We are so pleased to publish a new and timely blog post by Ashi Al-Kahwati that discusses documentation and memorialisation efforts in Syria. Together with Johanna Mannergren Selimovic she has written a new report on new and ground-breaking transitional justice initiatives.
With the conflict in Syria being frozen, peace seems far away, raising questions of whether there ever will be justice for Syrians. With the war still ongoing, how would this kind of justice look like? How to commemorate the losses and pain – before peace has come? Ashi Al-Kahwati has investigated new and ground-breaking transitional justice initiatives.
By Ashi Al-Kahwati
The war in Syria has been going on for almost a decade with immense destruction with at least 180,000 people killed, 100 000 disappeared, and over 11 million displaced. Attempts by the international community to end the war have so far failed. Most areas are now back under government control, with Assad consolidating his power. However, while the peace in Syria might be distant, various actors, such as Syrian civil society organisations, the diaspora, Syrian and international lawyers, are pursuing ways to hold the government accountable for their crimes through various TJ mechanisms.
Some of these initiatives have been further explored in a recent mapping of transitional justice mechanisms in Syria by me and Johanna Mannergren Selimovic, presented in the UI paper Addressing Atrocity in Syria. New Challenges for Transitional Justice. What emerges are some rather incredible and innovative efforts such as employing international jurisdiction to hold perpetrators accountable, large-scale documentation collection, displaying street-art digitally as a space for commemoration, and preparing for reparation through new documentation techniques among the dislocated population to reverse property expropriation
These new developments have, in turn, garnered new insights regarding timing, spaces and actors of transitional justice. Regarding timing, transitional justice is being transformed from a primarily post-conflict activity to something that happens in parallel to peace-making. Several documentation and memorialisation efforts show this.
The Syrian war is the most documented in history, making the documentation process in Syria essential in several ways, according to Noha Aboueldahab (2018). She sees documentation as a powerful form of non-violent resistance to an ongoing violent conflict and argues that documentation of the Syrian conflict should be viewed as a stand-alone mechanism within transitional justice. According to Aboueldahab, “writing atrocities is, in and of itself, a healing process that acknowledges and remembers victimisation” (ibid, 1-2: 30).
Other powerful forms of acknowledgement and remembrance of victims in the Syrian war has been through artistic expressions such as the initiative by Creative Memory, a digital platform that has a space for the preservation of artworks. It contains more than 11,500 artistic expressions, including graffiti, murals, photos, poems, songs and theatre performances that have been produced during the revolution and the ensuing conflict. As such, the Creative Memory project documents and memorialises the horrific experiences that the Syrian population has suffered over the last decade and engages actively in an ongoing dialogue and commentary.
The traditional spaces of transitional justice are changing too and moving into the digital arena. This also allows new actors to participate to a greater extent, e.g., diasporas, and has enabled increased cooperation between groups. For instance, the fact that Syria is the most documented war in history has led to vast troves of documental evidence that is being shared amongst the Syrian diaspora in loosely coordinated networks on different social media platforms. We can hence see that transitional justice can take the form of crowd-sourcing, which has made it possible for the Syrian diaspora to engage more actively in transitional justice efforts.
Thus, these initiatives show that the quest for justice has not been put on hold but is ongoing in the midst of conflict, challenging the normative assumptions of transitional justice, making git possible to respond to the challenge of frozen and ongoing conflicts. I believe this is much needed since Syria clearly illustrate the changing nature of war and peace as persistent, ongoing or frozen, which in turn makes it more intractable and difficult to resolve which undoubtedly also has implications for peace-building attempts and the pursuit of justice.
While there is critique towards the research field of TJ of lacking clarity as to how to respond to the changing nature of war and conflicts, our mapping does highlight that transitional justice for Syria is already ongoing and influencing both the current conflict and the future peace.
