Povodom nove knjige o Biljani Plavšić: o poricanju, rehabilitaciji i pitanjima koja naša društva izbjegavaju – intervju s Oliverom Simić

An English translation of the interview is available below.

Olivera Simić pravnica je, profesorica i spisateljica rođena u Banjoj Luci, koja se već više od dvije desetljeća bavi istraživanjem tranzicijske pravde, ratnih zločina i rodne perspektive u postkonfliktnim društvima. Tijekom rata u Bosni i Hercegovini napustila je zemlju, a kasnije je doktorirala međunarodno pravo i kriminologiju. Danas živi i radi u Australiji, gdje predaje na Sveučilištu Griffith u Brisbaneu. Autorica je niza radova i knjiga posvećenih žrtvama ratnog seksualnog nasilja, među njima Silenced Victims of Wartime Sexual Violence i Lola’s War, a nedavno je, nakon sedam godina razgovora s Biljanom Plavšić, objavila knjigu Madam War Criminal: Biljana Plavšić, Serbia’s Iron Lady, povodom čijeg smo objavljivanja i vodili ovaj intervju.

— Sedam godina intervjua, stotine sati razgovora – što vas je uopće navelo da 2017. prvi put kontaktirate Biljanu Plavšić, s obzirom na to da ste dotad svoj rad usmjeravali gotovo isključivo na žrtve ratova devedesetih?

Do tada je moj istraživački rad zaista bio gotovo isključivo usmjeren na žrtve ratova devedesetih, njihove priče, iskustva i borbu za pravdu. Međutim, nakon mnogo godina takvog rada počela sam sve više razmišljati o drugoj strani te priče, o počiniteljima, ali o nijemim promatračima, ljudima koji nisu reagovali na zla koja su se dešavala oko njih, a mogli su to učiniti. Shvatila sam da, ako želimo razumjeti rat, masovno nasilje i zločine, nije dovoljno razgovarati samo sa žrtvama. Moramo pokušati razumjeti i ljude koji su učestvovali u stvaranju politika, ideologija i okolnosti koje su takvo nasilje omogućile.

Biljana Plavšić bila je posebno važna upravo zbog svoje pozicije. Bila je jedna od rijetkih žena na samom vrhu političke vlasti tokom rata u Bosni i Hercegovini, a kasnije je pred Haškim tribunalom priznala krivicu za zločin protiv čovječnosti. Zanimalo me kako osoba s takvom akademskom, političkom i ratnom biografijom, nakon odslužene kazne, razumije vlastitu prošlost, odgovornost i zločine koji su počinjeni. Šta se događa nakon presude i zatvora? Postoji li kajanje? Dolazi li do promjene? Kako počinitelji žive sa svojim djelima i kako o njima govore desetljećima kasnije?

Do Biljane Plavšić sam došla privatnim, familijarnim vezama jer čini mi se da se drugačije nije ni moglo doći do nje. Zapravo, poznanstvo i blisko prijateljstvo moje pokojne tetke je ono što je meni omogućilo da toliko dugo vremena provedem u razgovoru s Plavšić i izgradim povjerenje koje je potrebno da bi se razgovori mogli voditi. Sigurna sam da, da nije bilo te konekcije, moja knjiga nikad ne bi bila napisana jer ja nikad ne bih mogla doći u direktan kontakt s njom, a pogotovo ne godinama raditi s njom intervjue. Kada sam joj se prvi put obratila 2017. godine, nisam znala hoće li uopšte pristati na razgovor, a još manje da će taj prvi kontakt prerasti u sedam godina susreta i stotine sati razgovora. Upravo je ta dugotrajnost omogućila da istraživanje postane nešto mnogo kompleksnije od intervjua s bivšom političarkom i osuđenom ratnom zločinkom. Postalo je istraživanje odgovornosti, poricanja, sjećanja, kajanja, ali i granica onoga što tranzicijska pravda može postići nakon što osuđena osoba napusti zatvor.

— Plavšić je do danas, kako pišete, ostala “nekajana” i tvrdi da bi “sve isto ponovila”. Kao istraživačica tranzicijske pravde, kako tumačite neuspjeh koncepta “uspješne rehabilitacije” na kojem je njezino prijevremeno puštanje formalno utemeljeno?

Mislim da slučaj Biljane Plavšić prije svega pokazuje koliko je koncept „uspješne rehabilitacije“ problematičan kada govorimo o osobama osuđenim za najteže međunarodne zločine. Njezino prijevremeno puštanje na slobodu bilo je, između ostalog, obrazloženo sudskim tumačenjem pokazatelja rehabilitacije, uključujući iskazano kajanje. Međutim, i prije, a posebno nakon izlaska iz zatvora, Plavšić se distancirala od ranijeg priznanja i kajanja, a u razgovorima sa mnom tvrdila je da bi „sve isto ponovila“. To otvara ozbiljno pitanje: šta zapravo znači rehabilitirati osobu osuđenu za zločine protiv čovječnosti i kako se takva rehabilitacija uopšte može pouzdano procijeniti?

Iz perspektive tranzicijske pravde, problem je i u tome što se rehabilitacija uglavnom procjenjuje dok je osoba još u zatvoru. Dobro ponašanje, saradnja sa zatvorskim vlastima, prihvatanje odgovornosti ili izražavanje kajanja mogu se uzeti kao pokazatelji promjene. Ali pravi test, po mom mišljenju, dolazi nakon povratka u društvo, kada više nema institucionalnog okruženja koje takvo ponašanje podstiče. Šta ta osoba tada govori o zločinima? Da li prihvata utvrđene činjenice? Kako govori o žrtvama? Da li doprinosi pomirenju ili, naprotiv, poricanju, relativizaciji i glorifikaciji ratne prošlosti?

Upravo tu slučaj Plavšić pokazuje ograničenja postojećeg pristupa. Rehabilitacija ne bi smjela biti samo administrativna procjena ponašanja osuđenika u određenom trenutku, posebno kada ta procjena može imati tako ozbiljne posljedice kao što je prijevremeno puštanje na slobodu. Kod međunarodnih zločina ona mora uključivati dublje pitanje odnosa počinitelja prema vlastitoj odgovornosti, žrtvama i sudski utvrđenim činjenicama.

