Photographs & text by Louis Sartori.

Photo; 90% of Finns sauna weekly. Saunas are traditionally designed to be social spaces, where relaxation and conversation meet. However, increasing numbers of young Fins are now struggling with loneliness and social isolation. Dark portrait of figure in a sauna. Taken in Satu’s house in Kajaani. Identity of the subject is obscured by shadow. Subject sits alone in the dark. The photo is a self portrait though is designed to be a metaphor for young Finns suffering with loneliness and depression.

In The Corner of the Dark Fatherland

Around lunchtime on the 19th of August, the news of Eemeli Peltonen’s suicide illuminated my phone screen.

‘Tragedy as MP, thirty, kills himself in Finland’s parliament building.’

Setting my half-unpacked suitcase aside, I hastily unlocked my phone to read the full story. Earlier that morning, I had flown back to London from the small Finnish town of Kajaani. My visit represented the culmination of months of research spurred by morbid curiosity about suicide and mental health in small-town Finland. The timing of Peltonen’s death had a grim irony.

For the past eight years, the UN-endorsed World Happiness Report has touted Finland as the world’s happiest country. This has, of course, won the Nordic nation much international acclaim; Finnish public services in particular are lauded and idealised extensively by international media at the behest of this accolade. However, the state of Finnish mental health is more complicated than popular media portrayals would have you believe, especially given the backdrop of Finland’s darker past, the histories of which lie clearer in the memories of the quieter towns further north.

My late grandmother was Finnish and could attest to these memories. She could be difficult: iron-willed and extremely stoic, but also capable of bestowing intense warmth and wisdom upon her grandchildren. She grew up in the dark forests of Karelia, territory lost to Russia in the Second World War, before moving to London alone in her late teens. She left behind a family wrought with alcoholism and never spoke to her grandchildren about her upbringing. Silence, it seems, is a Finnish tradition.

Photo; The chimney’s of the old paper and pulp mills, once Kajaani’s industrial heartbeat. In December 2008, when UMP closed the doors 1,100 employees were laid off. Landscape taken on the outskirts of Kajaani, battered speed limit sign and wooden post foreground fields, forest and a distant view of the two chimneys of Kajaani’s old paper and pulp mills that were closed in 2008.

My scepticism towards the World Happiness Report presumably stems from my experience with her. In any case, when I read the 2025 edition of the report bestowing these superlatives upon Finland, I was not convinced, especially given the wealth of information to the contrary I had already unearthed while combing through various Finnish psychiatric journals.

I arrived in Kajaani in August and began to talk to locals about the fallacy of the World Happiness Report. Kajaani is one of Finland’s current suicide hotspots; mortality rates in the past ten years have consistently been above national and EU averages, and have spiked well above national averages on multiple occasions.

Kajaani is the kind of town in which the general resilience, and suffering endured by Finnish people in the past are still evident. Finland’s history is pockmarked by continuous episodes of national hardship. The country endured much political and cultural suppression at the hands of foreign powers, which obstructed Finland’s independence for 600 of the last 800 years. Social and industrial development was also consistently hindered by myriad famines and epidemics that tore through the sparsely populated countryside throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.

Moving into the twentieth century, a modern concept of suffering rose to prominence in rural and urban areas alike. In the 1970s, 80s and 90s, Finland’s suicide rate rose at alarming levels, peaking in 1990. By that point, 30 suicides occurred among every 100,000 Finns, three times as many suicides per year as the current EU average. Only a large discrepancy between male and female suicide numbers spared Finland the ignominy of the highest suicide rate in the world in the 90s. Of course, the perception then was that depression and life in Finland went hand in hand.

Finns have a reputation for being reserved. The conversations I shared while in Kajaani were extremely personal. I was surprised and grateful for the willingness of many to talk about their own happiness and the various brushes with mental illness, suicide and the like that they could call upon from memory.

