Architecture, Urban Space and War: The Destruction and Reconstruction of Sarajevo (Palgrave Studies in Cultural Heritage and Conflict) 3319767704, 9783319767703

Table of contents :
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Contents
List of Figures
Chapter 1: Warscapes: Introduction
The City:War Assemblage
Mapping Warscapes
Sarajevo Warscapes
Outline of the Book
A Book About Conflict Versus Conflict About a Book
References
Chapter 2: Cities, Nationalism and Conflict
Nationalism in Architecture and Urban Space
The ‘-Cides’ of War
Architects as Military
Dealing with Difficult Heritage
Dealing with Painful Memories
Toward a New Approach to the Study of City and War
References
Chapter 3: Topography of Terror: Sniping and Shelling of Urban Space
Landscape of Fear
Sniper Alley
Shelling and Massacres in Public Spaces
Rethinking Urbicide
References
Chapter 4: Landscape of Ruins: Targeting Architecture
Warchitecture
Infrastructural Warfare
Weapons Against the State: Destruction of Political Institutions
Targeting as Forgetting: Destruction of Cultural Heritage
Architecture and Violence
References
Chapter 5: Resistance
Burrowing Underground
Adaptation of Urban Morphology
Patterns of Wartime Urban Life
The Metamorphosis of Sarajevo’s Apartment Buildings
Architects as Rebels: Construction as a Weapon Against Destruction
Insurgent Place-making as a Tool for the City’s Defense
References
Chapter 6: Rebordering Sarajevo
Post-war Sarajevo
Place, Discourse, Territory
Mapping Spatial Division Between Sarajevo and East Sarajevo
Spatial Coding of Urban Territory
Spatial Inscriptions of Identity
Forgetting Shared Spatial Symbols
Border-crossing as a Spatial Practice
Intangible Borders
References
Chapter 7: Specter of War
Covering Wounds: The Parliament and Government Complex
Reconstructing as Forgetting: The Oslobodjenje Newspaper Building
Reconstructing as Replicating: City Hall—National Library
Invention of Tradition: Post-war Religious Architecture
Reconstruction as Conflict by Other Means
References
Chapter 8: Painful Memories and Parallel Histories
Sarajevo Roses
Memorial Plaques
The Monument to the Murdered Children of the Besieged Sarajevo 1992–1995
The Cross on Zlatište Hill
Absences of Memory
Post-war Counter-memorials
Entangled Pasts
References
Chapter 9: Lessons from Sarajevo
Architecture, Urban Space and Political Ideologies
Assembling and Mapping the City and Conflict
Design as a Catalyst for Societal Changes
Welcome Back to the Olympic Sarajevo
References
References
Index

Citation preview

P A L G R AV E S T U D I E S I N C U LT U R A L H E R I TA G E A N D C O N F L I C T

ARCHITECTURE, URBAN SPACE AND WAR THE DESTRUCTION AND RECONSTRUCTION OF SARAJEVO

Mirjana Ristic

Palgrave Studies in Cultural Heritage and Conflict Series Editors Ihab Saloul University of Amsterdam Amsterdam, The Netherlands Rob van der Laarse University of Amsterdam Amsterdam, The Netherlands Britt Baillie Centre for Urban Conflicts Research University of Cambridge Cambridge, UK

This book series explores the relationship between cultural heritage and conflict. The key themes of the series are the heritage and memory of war and conflict, contested heritage, and competing memories. The series editors seek books that analyze the dynamics of the past from the perspective of tangible and intangible remnants, spaces, and traces as well as heritage appropriations and restitutions, significations, musealizations, and mediatizations in the present. Books in the series should address topics such as the politics of heritage and conflict, identity and trauma, mourning and reconciliation, nationalism and ethnicity, diaspora and intergenerational memories, painful heritage and terrorscapes, as well as the mediated reenactments of conflicted pasts. Dr. Ihab Saloul is assistant professor of cultural studies, founding director and academic coordinator of the Amsterdam School for Heritage, Memory and Material Culture (AHM) at University of Amsterdam. Saloul’s interests include heritage and memory of conflict, narrative theory and identity politics, museum studies and cultural analysis, trauma and visual culture as well as diaspora and exile in Europe and the Middle East. Professor Rob van der Laarse is research director of the Amsterdam School for Heritage, Memory and Material Culture (AHM), and Westerbork Professor of Heritage of Conflict and War at VU University Amsterdam. Van der Laarse’s research focuses on (early) modern European elite and intellectual cultures, cultural landscape, heritage and identity politics, and the cultural roots and postwar memory of the Holocaust and other forms of mass violence. Dr. Britt Baillie is a founding member of the Centre for Urban Conflict Studies at the University of Cambridge, and a research fellow at the University of Pretoria. Baillie’s interests include the politicization of cultural heritage, heritage and the city, memory and identity, religion and conflict, theories of destruction, heritage as commons, contested heritage, and urban resistance. More information about this series at http://www.palgrave.com/gp/series/14638

Mirjana Ristic

Architecture, Urban Space and War The Destruction and Reconstruction of Sarajevo

Mirjana Ristic Institute for Sociology Technical University of Darmstadt Darmstadt, Germany

Palgrave Studies in Cultural Heritage and Conflict ISBN 978-3-319-76770-3    ISBN 978-3-319-76771-0 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-76771-0 Library of Congress Control Number: 2018940253 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s) 2018 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, express or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. Cover credit: © Mirjana Ristic Printed on acid-free paper This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

For my parents and brother

Acknowledgments

This book was derived from my PhD research that I conducted at the Faculty of Architecture, Building and Planning, University of Melbourne, from 2007 to 2012. I am thankful to the University of Melbourne for its academic and financial support. I was fortunate to have been guided by a team of exceptional scholars: my PhD supervisor—Kim Dovey, and my PhD Committee Members—Anoma Pieris and Darko Radović. I am grateful for all that I have learned from you. This book was written during my Alexander von Humboldt Postdoctoral Research Fellowship at TU Darmstadt (2016–2018). I am grateful to the Alexander von Humboldt Foundation for the funding that I was provided during this period. This book would not have been possible without help from Sarajevo during my fieldwork trips from 2008 to 2017. I am thankful to the kind staff at a number of public institutions who provided assistance in obtaining research data, including staff at the Archive of the City of Sarajevo, Library of the City of Sarajevo, Bosniak Institute, Library of the Faculty of Architecture in Sarajevo, National and University Library of Bosnia and Herzegovina, Association of Architects of Bosnia and Herzegovina, the archives of Television of Sarajevo and Oslobodjenje newspaper, and the Parliamentary Assembly of Bosnia and Herzegovina. I am also thankful to numerous kind people from Sarajevo who have supported my research in various ways: Ivan Štraus, Tatjana Neidhart, Jelica Kapetanović, Vildana Jakić, Šukrija Gavranović, Zijad Jusufović, Nijaz Pašić, Said Jamaković, Ivan Lovrenović, Goran Trogrančić, Enra Soldin, Zoran Doršner, Milomir Kovačević Strašni, and Selma Kadrić. I would like to extend my gratitude vii

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to my host and friend Besim Džirlo (1955–2016). He was the owner of “Besim’s House”, a guesthouse in Sarajevo where I stayed during my field trips and visits to the city. His hospitality made me feel at home in Sarajevo from the first moment I arrived. I dedicate this book to my family—mum Vera, dad Dragan, and brother Mirko. I am immensely thankful to them for their support and love. Some parts of this book were included in previous publications. A part of chapter 1 is derived from an article published as: Dovey, K. and Ristic, M. (2015) “Mapping Urban Assemblages: The Production of Spatial Knowledge”, Journal of Urbanism, 10(1): 15–28, copyright Taylor & Francis, available online: http://www.tandfonline.com/doi/full/10.108 0/17549175.2015.1112298. Chapters 3 and 6 are derived in part from an article published as: Ristic, M. (2014) “‘Sniper Alley’: The Politics of Urban Violence in the Besieged Sarajevo”, Built Environment, 40(3): 342–356, copyright Ingenta Connect, available online: https://doi. org/10.2148/benv.40.3.342. Chapter 5 is derived in part from an article published as: Ristic, M. (2015) “Intangible Borders: Everyday Spatiality of Ethnic Division in the post-war Sarajevo”, Fabrications, 25(3): 322– 343, copyright Taylor & Francis, available online: http://www.tandfonline.com/doi/full/10.1080/10331867.2015.1075461.

Contents

1 Warscapes: Introduction   1 The City:War Assemblage   4 Mapping Warscapes   8 Sarajevo Warscapes  11 Outline of the Book  18 A Book About Conflict Versus Conflict About a Book  22 References  24 2 Cities, Nationalism and Conflict  29 Nationalism in Architecture and Urban Space  30 The ‘-Cides’ of War  34 Architects as Military  38 Dealing with Difficult Heritage  41 Dealing with Painful Memories  44 Toward a New Approach to the Study of City and War  46 References  47 3 Topography of Terror: Sniping and Shelling of Urban Space  51 Landscape of Fear  52 Sniper Alley  60 Shelling and Massacres in Public Spaces  62 Rethinking Urbicide  67 References  70 ix

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4 Landscape of Ruins: Targeting Architecture  73 Warchitecture  74 Infrastructural Warfare  77 Weapons Against the State: Destruction of Political Institutions  83 Targeting as Forgetting: Destruction of Cultural Heritage  91 Architecture and Violence  99 References 101 5 Resistance 107 Burrowing Underground 108 Adaptation of Urban Morphology 112 Patterns of Wartime Urban Life 117 The Metamorphosis of Sarajevo’s Apartment Buildings 120 Architects as Rebels: Construction as a Weapon Against Destruction 124 Insurgent Place-making as a Tool for the City’s Defense 126 References 128 6 Rebordering Sarajevo 131 Post-war Sarajevo 131 Place, Discourse, Territory 134 Mapping Spatial Division Between Sarajevo and East Sarajevo 135 Spatial Coding of Urban Territory 136 Spatial Inscriptions of Identity 138 Forgetting Shared Spatial Symbols 144 Border-crossing as a Spatial Practice 145 Intangible Borders 147 References 149 7 Specter of War 153 Covering Wounds: The Parliament and Government Complex 154 Reconstructing as Forgetting: The Oslobodjenje Newspaper Building 159 Reconstructing as Replicating: City Hall—National Library 162 Invention of Tradition: Post-war Religious Architecture 167 Reconstruction as Conflict by Other Means 170 References 172

 Contents    

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8 Painful Memories and Parallel Histories 177 Sarajevo Roses 178 Memorial Plaques 184 The Monument to the Murdered Children of the Besieged Sarajevo 1992–1995 187 The Cross on Zlatište Hill 191 Absences of Memory 193 Post-war Counter-memorials 195 Entangled Pasts 200 References 203 9 Lessons from Sarajevo 209 Architecture, Urban Space and Political Ideologies 210 Assembling and Mapping the City and Conflict 212 Design as a Catalyst for Societal Changes 215 Welcome Back to the Olympic Sarajevo 220 References 221 References  225 Index  251

List of Figures

Fig. 1.1 Fig. 1.2

Fig. 3.1 Fig. 3.2 Fig. 3.3 Fig. 3.4 Fig. 4.1 Fig. 4.2 Fig. 4.3

Fig. 4.4

Sarajevo. (Map: Mirjana Ristic) 13 The Siege of Sarajevo. Although the siege line changed over time, the line as marked in this figure maps its most stable location throughout the siege, as determined through a range of sources including Rujanac (2003). (Map: Mirjana Ristic) 15 Topography of fear—Sniper Alley. (Map: Mirjana Ristic. Reprinted with the permission of Routledge) 54 Snipers’ view of the Austro-Hungarian town (above) and the Socialist town (below). (Photos: Mirjana Ristic. Reprinted with the permission of Routledge) 56 The topography of fear in the western-most part of Sarajevo. (Map: Mirjana Ristic) 58 Locations of massacres of at least three people in the central part of Sarajevo. (Map: Mirjana Ristic) 64 Targeting architecture in the besieged Sarajevo. (Map: Mirjana Ristic. Reprinted with the permission of Routledge) 76 Destruction of the Oslobodjenje newspaper building. (Photos: Milomir Kovačević Strašni. Reprinted with the permission of Milomir Kovačević Strašni) 81 Destruction of the Bosnian-Herzegovinian parliament and government complex. (Photos up: Milomir Kovačević Strašni. Reprinted with the permission of Milomir Kovačević Strašni. Photo down: Enra Soldin. Reprinted with the permission of Enra Soldin) 85 Destruction of Sarajevo City Hall. (Photos: Milomir Kovačević Strašni. Reprinted with the permission of Milomir Kovačević Strašni)95 xiii

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List of Figures

Fig. 5.1 Fig. 5.2 Fig. 5.3 Fig. 5.4 Fig. 5.5 Fig. 5.6

Fig. 6.1 Fig. 6.2 Fig. 6.3

Fig. 6.4 Fig. 7.1 Fig. 7.2 Fig. 7.3 Fig. 8.1 Fig. 8.2 Fig. 8.3 Fig. 8.4 Fig. 8.5 Fig. 8.6

Civic resistance in the western-most part of Sarajevo. (Map: Mirjana Ristic) 109 Sarajevo war tunnel. (Photo: Mirjana Ristic) 111 Visual barriers against snipers. (Photos: Milomir Kovačević Strašni. Reprinted with the permission of Milomir Kovačević Strašni) 113 Civic resistance in the central part of Sarajevo. (Map: Mirjana Ristic)114 Wartime graffiti on Sarajevo’s protective barriers. (Photos: Milomir Kovačević Strašni. Reprinted with the permission of Milomir Kovačević Strašni) 115 The layout of a typical apartment in Sarajevo before the war (top) and during the war (bottom). (Drawings by architect Zoran Doršner, 1994. Reprinted with the permission of Zoran Doršner) 122 The division of Sarajevo during and after the siege. (Map: Mirjana Ristic) 133 Street plates in Sarajevo (left) and East Sarajevo (right). (Photos: Mirjana Ristic) 137 Street names in the zone around Sarajevo International Airport before the war (top) and after the war (bottom). (Map: Mirjana Ristic. Reprinted with the permission of Routledge) 139 Street names in the Sarajevo city center before the war (top) and after the war (bottom). (Map: Mirjana Ristic. Reprinted with the permission of Routledge) 142 Reconstruction of the Bosnian-Herzegovinian parliament and government complex. (Photo: Mirjana Ristic) 155 Hotel Radon Plaza, the former Oslobodjenje newspaper building. (Photo: Mirjana Ristic) 160 Reconstruction of City Hall—National and University Library. (Photo: Mirjana Ristic) 164 Sarajevo Roses. (Photos: Mirjana Ristic) 179 Spatial distribution of Sarajevo Roses and memorial plaques. (Map: Mirjana Ristic) 180 Memorial plaques on the wall of Markale Market Hall and Markale open market. (Photos: Mirjana Ristic) 185 The Monument to the Murdered Children of the Besieged Sarajevo 1992–1995. (Photos: Mirjana Ristic) 189 “New Monument” by Braco Dimitrijević. (Photo: Mirjana Ristic)196 Canned Beef Monument by Nebojša Šerić Šoba. (Photo: Mirjana Ristic) 198

CHAPTER 1

Warscapes: Introduction

Throughout history, city and war have reshaped each other. From the ancient polis to the contemporary metropolis, cities have been walled, besieged, burned down, bombed out, divided, segregated, terrorized and traumatized. Built environments have provided the battlefields and targets of war, albeit with different military architectures, strategies and arms. In contemporary ‘new wars’ (Kaldor 2007), waged since the end of the Cold War, not only does the cityscape provide an arena for fighting, but architecture and urban space have also been adapted as military weaponry (Weizman 2007; Coward 2009; Graham 2010). For example, the bulldozing of Palestinian settlements by the IDF or the destruction of cultural heritage in Syrian cities by ISIS operate as a means of forceful reconfiguration of territories and attacks on collective memory and identity (Graham 2003; Misselwitz and Rieniets 2006; Weizman 2007). Attacks on traffic hubs, infrastructure and flows of movement in Middle Eastern and European cities work as instruments of terror and control over civilian populations (Graham 2004). In the context of divided cities, walls and checkpoints are built to mark territories and boundaries, and religious symbols are used to produce homogenous place identities and marginalize and exclude Others (Calame and Charlesworth 2009; Bollens 2011). Moreover, urban theories and methodologies have become an integral part of military strategies in the urban fabric. The Israeli military uses conceptions of space (of the city) enveloped by Deleuze © The Author(s) 2018 M. Ristic, Architecture, Urban Space and War, Palgrave Studies in Cultural Heritage and Conflict, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-76771-0_1

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and Guattari, Alexander, and Tschumi as ‘lethal tools’ against Palestinian cities (Weizman 2007). Digital mapping technologies such as Google Earth, Google Maps, and GPS (global positioning system) play crucial roles in mediating surveillance, control, and military interventions in cities, such as with U.S. drone strikes in the Middle East (Graham and Hewitt 2012). Furthermore, the question of dealing with difficult heritage and memories of war still haunts cities in post-Communist countries in Eastern Europe and cities in post-colonial contexts. The importance of understanding spatial dimensions and the consequences of political conflict have been highlighted in a growing body of scholarship from the fields of architecture, urban design, geography, history, politics and sociology. A series of concepts have emerged to theorize the relationship among built form, urban space and warfare. ‘Urbicide’ has been conceived of as ‘the killing of urbanity’ by means of targeting heterogeneity and/or otherness embedded in architecture and urban space (Coward 2007, 2009; Herscher 2007; Graham 2003). ‘Warchitecture’, interpreted as ‘war by architecture’, addresses war- and peacetime architectural destruction as a means of contestation of collective identities embedded in targeted buildings (Herscher 2008, 2010). ‘Memoricide’, interpreted as the ‘killing of memory’, addresses the destruction of built heritage as a means of erasing traces of communities that had inhabited the city (Riedlmayer 1995; Bevan 2006). The ‘new military urbanism’ (Graham 2010) has been used to theorize the increasing militarization and securitization of everyday urban spaces and infrastructure of cities. ‘Forensic architecture’ highlights the capacity of urban form to provide evidence in legal processes about the crimes and human rights violations perpetrated during the course of the war (Weizman 2007). ‘Difficult heritage’ (Macdonald 2008), which refers to relics, traces and memories of war, occupation, dictatorship and other forms of political turmoil, is argued to have become an integral component of collective memory and identity of modern nations (Huyssen 2003; Logan and Reeves 2009). Expanding on different notions of architecture, urbanity and city, these studies provide seminal conceptual tools for understanding the ontology of spatial violence and terror. They address different spatial dimensions of war; however, they are grounded in conceptions of place that have some limitations. In phenomenological analysis of spatial violence and terror, place is explored as the ontological grounds for forms of being-in-place that stand in opposition to the politics motivating the conflict (Coward 2009). In semiotic analysis of the nexus of the city with conflict, place

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is investigated in terms of its representational capacities as a symbol of power and ideology or collective identity and memory that is being supported or contested in war (Riedlmayer 1995; Bevan 2006; Herscher 2010). Spatial dimensions of political conflict are also explored from the socio-technical approach, in which place is conceived of as a complex system of life-support networks that form the “connective tissue” of societies (Graham 2007: 315) and, as such, can be appropriated for different forms of social control. While these diverse methodological positions offer important approaches for investigating political roles of place, they are either focused on the investigation of place as an abstract phenomenon or involve a degree of reductionism of place to discourse or a topology of connections. What remains understudied is the actual spatiality, physicality and materiality of urban warfare, with the exception of insights by Misselwitz and Rieniets (2006) and Weizman (2007). In other words, rarely visible in the existing research are the particularities of architecture and urban space—the urban structure and morphology and how they frame spatial practices, meanings and experiences of place—and their role in mediating political conflict. This book provides deep insight into the architectural and urban dimensions and consequences of the war. I examine how and why the conflict over the state’s borders, territory and national identity is mediated through built form and public space of the city, both during wartime and in the post-war period. My exploration is based on the following questions: • Why are buildings and public spaces rendered targets in war? • How does city’s urban fabric become appropriated and transformed into a weapon of violence, terror and resistance? • What role do the cities’ wartime transformations play in the demarcation of territories and production of collective identities? • What should be done with heritage, relics and traces of war in the post-conflict period? • How should such places be reconstructed and their contested past commemorated without imposing collective trauma and creating grounds for future political conflicts? I delve into these issues by investigating the role of built form and public space in Sarajevo, the capital of Bosnia and Herzegovina, in the ethnic-­ nationalist conflict during and after the siege of 1992–1996. The focus

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is on the wartime destruction of a portion of the cityscape in central Sarajevo and its post-war reconstruction, reinscription, and memorialization. A series of case studies—urban neighborhoods, public squares, streets, buildings, heritage, relics and memories of the war—were selected to reveal a mutually constitutive relationship between the city and the ethnic-­ nationalist conflict. The investigation is based on a multi-disciplinary methodological approach grounded in architectural and urban theory, spatial turn in critical social theory, and assemblage thinking. Techniques of spatial analysis, in particular multi-scalar morphological mapping in combination with discourse analysis, were applied to open a window onto the political roles of architectural form and urban space. Drawing on original research, the book shows how a constellation of the city’s micro-­ geography, urban structure and morphology, and the materiality of its buildings, public spaces, spatial practices, meanings and experiences of place, operate as tools for mediating, contesting and subverting the politics that motivated the conflict. It highlights the capacities of architecture and urban space to mediate violence, terror and resistance, deal with the heritage of the war, and act a catalyst for ethnic segregation or reconciliation. The book provides rich empirical insights into the relationship between architecture, urban space and conflict over territory and identity, and an innovative spatial framework for analysing the political role of contemporary cities.

The City:War Assemblage This book is a broader case study of a larger question of the agency of architecture and urban space in the context of socio-political conflict. As outlined above, the investigation of the particular role that buildings, public spaces and practices of everyday life play in political conflict is challenging given that the analytical tools used in the current research have certain limitations. First, existing studies are largely based on singular methodological positions focusing on the role that a particular aspect of place—its sense, meanings or structure—plays in political conflict. Multiple methodological approaches that look at their intersections are less common. Second, the political role of place is most often explored on a singular scale—that of a targeted building, public space, urban district or the city itself as a whole. Multi-scalar analysis focused on the inter-relations between different affected sites in the city is less prominent. Third, the analysis of spatial dimensions of political conflict is largely focused either

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on wartime or post-war transformations of the city. The ways in which the wartime and the post-war conflict morph one into another through the built environment remains largely unexplored. The spatial dynamics of political conflict are multiplicious; their intricacy cannot be understood by relying on singular conceptual and analytical frameworks. Rather, understanding the role of architecture and urban space in the political conflict requires multi-faceted methodological approaches that provide insights into the inter-connections among the material, representational and experiential aspects of place across multiple scales and times. In this book, I propose a multi-disciplinary methodological approach, grounded in conceptual framework assemblage thinking and the analytical capacities of urban mapping, as a framework for analyzing a mutually constitutive relationship between city and war. I will argue that such methodology enables understanding of the complexity of the spatial dynamics of political conflict. Assemblage thinking is a philosophy originally developed by Deleuze and Guattari (1987) in their book A Thousand Plateaus. Even though DeLanda (2006) made an attempt to build an ‘assemblage theory’ (of society), it is not a formal theoretical discourse but instead a toolbox of concepts (Dovey 2010) that has gained currency in a growing body of scholarship from the fields of architecture, urban studies, and geography. The notions of ‘urban assemblage(s)’ (Farias and Bender 2010), ‘city as assemblage’ (McFarlane 2011) or ‘place as assemblage’ (Dovey 2016) have been developed as a new conceptual framework for architectural and urban research. I will draw on these concepts to elaborate on how assemblage thinking as an intellectual toolkit can advance the inquiry into the inter-relationships among cities, ethnic nationalism and conflict. Assemblage is a way of understanding the city as a relational entity (Müller and Schurr 2016), seeking to comprehend how urban alliances/ dissociations, synergies/disjunctions and symbioses/frictions work (Dovey 2010). Deleuze defined an assemblage as “a multiplicity which is made up of many heterogeneous terms” in which the “only unity is that of co-­ functioning” (Deleuze and Parnet 1987: 69 [1977]). Unlike an organized system that implies a hierarchy, an assemblage is an arrangement, alignment and patterning of multiple units that work together without pre-­ determined rules or dominant entities (Farias and Bender 2010; Müller and Schurr 2016). Properties of an assemblage emerge from the inter-­connections, flows and interactions between diverse parts (DeLanda 2006). The city is a socio-spatial assemblage enacted at manifold

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sites and moments through the fitting together and cofunctioning of diverse elements: buildings, streets, practices, objects, ideas, humans, animals, technologies and nature. The liaisons, alliances and symbioses between them that make it a particular city—for instance, a ghettoized pattern—produces an ethnically segregated city and differentiates it from a multi-ethnic and cohesive city. It follows that investigating the spatial dimensions of political conflict involves making a shift from looking at buildings and public spaces as discrete entities to looking for their relations to/within the wider spatial structure of the city, flows of urban life, constellation of meanings, and experiences of place. Rather than analyzing urban destruction and reconstruction through the lens of what the targeted place was/is, the task is to inquire about what its transformation does to the assemblage of the city— that is, how it affects a complex set of relationships with its various other architectural, urban, natural, social and technical elements. The aim is to understand how such place transformations are enmeshed in the altering boundaries of the city’s territory, place identity, everyday spatial practices, discourses, senses of place, and the action and interaction between its residents. Assemblage thinking is a multi-dimensional approach that, as Dovey (2010) argues, avoids all forms of reductionism of place in architectural and urban research—the reduction to text, matter or subjective experience. Assemblages are defined by two dimensions (Deleuze and Guattari 1987). The first is the axis that determines the different roles that parts of an assemblage play, which can be material and expressive. Rather than the opposites, these roles take place in mixtures in the sense that components of an assemblage are always both material and expressive. Walls, cul-de-­ sacs, scale and style of buildings, spatial order and hierarchy, symbols, color and names all work to segregate ethnic enclaves and stop flows of movement between them physically, express power over territory and place identity symbolically. Accordingly, understanding the spatial patterns of political conflict involves the task of linking the spatiality, physicality and materiality of built form, public space and spatial practices to (semantic) representations and experiences of place. The analysis of the city-war assemblage entails multi-disciplinary methodologies that link spatial analysis, discourse analysis and phenomenology (Dovey 2010). The nexus between the city and war is involved in the processes of territorialization and deterritorialization (Deleuze and Guattari 1987). Territorialization refers to the spatial processes of stabilizing the physical

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boundaries of actual territories—for example, erecting walls around neighborhoods. It also refers to the non-spatial processes of increasing and decreasing the internal homogeneity of an assemblage, such as “the segregation processes which increase the ethnic or racial homogeneity of a neighborhood” (DeLanda 2006: 13). Territories are further stabilized through codes that determine different modes of expression—for instance, dress codes that can signify ethnicity in public space. In contrast, deterritorialization is the process that either destabilizes the spatial boundaries or decreases the internal homogeneity of an assemblage. Constructing a mosque in a Christian neighborhood or opening a Chinese shop in an Italian city are all forms of deterritorialization. Deterritorialized elements can be recombined to form new assemblages through the process of reterritorialization. Buildings are destroyed and reconstructed; neighborhoods become occupied, divided and reintegrated; and nations are invaded and liberated (Dovey 2010). Understanding the spatial dimensions of political conflict involves the task of revealing how distinct political ideologies drive morphogenetic processes through which urban territories form and transform, hold together or break up, and how place identities are stabilized and destabilized, purified or mixed. Assemblage thinking is a multi-scalar approach to analysis of the nexus between the city and war. The city as an assemblage is enacted at micro, mezzo and macro spatial scales (Farias and Bender 2010). Its parts can simultaneously be components of other smaller or bigger assemblages (DeLanda 2006). For instance, a monument is a part of different assemblages—a square, a neighborhood, a city, a nation. The scales are not merely horizontal but also involve vertical levels and oblique angles. This is to suggest that assemblage thinking entails a fully volumetric conception of space (Elden 2013; Weizman 2007). It is an approach to urban analysis that involves zooming in and out, shifting below and above to understand how the city’s ‘surface’, the depth and thickness of its ground as well as its physical volumes and air above it, plays a political role. The scales are not merely spatial but also temporal (Farias and Bender 2010). The war morphs through the city in the form of wartime urban destruction and terror, post-war reconstruction, and heritage and memory of war. Understanding the nexus between the city and conflict involves the task of superimposing the city’s morphology and chronology—to expose how the ethnic division that the war was fought for through violence has transformed into a ‘cold war’ through rebuilding, renaming and memory.

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Assemblage is a way of understanding the city as multiplicity (Farias and Bender 2010; Müller 2015). These different dimensions and aspects of the city cannot be studied separately or in any hierarchy of predominance; it is the connections among them that are crucial to understanding the spatial dynamics of war and conflict.

Mapping Warscapes As outlined above, understanding the spatial dimensions of war involves the task of ‘digging’ into the complexity of place, which requires multi-­ dimensional methods of analysis. In this research, I use urban mapping as a primary method of spatial analysis, and discourse analysis (Foucault 1995; Rose 2001; Fairclough 2003) as a supplementary method for unpacking meanings and representations of architecture and urban space. The majority of current studies investigate the spatial dimensions of war through non-spatial methods of analysis, including discourse analysis and a series of ethnographic methods (Ristic 2018). The existing scholarship is largely grounded in the logic of verbal argumentation in the sense that we read about the spatial dimensions of war without seeing them. A shift in the field has taken place, with research emerging about the capacity of mapping as a tool for analyzing how conflict becomes embedded in the territories of a city (buildings, streets, practices). Open source geo-spatial platforms, such as GDELT (2013) or PATTRN (2014), are inter-active mapping databases of locations, facts and media reports about conflicts and protests in cities across the globe. Although providing a wealth of descriptive and statistical data useful for research and analysis, these platforms map the locations where conflict takes place, rather than how the place mediates it. The agency of the actual spaces of the city in mediating social unrest has been explored through the axial (and largely abstract) maps of the 2011 London riots by Space Syntax team (Al Sayed and Hanna 2013) and the heat maps of how risk of gang violence embeds in the urban network of Medellin’s informal settlements (Samper 2011). Territorial, urban and architectural dimensions of war have been investigated through ‘forensic maps’ that combine geo-spatial data, satellite imagery and 3D modelling to provide spatial testimony lawsuits over international war crimes and human rights violations (Weizman 2017). While these are undoubtedly important methodological ­ developments, the methods of spatial analysis of war- and peacetime conflict are still in an inspectional stage. I propose mapping within the framework of assemblage thinking as

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a research tool for analyzing the architectural and urban patterns of war. The maps presented in this book are more than illustrations of findings— they themselves are research findings that provide spatial knowledge about how the nexus between the city and war works (Ristic 2018). For Deleuze and Guattari (1987: 12), mapping is a part of the way of thinking that they call ‘rhizomatic thinking’, which contrasts with ‘tree-­ like thinking’. Tree-like thinking is a traditional way of thinking that structures our thoughts hierarchically, deriving from a central idea. In contrast, rhizomatic thinking is decentered and based on establishing connections between disparate concepts, making new associations between previously unconnected ideas (Dovey 2010). Translated into the language of cartography, the dichotomy of rhizome vs. tree corresponds to that of mapping vs. tracing (Deleuze and Guattari 1987). Tracing is based on the logic of reproduction of what already exists, it projects the empirical; “its goal is to define a de facto state” (Deleuze and Guattari 1987: 12). A street map or a map of building footprints, for instance, are forms of tracery just like the navigational maps that we use in our everyday lives. In contrast, mapping used as a research tool is engaged in experimentation with the real and the possible. It “constructs the unconscious” (Deleuze and Guattari 1987: 12) in the sense that it opens up a view of the city that cannot be grasped by the senses (Dovey and Ristic 2015). It involves digging, connecting and exposing the spatial relations that are not obvious to the naked eye (Corner 1999). Research maps are created from a multiplicity of tracings that can be selected, overlaid and connected to expose “the various hidden forces that underlie the workings of a given place” (Corner 1999: 214). Deleuze and Guattari (1987) use the map partially as a synonym for the diagram, which they also term the ‘abstract machine’ (Dovey et al. 2018). A diagram is the abstract set of relationships between forces that underpin the workings of an assemblage (Deleuze and Guattari 1987: 164). For instance, the diagram of asymmetric visibility is a set of powerrelations that Foucault (1995) identifies as the panoptic disciplinary gaze that is embedded in the spatiality of prisons, schools and hospitals (Dovey 2010). The map shares certain characteristics with the diagram in the sense that it “fosters connections between fields” (Deleuze and Guattari 1987: 12). Its task is to uncover the relationships between forces that shape the way a city works (Dovey and Ristic 2015). Yet the diagram is deterritorialized and retains the highest level of abstraction of the spatial relations immanent to an urban assemblage (Deleuze and Guattari 1987: 141). Although a degree of abstraction is essential to

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attaining the legibility and comprehension of data, the map is largely territorial in the sense that it must retain the spatiality of a particular site. The task of mapping is to expose the spatial relations that are immanent to the city without producing a facsimile of the city or losing the complexity of data (Dovey et al. 2018). Consistent with assemblage thinking, mapping involves techniques of deconstructing the city into a series of layers of data and then selecting, isolating and recomposing particular layers on the map in order to establish relationships between particular aspects of the city (Dovey et al. 2018). A crucial mapping technique in this regard comes from Corner (1999: 214), who suggests three key steps. The first is setting the ‘field’, that is, the surface or framework within which projection, orientation and scale are arranged, for example, paper or computer screen. The second is producing the ‘extracts’, that is, the layers of data that are selected and isolated from the actual territory represented and observed on the map. The third is ‘plotting’, that is, the practice of overlaying extracts to produce new relationships among data. The task of plotting is to “reveal, construct and engender latent sets of possibility” (Corner 1999: 230). In this book I apply a method of mapping that combines the conceptual framework of assemblage thinking, the mapping process suggested by Corner, and computer-aided mapping technologies, including GIS and AutoCAD, for the purposes of accuracy. I used the figure-ground map as the base for layering various physical, discursive and experiential aspects and transformations of the city, with the aim of uncovering how they are implicated in war. The layers included the city’s topography, morphology of buildings and open spaces, spatial practices, meanings and experiences of place, military positions, visibility from them, the range of artillery and snipers, targeted buildings and public spaces, residents’ practices of resistance, and others. Selecting and overlapping different layers of data enabled understanding of the inter-relationships among different spatial, military, political and social phenomena. This method was applied to map the wartime destruction of public buildings, sniping of public spaces, post-war construction, street-renaming and forms of commemoration. The mapping approach used in this book provides insight into how politics and conflict become invested in the complexity and heterogeneity of the urban fabric (Ristic 2018). First, this is a multi-dimensional method of analysis that enables understanding of the relationships between various material, discursive and experiential aspects of place, thus resisting the common reductions of place. The maps presented in the forthcoming

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chapters show how the conflict is mediated through inter-connections between physicality of built form, public space and spatial practices, meanings of place and its experience by the senses. In one sense this is a mapping of what Lefebvre (1991) has termed the trialectic among ‘conceived’, ‘perceived’ and ‘lived’ space. For instance, to understand the socio-spatial effects of wartime terror, the politicians’ conception of a divided city, the army’s practices of targeting and the residents’ fear in everyday life were brought together in a single map (Chap. 3). Second, this mapping method trained a lens on the spatial patterns and effects across various scales of the city. The maps presented in this book show how particularities of architecture and urban space (at the micro-scale) mediated reconfiguration of the broader territory of the city (at the macro-scale). Third, this method of mapping enabled the superimposition of the city’s morphology and chronology to compare the layers of spatial data through time—before, during and after the war. This exposed how the ethnic division that the war was fought for through violence has transformed into the ongoing struggle through spatial discourse.

Sarajevo Warscapes As outlined above, I delve into the investigation of the nexus between the city and war by analyzing the role of architecture and urban space in Sarajevo, the capital of Bosnia and Herzegovina, in the ethnic-nationalist conflict during and after the siege of 1992–1996. The empirical focus of this book is on Sarajevo because the city represents a critical case study (Flyvbjerg 2006) of how war- and peacetime conflicts are mediated and contested in/through built environments. Sarajevo is the longest-besieged capital city in modern history, which has become epitomic for urban destruction throughout the world. A number of theoretical concepts, including urbicide and warchitecture, that have been used in the analysis of other international contested cities have gained attention in the context of the siege of Sarajevo.1 As such, Sarajevo is what Flyvbjerg (2006: 229) refers to as a “critical case study (…) having strategic importance in relation to the general problem”, in this case, the role of architecture and urban space in political conflict. The ethno-nationalist conflict in Sarajevo has been led through a variety of military strategies, including the specific targeting and destruction of buildings and open public spaces, and ­terrorizing civilian populations during the war, as well as post-war reconstruction, reinscription, and memorialization. The struggle over the city’s

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territory and identity has been mediated by different elements of its urban fabric across different spatial levels and scales, including urban neighborhoods, public squares, streets, buildings, relics and traces of the war, and war memorials. A detailed analysis of Sarajevo’s wartime and post-war transformations, rather than its comparison to other cities, provides rich empirical material and conceptual reflections about various spatial mechanisms through which the city mediates war. As such, the findings, methodological innovations and theoretic insights from Sarajevo provide a valuable reference point for understanding a mutually constitutive relationship between the city and conflict and for studying other contested cities in the world. Sarajevo lies in a narrow valley of the Miljacka River and is surrounded by mountains on all sides. In the fifteenth century when the city was settled, the valley was part of a medieval commercial corridor that connected the Middle East and Europe, which brought a mix of cultures and religions to the city.2 Often described as the European Jerusalem, Sarajevo contains “temples of four faiths”—Islamic, Eastern Orthodox, Roman Catholic and Jewish—within a square kilometer (Karahasan 1994: 5). According to the last pre-war census from 1991, the city’s population numbered approximately 500,000, which included 50% Bosniaks (Muslims), 25% Bosnian Serbs (Orthodox), 7% Bosnian Croats (Catholics), 13% Yugoslavs and the rest were Jews and Others (Jukić 2016).3 This cultural diversity is reflected in the city’s urban landscape, as distinct parts of the city are linked to different periods of its history and different politics of identity (Fig. 1.1). To the east is the Ottoman Town (1462–1878), built under the Ottoman Empire, which consists of the central bazaar in the valley and residential quarters on the slopes of the hills. They are characterized by small-grain morphology of irregular pattern, which is accentuated by a number of religious monuments. Although mosques are more numerous, centrally positioned and prominent, the presence of one religious building for each of the non-Islamic communities affirmed the Ottoman millet system—a concept of religious tolerance that provided non-Muslims with a significant degree of autonomy from the dominant religion (Braude and Lewis 1982). To the west is the Austro-Hungarian Town (1878–1914), built under the Habsburg Monarchy, which is defined by an orthogonal matrix framed by mixed-use perimeter blocks. Its spatial landmarks are secular public institutions and two clusters of non-Islamic religious buildings constructed

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Fig. 1.1  Sarajevo. (Map: Mirjana Ristic)

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to counterbalance the Islamic-dominated Ottoman Town. This created a more equalized religious mix in the urban fabric, which fostered the Austro-Hungarian politics of an integrated Bosnian-Herzegovinian nationhood based on the promotion of regional patriotism and multi-­ confessional nationalism (Donia 2006). It did not, however, suppress the emerging Serbian and Croatian ethnic nationalisms, which culminated in the assassination of the Habsburg royal couple in 1914. To the far west is New Sarajevo or Socialist Town (1943–1992), built when Bosnia-Herzegovina was a republic of the Socialist Federative Republic of Yugoslavia. It is composed of modernist blocks with free standing residential towers and a number of high-rise political, cultural and corporate buildings. Its architecture, characterized by a stylistic uniformity and an absence of ethnic markers, promoted ethnic equality, the Yugoslavian ideology of brotherhood and unity, and the international spirit of the Non-Aligned Movement (Alić 2006). When the Olympic Games arrived in 1984, Sarajevo was infused with the cosmopolitan character and spirit that was on display to the world via media coverage of the Olympic ceremonies, competitions and events. Before the Olympics, Sarajevo had been known globally as the city of the assassination that triggered the First World War. The Olympics, though, suppressed this image of violence and terror, and Sarajevo emerged from the Games as a symbol of a peaceful gathering of nations. But just six years after the Olympics, after its long history of ethnic pluralism, Bosnia-Herzegovina suffered an escalation of ethnic nationalism that culminated in a violent civil war of from 1992 through 1995. The war pitted the Bosnian Serb Army (BSA), fighting to divide the country along ethnic lines,4 against the Army of Bosnia and Herzegovina (ABH), fighting to preserve the integrity of Bosnia-Herzegovina, whose independence from Yugoslavia had been recognized on 6 April 1992 (Donia 2006). The war began and ended with the siege of Sarajevo by the BSA from 5 April 1992 to 29 February 1996 (Donia 2006; Kapić 2000). The BSA took positions on the hillsides around the city and in parts of the river bank in the valley, pursuing a campaign of shelling and sniping of civic architecture and urban space (Fig. 1.2). The BSA attacked Sarajevo with 13,000 soldiers, 260 tanks, 120 mortars, numerous anti-aircraft cannons, and snipers (FAMA 1993).5 Inside the city the ABH, which was formed at the beginning of the war, numbered about 70,000 troops, who ultimately were unable to break the siege due to poor weaponry, especially at the beginning of the war. Significant differences in the military power

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Fig. 1.2  The Siege of Sarajevo. Although the siege line changed over time, the line as marked in this figure maps its most stable location throughout the siege, as determined through a range of sources including Rujanac (2003). (Map: Mirjana Ristic)

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between the two armies made the siege of Sarajevo asymmetric warfare, with the BSA the clearly superior force and aggressor. Yet, the UN elected to treat the conflict as a ‘civil war’ and introduced an embargo on arms to Bosnia-Herzegovina, believing that a free flow of weaponry would only escalate the war (Malcolm 1994). UN troops on the ground provided humanitarian help to the population and supervised the warring sides without interfering in the fighting, except in the case of direct attacks on UN collateral. It is widely argued that such circumstances prolonged the duration of the siege, which lasted for 1425 days and was recorded as the longest siege of a capital city in the modern history of human kind (Malcolm 1994; Donia 2006; Silber and Little 1996). The siege of Sarajevo has been described as a “medieval siege in the service of modern nationalism” (Donia 2006: 287). The Bosnian Serb political leadership stated publicly that their intention was to divide Sarajevo and Bosnia-Herzegovina along ethnic lines, and that the BSA was holding the city as a means of coercing the Bosnian-Herzegovinian political leadership into accepting the division (Donia 2006: 290). Sarajevo and its population became hostages of these ethno-nationalist political aims, and their architecture and urban spaces were appropriated as a means of achieving them. The map in Fig.  1.2 shows two proposed division lines, in relation to the siege line, which indicate that the BSA’s goal was to seize the Socialist Town in the west of Sarajevo and leave the Austro-Hungarian and Ottoman Towns in the east to Bosniaks and Croats (Burns 1992; Donia 2006). The siege line merged the hillsides around the city and parts of the river bank in the valley. Although it opened in the area around Sarajevo International Airport, the city remained sealed, for all intents and purposes, as the airport was controlled by UN forces, which allowed its use for humanitarian purposes only and prohibited the crossing of the runway by residents or the military (Donia 2006). The BSA positions to the city’s north were largely behind the hills, which blocked the army’s view toward the valley. However, the positions to the city’s south gave the BSA a commanding view of a considerable portion of Sarajevo. This included the Ottoman and Austro-Hungarian Towns and a large part of the Socialist Town, particularly its eastern- and western-most areas. Sarajevo’s specific geography and urban morphology, together with the establishment of the siege line, significantly exposed the city to the BSA’s positions, which enabled direct and precise targeting of a large number of buildings and public spaces.

