Here is the review of the book from the Latvian point of view.
The introduction to the book was stunning. Reading this sentence, you might naturally think I mean this positively—language can indeed play tricks on us. But no, this time I mean it in the other sense of the word: the introduction literally stunned me. Similarly, the title of the book initially toyed with my perceptions. It evoked exclusively positive associations. It conjured ambitious, optimistic visions, prompting me to mention it to friends with a touch of sarcasm, à la how could anyone even think of something like this? Of course, only a foreigner could be this ambitious; a local would never dare.
Later, after reading the introduction, I found myself questioning why I'd initially approached the title so uncritically. Was it my inherent, incurable optimism—the belief that the future must always be bright and promising? Or was it perhaps provincial insecurity, a thrill at the mere fact that someone had written a book about us? Maybe the appealing cover design also played its part: at the top, the spire of a local-style church (much like St. Peter's, though topped with a cross instead of a rooster), while below, rocket wings emerged. Clearly, the cover spoke of our military strength.
But no. After reading the introduction, all my positive assumptions were shattered, as it became clear that the words - Baltic, the Future of Europe - can carry the opposite meaning. In the context of this book, the message was stark: if war were to break out in Europe, it would start in the Baltic region. The “brief holiday from history” was over; the Baltics had become “a very tectonic place," currently subjected to every possible form of hybrid warfare. Europe must end its illusions that everything revolves around traditional powers. The European center of gravity is steadily shifting eastwards. If Europe wishes to protect its peace, it must pay close attention to the Baltics. These are the sobering insights we gather from the introduction.
The book aims to introduce 'old Europe' to its most loyal friends and allies—those whom, as the author himself acknowledges, "most of us know little about," yet who will need Europe's defense in its darkest hour. The author—a Berlin-based British journalist for The Times—executes this task brilliantly.
I should start by highlighting the author's bold expansion of the definition of the Baltics. Our familiar three Baltic states become nine countries bordering the Baltic Sea: Denmark, Sweden, Finland, Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, Poland, Germany. There is also a chapter on Russia, describing in detail its hybrid warfare strategies.
This broader Baltic definition is a courageous innovation worthy of praise—an attempt to forge a new shared identity among Baltic Sea nations. In these turbulent times, that's precisely what we need: a stronger sense of unity. Despite Sweden's occasional aristocratic pretensions and Germany's persistent view of itself as a European great power with little in common with the Baltic states, the reality remains that the Baltic Sea has effectively become a NATO lake. Thus, there's real potential for creating a new, expanded Baltic identity.
We—the small nations—would benefit the most from such a new regional narrative. It would mean we are part of something bigger. It would ensure support from allies. It would strengthen our collective resistance to adversaries, as we are always stronger together. It would mean hope that we wouldn't be left alone again—as history has repeatedly shown, something the author thoroughly and openly reminds us without glossing over the darker sides of Western policy.
Naturally, the first chapter I read was on Latvia. I know Latvia well and knew that this chapter would indicate whether the book as a whole could be trusted. And, oh, how positively this British journalist surprised me! Within just thirty pages, the author condensed not only Latvia's current socioeconomic situation but its entire history. Moreover, he vividly illustrated our struggles and challenges through cultural touchstones like the poetic epic and rock opera "Lāčplēsis." His writing avoided Western condescension, stereotypes or superficial assumptions. Instead, he captured our so called Volksgeist, the spirit of our nation, to use a romanticist phrase.
The book's greatest value isn't simply informing Europe about us but allowing us to get to know each other better. With genuine interest, I read the chapters about Lithuania and Estonia, thrilled to finally have a book that gave deeper insights into our neighbors. Our histories are so similar that sometimes it feels we're identical, like three droplets of water. This book reinforces pride and gives a sense of security, knowing we live between two intelligent and strong neighbors. I've long believed we should learn Lithuanian and Estonian—it seems only logical to collaborate more closely on governmental, military, and business levels.
Despite its alarming introduction, the book is overall positive, concluding with a boldly visionary message. Initially, I thought this emotional rollercoaster was a mere marketing tactic. But actually, the book’s emotional structure reflects our daily reality as Baltic inhabitants since Russia's invasion of Ukraine: from paralyzing historical fears rooted in traumatic generational memories, to bursts of strength and patriotism, and finally to everyday life—where, despite underlying concerns, we continue to live, work, celebrate and hope for the best.
The author skillfully encapsulates the full emotional spectrum of our region. And that's precisely what makes this book truly successful—it speaks not just of geopolitics, facts and arguments, but also narrates the human experiences of fear, struggle and triumph.