How did you become a contributor to the Museum’s collection, and why did you make that decision?

I became a contributor at the encouragement of a friend who knew how much school had meant to me during the war. But like many other contributors, I initially felt that my story was too ordinary. My experience had not been traumatic in the way many others’ had been, and I thought that, as such, it was not relevant for a museum.

However, when I began reflecting on my childhood during the war, I realized how important those memories were to me. Suddenly, I felt a strong need to share how school had saved me during that time — especially my homeroom teacher.

Because of the war, I had to leave behind a world in which my classmates and I organized little parties inspired by the TV series Beverly Hills, each of us taking on the role of one of the characters — I was Brenda. Then, almost overnight, I found myself in another city, another school, without my friends.

Years later, I understood that school had restored the identity I had lost when I left my hometown. I was no longer just a refugee; I became a girl others wanted to be friends with again, thanks to the effort and success I achieved in school.

Do you think your story has similarities with the stories of children who are experiencing war and conflict today? Why?

I believe that every child is equally afraid of shelling, equally misses their family, friends, and favorite toys, feels the same pain when hurt, and experiences the same fear. On that level, all stories are similar and the experience is universal.

I was fortunate not to endure the worst horrors of war, but I missed my brother just as much as any other little girl would miss her brother, anywhere in the world. When I read stories of children from war zones today, I recognize the same fear and the same longing for normalcy.

And yet, I hope that even today there are teachers who bring moments of joy to children living through war — whether through warmth and care, or by organizing math competitions or school journalism clubs.

I am certain that school can become an additional home, a place where children can feel at least a little safer. With the support of teachers who truly love their work, children can, even if only for a moment, forget that outside, the world is at war.

What do the War Childhood Museum and similar initiatives mean to you?

For me, the War Childhood Museum is not merely an institution that researches and collects the experiences of children whose childhoods are affected by war. It is a special kind of home that carefully preserves my own memory of a beloved homeroom teacher.

In the Museum’s archive, it is not only colorful, stapled pages of a school newspaper that are preserved, but also the memory of the happiest chapter of my childhood during the war.

The Museum helped me understand how precious individual memories are — not only for those who carry them, but also for others, and perhaps one day, for history itself.

To better understand what the Museum represents to them—and what inspired their decision to contribute—we launched a series of interviews with collection contributors. Some of the previous conversations are available here.

In this edition, we spoke with Amila Gačanica, originally from Sarajevo and now based in the United Kingdom. Below, she shares her story and reflections.

My Father’s Poem – “Cvijet k’o svijet”

Together with some relatives, I boarded the last civilian plane to leave Sarajevo at the end of April 1992. My parents stayed in Sarajevo.

We spent the first month in Serbia, before leaving for Macedonia. From there, we went on to Croatia, where we stayed in a refugee camp for some time. In the camp, we met a missionary named Ashley, who offered to help us get to the UK. I still remember an incredibly stormy evening spent running around and collecting stones to help secure the tent so it wouldn’t fly away; after what felt like just a few minutes of this, we decided to leave the camp and come to England.

We traveled by bus from Croatia to England with around 20 other refugees. Upon arriving in Luton, we received toys, clothes, and food. Very soon after that I began attending school, where I first had to learn English to be able to follow the lessons.

I did not see my mum until 1994, when she joined me in London. My father was still in Sarajevo, looking after his mother who was bed-bound from before the war. We stayed in touch through letters. I have kept and preserved those letters ever since.

After my father passed away, I was going through his things and found this poem, “Cvijet k’o svijet”, which moved me immensely. I had never known that my father wrote poems. In memory of him, and his undying love for Sarajevo, I decided to donate it to the Museum.

Amila, 1985, Bosnia-Herzegovina

​​How did you come to be a contributor to the Museum’s collection, and why did you make that decision?

In 2019, after my father passed away very suddenly, I was going through his possessions and found a poem he had written about me leaving for the UK during the war, while he stayed behind and joined the Bosnian army. I was in awe of the creativity and tenderness in his words, picturing him on the cold 4th of December 1992, in unimaginable circumstances, writing those lines on a simple blue piece of card.