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The BSA military attacks on the city included a campaign of shelling and sniping of Sarajevo’s civic architecture and urban space—places that could not be identified as military targets. In the course of the three-and-­ a-half years of the siege, almost every building in the city was hit (Bassiouni 1994). Estimates by the Bosnian-Herzegovinian government indicate that 23% of all public buildings were seriously damaged, 64% were partially damaged, and 10% were slightly damaged. This includes about 35,000 destroyed dwellings and numerous demolished public buildings, including political institutions, places of cultural heritage, corporate buildings, media and communications centers, infrastructure, and medical complexes (Bassiouni 1994). Many buildings and public spaces suffered inadvertent attacks in the crossfire between the two armies or as a result of indiscriminate shelling. However, the pattern and precision of attacks indicate that a large number of them were undertaken specifically as part of military or political strategies—the BSA attacked places of importance for the Bosnian-­ Herzegovinian state, places with shared collective memory and identity, and areas where Sarajevo’s residents shared their common lives (Chap. 3). Almost no place was safe. Just to perform their everyday errands, the citizens of Sarajevo were forced to run through their streets to avoid shells and snipers (Kapić 2000). The violence and terror transformed Sarajevo’s urban space into a network of danger zones in which anyone at any time was a moving target. Streets, squares, markets, playgrounds and other centers of everyday urban life became sites of massacre and death. The residents of Sarajevo installed barriers to block the view of artillery and snipers, adapted apartments into shelters, and pursued a variety of other spatial practices of resistance as a means of survival under these extraordinary conditions of existence. It is estimated that between 10,000 and 11,000 people lost their lives and some 150,000 Sarajevans became refugees during the conflict (Donia 2006). NATO military action ended the war as 1995 came to a close. On 14 December 1995, the Dayton Agreement officially brought fighting to an end, but the conflict remained unresolved, because, as some scholars argue, the agreement “institutionalized many of the national divisions that had dominated society since 1990” (Donia 2006: 335). The country was internally divided into the Bosniak- and Croat-controlled Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina, and the Serbian-controlled Republic of Srpska, each having their own ethnic leadership, system of governance and i­nstitutions (Donia 2006). Sarajevo was also ethnically divided into the Bosniak-­ dominated City of Sarajevo and the Serbian dominated City of East Sarajevo.

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The former siege line was modified into the Inter Entity Boundary Line, while the war was transformed into an ongoing political struggle through the rebuilding of architecture and urban space, and dealing with the heritage and memory of the war. Many of the ruined public buildings and spaces linked to all ethnic groups together and/or the shared Bosnian-­ Herzegovinian state remained derelict for years after the war while the post-war construction of new religious and cultural buildings related to either ethnicity boomed in both cities. Also, both cities have engaged in the construction of various commemorative forms that largely shape two parallel ethnic histories and versions of the war. Although there are a number of projects coming mostly through non-governmental initiatives that question or challenge the ethnic division, Sarajevo and East Sarajevo function largely as arenas for new forms of ethnic struggle. Remaining open is the question of the capacity of architecture and urban design to bring the two cities and their populations closer together. My argument is that spatial transformations in Sarajevo were not merely a consequence of the war but the very means of ethnic conflict and struggle. Wartime spatial violence and terror operated under a strategy of socio-­ spatial transformation of Sarajevo from a multi-ethnic city into an ethnically segregated city. The attacks on architecture and urban space involved the targeting of buildings and public spaces that embodied or framed ethnic mix and those linked to particular ethnic identities where they were ‘out of place’. In a sense, the war operated as urban (re)design of the city by other means, whereby politicians and the military took on the role of architects, urban designers and planners who reshaped the city. Conversely, the post-war reconstruction, reinscription and memorialization have functioned as a cold war by other means, whereby architects, urban designers and planners became actors in conflict or activists against it. The city was transformed into two relatively mono-ethnic cities in which architecture, urban space, heritage and memories of war work to mark ethnic boundaries, inscribe particular ethnic identities in place and exclude Others. The question for the future of Sarajevo is how ethnic differences will be constructed, stabilized or dissipated through and within the cityscape.

Outline of the Book Looking at the case study of wartime and post-war Sarajevo, the chapters of this book reveal a view of different aspects of the relationship between the city and war. At stake are both how the city is transformed by the war

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and the manners in which spatial transformations of the city operate as a mode of war or tools for resistance against it. This book lends insight into the process, outcomes and forces that drive the transformation of urban landscapes in which the boundaries between architecture, urban space and warfare are blurred. Chapter 2, “Cities, Nationalism and Conflict”, reviews the existing literature from the fields of architecture, urban design, geography, history, politics and sociology that addresses spatial dimensions of political conflict. It does so by reflecting on the concepts and methodologies that have emerged within the current research, in particular, studies of urbicide, memoricide, warchitecture, difficult heritage, urban trauma, and memory. It thus situates the book within the state-of-the-art in the field, which will sharpen the issues at stake in this inquiry. The chapter will conclude with a brief account of how the book will complement and contribute to current studies with both new empirical insights and theoretical concepts. Chapter 3, “Topography of Terror”, discusses the wartime destruction of public spaces as a tool for eradication of ethnic mixing from the city’s everyday life. The focus is on a particular mode of spatial violence against non-military targets: shelling and sniping of civilians who were moving, gathering and mixing in public spaces. ‘Sniper Alley’ was the name that emerged in the world’s media to describe a strip of urban space that was the most intensively attacked. The chapter first discusses the way in which an assemblage of Sarajevo’s specific micro-geography and urban morphology was appropriated to enable such violence and transform the cityscape into a ‘topography of fear’ composed of a network of dangerous and forbidden zones. It then analyzes the spatial effects of violence and terror on the transformation of Sarajevo’s street matrix, urban flows, spatial practices of movement, and gathering and mixing in public spaces. The argument is that sniping and shelling obliterated the urban flows and patterns of everyday life that sustained Sarajevo’s ethnic mix and thus created a certain level of ethnic division of the city and ethnic separation of its population. Chapter 4, “Landscape of Ruins”, discusses the wartime destruction of architecture as a means of socio-spatial purification of the ethnic h ­ eterogeneity and difference from Sarajevo’s cityscape. The focus is on the targeting and shelling of a series of public buildings, including heritage buildings; political, cultural and religious institutions; media centers; commercial buildings; and sport complexes. The chapter discusses the effects of such violence on the transformation of forms, uses, and meanings of the attacked buildings. It also

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analyzes the spatial consequences of such transformations of architecture on the reconfiguration of Sarajevo’s urban fabric. The argument is that the wartime destruction of public buildings operated as a means of purification of ethnic identities embedded in built form under a strategy of dividing the city into cleansed ethnic enclaves. Although most of the buildings in the city— regardless of their form, function or symbolism—were hit, destroyed institutions of civil society were located across the entire city, while ethnically identified buildings were destroyed where they were ‘out of place’. Moreover, new forms of exclusive ethnic identity were produced through the public reception of such violence in media and everyday spatial discourse. “Resistance” is the fifth chapter of this book and it focuses on how diverse spatial practices of appropriation and adaptation of Sarajevo’s urban morphology and public space operated as a means of wartime survival and resistance against violence and terror. The focus is on transformation of underground, semi-underground and above-ground spaces; appropriation of interior, interstitial and exterior spaces; and the adaptation of spatial practices of everyday life and urban rhythms. The argument is that, through adaptation of the city’s built environment, residents produced spatial patterns of defense through which they reconnected the city and reclaimed it for the spatial practices of moving, gathering and mixing. Civilian resistance operated through an inversion of architecture and urban space in a physical, discursive and experiential manner—places of oppression became spaces of liberation. This chapter highlights the capacities of civilians and their bottom-up creative practices to adapt everyday spaces and objects into weapons of the city’s defense and tools of its urban resilience. Chapter 6, entitled “Re-bordering Sarajevo”, discusses how the post-­ war ethnic division of Bosnia-Herzegovina is mediated through everyday urban infrastructure in the border zone between Sarajevo and East Sarajevo. It analyzes how the street names, script and colors operate as tools for delineation of ethnic territories and inscription of place identity purified of symbols of mix or difference. It also discusses how such discursive boundaries become embedded in everyday urban life and shape ­people’s actions and interactions in public space. The chapter argues that the ethnic division that the war was fought for through violence has transformed into an ongoing ‘cold war’ through meanings of place. Different forms of spatial discourse are used as ‘weapons’ that maintain the city’s ethnic boundary by constructing exclusive place identities and keeping Others at bay. The chapter highlights the potency of the

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intangible elements of architecture and urban space in mediating and negotiating socio-­spatial borders in the cityscape. The next chapter, “Specter of War”, discusses the role that the post-war reconstruction of architecture plays in mediating ethnic conflict in Sarajevo after the siege. The chapter focuses on the different architectural strategies through which Sarajevo has dealt with the heritage of the war in its urban fabric of damaged and destroyed buildings. They include covering wartime ‘wounds’, reconstruction of replicas and construction of new architectural landmarks. The chapter elaborates on the effects of such architectural interventions on the transformation of the city’s post-war urban fabric and place identity. The argument is that reconstruction has largely operated as a further erasure of multi-ethnic symbols from the cityscape, while new ethnic symbols are being territorialized in the urban landscapes of both Sarajevo and East Sarajevo. Although some pre-war multi-ethnic symbols have been restored, such representation often camouflages different forms of post-war ethnic domination and marginalization. Chapter 8, “Painful Memories and Parallel Histories”, looks at the role of post-war urban memory in dealing with collective trauma from the war. It analyzes a spatio-temporal hierarchy of memorials that have emerged in Sarajevo and East Sarajevo since 1996, including conserved traces of shellfire on the ground, commemorative plaques attached to facades of historic sites of violence, and three-dimensional monuments and memorial spaces detached from locations of wartime violence. The chapter analyzes how the spatial distribution, form and discourse that memorials in both cities embody are enmeshed in post-war political dynamics. The argument is that the post-war socio-spatial division between Sarajevo and East Sarajevo is strengthened by parallel versions of history embedded in the cityscape. Most of the memorials impose selective ethnically motivated versions of wartime history and shape the grounds for future ethnic conflicts. Although there are places that embody the memory of wartime struggle to preserve multi-ethnic Sarajevo, they are often ephemeral, erased and/ or forgotten. “Lessons from Sarajevo”, the final chapter, concludes the book with the lessons learnt from the case study of Sarajevo, which can be applied in research about other international cities that have been reshaped by political conflict. The chapter reflects theoretically on the book’s findings and provides new insights into the concepts that have emerged in the current literature to theorize the mutually constitutive relationship between the

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city and the conflict. The insights into the spatial dynamics of the ethnic conflict in Sarajevo, during and after the war, also offers a number of lessons for architectural and urban design practice.

A Book About Conflict Versus Conflict About a Book In contested socio-political contexts, which are largely characterized by parallel views of realities shaped on the basis of ethnicity, a book about the role of architecture and urban space in war is very likely to attract a certain level of controversy and claims of partiality or misinterpretation from either of the groups involved in the conflict. The question that arises is how to write a book about conflict without instigating or broadening conflict about the book. I am not suggesting that a book about conflict should not be controversial, but rather that its author has the responsibility of gathering and analyzing data and presenting facts throughout the book that include multi-sided viewpoints. For the purposes of objectivity and avoiding bias, the findings of this book are based on the analysis of data gathered from sources of different ideological positions, including those coming from ‘insiders’ in the conflict—Bosnian-Herzegovinian, Bosniak, Croatian and Serbian sources— and those coming from ‘outsiders’—international sources. The key Bosnian-Herzegovinian sources included public libraries and archives in Sarajevo, the Urban Development Authority of the Canton of Sarajevo, the Research and Documentation Center in Sarajevo, and pro-multi-­ ethnic newspapers, such as Oslobodjenje (the only daily that published during the siege). Contrasting ethnic opinions were gathered from the pro-­Bosniak newspaper Dnevni Avaz (Daily Voice), the pro-Serbian newspaper Glas Srpske (The Voice of Srpska), as well as various websites related to construction projects in both Sarajevo and East Sarajevo. Key international sources included reports of the United Nations about the siege of Sarajevo, reports and testimonies from war crimes trials before the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia (ICTY), and international newspapers such as the Guardian and the New York Times. This book has a series of limitations. First, the focus is on the role of buildings and public spaces in the war, during and after the siege of Sarajevo. This excludes other Bosnian-Herzegovinian and Yugoslavian cities, whose analysis and/or comparison would reveal additional findings and conclusions about the politics of architecture and urban space. Second, the analysis

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of the physical, semantic and experiential transformations of architecture and urban space and their political role is limited to the research methods of spatial and discursive analysis of place. Ethnographic methods, such as the interviewing of a sample population, are not within the scope of this book because of the sensitive ethical issue in reviving people’s painful memories of conflict. Interviews were pursued only with architects when data about the studied buildings and public spaces were not available from the other abovestated sources. Third, this book is about how an ongoing ethnic conflict is mediated through architecture and urban space. There is no temporal distance in researching these issues, so it is possible that new events related to the conflict were emerging while this text was being written. To that effect, the framework of time is limited to the period from 1992 to August 2017, the latter being the date on which the last fieldwork was conducted. Any issues or data related to this topic that emerged after these data were collected were not included in the discussion of this book. My hope is that the issues and data that will emerge for future research will lead to findings about the ways in which design can act as a trigger for a positive socio-political change. While the argument of this book is that architecture and urban space play a crucial mediating role in war, built form and public space are more than merely lenses through which we can understand the causes, dynamics and consequences of socio-political conflicts. Architectural and urban design professions are about imagining and shaping the future city. An understanding of how and where war takes place can help with strategies of intervention that could change our cities for the better. The insights into how the urban form, network, spatial practices, meanings and senses of place were destroyed to eradicate urban diversity can open a window onto the features of cities that should be transformed with a view to reinforcing coexistence.

Notes 1. For instance, the concepts of urbicide and warchitecture have been reintroduced by the Association of Sarajevo Architects through the wartime exhibition “Urbicide – Sarajevo = Sarajevo, une ville blesse” in Centre Pompidou in Paris in 1994, and the catalogue of destroyed buildings and urban quarters “Warchitecture: Urbicide Sarajevo”. 2. Sarajevo was founded by the Ottoman Empire as the capital of the province of Bosnia in 1462 (Donia 2006).

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3. The term Bosniak dates from the Middle Ages, when it was used as a marker of all peoples inhabiting the medieval Bosnian state. It was revived at the beginning of 1990s as a marker of the national identity that would include everybody who lived in and supported a united Bosnia and Herzegovina and who considered themselves Bosnian, regardless of being Muslim, Orthodox, Catholic or from a mixed marriage (Bringa 1995). Nevertheless, as the Bosnian Orthodox and Catholic populations largely declare themselves as Serbs or Croats, respectively, the term Bosniak operates as the national identity marker of the Bosnian Muslim population (Bringa 1995). The term has resolved the inadequacy of the term ‘Muslim’, written with a capital ‘M’, which was used between 1971 and the 1990s as the national label of the Bosnian Muslims, even though many of them were secular. 4. In May 1992, the Assembly of the Serbian People of Bosnia and Herzegovina stated six strategic aims that included “separation [of Bosnian Serbs] from two other national groups” and the integration of “all Serbian territories without interruptions” (Donia 2006: 228) into what Malcolm (1994) argued was imagined as ‘Greater Serbia’. Sarajevo played a strategic role in this geo-political reconfiguration of territory as it linked the perceived Serbian lands in eastern Bosnia-Herzegovina along the border with Serbia. 5. The BSA was formed from the remnants of the Yugoslav People’s Army (JNA) by retaining soldiers of Serbian ethnicity who were born in Bosnia-­ Herzegovina (Rujanac 2003). The BSA kept the weapons and resources from the JNA, which was the fourth most powerful army in Europe. The Army of Bosnia and Herzegovina was formed ad hoc at the beginning of the war by the soldiers who left the JNA, who were mainly Muslims but also non-nationalist Bosnian Serbs and Croats. The ABH had very limited resources at the beginning of the war. At the beginning of the siege, the only heavy arms that the ABH possessed were tanks from the Second World War housed in the Historic Museum in Sarajevo, while the uniform of its soldiers was a tracksuit and sneakers (Kapić 2000). Resources were obtained through conquer after battles with the BSA until June 1993, when the tunnel beneath Sarajevo International Airport was dug, which enabled the inflow of arms and equipment to the city from the territory under BosnianHerzegovinian control.

References Al Sayed, K., & Hanna, S. (2013). How City Spaces Afford Opportunities for Riots. In Y. O. Kim, H. T. Park, & K. W. Seo (Eds.), Proceedings of the Ninth International Space Syntax Symposium. Seoul: Sejong University. Alić, D. (2006). Marindvor Precinct and the Design of the Socialist Modernism. In T.  McMinn, J.  Stephens, & S.  Basson (Eds.), Contested Terrains, The Proceedings of the Twenty-Third Annual Conference of the Society of

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Architectural Historians, Australia and New Zealand, Notre Dame University, Fremantle, Western Australia, pp. 9–14. Bassiouni, M. C. (1994). Study of the Battle and Siege of Sarajevo. Annex VI Part 1 of the Final Report of the United Nations Commission of Experts Established Pursuant to Security Council Resolution 780 (1992). http://www.ess.uwe. ac.uk/comexpert/anx/vi-01.htm. Accessed 12 Sept 2017. Bevan, R. (2006). The Destruction of Memory: Architecture at War. London: Reaktion. Bollens, S. (2011). City and Soul in Divided Societies. London/New York: Routledge. Braude, B., & Lewis, B. (1982). Introduction. In B. Braude & B. Lewis (Eds.), Christians and Jews in the Ottoman Empire: The Functioning of a Plural Society. New York: Holmes & Meir. Bringa, T. (1995). Being Muslim the Bosnian Way: Identity and Community in a Central Bosnian Village. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Burns, J.  F. (1992, September 27). Sarajevo Siege Deepens, Defying Efforts at Peace. New York Times. http://www.nytimes.com/1992/09/27/world/­ sarajevo-siege-deepens-defying-efforts-at-peace.html?src=pm. Accessed 12 Sept 2011. Calame, J., & Charlesworth, E. (2009). Divided Cities: Belfast, Beirut, Jerusalem, Mostar, and Nicosia. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Corner, J. (1999). The Agency of Mapping: Speculation, Critique and Invention. In D. Cosgrove (Ed.), Mappings. London: Reaktion Books. Coward, M. (2007). Urbicide Reconsidered. Theory and Event, 10, 2. Coward, M. (2009). Urbicide: The Politics of Urban Destruction. New  York: Routledge. DeLanda, M. (2006). A New Philosophy of Society: Assemblage Theory and Social Complexity. London: Continuum. Deleuze, G., & Guattari, F. (1987). A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. London: Athlone Press. Deleuze, G., & Parnet, C. (1987). Dialogues. New  York: Columbia University Press. Donia, R. (2006). Sarajevo: A Biography. London: Hurst & Co. Dovey, K. (2010). Becoming Places: Urbanism/Architecture/Identity/Power. London/New York: Routledge. Dovey, K. (2016). Urban Design Thinking: A Conceptual Toolkit. London: Bloomsbury Academic. Dovey, K., & Ristic, M. (2015). Mapping Urban Assemblages: The Production of Spatial Knowledge. Journal of Urbanism: International Research on Placemaking and Urban Sustainability, 10(1), 15–28. Dovey, K., Ristic, M., & Pafka, E. (2018). Mapping as Spatial Knowledge. In K.  Dovey, E.  Pafka, & M.  Ristic (Eds.), Mapping Urbanities: Morphologies, Flows, Possibilities. New York/Oxon: Routledge.

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Elden, S. (2013). Secure the Volume: Vertical Geopolitics and the Depth of Power. Political Geography, 34, 35–51. Fairclough, N. (2003). Analysing Discourse: Textual Analysis for Social Research. London: Routledge. FAMA. (1993). Survival Guide. Sarajevo: FAMA. Farias, I., & Bender, T. (Eds.). (2010). Urban Assemblages: How Actor-Network Theory Changes Urban Studies. London: Routledge. Flyvbjerg, B. (2006). Five Misunderstandings About Case-Study Research. Qualitative Inquiry, 12(2), 219–245. Foucault, M. (1995). Discipline and Punish: The Birth of Prison. New  York: Vintage Books. GDELT. (2013). Mapping a World in Motion: A Daily Dashboard of Global Conflict. http://blog.gdeltproject.org/mapping-a-world-in-motion-a-dailydashboard-of-global-conflict/. Accessed 30 Sept 2016. Graham, S. (2003). Lessons in Urbicide. New Left Review, 19, 63–77. Graham, S. (2004). Cities, War and Terrorism: Towards and Urban Geopolitics. Oxford: Blackwell. Graham, S. (2007). Demodernizing by Design: Everyday Infrastructure and Political Violence. In D. Gregory & A. Pred (Eds.), Violent Geographies: Fear, Terror and Political Violence. New  York/London: Routledge, Taylor and Francis Group. Graham, S. (2010). Cities Under Siege: The New Military Urbanism. London: Verso. Graham, S., & Hewitt, L. (2012). Getting off the Ground: On the Politics of Urban Verticality. Progress in Human Geography, 37(1), 72–92. Herscher, A. (2007). Urbicide, Urbanism, and Urban Destruction in Kosovo. Theory and Event, 10(2). http://muse.jhu.edu/journals/theory_and_event/ toc/tae10.2.html Herscher, A. (2008). Warchitectural Theory. Journal of Architectural Education, 61(3), 35–43. Herscher, A. (2010). Violence Taking Place: The Architecture of the Kosovo Conflict. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Huyssen, A. (2003). Present Pasts: Urban Palimpsests and the Politics of Memory. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Jukić, V. (2016). Cenzus of Population, Households and Dwellings in Bosnia and Herzegovina, 2013: Final Results. Sarajevo: Agency for Statistics of Bosnia and Herzegovina. Kaldor, M. (2007). New and Old Wars: Organized Violence in a Global Era. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Kapić, S. (2000). The Siege of Sarajevo 1992–1996. Ljubljana: Mladinska knjiga tiskarna d.d. Karahasan, DŽ. (1994). Sarajevo, Exodus of a City. New  York: Kodansha International.

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Lefebvre, H. (1991). The Production of Space. Cambridge: Oxford. Logan, W., & Reeves, K. (2009). Places of Pain and Shame: Dealing with ‘Difficult’ Heritage. London/New York: Routledge. Macdonald, S. (2008). Difficult Heritage: Negotiating the Nazi Past in Nuremberg and Beyond. London/New York: Routledge. Malcolm, N. (1994). Bosnia: A Short History. London: Macmillan. McFarlane, C. (2011). Assemblage and Critical Urbanism. City, 15(2), 204–224. Misselwitz, P., & Rieniets, T. (2006). City of Collision: Jerusalem and the Principles of Conflict Urbanism. Basel: Birkhäuser. Müller, M. (2015). Assemblages and Actor-networks: Rethinking Socio-material Power, Politics and Space. Geography Compass, 9(1), 27–41. Müller, M., & Schurr, C. (2016). Assemblage Thinking and Actor-Network Theory: Conjunctions, Disjunctions, Cross-Fertilisations. Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers, 41, 217–229. PATTRN. (2014). Political Violence in Africa. http://p1005.pattrn-app.co/. Accessed 30 Sept 2016. Riedlmayer, A. (1995, April 4). Killing Memory: The Targeting of Bosnia’s Cultural Heritage: Testimony Presented at a Hearing of the Commission on Security and Cooperation in Europe, U.S. Congress. www.haverford.edu/relg/sells/killing. html. Accessed 12 Sept 2011. Ristic, M. (2018). Warscapes. In K. Dovey, E. Pafka, & M. Ristic (Eds.), Mapping Urbanities: Morphologies, Flows, Possibilities. New York/Oxon: Routledge. Rose, G. (2001). Visual Methodologies. London: Sage. Rujanac, Z. (2003). Opsjednuti grad Sarajevo [The Besieged City of Sarajevo]. Sarajevo: Bosanski kulturni centar Sarajevo [Bosnian Cultural Centre Sarajevo]. Samper, J. (2011). Spatial Conditions of Violence in the City of Medellin. http:// informalsettlements.blogspot.de/2011/03/spatial-conditions-of-violence-incity.html. Accessed 30 Sept 2016. Silber, L., & Little, A. (1996). The Death of Yugoslavia. London: Penguin. Weizman, E. (2007). Hollow Land: Israel’s Architecture of Occupation. London/ New York: Verso. Weizman, E. (2017). Forensic Architecture: Violence at the Threshold of Detectability. Cambridge: MIT Press.

CHAPTER 2

Cities, Nationalism and Conflict

Lefebvre (1996) famously argued that the city is a reflection of the society on the ground and an arena for its social reproduction. The city’s urban structure and morphology, materiality of its buildings, as well as its public spaces, spatial practices and meanings of place can all express socio-­political order and hierarchy, mediate and legitimate power, convey national ideologies and construct collective identities and relations. Yet, the city is not merely a social mirror. Architecture and urban space also play a role in the constitution and transformation of social reality (Dovey 2008). The city provides a stage as well as tools for societal change, contestation of political authority, resistance against violence, and oppression through appropriation, adaption and transformation of buildings and public spaces. My focus in this book is on the extreme case of the social transformation that is mediated through violent destruction of architecture and urban space during war. I also investigate the post-war context with the aim of understanding the capacity of buildings and public spaces to contribute to overcoming wartime traumas and foster integration of a fragmented society through reconstruction and commemoration. In this chapter, I will discuss these matters by providing a review of the existing literature from the fields of architecture, urban design, geography, history, politics and sociology that addresses spatial dimensions of political conflict, violence and terror, collective trauma and memory of war. I will thus © The Author(s) 2018 M. Ristic, Architecture, Urban Space and War, Palgrave Studies in Cultural Heritage and Conflict, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-76771-0_2

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situate this book within the state-of-the-art in the field, which will sharpen the issues at stake in this book’s inquiry. I will conclude with a brief account of how the book will complement and contribute to current studies with both new empirical insights and theoretic concepts.

Nationalism in Architecture and Urban Space Anderson (1983: 15) defines the nation as “an imagined political community”. It is imagined because its existence does not depend on personal interaction among its members—most of them have never seen or met each other—but instead on the mental image of affiliation that they have in their minds. Anderson (1983) argues that nations are modern creations whose ‘imagination’ was enabled at the end of eighteenth century with the transition from feudalism to capitalism and the discovery of print media technology. The crucial tipping point was when entrepreneurs saw an opportunity to increase profit through dissemination of print material in vernacular languages instead of generic Latin. This resulted in the creation of common national discourses, and groups of people that read them became aware of their fellow readers and imagined themselves as members of the same nation. This means that nations are modern and socially constructed communities; they are not born by nature. Nationalism is an ideology on the basis of which nations are imagined; it creates nations where they did not previously exist (Gellner 1983). There are two types of nationalism and two types of nations—civic and ethnic. Civic nations emerge on the basis of common territory and a common sense of being a group of people who are gathered within the same boundaries beyond which exist other nations (Gellner 1983). In contrast, ethnic nations are formed on the basis of the myth of common ancestry (Smith 1986). Although commonly associated with the metaphor of family, in reality, ethnicity is not about blood and genes but about belief in a common descent. Like civic nations, ethnic nations also share a link to a particular territory, however, this does not mean that they have to physically possess that territory, and they are often exiled from their motherland, as in the case of Jews or Armenians. Rather, members of an ethnic nation share a belief in the historical belonging to a territory, known as their homeland, and a sacred center to which they wish to return (Smith 1993). Civic nations are mobilized by the state through promotion of common civic codes and rights, “standardized, homogenous and centrally ­sustained high cultures” (Gellner 1983: 54), a shared mass education sys-

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tem, high culture and language. Dissemination of these values tends to unify and create sameness. In contrast, ethnic nations evolve through popular mobilization of the vernacular culture, including ethno-historical myths and legends, religion and customs, and folklore. Vernacular culture is ‘rediscovered’ rather than ‘invented’ by ethnic intellectuals who use it as a political weapon in a cultural war against outsiders. Ethnic purification is thus a crucial part of the logic of ethnic nationalism. In order to be preserved, ethnic culture must be “purged and purified, kept away from undesirable influences through the relegation, segregation, expulsion, deportation, and even extermination of aliens” (Smith 1993: 37). The question that arises is, ‘What happens when several ethnic nations that inhabit the same territory claim it as theirs?’ It is to this question that I will return after providing a brief account of the role of architecture and urban space in constructing national identity. Buildings and public spaces are some of the key modes of representation of national identity, whether they construct inclusive civic or exclusive ethnic identities. In his seminal book Architecture, Power and National Identity, Vale (2008) argues that, throughout history, political regimens, governments and leaders have carefully manipulated architecture and urban space as tools for disseminating political authority and national ideologies. According to Vale (2008), public statements of national identity can take multiple forms, ranging from the design of an entirely new capital city to the design of government quarters, buildings and monuments. National identity can be invested in places through a constellation of particular meanings that can be composed such that they convey national narratives that tell people who they are and where they come from or belong to. Meanings of places shape what Barthes (2001) refers to as ‘myths’, because they produce truth-effects that make us perceive their socially constructed identity as if it were naturally given (Dovey 2008). Hence Hitler’s famous phrase about architecture as “the word in stone” (Taylor 1974). He believed that buildings are tools that disseminate messages and ideas, and he used them extensively as a means of political propaganda (Balfour 1990). He wanted to redesign Berlin, transforming it into the capital of the world, where buildings would be visible representations of Nazi ideology. When how the world is built resonates with how the city is built, such narratives construct world views and become part of the unquestioned framework of everyday life (Dovey 1999). When national identity is taken for granted by citizens, then it is affirmed. In this sense, places are potent as forms of discourse, but they can also be problematic.

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Architecture and urban space invested with national myths are not innocent—they can legitimize or camouflage the power of particular national or ethnic groups in a society while marginalizing others. Dovey (1999, 2016) argues that statements of national identity in architecture and urban space can take multiple forms: orientation, scale, style, history, nature and ritual. National identity often gets embedded into what Lynch (1960) has called ‘the image of the city’, which is framed by five elements: paths, edges, nodes, landmarks and districts. A constellation of these elements constructs ‘mental maps’ (Lynch 1960) of the city in the minds of its residents. They frame a particular spatial order and hierarchy that stands for the socio-political order and conveys dominant national narratives that can legitimize dominant social groups while excluding others. An example is the Australian parliament building located on Capital Hill in Canberra. Positioned on the apex of a triangle formed by the city’s three main street axes, parliament is visible from great distances and in different directions, which frames the building as the symbolic center of the Australian capital city and the nation. Its alignment with the Australian War Memorial along a clear visual axis forms a spatial composition that conveys a myth of the shared sacrifice of those who died in wars for the Commonwealth of Australia. Such a national narrative, which in a sense ‘forgets’ the country’s Aboriginal history, is contested by the installation of the Aboriginal Tent Embassy, which a group of indigenous people established in 1972 as a spatial gesture that poses the question, ‘What about us?’ National myths can also be conveyed through the design style with the scale, form, materiality and aesthetic expression of buildings. For instance, the Reichstag building, which is the seat of the German parliament in Berlin, was built in a neo-classical style characterized by symmetry and hierarchy of architectural elements, which express the hierarchic order of the state. After its post-Cold War reconstruction, its roof—covered with a glass cupola and featuring a spiral ramp offering panoramic views of the city—was opened to visitors. The cupola is placed above the assembly hall, and its ceiling is covered with a glass panel through which visitors can see politicians in assembly sessions. Not only does the insight into the parliamentary sessions from above convey the idea of the transparency of the post-Cold War German government, but the citizens standing above the politicians operates as an architectural metaphor for German democracy. References to history invested in built form relate to Hobsbawm’s (1992) idea of ‘invented traditions’, such as shared heritage and memo-

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ries, which give nations a sense of continuity. For instance, monuments in public space or urban heritage legitimize the nation through history— although they are contemporary and socially constructed, these make them appear as naturally given. The city also often works as a stage for the urban choreography of national rituals, which involves public display of national symbols through public celebrations, festivals and political and other public events. Invested with national meanings, buildings and public spaces become national ‘urban brands’ that serve as mass media for disseminating national identity. Urban branding can be defined as packaging together different historical, cultural and social aspects of place in order to produce desired ‘images of place’ promoted through media in order to attract the targeted audience (Short and Kim 1998). This means that contemporary states, in a way, became equally dependent on place marketing in the process of nation-building. An urban brand to some extent links to Lynch’s (1960) concepts of iconography and landmarking because it represents a part that stands for the whole—it functions as a metaphor that tells the story of the entire place. One mode of encounter with built forms that are national symbols is through practices of everyday urban life and use of buildings and public spaces, which is the privilege of residents of a particular city. Nevertheless, the buildings and spaces that are national symbols are also ‘imaged’ and branded via television, newspapers, and objects in everyday circulation including banknotes, stamps, maps and postcards. In this way, the national narratives that they embody are disseminated to the broader population of the state. National identity invested in architecture and urban space can also be contested through transformations of place. National narratives embedded in symbolic buildings and public places such as governmental quarters, national landmarks and monuments are available for semantic inversion through spatial practices of everyday life or public political action including protest, resistance, democracy and liberation (Dovey 2008). Yet, my focus in this book is on the extreme case of transformation of ethno-nationalist identities and relations through destruction and reconstruction of architecture and urban space during and after the war. The siege of Sarajevo, which was motivated by the re-emergence of the politics of ethnic nationalism after the fall of the former Yugoslavian communist ideology, can be classified as a type of war that Kaldor (2007) has termed ‘new war’. Unlike old wars, which had geo-political or ideological aims, or were fought for ‘forward looking projects’ of the society, as in the case of

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anti-colonization wars, the goals of new wars are backward-looking and fought for social change based on a nostalgic view of an idealized past. They are about a politics of identity that focuses on the claim for power over particular territory on the basis of racial, ethnic or religious labels. Unlike the politics of ideas of old wars, which tended towards social integration, the identity politics of new wars are exclusive and tend towards fragmentation. Kaldor (2007) argues that new wars commonly fall into a category of ‘asymmetric conflicts’ because they are usually fought between parties that significantly differ in their military power. A main feature is the changed mode of warfare, which often involves harsh violation of the conventional rules of wars as, apart from killing, expulsion and resettlement of civilians, they are characterized by massive destruction of civic architecture and urban spaces that cannot be classified as military targets. The importance of understanding the architectural and urban dimensions of such wars has been highlighted in a growing body of scholarship. A series of concepts have emerged to address how nationalism, conflict and war become invested, mediated and contested in the built environment in both war- and peacetime, which I will discuss in the forthcoming chapters. As there is no scope within this book to cover all these concepts, I will focus on those that have emerged in or been linked to the context of ethnic conflict in cities, such as the former Yugoslavian or Israeli-Palestinian cities, and thus provide a review as a departure point to discuss the contribution that this book is making.

