Blood Lines or Border Lines?

After what turned out to be a vacation from vacation in Sarajevo, where I did nothing but people watch and indulge myself in the fantastic Bosnian cuisine, I headed out to Mostar, which is in the territory of Hercegovina (an entity inside the country widely known as Bosnia). While Sarajevo, which is in Bosnia, was a green mountainous region widely known for its cold winters (it hosted the Winter Olympics in 1984) Mostar, and Hercegovina, is a much more arid region, as its mountains slope downwards towards the Adriatic Sea, therefore exposing itself to the Meditterranean climate. Mostar is a small town by our standards, and is split in two by the beautifully green Neretva River. Perched above the Neretva River in a moon-like embrace is perhaps the most famous bridge in Eastern Europe, simply known as Stari Most (Old Bridge). This bridge, which has brought travellers for hundreds of years, was deliberately destroyed in the war in 1993. Sadly, but not surprisingly, it was the destruction of the bridge, and not the loss of thousands of human lives, that stirred the international community into action to halt an already bloody and senseless war. Yet while Sarajevo has been able to patch itself up and rebuild, thanks to generous international aid, Mostar has been somewhat forgotten. While the old town of Mostar has been rebuilt, lending it a somewhat cosmetic, touristy feel, the rest of the town has been left in ruin. Concrete skeletons which were once historic buildings stand feebly and neglected alongside the roads, including the grammar school for Mostars youth. Even the reconstruction that had begun has been left unfinished due to shortage of funds, and is nothing more than long, unkept stalks of naked rebar. Its this hopeless environment that quickly brought me down from my Sarajevan high and, as cliche as it sounds, made me thankful for my comfortable life back home.

After spending several days in Mostar I continued on my path through the former Yugoslavia and found myself on a bus to Croatia and its southern port, Dubrovnik. Dubrovnik, known as Ragusa before the establisment of the Yugoslavian state, is well known for its massive stone walls which surround its Old Town. These walls, which range from 15 meters to 50 meters in height, have repelled countless invaders over the centuries until it fell to Napoleon around 1800. Now the town is purely a tourist hot spot, and because of it I quickly found myself disenchanted abd dissapointed. After all, this is a city that has been highly praised by many an author and artist, but it appears that the city is now nothing more than a target for the large purses of swanky tourists (a category I would not include myself in!). So as quick as I could find a bus ticket to Montenegro I bought one, but am stuck here until Tuesday morning.

I found that this entry into my blog has caused me great difficulty, especially describing Mostar. It is not easy to experience something fully, like a bombed out ruin, when you have never experienced war, but even harder to describe it to those back home who are as naive as I was. While I most certainly feel safe in this region, I have come to understand that this is a backwards place, and, with exception to the geography, quite boring. Cities like Belgrade, Mostar, Dubrovnik, and especially Sarajevo were once cities somewhat like Seattle in the sense that they were a mixture of cultures, a flood of different ideas. Now, because of the rampant nationalism that tore through these parts like wildfire, the communities are no longer multicultural. I witnessed a political discussion about Yugoslavia between two Croats I had met here in Dubrovnik, if you can call it that. But instead of it being a debate, an exchange of differing opinions, it was more like they were propping themselves up into a feverish pitch of nationalist jargon and propoganda. I didnt dare interrupt them, but observed their words snaking between each other like the smoke from their cigarettes. But it all seemed so pointless and counterproductive to me. Simply put, if you always play chess against yourself, you always come out on top, and thats exactly the picture I had while witnessing these words. While this was a laughable situation, it was also frightening, but it also made sense. No wonder the Balkans have only known bloodshed for as long as history can be dated. They save their words for each other, and their fists for their enemy. The history of this region is long and troubled, maybe even moreso than the Middle East, and like the Middle East the fault lines of these wars and feuds lie in something we cannot help; our blood.