With her grandparents, Mirela could trace back five generations. In each lifetime, there had been a war, and it had shaped the direction of her family.

In Sarajevo, people are living on dangerous soil. At any given moment, their homes can be covered by tons of debris toppled by a landslide, Mirela Popaja says. “Are we to wait for disaster to strike before anyone acts?”

She leans in, and her wrinkly hand shoots forward. Roughly, she closes her hand around my throat. I flinch and recoil. Her eyes are dull, and she stares at me sadly, slowly withdrawing her hand.

Monuments are meant to help us remember and heal. But sometimes, they are part of the problem again. And what do we do then if they do not help in preventing cycles of violence?

“What will happen?” This question kept popping into my head as I sat in the van, winding through the rugged mountains of Kula, somewhere between Montenegro and Kosovo.