On Saturday, 3 October, Latvia will hold a parliamentary election that feels less like a routine civic exercise and more like a quiet referendum on survival. With the border with Russia and Belarus under constant surveillance, and the spectre of Moscow’s hybrid war hanging over every aspect of public life, 1.5 million citizens are being asked to choose the 100 members of the Saeima, the country’s unicameral parliament in Riga. This is, by any measure, the most delicate moment in Latvia’s recent history. The economy is showing cracks: inflation has reached 3.5 per cent, and purchasing power remains below the European average. Grocery bills are higher, salaries stretch less far, and many young people are wondering whether their future lies at home or abroad. Yet in the months and weeks leading up to the vote, these bread-and-butter concerns have been overshadowed by a far more existential question. Again and again, when Latvian voters are asked about their priorities, national security comes first. It is not hard to understand why. The war in Ukraine has redrawn the map of European security, and Latvia shares a long land border with two states that are openly hostile to the Western order. For many Latvians, the threat is not abstract. It is felt in the sight of military convoys, in the news of drones and sabotage, in the warnings issued by security services, and in the knowledge that their country has already been a target of cyberattacks, disinformation campaigns, and provocations. The election is therefore not just about choosing a government. It is about reaffirming a democratic way of life in the face of an adversary that would prefer to see that choice undermined. It is about whether ordinary people can still believe that their votes mean something, even when lies are cheaper than truth and fear travels faster than hope.
Latvia’s response to Russia’s invasion of Ukraine has been remarkably uncompromising. It has been one of Kyiv’s most staunch supporters, providing military, political, and diplomatic assistance while pushing its own defence spending close to the 5 per cent of GDP mark that NATO has encouraged as a new target. This is a staggering commitment for a country of fewer than two million people, and it has come with costs. Trade with Moscow, once a mainstay of the Latvian economy, has all but stopped. Businesses that depended on Russian markets, transport corridors, and energy supplies have had to reinvent themselves overnight. The government accepted this economic pain as the price of moral clarity. But such clarity has made Latvia a prime target for the Kremlin’s hybrid warfare. Russian intelligence services, activists, and online networks have been accused of attempting to stir ethnic tensions, undermine trust in the state, and destabilise the political system. In the run-up to the election, these fears have reached a new level. The government has formally invited the Organization for Security and Co-operation in Europe to send observers to monitor the vote, a sign that it expects attempts to interfere. Latvia’s State Security Service, the VDD, has announced that it will step up security measures to ensure free and fair elections. Its agents are looking for individuals who may try to spread false news, manipulate public opinion, or otherwise unlawfully influence the conduct and outcome of the vote. This is not simply a bureaucratic precaution. It is an acknowledgement that the election itself is now a frontline in a broader conflict. The VDD has warned that Russia may intensify its disinformation campaigns, and that these campaigns could take the form of fake news stories, manipulated videos, or the amplification of social media posts designed to create confusion and fear. In such an environment, the simple act of casting a ballot becomes an act of defiance, a quiet statement that no algorithm and no foreign operative will decide who governs Latvia.
One of the most delicate factors in this election is the presence of a large Russian-speaking minority within Latvia. Though Russian-speakers remain a minority in the country as a whole, they make up almost 25 per cent of the population, the largest such community in the Baltic states. This is a substantial block of voters, and it is one that Moscow’s disinformation machine has long sought to exploit. The Kremlin’s narrative often portrays the Latvian state as anti-Russian, its language laws as discriminatory, and its NATO allies as aggressors. For Latvian Russians who are fully integrated and loyal citizens, such stories are insulting. But for others, particularly those who rely on Russian-language television, websites, and social media, the information environment is very different. They may hear Moscow’s version of events more often than Riga’s, and they may be more susceptible to appeals based on nostalgia, fear, or resentment. This is not a uniform community, and it would be wrong to treat every Russian-speaking Latvian as a potential threat. Many have relatives in Russia, many grew up speaking Russian, and many have their own complicated feelings about the war. The danger is not their identity; it is the deliberate attempt to weaponise that identity for political ends. In schools, workplaces, and families, the war has created painful divisions. Some Russian-speaking Latvians feel forced to prove their loyalty; some ethnic Latvians struggle to trust their neighbours. The instability of Latvia’s political class has made this situation worse. Trust in institutions has been eroded by years of scandals, broken promises, and rapid changes of government. According to Reuters, a third of Latvians say they are undecided or do not wish to vote at all. That is a dangerous opening for disinformation. When citizens feel that their votes do not matter, they are less likely to participate, and an electorate that stays home is far easier to influence than one that is engaged. In a country where so much is at stake, the challenge is not only to protect the vote from outside interference but also to persuade ordinary people that their participation can make a difference.
