Bosnia: The Bridge of Meanings – Mostar celebrates 20 years since the reopening of its beloved icon

Throughout Bosnia-Herzegovina, various interpretations of Mostar’s Old Bridge (or “Stari Most”) grace the walls of cafes, restaurants, museums and galleries. Few capture its unique and irregular curvature, a free hand trying too hard, seemingly incapable of mimicking the architect’s vision and execution, its aura and significance.

Mostar is synonymous with the Old Bridge. The city’s fabric is woven into every piece, its culture and heritage inseparable from the towering arch that transcends the river Neretva. No matter one’s connection to the bridge, it imprints itself upon the mind’s eye. Its image is arguably the nation of Bosnia-Herzegovina’s most famous and iconic.

Craning his neck up at the keystone, Edin “Dino” Šipković, a painter, could almost paint it from memory, were it not for new details that reveal themselves with each glance. “The beauty of the bridge is that it is connected to nature,” Šipković tells me. “The stones and the trees—they become one piece.” It is this harmony that bestows tranquility upon its surroundings and inspires artists here and beyond.

That sense of peace was shattered during the 1992–1995 war in Bosnia, following the breakup of Yugoslavia.

The moment of its destruction, by some members of the Croatian military in 1993, is engraved upon the memories of those for whom the bridge was so precious. “I couldn’t reach anyone—the phone lines were down,” says Senada Demirović, expelled from Mostar, ultimately to return to pursue its reconstruction.

There were no real-time technologies through which news could be conveyed. This distance nourished an “augmented emotion of loss,” she says of trying to envisage Mostar absent its defining feature.

What many recalled as “drops of blood” during the bridge’s destruction was merely the seeping of red mortar used for waterproofing. Yet such interpretations capture the magnitude of the moment. “We all spoke about how ‘Starac’ [which locally translates as ‘Old Man’] had fallen,” recalls Slađan Jakirović, one of the key members of the team tasked with rebuilding this source of Mostar’s pride. “It was like losing a family member.”

The loss extinguished any semblance of hope within a population that had endured months of shelling—killing what gave Mostar its spirit and sense of self. “We were crying for the bridge in the middle of all that chaos,” Demirović reflects. Yet it also inspired citizens’ defiance and a push to rebuild their cultural heritage.

This year the Old Bridge is celebrating the 20th anniversary of its reopening on July 23, 2004. Only a year later, the achievements of those who were committed to seeing it rise again from the waters beneath were recognized with the inscription of the bridge and the surrounding old town as a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Commissioned by Ottoman Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent, the Old Bridge was built in 1566 by a protégé of Mimar Sinan, the renowned architect of the empire, according to UNESCO. Zlatko Serdarević, a local journalist, says that for 427 years it not only spanned the banks of the river but provided a meeting place for promenading couples and prospective friendships.

At the crossroads of Western and Eastern rule, the Old Bridge has represented the enduring multicultural and multireligious aspects of Mostar that have long defined the city’s identity. It survived two world wars, though it was mined with explosives during the latter, Serdarević describes through elaborate diagrams on the back of a napkin.

Something else about the bridge has united Mostar’s disparate communities for centuries: diving. Against this breathtaking backdrop flows the adrenaline and glamour of a shared pursuit of excellence and exhilaration. For almost as long as the bridge has existed, every summer there has been a competition to find the most elegant jumper.

“Mostarians live for that,” Amir Hanić, manager of the Mostar Diving Club, tanned almost from head to toe, declares. “It is a symbol of love.” Schooled in diving from a young age, those like Hanić inherited the pastime from their fathers and grandfathers. They are fearless in their pursuit of beauty as they uphold tradition.

Balancing on the parapets, they woo tourists, whose numbers have grown exponentially, into sponsoring their 24-meter (79-foot) jump into the turquoise waters. Even in the depths of winter, they delight the assembled crowds, no matter how small. As the anticipation of a jump builds, so too does impatience. With mobile phones poised, most dives are rarely viewed with the naked eye. Within seconds they are tagged and uploaded, cementing Mostar’s place on the virtual map of the world.

An ‘architectural wonder’
“It was a unique technological and architectural wonder,” proclaims Aida Idrizbegović-Zgonić, a professor of architecture at the University of Sarajevo, “a single span of 21 meters [nearly 69 feet]—grounded on two rocks—with an 83-centimeter [2-foot-8.7-inch] load-bearing arch that is inconsistent in places.” Contrary to appearances, it is hollow. “It is constructed from a specific stone, a white limestone, used for most minarets, which is light for its strength,” Idrizbegović-Zgonić adds. “It feels chalky to [the] touch but doesn’t degrade.”

