OCT 12, 2025
From the bridge of the gigantic patrol boat Turva, Mikko Simola, the commander in charge of the Coast Guard that ensures the safety of the Gulf of Finland, points his finger — almost as a reflex — east, toward the only stretch of sea that, after crossing Helsinki and Tallinn, flows into the Russian city of Saint Petersburg.
In that area, Simola and his crew have been watching Russian warships pass right before their eyes — and their radars — for three years. “Their presence is much greater,” he notes. So is that of the so-called shadow tankers, the aging fleet the Kremlin uses to evade Western sanctions and whose movement continues, oblivious to these restrictions, at a rate of “between 30 and 50 per week.”
In the nearly four years since the first Russian bombings of Ukraine, Simola has seen it all. Last Christmas, Turva, under his command, intercepted one of those tankers from the shadow fleet, the Eagle S, accused of severing an underwater electricity cable and four data cables. He senses this won’t be the last time: whatever happens in Ukraine, the Kremlin will never stop using this key waterway.
Although Finland is not one of the countries directly affected by the drone swarms and cyberattacks that have threatened virtually all of its northern and eastern EU neighbors in recent weeks, Helsinki and its nearly six million inhabitants are going through a critical moment. This fear is based on its own history and on an objective fact: its border with Russia is, by far, the longest in the entire Old Continent.
“We, together with the Baltic countries and Poland, are defending all of Europe. This is where we need solidarity for the sake of [common] security. This is something that must be understood in the rest of Europe,” Finnish Prime Minister Petteri Orpo argued during the recent visit of European Defense Commissioner Andrius Kubilius. “If we have learned anything, it is that with Russia, nothing is impossible,” added Finland’s president, Alexander Stubb, last Tuesday in a meeting with EL PAÍS and a small group of European media.
The fear is there, latent but evident. Finland’s land border with Russia is the longest of all the EU member states at 1,300 kilometers (807 miles), three times longer than the Eurasian giant’s border with Estonia. Finland also shares a history with Russia, having been part of its empire until 1917, and until February 2022 it maintained a stance somewhere between dialogue and appeasement. More of the latter than the former: for years, decades, it has suffered firsthand the same airspace violations that now affect other countries in northern and eastern Europe. But times have changed: the invasion of Ukraine is seen as more than just a warning.
Faced with the threat, Helsinki took an almost unimaginable step in 2023: it abandoned its historical neutrality and decided to join NATO. It thus sheltered itself under a powerful military umbrella against an increasingly unpredictable eastern neighbor and practically doubled, in one fell swoop, the length of the Alliance’s border with Russia.
Joining the Atlantic Alliance, almost anathema until recently, enjoyed support from 70% of the population, according to polls. And that backing has remained virtually stable since then, according to Teemu Tallberg, professor of military sociology at the Santahamina Military Academy. He provides an additional statistic: in the latest polls, more than eight out of 10 Finns say that, if the country were attacked, they would take up arms to defend themselves. “Even if the final outcome of the conflict were uncertain,” Tallberg adds.
The reason behind this social support is clear: after more than eight decades without feeling Moscow’s breath on their necks — since the 1939-1940 Winter War, when Soviet troops invaded the Nordic country, an episode in which some see parallels with the current situation in Ukraine — unrest has returned to the forefront.
The reasons are obvious. In May, several satellite images confirmed the deployment of thousands of Russian troops across the border. Perhaps to relieve — when peace is achieved — the troops currently deployed in Ukraine, perhaps with other objectives. These maneuvers, in any case, led the Finnish army’s chief of strategy, Sami Nurmi, to urge “very close monitoring.” His job, he said in a phrase repeated by the dozen or so official sources consulted by EL PAÍS, is “to be prepared for the worst.” His latest calculations indicate that the number of Russian soldiers stationed across the border today is between double and triple what it was before the invasion of Ukraine.
Shelters and military service
For decades, Finnish authorities have been obsessed with one word: resilience. The modern — and slightly spiced-up — version of traditional resistance. They are preparing, in short, for an emergency scenario that fortunately has not yet occurred. This is the only way to explain why the country has a shelter ready for all Finns: 50,000 in total, mostly underground, with everything needed to cover at least the first 72 hours of a hypothetical invasion, the most critical period.
“Russia has always been there, and although the probability of war remains low, it is much higher than in 2022,” says Tomi Rask, an emergency officer from Helsinki. He speaks from the bowels of one of these shelters, right in the city center, five floors underground and under a network of metal staircases. Surrounded by rock almost on all four sides — it could very well be a mine — his words resonate with a special echo: “When a Ukrainian delegation came to visit us, they gave us one recommendation: be prepared.” To a large extent, they were already prepared: they began decades ago, in the midst of the Cold War.
The second pillar of Finland’s security strategy — which prides itself on being the most advanced of the EU 27 — is military service. It has always been compulsory for men, a rarity in the EU but something that has recently gained traction in the rest of Europe.
The small number of professional troops — just over 20,000, compared to Russia’s million or so — is largely offset by young men who, after six months of training in the barracks, are transferred to the army reserve for life. This adds up to another 230,000 military personnel ready to be activated if things get tough. A million if you add those who have received some form of military training, sometimes lasting only a few days or weeks.