Ashi Al-Kahwati is Program Manager, Middle East and North Africa Programme at the Swedish Institute of International Affairs
We have a new and highly topical blog post by architect and anthropologist Carlos Salamanca Villamizar. Writing about Latin America, he argues there is a need to engage with memory of our recent past, in order to understand violence in the form of inequality, urban and regional segregation, racism, extractivism and other controversial issues from contemporary history.
By Carlos Salamanca Villamizar
New political winds are blowing everywhere, and Latin American countries are not an exception. In the last five years and around the world, we have seen the becoming of a new political era based on reactionary and conservative policies, mostly built under virulent speeches facilitated by social media and fake news, and a context where the boundaries between politics and spectacle are —again— invisible. Of course, this is not recent, and multiple features of conservative expressions of power are arising in different parts of the world and at different scales, being Trump and Bolsonaro’s rhetoric the most visible manifestations of these new times. Fear/hate for immigrants, fear/hate for Black people, violence against indigenous peoples and social leaders, everything happening under a dramatic plot: a mounting global grammar supporting racism and nationalism, naturalizing exclusion and segregation, justifying violence, and relativizing environmental destruction, and there are not feelings of embarrassment in it.
Latin American societies have undergone similar regressive times concerning rights, especially in 1970 and 1980, when dictatorships ruled several countries under the Cold War paradigm. Nevertheless, what we are now seeing is several societies backing conservative governmental proposals that clearly go against the recent advances made in Human Rights recognition.
At least during the last two decades, memory has gained a privileged place in public concern. In fact, memory has become central, as Andreas Huyssen argued in Present Past (2003), even if in the last years because of the uses and abuses of memory, “Memory fatigue has set in”. Latin American States have firmly insisted on Nunca Más paradigm, on the idea of avoiding torture, murder, disappearance… a “Never Again” against authoritarian responses in the face of social complexities. But today, phantoms from the past seem to haunt our times here and there. What has happened?
We want to suggest that we could find the answers in the past, and in the way we have been dealing with it. Direct violence and violence addressed to specific people have been prioritized by researchers, activist and legal agents in post-traumatic contexts all over the world, and this was logical. Deaths, disappearances, tortures, human rights violations, have been deeply rejected by victims, national societies and the human rights global community. Thus, the question about direct violence (its causes, its shapes, its consequences), has dominated the work made on memory in several countries having violent pasts (South Africa, Rwanda, Argentina, Guatemala and, more recently, Colombia), and, in general, the debates about traumatic legacies.
The “classic” memory agenda that used to emphasize murders, massacres, disappearances, and other human rights violations had the potential to gain social rejection and simultaneously become audible to some parts of the societies. The emphasis made on the clearer effects of violence in individuals and communities was very useful to create the “Never More” paradigm. Nevertheless, due to its inordinate scale, this violence was increasingly haunted by a past aroma, and remembered in symbolic dates and less and less useful to understand numerous burning issues from our present times. Due to the way it has been created as a social field, memory has not only progressively been challenged by parts of our societies but has also been turning away from several sectors’ needs and concerns, such as (depending on country) popular classes, indigenous peoples, factory workers, young unemployed people, among others.
We need a memory of our recent past, as it could be useful to understand inequality, urban and regional segregation, racism, extractivism and other controversial issues from our contemporary history. In order to do this, we should consider a memory able to include insights about the way violence has modified and, in a certain way, defined our ideas about issues like citizenship, cities configuration, public space, progress, development, agricultural or industrial production, poverty, environment, slums dynamics, frontiers, or national sovereignty.
This new memory perspective is linked to a new definition of violence that underlies the fact that violence not only “destroys” people’s lives, social organizations, social or natural environments; violence also creates, produces and generates new territories, landscapes, spatial configurations and, in consequence, new societies.
