The Fragile Art of Living Together

Do you feel that your childhood memories and the experience of the 90s in the Balkans shaped your identity as an artist — even if you didn’t experience the war yourself?

Helena Skljarov (*1993, Croatia):

I have memories of growing up in a post-war country, and they are not warm. Television was full of images of destroyed cities and bullet holes. In primary school we were taught about the war. We had to listen to the last sentences of the famous TV reporter Siniša Glavašević, who died in Vukovar. I was about 10 years old.

While working on this project, I discovered that many people my age have second-hand trauma — not from what happened to them directly, but from the environment we grew up in, from people around us, from what we kept hearing. Court translators, who worked with war crimes trials, also had this. It definitely influenced me, even though I wasn’t aware of it.

I was born into a culture of silence. And this is not just a Croatian phenomenon — you find it across the Balkans. The traumas are still fresh. Many people refuse to talk about the Homeland War at all. It’s easier for them. It’s a form of self-defense — a way to protect their mental health. And within families, children absorbed all kinds of second-hand trauma — without even recognising it.

When I was interviewing Croatian people, I noticed that they spoke with very non-emotional and, at the same time, very distant voices. They talked about tragic events as if they were describing how they had a nice cup of coffee in the morning. It shocked me. They were keeping distance — no matter what had happened.

I’m not sure how this influenced me as an artist. Maybe you will find traces of it in my piece. Honestly, three years ago I didn’t see it at all. But through this project — through talking to each other, reflecting, discussing — I now see more clearly why I chose an imaginary story. It was my way of creating a big distance between myself and the Homeland War. It is a fairy tale — a child’s perspective. Children often see everything in black and white. And that’s how we grew up — hearing stories about, say, how Serbs were “the bad people”.

A friend of mine who was 16 during the war told me she remembered going to school while a hundred snipers were aiming at her from the windows. Yes, there were snipers — maybe two or three. But her child’s mind turned them into a hundred — and that made her trauma even bigger. This is something many people still need to process.

When Nina Perović and I worked on a project together, we discussed what had happened to us during the war. And I realised that I was also speaking in that special distant voice. And she was speaking with a trembling emotional voice. At one point we had to stop — she couldn’t continue.

I worked with interviews of victims — listening to one sentence over and over again, trying to find the right cut. I heard how my friend said, with a very cold and detached voice: “Yes, a grenade almost killed me, but I’m not sure that it had any influence on me.” And later in the interview a psychiatrist explained that many people simply do not understand that they are traumatized.

So what about me, then? Does my second-hand trauma exist? Did it influence me?

I’m not sure.

Nina Perović (*1985, Montenegro)

“Very much so. As an artist, and as a human being. It shaped my entire life — especially because now I also work with children, and I understand how their brains work. Children never question the quality of the world — they always question the quality of themselves.

If you ask me: what was the first moment I realised something was not okay — it was when we fled from Bosnia to Montenegro. I realised that people there made a subtle distinction between two letters, “ch” and “ć” — the soft and the hard ‘ch’. And at school they expected me to know this. Suddenly there was something I didn’t know. I didn’t belong. We were children, we just played — it sounds naïve now. But that was the first moment when I understood: I’m doing something wrong. I don’t fit.

That became a recurring theme. Working with contemporary classical music in Montenegro, where contemporary music barely exists — maybe five or six composers in total — was exactly the same. It sounds strange, nobody understands it, it doesn’t fit anywhere.

I’ve spent the last three years of my life in Berlin. Here it feels natural — a lot of people are interested in contemporary music, they go to concerts, they’re curious — but misunderstanding remains. A lot of classical musicians don’t get it either. So for me this field is a place where I am completely alone. No support, no friends, no family. Just: ‘Nina and her crazy music.’ And I think — okay, this is simply who I am.

And that goes back to childhood. It reflects the moment when the whole structure of our world — beautifully and lovingly built — collapsed. I lost all my friends — some stayed, others fled to different places, we moved constantly, lived a nomadic life. We did not fit.”

