The Divided City and the Grassroots

The (Un)making of Ethnic Divisions in Mostar

Giulia Carabelli

• Publisher: Palgrave Macmillan
• Year: 2018
• Print ISBN: 9789811077777
• eBook ISBN: 9789811077784
• Topic: Social Sciences
• Subtopic: Peace & Global Development
• Index: Social Sciences

Focusing on Mostar, a city in Bosnia Herzegovina that became the epitome of ethnic divisions during the Yugoslav wars, this cutting edge book considers processes of violent partitioning in cities. Providing an in-depth understanding of the social, political, and mundane dynamics that keep cities polarized, it examines the potential that moments of inter-ethnic collaboration hold in re-imaging these cities as other than divided. Against the backdrop of normalised practices of ethnic partitioning, the book studies both 'planned' and 'unplanned' moments of disruption; it looks at how networks of solidarity come into existence regardless of identity politics as well as the role of organised grassroots groups that attempt to create more inclusive; and it critically engages with urban spaces of resistance. Challenging the representation of the city as merely a site of ethnic divisions, the author also explores the complexities arising from living in a city that validates its citizens solelythrough ethnicity. Elaborating on the relationships between space, culture and social change, this book is a key read for scholars, students, and urban practitioners studying ethnically divided cities worldwide.

© The Author(s) 2018

Giulia CarabelliThe Divided City and the GrassrootsThe Contemporary Cityhttps://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-10-7778-4_1

Begin Abstract

1. Introduction

Giulia Carabelli¹

(1)

Max Planck Institute for the Study of Ethnic and Religious Diversity, Göttingen, Germany

Giulia Carabelli

Email: [email protected]

End Abstract

Since the end of the wars following the dissolution of the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia (SFRY), Mostar has become known as a divided city . After the wars, the two largest ethno-national communities, the Croat-Catholic and the Bosniak-Muslim, have resettled in two separate parts (the east and west sides) divided by a four-lane street, the Bulevar . Deeply divided societies such as Mostar are described as places where ‘ethnic identity is strongly felt, behaviour based on ethnicity is normatively sanctioned, and ethnicity is often accompanied by hostility toward outgroups’ (Horowitz 1985, 7 quoted in Nagle 2016, 19–20). In such environments, ‘strong ethnic allegiances infiltrate practically all sectors of political and social life, imparting a pervasive quality to conflict between groups’ (Kaufmann 1996, 137). Much has been written about Mostar as a divided city—a place of conflict, segregation, and ethno-nationalisms. This book proposes to re-engage with the analysis of Mostar by considering practices and discourses that challenge these entrenched divisions.

