman, Nils 29 Klimas, Petras 55 Knatchbull-Hugessen, Hughe 9 Koern, August 63n15

Name Index Köhler, Lennart 271–72 Kohva, Matti 145 Korvald, Lars 100 Kukk, Mare 265, 267 Kurjensaari, Matti 151 Laar, Mart 219, 220, 223–24, 228, 230–31, 233 Lagerspetz, Mikko 235 Landsbergis, Vytautas 205, 209, 210 Lange Halvard 83 Laretei, Heinrich 63, 64, 67 Lauristin, Marju 221 Lehti, Marko 292 Leonard, Mark 211, 277 Leppik, Johan 63n15 Leppo, Heikki 156 Lidegaard, Bo 105 Lindgren, Astrid 181 Lippmann, Walter 62, 66, 71 Litvinov, Maxim 64 Lohmann, Hans 180–81 Lundahl, Ivar 28 Lundström, Vilhelm 28, 30, 31 Maade, Tiit 220 Magnusson, Arne 108 Mannik, Pille-Triin 232 Marklund, Carl 263 Meinander, Ragnar 167 Meri, Georg 62n11 Meri, Lennart 201, 206, 209, 219, 228 Mikkelsen, Brian 242 Mitterrand, François 197, 209, 210 Møller, Per Stig 242–43, 245 Möller, Yngve 179 Musiał, Kazimierz 96 Myrdal, Alva 103 Myrdal, Gunnar 194n85 Nekrosius, Vytautas 273 Nilsson, Sten Sparre 90 Nixon, Richard 179, 180 Nordbo, John 254 Nowak, Kjell 129, 133 Obama, Barack 172 Öberg, Kjell 127, 128 Offe, Claus 266

329

Name Index Olins, Wally 231–32 O’Reilly, Bill 172 Orkomies, Osmo 159–60, 161 Ory, Pascal 170 Østvedt, Arne 97 Paadam, Juhan 227 Paasikivi, Juho Kusti 158 Padar, Tanel 221–22 Palme, Olof 10n18, 174, 175–79, 181, 182, 184–85, 187, 191, 194, 298 Pamment, James 17 Pastinen, Ilkka 161–62 Perlitz, Harald 69 Piip, Ants 71 Puntila, L.A. 156 Pusta, Kaarel Robert 62, 63, 70–73, 77–78 Raud, Villibald 75 Reagan, Nancy 188 Reagan, Ronald 188 Rei, August 62, 63, 64–65, 67, 69–70, 78 Riesel, Victor 177 Riste, Olav 92n49 Rivža, Baiba 273 Rode, Jens 246 Rokkan, Stein 90 Ronfeldt, David 198 Ronimois, Hans 68, 70 Sæverud, Harald 97 Salminen, Arvi 156, 158–59 Salovaara-Moring, Inka 266 Saxo Grammaticus 237 Scharp, Vilhelm 26, 28, 29, 30 Scheel, Klaus 65 Schultz, H.J. 115 Selander, Tom 136, 139 Selter, Karl 63n15 Seppälä, R. 159 Serlachius, Erik 165 Siikala, Kalervo 150n17, 166, 167–68 Sivertsen, Helge 90 Skottsberg, Carl 30

Small, Andrew 211 Smetona, Antanas 48 Smith, David J. 264 Smith, Giles Scott 23 Smuts, Jan Christian 44, 46 Snyder, David J. 60 Sobanski, Wladyslaw 50 Söderhjelm, J.O. 159, 165 Soloveitchik, Max 54 Sphor, Kristina 212 Stolpe, Pär 138–39 Suolahti, Eino 159 Szondi, György 261–62 Tallroth, Tore 187 Taylor, A.J.P. 76 Taylor, Philip M. 63 Thyness, Paul 98n71 Toivola, Urho 153–54 Torma, August 62, 63, 69, 71, 73–76, 78 Tunberg, Sven 26, 28, 30 Tuovinen, Matti 153n18, 165, 166, 168, 169 Turner, Tina 243 Tvedt, Terje 268 Ushakovs, Nils 273 Valdemar, King (Denmark) 237 Virkenes, Varg 297n26 Virkkunen, Matti 157 Volcic, Z. 295 Voldemaras, Augustinas 45, 57 Wächter, Michael 129 Warma, Alexander 63, 67, 68 Webb, Sara 186 Weinberger, Caspar 182 Weisbrode, Kenneth 103 Welin, Malte 29 Wilson, Woodrow 65, 66 Witoszek, Nina 268 Wolf, Lucien 54, 56–57 Wotton, Lord Henry 62