Ana Pandevska (b. 1985, Skopje, Macedonia)

“The most vivid thing I remember — I was about five or six — is my grandfather repeating: ‘War is coming, war is coming.’ But I couldn’t understand what that meant. I also remember the tension in my family. People were really afraid of the unknown — of what would happen next. Suddenly even everyday things were hard to get — cleaning products, anything.

My grandfather couldn’t understand how countries that were so close — that shared the same DNA — could suddenly hate each other so much. I still can’t understand it. And it’s still happening today — with Ukraine and Russia, and with wars all over the planet.

Before the war, Belgrade was the cultural centre of Yugoslavia. All the fresh ideas came from Belgrade. That has changed — now each former Yugoslav republic is trying to develop on its own and reconnect with Europe and the world.”

Hanan Hadžajlić (*1991, Bosnia and Herzegovina)

“All my childhood I moved from place to place like a nomad. I was born in 1991 in Slovenia, and I lived there for 14 years. I spent almost every weekend in Zagreb, Croatia. Then I moved with my family to Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina. I also studied in Belgrade for almost four years, and travelled a lot across the Balkans. My family origins are in Montenegro. So if you ask me where I’m from — I honestly don’t know how to answer.

My childhood memories are from television — these super old men giving speeches, and crowds cheering. Every time that was on TV, everyone would look around, afraid something might happen. We grew up surrounded by stories of children who lost their parents. We were warned not to touch objects on the ground — because they might be explosives hidden in toys. We were told that not all people are good, and some people just want to kill children.

Directly or indirectly, you grow up surrounded by this narrative. And if you live in a place that isn’t “your” place, you are always perceived as “the other”. That was me — my whole life. Even my name and surname were strange to everyone.

There were benefits too. It became part of my artistic identity. I began as a flutist, then became a composer, then moved into music production. I’ve always improvised. And if you try to place me in a market — you can’t. One day I’m more flutist than composer. Another day — I’m something else. It’s nomadic.

The moment someone tries to trap me into idolatry, being a follower, or a nationality, or a location, or a paradigm, or a market, or an industry, or a discipline — I can’t. This is deeply connected to my background.”

Petra Strahovnik (*1986, Slovenia)

“Even though Slovenia wasn’t affected as heavily, I had a classmate who was a real victim of the war. I heard her story — and I couldn’t comprehend how such a thing was possible. As a child, I simply could not understand it. And I still can’t. Just like I couldn’t understand other horrors — like starvation in Africa. Now I’m an adult, and I understand more how the world works. But I still cannot come to terms with what we, as humanity, allow to happen.”

Jug Marković (*1987, Serbia)

“It definitely influenced me as a human being. Which means of course it also influenced my art — I just can’t fully articulate how yet.

Our generation is not used to comfort. The idea that everything is readily available, functional, served to you on a plate… we never had that expectation. I think it made me less spoiled. Compared to my friends from Western Europe, I simply don’t feel fragile. I won’t break because conditions aren’t perfect.

Probably my love for street culture and clubbing comes from that period, because my entire 1990s childhood was spent on the streets — and later, between 2002–2010, Belgrade had a truly wild clubbing scene. The best clubs, bars, all in abandoned spaces. People had been trained in the 90s to make things happen without resources. Nobody said: ‘Oh, we can’t make this exhibition happen.’ Instead it was: ‘We’ll paint the walls ourselves, we’ll find a way.’

My childhood memories are mostly fun. Standing in a 50-metre line with my grandmother to buy sugar. Going shopping in almost empty stores with maybe ten products in total. You assumed that’s just what normal life is — because you didn’t know anything else. Banknotes with endless zeros? Sure — that’s what money looks like. We sold furniture from our apartment, but it wasn’t a tragedy. ‘Mom says if we sell grandma’s antique candelabra we’ll have money for six months of living costs.’ Great!

We lived in this strange poverty bubble, but it wasn’t depressing. Anything that came from outside Serbia — cheese, salami — was considered luxury. And you were like: okay, that’s how life works.

I would be lying if I said it was traumatizing. I loved it. In 1999, Belgrade and Serbia were bombed for three months — I was twelve — and that was different. I did understand that something potentially dangerous was happening. But even that didn’t feel unbearably stressful. Because you grow tough in the 90s. Nothing surprises you.”

