Lectures Wild Peace and Unruly Memories

Why is it so easy to remember war and so hard to remember peace? In order to bring forth memories of peace we need to reconceptualize what we mean by peace. I propose the term wild peace as a conceptual and potentially radical move that engage our imagination and capture the lived, embodied and agential dimensions of peace. Memories of wild peace are unruly as they hold the power to unsettle hegemonic narratives and point to alternative futures. I argue that unruly memories of wild peace are important at the present time, when the very idea of peace is contested and undermined.

Published on balticworlds.com on March 7, 2026

Keynote lecture “Nothing to Remember?  Politics, Practices, and Agents of Commemorating Peace”

Why is it so easy to remember war and so hard to remember peace? In order to bring forth memories of peace we need to reconceptualize what we mean by peace. I propose the term wild peace as a conceptual and potentially radical move that engage our imagination and capture the lived, embodied and agential dimensions of peace. Memories of wild peace are unruly as they hold the power to unsettle hegemonic narratives and point to alternative futures. I argue that unruly memories of wild peace are important at the present time, when the very idea of peace is contested and undermined.

Picture a small village that climbs the hills above the river Drina in Bosnia and Herzegovina. Snow lies in thick layers on haystacks and rooftops. Some houses have smoke rising from the chimney rising, while others are abandoned ruins. Gordana, let’s call her that, walks up the gravel road through the snow to her elderly neighbor’s house, carrying an armful of firewood. She places the logs neatly by the door.

Later, she explains to me: I care for her a lot. She is alone after the war. Of course I care for her. She is my neighbor.

Why do I begin this reflection on memories of peace with this seemingly entirely ordinary act? I do it because my encounter with Gordana struck me as not at all ordinary, in fact it felt extraordinary. At the time, I was conducting my doctoral research on international justice and local reconciliation processes in this war-ravaged Bosnian region. Most of the time I felt unease. I stumbled through conversations thick with discourses of danger and ethnonationalist divisionism, brimming with silence about the suffering of the other. Everyone I interviewed in this area, including Gordana, repeatedly told me how much they feared their neighbors who had been “on the other side” during the war. They omitted that these feared neighbors had been the main victims during the conflict and that some of the gravest war crimes committed against the Bosniak population had taken place in this town, causing almost the entire Bosniak community to flee. Those who didn’t were killed. Only a handful of people had returned, and they now lived precarious lives, one of them being the elderly woman who had no firewood to heat her damaged house.[1]

And then there was this moment of kindness and care. It was one of those moments when you as a researcher realize the gap between speech and practice; the recognition that narratives and actions coexist in complex, sometimes contradictory ways.

I saw that in the midst of an extremely polarized, war-infused context, practices of peace were taking place.

Instances like these are easily overlooked. Like other researchers who work ethnographically, I have had many more spectacular and more overtly political encounters in “the field”. But this story speaks to precisely the point I want to make here: that the undramatic deeply matters. The simple act of caring for a neighbor – expressing compassion through embodied practice – was significant for the elderly woman who struggled with the cold, and it was something that carried conceptual implications. What I encountered at this moment was peace as something embodied, felt, lived.

Yet when I spoke with Gordana and others like her, these practices were rarely mentioned. They were shrugged off: This is nothing. It is just what we do.

This, then, is peace that appears to be “nothing to talk about.” And, to echo the theme of this conference, peace that consequently may seem to be “nothing to remember.”[2]

To start noticing and searching for the lived experience of peace stands in sharp contrast to how peace is most often approached in scholarly work. The field of peace and conflict research (that I am part of) has devoted a great deal of analytical energy to the overarching architectures of peace: peacekeeping missions, diplomatic negotiations, peace accords, transitional justice mechanisms, and postwar institution-building. These are indispensable dimensions of peacebuilding and deserve sustained scholarly attention.

But peace also happens elsewhere – and otherwise. It happens in silence as much as in speech; through gestures as much as through written declarations. Sometimes it takes the form of public protest, sometimes of quiet defiance, acts so small they barely register as political at all. Peace that is glimpsed. Viewed like this, peace is not an endpoint reached after violence ceases, but an ongoing, fragile, and uneven process shaped by power, violence, and historical legacies.  It is in this sense that I speak of wild peace. I do not necessarily mean wild peace in an empirical or descriptive sense, rather proposing it as a conceptual intervention that capture our imagination and insists on the transformative potential of such processes.