I visited Mostar for the first time in 2005 with the UN Urbanism research project team. ¹ Although the war had officially ended a decade prior to my visit, the conflict was far from settled. I was taken by how the process of urban reconstruction had injected the violence of the conflict into architectural projects, filling the landscape with religious symbols mobilised as signs of irreconcilable difference between the two warring sides. At the same time, illegal constructions mushrooming throughout the city spoke loudly of the absence of coordination and monitoring at a centralised level. If the war had been about destroying the materiality of the city, the post-war scenario was still characterised by a fierce struggle over space. The (largely unregulated) process of rebuilding the city inscribed the new understandings of identity and belonging into the city’s landscape while reappropriating territories with the aim of creating (more) space for one community at the expense of the others. While Mostar was largely in ruin, many international organisations still had offices in the central, ‘neutral’ zone. The multiple fractures characterising the post-war city —the ethno-national divisions, the frustration of/at the international organisations, the corruption, the uncertainty, the war traumas—created a palpable sense of crisis that translated into two opposite attitudes; the international community’s hypermobility and the local community’s immobility. The foreign officials I met at that time were always busy, and all the appointments with them were scheduled for breakfast or lunch time in one of the two hotels close to the central zone, Ero and Bristol. The internationals were constantly moving from one meeting to another with an urgency one might expect in the face of a looming crisis. As Coles writes (2007, 85–115), an important part of their job was also to remain visible, which explains their permanent state of hypermobility. Local politicians blamed the ‘internationals’ for anything that did not work and the international officials blamed the local elites for irresponsibility and procrastination. The persistent crisis created a pervasive sense of political immobility . Interviewing members of civil society, one could feel the tensions produced by the unresolved conflict but also a sense of diffidence, uncertainty, and secrecy that made it difficult to decide, plan, or even try to move from the protection of the not-saying, not-doing, and not-sharing. Not only was the process of making decisions concerning the collective good rendered impossible; to simply have an opinion, in Mostar, became almost equally problematic. Attempting to access information from the Catholic and Muslim communities, I faced the stark reality of a conflict that was far from settled. There was reticence in commenting on how the city was being rebuilt because this could have been manipulated. Or, as I was often reminded, the information disclosed to me must have been kept confidential and never reproduced. Aleksander Stuler, an urban planner who worked for UN Habitat until 2007, reflecting on his experience poignantly summarised, ‘Mostar was a very specific case that required attention at many different levels; a delicate status quo characterised by inertia, where a mixed reaction to any move could be expected’ (Bittner et al. 2010, 162). Inertia explains well the atmosphere I felt then in Mostar, the sense that doing nothing was safer because it ensured that nothing could get worse. And yet, this inertia translated into the understanding that change could still happen, if only by an external force. In fact, the international organisations that intervened to monitor the process of reconciliation and post-war reconstruction had been busy drafting protocols and guidelines suggesting the possibility for the two major communities at war to reconcile. But these were often rejected by local leaders, articulating lingering animosities. That is how, in 2004, the city had been reunified; after long unproductive talks and negotiations, an international imposition determined that it was time to move on and to reinstitute a unified city council even though there was little agreement on how the city would be managed.

When I returned to Mostar in December 2009, to conduct research for my doctoral project, ² the city was dealing with the legacy of that imposition. The sense of crisis was persistent. There were far fewer international officials and organisations because the majority had left to attend to other conflicts and wars. Those who remained had become even more uncertain about the possibility for a different future. It was cold, grey, and rainy; walking around the empty streets of Mostar I had the clear impression of being in a ghost town. At the time of my arrival, the city had been without an administration for over a year, with all reconstruction projects halted in the absence of an approved budget. Internationally authored statements, urging the local politicians to find a solution to the persistent crisis, testified to the growing global frustration and anger at the lack of progress in Mostar. If, with the ceasefire, Mostar became the laboratory for peace-building practices, after more than a decade it provided evidence for their failure. And the sense of living in a failed city had become part and parcel of its everyday life. Many times, confronted with the complicated bureaucratic system or the impossibility of accessing services, I heard people commenting that only here could this happen, the frustrated reminder of the impossibility of shaking away the permanent crisis. Yet, living in Mostar for one year—until November 2010—gave me the opportunity to explore the city differently. I discovered the existence of grassroots organisations resisting ethno-national divisions that created pockets of unity in the divided city. By participating in the rhythms of everyday life, I became more and more aware of the difficulties involved in unravelling and making sense of ethno-national memberships, loyalties, and belongings, and the complex way such categories fused with spatial claims to power, sovereignty, and justice. In other words, living in Mostar made me realise that the representation of the city as the contested territory among two groups that live separately without engaging with each other is only one aspect of a much more complex story, which also needs to be told.

In 1983, Manuel Castells published The City and the Grassroots where he writes,

Urban history is a well-established discipline. … Yet there is a great unknown in the historical record: citizens. We have, of course, descriptions of people’s lives, analysis of their culture, studies of their participation in the political conflicts that have characterized a particular city. But we know very little about people’s efforts to alter the course of urban evolution. There is some implicit assumption that technology, nature, economy, culture and power come together to form the city which is then imposed to its dwellers as given. To be sure, this had been the general case. … [But] it is in our view that … citizens have created cities. (Castells 1983, 3)

This statement conveys the motives that pushed me to write this book, and whose title pays homage to Castell’s inspirational work. Whereas many accounts of Mostar have been written to assess the progress made in bringing peace, reconciliation, and democracy to the war-torn city, this book enquires into the everyday of the city, to understand how the urban space becomes divided and what it means for Mostar to be a divided city. In other words, this book considers how the citizens of Mostar navigate the city, make sense of it, and envision its future. In doing so, this book aims to shed light on the existence of small yet radical pockets of inclusion where people mix, cooperate, and socialise across ethno-national boundaries.

