IZ SLOVENIJE, Z UPANJEM / FROM SLOVENIA, WITH HOPE

Za Slovenijo – z upanjem

Nizozemska parlamentarka, univerzitetna profesorica Maria Louise Videc se je od malega zanimala za svoje slovenske korenine in raziskovala, kako so se njeni predniki v začetku 20. stoletja naselili v Holandiji. Avtorica številnih strokovnih publikacij se z izseljensko povestjo, spomenikom slovenskemu človeku in vrednotam, izkazuje tudi kot izvrstna pisateljica.

Na Nizozemskem rojena avtorica se je od malega zanimala za svoje slovenske korenine in raziskovala, kako so se njeni predniki v prvih desetletjih 20. stoletja prek nemškega Po­rurja naselili v holandsko pokrajino Limburg. Pri pisanju te slovenske izseljenske povesti se je navdihovala ob njihovih zgodbah, ki jih je za knjižno objavo ustrezno priredila.

Knjiga je slavospev upanju, vztrajanju in – v času preizkušenj – zaupanju v Boga, ki so mlade Slovence vodili pri njihovi življenjsko pomembni odločitvi, da zapustijo domovino. Ob raziskovanju njihovih zgodb je avtorica ugotovila, kako pomembno vlogo so imeli pri tem katoliški duhovniki, ki so izseljencem v novem okolju nudili ključno oporo.

O avtorici

Univerzitetna profesorica Maria Louise Videc je predavala javno upravo na univerzah v Leidnu in Nijmegenu. Od leta 1999 je bila kot predstavnica krščansko-demokratske stranke 12 let članica zgornjega doma nizozemskega parlamenta ter članica in predsednica nizozemske parlamentarne delegacije v Parlamentarni skupščini Sveta Evrope, kjer je delovala v Odboru za pravne zadeve in človekove pravice.

Napisala je več knjig in člankov s področja javne uprave in upravljavske etike, revizije in evalvacije ter o sistemu Evropske konvencije o človekovih pravicah.

Odlomek iz knjige

Osmo poglavje – 1918, vrnitev domov

Bil je vrhunec poletja. Sonce je spet prinašalo obet zelo toplega dneva. Obdajala ga je tišina, samo murni so godli svoj enolični napev.

Počasi se je vzpenjal v hrib, vpijal je slast vsakega koraka. Bili so zadnji na njegovi neskončno dolgi poti domov. Ko je prišel do ljube domačije svojih staršev, je obstal. Negibno je strmel v prizor, kot bi bil razodetje. Slišal je bevskati psa in nato, delček sekunde zatem, ga je zagledal, kako dirja proti njemu, divje laja in – cvili. Njegov stari tovariš ga je prepoznal! Kljub bradi, dolgim lasem, razcapani in umazani obleki ga je pes prepo­znal in je cvilil od veselja. To veselje je bilo nalezljivo in pustil je, da ga prevzame. Potem je opazil mater, ki je gledala skozi okno, čemu tak direndaj. Mati je bila videti veliko starejša od podobe, ki se je je oklepal vsa ta dolga leta bridke osamljenosti. Še naprej ga je gledala, ne da bi se ganila, ne da bi zaklicala, ne da bi rekla besedo. Potem se je odmaknila od okna in ko jo je spet zagledal, je stala med vrati in še vedno strmela vanj. Takrat je spoznal, da mora priti k njej zelo, zelo počasi.

»Jože, moj Jože, si ti? Si to ti?«

»Ja, moja ljuba mama, jaz sem,« je rekel nežno, prijel mater za roke in jo objel.

Tedaj je svet spremenil barve. Mati je začela klicati moža, hčere in sinove in vsi so prišli in strmeli in jokali in se smejali. Hoteli so ga objeti, a so oklevali zaradi njegove krhkosti, odmaknjenosti, tujosti.

Oče se je postaral in bratje in sestre so bili v svoji odrasli mladosti zanj novi. Motril jih je s pogledom, za katerega se je zdelo, da prihaja od daleč, iz daljne stepe, iz večnosti.

Dan se kar ni hotel končati. Večer se ni končal, dokler jim ni povedal delčka svoje zgodbe. Poskušal je, res se je trudil, toda po nekaj urah je preprosto zaspal, kar na klopi, kjer je sedel. Moralo bo počakati. In lahko počaka. Svoboden je, prost, da ostane ali gre, kamor želi; prost, da naredi, kar želi. Že sama ta misel ga je opijanila od pričakovanja in radosti, toda tudi neznansko utrudila. Ne dneve, tedne bo potreboval, da bo povsem doma, doma z vsem srcem in dušo.

Naslednje jutro so ga prvi koraki vodili do kapelice, ki jo je postavil za domačijo. Pred kipcem Marije Pomagaj je bil šopek travniških cvetlic. Pokleknil je in molil – molil kot mnogokrat na svoji dolgi poti domov. Zahvalil se je Božji Materi za pomoč in vodstvo in ji ponovno zaupal svojo dušo.