Zato bih rekla da slučaj Plavšić ne govori samo o neuspjehu rehabilitacije jedne osobe. On otvara mnogo šire pitanje za međunarodno krivično pravo i tranzicijsku pravdu: šta zaista želimo postići kažnjavanjem ratnih zločinaca ako nakon izdržane kazne ili prijevremenog puštanja ne postoji gotovo nikakav interes za to kako se oni vraćaju u društvo i kakvu ulogu nakon toga igraju u kulturi sjećanja, poricanja i pomirenja?

— Objavljivanjem ove knjige neizbježno joj dajete platformu – Plavšić dobiva priliku da pred novom, englesko-govornom publikom iznova ponavlja tvrdnje o “prirodnom fenomenu” etničkog čišćenja, o tome da bi “sve isto ponovila”, da je nevina. Bojite li se da knjiga, unatoč vašoj kritičkoj analitičkoj poziciji, zapravo služi kao sredstvo normalizacije i promocije osuđene ratne zločinke i kako ste se s tim rizikom nosili dok ste pisali?

To je bilo jedno od najtežih etičkih pitanja tokom pisanja knjige i rizik kojeg sam od samog početka bila svjesna. Svaki put kada istraživačica odluči razgovarati s počiniteljem odnosno počiniteljkom zločina i objaviti njegove riječi, postoji opasnost da im time daje novu platformu. Međutim, mislim da postoji važna razlika između davanja platforme i kritičkog dokumentovanja i analiziranja govora počinitelja. Moj cilj nikada nije bio omogućiti Biljani Plavšić da još jednom ispriča svoju verziju istorije bez osporavanja, konteksta ili provjere.

Upravo suprotno, njezine tvrdnje u knjizi stavljam nasuprot sudski utvrđenim činjenicama, istorijskoj dokumentaciji i postojećim istraživanjima. Kada ona govori o etničkom čišćenju kao „prirodnom fenomenu“, kada negira vlastitu odgovornost ili kaže da bi „sve isto ponovila“, te izjave nisu predstavljene kao istina niti ostavljene čitatelju bez konteksta. One su predmet analize. Mene zanima šta nam takav govor govori o počiniteljima nakon kazne, o poricanju, odsustvu kajanja, samoviktimizaciji i načinima na koje se odgovornost rekonstruira nakon povratka u društvo.

Mislim da bi bilo još problematičnije zaključiti da takve ljude ne trebamo istraživati zato što su njihove riječi moralno neprihvatljive ili istorijski netačne. Počinitelji masovnog nasilja postoje u našim društvima i nakon što odsluže kazne. Oni govore, objavljuju knjige, daju intervjue, bivaju dočekivani kao heroji i učestvuju u oblikovanju kolektivnog sjećanja. Ako ih akademski ne istražujemo, njihov govor neće nestati. Naprotiv, može ostati bez kritičkog okvira koji ga propituje i suočava s činjenicama.

Naravno, tokom pisanja stalno sam se pitala gdje je granica između dokumentovanja i reprodukovanja. Zbog toga sam morala biti vrlo selektivna u tome šta prenosim, koliko prostora dajem njenim riječima i, prije svega, kako ih kontekstualiziram. Nisam željela ni senzacionalizirati Plavšić niti je pretvoriti u fascinantnu „zlu ženu“. To bi bio još jedan oblik normalizacije, samo na drugačiji način.

Za mene je stoga osnovno etičko pitanje bilo: zašto citiram ovu izjavu i šta čitatelj iz nje može razumjeti što inače ne bi mogao? Ako njezine riječi ne doprinose razumijevanju odgovornosti, poricanja, rehabilitacije ili postkonfliktnog života počinitelja, onda im u knjizi nije bilo mjesto.

Konačno, ova knjiga nije platforma Biljani Plavšić da govori. Ona je predmet istraživanja, a mi istražitelji smo obučeni da to radimo. To je važna razlika. Dati nekome platformu znači prepustiti mu prostor da oblikuje narativ pod vlastitim uvjetima i tu platformu su imali počinitelji za vrijeme rata dok su bili na vlasti. Kritički istraživati nekoga znači njegove tvrdnje dokumentovati, provjeravati, kontekstualizirati i, kada je potrebno, osporavati. Upravo sam to nastojala učiniti.

— Vaš dosadašnji rad gotovo je isključivo bio okrenut žrtvama ratnog seksualnog nasilja u Bosni i Hercegovini – od Silenced Victims of Wartime Sexual Violence do nedavne Lola’s War. U jednom ste eseju priznali da vas je to istraživanje “ostavilo ožiljke”. Kako je taj rad oblikovao vaš pristup kad ste se, radom na Plavšić, prvi put sustavno okrenuli počiniteljici?

Taj je rad duboko oblikovao moj pristup u radu s Plavšić, ali i drugim počiniteljima. Više od dvadeset godina razgovarala sam sa žrtvama i preživjelima ratnog seksualnog nasilja i drugih ratnih zločina, slušala njihova svjedočenja i pokušavala razumjeti ne samo nasilje koje su preživjeli nego i njegove dugoročne posljedice. Kada sam napisala da me je taj rad „ostavio s ožiljcima“, mislila sam upravo na činjenicu da istraživačica ne može godinama slušati takva iskustva i ostati potpuno emocionalno netaknuta.

Kada sam se okrenula Plavšić, te priče nisu nestale. Naprotiv, bile su stalno prisutne u pozadini naših razgovora. Znala sam šta su politike čiji je ona bila dio značile u životima konkretnih ljudi. Zbog toga mi je ponekad bilo izuzetno teško slušati njezino poricanje, relativizaciju ili potpuno odsustvo empatije prema žrtvama. Postojao je stalni unutrašnji konflikt između mene kao osobe koja je godinama radila sa žrtvama i mene kao istraživačice koja je morala slušati, postavljati pitanja i pokušati razumjeti način na koji ona objašnjava vlastite postupke.

