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.

We spoke with the Museum’s collection manager, Oksana Lepesiienko, about the specifics of her work with children’s experiences and gained deeper insight into the Museum’s archiving practices. 

Read more below.

What does the process of acquiring and cataloging a new object for the WCM Ukraine collection look like?

The process begins during the interview, when participants donate personal objects to our researchers. Each object is assigned a unique ID in our digital system, where I record its description, dimensions, materials, and condition.

Physical objects are photographed, labeled, and packed using archival-grade materials: Tyvek for 3D objects and acid-free envelopes for 2D items. They are then stored in coded boxes for precise tracking (cabinet, shelf). Digital objects are kept in organized cloud storage. Ultimately, every object receives a comprehensive digital “passport,” allowing us to locate it within the collection instantly.

What are the main challenges of working with the collection in wartime?

Safety is our priority: we focus on physical preservation, digital security, and reliable backups. While these are standard archival practices, they have become vital in Kyiv today.

Faced with frequent Russian shellings and power outages, our team strives for maximum autonomy to ensure work continues regardless of external factors. Archiving in wartime requires a constant balance between professional standards and daily adaptation. Because the Museum documents the very war it is living through, we feel a profound motivation to protect this history despite the instability.

Name three of the most unusual conservation challenges in your collection.

From a conservation perspective, the most unusual challenges are food items: a poppy seed bun, a Snickers bar, and a small bag of dried bread rings (sushky).

These objects require special storage conditions to protect the rest of the collection. For instance, the Snickers wrapper is no longer airtight due to a damaged seam. To ensure their preservation, we keep such items in isolated, transparent, airtight packaging and inspect them regularly.

Which objects were the most difficult to archive?

The process is simple but time-consuming, especially when archiving entire personal collections. Large digital sets, such as dozens of photos, videos, and scans, or numerous small physical items, like tokens or seashells, require the most effort. However, these collections are the most engaging to work with, as they demand a thoughtful approach to systematizing them as a cohesive whole.

Program participant Armin Husić, a student at the Ivan Merz Catholic School Center in Banja Luka, shares how taking part in the program shaped his thinking and how he views the education system in Bosnia and Herzegovina today. Read his story below.

How did your understanding of peace change through the program?

Even before the workshop in March of the previous year, I was already well aware of how important peace is, as well as how deeply it is threatened—especially by those whose duty it is to protect it. Although youth is a period often marked by rebellious ideas and a certain kind of defiance, the workshop helped me realize that nothing is worth the devastation of peace, in any measure or in any form.

What observations have you made about peace among your peers? Have you noticed any changes in how they talk about peace before and after the workshops?

I noticed that for all of us, “Creativity for Peace” is, above all, a project where we learn a great deal, and that the knowledge we acquire—along with its proper application—is a guarantee for preserving and spreading peace. Together with peers who already uphold common-sense values, we carried out a series of workshops that were, in their own way, revolutionary, because many of the participants had never before had the opportunity to engage in concrete action aimed at promoting nonviolence and peaceful communication.

In your opinion, how should peace education be approached in Bosnia and Herzegovina?

Education in general should be approached in a reform-oriented way, and the same applies to the formal education related to peace. It is necessary to fundamentally change an approach that is focused solely on content and to gradually remove everything that represents the malignant everyday realities of Bosnia and Herzegovina’s education system, namely: revision of official history, denial of crimes and related court verdicts, glorification of war criminals, equating responsibility, avoidance of facts, and unnecessary concentration on trivial details—in short, everything that hinders the development of the educational process and, consequently, the progress of future generations.

What does your research focus on?

Through this project, my research has focused on the history of childhood. I concentrated on the lives, upbringing, and survival of children in the territory of present-day Bosnia and Herzegovina during the uprising in Herzegovina and Bosnia (1875–1878). I am particularly interested in how this armed conflict affected children’s safety and everyday life.

During archival research in Bosnia and Herzegovina and abroad, I paid special attention to the issues of displacement and migration, as these most clearly show how children experienced war. I believe that the way a society treated children in the past can tell us a great deal about that society, its values, and the processes that shaped it.

