The Levantine island of Cyprus and the Balkan nation of Bosnia and Herzegovina (BiH) are not, for most, two places thought of as sharing a common history. For me however, as a Cypriot genocide researcher whose work focuses on the 1990s war in Bosnia, I have never stopped drawing parallels between these two ‘post-conflict’ spaces.
As a child, I grew up with stories of unspeakable atrocities which my relatives had survived during the interethnic conflict in Cyprus of the 1960s and 1970s. Rarely a summer passed by without another relative or family friend receiving a phone call from the Committee on Missing Persons, informing them that the (often partial) remains of their loved one had been identified. Without realising, I internalised these moments of violence and have carried them with me into adulthood.
No wonder, then, that when I first began researching the archives of Bosnia’s bloody 1990s war, I was struck by a number of echoes between the two war-torn communities. One of those was the multifaceted ways in which the partitioning of a community systemically marginalises intercommunal peace activism far beyond the moment the guns fall silent.
To understand how this marginalisation of intercommunality has sustained itself in Bosnia and Cyprus, one first has to look at the violent partitioning of both multi-communal spaces.
Partitioning Land and Minds
In December 1995, the Dayton Peace Accords enshrined the legitimacy of the Republika Srpska (RS) entity, which was founded on the back of an atrocity-laden campaign by the Republika Srpska Army (VRS) to form a Serb-majority territory (1992-1995). This campaign saw the first concentration camps on European soil since the Holocaust, rape camps, and the forced displacement of over two million Bosnians. Today, the RS is a constituent entity of BiH, though with considerable political autonomy. This autonomy is frequently flexed by the entity’s ultra-nationalist and revisionist ruling party, whose leader, Milorad Dodik, threatens to secede from BiH both vehemently and often.
While there is no hard border between BiH’s two entities (the Republika Srpska (RS) and the Federation of BiH (FBiH), both of which officially share the Brčko District as a condominium), narratives in each entity surrounding both the 1990s war and the period of communist Yugoslavia that preceded it seem wildly different. Namely, the sociopolitical environment in the RS entity is marked by institutionalised genocide denial and revisionism, attacks against Bosniak (Bosnian Muslim) returnees, and the systemic whitewashing of sites of atrocities as well as memorials honouring the region’s communist legacy. Meanwhile, in Bosnia’s FBiH entity, confronting the region’s recent history seems to be engrained in the sociopolitical fabric of the community. This is indicated by the internationally acclaimed museums and memorial centres in cities like Sarajevo and Mostar, the Medica women’s shelter in Zenica set up in response to the mass rape during the war, and even streets named after communist Yugoslav leader, Tito, as well as the armed Bosnian resistance group, the Green Berets. Two entities under one state, each barricaded into two separate worlds.
In Cyprus, the infamous “Green Line” first de facto partitioned the capital of Lefkosia-Lefkoşa in 1963, after the horrors of Bloody Christmas saw hundreds of Cypriots killed from both of the island’s largest communities and the displacement of approximately 25,000 Turkish-Cypriots. This was the first time the island’s Greek-speaking and Turkish-speaking populations had been formally separated. In 1974, following the two invasions of Cyprus by the Turkish Armed Forces, the “Green Line” was expanded to a length of 180km, dividing the island into free territory to the Line’s south and occupied territory to its north.
It is undeniable that the nature of Cyprus’ partition holds notable differences to the autonomous entities of BiH. Over sixty years on from the Green Line of 1963 and there is still a hard border as well as a UN Buffer Zone between Cyprus’ north and south (despite the fact that the self-declared Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus remains unrecognised as a state, except by Turkey). The estimated 160,000 Greek-Cypriot refugees of 1974 do not have the right of return. Turkish armed forces remain stationed in the occupied north, with no sign of the EU’s only partitioned member state (Cyprus) being reunified any time soon. Yet, just as in BiH, it is the resulting polarisation of narratives surrounding the island’s history which is most apparent.
The crudest embodiment of this discursive divide is in the circulation of flags: walk through the streets of Greek-Cypriot Lefkosia and you will find flags of Greece adorning the cobbled roads. Just a few streets away, across the capital’s partition line, and you will find yourself surrounded by just as many flags of Turkey, interspersed with the occasional “Love Erdogan” poster. Echoes of Cyprus’ divided capital are chillingly resonant in Bosnia’s Sarajevo-East Sarajevo split. East Sarajevo/Istočno Sarajevo (an area that used to fall within Sarajevo but which is now located in the RS entity) can trace its roots to 1992, when Serb ethnonationalists and their armed forces, the Army of the Republika Srpska, occupied part of Bosnia’s capital. In both Cyprus’ Lefkoşa and BiH’s East Sarajevo, the way in which partitionist violence is remembered raises serious questions about how both (post-)conflict spaces can move beyond its legacies. In Cyprus’ Lefkoşa, a man whose successive administrations have been denounced for backing the “colonisation” of occupied territory as early as 2003 is presented as a hero. In East Sarajevo, all BiH citizens are greeted with a plaque honouring the convicted genocidaire, Ratko Mladić, whose forces massacred thousands of non-Serb civilians and shelled the citizens of Sarajevo relentlessly for four years.