In my own comparative research work with indigenous peoples in Argentina, Colombia, and Guatemala, I found plenty of examples that show how violence practices indigenous peoples have been subjected to are far more complex and diverse than direct violence. Violence can be materialized in regional planning projects like the “Aldeas Modelos” one, implemented in the 1980’s in Guatemala: indigenous were forced to settle in the context of counter-insurgency policies. On their part, during the last dictatorship (1976-1983) qom indigenous peoples in Argentine Chaco region underwent a set of policies oriented to transform them into “truly Argentine citizens”, productive, “domesticated” and respectful of government. The social production of these “new men” was accompanied by a set of spatial policies in the region: infrastructure works, nationalistic commemorations of region’s colonization, a massive plan for changing places’ names – mostly to include military hero names, and large-scale actions to destroy nature with agricultural purposes.
Finally, in Colombia, besides direct violence, indigenous peoples are suffering today the consequences of systematic governmental authorizations —given in the context of armed conflict— to extractive industries for mining purposes in their territories, thus radically transforming, polluting and degrading them.
Those cases are clear examples of socio-spatial violence practices that harm indigenous peoples individually and collectively, and threaten their existence as a people. Research work made on memory, on the links between violence and neoliberal mining activities, infrastructure works, nature destruction and regional planning is therefore central.
These ideas could be extended to other populations and be useful to understand the present effects of government practices in contexts of State violence, as well as to think about more radical, extensive and transformative practices of justice.
Carlos Salamanca is a Colombian architect and anthropologist. He is a Research Fellow at Consejo Nacional de Investigaciones Científicas y Tecnológicas (CONICET) in Argentina.
One of the main challenges for societies in transition is for victims to recover from processes of dehumanization, and the restoration of their human dignity. Yet this process is seldom conceptualized. In Working Paper no. 3 Sandra Milena Rios Oyola proposes an analytical framework to study the role of human dignity in transitional justice.
The 7 April is one of the most significant dates in Rwanda’s official calendar. This is the day that the genocide began in 1994 and today it is national holiday marking the beginning of a period of commemoration and mourning calledKwibuka– meaning to remember in Kinyarwanda. Kwibukalasts a full one hundred days – the duration of the genocide. While many of the official events happen in the first week, various commemoration events are organised around the country on the specific dates significant to that place, normally when the massacre of the local Tutsi population took place.
Participating for the first time in Kwibuka events this year, I was struck by the eclectic mix of formats integrated into these events. Before travelling to Rwanda, I had been expecting emotionally charged events that focus strongly on survivor testimony. Most events I visited did indeed also include one or two testimonies by survivors. However, the commemorations are also highly official events that are planned down to the minute with sometimes a dozen speeches, always including a lecture on the history of Rwanda, as well as speeches by the most important dignitaries present. These are then complemented by sermons by local clergymen, when it is a religious commemoration event (given the loci of much of the killing in and around churches this is quite common), or by official Kwibuka songs sung by bands or choirs. Unsurprisingly, with the official nature of these commemorations come the practices and conventions typical of such events with long speeches, the pleasantries of dignitary speeches and the inevitable delays until the most important officials arrive with hundreds of survivors and other visitors waiting, often in the hot midday heat.
By my cursory observation it seemed that the testimonies were the most significant parts of these commemorations, even if they were difficult for other survivors to hear and sometimes re-traumatised one of the listening survivors. They are of deep relevance to many survivors as they can relate their own experiences to them and it renders their own memories significant. It seemed to be cause for regret that there were not more testimonies, and attention dwindled during the more official speeches.
Noticeably absent from many of the events were the younger generation. It is possible that the official format and the sheer length of the events proves too daunting to young people. A different picture emerged at a theatre and dance performance by the performance group Mashirika. Gisozi amphitheatre was packed with young people, crowding in, sitting on steps or any space they could find. The modern dance and music performance told stories of loss and reconciliation but from the perspective of ‘Generation 25’, those born since the genocide or too young to remember it. The standing ovations that erupted at the end of the performance told a story of how young people in urban and modernised Kigali can be engaged to think about the past and its meaning today.
