Could Narva and Daugavpils become the next Donbas? Life on NATO's eastern border

In Daugavpils, a city less than 40 kilometers (25 miles) from Belarus, some residents have stocked up on canned food in case of war. Others dismiss the possibility of a Russian attack altogether.

In Narva, across a narrow river from Russia, fishermen complain about the European Union, defend their right to watch Russian television and reminisce about the days when the border barely mattered. Yet when asked whether they would rather live on the Russian side, the answer is emphatic: no.

These are two of the most Russian-speaking cities in the European Union, situated on NATO's eastern frontier. Their histories, demographics and economic difficulties have made them recurring subjects of speculation about whether Russia might attempt to replicate the scenario it used in eastern Ukraine in 2014.

But the people who live here do not fit neatly into categories of pro-Russian or pro-European, loyal or disloyal.

Journalists Anya and Yana of Euroradio traveled to Daugavpils, Latvia, and Narva, Estonia, to find out what residents think about the prospect of war - and what the question itself reveals about their lives.

Daugavpils: A city that thinks nobody wants it

"Labdien," Anya greets the woman renting her an apartment in Daugavpils.

"Hello!"

"Can we speak Russian?"

"Of course. Ninety percent of people in our city speak Russian. What would you like to see here?"

Anya explains that she is a journalist interested in pro-Russian attitudes.

"Well, a normal journalist. Not Russian propaganda," she adds, before wondering what people in Daugavpils consider a normal journalist.

Does the woman think Russia could attack Latvia?

"Depends on which television channels people watch."

The apartment's television offers only YouTube, not conventional news channels. Previous guests watched romantic comedies dubbed into Russian and a few Russian television series.

At a neighborhood shop, Anya hears Daugavpils described as a city of "sad grandmothers," whose grandchildren have moved to London or New York. The city has Latvia's highest concentration of elderly residents.

She approaches older women on the street and asks about Russia, NATO and the possibility of war.

"Poor, miserable city. Nobody needs us," one woman replies.

Younger residents are skeptical about a Russian invasion, too, although some have bought canned food just in case.

Since May, emergency alerts have sounded on residents' phones twice.

"I turned it off and went back to sleep," another elderly woman says.

Latgale, the region surrounding Daugavpils, is both Latvia's most Russian-speaking region and its poorest.

When Anya asks whether Russia might attack, she repeatedly hears the same response: "Who needs us?"

Others tell her to ask people in Riga instead.

The distance between Daugavpils and Latvia's capital is not merely geographical.

The journalist who called the war a war

Inna Plavoka is editor-in-chief of Chayka, an independent Russian-language news outlet in Daugavpils.

When Russia launched its full-scale invasion of Ukraine in February 2022, Chayka was one of only two local outlets to call it a war from the outset.

Within days, more than 1,000 people unsubscribed.

"At that time, a huge number of Russian-speaking people were still inside the Russian television information space and genuinely believed this was a 'special military operation,' not a war," Plavoka says.

Her publication has no newsroom of its own, so the interview takes place in the lobby of the city's largest hotel, overlooking a central square where a nine-meter-tall statue of Lenin once stood.

Plavoka is particularly alarmed by claims that Russian-speaking residents of Latvia are persecuted and need Moscow's protection.

"These are exactly the same narratives we heard in the territories of Ukraine that are now occupied," she says.

Her own identity illustrates the complexity of life in Daugavpils.

She was born in the city, speaks Russian, considers herself Latvian and holds a Belarusian passport.

Before the war, she regularly visited relatives near Braslaw, across the Belarusian border. She has not seen them since Russia's full-scale invasion of Ukraine, which was partly launched from Belarusian territory.

Daugavpils residents remain divided over Belarusian leader Alexander Lukashenko, too.

Some recognize his government's role in the invasion of Ukraine. Others admire him as an efficient leader.

When Chayka publishes critical reporting about Belarus, Plavoka says, readers accuse the outlet of working for George Soros or Western imperialists.

Their counterargument is often that Belarus has clean streets and cheap buckwheat.

As for political prisoners, some readers simply assume those people must have deserved imprisonment.

Plavoka believes the danger of a Russian attack is real.

"People in Ukraine didn't believe it would happen either. But it did, and it's still happening," she says.

She fears that today's hybrid operations - including pressure on the Belarusian border through irregular migration - could eventually give way to missiles and drones.

