A trip round Vilnius and Riga shows the other side of Britain's debates over immigration and EU membership

An emu menaces Lenin in Grutas Park. Image: James O'Malley.

Emus of the world, unite! Welcome to Lithuania, which along with Latvia and Estonia makes up the Baltic states. It also makes an interesting case study, when considering the two big contemporary debates in British politics.

Immigration and our continued membership of the EU are both hot topics – but we only ever see one side of the story. Coverage of last month’s  migration statistics was all about “How do those people coming here affect us?” rather than “What about the people left over there?”

Grutas Park is about an hour outside of the capital Vilnius. It’s a brilliantly weird graveyard of statues from the country’s past as one of the more reluctant constituent parts of the Soviet Union. Rather than simply pull down the monuments which used to stand in every town square, they have been collected together and bizarrely housed along with a number of zoo animals. It serves as a reminder of just how far the Baltic states have come in just 25 years.

The Baltics have not had a particularly happy history, used as a battlefield and treated by foreign armies as a source of people to murder. During my trip to Latvia and Lithuania, it seemed as though most tourist attractions were memorials to one massacre or another. The name of the Museum of Genocide Victims does a good job of managing your expectations. Thanks to decades of Soviet mismanagement, the countries are also some of the poorest in the European Union. The median wage in Lithuania is only €361 per month, compared to €2,080 per month in the UK

So perhaps it shouldn’t be surprising that, since 1990, when the countries declared their independence, they have faced a huge demographic crisis. People have been flooding out of the region, so much so that its population has fallen by around 20 per cent. Lithuania crashed from 3.7m people 1991 to 3m in 2013; Latvia fell from 2.7m to 2m; even Estonia, which has performed the best out of the three, has still fallen from 1.6m to 1.3m.

You can see this reflected on the ground, too. As my partner Liz and I drove around Lithuania and Latvia it was clear that they don’t need to build more bloody houses: instead they could do with finding some people to live in the ones they already have. Looking down at the Vilnius suburbs from the revolving restaurant at the top of the TV tower there are endless blocks of flats (the Soviets didn’t really do houses). The Khrushchyovka apartnements are built in long, identical blocks for maximum efficiency – on a scale that makes South London’s former Brutalist icon Heygate Estate look artisanal.

Look a little closer, though, and the decay becomes clear. The really shocking thing when you first arrive in the Baltics is just how many abandoned buildings there are. Blocks of flats will sit next to each other: one dilapidated but inhabited, the other seemingly an empty shell.

Annoyingly, the weather was too good to fully create a “Soviet dystopia” style aesthetic.

Even the grander homes sit empty. We stayed in a former palace built by Catherine the Great, which had been transformed into a four star hotel, for about £50 a night. When we arrived, it turned out that not only was most of the building still under renovation (those either side were still vacant). Bizarrely, we were the only guests.

Catherine the Great's Palace, Vilnius. Image: James O'Malley.

This meant we had the slightly surreal experience of – apart from three members of staff – having the whole former palace to ourselves. As we sat down to dinner that night I found myself wondering if we had in fact died. Were we stuck in some sort of weird purgatory? Perhaps the three members of staff waiting on us were actually ghosts?

The centre of Riga, the capital of Latvia, feels more like a small west European city than anywhere else in the country. Drive a few minutes out, though, and once again the sense of emptiness returns. Upon visiting Riga’s rival TV tower, we drove up a deserted road, parked in a deserted car park and edged towards a deserted entrance.

After a nervous prod of the door, it turned out that the tower was open – and after some hand-gesture driven negotiations with a security guard who spoke no English, he let us take the lift, alone, to the top. After a slightly unnerving few seconds waiting for the door to open again, we emerged in the viewing area, the only people in Latvia 300m in the air. With a decor that hasn’t been updated since the fall of the Berlin Wall, it was like exploring the remnants of a post-apocalyptic civilisation.

There are new buildings too though. When the countries joined the European Union in 2004 there was a housing boom – one that ended abruptly with the onset of the 2008 financial crisis and with the Eurozone’s woes. In amongst the post-Soviet decay, there are also half-finished buildings that appear to have been abandoned mid-construction.