Ali upravo me je rad sa žrtvama naučio i važnosti pomnog slušanja. Međutim, slušati nekoga ne znači vjerovati mu, opravdavati ga niti se s njim slagati. To je za mene bilo ključno u radu s Plavšić. Morala sam stvoriti dovoljno prostora da govori otvoreno, jer sam jedino tako mogla razumjeti mehanizme kojima opravdava prošlost, rekonstruira vlastitu odgovornost i živi s onim što je učinjeno. Istovremeno, morala sam zadržati kritičku distancu i njezine riječi neprestano provjeravati u odnosu na sudski utvrđene činjenice i istorijski zapis.

Možda je najveća promjena bila u tome što sam shvatila da istraživanje žrtava i istraživanje počinitelja nisu dva potpuno odvojena projekta. Ako želimo razumjeti masovno nasilje, moramo razumjeti i posljedice koje ono ostavlja na žrtve i načine na koje počinitelji opravdavaju, poriču ili racionaliziraju ono što su učinili. Razumjeti počinitelja ne znači umanjiti iskustvo žrtve. Naprotiv, može nam pomoći da bolje razumijemo kako nasilje postaje moguće, kako se normalizira i, možda najvažnije, kako njegovo opravdavanje može nastaviti živjeti dugo nakon što se rat formalno završi.

— Iva Vukušić je u razgovoru za naš portal istaknula da je haška građa nezaobilazna, ali zahtjeva posrednika koji je poznaje. Vi ste kombinirali sudske transkripte s privatnim arhivom koji vam je Plavšić predala. Gdje ste pronašli najviše rascjepa između te dvije vrste izvora?

Najveći rascjep pronašla sam između onoga što dokumenti pokazuju i načina na koji Plavšić danas interpretira vlastitu ulogu u tim događajima. Haška građa, transkripti, presude i drugi sudski dokumenti nude jednu vrstu zapisa – institucionalnu, pravnu i zasnovanu na dokazima. Njezina privatna građa, kao i naši razgovori, nude nešto sasvim drugo: način na koji ona samu sebe vidi, šta odlučuje zapamtiti, šta zaboravlja, šta naglašava, a šta pokušava objasniti ili opravdati.

Upravo su ti rascjepi za mene bili najzanimljiviji. Nisam njezin privatni arhiv tretirala kao neku vrstu „skrivene istine“ koja će ispraviti ili dopuniti haški zapis. Naprotiv, čitala sam ga kritički, kao arhiv koji je također proizvod selekcije. Svaki privatni arhiv na neki način predstavlja i arhiviranje samoga sebe: osoba čuva određene dokumente, fotografije i pisma, dok drugi nestaju ili nikada nisu sačuvani. Zato je jednako važno pitanje šta se u arhivu nalazi, kao i šta u njemu nedostaje.

Posebno su me zanimali trenuci u kojima se njezino današnje sjećanje nije podudaralo s dokumentima iz vremena rata ili s onim što je sama ranije govorila, uključujući njezine izjave pred Haškim tribunalom. Tu se otvara prostor između istorijske činjenice, pravno utvrđene činjenice i autobiografskog sjećanja. Upravo u tom prostoru možemo vidjeti kako se odgovornost s vremenom pregovara, preoblikuje i ponekad potiskuje.

Zato za mene vrijednost kombiniranja tih izvora nije bila u tome da utvrdim kojem od njih treba „vjerovati“, nego da ih stavim u međusobni dijalog. Kada sudski dokument kaže jedno, privatni dokument pokazuje drugo, a Plavšić dvadeset ili trideset godina kasnije tvrdi nešto treće, taj rascjep sam po sebi postaje važan istraživački nalaz. On nam govori ne samo o Biljani Plavšić nego i o mnogo širem pitanju: kako počinitelji i političke elite nakon rata rekonstruiraju vlastitu biografiju i svoje mjesto u istoriji i, mozda najvažnije, kako takve nove revizirane biografije postaju opšte prihvaćene u zemljama u koje se oni vraćaju po izlasku iz zatvora.

— U knjizi priznajete strah da će vas dio ljudi doživjeti kao “izdajicu” zato što uopće razgovarate s Plavšić, i strah da će vas neki Bošnjaci ili Hrvati optužiti za simpatiziranje njezinih stavova jer ste etnička Srpkinja. Kako se ta trostruka pozicija – Srpkinje, žene iz BiH i istraživačice sa Zapada – odražava na to kako vas čita svaka od tih publika?

Ta trostruka pozicija bila je prisutna tokom cijelog istraživanja i bila sam cijelo vrijeme svjesna da će različite publike istu knjigu čitati na različite načine. U istraživanju tako politički, istorijski i emocionalno opterećene teme teško je biti percipiran samo kao „istraživač“. Moje ime, porijeklo, činjenica da sam rođena u Bosni i Hercegovini, ali i da već dugo radim na Zapadu – sve to za neke čitatelje postaje dio načina na koji procjenjuju i mene i moj rad. Na žalost, ponekad to postaje i jedina okosnica moga rada, iako je etnički identitet jedan od onih identiteta sa kojima se ja najmanje identifikujem.

Dakle, bila sam svjesna mogućnosti da će dio bošnjačke ili hrvatske publike samu odluku da godinama razgovaram s Biljanom Plavšić protumačiti kao znak simpatije, pokušaj relativizacije njezine odgovornosti ili čak pružanje prostora za opravdavanje zločina. S druge strane, dio srpske publike može moju kritičku analizu Plavšić, prihvatanje sudski utvrđenih činjenica i insistiranje na individualnoj i političkoj odgovornosti doživjeti kao izdaju vlastite etničke zajednice. To je pozicija u kojoj vas, zavisno od toga ko vas čita, mogu istovremeno smatrati i previše bliskom i nedovoljno lojalnom.