Kwibuka is an emotionally fraught period, when people remember, mourn and miss their loved ones, but it is also an important time of political consolidation and consideration, the government seizing the opportunity to remind their citizens of the official version of Rwandan history, warn against genocide ideology and promote their vision of unity and reconciliation for the country. With a government whose central legitimation for rule is founded in their liberation from the genocide this narrative is important to impart on the entire population.
But as increasing numbers of young people who have no experience of the genocide themselves grow up, it is questionable whether the standard format of commemoration will suffice. Instead, the variety of formats needed to engage this next generation of Rwandans growing up in a society no longer officially defined by ethnic divisionism will likely need to expand and transform. While it will remain important to remember the needs of the survivor population, so that they are afforded a space to remember, mourn and commemorate in ways that are meaningful to them, the government will need to engage the next generation in ways that are significant to them, too, if they want to maintain the legitimacy afforded to them through the liberation of the country from genocide.
In this blog post we present the poignant volume ‘Reconstructions – The Troubles in Photographs and Words’. It is a rare work that combines photographs and poems, capturing and blending personal and collective memories of the Northern Ireland conflict. The photos are by world-renowned photographer Bobbie Hanvey who took some of the iconic photos of the Trouble’s defining moments. The poems are by his son Steafán Hanvey, who is a singer-songwriter and poet. We invited Steafán to write about his own relation to memory and art and how it speaks to the memory politics of Northern Ireland. Below, in his blog post, he notes that his father’s photos acted ‘as portals, not only to the past but to the future’.
At the end of the post there are links from the audiobook to three of the gripping prose-poems read by Steafán Hanvey, each linked to Bobbie Hanvey’s powerful pictures. We are very happy and grateful to be able to introduce this work in the context of our research into multi-layered memorywork.
By Steafán Hanvey
I slipped into this world between Bloody Sunday and Bloody Friday – on June 22nd 1972 – the same day the IRA considered calling a ceasefire if certain conditions were met; but it wasn’t to be, and the conflict raged on for the next twenty-odd years of my life.
Fast forward to the IRA ceasefire in 1994 – my final year at university – and I’m working as a sound-engineer for a production company in Belfast. Somewhat ironically, for it wasn’t until then – with the Troubles next to over – that I decided to up and leave Northern Ireland for snowier climes in neutral Finland. My intention was to never look back, and I didn’t, at least not until almost two decades later when I set about writing and recording my second long-play record, Nuclear Family.
This intensely personal album forced me to begin sifting through my memories and experiences. I soon realised that the public and political face of Northern Ireland was pressed hard against the window of my private and personal world. In short, my family couldn’t be explained in isolation. After years of ‘whatever you say, say nothing’, I felt the time was nigh to say something, so I ceased ‘houling my whisht’. As an artist, that something had always troubled me, and making Nuclear Family made me realise that though I had never written explicitly about Northern Ireland, Northern Ireland had, in fact, written me.
While I do believe that it is necessary to look back in order to learn from the past, at the same time, to do so comes with its own inherent risks. In ‘The Most Trying of Colours (The Trickler)’, from my first collection of poems Reconstructions – the Troubles in Photographs and Words, I write:
The history-hoarders should quit
keeping score, for numbers
are dead weights and drag a body down …
But swamps and subduction zones were far from my mind when about two years back I received a black-and-white photograph from my father, Bobbie. It depicted Main Street, Brookeborough, his home village in Co. Fermanagh, and a place dear to my heart too for I used to spend much of my school holidays down at my Granny Hanvey’s. No sooner had I received the photo than I had written a poem about my stays with Granny Hanvey and sent it back to my da. I was aware that I had a collection of memories that would have been very similar to his own as a child. Perhaps I was trying to impress upon him our shared experience … despite our many differences. Happily, my da reacted positively to the poem and the foundations for Reconstructions were laid:
Peering down the shaft
I see memories
pulsing in the gloom,
waiting to be re-felt.
