Stari Most, Bridge of Peace

If I am to make sense of today then I need to learn more about the history of the Balkan countries and gain some understanding of the factions and tensions that drove this area out of WW11 and on into civil war in the 1990’s. Our guide Suad tried to tell us a little about ethnicity and religion and borders. He, like many, have lived through the conflicts and the pain is still raw. He has taken great pains to make us understand the deep significance of Mostar in the hearts of people here and the hope it carries for peace. This at least I can empathise with.
The heavens opened today unremittingly on Serbs, Bosnians, Croats, Muslims, Catholics, Orthodox and tourist buses alike. We travelled into Bosnia over the mountains which even in the rain glowed with autumn colour from the little trees growing between limestone grikes.
 Bosnia is the poorest of the three countries we are visiting and still shows the scars and holes of shells and bullets from the 1990’s war on numerous buildings and ruins. One chilling story, when we were traveling down a flat-bottomed fertile valley, was of snipers with telescopic sights perched on the mountain sides and shooting at anyone who left their house. 25% of the population died there.


The town of Mostar though is proof of a time and place where there was tolerance between religious and ethnic groups for hundreds of years. A settlement on both sides of the River Neretva existed from pre-history times. It became part of the Ottoman Empire in 1468 and The Old Bridge was built in 1556 to replace inadequate wooden construction. It was a masterpiece of engineering commanded by the Emperor, Sulieman the Magnificent, himself. The architect designed a high single arch over the gorge with no supporting pillars, only the ends abutting into the limestone cliffs. The mortar (reputedly) was mixed with egg white to give strength; which digresses as to where these numbers of eggs procured from and what happened to the yolks? The architect had to deliver on pain of death and had a nightmarish few years where nothing went right and he made plans for his own funeral. But after the scaffolding came down the bridge stood firm, a wonder in its own right and joining the diverse townspeople and their religions in harmony. 
Then, over 400 years later, in 1993, a commander of the Croatian army ordered its destruction, not as a strategic target but simply to demoralise the Bosnians.
 Its reconstruction, a faithful copy finished in 2004, tells the story that peace can be re-built again.


We left the bus to paddle through the streets of the old Ottoman town to view it. The cobbles under our feet streamed with rivulets of water, rain gushed off the canopies of the garish shops selling oriental lamps, embossed leather work and Turkish delight. It poured from the roofs of synagogue, mosques, orthodox and catholic churches. It bounced off umbrellas and soaked through coats and gave a turgid look to the river eddies, but I thought the bridge in its perfect arc, its load of wet people crossing over and its hope for the future indescribably beautiful.