She now keeps three months' worth of pet food at home and tries to maintain a full tank of gasoline. A colleague has bought a generator.

Stories about drones and public safety have become some of Chayka's most popular articles.

Anya sends a voice message to Yana in Narva.

Nobody seems to expect war, she says, apart from journalists. But people have bought canned food just in case.

Then she asks whether Yana would like some Latvian sprats.

Narva: Russia is just across the river

Narva sits directly opposite the Russian town of Ivangorod, separated by the Narva River.

The city has about 50,000 residents. Roughly half hold Estonian citizenship; the others include Russian and Ukrainian citizens and people without citizenship.

Russian is the dominant language.

Local journalist Yevgenia Parv, an editor who has worked with Delfi and ERR, says reactions to talk of a possible Russian attack range from irritation to genuine fear.

Some people have started discussing escape plans.

"Where would you go if something happened?" they ask one another.

A few have even bought property elsewhere in Europe.

Parv has not packed an emergency bag herself.

"I don't believe it will happen, but what Russia is doing makes me uneasy," she says.

Her father served in the military, and the family lived in several Soviet republics before settling in Narva in 1987.

She says relations between residents became more strained after Russia's first invasion of Ukraine in 2014.

The divisions are ideological rather than simply linguistic, and they often run between generations.

Parv believes restrictions on Russian television channels have gradually changed some residents' attitudes toward the war. But Russian propaganda remains accessible through social media, Telegram and antennas capable of receiving broadcasts from across the river.

On May 9, Russia stages a Victory Day concert on the Ivangorod side of the border, drawing spectators from Narva.

"For some people, it's important. They come and recharge themselves," she says.

After the war, no one restored the Swedish heritage. Of the old stone city in the center, only the castle and the town hall remained, surrounded by "Khrushchev" houses.

With the advent of Soviet power, the proportion of Estonians living in Narva decreased sharply. Russian became the main language. So much so that even today the city administration cannot fully switch to Estonian. In two days I heard Estonian on the street only once, and that was because people from all over the country had come to Narva for some professional forum.

Along the embankment overlooking Russia, fishermen are fishing. I approach the largest group. The middle-aged and older men immediately dismiss the idea that Narva could be attacked, saying it's all "media hype."

"We used to be friends. My stepmother lives in that house, " a fisherman named Mykhailo points to a high-rise building on the opposite bank. "They're pushing it more on politicians. Why would they want to stop the war in Ukraine? Money is pouring in from all sides there ," he says.

Fishermen on the riverbank

Narva was once famous for its Baroque architecture, but much of the city was destroyed during World War II.

Its historic center was largely replaced with Soviet-era apartment blocks. Only a few major buildings, including the castle and town hall, survived or were restored.

Along the riverfront, fishermen cast their lines with Russia clearly visible on the opposite bank.

Yana approaches a group of middle-aged and older men.

They dismiss suggestions that Russia might attack Narva.

"It's the media stirring things up," they say.

Mikhail, one of the fishermen, points to an apartment building across the river.

"My stepmother lives right there. We used to be friends."

He argues that politicians benefit from prolonging the war in Ukraine.

Another fisherman complains about the business ties of former Estonian Prime Minister Kaja Kallas's husband with Russian companies, contrasting them with the economic restrictions ordinary residents have faced.

The conversation turns to freight trains, fertilizers, the cost of energy and the factories Narva has lost since the Soviet period.

Mikhail remembers a dairy plant, a bakery, a meat-processing facility, the large Baltiets plant, the Kreenholm textile works and a furniture factory.

"That's how we joined Europe," he says bitterly.

Another man complains about restrictions on Russian and Soviet symbols and the disappearance of Russian television from official broadcasting.

"Where's freedom of speech? Freedom of expression?" he asks.

"Russian television is banned. We don't have it, basically."

"In practice?"

"Volodya gives the go-ahead. The antenna picks it up."

The men laugh, interrupt one another and argue about how easily someone could cross the river.

They also talk about friends and relatives on the Russian side, about smugglers who once used boats, and about the decline of their city.

But when Yana asks whether anyone actually wants to move to Russia, Mikhail's answer is immediate.

"Ask anyone in Narva: who wants to go over there and live in Ivangorod? Nobody. There's no pension, nothing."

Another fisherman points to development in the nearby Russian town of Kingisepp.