Some are the most unreliable of witnesses,
and often the best-forgotten are the least-forgotten,
but still, there they are, and here they come,
like photographs in a chemical-bath,
developing and re-developing
at their own behest.
[Excerpt from ‘Plan B (Unravelling Night)’, Reconstructions.]
The End of Art is Peace
Having just one month earlier become a father myself for the first time, I was enjoying a breather from a prolonged period of touring the world with Nuclear Family and its artistic corollary, a multimedia performance called Look Behind You!™ A Father and Son’s Impressions of the Troubles through Photograph and Song. (More info here.)
As memories, like words, can be as slippery as a new-born child, I opted instead to configure Reconstructions as a series of ‘impressions’, and like Nuclear Family and Look Behind You!™, it too would investigate and promote the notion that ‘The End of Art is Peace’. Together, they would form a notional triptych – complementary panels that told a similar story in different ways.
Portals to a Childhood
And so, I started to revisit some of my father’s iconic photographs from the Troubles, with the intention of producing a poem for each. The photos acted as portals, not only to the past but to the future, dragging me back and propelling me forward as each recollection qwertied onto the computer screen.
I was present at the conception of many of the photographs. I witnessed their act of becoming, and marvelled as they developed lives of their own in chemical trays and beyond. Often depicting disgraceful acts, they nonetheless graced the pages of many national and international publications. Their brutal candour made sure of this.
My da conceived these photographs and I hope that my words do them and their taker — my fathographer— the justice they deserve. I also hope that in my presentation of each ‘reconstruction’ that I have afforded the less-fortunate — those who lost their lives, and those who were hurt and are hurting still — their due respect.
Below follow three photographs and poems (on audiofile) from Reconstructions – The Troubles In Photographs and Words.
(The lady in the photograph was called Sarah Primrose, here with a RUC neighborhood watch patrol).
(The little girl is a member of the traveling community, and is waving a brush at a RUC officer who had been on the night shift.)
The Most Trying of Colours (The Trickler)
(This photo of a procession on St Patrick’s Day in Downpatrick, Co. Down, was taken in the street where the Hanvey family lived.)
We are delighted to welcome guest blogger Maja Davidovic to our website. Read her thoughtful piece on the promise of ‘Never Again’. She asks: what are Bosnia and Herzegovina’s or any other state’s obligations to provide (or offer) guarantees of non-recurrence after a conflict? Where do these obligations originate from and, importantly, do local people act as consultants in these processes? These questions touch upon some core issues to do with memory politics and peacebuilding.
Maja Davidovic is a Ph.D. candidate at Durham University working on guarantees of non-recurrence in transitional societies. She is an alumna of the Human Rights M.A. program at Central European University and has previously worked with migrants and refugees as a researcher and field officer in Serbia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, and Greece.
Twenty-three years after the Dayton Agreement, these three quotes are only a few among many statements inspired by the ‘Never Again’ promise that regularly appear in different media sources in former Yugoslav republics. Gross violations of human rights, war crimes, crimes against humanity, and genocide all took place in Bosnia and Herzegovina (BiH) during the four bloody years between 1992 and 1995. Although today the country is known for its ethnic divisions, all ethnic groups seem to agree that these crimes are neverto be repeated.
‘Never Again’ is not merely a promise, it is also an obligation. The principle of non-recurrence is a promising one, not only among the political elites in former Yugoslavia but also in transitional justice (TJ) and peacebuilding. Guarantees of non-recurrence (GNRs) have repeatedly been underlined as one of the pillars of transitional justice while understanding the root causes of conflict, a pre-requisite for GNRs, is essential for the building of a sustainable peace. Yet, very few in these fields have asked, what exactly are these guarantees? Who determines them? Who are they for? How have they been applied?