Is there such a thing as a post-Yugoslav sound — something shared, even after all the divisions?

Jug:

We were always a little bit strange in the field of contemporary music. Balkan contemporary music was never unified the way it often is in the larger Western European countries. In Germany, everything is “post-Lachenmann”. Ex-YU countries do not have that. It’s much more dispersed. You have neoclassical composers, you have people working with folklore — that’s clear. But then you also have many people doing completely different things that don’t fit into any single aesthetic. That’s why it’s hard to draw parallels between the new voices.

As for me — my background is rave, techno, and black metal. And I know a couple of composers in Zagreb or Belgrade with techno or metal backgrounds as well. Maybe the influence of electronic scenes is something we have in common.

Hanan:

Right now I actually have more Moroccan influence in my music than Balkan. For many years after the war, I avoided using Balkan folk material, because it was so easily associated with ethnonationalism. But now you can use whatever you want. Our music is extremely diverse. Even commercial music differs a lot from place to place. Nobody has ever been able to put the Balkans into one box.

Balkan Affairs’ is quite unique in that none of the involved composers has ever worked artistically with the Balkan wars of the 1990s — neither by personal choice nor on commission. Why do you think this subject has remained so untouched by contemporary composers from the region?

Helena:The topic is still too fresh. I doubt that 20 years after the Second World War there were any performances of that sort. 

This summer there were some attempts of similar artistic collaborations in Croatia, and there were a lot of protests. Some of the events were cancelled because of that. People are still very traumatized. The attempts to discuss the war in some kind of more liberal way made people mad, especially older people. They would say something like: ‘’why do you make cultural project out of the war? You know nothing about it!’’ Even my Ukrainian friend declined to give me an interview for the project saying a lot of people are using cultural projects just to score political points or earn artistic capital.

Jug:

Maybe, in Western Europe people are not aware, but these themes have been used numerous times through different types of arts. So many movies, books, theater plays… I’ve seen so many films and photos that depict war, violence, slaughtering, genocide at the Balkans. Nothing shocks me anymore, or explains new things. We have nothing to add here. I don't think anything is unsaid. It is just boring. Besides, music is such an inherently abstract thing… What does all this have to do with music?

Nina:

I began to frantically recall similar projects, and failed to remember any. There was a festival two years ago called KotorArt, featuring composers from different parts of ex-Yugoslavia, but it didn’t reflect on these themes. This problem has very deep roots. Those who could decide if such a project should happen in the Balkans are probably still under the impression of everything that happened in the 1990s. I hope the future will bring more projects like this

Ana:

I can't say for others, but maybe it's some trauma, the urge to put things behind and look forward. If not for this project, I would never compose these pieces. We've been talking about it at home and we've been through that, but I’m not sure I would ever write something about it.

Petra:

Our society, our parents, our community repeat the same thing: “Leave the past alone. Don’t touch this topic.” No one wants to reopen these wounds. There are many horrible stories where justice was never served. People who committed war crimes are still celebrated. And the nation is still deeply divided.
One part of us wants to brush it all off and move on. Another part is still waiting for justice. We need to look in the mirror and admit our collective mistakes. Only then peace can come.

But it is very hard to talk about these things without being immediately understood as taking one political side or another. It still influences what you think and what you do. In the Balkans, a few powerful people can decide whether you will get commissions or work at all. So it’s very difficult to stand your ground and have your own voice when your future as an artist is uncertain. It is simply not “safe” to reflect on conflicts, especially on political topics. Better use a different theme.

Slovenia is part of the European Union and should support freedom of speech and artistic freedom. But in practice it’s different. We still have powerful individuals who can block projects — or block you as an artist.

Hanan:

Well, I don’t think there was an organisation — with funding — that was interested in this theme before, and that worked with composers from the market we come from. Why did we never work on it? Because it was not the right moment — and there was no money to support it, I guess.

I also wonder — how did it feel when you all gathered in one room? Was there any tension or unease?