Mikhail counters that it depends on the Ust-Luga industrial complex, which has been targeted by attacks.

The conversation ends without consensus.

"At least every war ends in peace," Mikhail says.

"Politicians will reach an agreement," a younger man adds. "And civilians will suffer."

Before Yana leaves, Mikhail recommends a local landmark: a lion statue.

She goes to see it.

The lion, she concludes, looks like Vladimir Putin.

Between two worlds

Parv does not believe every resident who criticizes Estonia is necessarily ready to support Russia.

"People who live and work for the good of Narva don't say they'll go fight for Russia. But they think differently," she says.

"That's their right. They should be allowed to speak, as long as they don't break the law."

She worries that harsh responses to dissent could undermine the very freedoms Estonia is trying to defend.

"It's very easy to lose freedom, including through fear."

Some residents' resentment, she says, stems from experiences of being treated as second-class citizens because of their language.

She believes the Estonian state struggled to integrate communities shaped by Soviet-era migration.

"Estonia is a young country. This was a new experience. You can't blame the country for trying to protect itself. But people feel unloved and abandoned. They're stuck between two worlds."

Those who wanted to move to Russia generally did so years ago, she argues. For many of those who stayed, Russia offers little beyond Soviet memories, childhood visits to grandparents and the image of white birch trees.

But would they defend Narva if Russia attacked?

"I don't have an answer. I think about it all the time, and it scares me," Parv says.

"I know people who definitely would defend it. As for the others, I don't know. But I would like everyone to defend Narva."

Daugavpils: The red carnations waiting for Putin

Back in Daugavpils, Anya meets Aivars Broks, director of the city's music school and a former municipal election candidate.

He is openly critical of the local government and believes Russian influence poses a serious problem.

"Despite all the hybrid adventures Russia is now organizing for the Baltic states, Poland and Moldova, I don't think everything is so terrible," he says.

"But we need to stay vigilant."

Broks estimates that about half the city's residents are disloyal to Latvia - a figure reflecting his personal assessment, not a verified survey.

How does that disloyalty manifest itself?

"They've bought red carnations and are sitting in their kitchens, waiting for the tanks to arrive," he says.

Then he qualifies the claim: perhaps only some have bought the flowers, while others are waiting to see what happens.

He is particularly hostile toward residents who refuse to take a clear position on Russia's war.

In his view, the war has divided people into supporters and opponents of Russia, with another group trying to remain neutral.

He considers that third group especially dangerous.

Broks argues that local politicians deepen the divide by presenting Latgale as fundamentally different from the rest of Latvia.

He draws parallels with the rhetoric that preceded the emergence of Russian-backed separatist entities in Donetsk and Luhansk in 2014.

His proposed response is uncompromising. He wants authorities to identify people he considers disloyal and remove them from public institutions, with criminal penalties or expulsion in some cases.

Anya asks whether such residents could instead be persuaded or integrated.

Broks says the years before 2014 demonstrated the limits of that approach.

He also criticizes Daugavpils Mayor Andrejs Elksniņš, whose party retained control of the city council in the 2025 municipal elections.

The mayor and council resisted the removal of Soviet memorials, arguing that they commemorated soldiers who fought Nazi Germany rather than glorifying Soviet rule.

When authorities ultimately dismantled a Red Army memorial, protests broke out and police detained dozens of people.

In 2022, Broks was among 18 Daugavpils residents who signed an appeal calling for the city council to be dissolved over what they described as anti-state activity.

The appeal did not remove the council. Elksniņš remained mayor after the 2025 election.

On the streets, however, Anya encounters residents who praise him.

The city's political divisions are not as simple as a contest between Latvia and Russia.

They are also about who residents believe listens to them.

A Ukrainian from Donetsk sees familiar warning signs

In Narva, Yana meets Nastya, a Ukrainian woman from Donetsk who arrived in Estonia in 2022.

Before Russia's full-scale invasion, Nastya and her partner bought an apartment in Kyiv.

They never got to live in it.

Nastya now studies Estonian philology at Narva College while pursuing a second degree remotely at a university in Kyiv.

She originally trained as a physics and computer science teacher, but her Ukrainian diploma has not been recognized in Estonia.

She and her partner do not plan to settle permanently in Narva, although they enjoy visiting the seaside promenade at nearby Narva-Jõesuu.

Russia is visible from there, too.

Narva and Donetsk are sister cities, and Nastya often compares them.

