Arts and crafts

Not long after walking in the direction Izzudin put us, the atmosphere changed. The pavements disappeared, and out came the stones in its place. The streets were not unlike Durham city's at all, but Mostar's old city is further embellished with its distinguished people, weather, and shops. The nostalgic sound of blacksmiths hitting on their copper plates would put one a hundred years back into history. As I walked, I gathered all my senses to elicit this latent, forgotten spirit, so that I can experience an imaginary mid-day walk in a younger Mostar.

We stopped into a shop from where we thought the sound was coming from, and there was a man sitting diligently with his hammer, anvil, and an almost finished copper carving. Dzewad, as we came to know him, paid meticulous concentration on his artwork, to the point that he didn't mind a slight delay in greeting his customers. The shop was full of his and his wife's craft, each piece seemed so delicately done. I glanced through all of them with a sense of satisfaction- to be artistic is indeed a special gift from Allah! I recalled how I despised this subject in school so much that I didn't mind getting embarrassing marks. They say that a man without art is a man without heart- poor me...

This part of Mostar is inundated with souvenir shops, an understandable response to meet the demand (or actually being their source of income) of increasing number of tourists. Nubli stopped once in a while and bought the lucky ones that caught his attention, but I was indifferent; an attitude you should long trash before embarking on a journey. Maybe I didn't think that I would mind if I have or not any tangible memories from Bosna to be proudly displayed to other people. Also I didn't think that my loved ones back home would really mind if I hadn't brought anything in material back for them. What matters is my coming home, and the many things I learn from my travel to share and help build a better me. Luckily, that is not absolutely true though. It is always nice to know that people think about you, and that is what the souvenirs would bring along- beautiful memories.

Suddenly I noticed something sitting boldly but peacefully undisturbed in between two shops- a boulder. It was not just another boulder, I would think, because of its unusual placing and most intruigingly the writing-in paint- it had on its presenting surface. We went closer and read it out loud in our minds: DON'T FORGET '93