The Lithuanian Song Festival: 100 years of tradition
The Lithuanian Song Festival: 100 years of tradition
Lithuania’s song festival, Dainų šventė, celebrated its 100th
anniversary in July. It stands as Lithuania’s paramount cultural phenomenon, involving
tens of thousands of Lithuanians and several diaspora choirs from the US,
Canda, Mexico, Brazil and Scotland. Yet despite sharing similar festivals, the presence
of choirs from the other Baltic countries is a rare sight to see.
An old woman blows kisses onto the procession from her flat
window. She's dressed in national costume and an array of amber beads. Among
the crowds lining the streets, other elderly ladies in similar dress sit on benches,
too old to march the three kilometres from Vilnius’ Cathedral Square to Vingis
Park, the festival grounds, but keen to be part of the Lithuanian Song Festival
parade.
I am with my Latvian choir, Ziemelu Balsis, whom I met in Estonia,
and we process in strict formation through the streets with the flags of
Estonia and Latvia held five paces before us. I have been relegated to the back
edge of the procession since I’m not wearing national costume, but my placement
gives full access to the cheering crowd. We greet wave upon wave of joyful faces,
phone cameras, photographers, the colours yellow, green, red, outstretched
hands, waving hands, dogs, handmade straw birds, banners, flags and receive
cheers from diaspora groups and shouts of thanks. Some from the crowd shout ‘Latvija,
Estija!’, and we shout 'Lietuva!' back. We hold hands and sing traditional
Latvian songs and the song of the Baltic Way, and I imagine the older faces in
the crowd in their younger years who witnessed Lithuania waking up to
independence with their sister states in the late ‘80s. Although the choir
members are old hands at song festivals in their own countries, it’s the first
time they’ve participated in an international song festival, and we attract a
lot of attention. ‘As with any relationship that must be maintained,’ a fellow
singer told me later, ‘our presence at this festival is very important. It’s a
signal of solidarity and support since that time, one of pushing diplomatic
relations forward’.
We’re now nearing a few balconies near the bridge to the park, and
I see a Ukrainian flag. I shout 'Slava ukraini!' and amidst the hurrahs and
applause, a ‘Herojam slava!' makes its way back to me; solidarity flows beyond
those of just the Baltic borders. Walking these three kilometres and being the
object of jubilation and adoration, normal people cheering on normal people,
highlighted for me, a song-festival-first-timer Brit, how fiercely the
Lithuanian people value these 5-yearly festivals and how strong the appreciation
runs through every generation.
Flower crowns and national dress
A few hours before, I was sitting in a bus under a heap of flowers
I’d bought in the market while the other women in the choir were gathering wild
grasses and leaves from the verges. We then sat together to make flower crowns,
an exclusively female affair, chatting and making under our Soviet accommodation
blocks. ‘Making these crowns makes me feel so feminine,’ one Latvian sighed. ‘This
flower is called a madara, the one I'm named after'. An Estonian confessed
to never having made one before. ‘Latvians seem more in touch with nature, more
practical,’ she said. The women in the group have been making these crowns with
their grandmothers and mothers since they can remember. Some admit to looking
down on those who buy instead of making them. Like the national costumes, even
the flower crowns represent a specific regional identity. I commented how relaxed
the Lithuanians seem about the dress code. ‘Well in Latvia, we’re a little more
judgemental about national dress’ someone laughed. ‘It has to be perfect’.
More choir members then turned up dressed in national costume, one
typical of Hiiumaa, an Estonian island, another from Nīca, a western port of
Latvia. ‘It used to be a rich trading hub,’ the wearer told me standing proud
in all her jewellery and shining fabrics. She also pointed out how some of the
folds hinted at Indian saris. There were national belt patterns with pagan sun symbols,
ring-shaped metal brooches, linen collars, more chunky amber beads. I
couldn’t help but link the red woollen fabrics to Scottish tartan. One skirt is
someone’s great grandmother's, another a shirt from H&M.
