,,HOW MY (SLAVIC) HOOD MADE ME WHO I AM NOW“
English version bellow
Sídlisko v mestskej časti Dolné hony, v ktorom som vyrastala a čiastočne v ňom stále aj vyrastám, bolo postavené v 70. rokoch minulého storočia, ako súčasť výstavby okrajových častí mesta Bratislavy. Obyvatelia centra si myslia, že ho obývajú iba ľudia na hranici chudoby, drogovo závislí či prostitútky. Primárne sú to mladé rodiny, dôchodci, ktorí tieto byty dostali za zlomok dnešnej ceny počas bývalého režimu. Napriek tomu, dostalo naše sídlisko nálepku ghetta, bez šance to zmeniť. Stali sme sa súčasťou fenoménu postsocialistického mesta, kde žijeme medzi betónovými panelmi, nafarbenými veselými farbami, aby sme nemali pocit, že je to skutočne depresívne.
Cieľ socialistických tvorcov sídlisk postaviť obytné štvrte, kde si ľudia budú bližší, viedlo v architektonickej vízii k nacpaniu obyvateľov do malých bytov a ešte menších izieb. To malo v praxi opačný efekt, v podobe rozširujúceho sa asociálneho správania, zvýšenie kriminality a neexistenciu komunity. Pravdou je, že vznikli identické sídliska bez charakteru. Vyhovovali architektom vlády a režimu, ktorý to financoval - všetkým, okrem samotných obyvateľov.
Druhý extrémny prístup prišiel zmenou režimu v roku 1989. Od štátom plánovanej ekonomiky, sme vošli do sveta voľného trhu západného kapitalizmu, čo spôsobilo iba ďalší chaos. Novej role sídliskových architektov, sa chopili developéri bez citu k urbanizmu, ekológií a estetike, s primárnym cieľom zvyšovať profit. Dostali sme sa do bodu, kedy nám nechýbajú komunisti, ale nepáčia sa nám ani kapitalisti, pretože rovnaké problémy iba obalili do farebnej fasády. Povojnové a moderné štvrte nás nepriviedli k vysnívanej utópií, naopak, začal sa prehlbovať pocit odcudzenia a deštrukcie.
V mojom prípade odcudzenie neprichádzalo iba medzi susedmi ale aj vo vlastnej rodine.
V detstve sme si s rodičmi nemohli dovoliť vlastný podnájom a museli bývať šiesti ľudia v trojizbovom byte so starými rodičmi. Paradoxne to naše puto neprehĺbilo a pri každom probléme, sa niekto schoval pred ostatnými do izby alebo odišli preč z bytu. Jediné puto, ktoré vydržalo všetky konflikty, je medzi mnou a mojou matkou.
Čím som bola staršia, tým viac sa moje úniky medzi betónové panely a na rozpadnuté ihriská, stali zvykom a začala som si vytvárať celoživotné priateľstvá, ktoré nás naučili vzájomnej lojalite, pretože tá je tým najvzácnejším. Na sídliskových lavičkách sme snívali, smiali sa, plakali či skladali sa na prvé cigarety a alkohol. Zažili sme tam prvé lásky a prehováranie rodičov, aby sme mohli zostať dlhšie vonku. Zažili sme tam aj prvý kontakt s odvrátenou stránkou života na sídlisku, kedy nás šikanovali, zastrašovali, zbili alebo okradli starší agresívni jedinci.
Napriek tomu, sme sa chránili pred deštruktívnymi vplyvmi a ľuďmi, spoločne sme sa vychovali, podporovali, kryli si chrbát a dali si občas viac, ako naše pokrvné rodiny - robíme to doteraz. Naše prostredie nás naučilo viac ako len loajalite, aj odolnosti, nebojácnosti a mať nádej na lepšie zajtrajšky.
Postupne sa náš kruh zmenšoval, niektorí sa presťahovali, prestali chodiť do školy a už sme ich nestretli cez prestávky. Niektorí prešli do partií, kde sa skúšali alebo predávali drogy, niektorí už nie sú medzi nami a s niektorými sme si jednoducho prestali rozumieť. Väčšinu z nich požula realita bývania v zanedbanej časti mesta, ktorou naše sídlisko počas dospievania jednoznačne bolo a z určitej časti, stále je. Nie všetci dostali príležitosť ísť na školy a následne do zamestnania, ktoré ich posunulo mimo nie len sídliska, ale v niektorých prípadoch aj do zahraničia. Nedostali možnosť a chýbala im oporná štruktúra rodiny, vďaka ktorej, by spoznali svet z iných uhlov. Ich myslenie sa vplyvom okolia neustále degradovalo, obmedzilo na základné životné problémy, bez potreby prehlbovať vlastnú existenciu. My, čo sme sa dostali zo sídliska, sme túžili žiť život komplexnejšie, pretože príležitosti a nové perspektívy, tu na rozdiel od stoviek panelákov, vybudované neboli.