My second aim of this reflection is to approach the difficult question of how to remember such peace. Here a conundrum emerges. How do we remember this peace?  Can we construct collective memory that includes these more fluid, shifting and sometimes not even verbalized acts?

My reflections unfold in three steps. The first step entails a brief (re)reading of peace. The second step is to think of how, if at all, such wild peace can be remembered and point to some modes and instances of commemorating wild peace. The third is to discuss why and how these unruly memories become important in the present, a present in which the very idea of peace is contested and undermined.

The everyday peace

Have you ever tried to image-search “war” and “peace”? I do this now and then, for example when I prepare lectures and need to illustrate slides on definitions of war and peace. War is easy: weapons, soldiers, ruined buildings, wounded civilians. War has an iconography that we at once recognize.

Peace, by contrast, seems strangely elusive in what the search engines offer up. A dove, a peace sign, perhaps a rainbow. Utopian and abstract symbols. In addition, there are certain situations and actors that turn up on the screen, such as the signing of a peace agreement, UN soldiers in white helmets, or possibly the UN headquarters.

I am not saying that the dimensions of peacebuilding that these latter images represent are not crucial. Institutional peace provides security frameworks, legal protections, and mechanisms for managing conflict and building peace, and as we today see increasing attacks against these institutions and organizations, we need to defend them and improve them. But at the same time, if peace remains confined to these institutions and processes, it becomes abstract and hollow.

I think that much of peace research has in fact, tamed peace. Either peace is conceptualized as so abstract and utopian that it loses all political value, or peace is reduced to institutional scaffolding.

In contrast, when peace is understood as constructed and lived through social, cultural, and political practices, it becomes something else entirely and we can approach it without taming it. When I suggest this refocus, I build on a long tradition. Over the past decades, a rich body of critical peace research – feminist peace theory, agonistic peace theory, decolonial peace theory – has challenged dominant conceptualizations of peace as a mere technical enterprise. These approaches have made peace knowable as embodied and affective, and demonstrated that peace is deeply political.

Within this trajectory, several important contributions stand out. The concept of everyday peace has gained significant traction, particularly through Roger Mac Ginty’s work that conceptualizes everyday peace as the capacity of ordinary individuals to disrupt violence and cultivate social relations in conflict-affected settings.[3] Anna Jarstad and others have emphasized relational peace, focusing on trust and social bonds.[4] Tarja Väyrynen has foregrounded the embodied and corporeal dimensions of peace,[5] David Mwambari points to the narrative dimension of lived peace[6] and Stefanie Kappler, Susanne Buckley-Zistel and Annika Björkdahl have brought in the importance of spatial readings of peace.[7]

These approaches collectively move peace away from abstraction and toward lived experience.

Much of my own writing and research emerges from the realm of the everyday, from time spent in messy kitchens, crowded nail salons and slow buses, having conversations and observing mundane routines. It is in the everyday that war’s lingering legacies of poverty, oppression, and insecurity are experienced and that contestations over postwar orders unfold. And it is in the everyday that one can note mundane practices that interrupt and transform cycles of violence. The everyday is a good place to start conceptualizing peace as wild.

Wild peace is constructed through acts, experiences, and events that challenge violent political orders, sometimes subtly, sometimes directly; practices that may be routine or radical, quiet or disruptive. It can be loud and enacted through collective protest, or quiet, taking place in intimate, relational settings. Wild peace often emerges unexpectedly, in low flickers or sudden bursts. It pulsates through societies across time, not only in moments we label as peaceful, but also in moments of war.

The example of Gordana bringing her neighbor firewood showed precisely the fleeting character of such wild peace, that happens as a flicker in the midst of an antagonistic setting, enacted not through words but through an embodied act. I will now try to unpack more layers of what I mean by the concept of wild peace, so let us return to the empirical, to the everyday, to find more traces.

Transformative agency

Now, we are no longer in Bosnia and Herzegovina, we are in Ras al-Mud, a neighborhood in East Jerusalem. East Jerusalem, annexed by Israel, is cut off from the West Bank by the concrete wall that is the Israeli separation barrier. The wall profoundly shapes everyday life. It snakes through Palestinian areas, dividing families, neighborhoods, and access to work, education, and healthcare. Checkpoints are part of daily routine and house searches are common as well as arrests, beatings and even killings. I am in East Jerusalem to research divided cities and peacebuilding and I visit a family there that lives just next to the wall. If you look in one direction from their yard, you see the vast evening sky over the toffee-colored ancient city. Turn the other way, and you only see the wall that abruptly rises. After dinner, schoolbooks are placed on the kitchen table and homework begins. Every evening, “Hamid” helps his nine-year-old with maths.