This book explores the formation of ethno-national identities spatially; it will account for how people move within the city, how they socialise, and how they use public space. As other scholars working in Mostar and, more generally, BiH, I too share ‘the discomfort’ (Hromadžić 2015) in categorising people in Mostar as ‘Muslim’, ‘Croat’, ‘Serb’ (or ‘mixed’) because of the limits of these ethno-national categories and their power to flatten complex dynamics into stereotypical representations of which group lives where, or wants what. These ethnic categories are both important and misleading. In Mostar, I have spoken to young, cosmopolitan, well-travelled individuals concerned with racism globally but adamant in refusing to befriend those not belonging to their own ethnic group—proving the extent to which shifting contexts and coordinates could change their perception of social justice and inclusion. I have met older citizens who remember how, during the era of Yugoslav federalism, their friends were from all ethnic backgrounds, suggesting that ethnic differences were known, but they were not, alone, a reason not to be friends with someone. I sat silent, listening to one of the few remaining partisans venting his frustration at the demise of the secular Yugoslav dream where everybody was just a socialist and everything worked fine. I mingled with many who were born right before or after the war; they preserve childhood memories of ethnic-related abuse, refugee camps, and foreign languages they acquired to attend new schools, but some decided to believe that people are to be judged according to their actions instead of their ethnicity and mobilise to create a more inclusive society. I have girlfriends who have partners from ‘the other side’ and met women who would never dare such a thing. I met parents of young children who are vocally pro-ethnic division and segregation (especially in schools) and others who teach their kids that ethno-national differences are not a reason for conflict, embracing what they describe as the ‘spirit of pre-war Mostar’ (see also Summa 2016 , 196). More importantly, all these narratives and stories of ethnic exclusion or inclusion are not consistent. Rather, the like or dislike of the ‘ethnic other’, projects of inclusivity and exclusivity, and internal mobility in the city often depend on the context and the audience of the conversation. Stereotypes of the ‘ethnic other’ as the culprit of all evils are thus still present in daily conversations, especially when the need to place culpability for the many dysfunctionalities of the city must be satisfied. But then someone will most likely conclude that, all in all, we are all just people.

It is important to remember that ethnic groups have always existed and they were not created by the secession wars. Accordingly, one should avoid romanticising pre-war Mostar as the city of peace and tolerance in stark contrast to the post-war city of hatred and division. Differences based on ethnicity were always present, but what has changed is the articulation of these differences as motives for outright segregation and intolerance. In one of his latest articles, Stef Jansen (2016), author of some of the most eye-opening portraits of post-war BiH, reflects critically on his scholarship (and legacy), arguing that ethnographers in the region might have downplayed existing nationalist voices, or addressed them as a direct product of brainwashing campaigns initiated during the conflict—arguments that somehow proved that people are not fomented by ancient, unsettled hatred, and thus rejecting essentialist/primordialist approaches. I interpret this as Jansen’s call to account for post-war BiH in all its complexities, by throwing light on both nationalist and antinationalist voices, which often coexist. This book was written with the opposite goal, that of making visible anti-nationalist practices in the city best-known for its nationalist voices. All in all, we both claim the need to challenge existing representations of post-war BiH to find the ways to portray complexities that often challenge entrenched binaries of division/unity, nationalism/anti-nationalism, conflict/solidarity. Of course, the book asks, in a country ruled by ethnic politics, is it possible to escape the logics of ethno-nationalism? And if this is possible, where do we search for resistance to entrenched patterns of division? If the political impasse in Mostar has bec...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Front Matter
• 1. Introduction
• 2. Imagining, Planning, and Building Mostar After the War
• 3. The Everyday Life of Mostar
• 4. Grassroots Movements and the Production of (Other) Space(s)
• 5. Conclusion
• Back Matter