When we think of soldiers, we often pair that image with strength and bravery, but we rarely get a glimpse into their emotional world. This poem revealed his vulnerability, his love, and his hope. In one verse, he wrote: “one day the flower, now in full bloom, will invite these good people to its real home” (pozvat ovaj dobri svijet u svoj pravi dom) — expressing such a deep belief that peace would return.

I felt it was important to share this vision of him through the War Childhood Museum, so that more people could read his words and see Sarajevo not only for its suffering, but also for its beauty, resilience, and spirit. My father was a true Sarajlija [a person from Sarajevo], and I can think of no better place for his love of the city and of Bosnia and Herzegovina to live on.

In a world still so divided, I also see this as a quiet homage to a time when refugees were received with greater acceptance and humanity.

Do you think your story has similarities to the stories of children who are going through war and conflict today? Why?

My personal story is one of the fortunate ones. I escaped Sarajevo on the last commercial flight out in 1992, at a time when the world was far more open and welcoming to refugees. In the UK, I mostly experienced warmth and tolerance, and over time I was able to “fit in.”

But I know that refugee children today, fleeing wars and conflicts across the world, will face many of the same challenges I did — the shock of displacement, the dissociation, the struggles with identity and culture that so often mark the first generation of immigrants. I remember seeing a photograph when the war in Ukraine began — a young girl saying goodbye to her father. I burst into tears. Not only because I had lived that same moment as a child, but because now, as an adult, I could understand more deeply how her father must have felt too.

For me, the hardest part was growing up torn between two very different cultures and ways of life. I longed for a Sarajevo I never really got to know beyond the age of six, yet was often judged or questioned for still calling it “home” instead of London.

Over time, I came to realise that even when everything is different, we carry home within us. My mum made sure of that: she created a Bosnian home wherever we were. Our friends experienced her hospitality, the taste of zeljanica [a Bosnian spinach-and-cheese pie], the refusal to accept “I’m not hungry,” and the ritual of taking their shoes off at the door. What once felt “different” became a source of pride.

If anything, I hope my story can show how powerful — and healing — it can be to call two places on this earth “home.”

What do the War Childhood Museum and similar initiatives mean to you?

They are sacred spaces of memory. They give voice to people’s stories and experiences, and in doing so, they allow us to witness, to release, and to honour the tender, human moments that often arise in the hardest of times.

For me, the Museum is not only about preserving history — it is about educating the present. It is vital that children who grow up in safe and secure circumstances learn to be compassionate and open-hearted toward those who have been forced from their homes. This is how we ensure refugee children are accepted for who they are, and for all they have endured.

These children will one day be our leaders. I pray they will build a more humane and compassionate future than the one we see today.

To explore what the Museum means to them and why they chose to share with us, we launched a series of interviews with collection contributors. You can find some of the previous interviews here.

This time, we spoke with Amila Bećirbegović, originally from Prijedor and now based in California, USA, where she teaches at California State University, Fresno. Take a look at her story and reflections below.

New Clothes for Barbie

My aunt was a seamstress and often lovingly designed clothes for my Barbie dolls. On my fourth birthday, just before the war began, she gifted me a set of Barbie outfits: a wedding dress, a travel purse, a jacket, a tulle skirt, a pair of jeans, and even a swimsuit. Thanks to her, my Barbies were the best dressed!

Two days later, war broke out in Prijedor, and most of my family was taken to nearby concentration camps. My parents and I survived by hiding in our neighbor’s garage.

We eventually escaped Bosnia on a Red Cross bus. In my backpack, I brought only a few of my most treasured belongings—my Barbie doll and her new clothes.

I never saw my home, or the rest of my dolls and toys, again.

Amila, 1987, Bosnia and Herzegovina

What led you to contribute to the Museum’s collection, and what inspired that decision?

 I became aware of the museum and its mission through an online post that I saw on social media several years ago. I was immediately intrigued and felt very seen by the call to remember a childhood riddled by war. I was 6 years old when I had to escape Prijedor and after browsing the museum’s digital collection, each one of the stories and childhood artifacts resonated with me and my own experiences. I was deeply moved by the stories and struck by our collective similarities as children and survivors of genocide and war. At that time, I was moving into my new home in California when the museum issued a call for survivors to submit their stories and donate their artifacts. I had a Barbie dressed in a beautiful lace wedding dress, that my aunt made for me before the war broke out. She gifted the dress to me on my fourth birthday and I was dazzled by the intricate lace work. When I escaped from Prijedor, I did not have much time or many resources, so I could only pack the few things that I could grab and carry. One of the childhood things that escaped with me was that beautiful Barbie dress. I never played with it while I was a refugee. I kept it safe in a box. When I was moving into my home in California, I looked at the box with the childhood dress and thought how silly it was to keep my memories locked away for no one to see or hear. It was then that I decided to answer the call from the museum and donate my childhood memory. Now my story can be heard all over the world.

