Desire and Modesty in Post-Soviet Expectation for the Western Standard of Life: Contrasting and Empowering Narratives of Latvian Emigrants and Latvians who Stayed at Home

Abstract

Post-Soviet subjects have often been portrayed as ‘winners’ or ‘losers’ of post-Soviet transformations, where those socioeconomically successful are seen as winners while the socioeconomically weak are losers. Such language of ‘winners’ and ‘losers’ carry neoliberal scripts of success, which are based on the western upper-middle-class standard. The ideas of neoliberalism also dictated the post-Soviet transformations in Latvia. From the perspective of meaning-making and emotion, this research seeks to complicate the dominant narrative of winners and losers to describe the effects of the post-Soviet transformations. Empirically, this study compares narratives of post-Soviet Latvian émigrés towards the West with those who remain to unravel deeper understandings of success as related to our perceptions of ‘livable life.’ Emigration tends to be narrated as a story of winning since it allows fulfilling expectations and desires for a ‘livable life’ migrants could not fulfill at home. However, those who remain at home, even under precarious circumstances, share their experiences as winners’ stories. While emigrants in their search for ‘livable life’ follow the western standard of good life, those at home speak of ‘livable life’ in terms of modesty. I interpret both stories as empowerment narratives that are interchangeable and coexistent.

Keywords

desire emotion empowerment Latvia modesty narrative post-Soviet change western standard

Introduction

This article takes a critical perspective on using the ‘winners’ and ‘losers’ dichotomous categories to analyze the effects of post-Soviet transformations. It does so by recognizing the standpoint of those who experienced post-Soviet change rather than privileging the perspective of social scientists and experts who have analyzed the change through the dichotomy derived from a western viewpoint. By examining the narratives of Latvian citizens, both emigrants and those who remain, to understand how they perceive their lives under the post-Soviet change that steers towards the western standard of living, I identify two narratives of empowerment that people have developed to deal with the change. As such, this study offers a cultural sociology appraisal of the post-Soviet transformations. Additionally, given the strong links between culture and emotion (see Sawicka in this Special Issue), it also contributes to the sociology of emotions by revealing ‘emotive-cognitive’ processes (see Margies in this Special Issue) in narratives of social change.

Ethnographer Ghodsee and political scientist Orenstein (2021) systematically analyze quantitative and ethnographic studies to compare how the post-Soviet transformation affected societies. They indicate a bifurcation in the literature where economists claim the post-Soviet neoliberalization has been a success while ethnographers document that it has been a ‘disaster’ (Ghodsee and Orenstein, 2021: 12, 56). They argue that to understand the realities of post-Soviet neoliberal transformations, we should look from the perspective of inequalities, meaning that transformations have created winners and losers, both among countries and within them. Although the authors offer a thorough and compelling analysis of the impact of the post-Soviet neoliberal transformations, and how it played out among and within various post-Soviet countries, their frequent use of words such as ‘winners’ and ‘losers’ reflect a ‘standpoint’ of scientists who engage in hegemonic western discourse of what well-being means. Other studies use this language to describe the impact of post-Soviet transformations. Winners generally are seen as materially well off or wealthy, with higher education levels, while losers are those who struggle with their income and often have lower levels of education (e.g. Brainerd, 1998; Torres-Adán, 2021; Tucker et al., 2002).

Cultural sociologist Lamont (2019) argues that the language of ‘winners’ and ‘losers’ carries neoliberal scripts of success which are based on the western upper-middle-class standard. Not only are these scripts unachievable for many in western countries such as the middle classes who are squeezed due to the neoliberal stagnation of income (Lamont, 2019), but also across the globe. Nevertheless, many aspire to reach this standard to feel worthy.¹

The western middle-class standard of success spread across the globe through popular culture and western institutions and experts. Development anthropologist Escobar (1995) wrote that such powerful post-Second World War institutions such as the World Bank (WB) and International Monetary Fund (IMF) have used the western standard of a good life as the measure of success. This has gradually socialized people in the less developed world to see them as backward and losers compared to the people from the West. Bockman and Eyal (2002: 338) observed that the Soviet economists, in their encounters with western economists, learned to see their ‘socialist econom[ies] as chaotic, inefficient, and in need of shock therapy’. Others argue that ‘[c]ommunism was designed as a means to allow these societies to catch up to and eventually surpass the West in providing a good life increasingly measured in goods’ (Gille et al., 2020: 2). Furthermore, post-Soviet neoliberalization, guided by international advisors, continued this trend of catching up with the West in newly independent states. When Latvia regained independence from the Soviet Union, a neoliberal policy agenda dominated in the western world where Latvia sought to belong (Appel and Orenstein, 2016). Sociologist Ozoliņa (2019: 14), in the context of her analysis of post-Soviet neoliberalism, stated that in the 1990s and 2000s in Latvia, the western standard became a target to reach, ‘a set of benchmarks monitored by technocrats and reform advisors.’

In comparison to such Central and Eastern European (CEE) countries as Poland, Czech Republic, Slovakia, and Slovenia, the Baltic Countries, of which Latvia is a part, introduced very radical neoliberalization (see Appel and Orenstein, 2016; Bohle and Greskovits, 2007). In Latvia, this led to distinct income and wealth inequality (Brzeziński et al., 2020: 12; Eglitis and Lāce, 2009) and household wealth lower than in Estonia, Poland, Slovakia, and Hungary (Brzeziński et al., 2020: 5). This challenging socioeconomic context, combined with other factors such as the European Union (EU) labor market opening related to Latvia’s accession to the EU, increased opportunities to study and travel abroad, and the 2008 financial crisis, facilitated emigration to the West. For instance, over 10% of the Latvian population left between 2000 and 2015 (see Lulle, 2020).