But Hamid is not actually physically in the room. He does not have a Jerusalem ID and cannot be in East Jerusalem. He has to live on the other side of the wall in the West Bank, just a few hundred meters away. If it were not for the wall, they could probably wave to each other. Homework, parenting, and family conversations actually take place via Skype.

Turning on the computer in the evening is certainly an act of parenthood and care. When I wrote about this practice in an article on transformative agency, I proposed that it was a political act that quietly defies the regime of separation. Through this practice, the family collapsed the material border of the wall. Even if only virtually, and briefly, the violent logic of separation was disrupted.[8]

When I spoke with “Nora”, Hamid’s wife, her narrative of struggle shifted back and forth between the personal and the collective register. She said that her everyday life was a fight for her family’s right to peaceful life. The everyday was thus a site of protest and resilience, and projected an alternative to oppression and violence. So, according to my conceptualization, this practice is wild peace.

We see similar dynamics elsewhere. I was reading in the news about underground rave parties in the Ukrainian city of Kharkiv, taking place in bomb shelters just a few kilometers from the front. One of the young organizers put it simply: we want to dance, we want to feel alive. And yet these gatherings are also acts of defiance and non-violent protest. We dance, and – the guy added – we resist.  Just as maintaining family life in the face of violent oppression, a rave party while bombs fall can be an expression of wild peace.

So, these examples point to a shift in how we can think about agency in relation to peacemaking. Wild peace is not always intentional in a narrow political sense. It may begin as coping, care, or survival. Yet it often exceeds those frames, becoming transformative in ways that may not so easily be formally recognized.

Disrupting time and space

This brings me to another key aspect of wild peace: the disruption of temporal and spatial binaries. Wild peace benefits from being studied across geographies and times.

This is because practices of peace are present in societies at war, as we have seen above, and likewise violence is present in societies that are not at war. Wild peace I argue, is always present in the midst of war.  And violence is present in the midst of peace. This thinking disrupts a sequential ordering of first war and then peace, or war over there, and peace here.

To make this point clearer I turn my attention to a place in Western Europe – Brussels. When I lived there a few years ago I did some voluntary work together with the migrant community. Thousands of undocumented migrants are present in the city. At the time I was writing about topics such as postwar memory politics and violence, and as I went between my academic work on these topics to my voluntary work of organizing handouts of clothes and shoes, and accompanying migrants to doctors, I sensed that the spatial division between “war there” and “peace here” was deeply flawed.

Migrations means that war is part of the human experience in societies considered to be at peace. War wounds travel with bodies. As Elaine Scarry reminds us, the body in pain carries violence with it.[9] And then, new acts of violence are directed against the migrating body. Most migrants I communicated with had fled from violence in their countries of origin, they had experienced violence on their journey, and they experienced violence in Brussels. Karen Dempsey speaks about this as streams of violence.[10]

Importantly, at the same time, migration itself can be understood as an act of peace: many people leave their homes in defiance of violent regimes and they search for peace. Moreover, this mobile agency for peace and against violence is supported by acts of solidarity along the way – the migrants I interviewed told of many encounters with people who provided them with housing, food, administrative assistance and emotional care. In Brussels, residents and migrants were coming together in public spaces, organizing help together, hanging out, playing football, talking politics. In my article about these practices, I argued that where there are streams of violence, there are also streams of peace.[11]

Wild peace thus unsettles traditional ways of thinking along linear temporalities of “before war” and “after peace,” and destabilizes spatial imaginaries that locate war “there” and peace “here.” It refuses the idea that peace exists “here” while war happens “there.” Violence travels with bodies, across borders and cities. And so does peace. Likewise, wild peace disrupts time. Peace does not come neatly after war. Peace appears during war, within violence, alongside fear.

Forgetting peace

I hope these few brief empirical vignettes from my own research demonstrate how wild peace is experienced in embodied encounters, that wild peace is often expressed through more subtle rather than outspoken political agency, and unshackles wild peace from ideas of peace here and war there, and war first and then peace.