I am hopeful that we can learn from the past and make “never again” not just a mantra, but a reality for all children in the future. 

Do you think your story resonates with the experiences of children living through war and conflict today? If so, why?

 My story echoes those of children experiencing war and genocide today. It is a shame that we haven’t learned from the past and are doomed to repeat the same acts of violence again and again. I do believe that the museum’s mission, and the memories of the children of war who shared their stories through the museum, can live on and be a reminder that we need to do better for the future. As a Professor, I have made it my mission to teach about genocide and share my own experiences as a survivor of the Bosnian genocide. And I believe that the museum accomplishes this on a large scale as well, through the exhibits and digital archives, but most importantly through the teacher workshops and classroom experiences that are offered. This is the true power of remembering, teaching others not to forget. 

What do the War Childhood Museum and similar initiatives mean to you?

I strongly believe that representation matters. When a child sees other children, who experienced similar struggles and atrocities, publicized, that child can feel heard, comforted and even gain valuable resources and tools for coping with trauma.

Hearing stories from other child survivors and seeing them represented on a global scale gives voice to often unheard or silenced moments in history. It is powerful and restores the agency to those who lost so much during wartime.

Hatidža Hadžimuhamedović shared her story with the War Childhood Museum in its early days, back in 2018. She spent the war in Sarajevo and entrusted us with parts of that experience. Today, Hatidža is an accomplished designer still living in the city that holds her wartime memories. In a recent conversation, she reflected on what it meant to share her story with the Museum. 

How did you become involved with the War Childhood Museum, and what led you to agree to record your testimony? 

From the very first moment I heard about the idea of the War Childhood Museum, I felt it as something deeply personal—my story, my project. I had been following the work of its founder even before the Museum came to life, and when it finally did, it felt as though a part of my childhood, my experience, had finally been given space to be told and understood.

My childhood was marked by war. Even today, I often wonder what my life would have been like if the war hadn’t happened. How would it have shaped me as a person? Would I make the same decisions I make today—especially as a mother? How much does what I had—or didn’t have—back then influence the way I raise my own children now? These questions have always stayed with me, and in that sense, the War Childhood Museum is not just a place of remembrance—it’s a living reminder of what shapes us.

Recording the testimony was my wish to share a small part of myself and weave it into that collective memory.

It’s also the story of my brother, Safet, who was my best friend and safe haven during the war. Even today, every story told in the Museum is, in some way, also my story—the story of my friends, my neighbors, the story of a childhood I understand best. That’s why I feel such a deep connection to the children living through war today, especially in Palestine. That feeling of not fully grasping reality, the helplessness of a child facing the brutality of the adult world—that is a universal wound.

How do you think your story can help children currently living through war and conflict? What are your hopes for their future?

Honestly, I’m not sure how much my story can help. But maybe, for one child somewhere, it can offer the feeling that they are not alone. That moment of recognition—“aha, someone went through the same thing I did”—can bring a sense of comfort, maybe even healing. Sometimes, you don’t need a big message, just the feeling that someone understands.

Maybe my story can confirm that it’s okay to be a child, even in war. That you don’t have to understand everything, that you don’t always have to be brave. That it’s okay to be confused, sad, quiet… and that play—no matter how fragile—is still possible, even in the darkest of times. 

Childhood in war doesn’t have to mean the end of childhood, but rather its resistance, its defiance. And perhaps in that defiance lies the strength to survive and to build something new.

What does the War Childhood Museum—and similar initiatives—mean to you?

For me, the War Childhood Museum is a mirror. It’s a space where I found both myself and my voice from that time.

I believe the perspective of a child in war is extremely important, because it is unlike any other experience. It’s a parallel world, where children try to remain children, while at the same time being forced to grow up quickly, to be stronger, braver, to understand things even adults struggle to comprehend.