The legacies of partition are palpable in both BiH and Cyprus. Both nations’ capital cities are scourged by borders. Both spaces are home to once coexistent communities now raised under two starkly different narratives about their shared history. Moreover, in both ‘post-conflict’ countries, there are grass-root organisations endeavouring to create their own intercommunal spaces that subvert state-sanctioned segregation. It is this shared struggle that I set out to explore by talking to peace activists on the ground.
BiH’s Oštra Nula and Cyprus’ HÀDE
In the leafy streets of Banja Luka (RS entity of BiH), Milica Pralica works as the president of the citizens’ association, Oštra Nula. It is not insignificant that the organisation is based in an entity positioned within an ambiguous temporal space of (post-)conflict, an entity whose political leadership is invested in revising and reimagining an atrocity-laden past. The organisation is committed to social justice and remembering atrocities, couching this within a broader struggle towards “active citizenship and human rights”. Interestingly, Oštra Nula includes within its commitment to remembrance the atrocities of the 1990s as well as those committed during the Yugoslav antifascist struggle of the 1940s.
Over two thousand kilometres away, in Cyprus’ divided capital of Lefkosia-Lefkoşa, Lambros Asvestas sits on the committee of the intercommunal organisation, HÀDE (named after the Cypriot variation of the common exclamation ajde/hajde across the Balkans). HÀDE is committed to “promoting peace, reconciliation and the reunification of Cyprus”. A seemingly simple objective which, in a space that now marks half a century since the final entrenchment of its partition, is anything but straightforward.
Milica and Lambros work nearly two thousand kilometres away from one another. Yet their experiences working in partitioned communities reveal striking similarities between the Bosnian and Cypriot contexts.
Mobilising People to Deconstruct Dominant Narratives
Given the polarisation of narratives surrounding partitionist violence across Cyprus’ and BiH’s divides, actively deconstructing the dominant narrative within a given ‘side’ seems a tall order. HÀDE’s Lambros Asvestas reflects on this uphill fight. “The biggest challenge is the lack of engagement of society and the different understandings of history, which are very ethnocentric. It’s a challenge to encourage people to cross to the ‘other side’ to meet, to interact, to offer an alternative peaceful narrative of coexistence. It’s difficult, also due to different historical narratives of ‘the other’.”
Oštra Nula’s Milica Pralica thinks about the ways to make deconstructive approaches more accessible to communities in which narratives have become fixed: “In our work in Bosnia and Herzegovina, especially in Banja Luka, the hardest part has been opening up the discussion about wartime events, as the dominant narrative here is that there was no war. Therefore, we decided to highlight what the war took from us, beyond just lives. What about the economy, culture, and way of life? Are we still living the war, just without armed conflict?”
With every attempt to deconstruct what is seemingly fixed, there comes the risk of being labelled a traitor to one’s ‘own’. Milica admits this has been the case with their work in the RS. “When we started talking about the wartime events in Prijedor, including the camps and the expulsion of the non-Serb population, and became part of the “Jer me se tiče” initiative, which deals with civic commemorations, we faced condemnation, insults, and public labelling in the media and public outlets in Republika Srpska. We were characterised as promoters of the ‘Sarajevo war narrative’ and traitors to Serbdom, even as a terrorist organisation, making us targets of nationalist attacks. Additionally, when we started talking about all civilian war victims, we faced opposition from other ethno-national groups, so we were simultaneously labelled as a Chetnik [Serb fascist] organisation and haters of Serbs. This is truly absurd, but it shows the extent of the madness when you start deconstructing narratives and presenting facts.”
