The oppressor died, but his legacy remains

The walk with Nurudin, despite us being tired, was definitely a fulfilling one. We passed no building or monuments without its history unearthed. The running commentary our new friend was giving us didn't seem at any point to want to expire. On foot we walked and hiked from one place to another, in the challenging hilly terrain of sunny Mostar.

Mostar is definitely a city of memories, be it pleasurable or painful. It could be, to the many tourists, a memory of the former nature, but it is less so for me. Much of the memories that remain are the painful ones. There was a point where we stopped at and saw a flat ground with only some geometrical markings if anything- and guess what; it used to bear the weight of a triumphant mosque. This was an immediate doing of Tito, right before my eyes; a mosque, demolished and unheard of. Nevertheless his name and recognisable face (criminal-like to me) could be seen almost everywhere today- on posters, t-shirts, hats, army knives- you name it. His lavish residence by the river is now a symbol of pride to some, ignorant of the hidden, perpetual damage he has done to Mostar. Too much love is given to this undeserving villain, that at some point I must have heard some people chanting, "Live Tito, live!"

Perhaps this ancient city, in the face of modernism, is divided. It simply does not know how to react, and hence everything is still experimental. On one hand we have a group of people working their nerves to ensure the elimination of God and religion. They claim that religion is a form of opiate and addiction, but in replacement of it they feed the masses with alcohol, sex, and destructive, unrestrained entertainment. On the other, another group burn the candle at both ends to maintain God's sovereignty in their land. They revive the mosques, spread good words, exchange advices, mark the boulders, and erect memorials of the martyrs- this, we came across at the very end of one of the bridges; there was a display of its architect-turn-martyr's name, with a brief explanation on how he was killed in his 20's. The fact that it was all in Bosnian convinced me that it was for them indeed (not us tourists). It is their memory, it is for their revival, and God willing it will one day become their reality.

By now I noticed the signs of terminal exhaustion in Nubli's face. His expressions turned solemn, his participation minimal, his words- if any- could be well mistaken as whispers. Often he lagged behind when his two unrelenting friends were still so deep in their boring discussions. Without waiting for anything serious to happen, we stopped at the nearest cafe for refreshments.