Amara Stupac, Cernica, Bosnia & Herzegovina
The streets where wedding processions pass
Author: Amara Stupac
Mostar, the jewel of Bosnia and Herzegovina, resides on the emerald-eyed river, grappling with divisions akin to a child caught between divorced parents. It bears the weight of a political battleground, where ruling seats vie for supremacy, and the city yearns for survival amid the aftermath of war displacements, emigrations, and immigrations that have transformed the majority into a sorrowful minority. The soul of Mostar, eloquently sung in countless verses by accomplished poets, exhales its last fleeting moments of visual essence. Much like the poignant melody in the song “Neki novi klinci” (Some New Kids) by the late Yugoslav songwriter Đorđe Balašević, Mostar endures a new era, grappling to navigate through unlawfully imposed symbols that impart lessons of disunity to succeeding generations. The divided state functions under the dual embrace of two flags: the legitimate state of Bosnia and Herzegovina and the legally-illegally formed war entity of Herzeg-Bosnia. This orchestrated duality cleverly conveys a nuanced sense of equality to citizens through the calculated strategies of their suit-clad strategists.
Frequently, foreigners inquire, “Where exactly are we? Where is Mostar? Here or there?” They often gesticulate towards the west, beyond the Boulevard. Initially imperceptible, there exists an invisible line delineating the main streets coursing through the city’s core. Yet, as one progresses westward, the Herzeg-Bosnia flag comes into clear view, while to the east, the emblem of Bosnia and Herzegovina, the state where Mostar holds a crucial role, stands proudly. Political leaders intentionally generate confusion, employing meticulously chosen words to perplex not only tourists but also their own citizens. This intentional vagueness serves to gratify their egos and nurture their complexes.
One flag or the other, depending on the point of view, is etched into the collective memory of the new era. Almost every street in this city proudly displays the flag of its “paintball” team. Only on the Boulevard do the streetlights stand without any flags.
“Just picture the scene if they were also adorned, with the coat of arms of the illicit entity Herzeg-Bosnia, mirroring the flag of Croatia, a country neighboring Bosnia and Herzegovina, on one side of the pole, and the flag of the state of Bosnia and Herzegovina on the other—a cataclysm resembling Monty Python in all its glory, we playfully remark during celebrations or, as some jestingly dub them, “hangings,” alluding to weddings. After all, wherever one goes, whether it’s a celebratory occasion or a wedding procession, the Boulevard is always crossed.
Our traditions closely mirror each other. The groom, accompanied by his entourage, embarks on a journey to meet the bride, whose family supports the festivities with a credit line, ensuring a warm reception complete with delectable food, refreshing drinks, and the lively melodies of an accordion player. The act of handing over the bride is no small affair, especially considering the noticeable rise in divorce rates.
After satiating their appetites and quenching their thirst, amidst the fervor of uniting the two families, the newlyweds, shrouded in a convoy of cars, commence their journey to the ultimate celebration destination—the wedding venue. The car procession, adorned with flags representing their respective affiliations, parades through Mostar, announcing the joyous occasion to all.
Imagine this vibrant spectacle: the majority joyously parading down the Boulevard. The first procession proudly showcases the checkerboard flag, followed by another hour later, adorned with the stars flag.
As I observe them through the window, I reflect on the metamorphosis of my city. What have we evolved into? How are we changed when the act of carrying flags becomes an obligatory part of entering new phases in our lives? What is happening to our youth as they enthusiastically wave flags, disconnected from the memories and understanding of their origins, accepting it as the standard practice? They assert their territory much like dogs, even when done with motorized vehicles.
From the realm of politics to the realm of weddings, flags continue to reflect upon us, even influencing graduating students who celebrate their final days of high school with war-inciting songs, steadfastly sticking to their side of the street. Filling the hungry portals with their fervor, the subculture of the minority among the high school elite becomes the majority representation.
Are these the melodies that celebrate the culmination of high school? Four years of learning, testing, sweating, experiencing both sorrow and joy, and forming first loves—all commemorated with the song, born in the whirlwind of war, “My dear, there are no more bridges”. The lyrics of the song stifle my optimism and swiftly conjure the wartime destruction of bridges portrayed in its verses, and the revelries on the other side of the dividing line. This same song is embraced by the fans of the Zrinjski football club – the “Western Mostar” club – the Ultras, adopting it as one of their anthems. The stark reality of flags hasn’t spared the realm of sports either. In fact, a portion of the cheering has migrated to the Boulevard, where residents of the buildings, peering from balconies and windows onto the bustling scene below, regularly host a nocturnal spectacle of whistles, honking, and, of course, displays of flags.
The audacious display of flags during these events induces a disconcerting feeling, as a mere brush with this emotional storm is sufficient to vividly resurrect the hues of war. In those instances, my mind is solely occupied with thoughts and prayers to God, earnestly hoping that those at home won’t need my assistance anytime soon. Venturing outside the apartment involves mustering the courage to brave the palpably tense atmosphere on the streets.
Even though it functions as a routine duty-free area, the pavement exudes an inherent feeling of separation during personal celebrations, almost as if influenced by the mental exercises of remembering. In these moments, the Boulevard brings back the poignant memory of ’93, a period when, under the protection of these flags, we struggled intensely for survival. Consequently, I’ve become fatigued by war; I hold no wish for conflict during peaceful times.