Such effects of post-Soviet transformations easily prompt us to distinguish between ‘winners’ and ‘losers’ in terms of the divisions created within Latvian society. However, people’s meaning-making processes and emotions remind us to think that their everyday experiences are more nuanced than these hegemonic categories of ‘winners’ and ‘losers’ imply. By integrating the lens of narrative analysis and emotion, I analyze how people live through post-Soviet transformations in ways that make their lives ‘livable’ and, in that sense, ‘good’ or ‘successful.’ Anthropologist Dzenovska (2012: 75, author’s translation from Latvian), influenced by philosopher Judith Butler, writes that life is ‘livable’ when ‘one is not only able to sustain bare life but have an existence a person is satisfied with.’ She further writes that ‘how a person gets recognized or addressed as a subject in certain power relations shapes his or her self-understanding and agency.’ In this article, I deal with the context where people lived in a milieu where the neoliberal scripts of success dominated. I use the notion of ‘livable life’ to map in what other terms than ‘winning’ and ‘losing’ people experience their lives.

Ghodsee and Orenstein (2021: 12) review many ethnographic studies on post-Soviet transformations and conclude that this ‘research has largely focused on the stories of the losers of the transition process.’ On the one hand, this is a valid observation by scholars who seek to compare the effects of post-Soviet transformations against the western-defined standard of good life. On the other hand, following standpoint theory, the language of ‘losers’ provides only partial knowledge of lived experience (Smith, 1997), as it implies that all who do not fit with the neoliberal scripts of success are victims of post-Soviet neoliberal transformations. Moreover, their lives are seen as not good and not ‘livable.’ It excludes the experiences of those who, despite the hardships of the post-Soviet transformations, do not feel like losers but have retained the agency to make their lives satisfying. Based on the analysis of narratives of the Latvian citizens, both those who have emigrated to the West and those who stayed at home, I offer the standpoint that reveals a more empowering view on lived experiences of the post-Soviet transformations than that of the division between ‘winners’ and ‘losers’.

Literature Review

Narrative Constructions of Success and Emotion

In the context where the western standard of good life has become dominant, how life is perceived and felt as ‘livable’ can be interpreted through narrative. From the standpoint perspective, lived ‘experience is a method of talk, a language game’; this language is ‘saturated with the social relations, including the social relations of discourse’ (Smith, 1997: 394). Therefore, the language and narratives it produces reflect how we perceive and feel about the world, including the hierarchies and discourses that dominate it, and how we act based on these perceptions and feelings. Thus, the meaning of life as ‘livable’ under the post-Soviet transformations can be accessed through narrative analysis.

Narrative analysis means ‘thinking about the social world narratively’ and ‘generalizing not in terms of “causes” but in terms of narratives’ (Abbott, 1991: 117). A narrative contains a story where events are organized in sequence to gain a particular meaning for the teller and the audience (Franzosi, 1998; Riessman, 2005: 1). In that sense, the narrative is ‘a form of social action’ (Chase, 1995: 5) and represents ‘patterns of social relations’ (Franzosi, 1998: 548). By analyzing narrative texts, we can approach how people comprehend the world and make sense of themselves in it, how they shape their self-understanding and their identity (e.g. Chase, 1995) whether they portray themselves as victims or as people with power and agency (Franzosi, 1998). Sociologist Giddens (1991: 54, italic in original) wrote that a ‘person’s identity is not to be found in behaviour, nor—important though this is—in the reactions of others, but in the capacity to keep a particular narrative going.’

Sociologist Chase (1995: 7) claimed that ‘narration is a cultural practice’ since ‘in making sense of experience, any narrative draws on and is constrained by the culture in which it is embedded.’ Our narratives relate to meanings and discourses culture provides (Chase, 1995: 6; Steinmetz, 1992: 505). By analyzing narratives, we can find if people conform to the culture that shapes them, feel uneasy with it, or reject it. Hence, narrative analysis may offer a deeper understanding of how people relate to the post-Soviet transformations where the western standard of good life has become a yardstick of success.

Scholars emphasize that stories, meanings, and representations we find in narratives ‘sometimes create moral tales – how the world should be’ (Riessman, 2005: 1). A moral tale or script is structured by ‘symbolic boundaries’ (Lamont and Molnár, 2002) of what is worthy, right, good, and what is not. For example, the neoliberal scripts (Lamont, 2019) construct countries, societies, and people as divided between winners and losers. It is one moral tale of western capitalistic culture. Within this culture, those labeled as ‘losers’ may feel unworthy (Lamont, 2019). However, against such universalizing, generalizing, and ethnocentric narratives of what constitutes a ‘livable life,’ people, given their specific experiences under specific contexts make their own stories to feel good, and gain agency through narrative means (Ozoliņa, 2019). Chase (1995: 6) argues that narrative is a dynamic process between culture and experience. In this dynamic relationship, emotions matter.

If culture, broadly speaking, refers to how standards, norms, values, our consciousness, ways of perceiving, and meaning-making shape our behavior, then emotions and feelings refer to ‘meanings and values as they are actually lived’ (Jackson, 1989: 39). In essence, how we feel and make sense of the world is affected by culture, norms, and values, and related expectations towards the self and others. Hochschild (2016: ix) offered to think of narrative in terms of a ‘deep story,’ meaning that our stories are felt, not factual. Through the stories we tell ourselves and others, we project specific ways of feeling about ourselves and the world around us. In this study, I identify ‘desire’ and ‘modesty’ as two narratives of ‘livable life’ in the context of post-Soviet transformations.

Desire and Modesty as Two Narratives of ‘Livable Life’

Narratives of desire and modesty organize meaning-making cognitively and emotionally. They are cognitive because people make sense of their circumstances and try to rationalize how to live a satisfying life. Simultaneously, they are emotional since these narratives are told in ways to feel good. For these reasons, I call them empowerment narratives. As such both narratives reflect ‘forms of agency other than protest and resistance’ (Ozoliņa, 2019: 116). Analytically, I see both narratives as mutually exclusive, but in empirical reality they are interchangeable and coexistent. Before demonstrating both narratives through my empirical data, I explore my understanding of desire and modesty utilized in this study.

Ghodsee and Orenstein (2021: 17) write that ‘[n]ot surprisingly, after the scarcity and consumption restrictions of communism, citizens [of post-Soviet countries] desired a higher standard of living (in material terms) more than almost anything else.’ The desire for a higher standard of living and related consumerism is not an issue of individuals but a broader cultural expectation embedded in the western understanding of development (see Brohman, 1995; Escobar, 1995). Sociologists and historians find that during the Soviet times and post-socialist times, ‘levels of consumption were considered the primary measure of levels of development [. . .] and whether one could be considered to belong to “Europe”’ (Gille et al., 2020: 5). Neoliberal scripts of success that post-Soviet societies adopted further socialized people to see well-being in terms of the western standard (Ozoliņa, 2019). This standard became a benchmark to define life as ‘livable.’

