Sometimes life scatters us like dandelion lights in the wind. We each find our own direction and get stuck at our own end. But there are bonds that time does not dissipate. Our group is one of them, with more than twenty souls scattered around Slovenian cities, from Ilirska Bistrica to Koper, Ljubljana and Maribor.
We are children of the place that shaped us. Some of us first roared here, some of us came here later, but we all grew up here; by the Bistrica stream, by St George's Church, among the old town houses with a rich history and among the famous faces.
We are the Bistrica Crybabies. Not by surname or official address, but by heart. Our Plac was a lively corner of our town Ilirska Bistrica and more than just a geographical point. It was the centre of life. Mill wheels turned along the Bistrica stream, the barbershop smelled of cologne, the Bistrica bakery offered the smell of freshly baked bread free of charge, the bus station offered routes into the distance, the firefighters were heroes, and the Triglav restaurant was a shrine to good brunches. In Plac, we met the poet Makso Samsa, who, wearing boots and with an umbrella stuck in her rucksack, recited her poems. They were like a prayer that brought people together.
Even though today we live scattered in towns and villages, we meet monthly and yearly to return to the place of our childhood memories. It is then that we tell each other the stories we carry inside. We write about them, we read them, we listen to them, we contribute a memory, an anecdote, we publish them in the local newspaper. Each story is like a pebble in a mosaic in the common chronicle of a place that has marked us. Even though we live elsewhere now, the place calls us back. We speak the vernacular - not out of habit, but out of respect. The Bistrian tongue is our bridge, our language, it is proof that we are Bistriški placarje. Our plaza is not just a place, it is our story, where we are. It is a sign of belonging.
I recently visited Koper. Something quite ordinary - a café, a view of the sea, the sun, a visit to the shops. In the café I see Rudi, the Bistrian placer. A look, a smile, a handshake and a hug; we knew we belonged to the same world. The meeting was not just a coincidence, it was a reminder that Plac lives in us, that it finds us wherever we are. Such encounters are like an umbrella; they open over us and protect us from oblivion. Belonging is not just a place, it is understanding someone you meet who understands your story because it is theirs.
The square is no longer what it was. The mills have fallen silent, the poets' songs are gone forever, the former townspeople have said their goodbyes, but Plac lives on in us. It is not just a name, it is an identity. It is a story without end.
Our belonging has its own voice, its own melody and beautiful words, embodied in the Bistrica anthem Beeping, beeping clear water, clear water Bistr'ca. The Bistrica is not just water, it is a symbol. It is a stream of time that does not carry us away, but connects us. The anthem reminds us of jumping into the water as children, watching the millers and the singing saws. The song was written out of respect for the place, for the people, out of a desire to preserve it and not let it fade into oblivion. The anthem became more than just a pleasant melody. It is even sung at funerals as a tribute to the deceased who belonged to this place. It is about belonging and paying tribute to life.
Belonging is not inherited, it is felt. When we sing the anthem, we are not just singing words, but singing about love, which serves as proof that we are home.
Bernarda Jenko, 22 Aug 2025
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