That abrupt loss of the child within us leaves a lasting emptiness. We are left yearning for a version of ourselves that never got to just be carefree. That’s why initiatives like this are so vital—they give children affected by war what was taken from them: a space to be seen, heard, and remembered.

The Museum is not just a collection of objects and stories. It is a living testimony to the strength, tenderness, and fragility of childhood in the most difficult of circumstances. And that is why—it is my museum too.

Ahmad Sawas Najjar is originally from Syria, which he left due to the conflict. He now lives in Belgrade, Serbia, where he graduated from the Faculty of Law.

Photo: Personal archive, Ahmad Sawas

Although he is integrated into his new community, Ahmad still carries with him memories of Syria. One of the most meaningful, a special notebook, he chose to donate to the War Childhood Museum for safekeeping. Read the story behind the notebook below, along with an interview with Ahmad.

The “Jumble” Notebook

This notebook is one of the very few personal items I took with me when I fled Syria. It was the last school notebook I used, and I used it for everything — from religious studies to mathematics. In addition to schoolwork, I also noted down details related to a small store I was running at the time, as well as my first love poems, written as a teenager.

It holds traces of different chapters of my life: school days, work, and early attempts at expressing myself through writing. That’s why I decided to take it with me when I left Syria, and I continued to keep it safe after arriving in Serbia in 2011.

Today, I live in Zagreb, and The Jumble deserves to find its new place — in a museum collection.

Ahmad, b. 1996

Syria

Why did you decide to donate your notebook to the Museum?

I was familiar with the work of your Museum as a place where items from the war are collected—items that belonged to children who lived through the war or fled from it. Stories and belongings of great figures and warriors are often preserved, but one of the most vulnerable groups—children—is rarely talked about. They are mostly mentioned as numbers: ten children killed here, hundreds displaced there, and so on. Rarely are they seen as individuals, as people who carry an entire story with them. That’s why I saw the Museum as a place where such stories can be preserved and shown to the rest of the world.

Do you think your story could be meaningful for children who are living through war today?

It might help them when they see that this was my last notebook from primary school while I was still in Syria. I used it for all subjects—it was a kind of catch-all notebook—even for personal things outside of school. When I first fled, my education was interrupted for several years. Still, I managed to persevere, to continue my education in Serbia, achieve my goals, and graduate from university. This notebook became a kind of symbol for me—a reminder of what was left behind, but also proof that even when life comes to a halt in one place, it can continue and grow somewhere else.

When you think about initiatives like the War Childhood Museum and other projects that preserve the memories of children affected by war, what do they mean to you—personally, globally, or in any other way?

I see them as spaces where the personal stories of children who have lived through war and terrible experiences are preserved. These stories don’t remain just numbers, what they show is that behind every number is an individual with their own story and life journey. Such stories are often best told through personal objects, because they reveal that you’re not just a statistic, but a whole life, a complete story.

This interview was edited and condensed for clarity.

Mirela Geko was one of the first people to record a video testimony for the Museum. She shared a deeply emotional story of both loss and gain – story about losing a sister during the war but also gaining a brother. Beyond that, her connection to the Museum runs deep—she also worked as a project manager at the Museum for 2.5 years. A part of her testimony is currently on display at the Museum and is also being exhibited on Jeju Island in South Korea until the end of May this year.

Read the interview below.

How did you get involved with the Museum, and what led you to agree to record your testimony?

My connection to the Museum began when the question “What does childhood in war mean to you?” appeared online, which later became the foundation for the book Childhood in War. At that moment, I wrote my sentence, describing what war childhood meant to me—and that’s how my journey began.

From the book promotion to the invitation to contribute to the creation of the Museum, it was both an honor and a responsibility to be among the first to take part in its establishment. I accepted the invitation immediately, but soon realized that I didn’t have any personal objects from the war. There was only one doll—a keepsake from my sister—which I couldn’t part with. That’s when we decided to record a video testimony instead.

I agreed because I felt it was my responsibility to show how war affects children and their lives—how it shapes us as individuals, leaves scars, but if we survive, it gives us a voice that must fight against harmful social phenomena and behaviors.

How do you think your story can help children experiencing war and conflict today, and what are your hopes for their future?