Scholars discuss ‘desire’ as related to modern ethos and subjectivity within a broader cultural context. They emphasize that desire as ‘passionate imagining’ is culturally and socially embedded and that ‘[i]n modern societies, this fleshing out of desire often takes the form of consumption’ (Belk et al., 2003: 329). Sociologists and historians argue ‘social existence in modern societies [. . .] depends on consumption, often beyond the most basic needs’ (Gille et al., 2020: 11). Consumption then is a cultural expectation of modern market societies and a critical practice to make one’s life livable. Cultural sociologist Eglitis (2011: 435) observed that in Latvia in the era after the Soviet collapse, ‘the consumer [has been] the icon of power and symbol of a new radiant future.’ Those who could consume were seen as forward-looking, while those who did not lagged behind. Hence, being a subject without a desire meant having no future. Modesty in consumption was seen as impeding development, and as an inappropriate stance of modern neoliberal subjects.

The desire to consume is also related to the need for social recognition and our wish to belong to a particular social group (Dupuy, 1979: 86 in Belk et al., 2003: 329; Lamont, 2019). Such a wish to belong is related to the need for recognition. Possessing certain goods and things ‘makes it possible or easier to participate in society,’ and achieve a ‘sense of citizenship’ (Gille et al., 2020: 14). Certain goods and experiences signal our status in the social hierarchy and belonging to a particular social group. Along those lines of thinking, ‘desire’ is vital for our self-identity. Desire allows us ‘to envision a transformed and ideal self’ (Belk et al., 2003: 343; Woodward, 2011: 372). The desire for particular objects and practices reflects upon identities since ‘consumers desire objects because they believe them to offer something novel, empowering or edifying’ (Woodward, 2011: 372) that may resonate with a particular kind of self, the self we want to be and the way we want others to see us. As I will demonstrate later, even a desire to consume certain foods, such as fruits and fish, is crucial for one to have an improved sense of self and a satisfying life. The need to be modest regarding desires can limit self-development and satisfaction with life.

Emotion sociologist Barbalet (1996: 76) puts modesty alongside such emotions as shame, shyness, and uncertainty and explains that they all work to ‘enforce social conformity’. He also argues that these emotions correspond to low self-confidence and may limit people’s motivation for action (Barbalet, 1996: 77, 2004: 86). Such lack of action within consumer society can be seen as limiting both in terms of development as well as in terms of self-expression. Modesty, however, has been approached differently in psychology, ethics, and philosophy. Callieri (2018), contrary to Barbalet (1996, 2004), refers to modesty as ‘an ambiguous feeling.’ In helping to deal with desires and temptations, it provides a sense of confidence:

it can well be said that modesty reveals to the person who feels it that which inside of him speaks of love or of pride, equidistant from shame and from seduction, and implying a climate of confidence but at the same time an impulse of avoidance. (Callieri, 2018)

Scholars in philosophy and ethics explain it as a virtue that helps to hide one’s social standing (Driver, 1999; Woodcock, 2008) and ‘resist temptations’ (Allhoff, 2009). In this sense, making one feel good in relationships is cognitive practice. It helps to foster agency in an unpleasant, limiting, and restrictive situation.

Modesty as both cognitive and emotional virtue, mediates people’s social identities in a stratified society, including when there is an inability to consume what is culturally expected. Modest people disregard rankings and hierarchies for emotionally pleasant conversations with others (Allhoff, 2009; Driver, 1999; Woodcock, 2008). Driver (1999) and Woodcock (2008) write on modesty from the perspective that a modest person has a pretty good standing relative to others. Moreover, they practice modesty to eliminate jealousy and envy towards him or her. For Driver (1999: 828), ‘[t]he modest person is one who does not spend a lot of time ranking, who does not feel the need to do so’. Woodcock (2008) points out that practicing modesty mitigates competition and discomfort with others. He sees modesty as a tool to alleviate jealousy and envy in unequal contexts (Woodcock, 2008: 2–3). Analogous to Driver (1999), Allhoff (2009: 181–183) emphasizes that modesty is a ‘virtue’ that is not necessarily aimed at others, but differently from Woodcock (2008) and Driver (1999), he argues that it helps to ‘resist[s] temptation’ and in that way makes one’s ‘life better.’ According to Allhoff (2009: 183), modesty primarily has individual benefits since it helps not to worry about the expectations the sociocultural milieu dictates. Thus, modesty helps frame one’s social position in ways unrelated to a dominant standard. In that sense, modesty shapes agency and makes one’s life ‘better’ under the circumstances one has. I see modesty as a virtue to make one’s life satisfying. Some may have developed this virtue in response to specific circumstances while others may have been socialized in it.

Method

To understand how people refer to ‘livable life’ in the context of the post-Soviet transformations, I draw from secondary data. The data are derived from a project designed to explain high emigration rates from post-Soviet Latvia, through the perspective of state–society relationships (Ķešāne, 2016). These data, first, contain 59 face-to-face semi-structured interviews with emigrants who left Latvia for the West in the post-Soviet era. Respondents left Latvia between the mid-1990s and after the 2008 crisis. For this study, however, I will look at migrants primarily as Latvian citizens who went through radical neoliberalization (see Appel and Orenstein, 2016; Bohle and Greskovits, 2007).

Interviews were carried out in Latvian, with a few in Russian. All the interviews were collected between 2008 and 2015 in Ireland (Limerick, Shannon, Dublin, Wicklow, Sword, Balbriggan, and Bray), the USA (Brooklyn, New York City, and Montclair, NJ), and England (Wakefield and London). I recruited the respondents using online social networking services such as Draugiem.lv and Facebook.com, contacts from Latvian Associations and Latvian Language schools in receiving countries, and snowball sampling. Respondents varied in their sociodemographic characteristics regarding age, occupation, gender, and the language they spoke at home (Latvian and Russian). In their home country, they came from the middle and working classes. Abroad they were also mainly located in working and middle-class positions.