I mentioned a Latvian academic I’d met who was sceptical about the
festivals and saw them as glorified Soviet propaganda tools. My company wasn’t
impressed. ‘That’s absolute nonsense,’ said my neighbour while plaiting daisies
and leaves around each other. ‘Whoever he is, can we strip him of his
nationality?’ She was only half-joking. Others had stopped their crown-making
for a moment and were watching intently, while Gunita, the secretary of the
Latvian president, laid it out plainly. ‘These festivals are exclusively linked
to our fight for independence against totalitarian oppression.’ She continued, ‘they
are crucial to the Balts not just historically, but as much today as for the
future. They matter to every single one of us.’ I didn’t bring it up again.
Look
at one another and not at the enemy. Look in the eyes of your next of kin, of
your friend, and sing.
The final concert of this year’s Song Festival fell on Lithuania’s Statehood Day, an annual public holiday celebrated on 6th July to commemorate King Mindaugus’ coronation in 1253. It was also the festival’s 100th anniversary with the theme this year, ‘May the Green Forest Grow’ reflecting the region’s reverence for nature. The song repertoire’s subthemes were Earth, Sky, Water, Homeland. We even sang a ceremonial song (usually used for birthdays) to wish the newly-planted oak tree well in the park during rehearsals earlier that week.
Although the
vast majority of Baltic citizens see their song festivals as a symbol for the struggle
for human dignity and political fight against the Soviet regime, some are
sceptical. Especially regarding the Lithuanian festival. While Estonia and
Latvia’s song festival tradition goes back over 150 years, Lithuania’s is
younger and bloomed during the Soviet times, drawing inspiration from its Baltic
neighbours and incorporating elements of Soviet amateur arts. The festivals
were officially dedicated to the anniversary of Lithuania’s incorporation into
the Soviet Union and promoted as symbols of flourishing socialist culture. They
were a way to form a hybrid synthesis between national and collective Soviet
identity, to forge an emotional attachment to an imposed ideal. The government
banned pre-occupation anthems and sent composers and festival organisers to
Siberia. Non-Soviet songs were seen as a threat.
But suppressing the freedom to act and speak created opportunities for opposition. As the song festival traditions strengthened in popularity and Glasnost allowed more folk songs into the repertoire, subversive acts like unfurling pre-Soviet flags on stage mushroomed. The festivals became platforms to amplify the people’s voices, to foster peaceful cultural resistance against Soviet ideology and russification.
The Singing Revolution began around 1987-1991 in Estonia and soon spread through to Latvia and Lithuania. Although crucial in shaping the public political scene, they were not organised by political parties; they were grassroots-led and spontaneous. Since their nature was peaceful and benign, the current USSR leader, Gorbachev, was not in much of a position to stop the singing that had caught so much international attention. When negotiations for independence turned ugly, songs still played a role in uniting and strengthening the unarmed masses.
In Lithuania the night of 13th January 1991 was a particularly painful one, when Soviet military units opened fire on and killed peaceful protestors who had encircled the parliament, the TV tower and other institutions of state significance. When the danger of death was very real, people sang, their songs a shield against the horror. Vytautas Landsbergis, the then head of state and composer, made a speech that expresses the nonviolent struggle well: ‘Suppress your anger, turn your backs to them, look at one another and not at the enemy. Look in the eyes of your next of kin, of your friend, and sing. It has helped us, has been helping us for centuries. Let us sing now… let us not rant or swear.’
So,
we can be cynical like our Latvian academic, for the Soviet historical roots do
exist. But one cannot ignore how deeply the significance of these years pervade
the Song Festival tradition and shape Baltic unity. On that evening of 6th
July 2024, this overwhelming strength of collective memory and pride was
tangible. It continuously rippled down through the tiered rows of the 12,000
singers and out towards the almost 40,000-strong crowd. It flowed through linked
arms, held hands, aching legs and tears. It rose up above the park’s surrounding
pine trees from the voices singing the opening song of the festival, Tautiška giesmė,
the once-banned national hymn.
