By Zilka Spahić Šiljak | Published November 1, 2026 on Tačno.net

Original article: https://tacno.net/sve-po-zakonu-priznas-pokajes-se-i-ides-kuci/

The two underage girls are not the daughters of anyone powerful or influential in this country. They are children with no one to stand up for them—not even the law. But what if they had been the daughters of a government minister or a police officer? Would justice have been administered in the same way?

When I read the news that a man who knew two girls were underage victims of human trafficking had been sentenced to just one year in prison for sexually exploiting them, my first thought was that I must have misunderstood something. But no. It was true. Nedim Avdić from Živinice was sentenced by the Cantonal Court in Tuzla to one year in prison in a judgment that is not yet final. He pleaded guilty, expressed remorse, and reached a plea agreement with the Prosecutor’s Office. Following the verdict, his pretrial detention was lifted.

One year for the sexual exploitation of two girls!

One year for the sexual exploitation of two girls!

One year for the sexual exploitation of two girls!

Have we, as a society, become so desensitized to violence against girls that nothing can shock us anymore? Have we grown so accustomed to the idea that female bodies—particularly those of poor, marginalized, and unprotected girls—carry a different value within the social hierarchy? Apparently, we have. Our lives are not valued equally, because before our judicial institutions, the dignity of two girls appears to be worth just one year in prison.

Lawyers will explain that justice cannot be measured by emotions, that the law exists, that courts act in accordance with it, and that plea agreements are legitimate legal instruments. The law must not depend on the public mood, nor should we pass judgment based on emotion. Yet law and justice are not the same thing.

After all, why should we accept “everything was done according to the law” as a sufficient answer to every moral dilemma? Is history not full of laws that legalized slavery, discrimination against women, and racial segregation? Did women not spend decades demonstrating that laws denying them the right to vote were unjust? And do we not enjoy more rights and freedoms today precisely because people had the courage to challenge existing laws?

If everything is according to the law, yet the sense of injustice remains so profound that we feel its weight in our chests and stomachs, perhaps it is time to ask what the law actually protects—and what needs to change. Would you have decided differently if these were your daughters? We should ask that question of every person involved in the chain of prevention and protection against gender-based violence.

Women from Gračanica spoke out publicly, asking a question that is difficult to ignore: “How would you have ruled if they were your daughters?” I fully understand their anger, and I understand why they chose precisely that question. In our society, the easiest way to break through a wall of indifference is still to remind someone that the victim could have been his daughter, sister, wife, or mother.

But that question takes me one step further.

Why must a girl be someone’s daughter before we care about her dignity? Why do we need a family connection before we feel a moral responsibility? Cannot we be outraged simply because she is a child—a human being, a person entitled to safety and bodily integrity? Why must we imagine girls as “ours” before we begin to see them as human beings?

This is where one of the more serious problems of our patriarchal society lies. Women and girls are often granted protection only when we place them within a family role. They are someone’s mothers, sisters, wives, and daughters—but so rarely simply people with rights of their own. Is it not rather devastating that, in the twenty-first century, we must still appeal to paternal love to demand respect for human rights?

So I would ask the question differently: would you take violence against a girl you have never met just as seriously—a girl who is not the daughter of anyone influential, who has no political connections, no money, no lawyer, and no social power? It is precisely in the protection of such children that the justice of a society is measured.

The Perpetrator’s Remorse or the Girls’ Trauma: Which Carries More Weight?

We learned from the Prosecutor’s Office that the accused man’s guilty plea, remorse, and cooperation were important factors in reaching the agreement. It was also explained that his cooperation might help establish the responsibility of other defendants. I understand the logic. If one defendant’s admission can help expose a wider network of child sexual exploitation, that is an important consideration.

But when was the last time we listened as attentively to the consequences that violence leaves on girls as we listen to a perpetrator’s expressions of remorse? Do we know whether the girls have received all the psychological support they need? Do we know whether they have a safe environment in which to continue their education and their lives? Do we know whether they are protected from stigma, threats, and further victimization?

Is it enough simply to say you are sorry? Can pleading guilty become a kind of discount on punishment? And where is the limit to that discount when the sexual exploitation of children is concerned? The problem is not that remorse is taken into account. The problem arises when the public is left with the impression that the perpetrator’s future is considered in far greater detail than the future of his victims.

This is one of the hallmarks of a patriarchal society: a man who commits violence is often discussed as someone who deserves a second chance, while girls are treated as people who should simply recover and get on with their lives.

But how does one get on with life after sexual exploitation? How does one learn to trust adults again? How does a child who has been treated as a commodity rebuild her sense of self-worth? And who takes responsibility for that?

What “Sexual Services”? We Are Talking About Children!

I am particularly troubled by the language used to discuss cases like this. We read that adult men “used the sexual services of minors.” What sexual services can a child who has been trafficked possibly provide? Why use a phrase that suggests some form of voluntary exchange, an agreement, or a market transaction? Why do we try so hard to find neutral words for something that is, at its core, violence? Imagine someone robbing a child.

Would we say the child provided a financial service? If someone abducted a child, would we describe it as a transportation service?

Of course not. So why, when we speak about the sexual exploitation of girls, do we reach for words that can obscure the violence?

Language is never entirely neutral. It tells us what society considers normal, what it excuses, what it conceals, and whose perspective it takes as its starting point. When we say “sexual service,” we put the person who uses it at the center. When we say “sexual exploitation of a child,” we place the victim and the responsibility of the adult perpetrator at the center. This is no small distinction. It is the difference between normalizing violence and exposing it.

