TATTOOINE
Guardian Neda : During a Mimika Orchestra concert, its founder and conductor, Mak Murtić, invited the audience to visit Lidija in her booth, where she was creating traditional Croatian tattoo motifs in henna throughout the performance.
Interest in the concert was matched only by the interest in Lidija, so I sent my sister ahead to investigate. She returned with a “tattoo,” and after exchanging just a few words with Lidija towards the end of the concert, I immediately realised that, for us at Čuvarice vremena (“Guardians of Time”), she was someone whose work deserved closer attention. The subject she explores is both culturally significant and surprisingly under-researched, having received relatively little detailed scholarly attention.
Not long afterwards, we arranged the interview whose introduction you are now reading. Lidija radiates the spirit of both a researcher and an artist—driven by curiosity, passion, creativity, and remarkable precision. The very same qualities are reflected in the place where this conversation took place: her studio tattooine in Zagreb.
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TATTOOINE ZAGREB studio
Lidija, could you introduce yourself and tell us a little about your background? How are your academic training and your profession connected, and how long have you been working in this field?
Lidija Petrović: I am Lidija Petrović. I began studying Ethnology and Pedagogy—with a particular focus on Human Rights in Education—at the Faculty of Humanities and Social Sciences, University of Zagreb, in 2009. Around that time, while the artist Marina Mesar—OKO—was painting murals near the Student Centre, I had the opportunity to meet her. What immediately caught my attention were the tattoos on her hands. They were striking and highly expressive, depicting symbols I had never encountered in person before. That meeting marked the beginning of what has become a continuous journey of learning and research into this subject.
Folklore has been part of my life for as long as I can remember. It began in Slavonia, where I grew up, and continued after I moved to Zagreb. I danced with the Ivan Goran Kovačić Student Folk Ensemble at an almost semi-professional level. I have always been drawn to the ethnological dimension of culture—to tradition, folklore, history, hidden meanings, and customs that are passed down from generation to generation, preserving their significance despite never becoming part of mainstream culture.
Guardian Neda : Tell us a little about where we are. This space almost feels as though we’ve stepped into a museum.
LIDIJA PETROVIĆ: We’re currently in our Tattooine Studio on Ilica Street in Zagreb. It’s a spacious studio, and we wanted to keep the design minimalist while filling it with carefully chosen details. One of our main aims was to weave our passion for traditional tattooing and bocanje into the space itself. The studio has been at this location since 2021 and is run by my partner, André, who is from Brazil, and me. From the outset, we wanted it to feel more like an art gallery than a conventional tattoo studio, with artefacts displayed under spotlights—both literally and metaphorically
Guardian Neda: Earlier, you mentioned one of the earliest words associated with tattooing. What is that word, and does it have any connection to the name of your studio?
Lidija Petrović: Tatauiranje derives from the Tahitian word tatau, meaning “tattoo.” The word itself is often understood as an onomatopoeic imitation of the sound produced by the original tattooing technique, in which a stick is rhythmically tapped against the skin—ta-ta, ta-ta… It has also been interpreted as echoing the cry of pain—au!—associated with the experience of being tattooed. (laughs). As for the name Tattooine, it’s honestly much more of a reference to the Star Wars films and their fictional planet, Tatooine
Guardian Neda: So, after meeting Marina, you began exploring this particular field, as you described it—traditional tattooing. What can you tell us about it
Lidija Petrović: Once I began tattooing, traditional tattoos naturally emerged as the point where my passion for folklore, tradition, and tattooing came together.
When I first started researching traditional tattooing, I found an overwhelming amount of superficial information. Even fifteen years later, that has not changed very much. The same facts continue to be repeated and recycled in different forms, while very few people explore the subject in any real depth or approach it through sustained research. Fortunately, public attitudes towards traditional tattoos have changed dramatically. Today they have become part of popular culture, whereas fifteen years ago, according to her own account, Marina was criticised simply for wearing them. She was, in many ways, the person who initiated their revival and brought them back into public awareness.
We are currently working towards having the Croatian tradition of sicanje, or bocanje, recognised as an element of UNESCO Intangible Cultural Heritage. It is, however, a highly demanding process because UNESCO requires comprehensive documentation: when the tradition began, how it developed, and evidence for every stage of its history. The difficulty is that the people who practised these customs were largely illiterate. For them, tattooing was an ordinary part of everyday life, not something they thought to record in writing.
I have also been told that a Carmelite convent near Široki Brijeg preserves written records containing much of the information that would be needed. That is what I have heard, at least. However, the nuns there have taken vows of silence and live in enclosure, so they have no contact with the outside world.
Guardian Neda: When you say “we’re working towards that,” who exactly do you mean? Is it a particular community or research group?
Lidija Petrović: It is a network of former and current students of ethnology, sociology, and related disciplines, mostly from the Faculty of Humanities and Social Sciences in Zagreb, who share an interest in traditional tattooing. Many of them come from Herzegovina or central Bosnia, where they are able to draw on their own family histories—grandmothers, great-grandmothers, and aunts—to gather as much information as possible about the tradition.
I should also point out that, since becoming a tattoo artist, I have gained far better access to documenting and preserving original tattoo motifs than I ever had as a student. Today, people regularly contact me and send photographs of the tattoos worn by their grandmothers and great-grandmothers.
Guardian Neda: From what I have read, sicanje seems to also be closely associated with Bosnia and Herzegovina. Is it really a phenomenon unique to that region, and what does the term actually encompass?
Lidija Petrović: First, I’d like to correct a common misconception. According to Marko Perić’s 1973 doctoral dissertation, Običaj tatauiranja kod balkanskih naroda (The Custom of Tattooing among the Balkan Peoples)—preserved in the restricted collection of the Library of the Faculty of Humanities and Social Sciences in Zagreb and originally typed on a typewriter—the tradition was by no means confined to Bosnia and Herzegovina.
Since we’re talking about terminology, it’s worth explaining that as well. Until relatively recently, the peoples of the Balkans commonly used the term tatauiranje, derived from the Tahitian word tatau, meaning “tattoo.”
The term sicanje was used primarily in Herzegovina, especially around Rama.
Bocanje was the preferred term in Macedonia and central Bosnia.