When it came to photographing people, my wildly anachronistic MPP 5x4 large-format camera helped soften the formal weight of every appointment. I photographed first and interviewed after. The lengthy set-up, including the use of a dark cloak, provided a period during which conversation flowed more easily, unrestricted by the presence of a recording device, I was often met with a playful curiosity in my subject once greeted by my severely conspicuous photography technique.

Photo; Much of the old paper and pulp mill’s industrial infrastructure sits empty and unused. Taken at the entrance of the old UMP paper and pulp mill compound. Site is currently used by small data centre companies. Much of the old industrial infrastructure sits empty and unused. Area is clean though has a general air of stagnation which I attempted to capture in the photo.

Last year (stats due for release Oct 29), Finnish men killed themselves. COMMENTARY. Higher than the EU average. Though the situation is far more complex than simply comparing yearly deaths. During the first ten months of the COVID-19 pandemic, expected suicides for women aged 20–39, typically the least likely demographic, rose. As of 2023, suicide distribution by gender, region, age, method and month shows similar results to those of the peak years from the 1970s to the 1990s.

A high-profile suicide such as Eemeli Peltonen’s bears no more tragedy than an otherwise unreported one. But the MP’s death underscores to me the continued prevalence of mental health struggles in Finland. Peltonen was young but already an extremely successful public servant, well respected across party lines. His death demonstrates that mental illness and ordinary despair do not care for status, popularity or power. If nothing else, tragedies such as Peltonen’s suicide bring the shadow of the past sharply back into focus.

The following text and accompanying images hope to provide a portrait of a seemingly outdated version of Nordic life. The average quality of life in Finland is excellent. Nature is abundant, and public services are of good standard and relatively generous in provision. Nonetheless, happiness in Finland, especially in the regions above Helsinki’s cosmopolitan bubble, is not assured. Far from it  happiness in Finland walks a narrow tightrope above a sea of historical misery and resilience. Traditions of shame, self-deprecation and silence are alive and well. These appear to be threatening certain sections of Finnish society now more than ever.

FINLAND AND SUICIDE RESEARCH

In the preface to his 1977 monograph Suicides in Helsinki, Finnish psychiatrist and former head of the National Public Health Institute’s Department of Mental Health, Juoko Lönnqvist, gravely asserted that the Finnish attitude towards suicide was ‘fairly liberal’. By this, he meant that Finland’s Lutheran culture, unlike some others, was at the very least willing to acknowledge suicide’s existence. Official suicide mortality records in Finland are said to be among the oldest in the world, stretching back an impressive 274 years.

What is clear is that there is a close cultural association between Finnish identity and suicide. Over the years, certain pseudo-scientific theories have even gone so far as to link particular facets of the Finnish constitution and genetic make-up to the prevalence of suicidal behaviour. These claims hold little factual validity, but there is no smoke without fire, and one thing is indisputable; that suicide has been prevalent in Finland since records began.

By 1986, the prevalence of the phenomenon was deemed critically high. The Finnish state drew a line in the snow, taking drastic measures to stem the tide of Finns, men in particular, killing themselves. The National Suicide Prevention Project 1986–1996 (SPP1) was launched, uniting public services in the battle against suicide.

The project officially aimed to:

‘Find means of preventing suicide which suit local conditions and thereby reduce the incidence of suicide by a fifth.’

Key implementation areas included the introduction of increased training for medical professionals and legislation that restricted citizens’ access to lethal means (largely guns and prescription medication).

By 1996, at the project’s close, suicide in Finland was down 8% from 1987 and 18% from 1990, a positive return, though short of the project’s initial aims. Nonetheless, the significant and undeniable reduction in suicide mortality was justly recognised and celebrated. The nationwide implementation of the project’s mechanisms represented a huge organisational success for Finland’s public health structure, even if the actual metrics of suicide prevention were disappointing.

Perhaps tellingly, a second ten-year Suicide Prevention Project (SPP2) was launched in 2020. Current projections for the second project are also disappointing. At best, suicide mortality could be reduced in Finland by 13% by 2030 - a discouraging projection, below the material returns of the mixed success of SPP1.