Meanwhile, education systems are partition’s greatest ally. Ultimately, partitionist curricula propagate and sustain dominant narratives which hinge around reimagining history to uphold ethnocentric identities. Lambros is unequivocal in his critique of Cyprus’ education system. “In the South, they do not even mention the existence of Turkish-Cypriots on the island until 1963, or 1960 let’s say, and there is a lot of focus on the pain of the Greek-Cypriot community, which is a valid experience and a very traumatic experience as well… but we are not the only victims. This pain is over-emphasised and over-focused in all ways: with drawings, with theatrical presentations imitating the invasion and the occupation, anthems about refugees going back to their homes, ‘Turks are barbarians’, all these things are very prevalent. And of course the education system in the South is very ethnocentric about Greece. We don’t learn a lot about Cyprus’ history, rather it’s very Greek-centric. And in the North, the education system super emphasises the Ottoman Empire, as if the history of the island is just Ottoman history. And 1963 is also, ‘the bad Greeks that tried to kill us all’. So there’s a lot of self-victimisation on both sides. Both sides are very ethnocentric and no recognition of each other’s pain, which is a big problem for division because young people grow up and don’t understand the other side of the story. So, you have this very contrasting understanding.”
Milica shares Lambros’ critique of the role of the education system in sustaining partitionist legacies. “The education system in Bosnia and Herzegovina plays a crucial role in upholding the dominant narrative, especially due to the lack of a unified Ministry of Education at the state level. This fragmentation allows political elites to shape the content of textbooks according to their interests, often resulting in different versions of history and other subjects depending on the entity or canton. In Republika Srpska, Cyrillic is presented as exclusively a Serbian script. Young people from the Federation who study from Croatian textbooks are often not familiar with the crimes committed by the NDH [Nazi-collaborating Independent State of Croatia], and Croats are presented as the only victims of all systems in BiH throughout its history. These differences in education allow manipulation and segregation of young people, who should be the bearers of change.”
Partitionist Legacies and Erasing Working-Class History
By emphasising and thus upholding ethnocentric identities in Cyprus and BiH, there is a common aspect of history which is subsequently erased. As Lambros posits, “trade unions, workers’ rights, leftist history is missing completely.” So while Greek-Cypriot and Turkish-Cypriot children are learning about separate histories which centre themselves around 1974 and 1963 respectably, they are not learning about intercommunal working-class struggles such as the 1833 revolts. One of these uprisings was the Gavur Imam Revolt. In 1833, a Turkish-speaking Cypriot, Gavur Imam, led a group of Turkish- and Greek-speaking Cypriot villagers in a revolt against the Ottoman authorities in the western district of Paphos. The uprising was ostensibly a protest against the newly imposed taxation that was unbearable for the island’s poor rural population. However, Gavur Imam promised liberation from Ottoman rule for all Cypriots. It is perhaps unsurprising that this example of intercommunal organising would be left out of history books on either side of Cyprus’ partition line. As Lambros concludes, “this [erasure] basically serves nationalistic, right-wing rhetoric.”
As in Cyprus, education in BiH’s RS entity is light on the common revolutionary struggle that has shaped BiH’s culture. BiH is situated in the post-communist former-Yugoslav space, where, ever since the ethnonationalist wars of the 1990s, remembering the region’s Partisan legacy has seemingly fallen out of fashion. In Belgrade, an aggressive campaign led by the country’s political leadership has seen almost all of its street names that were related to communist or socialist history wiped away and replaced by pre-Second World War references. In Mostar (FBiH entity), the Partisan cemetery, dedicated to the multiethnic resistance fighters of the Second World War, was almost destroyed by ethnonationalist vandalism in June 2022. In their paper, “Forsaken Monuments and Social Change: The Function of Socialist Monuments in the Post- Yugoslav Space”, Boriša Mraović and Sandina Begić describe the destruction of communist-era monuments in Bosnia as markers that have been “replaced by three mono-ethnic narratives and their symbols. This symbolic cleansing of territory has a dual purpose, to differentiate ‘us’ from ‘them’ and to make the ethnic other feel uncomfortable, unwelcome, and out of place in ‘our’ majority-controlled areas.”
Within this context of erasure, Milica from Oštra Nula insists on her organisation’s determination to provide a space for remembering the region’s revolutionary history: “That only motivates us further to educate younger generations about the partisan anti-fascist movement in these areas and about Yugoslavia as an emancipatory creation where different peoples, nationalities, and religions could live and work together. It is important to explain to people that we should not romantically view Yugoslavia as a utopia, but rather understand what we are missing from that period – Yugoslav security, stability, quality education, and healthcare, i.e., a social state. These are the values that have been taken from us and that we want to restore. The partisans self-organised in the territory of former Yugoslavia and managed to resist a much stronger occupier. If they could do it then, we as citizens can do the same.”