In Croatia, the practice was more often referred to as križićanje (“cross-marking”), although other regional names—including šecanje, bockanje, and šaranje—were also used. Interestingly, bocanje appears to be the older term, while sicanje came into use later.
Perić’s dissertation proved to be an invaluable source. By 1973, he had documented approximately three hundred different tattoo motifs from across the Balkans. The largest number were recorded among Christian communities in present-day North Macedonia and Albania. There, tattooing was not limited to women; men were tattooed as well, largely because these markings served as a form of protection during the Ottoman period. Crosses tattooed on the forehead, hands, or chest made it immediately apparent that they were Christians, effectively preventing them from being taken into the Janissary corps.
Traditional tattooing was practised among several ethnic communities across the Balkans, predominantly within Catholic populations, even though many of the motifs themselves predate Christianity and originate in Old Slavic symbolism. The practice was therefore never confined to Herzegovina alone, although that is where it survived the longest, which explains why this perception remains widespread today.
The earliest written account of tattooing in the Balkans dates to the seventeenth century and comes from Paulo Ricaut, the English ambassador to Constantinople, writing during the period of Ottoman rule in the region. Even so, there are good reasons to believe that the tradition is considerably older, probably reaching back to the fifteenth century and the beginning of the Ottoman conquests. Documented examples have been recorded across almost the whole of Bosnia and Herzegovina—including as far north as Banja Luka—with particularly strong traditions in central Bosnia, Herzegovina, and Bosanska Posavina. The practice was also documented in Montenegro, especially around Bijelo Polje; among Vlach communities in North Macedonia; among Catholic communities in the Albanian regions of Dukagjin and Pult; among Catholic populations throughout Bulgaria; and in Croatia, particularly around Sinj, Vrlika, Lika, Dalmatia, the Dalmatian Hinterland, the Osijek region, Ston, Metković, and Posavina
So, sicanje is the term most closely associated with Herzegovina, whereas bocanje is more commonly used throughout much of Bosnia, especially central Bosnia. In Slavonia, too, we are more likely to say bocanje, while križićanje is another widely recognised Croatian term. Personally, I feel closest to the word bocanje, simply because it is the term I heard most often during my conversations with women who still bear these traditional tattoos.
Illustration of the mixture and the product from Vesna Haluga’s book *Znamen na koži* (Mark on the Skin), 2023, pp. 26–27.
Guardian Neda: How Were Sicanje/Bocanje, or traditional Croatian tattoos traditionally done?
Lidija Petrović: Most of what we know about the tattooing process itself comes from interviews with elderly women who still bear these traditional tattoos. We are usually introduced to them through someone whose grandmother is tattooed, and only if the woman is in good health and the conversation is unlikely to distress or exhaust her. We are almost always greeted by the same familiar scene: a grandmother standing at the door with a cigarette, a small glass of rakija, a cup of Turkish coffee, and an ashtray overflowing with cigarette ends. Then she smiles and says, “Well, my dear, I was the one who did the bocanje*…
It’s absolutely wonderful.
Traditionally, these tattoos were applied exclusively in the spring, on specific feast days during Lent, before Easter: Saint Joseph’s Day, the Feast of the Annunciation, Maundy Thursday, and Good Friday. Girls and boys were most commonly tattooed between the ages of nine and fifteen, and we have no documented examples of the practice continuing beyond that age. Ordinary sewing needles were used, sometimes two or three tied together into a small bundle.
Our interviews also revealed a great deal about the preparation of the pigment, including the precise type of wood that was used. The women told us they collected young ash shoots because they were the softest and easiest to work with. The shoots were placed in a pan over the fire until the wood carbonised and turned black. It was then crushed into a charcoal-like substance. This ash charcoal was mixed with various liquids and binding agents to produce the tattoo pigment. The process is beautifully illustrated in Vesna Haluga’s book Znamen na koži (A Mark on the Skin).
Wealthier families added honey to the charcoal mixture. Milk was also commonly used, with breast milk regarded as especially pure. Other ingredients included saliva, lard, water, rakija, and even butter. In more recent times, records also mention the use of gunpowder and fountain pen ink as sources of pigment. Artisans sometimes used simple templates cut from the bark of black ash or cornelian cherry, or from fig leaves. Interestingly, the hole in a button served as a guide for creating perfectly even dots. The motifs were most commonly tattooed on the forearms, upper arms, hands, finger joints, wrists, and chest, though they were occasionally applied to the forehead and even the bridge of the nose.
Guardian Neda: So your profession keeps you in constant contact with field research. You’ve made wonderful use of that opportunity.
Lidija Petrović: Exactly. My work gives me access not only to field research but also to the people themselves. Since becoming a tattoo artist, far more people have approached me with photographs of their grandmothers’ and great-grandmothers’ tattoos than ever did when I was a student relying primarily on academic research.
These interviews have uncovered several fascinating details that challenged our earlier assumptions. When we picture girls being tattooed at the age of ten or twelve, we often imagine an older, highly experienced woman—perhaps the family matriarch—performing the procedure. Yet almost every interview suggests otherwise: in most cases, the tattooing was carried out by a fourteen-year-old girl, someone only slightly older than the recipient herself.
The women consistently recall being tattooed in the days leading up to Easter, most often on Maundy Thursday or Good Friday. The practice was not carried out on Easter Sunday itself, although it occasionally continued on Holy Saturday.
For anyone interested in seeing how sicanje was traditionally performed, I can recommend several valuable sources from Bosnia and Herzegovina that include documentary footage of bocanje recorded during the 1970s and 1980s:
Guardian Neda: So the soot-based mixture was worked into the skin by repeatedly puncturing it. How similar is that process to the way tattoos are done today?
Lidija Petrović: Today we still have what are known as hand-poked tattoos. They are created entirely by hand, without the use of a tattoo machine, with the pigment being inserted beneath the skin in much the same way as traditional tattoos were made. Once the needle is placed in the desired spot, it is not withdrawn completely from the skin, because it would be very difficult to find exactly the same point again. Instead, the needle is lifted only slightly—together with the skin—and then lowered again several times in succession.
What I find truly remarkable is the precision achieved by the young girls who carried out these tattoos. They were able to create remarkably intricate motifs and adapt them perfectly to the natural contours of the arm, all without the modern equipment, stencils, or guides that tattoo artists rely on today.