But – if peace is always in the making, if peace is wild, how can such peace be remembered, commemorated and memorialized? This conundrum is the focus of the second move of this talk. In fact, should such peace be commemorated, if so why and by whom?

In conflict-affected societies, memory is always structured by power, and deeply entangled with questions of whose experiences count, whose suffering is recognized, and whose actions are rendered meaningful. In my discipline of peace and conflict research, memory politics has most often been analyzed as a problematic arena for antagonisms from the past that sustains belligerent imaginaries, and keeps wars symbolically alive. Indeed, postwar memory politics tends to revolve around patriotism, heroism, and sacrifice, mobilizing dichotomies of us/them. As David Rieff famously argued, collective memory has an arsenal of weapons needed to “keep wars going or peace tenuous and cold.”[12]

At the same time, remembering always entails forgetting. Paul Connerton’s concept of “hegemonic forgetting” reminds us that dominant memory narratives silence certain interpretations of the past in order to produce coherence and political legitimacy.[13] Loud remembering is always coupled with systematic erasure.

Memories of wild peace are therefore often uncomfortable for powerholders, precisely because they demonstrate that peace is something enacted by ordinary people, often in defiance of dominant political orders. As a result, they tend to disappear from collective memory and instead survive in fragments: in silences, whispers, gestures, and fleeting stories.

How can unruly memories can be brought into public arenas for commemoration and at least to some extent be made part of collective memory? I want to suggest some instances of how this has been done in the context of Bosnia and Herzegovina, where I in detail have studied postwar memory politics.

 Remembering wild peace

The art installation Što te nema  [Why are you not here?] offers a powerful example. The installation, called a nomadic memorial by the artist, Aida Šehović, consisted of small porcelain coffee cups, filidžani, filled with Bosnian coffee. Šehović brewed the coffee in streets and other public spaces in cities around the world, and at each site, people (many from the Bosnian diaspora) brought cups. The project began a decade after the war and since then, she has recreated the installation in cities worldwide, with the collection of cups expanding annually. For the 25th anniversary of the Srebrenica genocide in 2020, more than 8,000 gathered cups were set out across the grounds of the Srebrenica Memorial Center and carefully filled with coffee, one for every life taken in the genocide.

Coffee drinking is not symbolic in an abstract sense; it is a deeply embodied practice of neighborliness and care – one of the mundane infrastructures of everyday peace in Bosnia and Herzegovina that was practiced as a way of building intergroup relations and making and maintaining a multiethnic society. Hence, wild peace can be remembered through unruly memories of the intersubjective web of everyday relations that war seeks to destroy.

Unruly memories can also bring to the fore how war is an attack on people’s bodies and embodied lives. By making visible that war is actually about the killing and hurting of bodies such memories can change false perceptions of what war actually entails.

This was the intention of another powerful art installation: the Sarajevo Red Line. The commemorative installation mobilized memory through an embodied, spatial intervention. On the 20th anniversary of the ending of the siege, more than eleven thousand red chairs were arranged along the city’s main street, one for each Sarajevan killed. Every chair marked a tear in an intersubjective web consisting of families, friendships, neighbors and strangers who once shared the city. The installation did not produce heroes or villains but created a space where the living made space for the dead. The chairs marked the universal loss that war brings.

Another site for unruly memories is The War Childhood Museum in Sarajevo that extends this logic by foregrounding ordinary objects and stories from war childhoods during the siege. A swing, a diary, a Sony Walkman  – these objects anchor memory of the war in the everyday, resisting heroic or nationalist framings. Seeing these objects in all their vulnerability and reading the stories that go with them, helps us remember how family life was desperately upheld even under heavy shelling, death and destruction.

Finally, there are also aspects of wild peace that belong to the more overt end of the register of acts of peace, and it is important to also reflect on how the memories of these acts and practices are expressed, and how memorywork can engage in upholding and remembering resistance against violence. For example, brining to the fore memories of how women’s organizations from all over former Yugoslavia reached out and got organized during the war to build bridges and protest the violence. In particular one group, Women in Black, has continued to protest revisionism in a very public way. In Orli Fridman’s seminal work on anti-war activism in the former Yugoslavia, Women in Black emerge as key anti-revisionist actors. Their embodied protests take place in everyday spaces—streets and squares and their yearly commemorations of the genocide in Srebrenica in Belgrade disrupt cultures of denial. As one activist puts it: “With our bodies, standing there, we bring this memory to life”.[14]

The perils of remembering

The examples above point to different modes of remembering wild peace: art installations,  museum exhibitions and commemorative rituals, and they all suggest that the acknowledgement of unruly memories can be powerful in the present.