The ‘-Cides’ of War Three terms ending with the suffix ‘-cide’, meaning ‘to kill’ (from Latin -cı̄da or French cide)—spatio-cide, urbicide, and memoricide—have been used to address the ontology of spatial violence. Although they draw an analogy with genocide (Shaw 2004), these concepts reject the anthropocentric notion that the destruction of place is merely an accompanying strategy in campaigns that murder or displace people. Rather, they treat spatial violence as a phenomenon in its own right (Coward 2009), with its particular dynamics, causes and consequences, albeit with differences in understanding what the city and violence against it is, what (within the city) is targeted and why, as well as what such violence does. Spatio-cide, which is the broadest concept in terms of the scale of the targets, was coined by Hanafi (2009) in the context of Israeli colonization of Palestinian territories. Hanafi (2009) defines spatio-cide as the target-

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ing of entire landscapes with the aim of making the resettlement of the Palestinian population inevitable. He argues that such violence is motivated by ‘agoraphobia’—the fear of wide-open space—where the aim is not division and segregation but the complete abolition of the Palestinian territory by transforming it into mere land (turning topos into atopia). Spatio-cide entails a combination of three strategies: space annihilation, ethnic cleansing and apartheid (Hanafi 2009). The first involves large-­ scale space destruction of urban and rural territories, similar to the destruction of Hiroshima or Dresden during the Second World War. Rather than bombs, the weapons in this context are bulldozers, which are used to demolish houses, streets, hillsides, plantations and vegetation. The second involves transfer of the Palestinian population through dispossession and confiscation of their properties in order to build Jewish settlements within them. The third involves various mechanisms of partition, separation and segregation through the construction of fortifications, checkpoints and the Separation Wall in order to segregate the Israeli and Palestinian territories and populations (Weizman 2007). Urbicide, which is “the killing or slaying of urbanity” (Coward 2007: 4), is a narrower but a more widely used concept in the academic literature on spatial violence. It was coined in 1960 by Berman (1996), who discussed the destruction of urban neighborhoods in New York for modernist renewal projects, such as the World Trade Centre or the Brooklyn Expressway, as instances of annihilation of the urban diversity and mixed urban character of Manhattan’s urban fabric by architects and planners, namely Robert Moses. The term ‘urbicide’ gained more currency in the 1990s, in the context of ethnic conflicts and wars in the former Yugoslavia, Soviet Union and Israel/Palestine, in which military violence against cities became a prominent characteristic. In this context, urbicide has been conceived of as an integral part of the politics of ethnic nationalism. It has been defined as the killing of urbanity by means of targeting heterogeneity and/or otherness embedded in architecture and urban space, which stand in opposition to the ethno-nationalist politics of homogenization and purification (Coward 2009; Herscher 2007; Graham 2003). Several accounts of urbicide have emerged in this context. First, in his book Urbicide: The Politics of Urban Destruction, Coward (2009) defined urbicide as the destruction of the shared spatiality framed by mundane everyday buildings, which creates the possibility of being-with-others (Coward 2007, 2009). Drawing on the existentialist phenomenology of Martin Heidegger, Coward (2009) argues that buildings and open places are phe-

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nomenologically public objects that constitute the space within which humans exist. As publicness presumes availability to others, spatiality framed by built environment implies sharing with others and encounters with difference. This implies that the public realm framed by buildings is characterized by heterogeneity and diversity. This further suggests that urbicide entails the destruction of what constitutes the physical and material conditions of the ability of plural communities to exist (Coward 2009). Second, not all urbicide is anti-heterogeneity, it is also anti-Others (Nurhan 2014) and focused on targeting places related to particular communities perceived as ‘out-of-place’. The most prominent case is the bulldozing of Palestinian homes in Palestinian cities or refugee camps by the Israeli Defence Force (IDF). Although Israelis claimed to be demolishing illegally built objects or removing terrorist nests of Palestinian fighters and suicide bombers, Graham (2002, 2003) argues that the destruction of homes forges a forcible removal of the Palestinian Others from the territories regarded by the Israelis as theirs. He contends that such violence represents urbicide in that it denies the Palestinians their individual or collective rights to their cities (Graham 2003). Third, apart from being immanent to the politics of ethnic nationalism, urbicide has also been linked to the ideology of multi-culturalism. For instance, under the communist regime of the former Yugoslavia, the Albanian bazaar in the Kosovo capital, Pristina, was destroyed to make room for the modernist city center aimed at promoting unity among Kosovo’s diverse ethnic communities. Herscher (2007) argues that such destruction was not aimed at eradicating social heterogeneity, but actually at fostering it. Urbicide is thus enmeshed in both the destruction and (re)construction of cities and takes place during both war- and peacetime. Memoricide, which is interpreted as the ‘killing of memory’, is the narrowest concept that addresses the destruction of cultural heritage in/of cities, including historic open spaces (e.g. Mostar Bridge), urban quarters (medieval bazaars) and religious or cultural buildings (mosques, churches and synagogues; libraries, museums and archives) as a means of erasing traces of communities that had inhabited the city (Riedlmayer 1995; Bevan 2006). Such violence has been understood as a “cultural dimension of genocide” or ethnic cleansing by other means (Riedlmayer 1995; Bevan 2006). Posing a thesis that cultural heritage provides visible evidence of the presence of Others or co-existence of plural communities in the city, Riedlmayer (1995) and Bevan (2006) argue that its destruction represents an attempt to erase history and ‘kill memory’ of ethnic pluralism in the city, thus setting the stage for the inscription of new mono-cultual ethnic histories.

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In addition to spatiocide, urbicide and memoricide, the concept of warchitecture—defined as “war by architecture” (Herscher 2008, 2010: 83)—is focused on the addresses of war- and peacetime architectural destruction as a means of contestation of collective identities and political ideologies embedded in the targeted buildings. Apart from the question of what spatial violence is, the current literature presents two accounts of what such violence does. The first is an irrationalizing theory of urban destruction, held by Bogdanović (1995) and Štraus (1995), which frames spatial violence not only as violence against the city but also as violence outside and foreign to the city and its urban culture, values and way of life (Herscher 2008). Bogdanović (1995) holds that urban destruction is motivated by urbophobia or the fear of the city by rural city-haters—that is, ethnic-nationalist hygienists whose conservative ideals of homogenization and purification stand at odds with the intrinsic logic of the city. For Bogdanović (1995), the destruction of the city is flagrant and wanton, and represents a ‘revenge of the countryside’ by panic-ridden souls with a barbaric mindset that feel defenseless before anything they cannot understand. Grodach (2002) argues that this account sustains the essentialist and antagonistic dichotomies of rural/urban, countryside/city, primitivism/civility and thus reinforces stereotyped forms of identities and concepts of self and other. Coward (2009) holds that it also reduces the complexity of the relation(s) between the city and conflict to the metaphor of barbarity. Herscher (2010) contends that such interpretation of urban destruction ignores that different forms of warand peacetime spatial violence have been immanent in the shaping of cities through history. To that effect, a series of studies present a rationalizing theory of spatial violence whereby the targets are specific types of buildings and open spaces, and the intentions and aims behind their destruction are deliberate. The main hypothesis of such an account of spatial violence is that urban destruction does not merely operate as a negation of urban construction but rather as its violent counterpart (Herscher and Siddiqi 2014). Drawing on Nietzsche’s notion that violence constitutes power rather than merely acting as a surface manifestation of power, Feldman (1991: 20) argues that violence is also not merely an instrument of attack on places, but a “transformative practice that constructs novel poles of enactment”. From this point of view, urban destruction can be conceived of as a form of socio-spatial production whereby the military can be seen as ‘architects’ and ‘urban designers’ who reshape cities, buildings and public spaces—

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physically, semantically and experientially—in the course of attacking and destroying them. Spatial violence is enmeshed in the reproduction of urban territories and place identities. In the context of ethnic conflict, Coward (2009) argues that the built environment is attacked because it provides physical conditions for agonistic relationality that are a permanent provocation of difference through which the identities of self and other emerge. In contrast, ethnic nationalism is sustained by the myth of homogeneity, which presumes that identity is derived from itself without engaging in the relationship with alterity. Violence thus attacks the spatiality of agonism in an attempt to territorialize antagonism by reshaping the heterogeneous city into separate enclaves having no being in common. It also transforms plural agonistic identities that provoke and constitute one another into antagonistic ethnic identities that confront each other (Coward 2009: 96). To that effect, the identities of the subjects and objects of violence are not pre-given, but produced through violence. Drawing on Appadurai’s concept of violence as ‘forensic investigation’, Herscher (2008: 41) argues that “violence is as much an exploratory examination of its objects as a targeted destruction of them”. He suggests that the identity of a building “does not remain stable after that building is attacked, damaged, or destroyed” (Herscher 2008: 42). Violence “transforms, often fundamentally, the values, meanings, and identities of architecture” and inflicts new symbols on it (Herscher 2008: 42). This transformation of identity of architecture is both a result of the overt interpretation of violence by its perpetrators as well as the product of “the experience [and representation] of destruction by its victims, witnesses, and audiences” (Herscher 2008: 42). For example, by targeting Islamic bazaars and mosques, not only are these places rendered ‘Albanian’ but also adverse to Serbs. By targeting them in the name of Serbs, not only do politicians characterize themselves as representatives of Serbs but also frame Serbs against Albanians, thus shaping hostile identities and relations between the ethnic groups. The targeted architectural sites and communities, territories and boundaries are not pre-existing or fixed but instead are in the process of becoming and changing.

Architects as Military Political conflict is not merely restricted to military fighting, but urban domination, oppression and violence can also be inflicted by the decisions and practices of the city’s architects, urban designers and planners. As

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Herscher and Siddiqi (2014) argue, the terms ‘urban violence’ or ‘spatial violence’ do not merely refer to wartime confrontations taking place in or against the built environment; they refer to violence facilitated by or inflicted through construction and reconstruction of built form and urban space. To misquote Clausewitz, architecture and urban design can operate as politics and conflict by other means. Divided, partitioned and segregated cities throughout the world, such as Nicosia, Belfast, Cape Town, Detroit and others, are but some examples of such spatial conditions and architectural and urban practices. They are characterized by what Pullan (2011: 31) has called ‘frontier urbanism’, which she defines as a form of urban design and planning that is focused on the creation of physical, symbolic and mental barriers both in their built environments and in the minds of their residents. Frontier urbanism is a socio-spatial condition—it is characterized both by the “settling of civilians as frontier populations” and by the use of various spatial mechanisms to actualize and maintain fragmentation, enclosure and confrontation (Pullan 2011: 31). It is achieved through different types of conflict infrastructure (Pullan 2011), including natural landscapes, such as mountains and rivers; physical barriers, such as walls and checkpoints; open spaces, such as streets and buffer zones; and regimes of mobility aimed at slowing down or eradicating movement as a means of division (Pullan 2011; Calame and Charlesworth 2009). These mechanisms of spatial fragmentation commonly evolve as an emergency response to the prevention of violence from the war continuing into the post-war period (Calame and Charlesworth 2009). However, they often remain permanent, not so much because they are difficult to dismantle in physical and functional manner, but because, as the case of Berlin has shown, they remain inscribed in the spatial memories of their residents (Ladd 1997; Pullan 2011). Calame and Charlesworth (2009) argue that such spatial patterns of urban partition and segregation postpone and/or prevent ethnic reconciliation by transforming wartime violence into a post-war culture of fear and ­paranoia, distrust, continued antagonism, and stereotyping of the Other. They give the failure of diplomacy and democracy a visible physical form. The Israeli occupation of Palestinian territories is the most ubiquitous case of how architecture, urban design and planning are deployed for the political purposes of division, oppression and control of urban settlements and their populations (Segal et al. 2003; Weizman 2007; Misselwitz and Rieniets 2006). In his book Hollow Land, and a book co-edited

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with Segal and Tartakover entitled The Civilian Occupation, Weizman (2007; Segal et al. 2003) reveals how Israeli military violence has transformed into different forms of ‘peaceful’ civilian occupation, and how it is spatially manifested in different forms: from camouflaging itself through seemingly mundane structures as ‘peaceful settlement’, to being overtly expressed and unilaterally imposed through construction of physical barriers and fortifications. For instance, the Israeli settlements on the hilltops in the West Bank function not only as tools of ‘land grab’ (Lein and Weizman 2002)—that is, territorial appropriation—but also as a tool for fragmentation and control of the Palestinian territories and population. The roads that connect them slice across Palestinian lands and road networks, thus paralyzing Palestinian movement and breaking their territories into isolated sections that are manageable for control. Using the specific geography and morphology of the hills, the settlements also function as ‘optical devices’ (Weizman 2007) that employ the outward-looking gaze to control the Palestinian territories below them and record Palestinian movements in the West Bank. The Israeli state also employs more overt spatial mechanisms of control, such as the Separation Wall and checkpoints. The wall is not a continuous line but a composition of a disconnected and “fragmented series of self-­ enclosed barriers” (Weizman 2007: 177) that create islands of Israeli settlements surrounded by Palestinian land, and Palestinian settlements surrounded by Israeli land on each side of the wall. In such complex ethnic geography, Weizman (2007) argues that the frontiers of the Palestinian-­ occupied territories are not rigid and fixed but instead elastic, dynamic and in the process of constant transformation—the location of checkpoints is ever-changing, while the route of the Wall shifts constantly. The mechanisms of partition, separation and segregation also stretch across three-­ dimensional space, turning into what Weizman (2007) calls ‘the politics of verticality’. Israelis constructed elevated roads that pass over Palestinian territories or tunnels under Palestinian lands to connect Israeli settlements. On the other hand, Palestinian fighters discovered that occupation and separation can be resisted in three dimensions by constructing tunnels beneath the walls of Gaza or launching home-made rockets above them. The result was the creation of “two separate but overlapping national geographies—two territorial networks overlapping across the same area in three dimensions, without having to cross or come together” (Weizman 2007: 182), while “the territory of Palestine emerged as ‘hollow land’” (Weizman 2007: 15).

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Dealing with Difficult Heritage At stake in political conflicts is also how cities deal with the heritage of the war through post-war reconstruction. Physical ruins, relics, traces of the war in the cityscape and collective memories in the minds of a city’s residents have been regarded in the academic literature as ‘dissonant heritage’ (Tunbridge and Ashworth 1994), ‘difficult heritage’ (Macdonald 2008), and ‘places of pain and shame’ (Logan and Reeves 2009) due to their capacity to express the collective trauma or stigma of a social group and create the grounds for continuous political tension and dispute. Logan and Reeves (2009) argue that most societies have experienced trauma and have scars in their histories from involvement in wars or similar violent events. These events leave their marks on places that for some communities become ‘sites of pain’. Others are regarded as ‘sites of shame’ due to the cruelty of events that took place there (Logan and Reeves 2009). While ‘heritage’ usually refers to ‘beautiful’ structures and sites from the past, today places of destruction and the cruel side of history are being identified as heritage. Smesler (2004: 38) argues that “cultural trauma refers to an invasive and overwhelming event that is believed to undermine (…) one or several essential ingredients of a culture or the culture as a whole”. Alexander (2004: 9) suggests that even though events can be devastating, it is not events that are inherently traumatic, but rather “the meanings that provide the sense of shock and fear, not the events themselves”. Caruth (1995) argues that traumatic effect is not produced by the experience itself, but by remembering the tragic experience. That experience is necessarily mediated through different communication systems like news, art and architecture, and this mediation involves both spatial and temporal distance of the event and its experience. Alexander (2004: 63) further argues that as “mass-mediated experience always involves selective construction and representation”, cultural trauma always involves “meaning struggle”, in which different actors, politics, and interests are involved. As Lahoud et al. (2010) point out, architects and urban designers do not necessarily heal trauma, however they are often complicit in its production. Schneider and Susser (2003) argue that rebuilding after natural or human catastrophe can also have damaging effects. Their edited collection Wounded Cities: Destruction and Reconstruction in a Globalized World explores how globalization processes are implicated in wounding and recovery of cities that were previously affected by war, terror or natural disaster. Although they describe the city as a ‘body politic’ that can

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be injured and healed, they argue that reconstruction itself can be destructive. Post-disaster urban renewal can worsen the problems by provoking debates about whose versions of the past and future should be implemented in the present through the transformation of architecture and urban space. Their focus is on how a ‘reciprocal injury’ (Schneider and Susser 2003) is inflicted on the built environment by global neo-­liberal processes, in which capital and private interests commonly override public needs and desires. Most often the consequences involve socio-spatial inequalities and segregation of the rich and poor; displacement and marginalization of communities according to class, gender and deprivation; and degradation of urban life. Schneider and Susser (2003) argue that the difficulty of reclaiming the city in the post-disaster period lies in the question of whether and how humanitarian principles can be expressed through reconstruction of the built environment. This is because, as Lahoud et al. (2010) argue, urban trauma is a socio-spatial condition in which a natural disaster or a social catastrophe such as war and conflict have damaged both the material built environment and infrastructure of the city, and the social and cultural networks among its residents. Recovering a traumatized city (Vale and Campanella 2004) is thus a socio-spatial issue. The question is not merely how architects, urban designers and planners should approach the material ruins of the war and address the act of destruction through reconstruction (Badescu 2014: 15). The issue also involves addressing the socio-spatial challenge of bringing together and re-establishing positive relationships among fragmented communities through rebuilding the city’s material built form, functional infrastructure and remaking its meanings and sense of place (Bakarat 2005). Bollens (2011) argues that the reconstruction needs to address both physical and psychological scars left by the war on the city and its residents. Badescu (2014) argues that place-making represents a key professional practice for dealing with urban trauma. Nevertheless, as Vale and Campanella (2004) point out, the question is, ‘How should architecture, urban design, and planning respond to trauma?’ Should the city be restored to the pre-traumatic state or be transformed into a resilient space embracing both the wounds and new potential? In his book Post-traumatic Urbanism, Lahoud et al. (2010) argues that part of the response lies in the concept of urban resilience—that is, the capacity of the city to adapt to the condition of shock that it has experienced. This does not imply a simple restoration to the pre-war urban condition, but rather mobilizing the capacity of design and planning practices

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to produce creative responses through which the city can absorb the past condition of shock and come to a new form of stability. According to Lahoud et al. (2010), resilience is neither a return to the initial state nor a break with the traumatic event, but it embodies a notion of continuity that gives it an adaptive strength. A resilient city develops creative adaptive responses to deal with both past shock and future instability. In his study War and Architecture, which is dedicated to the citizens of Sarajevo, Woods (1993) explored these questions by experimenting with a number of utopistic reconstruction methods. He advises against both erasure as well as restoration of the city to the pre-war urban conditions, arguing that this would not only deny the present conditions but also end in a caricature worth nothing more than tourists’ admiration. Instead, he calls for rebuilding on the remnants of the war, embodying rather than denying the painful history of the war. His idea was to rebuild the city by constructing new buildings alongside the wartime ruins invaded by greenery and haunted by memories of the war (Badescu 2014). This does not imply that the new construction would celebrate the destruction caused by the war, but rather accept the suffering and loss, acknowledging the vulnerabilities and failures from which the community reinvents and revitalizes itself through built form. Woods (1993) proposes a number of design principles through which this can be achieved, including ‘injection’ of new structures onto the voids made by destruction, covering wartime wounds with ‘scabs’, or turning them into ‘scars’ of the war. Apart from this utopistic study, there are very few studies from the fields of architecture and urban design that explore these matters. The most concrete studies come from the field of urban planning. In his books on urban peace-building in divided cities, Bollens (2011) explored how planning policies, strategies and interventions can contribute to the restoration of coexistence and reconciliation of the ethnic and sectarian communities previously involved in the war. Some of his proposals include using post-conflict policies to counter the socio-political imbalances and inequalities that have previously motivated the conflict and war; empowering marginalized communities to participate in planning processes; and planning for frontiers, interfaces and public spaces with high levels of flexibility and affordability (Bollens 2011) of uses in order to encourage interaction and mixing among residents. While he acknowledges that urban planning cannot bring peace, it can contribute to creating physical and psychological spaces that can motivate political stability and social co-­existence. Studies of how these have materialized in built form and urban space are scarce.

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Dealing with Painful Memories Apart from urban reconstruction, how collective memories are shaped in built form and public space also play a crucial role in the experience, dissemination and repetition of traumatic events like conflict and war. Walkowitz and Knauer (2004) argue that while a traumatic event has ‘transformative power’ to reshape historic meanings of a contested public space, memory on that site becomes central to shaping how an event is understood. Depending on who authorizes the understanding, “new players can be empowered while the authority of others is diminished” (Walkowitz and Knauer 2004: 2). The desires of a minority of people who take on a privileged position can erase the histories and memories of others. Memory also affects “the way in which we see ourselves [and others] and how we wish others to see us” (Walkowitz and Knauer 2004: 2). As the sites of memory become places in which the past can be contested in the present, Walkowitz and Knauer (2004: 2) suggest that the important questions to ask are: “Who is authorized to interpret events that are viewed as national narratives?”, “Who decides what HAPPENED at a particular site, whose story has been told and for which interest and whose story has been forgotten?”, and “How do competing interests (…) get mediated?” However, between an event and the experience of trauma, there is always a time gap that is characterized by forgetting. Logan and Reeves (2009) argue that painful collective memories often involve radically different perceptions of suffering by the perpetrators and the victims of past violence. As a result of this discrepancy, memory kept in the ‘places of pain and shame’ often involves falsification of history. Logan and Reeves (2009: 2) call this “willful distortion” of collective memory, which is “strategically aimed at […] manipulating history, [… for the purpose of] the maintenance of hegemonic power in the present social order”. This process can lead to “distorted identity formation” (Alexander 2004: 62) in which “certain subject-positions may become especially prominent or even overwhelming, for example, those of victim or perpetrator…wherein one is possessed by the past and tends to repeat it compulsively as if they were truly present” (La Capra 1994: 12). In contrast, Adorno (2003) has coined the concept of ‘coming to terms with the past’ in his investigation of how German society has dealt with the stigma and trauma of the Second World War. He believed that the repres-

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sion of painful pasts would not erase the imprint of violence, but that the way for societies to recover and return to a state of normalcy is to engage in debates about such pasts through social and cultural practices, but also through architectural and urban design practices. Macdonald (2015) argues that, in recent decades, there has been a shift in how painful pasts are understood and how national identity is shared and performed in relation to them. Rather than remembering selectively or forgetting infamous events in history, the disclosure of past wrong-doings has come to be seen as a healthy action that generates the value of social integrity. Silver (2006) argues that dealing with long-standing conflicts among previously disputed communities is the first step to their social integration and cohesion. Since the 1980s and especially in the years since reunification, Germany has taken the lead in publicly addressing its ‘difficult heritage’ by commemorating both the former perpetrators of the past atrocities and their victims in public space (Macdonald 2015). Self-reflection on past wrong-doings has positive effects on identity formation in the present. It is a form of collective psychoanalysis through which the nation divests itself from the failings of its previous regimes and rebuilds positive relations with historically persecuted communities (Macdonald 2015). Not only is public recognition of the shameful past a marker of collective moral strength in the present (Mihai and Thaler 2014), but it also creates an ‘inoculation effect’ in order to prevent similar actions from being committed in the future (Macdonald 2015: 12). In addition to self-confrontation with past atrocities committed in the name of the nation, victim groups of such wrong-doings increasingly use memorials as a means of claiming their place in the city and the broader society (Silver 2006). Memorials can be used as tools for fostering social inclusion of previously disfranchised communities. At the level of memorial production, participation in shaping the past in public spaces through public l­obbying, negotiations and contestations about its design offer a venue for previously marginalized communities to participate in civic life and society’s democratic processes (Silver 2006). Through memory work, former outsiders in fact play an active role in shaping the city’s public discourse and the nation’s collective memory (Silver 2006). At the level of reception, the general public confronting such memorials may mean access and exposure to heterogeneous narratives about the past. Visitors to memorials learn who residents of the city were and are now, and how they come to identify with the city (Silver 2006). The question that arises in this context is, ‘What form should difficult memories take in public space?’ Throughout history, public memorials have played a prominent role in framing the public perception of a group

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of people as members of a community—whether a nation, ethnic group or sectarian group (Anderson 1983). The traditional role of memorials such as mausoleums, statues of leaders and monuments in public space is to convey ‘myths’ about glorious periods of the past and thus give a group of people a sense of continuity, and strengthen their collective unity, attachment and belonging to place. In contrast, a new generation of contemporary artists, particularly in Germany, have experimented with new types of memory places that deal with traumatic and painful memories. These ‘counter-monuments’ (Young 1992), ‘anti-memorials’ (Ware 2004) and ‘abstract memorials’ (Stevens 2009) are conceived of to challenge the intrinsic nature of conventional monuments (Young 1992). They are often conceptual, unfinished and temporary objects or spaces aimed at provoking visitors’ experimental engagement with the city’s history through their use. They are often unsettling and disturbing places designed to stimulate visitors’ feelings or provoke contemplation and self-reflection. Their aim is to provoke rather than console, to change rather than bring stability, and to trigger interaction rather than be ignored (Young 1992: 277). In this book, I will compare the effect of these different forms of commemoration in public space on post-war ethnic identities and relationships.

Toward a New Approach to the Study of City and War The concepts introduced in this chapter are all seminal tools for thinking about the political role of architecture and urban space in the wartime and the post-war contexts. They all address the spatial dimensions of war and conflict: however, with certain limitations. Accounts of spatial violence, coming mostly from political and social science, treat space in a conceptual manner—as an abstract phenomenon—whereby the particularities of architecture and urban space and their role in mediating war and conflict are obscured. Studies of both urban destruction and reconstruction, which are grounded in the fields of architectural history, history, anthropology and sociology, focus on discursive analysis of the city’s destruction and reconstruction. In this approach, the focus is on the semantic capacities of buildings and public spaces, which are often analyzed as symbols of collective identity, history and memory and are being attacked and/or contested in the course of the conflict. The material, physical and spatial dimensions of the urban conflict are often

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neglected. Geographers, on the other hand, focus on material aspects of war and conflict, thus obscuring the idea that destruction is not merely functional but also expressive and meaningful. Existing research is also limited in terms of scale of spatial analysis. Much of the existing research from the fields of architectural and urban history focuses on iconic places in a city, such as historic urban quarters or landmark buildings, which are often investigated as ‘isolated’ places or objects without inquiring about their relationships to the broader urban context. Conversely, studies from the fields of geography and social and political science focus on the political role of cities on the macro-­geographic and geo-political scale without inquiring into the particularities of their morphology on the micro-scale of their architecture and urban space. Current studies are also restricted in terms of their temporal scale of explorations of either wartime or post-war transformations of place and their role in the conflict without their interconnections. These limitations of current studies highlight the need for more dynamic and compound concepts and research methods for investigating the architectural and urban dynamics of war. Such an investigation is challenging, as methodological tools to utilize in such an analysis are not clearly defined. I propose studying the nexus between the city and war by relying on the conceptual framework of assemblage thinking and analytical capacities of urban mapping as a research method. My argument is that this provides multidisciplinary, multi-dimensional and multi-scalar methodology that enables understanding of the complexity of the role that architecture and urban space play in war. It is to this task that I will turn in the following chapters.

References Adorno, T.  W. (2003). The Meaning of Working Through the Past. In R. Tiedemann (Ed.), Can One Live After Auschwitz?: A Philosophical Reader. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Alexander, J.  C. (2004). Cultural Trauma and Collective Identity. Berkeley: University of California Press. Anderson, B. (1983). Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism. London: Verso. Badescu, G. (2014). City Makers, Urban Reconstruction and Coming to Terms with the Past in Sarajevo. In B.  Kotzen & S.  Garcia (Eds.), Reconstructing Sarajevo: Negotiating Socio-political Complexity. London: LSE Cities.

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Bakarat, S. (2005). After the Conflict: Reconstruction and Development in the Aftermath of War. New York: I.B. Tauris. Balfour, A. (1990). Berlin: The Politics of Order, 1737–1989. New York: Rizzoli. Barthes, R. (2001). Mythologies. New York: Hill and Wang. Berman, M. (1996). Falling Towers: City Life After Urbicide. In D. Crow (Ed.), Geography and Identity: Living and Exploring Geopolitics of Identity. Washington, DC: Maisonneuve Press. Bevan, R. (2006). The Destruction of Memory: Architecture at War. London: Reaktion. Bogdanović, B. (1995). The City and Death. In J.  Labon (Ed.), Balkan Blues: Writing Out of Yugoslavia. Evanston: Northwestern University Press. Bollens, S. (2011). City and Soul in Divided Societies. London/New York: Routledge. Calame, J., & Charlesworth, E. (2009). Divided Cities: Belfast, Beirut, Jerusalem, Mostar, and Nicosia. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Caruth, C. (1995). Trauma: Explorations in Memory. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Coward, M. (2007). Urbicide Reconsidered. Theory and Event, 10, 2. Coward, M. (2009). Urbicide: The Politics of Urban Destruction. New  York: Routledge. Dovey, K. (1999). Framing Places: Mediating Power in Built Form. London/New York: Routledge. Dovey, K. (2008). Framing Places: Mediating Power in Built Form. London/New York: Routledge. Dovey, K. (2016). Urban Design Thinking: A Conceptual Toolkit. London: Bloomsbury Academic. Feldman, A. (1991). Formations of Violence: The Narrative of the Body and Political Terror in Northern Ireland. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Gellner, E. (1983). Nations and Nationalism. London: Basil Blackwell. Graham, S. (2002). Bulldozers and Bombs: The Latest Palestinian-Israeli Conflict as Asymmetric Urbicide. Antipode, 34(4), 642–649. Graham, S. (2003). Lessons in Urbicide. New Left Review, 19, 63–77. Grodach, C. (2002). ‘Reconstituting Identity and History in Post-war Mostar’, Bosnia-Herzegovina. City: Analysis of Urban Trends, Culture, Theory, Policy, Action, 6(1), 61–82. Hanafi, S. (2009). Spacio-Cide: Colonial Politics, Invisibility and Rezoning in Palestinian Territory. Contemporary Arab Affairs, 2(1), 106–121. Herscher, A. (2007). Urbicide, Urbanism, and Urban Destruction in Kosovo. Theory and Event, 10(2). http://muse.jhu.edu/journals/theory_and_event/ toc/tae10.2.html Herscher, A. (2008). Warchitectural Theory. Journal of Architectural Education, 61(3), 35–43.

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Herscher, A. (2010). Violence Taking Place: The Architecture of the Kosovo Conflict. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Herscher, A., & Siddiqi, A. (2014). Spatial Violence. Architectural Theory Review, 19(3), 269–277. Hobsbawm, E.  J. (1992). The Invention of Tradition. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kaldor, M. (2007). New and Old Wars: Organized Violence in a Global Era. Stanford: Stanford University Press. La Capra, D. (1994). Representing the Holocaust: History, Theory, Trauma. New York: Cornell University Press. Ladd, B. (1997). The Ghosts of Berlin: Confronting German History in the Urban Landscape. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Lahoud, A., Rice, C., & Burke, A. (2010). Post-traumatic Urbanism. London: Wiley. Lefebvre, H. (1996). Writings on Cities. Oxford: Blackwell Publishing Ltd. Lein, Y., & Weizman, E. (2002). Land Grab. Jerusalem: B’Tselem. Logan, W., & Reeves, K. (2009). Places of Pain and Shame: Dealing with ‘Difficult’ Heritage. London/New York: Routledge. Lynch, K. (1960). The Image of the City. Cambridge: MIT Press. Macdonald, S. (2008). Difficult Heritage: Negotiating the Nazi Past in Nuremberg and Beyond. London/New York: Routledge. Macdonald, S. (2015). Is ‘Difficult Heritage’ Still ‘Difficult’? Why Public Acknowledgment of Past Perpetration May No Longer Be So Unsettling to Collective Identities. Museum International, 67, 6–22. Mihai, M., & Thaler, M. (Eds.). (2014). Uses and Abuses of Political Apologies. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Misselwitz, P., & Rieniets, T. (2006). City of Collision: Jerusalem and the Principles of Conflict Urbanism. Basel: Birkhäuser. Nurhan, A. (2014). Urbicide in Palestine: Spaces of Oppression and Resilience. Oxon/New York: Routledge. Pullan, W. (2011). Frontier Urbanism: The Periphery at the Centre of Contested Cities. The Journal of Architecture, 16(1), 15–35. Riedlmayer, A. (1995, April 4). Killing Memory: The Targeting of Bosnia’s Cultural Heritage: Testimony Presented at a Hearing of the Commission on Security and Cooperation in Europe, U.S. Congress. www.haverford.edu/relg/sells/killing. html. Accessed 12 Sept 2011. Schneider, J., & Susser, I. (2003). Wounded Cities: Destruction and Reconstruction in a Globalized World. London: Bloomsbury Academic. Segal, R., Weizman, E., & Tartakover, D. (2003). A Civilian Occupation: The Politics of Israeli Architecture. London/New York: Verso. Shaw, M. (2004). New Wars of the City: Relationships of “Urbicide” and “Genocide”. In S. Graham (Ed.), Cities, War and Terrorism: Towards an Urban Geopolitics (pp. 141–153). Oxford: Blackwell.

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Short, R. J., & Kim, Y.-H. (1998). Urban Crises/Urban Representations: Selling the City in Difficult Times. In T. Hall & P. Hubbard (Eds.), The Entrepreneurial City: Geographies of Politics, Regime, and Representation. New York: Wiley. Silver, H. (2006). Introduction: Social Integration in the “New Berlin”. German Politics & Society, 24:4(81), 1–48. Smesler, N. (2004). Psychological Trauma and Cultural Trauma. In J. C. Alexander (Ed.), Cultural Trauma and Collective Identity. Berkeley: University of California Press. Smith, A. D. (1986). The Ethnic Origins of Nations. Oxford/New York: Blackwell. Smith, A. D. (1993). Ethnic Sources of Nationalism. In M. E. Brown (Ed.), Ethnic Conflict and International Security. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Stevens, Q. (2009). Nothing More That Feelings: Abstract Memorials. Architectural Theory Review, 14(2), 156–172. Štraus, I. (1995) Arhitekt i barbari [Architect and Barbarians]. Sarajevo: Grad biblioteka, Medjunarodni Centar za Mir. Taylor, R. R. (1974). The Word in Stone: The Role of Architecture in the National Socialist Ideology. Berkeley: University of California Press. Tunbridge, J. E., & Ashworth, G. J. (1994). Dissonant Heritage: The Management of the Past as a Resource in Conflict. Chichester: Willey. Vale, L. J. (2008). Architecture, Power, and National Identity. London: Routledge. Vale, L.  J., & Campanella, T.  J. (2004). The Resilient City: How Modern Cities Recover from Disaster. New York: Oxford University Press. Walkowitz, D. J., & Knauer, L. M. (2004). Memory and the Impact of Political Transformation in Public Space. Durham: Duke University Press. Ware, S. (2004). Contemporary Anti-Memorials and National Identity in the Victorian Landscape. Journal of Australian Studies, 81, 121–134. Weizman, E. (2007). Hollow Land: Israel’s Architecture of Occupation. London/ New York: Verso. Woods, L. (1993). War and Architecture. New York: Princeton Architectural Press. Young, J. E. (1992). The Counter-Monument: Memory Against Itself in Germany Today. Critical Inquiry, 18(2), 267–296.

CHAPTER 3

Topography of Terror: Sniping and Shelling of Urban Space

What is the difference between Sarajevo and Auschwitz? There is no gas in Sarajevo. Maček (2009: 53)

Sarajevans commonly shared this ‘joke’ to describe living conditions in their city during the siege. Unlike in Auschwitz, where poisonous gas was the main extermination method, there was indeed no gas in Sarajevo as the Bosnian Serb Army (BSA) had turned off the city’s infrastructure. Yet, to some extent, the besieged Sarajevo operated as a giant concentration camp in which citizens were confined, controlled and oppressed through different mechanisms of spatial violence and terror, including sniping and shelling of civilians in open public space. Sniping was a form of infrastructural terrorism (Graham 2007)—it targeted the traffic networks and flows of movement as a means of paralyzing the city. Shelling targeted crowds in urban space as a means of denying the public gathering and encountering of residents of different ethnicities. In this chapter, I will discuss how the city’s micro-geography and urban morphology were appropriated to enable such violence and transform central Sarajevo into a ‘landscape of fear’ composed of a network of dangerous and forbidden zones. I will also analyze the effects of such violence and terror on the transformation of the spatial practices of everyday urban

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life in Sarajevo. My argument is that sniping and shelling of public space obliterated the urban connections and patterns of everyday life that sustained Sarajevo’s ethnic mix and, consequently, affected a certain level of ethnic division and ethnic separation of the city’s population. I will conclude the chapter by providing insight into how the targeting of Sarajevo’s public space opens a window for reconsidering the concept of urbicide as the ‘killing’ of urban life.

