Fifty Shades of Democracy: From "Gray" Passports to "Black" Lists

Today's Estonia is no longer merely about issues of citizenship and loyalty; it embodies an entire universe of statuses, meanings, and symbols. Russian and Belarusian citizens, on the one hand, find themselves under intense scrutiny, yet on the other, remain an entrenched part of the familiar geopolitical landscape—predictable in their categorization. But what of the stateless individuals, the so-called "gray passport holders"? Beneath the seeming simplicity of their situation lies a labyrinth of complexities, particularly when the discourse turns political.

Arnold Sinisalu, former Director General of Estonia's Internal Security Service (KaPo), hinted in an interview with RusDelfi that national security issues leave no room for compromise. But where does the line lie between safeguarding the state and infringing upon the rights of non-citizens? And why do gray passports often appear more as a shadow of Russia than as an independent subject of focus?

In today's global climate, Russia is demonized on all levels—from sweeping international sanctions to hyper-localized actions by neighboring border states. Estonia, as a NATO and EU member, adopts a hardline stance, actively framing Russia as the principal threat. Russian and Belarusian citizens residing in Estonia have long found themselves in precarious circumstances. Now, they are the targets of a new initiative—the stripping of voting rights.

Sinisalu justifies this move as a necessary step to minimize Russian influence in Estonia's domestic politics. Yet, such measures seem more like symbolic gestures than effective solutions. They create an illusion of control while leaving the underlying issues unresolved.

Amid this context, gray passport holders represent a unique category. Stripped of citizenship after the collapse of the USSR, they have lived for decades in legal and social limbo. Their plight is a chronicle of neglect, now weaponized as a political tool.

These gray passport holders—tens of thousands of residents in Estonia—are seemingly frozen in time. Neither Estonian citizens nor foreigners, their status is an odd relic of the post-Soviet collapse, when legal and political systems crumbled, leaving a void of identity in their wake.

In the 21st century, where even the smallest matters become fodder for discourse, gray passport holders have once again captured attention. This group, once a mundane reality in Estonian society, has re-emerged as a contentious issue amid escalating geopolitical tensions.

“Voting rights are a privilege of citizenship, not a tool for political rhetoric,” declared Martin Helme, leader of EKRE, as he endorsed the proposal to strip gray passport holders of their right to vote in local elections. While such statements aim to reinforce national sovereignty, they also signal a new level of political maneuvering.

A particularly striking aspect of this issue is how stateless individuals are automatically lumped together with Russians and Belarusians. Yet their history is not one of geopolitical ambition or “hybrid warfare.” It is about people who were often born and raised in Estonia but remain without the right to call themselves its citizens.

“How can we allow those who may owe loyalty to another country to participate in elections? This is a matter of sovereignty,” argue EKRE representatives, invoking fears of a "fifth column." These remarks underscore a significant point: gray passport holders are not merely an apolitical mass. They represent a latent political resource, albeit one unacknowledged by official narratives.

The paradox lies in the fact that gray passport holders cannot vote even now. Stripping them of local voting rights serves more as an act of isolation than a genuine security measure. Such moves deepen the alienation of those who already feel marginalized.

Stateless individuals occupy a shadowy zone in politics: they are easy to blame as threats, convenient to group with Russians, and effortless to overlook when it comes to addressing their real needs. But does this approach make Estonia stronger?

Loyalty is a pivotal question in national security. Sinisalu hints that since the outbreak of war in Ukraine, loyalty checks among Russian-speaking populations have become routine. Yet how is the loyalty of gray passport holders assessed?

They are not Russian citizens, nor are they fully integrated members of Estonian society. Monitoring their connections, social media activity, and ties with Russian organizations may be part of a broader surveillance strategy, but is it justified?

Sinisalu asserts that KaPo does not engage with Russian intelligence agencies. While this might be partially credible, intelligence operations often hinge more on what remains unsaid than what is openly declared. Stateless individuals risk becoming caught between two fires—viewed with suspicion both by Estonia and by Russia.

Estonia's conflation of Russian and Belarusian citizens with stateless individuals into a single category is patently unjust. Russia, an active global player, and Belarus, its shadowed ally, draw sharp responses from neighboring states. Gray passport holders, however, are the legacy of a complex history ignored by the Estonian state itself.

Does this warrant treating them the same way? Gray passport holders are not representatives of the Russian state, yet their inclusion in this discourse paints them as latent threats.

Russia today is a convenient "enemy" for many countries, and Estonia fully exploits this image. Yet lumping all Russian-speaking residents, including gray passport holders, into a single category undermines the very idea of democracy.

Russian citizens, with their "burdensome" passports, are often viewed as agents of Moscow’s influence. Belarusians, whose government officially supports the Kremlin, are similarly categorized. But this framework leaves no room for nuance: neither personal convictions nor the disconnect between official policies and individuals’ realities. As the focus turns to stateless individuals—those who have lived in the shadows of political games for decades—the divide deepens.

This rhetoric resonates like the gavel of a judge, reverberating through an already fractured society. It does not merely summarize the debate; it carves a new rift in Estonian democracy, where voting rights become privileges, and loyalty transforms into a commodity that cannot be proven or purchased.

This is more than a legal shift. It is a marker of the times, dividing those who belong from those left on the fringes. Russian and Belarusian citizens find themselves equally under suspicion, regardless of their beliefs or actions. Their status is reduced to a symbol of potential threat. And how much longer will gray passport holders—stateless individuals with no citizenship—be forced to balance precariously between inclusion and exclusion? How much longer will fear and political rhetoric dictate the fates of thousands?

History offers countless instances where one law, one phrase, or one decision turns a nation away from its people and toward ideas meant to replace them. Russian and Belarusian citizens, along with the stateless, become the embodiment of fears easier to exploit than analyze. This is not just a “bone of contention.” It is a fissure that risks festering at the heart of national identity unless a place is found for those whose lives remain in the gray zone.

The stateless. Those who remain silent yet are heard. Those who live here but do not belong. Their status is no longer just a constitutional question but a test of the values on which Estonia stands. The only question is whether the country can navigate this trial without leaving behind the shadow of those whose lives hang in the balance of politics.