Thousands of Voices Unite in Song at Traditional Choir Festival Celebrating Estonia's Culture

Choir singers take part in the Estonian Song Festival, part of the "Iseoma" Song and Dance Celebration, at the Song Festival Grounds in Tallinn, Estonia, Saturday, July 5, 2025. (AP Photo/Sergei Grits)
Choir singers take part in the Estonian Song Festival, part of the "Iseoma" Song and Dance Celebration, at the Song Festival Grounds in Tallinn, Estonia, Saturday, July 5, 2025. (AP Photo/Sergei Grits)
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Thousands of Voices Unite in Song at Traditional Choir Festival Celebrating Estonia's Culture

Choir singers take part in the Estonian Song Festival, part of the "Iseoma" Song and Dance Celebration, at the Song Festival Grounds in Tallinn, Estonia, Saturday, July 5, 2025. (AP Photo/Sergei Grits)
Choir singers take part in the Estonian Song Festival, part of the "Iseoma" Song and Dance Celebration, at the Song Festival Grounds in Tallinn, Estonia, Saturday, July 5, 2025. (AP Photo/Sergei Grits)

The voices of more than 21,000 choir singers rang out in the rain in Estonia, and a huge crowd of spectators erupted in applause, unfazed by the gloomy weather.

The Song Festival Grounds, a massive outdoor venue in the Estonian capital, Tallinn, was packed on Saturday evening despite the downpour. The traditional Song and Dance Celebration, that decades ago inspired resistance to Soviet control and was later recognized by the UN's cultural agency, attracted tens of thousands of performers and spectators alike, many in national costume.

The four-day choir-singing and dancing event centers around Estonian folk songs and patriotic anthems and is held roughly every five years. The tradition dates back to the 19th century. In the late 1980s, it inspired the defiant Singing Revolution, helping Estonia and other Baltic nations break free from the Soviet occupation.

To this day, it remains a major point of national pride for a country of about 1.3 million.

This year, tickets to the main event -– a seven-hour concert on Sunday featuring choirs of all ages -– sold out weeks in advance.

Rasmus Puur, a conductor at the song festival and assistant to the artistic director, ascribes the spike in popularity to Estonians longing for a sense of unity in the wake of the global turmoil, especially Russia’s war in Ukraine.

“We want to feel as one today more than six years ago (when the celebration was last held), and we want to feel that we are part of Estonia,” Puur told The Associated Press on Friday.

Soviet occupation The tradition to hold massive first song-only, then song and dance festivals dates back to the time when Estonia was part of the Russian Empire.

The first song celebration was held in 1869 in the southern city of Tartu. It heralded a period of national awakening for Estonians, when Estonian-language press, theater and other things emerged, says Elo-Hanna Seljamaa, associate professor at the University of Tartu.

The festivals continued throughout a period of Estonia’s independence between the two world wars and then during the nearly 50 years of Soviet occupation.

The Soviet rulers were into “mass spectacles of all kinds, so in a way it was very logical for the Soviet regime to tap into this tradition and to try to co-opt it,” Seljamaa said in an interview.

Estonians had to sing Soviet propaganda songs in Russian during that time, but they were also able to sing their own songs in their own language, which was both an act of defiance and an act of therapy for them, she said.

At the same time, the complicated logistics of putting together a mass event like that taught Estonians to organize, Seljamaa said, so when the political climate changed in the 1980s, the protest against the Soviet rule naturally came in the form of coming together and singing.

The unity extended beyond Estonia’s borders. During the Singing Revolution, 2 million people in Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania joined hands to form a 600-kilometer (370-mile) human chain that protested Soviet occupation of the Baltics with a song.

In 2003, the United Nations’ cultural body, UNESCO, recognized Estonia’s folk song festival and similar events in Latvia and Lithuania for showcasing the “intangible cultural heritage of humanity.”

‘We sang ourselves free’ Marina Nurming recalls attending the Singing Revolution gatherings in the 1980s as a teenager. This year she travelled to Tallinn from Luxembourg, where she currently lives, to take part in the Song and Dance Celebration as a choir singer –- her longtime hobby.