Questions have been raised internally as to the true efficacy of national suicide prevention campaigns. Even after the hugely celebrated first project, suicide remained the most common cause of death for men in Finland between the ages of 20 and 34 up to 1996. This is a fact often ignored by sources that cite public healthcare as the antidote to widespread depression and affective disorders.

Photo; Downtown Kajaani. The corner of streets, Brahenkatu and Ämmäkoskenkatu. Dreary scene. Typical street corner in Kajaani’s dilapidated town centre. Boring housing blocks, plain surroundings, lack of foot traffic, etc. Everything being slightly off kilter reflects the general vibe of decline and dreariness.

KAJAANI.

This brings us to the present day and brings me to Kajaani.

Located in the east, around 100km west of the Russian border and 580km north of Helsinki, Kajaani is the capital of the Kainuu region. Kainuu covers around 22,700 square kilometres and is roughly the size of Wales. The average population density of Kainuu is a mere three inhabitants per square kilometre — low even by Finland’s standards.

Kajaani is a confused town, caught in the space between its proud industrial roots and the incongruous economic reality it currently inhabits. Like many small Finnish towns, it previously enjoyed the economic benefits of the old Finnish state’s regionally minded policies. However, in recent times, investment this far north has slowed, and Kajaani is struggling to recover from the demise of its traditional industries. One feels a palpable sense of loss and disillusionment walking the streets, as though the town no longer recognises itself.

Major industrial players like UPM, which ran the town’s paper and pulp mill, withdrew in the economic mire of 2008, leaving behind high unemployment and an emotionally destructive chasm between the blue-collar, Stakhanovite, small-town pride of the residents and the town’s modern industrial impotence. According to Professors Simo Häyrynen and Jussi Semi from the University of Eastern Finland, concepts of mental and professional ‘welfare’ have been slow to take root in Kajaani for this very reason.

As academics, Häyrynen and Semi are perhaps slightly more diplomatic owing to the demands of their profession. The Finns don’t typically mince their words and Taipo Niemi, a local software engineer, told me Kajaani represents

‘the epitome of Finnish population decline, hunger, poverty, alcoholism, suicide and pessimism’.

When people think of his town, they picture ‘a place where some unemployed forester with severe alcoholism kills himself every day’.

Photo; Satu in the bedroom of her Kajaani home. Satu Huovien pictured in the corner of her bedroom. Kajaani scarf droops over the chair to her right. Her home is decorated in a very 80s style, an apt call-back to the grimmer period in Finnish mental health history. She stands in the corner with a grim look on her face, fitting of the information she has shared with me.

Photo; Timo stands outside the National Institute for Health and Welfare in Helsinki. Timo Partonen after our chat in Helsinki. Taken on the institute’s front lawn. He holds in his hand a copy of the first Suicide Prevention Project’s internal evaluation, published in 1998. The report details the many shortcomings of the campaign. He gifted me a translated copy during my visit which aided my research greatly.

By income-based measures, Kainuu is naturally one of the poorest regions in the country. In 2023, the relative risk of poverty there was 15.2%, significantly higher than the national average. Kajaani’s current suicide rate is also above the national average at 14.3 deaths per 100,000, though in 2016, 2017 and 2020 that rate surged to over 26 per 100,000 -  more than twice the national average.

Outside the anaemic, mostly boarded-up town centre, lakes and forest stretch as far as the eye can see, only occasionally interrupted by small and isolated suburban housing communities.

One main road emerges from the deep forest to bisect the town. On the way in, traffic passes the ruins of Kajaani Castle, the town’s first handshake to visitors arriving from the outside. The castle was destroyed by invading Russian forces in 1716 during the Great Northern War. Only remnants of the structure remain today: a mass of granite stones, moss and cobwebs. Its crumbling walls foreshadow the aesthetic nature of the town centre itself.