Moja pozicija žene iz Bosne i Hercegovine dodaje još jedan sloj kompleksnosti. Rat za mene nije apstraktan istraživački predmet niti istorija neke udaljene zemlje. Dolazim iz društva koje je tim ratom duboko obilježeno. Istovremeno, činjenica da već dugo živim i radim u Australiji omogućila mi je određenu fizičku i intelektualnu distancu. Ali ta distanca nikada nije potpuna. Ja sam istovremeno insider i outsider, i upravo sam tu napetost nastojala učiniti vidljivom u knjizi, umjesto da pretendujem na neku potpuno neutralnu poziciju koja, po mom mišljenju, zapravo ne postoji.

Važno mi je, međutim, da moja etnička pripadnost ne postane kriterij prema kojem se procjenjuje vjerodostojnost mojih nalaza. Metodološka rigoroznost ne proizlazi iz etničke neutralnosti istraživača, nego iz načina na koji istraživanje provodimo: kako provjeravamo tvrdnje, kako koristimo izvore, kako razlikujemo činjenice od interpretacija i koliko smo transparentni o vlastitoj poziciji.

Zato nisam pokušavala kontrolisati kako će me svaka od tih publika čitati jer to je nemoguće. Ono što sam mogla kontrolirati jeste način na koji sam istraživala i pisala. Ako ova knjiga izazove nelagodu kod različitih publika, to ne mora nužno biti njezin nedostatak. Možda upravo ta nelagoda pokazuje koliko su pitanja odgovornosti, pripadnosti, poricanja i sjećanja na rat i dalje nerazriješena u našim društvima.

— Nosite dvije pozicije istovremeno –  onu “domaću”, nekoga tko dijeli jezik, kulturu i dio iskustva s žrtvama i počiniteljima iz ratova devedesetih, ali i onu outsidersku, nekoga tko već desetljećima gleda na regiju s distance, iz Australije. Što vam u radu omogućuje ta bliskost, a što vam, obrnuto, omogućuje ta distanca?

Mislim da su obje pozicije bile presudne za ovo istraživanje. Ta „domaća“ pozicija omogućava mi pristup koji bi nekome ko dolazi potpuno izvana bilo mnogo teže ostvariti. Dijelim jezik, kulturne kodove, istorijske reference, humor, ali i razumijevanje onoga što često ostaje neizgovoreno. Na našim prostorima ponekad je jednako važno razumjeti ono što neko prešuti, kao i ono što izgovori. U dugogodišnjim razgovorima s Plavšić upravo je ta vrsta kulturne i jezičke bliskosti bila izuzetno važna.

Istovremeno, bliskost nosi i opasnost. Kada poznajete kontekst, lako možete pretpostaviti da nešto razumijete bez dodatnog propitivanja. Možete postati emocionalno uvučeni u priču ili određene stvari prihvatiti kao samorazumljive. Tu mi je distanca koju sam stekla tokom desetljeća života i rada u Australiji bila dragocjena. Omogućila mi je da na društvo iz kojeg dolazim gledam istovremeno iznutra i izvana i da postavljam pitanja koja možda ne bih postavljala da sam cijelo vrijeme ostala u istom okruženju.

Australija mi je pružila i jednu drugu vrstu distance, intelektualnu i akademsku slobodu. Ratovi devedesetih ovdje nisu dio svakodnevnih političkih i identitetskih sukoba na način na koji su još uvijek prisutni u Bosni i Hercegovini i regiji. Mogla sam se vratiti razgovorima, dokumentima i vlastitim bilješkama u prostoru koji je fizički udaljen od mjesta i ljudi koje istražujem. Ta udaljenost ponekad omogućava da jasnije vidite obrasce koje iz neposredne blizine ne primjećujete.

Ali nikada nisam sebe doživljavala ni kao potpunog insidera ni kao potpunog outsidera. Moja pozicija se stalno pomjerala. U jednom trenutku bila sam „naša“ jer govorimo isti jezik i dijelimo određene kulturne reference; već u sljedećem bila sam profesorica koja dolazi iz Australije i postavlja pitanja iz perspektive međunarodnog prava i tranzicijske pravde.

Upravo je ta pozicija između bliskosti i distance vjerovatno bila jedna od najvećih metodoloških prednosti ovog istraživanja. Bliskost mi je omogućila pristup, povjerenje i razumijevanje nijansi; distanca mi je omogućila da to povjerenje ne zamijenim za nekritičnost. Za mene je najvažnije bilo zadržati oboje biti dovoljno blizu da mogu razumjeti, ali dovoljno daleko da mogu kritički propitivati.

— Koja je budućnost – ili čak sadašnjost – tranzicijske pravde u regiji? Prelazi li ona – i ako da, kad – u polje historiografije?

Mislim da tranzicijska pravda u regiji već dugo živi između sadašnjosti i istorije. Prošlo je više od trideset godina od početka ratova, Haški tribunal je zatvoren 2017. godine, veliki broj suđenja je završen, a generacije koje nemaju vlastito sjećanje na rat danas odrastaju s pričama koje su naslijedile od roditelja, škole, medija i politike. U tom smislu, tranzicijska pravda neminovno prelazi i u polje historiografije. Ogromna arhiva Haškog tribunala presude, transkripti, svjedočenja, videozapisi i dokazni materijal već predstavlja jedan od najvažnijih izvora za pisanje istorije ratova devedesetih. 

Ali ne mislim da možemo reći da je tranzicijska pravda završila i da je sada možemo jednostavno prepustiti čitavu stvar istoričarima. Vrijeme prolazi, ali tranzicija nije nužno završena. Još uvijek imamo suđenja za ratne zločine, nestale osobe, porodice koje traže posmrtne ostatke svojih najbližih, pitanja reparacija i priznanja žrtava, kao i vrlo snažno poricanje, relativizaciju i političku instrumentalizaciju prošlosti. Zato je pomalo paradoksalno da rat istovremeno postaje istorija, a politički ostaje veoma prisutan.

