To mark its eighth anniversary, the War Childhood Museum proudly presents Children of War, People of Peace, an exhibition by Milomir Kovačević Strašni.

THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE, AFTER ALL

When showing his photographs, Milomir Kovačević is gentle and considerate—both toward the viewers and those captured in the images. He often knows the names of the individuals he photographed on the streets, and has a story to tell about many of them: how they met, where and how the photograph was taken, what became of the person years later. When the photographs feature children, this connection is even more evident. He is often a friend of their parents, has known many of them since birth, and has even photographed some while they were still in their mothers’ wombs. 

As much as I enjoy looking at his photographs, I equally enjoy listening to the stories behind them.

The closeness with his subjects is evident even when the photographer doesn’t know them personally—because Strašni is drawn to people as individuals, not as visual spectacles or objects.

He showed me this exhibition on a rainy day in Dubrovnik—we viewed it on the screen of his laptop, propped on a wooden table in a café so small that, seated, we could reach every corner just by stretching a little. And there, too, he knew the owner—his past, his life story, his business philosophy. That’s simply how Strašni experiences the world: with curiosity and intimacy. His photographs are studies, and his stories are croquis—together, they form real or imagined catalogues that preserve authentic human lives on their pages.

I hesitated to see it because the title includes children and war—and I was a child in the war. It’s a wound I can’t touch too often, especially not in the middle of a workday, just after noon, when tasks still await.

The last time I saw one of his photography exhibitions on this topic, there happened to be a children’s choir in the gallery rehearsing for a performance. The children’s song was a counterpoint to the serious, prematurely grown-up faces in black and white I saw before me. I made it through half the exhibition; the rest faded through tears. I cried, and I felt ashamed, even though it seemed no one noticed I was there. The children were busy preparing for the opening, and no other visitors had arrived yet.

I remembered us—children of war—as proud and defiant, glowing with resilience. But in reality (and the photographs made no attempt to hide it), we were scared and anxious, our clothes hopelessly too big, too small, worn thin by time.

To my relief, this exhibition turned out to be something entirely different. Alongside each wartime photograph is another, taken some twenty years later. The children and teenagers Strašni photographed during the siege of Sarajevo have grown into beautiful men and women, each with their own styles, professions, and lives. Many are now parents themselves.

The solemn-faced boys and girls have left behind their canisters, toy guns, and rifles, and become clean, well-groomed, and healthy adults. Some are even smiling. Their very post-war existence feels like a rare happy ending—something documentary photography seldom offers.

In these images, I thought, life is triumphing before my eyes. These living bodies and smiling faces are our greatest victory. And our revenge.

Though for those who know how to look, the eyes of children raised in war remain irreparably serious—and their gazes, forever too deep.

 Adisa Bašić