Môj malý kruh zo sídliska ostal už viac ako desať rokov nezmenený. Časť z neho sa rozhodla ostať tu, s vidinou komfortu známeho útočiska a s potrebou ostať s rodinou. Svet vonku je pre nich príliš veľký, neznámy a sídlisko ich nepripravilo čeliť faktu, že vonku sa musia spoľahnúť iba sami na seba. Všetky problémy vždy riešili spoločne - či už s rodinou alebo kamarátmi.
Pre druhú časť predstavuje rovnaké prostredie krok späť, diskomfort osamelých rodinných vzťahov a miesto stagnácie, ktoré im viac berie ako ponúka. Nechceli celý život vidieť tie isté budovy s odkazom na režim, ktorý architekti ich domova hystericky zromantizovali. Prijali samotu života v zahraničí, kde občas nemáte komu zavolať a ísť sa porozprávať na sídliskovú lavičku, medzi farebné panely.
Viktoria Bončová__2024
@viktoriaboncova
@viktoriaboncova
"HOW MY (SLAVIC) HOOD MADE ME WHO I AM NOW"
The housing estate in the Dolné Hony district, where I grew up and still partly live, was built in the 1970s as part of the construction of the outskirts of Bratislava. The inhabitants of the centre imagine that it is inhabited only by people on the poverty line, drug addicts or prostitutes. The truth is that these are primarily young families and pensioners who got these flats for a fraction of today's prices during the former regime. Despite this, our neighbourhood has been labelled a ghetto, with no chance of changing this. We have become part of the phenomenon of the post-socialist city, where we live among concrete panels, painted in cheerful colours in an attempt not to make it feel really depressing.
The aim of the socialist creators of the neighbourhoods was to build residential districts where people would be closer to each other led, in the architectural vision, to cramming the inhabitants into small flats and even smaller rooms. This had the opposite effect in reality, in the form of increasing anti-social behaviour, a rise in crime and a lack of sense of community. The reality is that identical housing estates without character came into reality. They suited the architects of the government and the regime that financed it - suited everyone except the residents themselves.
The second extreme approach came with the regime change in 1989. From a state-planned economy, we entered the free-market world of Western capitalism, which only caused further chaos. The new role of neighbourhood architects was taken on by developers with no sense of urbanism, ecology and aesthetics, with the primary aim of increasing profit. We have reached a point where we don't miss the communists, but we don't like the capitalists either, because they have merely wrapped the same problems in a colourful façade. The post-war and modern neighbourhoods did not lead us to the dream utopia; on the contrary, the feeling of alienation and destruction began to deepen.
In my case, the alienation came not only among my neighbours but also in my own family. During my childhood, my parents and I were unable to afford our own sublet and had to live with six people in a two-bedroom flat with my grandparents. Paradoxically, this didn't deepen our bond and whenever there was a problem, someone would hide from the others in their room or walk away from the apartment. The only bond that has endured all the conflicts is the one between me and my mother.
The older I got, the more my escapes among the concrete panels and onto the crumbled playgrounds became a habit, and I began to form lifelong friendships that taught us loyalty to each other, because that is the most valuable thing. On the estate benches, we dreamed, laughed, cried or saved up together for our first cigarettes and alcohol. It was there that we experienced first loves and coaxing our parents to let us stay out longer. We also had our first contact with the other side of hood life, when we were bullied, intimidated, beaten or robbed by older aggressive individuals.
Despite this, we protected ourselves from destructive influences and people, brought each other up together, supported each other, had each other's backs and gave each other often more than our blood families did at times - we still do to this day. Our environment taught us more than just loyalty, it also taught us resilience, fearlessness and to have hope for a better tomorrow.
Gradually our circle got smaller, some moved away, stopped going to school and we didn't see them over breaks anymore. Some moved on to groups where they tried or dealt drugs, some are no longer with us, and some we just stopped getting along with. Most of them were consumed by the reality of living in a deprived part of town, which our housing estate clearly was during our adolescence and, to some extent, still is. Not all of us were given the opportunity to go to universities and subsequently to jobs that moved them out of not only the hood, but in some cases, even abroad. Some didn't get the opportunity and they lacked the support structure of a family that would have allowed them to experience the world from different angles. Their thinking was constantly degraded by the influence of their surroundings, limited to the basic problems of life, without the need to deepen their own existence. Us, who got out of the neighbourhood, longed to live life more comprehensively, because opportunities and new perspectives were not built here, unlike in hundreds of prefabricated houses.
My small hood circle has remained unchanged for more than a decade. Part of it has chosen to stay here, with the comfort of a familiar sanctuary and the need to stay with family. The world outside is too big, too unknown for some of them, and the hood hasn't prepared them to face the fact that out there they have only themselves to rely on. Previously they had always solved all their problems together - whether with family or friends.
For others, the same environment represents a step backwards, the discomfort of solitary family relationships and a place of stagnation that is more taking from them than it offers. They didn't want to see the same buildings all their lives, with reference to the regime that the architects of their homes had hysterically romanticised. They embraced the solitude of life abroad, where sometimes you have no one to call and go talk to on a neighbourhood bench, among the brightly coloured concrete panels.
Viktoria Bončová__2024
@viktoriaboncova
@viktoriaboncova