It’s Saturday evening in Tallinn, and the city is buzzing. The hop-off-hop-on cruise passengers are back on board, and the locals have reclaimed their city. Elegant couples wrapped in Burberry fill the galleries, enjoying the kind of art that would have earned the artists a hefty prison sentence—or worse—in Soviet times.
Estonia’s Isle of Women
Four or so hours by road and sea from Tallinn, Kihnu island wakes to a different world. Only 105 miles separate the two, but culturally you could measure the distance in as many light-years. Listed by UNESCO as a Masterpiece of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity, Kihnu is remarkable for many reasons—people speak an ancient dialect that’s barely comprehensible on the mainland; women dress as they have for hundreds of years; weddings are three-day events that are as much pagan as Christian; children are more likely to spend their free time learning to dance, sing, and play the accordion than Instagramming; and there are no hotels on the island, just a handful of comfortable homestays hosted by the islanders. Perhaps most notable of all, though, is the fact that Kihnu is sometimes called the “isle of women,” because so few men live here.
The island, which is considered to be Europe’s only remaining matriarchal society, has been shaped and run by women for centuries. They took on the jobs their men would have done had they not gone to sea for months on end to hunt seals and to fish, and became the custodians of Kihnu’s heritage. Even with the decline in fishing, the men are still largely absent, often working on the mainland or even farther afield, in Finland, so a great majority of its permanent residents are women.
Their life, and that of Kihnu itself, revolves and evolves around the ancient customs that have likely been practiced since the island was first occupied in the 14th century. These are embodied in the songs, dances, handicrafts, and games that are passed down from generation to generation and that are instantly apparent in the clothing—the vivid skirts (körts), paisley shirts, kerchiefs, and, in winter, woolen stockings and mittens that are worn uniform-like day in and day out. All are handmade, and all are patterned with ritualized symbols that promise health, good fortune, and prosperity, or that signify mourning, youth, or marital status.
Heritage may define Kihnu, but the island isn’t a museum. The way of life here is just that—a way of living with, not in, the past. Culture and traditions are not quaint folkloric photo opportunities, something to show and tell on high days and tourists’ holidays, but the stitches that bind together the everyday, as Mare Mätas explains: “The clothes we wear, the food we eat, our customs, traditions, our language and music are our identity. They are what and who we are. They are not something we adopt for novelty or to demonstrate how things used to be. They are our reality.”
Exploring Kihnu
When we meet, Mare is in full superwoman mode, flying around Kihnu on a 35-year-old Soviet motorcycle, her kört and petticoats billowing in the wind, and her blond curls working their way loose from from the vivid kerchief she wears around her neck.And I’m bouncing along next to her. I’m sitting on an old car seat that’s been bolted on to the wooden crate that replaced the sidecar when it fell off the motorcycle some years back. The crate’s my taxi for the day, and I chose it above a four-by-four for my tour of the island. Within minutes of setting off, my cell phone has leapt off my lap and onto the road. Mare doubles back for it, but because starting the contraption is done on a wing and prayer, our stops are limited to the strictly necessary. Picking up my phone is not classed as essential, so Mare says I’ll have to grab it as we race past. My ribs are aching, I’m laughing so much, but somehow, I lean out and close my fingers around it. I pull myself back in, and off we roar.
Kihnu is four villages spread across an island that is four miles long and two miles wide, and we visit each one, calling at the lighthouse, the heritage school, the museum, and the Metsamaa Culture Farm, where children learn dances, songs, and handicrafts. Opening or reopening each one has been a labor of love and dogged tenacity on the part of Mare and the women who work there.
We spend time in the museum, chatting to the manager, Maie Aav, who explains some of the symbolism of the clothing: Aprons are worn only by married women; red, the dominant color of most of the garments, is believed to be protective; those in mourning will wear a kört with black or navy stripes; and the much-used snake pattern, seen on mittens, stockings, and all else, is a sign of faith.
Next, I meet one of Kihnu’s fledgling entrepreneurs—women who are starting small enterprises to cater to the increasing numbers of tourists who are discovering the island year on year. Her pretty handicraft and coffee shop is filled with colorful hand-knitted dolls and purses, and each purchase comes with a small introduction to Kihnu culture.
Mare concedes that tourism brings in much-needed revenue, but she remains wary. “We know that visitors give fresh breath to our island, but it has to be right type of person. We want to encourage visits from people who are genuinely interested in our culture and history, and who want to interact with us. We are not exhibits or reenactors, so we prefer it if our visitors don’t just arrive to take photos and then leave. What we show them is our life. We like it when people book a homestay and come to live with us and our families for a few days, and when they ask to meet some of the elders, who love sharing their knowledge and wisdom. I can always arrange that.”
Body language is a universal lingua franca, and when Mare introduces me to an older lady named Ella, it is clear she is delighted to show me around her home. Mare translates as Ella takes me into her smoke sauna (suitsusaun), still used regularly by her family, and explains that saunas were used for births and deaths and remain places for family celebrations, relaxation, and smoking food. She draws my attention to the huge saucepan that was one of her dowry items and tells me what a job it was to heat it, and about her wedding day and marriage. If I had to pick one word to describe all three, it would be fraught.
Back in Mare’s kitchen diner, painted in joyful yellow, bright blue, and red, and with gorgeous handwoven striped throws and rugs filling her home with color, I ask how she feels about the inevitability of life changing even on Kihnu.
“Yes, things change, whether we want them to or not. My job—as a mother and as a member of this community I care passionately about—is to ensure that our heritage skills are passed on to the next generation. That is what I dedicate my energy to and why I have worked tirelessly to set up the Foundation, to reopen the lighthouse, and to organize workshops at the Metsamaa Culture Farm, and I am so glad that the UNESCO listing has recognized the importance of our customs. Kihnu women are now documenting our heritage—we have a strong oral tradition, but that is no longer sufficient. We are writing down our stories and our songs so that they will not be lost. We have given these skills to our children. We can only hope that they will do the same for future generations.”