I sincerely hope that my story can show that, despite immense loss and sacrifice in war, I also gained the best brother. I want both children and adults to understand that great losses don’t necessarily have to give rise to negative emotions or lead to destruction.

Loss made me stronger and awakened in me a desire to fight so that no five-year-old Mirela ever again loses her two-year-old Elma. Through my story and experience, I want adults to open their eyes and become aware of the innocent children who suffer.

And to the children, I wish that—even in the abnormal times of war and conflict—they can find small sparks of childhood and play. I hope they will grow up in a free country, without intolerance, and that they too will fight for a better society.

What do the War Childhood Museum and similar initiatives mean to you?

For me, the Museum is the most beautiful story to emerge from the hardest of times. Initiatives like this are crucial because they give children and young people a voice, allowing them to show their strength. Through diverse educational content, they provide valuable knowledge about respect, empathy, and understanding—everything essential for building a better society.

This interview was edited and condensed for clarity.

Lina G. Tahan, one of the contributors, decided to donate the Miraculous Medal that she wore during her childhood in Beirut, Lebanon, during the Civil War (1975-1990).

Tahan is an archaeologist, university lecturer, and affiliated scholar at the Department of Archaeology, University of Cambridge. She specialises in representing archaeology in museums, particularly in Lebanon, and its impact on identity. As Chair of the International Committee on Ethical Dilemmas (ICETHICS) of ICOM, Tahan is also a dedicated museum activist, inspiring youth and educators to engage with museums as spaces for learning and connection.

In the interview, Tahan talks about the medal, its role in providing her with comfort and protection, and how it has become a symbol of resilience, faith, tolerance and acceptance.

The Miraculous Medal

In sixth grade, my history teacher told us the story of the Virgin Mary’s apparition to Sister Catherine Labouré in Paris. The Virgin gave Catherine clear instructions on how to mint the medal and told her that whoever wore it around their neck would be protected. At that time, my home city, Beirut, was gripped by civil war.

Believing in the medal’s protective power, I went home and asked my mom for one. She eventually found this silver version and gifted it to me. I have worn it ever since. It has been with me through countless escapes to the shelter, days of missed school, and the loss of many typical teenage experiences. 

Over the years, I have gifted many more Miraculous Medals to my friends and family, but this first medal stayed with me as a symbol of faith, hope, and resilience. Now, it finds a new home at the War Childhood Museum.

Lina, b. 1976 (Lebanon)

You donated to the Museum a very important personal object to our collection – the Miraculous Medal. Why did you choose to donate this particular object?

The Miraculous Medal I donated to the Museum is very special to me. As a teenager, I wore it around my neck during the war in Lebanon, and it provided me with a sense of protection when the bombs were falling. It has always been a special memento and a way to pray during difficult times. That’s why I decided to donate it to the War Childhood Museum.

What role did the medal have while you were a child in Beirut?

I remember living in East Beirut. At the time, the city was divided into two parts: East and West. I knew that when the Virgin Mary appeared to Saint Catherine Labouré, she promised that anyone who wore the medal around their neck would be protected from any harm. I truly believed this, and I trusted that what we call God’s providence would keep me safe.

Later, I came to realize that many Muslims in my country also believed in the Virgin Mary and venerated her in their way. For me, it was a symbol of resilience and protection, as well as acceptance of others. It was also a source of joy and calm that comes from prayer and a way to cope with the isolation I felt while unable to play outside. 

What do you hope visitors to the exhibition will take away from your story?

I know that the Museum has many stories such as this one, of children with similar experiences – stories about something they took with them from their wartime home. I couldn’t take my toys. Many times, I had to leave my bed quite quickly and run to the shelter. When I returned, my bedroom was often unrecognizable because of all the little bullet marks. This medal symbolises my ability to overcome this experience. I hope that the visitors will learn that in times of deep trouble or when we are feeling down, praying, seeking God’s help and refuge, or reading a psalm can be important.

Now, as you know, my country is at war again. I think about Lebanon almost every day, and sometimes it keeps me from sleeping, mainly because my parents are still there, and the situation is extremely difficult. It seems that children today are experiencing the same things that I have experienced as a child. I find it incredibly sad that we are still discussing the same things. 

The medal is a way to share my story – not just through the object but also through what it says about who I am. It reflects how I have become more tolerant, resilient, and accepting of others.

