Finland’s birth in 1917 was not so well-timed.
Already with the overthrow of Czar Nicholas II earlier that year, Finland – an
autonomous part of Russia – set its sights on even more autonomy. During
the pleasant months of summer, chaos ensued in Russia and civil war erupted in
Finland. The tumult finally came to a head in the dreary days of
November, when the Bolsheviks ignited the second Russian revolution of that
year and the Soviet Union was born. Finland took that opportunity to rush
for the exits, declaring its independence on December 6th.
Pekka
Haavisto, parliament member and Green
Party
presidential
candidate, with his partner at last year's party.
The result is a national day of celebration at the
bleakest and less fun time of the year. Grilling
hotdogs outside in freezing rain or snow during the mere six hours of near-twilight
that passes for daytime in November is no one’s idea of fun. It’s not for
nothing that marraskuu,
Finnish for “November”, derives from a word that means death.
It’s not due to the weather alone that Itsenäisyyspäivä is a more solemn affair than Fourth of
July. The fact that people died in a bitter civil war at the birth of
modern Finland is still a harsh reality nearly within living memory. One
way the holiday is celebrated is by somber candle-lit marches along dark
streets. More common is the custom, followed almost without exception, of
every home placing a lit candle on a windowsill from precisely six to eight in
the evening to commemorate those who died, 94 years ago and since, to ensure
Finland's independence.
But it’s not all gloom. In fact, the real
centerpiece of the holiday is the president’s ball, a festive tradition hard to
underestimate for its power to captivate the Finnish nation, especially the
female portion. It is, in some sense, the Finnish equivalent to the
hoopla surrounding the Oscars. The basic idea, which never varies, is
that the president and his or her spouse stand for two hours at the head of a
reception line, shaking the hands of a couple of thousand guests, who slowly
file along a red carpet into a stately ballroom while a military band provides
a constant background of sedate, semi-martial
music.
Eija-Riitta Korhola, EU parliament member,
at last year's party.
The lucky invitees include all parliament and
cabinet members, high-ranking government and military officials, foreign
diplomats, and captains of Finnish industry (such as, this year, the marketing
genius behind Angry Birds). Also, invited are sports and entertainment
personalities who have been especially successful during the year. The
guests move slowly along the red carpet accompanied by their spouses or dates,
which – befitting liberal Finland – also nowadays include
same-sex couples.
The entire procession of dignitaries is televised by
YLE, the state-run TV station, with off-camera presenters explaining who the most notable guests are and – in true red-carpet fashion – commenting on their
fashion. The more stunning evening gowns are examined in close-up shots
and replayed in slow motion. These will also be featured in the pages of
the next day’s tabloids, along with other highlights from the party.
Champion
figure skater Laura Lepistö, in 2010.
After greeting the president, all the guests wait,
packed almost sardine-like, in the ballroom watching the procession until the last honored guests,
always the former presidents, have been greeted by the first couple. Refreshments
then follow, with the most distinguished guests joining President Halonen in
the "Yellow Salon" for coffee and dessert and polite conversation
(also televised).
This is also when the TV hosts
begin on-air interviews with notable partygoers. A popular target for the
reporters this year was Olli
Rehn, the current EU economic and finance commissioner, who had taken a break
from trying to avert the complete collapse of the eurozone to fly in from
Brussels just for the party.
After coffee, the dancing starts,
with President Halonen and her husband kicking off the first waltz. As
the evening progresses, the military band ups the tempo with slightly
more contemporary tunes, while cadets stand by to dance with any
female guest who doesn't have a date. The dance floor is so crowded that couples can hardly move, but I’ve heard that after the
television cameras shut off, the room quickly clears out except for
those who just want to dance.
Parliament
member Tanja Karpela at last year's ball.
Before the night is through, the
celebration moves to after parties
located at various Helsinki nightspots, some with television crews on hand to
capture the action. Television coverage continues the next day when one
of the commercial stations airs its own condensed version of the previous night’s
festivities.
For all the self-conscious showiness of the party,
it is genuinely considered an honor to be invited and probably a lot of
fun, not to mention popular to watch – about half the population is estimated to have tuned into last night's ball. And why shouldn’t Finns put on a little glitz and party down (after
a fashion) in front of the cameras. You could say they’ve won
the right to choose how to celebrate the independence of their nation – despite weather outside that might, just might, tempt some to forsake it for one with a bit more sunshine.