The demographic problem is also a bit of a time-bomb. As you might expect, most migrants are younger people looking for work: there’s a smaller pool of people left in the countries to pay for the welfare of the elderly. Like Britain, and pretty much everywhere, Lithuania, Latvia and Estonia all have large cohorts of baby boomers nearing retirement. Unfortunately for people in the Baltics, many of the people who would help pay for their care are elsewhere, paying taxes into the British and German treasuries instead. Perhaps we should be pleased that people are coming to the UK to work to help us mitigate our future demographic burdens.

Away from the technocratic questions about running an economy, there are also broader issues of identity at play. In contrast to the relationship between Brussels and Britain, membership of the EU has created a sense of hope in the Baltics.

A view of Vilnius from above. Image: James O'Malley.

Since joining the union in 2004, wages have about doubled in all three states according to one study. Just as importantly, perhaps, European cash has flooded into the countries. The economic and political case for this should be unarguable for anyone who believes in free trade: If the Baltic states get richer, that is good for Britain as it means more people who can buy British stuff.

One of the most common pieces of street furniture on show in the region are street signs bearing the blue flag and 12 stars of European Union. Since joining the EU money has poured in, to help build roads, bridges and other vital infrastructure. It’s also helped to improve the Baltics as tourist destinations: Lithuania’s Hill of Crosses, a pilgrimage site made from crucifixes, has an EU funded gift shop. The EU’s investment strategy is centred on adding value to projects that are co-funded by national governments, to try and kick-start the motor of development and growth.

The best example of what EU cash can do to the region can be seen in the plan for a new railway linking Berlin to Talinn, and eventually Helsinki. It’s a project far beyond the scope of the individual small nations, yet one which could massively boost connectivity and the region’s economic prospects. Whenever British politicians talk about sending money to Brussels as though it is a waste, this is one of the things that they’re helping pay for.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, as a result, polls have shown high levels of support for European integration. Last year a survey in Lithuania found that 68 per cent of people there support the country’s continued membership of the EU, with only 14% wanting to pull out. (To be fair, support in the countries for the Euro, which they all joined after the recession, appears to be less enthusiastic.)

As a Briton visiting the countries, when I saw signs of development, I found myself thinking all sorts of patronising thoughts about how there’s so much potential in the cities of the Baltics. The signs are already there: the region is already one of the best in the world for broadband speeds, which can only be a good thing.

And it is pretty hard to begrudge the EU spending its cash on the Baltics – even if it comes at the supposed expense of the British taxpayer. After all, many of the roads outside of urban areas and trunk road are not even paved. Actually going to eastern Europe and being pulled out of the British solipsism, arguing about how much cash is disappearing to Brussels, and seeing where it actually goes at the other can give the debate some much needed perspective.

Similarly, the immigration debate in Britain is essentially viewed in terms of them coming over here with little consideration given to the places they’re leaving behind. Like so many things, immigration is a trade off – and we can have multiple desirable outcomes that are mutually incompatible.

Whilst the flow of people from the region no doubt poses challenges, having visited, I’m firmly of the opinion that continuing to participate in Europe will ultimately work out better for both Britain and the Baltics. Perhaps the debate in Britain would be better informed if it was less narcissistic.

James O’Malley tweets as @Psythor.

 
 
 
 

The Adam Smith Institute thinks size doesn’t matter when housing young professionals. It’s wrong

A microhome, of sorts. Image: Wikimedia Commons.

The Adam Smith Institute has just published ‘Size Doesn’t Matter’, a report by Vera Kichanova, which argues that eliminating minimum space requirements for flats would help to solve the London housing crisis. The creation of so-called ‘micro-housing’ would allow those young professionals who value location over size to live inside the most economically-active areas of London, the report argues argues.

But the report’s premises are often mistaken – and its solutions sketchy and questionable.

To its credit, it does currently diagnose the roots of the housing crisis: London’s growing population isn’t matched by a growing housing stock. Kichanova is self-evidently right in stating that “those who manage to find accomodation [sic] in the UK capital have to compromise significantly on their living standards”, and that planning restrictions and the misnamed Green Belt are contributing to this growing crisis.

But the problems start on page 6, when Kichanova states that “the land in central, more densely populated areas, is also used in a highly inefficient way”, justifying this reasoning through an assertion that half of Londoners live in buildings up to two floors high. In doing so, she incorrectly equates high-rise with density: Kichanova, formerly a Libertarian Party councillor in Moscow, an extraordinarily spread-out city with more than its fair share of tall buildings, should know better.