Subject Index “Action Plan for the Global Marketing of Denmark” 248–55 active internationalism 263, 265 adjacent internationalism 258 African development 283 Afrique Asie 177–78 Aktuellt om Sverige-information i utlandet (“News about Sweden-information abroad”) 125, 130, 131, 134–36, 139, 140, 143 American-Scandinavian Foundation 32–36, 39 Anglican Church 69 Arla 246 art and debate over Swedish culture 137–39 and Norwegian concept of cultural exchange 90 publicised by Norwegian Office for Cultural Relations 96–98 autostereotypes 9, 96, 277 Baltic American Freedom League 204 Baltic Appeal to the United Nations (batun) 204, 205 Baltic independence 197–200, 215 actors 200–203 content and techniques 203–8 promotion in France 209–11 Soviet use of force against 211–15 Baltic League 72 Baltic Sea freedom of 71–72 regionalisation 265–67, 299–300 Baltic States, as case study, 6–9. See also Nordic involvement in Baltic States Baltic Union 72 Baltic Way 207–8 Belgium 52 black metal music 297 Borat 283 Brand Estonia 217–19, 234–36 Benton’s Eurovision Song Contest victory 221–23 branding campaign 227–29

nation branding through Eurovision Song Contest 223–27, 287 responses to 229–34 return to Europe 219–21 bric countries 250–51 brimhealth (Baltic Rim Partnership for Public Health) Programme 272 Carnegie Endowment for International Peace 24 Cartoon Crisis 244–47, 248, 249, 250, 256, 286 centrifugal communicative ideal 125, 141–42 centripetal communicative ideal 125, 128–32, 141–42 churches, and Estonian propaganda campaign 69, 76 Church of Sweden 69 Citizen Committees 207 citizens, responsibility of, for brand success 295–98 Climate Conference (cop 15) 253–54 Coffee Fund 35, 36 cognitive colonisation 257–58, 260, 299 cognitive framing 260 Cold War commitment to cultural contact during 88 Danish reputation management following 240–44 national representation during 14–15 Comité des délégations juives auprès de la Conférence de la Paix 43 Commissioner on Democratic Institutions and Human Rights 260–61 communication changing definitions and practices 16–17 and Finnish image policy 163 Sweden-information and professional  128–32, 141–42 competition state 239–40, 287–88 cop 15 (Climate Conference) 253–54 Council of Foreign Relations 71

Subject Index Council of the Baltic Sea States (cbss) 260–61 criticism of Brand Estonia campaign 229–34 as tool of public diplomacy 193 cultural autonomy, and minority rights and recognition of Lithuania 42–43, 45, 54–55 cultural diplomacy Danish 242–44 defined by u.s. State Department 88 and Finnish image policy 167–68, 171, 291 culture connection to language and nationalism 25 Norwegian Office for Cultural Relations’ interpretation of 87–93 Sweden-information and debating  135–40, 143 Czechoslovakia 205 Dædalus 184 Danish-Arab Partnership Programme (dapp) 242, 245, 250, 256 Danish Arts Council 242 Danish Institute 115 Danish language and diplomacy efforts in Switzerland 115 in Icelandic schools 109–10 Danish Weeks 113–15 democracy 294–98 Democratic Finland (Enckell) 154n33 Denmark. See also Begtrup, Bodil action plan for global marketing 248–54, 256, 286 and active internationalism 263 Cartoon Crisis 244–47, 248, 249, 250, 256, 286 evaluation and new agenda following financial crises 254–55 imaging activities of 237–38 reputation management following Cold War 240–44 Deutsche Akademie 32n25 diaspora(s) and connection between language, culture, and nationalism 25 as example of “small-state toolkit” 9