You are deeply involved in museum work and museum studies. What do initiatives like the War Childhood Museum mean to you?

They are essential to me. As a child, I never had the opportunity to visit a museum. I was 19 when I first visited one, which was quite late. This is because museums remained closed for a long time due to the Civil War. 

The first time I visited a museum was when I went to university. It was the Archaeological Museum of the American University of Beirut. I became so embedded in the museum work and what it entails. Museums became a fascinating world for me, one that felt unattainable to me as a child.  Now, I can’t tell you how many museums I visit yearly – it is something I genuinely enjoy. This is why I am so passionate about children visiting museums. For me, a museum is like an open book that tells you about other people’s stories, whether through art, archaeology, ethnography or the stories of children who have experienced war, like those at the War Childhood Museum. They serve as a mirror to a nation, and we should use them as a toolkit and as vehicles for peace.

This interview was edited and condensed for clarity.

Larisa Šabanović, one of the contributors, decided to donate a necklace that symbolizes a special childhood friendship disrupted by war. In the interview, she talks about the necklace, her long-lasting friendship with Dušica, and the meaning this keepsake carries after their reunion 26 years later.

The Necklace of Friendship

Although we didn’t go to the same class in our primary school, my best friend Dušica and I were inseparable and spent all our free time together. Dušica had a grandma who lived in Čačak, where she regularly spent the summer holidays. In April 1992, she told me through tears that she was going to Čačak, but that this time she wasn’t sure when she will be coming back. We didn’t know why, but we were hoping that she would return soon.

When we were saying our goodbyes, I took off this necklace that I bought in Old Town Baščaršija and gave it to her for safekeeping, until she returns home and we meet again.

Dušica would not return home, and many years would pass before we saw each other again in Belgrade in 2018. Although it had been 26 years, I recognized her by the way she walked.

Dušica had kept my necklace and returned it to me on occasion, just like she promised.

Now, the necklace doesn’t belong to either Dušica or me. It is a symbol of our friendship, and that is why I entrust it to the Museum.

Larisa, 1977, Bosnia-Herzegovina

Why did you decide to donate the necklace to the War Childhood Museum, and what message do you hope visitors will take away from your story?

The idea to donate the necklace to the Museum actually came from my sister. I got the necklace as a gift from my late father — I really wanted it, and it was the most valuable material thing I owned. For me, the necklace represents a story about life, the good and bad that comes with it, friendship, hopes, and the innocence and honesty of childhood. After probably 30 years of its existence, it no longer belongs to anyone; it is a story in itself.

The necklace tells visitors that a museum can also be a home… a home for a story, and that none of us knows what life has in store, but it can always surprise us in a positive way; that we should not give up or lose hope. What belongs to us — our necklace, friendships, memories, and childhood — remains forever within us, and no one can take that away. Everything eventually comes to an end, no matter how hopeless it may seem, and despite all the negativity and human cruelty, there are good things that no one can, nor should, erase.

How do you think your and Dušica’s story can help children who are experiencing war and conflict today, and what are your hopes for their future?

I hope, or rather wish, that children would never have to go through war and conflict, but unfortunately, they do and will continue to. The only blessing in all of it is that perhaps, with their children’s hearts and spirits, they might be able to overcome these traumas and still have faith in life. Despite everything, there is love, kindness, and friendship, even if only in some form in their lives.

What do the War Childhood Museum and similar initiatives mean to you?

The Museum has enriched my life and reminded me that I was once a child too. Until I saw the documentary on Al Jazeera, I wasn’t even aware that I was a war child. When the Museum displayed the necklace, I felt relief and a sense of release because I shared my story with others. I truly believe that what really belongs to us is what we give of ourselves. I wanted Dušica to have an address somewhere in Bosnia and Herzegovina, some sort of a house or a home.

War and trauma need to be remembered, talked about, and experiences shared, because what often remains are just numbers and places, facts and recorded data, while those people are living beings with their own life stories. The Museum does an excellent job of this, as it preserves personal, ordinary, childhood, human interest stories that can touch the soul. War and conflict are widespread, and it’s easy to overlook or sometimes even forget the fact that there are people — individuals — living through these events. For me, the story of war often becomes “once upon a time in some land,” but only those who lived through it know it’s so much more than that. The Museum highlights that forgotten aspect.