V dneh, ki so sledili, je družini postopno povedal svojo zgodbo, zgodbo o dveh letih hoje, o pobegu iz ujetništva v daljnem, nepredstavljivo oddaljenem Uzbekistanu. Navedel jim je samo gola dejstva in še to le tista, ki jih je zmogel povedati. Čutil je, da se še ne more soočiti z vso zgodbo, z vsemi njenimi potlačenimi dogodki in trenutki globoke bridkosti in obupa. To bi bilo čustveno preobremenjujoče; zarezalo bi se mu v samo dušo. Morda bo nekaj od tega povedal kdaj kasneje, nekaterim od njih, toda ne zdaj, ne še, morda nikoli. […] (str. 72–73)

 

From Slovenia – with Hope

Dutch politician and university professor Maria Louise Videc, PhD, has been interested since her youth in her Slovenian roots and has explored her ancestors’ history of migration in the beginning of 20th century. With her first literary work, a monument to the Slovenian people and its values, the author reveals herself as a talented writer.

Maria L. Videc was born in The Netherlands. Interested since her youth in her Slovenian roots, she explored her ancestors’ history of migration, in the early decades of the 20th century, to the Dutch province of Limburg. Their stories inspired her to write this book on Slovenian migration, via the German Ruhr Area to the USA, but were adapted to fit this novel’s fiction.

The book celebrates hope, perseverance and – in times of adversity – trust in God, of young Slovenes making the life-changing choice to leave their homeland. The author’s research into their history made her appreciate the signifi­cant role played by Catholic clergy in actively supporting migrants in their new communities.


About the author

Maria L. Videc (1947) followed an academic career as Professor of Public Ad­ministration at the Universities of Leiden and Nijmegen. As from 1999 she also served for 12 years as Senator in the Netherlands Parliament (CDA - Christian Democratic Appeal), and as a member and chairperson of the Netherlands Parliamentary Delegation to the Parliamentary Assembly of the Council of Europe, where she was active in the Assembly’s Committee on Legal Affairs and Human Rights. She has published books and articles in the fields of public administration and administrative ethics, public audit and evaluation, and on the ECHR (European Convention on Human Rights) system.

Book excerpt

Chapter 8 – 1918, homecoming

It was the height of summer. The sun once more carried the promise of a very warm day. Silence sur­rounded him, only crickets scraping their monotonous chant.

He slowly walked up the hill, savoring every step. They were his last on the infinitely long road home. When he reached his beloved paternal farmstead, he stood still, very still, taking in the view as if it were a revelation. He heard the dog yelp, and then – a split second later – saw him running up to him, bark­ing like mad. His companion of old had recognized him! Despite his beard, his long hair, his shabby and smelly clothing, his dog had recognized him, going mad with joy. That joy was contagious, and he let it come to him. Then he saw his mother looking out of one of the open windows, to see what the commo­tion was all about. His mother was so much older than in the image he had been holding on to in the long years of bitter loneliness. She kept looking at him, not moving, not calling, and not saying a word. She then moved away from the window and when he saw her again, she was standing in the doorway, still staring at him. And then he knew that he had to come to her, very, very slowly. And he did, and she started to tremble all over and then to cry.

“Jože, moj Jože, is it you, is it you?”

“Ja, moja ljuba mama, it is me,” he said softly and took his mother’s hands and then took her in his arms.

Then the world changed its colors. His mother started screaming and shouting for her husband, daughters and sons, and they all came, and stared, and cried and laughed. And they wanted to hug him, but hesitated for his frailness, his aloofness, his strangeness.

His father had aged and his brothers and sisters were new to him in their grown youth. He stared at them, with a stare that seemed to come from a long way back, from the steppe, from eternity.

The day would not end. The night would not end, until he had told them a bit of his story. He tried, he really tried, but after a few hours he simply fell asleep, on the spot. It would have to wait. And it could wait. He was free, free to stay or to go where he wanted, free to do whatever he wanted. The very idea made him drunk with expectation and joy, but also endlessly tired. He would need not days, but weeks to be completely home, home with all his heart and his soul.

The next morning his first steps led him to the little chapel he had built behind the farmstead. There was a bunch of wildflowers in front of the statue of Marija Pomagaj. He knelt down and said a prayer – prayed many times during his long way home – thanking Her for Her help and guidance, and once more commending his soul to Her.

In the days that followed, he gradually told his family the story, his story of two years of walking, es­caping from captivity in far-away, unimaginably far-away Uzbekistan. He would only tell them the bare facts and at that only the ones he could bear to tell. He felt that he could not yet face the whole story, with all its undercurrents and moments of deep sorrow and despair. It would be emotionally too aggravating; it would gnaw at his very soul. He might tell some of it later, to some of them, but not now, not yet, and maybe never. […] (pp 73–74)