Yet they are not without their own problematiques. There is a tension between the unruliness of these memories and what happens when they are “pinned down”. Some people do not want to publicly remember the past. One of my interlocutors told me how the memories of family life during the siege of Sarajevo is not talked about in her family, but rather alluded to in more embodied ways. She did not at all desire public monuments, as she did not trust that these monuments could ever represent her experiences. She, who had been a child during the war, had no interest in visiting the War Childhood Museum. She did not want her life, her childhood, all “arranged.” The only material monuments she needed, she said, were the marks from shells and the bullet holes around the doorway into her building. She needed them to remain, to silently tell the story of what she had been through.[15]

 I think that her reasoning is a protest against the tendencies of formal commemorations to tame peace, reshaping unruly memories to fit hegemonic narratives. Memories of wild peace are often erased, marginalized, and replaced by louder narratives of heroism, sacrifice, and victimhood that serve existing power structures. A telling example of this concerns the huge peace demonstration that was organized in Sarajevo just before the war started. The participants protested against the violence and showed that the multiethnic city and indeed the whole region was worth defending against violence. Close to a hundred thousand people marched, but the city was in fact already encircled by tanks and soldiers and they opened fire on the demonstrators. Two young women were killed, effectively the first victims of the siege.

Today, they are commemorated through a plaque on the bridge where they were shot. However, its message obscures the wild peace of that moment of defiance and instead tames the unruly memories of multiethnic, cosmopolitan Sarajevo. The text on the plaque has a nationalistic flavor that makes it sound as if the young women’s intention was to make a heroic sacrifice for the nation rather than advocating for peace and standing up for the spirit of the city.[16]

Remembering as wild peace

So the memory of wild peace has to remain unruly. If it does, it can become part of the making of the peace.  This proposition, that the unruly memory of wild peace is also a practice of peace, performs another move that destabilizes the temporality and spatiality of war and peace.

Remembering wild peace unsettles spatial binaries of peace “here” and war “there.” Memories of peace travel across borders, cities, and bodies and can hold political bodies together. The remembering in itself can be an embodied, fleeting action. It also unsettles temporal ordering, as peace is not imagined as a future endpoint, or something that existed in the past, to be remembered nostalgically.

Instead, remembering brings moments of wild peace into the present, allowing these moments to shape ongoing relations. The memory of the peace practice does something in the present. The Što te nema memorial was created through collective action in the present. People gather, pour coffee, stand together. New social relations are woven even as loss is acknowledged. Because this particular memorial practice moved and took place in cities all over the world, memory became not fixed to a single site or moment; it crossed many borders and in so doing also destabilized spatial assumptions about where remembrance belongs.

Moreover, let us think again about the Women in Black – and note how they both echo and continue earlier moments of women’s organizations cooperation across enemy lines when they repeatedly take an (embodied) stand against genocide denialism.

Even the War Childhood Museum, albeit a material, permanent space, can hold this shifting and embodied dimension of unruly memories. The museum continuously adds and deepens the memory of the siege, as people come in with new objects and new stories. Moreover, the museum is cooperating with partners in other places of violence such as Gaza and Kharkiv, letting the unruly memories of the war in Bosnia and Herzegovina speak to acts of wild peace in the present.

Concluding remarks

I have here argued for a radical re-reading of peace – peace not as an endpoint, or a stable condition secured by institutions alone, but as something that emerges, flickers, and sometimes disappears, only to reappear elsewhere. I have called this wild peace.

To reiterate, three conceptual premises have been central in this (re)thinking: first, the embodied experience and enactment of peace; second, the transformative capacity of ordinary agency and third, the disruption of temporal and spatial linearity. Moreover, I have discussed how the unruly memories of wild peace can challenge top-down memory politics and given some pointers to how commemorating wild peace in itself can be an act of peace.

To think of peace as wild and memories of peace as unruly engages our imagination and unsettles understandings of peace as meek, abstract, or utopian; as something that exists only as the opposite of war, or as an institutional achievement.

I think that to engage with the concept of peace in this way matters, especially in our current moment. Much is at stake. In a world where we see undemocratic leaders using “peace washing” as a method for achieving and maintaining control, peace is increasingly reframed and instrumentalized as a justification for violence and authoritarian politics. We hear of “peace” talks and “peace” councils that in fact demands silence, obedience, exclusion.

