As someone who grew up in Bosnia and Herzegovina during the war, my engagement in such dialogue carries a personal weight. I was sixteen months old when the war began and five years old when it ended. My memories of that time are fragmented, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle where some parts are missing but others remain vividly clear. I remember the terrifying sound of shrapnel hitting our house while my sister and I were alone in a room, the trembling of the walls, and the uncertainty of whether our parents were safe. Yet, alongside those memories of fear, I also remember warmth, sharing food in basements and shelters, neighbours helping each other, and the quiet moments of humanity that persisted amidst chaos.

After the war, I grew up in a monoethnic community, where the idea of ever sitting in a room with those from what we once called enemy armies felt unimaginable. Years later, through my participation in KUVI, I found myself doing exactly that: listening to their stories. That experience taught me to listen not only to narratives that affirm my own understanding, but also to those that challenge it, to hear the pain and humanity behind the stories of others. I began to see the war not just as a series of dates, reports, and statistics, but as a deeply human experience marked by shared suffering and loss. Perhaps the most difficult part was recognizing former soldiers as human beings, capable of both harm and healing. Yet this struggle is a reminder of how deeply dehumanization can take root and how vital it is to keep working toward empathy and understanding, even when it feels uncomfortable.

Challenges and Opportunities

Despite its inspiring model, KUVI operates within a challenging social context. Veterans continue to face stigma, often being viewed through politicized lenses, not as individuals, but as representatives of a single ethnic narrative. This highlights one of KUVI’s challenges: many people in our society still perceive former soldiers from opposing sides through the lens of enmity.

Some of the veterans also struggle with economic insecurity and unhealed psychological trauma. Participation in dialogue can reopen painful wounds, which is why professional facilitation and psychosocial support remain essential components of the program.

Moreover, resistance from political actors who oppose inclusive remembrance practices poses ongoing obstacles. Efforts to create spaces for shared reflection are sometimes dismissed as attempts to “equalize guilt,” which can discourage broader community participation.

Yet, these very challenges underscore why programs like KUVI are so vital: they humanize the experiences of those involved in war and challenge the narratives that sustain division. As highlighted by the Center for War Trauma, such dialogue supports both psychological reconciliation for veterans and the cultivation of critical reflection among youth, encouraging exploration of nonviolent responses to conflict (Pekmez, 2020). KUVI thus provides a model not only for post-conflict societies but for any context where former enemies must learn to live together again.

Reimagining the Future: Learning Across Generations

Looking toward the future, initiatives like KUVI invite us to imagine what peace might look like when built on empathy, and shared humanity. The program reveals that reconciliation is not a single event but a continuous process of learning between generations, across differences, and within ourselves.

Intergenerational dialogue can serve as a bridge between memory and vision. Veterans offer lived truths about the cost of violence, while young people bring hope and creativity to reimagine what peaceful living together can be. The safe, facilitated spaces that KUVI creates are not only sites of remembrance but laboratories of transformation where trauma can be reframed as wisdom and where understanding replaces fear.