The Singing Revolution is a time “when we sang ourselves free,” she told AP.

Seljamaa says the song and dance celebration may have suffered a drop in popularity in the 1990s, a somewhat difficult time for Estonia as it was emerging as an independent country after the Soviet Union collapsed, but has since bounced back.

There is a tremendous interest in it among young people, she says, and always more performers willing to take part than the venue can fit in, and there are people who had left Estonia to live abroad, but travel back to take part.

Nurming is one example. She is part of the European Choir of Estonians – a singing group that unites Estonians from more than a dozen countries.

Many opportunities to sing This year’s four-day celebration, which started on Thursday, included several stadium dancing performances by over 10,000 dancers from all around the country and a folk music instrument concert.

It culminates over the weekend with the song festival featuring some 32,000 choir singers, preceded by a large procession, in which all participants -– singers, dancers, musicians, clad in traditional costumes and waving Estonian flags –- march from the city center to the Song Festival Grounds by the Baltic Sea.

Those taking part come from all corners of Estonia, and there are collectives from abroad, as well. It’s a mix of men, women and children, with participants aged from six to 93.

For most, singing and dancing is a hobby on top of their day jobs or studies. But to take part in the celebration, collectives had to go through a rigorous selection process, and months worth of rehearsals.

For Karl Kesküla, an electrical engineer from Estonia’s western island of Saaremaa, this is the first time taking part in the song celebration as a singer -– but he attended it before as a spectator.

“I got the feeling that what they did was really special and almost, like, every person you meet has gone to it or been a part of it at least once. So I just wanted that feeling too,” Kesküla, 30, told the AP at the procession on Saturday.

High emotional point The theme of the song festival this year is dialects and regional languages, and the repertoire is a mix of folk songs, well-known patriotic anthems that are traditionally sung at these celebrations and new pieces written specifically for the occasion.

The festival’s artistic director, Heli Jürgenson, says that although the audience won’t know all the songs -– especially those sung in dialects -– there will be many opportunities to sing along.

The main concert on Sunday will end with a song called “My Fatherland is My Love” –- a patriotic song Estonians spontaneously sang at the 1960 festival in protest against the Soviet regime. Every song celebration since 1965 has concluded with this anthem in what both performers and spectators describe as the highest emotional point of the whole event.

An emotional Jürgenson, who this year will conduct a combined choir of about 19,000 people singing it, said: “This is a very special moment.”
She believes that what drove the tradition more than 150 years ago still drives it today.

“There have been different turning points, there have been a lot of historical twists, but the need for singing, songs and people have remained the same,” she said. “There are certain songs that we always sing, that we want to sing. This is what keeps this tradition going for over 150 years.”

'We forget our troubles' Participants described the celebrations as being an important part of their national identity.

“Estonians are always getting through the hard times through songs, through songs and dances. If it’s hard, we sing together and that brings everything back together and then we forget our troubles,” singer Piret Jakobson said.

“It’s really good with all Estonian people to do the same thing,” said engineer Taavi Pentma, who took part in the dance performances. “So we are, like, breathing in one and the heart is beating (as one).”

Some 100 members of the European Choir of Estonians came to the Song Celebration this year from various corners of Europe. Among them is Kaja Kriis, who traveled from Germany, where she’s been living for the last 25 years.

“Estonia is my home,” she said, adding that it’s important for her “to be together with my friends, to keep my Estonian language, to maintain the Estonian language and Estonian culture.”



Private Museums Bolster Cultural Tourism in Qassim Region

A prominent example is the private museum of Abdullah Al-Suhaibani, an expert with over 40 years of experience in gemstones and minerals - SPA
A prominent example is the private museum of Abdullah Al-Suhaibani, an expert with over 40 years of experience in gemstones and minerals - SPA
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Private Museums Bolster Cultural Tourism in Qassim Region

A prominent example is the private museum of Abdullah Al-Suhaibani, an expert with over 40 years of experience in gemstones and minerals - SPA
A prominent example is the private museum of Abdullah Al-Suhaibani, an expert with over 40 years of experience in gemstones and minerals - SPA

Qassim Region is witnessing a significant rise in private museums, as individual collectors transform personal passions into vital cultural projects. These museums serve as a living memory for the community, preserving rare artifacts, historical documents, antique weapons, and vintage collections that document critical stages of the region's history. By connecting the present with its roots, these sites strengthen national identity and provide essential research resources for scholars and tourists alike, SPA reported.