The truth is, scholars have produced very little knowledge to effectively answer to any of these questions. As someone who was born and raised in Serbia, worked in Bosnia and Herzegovina and has had a chance to observe the two countries from abroad, I am not aware of any guarantees my country has put in place to assure me that it will never commit crimes against humanity again. Likewise, my colleagues in BiH, some of them of Croatian heritage, others Serbian, Bosnian Muslims, or none of the three, do not necessarily feel like any of their legislators, politicians or policy-makers have done much guarantee that they will not go to war with ‘the Other’ again. Nearly a year ago, during my field visit to BiH, some local residents drew rather realistic parallels between the on-going migration crisis and the conflict. They said they have been re-living their war traumas again by seeing hungry and poor women, men, and children sleeping in tents, inhabiting local parks, fleeing war. Their fears of recurrence keep the memory of the war vivid and trauma-prolonging and they are not entirely unreasonable. Ethnic tensions in the region remain at an unsatisfactorily high level and have only gotten worse in the attempts to deal with the thousands of incoming migrants earlier this year.
As a researcher, I had to wonder: what are BiH’s or any other state’s obligations to provide (or offer) guarantees of non-recurrence after a conflict? Where do these obligations originate from and, importantly, do local people act as consultants in these processes?
Researching public international law sources, the jurisprudence of international human rights courts and UN soft law sources shows that there is no consensus on what the legally enforceable guarantees of non-recurrence are. In the view of Pablo de Greiff, former UN Special Rapporteur on TJ, numerous measures such as education, trauma counselling, and the empowerment of civil society can be GNRs. Yet, these largely non-legal measures greatly depart from the standards set in public international law and, to some degree, even the UN-made soft law.
GNRs were known as consequences of diplomatic disputes, dating back to the late 19thcentury. In the LaGrand case involving Germany and the United States, the International Court of Justice (ICJ) declared for the first time that GNRs are a right of the injured state and that both specific and general guarantees can be state’s obligations however refusing to specify any concrete measures in its later decisions.
Around the same time, the International Law Commission (ILC) was preparing the final draft of its Articles on Responsibility of States for Internationally Wrongful Acts. The final version of the Articles in 2002, where the LaGranddecision was used as an evidence of an existing obligation to offer GNRs separately from reparations, codifies states’ obligation to ‘offer appropriate assurances and guarantees of non-repetition if circumstances so require.’
In the 2005 United Nations Basic Principles and Guidelines on the Right to a Remedy and Reparation, published, however, GNRs are a type of reparations, just as compensation and satisfaction. GNRs can include ‘any or all’ of eight measures, including protecting legal professionals, promoting the observance of codes of conduct and ethical norms, and reforming laws that could allow for gross violations of human rights. Similarly, GNRs have been considered as reparations by regional human rights bodies, most notably the Inter-American Court of Human Rights which, inter alia, ordered Guatemala to adopt human rights and humanitarian law norms in its domestic law so that systemic violations do not happen again.
This ongoing normative study of guarantees of non-recurrence in international law shows anything but great discrepancies, which are reflected in practice. It is hard to comprehend how transitional justice scholarship has managed to argue that being forward-looking and promoting non-recurrence are its core mandates without a) fully comprehending what sort of non-recurrence a state has an obligation to offer, to whom, and by which means and b) looking more deeply into what states emerging from conflict have done in this regard so far. The recent editorial piece by McEvoy in the International Journal of Transitional Justice, pinpointing to how unexplored this pillar of transitional justice is and stressing the need for further research is a welcoming confirmation of my concerns.
GNRs essentially aim to transform the status quo that led to the violation, crime, or genocide and aid a lasting peace. That said, if transitional justice can promote a set of tools that aim to reach the objective of non-recurrence, this could actually help the field be transformative, while at the same time being reparative. What the scholarship needs is more knowledge of ‘Never again’ practices by those whose obligation it is to ensure non-recurrence and more decoding of the complex web of relationships that can jointly fulfil the promise of non-recurrence or else the transformative (and forward-looking) agenda of transitional justice may remain a purely abstract construct.