“I hope it never happens, but we have to be prepared for anything,” admits Holmström, a young recruit in his early twenties doing his military service on Santahamina Island, a stone’s throw from Helsinki. He rests his practice rifle on the ground, in the shade of the enormous coniferous trees that create one of the most classic landscapes in this northern corner of Europe. He will spend almost a year here, like “90%” of his school friends who have opted for military service rather than civilian service, the other option.
Border closed
Almost all eyes, however, are focused some 125 miles east, on the physical border with Russia. There, the Finnish government has been working for a couple of years on the construction of a fence that will cover a seventh of the border. Its 4.5-meters of height will not, of course, prevent unwanted aerial intrusion — a new concern in Poland or Romania but an uncomfortable reality here for years. It does, however, aim to stem the flow of migrants from
third countries (such as Syria or Somalia), which skyrocketed in the summer of 2023 and for which Helsinki directly blames Moscow.
The economic consequences of the border closure are evident, on two levels. On the micro level, with the crossings between the two countries closed until further notice, the border towns are bearing the brunt, with significant financial losses and an ever-increasing unemployment rate: they lived off the money left behind by those crossing from one side to the other, and no one will cross those borders again for a long time.
On a macro level, because after this closure of land routes, virtually all Finnish imports — and there are a lot of them — have only the sea as their entry point. A commercial island has emerged, so to speak, in the far north of Europe.
Guns or butter
In less than five years, Finland has practically doubled its defense spending: from 1.4% of GDP in 2021 to the 2.8% projected for this year. Still far from the demanding 5% target set by NATO for 2035, but already above the Alliance average, despite Helsinki’s recent economic difficulties and its historic penchant for fiscal austerity. The weight of investment in equipment is also the third-highest among NATO countries, earning it the organization’s applause. At the expense, of course, of social spending.
“Budgets are a zero-sum game: if you increase defense spending, you have to cut it elsewhere,” Stubb acknowledged in an interview with this newspaper. The famous dichotomy: guns or butter. A flag bearer of austerity — for everyone else, that is — since time immemorial, Finland is beginning to apply the same rulebook to itself. The consequences are already beginning to be felt: discontent is growing and unemployment is skyrocketing, reaching 10%. And the current conservative coalition is suffering setback after setback in the polls. But all this, the authorities conclude, is for the peace of mind of the nearly six million Finns living under the threat of Russian aggression.
english.elpais.com
From the bridge of the gigantic patrol boat Turva, Mikko Simola, the commander in charge of the Coast Guard that ensures the safety of the Gulf of Finland, points his finger — almost as a reflex — east, toward the only stretch of sea that, after crossing Helsinki and Tallinn, flows into the Russian city of Saint Petersburg.
In that area, Simola and his crew have been watching Russian warships pass right before their eyes — and their radars — for three years. “Their presence is much greater,” he notes. So is that of the so-called shadow tankers, the aging fleet the Kremlin uses to evade Western sanctions and whose movement continues, oblivious to these restrictions, at a rate of “between 30 and 50 per week.”
In the nearly four years since the first Russian bombings of Ukraine, Simola has seen it all. Last Christmas, Turva, under his command, intercepted one of those tankers from the shadow fleet, the Eagle S, accused of severing an underwater electricity cable and four data cables. He senses this won’t be the last time: whatever happens in Ukraine, the Kremlin will never stop using this key waterway.
Although Finland is not one of the countries directly affected by the drone swarms and cyberattacks that have threatened virtually all of its northern and eastern EU neighbors in recent weeks, Helsinki and its nearly six million inhabitants are going through a critical moment. This fear is based on its own history and on an objective fact: its border with Russia is, by far, the longest in the entire Old Continent.
“We, together with the Baltic countries and Poland, are defending all of Europe. This is where we need solidarity for the sake of [common] security. This is something that must be understood in the rest of Europe,” Finnish Prime Minister Petteri Orpo argued during the recent visit of European Defense Commissioner Andrius Kubilius. “If we have learned anything, it is that with Russia, nothing is impossible,” added Finland’s president, Alexander Stubb, last Tuesday in a meeting with EL PAÍS and a small group of European media.
The fear is there, latent but evident. Finland’s land border with Russia is the longest of all the EU member states at 1,300 kilometers (807 miles), three times longer than the Eurasian giant’s border with Estonia. Finland also shares a history with Russia, having been part of its empire until 1917, and until February 2022 it maintained a stance somewhere between dialogue and appeasement. More of the latter than the former: for years, decades, it has suffered firsthand the same airspace violations that now affect other countries in northern and eastern Europe. But times have changed: the invasion of Ukraine is seen as more than just a warning.
Faced with the threat, Helsinki took an almost unimaginable step in 2023: it abandoned its historical neutrality and decided to join NATO. It thus sheltered itself under a powerful military umbrella against an increasingly unpredictable eastern neighbor and practically doubled, in one fell swoop, the length of the Alliance’s border with Russia.