Landscape of Fear Sniping was the deliberate and precise targeting of unarmed civilians “with no other purpose than to cause death or serious bodily injury” (Bassiouni 1994). In Sarajevo, it had no military justification; its aim was to terrorize residents by spreading fear in urban spaces (ICTY 1999). Sniping focused on the targeting of mundane public places—streets, intersections, squares, markets, tram stops, playgrounds, parks and graveyards. Residents were vulnerable even in the interiors of their homes (Kapić 2000), as people were injured or killed by bullets that went through their windows (ICTY 1999). Sniping was a means of attack on everyday spatial practices like walking, cycling, driving and commuting by public transport. Everyone, regardless of their ethnicity, gender or age, was a moving target—pedestrians, cyclists, passengers, vendors, shoppers, children, firefighters, ambulance drivers, relief workers and journalists. The exact number of sniper casualties during the entire war is not known. Some sources argue that snipers caused even more deaths than artillery shells (Kapić 2000). The International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia (ICTY) found that hundreds were killed and thousands were injured in the period between September 1992 and August 1994 (ICTY 1999). In 1995, 1030 were wounded and 225 killed, 60 of whom were children (Kapić 2000). In attacking Sarajevo, the BSA engaged snipers who were either regular soldiers from the Yugoslav People’s Army (JNA) or gunmen hired from special units of militia, paramilitary forces or shooting associations in Serbia and abroad (Kozar 1993). Their attacks involved distinct patterns of violence. A deliberate and precise targeting operated throughout the siege and its pattern and intensity were coordinated with the rhythms of everyday urban life. It increased in the peak hours of the day, and during weekends and holidays, when the concentration of potential victims was largest (Kapić 2000). It decreased during the night hours with decreased visibility. Deliberate and precise sniping was particularly harsh when the so-called

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‘weekend snipers’ or ‘paid killers’—for whom the killing of Sarajevo’s residents was a part-time job (Jusufović 2008)—were active. For some soldiers, sniping was a form of leisure. “Whenever I come to Sarajevo, I kill someone in passing”, BSA general Ratko Mladić was quoted as saying, according to a prosecutor at an ICTY hearing (Milutinović 2016). In contrast, amongst regular soldiers there were gunmen who engaged in what might be described as ‘considerate sniping’—instead of shooting at civilians, they spent their daily supply of bullets firing at deserted buildings, destroyed cars and street signs (Jusufović 2008). Sarajevans referred to these snipers as ‘domestic snipers’ because they were commonly Serbs who lived in the city before the war. Occasionally, some of the ‘domestic snipers’ even warned parents to remove children playing beneath their positions because a shift of ‘paid killers’ was about to arrive.1 In at least one case, sniping became a form of war tourism. For example, in 1992, the Bosnian Serb leader Radovan Karadžić took his friend, Russian poet Eduard Limonov, to the hills around the city to ‘try out’ sniping the residents of Sarajevo (Pawlikowski and Stojanović 1992). Sniper attacks were enabled by Sarajevo’s specific geography and urban morphology, which were appropriated as weapons of violence (Figs. 1.2, 3.1 and 3.3). Snipers were positioned on the siege line, which included both the peaks of hills and parts of the river bank in the BSA-held suburbs of Grbavica and Nedžarići. They acted from a distance and in secret, from high and concealed positions, which they constantly changed in order to avoid being discovered and unmasked (Kozar 1993). A paradox is that elevated viewpoints where residents of all ethnicities used to gather and enjoy panoramic views of Sarajevo made the city and its inhabitants vulnerable during the war. Mundane public spaces and buildings, such as a hotel, a memorial park, a cemetery in the hills, high-rise apartment buildings on the river bank and even a church in the western-most part of the city, were adopted as shooting nests (Bassiouni 1994). Snipers used semi-automatic machine guns with optics that significantly increased visibility and enabled precise targeting (Kapić 2000). They used anti-aircraft and sniper guns (Gellman 1992) with a range of about 2.5 km, which was enough to reach streets and gathering spaces in the valley from the hills around the city. Although such arms were used at only a small number of elevated positions, snipers could still control a significant portion of Sarajevo and its key areas. There were key differences between how distinct morphologies of Sarajevo’s urban history enabled sniping violence. The map in Fig.  3.1

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Fig. 3.1  Topography of fear—Sniper Alley. (Map: Mirjana Ristic. Reprinted with the permission of Routledge)

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shows snipers’ viewsheds (red-to-yellow gradient hatch) constructed from prominent shooting positions on the siege line, identified via testimonies of witnesses. Although the actual uncovered stretches of the cityscape were larger, the viewsheds were limited to the area that was reachable by sniper bullets (dashed lines). The exposure of public space to a sniper’s gaze was verified through site observation and documented through photography (Fig. 3.2). The map reveals a topography of fear composed of a network of danger zones that were exposed to snipers’ positions. The redto-yellow gradient hatch represents the different levels and intensities of danger that were mediated by the form and density of urban fabric and distances to snipers’ positions. In a general sense, the morphology of the areas in the valley produced zones of exposure that increased in size along the historic trajectory from the Ottoman Town through the Austro-Hungarian Town in the east to the Socialist Town in the west. The Ottoman and Austro-Hungarian Towns were overlooked from the south, from Zlatište Hill positioned 1300–1700 m away and 300 m above (Figs. 1.2 and 3.1). The Ottoman Town was also exposed from a hill called Špicasta Stijena (Spikey Rock) to its north-east. Its small-grain morphology of irregular pattern provided some protection by covering certain intersections and short transverse streets. However, larger open spaces, such as Baščaršija Square, the main square and meeting place in this part of Sarajevo, were entirely exposed. The perimeter block morphology of relatively orthogonal pattern in the Austro-Hungarian town was more dangerous because most of its northsouth streets were uncovered their entire length (Fig. 3.2). The longitudinal east-west streets were partially covered by buildings constructed along the block edges, but with exposed intersections every 75–100  m. The upper river bank and bridges along the southern edge of the Ottoman and Austro-Hungarian Towns were also exposed because the built structure on the lower river bank was too distant to provide cover. As the Ottoman and Austro-Hungarian Towns formed the city center and the focal point of Sarajevo’s urban life, the levels of exposure created by their morphology enabled snipers to target public spaces with high density and intensity of urban life. Apart from Baščaršija Square, Sarajevo’s main pedestrian zone (Ferhadija Street) was fragmented by dangerous north-west streets and intersections. Marshall Tito Street, continuing on to the pedestrian zone, was called the Street of Death due to a large number of casualties (H.I. 1992). Several key gathering places in these areas were also uncovered: a part of the courtyard of Sarajevo’s main mosque, the meeting plaza in

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Fig. 3.2  Snipers’ view of the Austro-Hungarian town (above) and the Socialist town (below). (Photos: Mirjana Ristic. Reprinted with the permission of Routledge)

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front of the Catholic Cathedral, the square in front of the New Serbian Orthodox Church and the southern part of Sarajevo’s main park. Due to the restricted permeability during the siege, the entire city center was referred to as ‘ghetto’ (Še. A. 1992). The newer, modernist, urban morphology of the socialist-period town to the west of the city center created a much higher level of visual exposure from snipers’ positions (Figs. 3.1, 3.2, and 3.3). While this part of the city was largely protected from the north by the hills held by the Army of Bosnia and Herzegovina (ABH), it was exposed to snipers’ positions on the hills to the south and in the BSA-held suburbs. The level of exposure of different parts of the socialist town varied in relation to the distance of the snipers’ positions. The most exposed was the eastern part, which was controlled from high-rise apartment buildings in the BSA-held Grbavica suburb to the south. Sarajevo’s western-most residential suburbs were also highly exposed to snipers’ positions in the BSA-held Nedžarići suburb in the vicinity of Sarajevo International Airport (Fig. 3.3). Only the residential suburbs in the central part of the Socialist Town were visually protected, as the BSA positions in this zone were located behind the hills to their south. The morphology of the Socialist Town produced a macro-geography of danger across large urban zones. The urban fabric in this part of Sarajevo consists of modernist blocks with free-standing high-rise buildings and large open spaces. Its street network is positioned orthogonally in relation to the main boulevard running through the entire Socialist Town in the east-west direction, parallel to the river. This left open spaces in between residential buildings, intersections, the north-south avenues and a long stretch of the main boulevard, completely uncovered. The high exposure in this area, which was also the main traffic node in Sarajevo, enabled snipers to target the most intensive flows of people, traffic and goods in the city. A clear view towards the Holiday Inn hotel in this area, which became the international media ‘headquarters’ during the war, enabled snipers to attack foreign journalists and thus influence the global media representation of the siege of Sarajevo. Snipers acting from the suburb of Nedžarići had a clear view towards the area around the newspaper building, which enabled them to influence local media representations of the siege of Sarajevo by attacking domestic journalists. In the eastern part of the Socialist Town, the ABH snipers were active, too. The ABH sniping positions included tall edifices on the northern side of the river, such as the high-rise residential buildings and the ruined

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Fig. 3.3  The topography of fear in the western-most part of Sarajevo. (Map: Mirjana Ristic)

tower of the Bosnian-Herzegovinian government (Sorguč 1992) (Fig. 3.1). These positions enabled a view of a significant portion of public space in the BSA-occupied suburb Grbavica, located to the south of the river. The ABH snipers were acting largely as counter-snipers. For example, in cases of retrieving dead and wounded civilians or soldiers, they protected rescuers from being killed by BSA snipers (Sorguč 1992).

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In one such case, an ABH sniper accidentally killed a Bosniak man (Harden 1992). While the ABH did not pursue strategic attacks on civilians, in rare exceptions, this happened, too. For example, in March 1995, two Serbian girls were shot dead by an ABH sniper while playing on a street in Grbavica (ICTY 2015). The BSA and the Republic of Srpska (RS) political leadership used this and similar cases to justify their attacks on the besieged Sarajevo, claiming to defend the BSA-held territories and population from the ABH (ICTY n.d.). The configurations of Sarajevo’s topography and urban morphology together with the history of establishment of the siege line enabled the BSA snipers to see a significant portion of the cityscape without being seen themselves. Sarajevo was transformed into a form of ‘panopticon’ in which spatial practices of movement and encounter were controlled through the omnipresence of the snipers’ gaze regardless of their actual presence, and from a distance without the need to physically penetrate the urban space. However, unlike Foucault’s (1995) conception of the panopticon, the snipers’ gaze in Sarajevo was not a disciplinary technology or normalization regime. Rather, snipers used the asymmetric visibility as a mechanism for the production of terror. A significant part of Sarajevo’s public space was reconstituted into a ‘landscape of fear’—a network of dangerous and forbidden zones in which any mundane, everyday activity became potentially lethal (Figs. 3.1 and 3.3). This was a different practice of power— force and threat of violence rather than coercion of surveillance—that denied citizens’ human right to life and freedom to move, occupy, appropriate and assemble in public space. The denial of these rights produced an inversion of public space. Indeed, many of the city’s connections and intersections that were exposed to and reachable by snipers’ bullets became impermeable for citizens and began to operate as barricades. Terror entailed a physical shrinking of public space (Savitch 2005), which limited the residents’ action and interaction. Arendt (1958) argued that when citizens gather in public space and ‘act in concert’ they generate power to pursue political change (Arendt 1958; Dovey 2016). In the context of the besieged Sarajevo, sniping was a means of disempowering residents by constraining their capacity to act collectively and resist the city’s division. Sniping terror invested public space with prolonged anxiety and panic as a means of breaking residents’ morale and coercing their subjugation to the BSA’s goals. Terror was also enmeshed in the politics of ethnic identity by severing urban networks and flows that sustained the city’s ethnic mixing, which will be discussed in the following section.

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Sniper Alley The most dangerous zone of the city was called Sniper Alley (Fig. 3.1). The phrase emerged during the siege to describe a strip of urban space that was the most visually exposed and the most intensively attacked by snipers. Foreign journalists who reported from the besieged city commonly described Sniper Alley as a part of Sarajevo’s main boulevard stretching from the Holiday Inn, where they stayed, to the TV building, where they worked. However, for Sarajevo’s residents, Sniper Alley was a much longer strip of urban space extending along the river bank on the east and continuing along a part of the boulevard on the west.2 The level of danger along Sniper Alley increased progressively from east to west in relation to the distance of sniper positions. The eastern section was exposed to sniper positions on Zlatište Hill: however, the accuracy of targeting this part was lower due to its greater distance from the river bank. The western section was more dangerous as it was directly exposed to the snipers shooting from high-rise buildings in the suburb of Grbavica. The accuracy of targeting in this part was higher due to a greater proximity to the city. Part of the boulevard passing by the TV building to the west of Sniper Alley was safer because the BSA positions in this zone were behind hills. The strip of urban space that became Sniper Alley during the siege represents the main axis in Sarajevo’s traffic connection network. The section along the upper river bank is the southern part of the traffic loop around the city center in the Ottoman and Austro-Hungarian Towns. The loop is linked to a network of bridges and streets that connect the city center to the Ottoman- and Austro-Hungarian-period residential suburbs on the slopes of the hills. The western end of the loop intersects with the city’s main boulevard which links the city center to residential suburbs in the Socialist Town. The boulevard is crossed by perpendicular avenues every 500 m, which distribute the traffic through the socialist-period suburbs and provide a link to two additional east-west thoroughfares to the north and south of the river. In this way, the boulevard and the upper river bank comprise the ‘spine’ of Sarajevo’s traffic network (Grabrijan and Neidhart 1957), which enables most of the city’s vehicular movement and public transport (tram, trolley and bus lines). These routes also provide connections that sustain Sarajevo’s ethnic mix as they link residential suburbs in all parts of Sarajevo to the city center, which includes the main public areas for gathering, encountering and mixing. To use the same metaphor, with their attack on Sniper Alley, BSA snipers damaged the city’s ‘spine’ and paralyzed most of Sarajevo. Owing

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to the width of the modernist boulevard to the west and the exposure of the river bank to the east, Sniper Alley was under constant threat of fire. Most of its intersections were marked with “Beware Sniper” signs, which were chalked on a piece of board or sprayed on building walls or other urban surfaces. The western end of Sniper Alley was marked with graffiti that read “Welcome to Hell”, which signaled the beginning of the zone in which almost any movement was akin to suicide (Kapić 2000). Walking was particularly dangerous given pedestrians’ slow pace, relatively speaking. Crossing the street was possible only at a run. Racing with snipers became a sport in besieged Sarajevo (Kebo 1999). Citizens developed tactics such as counting time between two shots in order to discern approximately how many seconds they had to make it across the street (Henri Levi 1992). Cyclists had the advantage of greater speed. Cars and buses were faster still and more protected, but it was rarely possible to use them due to a lack of petrol (Kapić 2000). As a result, the main mode of transport along Sniper Alley was Sarajevo’s trams. During the siege, the tram functioned both as a medium of resistance and a symbol of life in the city. The running of the tram signaled a ceasefire and less danger in the city, while a break in its service signaled a break in the ceasefire and less safety. Residents described a wartime tram ride as “Sarajevo Roulette” (Kapić 2000: 68)—a loop along which everyday journeys involved passing a number of dangerous points in both directions. The ‘wheel’ began to spin at the first stop in front of the newspaper building, where everybody tried to choose the safest seat. The danger started at the western end of Sniper Alley where passengers were ‘greeted’ by the “Welcome to Hell” graffiti (Ržmy 1995). The section of the tram route through the area around the Holiday Inn hotel was the most dangerous part of the ride. This was also the deadliest zone with the largest number of tram incidents, which resulted in frequent halting of the tram traffic (Kapić 2000). After this zone, the part along the river bank was less threatened due to its greater distance from Zlatište Hill. The section along the northern part of the city center loop was protected by built form and safe from attack. The tram thus maintained Sarajevo’s territorial unity because when it was running the city as a whole was connected, while when it was not the city was broken into isolated zones. Disrupting the flow of movement along Sniper Alley during intensive sniping activity altered the connectivity of Sarajevo’s street network, fragmenting the city. The city was paralyzed in the east-west direction as urban flows along the main boulevard and the upper river bank were

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halted. The southern thoroughfare was not an alternative route because its western end was under sniper attack from the BSA-occupied Nedžarići district, while its middle part was disconnected because it passed through the BSA-occupied Grbavica district. The northern thoroughfare was not an alternative either because a number of its sections were overlooked from Grbavica. Due to the inability to use these traffic arteries, residential suburbs in the Socialist Town in the west were detached from the city center in the east. The city was also disconnected in the north-south direction because it was difficult to cross the boulevard and the river bank. Consequently, the Ottoman and AustroHungarian residential suburbs to the south were disconnected from the city center to the north. Not only did this reduce ethnic mixing by inhibiting access to public gathering areas, but also, to some degree, citizens were forced to remain in bounded safe zones. Due to the wartime migration of the population, some of them functioned as ethnic enclaves: the BSA-held Grbavica was inhabited mostly by the Bosnian Serb population while the Ottoman and Austro-Hungarian towns were inhabited mostly by the Bosniak population.

Shelling and Massacres in Public Spaces The second major practice of violence included the shelling of public spaces. The BSA had 78 artillery positions with 2100 heavy arms (Sieber in Kapić 2000) that were located on the siege line in the hills around Sarajevo and in the BSA-occupied Grbavica and Nedžarići suburbs (Fig. 1.2). While the BSA artillery often had a clear view of many of Sarajevo’s public spaces and buildings from these positions, they also had spatial coordinates for 1500 of its buildings (Divjak in Magaš and Žanić 1999). This made it easy for the BSA to attack any public space in Sarajevo by moving coordinates a few meters in the necessary direction. Estimates say that approximately 120,000 grenades fell on the city during the siege (Bassiouni 1994). On 22 July 1993 alone, some 3777 grenades were fired; the most intensively shelled area of Sarajevo was the city center, which sustained approximately 240 shells per day (Bassiouni 1994). This was also the part of the city with the greatest protection from snipers and where the most social exchange took place. The shelling of public space included both systematic targeting of particular places and random shelling of different urban zones. Random shelling produced a “terror-inspiring effect”, and it often increased at night when snipers were inactive (Bassiouni 1994). Prolonging it during the night

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hours prevented people from relaxing and was intended to psychologically break them down and disable resistance. Recordings show General Mladić instructing shelling of different city areas so “they [Sarajevans] cannot sleep. So we blow their brains out” (Husejnović 2012). Moreover, shelling was also more intensive on the weekends than during weekdays, which was aimed at causing a greater disturbance of everyday life (Bassiouni 1994). The BSA artillery also pursued a systematic attack against the mixing and gathering of crowds in public spaces. This happened in the places of greatest mixing such as playgrounds, queues, markets, etc., and in many cases resulted in cruel massacres with a large number of casualties. The three deadliest massacres happened within 100 m of the most central part of Sarajevo (Fig. 3.4). The first occurred at the beginning of the war, on 27 May 1992, only three weeks after the siege tightened. It took place in the western end of the main pedestrian zone, across the street from the Markale market hall. The site was completely hidden from sniper and artillery view in the hills, which is why trucks serving ice cream and bread were parked on the site (Kazazović 1992). A queue for bread formed of people of all ethnicities. It was around 9:00 a.m. Two grenades fell, one hitting the bread queue directly. The attack killed 16 and wounded approximately 140 citizens (Oslobodjenje 1992). The second massacre occurred near the same place on 5 February 1994, one-and-a-half years later, and was a direct hit on the Markale open market. This was an open-roofed space on Marshall Tito Street, also hidden from the view of BSA soldiers in the hills. Markale market was the most important meeting place in the entire center of Sarajevo, as most other places were openly exposed to snipers and shells. Citizens described this market as the one that “always had the most people. Not so much because people shopped all kinds of things on sale that were there. It was a place where people gathered” (Alićehajić in Kapić 2000: 734). At around noon on a shopping day, when there was the largest concentration of people, an artillery shell fired from the hills to the south of the city and fell directly into the crowd. The 120 mm shell killed 66 people and seriously wounded 197 others (Kurtović 1994). The third massacre occurred exactly a year-and-a half later, on 28 August 1995. It occurred on Marshall Tito Street, across the street from the Markale open market and behind the walls of the Markale market hall. The scenario was similar. On a sunny winter day, a crowd of people gathered in front of the market hall. Around 11:00 a.m., one shell landed in the market hall, killing 35 and wounding 86 (Prlenda 1995). This was

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Fig. 3.4  Locations of massacres of at least three people in the central part of Sarajevo. (Map: Mirjana Ristic)

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the massacre that prompted the world to react—it became the trigger for the NATO shelling of BSA positions in September 1995. The Dayton Peace Accords were signed in December 1995. The three massacres have several things in common. They all they took place in the main pedestrian zone or in the main market, which were the city’s busiest places of urban life during the siege. They all took place during the busiest hours of the day, either in the morning or midday, when there was the largest concentration of people. This indicates a strategy of aiming to produce the largest possible number of casualties. This was aimed at achieving an immediate condition of shock and serious distress as a way of provoking an emotional reaction among broad public audiences (Hoffman 2006). Shelling attacks at public spaces operated as a form of ‘urban branding’ (Short and Kim 1998)—they commodified violence as a means of communicating a message. Each of the massacres produced highly disturbing scenes—spectacles of violence in public space—that were photographed by domestic and international journalists and published in the BosnianHerzegovinian and international media. They showed how, in just a moment, places of the most intensive urban life were transformed into places of death. Apart from killing the immediate victims, they had the effect of intimidating the survivors by making a psychological impact on their memories (Oslender 2007). They disseminated a threatening message that any future gathering and mixing in Sarajevo’s public space may result in death. Through the media, this message was also disseminated amongst the broader Sarajevan and Bosnian-Herzegovinian population. Shelling of civilians in public space was a means of purifying ethnic mixing in it. Neither the BSA snipers nor the artillery could distinguish between their targets in terms of ethnicity, as people of different BosnianHerzegovinian ethnicities generally looked the same. Only the Bosniak women who practiced Islam and wore headscarves looked different: however, this was not often the case before and during the siege. This indicates that residents who gathered in Sarajevo’s urban space were killed as members of civilian society. After the second massacre, General Mladić promised that he would not only “extinguish the Muslim seed in these areas [of Bosnia]” but also that of “degenerated Serbs that remained to live in this Sarajevo, and also of all others who don’t want to live in their countries and recognize other people’s countries” (Memić 1992). Thus, the Serbs knew that they were being killed because they mixed with Bosniaks. The Bosnian Serb leadership inflamed inter-ethnic relations by suggesting that the first massacre was initiated by the ABH forces and that the

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victims were Serbian (Luković 1992). Such propaganda sent a message to Sarajevo’s Serbs that they should not trust Bosniaks. The second massacre caused even bigger debate as UN experts said that the grenade could have been fired from the positions of either army (Kozar 1992), although in 2003 the ICTY (2007) concluded that the massacre was committed by the BSA. The Bosnian Serb leadership used this to claim that “Muslims shell themselves” (Bakšić 1992). The same story was repeated after the third massacre. The effect was to reinforce Serbian conspiracy theories about their endangerment by Bosniaks and to reinforce hatred between Serbs and Bosniaks. Antagonistic identities (Coward 2009) were produced through the urban branding of violence and terror in public space. Ethnic mixing in Sarajevo was indeed reduced as, since the beginning of the siege, Serbs were leaving Sarajevo in increasing numbers. Analysis of the names of those killed in the massacres reflected this reduction of ethnic mixture in the city. In the first massacre at the beginning of the siege the names of the dead corresponded to the percentage of ethnicities that lived in Sarajevo before the war—53% Bosniaks, 38% Serbs and 7% Croats. In the second massacre, the number of non-Bosniak victims dropped to only 20%, while in the third massacre only one victim out of 35 was non-Bosniak.3 Shelling of civilians in public spaces was also a means of exerting pressure on Bosnian-Herzegovinian political leadership to accept the BSA political aims of an ethnic division of Sarajevo (and Bosnia-Herzegovina). An analysis of the chronology of the massacres indicates that the attacks were related to political events and occurred on the eve of or during important political negotiations. The first massacre happened in the course of the Lisbon negotiations and only four hours after the ceasefire was signed (Bassiouni 1994). The second massacre happened during the Airport Talks between the Serbian and Bosnian sides, while talks in Geneva were scheduled only five days later (Kurtović 1994). The third massacre occurred shortly before the Paris Talks (Bassiouni 1994). On one occasion, Mladić said that, “We [the BSA] need to know when to hit their cities, so it would create political and military effect for us” (Kozar 1995). The effect was to weaken the position of the Bosnian-Herzegovinian politicians in negotiations and to pressure them to accept a division of the country. In Joseph Conrad’s (1907) book The Secret Agent a former terrorist indicated that terrorism “should be directed at the beliefs that underpin a society’s understanding of its own prosperity” (cited in Bevan 2006: 65). The attacks on the mixed urban spaces in the city had the effect of killing any hope of a shared space and, by implication, a shared state.

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Rethinking Urbicide A key lesson from the empirical insight is that the violence and terror invested in public spaces in the besieged Sarajevo through sniping and shelling did not aim at exterminating one particular ethnicity, but rather at the mixing of different ethnicities in urban space. As Coward (2009) argues, ethnic heterogeneity was targeted because it stands in opposition to the ethno-nationalist logic of homogenization. Plurality is generally understood to be an inherent quality of urbanity, thus violence against it has been conceived of as urbicide. The current literature presents several different accounts of the concept of urbicide. Based on Heidegger’s phenomenology of space, Coward (2007, 2009) conceived of urbicide as the wartime destruction of mundane buildings that constitute shared spatiality. Herscher (2007) theorized it as both war- and peacetime destruction of buildings and urban districts that embody symbolism of mixing and otherness. Graham (2003) discussed urbicide as a broader application of military operations in an urban terrain, aimed at purifying and forcibly removing Others from the city. To create a synthesis of the concept based on these ideas, urbicide was theorized as the attack on urban heterogeneity by means of purifying both the Others and mix with Others from the built environment. The premise is that buildings and public spaces—both mundane and symbolic—are destroyed because they frame shared spatiality (Coward 2007) and provide visible symbols of difference in the city (Herscher 2010; Bevan 2006; Riedlmayer 2007). Their destruction is directed towards the production of an ethnically divided city and ethnically homogenous collective identities. A common thread in the current conceptions of spatial violence is that they focus on the destruction of spatial conditions of urbanity framed by the built form. In other words, the accent is on the destruction of buildings—both mundane and symbolic—and their role in providing the spatial framework for ethnic mixing, rather than on the ‘life between buildings’ (Gehl 2011) and the actual spatial practices of mixing. Although buildings do play a vital role in shaping space where the encounter with difference takes place, they do not alone provide conditions for plurality nor are all built forms designed to create it. On the contrary, some built environments were designed to prevent encounter with Others by containing the difference behind gates and walls—historic Jewish ghettos or contemporary gated communities are but some examples. At this point, I suggest a reconsideration of the concept of urbicide using an alternative philosophical framework. This study conceptualized

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urbanity not only as plurality constituted by public buildings and places that frame shared spatiality (Coward 2007) and provide visible symbols of heterogeneity in the city (Bevan 2006; Riedlmayer 2007), but also as plurality constituted directly through urban life and spatial practices of movement, gathering and mixing. Such a concept of urbanity resonates with Lefebvre’s (1996) notion that urban space represents both a mirror in which society is reflected through buildings and public spaces that frame it, but also a tool for social reproduction through spatial practices of everyday life, and residents’ action and interaction. Citizens shape urban space with the practices of everyday life through which they themselves, their identities and relations are reshaped. In the context of the besieged Sarajevo, it was through attack on practices of movement, gathering and mixing in urban spaces that the Sarajevo residents’ right to a common multi-ethnic life was directly denied. Such violence was urbicide in the sense that it denied what Lefebvre (1996) famously termed “the right to the city”, a right that applies to all citizens regardless of their ethnicity. Stripped of these rights, residents’ everyday urban lives were reduced to what Agamben (1998) defined as ‘bare life’, that is, the mere fact of existence and survival. The case study of Sarajevo also shows that the understanding of urbicide can benefit from conceptualizations such as assemblage thinking, proposed by Deleuze and Guattari (1987), DeLanda (2006) and Dovey (2010). Assemblage thinking turns attention to studying the inter-connections between materiality of built form and spatial practices, representations of place and phenomenology of everyday life across the multiple scales of the city. Urbicide in Sarajevo involved an integrated strategy of violence implicated in the transformation of the city’s territory and identity physically, discursively and experientially. It engaged equally the micro-spaces of everyday life, the scale of the city and the macro-spaces of the Bosnian-Herzegovinian society. On the micro-scale of urban space, urbicide was a direct attack on the spatial practices of everyday life that constituted the city’s ethnic plurality. On the scale of the entire city, such violence operated as a means for the socio-spatial reterritorialization of the city into purified ethnic enclaves (Coward 2009) by disrupting and inverting places of flow into places of immobility. Rather than through the destruction of built form (Coward 2009; Herscher 2007; Graham 2003), spatial boundaries were inscribed in Sarajevo’s urban fabric through the establishment of the siege line and how sniping fragmented the city’s urban network and connections. Investing the city with fear transformed places of mobility into barriers to

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flows that defined confined zones that, due to wartime migration, often functioned as ethnic enclaves. This also made a collective impact on how the larger landscape of Sarajevo was conceived. The geography of the river and mountains were the reason why Sarajevo was founded. The mountains that were linked to the Winter Olympic Games became places from which the BSA shelled the city. The Miljacka River was transformed into a strip of ethnic division as its bridges, which became exposed and dangerous, disconnected rather than connected people (Kapić 2000). The suburbs in the south-east of the city, including the BSA-held Grbavica in the south, were detached from the rest of Sarajevo. The medieval road along the river valley on which the city was founded and which linked Sarajevo to different civilizations became Sniper Alley, and a place of disconnection. Urbicide thus involved violent reconfiguration of what Lefebvre (1991) has termed the trialectic between ‘conceived’, ‘perceived’ and ‘lived’ space. Politicians’ conceptions of a divided city were enacted through perceptions and practices of violence by the military, which produced the phenomenology of fear in everyday life and transformed residents’ mental map of the city into a series of bounded ghettos. On the macro-scale of the Bosnian-Herzegovinian nation, urbicide was enmeshed in the transformation of collective identities. The case study of Sarajevo demonstrates how different forms of power can be used to mediate the politics of identity. Foucault (1995) argues that the era of Enlightenment brought a shift in the practice of power in a sense that power became productive of subjectivity by acting from below through the micro-practices of the ‘gaze’. While there is much that one might learn about the conflict from a Foucauldian framework, the war can also be read as a turning-back to medieval practices of power. Although Sarajevo’s landscape enabled a panoptic gaze, such a gaze was not used to discipline and produce new forms of subjectivity, but to apply force against architecture and urban space and eradicate BosnianHerzegovnian multi-ethnic collective subjectivity. Such violence was also coupled with the public gaze through the media in order to disseminate the display of force in the cityscape to a broader population. Sniping terror operated as what Piscane described as ‘propaganda by the dead’ (Hoffman 2006). Foreign journalists who lived in the Holiday Inn took photographs of the snipers’ victims and produced images of death in public space that were disseminated through the media. Such images disseminated a threatening message that any future gathering and mixing in Sarajevo’s public space may result in death. Apart from killing the immediate victims, sniping violence also intimidated the survivors, which further inhibited ethnic mixing in the city.

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Notes 1. Information from informal conversations between the author and residents of Sarajevo during her fieldwork in 2008. 2. Data gained from conversations between the author and residents of Sarajevo during her fieldwork in 2008. 3. The author’s analysis of data from the Oslobodjenje newspaper.

References Agamben, G. (1998). Homo Sacer: Sovereign Power and Bare Life. Palo Alto: Stanford University Press. Arendt, H. (1958). The Human Condition. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Bakšić, H. (1992, February 6). Granata je rekla sve [Grenade Told Everything]. Oslobodjenje. Bassiouni, M. C. (1994). Study of the Battle and Siege of Sarajevo. Annex VI Part 1 of the Final Report of the United Nations Commission of Experts Established Pursuant to Security Council Resolution 780 (1992). http://www.ess.uwe. ac.uk/comexpert/anx/vi-01.htm. Accessed 12 Sept 2017. Bevan, R. (2006). The Destruction of Memory: Architecture at War. London: Reaktion. Conrad, J. (1907). The Secret Agent. London: Methuen Publishing. Coward, M. (2007). Urbicide Reconsidered. Theory and Event, 10, 2. Coward, M. (2009). Urbicide: The Politics of Urban Destruction. New  York: Routledge. DeLanda, M. (2006). A New Philosophy of Society: Assemblage Theory and Social Complexity. London: Continuum. Deleuze, G., & Guattari, F. (1987). A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. London: Athlone Press. Dovey, K. (2010). Becoming Places: Urbanism/Architecture/Identity/Power. London/New York: Routledge. Dovey, K. (2016). Urban Design Thinking: A Conceptual Toolkit. London: Bloomsbury Academic. Foucault, M. (1995). Discipline and Punish: The Birth of Prison. New  York: Vintage Books. Gehl, J. (2011). Life Between Buildings. Washington, DC: Island Press. Gellman, B. (1992, June 13). Defense Planners Making Case Against Intervention in Yugoslavia. Washington Post. https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/ politics/1992/06/13/defense-planners-making-case-against-intervention-inyugoslavia/58100c89-9379-4849-8f99-ce7085de3ce1/?utm_ term=.912271e6527d. Accessed 5 Oct 2017. Grabrijan, D., & Neidhart, J. (1957). Arhitektura Bosne i put u suvremeno [Architecture of Bosnia and the Way (Towards) Modernity]. Ljubljana: Mladinska knjiga. Graham, S. (2003). Lessons in Urbicide. New Left Review, 19, 63–77.

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Graham, S. (2007). Demodernizing by Design: Everyday Infrastructure and Political Violence. In D. Gregory & A. Pred (Eds.), Violent Geographies: Fear, Terror and Political Violence. New York/London: Routledge, Taylor and Francis Group. H.I. (1992, August 8). Raskršće smrti [The Crossroads of Death]. Oslobodjenje. Harden, B. (1992, June 18). War Is ‘A Bad Dream’ for Sarajevo Sniper. The Washington Post. https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/politics/1992/06/18/war-is-abad-dream-for-sarajevo-sniper/85122c0c-0f80-463a-9557-2fc4d2c5d08e/?utm_ term=.7da4a6feee1a. Accessed 23 Apr 2017. Henri Levi, B. (1992, July 2). Tragedija zatocenog grada [Tragedy of the Besieged City]. Oslobodjenje. Herscher, A. (2007). Urbicide, Urbanism, and Urban Destruction in Kosovo. Theory and Event, 10(2). http://muse.jhu.edu/journals/theory_and_event/ toc/tae10.2.html Herscher, A. (2010). Violence Taking Place: The Architecture of the Kosovo Conflict. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Hoffman, B. (2006). Inside Terrorism. New York: Columbia University Press. Husejnović, M. (2012, August 13). Ratko Mladić: General od “Velušića” do Potočara [Ratko Mladić: General from “Velušići” do Potočari’]. Balkan Insight. http://www.balkaninsight.com/en/article/ratko-mladic-general-od-velusicado-potocara/1422/2. Accessed 5 Oct 2017. International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia (ICTY). (1999, December 20). Stanislav Galic detained by SFOR in Bosnia and Herzegovina, Press Release JL/P.I.S./456-e. United Nations International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia. http://www.icty.org/en/press/stanislavgalic-detained-sfor-bosnia-and-herzegovina. Accessed 23 Apr 2017. International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia (ICTY). (2007, December 12). Prosecutor v. Dragomir Milošević, ICTY Trial, Case No. IT-98-29/1-T. United Nations International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia. http://www.icty.org/x/cases/dragomir_milosevic/tjug/en/071212.pdf. Accessed 5 Oct 2017. International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia (ICTY). (2015, August 31). Court Case Ratko Mladic, Transcript, Page 38468. United Nations International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia. http://www.icty. org/x/cases/mladic/trans/en/150831ED.htm. Accessed 23 Apr 2017. International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia (ICTY). (n.d.). Case Information Sheet, Stanislav Galic (IT-98-29). United Nations International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia. http://www.icty.org/x/cases/ galic/cis/en/cis_galic_en.pdf. Accessed 23 Apr 2017. Jusufović, Z. (2008). Mission Impossible, Sarajevo War Tour. Kapić, S. (2000). The Siege of Sarajevo 1992–1996. Ljubljana: Mladinska knjiga tiskarna d.d. Kazazović, N. (1992, May 28). S’ lica uzasa: Deset koraka do smrti [From the Place of Horror: Ten Steps from Death]. Oslobodjenje. Kebo, O. (1999). Sarajevo za početnike [Sarajevo for Beginners]. Split: Feral Tribune.

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Kozar, Dj. (1992, February 12). Markale i srpska propaganda: Granata nije igračka [Markale and Serbian Propaganda: A Grenade Is Not a Toy]. Oslobodjenje. Kozar, Dj. (1993, March 10). Oprez—Snajperist [Warning—Sniper]. Oslobodjenje. Kozar, Dj. (1995, August 30). Mladiceva desetina smrti [Mladic’s Tenth of Death]. Oslobodjenje. Kurtović, S. (1994, February 6). Č etnički pokolj: Granata u srce naroda [Chetniks’ Slaughter: Grenade in the Heart of People]. Oslobodjenje. Lefebvre, H. (1991). The Production of Space. Cambridge: Oxford. Lefebvre, H. (1996). Writings on Cities. Oxford: Blackwell Publishing Ltd. Luković, P. (1992, May 28). Mediji monstrumi [Media Monstrums]. Oslobodjenje. Maček, I. (2009). Sarajevo Under Siege: Anthropology in Wartime. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Magaš, B., & Žanić, I. (1999). Rat u Hrvatskoj I Bosni i Hercegovini 1991–1995 [The War in Croatia and Bosnia and Herzegovina 1991–1995]. Zagreb/Sarajevo: Dani. Memić, F. (1992, February 6). Smrt u Sarajevu [Death in Sarajevo]. Oslobodjenje. Milutinović, R. (2016, December 7). Ratko Mladic ‘Terrorised Sarajevo During Siege’: Prosecutors. Balkan Insight. http://www.balkaninsight.com/en/article/ratko-mladic-terrorised-sarajevo-during-siege-prosecutors-12-07-2016. Accessed 5 Oct 2017. Oslender, U. (2007). Spaces of Terror and Fear on Colombia’s Pacific Coast. In D. Gregory & A. Pred (Eds.), Violent Geographies: Fear, Terror and Political Violence. New York/London: Routledge, Taylor and Francis Group. Oslobodjenje. (1992, May 28). Nove slike uzasa: Zlocin pred Trznicom [New Images of Horror: The Crime in Front of the Market Hall]. Oslobodjenje. Pawlikowski, P., & Stojanović, L. (1992). Serbian Epics—1992. Pawel Paw­ likowski. http://www.pawelpawlikowski.co.uk/page3/. Accessed 5 Oct 2017. ̌ Prlenda, A. (1995, August 29). Karadžićevi krvnici i dalje ubijaju civile: Cetnič ki masakr u Sarajevu, 35 ubijenih, 90 ranjenih [Karadžić’s Hangmen Still Kill Sarajevo Civilians: Chetniks’ Massacre in Sarajevo, 35 Killed, 90 Wounded]. Oslobodjenje. Riedlmayer, A. (2007). Crimes of War, Crimes of Peace: Destruction of Libraries During and After the Balkan Wars of the 1990s. Library Trends, 56(1), 107–132. Ržmy, G. (1995, March 23). Tramvaj koji neće da umre [Tram That Refuses to Die]. Oslobodjenje. Savitch, H. V. (2005). An Anatomy of Urban Terror: Lessons from Jerusalem and Elsewhere. Urban Studies, 42(3), 361–395. Še. A. (1992, July 6). Geto usred grada [Ghetto in the Middle of the City]. Oslobodjenje. Short, R. J., & Kim, Y.-H. (1998). Urban Crises/Urban Representations: Selling the City in Difficult Times. In T. Hall & P. Hubbard (Eds.), The Entrepreneurial City: Geographies of Politics, Regime, and Representation. New York: Wiley. Sorguč, A. (1992). Legion of Faceless Snipers Escape Their Crimes. Balkan Insight, June 21, 2012. http://www.balkaninsight.com/en/article/legion-offaceless-snipers-escape-their-crimes/1452/4. Accessed 23 Apr 2017.

CHAPTER 4

Landscape of Ruins: Targeting Architecture

“This is Serbia!” … and a reply… “This is a post office, you fool!” appeared, graffitied on the walls of Sarajevo’s main post office at the end of April 1992 (Kapić 2000). The first, “This is Serbia!”, was sprayed by a nationalist Bosnian Serb policeman (Ržmy 1995), who expressed Serbian possession of the city’s territory. The reply, “This is a post office, you fool!”, appeared the next morning, ridiculing the first. A day or two after this confrontation in graffiti, Sarajevo’s main post office was destroyed. It was one of the very first public buildings in the city to be destroyed in the war. The shelling of Sarajevo’s civilian architecture, including key public buildings, by Bosnian Serb Army (BSA) artillery and mortars was an ongoing strategy of violence during the siege. Official United Nations research reports on the destruction of the city’s urban fabric indicate that “probably all buildings are damaged to a greater or lesser degree” (Bassiouni 1994). Civilian architecture was targeted, damaged and/or destroyed as a result of different strategies of violence. Many buildings were collaterally damaged in the crossfire between the BSA and the Army of Bosnia and Herzegovina (ABH) or as a result of the random and indiscriminate shelling that the BSA used as a mode of terror (Bassiouni 1994). However, many were destroyed as a result of discriminate targeting— given the large number of direct and precise hits, particular patterns of

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attack and high frequency of attacks—indicating a deliberate intent to damage or destroy the building (Bassiouni 1994). In this chapter, I will discuss the role that the destruction of Sarajevo’s major public buildings played in the battle to transform the city’s territory and place identity. I will argue that wartime architectural destruction was part of a strategy of dividing the city into purified ethnic enclaves. Although most buildings in the city were hit in some way, buildings being used as institutions of civil society were destroyed across the entire city, while ethnically identified buildings were destroyed only when they were in the ‘wrong territory’. Moreover, new forms of place identities were produced through the public reception of such violence in media and everyday spatial discourse.