The greatest difference is in the healing process. Tattoos made by bocanje took far longer to heal than modern tattoos. They were typically applied before Easter, and one of the women we interviewed recalled that she still had to keep her tattoo covered during the harvest months later so that, as she put it, “the sun wouldn’t burn it.” Long sleeves were worn to protect the tattooed skin, and swelling, redness, and even infections were common. That is entirely understandable, given that the pigments were homemade rather than laboratory-produced, the tools were not sterile, and the bocanje technique itself caused considerably more trauma to the skin.As a result, these traditional tattoos often took several months to heal. A tattoo applied before Easter might still need to be covered during the August harvest.
Traditional croatian tattoo done at tattooine zagreb.
Guardian Neda: Given how well these tattoos have survived on the skin to the present day, can we describe the workmanship as exceptionally accomplished?
Lidija Petrović: It is genuinely remarkable how well the tattoos have endured and how precisely the women positioned them on the arms. The skin of the hands and arms rotates and shifts to permit movement, yet the motifs continue to follow the anatomy perfectly and retain an impression of symmetry and geometric precision.
According to the dissertation mentioned earlier, certain moulds or templates did exist. They were generally carved into wood, dipped into the charcoal mixture, and then pressed or traced onto the skin. Nevertheless, as far as we can determine, most motifs were produced without stencils.
Guardian Neda: Remarkable! Perhaps they developed such a steady hand because they learned the skill from such a young age. You mentioned the protective and religious function of these tattoos. Was that their only purpose, or is there more behind the tradition of sicanje, or bocanje?
Lidija Petrović: As I mentioned earlier, our interviews show that women were most often tattooed in the days leading up to Easter. That timing was no coincidence. It reflected the celebration of new beginnings, the awakening of nature, and renewal. These ideas are found both in pre-Christian belief systems, where spring marked the beginning of a new year and a new cycle of life, and later in the Christian tradition through the celebration of Christ’s Resurrection.
I deliberately avoid using the term “pagan” because it carries negative connotations, as though all pre-Christian beliefs were somehow opposed to Christianity. In reality, these belief systems formed part of everyday life and reflected the way people understood the natural world and its seasonal cycles.
Although traditional tattoos are most commonly explained as an ingenious form of resistance during the Ottoman conquests—since tattooing was strictly forbidden in Islam and regarded as blasphemous, making tattooed women less desirable as captives, while boys bearing Christian symbols were unlikely to be taken into the Janissary corps through the infamous devşirme, or “blood tax”—a wide range of evidence indicates that the motifs themselves are considerably older. Their origins lie in Old Slavic beliefs, traditions, and folklore
In other words, it seems that during the Ottoman period existing Old Slavic protective symbols were adapted for a new purpose. They became traditional tattoos, and the cross was added to make the wearer’s Christian identity even more explicit in the face of the growing process of Islamisation.
One of the things I found especially fascinating was discovering very similar tattoo motifs among Berber women in North Africa, particularly the jelica motif and bracelet designs, as well as the kolo, which is distinctive to the Balkans. According to some interpretations of biblical sources, Moses’ wife—who is associated with a Berber community—is said to have worn a tattooed jelica on the bridge of her nose. If so, it suggests that some of these motifs may have an extraordinarily long history, extending, at least according to certain traditions and interpretations, as far back as biblical times.
Women of the Berber peoples of North Africa tattooed with similar symbols;
Photos: Pinterest
Why, then, is the kolo motif so closely associated with the Balkans? In Slavic tradition, it is linked to Kolovrat, one of the principal deities, regarded as the god of the Sun and of the cycles of nature and human life. He was believed to dwell in trees and within the earthly realm. While Perun ruled the heavens and Veles the underworld, Kolovrat was associated with the human world and the natural cycles of life.
Today, the cross is understood almost exclusively as a Christian symbol—a visible expression of faith and religious identity. In pre-Christian Slavic belief, however, it also represented the four cardinal directions—north, south, east, and west—as well as the four natural elements: earth, air, water, and fire. There are many different forms of the cross and numerous variations of the motif.
Crtež i opis motiva križa izradila je i sastavila Lidija Petrović – Tattooine studio Zagreb
Guardian Neda: Could you tell us a little more about the motifs that originate in this older, pre-Christian Slavic tradition?
Lidija Petrović: In fact, almost all of the motifs have roots in this older symbolic tradition, but kolo is perhaps the clearest example. As I mentioned, it was associated with the Slavic deity Kolovrat, whose emblem was the circle itself. For that reason, circular motifs were often carved into wood as expressions of reverence for this deity. The kolo also carries many other meanings. It represents community, family, and collective identity. At the same time, it refers to the traditional circle dance found throughout Croatia—from the šokačko kolo of Slavonia to the silent nijemo kolo of Lika and Vrlika, as well as many other regional variations performed in a circular formation. It can also be understood through the idea of the “Wheel of the Year”: the recurring cycle of sowing, growth, flowering, fruiting, harvest, the gradual decline of nature during winter, and its renewal in spring. In this sense, the kolo symbolises not only the annual cycle of nature but also the cycle of human life.
Crtež i opis motiva kola izradila je i sastavila Lidija Petrović – Tattooine studio Zagreb
We’ve already spoken about the cross and the kolo. The next most common motif is the jelica. These designs depict evergreen branches—most often pine or fir—and therefore symbolise longevity and, in a sense, immortality, since evergreen trees remain alive even when other plants lie dormant through the winter. The jelica also represents growth, development, fertility, and the celebration of nature and its cycles. Whether rendered as a simple linear branch or as a more elaborate evergreen sprig with detailed needles, it conveys the same underlying idea: something deeply rooted in the earth yet reaching upward towards the heavens. It becomes a symbolic link between the earthly and the celestial. For me personally, the jelica also speaks of continuity between generations. I once tattooed three jelica motifs rising from a friend’s wrist towards her forearm. One represented her grandmother, the second her mother, and the third herself. The final branch included a small rosebud, echoing her grandmother’s original tattoo while adding its own distinctive element—a symbol of the enduring bond between grandmother, mother, and daughter.
The drawing and description of the cross motif were created and compiled by Lidija Petrović – Tattooine Studio Zagreb.