Second, the data contain 20 additional interviews with people who lived in Latvia. In order to ensure respondents’ diversity, I collected these interviews in seven different locations across Latvia. Also, in this case, respondents were socioeconomically diverse in age, in occupation, and represented the middle and working class. Given that both groups of respondents primarily come from working- and middle-class families, I am not able to offer an insight in the narratives of those from the upper middle class and the upper class and what meanings they imbue to winning and losing. With the research design and data I have, I also cannot tell how much my respondents’ narratives are rooted in their religious or political ideologies.

During all the in-depth interviews, I sought to explore respondents’ lives and views more broadly. For emigrants, the questionnaire covered questions about respondents’ biographies, questions related to emigration and to emigration context (how they decided to emigrate and what happened in Latvia before they emigrated, etc.), experiences of living in Latvia and abroad, and return prospects and experience (if any). For those who stayed in Latvia, I covered such themes as respondents’ biographies; I also asked them to describe their life in Latvia and the area they live; I asked if they ever considered emigration and, if so, asked to explain what happened at that time, as well as if their relatives have emigrated and if so, how they would explain it, and how they think their situation differs from those who have emigrated.

I reread the interview transcripts to analyze how my respondents talk about ‘livable life’ (Dzenovska, 2012). In the case of emigrants, I tried to understand if their meaning of ‘livable life’ differed at home and abroad. In the case of people who stayed in Latvia, I paid attention to how they described their lives in Latvia, if they considered emigration, and why and how they thought their situation differed from emigrants. I took notes, wrote memos, and tried to systematize what I saw. Desire and modesty emerged as two narrative orientations to speak about the satisfaction of life that then facilitated an ‘abductive’ analytical process that is ‘socially located’ and offers ‘positional knowledge’ (see Timmermans and Tavory, 2012: 172). The ability to see my data through these categories of desire and modesty is related both to what and how respondents told their stories, as well as my social position as a researcher with specific theoretical knowledge and social location in the world (Timmermans and Tavory, 2012: 171–174). I am a scholar trained in development, political and cultural sociology, and the sociology of emotions. I grew up in a working-class family in Latvia, but with the help of scholarships to study abroad provided by western donors, I could experience transnational and social mobility. Overall, this is qualitative research, the data of which offer suggestive and not representative knowledge.

To understand my respondents’ sense-making, I shall interpret their narratives. My interpretation of respondents’ narratives is limited to my contextual and theoretical knowledge; in that sense, this interpretation is partial. In terms of emotional interpretation, I see merit in classical sociologist Cooley’s understanding of ‘sympathetic introspection,’ which means that extended knowledge of my respondents’ circumstances allows a researcher to develop ‘sympathy’ (Cooley in Gunderson, 2017) or an ‘empathetic understanding of the ‘other’’ (Franzosi, 1998: 547). Throughout interviews and as I reread my transcripts several times, I tried to listen to and follow my respondents’ social histories carefully. Additionally, I have also lived through the post-Soviet transformations. According to Cooley, this knowledge of circumstances allows me to relate to respondents’ meaning-making and related feelings. Further, Gunderson (2017: 7) explains that Cooley believed that ‘there is enough similarity in the diversity of human “mental-social complexes” to successfully sympathize with most humans.’ These interpretation processes allowed me to identify both narratives as empowering.

I shall note that in terms of the narrative sequence, I did not expect that my respondents’ stories would be the ‘faithful representation[s] of [their] past world’ since, in the narrative analysis, the ‘truth’ emerges ‘in the shifting connections [that narrative accounts] forge among past, present and future’ (Riessman, 2005: 6). How these narrative accounts unfold, shape specific narrative discourses by disclosing people’s attitudes, values, attachments, and relationships to institutions, others, and self. In what follows, I offer my data analysis. Following Franzosi (1998: 548), I construct my data representation narrative where my informant stories are restructured according to ‘the coherence of the “scientific” ethnographic text.’

Data Analysis

This study was prompted by the liminal experience of one of my respondents who, with her husband, had an unsuccessful experience of emigration to the West in the post-Soviet period. They both lived in Latvia at the time of the interview. She explained that before emigration, they both had decent jobs in Latvia. However, as she spoke about her life before emigration, she emphasized that ‘they wanted something more.’ This ‘something more’ was mainly their desire for the western middle-class lifestyle, which entailed some exotic travel and new consumer items, as encouraged and admired in the public transformation discourse (Eglitis, 2011). Before emigration, her husband worked in a utility company while she had her small beauty salon. They had their apartment and were able to cover their daily expenses.

In contrast to my other emigrant respondents, their life and employment in England were unsuccessful. She underlined that her husband worked in construction, and she worked in a beauty salon run ‘by Pakistanis.’ They were underpaid and had to live in a shared flat. She explained that abroad they lived in worse conditions than at home and did not see any prospects by remaining there. Thus, they returned to Latvia swiftly. She repeatedly explained that now she appreciated everything they had and refrained from desiring more than they could afford. Her emigration experience was a liminal situation that facilitated the ‘rupturing’ of her narrative (Rosen, 2017) of desire for the standard of life she had imagined before emigration. Instead, she developed a narrative of modesty. She explained to me:

And we, both with my husband, were abroad in England. We tried to find happiness there [. . .] We have an apartment and everything, but, you understand, we wanted a better car, a newer model washing machine, we had all, but one always wants something better.

IK: One always can better.

Something better! To travel to Egypt – I have never been there! I wanted it. Somehow we have all, we do not lack anything, but you want all this, and I thought – we go for half a year and earn, and then we will return. Nothing turned out like this. We could not earn even as much to travel back home. We even did not have money for our way back home. Such a stupid situation [. . .] I came home, and I understood that the values I had before England had dramatically changed. I did not need anything of that anymore. I still have the same old washing machine. I sold my car before going to England, so I had to get the other one upon return. But in general – we have all we need. And now, I do not know what shall happen, so I would decide to emigrate [. . .] A month back, we contemplated with my husband that every human being is given as much as he deserves. If you get above that, you have to pay for it. If, for example, God is generous and suddenly I win 100,000, what do you think? Where would I be on Sunday? In a church?

IK: Maybe not. Maybe in a supermarket.