Saying No To “Liberation Nationalism” and Embracing Non-Hierarchy
In the aftermath of war and partition, it is no secret that communities often turn to ‘liberating’ forms of nationalism as both a place of refuge and a point from which to rebuild one’s sense of belonging. Yet in both the Bosnian and the Cypriot context, there is an increasing rejection of this recourse among peace activists. No clearer is this than in the radical social media space. In Cyprus, profiles such as “αφοα” and the “antifazone_cy” circulate content which rejects popular ethnocentric perceptions of identity. One such anti-nationalist expression can be found in the famously (re)circulated slogan, “Ούτε Έλληνας, ούτε Τούρκος, ούτε Κυπραίος – μόνη πατρίδα είναι η γη” (“Neither Greek, nor Turk, nor Cypriot – our only homeland is the earth”). On social media, this phrase is most commonly (re)circulated in the form of graffiti that is photographed around the island. Meanwhile, in the former-Yugoslav region, content creators such as “dejoslavija” (re)circulate discourse that plays with Yugoslav symbols in order to eschew mono-ethnic labels. One of their most liked posts quotes the footballer Zlatan Ibrahimović, of Bosnian origin, when he declared, “I speak Dutch, Swedish, English, Yugoslavian, Spanish, Italian.” The post-1990s sociopolitical environment has seen the once commonly (and not unproblematic) termed “Serbo-Croatian” language of Bosnia-Croatia-Serbia-Montenegro recategorised into individually named languages that correspond with their respective nation state: “Bosnian”, “Croatian”, “Serbian”, “Montenegrin”. Content like that circulated by “dejoslavija”, but also “antifazone_cy” and “αφοα” in Cyprus, points to a demand for an alternative space in which mono-ethnic signifiers can be freely eschewed.
Lambros echoes this rejection of liberation nationalism: “I don’t think Cypriot nationalism is the solution, even though I do support promoting Cypriot identity in Cyprus, but not as nationalism. I don’t share this belief [in liberation nationalism]. The reason is: what about immigrants?”
Milica shares Lambros’ thoughts on grounding a liberation struggle in a new form of nationalism, which she regards as an inadequate plaster for partition’s structural violence. “I do not believe that any form of nationalism, including “liberation nationalism”, is the key to solving problems. Instead, I believe in denationalisation and restoring humanity. We must stop viewing everything as a project, because peace is not a project. Peace is a state of being! Our mission is to address the root causes of violence so that we can work on prevention, rather than just sporadically putting out fires. When a house is on fire, you don’t take out the furniture, yet that’s exactly what we are doing in Bosnia and Herzegovina.”
If a liberation struggle is not to be grounded in liberation nationalism, it may look towards non-hierarchical organising and bottom-up action as an elixir to success. In Cyprus, HÀDE’s decision-making process operates on the basis of consensus and democratic participation, something which Lambros believes is key to building a movement. “Non-hierarchy is important for community organising because it gives a collective sense of organising. I think it’s about doings things in a more participatory way. I wouldn’t say that there is no hierarchy ever. I think some hierarchy inevitably appears and exists, depending on different experiences but I think it’s important to have participatory consensus when we are making decisions, as a higher form of democracy. It’s a more democratic participation.”
Oštra Nula’s president also stresses the significance of democratising a civic action plan which springs upwards from the community. “Institutions often do not want to engage in the process of dealing with the past beyond the minimum required by the international community. The political elites who caused the conflict more than 30 years ago, for their own profit, now have no motivation to change things for the better, as ethnonationalism is their currency for staying in power. Our strength lies in the community and in people who are willing to face the past and work on reconciliation.”
A Shared Struggle
Milica and Lambros’ responses reveal something that few seem willing to admit: partition’s violence is not exclusive to a given space, but rather an oppression common to all who live under its structures. Partition painfully disconnects members of the same body politic, by forcing their separation, first in body, then in mind. This separation is justified and upheld from generation to generation by carefully constructed narratives which distort historical fact in order to form fixed, reductive understandings of one’s history and belonging. These narratives are often the result of the constant (re)circulation of signs and symbols (like the whitewashed memorials of the RS and the flags of Greece/Turkey in divided Lefkosia-Lefkoşa), whose meanings get fixed by elites with a vested interest in their narrative’s prominence.
Those working to dismantle and subvert these narratives, to recreate lost spaces of intercommunality, would surely be empowered by stronger collaboration between anti-partitionist spaces. After all, it is too easily forgotten that partitionists across time and space have frequently inspired one another. It was the Serb genocidaire, Radovan Karadžić, who told the Republika Srpska Assembly in 1992 that he hoped the self-declared “Serbian Autonomous Oblast of Bosanska Krajina” would emulate the partitioning of Cyprus in 1963-1974: “in the Turkish Republic of Cyprus it was the same as it is in Krajina, deployment across entire territories and later the green line was drawn back”.
The evidence before us should oblige researchers and activists alike to recognise that the Cypriot and Bosnian fight against partition has and will always be a shared struggle.