The Museum has both a diagnostic and therapeutic role, and I thank you for that.

This interview was edited and condensed for clarity.

The pencil case you received as humanitarian aid during the war when you were fourteen is now part of the War Childhood Museum’s collection. It is currently featured in the “Childhood Under Siege” exhibition in Gorazde. Why did you decide to donate it to the Museum?

Donating an object to the “Childhood Under Siege” exhibition appealed to me. It was the best place for my pencil case, as it no longer represents only my personal story. Every generation of students I have taught as a teacher has loved it because they had never seen it before and couldn’t buy it anywhere. I think it should continue its journey as a museum exhibit.

You’ve kept the pencil case all these years, and inside it were various pens you only started using after you began teaching at the same school you attended during the siege of Gorazde. Students often ask about the pens and pencil case. How do you explain the war to them today?

It is always difficult to discuss the war, especially with children. When I speak with them, I emphasize the horrors that war brings, but I mainly focus on our strong desire for education. I share stories about how we made notebooks out of scraps of paper, how we looked out for one another, and the empathy we showed each other. I also talk about how we studied a lot because we were determined to achieve dreams that were otherwise denied to us.

One of the Museum’s main activities is to educate children and young people about peace and justice. Is it important today to discuss the negative consequences of war on individuals and society?

I strongly believe that we should not erase the memory of wartime, particularly because it destroyed the beauty of childhood. The impact of war on my own life—how it forced me to grow up too quickly—is something I cannot ignore. I am deeply committed to addressing this period because I do not want any child to experience such loss. Sharing the stories of what happened in this region is essential. These painful narratives are more than just history; they are valuable lessons. They serve as warnings and reminders for us all to actively oppose any thoughts or actions that might lead to war in Bosnia and Herzegovina. By confronting the past and understanding its consequences, we can work toward a more peaceful future.

Pencil Case from Humanitarian Aid

When the UN forces entered Goražde in ’94, they gave us, the children, these pencil cases. Up to then, we had only carried one pencil that could fit in our pocket to school. Each pencil case contained a fountain pen and a ballpoint pen but, since we didn’t have cartridges, we couldn’t use the former.

After the war, I started working in the same school I had attended during the aggression. That’s when I first started using the pencil case, fountain pen, and ballpoint pen that I had kept safe for years. Children often asked where I got such a pencil case, so it frequently prompted stories of my wartime childhood, my love of learning, and the importance of being in school.

Senada, born 1980, Goražde, Bosnia and Herzegovina

In your opening speech at our exhibition in Gorazde, you highlighted that the stories and objects we preserve not only reflect the losses but also showcase the strength and resilience of children during the war. As a teacher, how do you believe children can contribute to peacebuilding?

It’s easy to say that the future of the world rests in the hands of the youth, but what kind of future are we talking about? Children are the purest beings on the planet, and it’s crucial to keep their minds untainted. For children to effectively contribute to peacebuilding, we must provide them with a high quality of life in our country. This includes better education, a clear vision for the future, and a shift in perception from seeing Bosnia and Herzegovina as a place of perpetual conflict. Our children love their homeland, but the ongoing political narratives undermine their hope for a better future in this region.

Is there something specific you would like the War Childhood Museum to focus on or achieve in the coming years?

You have already made a significant impact on the world. While it may be utopian to expect that everyone will be aware of these issues, your traveling exhibition will undoubtedly spark new questions and concerns for some children growing up in war-torn areas today. The harsh reality I faced as a child is that the world often seems indifferent, and such tragedies continue to occur. I hope the exhibition will serve as a poignant reminder, especially for those who may not fully grasp the enduring trauma that war inflicts on children.

Thank you for the conversation!

The  “Childhood Under Siege” exhibition, a collaboration between the War childhood Museum, the Cultural Center and the Goražde Homeland Museum, supported by the Ministry of Culture of Sarajevo Canton, is open to all visitors until August 15, 2024, at the Gorazde Cultural Center, daily from 10:00 AM to 9:00 PM.

Photo: Laurentine Bayala

At the age of 14, when you should be worried about adolescent concerns, the war began for you. Your Clown Ragdoll, now part of our collection, tells a powerful story of hope and the belief that life can be rebuilt from nothing. We celebrated Earth Day at the museum with a creative workshop inspired by this story. Children listened intently and then made their own toys. How does it feel to know that your story continues to live on and inspire so many children today?