Riga Plaza. [Laughs] I would be there too.

IK: Or in Egypt?

Yes, or in Egypt. This is the thing. To wait for something more [. . .] I always have these thoughts – would I be happier if I had a newer car? My washing machine works, why do I want the different one? I have all. A very good apartment. What else? I have a great husband. I feel fulfilled as a mother, a wife, and a mother-in-law. I have a fantastic daughter-in-law. What is lacking? Government. But the government is our mirror. Government is the way we are. We would need to pray for this government, but we curse it.

The shift from the narrative of desire to modesty implied a different perception of what kind of life is ‘livable’ or ‘satisfying.’ Before emigration, she had higher expectations regarding their standard of living, as well as the state whose policies frame the living standard in Latvia. The negative emigration experience seemingly erased these expectations and they became more accepting towards how things and people are in Latvia. If the narrative of desire as a yardstick of the good life resembled the western middle-class standard with new consumer durables and international travels, then the narrative of modesty was a story of resistance to these desires, acceptance, and appreciation of what one has. By further reading through and comparing the narratives of those who emigrated to the West and those who remained, I found that the narrative of modesty prevailed among those who remained, while the narrative of desire dominated among those in emigration. Although in data presentation, I discuss both narratives separately, in reality, as this case suggests, they are interchangeable and, as we will see later, they coexist. In what follows, I untangle each narrative in more depth.

Narrative of Desire

Emigrants’ narratives are saturated with joy about their ability to fulfill desires and dreams they were not able to do while in Latvia. A man in his 40s I interviewed in Shannon, Ireland, where he worked in an airplane engine factory, indicated travel as a sign of good life when he remembers asking himself if he would ever be able to travel like the tourists he had observed upon his arrival in Ireland. Very soon, his employment in Ireland gave him that opportunity. Many other respondents, with a tone of appreciation and pride, described how their jobs in western countries allowed them to travel abroad and fulfill hobbies they did not dare to think about in Latvia. For example, a respondent travelled to almost every Formula 1 race. Another travelled with his family on weekends to European cities where important football matches were played. Many other respondents described their travels to Greece, Spain, France, Italy, the Canary Islands, and even Trinidad and Tobago. Some devoted their free time to professional photography, a relatively expensive hobby.

IK: What do you do with your family in your free time?

They travel with me [to watch football matches]. My little son, 18 months old, has been 3x to Paris, 2x to Zurich, and Lisbon. He is a cosmopolite. (male, late 30s, left Latvia 1998, high-level manager in construction in the UK)

IK: And your husband? Did he remain in Latvia?

Yes. But we are traveling together to entertain ourselves. We were in Rome and very recently in Greece to strengthen our love. (laughs) [. . .] I have bought a laptop [. . .] I wouldn’t have all those extras if I stayed in Latvia. I want to enjoy my retirement in comfort. I hope to live better with an Irish pension in Latvia than a Latvian pension. (Female, 65, left Latvia in 2001, a florist in Ireland)

The narrative of the latter respondent, who indicated that her pension in Latvia would not allow her to travel, and other stories I discuss later, imply that their narratives of desires for a ‘livable life’ contain a political message. Anthropologist Bulakh (2020: 162) wrote on post-Soviet Ukraine that the wish for ‘western consumer goods gains political meaning, since desires for commodities are less about the material objects themselves and more about belonging to a certain politico economic system that allows for the satisfaction of consumer aspirations’. My respondents’ narratives of desire imply they want to belong to a politico-economic system capable of ensuring a life where one can travel and have proper housing, food, and other consumer items. As my respondents talked about their restraints back at home, they condemned the post-Soviet transformations. Especially, how the Latvian state elite led them in ways that did not ensure that people who work hard could enjoy a sense of well-being (see Indāns et al., 2006; Ķešāne and Weyher, 2021; among others).

By indicating that their life and employment in Latvia should have made it possible to consume contemporary western lifestyle items, my respondents draw a clear boundary between a ‘livable’ and ‘unlivable life.’ A working-class woman at the age of 49 at the time of the interview told how intense and precarious her life in Latvia was while trying to provide for her five children. She raised a rhetorical but simultaneously ethical question of whether the precariousness and intensity of her daily routine and related anxiety in Latvia was even life. She explained she felt burned out by bouncing from one job to another and counting every cent to provide for her family. This made her life ‘unlivable.’ Moreover, her narrative revealed her new life in England as more ‘satisfying’ as she, being only employed in one job, can have things she desired without scrupulous counting.

In Latvia, I thought – aha, on Friday and Saturday, everybody comes home, and I need so much money to give them along on Monday. I had to think about how to divide that money and what products to give them. One son was studying at Police College [. . .] Another studied at a different place as a woodworker. They all needed food for the week. I had a cow to milk and a piglet in the barn. I run to work in two jobs. What kind of life is that? Here we work, work, but we also earn! I pay all my bills and even have money left to send to my mother in Latvia [. . .] Here, when I go to a store and see something, I can buy it. It is not the same as in Latvia, where you look at the thing, drool about it a little bit, and then turn around and leave. And if I allow myself to buy something in that system, I will go hungry for the entire month. That is not the case here. (Female, 49, left Latvia in 2005)

As mentioned in the introduction, anthropologist Dzenovska (2012: 75) uses the notion of ‘livable life,’ introduced by American philosopher Judith Butler to describe a subjective understanding of a good life or ‘an existence a person is satisfied with’. In line with Butler’s assertion, she also explains that recognition is essential to form one’s life as livable or satisfying (Dzenovska, 2012). In this article, I deal with the context where people lived in a milieu where the western standard of living and consumerism it implied was highly glorified, (Eglitis, 2011; Keller, 2005) and even ‘exaggerated’ (Ķešāne and Weyher, 2021). According to Eglitis’s (2011) observations in post-Soviet Latvia, this recognition has been derived from one’s consumption ability. In the post-Soviet era, however, people from various occupational and status groups, such as medical personnel, teachers, and construction workers, have not been materially well recognized for their work. Lack of material recognition injured their sense of self-worth. Yet, it also limited their consumption opportunities and related recognition that this may bring (Eglitis, 2011; Eglitis and Lāce, 2009; Ķešāne, 2019).