A prominent example is the private museum of Abdullah Al-Suhaibani, an expert with over 40 years of experience in gemstones and minerals.

His collection features rare agates, fossils from ancient geological eras, and unique rock formations discovered throughout the Kingdom.

The museum acts as a scientific platform, promoting geology and field research while educating the community on the Kingdom’s diverse natural resources and mineral wealth.

Located near Al-Khabra Historical Village, these private initiatives have become key cultural landmarks in Riyadh Al-Khabra Governorate. Their growth aligns with Saudi Vision 2030 goals to develop cultural and scientific tourism, support local content, and position the Kingdom’s heritage and natural sites as premier global destinations.


Saudi Arabia Showcases Literary Diversity at 2026 Rabat International Book Fair

‏The Saudi pavilion brings together a range of government entities and cultural institutions - SPA
‏The Saudi pavilion brings together a range of government entities and cultural institutions - SPA
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Saudi Arabia Showcases Literary Diversity at 2026 Rabat International Book Fair

‏The Saudi pavilion brings together a range of government entities and cultural institutions - SPA
‏The Saudi pavilion brings together a range of government entities and cultural institutions - SPA

The Literature, Publishing and Translation Commission launched the Saudi pavilion at the 2026 International Publishing and Book Fair in Rabat, which continues through May 10.

‏Commission CEO Dr. Abdullatif Alwasel affirmed that the Kingdom’s participation in the event embodies the deep historical ties between Saudi Arabia and Morocco while showcasing a diverse, contemporary cultural movement driven by Saudi Vision 2030.

“Saudi Arabia’s participation at the 2026 International Publishing and Book Fair emphasizes the Kingdom’s commitment to spotlighting publishers and the creative literary sector, which continues to go from strength to strength,” Alwasel said, SPA reported.

‏He added: “The Saudi pavilion is an opportunity to invite people from every corner of the world to experience Saudi culture and diverse literary works, showcase unique Saudi talent and creative thinking, while facilitating cultural exchange and engaging discussions.”

‏The Saudi pavilion brings together a range of government entities and cultural institutions, led by the Literature, Publishing and Translation Commission, highlighting the integrated approach of the Kingdom’s cultural environment.

‏As part of the pavilion, the commission has organized a series of topical panel discussions, poetry evenings, and workshops featuring Saudi writers and creative thinkers, encouraging discussions on key issues relating to the literature, publishing and translation sector and its impact on Arab and global conversations.

‏The participation at the 31st International Publishing and Book Fair event reaffirms the Kingdom’s efforts towards platforming local talent and enhancing collaboration and cultural exchange.


Georg Baselitz, the German Painter Who Turned Postwar Art Upside Down, Dies at 88

German artist Georg Baselitz attends the opening of his exhibition "The Heroes" (Die Helden) at the Staedel museum in Frankfurt, Germany June 29, 2016. (Reuters)
German artist Georg Baselitz attends the opening of his exhibition "The Heroes" (Die Helden) at the Staedel museum in Frankfurt, Germany June 29, 2016. (Reuters)
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Georg Baselitz, the German Painter Who Turned Postwar Art Upside Down, Dies at 88

German artist Georg Baselitz attends the opening of his exhibition "The Heroes" (Die Helden) at the Staedel museum in Frankfurt, Germany June 29, 2016. (Reuters)
German artist Georg Baselitz attends the opening of his exhibition "The Heroes" (Die Helden) at the Staedel museum in Frankfurt, Germany June 29, 2016. (Reuters)

Georg Baselitz liked to insist — sometimes as a taunt, ‌sometimes as a shield — that he did not know how to paint. That he had "no talent".