Jug:

Not in the slightest. We’re like brothers and sisters. There is no animosity. Maybe among non-artistic people — at a football game, for example — it could be weird. But among composers? No way.

Yes, we are opening black boxes from the past, yes, it’s a sensitive topic, and yes, we have different experiences. But my family — and everyone I know — were so strongly against the war and did so much to actively stop it… I never had any kind of identity crisis or collective guilt. And I felt the same in this group. Petra speaks about violence and rape, yes — and there are many sensitive themes — but I never felt that anything was directed toward me or a neighboring country. I felt good the entire time. It’s a lovely group.

Nina:

When Christine made the first Zoom to bring us together, some of us joined the call even before she formally introduced us — and we immediately felt comfortable. Total love and understanding. I don’t think of Helena as “a Croatian”, or Jug as “a Serb”. It never crossed my mind. We are so similar. We speak (almost) the same language, the culture is similar… Yes, there are differences, but the level of mutual understanding is very high. And that is one of the reasons we all want to work together again.

Ana:

We are all very different as individuals, but we see this as a creative process. We mostly talk about artistic questions — not politics. I didn’t feel any tension. Quite the opposite. As the project continues, we’re getting closer and closer.

Petra:

I felt that in the beginning everyone stayed a little reserved. Nobody wanted to show all their cards or their most vulnerable side right away. We have different views and experiences, of course — but at least we listened to each other. In general, there is rarely tension among fellow composers. Our intentions are genuine — to highlight this topic, to choose truth, and to heal.

Helena:

I loved them all. We are the new generation, and we are composers — so we don’t have a problem. And we became really good friends.

That doesn’t mean all young people from ex-YU countries are progressive. Some went very far to the right. That is also a consequence of war.

In your opinion — how much time needs to pass after a war before artists from the region can start working with it? Is 25 years a realistic minimum — as in the case of ‘Balkan Affairs’?

Jug:

Probably less. In 2009–2010 people from Serbia were already going to the seaside in Croatia. Not everybody — just the brave ones — but still. But I cannot imagine an artistic project with Croats and Serbs in 1995. It wouldn’t work — unless the people involved already had deep personal ties.

There are many psychological obstacles — even if everyone has good intentions. It also depends on your social circle and your age. I don’t think you always need that much time. But of course, for a war veteran it would still be difficult even after ten years. The emotions are too strong to fade quickly.

Nina:

It’s not for us to decide. To make projects like this you need structures — money, resources, institutions. When it becomes politically interesting — then it will happen again. Until then, let’s just meet each other and love each other.

Ana:

When the war ends, you need a lot of time. It is all stupid politics. I can’t believe people genuinely hate each other so much. I cannot accept that this is “the nature of things”.

Helena:

A psychologist told me: five generations need to pass before war trauma disappears completely. Can you imagine? One more personal example: I have a Russian surname. My great-grandfather was Russian — that’s four generations — and I have zero connection with Russia. But during the Homeland war people asked: “Wait, what is your surname again?” Because Russians were considered allies of Serbs. Then it stopped. And when the Russia–Ukraine war began, it started again. There are four generations between me and that heritage — and it still affects my life.

Petra:

The conflict is still unresolved. It is far from over. You can still feel the consequences — especially in Bosnia, Serbia, and Kosovo. There are 340,000 minority people, from ex-Yugoslavia as well as Italians and Hungarians living in Slovenia. That’s a lot. The problem is still alive — the tension has not softened. When we premiered this project in 2023, another festival took place in Ljubljana. I believe it was the first time that historians from all the former Yugoslav regions were invited to talk together. So — it takes time. A lot of time.

Hanan:

When someone is brave enough and strong enough to say: “We’re going to solve this” — then it will happen. Anyone with a brain and a heart understands that we need change.

In Asia they build new cities in one month. And in some societies, you need hundreds of years to make one step. So yes, change can happen quickly — but you need at least two people to agree. And here we have many more than two — and many interests. What we’re talking about is extremely dangerous. Again, look at the world today. The conflict(s).