At the next stage of my research, I will migrate to Bosnia and Herzegovina to understand what these multiple actors have done, been wanting to do and how they have struggled. How have transitional justice mechanisms assisted them in this mission? Most importantly, have any of these measures been adopted and implemented in consultation with local populations? For, in the end, it is their lives and realities that seek transformations in order to, once and for all, heal, remember, and move forward from perpetually looking back.
Maja Davidovic is a Ph.D. candidate at Durham University working on guarantees of non-recurrence in transitional societies. She is an alumna of the Human Rights M.A. program at Central European University where she did research and published on gender and enforced disappearances and reparations. She has previously worked with migrants and refugees as a researcher and field officer in Serbia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, and Greece.
We have the pleasure to publish a Working Paper on art in the public spaces of Sarajevo, Bosnia-Herzegovina. Curator Danijela Dugandžić analyses a number of fascinating artworks that since the official end of the war in 1995 have dealt with some key themes: nationalism, the role of the international community during and after the war, forgotten emancipatory history and heritage, and post-war reconstruction. There has also been a significant production of feminist art. Dugandžić shows how art can be an urban practice that uses public space as emancipation for those who are less visible, or even invisible.
The War Childhood Museum on Logavina 32 in Sarajevo is a new and important contribution to the ambiguous and fragmented memoryscape of Bosnia-Herzegovina. It is located close to the Baščaršija, Sarajevo’s old bazar and the historical and cultural centre of the city, yet hidden away, on a steep street and not easily found without a map. It focuses exclusively on memories of children affected by war.
The museum provides a careful selection of young memories describing war through the eyes of children. Through memories, testimonies, snippets of texts and video narratives, fragments of everyday life in a war zone are pieced together and as visitors we are transported back in time to the war in the 1990s and to the siege of Sarajevo.
The Museum started off as a project by Jasminko Halilovic to collect children’s experiences and memories of growing up during Sarajevo’s Siege. More than a thousand of these children, now adults and scattered around the world, responded to the call and shared their recollections and narratives, which were compiled in the book War Childhood, published in 2013.
One such narratives reveals the irony of children’s play.
“It is ironic that with everything around us what we loved to play most was war…we called it rat-a-tat-tat” Amir, 1987 (cited in Halimovic 2017: 100)
In addition to collecting the stories of war childhood, memorabilia from these childhoods such as extracts from a diary, a sad-looking, mangy teddy bear, a carefully knitted vest, a young ballerina’s pointe shoes, and a favourite book were donated making up the objects on display in the museum. In the exhibition, every artefact is accompanied by a unique personal story.
My brother’s “children’s police” badge is a short story shared by a sister who lost her brother in the war.
“How happy and proud he was the day that he received this badge with his very own name on it! Just imagine the honor! Imagine, he would be the one to protect order in our street. He could not imagine that he would carry it for such a short time. He could not even imagine that in a single day, during a UN ceasefire…in a single moment that day…in a single step…in a single misstep…that a single grenade…that a single a single piece of shrapnel…would ruin everything. Since that day, nearly twenty-five years ago, I, his sister, have carried his badge in my wallet – proudly, but with a heavy heart. Jasna, 1982 (cited in Halimovic 2017: 250)
Viewing the war through the memories of those who experienced it as children is powerful. The museum is overwhelming in many ways; it is backward-looking, recalling a difficult past, yet forward-looking and hopeful, it is sad and traumatic yet it reflects glimpses of children’s play, cooping ability, fun and wry humour. It is reflexive as it provides visitors from near and afar to confront the war traumas of the recent past. It holds a timeless wisdom, important messages, and it sharpens the eyes to the unique experiences of children in war zones.
In a society divided along ethnic lines it is reflexive, reconciling and forward-looking to establish a museum that avoids reinforcing ethnic boundaries and that belongs to everyone.
By exhibiting children’s memories, artefacts and narratives of war this museum holds the potential to give voice to war children of the past and the present.
Halilovic, Jasminko (2017) War Childhood. War childhood Museum, Sarajevo.