A former actor in Latvia whom I interviewed in New York City and who left Latvia in 2003 underlined that his emigration relates to an ‘[i]nability to survive in a situation of full employment. I worked a lot, I indeed worked a lot.’ He explained that he could not afford proper housing he would not be ashamed of. Given the workload and performance he delivered, he expected and desired to live a more comfortable life. Similarly, a mother and a father of three were well-known artisans at the end of the Soviet era. Yet, they struggled through the post-Soviet transformations to provide for their three children as their craft, amidst capitalism, lost prestige. Her husband could not cope with the post-Soviet restructuring and loss of status of his former craft and became an alcoholic. She similarly draws a boundary between life in Latvia and her life abroad as one of survival and life. In her narrative, the ability to afford things she, as a woman, desired, represented a ‘livable life.’ The things she lists are basic items for ordinary westerners but were objects of desire and symbolized a ‘livable life’ for post-Soviet citizens.

When I go to Latvia, I understand that I cannot live there. I cannot survive.

IK: That is a fundamental moment.

You cannot survive. I simply want to eat what I want. I want to eat fruits. Do you understand, I want to eat good fish instead of pasta all the time. I want to buy good perfume. I want to visit a hairdresser.

IK: These all are elementary things every human being shall have access to.

I want to buy underwear. After all I have experienced in my life, I want to feel that there is a woman left inside me, although my son says I am a bulldozer. (Female, went to England 2010)

A former teacher recalled an almost identical story. School teaching counted as a secure job during the Soviet era but became relatively low-paid after the Soviet regime collapsed. Since her husband was also a teacher, it became hard to sustain their household with two children. They tried to switch to working in private companies and even establishing a private business. However, it turned out to be a risky deal where the salary was not guaranteed. The sense of unfairness sounded in her narrative when she talked about the precarious circumstances they were in:

[We are in Ireland] Because we want to eat every day. Because first time in my life I bought a perfume, the one I never could afford at home, trifling as a teacher and as a deputy of school director and do not know what else. (Female 48, works in a pharmacy, Ireland)

It was common in post-Soviet Latvia that a good occupation and education did not guarantee income that allowed feeling ‘materially successful’ (Eglitis and Lāce, 2009). The dominance of consumerism aggravated this sense of failure as ‘[p]ositions in socioeconomic hierarchy’ were increasingly ‘made apparent in their relationship to the means of consumption’ (Eglitis, 2011: 426). To deal with status anxiety (Layte and Whelan, 2014: 6) and the socioeconomic deprivation that post-Soviet transformations brought along, private debt to sustain consumption served well. Some of my respondents preceding their emigration took loans for household or apartment renovation or a new car, or quick unsecured debt for various everyday items, such as clothes and even food, but were not able to repay them due to job loss, decrease of salary or rising interest rates; this was both before the 2008 crisis as well as after it.

Overall, in most of the accounts, my respondents’ work abroad was materially recognized, allowing them to desire and fulfill desires for the food, clothes, and travels they longed for. In consumption studies, scholars distinguish between ‘an economic instrumental activity of satisfying needs; and a desire-orientated practice’ (Keller, 2005: 68). Estonian sociologist Keller writes that this distinction is not applicable in the post-Soviet Baltics:

[f]or people who lived for decades under coercively imposed frugality, without the free choice in consumer goods that is deemed ‘normal’ in contemporary western societies, it is very hard to determine whether new cars or houses are purely whimsical luxuries or something perceived as a real need by people who desperately want to raise their living standards to a level more closely approximating the Western European norm. (Keller, 2005: 70)

Inability to consume in line with the Western European norm often made people feel as ‘losers’ of post-Soviet transformations. Their life abroad, instead, has been experienced as more pleasurable and satisfying, as more ‘livable.’ One other respondent I interviewed with his partner from Latvia told me in response to my question of how you would characterize your life in England: ‘We are living. We are not in a situation of existence. We are living, yes.’

Thus, in their narratives, they draw a firm ‘symbolic boundary’ (Lamont and Molnár, 2002) between their lives in Latvia and their life abroad. Life in Latvia was framed as ‘unlivable,’ while life abroad was ‘livable’ since it allowed fulfilling dreams and desires. Within this boundary drawing, they also draw a ‘boundary’ between themselves and those who remain at home. They saw those who remained at home as victims of poverty and injustice created by neoliberal post-Soviet governance and development. One of my respondents I met in Brooklyn, for instance, said that she is ‘deeply concerned’ about ‘political issues’ in Latvia. I immediately asked her, ‘What are you concerned for?’ She answered:

Probably this injustice, that people, for example, my colleagues, school teachers. How are school teachers living here? How much do they earn for their work? Of course, I cannot say that I get lazy here. I work a lot, and it takes something from me, but this is a fair exchange. (Female, mid-40s, left for the USA in 2009, works as a schoolteacher]

She portrayed her schoolteacher peers in Latvia as victims of poverty and injustice. In turn, by narrating her life abroad as more satisfactory, she portrayed herself as a ‘winner’ because she could overcome conditions that limited her aspirations for a ‘livable life’ in Latvia. Interestingly, those who remain at home do not identify as victims of poverty or injustice; they narrate their lives in empowering terms.

Narrative of Modesty

Narratives of the people I interviewed in Latvia are framed in terms of modesty. Consistent with Allhoff (2009) discussed earlier, my informants seem to talk and practice modesty to deal with temptations that may arise from not being able to fulfill certain expectations encoded in post-Soviet consumer capitalism. My respondents practiced and talked modesty into acquiescing with what is possible under given conditions. In contrast to the narrative of desire common among emigrants that critically framed life in Latvia as ‘unlivable,’ descriptions of life among those who remain are more contented. Consider an excerpt from the interview with a mother of two in her late 30s in a city in the Latgale region:

IK: How is it to live in your city? How would you characterize your life here?