331 and promotion of Baltic independence  199, 202, 204, 215 disinterestedness 276 education and Danish-Icelandic diplomacy 108–11 and Nordic involvement in Baltic States 271, 272–75 and Norwegian concept of cultural exchange 88–90 and Swiss-Danish diplomacy 115 Enckell Committee 158–61 English, as lingua franca 258, 260, 274–75 Enlightenment Board (Upplysningsnämnden) 23–24 collaboration with National Society for the Preservation of Swedishness Abroad 28–32, 37–38 and coordination of Swedish-American scholarship policy 33, 36 organisation of 26–27 relationship between Sweden-America Foundation and 34 Enterprise Estonia 221, 227 environmental protection 268–70 Estlands kyrka under Sovjetväldet 1940–1941 [The Church of Estonia under Soviet rule 1940–1941] (Rei) 69 Estonia. See also Baltic independence; Brand Estonia; Estonian propaganda campaign; Nordic involvement in Baltic States environmental administration and policy 269–70 as Nordic country 270n53 Estonian Institute 201 Estonian language 222–23 Estonian Popular Front for the Support of Perestroika 207–8 Estonian propaganda campaign 60–62, 76–78 discursive context of 65–67 in Great Britain 73–76 position of diplomats in 63–65 in Sweden and Finland 67–70 in United States 70–73 EuroFaculty 272–73 Europe, Brand Estonia and return to 217, 219–21, 224, 235

332 European Economic Community (eec) 105 European Free Trade Association (efta) 105, 112–13 European Union Danish membership 241 Finnish and Swedish membership 299–300 small state membership 278 Eurovision Song Contest (esc) 217, 221–27, 235–36, 287 Everybody (Padar and Benton) 221–22 Expressen 135–36 (Far) East-west Project 92–93 Federation of Industries (Sweden) 126, 187 Finland. See also Finland, image policy and Baltic independence 214 citizen representation of 296 cultural diplomacy 291 environmental cooperation with Estonia 269 Estonian information work in 67–70, 75 membership in European Union 299–300 recognition of 290 Finland, image policy 145–46, 169–71 coordination in 1960s 165–69 debating centralisation 155–58 Enckell Committee and debates about Finnish Institute 158–61 Max Jakobson and 161–65 post-war context of 147–52 re-centring Press Bureau 152–55 terminology regarding 146–47, 285 Finnish Advisory Committee for International Information 167 Finnish Board for International Information (Kansainvälisen tiedotuksen neuvottelukunta) 166–67 Finnish Foreign Trade Association 148. See also Finnish League of Foreign Trade (Suomen Ulkomaankauppaliitto) (sul) Finnish Institute 156, 158–61, 162–63, 165 Finnish League of Foreign Trade (Suomen Ulkomaankauppaliitto) (sul) 148, 157–58 First World War

Subject Index national representation during 13–14 and Vilna dispute 41 Ford Foundation 24 framing, cognitive 260 France and promotion of Baltic independence 199–200, 209–11, 215–16 views on Sweden in 1960s 131–32 “freedom of the seas,” 71–72 General Export Association (Sweden) 26, 125, 126, 130 Gesta Danorum 237–38 Glasnost 207, 266 globalisation competition state and discourse of 239–40, 287–88 and Danish nation branding program 248 national representation and 15–16 Grand Duchy of Lithuania 52–53 grant policy 32–36, 39 Great Britain Estonian information work in 73–76 Norwegian cultural relations during Second World War 82 public opinion on Baltic States 76–77 relationship with Estonian diplomats 64 Gustaf V scholarships 35 habitus 261, 276 Have the Baltic Countries Voluntarily Renounced Their Freedom? (Rei) 70 humanitarian aid 267–68 human rights, and question of Baltic independence 204, 207 Hungary, and Baltic independence 205 “Huntford theses” 180–81 Hymans plan 51–52, 55, 56, 59 Iceland, Begtrup’s diplomatic activities in 105–11 Icelandic history books 108–9 Icelandic manuscripts 108–9 image promotion historical precedence and contemporary novelty 287–88 proliferation of 283–84 image(s). See also national image of Denmark 107–9, 113–14