Možda je upravo tu budućnost tranzicijske pravde u regiji. Njeno težište se postepeno pomjera sa sudnice prema društvu, prema arhivima, obrazovanju, memorijalizaciji, kulturi sjećanja, medijima i istraživanju. MKSJ je i sam svoju istorijsku ostavštinu vidio kao nešto šire od presuda: njegov zapis može pomoći u utvrđivanju činjenica i suprotstavljanju poricanju, dok je daljnji rad civilnog društva i akademske zajednice ključan za ono što će ta ostavština značiti u budućnosti. 

Tu historiografija postaje izuzetno važna. Sud utvrđuje individualnu krivičnu odgovornost i činjenice potrebne za donošenje presude; historičar postavlja drugačija i često šira pitanja. Sudski arhivi sadrže ogromnu količinu materijala koji može govoriti ne samo o pojedinačnim počiniteljima nego i o institucijama, društvu i širim strukturama koje su omogućile nasilje. 

Zato ne bih rekla da postoji određena godina u kojoj tranzicijska pravda završava, a historiografija počinje. One se već preklapaju. I možda je važnije pitanje šta će se dogoditi kada posljednji počinitelji, žrtve i neposredni svjedoci više ne budu među nama. Tada će arhivi, knjige, presude i svjedočenja postati još važniji, jer će se borba oko prošlosti sve manje voditi oko živog sjećanja, a sve više oko toga ko će pisati istoriju, na osnovu kojih izvora i čije će priče u toj istoriji dobiti mjesto.

— Kad biste morali izdvojiti jedno pitanje o ratovima devedesetih koje naša društva sustavno izbjegavaju postaviti sebi – čak i unutar akademske zajednice – koje bi to pitanje bilo?

Kada bih morala izdvojiti samo jedno pitanje, ono bi bilo: Jesmo li spremni kritički govoriti o zločinima koje su počinili „naši“, a ne samo o zločinima koji su počinjeni nad nama, tj. pripadnicima naše etničke grupe?

Mislim da je to pitanje koje si sva društva nastala raspadom Jugoslavije još uvijek nerado postavljaju. Mnogo smo spremniji govoriti o vlastitom stradanju, nego o vlastitoj odgovornosti. Kolektivno sjećanje uglavnom se organizira oko toga šta je učinjeno nama, dok se ono što je učinjeno u naše ime često prešućuje, relativizira ili opravdava. Literatura o postjugoslavenskim društvima upravo pokazuje koliko su poricanje, opravdavanje zločina i nacionalni narativi žrtve ostali prisutni uprkos ogromnoj količini činjenica utvrđenih pred međunarodnim i domaćim sudovima. 

To pitanje nije ugodno ni za akademsku zajednicu. I mi smo dio društava iz kojih dolazimo. Imamo vlastite identitete, porodične istorije, političke i emocionalne veze. Mnogo je jednostavnije istraživati počinitelja koji pripada „drugoj strani“ nego se okrenuti vlastitoj zajednici i pitati: Šta je učinjeno u moje/naše ime? Ko je to podržavao? Ko je šutio? Ko je imao korist? I zašto nam je trideset godina kasnije još uvijek toliko teško o tome govoriti?

Tu bih napravila i važnu razliku između individualne krivične i šire društvene odgovornosti. Krivična odgovornost je individualna i mora takva ostati. Ne možemo čitave narode proglašavati krivima. Ali činjenica da je krivična odgovornost individualna ne znači da ne smijemo istraživati društvene strukture, institucije, medije, intelektualne elite i obične građane koji mogu omogućiti, podržavati ili normalizirati nasilje. Upravo se u literaturi o nasljeđu MKSJ-a sve više postavlja pitanje kako iz sudskih arhiva čitati tu širu društvenu odgovornost (eng. societal responsibility) iako je sam Tribunal prvenstveno utvrđivao individualnu krivicu. 

Možda je zato, više od trideset godina nakon ratova, najteže pitanje zapravo vrlo jednostavno: možemo li istovremeno priznati vlastite žrtve i priznati žrtve koje su stradale od „naših?” Jedno ne poništava drugo. Priznavanje zločina koje je počinio neko iz moje etničke, nacionalne ili političke zajednice ne znači izdaju te zajednice, niti umanjuje zločine počinjene nad njom. Dok ne budemo sposobni za takvu vrstu razgovora, bojim se da ćemo imati mnogo sudskih presuda i ogromne arhive, ali ne nužno i društva koja su se zaista suočila sa svojom prošlošću. Sudovi mogu utvrditi individualnu odgovornost i činjenice, ali ne mogu natjerati društvo da ih prihvati. Upravo se taj raskorak između sudski utvrđenih činjenica i društvenog prihvatanja pokazao kao jedno od ključnih ograničenja tranzicijske pravde u regiji.

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Intervju je provela Senna Šimek. 

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On the occasion of the new book about Biljana Plavšić: on denial, rehabilitation, and the questions our societies avoid – an interview with Olivera Simić

Olivera Simić is a lawyer, professor and writer born in Banja Luka, who for more than two decades has researched transitional justice, war crimes and gender perspectives in post-conflict societies. During the war in Bosnia and Herzegovina she left the country, and later earned her doctorate in international law and criminology. Today she lives and works in Australia, where she teaches at Griffith University in Brisbane. She is the author of numerous papers and books devoted to the victims of wartime sexual violence, among them Silenced Victims of Wartime Sexual Violence and Lola’s War, and recently, after seven years of conversations with Biljana Plavšić, she published the book “Madam War Criminal: Biljana Plavšić, Serbia’s Iron Lady,” on the occasion of whose publication we conducted this interview.

Seven years of interviews, hundreds of hours of conversation – what made you contact Biljana Plavšić for the first time in 2017, given that until then your work had been directed almost exclusively at the victims of the wars of the nineties?

Until then my research work had indeed been almost exclusively focused on the victims of the wars of the nineties, their stories, experiences and struggle for justice. However, after many years of such work I began thinking more and more about the other side of that story – about the perpetrators, but also about the silent bystanders, people who did not react to the evils happening around them even though they could have. I realized that if we want to understand war, mass violence and crimes, it is not enough to talk only to victims. We must also try to understand the people who took part in creating the policies, ideologies and circumstances that made such violence possible.