Currently, in cooperation with the War Childhood Museum, we are working on organizing a panel on childhood in times of conflict, which will cover the period from the 1875 uprising to the 1992–1995 aggression against Bosnia and Herzegovina. I think this is an important step toward bringing this topic closer to both academic audiences and the wider public.

In what way did the “Lejla Hairlahović-Hušić” Scholarship contribute to the development of your research?

The “Lejla Hairlahović-Hušić” Scholarship played a key role in the realization of my research. It enabled me to conduct archival research outside Bosnia and Herzegovina, where I collected significant materials necessary for this project, as well as for my doctoral dissertation, which focuses on the same historical period.

At a time when research costs are high and support programs like this are rare, this scholarship represents an exceptionally important form of support for young researchers. For me personally, it was both an honor and a responsibility, as well as an additional source of motivation, since I see it as confirmation that the topic I am working on is recognized as socially and academically relevant.

What advice would you give to young researchers who are considering applying?

To everyone working on topics relevant to this scholarship, I would sincerely recommend applying to the new call by the War Childhood Museum and the “Lejla Hairlahović-Hušić” Foundation. It is an exceptional opportunity that can significantly facilitate the work of young researchers, especially at the doctoral level.

The application process is simple and does not require excessive administrative paperwork, which is truly rare. My advice to candidates is to clearly and convincingly explain why their topic is important, what new perspectives it brings, and what kind of contribution it can make. I consider originality, a clearly defined goal, and a well-explained methodology to be key factors.

Finally, I wish everyone who decides to apply the best of luck and much success.

To learn more about the scholarship, visit: https://warchildhood.org/ba/otvoren-konkurs-za-stipendiju-lejla-hairlahovic-husic/

When you work with young people in workshops, what is most important to you in the process you go through together? What do you most often notice in their reactions?

What matters most to me is that they feel safe and seen—without that, there is no real learning or genuine exchange. Only when they feel that no one will judge them for what they say or don’t say can they relax and honestly engage in the process. I always emphasize that they don’t have to know everything, that we’re not competing in information, but building understanding together.
What I notice most often is that personal stories—stories from the Museum—affect them the most. The moment they realize that behind concepts like “war,” “history,” or “trauma” there are real people who were their peers, something shifts. They become more curious and open, and they begin to ask questions that go deeper than mere facts. I can see stereotypes they inherited—rather than chose—starting to break down. These are the moments when they begin building their first small bridges toward empathy—both toward themselves and toward others.

What do workshops like these mean to you in a post-conflict society such as Bosnia and Herzegovina? What is their most important contribution?

In a society that still carries many unspoken burdens and where the past is often discussed in fragmented or decontextualized ways, these workshops become small but important pressure valves. They create a space where young people can speak without fear of making a mistake, saying the “wrong thing,” or being labeled for something they inherited but did not choose.
For me, the greatest contribution of these workshops is the creation of a generation that understands the weight of the past but does not carry it as a burden. Through engaging with other people’s stories, young people learn that they are not prisoners of the narratives they were born into—that they have the right to their own understanding, their own emotions, and their own choices. These are young people who learn to build relationships, not boundaries. In a society like ours, that is a huge step forward, because it opens space for dialogue driven not by fear, but by curiosity and humanity.

What do you consider key when working with young people on themes of peace, empathy, and understanding? What would you say to others working in the field of peace education?

It is crucial that adults do not pretend to have all the answers. Young people sense that very quickly. They are not looking for perfect lecturers—they are looking for authentic people who are not afraid to say “I don’t know” or “this is difficult for me too.” When we show them that we are learning alongside them, that’s when the deepest moments of trust emerge.
What they need is space to be uncertain, to ask questions, to get lost and then find their way, to listen to others, and to examine themselves without pressure. These are processes that require time and patience, but they are invaluable.

To my colleagues, I would say: do not underestimate the power of authenticity and genuine presence. Young people learn most from examples, not from presentations. If we show them what dialogue looks like, they will naturally adopt it. If we give them permission to question, they will pass that permission on to others. And that, to me, is the essence of peace education—creating a chain of people who understand that empathy is a skill, and peace is a choice learned and practiced every day.