Subject Index of Estonia 234 of Finland 151 in Finland’s image policy terminology 147 of Lithuania 40, 42, 43 of Norway 98, 101 of Scandinavia 96 of Sweden 131–33, 135, 137–39, 144, 185 total 10, 126–28, 141, 192 of United States 3 imagined community. See imagining imaging 3, 4, 6, 8, 101, 125, 145, 155, 170, 192, 215, 219, 234, 237–38, 240, 247, 249, 256, 270, 284–87, 289–91 imagining 6, 41, 43, 96, 98, 100–101, 102, 114, 125, 144, 145, 155, 170, 185, 186, 194, 215, 217, 219, 234, 237–38, 247, 256, 284–87, 289–91 Information Collegium (Sweden) 126–29, 135, 137–38, 140–41, 143 information science education 273–74 “information work overseas,” in Finland’s image policy terminology 147 Interbrand 227–28, 229, 230, 232–33 International Longshoremen’s Association (ila) 177 Iraq, Demark joins war against 241 Jewish Joint Foreign Committee 54 Jews, and minority rights and recognition of Lithuania 42–43, 53–54, 56–58 Joint Baltic National Committee 205 Jyllands-Posten 244–47 Kansainvälisen tiedotuksen neuvottelukunta (Finnish Board for International Information) 166–67 “Karen” viral branding campaign (Denmark) 252–53 Kazakhstan 283n1 King Gustaf v scholarships 35 language, connection to culture and nationalism 25, 37, 52 Latvia. See Baltic independence; Nordic involvement in Baltic States Latvian Popular Front 207–8 League of Nations expectations for 45–50

333 and minority rights and recognition of Lithuania 41–45 and protection of national sovereignty  13 responsibilities of 40 and statehood of Lithuania 54–59 and Vilna dispute 41, 51–54 lectureships at foreign universities 28–32, 37–38 Library and Information Science (lis) education 273–74 library reform 273–74 Lithuania. See also Baltic independence; Nordic involvement in Baltic States statehood 40, 41–45, 54–59 Vilna dispute 41, 47–48, 51–54 Ministry for Church and Education (Norway) 83n10, 86 Ministry for Education and Ecclesiastical Matters (Sweden) 27 Ministry for Foreign Affairs (Sweden) 26, 27, 30, 31, 32, 34–39, 125, 126, 134, 173, 175–77, 180–81, 184, 187, 296 Ministry for Trade (Sweden) 125, 126 Ministry of Culture (Denmark) 242–44 Ministry of Education (Finland) 165–66 Ministry of Education’s International Office (Finland) 166, 168 Ministry of Foreign Affairs (Denmark) 242– 44, 250 Ministry of Foreign Affairs’ Press Bureau (Finland) 148, 152–55, 160, 163, 164, 165–66, 168 Ministry of Foreign Affairs’ Trade Policy Department (Finland) 157, 167 Ministry of Trade and Industry (Finland) 156–57 Ministry of Transportations and Public Works (Finland) 156–57 minority rights and recognition of Lithuania 41–45, 54–58 and Vilna dispute 53–54 Minority Treaty 54, 55, 56 modernism, Norwegian 96–98 multiculturalism, of Estonia 222, 225–26, 235, 287 music 96–97, 297