Another common motif is the bracelet. It symbolises the duality of human experience: the inward world of our deepest emotions and the outward dimension of our relationship with the wider community. These two aspects of life are inseparable, forming an unbroken circle that shapes who we are. Bracelet motifs were typically tattooed around the wrist and sometimes extended as far as the elbow. They also served as protective symbols, intended to ward off evil and harmful influences. In some villages in Slavonia—notably Koška and Markovac Našički—grandmothers still place bracelets on young children as signs of protection and belonging within the community. Our interviews also revealed that, unlike many of the more universal tattoo motifs, bracelet designs were often highly distinctive. Girls from the same family or village frequently wore closely related patterns so that their place of origin would be recognisable. According to oral tradition, if they were taken away during the Ottoman period, these motifs could help identify the family or village from which they came.
Tattooed bracelets combined with wheel, fir tree, and cross motifs, from Tattooine Studio Zagreb.
The wheat motif symbolises fertility, abundance, a successful harvest, and good fortune. Its meaning extends beyond female fertility or material prosperity to encompass the fertility of the land, plentiful crops, and the wellbeing of the family and the wider community. Another recurring motif is the fence, which most often appears in combination with the kolo and the cross. Like the bracelet, it carries protective symbolism, representing defence against evil and safeguarding the wearer. It was most commonly tattooed on the hands, creating both a literal and symbolic first line of defence.
The drawing and description of the fence motif were created and compiled by Lidija Petrović – Tattooine Studio Zagreb.
Stars also appear frequently, reflecting an awareness of the heavens and their cycles. The same symbolism is associated with the Sun and the Moon, whose movements were understood to influence the natural world, the changing seasons, and human life.
Guardian Neda: Thank you for those wonderfully detailed explanations. If we can go back even further, how far does the history of tattooing itself extend? I’ve read that the earliest tattoos consisted of little more than dots and crosses.
Lidija Petrović: When we look at the earliest history of tattooing, we have remarkably tangible archaeological evidence. The oldest known example is Ötzi, the so-called Iceman—the world’s oldest naturally preserved mummy, discovered in the Italian Alps. His body bears a series of tattooed dots around the joints, and later research showed that these correspond closely to recognised acupuncture points. This is particularly fascinating because acupuncture was once thought to have originated around the fifth century CE, whereas Ötzi demonstrates that a comparable practice existed more than 5,000 years ago.
The earliest known tattoos whose purpose appears to have been decorative or symbolic, rather than primarily therapeutic, were found on two female mummies from ancient Egypt. Among their motifs were representations of the sacred Apis bull tattooed beneath the shoulders.
It is also interesting that, when people think of tattooing, they often picture Vikings and runic designs, largely because these motifs are so popular today. Yet, unlike many other cultures, we have no physical evidence that Vikings themselves were tattooed. That does not necessarily mean they were not, only that no such evidence has survived. One possible explanation is that many Viking dead were cremated, leaving no preserved skin on which tattoos could be identified.
Traditional tattooing is, of course, also well known in Polynesia, New Zealand, and among the Māori, while Mongolia has its own remarkable tattooing tradition, including beautifully simple motifs depicting horses.
I could talk about the history of tattooing for hours, but these examples give us a sense of its earliest beginnings.
Guardian Neda: To conclude, why do people choose traditional tattoos today? What draws them to this practice, and what kinds of stories do they bring with them?
Lidija Petrović: Every time I work with these motifs, I’m struck by their simplicity. At first glance they seem almost minimal—composed only of lines and geometric forms, without shading or filled areas—yet they are extraordinarily intricate. They are deceptively difficult to tattoo because every line has to be perfectly balanced for the design as a whole to work.
What fascinates me most is that they continue to resonate so deeply with people today. They still speak to something emotional—almost transcendent. What exactly draws people to traditional tattoos remains something of a mystery, even to me. I think it is their beauty, their symbolism, the stories they carry, and the sense of belonging they express. Once they are tattooed onto the body, they acquire a completely different kind of power. On paper they are simply symbols; on the skin they become lasting marks, worn with pride.
Not long ago, a mother and daughter came to my studio to have the traditional tattoos of their grandmother and great-grandmother recreated. The mother chose her grandmother’s motifs, while the daughter chose those of her great-grandmother. To me, it was a beautiful act of honouring the women in their family while also expressing a sense of belonging. I don’t mean belonging in a restrictive sense, but quite the opposite—as something that connects us.
Recently I also tattooed Danica, a Croatian woman who lives in the Yukon in Canada, almost on the Alaskan border. She wanted to commemorate her Croatian heritage in a permanent way. People come to me from Australia, New Zealand, and from all over the world. In fact, it’s hard to think of a continent from which I haven’t yet welcomed someone seeking a traditional tattoo. And what is especially striking is that this is often the only kind of tattoo they want. There is clearly something deeply powerful about these designs.
I was just reminded of another wonderful example. A brother and sister from the Bjelovar region chose traditional motifs because that area marked the furthest advance of the Ottoman armies during their campaigns, and today a monument commemorates the place where their advance towards the Habsburg lands was finally halted. Stories like theirs remind me that this tradition is deeply rooted in the shared history and cultural memory of this region.
Guardian Neda: This is such a wonderful meeting point between education and artistic practice. Through your work, you pass this tradition on to people who then carry it with them—not only here in Croatia, but across the world. We warmly invite everyone to visit Lidija at Tattooine Studio and discover a motif whose symbolism connects them with their own ancestors, both near and distant—heritage that is sometimes overlooked as our attention turns to other, more fashionable mythologies.
Thank you from the heart, Lidija.
Lidija Petrović: Thank you, Guardian, for your visit, for the genuine interest and respect you’ve shown for traditional tattoos, and for giving me the opportunity to begin a deeper conversation about their history, meaning, and cultural significance. I hope we’ve managed to scratch a little deeper beneath the surface—both of our understanding and of the skin. (laughs)
It has been an absolute pleasure.
