While tattoos have a history spanning thousands of years and are part of many cultures and faiths, in Soviet-era Estonia they were mostly associated with the Soviet military, prison culture and criminal circles. In polite society, ink was considered taboo — especially for women.
At Kadriorg Art Museum in Tallinn, many visitors say one employee is a work of art in her own right. Eha Onton, 68 years old, ran a popular rock club in her younger years, surrounded by friends with plenty of ink, yet she didn’t get her own first tattoo until just ten years ago.
The piece? An eagle inspired by the one Manowar bassist Joey DeMaio has. “They played, I think, four shows in Estonia, and then I even went to Sweden to see them [again],” Onton recalled. “And since I fell in love with the bassist, I absolutely had to get the same tattoo he had.”
Over the years, she’s added a Burmese python, the Moomins’ Little My, a jaguar and a pair of smaller cats and more. Today, two-thirds of her arms are covered in meaningful black-and-white designs, with at least three new pieces on the way.
Museum worker Ene Onton has several tattoos visible along both arms. Source: Pealtnägija/ERR
“It basically is an addiction,” Onton said, adding that once you get your first tattoo, there’s no turning back. Even her own daughter went from questioning her ink to asking where Onton gets it done, saying she might want one too.
Tattooing an ‘intimate process’
At Nõmme Basic School, principal Õnnela Leedo-Küngas fulfilled a longtime dream last year, getting swallows, a horse and violets tattooed on her arm to represent loved ones.
“It’s not morbid; it’s a celebration of the fact that these people were part of my life,” she said.
Politician and SDE MP Raimond Kaljulaid got his first tattoo about a decade ago. Now on what he calls his “second round,” he’s having older pieces redone. A wolf on his arm replaced a “sailing elephant” that he admitted had looked more like a slice of pizza.
“Once four or five people had asked me already why I had that [tattoo], whether I really liked pizza that much, I got it covered up with this wolf here,” Kaljulaid recalled.
Estonian politician and MP Raimond Kaljulaid (SDE) showing off tattoos on his forearm and wrist. Source: Pealtnägija/ERR
Bibi Kahk, a tattoo artist for over a decade, said new clients include middle-aged professionals, parents and even grandparents.
She said many women see tattoos as a form of self-expression and personal freedom. “They think, now is the time to live for themselves and do what they want: get tattoos, travel, make changes to their appearance,” Kahk explained.
Kahk described tattooing as an intimate process, almost like therapy. Clients often share personal stories as she works, and the sessions often foster trust and openness, especially when large, complex pieces can take months to complete.
Blood sausage for the estos
Modern designs embrace anything from cartoon characters to vegetables. Onton recalled her niece getting a tattoo of an asparagus stalk she found in her garden, and Kahk described an American client who got a tattoo of blood sausage to honor his family’s Estonian heritage.
“It was a young man whose grandparents fled Estonia during World War II, first to Germany and then to the U.S.,” she recalled, adding that while he himself doesn’t speak Estonian, his heritage still plays a significant role in his life.
Nõmme Basic School principal Õnnela Leedo-Küngas has visible tattoos on her arm. Source: Pealtnägija/ERR
“Every Christmas in New Jersey, they make hundreds of kilograms of blood sausage, and he’s a big fan,” the tattoo artist said. “So he got the tattoo done here and said he was going to go show it off proudly to the old Estonian ladies there.”
Kaljulaid acknowledged that public officials do still have unwritten rules to navigate.
“I’m pretty sure most of my colleagues in other NATO states have never seen me without a tie,” he said.
But social norms have gotten significantly laxer over time, and at least in Estonia, it’s no longer scandalous to see tattoos on a teacher, doctor or lawyer.
“In Europe, we really let our jobs define who we are,” Leedo-Küngas said. “But just because I’m a school principal, or a lawyer or the president, doesn’t mean I was born with a red pen and grade book in hand. My position as a principal defines me to some extent, but not completely.”
The same, she added, goes for other professions. “In other words, your job shouldn’t dictate everything about you,” the school principal said.
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