Author: Oliinyk Vladyslava What do a child in Sarajevo in the 1990s and a child in Ukraine today have in common? A historian and student shares how moderating an exhibition at the Museum of War Childhood in Kyiv sparked a personal and academic journey into Balkan history, empathy, and the power of cultural memory. This blog reflects on how museums can connect past and present across borders—and how stories of childhood in wartime can bring people and nations closer together. Last summer, I had the unique opportunity to moderate a temporary exhibition at the Museum of War Childhood in Kyiv. Although the exhibition was managed by the museum’s Ukrainian branch, moderators like myself had to familiarize ourselves with the institution’s origins in Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina. The Museum of War Childhood is a relatively young institution—its permanent exhibition opened only in 2017—but its conceptual depth is striking. The idea behind the museum lies in the tension between the uniqueness and universality of growing up during wartime, as first explored in the book War Childhood by Bosnian entrepreneur and author Jasminko Halilović. Halilović transformed his personal experiences as a child during the Bosnian War (1992–1995) into a literary work and, eventually, a cultural institution. Photo by Oliinyk Vladyslava As a historian, I was familiar with the basic chronology and causes of the Bosnian War, but I had never examined the conflict on a micro level. During my undergraduate studies, my focus was on the history of visual art in Victorian Britain, and I gave little attention to Central or Eastern Europe. It wasn’t until Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine that I felt a personal urgency to understand the region’s post-Soviet transitions and the independence movements of neighboring countries. The complex and often painful recent history of the Balkans earned my deep respect, but at first, I struggled to see how our experiences were connected. Encountering the Museum of War Childhood changed that. I began to recognize parallels between the Russian-Ukrainian war and the Bosnian conflict—especially in how children navigate trauma, displacement, and interrupted childhoods during wartime. The museum made these connections tangible, offering a space where individual stories speak across national and temporal boundaries. Photo by Oliinyk Vladyslava In my growing curiosity about the Balkans, I chose to join a Central European University specifically because it offered a course on Balkan Studies. Ukrainian universities also offer Central and Eastern European studies, but I realized that to truly understand the region, I needed to learn from the people who live there. Who can speak more vividly about the intricacies of student protests in Serbia than those participating in them? Who can reflect more truthfully on the Bosnian war than those who lived through it? Through my studies and encounters, these questions are finding meaningful answers. My experience taught me how cultural institutions, like museums, can provide powerful tools for rethinking war, trauma, and identity. Today’s museums can connect the histories of different nations, revealing shared tragedies and common challenges—particularly for children navigating the chaos of war. This renewed focus on the experiences of minors has led me to new research interests and opened a new chapter of European history I had never expected to engage with so deeply. Museums, I’ve learned, can simultaneously build bridges and highlight difference—and in doing so, they provide a space where empathy, inquiry, and healing can coexist. Photo by Oliinyk Vladyslava Photo by Oliinyk Vladyslava

Since Serbian militias entered villages in the Kosovar province in 1999, many boys and men have been missing, including Fahrije’s husband—a single parent who had been caring for their two children and her disabled father-in-law. Left to ensure her family’s survival, Fahrije takes matters into her own hands. She first obtains a driver’s license, then starts a small business, actions that provoke the wrath of the conservative, patriarchal local society. The director, Blerta Basholli, originally from Kosovo, first encountered Fahrije Hoti’s story during an interview she gave on American television, in which she discussed the backlash she faced for seeking independence and proposing a cooperative to provide work for other widows in her community. At the time, the director was living in New York on a scholarship. Initially, she mistook the story for a joke due to her emotional and geographical distance from Kosovo. However, upon realizing the seriousness of Fahrije’s situation, she was inspired to delve deeper. Captivated by the story, the director began writing and directing what would eventually become Hive in 2011. A decade later, the film made history by winning all three major awards in the World Cinema section at the Sundance Film Festival—the only film to ever achieve this feat. Basholli approaches the story with restraint and confidence, avoiding unnecessary melodrama or overemphasis. This is a tale of humanity and resistance, framed by a clear feminist perspective. In Hive, patriarchy is represented not only through visible actions—such as stones smashing Fahrije’s car windows, her father-in-law’s objections or an attempted assault by a supplier—but also through the absence of a male protector. The ghost of patriarchy lingers in the perception that Fahrije’s efforts to support herself dishonor her missing husband. Her grief is entangled with guilt: if her husband is dead, her actions are seen as a confirmation of his death, dissolving their marriage, and rejecting her eternal dependence on him. If, by some miracle, he were alive, many believe he would feel ashamed of her. Fahrije’s husband thus becomes like Schrödinger’s cat—both alive and dead—while society seeks to confine her autonomy. The backdrop of numerous missing persons and the ongoing search for their remains adds an emotionally charged layer to the narrative, making Hive reminiscent of Parallel Mothers by Pedro Almodóvar. However, unlike Almodóvar’s melodramatic approach to historical tragedy, Basholli masterfully integrates the collective trauma of a community with one woman’s personal journey toward emancipation. Fahrije’s struggle becomes an example for the other widows in her village, who rally around her. Central to Fahrije’s transformation is her evolving relationship with her late husband’s beehive, which gives the film its title. Initially, she is a foreign presence, vulnerable to stings despite protective gear, and haunted by the notion that her husband had "never been stung." However, as she confronts societal obstacles and normalized misogyny disguised as tradition, she finds her strength. She emerges as the queen of the hive, uniting the worker bees to create an independent, resilient ecosystem that requires no male master. This symbolism underscores the real-life success of Fahrije and her colleagues, celebrated in the film’s credits. This way, Hive highlights the critical importance of women’s solidarity in challenging male dominance. Fahrije’s story is one of hope in a nation still haunted by the ghosts of a brutal war. The fact that the narrative is based on true events and a real woman makes its impact even more profound.