Blooming fences and blooming stones
It’s 21:00 and bird song plays from the speakers. Swifts dip among EU and NATO flags flying above the stage’s dome and we listen for the final note, the signal for the national anthem. The faint smell of grass and flowers wafts from my crown. Someone passes a bottle of brandy along our row. We sing. My choir are the few who need the lyrics and I feel the same twinge I’ve been feeling recently, that of being a complete outsider. I feel envious too. During the last few days’ rehearsals, the men from the choir behind us magnified this. When they stood close holding shoulders and belted out the words by heart in a powerful bass, I observed a certain tribalism. I observed the sopranos of the same choir, matching in purple velvet and smiles, passionate as sisters. Each choir nurtured a sibling-like love for each other and the songs. We in Ziemelu Balsis may have learnt the very same songs, but we are moons away from how a Lithuanian feels when singing them. Who was I to chant patriotically and weep? The Chinese and Austrian singers to my right remind me I’m probably not alone with this feeling. Earlier that week the same Austrian had shown me his wedding ring, evidence of his one-month-old marriage to a Lithuanian alto at the end of the row.
It's getting dark and the audience melts into one black entity. The concert presenters speak to the Lithuanian President, Nausėda, and some choir participants. 'We call him the tall, good-looking man', the Lithuanian next to me whispers, 'because that's all he's good for!' A teenager in one interview detonates the crowd with her words. When asked about the importance of teenaged participation, she ends her reply with, 'we are the ones who will defend the fatherland when it comes to it' - words you would never hear come out of a western European's mouth. We continue to sing the patriotic songs about blooming fences and blooming stones, sunsets, mothers pining for their sons, going to war. One of my favourites was a collection of songs from the western coastal region, a mixture of good luck chants for a fruitful catch. Then Linas Adomaitis, Eurovision sweetheart since the 2000s, performs to a sea of phone torches. Ecstatic Mexican waves break out in the singers’ ranks and chants of ‘Lietuva!’ last for a couple of minutes. Four hours quickly pass and it’s now midnight. The seeds from my crown start to shed and itch. We, along with the audience, end on Lietuva brangi (Dear Lithuania), another once-forbidden song. The final verse is fuelled with emotion and the conductor maximises the 12,000 voices in one rich, final pause. Our sound echoes out into night and dies among the trees. One final deep breath, and the last words are absorbed into the audience. Applause.
Small
countries must be smart
Months of rehearsals in Estonia, weeks of listening to the Alto II voice recordings on the tram in Poland, days of rehearsals in the teeming rain in Vilnius, nights of rehearsals in the small hours are now over. I feel completely numb. Sleep-deprived and disbelieving. A Brit from another choir comes over to take a selfie, ‘I’ve been here for over 20 years, enjoy your evening!’ The colossal crowd thins, and eventually it’s just our choir and a couple of others left in Vingis Park. Beer and snack stalls are still running, and we gather on the dewy grass and go over the performance, say goodbyes, take photos, try on each other’s head gear. We then sing the repertoire all over again. It’s a surreal moment, like a scene from a High School Musical or Pitch Perfect, harmonising and riffing off each other. I share my song book with a Belarusian who sings in the LRT Jaunimo choir. He was quick to tell me that he was learning Lithuanian and had joined this choir to meet people when starting his new life in Lithuania. ‘I needed friends, especially now, you know, I can’t return to Belarus.’ It was poignant to think we’d both joined choirs for the same motivations under very different circumstances.
We sing until the sky turns from black to blue. With the sun rising, us remaining few walk back through the park, over the bridge and see the city against the orange sunrise. I walk with Matiss, our conductor, and confess my envy of it all, how much I’d love the UK to have such national unity and regular celebratory events. ‘But small countries have to have these celebrations, this strength of national culture,’ he says. ‘We must be smart, or we’ll be absorbed by our neighbours.’ He continued by saying that the Baltic governments have no choice but to pump huge investment into cultural institutions and events, simply to signal that they’re ‘worth standing alone.’ Matiss’ wife, Marta, catches up with us and we start our goodbyes. She tells me of the empty feeling she gets after song festivals. ‘You've now been cleansed and must start anew on a foundation of positive values,’ she concludes. ‘This is what you must build on until the next festival. See you for rehearsals in September.’