Today, the ruins are busiest on summer evenings, when small groups of Kajaani’s teenagers congregate among the stones to talk and drink cans of cheap Finnish lager.

Photo; National Service is mandatory for males in Finland. This is Kuoko, an 18 year old army reserves recruit. 100km from the Russian border, Kajaani is a hub for reservist training in Kainuu. Recruits serve 165, 255 or 347 days depending on role and specialisation. In August, the Finnish government submitted plans to increase the maximum age of reservists to 65. The aim is to increase uptake in the national reserves. Finland expects to have 1 million active national reservists by 2031, nearly 20% of its current population.

FINLAND’S KIDS IN CRISIS.

If the World Happiness Report overstates the nature of happiness in Finland, which it certainly does, the young population, say 15 to 30 years old, are the demographic most betrayed by the hyperbole served up by the report for the past eight years.

According to the Loneliness Barometer, a yearly survey carried out by Red Cross Finland, one in five young people (16–24) say they have suffered consistent loneliness for the last five years. A study carried out by the Research Centre for Child Psychiatry at the University of Turku and the Finnish Institute for Health and Welfare also found that new affective mood disorder diagnoses increased in adolescents and children by 18% after Covid.

In Kajaani, I tracked down Heli Kortelainen, a senior employee at the Kainuu branch of Meili, Finland’s largest and oldest NGO for mental health services. Ironically, I found her contact through her position as lead coordinator for a programme designed to stem the occurrence of depression and suicide among Kainuu’s pensioner population. Nonetheless, Heli had plenty of concern for the mental health of young people in Kajaani as well.

Like me, she wondered how Finland has consistently been named the happiest country in the world. Moreover, she likewise fears that mental health in Finland has now reached an all-time low, especially among young people.

Photo; Aaro and company, Fishing. Annoyingly failed to get Aaro’s friend’s name. They are fishing here off of a platform of a bridge spanning the river Kajaani. The lake was good for fishing according to the boys, to me it looked murky and heavily oil-slicked. Off-camera, behind me, were the factories of the paper mill.

Photo; Graffiti brands a mural depicting traditional Finnish dress, in an underpass in Kajaani. “Mulla on kulta Kiopiossa”, ‘I have gold in Kiopiossa’,

Kiopiossa is a city in Finland. I am told that here, ‘gold’ most likely is a colloquial reference to a girlfriend. So, my girlfriend is in Kiopiossa, which I think makes sense given the mural.

The crisis is so massive here,’ she said to me. ‘The public sector doesn’t have the resources; the queues are so long. Some people have to wait a year to get any treatment or help from the public sector.’

Meili-Kainuu offers five free therapy sessions to residents who feel they need them. Unfortunately, according to Heli, young people in town now struggle to communicate at the best of times.

‘The young are suffering more now than they ever have. They don’t look at each other,’ she says. ‘They don’t talk to each other. We see the other side; we see a lot of suffering.’

Heli spent a year following university as a crisis hotline worker in Kajaani. She fielded calls from desperate people looking over the edge.

‘Sometimes we have more sisu than we need,’^[1] she said ruefully.

Heli blames smartphones and the lasting psychological effects of lockdown for the issues facing youth mental health in Finland. Earlier this year, Finland joined a growing list of countries introducing legislation to ban the use of phones by students in schools, a step in the right direction perhaps, but probably only the tip of a very deep iceberg.

Another voice of concern for Finland’s teenagers was Satu Huovinen, my landlady in Kajaani. She teaches at the town’s secondary school, and her fears for the mental health of Finnish children mirrored Heli’s. During one of our conversations, Satu recalled an icebreaker she had her class attempt last year.

‘They had to circle the room as the music played. And when the music stopped, you stopped and looked the person next to you in the eyes, and it was too much for some people.

‘You didn’t have to say anything but look them in the eye, and that was too much for some of them.’

Half of Satu’s 19-strong class have a diagnosed mental illness. Meetings regarding these children routinely block her diary.

