Žuti dan, krug imena i etika svjedočenja u sistemskoj terapiji
Mentis — mjesečni blog · juli 2026.
Armina Čerkić
Prije možda deset godina, jednog sparnog sarajevskog julskog dana koji je bio i 11 juli, šetala sam sa suprugom i našim tada sasvim malim djevojčicama, najstarija je imala šest, srednja pet, a najmlađa manje od tri godine. Prolazili smo pored Doma Armije, one prekrasne austrougarske zgrade s parkom pred njom, a preko puta, u Umjetničkoj galeriji Bosne i Hercegovine, našoj nacionalnoj galeriji, nešto se događalo. Dan je bio topao, gotovo žut, lagan u koraku i dahu, i u boji i u atmosferi. Usporen i pun, onakav kakav je potreban da ljeto napokon donese, nakon godine izazova i kriza, taj lagani mediteranski tempo i dopuštenje da je u redu biti u trenutku žute boje.
U isto vrijeme, sa zvučnika iz galerije, muški i ženski glas naizmjenično, jasne intonacije, čitali su imena. Adem. Adem. Adem. Avdija. Avdije. Abdulah….. U istom ritmu, bez kraja. Ušli smo u prostor galerije.Oprezno, polako. Svi su stajali u krugu. Naše djevojčice bile su mirne. Glumci su, jedan za drugim, stajali pred mikrofonom i čitali ista imena, ponekad po dvadeset puta Adem, Adem, Adem, Adem – imena muškaraca ubijenih u Srebrenici. Njihova imena. Njihova ljudskost. Sve ono što je prethodilo tom imenu, cijeli jedan život s imenom, i smrt zbog imena.
Taj prizor nosim godinama. U njemu je sažeto ono o čemu želim pisati. Kako jedna majka stoji, s malom djecom za ruku, usred žutog ljetnog dana, dok joj se preko praga galerije izlijeva beskrajni tespih imena. Kako biti u oba ta trenutka odjednom, u toplini života i u težini gubitka? A da nijedan ne izda onaj drugi? Kako ostati s onim što se ne može popraviti?
Kao sistemska terapeutkinja naviknuta sam da tražim pomak. Drugačiju priču, prostor u kojem se bol može preurediti u nešto što liči na oblik, koji je moguće nositi dalje. Ali postoje gubici pred kojima ta navika zakaže. Postoji nepravda koja ostaje neizgovorena i koja se ne da razriješiti ni najpažljivijom intervencijom ni najtoplijim prisustvom. Teško je sjediti s tom nepravdom. Još je teže priznati da pred njom ne možemo učiniti gotovo ništa, osim da ostanemo.
Ovaj tekst je pokušaj da promislim šta to ostati znači. Oslanjam se na dva rada koja su me u posljednje vrijeme duboko dotakla: „Hospicing Gaza” Khawle Badwan i Alison Phipps, te „Genocide in Gaza: An Ethical Challenge for Systemic Therapists” Gwyn Daniel i saradnika. Oba pišu o Gazi. Ali oba, čini mi se, govore i o onom krugu u galeriji, o imenima koja se čitaju bez kraja. Jer nepravda i zlo dolaze u različitim oblicima, a pitanja koja ti tekstovi otvaraju ista su ona koja su te julske godišnjice stajala nad nama u Sarajevu, kao što stoje i nad Potočarima.
Hospicing, ostati uz ono što umire
Badwan i Phipps posežu za pojmom koji zvuči gotovo neprihvatljivo kada se izgovori naglas, hospicing, njega za umiruće. Pozajmljuju ga od Vanesse de Oliveira Andreotti i saradnika, koji pišu da takva njega znači „sjediti uz sistem koji propada, učiti iz njegove historije, pružati palijativnu njegu, vidjeti sebe u onome što umire, paziti na integritet samog procesa i raščišćavati prostor za nešto novo”. To nije proces koji obećava spas. On ne nudi uredne recepte ni zagarantovane ishode.
Ono što u Srebrenici umire nisu samo ljudi. Umire i jedna pretpostavka, ono „nikada više” izgovoreno nad pepelom Holokausta, vjerovanje da postoji viši poredak, međunarodno pravo i institucije koje će zaustaviti najgore. Daniel i saradnici pišu kako je Gaza uzdrmala mnoge drage pretpostavke o spremnosti međunarodnog sistema da zaštiti civilno stanovništvo. Mi u Bosni tu smo pretpostavku vidjeli kako se ruši desetljećima ranije, i to u zoni koju su Ujedinjene nacije proglasile zaštićenom. Hospicing ne znači pristati na smrt. Znači odbiti da odvratimo pogled dok ono umire, ostati uz proces dovoljno dugo da iz njega nešto naučimo i da napravimo mjesta za ono što tek treba doći.