Rejected at 17 by the Dresden Academy of Fine Arts, he talked his way into an academy in East Berlin only to be expelled two semesters later for "sociopolitical immaturity".

"I was stupid," he recalled. "I was uneducated, but I was a rebel."

From that rebellion, Baselitz forged a career that made the child of Nazi Germany, schooled under Soviet communism, into one of the defining artists of postwar Germany.

The painter and sculptor, known for his depictions of raw bodies and inverted landscapes, has died at the age of 88, Germany's Die Welt newspaper reported on Thursday. No cause of death was given.

A REBEL SHAPED BY TWO DICTATORSHIPS

Georg Baselitz was born Hans-Georg Bruno Kern on January 23, 1938, in the Saxon village of Deutschbaselitz, a name he later adopted.

His father, a village schoolteacher and Nazi Party member, recorded Hans-Georg's birth in his diary. Inexplicably, he recorded the birth of none of his other four children, the Sächsische Zeitung daily reported in 2018.

After the war, ‌his father was ‌barred from teaching. Baselitz's mother took over his duties at the school.

Baselitz spent his childhood ‌amid ⁠the unforgiving discipline of ⁠Nazi Germany, and his adolescence amid the rubble and ideological re-education of the country's Soviet occupation zone.

"I was born into a destroyed order, a destroyed landscape, a destroyed people, a destroyed society," he later recalled. "And I didn't want to reestablish an order: I had seen enough of so-called order. I was forced to question everything, to be 'naive', to start again."

After he was expelled from the East Berlin academy, he moved to West Berlin, where he finished his studies and absorbed modernism in a way that felt, he said, like a sudden intake of oxygen.

He recalled the shock of first seeing works by Jackson Pollock and other abstract expressionists — evidence, in his telling, that ⁠the United States had a serious culture despite what he had been taught.

But rather than ‌imitate an American style, Baselitz turned back to German sources, drawing on expressionism, ‌folk traditions and imagery often dismissed by critics as ugly or even "degenerate".

SCANDAL AS A CALLING CARD

At a 1963 solo show in Berlin, authorities ‌seized two of his paintings on obscenity grounds. The episode made Baselitz famous.

The early pictures, marked by raw bodies, stunted masculinity and abrasive humor, were widely seen as provocation.

Supporters and museum curators have also framed them as a blunt report on postwar German life: damaged, compromised and struggling to find a new footing.

That sensibility carried into his mid-1960s "Heroes" paintings, which presented hulking, battered figures that looked less like victors than survivors ‌stumbling out of a defeated national myth.

But Baselitz's most recognizable works came in 1969, when he began painting motifs upside down.

After earlier experiments that fractured or partially inverted figures, he ⁠produced fully inverted works including "The ⁠Wood on Its Head" and "The Man by the Tree".

He did not simply flip finished images, he composed and painted them inverted from the start.

That approach altered how viewers read his works. By disrupting recognition, it forced attention onto the mechanics of painting — its color, balance and composition.

"An object painted upside down is suitable for painting because it is unsuitable as an object," Baselitz said.

The inversions made Baselitz an international figure in the 1970s and 1980s, as the market and institutions that once treated him as scandalous increasingly positioned him as a pillar of European postwar art.

His public reputation, however, did not settle into quiet respectability.

He repeatedly sparked backlash with remarks about female painters, including a widely reported claim that women "don't paint very well".

He also confronted the limits Germany's history places on gesture and imagery: a wooden sculpture shown at the 1980 Venice Biennale was widely read as evoking a Nazi salute, a reading he denied.

He was married to Johanna Elke Kretzschmar, known as Elke, with whom he had two sons.

In later life, Baselitz painted huge canvases from his wheelchair and moved his brushes and paints in a rolling cart.

"The sensible thing, in my situation, would naturally be to say: 'I stick to small formats'," he told Spanish newspaper El Pais at age 87. "But of course I don't do what's sensible. What's right for me is the nonsensical."