All is good for us. I cannot cry. Okay, I understand that now we have meager child benefits, a family crisis, and some debt for heating, but it is not so that we don’t have anything. We live according to what we can afford and according to our judgment. For example, my kid had a two-year anniversary. We did not have a birthday party, but we would better travel to Riga [the capital] to the zoo, and that is how we decided. We traveled here around Latgale [a region in southeast Latvia]. My half-sister and her daughter came, and we went to Aglona [the Catholic religious center in Latgale]. So, we enjoy life, know what we can afford, and are not traveling to Turkey. No, no, no – I cannot howl because I am satisfied with my life. If it is bad, then do something so it is good. It all depends on yourself and with what eyes you look at the world.

Her narrative is one of precariousness and empowerment simultaneously. She revealed that they have limited income and debt for utility fees from the previous winter season. Their situation is not unique as debts for utility fees have been common across Latvia (Zemgales reģionālā televīzija, 2022). Yet, she also emphasized that she and her husband were in control of their lives. In her narrative, their life was represented as ‘livable,’ as satisfactory, not a bare life. Similarly, a farmer who explained that it took him 15 years to begin profiting from the farm he launched in 1989 emphasized that modesty and frugality have helped to keep emigration thoughts away. He insisted that one can survive on subsistence farming if one has land.

Modesty also became apparent in situations where people talked about other occurrences in the places where they lived. For example, a single mother with two children, who was a social worker in a small town in the south part of Latvia explained to me what opportunities for work are like in her town. She referred to the state’s workfare program after the 2008 crisis, which paid very little to the people for their work, an amount that, in another study, we consider as exploitation initiated by the state (Ķešāne and Weyher, 2021). The workfare program participants were paid 100 Lats or, as the currency shifted to Euros, 142 Euros per month. It was an amount below the subsistence level. However, this mother referred to this as ‘good money,’ indicating this respondent’s modest attitude and expectations. Her attitude and expectations make so much sense when we learn that the income social workers, mostly women, receive for their hard work in Latvia is very low, approximately 400 to 600 Euros after monthly taxes. Such occurrences of modesty in Latvia are also identified by Dzenovska (2012), when she observed how local government representatives and people in their meetings about development were very modest.

The literature also suggested that modesty manifests when people are careless about their social standing or the recognition they may receive from others (Driver, 1999; Woodcock, 2008). Some narratives of those who remain indicate that modesty helps to mediate people’s social perceptions about themselves in a situation of deprivation or status loss. I asked a respondent whom I introduced at the beginning of this section on modesty if she ever considered emigration. She said:

But for what purpose? I can work and get forward here – I can be a seller or a shop manager. To be away would mean a big discomfort. I can earn enough to pay for our apartment and travel, and that’s it.

Although she studied history and theology for her BA, she was content to be a seller or a shop manager. According to the Central Statistical Bureau, in the post-Soviet decades, retail has been one of the largest employment sectors in Latvia. Therefore, it has been widespread that people with an education in fields unrelated to retail became absorbed into this sector. Similarly, a musician in his late 40s I interviewed in the Vidzeme region explained that most of his income was used to cover the debt on the house he built with a friend’s help. He indicated that he had moments when emigration might be an option to improve his material well-being. However, he has always managed to overcome these moments so far, even though this meant he had to compromise his status as a singer. He also explained that his family’s support for what he does was crucial to mediate those moments or thoughts of emigration as an option:

IK: Have you ever had a moment in your life you considered emigration?

Yes, I have thought about it. I have heard that guys go there for months and earn yearly money.

IK: What prevents you from going?

I don’t know. I somehow believe that I can find some solution here. After all, I can work as a cobbler or anything until things return to normal again [. . .] I have a family who supports me. I know there are families with people who do not support each other. And then, above all, I am a very modest person.

He further articulated his modest approach to life as a challenge he willingly took in the broader context of cultural differences between ‘that Europe’ and Latvia:

IK: Overall, how is it to live in Latvia?

It is interesting. In some affluence, I feel I most probably would degrade. I would become more superficial. What they have in that Europe – they have the culture of things. This is not for me. I need that feeling that I am alive and a little bit of that sense of insecurity about tomorrow. It gives me motivation. You know very well that comfort degrades.

In his narrative of modesty, life in Latvia appeared more ‘livable’ than in Europe in both affective and meaningful terms. Affluence and comfort are seen as wrong because they spoil and degrade people. In his view, satisfaction with life comes not from comfort but from difficulties. This thinking is different from the narrative of desire, where the ‘livability’ emanates from the ability to satisfy desires prompted by the western middle-class standard of living. In the narrative of modesty, the ‘livability’ of life was entrenched in the difficulties and challenges one seeks to overcome.

On the one hand, we could interpret that my respondents told their narratives in ways that made their lives ‘livable’ or worthy under the circumstances history has given them. One could immediately argue that the problem with such reading might be that it implies their narratives are ‘false.’ They do not conform to the facts. Giddens (1991: 54, italic in original), however, underscores that our identity is ‘found’ in our ‘capacity to keep a particular narrative going’. In that sense, the modesty we see in these narratives shall be seen as formative to the identity of those who remain. It structures their ethos and daily life, gives them agency, and keeps them going. This narrative makes them feel good. Or, in Hochschild’s (2016) terms, it is their ‘deep story.’ On the other hand, scholars who study consumption emphasize that relationships between people and things prompt emotional energy and might also be essential for our identity (Woodward, 2011: 380). In a situation of modesty, or inability to desire and afford what we desire, our identity might get oppressed, too. This seemed to be the case among emigrants. Their ability to fulfill their desires for specific items or travel was crucial to making their lives ‘livable.’ Some of my respondents in Latvia, along with the narrative of modesty, also showed pity that they could not afford more, as that could bring a sense of fulfillment and joy. A woman in her early 40s who works for a local government and runs a small event-organizing business in a city in the southeast of Latvia explained to me:

I have been to Ukraine and Ireland. I have not traveled much but would like to do it more often. I would like to see how people live in other places and cultures. After such travels, there is new inspiration and energy.

Even the musician who said that life in affluence and comfort could be degrading, at some point in the interview stated he imagines one day he could have a tiny house somewhere in Spain where the sun is always shining. In these instances, we can see how desire and modesty narratives coexist.