As a young girl, losing all my childhood possessions when we had to leave our home left me with a deep sense of loss. That rag doll held more value for me back then than any expensive toy in the world. I had no idea it would go on to inspire a workshop with children, which is truly an extraordinary honor for me. What makes it even more meaningful is that, beyond its own story and the symbolism of resilience woven into that experience, the children learned how to harness their creativity to craft something personal and beautiful. Through that workshop, they also came to grasp the transformative power of creativity. Indeed, creativity can serve as a potent tool in combating feelings of helplessness, despair, and the ravages of war.

Clown Ragdoll

“The war began when I was in the seventh grade and attending primary school in the Ilidža neighborhood. Being 13 at the time, that whole period is etched in my memory. Very quickly, we became aware of the danger we were in. My mom’s colleague from work helped us find a way out. We fled so abruptly that we left our lunch on the table. We left behind everything we had. The only thing we brought with us was some food.

I left behind my mementoes, friends, first crushes, and games—in a single moment, everything was gone! We moved from Ilidža — a beautiful neighborhood to grow up in, surrounded by nature — to a different part of the city. Awaiting us there was a huge, concrete building with no power or water and no garden, a building where everything looked the same…

In the absence of any personal belongings, my mom and I made this clown ragdoll to bring some color to all that gray and to make the wartime days more cheerful.”

Alma, b. 1978

Everyone knows what happened to the Sarajevo City Hall, but it would surprise most people to learn that some children also tried to save books. When you donated The Book From Vijećnica (City Hall), you said: “…the act of saving that book seemed to make sense. I don’t know why, but at that moment, I felt that I was doing something very important.” Currently, your book is part of our exhibition in Seoul dedicated to the Siege of Sarajevo. Does this affirm your childhood belief that saving a book in those circumstances truly made sense?

When you grow up in a siege and are surrounded by the death of known and unknown people every day, reality and perception become something entirely different. Life is viewed from a different perspective. Any act that seems rational and “normal” represents a form of rebellion against despair and the cruelty of the situation, so even saving a book felt like an extremely important undertaking, primarily for myself and my personal understanding. Only from this perspective can I grasp how much greater that act essentially was than merely preserving my mental health, and how such thinking, especially from a child’s perspective, is universal. The fact that through the journeys of these saved books, people around the world can be inspired to understand the significance of the written word and culture, and how crucial it is to preserve it for future generations, is exceptionally meaningful to me. Above all, I feel incredibly honored that this book was chosen to be exhibited at such a significant exhibition in Seoul.

Are books still as important to you as they were in those years?

Certainly. Not only books, but all forms of storytelling, art, and culture are extremely important to me today. They help us understand the world around us, broaden our horizons, and connect with different experiences and perspectives. Books are especially powerful because they enable deep reflection and introspection, which are crucial for personal development.

The Book from Vijećnica

My friend and I stopped by the Vijećnica (City Hall) a few days after it had burned down in hopes of finding something and saving it on our way to school.

I know that she found a couple of pages, while I found this book. We both ended up covered in soot and ashes.

That was the first year of the war. I had no way of knowing then how long it would last and what would happen next, but the act of saving that book seemed to make sense. I don’t know why, but at that moment I felt that I was doing something very important.

Alma, b. 1978

As one of the first participants in our collection, you have witnessed museum’s journey from the very beginning up to today. How do you perceive it over the past seven years?

Your journey over the past 7 years has been inspiring. From humble beginnings to achieving international recognition, the museum has become a beacon of hope and education. Your passion and dedication have allowed the stories and experiences of wartime childhood to be heard worldwide. I remember the early conversations with Jasminko about this idea over coffee, and when I see where the museum is today, I am both proud and amazed by your success, influence, and significance. I know that the path has been challenging, and you have not given up.

Is there anything you would wish for the museum in the coming years?

I can only wish that you continue on the path you are on and that your messages are heard worldwide. It is important to raise awareness about the horrors of war for children everywhere. It is crucial that we discuss this and that the experiences of children who have survived war are shared so that we can all learn from them. Also, I wish for you to continue to grow and expand your mission, to receive even more support and recognition, and for your work to inspire changes that will help create a better and safer world for all future generations.