Is love possible without war?

On 18 May 1993, Admira Ismić and Boško Brkić — two lovers, both twenty-four — decided to flee Sarajevo, already under siege for fourteen months, in search of shelter, safety and a hope of a future. Admira was a Bosniak, a Muslim; Boško a Serb, a Christian. Their love was pure. Childlike.

In 1992, when Bosnia and Herzegovina declared its independence from Yugoslavia, a brutal inter-ethnic conflict broke out that razed to the ground a country once multicultural and close-knit. The war left tens of thousands dead. Two million people were driven from their homes, and its consequences remain palpable to this day. Bosnia and Herzegovina is still politically unstable and deeply fragmented, and the post-war generation lives with a lack of trust and a sense of injustice.

Boško and Admira had known each other since childhood. They studied chemistry together. Their friends described them as joyful and bright, inseparable. When the war broke out, their city split along ethnic lines — trusted friends turned into enemies. For couples of mixed ethnicity, life became unbearable. And yet they flatly refused to part. For Boško it would have been easy — he had only to cross the Vrbanja bridge and he would be safe, with his parents.

But Admira? How could he leave her? On that dark May night the two of them set out — with no luggage, having paid a middleman 18,000 marks to cross the bridge over the Miljacka river — “no man’s land,” between the positions of the warring sides.

Something went wrong. Boško was shot dead on the spot. Admira, wounded, managed to crawl to him and died in his arms. Their bodies were left there — uncollected — for six whole days.

The harrowing photograph of their bodies, taken by international media, travelled the world and became a symbol of the senseless cruelty of war. The Western press called them “the Romeo and Juliet of Sarajevo.” A love crushed by hatred. And by the impossibility of staying human when the world around you is falling apart.

The siege of Sarajevo remains the longest in modern history. 1,395 days.

Only thirty-two years ago. Only four hundred kilometres from Sofia.

This song poured over me like a waterfall. I didn’t write it — it found me. Admira took a special place in my heart and stayed there — with the same emotion I felt when I first met her. She is proof that love can pass through war. Yes — her life was cut short.

But thirty-two years later, that love still moves us. Which means it is alive. Could it be — beyond alive — eternal? I called her the last Juliet of Sarajevo, naively, and with the hope that one day there will be no need for a new one. Because she holds the memory of what keeps repeating. Because she is a symbol — of everything we must not forget.

18 May 2025
Sofia

Watch the video for “Admira — The Last Juliet of Sarajevo”:

Read more: Balkan Insight — Tribute to Love: Bulgarian Singer Honours Sarajevo’s Wartime Romeo and Juliet