Näidendite andmebaas

Late 1950s, Tartu, Estonia. War. But this time, it’s between two schools: one Estonian, one Russian. An Estonian girl named Tiina throws a raw egg at a Russian boy called Vova. It hits him square in the forehead. And what better beginning could there be for a friendship?
Burning Cities is a stage adaptation of Kai Aareleid’s novel, written by the author herself. The play moves through time with the rhythm of memory. It begins in the late 1950s and early 1960s, then flows backward into the 1940s – into war, into silence, into what came before.
At its heart is Tiina, a girl growing up amidst secrets. Her father, Peeter, is respected in public, but lost to a card game addiction privately. Her mother, Liisi, is cautious, graceful, and shaped by a past she never speaks of. Tiina sees more than she’s meant to: her parents’ arguments, their distance, the quiet disappearances. In Vova, she finds something like freedom. In her neighbour Ida, she finds warmth. In herself, she carries the burden of knowing too much, too young, growing up far too fast.
This is a story about the inheritance of silence, shame, loss, and survival. It asks how much children absorb from the things their parents never say. It illustrates how a country’s trauma can become ingrained in the walls of its homes. But what happens when we finally begin to remember?
In wartime, secrets are a means of survival. People hide things from each other – until silence becomes a habit, even peace can’t undo. The language of Burning Cities carries that same weight. It’s restrained, poetic, and charged with tension. What remains unspoken is just as powerful as what’s said.