Joining the Atlantic Alliance, almost anathema until recently, enjoyed support from 70% of the population, according to polls. And that backing has remained virtually stable since then, according to Teemu Tallberg, professor of military sociology at the Santahamina Military Academy. He provides an additional statistic: in the latest polls, more than eight out of 10 Finns say that, if the country were attacked, they would take up arms to defend themselves. “Even if the final outcome of the conflict were uncertain,” Tallberg adds.
The reason behind this social support is clear: after more than eight decades without feeling Moscow’s breath on their necks — since the 1939-1940 Winter War, when Soviet troops invaded the Nordic country, an episode in which some see parallels with the current situation in Ukraine — unrest has returned to the forefront.
The reasons are obvious. In May, several satellite images confirmed the deployment of thousands of Russian troops across the border. Perhaps to relieve — when peace is achieved — the troops currently deployed in Ukraine, perhaps with other objectives. These maneuvers, in any case, led the Finnish army’s chief of strategy, Sami Nurmi, to urge “very close monitoring.” His job, he said in a phrase repeated by the dozen or so official sources consulted by EL PAÍS, is “to be prepared for the worst.” His latest calculations indicate that the number of Russian soldiers stationed across the border today is between double and triple what it was before the invasion of Ukraine.
Shelters and military service
For decades, Finnish authorities have been obsessed with one word: resilience. The modern — and slightly spiced-up — version of traditional resistance. They are preparing, in short, for an emergency scenario that fortunately has not yet occurred. This is the only way to explain why the country has a shelter ready for all Finns: 50,000 in total, mostly underground, with everything needed to cover at least the first 72 hours of a hypothetical invasion, the most critical period.
“Russia has always been there, and although the probability of war remains low, it is much higher than in 2022,” says Tomi Rask, an emergency officer from Helsinki. He speaks from the bowels of one of these shelters, right in the city center, five floors underground and under a network of metal staircases. Surrounded by rock almost on all four sides — it could very well be a mine — his words resonate with a special echo: “When a Ukrainian delegation came to visit us, they gave us one recommendation: be prepared.” To a large extent, they were already prepared: they began decades ago, in the midst of the Cold War.
The second pillar of Finland’s security strategy — which prides itself on being the most advanced of the EU 27 — is military service. It has always been compulsory for men, a rarity in the EU but something that has recently gained traction in the rest of Europe.
The small number of professional troops — just over 20,000, compared to Russia’s million or so — is largely offset by young men who, after six months of training in the barracks, are transferred to the army reserve for life. This adds up to another 230,000 military personnel ready to be activated if things get tough. A million if you add those who have received some form of military training, sometimes lasting only a few days or weeks.
“I hope it never happens, but we have to be prepared for anything,” admits Holmström, a young recruit in his early twenties doing his military service on Santahamina Island, a stone’s throw from Helsinki. He rests his practice rifle on the ground, in the shade of the enormous coniferous trees that create one of the most classic landscapes in this northern corner of Europe. He will spend almost a year here, like “90%” of his school friends who have opted for military service rather than civilian service, the other option.
Border closed
Almost all eyes, however, are focused some 125 miles east, on the physical border with Russia. There, the Finnish government has been working for a couple of years on the construction of a fence that will cover a seventh of the border. Its 4.5-meters of height will not, of course, prevent unwanted aerial intrusion — a new concern in Poland or Romania but an uncomfortable reality here for years. It does, however, aim to stem the flow of migrants from
third countries (such as Syria or Somalia), which skyrocketed in the summer of 2023 and for which Helsinki directly blames Moscow.
The economic consequences of the border closure are evident, on two levels. On the micro level, with the crossings between the two countries closed until further notice, the border towns are bearing the brunt, with significant financial losses and an ever-increasing unemployment rate: they lived off the money left behind by those crossing from one side to the other, and no one will cross those borders again for a long time.
On a macro level, because after this closure of land routes, virtually all Finnish imports — and there are a lot of them — have only the sea as their entry point. A commercial island has emerged, so to speak, in the far north of Europe.
Guns or butter
In less than five years, Finland has practically doubled its defense spending: from 1.4% of GDP in 2021 to the 2.8% projected for this year. Still far from the demanding 5% target set by NATO for 2035, but already above the Alliance average, despite Helsinki’s recent economic difficulties and its historic penchant for fiscal austerity. The weight of investment in equipment is also the third-highest among NATO countries, earning it the organization’s applause. At the expense, of course, of social spending.
“Budgets are a zero-sum game: if you increase defense spending, you have to cut it elsewhere,” Stubb acknowledged in an interview with this newspaper. The famous dichotomy: guns or butter. A flag bearer of austerity — for everyone else, that is — since time immemorial, Finland is beginning to apply the same rulebook to itself. The consequences are already beginning to be felt: discontent is growing and unemployment is skyrocketing, reaching 10%. And the current conservative coalition is suffering setback after setback in the polls. But all this, the authorities conclude, is for the peace of mind of the nearly six million Finns living under the threat of Russian aggression.
Finland fortifies itself against its Russian neighbor
Two years after its accelerated entry into NATO, the Nordic country is deepening its defense strategy to ward off a threat that has never entirely gone away
english.elpais.com