She sees similarities in the atmosphere, but also important differences.

In her view, pro-Russian separatism in Donetsk before 2014 was not a spontaneous mass movement. She recalls a city where most people were not waiting for Russia to arrive.

Narva, by contrast, has a population shaped by the Soviet-era settlement of industrial workers.

"Here you get the feeling that people are waiting for something without understanding what they're waiting for - some imaginary homeland," she says.

She is frustrated by residents who dismiss the benefits they receive from living in Estonia while romanticizing Russia.

She also sees a generational divide.

Younger people, she says, tend to be more pro-European, and Ukrainian children attend school alongside local children without major conflicts.

Some older residents remain deeply influenced by Russian propaganda.

Nastya remembers trying to explain events in her own hometown to a local teacher who insisted on telling her what was happening in Donetsk.

The teacher refused to believe Nastya's firsthand account.

"Russian propaganda is very deeply rooted in people's minds," she says.

She remembers how quickly Russian-controlled television reshaped attitudes in Donetsk after 2014.

Estonia's defense: 'Narva is Estonia'

A September survey by polling company Turu-uuringute found that 65% of Estonian residents considered a Russian military attack unlikely in the near future.

Another 27% thought it likely, while 8% were unsure.

Perceptions differed sharply by ethnic background: 35% of ethnic Estonians considered an attack likely, compared with just 9% of non-Estonians.

But Nieme Brus, a reserve major and strategic communications specialist with Estonia's Defence League, argues that the recurring question of whether Narva will be "next" plays into Russian propaganda.

"Unfortunately, the question 'Will Narva be next?' is repeated many times in Western media because it's intriguing and attracts attention," he says.

"Narva will not be next because Estonia is part of NATO and the European Union. We have allies, and we're ready to defend ourselves if necessary."

The Defence League, known in Estonian as Kaitseliit, is a volunteer paramilitary organization within Estonia's national defense system.

It has about 30,000 members, including women's and youth organizations, with up to 20,000 in combat units, according to the report.

More than 3,000 people joined in the months after Russia's full-scale invasion of Ukraine.

Its members train throughout Estonia, including the country's eastern regions.

"Narva is Estonia," Brus says.

"There's nothing that could separate this region from the Republic of Estonia. We're ready to defend our freedom and our country everywhere in Estonia, including - and especially - in its eastern part."

Estonian citizenship is required to join the Defence League.

That excludes some residents of Narva who hold Russian passports or lack Estonian citizenship.

But Brus says many young people from Russian-speaking families have obtained citizenship and joined.

The women who have lived in Latvia all their lives - without citizenship

On her final day in Daugavpils, Anya visits local shops to find out what worries residents beyond the prospect of war.

She meets a woman who asks to be called Tamara. Her name has been changed to protect her identity.

Tamara holds Russian citizenship, although she was born in Daugavpils and has lived there her entire life.

She obtained the passport through her father after the collapse of the Soviet Union.

She says she would gladly give it up if she could secure Latvian citizenship.

But she has failed the Latvian language examination three times.

She speaks Latvian with Latvian-speaking customers, she says, but struggles with the grammar required by the test.

"I probably couldn't even write proper Russian anymore," she says.

Another woman, identified as Olga, joins the conversation.

"You can't treat elderly people like this," she says.

Olga is not a Russian citizen.

She is a Latvian non-citizen - a distinct legal status created after Latvia regained independence, primarily affecting Soviet-era migrants and some of their descendants who did not automatically receive Latvian citizenship.

Non-citizens have certain residency and travel rights but cannot vote in national elections or hold various public-sector positions.

Olga was born and raised in Daugavpils. She has never lived anywhere else.

Her father was Russian and her mother Ukrainian.

When the Soviet Union collapsed, she could have pursued Russian or Ukrainian citizenship, or remained a Latvian non-citizen.

She chose the latter.

"We didn't take Russian citizenship, and they didn't give us Latvian citizenship."

Non-citizens can apply for Latvian citizenship through naturalization, which involves language and civic knowledge examinations, a pledge of loyalty and an administrative fee.

Olga knows that option exists.

But she struggles with the principle of having to apply for citizenship in the only country she has ever called home.

"Why should I have to naturalize? I was born here and have lived here my whole life. This is my homeland."

She and another non-citizen joke that their documents should eventually be put in a museum.

"That's how we've lived our entire lives - without citizenship."