Worse, the original source for this assertion refers to London as a whole: that means it includes the low-rise areas of outer London, rather than just the very centrally located Central Activities Zone (CAZ) – the City, West End, South Bank and so forth – with which the ASI report is concerned. A leisurely bike ride from Knightsbridge to Aldgate would reveal that single or two-storey buildings are almost completely absent from those parts of London that make up the CAZ.

Kichanova also argues that a young professional would find it difficult to rent a flat in the CAZ. This is correct, as the CAZ covers extremely upmarket areas like Mayfair, Westminster, and Kensington Gardens (!), as well as slightly more affordable parts of north London, such as King’s Cross.

Yet the report leaps from that quite uncontroversial assertion to stating that living outside the CAZ means a commute of an hour or more per day. This is a strawman: it’s perfectly possible to keep your commuting time down, even living far outside of the CAZ. I live in Archway and cycle to Bloomsbury in about twenty minutes; if you lived within walking distance of Seven Sisters and worked in Victoria, you would spend much less than an hour a day on the Tube.

Kichanova supports her case by apparently misstating research by some Swiss economists, according to whom a person with an hour commute to work has to earn 40 per cent more money to be as satisfied as someone who walks. An hour commute to work means two hours travelling per day – by any measure a different ballpark, which as a London commuter would mean living virtually out in the Home Counties.

Having misidentified the issue, the ASI’s solution is to allow the construction of so-called micro-homes, which in the UK refers to homes with less than the nationally-mandated minimum 37m2 of floor space. Anticipating criticism, the report disparages “emotionally charged epithets like ‘rabbit holes’ and ‘shoeboxes,” in the very same paragraph which describes commuting as “spending two hours a day in a packed train with barely enough air to breath”.


The report suggests browsing Dezeen’s examples of designer micro-flats in order to rid oneself of the preconception that tiny flats need mean horrible rabbit hutches. It uses weasel words – “it largely depends on design whether a flat looks like a decent place to live in” – to escape the obvious criticism that, nice-looking or not, tiny flats are few people’s ideal of decent living. An essay in the New York Times by a dweller of a micro-flat describes the tyranny of the humble laundry basket, which looms much larger than life because of its relative enormity in the author’s tiny flat; the smell of onion which lingers for weeks after cooking a single dish.

Labour London Assembly member Tom Copley has described being “appalled” after viewing a much-publicised scheme by development company U+I. In Hong Kong, already accustomed to some of the smallest micro-flats in the world, living spaces are shrinking further, leading Alice Wu to plead in an opinion column last year for the Hong Kong government to “regulate flat sizes for the sake of our mental health”.

Amusingly, the Dezeen page the ASI report urges a look at includes several examples directly contradicting its own argument. One micro-flat is 35 m2, barely under minimum space standards as they stand; another is named the Shoe Box, a title described by Dezeen as “apt”. So much for eliminating emotionally-charged epithets.

The ASI report readily admits that micro-housing is suitable only for a narrow segment of Londoners; it states that micro-housing will not become a mass phenomenon. But quite how the knock-on effects of a change in planning rules allowing for smaller flats will be managed, the report never makes clear. It is perfectly foreseeable that, rather than a niche phenomenon confined to Zone 1, these glorified student halls would become common for early-career professionals, as they have in Hong Kong, even well outside the CAZ.

There will always be a market for cheap flats, and many underpaid professionals would leap at the chance to save money on their rent, even if that doesn’t actually mean living more centrally. The reasoning implicit to the report is that young professionals would be willing to pay similar rents to normal-sized flats in Zones 2-4 in order to live in a smaller flat in Zone 1.

But the danger is that developers’ response is simply to build smaller flats outside Zone 1, with rent levels which are lower per flat but higher per square metre than under existing rules. As any private renter in London knows, it’s hardly uncommon for landlords to bend the rules in order to squeeze as much profit as possible out of their renters.

The ASI should be commended for correctly diagnosing the issues facing young professionals in London, even if the solution of living in a room not much bigger than a bed is no solution. A race to the bottom is not a desirable outcome. But to its credit, I did learn something from the report: I never knew the S in ASI stood for “Slum”.