Biljana Plavšić was particularly important precisely because of her position. She was one of the few women at the very top of political power during the war in Bosnia and Herzegovina, and later, before the Hague Tribunal, she pleaded guilty to a crime against humanity. I was interested in how a person with such an academic, political and wartime biography, after serving her sentence, understands her own past, responsibility and the crimes that were committed. What happens after the verdict and prison? Is there remorse? Does change occur? How do perpetrators live with their acts, and how do they talk about them decades later?

I came to Biljana Plavšić through private, family connections, because it seems to me that there was no other way to reach her. In fact, it was the acquaintance and close friendship of my late aunt that enabled me to spend so much time in conversation with Plavšić and to build the trust needed for such conversations to take place. I am certain that, had it not been for that connection, my book would never have been written, because I would never have been able to make direct contact with her, let alone work with her on interviews for years. When I first approached her in 2017, I did not know whether she would agree to talk at all, let alone that this first contact would grow into seven years of meetings and hundreds of hours of conversation. It was precisely this long duration that allowed the research to become something much more complex than an interview with a former politician and convicted war criminal. It became a study of responsibility, denial, memory, remorse, but also of the limits of what transitional justice can achieve once a convicted person leaves prison.

As you write, Plavšić remains “unrepentant” to this day and claims she “would do it all again.” As a researcher of transitional justice, how do you interpret the failure of the concept of “successful rehabilitation” on which her early release was formally based?

I think the case of Biljana Plavšić shows above all how problematic the concept of “successful rehabilitation” is when we speak of persons convicted of the gravest international crimes. Her early release was justified, among other things, by the court’s interpretation of indicators of rehabilitation, including expressed remorse. However, both before and especially after leaving prison, Plavšić distanced herself from her earlier admission and remorse, and in our conversations she claimed that she “would do it all again.” This opens a serious question: what does it actually mean to rehabilitate a person convicted of crimes against humanity, and how can such rehabilitation even be reliably assessed?

From the perspective of transitional justice, the problem also lies in the fact that rehabilitation is mostly assessed while the person is still in prison. Good behaviour, cooperation with prison authorities, acceptance of responsibility or the expression of remorse can be taken as indicators of change. But the real test, in my opinion, comes after the return to society, when there is no longer an institutional environment encouraging such behaviour. What does that person then say about the crimes? Do they accept the established facts? How do they speak about the victims? Do they contribute to reconciliation or, on the contrary, to denial, relativisation and glorification of the wartime past?

It is precisely here that the Plavšić case reveals the limits of the existing approach. Rehabilitation should not be merely an administrative assessment of a convicted person’s behaviour at a given moment, especially when such an assessment can have consequences as serious as early release. In the case of international crimes, it must include the deeper question of the perpetrator’s relationship to their own responsibility, to the victims, and to the facts established by the court.

That is why I would say that the Plavšić case speaks not only to the failure of one individual’s rehabilitation. It opens a much broader question for international criminal law and transitional justice: what do we actually want to achieve by punishing war criminals if, after the sentence is served or early release granted, there is almost no interest in how they return to society and what role they subsequently play in the culture of memory, denial and reconciliation?

By publishing this book you inevitably give her a platform – Plavšić gets the opportunity to repeat, before a new, English-speaking audience, her claims about the “natural phenomenon” of ethnic cleansing, about how she “would do it all again,” that she is innocent. Are you afraid that the book, despite your critical analytical stance, actually serves as a means of normalising and promoting a convicted war criminal, and how did you deal with that risk while writing?

That was one of the hardest ethical questions during the writing of the book, and a risk I was aware of from the very beginning. Every time a researcher decides to talk to a perpetrator and publish their words, there is a danger of thereby giving them a new platform. However, I think there is an important difference between giving a platform and critically documenting and analysing a perpetrator’s speech. My goal was never to allow Biljana Plavšić to tell her version of history once again without challenge, context or verification.

Quite the opposite – in the book I set her claims against facts established in court, historical documentation and existing research. When she speaks of ethnic cleansing as a “natural phenomenon,” when she denies her own responsibility or says she “would do it all again,” these statements are not presented as truth, nor left to the reader without context. They are the object of analysis. What interests me is what such speech tells us about perpetrators after their sentence, about denial, the absence of remorse, self-victimisation, and the ways responsibility is reconstructed after a return to society.

I think it would be even more problematic to conclude that we should not research such people because their words are morally unacceptable or historically inaccurate. Perpetrators of mass violence continue to exist in our societies even after they have served their sentences. They speak, publish books, give interviews, are welcomed as heroes and take part in shaping collective memory. If we do not study them academically, their speech will not disappear. On the contrary, it may remain without a critical framework that questions it and confronts it with the facts.

Of course, throughout the writing I kept asking myself where the line is between documenting and reproducing. That is why I had to be very selective about what I conveyed, how much space I gave to her words and, above all, how I contextualised them. I did not want to sensationalise Plavšić, nor turn her into a fascinating “evil woman.” That would be just another form of normalisation, only in a different guise.

For me, then, the basic ethical question was: why am I quoting this statement, and what can the reader understand from it that they otherwise could not? If her words did not contribute to an understanding of responsibility, denial, rehabilitation or a perpetrator’s post-conflict life, then they had no place in the book.

Finally, this book is not a platform for Biljana Plavšić to speak. She is the subject of research, and we researchers are trained to do that. That is an important difference. Giving someone a platform means leaving them the space to shape the narrative on their own terms, and that platform is what perpetrators had during the war, while they were in power. Critically researching someone means documenting, verifying, contextualising and, when necessary, challenging their claims. That is precisely what I sought to do.