Warchitecture BSA artillery targeted Sarajevo’s architecture with 260 tanks, 120 mortars and numerous anti-aircraft cannons (FAMA 1993). Like sniping, the shelling of architecture was facilitated by the city’s specific geography and urban morphology (Fig. 1.2). BSA artillery was positioned on the siege line, in the hills to the south of the Ottoman and Austro-Hungarian Towns, in the suburb of Grbavica to the south of the eastern part of the Socialist Town and in the suburb of Nedžarići at the western end of the city. These positions gave the BSA artillery a commanding view of the largest part of Sarajevo’s cityscape, such that they could distinguish most of the buildings with the naked eye. The easiest targets were the tall, free-standing buildings in the modernist Socialist Town, as their entire volumes were exposed from multiple angles. The buildings in the densely built Austro-Hungarian and Ottoman Towns had their facades covered by the surrounding buildings, except those on the riverbank, which had their roofs and front facades exposed. However, unlike sniping, the attack on the city’s public buildings was not entirely dependent on the relationship between the city’s geography and morphology. This is because the BSA artillery had coordinates for 1500 edifices in the city (Divjak in Magaš and Žanić 1999b), and those coordinates could be adjusted to target even the hidden buildings. The Association of Architects of Sarajevo (DAS-SABIH) created a catalogue entitled Warchitecture: Sarajevo Urbicide, which documented the destruction of buildings that were described to be “of importance for development, functioning and identity of the city of Sarajevo”

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(DAS-SABIH 1994). The catalogue includes maps and photographs showing the type and position of hits that each building received and the level of damage it suffered. The catalogue does not, however, classify the types of damage. In this book, I have implemented the typology from the official report on destruction of Bosnian-Herzegovinian heritage produced by a Harvard academic, Andras Riedlmayer, for the Council of Europe in 2002. The types of damage include: light damage, which does not compromise the main building’s structure (e.g. bullet holes in facades or the top of a minaret or church’s spire shot off), heavy damage of the building’s main structural elements (e.g. complete gutting of the interior or extensive blast damage), almost destroyed (e.g. when the building suffered severe damage to its principal structural elements but still had some elements standing, and completely destroyed (e.g. when the building was demolished). The map in Fig. 4.1 shows in red frames around the footprints those buildings that were heavily damaged or destroyed (nearly or completely) in the shellfire. It excludes targeted and lightly damaged buildings because, while such mapping would be useful for visualizing the scale of wartime attacks against Sarajevo’s architecture, mapping such a large number of targets (almost every building) would obscure the spatial patterns of violence. The colors of the footprints signal the ethnic identities with which these buildings were associated before the siege: mosques and Islamic cultural buildings associated with Bosniaks (green), Orthodox churches and cultural institutions related to Serbs (blue) and Catholic cathedrals and cultural institutes linked to Croats (magenta). Political, administrative, and cultural institutions that were absent ethnic markers or linked to a mix of ethnicities are marked in yellow. Although there has been no confession by the BSA or its political leadership about the aims of such architectural destruction, the map reveals that there was a tendency to destroy buildings that were of symbolic and functional importance for Sarajevo and/or Bosnia-Herzegovina as a whole (yellow). This finding corresponds to the data extracted from the analysis of the Warchitecture catalogue, which indicates that 75% of the severely damaged or nearly destroyed public buildings were secular institutions, while the remaining 25% were linked to particular ethnicities.1 The map, however, uncovers a specific pattern of violence that is not evident in the numbers derived from the catalogue. As discussed in the introduction, the BSA leadership clearly stated that their aim was not to conquer the entirety of Sarajevo but to divide the city along ethnic lines. The dashed

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Fig. 4.1  Targeting architecture in the besieged Sarajevo. (Map: Mirjana Ristic. Reprinted with the permission of Routledge)

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line in Fig.  4.1 indicates the proposed demarcation line—territory to its west was imagined to be the Serb Sarajevo, while territory to the east was to be left as a Bosniak enclave. Buildings linked to the Bosnian-Herzegovinian integrated identity were targeted, heavily damaged and destroyed across the entire city. Islamic and Catholic buildings were also targeted across the entire city. However, they were destroyed only when located west of the imaginary line of ethnic division, where they were ‘out of place’. The shelling of architecture and the selection of architectural targets followed a certain chronology. The first month of the siege, May 1992, was marked by the destruction of what Drake (1998) refers to as ‘functional targets’—that is, objects of vital importance for the functioning of the ABH and residents of Sarajevo. These included the nodes of Sarajevo’s critical infrastructure and technology systems, such as gas, water and electricity plants or headquarters; medical complexes; industrial facilities; and media and telecommunications centers. June and July 1992 were less intense, while the period from August 1992 to the middle of 1993 was the most devastating period of the siege and when the greatest number of buildings was destroyed. It is estimated that there were approximately 200–300 artillery rounds every day, while on 22 July 1993 there were a record 3777 shell impacts (Bassiouni 1994). During this time, the BSA targeted what Drake (1998) refers to as ‘symbolic targets’—buildings that were landmarks of Sarajevo’s place identity or of the Bosnian-Herzegovinian state, collective memory and identity. These included political and corporate institutions and cultural heritage. In the following sections, I will discuss the different politics behind the destruction of each of these types of architectural targets. The analysis is focused on the socio-spatial, physical, material and discursive effects of their destruction, as evidence of the intentions behind their destruction is scarce. The analysis also excludes the numerous private buildings that suffered damage and destruction, such as apartment complexes and houses, due to the limited scope for such an investigation within this book.

Infrastructural Warfare The first months of the siege were marked by an ‘infrastructural warfare’ (Graham 2007)—that is, the seizure, targeting and destruction of buildings that functioned as the nodes of Sarajevo’s supply networks. At the beginning of the war, the BSA seized most of Sarajevo’s gas, power and

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water plants, which enabled them to control the provision of these facilities to the city. An International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia (ICTY) hearing during the trial of BSA general Ratko Mladić cites his order to stop the supply of water, electricity and gas to what he referred to as the “Muslim part of Sarajevo”, or the besieged Sarajevo (BIRN 2016). The Bosnian-Herzegovinian government reported that in the first year of the siege the city spent 288 days without electricity and 256  days without water (Magajlija 2012). Moreover, the BSA targeted those infrastructural facilities that were not under their direct control, for example, the city’s brewery (which was the wartime water resource), bread factory, and buildings operating as the wartime depots for humanitarian aid, such as the Skenderija and Zetra Olympic halls (Kapić 2000). The headquarters of large state-owned energy and electro-distribution companies, as well as industry enterprises, were targeted and destroyed. Not even medical complexes were spared. In the first year of the war, more than 1000 grenades were launched at hospitals and clinical centers in Sarajevo, causing severe damage to medical facilities, and wounding and killing patients and medical personnel (Kapić 2000). The control, targeting and destruction of infrastructure had both military and civilian effects. First, it was a strategy for attaining military dominance by harming the facilities that were crucial for the functioning of the ABH (Coward 2009). Second, as the UN Commission of Experts reported, this was also a means of terrorizing Sarajevo’s residents (Bassiouni 1994). Graham (2007) argues that the systems of infrastructure and technology represent the ‘connective tissues’ of contemporary cities that sustain modern urban life. Cutting them off and leaving cities in darkness, cold and hunger becomes an effective tool for creating anxiety among large urban populations (Graham 2007). An expert witness at the ICTY trial of the commander of the BSA corps acting around Sarajevo testified that the control and severing of the urban infrastructure of the besieged Sarajevo and depriving of its residents of basic daily resources were a means of imposing pressure on the Bosnian-Herzegovinian government to accept political terms favorable to the Bosnian Serb leadership (ICTY 2007). The same testimony indicated that this strategy of spatial violence was also a form of retaliation against the city as a whole and its residents whenever the ABH pursued military activities against the BSA. Making the civilian infrastructure and population vulnerable was a weapon for achieving military aims.

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A particularly prominent role in this infrastructural warfare during the siege of Sarajevo was played by the destruction of the nodes of the BosnianHerzegovinian media and telecommunication network. Kaldor (2007: 3) argues that television, the press and the internet play a crucial role in the socalled ‘new wars’ waged worldwide since the end of the Cold War. He has termed them “wars for public consumption” (Kaldor 2007: 3) because their prominent strategy is the control of territory and population from a distance by media representations of aggression, violence and terror. The destruction of Sarajevo’s main post office in May 1992 disconnected one-third of the telephone lines in Sarajevo, which significantly hindered communication with the rest of Bosnia-Herzegovina and the world (Še. K. 1992). The media dissemination of wartime propaganda was one of the crucial political strategies of the siege of Sarajevo. During a meeting of the Bosnian Serb Assembly, BSA general Mladić stated that the BSA should not publicly admit that they turned power or water lines off, because that would motivate the United States to react, but rather that the ABH did so (Donia 2006). To that end, in April 1992, even before the siege was tightened, the BSA targeted and heavily damaged the TV tower on Hum Hill, which was the main transmitter of Radio-Television of Sarajevo (RTVSA) (Bassiouni 1994). The attack disabled the transmission of RTVSA programs to the Serbian-controlled areas in northern and eastern BosniaHerzegovina (Kapić 2000). As a result, the only sources of information available to the Bosnian Serb population were the programs from Banja Luka and Belgrade, which were controlled by the Bosnian Serb and Serbian political leaders (Burić 2001). This exposed the Bosnian Serb population to the nationalist political propaganda based on the fear of Others, which was crucial for winning its support for the war. Throughout the siege, the BSA frequently targeted the RTVSA headquarters, which was exposed to its positions in the western-most part of Sarajevo. During Mladić’s ICTY trial, a former BSA officer called as a witness admitted that, on 28 June 1995, he ordered the shelling of the RTVSA headquarters with a modified airplane shell (BIRN 2014). The attack killed one and wounded 28 employees, and heavily damaged a wing of the building. The BSA officer justified the shelling as a strike against a harsh anti-Serbian propaganda that, according to him, was launched under ABH influence and control (BETA 2014). Although there are records that the RTVSA was indeed controlled by the Bosniak-affiliated government (Burić 2001), this did not make the building a legitimate target. Rather, the attacks on television buildings can be seen a means of obstructing non-BSA con-

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trolled information from reaching the rest of Bosnia-Herzegovina and the world (Rujanac 2003). The direct combat between the two armies in/ through Sarajevo’s urban fabric was accompanied by media propaganda aimed at controlling the population. The BSA attacks were also aimed at independent media not associated with the Bosnian-Herzegovinian government. For example, the shelling of the Holiday Inn hotel, where foreign journalists lived during the war, was a means of targeting international television and press crews. The hotel is a modernist, 10-storey cubic building with a large central atrium, located in the eastern part of the Socialist Town. Its position, which made the hotel highly exposed to artillery positions in Zlatište Hill and sniper positions in Grbavica, led to a joke that it was the only hotel in the world where guests requested not to have a view, and where the inward-facing rooms became the most expensive. Although the BSA could easily launch shells into the hotel’s atrium and thus wound or kill journalists accommodated in this part of the building, the targeting was focused mostly on its outward-facing rooms, which were empty throughout the war. This indicates that the hotel was an ‘expressive target’ (Drake 1998) of the BSA’s anger at the international press, with terror-inspiring effects possibly motivating journalists to leave. The most frequently shelled media facility was the building of the newspaper Oslobodjenje, which in the Bosnian language means ‘liberation’. Oslobodjenje was the leading Bosnian-Herzegovinian independent daily and the only operating press in the besieged Sarajevo. Its headquarters was a modernist building comprised of two 10-storey towers sitting on a broad, low plinth (Štraus 1987), which was located at the end of the city’s main boulevard in the western-most part of Sarajevo. The building was attacked for the first time in April 1992, when BSA snipers struck the office of the newspaper’s chief editor (Gjetlen 1995). Such precise targeting was possible because the newspaper building was positioned on the front line, only 100–200 m north of the Serbian-held suburb of Nedžarići, at the western end of Sarajevo. However, despite this location, BSA artillery did not target the building in the first months of the siege. As the building was located in the part of Sarajevo that the Bosnian Serb political leadership imagined as the future Serbian Sarajevo, it was speculated that the building was spared because the Bosnian Serb political leadership hoped to turn it into its government headquarters (Gjetlen 1995). As this plan became less likely, after June 1992 the building became a regular artillery target (Gjetlen 1995). An assault in July 1992 indicated that

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attacks were intentional and ordered, as was openly announced by an anonymous call to the building whereby a BSA soldier “promised that he will accomplish his duty of shelling this house” (Z.J. 1992). The journalists stopped counting after the one-thousandth shell hit the building in August 1992. Due to the intensity of the attacks, the tower bearing the inscription ‘Oslobodjenje’ (‘Liberation’) on its cornice, which was oriented towards the center of Sarajevo, collapsed like a “sand tower when tide comes” on 28 August 1992 (Oslobodjenje 1992a). The second tower was destroyed two weeks later, and only the tubes for the elevator system remained (Oslobodjenje 1992b) (Fig. 4.2). In 1993, the wartime Bosnian Serb political leader Radovan Karadžić argued that the newspaper building was a legitimate military target because it was used by an ABH unit that fired rockets from its roof at BSA positions in Nedžarići (BETA 2010). Gjetlen (1995) recorded that

Fig. 4.2  Destruction of the Oslobodjenje newspaper building. (Photos: Milomir Kovačević Strašni. Reprinted with the permission of Milomir Kovačević Strašni)

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Bosnian-Herzegovinian government snipers indeed used the building to fire at BSA positions in May 1992. The building towers, however, were demolished by 1993, while attacks on the building continued. This indicates that the targeting was not part of the legitimate military strategy but rather a strike at the Oslobodjenje newspaper as a means of keeping voices from the besieged Sarajevo from being heard (Hoorn 2009). Oslobodjenje had particular importance as it was an independent daily of Bosnia-Herzegovina (Gejtlen 1995; Burić 2001). Established during the Second World War (in 1943), its name (‘liberation’) became a synonym for the struggle against fascism, the fight for freedom and the unification of the Yugoslavian peoples, which continued in the post-war years. Although a few Serbian journalists left the newspaper at the beginning of the 1990s, its staff remained prominently ethnically mixed and retained a strong defense of Bosnian-Herzegovinian ethnic pluralism (Burić 2001). As such, Oslobodjenje was a key source of unbiased information both to Sarajevans and to the world. It was networked with the international media, including the Associated Press and the New York Times, which often used its articles as references (Gjetlen 1995). Its reports about the destruction of Sarajevo included articles in which Serbian journalists sharply condemned the violence of the BSA. This Serbian voice was particularly significant because Bosnian Serb politicians could not represent it as Bosniak propaganda. One of the Oslobodjenje’s chief editors commented on the destruction as follows: “I think they are attempting to destroy us with a special intensity because of what we stand for. We have a staff that reflects the national composition of our society almost exactly […] And we write about Sarajevo and Bosnia in a way that reflects something the Serbian forces deny—that Serbs and Muslims and Croats can work and live together in harmony” (Burns 1992). Another newspaper editor added that for the BSA, which claimed that a shared life was not possible, “Oslobodjenje was an uncomfortable and inconvenient reminder of Bosnian [multi-ethnic] reality” (Knežević 2009). The targeting of the building was also an indirect method of terrorizing, demoralizing and paralyzing Sarajevo’s civilians because the newspaper was a key source of information about wartime survival in the city during the siege. Although the targeting of the Oslobodjenje newspaper building might have been instrumental to and focused on the control of information, its targeting produced symbolic effects as the destroyed building emerged as an icon of the anti-nationalist struggle in the Bosnian-Herzegovinian war. It is significant that the destruction did not end the building’s use as a media center. Oslobodjenje never missed a day of publication despite the

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continuing shelling and sniping of journalists in the area around the building. Working together on the very frontline in the building’s underground atomic shelter and continuing to publish the newspaper, its ethnically mixed journalists transformed the building’s ruins into a place of resistance to violence. After the second tower collapsed, the paper repeated “Liberation will continue publishing until – liberation, and after” (Oslobodjenje 1992b). In April 1993, Oslobodjenje began publishing an international edition provoking the New York Times headline: “Sarajevo Paper Defies War by Staying in Print” (Burns 1992). Through its continued use by journalists of all ethnicities, the ruin of the building became a symbol of the BosnianHerzegovinian ethnic mixture and resistance to nationalism. Moreover, this symbol was born in the area of Sarajevo that the BSA intended to seize and transform into the center of the nationalist Serbian government. Thus the targeting of the building and the failure to prevent publication worked symbolically against the interests of the instigators. With the multi-ethnic symbolism gained after its destruction, the building contested the BSA intention of dividing the city along ethnic lines and sent a message that people of different ethnicities can indeed work and live together in one integrated city. Oslobodjenje journalists proudly described their ruined building—that had only a lift tube sticking out of the rubble—as giving “the finger” to Serbian nationalists from the front line (Gjetlen 1995: 220) (Fig. 4.2). The effect of the destruction was the production of a new symbolic role for the newspaper and the Oslobodjenje building. The destruction of the Oslobodjenje newspaper building demonstrates that architecture was not merely a passive target of the war. Through everyday use and public representation, buildings gain agency in the conflict as tools for resisting and subverting the ethnic politics sustained by violence against architecture. The Oslobodjenje building emerged both as an architectural icon of multiethnic unity and a part of the urban infrastructure and practices that sustained such politics of identity.

Weapons Against the State: Destruction of Political Institutions Bosnian-Herzegovinian political institutions, including the presidency, parliament and government buildings, were a distinct group of architectural targets suffering frequent attacks throughout the siege. In this section, I will focus on the destruction of the architectural complex of the

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government and parliament buildings, which formed what Vale (2008) would refer to as the ‘capitol’ of the Bosnian-Herzegovinian state. The complex was designed by Sarajevo’s architect, Juraj Neidhart, from 1955 to 1976, and was constructed from 1980 to 1982 (Kapetanović 1990), when Bosnia-Herzegovina was a republic of the former Yugoslavia. It is located in the Marindvor area, the urban center of the Socialist Town, which functioned as the political and corporate center of socialist-period Bosnia-Herzegovina (Grabrijan and Neidhart 1957). The complex was conceived of as the landmark of the Bosnian-Herzegovinian national identity. In the words of its architect, it was designed as “the house of all the [Bosnian] peoples” and as such “its symbolism should be recognizable to all” (Kapetanović 1990: 175). The complex included a tower (hereafter: the government tower), which housed the government administration offices, and a horizontal annex building (hereafter: the parliament building), which housed the assembly halls of the parliament, composed around a spacious plaza (Fig. 4.3). The plaza, with the capacity to accommodate 100,000 people, opened towards the city’s main boulevard and was imagined as the main square of Sarajevo (Kapetanović 1990). The parliament building contained a covered atrium inside its body, which was an architectural reference to the traditional domed spaces of Sarajevo’s mosques and churches, which were both places and symbols of gathering (Grabrijan and Neidhart 1957). The tower was composed of two 20-storey interconnected plinths, which represented the two regions: Bosnia and Herzegovina (Kapetanović 1990). Its form was an architectural reference to traditional gravestones of the Bosnian medieval kingdom (stećak) and Sarajevo’s clock towers, while its modernist expression was influenced by the design of the Pirelli office tower in Milan.2 Its volume and height were meant to symbolize “the independence and strength of the socialist Bosnia” (Alić 2006: 13). Both buildings had facades with horizontal divisions into strips of glass and light granite panels. The highest strip of the government tower was colored red, the color that represented the communist ideology of the socialist-period Bosnia-Herzegovina (and the entire former Yugoslavia).3 Anderson (2006: 6) argues that nations are imagined communities distinguishable “by the style in which they are imagined”. The style of the parliament and government complex was a fusion of traditional BosnianHerzegovinian architectural aesthetics and international-style modernism. With this style, Neidhart believed that he had created a “new Bosnian national expression” and “a unique vision of a modern yet national Bosnian

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Fig. 4.3  Destruction of the Bosnian-Herzegovinian parliament and government complex. (Photos up: Milomir Kovačević Strašni. Reprinted with the permission of Milomir Kovačević Strašni. Photo down: Enra Soldin. Reprinted with the permission of Enra Soldin)

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architecture” (Alić 2006: 10). A reference to traditionalism expressed “the influences and diversities that have historically taken place on the soil of Bosnia” (Neidhart in Alić 2006: 12), while modernism reflected the idea of progressive development and suggested universality and equality of Bosnian-Herzegovinian peoples. The style was also a local BosnianHerzegovinian version of globalism. The entire parliament and government complex resembled the United Nations (UN) headquarters in New York, which, despite the lack of data that would directly confirm a relationship between the two buildings, can be explained as the influence for Neidhart’s practice with Le Corbusier, who was influential in the UN’s design. In some ways, the parliament and government complex paralleled how the hopes for global harmony and peace between nations became represented in the UN building. Its composition of purified horizontal and vertical forms resembled that of the UN’s General Assembly and Secretariat tower, which were places of multi-cultural debate, global democracy and integrated governance. Its stripped aesthetic of modernity represented universality and absence of ethnicity, similar to how the international-style modernism of the UN building represented the global style, “express[ed] no country’s characteristic but […] the world as a whole” (Langmead 2009: 409). The parliament and government complex thus became symbolic of Bosnian-Herzegovina as a whole—the brotherhood and unity between its different ethnicities and an architectural landmark of a cosmopolitan national identity. Only a decade after it was constructed, the meanings of the BosnianHerzegovinian parliament and government complex were contested through a series of political events. On 14 October 1991, parliament adopted a declaration of Bosnian-Herzegovinian independence. In response, the then-Bosnian Serb political representative Karadžić made a speech in the assembly hall in which he argued that independence would result in the “pulling out” of Bosnian Serbs from Yugoslavia “against their will” and threatened that it could consequently “lead Bosnia and Herzegovina into hell and Muslim people into extinction. Because Muslim people cannot defend themselves if there is the war here” (Silber and Little 1996: 237). The Bosnian Serb political representatives walked out of the parliament building and formed a parallel institution, the Bosnian Serb Assembly (Donia 2006), in the town of Pale located 15 km to the east of Sarajevo. This destabilized the meaning of the parliament as the democratic center of multi-ethnic Bosnia-Herzegovina and marked the beginning of the Bosnian Serb struggle to divide the country. Pale became the capital

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of a newly established Serbian autonomous region, formed out of peripheral parts of Sarajevo and its surroundings (Donia 2006). In March 1992, a plate with the inscription “Serbia” was installed on the entrance to Pale from Sarajevo (Kapić 2000). During the war, it also became the center of the Bosnian Serb military operations against Sarajevo, which is why the town became popularly known as ‘Serbdom’ (Serbian Home). Bosnian-Herzegovinian independence came on 6 April 1992, after elections in March.4 On 4 April, Bosnian Serb police and paramilitary forces erected barricades throughout the city and blocked access to the parliament and government complex (Pejanović 2002). This provoked a massive civil protest from 4 to 6 April organized by the former Communist Party and joined by Sarajevans of all ethnicities (Donia 2006). Two peaceful processions marched towards the Parliament plaza: one from the western end of Sarajevo along the main boulevard, and the other from the city center along Marshall Tito Street. While walking, protestors held each other’s hands and created an image of multi-ethnic unity. After breaking the barricade on the boulevard, the crowd of 200,000 people gathered on the parliament’s plaza and stretched across the boulevard to the UNIS towers and the Holiday Inn (Z. Dj.—El. Ka. 1992). They chanted “Bosnia” and carried Bosnian-Herzegovinian flags, Tito’s photos and a huge banner with the inscription “We are for peace” (Prstojević 1994). Part of the crowd broke into the parliament building, appropriated the main Assembly Hall (Big Hall) and proclaimed a ‘citizens’ parliament’ (Pejanović 2002), in which some 200 speakers delivered speeches demanding the resignation of the nationally divided government. Popular practices of resistance created a spectacle of popular power that confirmed parliament’s symbolism as the ‘home of Bosnian peoples’, and turned it into a place of popular resistance to war and nationalist division (H.B.N. 1992). This spectacle was interrupted by Bosnian Serb snipers who were set up in four different locations around the parliament building. These included the Grbavica skyscrapers on the river bank to the south-east, the Jewish cemetery to the south of parliament, the UNIS towers to the north, and the Holiday Inn to the north-west, which had functioned as the headquarters of Bosnian Serb politicians since March 1992 (Rujanac 2003). On 6 April, after part of the crowd departed to dismantle the barricade at the bridge to the south-east of parliament, snipers began shooting at the parliament plaza and the bridge, killing two and wounding four others (Z. Dj.— El. Ka. 1992). This transformed the spectacle of people’s power into a spectacle of death and terror in front of the parliament. The newly independent Bosnian-Herzegovinian state was publicly shown to be unable to pro-

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tect its own people (Pejanović 2002). The parliament plaza was remembered as the place where the war started, and the protesters were considered its first victims. The biggest casualty that day was hope. Once the siege began, the BSA established their artillery positions on the front line adjacent to the BSA-held Grbavica suburb and Zlatište hill, which made the parliament and government complex an easy target. The attacks were initiated on 28 May 1992 (a day after the bread-line massacre) and were most intense in the second half of 1992 and the first half of 1993.5 On 28 May 1992, general Mladić was recorded giving a direct order: “By direct shots, keep under fire the Presidency and the Parliament buildings. Hit them slowly, in intervals, until I order the ceasefire” (Husejnović 2012). Since April 1992 the Bosnian-Herzegovinian presidency had occupied offices in the parliament and government complex in an attempt to implement the constitution of the independent BosniaHerzegovina (Pejanović 2002). By September 1992, the entire complex was reported to be no longer in use (Telegraph 1992). The government tower was destroyed by being hit with inflammable grenades, which ignited its floors (DAS-SABIH 1994). The parliament building was hit with grenades that damaged its roof and interior. Two of three assembly meeting halls were completely destroyed, including a significant part of the main Great Hall (Tafro-Sefić 2011). Although the plaza was mostly hidden, it still sustained numerous hits. According to the Association of Architects of Sarajevo (DAS-SABiH 1994), the parliament and government complex was 70% destroyed (Fig. 4.3). A New York Times article from August 1995 revealed that the government tower, the height of which gave it a commanding position, was “used by Bosnian Army snipers to fire on areas held by Serbs” (O’Connor 1995). While the article cited a statement by an ABH officer that the “snipers stationed the fire only on Bosnian Serb military positions”, testimonies of the Bosnian Serb population who lived in Grbavica commented that “movement in Grbavica was very difficult because of Muslim snipers. Literally from all sides, citizens of this suburb were cold-bloodedly killed. It was shot from the Government tower” (O’Connor 1995). These accounts speak to the complexities of understanding the intentions of wartime targeting of architecture, which were often less than clear. Although the ABH’s wartime use of the building indicates that the BSA potentially perceived it as a legitimate military target, the building had already been destroyed by the middle of 1992 yet the targeting continued throughout the siege. Even if the building had been perceived as a military

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target, the legitimacy of such targeting is arguable, given the disproportionately high level of its destruction by BSA artillery and its use by the ABH for sniping rather than shelling. The pattern of targeting focused on the entire complex, rather than merely roofs and high floors of the government tower. Moreover, as indicated in Mladić’s order quoted above, the president’s building was a common twin-target of the parliament and government complex. This suggests that the targeting also had other nonmilitary purposes and indicates a possible strategy of assault on the centers of political power of the Bosnian-Herzegovinian state. My argument is that the attack on and destruction of the parliament and government complex operated as a weapon against the BosnianHerzegovinian state and nation. Even if buildings were also military targets, they were a means of preventing the ABH and the BosnianHerzegovinian political leadership from defending the country’s integrity. Their targeting and destruction had both functional and symbolic effects. First, the parliament and government complex was the capitol of the Bosnian-Herzegovinian state, where the country’s political decision-making was both housed and practiced. Their destruction brought the buildings’ political functions to an end and obstructed the emergence of the independent multi-ethnic Bosnian-Herzegovina. Its political leadership and ministries were scattered throughout the city, which, together with its severed infrastructure, inhibited the country’s political apparatus from consolidating. Second, the attacks damaged the buildings that formed the symbolic center of the Bosnian-Herzegovinian multi-ethnic nations. The buildings were designed and constructed as architectural icons of the country’s pluralism. Their destruction can be understood as an attack on the ideals, values and democratic choice of the multi-ethnic coexistence, unity and equality embedded in their form, function and representation. The most frequent target within the complex was the government tower (DASSABIH 1994). In August 1992, the international media reported that the top four floors were set ablaze and that the “building burned throughout the afternoon and at dusk great plumes of black smoke belching from its top floor turned the sunset an eerie purple” (The Day 1992). The scene was repeated in September 1992, when the shells set ablaze the tenth floor and above, and also “tore off chunks of the building and hurled them up to 200 yards” (Telegraph 1992). The result was the creation of images of the government tower burning like a ‘torch’ over Sarajevo’s cityscape, which, due to its volume and urban positioning, could be seen from many

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parts of the city. The symbolic effect was the semantic inversion (Dovey 1999) of the foremost symbol of political power of the BosnianHerzegovinian multi-ethnic state into a symbol of defeat—a signifier of the victory of violence and ethnic nationalism over democracy and the civic nationalist ideology. Third, the attacks happened in front of the foreign journalists who stayed across the road in the Holiday Inn hotel, giving them a clear view of the spectacle of violence. The most widely disseminated photos of the government tower destruction were taken from this hotel’s windows in 1992. This produced spectacles of violence that were disseminated to an international audience. Part of their symbolic impact was on the course of political negotiations about Bosnia-Herzegovina. The attack on 28 May 1992 was largely responsible for breaking up a peace conference in Lisbon (Kapić 2000). Another attack three weeks later broke the ceasefire signed during the Geneva talks. The global effect was to affect the course and position of politicians in negotiations. The destruction of these buildings can also be seen as a part of the larger strategy of reterritorialization of Sarajevo into two ethnic enclaves. The Bosnian-Herzegovinian parliament and government complex was located in the area of Marindvor, the pre-war center of political, administrative and economic power of Sarajevo and Bosnia-Herzegovina. In the context of the BSA wartime division plan, this area became the imaginary demarcation zone between the territories possibly perceived as distinct ethnic enclaves (Fig. 4.1). A frequently targeted building located across the street from the parliament and government complex was the headquarters of the United Industry of Sarajevo (UNIS), housed in moderniststyle twin-towers. Apart from being the seat of the largest Bosnian-Herzegovinian industry corporation and thus a symbol of the country’s economic power, the UNIS twin-towers were also an everyday symbol. Before the war, they bore a colloquial nickname ‘Momo and Uzeir’, after a Serb and a Muslim who were characters in a popular Sarajevo radio comedy show during the 1970s (Kapić 2000). Their destruction resulted in a joke that, as the towers were identical and nobody could distinguish which was Momo and which Uzeir, the BSA attacked both. Their destruction transformed their meaning as architectural icons of Sarajevo’s ethnic pluralism into those of ethnic antagonism. The devastation of the modernist parliament and government complex and the UNIS towers transformed the Marindvor area, which was the political and corporate center of Bosnia-Herzegovina (Grabrijan and Neidhart 1957), into a fractured zone of the Bosnian-Herzegovinian capital city and state.

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Targeting as Forgetting: Destruction of Cultural Heritage Heritage and cultural property were the most-targeted building types during the Bosnian-Herzegovinian war. This included buildings designated as cultural heritage, such as historic buildings; buildings housing cultural heritage, such as museums, libraries and archives; and undesignated heritage places of value for Sarajevo’s and Bosnia-Herzegovina’s collective memory and identity (‘millieux de memoire’ in Norra’s 1989 terms), buildings related to the XIV Winter Olympics, for example. In this book, I will refer to buildings falling under any of these three categories as ‘heritage buildings’. According to some estimates, more than 1368 heritage buildings in the besieged Sarajevo were targeted (Bevan 2006). Although a number of these buildings were hit accidentally or became collateral damage, in many cases heritage buildings were purposely attacked. On one occasion, a journalist interviewed a BSA soldier, asking why he was shelling the Holiday Inn, the wartime seat of the international media (Riedlmayer 1996). The soldier apologized, stating that it was a mistake as he was targeting the National Museum across the street. In most of these cases, the edifices surrounding the targeted heritage buildings often remained intact, which requires precision targeting (Riedlmayer 2002). Particular patterns of violence are evident from drawings and photographs produced and assembled by Sarajevo’s architects in the Warchitecture catalogue (DAS-SABIH 1994). For example, many buildings were hit in their cupolas or spires until they collapsed and made the interior of the building unusable. In some cases, inflammable grenades were thrown through them until the interior was set ablaze. Although records of intentions or motives behind such violence are rare, all this indicates an intention to damage or destroy Sarajevo’s and Bosnia-Herzegovina’s heritage. The UN reports and ICTY testimonies referring to the wartime heritage destruction in the broader context of Bosnia-Herzegovina suggest that there is a link between the destruction of heritage and persecution of communities associated with the targeted heritage (Bassiouni 1994; Riedlmayer 2002). In other words, this suggests a campaign of ethnic cleansing was accompanied by a campaign of cultural cleansing through destruction of heritage buildings (Bevan 2006). Indeed, in one reported statement about the attack on Islamic heritage, a Bosnian Serb police chief of a town controlled by the BSA indicated: “With their mosques, you

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must not just break the minarets (…) You’ve got to shake up the foundations because that means they cannot build another. Do that, and they’ll want to go. They’ll just leave by themselves” (Sudetic 1992). Riedlmayer (1995) argues that “buildings and records were proof that non-Serbs once resided and owned property in that place, that they had historical roots there. By burning the documents, by razing mosques and Catholic churches and bulldozing the graveyards, the nationalist forces who have now taken over these towns and villages are trying to insure themselves against any future claims by the people they have driven out and dispossessed”. Bevan (2006: 60) regards such destruction as a form of retroactive “pursuit of ethnic cleansing or genocide by other means […] a recurring tactic whenever wars against minorities are fought, whether driven by Nazi racial ideology, Turkish state building or Serbian expansionism”. Such arguments can only be applied partially to understand the destruction of heritage in the besieged Sarajevo. As indicated in the introduction, the Bosnian Serb political leadership clearly stated that their aim was to divide Sarajevo along ethnic lines. As evident in Fig. 4.1, the destruction of civilian architecture, including heritage buildings, was part of the strategy of ethnic purification of territories. The non-Serbian heritage buildings that were completely destroyed, including the Bosniak-related Oriental Institute, two mosques, the Croatian-related Franciscan Theological Faculty and a Catholic church, were located in the imaginary Serbian Sarajevo. This can be interpreted as the cleansing of Others from territory perceived as Serbian. However, this thesis does not explain the far larger extent of the heritage destruction that took place in the rest of Sarajevo, and for several reasons. First, the vast majority of the destroyed heritage buildings were related to shared multi-ethnic history and memory, rather than to particular ethnic groups. Second, the vast majority of the targeted non-Serbian heritage buildings were located in the Ottoman and Austro-Hungarian Towns, a part of the city that the Bosnian-Serb political leadership intended to leave as the Bosniak enclave, which cannot be interpreted as the purification of territory from Others. Third, most of the non-Serbian buildings were targeted and damaged, but not demolished or raised, which indicates a different strategy of violence. The rationale for the attacks on the non-Serbian heritage buildings can be understood by analyzing the morphology of their damage. The drawings and photographs from the Warchitecture catalogue (DAS-SABIH 1994)

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indicate that Bosniak Islamic heritage buildings were the most common targets and that such targeting was aimed particularly at the minarets and cupolas of the mosques (Bevan 2006). Both architectural elements play prominent spatial, social and symbolic roles in the religious practices of Islam. The minaret is a tall and slender tower from which muezzins call Muslims to prayer five times a day. In the Ottoman Sarajevo they were built within a radius inside which the voice of the muezzin could be heard, which is approximately 100–200 m. As such, the minaret is a ‘pillar’ from which to gather members of the religious community, while the cupola of the mosque is a place under which the faithful gather (Grabrijan and Neidhart 1957). The minarets are also a medium of communication with the community, while the domes are the social binder of the community (Akšamija 2010). The Bosnian-Herzegovinian mosques in general are both places of worship and social places used as “meeting places for a community’s secular activities, such as debating differing political, legal, scientific and religious issues” (Akšamija 2008: 9). During the war, they were also places where residents could obtain humanitarian aid. The targeting of minarets and cupolas of mosques was thus a means of breaking the social cohesion of the Bosniak community by targeting and obstructing the places and rituals of religious gathering and getting-together, as a way of keeping the Bosniak community apart. This was also a means of breaking their resistance to the BSA. Mosques also give visibility to the presence and practice of Islam in the city. The minaret, with its vertical form taller than its surroundings and visible from a distance, is also a symbol of the presence and dominance of Islam on the territory (Bloom 1989). The urban regulations of the Ottoman Sarajevo stated that no other building in the city could exceed the height of the main mosque, namely Ferhat-Pasha Mosque (Škarić 1937). Bosnian Serb wartime political leader Karadžić considered mosques visible markers of what he referred to as the Islamic conquest of Sarajevo. A documentary entitled Serbian Epics – 1992 (Pawlikowski and Stojanović 1992) shows him in the hills around Sarajevo, pointing towards the city and claiming that Sarajevo was a Serbian territory before the Ottomans and the Bosniaks, whom he considered Serbs who converted to Islam, occupied it. He argued that those Serbs who accepted Islam appropriated the city center, while those Serbs who did not were pushed into the mountain villages, out of the valley and away from fertile land, accepting the state of poverty rather than the change of their religion. Pointing to the numerous minarets visible in Sarajevo’s panorama, he described mosques as physical signs of the Muslim

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occupation and oppression of the Serbian population (Pawlikowski and Stojanović 1992). To that effect, the toppling of the minarets can be seen as an instance of urban fallism, which is a form of iconoclasm by means of a deliberate targeting and removing of religious symbols from the urban fabric. In the context of Sarajevo, such destruction can be seen as a form of de-colonization of the territory from the landmarks of Islamic power and domination. This was both a symbolic targeting of what the BSA saw as symbols of the centuries-long repression of the Serbs and expressive targeting (Drake 1998), an expression of anger and revenge by the BSA against the Bosniaks. The wartime destruction of shared heritage in the besieged Sarajevo, which was far more wide-spread, indicates a different strategy of violence. This includes Sarajevo City Hall  – National and University Library of Bosnia and Herzegovina, the National Museum, the Museum of Revolution, the Olympic Museum and other buildings. As there is no scope to present a detailed analysis of how each building was targeted, in the remainder of the chapter I will focus on a ‘critical case’ (Flyvbjerg 2006)—the destruction of the building that caught the most national and international attention, that of Sarajevo City Hall – National and University Library of Bosnia and Herzegovina (hereafter: City Hall). The building was constructed from 1890 to 1894 during the Habsburg rule in Bosnia-Herzegovina, as the seat of the Austro-Hungarian administration. It was built at the eastern-most edge of the Ottoman Town.6 The building is composed of a three-story prismatic body developing around a central atrium, covered by a glass cupola. Its neo-classical facades and interior were decorated with aesthetic details of Moorish (Islamic) architecture from northern Africa and southern Spain (Krzović 1987; Kurto 1998) (Fig. 4.4). This fusion of ‘western’ classical volume and ‘eastern’ decoration, termed ‘pseudo-Moorish style’, was seen to represent an authentic Bosnian-Herzegovinian national style during the AustroHungarian period (Dimitrijević 1989). This style also reflected the specific motivations of the Habsburg politics of identity in Bosnia-Herzegovina (Dimitrijević 1989). The Austro-Hungarians aimed to create an integrated Bosnian-Herzegovinian national identity by promoting Western values, cosmopolitanism and multi-confessional nationalism, while repressing ethnic nationalism emerging particularly amongst Bosnian Serbs and Croats (Dimitrijević 1989; Donia 2006).7 To that end, the pseudo-Moorish style, which blended eastern and western historic cultural influences, was expressive of Bosnian-Herzegovinian ethnic pluralism. However, the style also gave City Hall a more Islamicized expression and the building became aligned with the Bosniaks (Alić 2002).

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Fig. 4.4  Destruction of Sarajevo City Hall. (Photos: Milomir Kovačević Strašni. Reprinted with the permission of Milomir Kovačević Strašni)

This can be read as an attempt to align the monarchy with the local Muslim population, who were expected to support the project of BosnianHerzegovinian integrated identity (Krzović 1987; Dimitrijević 1989) and, unlike Serbs and Croats, had no external homeland to look towards (Alić 2002; Kreševljaković 1969; Donia 2006; Malcolm 1994). However, contrary to Habsburg expectations, the building provoked objections from Bosniaks (West in Alić 2002) because its monumental and exaggeratedly ornamental Arabic Moorish architecture had little in common with the restrained BosnianHerzegovinian Islamic architecture found in the Ottoman tradition (Kreševljaković 1969; Krzović 1987). The building also provoked dissatisfaction amongst Sarajevo’s Christians, who argued that it looked “as Moslem as a mosque” and that it strengthened the Islamic identity of Sarajevo even though Christians composed two-thirds of its population at that time (West in Alić 2002: 194). Sarajevo City Hall thus became one of the first symbols of integrated Bosnian-Herzegovinian identity and, at the same time, an early example of ethnic tensions becoming embodied in Sarajevo’s architecture.

