ENGLISH VERSION

OUR CITY

Our city is small. Especially if I think about many other cities, large, beautiful, important, capital cities, in which, most probably, the same kind of writing will be gaining shape. I would rather not
say how little we are living in this city.

But our city has been through a lot. That is what we say in our region, meaning that a person has gone through many ordeals and survived. Despite everything. No matter what. Nevertheless. Even
though. Although. Our city has lived through military conflicts, hunger, plague, Turkish raids. But this was before.

Today, our city is experiencing the same as other cities.
Easter recently brought blossoming trees in our city. New life has sprung. Trees, flowers, …, ignore the troubles of our city. They live. Happily. As the year before and another one before that. And the
other way round. For a long time, a long river has been passing through our city flowing further, always further. Stony streets of our city seem to be taken from a fairy-tale.

These days, our city smells of life in past centuries. It has huge cellars in which, in autumn, young wine sparkles. It has ancient walls all humid and imbued with stories of small people; parks, in which in spring new sympathies spin love for today and future days.

​This is our city. Was. Has been until recently. But they say that life is not a fairy-tale. And this writing is not a promotion for our city.
We have stopped. We have been stopped. Some say: “It is alright.” Others: “It is a scam.” In spite of everything, we have wisely remained, all of us, at a distance. Since the beginning of the reason
for this writing, there has been no newly infected.

But, yes, in fact, we have been infected for a long time with our city.
A bit in love with it, yes, this is true. Not all paths in this city are nice, there are no large avenues and high palaces nor underground trains. This city has bumpy roads and the overground train passes through it less and less. Façades of old buildings are decaying. Young people are leaving the city. With their heads full of knowledge to avoid feeling pains of an empty stomach. To larger
cities. Where are jobs. And opportunities.

But they do come back. Soon, as soon as possible, when it is possible. At least for a few days. In summer, for instance, when our city becomes a city of festivals (parties). But if not then, in autumn,
for a grape harvest. … Or at the latest for Christmas, Easter….

Because here, there is something that cannot be found elsewhere. At least not the same. This is the way we are; a small city means a lot to us. We might sound like “peasants”, perhaps we are not “urbanised”, yet. But this is how we are. And our city. We are somewhere on the edge, near the border, but limitless in our reverie. Soon, we shall switch off TV and computer screens, close this chapter and go out to socialise as we used to. In the analogue way, touching, with full contact. Our city has outlived different masters and dominant countries. It lived best when it ignored the borders.

When it wisely accepted diversity and inclusion. And worshipped follies – which have always been numerous until nowadays - at the Shrovetide season. Do come, all of you reading this, come as soon as it is possible. You might like it. Our city,
our people. We, we shall come to you.
ORIGINAL TEXT

Naše mesto

Naše mesto je majhno mesto. Če pomislim na mnoga druga mesta, tista velika, lepa, pomembna, prestolna mesta - kjer bodo verjetno nastajali podobni zapisi -, raje niti ne povem, kako malo nas
je, ki živimo v tem mestu.

Je pa naše malo mesto “dalo že veliko skoz”. Tako rečemo v naših krajih; da človek “da nekaj skoz”. To pomeni, da preživi. Kljub vsemu. Ne glede na. Dasiravno. Čeprav. Četudi.

Naše mesto je dalo skoz vojske, lakoto, kugo, turške vpade. A to je bilo nekoč. Danes naše mesto “daje skoz” to, kar dajejo skoz druga mesta. Velika noč je pred dnevi prinesla cvetoča drevesa v naše mesto. Pognalo je novo življenje. Drevesa, cvetje … ne vejo za trenutne tegobe našega mesta. Živijo. Veselo. Kot leto pred tem in
še eno pred tem. In tako nazaj. Skozi naše mesto že zelo dolgo teče dolga reka; naprej, zmeraj naprej. Kamnite ulice mesta so kakor iz pravljice.

Naše mesto diši te dni bolj po življenju minulih stoletij. Ima velike kleti, kjer jeseni mlado vino kipi. Stare zidove ima, vse vlažne in prepojene z zgodbami malih ljudi. Parke, kjer se pomladi predejo
mlade ljubezni današnjih, za jutrišnje dni. Takšno je naše mesto.
Bilo. Do še pred nekaj dni.

Ampak življenje, pravijo, ni pravljica. In tale zapis ne reklamno sporočilo za naše mesto. Ustavili smo se. Ustavili so nas. Nekateri rečejo: “Prav so storili.” Drugi: “Prevara”. Ampak smo ostali, eni in drugi, - pridno na distanci. Od začetka tegale - zaradi česar nastaja moja pisarija - nimamo niti enega novega okuženega.

​Ja, mi smo v bistvu vsi že dolgo okuženi - od našega mesta. Rahlo zatrapani vanj; ja, to ja. Ne, to mesto nima krasnih vseh poti … ne širokih alej in visokih palač, tudi podzemne železnice ne. Luknjaste ceste ima in železnica nad zemljo pripelje vse redkeje tod mimo. Pročelja starih hiš propadajo. Mladi odhajajo od tod z znanjem v glavah, da ne bi bilo luknje v trebuhu. Za kruhom v večja mesta. Kjer je delo. Kjer so priložnosti.

Vendar se vračajo. Takoj, čim prej, ko je le mogoče. Vsaj za nekaj dni. Poleti, denimo, ko je naše mesto mesto festivalov (beri: fešt). Če drugače ne gre, pa na jesen, na trgatev … Ali vsaj za božič, na veliko noč …

Ker pri nas nekaj je, kar drugod ni. Ne čisto enako, ne čisto tako. Mi smo pač taki; nam malo mestece veliko pomeni. Mogoče smo “kmetje”, mogoče še nismo “urbani”. A tako pač je z nami. In
našim mestom. Nekje na robu smo, blizu meje, ampak brezmejni v sanjarjenju. Kmalu bomo zaprli tv in računalniške ekrane; zaprli to poglavje, ter se šli družit lepo po starem. Analogno, na dotik, na ful
kontakt. Naše mesto je preživelo številne gospodarje in države.

Najbolje je živelo, ko se ni menilo za meje. Ko je modro sprejemalo različnost in vključevalo. Neumnosti pa častilo - in teh ni bilo nikoli, vse do današnjih dni malo - v pustnem času. Pridite, vi, ki to berete, k nam, ko bo mogoče. Mogoče bo všeč tudi vam. Naše mesto, naši ljudje. Mi. Mi bomo prišli k vam.

Samo M. Strelec

Samo M. Strelec is an established theatre creator connected with Ptuj in his heart and soul. In the 90's, he directed a theatre group Zato. (Therefore.), from which emerged the re-professionalization of the Ptuj City Theatre. He was the artistic director of Ptuj City Theatre from 1997 to 2001, initiator of the idea of Festival of Monodrama, Young Playwrights Contest and Slovene Festival of Chamber Theatre (SKUP). From 2001 to 2006, he acted as the program and artistic director of the Slovene National Theatre Drama Maribor. He is one of the founders of the theatre portal SiGledal and the
founder of the Novi Zato Institute.
Facebook

Discover more