The conversation reveals a different kind of vulnerability from the one described by Broks.

These women are not waiting for Russian tanks.

They are asking why, after decades in Latvia, they still feel like outsiders.

Ukrainians in Narva: Another emergency bag

In Narva, Yana visits a language café where Ukrainian refugees practice Estonian.

Several women are waiting in a small building in the city center.

Olena came from Kryvyi Rih in Ukraine.

News about the possibility of a Russian attack frightens her, especially after the experience of fleeing the war.

She says businesses have been leaving the region amid growing uncertainty.

The Ukrainian retail chain where she worked recently closed its local operation and relocated to Tallinn, leaving her unemployed.

"In 2022, we weren't prepared in Ukraine. We didn't think it would happen. We were calm about it," she says.

"Now it's frightening."

People are talking about withdrawing cash, storing supplies and preparing emergency bags.

Has she packed one?

"Since the day I moved here. I've only added canned food."

Her bag contains flashlights, water, money and documents.

She came to Estonia with her 80-year-old mother and nine-year-old grandson.

Her daughter joined the Ukrainian military and later went on maternity leave after three years of service.

The family has been separated and displaced repeatedly.

"For five years, there hasn't been any peace," Olena says.

She is particularly angry about reports of social media accounts promoting a supposed "Narva People's Republic."

The idea surfaced in March 2026, when Estonian anti-propaganda project Propastop reported accounts calling for autonomy in the Ida-Viru region.

The campaign attracted little apparent public support.

But Olena was shocked when journalists approached her on the street to ask what she thought of a "Narva People's Republic."

"What Narva republic?" she recalls responding.

"So they can come here like they did in Donetsk and bomb everything?"

She says Estonia is preparing for potential emergencies through public alerts, first-aid training and other civil defense measures.

"There's no panic here, but people are preparing in case of a crisis," she says.

'There's nothing here to take'

Not everyone in Narva shares the Ukrainian refugees' fears.

Oleg, a recently retired resident sitting in a park near the city museum, finds talk of a Russian invasion absurd.

"Europe is impoverished. Estonia... And this city is dying."

He argues that Russia has no reason to attack Narva because, unlike Ukraine, there is "nothing here to take."

When Yana asks why Russia invaded Ukraine, he responds with a comparison to placing radioactive waste near someone's home - an argument echoing Moscow's justification of its aggression.

Oleg blames the European Union for Estonia's economic problems.

He complains about rising fuel prices and the long queues at the Russian border, where residents still cross to buy cheaper goods.

He points to a man in a white shirt, apparently a local official, and says politicians with comfortable incomes do not care about ordinary people waiting for hours at the checkpoint.

"Sleep peacefully," Oleg tells Yana as they part. "Nobody is going to attack."

A border under pressure

The Narva–Ivangorod border crossing operates during the day and is open only to pedestrians.

Estonia has tightened customs checks on people arriving from Russia, and queues sometimes form overnight.

Some travelers are Russian citizens heading to relatives in Finland, whose land border with Russia is closed.

One young man traveling from St. Petersburg says he has never heard about the possibility of a Russian attack on Narva.

A woman heading to Finland to visit her daughter has heard alarming predictions - but from the Russian side, where the story is that Estonia might attack Russia.

Veiko Kommusaar, head of border guard operations at Estonia's Police and Border Guard Board, says the country's external border remains stable but faces deliberate low-level provocations.

These incidents, he says, are designed to test procedures, exhaust resources and spread disinformation.

Estonian authorities respond calmly, lawfully and proportionately, he says, while protecting both local communities and the European Union's external border.

"Because Estonia's eastern border is the external border of both the European Union and NATO, its security is of strategic importance not only for Estonia but for Europe as a whole," Kommusaar says.

Frontex officers and specialists from other European countries provide additional support.

The overall situation along the border, he emphasizes, remains stable.

For the people of Narva and Daugavpils, however, the question of what Russia might do next is only one part of daily life.

Some have emergency bags ready. Some are worried about pensions, language examinations or disappearing jobs. Some still watch Russian television, while others fear the influence of its propaganda. Some distrust their governments but have no desire to live in Russia.

And some, having already fled Russia's war in Ukraine, find themselves once again looking across a border at the country they escaped.

Based on reporting by Euroradio journalists in Narva and Daugavpils, published by hromadske. Produced with the support of MediaCity.