That its reconstruction is today largely taken for granted owes much to the indomitable efforts of the late architect and professor Amir Pašić, recipient of the prestigious Aga Khan Award in 1986 for his pre-war dedication to reconstructing Mostar’s cultural heritage. “People couldn’t understand why he came back,” reflects Tihomir Rozić, one of Pašić’s many protégés. “He could have worked anywhere given the accolades he had received.” (Pašić’s daughter Amra Pašić is the managing editor of AramcoWorld.)

From abroad Pašić enacted his dedication to the cause. He traveled across the globe, organizing lectures at prestigious universities and gathering architects for annual workshops to plan the reconstruction. Entitled Mostar 2004, the project started abroad at the time the old city was under daily bombardment in the early 1990s and continued in post-war Mostar.

Pašić’s standing brought together a disparate group of donors and partners. “The objective was to have a common project that didn’t represent one particular country or interest,” Rozić explains—an international project, not simply one for Mostar.

Tradition meets modern engineering
The destruction of the bridge allowed for what Idrizbegović-Zgonić describes as an “autopsy of a bridge,” with archeological surveys revealing key clues about ancient construction methods. Urban legends that the original had been built with egg whites and horses’ hair couldn’t be confirmed. There were methodological disagreements and logistical challenges. Meetings with UNESCO experts, whose approval was required for each decision about the type of mortar to be used, would continue until the early hours.

In the post-war context, this mixed team of architects, engineers and others overcame the perceptions that prevented others from working together elsewhere in Bosnia and Herzegovina. They became a symbol of reconciliation and, as Serdarević reminds me, a replica of the multicultural workforce that had constructed the original bridge.

Most of the remains of the bridge were too damaged to be reused, despite being heroically recovered by Hungarian army divers. New stone had to be mined locally. The stonemasons were predominantly from Turkey, Rozić recalls, where such skills are still nurtured. Modern machinery would cut to within 5 centimeters (about 2 inches) of the required size before the human hand took over. The individual pieces were numbered and arranged. Metal clamps were prepared.

Documentary footage of each jigsaw piece being placed and joined, viewable in a nearby museum dedicated to the bridge’s reconstruction, is immensely calming and gratifying. The perfection of measurement, the steadiness of the crane and the concentration of the workers combine to set the stones—1,088 in total. “People don’t believe there is no concrete inside,” says Rozić. Such was their commitment to re-creating the bridge as it had been.

The masterpiece of the original is further admired by those engaged in its reconstruction. With the stones requiring soaking for softness, the liquid lead that would bind them threatened a volcano of steam unless the individual apertures were sufficiently warmed with a device resembling a hair dryer. Centuries back, Idrizbegović-Zgonić explains, there were no hydroelectric dams to tame the Neretva waters and prevent the rickety scaffolding from being washed away, nor sensors to monitor the movements of individual stones as temperatures fluctuated.

As the final pieces were laid, interest in their endeavor mounted. Keen onlookers found different and novel vantage points, Rozić recalls, eager to catch a glimpse through gaps in the scaffolding. Previously disinterested local politicians descended upon the bridge, joined by diplomats and foreign ministers seeking a powerful metaphor for reunification. It was a moment with which many, from Mostar and beyond, wanted to be associated.

And Pašić, whose students included Idrizbegović-Zgonić and Demirović, invited his colleagues worldwide to the bridge’s reopening.

“People who have passed even just once over the bridge never forget it,” Rozić maintains. “It never leaves you.”

Triumphant return
Many of Mostar’s residents returned to a site they thought they had been deprived of forever. The plethora of relationships with the bridge, whether nostalgic or contemporary, is infused with individual meaning, subject as always to shifting frames of interpretation that change over time, especially in Mostar, where the social fabric has been devastated by war.

For those who spearheaded the reconstruction, their expertise remains a profound resource for the world, especially given the destruction of cultural and religious heritage in the interceding years. Their faithfulness to the ways and means of the initial construction is a powerful commitment to authenticity in an age compromised by quick and often short-lived fixes.

Twenty years ago, Mostar’s residents huddled on the riverbanks as fireworks created a blanket of mist over the majestic bridge. Joy and exuberance mixed with relief. Guided by only a single spotlight, divers dazzled the assembled crowd by plunging like sparrows headfirst into the water’s embrace. This year, dignitaries and some of those involved in the reconstruction gathered to reflect upon what Demirović describes nostalgically as a chance to be part of history.

“We can be dead, but the bridge can’t be destroyed,” Jakirović sighs. “We can’t get time back, but we can get back on our feet.” By reconstructing the bridge, they returned hope to Mostar and its future generations. After all, the Old Bridge is not, and never has been, just an ordinary bridge.