Dark Mirrors

Guiltily I approached the young guide as we left another ruined mosque. 'Was it wrong of us to come?'

'Why do you ask, lady?' he replied, his dark eyes deep and unfathomable.
'Do you resent us looking at what has happened here?'
'No.' He shook his head. 'People are glad you are here. We want you to see what can happen, what hate can do to peaceful lives. We must learn to forgive.'

I marvelled at his command of my language and his confidence that he would rebuild his personal and academic life in this shattered city.  

My third visit to former Yugoslavia had offered an opportunity to visit Bosnia.  Thirty of us had taken the optional tour, climbed onto the Autobusni, knowledge of English language our common denominator. The others were mostly Europeans with a sprinkling from other continents and myself from Belfast. Lively music played on the bus radio as it passed through the ancient jewel that is Dubrovnik, collecting passengers at hotels for the excursion on a very different day out.

'Dear Guests' was an amusing phrase that ended each explanation coming through the microphone from the attentive guides as we left Croatia for another country. I was in one of the first tourist buses to visit Mostar in Bosnia in the aftermath of the civil war.
The radio fell silent as we followed the only route into a fertile valley, lush with crops that had fed its inhabitants for millennia. During my first visit in 1967 I had lived with a family in a similar valley and I know that these are not primitive people, but extremely literate and sophisticated.

Now I saw modern bungalows, chalets and farmhouses with satellite dishes, barbeques in swimming-pooled gardens, all destroyed and ravaged, vines and untended garden plots devoid of humans and livestock.  The bus stopped at a viewing point near an empty village and I climbed a hill to see a burnt-out Mosque.  No tractor hum or birdsong broke the silence of the weighty air.  Hushed with expectation and respect we strangers nodded to one another as we climbed aboard again.

That could be my home in the suburbs, I thought.

Like Belfast, Mostar is a university city.  It was a major centre of aircraft manufacture until the war that stopped all normality.  Following the River Neretva I had a sense of mission to the heart of darkness as we drove to the UN base on the outskirts of town to verify authorization.  It was stacked with equipment needed to keep the factions apart. The driver parked and the group walked to the town centre where utter devastation lay all around in the tall, once elegant buildings that had breathed history and culture.
Block after block of five-storey buildings were blown to bits, the remaining walls chipped and dented with shellfire as though a giant termite had been chewing, leaving only a trace of concrete.  In the cemetery, Turkish gravestones, with stone turbans indicating the occupants' positions in society, had been destroyed in blind hatred when nothing else remained on which fury could be vented.

'Like Stalingrad,' whispered someone, but I didn't know enough history and thought about Belfast in the seventies.

Walking in the baking September sun, we visited ancient mosques and churches, saw the ruined library, picked our way over winding cobbled streets and walked the main thoroughfare, pedestrian but for a few bicycles.  A young male amputee sat in a wheelchair, the stumps of his legs pointing towards us as we went past, the sound of our footsteps loud in my ears.  In complete silence the citizens stopped their business on the pavements and watched as we followed our guide through their hometown.  A few makeshift stalls replaced the once-thriving commercial centre.  Some old pots, glass jars and second-hand kitchen utensils were on sale together with some rusting ironmongery and an empty single-use rocket-launcher.

Conscious of the indifference of my friends, who chose to stay in the resort to laugh, sunbathe, swim and drink the inexpensive wine, I now felt the sharp sting of shame and embarrassment.  Mindful of their comments and feeling like a voyeur I wondered how I would deal with questions later when I rejoined them to continue my holiday.
Impartially we were shown both the Christian and Muslim quarters then were taken for lunch that I could hardly swallow, so distracted was I with emotion.  As we left the restaurant the staff lined up, bowing deep while we passed.  I smiled, trying to hold back tears, nodding in mute acknowledgement as the maitre d'hotel thanked me for my visit.

Later, I climbed with the others to a vantage point to see the ancient Ottoman Bridge, internationally symbolic of Muslim culture and designed by Suleiman The Magnificent's
architect, Sinan.  The single-stone arch bridge completed in 1566 was an example of advanced technology in its time.  As I looked at its ruins I heard the melancholic sound of the muezzin's message calling the faithful to prayer.  It echoed around the town that lay far from where I stood, and I remembered the young man's words.

'You wouldn't understand,' he'd said to me.

Taking a last look at the sparkling water in the River Neretva deep below me, as I turned to walk through the rubble to the bus collection point I noticed graffiti on a wall, in English - DON'T FORGET.

Liz Shaw