Author
Nina Stankovič
That possibility, however, is not a given. It will not be enough to repeatedly present the public with lists of adopted laws, reforms, and measures. Lists, in and of themselves, do not persuade. If political continuity is to be a realistic option, it will exist only if achievements are embedded in a coherent and convincing story—one in which people can recognize themselves, not merely be informed.
A familiar pattern has long repeated itself in Slovenian politics. The left typically presents solutions: reforms, laws, and measures—primarily positions. The right, by contrast, presents a story: values, identity, and emotions. This difference is not new, but during elections it can become decisive—especially when the outcome is not determined by the percentage won by a single party, but by the ability to form a majority.
Elections are rarely decided at the level of programmatic detail. They are decided at the level of emotions—or, more precisely, at the level of feeling. On whether voters sense that politics understands their lives, their concerns and joys, whether it speaks their language, and whether they can trust it to know what it is doing. On this level, the right often appears more convincing. That does not mean it has solutions—or that those solutions are good for society at large. Often, the opposite is true.
Elections are decided at the level of emotions—or, more precisely, at the level of feeling.
Today, the right increasingly builds its narrative on fear: fear of difference, fear of change, even fear of environmental policies, migration, emancipated women, and a supposed “elite.” This pattern is not unique to Slovenia. It is the same political reflex we see with Donald Trump in the United States and with the far right elsewhere in Europe: patriotism intertwined with exclusion, values infused with hostility. The story exists—but it is often destructive.
The left-liberal camp, however, finds itself in a paradoxical position. On the one hand, it rightly rejects such politics. On the other, it often fails to offer a sufficiently strong alternative—not because it lacks substance, but because it is trapped in its own insularity: in language, references, and priorities that are self-evident within political and intellectual circles, but far less so outside them. This insularity is not necessarily intentional, but it has real consequences—it creates an impression of distance, incomprehension, and sometimes even condescension.
Here another fault line in the Slovenian political landscape becomes apparent. It is hard to overlook that most of Slovenia is not Ljubljana—nor Maribor. There are different lived experiences, different relationships to work, community, and the state, as well as to leisure and popular culture. Most of Slovenia is rural. And there, the left—sometimes trapped in its own intellectual bubble—often comes across as aloof, distant, even arrogant. If it once held that left-wing parties represented the working class, today the right does this more successfully. The left increasingly addresses primarily educated, urban constituencies.
This shift is, of course, not accidental. We saw a similar process in the United States, where the Democratic and Republican parties gradually swapped electoral bases in the second half of the twentieth century—a process that began even before Reagan and was consolidated during his presidency. A comparable phenomenon can be observed in Slovenia, although it is rarely discussed. Today’s SDS was once a social democratic party, rooted in part in a working-class electorate; over three decades, it has transformed into a distinctly conservative, at times far-right party. The left, meanwhile, has not always realized in time that it was losing touch with a segment of voters it once represented as a matter of course.
Values express what matters to us—and they are the part of politics in which people first recognize themselves. Positions come later, when the discussion turns to how those values are implemented. Politics that begins with positions quickly slides into divisions; politics that begins with values leaves room for connection.
The left has long had these values embedded in its policies. The challenge, therefore, is not content, but the inability to consistently translate it into a story that is understandable, inclusive, and persuasive. Reluctance toward populism is part of the problem. But populist does not necessarily mean cheap or irresponsible. It means speaking in human terms. Speaking from people’s lived experiences. Translating complex policies into the language of everyday life.
In this context, another feature of the Slovenian political space is worth noting. Voters look for a politician they can identify with, but also someone they can trust to lead the country. And yet, leadership of the state is often entrusted to people without experience—as if we believe politics can be learned on the job.
It cannot. Politics is a craft. And just as a prime minister gains experience, learns the craft, and builds relationships at home and abroad, four years pass. It is telling that the last prime minister to successfully renew his mandate consecutively was Janez Drnovšek—back in the late 1990s. Since 2011, Slovenian politics has increasingly revolved in a vicious circle of constant new beginnings, interrupted by short interludes of Janša-led governments, instead of building on political maturity.
On the other side, the right has for decades invested in the continuity of a single figure—regardless of defeats, scandals, or changes in the political environment. This is not necessarily about content, but about understanding that people often seek stability, recognizability, and a story that endures.
And here we arrive at the core of the upcoming elections. What will matter is not only who wins the most votes. What will matter is who is able to form a government. If left-liberal parties truly wish to preserve this possibility, they will have to transcend minor differences and place them within a shared framework—not in the logic of budget negotiations, articles, and percentages, but in a clear political vision of a common direction. As they knew how to do before the 2008 elections.
This is not a question of tactics or vote arithmetic. It is a question of political maturity. And above all, a question of story.
Politics, in the long run, does not survive by being right. It survives on trust—on the sense that it knows where it is going and why. Solutions are necessary; without them, there is no governing. But without a story that weaves them into a meaningful whole, they remain cold and distant.
If the left wants to preserve the possibility of continuity, it will have to do exactly that: build a story out of its solutions—one in which people can recognize themselves. A story of meaning. A story of community.
Because in the end, voters do not vote on programs, but on whom they believe truly understands them.