When those who remain explained how they differ from those who emigrate, they also indicated modesty, frugality, and humility. They depicted emigrants as those who desire affluence and wanted their expectations and dreams fulfilled. In contrast, those who remained were portrayed as humbler. A man in his 50s from a town in the Vidzeme region, who has been a tractor driver all his life and worked for road construction, emphasized that those who emigrate, go for the money since it is difficult to earn good money in Latvia. A librarian I interviewed in the southern part of Latvia gave a similar portrait of emigrants:

But those who want big money go abroad, and maybe also those who do not have an education – because for this latter group, it is hard to find a job here [. . .] They earn money there. They have left for Ireland and England. And they get their fairly well-paid jobs, work there for some time, then come back to our parish, spend all their money, and go back.

A woman in her 50s who held a managerial position in a public institution and whose son with his family left for Ireland contemplated why she was not abroad. In her understanding, this was due to her virtue of modesty and frugality, which her son, who had left, might not have been able to do. This distinction between her and her son emerges from a dialogue where she tells me there is some bitterness about how things have developed in Latvia.

IK: What are some events and contexts that cause this bitterness?

For example, that emigration, for example, this voluntary emigration. I have raised my children similarly, but one left for Ireland. But this is because of material reasons [. . .] From the early days, he has been dedicated to working; he has never wanted to live from some benefit. With his dedication, he has found his niche there [. . .] That aim [for him] of course, was to live, so one does not need to pinch and scrape. But he works a lot and decently, and his salary keeps up [. . .] I think we have been raised differently to save something, to live economically. They [meaning his son and other émigrés] want to live now. But I do not think that they are slaves of money or something.

This woman reasoned that people who left to go abroad were more demanding and indulging in their life. She pointed out that she had been raised differently ‘to live economically.’ Even though this respondent explicitly indicated frugality as a virtue that she, as opposed to her son, possessed due to her socialization in childhood, her narrative did not show any resentment towards the need to be frugal. Such reasoning suggested to me that modest living was ‘normal’ for her. Her son was raised during radical marketization when one’s consumption ability was an important indicator of success. Given her son’s particular social environment, frugality and modest living might not have been considered appropriate virtues any longer. Thus, urging him to search for opportunities where he could satisfy his expectations of the good life. Another man in his 60s, whose children had emigrated, explained that through their emigration experience, his children have become used to a different standard of living. He also explained that his wife was a circular migrant. With the help of his wife’s contrasting experience of living in Latvia and abroad, he was critical of the low material recognition his wife in Latvia receives for her hard work.

I have not been there, but my wife has been. She goes there from time to time [. . .] Can you imagine a person who has a good education (laughs ironically), goes there and picks flowers, and after that, she buys a dress. Here [in Latvia], she works in a child care center and lifts, lifts. Calculate how much she lifts! In our country, we need this and that, but why does nobody see this woman lifting a 70-kilogram child in his wheelchair? And, when there is a demand to pay for that work more – they say no.

This criticism resonates with emigrant respondents’ experiences where material recognition abroad appeared as crucial for the ‘livable life.’ Not only because it improved a sense of self-worth (see Ķešāne and Weyher, 2021) but also because it allowed enjoying life through, for example, buying a new dress instead of wanting it but never being able to have it. Despite this critical account, the narratives of those who remained tend to reflect modesty as a virtue that gives a sense of agency and control over one’s life.

Conclusion

This article offers a cultural and affective perspective of the post-Soviet transformations in which the western standard of living is put in the foreground. Empirically, it analyzes how, in this context, Latvian people specifically relate to their lives as ‘livable.’ I identify two empowering narratives of livable life – the narrative of desire for a western middle-class lifestyle and the narrative of modesty, which formed as acceptance of the life one has in Latvia. The first prevails among those who have emigrated to the West in the post-Soviet era, while the latter prevails among those who remain in or have returned.

Both narratives should not be seen as mutually exclusive but interchangeable and coexistent. Emigrants prior to their migration might have experienced a desire for the western standard of life admired in the post-Soviet transformation discourse. However, the situation of limited material means, activated a narrative of modesty. At some point, the narrative of modesty might have become limiting to their identity, so they prioritized the narrative of desire that may have facilitated their emigration. As demonstrated examples suggest, those who remain and predominantly use the narrative of modesty to speak about ‘livable life’ in Latvia occasionally activate the narrative of desire for the things that represent the western standard of living.

None of these narratives shall be seen as better or worse; both reflect a sense of agency and satisfaction with life. Such focus on meaning-making and the sense of empowerment it triggers offer a more nuanced vision of how to look at the effects and subjects of the post-Soviet transformations. Instead of categorizing them as ‘winners’ or ‘losers,’ a categorization that is primarily cast along socioeconomic lines, we see that people are active narrative agents and develop narratives that make them feel good. As conceptual tools, the narratives of desire and modesty may further advance a deeper understanding of social change and how it affects well-being, societal stratification, and (transnational) mobility in post-Soviet countries and elsewhere.

Footnotes

Acknowledgements

The author would like to thank Liene Ozoliņa, Nicole L. John-Danzell, Nina Margies, Till Hilmar and Monika Verbalyte for their comments and advice in the process of writing. I thank the two anonymous reviewers for their guidance, critique, and advice. It was greatly appreciated and very helpful. I sincerely thank my informants for sharing their stories with me.

Funding

The author disclosed receipt of the following financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article: Various stages of this research were supported by the German Academic Exchange Service; the Latvian State Research Program ‘National Identity’; the Fulbright program; and the Jānis Grundmanis Fellowship.

ORCID iD

Iveta Ķešāne

Notes

Author biography

Iveta Ķešāne is an Assistant Professor at the Department of Cultural Sociology and Management, Latvian Academy of Culture. Her research interests are related to the sociology of emotions, cultural sociology, political sociology, development sociology, and migration sociology. Iveta received her PhD in sociology from Kansas State University (USA). In her doctoral thesis, she analyzed the symbolic structure of the post-Soviet transformation discourse, what kind of state–citizen relationship this structure marked, and how it allows one to explain post-Soviet emigration to the West. Based on her dissertation research, Iveta has published several articles in peer-reviewed journals such as Emotions and Society (with L. Ozoliņa); Nationalities Papers; Emotion, Space and Society; Social Currents (with L. Frank Weyher); and Communist and Post-Communist Studies. Currently, Iveta is working on a study on the meaning and practice of autonomy in the platform economy.

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