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I had just finished photographing inside Sarajevo’s Cathedral of the Sacred Heart. The next stop for my report was Gallery 11/07/95, a memorial to the Srebrenica genocide.
Inside, this exhibition — photos, video, survivors’ voices — does more than present facts; it rebuilds July 1995 and insists on naming what happened. I left feeling, in a small way, like a witness. The images — evidence of more than 8,000 killed just in three days — are overwhelming.
One picture lingers: an elderly Bosniak woman with sons and grandsons, the men faded, almost transparent — because they were all killed in that horrific massacre.
At the final screen I asked what had been on my mind: “Why is the culture of memory so important, and how should it be preserved in Bosnian society?”
The guide, Nedžla, answered quietly: “Thirty years after Srebrenica, we live in a world where new forms of aggression and violence are emerging — beyond Bosnia and Herzegovina. Xenophobia, what’s happening in Gaza, the war against Ukraine — these are all symptoms of the same disease. Institutions like this are essential. Here, people can see the consequences of genocide and learn to recognize early signs of violence before it escalates. Hope lies in believing a more peaceful world is still possible, even if that faith feels harder to hold. We must not lose it. Even if the idea seems utopian, it’s an honor to belong to it — and to always stand on the side of the victims.”
Her words — and that photograph — prepared us for the grief and silence we expected in Srebrenica.
Three hours of driving along a scenic mountain road brought us there. The Srebrenica Memorial and Cemetery in Potočari looked like a forest of white headstones, rising and falling with the hills — a geography of loss carved into the land. After a few photos, we drove to the memorial building. When I stepped out to capture the signboard, a police car appeared. The officer said filming was prohibited and asked for our passports. There were no prohibition signs, to be honest, but I didn’t argue.
When they saw our passports — mine Ukrainian and Ivan’s Russian — and heard I was reporting for an American magazine, surprise flickered. I explained I’m a freelancer, and Ivan, a friend, helps with translation and logistics. I didn’t elaborate — old post-Soviet reflex: with police, less is more. But, for the record: Ivan’s late father was from Bosnia, making him a Bosnian Croat by paternal line. So, Ivan has been living here for almost four years now, after leaving Russia in protest when the full-scale invasion of Ukraine began.
I showed the officers previous publications, and that was enough. They let us go.
After that encounter, we continued on. Covering the war in Ukraine, I have seen more than I can ever unsee. Yet even with that hard-earned armor, unease crept in. Any elderly woman I met could have been someone who, in 1995, lost a husband, a father, sons.
Reaching our guesthouse, exhausted and on edge, Ivan misjudged the brakes, clipped a flowerbed, and scratched the rental car. We got out — irritated, silent — to inspect it.
From the doorway, our hosts’ wife and daughter watched.
“Don’t worry about the car. It’s nothing serious!” 10-year-old Merijam called in perfect English. Oddly enough, her enthusiasm and optimism calmed us and lifted our spirits.
The next morning, over breakfast, we met Mersudin, the father. He told us of wartime losses — family members killed — and how, as a teenager, he barely survived when a Serbian tank fired from across the river. He spoke of years of hatred, and the relief that came only when he finally let it go. He and his wife raised their children to embody kindness and optimism.
The grief and resentment we expected were replaced by something else: warmth, dignity, resilience. Sitting in their kitchen, I realized reconciliation here is not abstract but a daily act, rooted in small gestures and the courage to forgive.
Ms. Klochko writes more about the journey to peace and reconciliation after war and genocide in Bosnia and Herzegovina in “No Alternative to Dialogue,” in the December issue of ONE magazine.