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It has been a few years since I was in Višegrad, sitting in a café on the banks of the Drina, sipping coffee while looking out upon the unbelievably grand, arched bridge that traversed the width of the river.
I had come to Višegrad for the same reason I had been to many villages in Bosnia; to discuss war crimes and atrocities that took place more than two decades prior to my even stepping foot in the country. Višegrad – like Srebrenica, Prijedor, or Foča – evokes a certain consciousness of the worst ways that war disassembles and destroys lives, boundaries, histories, humanity, etc.
In 1975, the year that Ivo Andrić died, the municipality of Višegrad was inhabited by about 25,000 people, with over 35% of the population identifying as Serbian Orthodox and slightly over 60% identifying as Bosnian Muslim. By 2015, over 20 years after the area was the situs of one of the war’s worst campaigns of ethnic cleansing, the population in the municipality of Višegrad had shrunk to less than half of what it was 40 years prior, with over 85% of the inhabitants identifying as Serbian Orthodox and almost 10% identifying as Bosnian Muslim.
Reading Ivo Andrić’s masterpiece in this long aftermath of a war that he never knew, was so astonishingly emotional that I am not sure I can encompass the feeling in one little review. The book is a revelation of everything that makes up life and country and identity – so prescient and so acutely beautiful in it’s telling.
The bridge over the Drina was built in the latter half of the 16th century under the dream of the grand vezir Mehmed-paša Sokolović. – a tribute to the Ottoman empire in an otherwise sleepy village where persons of various nationalities lived in an understanding that existed somewhere in that space between magnanimous acceptance and suspicious dissension.
Andrić’s novel begins with the building of the bridge, carrying on through the life of Višegrad for the next four centuries. The beauty of the book lies in the way Andrić weave the larger historical narratives – eg. the encroachment of the Austro-Hungarian empire - with the stories of the ordinary lives that are lived along the banks of the Drina: the alihodja; Milan, the gambler; Lotte, the hotel owner; the various doomed and blessed young lovers. Each tale is told with unique richness by Andrić, and he uses the bridge so eloquently as the spoke from which the wheel of life keeps turning.
In the end, it feels like history wrote the missing later chapters to the book, with the war that broke Yugoslavia in pieces finally breaking the tender balance of nationalities that lived around the bridge.
But the bridge still stood, the same as it had always been, with the eternal youth of a perfect conception, one of the great and good works of man, which do not know what it means to change and grow old and which, or so it seemed, do not share the fate of the transient things in the world.
I had come to Višegrad for the same reason I had been to many villages in Bosnia; to discuss war crimes and atrocities that took place more than two decades prior to my even stepping foot in the country. Višegrad – like Srebrenica, Prijedor, or Foča – evokes a certain consciousness of the worst ways that war disassembles and destroys lives, boundaries, histories, humanity, etc.
In 1975, the year that Ivo Andrić died, the municipality of Višegrad was inhabited by about 25,000 people, with over 35% of the population identifying as Serbian Orthodox and slightly over 60% identifying as Bosnian Muslim. By 2015, over 20 years after the area was the situs of one of the war’s worst campaigns of ethnic cleansing, the population in the municipality of Višegrad had shrunk to less than half of what it was 40 years prior, with over 85% of the inhabitants identifying as Serbian Orthodox and almost 10% identifying as Bosnian Muslim.
Reading Ivo Andrić’s masterpiece in this long aftermath of a war that he never knew, was so astonishingly emotional that I am not sure I can encompass the feeling in one little review. The book is a revelation of everything that makes up life and country and identity – so prescient and so acutely beautiful in it’s telling.
The bridge over the Drina was built in the latter half of the 16th century under the dream of the grand vezir Mehmed-paša Sokolović. – a tribute to the Ottoman empire in an otherwise sleepy village where persons of various nationalities lived in an understanding that existed somewhere in that space between magnanimous acceptance and suspicious dissension.
Andrić’s novel begins with the building of the bridge, carrying on through the life of Višegrad for the next four centuries. The beauty of the book lies in the way Andrić weave the larger historical narratives – eg. the encroachment of the Austro-Hungarian empire - with the stories of the ordinary lives that are lived along the banks of the Drina: the alihodja; Milan, the gambler; Lotte, the hotel owner; the various doomed and blessed young lovers. Each tale is told with unique richness by Andrić, and he uses the bridge so eloquently as the spoke from which the wheel of life keeps turning.
In the end, it feels like history wrote the missing later chapters to the book, with the war that broke Yugoslavia in pieces finally breaking the tender balance of nationalities that lived around the bridge.
But the bridge still stood, the same as it had always been, with the eternal youth of a perfect conception, one of the great and good works of man, which do not know what it means to change and grow old and which, or so it seemed, do not share the fate of the transient things in the world.