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City Hall functioned as the seat of Sarajevo’s administration from its official opening in 1896 until the end of the Second World War. In 1948, under the regime of the socialist Yugoslavia, the building was transformed into the National and University Library of the Federal Bosnia and Herzegovina (Alić 2002; Donia 2006).8 The library kept rare historic material such as medieval manuscripts and books, and gathered written material from the entire socialist-period Bosnia-Herzegovina (Ovčina et al. 2007). This change of use diminished the relevance of City Hall’s colonial history (Alić 2002). Instead, the building became a part of the larger national narrative of the former Yugoslavia focused on uniting the South Slav peoples through progress and modernity (Alić 2002; Donia 2006). City Hall as a signifier of the progressive socialist nation became a recognizable motif in Sarajevo’s photographs, postcards and monographs showing citizens and students in its reading rooms. The building’s new role was accepted in the city’s everyday life, too. Although Sarajevo’s residents kept referring to the building exclusively as “City Hall” (Vijecnica), this name became synonymous with reading and books. When somebody looked like an intellectual, residents would say that the person looked like “he was born in the City Hall” (Stojić 2007). All these changes to the building’s form, use and meaning, which were brought about by the political changes through Bosnian-Herzegovinian history, established City Hall as “Sarajevo’s most emblematic building, an architectural symbol of the […] entangled history of this city” (Lovrenović 1994). During the siege, the cultural values embedded in the building stood in opposition to ethnic nationalism, which made the City Hall  – National Library a target. The building could be seen with the naked eye from BSA positions on Zlatište Hill. It was initially targeted in an attack on the Ottoman Town in June 1992, when a shell “pierced its glass dome” (Bassiouni 1994). The worst assault occurred during the night of 25 August 1992, when the BSA continuously shelled its glass cupola with inflammable missiles until it caught fire and eventually collapsed (Mrkić 1992). Additional grenades that were launched through the broken roof set the entire building on fire. The flames consumed the interior completely, and left only the shell of its outer façade (Mrkić 1992) (Fig. 4.4). The fire destroyed a significant part of the National Library’s collection and the original material that constituted Bosnian-Herzegovinian literary heritage. The libraries of Bosnian Muslim, Serbian and Croat cultural organizations from the Austro-Hungarian period; the majority of the newspaper collections; maps, records and research theses; as well as the

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entire library catalogue and computer center vanished into the flames (Mrkić 1992). After the fire was extinguished, librarians, students and residents pursued an ‘evacuation’ of what remained in the building (HrisafovićPervan 1992) and managed to save part of the library’s collection (Pištalo in Idrizović 1992). This included the collection Bosniaca, comprising books from Bosnia-Herzegovina, written by Bosnian-Herzegovinian writers, or written about Bosnia-Herzegovina (Pištalo in Mrkić 1992), as well as a large collection of rare and medieval manuscripts. The final estimates were that about 1.5 million books and other items were destroyed (Bakaršić 1994), which according to different sources comprised between 50% and 90% of the library (Idrizović 1992).9 The destruction impacted Sarajevo’s citizens deeply. They felt that burning their heritage, both literary and architectural, represented the destruction of their collective identity. A fireman who was asked by a foreign journalist why he was risking sniper attack to save the library answered, “I was born here and they are burning a part of me” (Pomfret 1992). Similar reactions were evident in the Bosnian-Herzegovinian local newspaper, which presented the assault on the library as an “intentional” attack on “the very source of identity of the Bosnian and Yugoslavian peoples” (Pištalo in Mrkić 1992). A librarian argued that the burning of the library can be understood as an attempt “to erase our remembrance of who we are […and] to create the situation where the people of a society have no memory of their past” (Bakaršić 1994). A writer from Sarajevo, Ivan Lovrenović, termed such violence ‘memoricide’ (Lovrenović 1994)—that is, an attempt to “kill memory” and “erase [the] history” of a community (Riedlmayer 1995; Bevan 2006). This thesis draws on Hobsbawm’s (1992) argument that history legitimizes the nation’s emergence and continuity and therefore, in order to produce a new, purified ethnic history and identity, the old multi-ethnic history must be erased (Riedlmayer 1995; Bevan 2006). Riedlmayer (1996) argues that “[i]t is this evidence of a successfully-shared past that the nationalists seek to destroy” because both buildings and documents “could remind future generations that people of different ethnic and religious traditions once shared a common heritage and life in Bosnia”. Alić (2002) argues that City Hall embodied shared heritage both in its form and function. Its use as a library was an example of the capacity of BosnianHerzegovinian culture to embrace influences from Others. Its specific architectural style signified Bosnian-Herzegovinian “ability to accommodate and integrate other cultures and transform the variety of influences

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into a “uniquely” Bosnian [multi-ethnic] expression” (Alić 2002: 197). It was everybody’s building, the destruction of which was an attempt at forcing into oblivion the culture and tradition of common life in the city. Frieze (2011) points out an ironic fact—through the destruction of the library, the BSA were pursuing a form of self-destruction because amongst the library’s collection were numerous rare Serbian manuscripts. This indicates that, through the destruction of the library, the BSA was also destroying its own heritage and committing a form of ‘cultural suicide’ (Zgonjanin 2005). This is another justification for the argument that the destruction of heritage in Sarajevo was not a form of ethnic cleansing but a purification of plurality through which the BSA was also pursuing selfcleansing. At a session of the wartime Bosnian Serb assembly, Karadžić stated that one of its strategic aims was “separation from two other national groups”, which he explained cannot happen without the migration of Serbs from territories seen as non-Serbian (Donia 2006). The destruction of the library might have been a part of this political aim—the cleansing of Serbian heritage from the part of the city the BSA intended to leave to Bosniaks. To that end, the library was the only building that was completely destroyed in the Ottoman town, which was dominated by Islamic architecture. Purification of the shared symbol from the Islamic quarter can be understood as a means of divorcing the self from the Other. In addition to speculations about the intentions behind the library’s destruction, the material and symbolic effects of the library’s destruction speak to the political role of architecture in conflict and war. While the attack on the library devastated the building’s interior, content and use, it invested the ruins with new meaning and symbolism. The opposing interpretations of the building’s destruction by both warring sides, which were disseminated through local and international media, contributed to the production of antagonistic ethnic identities (Coward 2009) during the siege. In his statement cited in Newsday on 30 November 1992, Karadžić denied the destruction of City Hall, claiming that Bosniaks did it as they “didn’t like its…architecture” (Riedlmyer 2007). On the other hand, a number of academic media sources regarded the targeting of City Hall as wanton destruction by barbaric Serbs who did not understand civilian cultural values (Bogdanović 1995, Bublin 1999). Such representations produce generalizations and tensions among ethnic groups. While the attack erased a part of the nation’s memory contained within the library, it also resulted in the inscription of a new memory of inter-ethnic animosity in the ruins of City Hall. This antagonistic memory was produced

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through the interplay among its ruined physical form and content, its discursive representation in media, and the experiences that such violence provoked amongst different ethnic groups. Unlike the destroyed library books, which it was argued gave evidence of a “successfully shared past” (Rieldmayer 1996), the ruined building became a place that testified to ethnic division. Through such interpretations, the ruin of City Hall emerged as a symbol of ethnic animosity and the devastation of the Bosnian-Herzegovinian multi-ethnic nation. The building became known as the place of “the largest single book-burning in the modern history of humankind” (Riedlmayer 1995). It was compared to the burning of the library in Alexandria and was argued to exceed the Nazis’ book-burning in Berlin (Silvester 2009). The image of the destroyed City Hall became an icon of the divided city. For example, it was used on the cover of a book on Sarajevo’s destruction, called Sarajevo: Wounded City (Prstojević 1995). The destruction of shared heritage produced antagonistic heritage—proof against coexistence and proof that different ethnicities have not always shared the city successfully. It consequently became a place of collective pain—that is, ‘difficult heritage to deal with’ (Macdonald 2008) due to its capacity to express and impose collective trauma and stigma upon social groups and create the grounds for continuous political tensions and disputes. This story will be discussed further in Chap. 8.

Architecture and Violence In this chapter I have analyzed the destruction of architecture during the siege in Sarajevo. I have given a detailed account of the violence against three key types of buildings destroyed as a result of different strategies. Central to this investigation was not what their destruction was in terms of ontology and the intentions of the attackers, but rather the question of what such violence does in relation to the city’s territory, place identity and the broader ethnic politics that has motivated their destruction. Violence against architecture had both discursive, physical and spatial effects across manifold scales. At the scale of the building, multi-ethnic symbols became those of ethnic division. This occurred through the transformation of buildings’ forms, uses and representations in media. For instance, the destruction terminated political and symbolic functions of the parliament and government complex as the center of the Bosnian-Herzegovinian state and nation. It also produced images of its ruination that were branded through media and transformed the complex into an icon of fracture of the

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Bosnian-Herzegovinian state and nation. In a similar vein, City Hall, as an institution and symbol of a shared Bosnian-Herzegovinian culture, was transformed into a shattered culture. These case studies illustrate Herscher’s (2010) argument that violence against buildings destabilizes and fundamentally transforms architectural and social identities. The case of the Oslobodjenje newspaper building shows that ethnic violence also resulted in the production of multi-ethnic identities where they had not previously existed. This can be understood through De Certeau’s (1984) notion that spatial tactics of resistance can semantically convert places of oppression into those of ‘becoming’, as well as through Deleuze and Guattari’s (1987) notion that rhizomic practices of resistance slip between places and identities to defy a stable social hierarchy (a division along ethnic lines in the case of Sarajevo). Unlike the case of the parliament and government buildings and City Hall, where violence terminated their use, the newspaper building resisted its destruction by remaining in continuous use during the course of the entire siege. It was through the underground resistance of ethnically mixed journalists (who continued publishing from the building’s basement) that the building emerged as the symbol of a united multi-ethnic Bosnia-Herzegovina. On the scale of the entire city, the targeting and destruction of buildings functioned as a form of purification of symbols of ethnic mix from the cityscape. In her book Purity and Danger, Mary Douglas (1966) described ‘dirt’ as a ‘matter out of place’, whereby the quest for purity of identity or of place involves a quest to eradicate anything considered ‘other’ to whatever sense of purified social order is being enforced. To the purifying order of Bosnian-Serb ethnic nationalism, Sarajevo represented an impure city both in the sense that its urban landscape was marked by buildings that were universal symbols of cosmopolitanism and ethnic mixing, and by a mixture of different ethnic buildings. The targeting of buildings involved purification of both sets of mixing and of ethnic identity. Almost all targeted buildings were targeted because of their multi-ethnic meanings and uses, with the exception of non-Serbian buildings because they were symbols of otherness in a wrong place. The targeting of architecture was a mode of socio-spatial purification of difference from the cityscape. It was a part of a strategy of the urban division of Sarajevo into two mono-ethnic enclaves and their reterritorialization into new geo-political assemblages—Serbian Sarajevo into the Greater Serbia state, and Bosniak Sarajevo into the remnants of the BosnianHerzegovinian state. The goal was to prevent mixing and to contain Bosniak and Croatian presences outside the boundaries of Greater Serbia.

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Notes 1. The author’s analysis of the catalogue. 2. From an informal conversation with Tajtana Neidhart, Neidhart’s daughter. 3. From an informal conversation with Tajtana Neidhart, Neidhart’s daughter. 4. The day is symbolic as it was the date of liberation of Sarajevo in the Second World War. In 1992, the day overlapped with Bajram (the end of Ramadan) and the Bosnian Serbs had promised Muslims a bloody Bajram (Rujanac 2003). 5. The author’s analysis of the chronology of the siege of Sarajevo from Bassiouni (1994). 6. Its design was supervised by the Austro-Hungarian Minister of Finance in Bosnia-Herzegovina, Benjamin Kallay (Dimitrijević 1989). This was at a time when Bosnia-Herzegovina was still an Ottoman territory occupied by the Habsburg Monarchy. The 1878 Treaty of Berlin authorized AustroHungarian occupation of Bosnia-Herzegovina, but the province formally remained a part of the Ottoman Empire (Malcolm 1994). The occupation lasted until 1908 when Bosnia-Herzegovina was fully annexed by the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy. 7. He used three architects on the project in order to execute his political vision through architecture. These included: Parik, who proposed the initial design; Wittek, who modified and produced the final design; and Cvetkovic, who executed the construction of the building (Krzović 1987; Dimitrijević 1989; Kurto 1998). 8. The library was founded in 1945 by seceding from the National Museum. It collected material from various cultural institutions, but also with private funds and citizens’ gifts from their private libraries (Donia 2006). 9. The director of the library on that day argued that the collection of the library numbered more than 3 million books and other items (Idrizović 1992). According to the library officials’ reports in the Bosnian-Herzegovinian wartime newspaper from 1992, this was 50% of the collection, according to academic research from 1995 this was about 90% (Riedlmayer 1995) and according to the official City Hall reconstruction report from 2007 this was about 70% of the library (Urbing 2007).

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Bublin, M. (1999). Gradovi Bosne i Herzegovine: milenijum razvoja i godine urbicida [The Cities of Bosnia and Herzegovina: A Millenium of Development and the Years of Urbicide]. Sarajevo: Sarajevo Publishing. Burić, A. (2001). Regional Media in Conflict: Case Studies in Local War Reporting, Institute for War and Peace Reporting. http://www.reliefweb.int/rw/lib.nsf/ db900sid/LGEL-5CYDTF/$file/iwpr-media-30jun.pdf?openelement. Accessed 12 Sept 2011. Burns, J. F. (1992, October 7). Sarajevo Paper Defies War by Staying in Print. New York Times. http://www.nytimes.com/1992/10/07/world/sarajevo-paperdefies-war-by-staying-in-print.html. Accessed 12 Sept 2011. Coward, M. (2009). Urbicide: The Politics of Urban Destruction. New York: Routledge. DAS-SABIH. (1994). Warchitecture: Urbicide Sarajevo. Sarajevo: Association of Architects DAS-SABIH. Deleuze, G., & Guattari, F. (1987). A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. London: Athlone Press. Dimitrijević, B. (1989). Arhitekt Karl Parik [Architect Karl Parik], PhD Thesis, Faculty of Architecture, University of Zagreb. Donia, R. (2006). Sarajevo: A Biography. London: Hurst & Co. Douglas, M. (1966). Purity and Danger: An Analysis of Concepts of Pollution and Taboo. London: Routledge. Dovey, K. (1999). Framing Places: Mediating Power in Built Form. London/New York: Routledge. Drake, C. J. M. (1998). Terrorists’ Target Selection. London: Palgrave Macmillan. FAMA. (1993). Survival Guide. Sarajevo: FAMA. Flyvbjerg, B. (2006). Five Misunderstandings About Case-Study Research. Qualitative Inquiry, 12(2), 219–245. Frieze, D. L. (2011). The Destruction of Sarajevo’s Vijećnica: A Case of Genocidal Cultural Destruction? In A. Jones (Ed.), New Directions in Genocide Research (pp. 57–74). Abingdon: Routledge. Gjetlen, T. (1995). Sarajevo Daily: A City and Its Newspaper Under Siege. New York: Harper Collins Publishers. Grabrijan, D., & Neidhart, J.  (1957). Arhitektura Bosne i put u suvremeno [Architecture of Bosnia and the Way (Towards) Modernity]. Ljubljana: Mladinska knjiga. Graham, S. (2007). Demodernizing by Design: Everyday Infrastructure and Political Violence. In D. Gregory & A. Pred (Eds.), Violent Geographies: Fear, Terror and Political Violence. New  York/London: Routledge, Taylor and Francis Group. H.B.N. (1992, April 7). Parlament je nas dom [The Parliament Is Our Home]. Oslobodjenje.

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Herscher, A. (2010). Violence Taking Place: The Architecture of the Kosovo Conflict. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Hobsbawm, E.  J. (1992). The Invention of Tradition. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Husejnović, M. (2012, August 13). Ratko Mladić: General od “Velušića” do Potočara [Ratko Mladić: General from “Velušići” do Potočari’]. Balkan Insight. http://www.balkaninsight.com/en/article/ratko-mladic-general-od-velusicado-potocara/1422/2. Accessed 5 Oct 2017. Idrizović, N. (1992, August 29). Nije sve Spaljeno [It’s Not That Everything Burned]. Oslobodjenje. International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia (ICTY). (2007, December 12). Prosecutor v. Dragomir Milošević, ICTY Trial, Case No. IT-98-29/1-T. United Nations International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia. http://www.icty.org/x/cases/dragomir_milosevic/tjug/en/071212.pdf. Accessed 5 Oct 2017. Kaldor, M. (2007). New and Old Wars: Organized Violence in a Global Era. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Kapetanović, J.  (1990). Juraj Neidhart, Zivot i Djelo [Juraj Neidhart, Life and Work]. Sarajevo: Veselin Maslesa. Kapić, S. (2000). The Siege of Sarajevo 1992–1996. Ljubljana: Mladinska knjiga tiskarna d.d. Knežević, G. (2009, November 3). Karadzic: Looking For A Monster and Finding Only A Man. Radio Free Europe. http://www.rferl.org/content/Karadzic_ Looking_For_A_Monster_And_Finding_Only_A_Man/1868086.html. Accessed 31 Oct 2017. Kreševljaković, H. (1969). Sarajevo 1878–1918. Sarajevo: Arhiv grada Sarajeva [Historic Archive of the City of Sarajevo]. Krzović, I. (1987). Arhitektura Bosne i Hercegovine 1878–1914 [Architecture of Bosnia and Herzegovina 1878–1914]. Sarajevo: Umjetnička galerija Bosne i Hercegovine. Kurto, N. (1998). Arhitektura Bosne i Hercegovine i razvoj bosankog stila [Architecture of Bosnia and Herzegovina and Development of the Bosnian ̵ Style]. Sarajevo: Sarajevo Publishing, Medunarodni centar za mir [International Centre for Peace] Langmead, D. (2009). Icons of American Architecture: From the Alamo to the World Trade Center. Westport: Greenwood Press. Lovrenović, I. (1994, May 28). The Hatred of Memory: In Sarajevo, Burned Books and Murdered Pictures. The New York Times. http://www.openbook. ba/obq/no1/ivan_lovrenovic.htm. Accessed 12 Sept 2011. Macdonald, S. (2008). Difficult Heritage: Negotiating the Nazi Past in Nuremberg and Beyond. London/New York: Routledge.

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Magajlija, V. (2012, April 5). Hronologija opsade Sarajeva [Chronology of the Siege of Sarajevo]. Aljazeera Balkans. http://balkans.aljazeera.net/vijesti/ hronologija-opsade-sarajeva. Accessed 9 May 2017. Malcolm, N. (1994). Bosnia: A Short History. London: Macmillan. Magaš, B., & Žanić, I. (1999b). Rat u Hrvatskoj I Bosni i Hercegovini 1991–1995 [The War in Croatia and Bosnia and Herzegovina 1991–1995]. Zagreb/ Sarajevo: Dani. Mrkić, V. (1992, August 27). Izgorio symbol Sarajeva [Symbol of Sarajevo Burned]. Oslobodjenje, p. 2. O’Connor, M. (1995, August 1). Conflict in the Balkans: In Sarajevo; Investigation Concludes Bosnian Government Snipers Shot at Civilians. New York Times. http://query.nytimes.com/gst/fullpage.html?res=990CE3D81E39F932A35 75BC0A963958260&pagewanted=2. Accessed 12 Sept 2011. Oslobodjenje. (1992a, August 29). Srusen neboder Oslobodjenja [Tower of Liberation Demolished]. Oslobodjenje. Oslobodjenje. (1992b, September 15). Srusen i drugi neboder Oslobodjenja [The Second Tower of Liberation Also Demolished]. Oslobodjenje. Pawlikowski, P., & Stojanović, L. (1992). Serbian Epics—1992. Pawel Pawlikowski. http://www.pawelpawlikowski.co.uk/page3/. Accessed 5 Oct 2017. Pejanović, M. (2002). Through Bosnian Eyes: The Political Memoirs of a Bosnian Serb. Sarajevo: TKD Šahinpašić. Pomfret, J.  (1992, August 26). Battles for Sarajevo Intensify as Bosnian Peace Conference Opens. Associated Press. Prstojević, M. (1994). Sarajevo: Ranjeni grad [Sarajevo: Wounded City]. Sarajevo: Ideja & Ljubljana, DAG Grafika Riedlmayer, A. (1995, April 4). Killing Memory: The Targeting of Bosnia’s Cultural Heritage: Testimony Presented at a Hearing of the Commission on Security and Cooperation in Europe, U.S. Congress. www.haverford.edu/relg/sells/killing. html. Accessed 12 Sept 2011. Riedlmayer, A. (1996). Libraries Are Not for Burning: International Librarianship and the Recovery of the Destroyed Heritage of Bosnia and Herzegovina. Paper Submitted at the Beginning of 1996 and Presented at the 61st IFLA General Conference, August 20–25, 1995  in Istanbul, Turkey. http://forge.fh-potsdam.de/~IFLA/INSPEL/96-1riea.pdf. Accessed 12 Sept 2011. Riedlmayer, A. (2002). Destruction of Cultural Heritage in Bosnia-Herzegovina, 1992–1996: A Post-war Survey of Selected Municipalities. Expert Report commissioned by the International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia. https://archnet.org/system/publications/contents/3481/original/ DPC1420.pdf?1384775281. Accessed 12 Sept 2011. Rujanac, Z. (2003). Opsjednuti grad Sarajevo [The Besieged City of Sarajevo]. Sarajevo: Bosanski kulturni centar Sarajevo [Bosnian Cultural Centre Sarajevo].

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CHAPTER 5

Resistance

“Sehen sie diese Stadt? Das ist Walter!” (“Do you see this city? That is Walter.”)

This statement ended an iconic Yugoslavian partisan movie entitled Walter Defends Sarajevo, based on the true story of a mysterious partisan commander, Vladimir Peric Walter, who was a heroic leader of the resistance movement in Nazi-occupied Sarajevo during the Second World War. In late 1944, a Nazi officer arrived in Sarajevo to capture Walter because he posed a threat to the Nazi withdrawal operation. Standing on a hill and pointing towards the city below, the Nazi officer made this statement, having realized that he could not defeat Walter because he was not fighting a single partisan, but instead the entirety of Sarajevo. The final line of the movie aimed to convey the message of brotherhood and unity in the struggle against the foreign occupation (Donia 2006), which became a key principle of Yugoslavian inter-ethnic politics after the war. Walter was one of the last of Sarajevo’s partisans who died in the war—he was killed by a Nazi grenade on 6 April, the day of the city’s liberation. Almost five decades later, in March 1992, “We are Walter” became a slogan of a month-long civic anti-war demonstration in Sarajevo. Thousands of citizens of all ethnicities marching through the city evoked the memory of Walter as an expression of the protest and resistance against

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the ethno-nationalist tensions escalating on the eve of the war. Paradoxically, ‘Walter’ died for the second time on 6 April 1992 (Donia 2006), as the Bosnian Serb snipers fired at the crowd and killed six unarmed protestors (Chap. 4). Soon after, BSA troops besieged the city and began a campaign of sniping and shelling in Sarajevo. Nevertheless, Walter’s spirit persisted throughout the siege through residents’ spatial practices of resistance against the Bosnia Serb Army (BSA) violence and terror. In this chapter, I will discuss how Sarajevo’s population adapted architecture and urban space to resist and persist in the surreal urban wartime conditions marked by relentless violence and terror, where everyday life was reduced to a bare life, a struggle for mere existence and survival. I will analyze different spatial patterns and practices of civilian resistance to wartime terror and violence: transformation of underground, semi-­ underground and above-ground spaces; appropriation of interior, interstitial and exterior spaces; and adaptation of spatial practices of everyday life and urban rhythms. My argument is that, through adaptation of Sarajevo’s built environment, residents produced spatial patterns of defense through which they reconnected the city and reclaimed it for spatial practices like moving, gathering and mixing. Civilian resistance operated through an inversion of architecture and urban space in a physical, discursive and experiential manner—places of oppression became spaces of liberation. This chapter highlights the capacities of civilians and their bottom-­up creative practices to adapt everyday spaces and objects into weapons of the city’s defense and tools of its urban resilience.

Burrowing Underground Soon after the siege tightened, residents were forced to accept a distorted normality as their reality and as a permanent condition (Kapić 2000). Everyday conditions in the besieged Sarajevo have been compared to ­fictional scenes from the dystopian movie Mad Max 5 (FAMA 1993). A French philosopher, Bernard-Henri Levy, the narrator of the documentary A Day in the Death of Sarajevo (1993) said: “There are no ‘lines’ in Sarajevo, only one band. […] In fact, this is not a siege, but a trap from which, it can be felt, nobody can get out. Sarajevo is a trap for mice, Sarajevo is a ghetto. Killers in shadow. Killers without faces. Terror. Psychosis” (Levi in Bublin 1999: 187). Residents felt as if they were convicts sentenced to death, and that their execution could come any time they were in public space. Everyday spatial practices were reduced to those

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of survival—a struggle against death, illness, cold, thirst and hunger. In order to survive, residents had to change their spatial thinking about the city and their everyday urban habits. As outlined in Chap. 1, Sarajevo’s International Airport was the only break in the siege line (Fig. 5.1). Apart from this gap, the city remained hermetically sealed as the airport was controlled by United Nations (UN) forces, which allowed its use for humanitarian purposes only and

Fig. 5.1  Civic resistance in the western-most part of Sarajevo. (Map: Mirjana Ristic)

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­rohibited the crossing of the runway by the military or residents p (Donia 2006). Yet, the 450 m-wide runway was the narrowest stretch of land between the besieged Sarajevo and the territory controlled by the Army of Bosnia and Herzegovina (ABH) to its west. As such, it lent itself to numerous—no fewer than 260 per day—clandestine crossing attempts by civilians (FAMA 1993). Some crossings were attempts at escape, but others were risky efforts to transport daily supplies from the ABH-controlled territory to the besieged city. Residents joked that sprinting across the airport runway had become a wartime athletic discipline (FAMA 1993). This was a risky, dangerous and life threatening ‘sport’ as the runway was patrolled by the UN and secured by four rows of barbed wire equipped with reflectors, photo-cells and sensors for detecting movement. Moreover, BSA artillery and snipers had a clear view of the airport from the occupied Nedžarići suburb, which allowed them to target the runway. The strategy that residents developed in order to ‘win the race’ was attempting to cross the runway at night due to lower visibility and thus a smaller chance of being discovered. Still, about 300 people were killed and double that were wounded in their attempts (Tunel Spasa 2017). Linking the besieged Sarajevo and the ABH-controlled territory behind the airport had both civilian and military importance. As indicated in the Introduction (Chap. 1), although the ABH inside the city were more numerous, they were unable to break the siege from the ground due to poor weaponry. The only way to counter the attack was to go underground by digging a tunnel below the airport runway, which the ABH did from January to July 1993 (Fig. 5.1). The tunnel, which was about 1 m wide, 1.5–1.8  m high and 785.5  m long (Fig.  5.2), was referred to as “Object D-B” as it merged the besieged suburb of Dobrinja to the east of the runway and the ABH-controlled suburb of Butmir to its west.1 Initially, it was used by Bosnian-Herzegovinian politicians and the ABH for the transport of personnel and munitions necessary for the city’s military defense. It was later commercialized so that the local population could rent a pass to travel through it and bring food and other daily supplies that were vital for their everyday lives. On average, about 400 people per day passed through the tunnel (Selimbegović 2002). Foreign journalists were not allowed to see it as media attention could jeopardize its role for the city’s survival and defense.

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Fig. 5.2  Sarajevo war tunnel. (Photo: Mirjana Ristic)

The tunnel was kept top secret and often referred to as “the tunnel that does not exist” (Selimbegović 2002). The BSA eventually found out about it, though, and although they did not know its exact location, they ­regularly shelled what they thought was its position. At times, this resulted in massacres, such as in May 1995 when 9 people were killed and 12 wounded. Rumors spread that the BSA intended to build a transverse tunnel that would collapse the D-B tunnel, or to manipulate the course of a nearby river to flood it (Selimbegović 2002). Yet, until the end of the siege the tunnel existed as the secret lifeline of the besieged Sarajevo (Burns 1993). Colloquially, it was nicknamed the Tunnel of Salvation and the Tunnel of Hope as it brought a breath of freedom and gave residents new strength to endure. The siege boundary above-ground was by-passed through practices of ‘burrowing’ below-ground, while fragmented territories were assembled across vertical spatial levels. The tunnel became the only link between Sarajevo and the rest of Bosnia-Herzegovina and the world. Its western end was marked by a cardboard sign that read “Paris – 3765 km” (Selimbegović 2002).

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Adaptation of Urban Morphology The distribution of daily supplies that had come through the tunnel and that were exchanged at Sarajevo’s wartime markets, particularly at the central Markale market, depended on re-establishing the flows of movement in the city in the east-west direction, which had been inhibited by the terror that snipers wreaked on the city, particularly along Sniper Alley. In order to recreate this connection, the units of Territorial Defence (TD) and residents of Sarajevo developed a typology of physical barriers aimed at blocking the snipers’ views. There were key differences between how distinct morphologies of Sarajevo’s urban history adapted for this kind of resistance. The newer modernist morphology of the Socialist Town at the exit of the tunnel offered less possibility for protection because of the large open and exposed areas between free-standing residential buildings. In order to cover these spacious gaps, which were also highly dangerous due to the proximity of snipers’ positions in the BSA held suburb of Nedžarići, hard barriers that were impenetrable to both snipers’ gaze and their bullets were installed (Fig. 5.3, top and middle). They were composed of rubbish containers, shipping containers, destroyed cars, trams, buses piled atop one another, or cement blocks. The first row of these barriers was installed on the western side of an uncovered section of the road parallel to the airport (Fig. 5.1). This part of the road was the deadliest place in the city, where snipers took 400 lives during the siege. On the eastern side of the road, TD units dug a trench protected by sand bags in order to span an open field and connect to the adjacent high-rise apartment blocks (Fig. 5.1). A series of apartment blocks in the middle part of the Socialist Town were safer as the BSA snipers in this zone were located behind the hills to the north and the south, thus they were protected from the view of marksmen. Here, citizens wove between high-rise apartment buildings until they reached the western end of Sniper Alley, where movement became almost impossible (Chap. 3). The only path along this artery was under the cover of UN armored vehicles, which the BSA had agreed not to target. To avoid Sniper Alley, residents wove through a series of east-west streets to the north, which provided more cover. Due to exposure to snipers in the Grbavica suburb, their intersections were dangerous and covered by rows of containers. A succession of container-barriers formed a protected strip of urban space to the north of Sniper Alley, which became known as the ‘Road of Salvation’ as it enabled pedestrians and cars to avoid the urban center of the Socialist Town, which was the most dangerous part of the city (Fig. 5.4).

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Fig. 5.3  Visual barriers against snipers. (Photos: Milomir Kovačević Strašni. Reprinted with the permission of Milomir Kovačević Strašni)

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Fig. 5.4  Civic resistance in the central part of Sarajevo. (Map: Mirjana Ristic)

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After this area, movement continued along Marshall Tito Street through the Austro-Hungarian and Ottoman Towns to the main city’s market. The denser morphology in these parts of the city provided more cover and was easier to adapt for resistance by stretching large canvases, curtains and cloth from one building façade to another (Fig.  5.3, bottom). These formed what can be classified as ‘soft barriers’ that blocked snipers’ view but they were not bullet-proof so snipers could still randomly shoot and kill people who were passing behind them (Babić in Kapić 2000). As canvases could also fall down in bad weather and suddenly uncover the street (Muratović in Kapić 2000), TD also used large pieces of cement sheeting, which were safer. One of these screens was sprayed with graffiti that read “Pink Floyd” (Fig. 5.5)—making reference to the cover of Pink Floyd’s album “The Wall”, which was about a man who

Fig. 5.5  Wartime graffiti on Sarajevo’s protective barriers. (Photos: Milomir Kovačević Strašni. Reprinted with the permission of Milomir Kovačević Strašni)

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built a metaphorical wall to isolate himself from society and cope with his fears. Each of his traumas becomes another brick in the wall. Analogous to this metaphor, a series of screens that covered the intersections between buildings in the besieged Sarajevo created a “temporary urban wall” (Pilav 2012: 34) that protected the city and its residents from snipers’ views from the surrounding hills and mediated their resistance against wartime violence and terror. By covering the gaps from the Road of Salvation along Marshall Tito Street to Markale Market, Sarajevans re-established the eastwest link through the city and provided access to wartime places of encounter, which will be discussed in the next section. As discussed earlier, sniping had created a form of socio-spatial inversion whereby nodes in the old town and large open spaces between buildings in the modernist town, which were sites of significant social encounter, had become the most dangerous. Resident resistance partially reclaimed movement and mixing in the city. While many authors theorize that resistance is ‘rhizomatic action’ (Deleuze and Guattari 1987) or ‘tactics’ (De Certeau 1998) that slip through cracks, resistance to snipers in Sarajevo operated in the opposite way—by filling in the most dangerous cracks. Yet, plugging the gaps in the urban fabric was also a form of rhizomatic practice—a tactic designed to protect and enable network connectivity. Boundaries were paradoxically installed to enable pathways and flows. This was a spatial practice of urban ‘mending’ of the torn city. The succession of visual enclosures produced a strip of relatively protected urban space—a geography of perceived safety—that largely by-passed Sniper Alley and reconnected the city (Figs. 5.1 and 5.4). The exposed open space was transformed into what can be called an enclosed ‘urban interior’ in which residents reclaimed their right to move and gain access to places of social encounter and mixing. In addition to Sarajevo’s markets, this also happened in wartime cultural spaces, which I will discuss in the following sections. Protective barriers were also appropriated for discursive practices of resistance. They served as canvases for wartime graffiti (Fig. 5.5), which invested the city with a new sense of place that defied violence. At times, they operated as portals for expressions of residents’ messages, such as “I want freedom” or emotions like “Constant Pain”. Some graffiti invested the city with personal and collective memories as a means of escape from the surreal wartime conditions. Figure  5.5 shows a cement block with “Pink Floyd” graffiti, across which the title of Skid Row’s song “I remember you” was written. Other graffiti expressed humor and wit, which was typical of Bosnian-Herzegovinian self-deprecating humor. At the begin-

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ning of the war, the graffiti “Tito come back” and the reply “I am not crazy” was written on a destroyed building, implying that only crazy people stayed in the besieged Sarajevo. Other graffiti suggested “everyone is crazy here”, both those who lived in the city and those who attacked it during the war. Maček (2009) argues that joking was one of the primary means of resilience during the war. Not only did investing the city’s public space with humor and wit help residents deal with the wartime traumas, as Maček (2009: 51) argues, it was also “an effective way of resisting distressing conditions and of preserving pre-war norms or creating new values amid war”.

Patterns of Wartime Urban Life Although adaptation of urban morphology created a geography of safety and provided some cover against snipers, practices of everyday life were adapted to the threat of possible artillery attacks from which no place in the city was safe. New patterns of urban life emerged. Daily rhythms of the city were inverted. The city functioned 50% during the day and 50% at night (Kapić 2000). Night-time was important for life operations as the decreased visibility provided more safety and created a lesser chance of attracting the attention of BSA artillery or snipers. However, people did not walk much at night as there was no street lightning, and carrying a lamp would mark them as potential targets.2 Residents went to sleep early due to the darkness: however, they also woke up at any time during the night if there was water or electricity to do gardening, cut trees, cook, clean, have a bath, even hold funerals and burials. The crucial part of the day were the peak hours—two hours before and after noon—when people pursued basic ‘life operations’ such as seeking out food, water, humanitarian aid and medical supplies. This was the time-frame during which a few convenience stores and drug stores in the city were open, selling usual pre-war remnants (Kapić 2000). As indicated in Chap. 3, this was also the most dangerous part of the day due to increased BSA military activity, possibly with the aim of producing the largest number of casualties. For this reason, residents described pursuing practices of everyday life in public space like playing “Russian Roulette” (Kurto 1993: 86). In order to avoid danger, residents adapted their practices of mobility. Movement was reduced to necessary commuting to workplaces and places in the city where residents were able to obtain daily supplies of water and food, medicines and hygiene, humanitarian aid, fuel and other necessities.

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Due to the lack of petrol and electricity, the main mode of commute was fast walking and running across crossroads due to potential danger. Residents walked 6 km per day on average, which led to a joke that wartime Sarajevo was a city filled with slim people (Kapić 2000). Most residents wore sport clothes so as not to inhibit their ability to move quickly. Bicycles, which had not been common in Sarajevo due to its hilly terrain, were rediscovered during the siege. They were not, however, used for the movement of people but instead as vehicles for transporting goods, by being pushed. Balloons of water and humanitarian aid were transported with carts and even baby prams. Driving, which was rare, took place in both directions without respecting traffic signs or lights (Kapić 2000). Cars were usually painted in military camouflage; they commonly had bullet holes and lacked windows, which were replaced by covers made of nylon, tin and cardboard. To increase safety, residents produced what can be described as hand-made armored vehicles, which looked like moving closets with a hole for the driver (Kapić 2000). Public transport operated rarely, except when there was electricity that enabled the functioning of the trams, which were escorted by armored UN vehicles. Social interaction and exchange was restricted to places of necessity, where citizens could obtain water, food and other basic daily supplies. The most important were Sarajevo’s markets (Fig. 5.4). During the war, markets were located in hidden places inaccessible to snipers’ views, so they became the only relatively safe public spaces for gathering. The main market for the entirety of Sarajevo was Markale Market, which included an enclosed market hall and an open marketplace located in the central part of Marshall Tito Street. Several smaller markets existed in the northern and western part of the city. Apart from these ‘official’ markets, people also gathered in queues for food and humanitarian help. These were located in places like safe corners behind buildings in which trucks with supplies could be parked. There were also ‘fixed’ queuing places like Sarajevo Brewery, which was the biggest source of water. During the siege, the city’s markets functioned not only as places for exchange of goods but also as places for exchange of gossip because the city’s communication network was broken (Kapić 2000). Rumors were an important source of hope for news of a possible international intervention that would end the war (Kapić 2000). As the war went on, spatial practices of everyday gathering and mixing shifted from the extremely dangerous outdoor public spaces to the safer indoor spaces—the (above-ground) building interiors and the underground basements or shelters. New spaces and patterns of urban life emerged by adapting the interiors of public buildings into wartime places

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of social gathering and interaction through culture—exhibitions, theatre, movies, concerts, etc. Figure 5.4 maps a series of interstitial open spaces, ruins, basements of public buildings and underground shelters, which were appropriated for public events and performances. The ruined building of the former Red Cross became a gallery for regular weekly exhibitions by local artists, painters and sculptors. Occasional artistic expositions took place in the burned Post Office building in 1993 (Pilav 2012). In the former Olympic Hall “Skenderija”, the seat of the French Battalion, a collaborative exhibition between French and Sarajevan artists took place in January 1994 (Kapić 2000). Movies were screened in the first war cinema, called “Apollo”, in the art center “Obala”, located in the basement of the Academy of Performing Arts (Seksan and Hadžović 2005). High levels of attendance led to the establishment of the Sarajevo Film Festival in October 1993. The first festival showed approximately 140 movies in three cinemas across the city. Plays were performed in several theatres located within a 100 m stretch of urban space in the city center, including the National Theatre, the Youth Theatre and Sarajevo’s Chamber Theater (Kamerni Teatar), on Marshall Tito Street (Seksan and Hadžović 2005). Sarajevo War Theatre (SARTR), which was established in May 1992, was in a sense a moving theater that performed in the shelters in different neighborhoods in Sarajevo (Pilav 2012). Ruined buildings and public spaces were adapted for concerts. Vedran Smajlović, the so-called “Cellist of Sarajevo”, played Albinoni’s “Adagio” at the sites of massacres and in the destroyed City Hall. In the debris of the same building, maestro Zubin Mehta conducted the Sarajevo Philharmonic Orchestra performing Mozart’s “Requiem” in June 1994 (Kapić 2000). In summer 1993, the basement of the Holiday Inn was the venue of a fashion show, “Miss Sarajevo”, with contestants carrying the well-known banner reading “Don’t let them kill us”. As discussed in Chaps. 3 and 4, the destruction of the city was both physical and psychological. Not only were BSA snipers and artillery ­targeting residents’ bodies to wound or kill immediate victims, but a part of their military strategy as well was to drain the survivors mentally and break their morale and will to resist (Bassouini 1994). “We will go mad” is a statement that residents often exchanged (Kapić 2000). Not only did urbicide involve the destruction of the city’s physical built fabric and material practices of urban life, but also the killing of its ‘spirit’—its urban character, buzz and atmosphere. Appropriating, adapting and using public buildings for culture and performances was a means of civilian defense of the city against spiritual

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annihilation by BSA artillery and sniper bullets. Just how important cultural survival (defense) was for the city is indicated in the fact that, in August 1992, SARTR was established and constituted as a military unit of the ABH headquarters in Sarajevo. In January 1993, the wartime Presidency of the City of Sarajevo proclaimed SARTR a cultural institution of crucial importance for the defense of Sarajevo (SARTR 2017). As the map in Fig. 5.4 shows, most of Sarajevo’s wartime cultural spaces were located on or close to Sniper Alley, which meant that residents risked their lives to access them. Although entrance was free or in exchange for one cigarette, residents’ own lives could have been the cost of attending these cultural performances (Seksan and Hadžović 2005). Regardless of such a price, the city’s wartime cultural spaces were always full when an event took place in them. This was because, residents said, in the moments when culture was infused into the city’s damaged and/or destroyed places, their everyday wartime lives were transformed from a bare life (Agamben 1998) focused on the struggle for mere survival into a civilized urban life with the very values that were targeted by the BSA snipers and artillery. Not only did residents defy terror and risk the threat of violence to see exhibitions and plays, but also to see other people, meet each other and socialize. Cultural spaces and events brought people of different ethnicities together. The managers of the Apollo cinema joked that the residents of the besieged Sarajevo divided into those who had seen Basic Instinct—the most-watched film during the war—and those who had not (Erjavec 2016). Gathering in these spaces also had a therapeutic effect on residents (Pasović in Kapić 2000) as an escape from their surreal wartime reality (Džajić in Kapić 2000). They ceased feeling like bodies chased by snipers’ guns and numbers of dead, and instead started to feel like human beings with dignity and normal people “who wanted to fight for their freedom in spite of impossible conditions” (Ferušić in Kapić 2000). In a book of impressions at the Chamber Theatre, there was a note: “Thank you, Sarajevo’s actors, for helping us not to go insane” (Plakalo in Kapić 2000). Wartime cultural spaces became their physical and psychological shelters.