Traditional Croatian Tattoos
Sicanje / Bocanje
eVery day i receive messages from people from all over the world asking me about traditional croatian tattoos / sicanje / bocanje.
that is why together with čuvarica vremena we have done an intensive interview on the subject.
after studying the subject for decades, and having tattooed over 300+ traditional croatian tattoos ( sicanje / bocanje ), i can finally share with all of you everything in full details:
if you wish to read the interview in english, you can change the language of the website above!
i hope you enjoy the interview below :)
lidija petrović
Traditional Croatian Tattoos with lidija petrović
Guardian Neda : During a Mimika Orchestra concert, its founder and conductor, Mak Murtić, invited the audience to visit Lidija in her booth, where she was creating traditional Croatian tattoo motifs in henna throughout the performance.
Interest in the concert was matched only by the interest in Lidija, so I sent my sister ahead to investigate. She returned with a “tattoo,” and after exchanging just a few words with Lidija towards the end of the concert, I immediately realised that, for us at Čuvarice vremena (“Guardians of Time”), she was someone whose work deserved closer attention. The subject she explores is both culturally significant and surprisingly under-researched, having received relatively little detailed scholarly attention.
Not long afterwards, we arranged the interview whose introduction you are now reading. Lidija radiates the spirit of both a researcher and an artist—driven by curiosity, passion, creativity, and remarkable precision. The very same qualities are reflected in the place where this conversation took place: her studio tattooine in Zagreb.
Prikaz smjese i produkta iz knjige Vesne Haluge „Znamen na koži“, 2023., str. 26/27.
Tradicijske tetovaže iz Tattooine studija.
Sličnim simbolima tetovirane pripadnice Berberskih naroda Sjeverne Afrike;
Fotografije: Pinterest
Crtež i opis motiva križa izradila je i sastavila Lidija Petrović – Tattooine studio Zagreb
TATTOOINE ZAGREB
Lidija, could you introduce yourself and tell us a little about your background? How are your academic training and your profession connected, and how long have you been working in this field?
Lidija Petrović: I am Lidija Petrović. I began studying Ethnology and Pedagogy—with a particular focus on Human Rights in Education—at the Faculty of Humanities and Social Sciences, University of Zagreb, in 2009. Around that time, while the artist Marina Mesar—OKO—was painting murals near the Student Centre, I had the opportunity to meet her. What immediately caught my attention were the tattoos on her hands. They were striking and highly expressive, depicting symbols I had never encountered in person before. That meeting marked the beginning of what has become a continuous journey of learning and research into this subject.
Folklore has been part of my life for as long as I can remember. It began in Slavonia, where I grew up, and continued after I moved to Zagreb. I danced with the Ivan Goran Kovačić Student Folk Ensemble at an almost semi-professional level. I have always been drawn to the ethnological dimension of culture—to tradition, folklore, history, hidden meanings, and customs that are passed down from generation to generation, preserving their significance despite never becoming part of mainstream culture.
Crtež i opis motiva kola izradila je i sastavila Lidija Petrović – Tattooine studio Zagreb
Crtež i opis motiva jelice izradila je i sastavila Lidija Petrović – Tattooine studio Zagreb
Tetovirane narukvice u kombinaciji s motivima kola, jelica i križa iz Tattooine studija Zagreb.
Crtež i opis motiva ograde izradila je i sastavila Lidija Petrović – Tattooine studio Zagreb
Čuvarica Neda: Tell us a little about where we are. This space almost feels as though we’ve stepped into a museum.
Lidija Petrović: We’re currently in our Tattooine Studio on Ilica Street in Zagreb. It’s a spacious studio, and we wanted to keep the design minimalist while filling it with carefully chosen details. One of our main aims was to weave our passion for traditional tattooing and bocanje into the space itself. The studio has been at this location since 2021 and is run by my partner, André, who is from Brazil, and me. From the outset, we wanted it to feel more like an art gallery than a conventional tattoo studio, with artefacts displayed under spotlights—both literally and metaphorically
Čuvarica Neda: Earlier, you mentioned one of the earliest words associated with tattooing. What is that word, and does it have any connection to the name of your studio?
Lidija Petrović: Tatauiranje derives from the Tahitian word tatau, meaning “tattoo.” The word itself is often understood as an onomatopoeic imitation of the sound produced by the original tattooing technique, in which a stick is rhythmically tapped against the skin—ta-ta, ta-ta… It has also been interpreted as echoing the cry of pain—au!—associated with the experience of being tattooed. (laughs). As for the name Tattooine, it’s honestly much more of a reference to the Star Wars films and their fictional planet, Tatooine
Čuvarica Neda: So, after meeting Marina, you began exploring this particular field, as you described it—traditional tattooing. What can you tell us about it
Lidija Petrović: Once I began tattooing, traditional tattoos naturally emerged as the point where my passion for folklore, tradition, and tattooing came together.
When I first started researching traditional tattooing, I found an overwhelming amount of superficial information. Even fifteen years later, that has not changed very much. The same facts continue to be repeated and recycled in different forms, while very few people explore the subject in any real depth or approach it through sustained research. Fortunately, public attitudes towards traditional tattoos have changed dramatically. Today they have become part of popular culture, whereas fifteen years ago, according to her own account, Marina was criticised simply for wearing them. She was, in many ways, the person who initiated their revival and brought them back into public awareness.
We are currently working towards having the Croatian tradition of sicanje, or bocanje, recognised as an element of UNESCO Intangible Cultural Heritage. It is, however, a highly demanding process because UNESCO requires comprehensive documentation: when the tradition began, how it developed, and evidence for every stage of its history. The difficulty is that the people who practised these customs were largely illiterate. For them, tattooing was an ordinary part of everyday life, not something they thought to record in writing.
I have also been told that a Carmelite convent near Široki Brijeg preserves written records containing much of the information that would be needed. That is what I have heard, at least. However, the nuns there have taken vows of silence and live in enclosure, so they have no contact with the outside world.
Čuvarica Neda: When you say “we’re working towards that,” who exactly do you mean? Is it a particular community or research group?
Čuvarica Neda: From what I have read, sicanje seems to also be closely associated with Bosnia and Herzegovina. Is it really a phenomenon unique to that region, and what does the term actually encompass?
Lidija Petrović: It is a network of former and current students of ethnology, sociology, and related disciplines, mostly from the Faculty of Humanities and Social Sciences in Zagreb, who share an interest in traditional tattooing. Many of them come from Herzegovina or central Bosnia, where they are able to draw on their own family histories—grandmothers, great-grandmothers, and aunts—to gather as much information as possible about the tradition.
