Navigating the Periphery: Irfan Hošić on Culture, Crisis, and Community

Tentative Transmits: The 1990s were a turbulent time in former Yugoslavia. How did your practice develop in dialogue with, and as a critique of, the cultural, social, and economic structures of the Yugoslav and post-Yugoslav period?

Irfan Hošić: My generation—and I, personally—were profoundly shaped by the war in the 1990s. Living through the Yugoslav era as a teenager, I was somewhat aware of the political landscape, but not so much the economic context. The war began when I was 14, and those experiences have left a lasting imprint on me. That period, so intense and formative, remains deeply embedded in my identity.

Being a refugee during the war also shaped my perspective. Many around me had varied experiences—some were refugees, others stayed behind as children in the warzone, while some adults fought. These layers of experience influence how I view and interpret the world today, especially in relation to the Yugoslav socialist era, the war, and the post-war period.

Rather than a seamless continuum, I see these periods as marked by significant disruptions—ideological, economic, and social. The socialist system of Yugoslavia, Bosnia’s independence amid turmoil, and the new post-war societal framework all represent shifts that continue to resonate. As an art historian, I’m particularly interested in how these shifts are reflected in visual and mental images, tracing the evolution of artistic expression. For instance, during the socialist period, painting flourished as a medium. However, during the war, its ability to convey the profound realities of that time was questioned. Artists began exploring other forms of expression, marking a departure from traditional mediums. These shifts remain a central theme in my work.

I was in Munich as a refugee. My escape wasn’t planned; it happened spontaneously due to family circumstances. I left with nothing, expecting to return soon. However, as the war escalated, communication with Bosnia was severed. I remember one of the last calls with my father. He told me, “Start living there”. At 14, it was hard to grasp, but I began integrating—learning the language, finding a school, and navigating daily life without my parents.

Tentative Transmits: You eventually returned to Bihać. What motivated that decision?

Irfan Hošić: Sometimes, I still wonder why I returned. Life could have taken a very different path if I’d stayed in Munich. My most logical explanation is homesickness. At 18, I felt a deep need to reconnect with my parents and my roots. To be a kid again. I hadn’t yet achieved a sense of independence and needed that familial bond to feel whole again. Returning allowed me to recover a part of myself, and from there, I moved forward—pursuing university and building my life.

Tentative Transmits: How did the cultural space KRAK come together, and how does it navigate the post-socialist context of Bihać and Bosnia at large?

Irfan Hošić: When I speak about KRAK, I often find myself summarizing the story briefly. But when I reflect more critically or delve deeper, I realize that the process behind it is far more extensive—extending beyond KRAK itself or even its initial conception as a project. I see it as part of a long journey of investigating and grappling with certain ideas and contexts, particularly related to where I live and teach: Bihać. My role as an educator, as a university professor, was foundational. In many ways, this journey began from that platform. Perhaps I’m being subjective, but I believe that much of what I explored and examined in academia laid the groundwork for what later evolved into KRAK.

What I’ve done outside academia is deeply tied to the research practices I developed within it. I would describe KRAK as the culmination of these long-term research processes. These have often focused on the post-industrial and post-socialist characteristics of Bihać and the surrounding region, as well as the broader context of the former Yugoslavia. I’ve always been drawn to the complex constellations of Yugoslavia—its countries, regions, and cities—and how they interacted.

Bihać, for example, once had a completely different life. It was well integrated into broader networks. Take the railroad as an example: Bihać was a stop on the line between Belgrade and Split. This connection was significant—it linked Bihać directly to Dalmatia, Belgrade, and beyond. It enabled daily communication between vastly different regions, or even, you could say, different worlds. You could travel to Munich with just one layover in Zagreb. Today, all of that is gone. The connections, the logic of space, and the sense of regional collaboration have been severed. A new reality has emerged, one shaped by disconnection.

In many ways, KRAK is rooted in this disconnection, or what I sometimes think of as a crisis. But even calling it a crisis is complicated. A crisis is something temporary—a disruption or failure that eventually resolves or shifts. What we’re experiencing is not temporary; it’s an ongoing, continuous condition. It’s a new reality, one that has been unfolding for over three decades and will likely persist much longer.

So, it’s not a crisis in the traditional sense. For me, it might feel like one because I’ve lived through the shifts and the cuts, and they seem jarring, even disruptive. But for the younger generation, this is simply the norm. It’s not perceived as a crisis but as the status quo. This perspective highlights how subjective and relative these experiences and interpretations can be.

Tentative Transmits: As you mentioned, Bihać once played a central role in Yugoslavia but is now considered peripheral. How does this shift affect your work as a cultural worker or curator?

Irfan Hošić: The notion and understanding of terms like “periphery” are flexible, adjustable, and constantly evolving. What does it really mean? For example, I consider Bihać to be peripheral to larger cities in Bosnia, like Sarajevo, the capital, or Banja Luka, the second-largest city. But Bosnia as a whole is itself peripheral to dominant cultures and centers surrounding it. Positioned on the border of the European Union, but not a member, Bosnia occupies this "first line" just outside the EU. This creates a palpable and tangible sense of being on the periphery. These peripheries manifest themselves physically and concretely.

Take the migrant crisis from a few years ago as an example. Bihać became a key location on the so-called "Balkan route," a migratory path. This intensified the peripheral experience, as stricter border controls were imposed, reinforcing a sense of exclusion. This heightened the physical and tangible reality of being peripheral. Bihać, though it serves as the capital of the Una-Sana Canton in northwest Bosnia, remains deeply affected by post-war and post-socialist dynamics. While it holds a certain regional significance, it is still just a smaller adjustment within the broader narrative of peripherality—a balancing act between competing forces.

Interestingly, I find that being on the periphery can be inspiring. At first glance, it might seem depressing or provoke anxiety, but for me, my colleagues, and the team at KRAK, it presents a fascinating space to work within. It’s a liminal zone—a place where boundaries blur and possibilities emerge.

There is also a kind of freedom in being on the periphery. This sense of relaxation or detachment can feel liberating. For instance, during the recent invasion of Gaza and ongoing Israeli occupation, we noticed how international media often reported on the situation with heavy censorship and a narrative skewed by political constraints. In contrast, we felt a sense of privilege and freedom in expressing the truth as we see it, without external pressures or adjustments.

This is just one example, but there are many layers to the experience of working from a peripheral position. It offers a unique vantage point, where challenges coexist with opportunities for creativity, enjoyment, independence, and self-expression.︎