Yet at this very same moment, people are engaging in acts of peace, in Teheran and Minneapolis, in Khartoum and Ramallah. Some of these acts are overt and take place in streets and other public spaces, others, that we don’t see in the news, happen more quietly in perhaps kitchens or cellars and through micro acts of care and defiance.

To embrace the idea of peace as wild – and the transformative power of unruly memories of wild peace – has a radical potential. While we as of yet know little about how exactly such wild peace in micro settings or in the margins can travel to the macro level for a wider impact, we do know that unexpected transformation happens. In order to explore these connections we need to acknowledge a range of modes and ways of enacting, knowing, experiencing, remembering peace – and in so doing open up for imaginations of alternatives to authoritarianism, violence and war.

Note

The text is based on a keynote lecture held at the conference “Nothing to Remember?  Politics, Practices, and Agents of Commemorating Peace” GCSC, University of Giessen, Germany,  January 22-23, 2026. https://www.uni-giessen.de/en/faculties/ggkgcsc/events/conferences-symposia-summer-schools/upcoming-events/nothing-to-remember 

References

[1] Johanna Mannergren Selimovic, “Remembering and Forgetting After War. Narratives of Truth and Justice in a Bosnian Town”, Political Psychology vol.36, no.2: (2015): 231–242.

[2] The conference was entitled “Nothing to Remember? Politics, Practices, and Agents of Commemorating Peace” and was organized by GCSC, University of Giessen, Germany,  January 22-23, 2026. https://www.uni-giessen.de/en/faculties/ggkgcsc/events/conferences-symposia-summer-schools/upcoming-events/nothing-to-remember

[3] Roger Mac Ginty, Everyday Peace. How So-Called Ordinary People Can Disrupt Violent Conflict (Oxford University Press, 2021).

[4] Anna Jarstad, Johanna Söderström and Malin Åkebo, eds, Relational Peace Practices. (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2023).

[5] Tarja Väyrynen, Corporeal Peacebuilding: Mundane Bodies and Temporal Transitions, (Palgrave Macmillan, 2019).

[6] David Mwambari, Navigating Cultural Memory: Commemoration and Narrative in Post-Genocide Rwanda, (Oxford University Press, 2023).

[7] Annika Björkdahl and Susanne Buckley-Zistel, “Introducing Space for Peace.” Journal of Intervention & Statebuilding vol.16, no. 5 (2021): 536–544; Annika Björkdahl and Stefanie Kappler, Peacebuilding and Spatial Transformation: Peace, Space and Place. (Routledge, 2017).

[8] Johanna Mannergren Selimovic, “Everyday Agency and Transformation: Place, Body and Story in the Divided City” Cooperation & Conflict vol. 54, no. 2 (2019): 131–48.

[9] Elaine Scarry, The Body in Pain. The Making and Unmaking of the World (Oxford University Press, 1985).

[10] Kara E. Dempsey, “Spaces of Violence: A Typology of the Political Geography of Violence Against Migrants Seeking Asylum in the EU.” Political Geography no. 79, (2020): 102–157. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.polgeo.2020.102157

[11] Johanna Mannergren Selimovic, “Challenging the ‘Here’ and ‘There’ of Peace and Conflict Research: Migrants’ Encounters with Streams of Violence and Streams of Peace”, Journal of Intervention and State-building, vol. 16, no.  5 (2022): 584–599.

[12] David Rieff, Against Remembrance, (Melbourne University Press, 2011).

[13] Paul Connerton, The Spirit of Mourning. History, Memory and the Body, (Cambridge University Press, 2011).

[14] Orli Fridman, Memory Activism and Digital Practices After Conflict: Unwanted Memories, (Amsterdam University Press, 2023).

[15] Johanna Mannergren Selimovic, “Articulating Presence of Absence: Everyday Memory and the Performance of Silence in Sarajevo”, Post-conflict Memorialization. Memory Politics and Transitional Justice, eds. Olive Otele, Luisa Gandolfo, and Yoav Galai (Palgrave Macmillan, 2021).

[16] Johanna Mannergren, Annika Björkdahl, Susanne Buckley-Zistel, Stefanie Kappler, and Timothy Williams, Peace and the Politics of Memory, (Manchester University Press, 2024).

 

Johanna Mannergren