I should also point out that, since becoming a tattoo artist, I have gained far better access to documenting and preserving original tattoo motifs than I ever had as a student. Today, people regularly contact me and send photographs of the tattoos worn by their grandmothers and great-grandmothers.
Lidija Petrović: First, I’d like to correct a common misconception. According to Marko Perić’s 1973 doctoral dissertation, Običaj tatauiranja kod balkanskih naroda (The Custom of Tattooing among the Balkan Peoples)—preserved in the restricted collection of the Library of the Faculty of Humanities and Social Sciences in Zagreb and originally typed on a typewriter—the tradition was by no means confined to Bosnia and Herzegovina.
Since we’re talking about terminology, it’s worth explaining that as well. Until relatively recently, the peoples of the Balkans commonly used the term tatauiranje, derived from the Tahitian word tatau, meaning “tattoo.”
The term sicanje was used primarily in Herzegovina, especially around Rama.
Bocanje was the preferred term in Macedonia and central Bosnia.
In Croatia, the practice was more often referred to as križićanje (“cross-marking”), although other regional names—including šecanje, bockanje, and šaranje—were also used. Interestingly, bocanje appears to be the older term, while sicanje came into use later.
Perić’s dissertation proved to be an invaluable source. By 1973, he had documented approximately three hundred different tattoo motifs from across the Balkans. The largest number were recorded among Christian communities in present-day North Macedonia and Albania. There, tattooing was not limited to women; men were tattooed as well, largely because these markings served as a form of protection during the Ottoman period. Crosses tattooed on the forehead, hands, or chest made it immediately apparent that they were Christians, effectively preventing them from being taken into the Janissary corps.
Traditional tattooing was practised among several ethnic communities across the Balkans, predominantly within Catholic populations, even though many of the motifs themselves predate Christianity and originate in Old Slavic symbolism. The practice was therefore never confined to Herzegovina alone, although that is where it survived the longest, which explains why this perception remains widespread today.
The earliest written account of tattooing in the Balkans dates to the seventeenth century and comes from Paulo Ricaut, the English ambassador to Constantinople, writing during the period of Ottoman rule in the region. Even so, there are good reasons to believe that the tradition is considerably older, probably reaching back to the fifteenth century and the beginning of the Ottoman conquests. Documented examples have been recorded across almost the whole of Bosnia and Herzegovina—including as far north as Banja Luka—with particularly strong traditions in central Bosnia, Herzegovina, and Bosanska Posavina. The practice was also documented in Montenegro, especially around Bijelo Polje; among Vlach communities in North Macedonia; among Catholic communities in the Albanian regions of Dukagjin and Pult; among Catholic populations throughout Bulgaria; and in Croatia, particularly around Sinj, Vrlika, Lika, Dalmatia, the Dalmatian Hinterland, the Osijek region, Ston, Metković, and Posavina
So, sicanje is the term most closely associated with Herzegovina, whereas bocanje is more commonly used throughout much of Bosnia, especially central Bosnia. In Slavonia, too, we are more likely to say bocanje, while križićanje is another widely recognised Croatian term. Personally, I feel closest to the word bocanje, simply because it is the term I heard most often during my conversations with women who still bear these traditional tattoos.
Čuvarica Neda: How Were Sicanje/Bocanje, or traditional Croatian tattoos traditionally done?
Lidija Petrović: Most of what we know about the tattooing process itself comes from interviews with elderly women who still bear these traditional tattoos. We are usually introduced to them through someone whose grandmother is tattooed, and only if the woman is in good health and the conversation is unlikely to distress or exhaust her. We are almost always greeted by the same familiar scene: a grandmother standing at the door with a cigarette, a small glass of rakija, a cup of Turkish coffee, and an ashtray overflowing with cigarette ends. Then she smiles and says, “Well, my dear, I was the one who did the bocanje*…
It’s absolutely wonderful.
Traditionally, these tattoos were applied exclusively in the spring, on specific feast days during Lent, before Easter: Saint Joseph’s Day, the Feast of the Annunciation, Maundy Thursday, and Good Friday. Girls and boys were most commonly tattooed between the ages of nine and fifteen, and we have no documented examples of the practice continuing beyond that age. Ordinary sewing needles were used, sometimes two or three tied together into a small bundle.
Our interviews also revealed a great deal about the preparation of the pigment, including the precise type of wood that was used. The women told us they collected young ash shoots because they were the softest and easiest to work with. The shoots were placed in a pan over the fire until the wood carbonised and turned black. It was then crushed into a charcoal-like substance. This ash charcoal was mixed with various liquids and binding agents to produce the tattoo pigment. The process is beautifully illustrated in Vesna Haluga’s book Znamen na koži (A Mark on the Skin).
Wealthier families added honey to the charcoal mixture. Milk was also commonly used, with breast milk regarded as especially pure. Other ingredients included saliva, lard, water, rakija, and even butter. In more recent times, records also mention the use of gunpowder and fountain pen ink as sources of pigment. Artisans sometimes used simple templates cut from the bark of black ash or cornelian cherry, or from fig leaves. Interestingly, the hole in a button served as a guide for creating perfectly even dots. The motifs were most commonly tattooed on the forearms, upper arms, hands, finger joints, wrists, and chest, though they were occasionally applied to the forehead and even the bridge of the nose.
Čuvarica Neda: So your profession keeps you in constant contact with field research. You’ve made wonderful use of that opportunity.
Lidija Petrović: Exactly. My work gives me access not only to field research but also to the people themselves. Since becoming a tattoo artist, far more people have approached me with photographs of their grandmothers’ and great-grandmothers’ tattoos than ever did when I was a student relying primarily on academic research.
These interviews have uncovered several fascinating details that challenged our earlier assumptions. When we picture girls being tattooed at the age of ten or twelve, we often imagine an older, highly experienced woman—perhaps the family matriarch—performing the procedure. Yet almost every interview suggests otherwise: in most cases, the tattooing was carried out by a fourteen-year-old girl, someone only slightly older than the recipient herself.
The women consistently recall being tattooed in the days leading up to Easter, most often on Maundy Thursday or Good Friday. The practice was not carried out on Easter Sunday itself, although it occasionally continued on Holy Saturday.
