Inspired by Aidan Hehir’s illustrated novel, drawing on his experience of travelling from Sarajevo to Srebrenica, the 30th anniversary of the Srebrenica genocide is marked by a new theatre production that asks ‘can remembering be an act of resistance’? Blending physical theatre, devising, and animated projections, The Flowers of Srebrenica reimagines the narrative of Aidan, a professor and Balkan expert from Ireland, on his first visit to Srebrenica. He arrives in Bosnia-Herzegovina armed with academic knowledge, but by the time he leaves, his certainties are shattered. We sat down with Director Lara Parmiani to discuss their upcoming production.
How did you approach balancing respect for survivors’ lived experiences with the need to craft a theatrical narrative for wider audiences?
We spent over a year in R&D, working with refugee artists, travelling to Bosnia, and listening to survivors. At LegalAliens, we have been working with artists and communities who have experienced displacement for years, and never ask them to “play themselves” or retell their trauma. Instead, these artists help us avoid clichés and find authenticity. We also always avoid realism and graphic descriptions, opting for a more stylised, poetic and visual style that is also immediately engaging for audiences. With The Flowers, I knew I didn’t want graphic images of violence, we see enough of them on our screens. Instead, I drew inspiration from the book’s poetic, almost haiku-like style, creating a chorus of storytellers outside time. Only at the Memorial Centre do we see real images, fragmented and layered, like memory itself. I believe the aesthetic and style of the show really helped finding the balance of the piece
The play asks if remembering can be an act of resistance — how do you see theatre itself functioning as a form of resistance?
In an age of screens, algorithms and AI, theatre is radical precisely because it is live. People gather in the same room, breathing together, experiencing something that can only happen once. That collective act of witnessing feels like resistance—against isolation, against passivity, against forgetting. Theatre reminds us of our shared humanity, our capacity to feel together. And because of that, I think we have a duty not to shy away from difficult subjects. To give space to what is uncomfortable, to connect past events with what is happening right now, and to take a stand. Memory itself is a form of resistance, but so is the act of creating art that insists on empathy and solidarity.
What was the most challenging aspect of translating Aidan Hehir’s illustrated novel into a physical and devised performance?
The book follows the journey of two men by car, narrated in first person, with a long section describing the exhibition at the Srebrenica Memorial Centre. Aidan himself thought it impossible to stage! But what struck me was the constant presence of “voices” in his head, mocking, challenging, later haunting him in Srebrenica. I wondered: who are these voices? Could they stand for the many survivors and witnesses across conflicts? That’s where the idea of a chorus of women storytellers emerged: timeless, rooted in soil and memory like the Greek Fates. Meeting the Mothers of Srebrenica, who spent decades searching the earth for remains, was key. The soil became our metaphor: the women summon objects, summon voices, reminding us that remembering never ends. Within this frame, the narrator shifts from Aidan’s POV to the chorus’ universal gaze. Opening up potential for theatricality and also playfulness.
With a cast made up of artists who carry their own histories of war and displacement, how did their personal stories shape the rehearsal process?
What the cast brought was not “testimony” but sensitivity and courage. For the Bosnian actors, there was an immediate recognition of people, places, and silences. For others, we created moments where their own histories could resonate without becoming didactic or distracting from the main narrative. For example, during a devised “TV panel” scene, the chorus shifts from debating as “international experts” into confessing what they carried when they fled their countries. Small, personal details that quietly say so much. Often it was their physical presence that made the strongest impact, the way resilience and memory are carried in the body. That shaped the show more than words could. It’s not about reproducing the past, but about channelling the lived knowledge that displacement leaves behind.
How do you navigate the tension between being an “outsider” to Bosnia’s history and taking responsibility to tell its story on an international stage?
From the start we knew we weren’t retelling Bosnia’s history, our co-producer, Sarajevo War Theatre (SARTR), does that better than anyone. We were careful with cultural details, but the play is about the outsider gaze: the well-meaning Westerner who thinks they know, who think their voice is important, but realises all he can do is listen. Take less space. And perhaps help carry the weight of memory and trauma. Recognising that helplessness, acknowledging the responsibility the “international community” carries, and then listening without needing to add your piece is the only honest stance. The shift from thinking you know to recognising you don’t is at the heart of the story. My role as a director is to frame this not as authority, but as solidarity. Theatre can’t change what happened, but it can share the weight of memory. Survivors have carried it for decades; by retelling, we help carry it too.
The production draws parallels with current global atrocities — what connections do you hope audiences in London and beyond will make?
Sadly, audiences don’t need much help making connections. The echoes are everywhere: Sudan, Palestine, Ukraine. History keeps repeating, and the world keeps watching. In the show we even list genocides of the last 30 years, and I keep having to update it, because more keep happening. We don’t lecture the audience, we trust them to draw their own parallels. What I hope is that people leave with sharper awareness of the mechanisms: how “othering” begins, how division grows, how the international community hesitates. And with a sense that remembering is active, not passive. Because memory is not only about the past, it is about how we respond today.
The Flowers of Srebrenica plays at the Jacksons Lane Theatre 14th – 18th October. Tickets are available here.