The Metamorphosis of Sarajevo’s Apartment Buildings As the war went on, the difference between the interior and the exterior began to dissolve as nowhere was safe (Tumarkin 2005). Residents were killed even in their apartments (Kapić 2000), both by snipers who had a view of south-facing apartments and by artillery shells as a result of the

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crossfire. The war turned residents into refugees in their own city as many had to flee their homes, which had become too dangerous, and move into places that offered the necessities of daily life—safety, electricity, water, gas, etc. (Kapić 2000). Some broke into the abandoned apartments of citizens who left Sarajevo before or during the war. Others had lease agreements. Only the lucky residents, whose homes were not exposed to the view from the hills, lived in their own apartments, often with cousins and friends who were forcefully evicted from other parts of the country. Citizens were found and identified according to the address where they collected humanitarian aid (Kapić 2000). Due to relentless fighting during the entire siege, a significant number of residential buildings were damaged or destroyed. Of the 71,000 dwellings in Sarajevo, only 12,000 were relatively spared. Some 35,000 were heavily damaged and 24,000 were totally demolished (Doršner 1995). When it was impossible to repair damage in private living spaces due to the lack of construction materials and the danger inherent in performing repairs, residents were forced to become self-taught architects. They adapted and redesigned their apartments to protect them from further damage from ongoing military activities, repairing existing damage and enhancing their safety, usability and livability. Sarajevo’s Institute for Architecture and Urbanism published a manual with instructions and sketches about how to shelter from danger and fix the common types of damage to vital parts of apartments—roofs, walls and windows.3 Figure 5.6 shows the wartime ‘destructive metamorphosis’ of a typical three-­bedroom apartment in a modernist residential suburb of Sarajevo, produced by Sarajevo’s architect Zoran Doršner. The drawing of the pre-war apartment shows its zones according to daily rhythms. Off the entrance are the day-time living areas—kitchen, dining and living room with a balcony. A corridor links them to the night-­ time zone with bedrooms for parents and children arranged around a sanitation block. As outlined above, the war inverted the rhythms of everyday life, and the day- and night-time areas of the apartment were redistributed according to levels of danger and safety. The exposure of the apartment to BSA positions produced insecure and uninhabitable interior zones. The most dangerous parts were windows—not only did they pose a threat from sniper bullets but they also often broke due to artillery detonations. To close them and protect the inhabitants from wind and cold, they were covered with UN-provided plastic foils, which were glued or hammered in place. They did not actually do much to shield inhabitants from danger,

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Fig. 5.6  The layout of a typical apartment in Sarajevo before the war (top) and during the war (bottom). (Drawings by architect Zoran Doršner, 1994. Reprinted with the permission of Zoran Doršner)

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and during foul weather conditions the foils would often tear or fall off. Solid enclosures, including piles of books, sandbags, mattresses and cupboards, provided more safety: however, they blocked light from reaching the interior. Bricks found around destroyed buildings were used to fix holes in the walls. The largest part of the pre-war functional living area of the apartment became unusable during the war due to exposure to the view of the army from the hills. It was transformed into a mere survival shelter (Muschamp 1995). This part was therefore converted into a storage space used for bicycles, trolleys, water tanks and wood. Day- and night-time activities were condensed into a small safe zone in the interior, mostly the hidden corners of the apartment. During the war the entire life of the inhabitants—childhood, education, work—evolved in this corner (Doršner 1995). This space became both a living and sleeping area, a place for cooking and dining, and an area for socializing where guests were received. Everything was within arm’s reach—water, food, dishes, clothes. Due to the lack of electricity and gas, residents cooked on improvised wood-­ burning stoves with a chimney peeking through a hole in the façade. Anything was used to make a fire: old furniture, books, trees from the park, benches, stools from restaurants, destroyed barracks and anything else that dismantled quickly. Residents joked that Lenin’s books burn well (Kapić 2000), possibly because they were the thickest. In the summertime, balconies that were not exposed to BSA positions were used for gardening (Doršner 1995). Balconies were also used as escape routes in case an apartment caught fire due to shelling. Instead of ropes, residents used sheets to rappel to lower balconies that were not affected. This led to a joke that urban rock-climbing had inevitably become an athletic discipline in the besieged Sarajevo (Kapić 2000). The interiors of apartment buildings were also adapted as communal spaces. The interstitial spaces between the public and the private realms— most commonly the inner staircases of residential buildings—emerged as new types of places for public encounter in wartime. The staircases in many of Sarajevo’s apartment buildings are located in the central core, away from façades and windows. As centrally positioned spaces surrounded by apartments, they became places of everyday wartime social interaction where neighbors met, engaged in conversation, mingled by playing cards or chess, and exchanged daily supplies. Apart from offering relatively safe places for communal interaction, their advantage was that they were the routes of emergency evacuation into underground basements or shelters

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where residents hid during shelling. The underground spaces of apartment buildings were both the residents’ second homes during the war and everyday gathering spaces where they played billiards, pinball and other games (Hazan 2016). The interstitial and underground spaces of apartment buildings thus brought about social cohesion amongst neighbors and contributed to building the social capital that helped inhabitants to resist (Pilav 2012).

Architects as Rebels: Construction as a Weapon Against Destruction The wartime destruction of the city was also defied through what can be called practices of insurgent construction and remaking of built form and public space. In summer 1994, during a short truce period, “Survival Art Museum” was installed in the square in front of the National Theatre, a neo-classical building on the northern riverbank that sheltered the plaza from the army’s view from the hills (FAMA 1994). The project was the initiative of “FAMA”, an independent multi-media collective from Sarajevo whose mission was to disseminate knowledge to broad local and international audiences about the destruction of Sarajevo during the siege and the creativity of ordinary people that aided them in resisting violence and terror. Rather than videos, images and words, built form and public space became media of communication. The museum was housed in the “Bosnian House”, a recycled, life-sized edifice built in the form of a typical Sarajevan home, constructed from recycled material gathered from the ruins of the Yugoslav People’s Army barracks and relics of ruined houses in Sarajevo. The edifice was proudly described as the only free-standing structure built during the siege of Sarajevo amidst the city’s total destruction (FAMA 1994). The museum placed in its interior was organized in a series of rooms, each presenting a different theme of the city’s wartime resistance through the display of survival artifacts, including carts used for the transport of goods, bicycles, handmade stoves, lamps, phones, wartime food, etc. The aim of the exhibit was to show what it meant to survive, live and die in the besieged city by communicating about the creativity, innovation and ingenuity of ordinary residents and their personal and collective levels of resistance. The aim of the project was to establish “a balance between destruction and construction, fear and freedom, hunger and creativity, feeling the cold of winter and working—as the law of survival” (FAMA 1994). Through this project, FAMA used

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Sarajevo’s experience and created a ‘bank of knowledge’ about how to survive a war catastrophe, which could then be applied to any other contemporary city experiencing a human or natural disaster. From July to August 1996, the Survival Art Museum was displayed at the Expo festival in Tokyo, which was visited by 2 million people (FAMA 1996). During the war, architects also played a role as ‘fighters’ against terror and violence by documenting the destruction and architectural and urban imagination through which they planned for the city’s future redevelopment. Their projects, drawings and sketches, which were also presented through exhibitions to a broad international audience, became weapons of Sarajevo’s defense and resilience. The exhibition Warchitecture—Sarajevo: A Wounded City, prepared by the Association of Architects of Sarajevo, was on display in Arc-en-Rêve Centre d’Architecture in Bordeaux, the Centre Georges Pompidou in Paris in 1994 and in the gallery Storefront for Art and Architecture in New  York in 1995 (Muschamp 1995). The exhibition included 40 black-and-white maps, drawings and photographs that documented the destruction of Sarajevo’s buildings during the siege, showing the type of targeting and the location and extent of damage. They were classified according to their architectural styles from the city’s four historic periods of urban development—Ottoman, Austro-Hungarian, the period between the two world wars, and the post-war (socialist) period. As Muschamp (1995) argues, the exhibition told the story of the creation of a new Sarajevo through destruction—its redesign through violence. Not only did it make the world aware of the extent of the city’s architectural damage and reveal what was being targeted—the interlacing of architectural styles and types stood for the socio-spatial heterogeneity that was targeted by artillery shells—but, too, its aim was to mobilize international financial support for post-war reconstruction. In a similar vein, Doršner’s drawings of the wartime metamorphosis of a typical Sarajevan apartment constituted a part of the exhibition entitled “Sarajevo: Dream and Reality”, and it was displayed in the gallery of Parsons School of Design in New  York in February 1995 (Muschamp 1995). The exhibition showed 14 projects in which Sarajevo’s architects and students of architecture presented their creative ideas for responding to the destruction of the city during the siege. The exhibition created “a link between the past and the future generation of designers who must face the task of rebuilding” and conveyed a message that Sarajevans were the guardians of both the city’s history and its continuity (Muschamp 1995).

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These examples raise awareness of the role of architects as actors in mediating socio-political change in the world. Documenting the destruction and adaptation of the city’s buildings and public spaces is not merely a recording of the past but also a resource for the future. As Doršner (1995) points out, his drawings, as well as those from the Warchitecture exhibition, can be of use for future architectural and urban studies of how built form and public space can be adapted for civilian resistance against the violation of elementary rights to life, peace, freedom, home, privacy, culture, religion and civilization. They could well become a part of the architectural encyclopedia like Architects’ Data (known as the Neufert) (Neufert and Neufert 2012), as a tragic segment of survival when the city and its civilization are killed. As Muschamp (1995) argues, not only are architects and urban designers conservators of old buildings and creators of new ones, but also generators of socio-political change. The refusal of Sarajevo’s architects to surrender to the city’s destruction during the siege transcends their Sarajevan wartime fate.

Insurgent Place-making as a Tool for the City’s Defense In Chaps. 3 and 4, I discussed how the BSA appropriated the city’s micro-­ geography and urban morphology into tools of terror and violence. In this chapter, I have demonstrated how civilians appropriated buildings and public spaces and adapted everyday spatial practices as weapons of the city’s wartime defense. The BSA military strategy of urban violence and terror was an effort to break down the city and push it to surrender (Bassiouni 1994), but it generated an inverse effect as citizens and architects produced new spatial mechanisms of resistance. They defied the city’s physical and spiritual annihilation through adaptation and reuse of its spaces, construction, creation and imagination for its future development (Pirnat-Spahić 1993). Novel spatial organization of the city, patterns, rhythms and practices of everyday urban life, meanings and experiences of place have emerged. Through them, the city as a socio-spatial assemblage was reconstituted through different spatial levels and scales. What Weizman (2007) refers to as ‘the politics of verticality’ was mediated through how military violence and civilian resistance were juxtaposed across a three-dimensional space. The city was besieged and targeted from above, while also being protected

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from below. The exposure of the city’s buildings and spaces to the army’s panoptic gaze from the surrounding hills was confronted through the production of new morphologies of enclosure—underground and subterranean spaces (tunnels and trenches), cultural shelters, interstitial public spaces (staircases), protective walls and ‘urban interiors’. The city’s wartime everyday life split into several dimensions—from the extremely dangerous overground city and outdoor public spaces, where urban life was reduced to necessity, to the safer indoor spaces and underground city where people gathered and mixed (Pilav 2012). Civilian practices of resistance were material, discursive and experiential. Erecting visual barriers against snipers to access the city’s wartime markets played a crucial role in physical survival. Adaptation of places into wartime cultural spaces offered a channel for psychological survival against the surreal conditions during the war. Architects’ drawings and international exhibitions were a means of communicating with broader international audiences both to raise awareness about the city’s destruction during the siege and to disseminate knowledge about the creativity of ordinary people in resisting violence and terror. Residents’ resistance against the siege operated as what Deleuze and Guattari (1987) refer to as an autonomous ‘war-machine’—a socio-spatial assemblage of people, places, and practices that subverted the BSA’s military power. The practices of violence and terror “destroyed the hardware of civilization” (FAMA 1993: Preface)—buildings, networks, flows, systems of infrastructure, etc. The city became a ‘striated space’ (Deleuze and Guattari 1987) fragmented into bounded zones. Residents ‘smoothed’ it out through what can be termed insurgent place-making practices that defied a stable socio-spatial hierarchy—the ethnic division of Sarajevo. They led a form of architectural and urban guerrilla warfare in which they took on the role of nomadic fighters who appropriated everyday spaces and objects as tools of the city’s wartime resilience. They also took on the role of self-taught architects who mobilized the capacity of spatial thinking and architectural and urban design practices to produce creative responses through which the city came to a new form of stability. The city metamorphosed from a ‘bare space’ (Hanafi 2009) ravaged by terror and violence into a civic space. As indicated in the Sarajevo Survival Guide (FAMA 1993: Preface): “the city of Sarajevo not as a victim, but as a place of experiment where wit can still achieve victory over terror”.

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Notes 1. It was dug from both ends until it merged in the middle. Construction was undertaken by about 300 people, including retired miners and ABH soldiers, who organized competitions with the aim to speed up the construction. 2. Information from informal conversations between the author and residents of Sarajevo during her fieldwork in 2008. 3. War Manual “Do it Yourself: How to Prepare Residential Space for Stay in Winter Conditions”. Presented as a part of the exhibition Besieged Sarajevo in the Historic Museum of Bosnia-Herzegovina in Sarajevo.

References Agamben, G. (1998). Homo Sacer: Sovereign Power and Bare Life. Palo Alto: Stanford University Press. Bassiouni, M. C. (1994). Study of the Battle and Siege of Sarajevo. Annex VI Part 1 of the Final Report of the United Nations Commission of Experts Established Pursuant to Security Council Resolution 780 (1992). http://www.ess.uwe. ac.uk/comexpert/anx/vi-01.htm. Accessed 12 Sept 2017. Bublin, M. (1999). Gradovi Bosne i Herzegovine: milenijum razvoja i godine urbicida [The Cities of Bosnia and Herzegovina: A Millenium of Development and the Years of Urbicide]. Sarajevo: Sarajevo Publishing. Burns, J.  (1993, August 15). A Crude 1000-Yard Tunnel Is Sarajevo’s Secret Lifeline and Slogging Through a Bosnian Lifeline. New York Times. http:// www.nytimes.com/1993/08/15/world/a-crude-1000-yard-tunnel-is-sarajevos-secret-lifeline.html?pagewanted=all&mcubz=1. Accessed 14 Sept 2017. De Certeau, M. (1998). The Practice of Everyday Life. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Deleuze, G., & Guattari, F. (1987). A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. London: Athlone Press. Donia, R. (2006). Sarajevo: A Biography. London: Hurst & Co. Doršner, Z. (1995, December 9). Kada ubijaju gradove [When Cities Are Killed]. Oslobodjenje. Erjavec, D. (2016, August 11). Sarajevo Film Festival Seen as Celebration of Life. BalkanInsight. http://www.balkaninsight.com/en/article/sarajevo-film-­ festival-as-celebration-of-life-08-10-2016. Accessed 22 Oct 2017. FAMA. (1993). Survival Guide. Sarajevo: FAMA. FAMA. (1994). Survival Art Museum ’94. FAMA International. http://­ famacollection.org/eng/fama-collection/fama-original-projects/06/ index.html. Accessed 19 Oct 2017.

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FAMA. (1996). Survival Art Museum ’96. FAMA International. http://www. famacollection.org/eng/fama-collection/fama-original-projects/11/index. html. Accessed 19 Oct 2017. Hanafi, S. (2009). Spacio-Cide: Colonial Politics, Invisibility and Rezoning in Palestinian Territory. Contemporary Arab Affairs, 2(1), 106–121. Hazan, P. (2016, April 29). Sarajevo Documentary Shows Culture as an Act of Resistance. JusticeInfo.net. http://www.justiceinfo.net/en/justicereconciliation/27086-sarajevo-documentary-shows-culture-as-an-act-of-­ resistance.html. Accessed 22 Oct 2016. Kapić, S. (2000). The Siege of Sarajevo 1992–1996. Ljubljana: Mladinska knjiga tiskarna d.d. Kurto, N. (1993, June). The City Parliament of Sarajevo. In DAB-SABiH Warchitecture, 24th Special Edition of “ARH” Magazine. Maček, I. (2009). Sarajevo Under Siege: Anthropology in Wartime. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Muschamp, H. (1995, February 10). Architecture Review; Mourning the Gorgeous Mosaic That Was Sarajevo. New York Times. http://www.nytimes. com/1995/02/10/arts/architecture-review-mourning-the-gorgeousmosaic-that-was-sarajevo.html. Accessed 22 Oct 2017. Neufert, E., & Neufert, P. (2012). Neufert Architects’ Data. Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell. Pilav, A. (2012). Before the War, War, After the War: Urban Imageries for Urban Resilience. International Journal of Disaster Risk Science, 3(1), 23–37. Pirnat-Spahić, N. (1993, June). Barbarism in the Name of What. In DAB-SABiH Warchitecture, 24th Special Edition of “ARH” Magazine. SARTR. (2017). Historijat [History] SARTR. https://sartr.ba/historijat/. Accessed 22 Oct 2017. Seksan, V., & Hadžović, S. (2005). Trijuf volje [The Triupmh of Will]. Dani, April 5, 2002. https://www.bhdani.ba/portal/arhiva-67-281/251/t25124. shtml#antera. Accessed 22 Oct 2017. Selimbegović, V. (2002, April 5). Tunel na kraju svjetla [Tunnel at the End of the Light]. Dani. https://www.bhdani.ba/portal/arhiva-67-281/251/t25110. shtml. Accessed 22 Oct 2017. Tumarkin, M. (2005). Traumascapes: The Power and Fate of Places Transformed by Tragedy. Melbourne: Melbourne University Publishing. Tunel Spasa. (2017). Spas u ratu—Uspomena u miru [Salvation in War—Memory in Peace]. Spomenicki kompleks ratni tunel D-B. http://tunelspasa.ba/#linkovi. Accessed 22 Oct 2017. Weizman, E. (2007). Hollow Land: Israel’s Architecture of Occupation. London/ New York: Verso.

CHAPTER 6

Rebordering Sarajevo

Post-war Sarajevo The siege of Sarajevo ended with North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) military action against the Bosnian Serb Army (BSA), and the Dayton Peace Agreement was signed in December 1995. The agreement put an end to three-and-a-half years of war and established the constitution of the independent Republic of Bosnia-Herzegovina (Donia 2006). The external boundaries of the Bosnian-Herzegovinian state remained unchanged and its territory internally was partitioned into two entities: the Federation of Bosnia-Herzegovina (FBH), occupying 51% of the territory, and the Republic of Srpska (RS), occupying 49% of the territory.1 Warfare displacement and post-war migration of the population resulted in a demographic change such that 94.88% of the FBH became Bosniaks and Croats, while 96.79% of the population of the Republic of Srpska became Serbs (Donia 2006: 346).2 Each of the two Bosnian-Herzegovinian entities has its own system of government, political institutions and budget (Donia 2006). As this ethnic division of power turns any issue in the state into a matter of the politics of ethnic identity, the Dayton Agreement has been criticized because it brought the war to an end, but it did not bring peace, and instead “institutionalized many of the nationalist divisions that had dominated society since 1990” (Donia 2006: 335). According to the Dayton Agreement, Sarajevo remained the capital of Bosnia-Herzegovina, and also became the capital of the FBH. However, © The Author(s) 2018 M. Ristic, Architecture, Urban Space and War, Palgrave Studies in Cultural Heritage and Conflict, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-76771-0_6

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post-war Sarajevo became territorially divided along the siege line. Its territory to the north became a part of the FBH, while the areas to its south became a part of the RS. To prevent Sarajevo from becoming a divided city and Bosnia-Herzegovina from becoming “another Cyprus” (Clinton in Kapić 2000), most of the former BSA-held areas, such as Grbavica, were integrated into the FBH in early 1996 (Kapic 2000; Donia 2006). While this restored most of the city’s pre-war territorial integrity, RS politicians objected because, they argued, the preservation of Sarajevo’s territorial unity represented the “reversing [of] the very separation of nations for which the war has been fought” (Donia 2006: 337). During the war, the Bosnian Serb political leadership established the city of “Serbian Sarajevo”, in the area to the south and east of Sarajevo, which had been under BSA control. With the post-war reintegration of the territory, the peripheral municipalities of “Serbian Sarajevo” formed a new city renamed East Sarajevo, which was proclaimed as the capital of the RS (Donia 2006) (Fig. 6.1). According to the census from 2013 (Jukić 2016), East Sarajevo has a population of about 61,500. Its ethnic composition consists of 94% Serbs, 4% Bosniaks and 2% Croats and undeclared ethnic/national affiliation. In contrast, post-war Sarajevo has a population of about 275,500 (Jukić 2016), which is about 85,000 less than the city’s pre-war population. Its ethnic ratio consists of 81% Bosniaks, 4% Serbs, 5% Croats and 10% undeclared ethnic/national affiliation (Jukić 2016). Thus, the war fought over an attempt to create a divided and ethnically cleansed city achieved its aim in the post-war migration of the population (Donia 2006), although in different territories (Fig.  6.1). Sarajevo was largely stripped of its ethnic mix, while its territory was reconstituted into two relatively ethnically pure cities—Sarajevo and East Sarajevo. The opportunity to establish Sarajevo as a multi-ethnic capital of BosniaHerzegovina was lost. Sarajevo and East Sarajevo reflect the post-Dayton internal division of the multi-ethnic Bosnian-Herzegovinian state and society, and also function as urban arenas for new forms of ethnic struggle. The former siege line, which became the division line, also became the new ‘front line’, while the violent war was transformed into a ‘cold war’ through the post-siege transformation of Sarajevo’s architecture and urban space. In this chapter, I will discuss how the internal ethnic division of BosniaHerzegovina is mediated through everyday urban infrastructure in the border zone between Sarajevo and East Sarajevo. I will elaborate on how street names, script and colors operate as tools for delineation of ethnic territories and how inscriptions of place identity are purified of symbols of

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Fig. 6.1  The division of Sarajevo during and after the siege. (Map: Mirjana Ristic)

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mix or difference. I will also discuss how such discursive boundaries become embedded in everyday urban life and shape people’s actions and interactions in public spaces. My argument is that the ethnic division that the war used violence to fight for has transformed into an ongoing ‘cold war’ through meanings of place. Different forms of spatial discourse are used as ‘weapons’ that maintain the city’s ethnic boundary by constructing exclusive place identities and keeping Others at bay. This chapter ­highlights the potency of the apparently intangible elements of architecture and urban space in mediating and negotiating socio-spatial borders in the cityscape.

Place, Discourse, Territory Places are produced not merely physically and materially, but also semantically through forms of spatial discourse and practices of representation (Greenberg 2000). Toponyms, urban signs, inscriptions of urban codes, colors in urban space, and graffiti are all semiotic elements of a city that can operate as text. They can be invested as a constellation of particular meanings that can convey national narratives. These narratives represent what Roland Barthes called ‘myths’ (Barthes 2001). They tell people the story of who they are and where they belong and produce truth-effects that make them perceive their socially constructed identity as if it were naturally given (Dovey 2010). Street names, scripts and colors in urban space embedded with national symbolism are forms of spatial discourse that function as media for urban branding of a particular form of national identity. Unlike capitol complexes, parliament buildings and monuments, which operate as obvious national landmarks, these forms of spatial discourse operate as tools of what Michael Billig (1995) has called ‘banal nationalism’. They embed the national narrative into the city’s mundane urban fabric, where it is experienced repeatedly through the spatial practices of everyday life. They reconstitute the city’s pavement into a map of meanings that fuses ethnic history with urban topography, thus naturalizing perceptions of ethnic culture (Azaryahu 1996). Although they are relatively simple tools that politicians use to make ideological statements on place (Light 2004), their apparent low-intensity does not diminish the potency of these urban texts. Foulcault (1995) argues that the most powerful discourses are those taken for granted, so that people are not aware of the ideological dimensions of their sociospatial practice. Street names, scripts and colors in urban space are forms

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of spatial discourse that work as part of what Foucault (1995) refers to as a ‘power/knowledge regime’. They create codified and standardized knowledge about the city that produces social subjects and spatial practices through disciplinary technologies. They transform the urban matrix into texts that are embedded in people’s mental images of place and this regulates, normalizes and disciplines their relationships in and to places. They frame the spatial order and hierarchy, define spatial boundaries of urban territories and construct place identity and people’s experiences of it. Such spatial discourses are not innocent. They can be hegemonic in shaping conceptions of place and how people behave in their everyday lives according to particular national ideologies (Fairclough 2003). As such, they can mediate, legitimize and camouflage power over territories and populations by particular social groups, while marginalizing and excluding others. Spatial narratives, symbols and codes intersect and interconnect with buildings, public spaces and flows of everyday life to produce the city as a socio-spatial assemblage. A mixture of material and expressive elements shape urban territories through the inscription of socio-spatial boundaries and identities in place (Deleuze and Guattari 1987). In the following sections of this chapter, I will discuss how different forms of spatial discourse in Sarajevo and East Sarajevo intersect and interact with their physical and material elements to frame ethnic territories, spatialize ethnic identities and shape relations to Others.

Mapping Spatial Division Between Sarajevo and East Sarajevo The borderline between Sarajevo and East Sarajevo is a section of the Inter-Entity Boundary Line (IEBL) between the FBH and the RS. The IEBL was established during the Dayton Peace Negotiations on largescale maps that were used to negotiate the territories of the two entities. When such maps were implemented in the built fabric and urban landscape they produced ambiguous spatialities in the border zone between the two cities. For most of its length, the IEBL runs through unpopulated mountainous and rural areas that form a green belt between the dense urban districts of Sarajevo to the north and peri-urban areas of East Sarajevo to the south. The line does not follow the topography of the natural landscape but rather cuts through it artificially, dividing the hills and slopes of the

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surrounding mountains. At one point it fragments a regional road that curves around their contour lines, severing it four times in less than 10 km. The western-most section of the IEBL, running next to Sarajevo International Airport, divides the Dobrinja suburb of Sarajevo from the Lukavica suburb of East Sarajevo (Fig. 6.1). Dobrinja is a modernist-style neighborhood framed by orthogonal urban blocks composed of high-rise residential buildings and large open spaces. Dobrinja’s traffic arteries continue into Lukavica, where they intersect with wavy streets and form smaller, irregular urban blocks composed of low-rise buildings and houses. Despite the distinction in the urban fabric of the two suburbs, their demarcation is not immediately visible in the cityscape. The initial borderline ran along the former siege line, whereby two urban blocks that the BSA held at the eastern end of Dobrinja became a part of Lukavica. This spatial demarcation created an ethnic dispute as the FBH claimed these blocks as territory of Sarajevo (BBC 2001). Another issue arose when the 1:600 Dayton map on which the IEBL was drawn was implemented in the actual urban fabric (Europe—Miscellaneous 1995)—a 1 mmwide borderline that was drawn on the map translated into a 50  m-wide border-strip in real space. This created a strange spatial condition whereby apartments in residential blocks became split between the two entities. The issue was solved in 2001, when the international court ruled that the two blocks be integrated into the territory of Sarajevo as they were inhabited mostly by Bosniak refugees (BBC 2001). The original borderline was modified into a new division line that weaves between apartment buildings and divides streets and squares around them in both longitudinal and transversal directions. Such territorial demarcation between the two cities has transformed the border zone into a ‘labyrinth’ that, as residents describe it, nobody can navigate (Mondo 2008). As the Dayton Agreement prohibited construction of physical barriers, in order to ensure freedom of movement, different forms of spatial discourse were used as tools of spatial demarcation between Sarajevo and East Sarajevo. The border as an abstract space on the map established through top-down political decisions materialized in the urban fabric through bottom-up practices of spatial representation.

Spatial Coding of Urban Territory Colors in urban space operate as spatial codes of territorial delineation between Sarajevo and East Sarajevo. Figure 6.2 shows street plates in a public square divided by the IEBL. Street plates in pre-war Sarajevo were blue,

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Fig. 6.2  Street plates in Sarajevo (left) and East Sarajevo (right). (Photos: Mirjana Ristic)

one of three colors traditionally associated with Slavic culture. After the war, Sarajevo’s Bosniak-dominated authorities replaced them with green, which represents Islam and is traditionally associated with Bosniaks. The East Sarajevo Serb-dominated authorities retained plates in blue, which also represents a symbol of freedom in Serbian mythology. Language as a coded system reinforces spatial demarcation between the two cities. Before the war, the official language in Bosnia-Herzegovina spoken by all ethnic groups was Serbo-Croatian. Both Cyrillic and Roman script were used officially. After the war, each group renamed this language to correspond to their ethnic title: Bosnian (linked to Bosniaks), Serbian (used by Serbs), and Croatian (used by Croats). Roman script became the official script for Bosnian and Croatian, while Cyrillic became the official script for Serbian. Given the fact that all ethnic groups can understand each other perfectly, calling a language by three different names is not an expression of ethnic mix, but rather an artificial means of strengthening ethnic distinction. These ‘synthetic’ linguistic variations are also used as a means of spatial differentia-

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tion. The names on the street plates in East Sarajevo were written in Cyrillic, while those in Sarajevo were written in Roman script. This indicates that colors and scripts in urban space operate as spatial codes that mark the ethnic possession of urban territories. They identify these divided public spaces as belonging to specific parts of the city. They reinforce spatial boundaries by producing standardized spatial expressions that guide and orient people in space, making ethnic distinction visible in the cityscape. Such a system of spatial signalization is accepted in the everyday urban life of both cities. The blue color and Cyrillic script are commonly used on facades of private residential and commercial properties, and public educational and sport buildings in East Sarajevo. In the case of some shops, advertisements are written in Roman script to attract customers of all ethnicities, as generations of Bosniak children who did not learn Cyrillic would not be able to understand their meaning. On the other hand, the use of green on Sarajevo’s urban surfaces has been contested by the non-Bosniak population. In August 2008, the pavement of two streets in the center of Sarajevo was painted green. The city’s mayor at the time, who was an ethnic Bosniak, suggested that this was to make up for the city’s lack of greenery (TANJUG 2008), and there was a functional necessity in coating the streets with this epoxide shroud that would make them resistant to frost and reduce slipping (Šarenac 2008). While some Sarajevo residents welcomed the green color, saying it was relaxing on their eyes, many Serbs and Croats described it as an overt provocation. They argued that green was exclusively a Bosniak ethnic symbol that indicated that “Sarajevo was not the capital of [the multi-ethnic] Bosnia, but a mono-ethnic Bosniak city” (TANJUG 2008). Coloring of urban space was thus understood to be a discursive practice of ethnic discrimination. In this way, both colors and script mediate ethnic inclusion and exclusion through how they are decoded differently according to residents’ ethnic identification.

Spatial Inscriptions of Identity Place and street names are used as tools for inscribing ethnic narratives in the territories of both cities. For eight years after the end of the war, East Sarajevo was officially called “Serbian Sarajevo”. Such a naming practice operated as an overt act of semantic appropriation of the territory (Azaryahu 1996). In a way, it bounded the territory discursively by making an explicit claim—“this is (our) Serbian city”. In March 2004, the Bosnian-Herzegovinian Constitutional Court ruled the prefix ‘Serbian’

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unconstitutional, saying that it discriminated against Croats and Bosniaks and thus violated the Dayton Accords. As a result, the city was renamed East Sarajevo, due to its geographic position in relation to Sarajevo (Donia 2006). Yet, of more than 50 streets in the Lukavica suburb of East Sarajevo, all except one bear Serbian-related toponyms (Fig.  6.3). These names

Fig. 6.3  Street names in the zone around Sarajevo International Airport before the war (top) and after the war (bottom). (Map: Mirjana Ristic. Reprinted with the permission of Routledge)

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were ascribed by the Committee for Renaming of Streets of East Sarajevo, which did not include any Bosniak or Croatian members. They operate as explicit tools of territorialization of exclusive Serbian ethnic identity and transform the street matrix into a symbolic infrastructure that expresses Serbian domination over the city. The inscription of Serbian identity within the street network of the Lukavica suburb establishes a particular spatial hierarchy. The prominent traffic arteries on the IEBL and the main street axis of the city bear commemorative names that honor Serbian medieval monarchs and ethnic nationalist heroes from contemporary Serbian history. The local streets that connect traffic arteries and frame the East Sarajevo residential quarters celebrate writers, artists and scientists from Serbia, most of whom had no connection to Bosnia-Herzegovina. Such names reinforce the border by investing the city’s spatial order with an ethnically pure Serbian national narrative. The inscription of Serbian memory evokes a sense of continuity of Serbian rule over the East Sarajevo territory. The inscription of the ethnic myth of sacrifice for the Serbian homeland justifies the Serbian possession of the city through history. This symbolic fusion of the ethnic ‘blood and soil’ plays an instrumental role in naturalizing its territory as Serbian land. The inscription of Serbian ethnic tradition and vernacular culture invests the space of citizens’ everyday lives with the myth of their common descent from Serbs, which denies Bosnian-Herzegovinians their homeland. Such toponyms consolidate the ethnic homogeneity of the city’s territory and shape both spatial and social boundaries. Although East Sarajevo is territorially positioned in Bosnia-Herzegovina, its street names frame the city as a part of the geo-cultural assemblage of Greater Serbia. Some street names of the East Sarajevo suburb of Lukavica create mental barriers in the minds of Sarajevo’s residents. Two of the traffic arteries on the IEBL commemorate people and places related to Chetniks, an extremist Serbian paramilitary unit responsible for massacres of Bosniaks during the Second World War. Their names are seen as offensive to the Bosniak population of Sarajevo as the label ‘Chetniks’ also operated as a colloquial name for BSA soldiers during the siege. Some citizens of Sarajevo argued that such toponyms discouraged the return of Bosniak refugees to the areas of East Sarajevo, which they inhabited before the war (A.B. 2011). They fortify the border symbolically by rendering the city an exclusionary place. Only one residential street running along the periphery of East Sarajevo bears a non-Serbian name. It honors a Bosnian-Herzegovinian-born

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writer who was Muslim by religion but declared himself Serb by nationality. Its spatial location mirrors the marginalization of Bosniak minority in the city, while its meaning suggests that only those who consider themselves as Serbs of Islamic religion belong in the territory. Such street names in East Sarajevo maintain the politics of ethnic segregation by investing the city with a spatial narrative that antagonizes some residents and discriminates against others. In contrast, about 400 streets in Sarajevo, or one-third of extant streets, have been renamed since the end of the war (Stojaković 2008) (Fig. 6.4). The names were changed by the 15-member Commission for Renaming of Streets, composed of mostly Bosniak residents of Sarajevo. The Commission legitimized the renaming as returning the streets to their initial historic names, which Sarajevans kept using in their everyday lives, although they were officially changed by the Yugoslav regime (Stojaković 2008). The renaming of streets by the Yugoslav regime involved rewriting the city’s history. The Ottoman and Austro-Hungarian colonial past was diminished by replacing the names of the Turkish pashas and the Habsburg royal family members with the names of socialist leaders (Donia 2006). A new socialist history was inscribed by naming streets after partisan heroes who sacrificed their lives for Yugoslavian ethno-national unity (Pesić 1996). By reverting to the original street names after the Bosnian-Herzegovinian war, the Ottoman-period history of the city was also revived because the initial titles of the majority of streets commemorated Turkish pashas linked to the city’s Ottoman heritage. Their reintroduction gave Sarajevo a more prominent Bosniak character, as no other ethnic group recognizes the Ottoman legacy as their ethnic heritage. Yet, these were a few streets in the city center compared to the majority of the city’s streets, which were given entirely new names. Also, arguments for returning to the original names cannot justify the renaming of streets in the border zone between Sarajevo and East Sarajevo, as the streets in this area were constructed in the socialist-period (1945–1992) and their names have not changed since. This indicates that the return to the original street names is merely a rhetorical strategy that camouflages the domination of particular ethnic groups over the territory and the politics of erasure of other ethnicities from Sarajevo’s cityscape. The largest number of street names erased were those of prominent traffic arteries that celebrated public figures from Serbian culture and his-

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tory (Fig. 6.4). Serbian-related names were retained for several local residential streets that commemorated Bosnian Serbs who made a contribution to Bosnian-Herzegovinian multi-ethnic history and culture. Such renaming mediates the politics of both inclusion and exclusion as it suggests that

Fig. 6.4  Street names in the Sarajevo city center before the war (top) and after the war (bottom). (Map: Mirjana Ristic. Reprinted with the permission of Routledge)

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the Serbs who look to Bosnia-Herzegovina as their homeland belong to the city while excluding the nationalist Serbs from its spatial narrative. On a broader level, the erasure of Serbian-related street names stripped Sarajevo’s spatial narrative of evidence of ethnic mixing by purifying symbols of otherness. Some academic sources argue that such renaming represents a form of discursive ethnic cleansing that potentially acts as a means of deterring citizens of Serbian ethnicity from returning to their previous homes (Robinson and Pobrić 2006). Another group of erased street names were those related to Yugoslav ideology. Although they represented symbols of inter-ethnic brotherhood and unity, a possible reason for their erasure was to make space for the inscription of new narratives. In the Dobrinja suburb of Sarajevo, which borders East Sarajevo, two dominant narratives overlap spatially. The first is an exclusive Bosniak narrative framed by names of Bosniak heroes, writers, artists and religious leaders, which were inscribed in the main traffic arteries and a large number of local residential streets. Such names fortify the city’s boundary by marking the Bosniak domination over its territory. The second narrative is that of the resistance against the division of Sarajevo and Bosnia-Herzegovina, which is composed of names related to the victims and defenders of the city during the siege. Although this narrative evokes a myth of the shared struggle for ethnic co-existence, it simultaneously symbolizes the struggle against the BSA and Serbian nationalism in general. Also, the idea of a multi-ethnic coexistence is not generally accepted by the majority of the Serbs who live in East Sarajevo as they migrated out of Sarajevo due to their objection to the idea of a shared life. Thus, although it promotes inter-ethnic integration, the second street narrative maintains the socio-spatial segregation of ethnic groups by reinforcing a mental barrier in the minds of most East Sarajevo residents. In some instances, the inscription of an exclusive Bosniak identity caused public protest. This was the case with one of the main traffic arteries of Sarajevo entitled Marshall Tito Street, after the former Yugoslavian president. The proposal was to rename it the ‘Street of Alija Izetbegović’, after the first president of the independent Bosnia-Herzegovina (Bajramović n.d.). Members of the ruling Bosniak-dominated party undertook the initiative several months after Izetbegović’s death in November 2003 (Bajramović n.d.). Citizens of all ethnicities contested the proposal, arguing that places with Tito’s name exist in many cities in the world and that its erasure from Sarajevo would represent a systematic deletion of history that President Izetbegović himself would have opposed

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(Bajramović n.d.). Tito’s name exists in most capitals of the former Yugoslavian republics, although other symbols of Yugoslavian memory were replaced by new ethnic signifiers. His name was erased from Ljubljana in Slovenia, where it came to symbolize the communist regime that breached human rights (RTS 2011); from Belgrade in Serbia, where the new political regime rebranded Tito as a traitor to Serbian national interests (Brakocević 2013); and from Zagreb in Croatia, where he was branded a dictator (Mamić 2017). In Bosnia-Herzegovina, Tito’s name was generally accepted as the symbol of pre-war ethnic coexistence. Some residents argued that, if Sarajevo is the capital of the multi-ethnic Bosnia-Herzegovina, then the street name should be retained; otherwise the city would lose its ethnicallymixed character (Bajramović n.d.). Eventually, the protests succeeded and the state assembly did not approve the renaming of Marshall Tito Street. Instead, the name of President Izetbegovic was inscribed on one of the city’s central squares. Such contesting of place meanings indicates that, although the official inscriptions of the Bosniak identity dominate the city’s spatial narrative, its multi-ethnic character did not vanish from the realm of citizens’ lived experiences. The city’s post-war urban identity is still negotiated through struggles between spatial discourses conceived of by its authorities and the perceptions of place by its residents. Thus far, the previous sections of this chapter have described the lesstangible signs of ethnic division as they are inscribed in urban spatialities. They have elaborated on the manner in which architecture and urban spaces provided the operative contexts for semiotic strategies of bordermaking. The following sections will shift to more tangible examples of concrete border zones and the spatial practices of border crossing. They will discuss how the physicality of urban form itself reinforces the interethnic boundary and how residents who are moving and choosing between the physical spaces and experiences of Sarajevo and East Sarajevo strengthen the ethnic division between the two cities.