For anyone interested in seeing how sicanje was traditionally performed, I can recommend several valuable sources from Bosnia and Herzegovina that include documentary footage of bocanje recorded during the 1970s and 1980s:
Čuvarica Neda: So the soot-based mixture was worked into the skin by repeatedly puncturing it. How similar is that process to the way tattoos are done today?
Lidija Petrović: Today we still have what are known as hand-poked tattoos. They are created entirely by hand, without the use of a tattoo machine, with the pigment being inserted beneath the skin in much the same way as traditional tattoos were made. Once the needle is placed in the desired spot, it is not withdrawn completely from the skin, because it would be very difficult to find exactly the same point again. Instead, the needle is lifted only slightly—together with the skin—and then lowered again several times in succession.
What I find truly remarkable is the precision achieved by the young girls who carried out these tattoos. They were able to create remarkably intricate motifs and adapt them perfectly to the natural contours of the arm, all without the modern equipment, stencils, or guides that tattoo artists rely on today.
The greatest difference is in the healing process. Tattoos made by bocanje took far longer to heal than modern tattoos. They were typically applied before Easter, and one of the women we interviewed recalled that she still had to keep her tattoo covered during the harvest months later so that, as she put it, “the sun wouldn’t burn it.” Long sleeves were worn to protect the tattooed skin, and swelling, redness, and even infections were common. That is entirely understandable, given that the pigments were homemade rather than laboratory-produced, the tools were not sterile, and the bocanje technique itself caused considerably more trauma to the skin.As a result, these traditional tattoos often took several months to heal. A tattoo applied before Easter might still need to be covered during the August harvest.
Čuvarica Neda: Given how well these tattoos have survived on the skin to the present day, can we describe the workmanship as exceptionally accomplished?
Lidija Petrović: It is genuinely remarkable how well the tattoos have endured and how precisely the women positioned them on the arms. The skin of the hands and arms rotates and shifts to permit movement, yet the motifs continue to follow the anatomy perfectly and retain an impression of symmetry and geometric precision.
According to the dissertation mentioned earlier, certain moulds or templates did exist. They were generally carved into wood, dipped into the charcoal mixture, and then pressed or traced onto the skin. Nevertheless, as far as we can determine, most motifs were produced without stencils.
Čuvarica Neda: Remarkable! Perhaps they developed such a steady hand because they learned the skill from such a young age. You mentioned the protective and religious function of these tattoos. Was that their only purpose, or is there more behind the tradition of sicanje, or bocanje?
Lidija Petrović: As I mentioned earlier, our interviews show that women were most often tattooed in the days leading up to Easter. That timing was no coincidence. It reflected the celebration of new beginnings, the awakening of nature, and renewal. These ideas are found both in pre-Christian belief systems, where spring marked the beginning of a new year and a new cycle of life, and later in the Christian tradition through the celebration of Christ’s Resurrection.
I deliberately avoid using the term “pagan” because it carries negative connotations, as though all pre-Christian beliefs were somehow opposed to Christianity. In reality, these belief systems formed part of everyday life and reflected the way people understood the natural world and its seasonal cycles.
Although traditional tattoos are most commonly explained as an ingenious form of resistance during the Ottoman conquests—since tattooing was strictly forbidden in Islam and regarded as blasphemous, making tattooed women less desirable as captives, while boys bearing Christian symbols were unlikely to be taken into the Janissary corps through the infamous devşirme, or “blood tax”—a wide range of evidence indicates that the motifs themselves are considerably older. Their origins lie in Old Slavic beliefs, traditions, and folklore
In other words, it seems that during the Ottoman period existing Old Slavic protective symbols were adapted for a new purpose. They became traditional tattoos, and the cross was added to make the wearer’s Christian identity even more explicit in the face of the growing process of Islamisation.
One of the things I found especially fascinating was discovering very similar tattoo motifs among Berber women in North Africa, particularly the jelica motif and bracelet designs, as well as the kolo, which is distinctive to the Balkans. According to some interpretations of biblical sources, Moses’ wife—who is associated with a Berber community—is said to have worn a tattooed jelica on the bridge of her nose. If so, it suggests that some of these motifs may have an extraordinarily long history, extending, at least according to certain traditions and interpretations, as far back as biblical times.
Why, then, is the kolo motif so closely associated with the Balkans? In Slavic tradition, it is linked to Kolovrat, one of the principal deities, regarded as the god of the Sun and of the cycles of nature and human life. He was believed to dwell in trees and within the earthly realm. While Perun ruled the heavens and Veles the underworld, Kolovrat was associated with the human world and the natural cycles of life.
Today, the cross is understood almost exclusively as a Christian symbol—a visible expression of faith and religious identity. In pre-Christian Slavic belief, however, it also represented the four cardinal directions—north, south, east, and west—as well as the four natural elements: earth, air, water, and fire. There are many different forms of the cross and numerous variations of the motif.
Čuvarica Neda: Could you tell us a little more about the motifs that originate in this older, pre-Christian Slavic tradition?
Lidija Petrović: In fact, almost all of the motifs have roots in this older symbolic tradition, but kolo is perhaps the clearest example. As I mentioned, it was associated with the Slavic deity Kolovrat, whose emblem was the circle itself. For that reason, circular motifs were often carved into wood as expressions of reverence for this deity. The kolo also carries many other meanings. It represents community, family, and collective identity. At the same time, it refers to the traditional circle dance found throughout Croatia—from the šokačko kolo of Slavonia to the silent nijemo kolo of Lika and Vrlika, as well as many other regional variations performed in a circular formation. It can also be understood through the idea of the “Wheel of the Year”: the recurring cycle of sowing, growth, flowering, fruiting, harvest, the gradual decline of nature during winter, and its renewal in spring. In this sense, the kolo symbolises not only the annual cycle of nature but also the cycle of human life.
