It was in Daugavpils, Latvia’s second-largest city with a population of 80,000, that Mediapart met Inna Plavoka. The meeting took place in August outside the municipal theatre, an imposing colonnaded building dating back to the Soviet era, and the atmosphere in this south-eastern corner of Latvia was distinctly summery. Walking along the street this energetic woman in her fifties was often stopped by people eager to discuss her hard-hitting articles on the news website Chayka, which she founded in 2019.
Back in February 2022, during the early days of the Russian invasion, Chayka took a firm stand against the war in Ukraine. It was a stance that was far from being an obvious one in this region, where 80% of the population speak Russian, compared with around 30% in the rest of this small country, which has a total population of 1.9 million.
“We faced a lot of negative reaction; we even lost several hundred subscribers,” recalls Inna Plavoka. “Some of our audience refused to believe us, some said we were stupid, others that we were simply wrong.” At the time, Chayka was the only local Russian-language media outlet to refer to the conflict as a “war ”, with the rest sticking to the Kremlin’s terminology of “special military operation”.
Enlargement : Illustration 1
Members of the European Union and NATO since 2004, the three Baltic states - Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia - unanimously support Ukraine against their historic enemy Russia, which has occupied their land many times since the 18th century. For Latvia the Soviet era began in 1940 when it was annexed by Moscow, and the hundreds of thousands of deaths and deportations to the gulag that followed remain deeply etched in the collective memory.
“I felt as though Daugavpils and Latvia were two different countries. Here, you could sense support for Russia and Belarus. You would hear comments such as ‘Putin will soon restore order in Ukraine, and then he’ll come to save us,’” recalls the director of Chayka.
Ban on Russian Media
In this region, which is just 120 kilometres from the Russian border, residents have for years been deeply influenced by propaganda from their powerful neighbour. Before it was banned in 2022 many relied exclusively on Russian media. “At first, I was outraged, but then I realised people probably needed someone to explain what was happening in Ukraine,” says Inna Plavoka.
Chayka then actively joined the fight against misinformation, broadening its focus beyond local news to include articles and analyses on the conflict in Ukraine and major events unfolding in the former Soviet republics. The outlet has also organised film screenings and public discussions to raise awareness.
Born in Daugavpils to Belarusian parents, Inna Plavoka spent part of her childhood in the city before living in Belarus and then northern Russia. Returning to Latvia after completing her higher education in Saint Petersburg, she had never given much thought to her nationality or the importance of learning Latvian. “With the war in Ukraine, I suddenly felt Latvian. I'm neither Russian nor Belarusian - I have nothing to do with Putin and his orcs,” she says, employing a word widely used in Ukrainian social media to describe Russian solders.
Her feelings are far from unique and highlight the complexity of identity and language issues in the post-Soviet sphere. “In our country, a Latvian is necessarily a Latvian speaker, while Russian speakers have always been seen as ‘separate’,” observes the journalist, who is now increasingly focused on the relationship between the two communities.
The integration of the Russian-speaking minority has been a frequent source of controversy ever since the country regained independence in 1991. However, the tensions have been heightened by the war in Ukraine. Natalia, 22, a Russian speaker who works at Daugavpils University, notes: “There has always been a certain antipathy towards the Russian-speaking population in Latvia, but this attitude has intensified.” She says that the enforcement of Latvian at the university is now much stricter. “Before, you could speak Russian with lecturers or even take exams in Russian. Now, the official language is mandatory everywhere,” Natalia adds.
Closing public media in Russian will not teach Latvian to Russian speakers.
As part of a series of measures aimed at ensuring national security, a draft law is proposing to eliminate all Russian-language content from public service media in Latvia from January 1st 2026. The authorities cite fears that the Baltic states may be Vladimir Putin’s next targets. However, many observers and international press freedom organisations have warned of the dangers of cutting off Russian speakers from access to credible, verified information.
“The ability of public service media to provide vital information and connect with all of society is especially critical in light of Russia's aggression in Ukraine,” RSV Reporters Without Borders wrote in a joint statement with several partner organisations late last year. “Closing public media in Russian will not teach Latvian to Russian speakers, particularly the older audience,” argues Inna Plavoka. “We run the risk of that audience turning back to Russian propagandists.”
Pro-Kremlin television channels remain accessible on YouTube or via a virtual private network (VPN). “In the context of increasing disinformation from Russia, this decision is utterly ill-considered and populist,” says Martin Levushkan, president of the non-governmental organisation Russian Voice for Latvia. “Russian speakers feel deeply offended by the severe reaction of the Latvian authorities towards them. Since then, there has been much less trust, less cooperation, and fewer compromises on many issues,” comments the young man, whose organisation advocates better understanding between the two communities.
The question of access to quality information for Russian speakers was precisely what motivated Inna Plavoka when she launched Chayka. It was 2018, and she had just resigned from a local newspaper due to disagreements with its management, whom she accused of lacking ethics and independence. “The publisher could decide to change the front page or the headline of an article at the last minute. And then the information would be published with my name at the bottom of the page as editor-in-chief. I felt ashamed each time, so I decided to quit,” she explains.
Several of her colleagues left the newsroom with her. Together, they launched the Chayka project (it means “seagull” in Russian) as part of a programme supporting independent journalism in the Baltic states, initiated by the Baltic Centre for Media Excellence and the media support non-profit organisation Internews.
Today, the media outlet, which has six employees and around twenty freelancers, is primarily funded by Western grants. “It's very difficult for us to generate advertising revenue because of our outspoken and critical positions. Most local advertisers refuse to work with us because they fear upsetting the municipal authorities,” says its director.
With over 27,000 followers on Facebook, its main distribution channel, Chayka is becoming increasingly popular. According to an Internews report published in July 2022, the news website is regarded as a reliable source of information and the only politically neutral one in Daugavpils. Its editorial quality has sparked growing interest among Latvians, so much so that Chayka will launch a Latvian-language edition in early 2025. For Inna Plavoka that marks “real success”.
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- The original French version of this article can be found here.
English version by Michael Streeter