People of Two Houses

After the war, we built a shared house.

Not because we agreed on everything,

but because we had seen where division and force lead.

The foundations of the house were laid on human dignity, equality, and democracy.

It was not perfect, but it was ours.

It creaked at times. It was the sound of freedom.

Over time, the original spirit became buried under systems.

That is why the idea of restoration emerged.

To return to what carries us

and to make it visible in this time.

And people began to come.

From different rooms, through different doors.

In the old house, there were only those rooms

that made it a shared home.

A kitchen, where people meet in everyday life

and take care of one another.

A small chamber, where one pauses to think

and to ask why.

And a large common hall,

where things are done together

and shared responsibility turns into action.

They were not grand rooms.

But without them, the house was not shared.

At the same time, a new house began to rise next to the shared one.

Its foundations had been considered earlier,

but construction had been halted because of questions.

Why is a new house needed,

and whom is it meant for?

Then a new wealthy figure arrived.

He thought construction needed speed.

That waiting was too expensive

and deliberation too slow.

The new house rose quickly.

Its facade gleamed, and its interiors were lavish.

High halls, soft surfaces, carefully controlled light.

The new house was called shared,

but it was built as an empire.

Decisions were made quickly, from above and far away.

Many entered, drawn by the splendor.

Others stayed in the old house,

because they did not want to give up its load-bearing structures.

Only later did someone say it aloud.

The new house was not new.

It resembled the halls of rulers from centuries past.

Power was built into the walls.

It was not a home, but a machine.

The new house was not built of wood, but of concrete.

An efficient and predictable material.

The mold was made once,

and everything repeated in the same way.

Concrete does not creak.

It does not warn.

It lasts until it cracks.

The house was kept warm with oil.

The heat came quickly, but required constant supply.

It had to be brought from far away,

and because of that, some rooms were kept locked.

Gradually it became clear that the warmth was not free.

For a few to enjoy it,

many had to pay the price.

In the old house, the beams carried the load because they could bend.

There, warmth was created differently.

By using renewable energy.

From trust and shared humanity.

The new house was built on a green area.

A shared space where nothing permanent was meant to be built.

With a special permit. Everything was done “by the book.”

Still, paths were cut off.

The shared space grew smaller.

The new house is still under construction.

Nothing is permanent yet.

Structures can still be changed.

Choices can still be made differently.

That is why the construction phase is a decisive moment.

Will this house truly be completed, and for whom?

So the world began to resemble two houses.

One shone far and looked strong,

as long as concrete and fuel were available.

The other did not shine.

But it carried.

In the end, it was not about buildings,

but about values that became structures.

Because the new house is still unfinished,

nothing is final yet.

Still, many already find themselves living in the cold,

even as the radiators glow.

Something human is missing.

Not all of us have made a choice between the houses.

Some of us live in the in-between.

The old house no longer feels the same as before,

but the new one does not feel like home.

The in-between is an uncertain place.

But it is also an honest one.

There, the questions are still open.

And in the end, only one question remains:

Which house do you want to live in?