Your work so far has been directed almost exclusively at victims of wartime sexual violence in Bosnia and Herzegovina – from Silenced Victims of Wartime Sexual Violence to the recent Lola’s War. In one essay you admitted that this research “left you with scars.” How did that work shape your approach when, through your work on Plavšić, you turned systematically to a female perpetrator for the first time?

That work deeply shaped my approach in working with Plavšić, and with other perpetrators too. For more than twenty years I talked with victims and survivors of wartime sexual violence and other war crimes, listened to their testimonies and tried to understand not only the violence they had survived but also its long-term consequences. When I wrote that this work had “left me with scars,” I meant precisely the fact that a researcher cannot listen to such experiences for years and remain completely emotionally untouched.

When I turned to Plavšić, those stories did not disappear. On the contrary, they were constantly present in the background of our conversations. I knew what the policies she had been part of meant in the lives of real people. Because of that, it was sometimes extremely hard for me to listen to her denial, relativisation or complete lack of empathy toward the victims. There was a constant inner conflict between me as a person who had worked with victims for years, and me as a researcher who had to listen, ask questions and try to understand the way she explains her own actions.

But it was precisely the work with victims that taught me the importance of careful listening. However, listening to someone does not mean believing them, justifying them or agreeing with them. That was key for me in working with Plavšić. I had to create enough space for her to speak openly, because that was the only way I could understand the mechanisms by which she justifies the past, reconstructs her own responsibility and lives with what was done. At the same time, I had to maintain critical distance and constantly check her words against the facts established by the court and the historical record.

Perhaps the greatest change was realising that researching victims and researching perpetrators are not two entirely separate projects. If we want to understand mass violence, we must also understand the consequences it leaves on victims, and the ways in which perpetrators justify, deny or rationalise what they did. Understanding a perpetrator does not mean diminishing the victim’s experience. On the contrary, it can help us better understand how violence becomes possible, how it is normalised, and – perhaps most importantly – how its justification can go on living long after the war formally ends.

Iva Vukušić noted in an interview for our portal that the Hague material is indispensable, but requires a mediator who knows it well. You combined court transcripts with a private archive that Plavšić handed over to you. Where did you find the greatest gaps between these two types of sources?

I found the greatest gap between what the documents show and the way Plavšić interprets her own role in those events today. The Hague material – transcripts, judgments and other court documents – offers one kind of record: institutional, legal and evidence-based. Her private materials, as well as our conversations, offer something quite different: the way she sees herself, what she chooses to remember, what she forgets, what she emphasises, and what she tries to explain or justify.

It was precisely these gaps that I found most interesting. I did not treat her private archive as some kind of “hidden truth” that would correct or supplement the Hague record. On the contrary, I read it critically, as an archive that is also a product of selection. Every private archive, in a way, represents an archiving of oneself: a person keeps certain documents, photographs and letters, while others disappear or were never preserved. That is why it is equally important to ask what is in the archive as what is missing from it.

I was particularly interested in the moments where her present-day memory did not match the documents from wartime, or what she herself had said earlier, including her statements before the Hague Tribunal. This is where a space opens up between historical fact, legally established fact and autobiographical memory. It is precisely in that space that we can see how responsibility is negotiated, reshaped and sometimes suppressed over time.

So for me, the value of combining these sources was not in determining which of them should be “believed,” but in placing them in dialogue with one another. When a court document says one thing, a private document shows another, and Plavšić, twenty or thirty years later, claims a third thing, that gap in itself becomes an important research finding. It tells us not only about Biljana Plavšić but about a much broader question: how do perpetrators and political elites, after a war, reconstruct their own biography and their place in history, and – perhaps most importantly – how do such newly revised biographies come to be generally accepted in the countries to which they return after leaving prison?

In the book you admit to a fear that some people will see you as a “traitor” simply for talking to Plavšić at all, and a fear that some Bosniaks or Croats will accuse you of sympathising with her views because you are ethnically Serbian. How is this triple position – a Serbian woman, a woman from Bosnia and Herzegovina, and a researcher from the West – reflected in how each of these audiences reads you?

That triple position was present throughout the research, and I was aware the whole time that different audiences would read the same book in different ways. In researching a topic so politically, historically and emotionally charged, it is difficult to be perceived merely as a “researcher.” My name, my origin, the fact that I was born in Bosnia and Herzegovina but have also long worked in the West – all of this, for some readers, becomes part of how they judge both me and my work. Unfortunately, sometimes it becomes the sole framework for my work, even though ethnic identity is one of the identities I identify with the least.

So I was aware of the possibility that part of the Bosniak or Croat audience would interpret the very decision to talk to Biljana Plavšić for years as a sign of sympathy, an attempt to relativise her responsibility, or even as providing space for justifying the crimes. On the other hand, part of the Serbian audience may experience my critical analysis of Plavšić, my acceptance of facts established in court, and my insistence on individual and political responsibility, as a betrayal of my own ethnic community. It is a position in which, depending on who is reading you, you can be considered both too close and not loyal enough at the same time.

My position as a woman from Bosnia and Herzegovina adds another layer of complexity. The war, for me, is not an abstract research subject, nor the history of some distant country. I come from a society deeply marked by that war. At the same time, the fact that I have long lived and worked in Australia has given me a certain physical and intellectual distance. But that distance is never complete. I am simultaneously an insider and an outsider, and it is precisely that tension I sought to make visible in the book, rather than pretending to some entirely neutral position which, in my opinion, does not actually exist.

It matters to me, however, that my ethnicity does not become the criterion by which the credibility of my findings is judged. Methodological rigour does not come from a researcher’s ethnic neutrality, but from the way the research is conducted: how claims are verified, how sources are used, how facts are distinguished from interpretations, and how transparent one is about one’s own position.

That is why I did not try to control how each of these audiences would read me, because that is impossible. What I could control was the way I researched and wrote. If this book causes discomfort among different audiences, that is not necessarily a shortcoming. Perhaps that very discomfort shows just how unresolved the questions of responsibility, belonging, denial and memory of the war still are in our societies.