Feminist scholars such as Catharine MacKinnon have warned for decades that we cannot understand sexual violence without understanding relations of power. The formal right to choose does not mean that genuine freedom exists. What freedom of choice did these underage girls, who were victims of human trafficking, actually have? We do not need a doctorate in law, sociology, or psychology to know the answer. We need only a minimum of human and institutional responsibility.

Seven Police Officers Among the Defendants

A total of twelve people have been charged in this case, including seven police officers. Seven police officers! Of course, their guilt has yet to be established. The presumption of innocence must apply to everyone, including police officers.

But should we not be deeply troubled by the very fact that seven police officers are among those charged in a case involving the sexual exploitation of children? Who can a girl turn to if she suspects that someone in uniform is connected to those exploiting her? Whom can she trust?

Shall we advise her to go to the police? To report the violence? To trust the institutions? What will we tell her when she asks whether she can be sure that no one will betray her again? This is not only about the potential individual guilt of police officers. It is also about trust in institutions, and about the system’s ability to recognize violence, protect victims, and punish abuses of official authority. This case must raise questions that go beyond a single verdict.

Who knew about this? Were there warning signs? Did the girls have anyone to whom they could report the abuse? Did the institutions respond in time? We do not know the answers, which is why we are asking the competent authorities to establish them and, within the limits required to protect the children and preserve the integrity of legal proceedings, explain them to the public. Because once trust in institutions has been seriously damaged, a press release cannot restore it.

What Have We Actually Learned from This Verdict?

Now imagine a girl who is experiencing sexual violence at this very moment. Perhaps she is being blackmailed. Perhaps she is being threatened. Perhaps she believes that everyone will tell her it is her own fault. Perhaps she fears her parents, the police, her neighbors, or comments on social media. And then she reads the news about this verdict. What will she think? That speaking out is worthwhile? That institutions can deliver justice? Or that even when guilt is established, the public must still debate whether the sentence is appropriate?

We do not know how any individual victim will interpret this verdict. But that is precisely why we must pay attention to the messages we send. We cannot spend years wondering why girls and women do not report violence and then expect trust in institutions to appear on its own. Trust is built through actions: through the way we speak to victims, the way we protect them, the speed of our response, the seriousness with which we treat violence, and the reasons we give for the decisions we make.

That is why I am not satisfied with the response that a one-year sentence falls within the law, which prescribes a prison term of six months to five years for this form of criminal offense. That is an important legal fact. But if such a sentencing range allows for a punishment that much of the public regards as disproportionate to the gravity of child exploitation, why should we not question whether the legal provision itself is justified?

The problem is not only the perpetrators. The problem is also a society that constantly finds excuses for them.

There is something else we need to talk about: men who believe they are entitled to use girls’ bodies if they have the money to pay. Where does this sense of entitlement come from? Who taught them that a female body is available if its owner is vulnerable enough? Who convinced them that money can buy something to which they have no right? And why is male sexual desire still so often treated as a force of nature to which society must adapt? Is it not time to stop discussing sexual exploitation solely as a problem of individual deviant men?

Criminal responsibility is, of course, individual. But the social patterns that enable violence are not. We live in a culture in which girls are taught from an early age how to dress, how to sit, where to go, how not to attract attention, and how to protect themselves.

How much time, however, do we devote to teaching boys that other people’s bodies are not theirs to claim? That money cannot buy consent? That sexual desire never justifies exploitation? Why do we constantly tell girls to be careful, yet so rarely ask men where they got the idea that they can sexually exploit a child? And how much longer will we place the burden of preventing violence on those most exposed to it?

This is precisely where feminist critique matters. Not because it claims that all men are perpetrators of violence, but because it questions the social norms that allow certain men to feel superior and entitled to other people’s bodies. The sexual exploitation of children is not the result of uncontrollable sexuality. It is an abuse of power, vulnerability, and inequality.

And that is why the answer cannot be harsher punishment alone. We need education, prevention, the empowerment of children, institutional accountability, and a serious reckoning with a culture that continues to find ways to minimize male violence.

And Now What? Will We Be Angry for Three Days and Then Move On?

We know how this usually goes. A news story breaks. Social media erupts. Everyone is appalled. Posts are shared, angry comments are written, resignations are demanded, and calls are made for tougher sentences.

Then comes another story. Another scandal. Another political quarrel. Another reason for outrage. And the two girls disappear from the public conversation. Could we do things differently this time?

Could we demand an expert review of sentencing policy for the sexual exploitation of children? Could we insist on clear, publicly accessible explanations of why plea agreements are accepted, without compromising victims’ rights or ongoing proceedings? Could we finally have a serious conversation about the support available to children after they leave the courtroom? And could we stop measuring the success of the judiciary solely by the number of cases resolved, and begin measuring it also by the quality of the protection afforded to the very people the justice system exists to serve?

We need the courage to discuss whether a sentence permitted by law can nonetheless be profoundly troubling, both socially and ethically. In that discussion, we must not lose sight of the girls. They are not merely evidence. They are not case numbers. They are not an occasion for political speeches. Nor are they symbols to be invoked whenever we want to demonstrate our own moral virtue.

They are children with a right to safety, dignity, recovery, and a future. And so I return to the question posed by the women of Gračanica: “How would you have ruled if they were your daughters?”

Perhaps it is finally time to stop asking the question that way. They do not have to be our daughters for their suffering to matter. We do not have to know them to demand justice. And they do not need influential parents for their dignity to be worth as much as that of any other child.

And to those who will keep repeating that everything was done according to the law, I would pose one more question:

If the phrase “everything was done according to the law” can conceal so much unease about the way the sexual exploitation of children is punished, is it not high time we had a serious conversation about both law and justice?

The law should be an instrument of justice, not the end of the conversation about it.