Satu’s own father committed suicide when she was 18. With a sense of grim nostalgia, she explained seeing a degree of her late father’s neurosis in the anxious behaviour of these teenagers.

‘Ever since I was a little girl, he had a fear of social situations,’ she recalled. ‘If we went to the zoo, he wanted to stay in the car, and I went with my mother because it was too much for him. At all of the family celebrations, he would want to stay home, they were too much.’

Now, Satu’s students struggle with basic social engagements.

‘They’re staying home because they’re too afraid to come to school. It’s kind of scary because I’m trained to teach Finnish. I’m not a therapist…’

As such, Satu was as mindful as they come of her family’s history of depression and schizophrenia. Rather than exclusive concern for herself, however, it is palpable how forlorn she is about the constitution of Finland’s youth in general.

I got a real sense of incredulity from her, as though she can’t quite believe how much young people are suffering despite how seemingly easy they have it.

‘I had this one student who wanted to be a hairdresser,’ she began.

‘It was her first training, and she said, “I’m too afraid to speak to the clients. Can I just message them on WhatsApp, and they can tell me how they want me to cut their hair so I don’t have to speak to them?”

It’s quite hard if you don’t want to meet people or speak to them to be a hairdresser… That’s sad!’

Indeed it is. We talked for two hours on that occasion, mostly about Satu’s fears for her children’s mental welfare and the mental health of her students.

Later that week, I asked Timo Partonen, Senior Research Advisor at the Finnish Institute for Health and Welfare, for a third opinion.

Timo is currently chair of the National Network for Suicide Prevention Coordination, an administrative body born out of the cross-sectional cooperation efforts of SPP1. He played a significant role as a suicide researcher between 1986 and 1996 and has since written or co-produced over 300 scholarly articles on suicide trends and causes specific to conditions in Finland. If anyone was well placed to talk about such a topic, it’s him.

He invited me to meet him at the Finnish Institute for Health and Welfare in Helsinki. The train is six hours from Kajaani. I booked an overnight ticket, and the next morning I woke to the sound of my train nearing the capital.

At 9.30am, I stumbled, bleary-eyed, into the lobby of the institute. There was Timo, cheerful and pristinely dressed. We spoke over strong coffee about his work, experience and theories on particularly Finnish traditions and causes of suicide. He was extremely candid about both the shortcomings of SPP1 and the generally dark time for Finnish mental health in the 80s and 90s.

Halfway through our conversation, I asked: ‘Do you think there is one demographic in Finland, young people perhaps, most at risk of suicide today? Or is the situation more complicated?’

I was fishing for corroboration of what I had heard in Kajaani and immediately chided myself; Timo was a man of precision and nuance. To that point, he had expertly expanded and caveated the black-and-white scenarios I put before him. It was clear that he was not someone who dealt in sweeping generalisations.

To my surprise, however, for the first time in the interview, his answer was completely affirmative.

‘No, no, it’s not so complicated - I agree,’ he replied, somewhat shocking me. He went on to explain that in the midst of consistent downward trends in suicidal behaviour for the rest of the country, the young (15–25s) had actually seen an increase in suicide mortality and suicide attempts.

‘And that’s worrying,’ he conceded.

Later that week, back in Kajaani, I decided I needed to hear at least one account from the horse’s mouth. Whilst walking through the morning mist, I called out to 14-year-old Aaro Hitunen and his friend as they fished in the oil-slicked lake next to the old paper mill.

Their English was good, and they were happy to talk to me about life in Kajaani for a young person. After helping me scuttle down the iron frame of the bridge to reach the improvised platform from where they fished, Aaro spoke to me with perfect English and impeccable manners. He said, in a very matter-of-fact tone, that he thought ‘overall happiness’ in Kajaani had indeed declined in recent years. He admitted that not many people stayed in the area after growing up, but also that he was very happy there.

