Why is it controversial to talk about microrayons?

And what happens if we don’t talk about them?

For the past four years, while researching, photographing, writing, and talking about microrayons, I’ve encountered a lot of negative feedback, confusion, and pushback. Comments under a post promoting my latest lecture series on the history and future potential of microrayons included:

“You could say that microrayons are like ghettos, with inhabitants who don’t want to interact with the rest of society and have no interest in life outside of them.”

“Microrayons are proof that an inclusive environment is impossible without degradation.”

And, of course, countless calls to demolish them all. 

While I understand the emotional reaction to these buildings given their historical context, why is it still so controversial to even have a conversation about microrayons? Can we honestly afford not to talk about them? How much longer must we wait before the quality of everyday life for a significant part of our population outweighs the collective trauma we associate with everything created under Soviet occupation?

Purvciems, 2024
Image: By author

I truly believe that comments like these often stem from ignorance. For many people, microrayons simply equal Soviet oppression. Criticizing microrayons feels like rejecting Soviet legacy while defending them is often seen as making excuses for the regime. As a result, any discourse about them becomes highly political. But the reality is that for two-thirds of Riga’s population microrayons equal home — and for them, the conversation about the future of these neighbourhoods is not political, but practical. Are we really willing to ignore the needs of all microrayon residents just to signal our political stance?

And can anyone honestly claim they have the residents’ best interests at heart while calling for the demolition of all microrayons? We simply don’t have the resources to rehouse more than half of Riga’s population. That would literally mean erasing entire districts. Yes, diversifying the housing stock is needed — but that alone won’t solve the problem. What we need is to improve the homes people already live in. That means figuring out how to diversify and upgrade our panel blocks — and doing it fast. Pretending demolition is a real option is a waste of time and shuts down any meaningful dialogue about practical, achievable renovation strategies.

Unfortunately, I don’t believe the “empathy toward residents” argument will work in many cases. The comments I’ve seen make it painfully clear that many people don’t actually see microrayon residents as equals — or even, in some cases, as people worth caring about. There’s a persistent perception that everyone living in microrayons is somehow “lower class.” But once again, I have to repeat — two-thirds of Riga live in microrayons. These neighbourhoods were originally built to house people from a wide range of incomes and professions, and to some extent, that social mix still exists today. The same applies to nationalities — in none of these areas are Russian speakers the majority.

With the price per square meter in new builds nearly double that of panel blocks, it’s likely that even more young professionals and families will turn to microrayons as a viable housing option. And that has nothing to do with nationality, education, or any outdated stereotype about being old, drunk, or indifferent to their surroundings. But even if those stereotypes were true — would that somehow absolve us of our responsibility to care for and improve these neighbourhoods? What these baseless assumptions actually do is isolate microrayon residents even further, sending the message that they don’t belong in the city or society as a whole. In reality, the future of these neighbourhoods depends on the involvement of their residents. People need to see what’s possible and feel empowered to take care of their environment. But how can they feel any sense of pride or ownership when every conversation about their homes on social media boils down to mockery, stereotypes, and calls for demolition?

Microrayons are a significant — and yes, revolutionary — part of our built heritage, whether we like it or not. To erase them would mean erasing a huge chapter of our architectural history. Instead of viewing them solely as something imposed on us by an occupying power, we should shift our focus to the local architects who planned and designed these neighbourhoods and buildings. It’s important to lift the veil of anonymity that so often surrounds Soviet modernism, allowing us to recognize the creative work of our own architects and see these buildings as part of our story — not something alien. This is decades’ worth of architectural thought and history, and if attitudes toward Soviet modernism don’t change, much of it will soon be lost — not just physically, but from our collective memory.

If we stop talking about microrayons, we risk losing far more than just buildings — we lose the chance to improve everyday life for hundreds of thousands of people. We continue to alienate residents, denying them the chance to see the potential of their neighbourhoods and discouraging them from forming any sense of connection or pride in their homes — all while simultaneously complaining about their low participation in improvement initiatives. We turn our backs on meaningful renovation strategies, allowing these buildings to deteriorate even further, despite knowing that we lack affordable alternatives. We denounce the urban planning principles behind microrayons without serious analysis, yet we continue to build cheap, free-standing panel housing across the city — developments with the same layouts, the same finishes, and just as few communal facilities.
Most importantly, we lose the ability to reclaim this part of our history as our own — to shape its future instead of leaving it to neglect or demolition. Silence is not neutrality; silence is an active decision to let microrayons decline further. If we care about Riga’s future, we have no choice but to talk about microrayons.