334 Nämnden för Sverigefrämjande i utlandet (nsu) 141 national image and entrenched xenostereotypes 11–12 of unknown states 11 nationalism connection to language and culture 25, 37, 52 during World War ii 61, 66–67 National Society for the Preservation of Swedishness Abroad 28–32, 37–38 Nation Brand Index 249, 255 nation branding 17–20. See also Brand Estonia advent and multiplication of programmes 283–84 as anti-democratic 294–98 Danish 246–55, 286 defined 218 durability of 256 failure of 299 and nation building 234, 286–87 nation building, and nation branding 234, 286–87 nato. See North Atlantic Treaty Organisation (nato) Netherlands 60–61 networks 9 neutrality Finnish post-war 150, 151, 152, 161–62 Swedish, during Second World War 31, 178 Swedish, during Vietnam War 175–76 New Sweden Commemoration 187–90, 191, 192 New Totalitarians, The (Huntford) 134, 180 “1984 syndrome” 184 non-recognition policy 64 Nordic balance 263 Nordic Council 267, 270, 300 Nordic involvement in Baltic States 257–61, 275–79, 299 and assistance as norm 267–68 background 261–62 Baltic Sea regionalisation 265–67 environmental protection and green growth 268–70 exercising symbolic power 270–75 since 1990s 262–65 Nordic near abroad 264

Subject Index Nordic States. See also Nordic involvement in Baltic States assistance as norm in 267–68 as case study 6–9 Estonia as 228, 229, 234, 235 peace building and 293 North Atlantic Treaty Organisation (nato) Danish membership 104, 241 Norway joins 83 Northern Future Forum 276 Norway. See also Office for Cultural Relations with Foreign Countries (Norway) black metal music 297 narrative of environment and culture of 93–96 Norway – An introduction to the main branches of the Norwegian economy 94–96 Norwegian Foreign Service 82 Norwegian Information Council 98–99 Norwegian State Traveling Theatre 94 Norwegian Trade Council 83 oecd countries 250–51 Office for Cultural Relations with Foreign Countries (Norway) 81–82 establishment and objectives 84–87, 100 historical background 82–83 interpretation of culture promoted by 87–93, 100–101 narratives produced by 93–96, 101 organisation of 100 promotes Norway as modern 96–98, 101 shift in main motives and organisational setup 98–100 peace building 90–93, 293 perceived personality of Sweden 133–35 Perestroika 207, 212, 213, 216, 266 Poland and Baltic independence 205, 214 and Vilna dispute 41, 47–48, 51–54 Portugal, Begtrup’s diplomatic activities in 106, 117–21 Positiva Sverige 187 Press and Culture Department (Norway)  99

Subject Index “propaganda,” in Finland’s image policy terminology 146, 285 public diplomacy Begtrup and 102–4, 121–22 criticism of foreign agents as tool of 193 and expectations for League of Nations 45–50 historicising organisations 23–26 and image of United States 3 and minority rights and recognition of Lithuania 41–43 nation branding and 256, 286 and settlement of Vilna dispute 51–54 of small states 191, 192 and statehood of Lithuania 54–59 and study of national imaging 4 Swedish, directed at us 190–91 as type of diversionary domestic policy 193 public diplomacy organisations 23–26 public health training 271–72 public library reform 273–74 Red Associates 251–52 Reform Movement of Lithuania (Sajudis) 207–8 representation chronological framework of 12–17 factors influencing 25 in international relations 5–6 of Nordic countries 8–9 toolkit for Nordic and Baltic 9–12 use of term 284–85 return to Europe, Brand Estonia and 217, 219–21, 224, 235 Riga, Soviet use of force in 211–15, 216 Rockefeller Foundation 24 Russia occupation of Estonia 72 soft power campaign 61 Russian Federation 267 Russian minority in Estonia 220–21, 222–23, 225–26, 233–34, 235–36, 287 Salminen Committee 155–58 Scandinavian model 263 Scandinavia Today 186

335 scholarship policy 32–36, 39 Second World War Enlightenment Board’s collaboration with National Society for the Preservation of Swedishness Abroad during 32 nationalism during 61, 66–67 national representation during 13–14 and organisation of Norwegian Office for Cultural Relations 82–83 propaganda during 63 self-determination and outbreak of 71 Swedish neutrality during 30–31, 178 self-determination 46–47, 65–66, 71. See also Lithuania small state imperialism 258–59 small states challenges and potential of 292–94 and Danish diplomacy 116, 121 and development of national image 11 disadvantages of 261 Matti Kohva on 145 potential in eu membership for 278 public diplomacy of 191, 192 socialism in Nordic countries 172 in Sweden 124, 172–73, 190–91 Soviet Union. See also Baltic independence Brand Estonia and rejection of, past 220 public opinion on Baltic States and 76–77 treaty with Finland 149–50, 164 Soviet Union, Finland and the Baltic States, The 72–73 Soviet Union and the Baltic States, The (Pusta) 72–73 Speaking in Finland leaflet 164 statehood 41–45, 54–59, 289–91, 292 State Information Agency (Finland) 149 State Information Centre (Finland) 154 Suédomanie 131–32 Suomen Ulkomaankauppaliitto (Finnish League of Foreign Trade) (sul) 148, 157–58 Sverige i utländsk press [Sweden in the Foreign Press] (siup) 175