Aaro said he couldn’t ever imagine being depressed so long as there were birds in the sky and fish in the lake. This made me happy. Everyone knows how difficult growing up is. If he was due to develop chronic anxiety or loneliness in the next few years, at least he wasn’t aware of it now

^[1] Finnish concept referring to extreme resilience, courage and quiet grit in the face of adversity

Photo; Sokou at his table. The sign to his left reads ‘pickpocket’. A tongue in cheek example of dry Finnish humour. Sokou, photographed at the tiny bar I visited. Nothing wrong with his hand but he had had a few by the time I took the photo so I think he was holding it slightly weirdly because he was drunk. The Fins like dry humour and are also very self aware of their "introvertedness". In this context ‘pickpocket’ is funny because no one would ordinarily choose to announce themselves as a thief by sitting next to that sign.

THE BOOZE DEVIL.

The rest of my conversations in Kajaani occurred in decidedly more grown-up environments, bars and pubs, to be exact. The typically reserved Finns have a concept called viinapiru, which literally translates to ‘booze devil’ or ‘alcohol demon’, referring to the shift in social awareness one experiences after a few drinks,  the emergence of a more sociable disposition. Certainly, I found the adults in Kajaani far shyer and less English-proficient than the few teenagers I spoke to. Still, it is telling that in Finnish culture, introversion is a given by default in most circumstances outside of intoxication.

One night, after a long evening spent traipsing the suburbs with my camera, I wandered into a tiny, ramshackle bar on the outer limits of the town. Built into the ground floor of a converted house, the place was dimly lit and stank of smoke (Finnish smoking areas are always indoors owing to the impracticality of smoking outside in winter).
A TV hung from the ceiling in the corner, blaring out an ancient Nordic sitcom. The otherwise mismatched furniture was unified only by the consistency of how battered the upholstery was. The landlord sat drinking sullenly behind the bar, clearly bored with the prospect of another quiet night. An old couple made up the rest of the room’s inhabitants. They sat silently beneath the TV, their eyes glued to the screen.

Photo; A man watches the sun slope behind the trees. Kajaani castle sits on the river before him as he works his way through a 6-pack of beer. The previously mentioned Kajaani castle I think is a good metaphor for the town itself. Crumbling. The presence of a lone drinker, watching until the sky goes dark is apt. Never spoke to the man, don’t know his name. Behind the camera is Kajaani town centre.

Naturally, as I entered, all parties turned their heads. Visitors are few and far between in these parts, especially ones from London who fall through the front door of the local dive bar with a massive tripod and camera over their shoulder.

After a few seconds, the landlord overcame his initial disbelief and muttered something in Finnish, I assume along the lines of ‘What can I get you?’ To which I replied, pointing towards the sole beer tap along with the only Finnish word I knew - ‘kiitos’ (thanks).

It turns out ‘thank you’ was the only phrase that all parties in the bar knew in each other’s respective languages. I used Google Translate to have a ‘conversation’ with both the barman and the old fellow beneath the TV. Both explained their general disdain for Kajaani. When asked about life in the town, both men, without consultation, replied ‘Hard’.

Jussi, the landlord, lived above and worked in his bar. Given the Finnish propensity for drinking, his modest livelihood had always been relatively secure. Nonetheless, he regretfully described a slow downturn in business in recent years. Such is life in Finland nowadays, with less investment and funding flowing to the non-Lapland regions north of Helsinki. The old man, Sokou, told me he had been a musician in the 70s, a member of a punk band. He had also worked in forestry before the advent of mechanisation.

The only time I heard Sokou actually speak was when I stood up to buy him a beer. A strongly accented ‘Thank you!’ followed behind me.

Photo; A run-down boathouse on the bank of the river Kajaani Classic Nordic architecture. Like many things in Kajaani, the building is crumbling and looks depressed, taken on a dank misty day, hence the haze.

LÄHIÖPROBLEMATIIKKA.