The political backdrop to this election has been turbulent, to put it mildly. Over the past three years, Latvia has seen a succession of unstable governments. In 2022, the centre-right alliance New Unity, a coalition of five parties led by Unity and four regional partners, won the election and formed a government under Prime Minister Krišjānis Kariņš. But victory did not bring stability. Kariņš was hit by a series of scandals that eroded his party’s support, and he resigned the following year amid internal conflicts within the coalition. His successor, Evika Siliņa, took over the prime minister’s office with a promise to restore confidence and momentum. Instead, she spent much of her time managing crises and trying to hold together a fractious governing majority. Last May, she too resigned, plunging the country into another political crisis. The immediate cause of her fall was a fierce controversy over her decision to dismiss Defence Minister Andris Sprūds. The minister was removed, according to the government, because of the slow implementation of an anti-drone defence system, a project that had become a symbol of Latvia’s military modernisation. But the decision divided the coalition and triggered accusations that the prime minister was more concerned with optics than with substance. For many voters, this sequence of events has been deeply disillusioning. It is difficult to feel confident in a government when the faces change faster than the seasons, when every new leader is supposed to be a fresh start and then quickly becomes part of the same weary cycle. The consequences of this instability are visible in the polls. New Unity, the party that led Latvia through its most pro-Western period, is now fighting for its political survival. State television polls put the party at just 4.3 per cent of the vote, below the 5 per cent threshold needed to enter parliament. A party that once seemed like the natural party of government may soon find itself on the outside looking in, a symbol not of a failed ideology but of a broken political culture.
The prospect of New Unity’s collapse has profound implications for the election. In many ways, the party’s decline reflects a broader loss of faith in Latvia’s political elite. Voters are not necessarily abandoning the values that New Unity represents — membership in NATO and the European Union, a strong transatlantic alliance, unwavering support for Ukraine. They are abandoning parties that seem distracted by internal feuds, scandal, and personal ambition. The result is a fragmented and unpredictable political landscape. With fewer voters identifying strongly with any major party, smaller and newer movements have a chance to gain ground. But fragmentation also carries risks. It makes it harder to form a stable coalition, harder to implement long-term policies, and harder to maintain the kind of clear, consistent voice that Latvia needs on the international stage. In the midst of a security crisis, political instability is more than an inconvenience; it is a vulnerability. Russia watches these developments closely. Every sign of chaos in Riga is presented by Moscow as proof that the Baltic states are ungovernable, that their democracies are weak, and that their alliance with the West is doomed to fail. The Kremlin’s hybrid warfare does not necessarily need to change the final result of the election. It is enough to create confusion, to deepen cynicism, to reduce turnout, and to convince a significant number of Latvians that their country is heading in the wrong direction. This is why the election is so important. It is not just about which parties enter the Saeima, or who becomes prime minister. It is about whether the democratic process can survive the pressure. It is about whether ordinary citizens, bombarded with disinformation and disappointed by their leaders, will still believe that voting is worthwhile. The answer will not be known until the ballots are counted, and perhaps not even then. But the very act of holding a free and fair election, with international observers, with security services on alert, and with citizens exercising their right to choose, is itself a statement of resilience.
Ultimately, the election in Latvia is a test of democratic endurance. The country has come a long way since the dark days of Soviet occupation. It has built a functioning state, joined the European Union, joined NATO, and established itself as a model of Baltic resolve. Yet it now faces a threat that is not always visible on the battlefield. Moscow’s hybrid war is fought with lies, with digital manipulation, with economic pressure, and with attempts to exploit social divisions. It is fought in the minds of voters, in the stories they tell themselves about their country and its future. The Latvian government’s decision to invite OSCE monitors, the VDD’s decision to step up security measures, and the vigilance of ordinary citizens are all responses to this threat. But the ultimate defence is the ballot itself. When 1.5 million Latvians go to the polls on Saturday, they will be doing more than choosing a parliament. They will be reaffirming their belief that their country belongs to them, not to any outside power. They will be sending a message that no amount of disinformation can erase: that they are free, that they are united, and that they will not be intimidated. Of course, there are no easy answers. The economy is weak, the political class is divided, and the Russian-speaking minority is not always sure of its place in the national story. These are real problems, and they will not disappear after election day. But the alternative — cynicism, apathy, surrender to the belief that democracy is broken — would be a far greater tragedy. Latvia’s journey has never been easy. The election of 3 October is another chapter in that journey, a moment when a small nation stands at the edge of history and decides, once again, to move forward. Whatever the outcome, the hope is that Latvians will look back on this election not as the day their democracy faltered, but as the day they proved that the line between freedom and fear can still be drawn at a polling station.