336 Sweden. See also Enlightenment Board (Upplysningsnämnden); Sweden-information anti-patriotic sentiments in 123 and Baltic independence 214 citizen representation of 296–97 educational exchange with us 32–36, 39 Estonian information work in 67–70 image abroad in early 1980s 182–84 image in us 172–73, 190–94 image in us during 1960s and 1970s 175–82 impact of civil society actors of state politics 36–38 membership in European Union  299–300 New Sweden Commemoration 186–90 public opinion on Baltic States 77 relationship with Estonian diplomats 64–65 self-perception in late 1980s 184–86 sustainable development and environmental protection norms 268–69 Swedish lectureships at foreign universities 28–32, 37–38 and uncontrolled nature of foreign perceptions 11 Sweden-America Foundation 32–36, 39 “Sweden at Home” campaign 133 Sweden House 137–38 Sweden-information 123, 140–44 and debating culture 135–40 and management of diverging demands 123–26 and need for total image of Sweden  126–28, 141 and professional communication  128–32 quest for relevance 132–35 Sweden Now 131 Swedish Institute cancels Stolpe exhibition 137–38 and centripetal communicative ideal 124–25 and coordination of scholarship policy 35–36 and debate over Swedish culture 136–37

Subject Index Enlightenment Board’s collaboration with 31–32 and Norwegian Office for Cultural Relations 84–85 and Swedish public relations 127–28 Swedish lectureships at foreign universities 28–32, 37–38 Switzerland 52, 106, 111–17 Talouselämä 164 Tensta (Swedish suburb) 140 Tiedotusmiehet ry 155–56 toolkit, for Nordic and Baltic representation abroad 9–12 total images 10, 126–28, 141, 192 tourism, and Danish nation branding program 251, 252–53 trade weeks 113–15 transition countries 261–62 Treaty of Amity and Commerce (1783) 187 uk-Nordic-Baltic Forum 276 unesco collaboration with Norwegian Office for Cultural Relations 92–93 influence of Siikala 166 United Kingdom. See Great Britain United Nations 13 United Nations Conference on the Human Environment in Stockholm 177 United States civil society actors and foreign policy interest of 23 educational co-operation with Norway 88–89 educational exchange with Sweden 32–36, 39 Estonian information work in 70–73, 77–78 image of Sweden during 1960s and 1970s 175–82 image of Sweden in 172–73, 190–94 image of Sweden in early 1980s 182–83 new interest in image of 3 and promotion of Baltic independence 199–200, 202–3, 204, 215–16 reaction to Soviet violence against Baltic independence 213

337

Subject Index relationship with Estonian diplomats 63–64 Sweden-information programs in 132–33 University of Oslo 88–89 unknown states, and development of national image 11 Utøya Island 297n26 Versailles peace settlement 44 Vietnam War, Swedish criticism of us engagement in 175–76, 177–78, 194 Vilna dispute over 41, 47–48, 51–54, 59 and minority rights and recognition of Lithuania 42–43, 55

Vilnius, Soviet use of force in 211–15, 216 Virkkunen Committee 155–58 Visit Denmark tourism organisation 252–53 “War and Peace Studies” 71 women Begtrup’s interactions with Portuguese  118 Begtrup’s interactions with Swiss 115–16 “Workshop Sweden” 132–33 World Outgames (2009) 253 World War i. See First World War World War ii. See Second World War xenostereotypes 11–12, 96