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.

How did you first come across the War Childhood Museum Ukraine?

I learned about the Museum from my current colleague Renata, with whom I was neighbors in the university dormitory. I had shared my own memory of the day my home city of Kramatorsk in Donetsk region of Ukraine was liberated from Russian occupation in 2014 on Instagram, and Renata suggested that I give an interview to Svitlana Osipchuk, the Museum’s program director.

What encouraged you to become personally involved and share your own story with the Museum?

Growing up in the Donetsk region has been a defining experience for me, shaping who I am in many areas of life—from my academic interests to my favorite football club. That’s why I decided to share my story.

What impact do you hope our public programs have — both on participants and on wider conversations about war, memory, and childhood?

It’s important to me that participants in our projects gain new knowledge in various areas of the humanities—history, culture, and the arts—and that this knowledge helps them reflect in new ways on their own and collective experiences, both past and ongoing, in Ukraine.

I also hope our projects inspire both participants and audiences to think about the agency of young people in Ukrainian society and in the history that is unfolding right now. This agency cannot be ignored. At the same time, our projects always emphasize that growing up is a very sensitive process, one that is shaped in different ways by war.

Are there any particular public programs or moments from your work that have stayed with you?

It is especially meaningful for me when I learn that participating in the IMBALANCE Lab, our collaborative art project with teenagers, has become an important factor in shaping participants’ future paths. Some go on to seek out similar projects, some make final decisions about which university to attend, and others change their field of study entirely as a result of their experience in the lab.

WCM Ukraine Public Programs 

The War Childhood Museum Ukraine’s public programs aim to foster dialogue—both with the communities whose experiences the Museum documents and with colleagues in oral history, public history, memory studies, and documentation. These events also help shape the conceptual framework and guiding values of the Museum’s work.

Public programs place particular emphasis on exploring alternative media and formats to represent the experiences of young people whose lives have been shaped by the war in Ukraine.

The Museum has implemented two such programs so far. 

Ozymi — a documentary theatre workshop series in which teenagers created the play Ozymi, exploring the diverse experiences of growing up amid the Russian-Ukrainian war.

IMBALANCE — a contemporary art and documentation lab for teenagers. Focusing on themes of memory, history, and the environment, participants explored how the body, movement, sound, materials, color, and space can convey personal or collective experiences. The three-month program culminated in an exhibition at the Dovzhenko Centre, where participants presented their own artistic creations.

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.

What are your impressions after visiting the exhibition?

The visit has left me with a profound and deep impression. I leave here really touched, moved. It’s not an easy exhibition to go through. I think I also leave with a little bit of hope. Hope in the sense that people who were kids during the war here but also during other conflicts and other wars can actually manage to try and move on by sharing stories, by sharing the objects — some very, very personal objects.

I cannot even imagine how difficult it must have been for some of them, both sharing stories but also sharing physical objects that they have kept for a lifetime.

Was there anything that particularly surprised you during the visit?

What surprised me the most is actually that handing over physical objects is part of a process. It’s not just like you come, knock on the door, and say, “Hey, I want to donate this to the Museum and the collection.”

It’s part of a healing process — a process of maybe internal transformation, trying to move on, but at the same time keeping a memory alive. That actually surprised me and really made me think of how powerful an instrument, and how powerful a museum, this is.

In your view, what is the importance of initiatives like the War Childhood Museum, both globally and locally?

I think it’s about giving children a voice. And what I’ve also seen here, with the current wars and conflicts going on in Gaza and in Ukraine, is that we are actually seeing stories and hearing stories and seeing objects in real time as a conflict and a war are happening.

It goes directly into my heart and my mind — understanding how important it is to give children a voice, and not just a voice 30 years after a war has happened. That is also immensely important, but conflicts happen every day, and currently we see some very large-scale conflicts and wars in Ukraine and Gaza.

This interview was edited and condensed for clarity.

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.