The land beyond Kajaani’s limits is dominated by thick forest (as is 75% of Finland’s total landmass). Gravel paths that split into the woods head in every direction. Each path leads through the forest into one of the many suburban neighbourhoods that orbit Kajaani’s centre. Street lamps are a constant, no matter how small or deep into the forest the path goes, reminders that the winter months plunge this region into complete darkness for several weeks.

Kajaani’s suburbs are typical of this part of Finland, consisting of compact housing communities arranged in curvilinear networks of arching roads and interior cul-de-sacs. Called lähiös, these neighbourhoods were designed along the principles of post-war Western urban planning, which prized aesthetic uniformity, the decluttering of social functions and neighbourhood insulation. These communities were designed with efficiency in mind, placing functionality above character and ordered separation above social interaction. Once you’re in, you don’t walk through a lähiö,  they fold in on themselves, looping back on top of themselves. There is one road in and the same way out.

There is an isolating quality to this form of urban environment. The aggressive commitment to aesthetic uniformity is alienating. The callous and robotic nature of functionality takes absolute precedence in the design of a community. As a pedestrian, you quickly feel trapped by the lack of through roads. I find it easy to sympathise with the critiques, which go by the name lähiöproblematiikka. I walked these neighbourhoods extensively during my time in Kajaani, mostly in the early mornings. I barely saw anyone, mostly dog walkers. Those I did pass never looked at me, let alone offered a nod or a good morning.

Photo; Two paths intersect on the outskirts of Kajaani. Classic example of isolating nature of Kajaani. These two paths run into the woods in their respective directions for miles. They are pretty much always deserted, though everywhere there are spaces for single parties to stop and sit.

Mark Twain supposedly once said that ‘a lie will travel halfway around the world before the truth has got its boots on’.

In recent years, international media has been smitten with Finland, inspired by the fallacy that it is the world’s happiest country. This general fervour can be greatly attributed to the World Happiness Report.

Whilst not an outright lie, at least not according to the metrics used by the World Happiness Report, the popular fallacy is obscuring reality on the ground. Unhappiness prevails in small-town, post-industrial Finland, spurred by recent histories of harder, more melancholic times.

The truth, currently lacing its boots, is that suicide remains prevalent in Finland; moreover, the country’s young people are finding it increasingly difficult to keep their heads above water.

The World Happiness Report relies heavily on a concept known as the Cantril Ladder, which aims to measure how close individuals feel they are to the best possible life they can imagine. Naturally, Finland scores highly here. But the interpretation that this equals happiness is misguided. Taipo Niemi told me that Finns, by culture, tend to be pessimistic and modest. Finnish society is highly egalitarian. He said to me: ‘We often feel that we’ve already worked hard, and no matter how much more effort we put in, things couldn’t get significantly better, so perhaps it’s best to simply settle for the life we have. This feeling of powerlessness brings in unhappiness.’ Unfortunately, the Cantril Ladder makes exactly the opposite assumption.

I arranged to meet Taipo in Kajaani during my visit. He agreed to let me take his photograph. Two hours before we were due to meet, he cancelled. For the rest of my visit, my emails went unanswered. I had a similar experience with Heli Kortalinen. I’m extremely grateful to them and the rest of the people I spoke to in Kajaani for talking to me about their experiences with suicide, their own happiness, and the nature of life in the lesser-known corners of the happiest country in the world.

Photo; A simple house, typical of Kajaani suburbs. I think this is a nice representation of Finland’s current happiness as a whole. From the outside, this looks like a charming cottage, taken in lovely light just before dusk. Though look closer and the house is slightly decayed, paint is faded, lights are out, wood is chipped. Walking down roads and roads lined with this exact house also numbs their charm and starts to feel repetitive and isolating, can imagine Finnish suburbia feels like this for residents too.

Photo; Road signs in the neighbourhood of Hetteenmäki. A mile from Kajaani. Another reference to the zoning of Finnish suburbia. You’re either in a place or you’re between places. There is little blending of social functions. Neighbourhoods don’t have high streets where commerce and residential functions meet for example. Residential areas are distinctly separate from other social functions.

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