Start at the beginning. What is the real issue? Territory? Religion? Let’s be honest. Do you understand that this conflict defines your entire life? Is it worth it? And one more thing: if your family is racist, nationalist and whatever, you need to step away from that narrative. Family is important — but if you want to do your own thing, to save yourself and future generations, you need to be like: “I’m on my own, I know what I’m doing.”

Did you discuss this piece with your parents — and how did they react?

Helena:

Yes. They helped me clarify their perspective. My father talks from a political and historical angle, while my mother is more interested in psychology. We discussed transgenerational trauma — how it moves from one generation to the next. Her uncle disappeared in World War II — and that affected her father, her, and to some extent me. That’s just one example.

She also remembered that during the war she would close the windows with shutters and tell my brother who was 3-years- old then that she was doing it because of rain. She made a game out of it — a game of delusion — just to survive.

Jug:

My father wrote two novels set in the 1990s, and he and my sister made documentaries. He is very involved in this topic — he was an activist in the 90s. My mother is a lawyer — she is surrounded by all this shit constantly. So they were very supportive. I asked them all sorts of practical questions — like “what exactly did we sell in ’95?” They were happy to talk. I’m not sure everyone is like that. When a narrative controls your life for so long, you just want to forget. Letting go is the healthiest option — and understandable.

Nina:

My father initially said that this commission should have gone to a more senior composer, like my professor, whom he admires. He thought I was too young for this theme. But in the end, my parents fully supported me — they allowed me to use family videos. At first I was excited to interview them — but then it became very challenging. My mother tried her best, but it was clearly emotional and triggering. We had to stop and take breaks — she is not the type of person who wants to cry on camera. She never saw herself as a victim — more as a winner. My parents never processed their trauma in therapy — they just coped, as much as they could.

I didn’t like that I put my mother in such a demanding situation.In the end, even my father — after regretting it — agreed to do the interview. And you can tell just by the way he sits that he is not comfortable. They did what they thought was best — and if I were in their place, I would do the same. But it’s all very fragile.

There is still tension. People who stayed and lived through everything often judge those who escaped — and vice versa. My parents feel sorry for their friends who stayed — because what they went through was unbearable, unspeakable. Leaving was difficult — but staying was much harder.

When I finished the interview, I asked my parents if they wanted to see the final edit. They said: “No, better not.” They want to keep living their lives. And I think that’s fine. They are the ones who know what they went through. For our generation — it’s important to talk, because we have some distance, and we can learn something from it.

Petra:

My parents are from different regions — we talked about their perceptions. But they would not go on record. And I have a family member who was deeply affected by the war — I couldn’t ask him for an interview. It’s very hard to be the one who opens that wound — and you don’t know how the person will react.

Ana:

When my mother saw the video I made, she became very emotional, her eyes filling with tears. For me it was not so emotional — there were no traumatic scenes, just people remembering how connected life was, how open and simple things felt, how a middle class existed — not only poor and rich. But it touched her. She was in her forties when Yugoslavia broke up. She misses those times.

There was no war in Macedonia itself. People were killed elsewhere — in Croatia, Serbia, Bosnia. But we all have relatives somewhere. Some of us composers have mixed families. My grandfather is Montenegrin, my grandmother Macedonian, my father Macedonian, my mother was born in Kosovo, so I have relatives all over Yugoslavia. We are all deeply interconnected. In the countries with more direct victims, people are more likely to look only forward and forget. In my family, the memories of Yugoslavia are mostly beautiful — there is nostalgia.

During my research I also talked to younger people — born in 2009 — thinking they would know nothing. Quite the opposite — they knew everything and more. That changed my opinion about the new generation completely.

Hanan:

My mother just said: “I don’t like that you always work on productions that are political, or a bit out of safe zone. You are supposed to make music. Take care of yourself.” So my family is used to that.

In the city where I live now, there is a lot of multicultural and multiconfessional life. Talking about war feels normal. Sometimes it even becomes part of dark humour. It’s just something that is there.

Margareta Ferek-Petrić, artistic director of Music Biennale Zagreb, said she sees this project as a tool for reconciliation. Do you feel the same?

Jug:

I’m very skeptical about that. I don’t think it will have any healing value in that sense. I reconciled — honestly — long ago. Same with my parents. Same with many people I know.