Kada jezik zakaže
Daniel primjećuje da i dvije godine u genocid odgovori i dalje kruže oko negacije jezika, oko niza riječi s prefiksom „ne-”. Nezamislivo, neizgovorivo, nepodnošljivo. Zločin neprestano nadilazi granice jezika. Badwan i Phipps to stanje nazivaju zapanjenim jezikovanjem (stunned languaging) i iz njega grade „poetske krike” kratke, ogoljene fragmente koji ne pokušavaju urediti užas, nego ga što iskrenije izustiti.
Pred takvim gubitkom jezik se najčešće povuče na jedno jedino što još može ponijeti težinu na ime. Ono čitanje u galeriji, Adem, Adem, Adem, ponovljeno i deset, dvadeset, tridestet puta. Svako ime za jednog Adema. Svako slovo za jedan gubitak. Ovo nije bilo bespomoćnost jezika nego njegov posljednji, najčistiji oblik. Brojka, preko osam hiljada ubijenih ne može ponijeti težinu nijednog pojedinačnog života. Ime može. Kako piše Toni Morrison u rečenici kojom Badwan i Phipps zatvaraju svoj tekst: „Mi umiremo. To je možda smisao života. Ali mi jezikujemo. To je možda mjera naših života.”
Imenovati,
izgovoriti,
ponoviti,
ostati,
čuti.
I onda kada riječi pucaju pod teretom postaje etička dužnost, a ne tek terapijska tehnika.
Svjedočenje i odbijanje neutralnosti
Sistemska terapija dugo je njegovala oprez prema zauzimanju strana. Radije je govorila o „radoznalosti”, „višestrukim pozicijama”, „objektivnosti u zagradama”. Daniel i saradnici, oslanjajući se na feminističku tradiciju koja je prva osporila tu prividnu neutralnost, podsjećaju na riječi Desmonda Tutua: „Ako ste neutralni u situacijama nepravde, izabrali ste stranu tlačitelja.” Pred genocidom, izjednačavajući jezik o „obje strane” nije neutralan on koristi onome ko ima moć.
Daniel i saradnici u središte svoje analize stavljaju upravo moć, ogromnu neravnotežu moći i nekažnjivost koja okrutnosti dopušta da se nesmetano razmaše. Imenovati tu neravnotežu, odbiti pasivni jezik u kojem nasilje „izbija” umjesto da bude počinjeno, jednako je važno u politici koliko i u terapijskoj sobi. I Srebrenica je bila moguća zbog nekažnjivosti i zbog jezika koji je žrtve unaprijed lišio ljudskosti.
Svjedočiti, dakle, ne znači samo biti prisutan uz bol znači i imenovati strukture koje su je proizvele.
Kaethe Weingarten opisuje kako većina nas, gledajući užas na ekranima dok osjeća sram i nemoć, postaje „neuspjeli svjedok” onaj koji čuje, ali ne djeluje. Ona razlikuje pozicije svjedočenja prema tome jesmo li svjesni i imamo li moć, i upozorava da je nesvjesno svjedočenje opasno. Ali nudi i utjehu: „malo” nije isto što i „trivijalno”. Jill Stauffer ono što proživljavaju napušteni naziva „etičkom samoćom” osjećajem izolacije onih koje je čovječanstvo ostavilo. Preživjeli Srebrenice tu su samoću poznavali iznutra.
Svjedočiti njihovom gubitku znači odbiti da ih ostavimo po drugi put.
Pozvati druge u taj prostor
Sistemska terapija utemeljena na narativnoj, feminističkoj i dijaloškoj perspektivi ne daje nam moć da poništimo nepravdu. Nudi nam nešto skromnije i istrajnije, način da gubitak ne ostane privatna, individualizovana rana, nego da postane zajednički prostor. Palestinski pojam sumud postojanost koja je kolektivna i ustrajna, a ne tek osobina pojedinca podsjeća da se snaga nalazi u povezanosti, dostojnastvu jedni s drugima i sa samom zemljom. Narativna praksa imenuje opresivne kontekste i istovremeno slavi otpor, dostojanstvo i želju za životom onih koji trpe.
Možda je upravo to ono čemu se nadam ovim tekstom ne da ponudim razrješenje, nego da otvorim prostor i pozovem druge u njega. Onaj krug u galeriji bio je upravo takav prostor. Glumci su čitali imena za nas i, na neki način, držali taj prostor za mene, za moje djevojčice, za mog supruga. Nismo morali sami nositi svako ime. Neko je stajao pred mikrofonom i izgovarao ga umjesto nas, a mi smo samo trebali biti tu, prisutni, u krugu. Edward Said pisao je o „dopuštenju da se pripovijeda” koje je palestinskom iskustvu historijski bilo uskraćeno. Isto dopuštenje dugujemo i Srebrenici, svake godine iznova, protiv poricanja i zaborava. Pozvati druge u taj prostor znači reći, nemoraš ovo nositi sam nećemo odvratiti pogled, ne zaboravljamo. Ostajemo ovdje s tobom, makar i ne znali kako da popravimo.