We’ve already spoken about the cross and the kolo. The next most common motif is the jelica. These designs depict evergreen branches—most often pine or fir—and therefore symbolise longevity and, in a sense, immortality, since evergreen trees remain alive even when other plants lie dormant through the winter. The jelica also represents growth, development, fertility, and the celebration of nature and its cycles. Whether rendered as a simple linear branch or as a more elaborate evergreen sprig with detailed needles, it conveys the same underlying idea: something deeply rooted in the earth yet reaching upward towards the heavens. It becomes a symbolic link between the earthly and the celestial. For me personally, the jelica also speaks of continuity between generations. I once tattooed three jelica motifs rising from a friend’s wrist towards her forearm. One represented her grandmother, the second her mother, and the third herself. The final branch included a small rosebud, echoing her grandmother’s original tattoo while adding its own distinctive element—a symbol of the enduring bond between grandmother, mother, and daughter.
Another common motif is the bracelet. It symbolises the duality of human experience: the inward world of our deepest emotions and the outward dimension of our relationship with the wider community. These two aspects of life are inseparable, forming an unbroken circle that shapes who we are. Bracelet motifs were typically tattooed around the wrist and sometimes extended as far as the elbow. They also served as protective symbols, intended to ward off evil and harmful influences. In some villages in Slavonia—notably Koška and Markovac Našički—grandmothers still place bracelets on young children as signs of protection and belonging within the community. Our interviews also revealed that, unlike many of the more universal tattoo motifs, bracelet designs were often highly distinctive. Girls from the same family or village frequently wore closely related patterns so that their place of origin would be recognisable. According to oral tradition, if they were taken away during the Ottoman period, these motifs could help identify the family or village from which they came.
The wheat motif symbolises fertility, abundance, a successful harvest, and good fortune. Its meaning extends beyond female fertility or material prosperity to encompass the fertility of the land, plentiful crops, and the wellbeing of the family and the wider community. Another recurring motif is the fence, which most often appears in combination with the kolo and the cross. Like the bracelet, it carries protective symbolism, representing defence against evil and safeguarding the wearer. It was most commonly tattooed on the hands, creating both a literal and symbolic first line of defence.
Stars also appear frequently, reflecting an awareness of the heavens and their cycles. The same symbolism is associated with the Sun and the Moon, whose movements were understood to influence the natural world, the changing seasons, and human life.
Čuvarica Neda: Thank you for those wonderfully detailed explanations. If we can go back even further, how far does the history of tattooing itself extend? I’ve read that the earliest tattoos consisted of little more than dots and crosses.
Lidija Petrović: When we look at the earliest history of tattooing, we have remarkably tangible archaeological evidence. The oldest known example is Ötzi, the so-called Iceman—the world’s oldest naturally preserved mummy, discovered in the Italian Alps. His body bears a series of tattooed dots around the joints, and later research showed that these correspond closely to recognised acupuncture points. This is particularly fascinating because acupuncture was once thought to have originated around the fifth century CE, whereas Ötzi demonstrates that a comparable practice existed more than 5,000 years ago.
The earliest known tattoos whose purpose appears to have been decorative or symbolic, rather than primarily therapeutic, were found on two female mummies from ancient Egypt. Among their motifs were representations of the sacred Apis bull tattooed beneath the shoulders.
It is also interesting that, when people think of tattooing, they often picture Vikings and runic designs, largely because these motifs are so popular today. Yet, unlike many other cultures, we have no physical evidence that Vikings themselves were tattooed. That does not necessarily mean they were not, only that no such evidence has survived. One possible explanation is that many Viking dead were cremated, leaving no preserved skin on which tattoos could be identified.
Traditional tattooing is, of course, also well known in Polynesia, New Zealand, and among the Māori, while Mongolia has its own remarkable tattooing tradition, including beautifully simple motifs depicting horses.
Čuvarica Neda: To conclude, why do people choose traditional tattoos today? What draws them to this practice, and what kinds of stories do they bring with them?
Lidija Petrović: Every time I work with these motifs, I’m struck by their simplicity. At first glance they seem almost minimalistic —composed only of lines and geometric forms, without shading or filled areas—yet they are extraordinarily intricate. They are deceptively difficult to tattoo because every line has to be perfectly balanced for the design as a whole to work.
What fascinates me most is that they continue to resonate so deeply with people today. They still speak to something emotional—almost transcendent. What exactly draws people to traditional tattoos remains something of a mystery, even to me. I think it is their beauty, their symbolism, the stories they carry, and the sense of belonging they express. Once they are tattooed onto the body, they acquire a completely different kind of power. On paper they are simply symbols; on the skin they become lasting marks, worn with pride.
Not long ago, a mother and daughter came to my studio to have the traditional tattoos of their grandmother and great-grandmother recreated. The mother chose her grandmother’s motifs, while the daughter chose those of her great-grandmother. To me, it was a beautiful act of honouring the women in their family while also expressing a sense of belonging. I don’t mean belonging in a restrictive sense, but quite the opposite—as something that connects us.
Recently I also tattooed Danica, a Croatian woman who lives in the Yukon in Canada, almost on the Alaskan border. She wanted to commemorate her Croatian heritage in a permanent way. People come to me from Australia, New Zealand, and from all over the world. In fact, it’s hard to think of a continent from which I haven’t yet welcomed someone seeking a traditional tattoo. And what is especially striking is that this is often the only kind of tattoo they want. There is clearly something deeply powerful about these designs.
I was just reminded of another wonderful example. A brother and sister from the Bjelovar region chose traditional motifs because that area marked the furthest advance of the Ottoman armies during their campaigns, and today a monument commemorates the place where their advance towards the Habsburg lands was finally halted. Stories like theirs remind me that this tradition is deeply rooted in the shared history and cultural memory of this region.
Čuvarica Neda: This is such a wonderful meeting point between education and artistic practice. Through your work, you pass this tradition on to people who then carry it with them—not only here in Croatia, but across the world. We warmly invite everyone to visit Lidija at Tattooine Studio and discover a motif whose symbolism connects them with their own ancestors, both near and distant—heritage that is sometimes overlooked as our attention turns to other, more fashionable mythologies.
Thank you from the heart, Lidija.
Lidija Petrović: Thank you, Guardian, for your visit, for the genuine interest and respect you’ve shown for traditional tattoos, and for giving me the opportunity to begin a deeper conversation about their history, meaning, and cultural significance. I hope we’ve managed to scratch a little deeper beneath the surface—both of our understanding and of the skin. (laughs)
It has been an absolute pleasure.