You hold two positions at once – the “domestic” one, of someone who shares the language, culture and part of the experience with the victims and perpetrators of the wars of the nineties, but also the outsider one, of someone who has for decades been looking at the region from a distance, from Australia. What does that closeness allow you in your work, and, conversely, what does that distance allow you?

I think both positions were crucial for this research. That “domestic” position gives me access that someone coming entirely from outside would find much harder to achieve. I share the language, the cultural codes, the historical references, the humour, but also an understanding of what often remains unspoken. In our part of the world it is sometimes just as important to understand what someone leaves unsaid as what they actually say. In the long conversations with Plavšić, exactly this kind of cultural and linguistic closeness was extremely important.

At the same time, closeness also carries a danger. When you know the context, you can easily assume you understand something without further questioning. You can become emotionally drawn into the story, or take certain things as self-evident. Here the distance I gained over decades of living and working in Australia was invaluable. It allowed me to look at the society I come from both from within and from outside at once, and to ask questions I might not have asked had I remained in the same environment the whole time.

Australia also gave me another kind of distance – intellectual and academic freedom. The wars of the nineties are not here part of everyday political and identity conflicts in the way they still are in Bosnia and Herzegovina and the region. I could return to the conversations, the documents and my own notes in a space physically distant from the places and people I was researching. That distance sometimes allows you to see patterns more clearly than you would from close up.

But I never saw myself as either a complete insider or a complete outsider. My position kept shifting. At one moment I was “one of ours” because we speak the same language and share certain cultural references; the very next moment I was a professor coming from Australia, asking questions from the perspective of international law and transitional justice.

It was precisely this position between closeness and distance that was probably one of the greatest methodological advantages of this research. Closeness gave me access, trust and an understanding of nuance; distance allowed me not to mistake that trust for a lack of criticism. For me, the most important thing was to hold onto both – to be close enough to understand, but far enough to be able to question critically.

What is the future – or even the present – of transitional justice in the region? Is it moving – and if so, when – into the field of historiography?

I think transitional justice in the region has for a long time now been living between the present and history. More than thirty years have passed since the wars began, the Hague Tribunal closed in 2017, a large number of trials have concluded, and generations with no memory of the war of their own are today growing up with stories inherited from their parents, school, the media and politics. In that sense, transitional justice is inevitably moving into the field of historiography as well. The enormous archive of the Hague Tribunal – judgments, transcripts, testimonies, video recordings and evidentiary material – already represents one of the most important sources for writing the history of the wars of the nineties.

But I don’t think we can say that transitional justice has ended and that we can now simply hand the whole matter over to historians. Time passes, but the transition is not necessarily over. We still have war crimes trials, missing persons, families searching for the remains of their loved ones, questions of reparations and recognition of victims, as well as very strong denial, relativisation and political instrumentalisation of the past. So it is somewhat paradoxical that the war is becoming history and, at the same time, remaining very much politically present.

Perhaps that is precisely where the future of transitional justice in the region lies. Its centre of gravity is gradually shifting from the courtroom toward society, toward archives, education, memorialisation, the culture of memory, the media and research. The ICTY itself saw its historical legacy as something broader than judgments: its record can help establish facts and counter denial, while the further work of civil society and the academic community is key to what that legacy will mean in the future.

This is where historiography becomes extremely important. A court establishes individual criminal responsibility and the facts needed to hand down a verdict; a historian asks different, and often broader, questions. Court archives contain an enormous amount of material that can speak not only to individual perpetrators but also to the institutions, society and broader structures that made the violence possible.

That is why I would not say there is a specific year in which transitional justice ends and historiography begins. They already overlap. And perhaps the more important question is what will happen once the last perpetrators, victims and direct witnesses are no longer among us. Then the archives, books, judgments and testimonies will become even more important, because the struggle over the past will increasingly be waged not around living memory, but around who gets to write history, on the basis of which sources, and whose stories will find a place in that history.

If you had to single out one question about the wars of the nineties that our societies systematically avoid asking themselves – even within the academic community – what would that question be?

If I had to single out just one question, it would be this: Are we ready to speak critically about the crimes committed by “our own,” and not only about the crimes committed against us, that is, against members of our own ethnic group?

I think this is a question that all the societies that emerged from the breakup of Yugoslavia are still reluctant to ask themselves. We are much more ready to talk about our own suffering than about our own responsibility. Collective memory is mostly organised around what was done to us, while what was done in our name is often passed over in silence, relativised or justified. The literature on post-Yugoslav societies shows precisely how much denial, the justification of crimes and national victim narratives have remained present despite the enormous body of facts established before international and domestic courts.

That question is uncomfortable even for the academic community. We too are part of the societies we come from. We have our own identities, family histories, political and emotional ties. It is much easier to study a perpetrator who belongs to “the other side” than to turn to one’s own community and ask: What was done in my/our name? Who supported it? Who stayed silent? Who benefited? And why, thirty years later, is it still so difficult for us to talk about it?

Here I would also draw an important distinction between individual criminal responsibility and broader societal responsibility. Criminal responsibility is individual and must remain so. We cannot declare entire nations guilty. But the fact that criminal responsibility is individual does not mean we must not examine the social structures, institutions, media, intellectual elites and ordinary citizens who can enable, support or normalise violence. It is precisely in the literature on the ICTY’s legacy that the question is increasingly being raised of how to read that broader societal responsibility from the court archives, even though the Tribunal itself was primarily concerned with establishing individual guilt.

Perhaps that is why, more than thirty years after the wars, the hardest question is actually a very simple one: can we simultaneously acknowledge our own victims and acknowledge the victims who suffered at the hands of “our own”? One does not cancel out the other. Acknowledging a crime committed by someone from my ethnic, national or political community does not mean betraying that community, nor does it diminish the crimes committed against it. Until we are capable of that kind of conversation, I am afraid we will have many court verdicts and enormous archives, but not necessarily societies that have truly confronted their past. Courts can establish individual responsibility and the facts, but they cannot force society to accept them. It is precisely this gap between facts established in court and societal acceptance that has proven to be one of the key limitations of transitional justice in the region.

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