Umjesto zaključka
Teško je sjediti s nepravdom i s osjećajem da ne možemo ništa učiniti. Ali možda upravo tu počinje ono što možemo. Ne razrješenje, nego pratnja. Ne popravak, nego svjedočenje koje odbija neutralnost. Ne tišina koja zaboravlja, nego tišina koja čuva. Mislim opet na onaj žuti dan, na svoje djevojčice koje su mirno stajale u krugu, na imena koja su se izlijevala preko praga. Tada nisam znala šta da im kažem. Danas mislim da je već i to biti tu, s njima i s imenima u istom trenu bilo dovoljno. Ovog 11. jula, kao i svakog, ostajemo uz ono što ne možemo zacijeliti, i pozivamo jedni druge da ostanemo zajedno.
Polako žuti dan,
Bijela soba,
Tišina nakon glasa
Izvori i inspiracija
Khawla Badwan i Alison Phipps, „Hospicing Gaza: stunned languaging as poetic cries for a heartbreaking scholarship”, Language and Intercultural Communication (2025).
Gwyn Daniel, Chris Mannings, Joanne Early, Caroleen Bray i Amy Timms, „Genocide in Gaza: An Ethical Challenge for Systemic Therapists”, Journal of Family Therapy (2026).
Modul Memorije; Sarajevo
Staying With What We Cannot Heal
A Yellow Day, a Circle of Names, and the Ethics of Witnessing in Systemic Therapy
Mentis monthly blog · July 2026.
Armina Čerkić
About ten years ago, on a beautiful and hot July day in Sarajevo. I was walking with my husband and our than very small girls, the eldest six years old, the middle five and the youngest barely three. We were passing by the Dom Armije, a beautiful Austro-Hungarian building with a park in front . Across the street, the Art Gallery of Bosnia and Herzegovina -our national gallery- something was happening. The day was warm, almost yellow, light in step and in breath, in colour and in atmosphere. Slow and full, the kind of summer slowness that follows after a year of challenges and crises. The gentle Mediterranean tempo and permission that it’s alright to be in the moment and in the colour yellow .
From the gallery’s loudspeakers, a man’s voice and a woman’s voice alternated in a clear intonation, reading names in the same rhythm without end. Adem… Adem… Adem… Avdija… Avdije… Abdulah… Slow. Persistant. Present. We entered the gallery space curiously and cautiously. Everyone stood in a circle. Our girls were calm. The actors, one after another, stood before the microphone and read the same names, sometimes twenty times over, Adem… Adem… Adem… Adem… the names of the men killed in Srebrenica. Their names. Their personhood. Everything that came before that name, a whole life lived with a name, and death because of a name.
I have carried that scene for years. It encompasses everything I want to write about. How as a mother I can stand with my small children by the hand, in the middle of a yellow summer day. While across the gallery an endless tasbih of names pour out. How to be in both of those moments at once, in the warmth of life and in the weight of loss, without either one betraying the other? How can I stay with what cannot be repaired?
As a systemic therapist, I am used to looking for movement. A different story, a space in which pain can be rearranged into something resembling a form that can be carried onward. But there are losses before which that movement fails. There is an injustice that remains unspoken and that cannot be resolved by even the most careful intervention or the warmest presence. It is hard to sit with that injustice. It is harder still to admit that, we can do almost nothing except to stay.
This text is an attempt to think through what it means to stay. I lean on two works that have moved me deeply of late: “Hospicing Gaza” by Khawla Badwan and Alison Phipps, and “Genocide in Gaza: An Ethical Challenge for Systemic Therapists” by Gwyn Daniel and colleagues. Both write about Gaza. But, both seem to also speak of that circle in the gallery, of the names read without end. For injustice and evil come in different forms, and the questions these texts open are the same ones that stood over us in Sarajevo on those July anniversaries, just as they stand over Potočari.
Hospicing, staying with what is dying
Badwan and Phipps reach for a term that sounds almost unbearable when said aloud: hospicing, care for the dying. They borrow it from Vanessa de Oliveira Andreotti and colleagues, who write that such care means “sitting with a system in decline, learning from its history, offering palliative care, seeing oneself in that which is dying, attending to the integrity of the process, and clearing the space for something new.” This is not a process that promises salvation. It offers no easy recipes and no guaranteed outcomes.
What died in Srebrenica were not only people, an assumption died too. That “never again” spoken over the ashes of the Holocaust, the belief that there is a higher order, an international law and institutions that will stop the worst. Daniel and colleagues write of how Gaza has shaken many cherished assumptions about the willingness of the international system to protect a civilian population. We in Bosnia saw that assumption collapse decades earlier and in a zone the United Nations had declared safe. Hospicing does not mean consenting to death. It means refusing to look away while something dies, staying with the process long enough to learn something from it and to clear a space for what is yet to come.