Nina:

From my personal perspective, I cannot say there is a lack of communication between our countries, as I have friends in all the countries, speaking from a personal level. I cannot say that we “need to be reunited”. The connection is already there. We just need a proper formal context so that projects like this can happen more often. We need the right people in the right place. The current situation in the Balkans is not promising at all, but I hope we will be able to work on it in future.

Hanan:

I don’t think reconciliation just “happens”. It needs to happen inside people’s minds. And that is complex.

For example — I cannot believe that in the 21st century we still have nations, borders, visas. Is this really the highest achievement of civilization — to close ourselves, more and more? Or the borders between disciplines? Or an education system that teaches many subjects, but connects nothing?

Of course these structures serve certain interests — but I don’t even blame the people in power most of the time. I blame the masses, because they still love to jump around celebrating weird symbols and identifying with “our nation, our culture”. Hannah Arendt said long ago: …the banality of evil. And I think stupidity is the biggest issue behind everything.

And if we want to talk about reconciliation — we need to know where we start. I hate the concept of “tolerance”. No one tolerates anyone for too long. People explode — and war happens. Better talk about acceptance. Progress. Change.

So I think borders need to be redrawn. Or erased. And this thing called a “new world order”, which is usually connected to conspiracy theories — could be a positive thing, if a new world order was truly based on justice and solidarity. Justice should truly be for all. But as we know, there is no justice in this world.

We would need a totally different structure of the world.

Do you think a project like this can actually change anything — or make a difference, even in a small way?

Helena:

We are artists. The only thing we can do is raise awareness. Of course, it’s not that simple. I even have a double-sarcastic ending in my piece: the narrator asks the audience — you just heard a concert about war. What will you do now? How do you feel? Because you can easily imagine a snobbish person who feels good simply because they attended such a concert. As if listening to it equals doing something. “I’m such a good person!”

But maybe the audience will reflect on it. Maybe they will do something that matters. If this changes someone’s mind even a little — that already means a lot.

Nina:

During this project, Helena Škiljarov and I decided to make a collaborative coda piece for the Berlin concert. For that, we exchanged very sensitive material. It was triggering for both of us. We are human — not angels — we make mistakes. The point is to learn from them. That is what this project is about. And tomorrow we will be the ones responsible for such things — and maybe we will influence other projects too.

Ana:

If nothing else, there will be more projects. We will meet again. The audience will think about what they heard or saw. The message will spread slowly. Even if the audience doesn’t change much — the project changes us. The singers and Christine Fischer learned so much about ex-Yugoslavia. Now they know more than me!

Hanan:

That’s why I’m doing it — because it can. It gives you a microphone. A platform where you can show young people another way of thinking.

I don’t like that the project is centered around war. I wish it was about new technology, the future, and progress. But at least we can use this — not for reconciliation, that’s not our job — but to show that we are willing to go against dominant narratives. We are brave. And we don’t care. I hope it inspires young people to go their own way.

I love the Noam Chomsky quote: “If you’re teaching what you were teaching five years ago — either the field is dead, or you are.” What is always alive: the fight for humanity, peace, justice, balance. We’re here for that.

Jug:

I think the real importance of this project is not in “healing wounds”, but in rebuilding artistic connections between neighboring countries. During the 1990s we were isolated in our own states. That isolation still continues. There are strong connections between German-speaking countries, but almost none between Belgrade and Zagreb — even though there is no bad blood anymore.

We are neighbors, we speak the same language — and yet the amount of shared projects is pathetically small. We need collaborators and partners. We need concerts in each other’s countries, workshops, ensembles, publishing houses, institutions.

We lost this in the 1990s — it died out in ’91–’92 — and never came back. Nobody worked on rebuilding it. Every European scene has a geographical logic — but not the Balkans. We are missing this.

I’ve had a concert in a small village in the north of Finland — but not in Bosnia. My music has been played in Iceland — but not in North Macedonia. That is absurd. It’s completely unnatural.

This can — and should — change only through actual work together.

Related text: How to Turn War Trauma into Music