When language fails
Daniel notes that, even two years into the genocide, responses still circle around a negation of language, around a series of words with the prefix “un-”. Unimaginable, unspeakable, unbearable. The crime constantly outstrips the limits of language. Badwan and Phipps call this state stunned languaging, and out of it they build “poetic cries” short, bare fragments that do not try to tidy the horror, but to utter it as honestly as possible.
Before such a loss, language most often withdraws to the one thing that can still bear the weight to the name. That reading in the gallery, Adem… Adem… Adem… repeated ten, twenty, thirty times. Each name for one Adem. Each letter for one loss. This was not the helplessness of language but its last, purest form. A number more than eight thousand killed cannot carry the weight of a single individual life. A name can. As Toni Morrison writes, in the sentence with which Badwan and Phipps close their text: “We die. That may be the meaning of life. But we do language. That may be the measure of our lives.”
To name,
to speak,
to repeat,
to stay,
to hear.
And even when words crack under the pressure, this becomes an ethical duty, not merely a therapeutic technique.
Witnessing and the refusal of neutrality
Systemic therapy has long cultivated caution about taking sides. It preferred to speak of “curiosity,” “multiple positions,” “objectivity in parentheses.” Daniel and colleagues, drawing on the feminist tradition that first challenged that apparent neutrality, recall the words of Desmond Tutu: “If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor.” Before genocide, the equalising language of “both sides” is not neutral it serves whoever holds power.
Daniel and colleagues place power itself at the centre of their analysis the vast imbalance of power and the impunity that lets cruelty spread unchecked. To name that imbalance, to refuse the passive language in which violence “erupts” rather than being perpetrated, is as important in politics as it is in the therapy room. Srebrenica was made possible by impunity and by a language that stripped its victims of humanity in advance.
To witness, then, does not mean merely being present alongside pain, it also means naming the structures that produced it.
Kaethe Weingarten describes how most of us watch horror on our screens while feeling shame and powerlessness become “failed witnesses”, those who hear but do not act. She distinguishes positions of witnessing by whether we are aware and whether we have power, and warns that unaware witnessing is dangerous. But she also offers that “small” comfort is not the same as “trivial” comfort. Jill Stauffer names what the abandoned endure “ethical loneliness” the sense of isolation of those whom humanity has left behind. The survivors of Srebrenica knew that loneliness from within.
To witness their loss means refusing to abandon them a second time.
Inviting others into that space
Systemic therapy grounded in narrative, feminist and dialogical perspectives does not give us the power to undo injustice. It offers us something humbler and a more enduring way for loss not to remain a private and individualised wound, but to become a shared space. The Palestinian concept of sumud a steadfastness that is collective and persistent, not merely a trait of an individual reminds us that strength lies in connection, in dignity with one another and with the land itself. Narrative practice names oppressive contexts and at the same time celebrates the resistance, dignity, and the will to live of those who suffer.
Perhaps that is exactly what I hope for with this text, not to offer a resolution, but to open a space and invite others into it. That circle in the gallery was maybe such a space. The actors read the names for us and in a way held that space for me, my girls, my husband, my family, and our community. We did not have to carry every name ourselves. Someone stood before the microphone and spoke it in our place, and we only had to be there, present, in the circle. Edward Said wrote of the “permission to narrate” that was historically denied to the Palestinian experience. We owe that same permission to Srebrenica, every year anew, against denial and forgetting. To invite others into that space means to say: you do not have to carry this alone; we will not look away; we do not forget. We remain here with you, even when we do not know how to mend.
In place of a conclusion
It is hard to sit with injustice and with the feeling that we can do nothing. But perhaps it is exactly there that what we can do begins. Not resolution, but accompaniment. Not repair, but a witnessing that refuses neutrality. Not a silence that forgets, but a silence that keeps. I think of that yellow day, of my girls standing quietly in the circle, of the names pouring across the large space. Back then I did not know what to say to them. Today I think that even us being there with them, with the names spoken, at that moment was enough. This eleventh of July, as every one we stay with what we cannot heal, and we invite one another to stay together.
Polako žuti dan,
Bijela soba,
Tišina nakon glasa
Slowly, the yellow day,
a white room,
silence after the voice
Sources and inspiration
Gwyn Daniel, Chris Mannings, Joanne Early, Caroleen Bray and Amy Timms, “Genocide in Gaza: An Ethical Challenge for Systemic Therapists,” Journal of Family Therapy (2026).
Khawla Badwan and Alison Phipps, “Hospicing Gaza: stunned languaging as poetic cries for a heartbreaking scholarship,” Language and Intercultural Communication (2025).
Modul Memorije (Module of Memory), Sarajevo.