Forgetting Shared Spatial Symbols Apart from struggles over erasing and renaming, the boundary between Sarajevo and East Sarajevo is also marked by ‘forgetting’ shared spatial symbols. In the uninhabited mountainous areas between Sarajevo and East Sarajevo, the demarcation line cuts across Vraca Hill (Fig. 6.1). Its

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peak is the site of the socialist-period memorial park that commemorated the Second World War massacre in which 11,000 people, mostly Jews and Serbs, were executed by the Nazi Croatia Ustaša forces. The memorial park was a linear composition of plateaus with monuments and plaques leading to a memorial museum that glorified the sacrifice of all ethnic groups for liberation and freedom of Bosnia-Herzegovina. Before the war, the memorial park was one of the most prominent landmarks of BosnianHerzegovinian multi-ethnic identity. During the war, it became a symbol of Bosnian-Herzegovinian ethnic division. It was occupied by the BSA and used as a strategic artillery and sniper position. The park was heavily damaged by crossfire during the siege. Its devastation continued in the post-war period as the park became a gathering place for drug addicts and hooligans, who sprayed meaningless graffiti and tags on its monuments. Disaster tourists who were taken to the hill further ruined the park by taking its commemorative markers as souvenirs (Jusufović 2008). Although the memorial site was chosen for the National Monument of BosniaHerzegovina in 2005, it remains devastated to the present day. While its location on the IEBL creates a potential for uniting two cities through joint action to reconstruct the pre-war symbol of ethnic mixing, none of the two cities’ authorities has undertaken such an initiative. Instead, the neglect of the park is yet another spatial marker of Bosnian-Herzegovinian post-war inter-ethnic division.

Border-crossing as a Spatial Practice In 1992, Bosnian Serb president Radovan Karadžić stated his intention to build a wall, similar to the Berlin Wall, separating Sarajevo that would physically divide what he referred to as the ‘Serbian’ from the ‘Muslim’ part of Sarajevo (Sabljaković 2010). In February 1998, his intention was realized as East Sarajevo residents erected a 10 m-long and 2 m-high wall on the main road in the border zone near Sarajevo International Airport. As they stated, “the wall was designed to give symbolic protection from [the FBH] police intrusion” into RS territory (BBC 1998a).3 However, the United Nations (UN) pressed for the removal of the wall after only a day, because it obstructed the freedom of movement that was one of the main conditions of the Dayton Agreement (BBC 1998b). The border between the two cities continued to be recognized through spatial limits implemented by citizens in their everyday movements. In the

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first years after the war, commuting across the borderline by residents was limited to necessity only. Newspapers in 2008 reported that Bosniaks from Sarajevo stated that they terminated their travel at the demarcation line as they thought that “the atmosphere is somehow different” on the other side (Mondo 2008). Serbs who still lived in Sarajevo went to East Sarajevo to buy bread, which their Bosniak neighbors interpreted as a gesture of distrust. Many citizens cautiously peeked out from behind buildings to check who might be around before crossing the border (Mondo 2008). Furthermore, border crossings were prompted by legislation. The Dayton Agreement prescribed that people of all ethnicities must be employed in state institutions, which are mostly located in Sarajevo. This means that some 5000 Serbs living in East Sarajevo go to work in Sarajevo on a daily basis. Newspapers in 2009 reported that, upon returning from their work to East Sarajevo, some residents said that they felt it was “easier to breathe” (Tinjak 2009). Streets and squares on the demarcation line could be distinguished as city cleaners took rubbish or cleaned snow only from their parts of the divided places, leaving the Other’s parts untouched (Mondo 2008). In later years, residents of Sarajevo began visiting Eastern Sarajevo as an inexpensive alternative location for fixing their cars, buying cheaper petrol and finding cheap groceries (Tinjak 2009). At the time of writing of this book (more than 20  years after the end of the war), tensions have calmed and although there may be residents who prefer not to cross the IEBL unless they have to, there are no obstacles to movement between the two cities. However, due to the administrative and legislative division, the public transport system remained divided. The bus and trolley lines in Sarajevo end 400 m before the demarcation line. In the first years following the war, vehicular movements were coded as the license plates of East Sarajevo had a different language and script than those of Sarajevo. They functioned as spatial markers of ethnicity that reinforced the spatial limits between the two cities, and driving on the other side of the border was perceived as dangerous. In the early 2000s, the vehicle license plates in both cities were coded with more neutral and random letters and numbers, enabling a greater sense of freedom among commuters. Even so, divisive associations persist in, for example, the use of taxis. Newspapers in 2008 reported that residents of both cities prefer to ride in what they call “our taxi”, while some say that there they would not ride in “their taxi” at any cost (Mondo 2008). Thus, although the official spatial coding has diminished, new spatial codes of ethnic division are maintained through everyday practices and choices.

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The two cities also have different urban rituals that operate as codes for the territorialization of ethnic identity. The headscarf and Islamic clothing that cover the entire female body, a form of dress that was banned by law during the socialist period, is increasingly being worn by Bosniak women and girls. Bosniaks increasingly greet each other in public spaces using Islamic phrases such as ‘Selam Alejkum’ (‘Peace be Upon You’, or ‘Hello’) and ‘Allah Imanet’ (‘Goodbye’). Muslims’ daily calls to prayer are recited through speakers, which was not the practice before the war (Tinjak 2009). Some non-Bosniak residents of Sarajevo commented that such religious spatial practices were an expression of “Muslimania”, which has occupied the city’s territory and transformed Sarajevo into an “Islamic Balkan metropolis” (Imamović 1999). Serbian residents introduced a joke that uses the dichotomy between ‘East and Middle East Sarajevo’ to make a distinction between the two cities. On the other hand, some Bosniak residents of Sarajevo deny the existence of East Sarajevo—when asked which Sarajevo they come from they answer, the “real Sarajevo” (Imamović 1999). Such popular discursive practices reveal how ethnic division permeates everyday life and that residents of Sarajevo and East Sarajevo largely “live one next to another, not one with another” (Imamović 1999).

Intangible Borders This case study of the territorial demarcation between Sarajevo and East Sarajevo has demonstrated that the space of both cities is not merely a site of Bosnian-Herzegovinian post-war inter-ethnic division, but the very means through which it was mediated. While the wartime siege was a violent attempt to create a divided and ethnically cleansed city, this was achieved in the post-war period using different spatial regimes and practices of representation. The barricades have been removed and replaced by names, colors and scripts. They function as tools for the territorialization and stabilization of some forms of ethnic identity and exclusion of others. The exclusive enclaves on both sides of the IEBL have been further homogenized by the cleansing of symbols of ethnic mixing from their territories. While wartime violence against multi-ethnic symbols in the cityscape was argued to represent an attempt at ‘killing the memory’ (Bevan 2006), an analogical process continued in post-war Sarajevo through the neglect of places that embody the city’s shared history. Not only does the spatial discourse of Sarajevo and East Sarajevo inscribe the boundary between the two cities, it reinforces their spatial

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segregation by shaping divisive spatial practices. Street names transform the city into a text that shapes residents’ mental map of the city and frames their everyday actions and interactions. They produce ethnically exclusive place identities that reject Others. Discursive systems of spatial coding are deciphered differently according to internal dispositions that individuals absorb from their belonging to a particular ethnic group. They generate ethnically exclusive forms of spatiality that frame distinction between their territories and affirm or deny belonging of people to place on the basis of their ethnicity. In some cases, they also operate as tools of ethnic marginalization and exclusion. Although resistance to particular examples of renaming in Sarajevo indicates that the struggle over the city’s multi-ethnic identity is not lost, the reinscription of identity shapes antagonistic spatial and ethnic relations and thus potentially constructs a new ground for future struggles over place. The case study of post-war Sarajevo provides a framework for understanding how ethnic division and exclusion operate through less-tangible elements of architecture and urban space. Conventional tangible barriers such as walls, fences and checkpoints that divide cities in Israel/Palestine, Cyprus or Pakistan/India operate through force and coercion. They are top-down authoritarian tools that overtly demarcate places and maintain their control and security by inhibiting undesired subjects from practices of border crossing. In contrast, the less tangible semantic strategies of spatial segregation between Sarajevo and East Sarajevo are not obstructive but constructive of subjectivity. Rather than inhibiting their spatial practices ‘from above’ through force, they act ‘from below’ by shaping human bodies through spatial discourse that orients and limits their movements, actions and interactions within particular spatial extents. They produce knowledge about the city that shapes how residents perceive, experience and behave in it. They are less-overt instruments of spatial micro-politics of division that often remain camouflaged below the surface, hidden under an inclusive multi-ethnic identity that is promoted on the surface, as in the case of returning streets to their original names or in the case of painting streets green. While the physical boundary remains permeable, movement across it is reduced as renaming, coding and coloring of urban space keep mental barriers in residents’ minds and maintain their separation in space.

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Notes 1. There is also a third entity called Brčko district, which territorially is a part of both units though administratively is a self-governing entity (Donia 2006). The Bosnian name of the Republic of Srpska is ‘Republika Srpska’, which translates to ‘the Serbian Republic’. The FBH is further divided into 10 self-governing cantons or counties. 2. Also, five of the FBH cantons have a Bosniak majority, two have a Croat majority, and two are ethnically mixed. 3. The occasion was the arrest of a Bosnian Serb soldier who murdered the Bosnian-Herzegovinian deputy prime minister in 1993.

References A.B. (2011, January 31). BiH: Do kada će ulice po gradovima nositi imena ratnih zločinaca?! [BiH: How Long Will Streets of Cities Bear the Names of War Criminals!?]. 24 Casa Info. http://24sata.info//vijesti/bosna-ihercegovina/54755-bih-do-kada-ce-ulice-po-gradovima-nositi-imena-ratnih-zlocinaca.html#sthash.A2el7ueZ.dpuf. Accessed 6 June 2015. Azaryahu, M. (1996). The Power of Commemorative Street Names. Environment and Planning D: Society and Space, 14(3), 311–330. Barthes, R. (2001). Mythologies. New York: Hill and Wang. BBC. (1998a, February 10). Bosnian Serbs Build Symbolic Wall in Sarajevo. BBC News. http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/55396.stm. Accessed 10 Jan 2011. BBC. (1998b, February 11). Bosnian Serbs Demolish Protest Wall. BBC News. http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/55677.stm. Accessed 30 Mar 2015. BBC. (2001, April 24). Ruling Redraws Sarajevo Map. BBC News. http://news. bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/europe/1294639.stm. Accessed 30 Mar 2015. Bevan, R. (2006). The Destruction of Memory: Architecture at War. London: Reaktion. Billig, M. (1995). Banal Nationalism. London: Sage. Brakočević, M. (2013, March 30). Titovo ime nosi osam ulica na obodu Beograda [Tito’s Name Was Retained in Eight Streets in the Periphery of Belgrade]. Politika. http://www.politika.rs/rubrike/Beograd/Titovo-ime-nosi-osamulica-na-obodu-Beograda.lt.html. Accessed 6 June 2015. Deleuze, G., & Guattari, F. (1987). A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. London: Athlone Press. Donia, R. (2006). Sarajevo: A Biography. London: Hurst & Co. Dovey, K. (2010). Becoming Places: Urbanism/Architecture/Identity/Power. London/New York: Routledge.

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Europe—Miscellaneous. (1995, November 21). Dayton Peace Agreement, General Framework Agreement for Peace in Bosnia and Herzegovinia. http:// www.refworld.org/docid/3de495c34.html. Accessed 19 Oct 2017. Fairclough, N. (2003). Analysing Discourse: Textual Analysis for Social Research. London: Routledge. Foucault, M. (1995). Discipline and Punish: The Birth of Prison. New  York: Vintage Books. Greenberg, M. (2000). Branding Cities: A Social History of the Urban Lifestyle Magazine. Urban Affairs Review, 228–263. Imamović, E. (1999, September 24). Moc Imaginacije [The Power of Imagination]. DANI. Jukić, V. (2016). Cenzus of Population, Households and Dwellings in Bosnia and Herzegovina, 2013: Final Results. Sarajevo: Agency for Statistics of Bosnia and Herzegovina. Jusufović, Z. (2008). Mission Impossible, Sarajevo War Tour. Kapić, S. (2000). The Siege of Sarajevo 1992–1996. Ljubljana: Mladinska knjiga tiskarna d.d. Light, D. (2004). Street Names in Bucharest, 1990–1997: Exploring the Modern Historical Geographies of Post-Socialist Change. Journal of Historical Geography, 30(1), 154–172. Mamić, T. (2017, August 31). Skupština odlučila: Zagreb ostao bez Titova trga [The Assembly Has Decided: Zargeb Lost Tito’s Square]. Jutarnji List. http:// www.jutarnji.hr/vijesti/zagreb/skupstina-odlucila-zagreb-ostao-bez-titovatrga-hasanbegovic-ovo-je-povijesni-trenutak-ostojic-tko-je-sljedeci-hrvatkojem-cete-uzeti-ulicu/6509143/. Accessed 19 Oct 2017. Mondo. (2008, August 22). San: linija koja spaja ali i razdvaja [The Dream: The Line Which Connects and Disconnects]. Mondo. http://www.mondo.rs/v2/ tekst.php?vest=107296. Accessed 10 Jan 2015. Pešić, V. (1996). Serbian Nationalism and the Origin of the Yugoslav Crisis. Washington, DC: United States Institute of Peace. Radio-Television of Serbia (RTS). (2011, October 4). Ljubljana bez Titove ulice [Ljubljana without Tito’s Street]. Radio-Television of Serbia. http://www.rts. rs/page/stories/sr/story/11/Region/966692/Ljubljana+bez+Titove+ulice. html. Accessed 6 June 2015. Robinson, G. M., & Pobrić, A. (2006). Nationalism and Identity in Post-Dayton Accords: Bosnia-Hercegovina. Tijdschrift voor Economische en Sociale Geografie, 97(3), 237–252. Sabljaković, Dž. (2010, May 20). Sarajevo: Cijeli grad kao meta [Sarajevo: The Whole City as the Target]. Politika. http://www.dw-world.de/dw/article/0,,5593482,00.html. Accessed 10 Jan 2011. Šarenac, D.  R. (2008, August 21). Pločnici pozeleneli [The Pavement Became Green]. Novosti.

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Stojaković, D. (2008, February 9). Zajedničko jedino ime [Only the Name Is Common]. Novosti. http://www.novosti.rs/vesti/planeta.70.html:210211Zajednicko-jedino-ime. Accessed 12 Sept 2011. TANJUG. (2008, August 19). Zelena boja provokacije [Green Colour of Provocation]. B92 News. http://www.b92.net/info/komentari.php?nav_ id=314270. Accessed 30 Mar 2015. Tinjak, E. (2009, June). Podeljeni grad: Sarajevo i Istočno Sarajevo [The Divided City: Sarajevo and Eastern Sarajevo]. Start: Internet Magazin Bosne i Hercegovine.

CHAPTER 7

Specter of War

In a post-war joke, a Serbian construction company takes on a contract to reconstruct buildings damaged and destroyed during the siege of Sarajevo. They propose a two-stage rebuilding process in which they would first demolish the remaining ruins and then second reconstruct the buildings anew. After the first stage was completed, the company determines that there is no budget left for the second stage. As another saying goes, “There is a grain of truth in every joke”. The truth in this joke is that Sarajevo’s post-war rebuilding indeed largely camouflages different forms of ethnic politics and struggles, which I will discuss in this chapter. I will do so by analyzing different approaches to the reconstruction of buildings that were damaged and destroyed in the war, as well as prominent types of new post-war architecture. These include covering wartime ‘wounds’, reconstruction of replicas and construction of new architectural landmarks. I will elaborate on the effects of such architectural interventions on the transformation of the city’s post-war urban fabric and place identity. My argument is that the reconstruction has largely operated as further erasure of multi-ethnic symbols from the cityscape, while new ethnic symbols are being territorialized in the urban landscapes of both Sarajevo and East Sarajevo. Although some pre-war multi-ethnic symbols have been restored, such representation often camouflages different forms of post-war ethnic domination and marginalization.

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Covering Wounds: The Parliament and Government Complex The Bosnian-Herzegovinian parliament and government complex remained in ruins for 10 years after the Dayton Agreement, due to a limited central state budget. Hence, its reconstruction became dependent on international financing. In 2002, the Greek government established the Hellenic Plan for the Economic Reconstruction of the Balkans (HIPERB), which was a five-year program of Greek assistance for development in the region. The contract for the reconstruction of the government tower was signed through this scheme in April 2003. This was the first project of the HIPERB plan, and symbolically, it meant that reconstruction of the Balkans started from the place where its destruction began. With a total cost of approximately €16 million, the Greek government donated some 80% of the building costs, while the rest was provided from the central Bosnian-Herzegovinian budget (Voloder 2011). The Greek minister of foreign affairs called the donation a “symbol of Greek friendly feelings towards Bosnia” and announced renaming the government tower “The Building of Friendship of Greece and Bosnia and Herzegovina” (M.K.S. 2006). Although at that time the tower was still a ruin and a reminder of the recent war, the new name attached to its empty walls shifted its symbolism towards peace and reconciliation. Furthermore, the new name linked to Greece represented the country’s aspiration of European integration and constructed a more global sense of BosnianHerzegovinian national identity. However, the local audience contested this new symbolism. For some Bosniak locals the building represented another type of ‘friendship’—that of the Greek alliance with Serbs during the war.1 They argued that the tower should have been renamed ‘the building of Greek volunteers in the BSA’, as they believed Greeks were among those who destroyed the parliament complex and other buildings in Sarajevo and Bosnia. This multiplicity of meanings dependent on ethnic background indicates that, although the image of peace was attached to the building’s empty walls, the specter of the war still lived in the void of its ruin and kept conflict alive in people’s everyday lives. The process of reconstructing the tower was marked by a series of arguments. In 2003, a redesign of the façade of the tower was prepared by architects Tatjana Neidhart, the daughter of Parliament’s original architect and the inheritor of his author’s rights, and Ivan Štraus, the architect of the adjacent UNIS towers and Holiday Inn hotel. Based on Neidhart’s

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Fig. 7.1  Reconstruction of the Bosnian-Herzegovinian parliament and government complex. (Photo: Mirjana Ristic)

modernist approach and the idea of progressive development, they proposed replacing the existing concrete façade with a modern double-glazed façade (Štraus and Neidhart 2003) (Fig. 7.1). This new version of modernism reproduced the ideas of universalism and the equality of BosnianHerzegovinian ethnicities. A tender for selection of companies to do the reconstruction work was opened in August 2004 and asked for at least “three references for constructing the special double-glazed façade” (Plečić 2003). As this type of façade at that time existed on only one building in the Balkans, no Bosnian-Herzegovinian company was able to fulfill the tender’s conditions. Regardless, the largest Bosnian-Herzegovinian construction company, Unioninvest, applied and was shortlisted together with three Greek companies in December 2004. Although it offered the lowest price, which was €2 million lower than the next-offered price, and was the only one that fit within the financial plan for the reconstruction, the Bosnian-Herzegovinian company was eliminated “due to administrative and technical reasons” (Mulić-Bušatlija 2004). The local newspaper described the selection process as a deceitful “game for elimination of domestic companies” (Plečić 2003). In August 2005, the contract was signed with a Greek construction company, Domotechniki, which was reported to be con-

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nected to the then-Prime Minister of Greece (Kostas Karamanlis). Through this process, the money that the Greek government donated was actually returned to the Greek economy. In 2010, the state’s audit office published a report about the reconstruction project that indicated numerous other omissions (Galić et  al. 2010). As the chairman of the selection committee was an ethnic Serb, this produced yet another semantic inversion of the tower’s meanings as the media renamed the ‘building of friendship’ as “the building of Greek and Serbian interests” (Mulić-Bušatlija 2004). Not only did such representations reflect ethnic disagreements that weakened the pre-war building’s multi-ethnic symbolism, but the entire reconstruction process was characterized by a domination of private over shared public interests. The new government tower became linked to corruption. The ruined building was both a physical and symbolic embodiment of the wounded shared state and its weak authority. A glass curtain was installed over the building’s wounds without healing them. Furthermore, due to the blue and white colors on the façade, which correspond to the colors of the Greek flag, it can be argued that the building functions more as a brand for Greek economic self-promotion on the international scene than as representative of an independent Bosnia-Herzegovina. While through foreign donations the state has built international affiliations and connected itself ideologically to the world, insights into the reconstruction process indicate that its internal ethnic alliances remain weak. Reconstruction work ended and the tower officially opened at the end of July 2007. The congress hall on the fifth floor, seating the Pact for Stability for South-Eastern Europe, was renamed ‘Athens Hall’ after the Hellenic goddess of wisdom and victory. ‘The building of friendship’ was thus represented to the nation and the world as the flagship of peace, reconciliation and stability in the whole of the Balkans. This symbolism, however, was not accepted in everyday life and the building did not bring peace. Rather, it provoked additional conflict. Despite being completed, the Council of Ministers did not move into the building for at least six months after its ceremonial opening (Karabegović 2008). The then-president of the Council of Ministers, Nikola Špirić, an ethnic Serb, reported that the delay was caused by the building’s structural instability. Specifically, although calculations showed the tower could withstand the new double façade its weight caused fractures in the lower floor slabs, prompting him to claim that “the building of shared institutions is sinking” (Dnevni Avaz

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2008). Such a statement could be interpreted as camouflage of particular political motivations. The inauguration of the newly constructed building of the government of the Republic of Srpska (RS) in Banja Luka was scheduled for 21 December 2007. The date was symbolic as it was an anniversary of the signing of the Dayton Agreement, which legally established the RS as an entity within the Bosnian-Herzegovinian state. The media speculated that the intention was to postpone the move into the government tower until after the opening of the RS government building, and thus undermine the Bosnian-Herzegovinian government (Žurnal 2010). In other words, postwar construction had been used as a means of ethnic competition and destabilization of the shared state. The reconstruction of parliament’s assembly chambers (hereafter: parliament building) was not fully completed until 2009 (Tafro-Sefić 2011). This building suffered the most damage to its interior; the three assembly halls were unusable for 12 years after the war began. In the meantime, the assembly of the independent Bosnia-Herzegovina gathered in rented places throughout the city and in salons on the first floor of the ruined parliament building. The first reconstruction work, which was sponsored by the European Commission in 1996, included reconstruction of the cupola in order to save the building from further decay (Tafro-Sefić 2011). The first renovated assembly hall, named “White Hall”, which serves as the Upper House, was rebuilt in March 2004 with financial help from the European Union. Its reconstruction had a symbolic function as the assembly meetings in this place contributed to the strengthening of the legislative power of Bosnian-Herzegovinian political institutions (Tafro-Sefić 2011). The ‘Big Hall’, which was the seat of parliamentarians before the war and which suffered the most damage during the siege, was reconstructed in September 2005 with Norwegian donations. In September 2008, the reconstruction work of the third ‘Blue Hall’ was completed with investments from the Bosnian-Herzegovinian budget. This was also symbolic as it signified the regained strength of the country’s uppermost democratic institution. The exterior of the building was reconstructed last, in 2009, also with Norwegian donations (Fig. 7.1). Although the reconstruction returned the parliament building to its pre-war instrumental and symbolic functions, its post-war political uses reflect the country’s post-war political struggle. For example, the post-war interior arrangement of the ‘Blue Hall’, which operates as the Lower House and the seat of the representatives of the people, features a tripar-

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tite division of seats, each reserved for representatives of one of the three Bosnian-Herzegovinian peoples: Bosniak, Bosnian Serb and Bosnian Croat. Apart from the fact that this turns any matter of discussion into an ethnic question, it also implies that the interior of the building does not mediate parliamentary democracy but rather is a form of social discrimination. Ethnically undeclared politicians, including those who identify as Bosnian-Herzegovinian, as well as members of minority groups such as Jews or Roma, cannot be part of the Lower House. However, the building’s bottom-up uses contest this divisive and exclusionary top-down politics. In 2005, a project of the ‘Open Parliament’ was initiated by the Office for Public Relations of the Parliamentary Assembly of Bosnia-Herzegovina (Tafro-Sefić 2011). The project aimed to raise the level of transparency within parliament. To this end, students from various parts of the country of all ethnic and national backgrounds were invited to attend parliamentary sessions in the Big Hall and participate in parliamentary discussions, which were recorded and disseminated by the media. The project also involved organized tours and visits to parliament for citizens of all genders, ages, classes and ethnic backgrounds. Such everyday uses of the building contribute to increasing consciousness of parliament’s role in the societal democratization processes among the broader Bosnian-Herzegovinian population. They also turn the building into the “home of all Bosnian-Herzegovinian peoples” (Kapetanović 1990: 175), as the original architect of the entire parliament and government complex, Juraj Neidhart, had imagined. The plaza in front of the two buildings (Fig. 7.1), which was completed in May 2010 with funds from the Bosnian-Herzegovinian budget, was renamed the Square of Bosnia and Herzegovina (Tafro-Sefić 2011). The reconstruction returned the plaza to its pre-war look, but it remains to be seen whether the square will regain its original function and purpose. Neidhart conceived of the plaza as a place of democratic gathering for the nation and the republic, and a site for national celebrations and manifestations (Grabrijan and Neidhart 1957). This was confirmed during the prewar protests when the plaza was occupied by more than 100,000 people from all over Bosnia-Herzegovina who were rallying for peace. But the democratic gathering of citizens of all ethnicities was abruptly halted by Bosnian Serb Army (BSA) snipers, who targeted the crowd and killed six protestors. No memorial or commemorative practice exists in the plaza to recall the shared struggle and sacrifice of people of all ethnicities. The area is not used for everyday gathering of residents but more as a thoroughfare,

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a meeting point of various tours of Sarajevo, and sometimes as a place where just-married couples pose for pictures. In December 2011, a replica of a medieval Bosnian gravestone stećak was placed on the plaza in front of the parliament and government buildings as a year-long art installation (FENA 2011) (Fig. 7.1). The stećak is one of the oldest symbols of Bosnia-Herzegovina, it dates from the preOttoman period when Bosnia existed as an independent medieval kingdom. It invested the complex with its original design idea, as Neidhart imagined the tower as a modern paraphrase of the stećak architecture (Grabrijan and Neidhart 1957). The Mayor of Sarajevo, Alija Behmen, argued that the art installation was a warning that history should not be forgotten. The president of the National Committee for the Protection of Cultural Monuments, Dubravko Lovrenović, commented that, at a time when the political conception of Bosnia-Herzegovina was being contested, the installation affirmed that cultural heritage can be a positive contribution. The reintroduction of this visual element into the parliament and government complex can be seen as the ‘reinvention’ of tradition (Hobsbawm 1992), as a means of legitimizing the longevity of an independent Bosnia-Herzegovina throughout history. It remains to be seen whether this place can also be the foundation of the shared future.

Reconstructing as Forgetting: The Oslobodjenje Newspaper Building The Oslobodjenje newspaper building remained in ruins for seven years following the war. Positioned at the western entrance of the city along the main boulevard leading away from the airport, it was argued that the building’s debris represented one of the most symbolic relics of the city’s recent warfare history (Đerković 2010), something that signified the shared multi-ethnic struggle against nationalism and division of the city. Some of Sarajevo’s architects and officials argued that the ruined building should be preserved as “the monument to the siege and the visual landmark of urbicide” for future generations (Đerković 2010). However, this idea was abandoned in 2002 when the largest part of the building was bought by the Avaz Company (Udovičić 2002). Since 1995 it had run the competing newspaper Dnevni Avaz (Daily Voice), which was aligned with the Bosniak-led SDA party (the Party of Democratic Action) and has become the most-read daily among the Bosniak population. The

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Oslobodjenje newspaper, which continued operating from the annex of the building, was privatized when it was bought by Sarajevo Brewery and Tobacco Factory (FENA 2006). It has remained an independent daily. However, it has been criticized for engaging in what can be described as an ‘ideological flirt’ with most of the Bosnian-Herzegovinian political parties (Kazaz 2011). In the period between 2003 and 2005, the Avaz Company undertook reconstruction of the Oslobodjenje building, altering its previous form, function and meanings. An Avaz newspaper article described the new building’s design as a novel direction in architecture that represented the future (Bošnjaci 2005). The former cubic twin towers of the newspaper building were replaced by four symmetrical circular towers that resemble the BMW Centre in Munich, which is both an icon of the city and a symbol of progress and modernity. The towers became the seat of the Avaz Business Centre, which housed a five-star hotel called Radon Plaza (Fig.  7.2), with a rotating restaurant offering a 360-degree panoramic view of Sarajevo. The building was officially opened in February 2005 in a ceremony that included fireworks from the top of the towers and that was attended by Bosnian-Herzegovinian and international politicians,

Fig. 7.2  Hotel Radon Plaza, the former Oslobodjenje newspaper building. (Photo: Mirjana Ristic)

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who invested the building with new symbolism through their speeches. The High Representative for Bosnia and Herzegovina, Paddy Ashdown, commented that the building could carry the label ‘Made in Bosnia’, as it represented the national symbol of self-regeneration through domestic investment, design and materials. He also described it as a landmark that sent a message that Sarajevo is the city that believes in itself, the city which has regenerated and recovered and in which international companies should invest (Bošnjaci 2005). The chairman of the Bosnian-Herzegovinian Council of Ministers stated that the new architectural style of the building created an image of Sarajevo as a European metropolis and brought Bosnia-Herzegovina more in line with developed Europe (Bošnjaci 2005). Other Bosnian-Herzegovinian officials stated that the building represented “the victory of the vision”, while each phase of the construction process was documented through photographs that were published in a monograph entitled Triumph of the Builders (Trijumf graditelja), and exhibited in the entrance hall of the building (Đerković 2010). The author of the exhibition, Sarajevo photographer Fuad Fočo, suggested that the reconstruction transformed the building from an ugly duckling to a “beauty, which brings hope for a better future in the same way as the entire warfare period passed in hope for a better future” (Đerković 2010). While these speeches praised the new building, some among the general public were critical of its reconstruction. Some scholars argued that the rebuilding of the structure marked “the moment of the double erasure of the past, not only the warfare, but also the pre-war [history]” (Capuzzo in Bećirbašić 2010). This was because the reconstruction effectively wiped out both the building’s pre-war meanings of socialist-period brotherhood and unity, branded through its name ‘Liberation’, as well as the wartime symbolism of multi-ethnic resistance to ethnic nationalism. These collective meanings were replaced with the symbolism of the economic power of the individuals who were allied with the dominant Bosniak political party and the dominant ethnic group in the city. Some citizens argued that the demolished skyscrapers were symbols of wartime resistance and “the belief in the shared life”, while the new towers are symbols of nationalism and the “decadence of our life” (Klix 2008b). Others commented that the Avaz Towers are symbols of the ruination of Bosnia-Herzegovina because the idea of a shared life was demolished with the destruction of the Oslobodjenje building (Klix 2008b). As such comments indicate that the post-war transformation of the building’s form, meaning and use resulted in a loss of its multi-ethnic symbolism amongst Sarajevo’s population,

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some media argued that its reconstruction represented “the completion of the building’s demolition” (Đerković 2010), in the sense that the memory of the shared struggle of the multi-ethnic journalists had been forgotten.

Reconstructing as Replicating: City Hall—National Library The City Hall—National and University Library of Bosnia and Herzegovina stood in ruins for 18 years after the war. Its partial reconstruction occurred in two phases, from 1996 to 1997 and from 2002 to 2004 when the building’s structure and roof were stabilized in order to prevent it from collapsing (Č ubro 2010). Funding was provided by the Austrian Government and the European Commission (Barry 1999; Katavić 2007). In 2007, City Hall was added to the World Monument Watch List of the 100 most endangered buildings of the world, in order to foster support for its restoration (WMW 2008). By the end of 2009, international donations, including those from Hungary and Spain, amounted to €24 million, €6 million more than the estimated amount needed to complete the reconstruction (Č ubro 2010). Despite the financial surplus, no major reconstruction work had occurred by 2010. The official justification by the City of Sarajevo administration was an insufficient number of tenders for the construction work (Klix 2009). However, Donia (2006) argues that the real problem was the political structure of the post-Dayton Bosnian-Herzegovinian state. Although City Hall was listed as a national monument in September 2006 (Commission 2006), no ministry of culture that could take responsibility for its reconstruction had been formed on the state level. Instead, the two ethnic entities each had their own ministries of culture, and their ethnically dominated governments did not see political gain from renewing shared multi-ethnic institutions (Donia 2006). The void of the ruined building reflected the voids within the post-war BosnianHerzegovinian state. The state itself was shared, in that it had a form defined by the boundaries of its territory. However, the state was ‘­ hollow’ in substance because of the existence of ethnically divided political institutions that inhibited restoration of shared culture in the post-war period. Instead, the two political entities have their own parallel ethnic cultures. The ruin offered insight into the political economies of uncertainty that inhibited its reconstruction (Badescu 2014).

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The reconstruction of City Hall was further hindered by the conflict between the National and University Library and the City of Sarajevo over the right to use the building (Klix 2008a). The federal cadaster lists the building as the property of the Bosnian-Herzegovinian state, while the right of its use belongs to the National and University Library (Djugum 2011). The two initial restoration phases were conducted under the leadership of the library administration (Djugum 2011). In 2006, however, the local government of the City of Sarajevo took over the leadership of the reconstruction work. The City of Sarajevo was also listed as the investor, as all foreign donations for the building’s reconstruction went through city administration (Bečar 2015). The transition process was ambiguous and it landed the Library and the City of Sarajevo in court (Donia 2006). On 16 June 2016, the Bosnian-Herzegovinian Council of Ministers granted the use permit to the City of Sarajevo (Bečar 2015). This meant that both the library and the city administration had the right to use City Hall. Earlier in 2008, under the guidance of the local government, the Institute for the Protection of Cultural Historical and Natural Heritage of Canton Sarajevo produced a conceptual design for the building’s functional transformation into a multi-purpose administrative and cultural building (Škondrić 2010). The proposal allocated the first three floors to the headquarters of the city administration and the uppermost floor to the special collection of the library. The City of Sarajevo justified the proposal as the returning of the building to its original function as the seat of the city administration (Ahmetašević 2016). This ‘new old’ role for City Hall was symbolic rather than pragmatic, as the capacity of the building allowed accommodating only the offices of the mayor and his/her deputies. The City of Sarajevo had already had a separate building that comfortably housed the entire city administration. In contrast, the library has been displaced since the destruction of City Hall. From 1996, it operated from its temporary seat in a wing of the former Marshall Tito Army Barracks, which were transformed into the campus of the University of Sarajevo. Although the plan to construct a new building for the National and University Library existed in socialistperiod Sarajevo and the design for it was approved, the realization of the project was halted by the war (Maglajlija 2017). In this context, the proposal for the post-war functional transformation of the reconstructed City Hall meant that the Library would be permanently relocated from its original seat and become ‘homeless’. This proposal provoked harsh criticism by library officials, who argued that such a reconstruction project

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would result in a second destruction of City Hall (Donia 2006). It raised a question about how such a reconstruction project could address the act of destruction itself. The director of the library argued that City Hall was destroyed as a library and that the barbarism of such violence can be rectified only if the reconstruction returns the building’s library function (Barry 1999). Otherwise, he claimed, “if you accept that the building is to change its function, then you accept the argument of destruction” (Barry 1999). This could be seen as a form of post-war memoricide (Lovrenović 1994)—the killing of wartime memory through post-war reconstruction. Although the dispute between the two institutions is still ongoing at the time of writing, the reconstruction work resumed and finished in 2014. City Hall was rebuilt as a replica of the building in its original form (Fig. 7.3). In line with the 2008 design, it regained most of its initial function as the seat of city administration, while the library uses only its upper floor. The building was officially opened on 9 May 2014. The date, Europe Day and Victory Day over Fascism, was symbolic. It sent a message that the building stands as a symbol of European values—humanity, cosmopolitanism, tolerance, coexistence, and peace—and that fascism failed to destroy

Fig. 7.3  Reconstruction of City Hall—National and University Library. (Photo: Mirjana Ristic)

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them (FENA 2014). The ceremony, which was disseminated through media worldwide, was attended by several thousands of citizens, public figures from the city’s cultural and religious lives, local politicians, and international delegations. The opening speeches given by the EU High Representative, Bosniak member of the Bosnian-Herzegovinian presidency, and the then-current mayor framed the building as the symbol of Sarajevo’s ability to overcome its difficult past (FENA 2014). Its rebuilding was represented as “the triumph of civilization over barbarism” and “the idea of unity and co-existence over the idea of inhuman and unnatural divisions and clashes” (FENA 2014). The reconstruction was portrayed as an act of undoing the destruction, and it was set to confirm the resilience of the Bosnian-Herzegovinian state and nation (Alić 2002). This symbolism existed on the surface of the building as its representation and image in media: however, it did not continue on into its everyday use. Although the city administration brands the building as a place of gathering, education and cultural exchange, this is not the reality (Ahmetašević 2016). Public reactions evident in the local press indicate that the residents of Sarajevo perceive City Hall to be a place alienated from the everyday life of the city (Ahmetašević 2016). Before the war, the library was a lively place—a form of an interior agora—where generations of students regardless of their ethnicity met, read and debated ideas. Its reading room was portrayed on numerous postcards and monographs of the city as a symbol of ethnic interaction through education. These everyday spatial practices of learning together and cultural exchange are impossible now. City authorities engaged a private security company to guard the entrance to City Hall (Ahmetašević 2016). Public entry requires an admission fee. The building as a symbol of encounter of civilizations serves largely as a brand that is ‘sold’ to tourists. Moreover, its halls are used for local government meetings only occasionally. More often they are rented for wedding ceremonies, exhibitions, concerts and similar events (Ahmetašević 2016). Residents see the commercialization of the building as taking away their right to public property. On 10 December 2016, an independent group of 30 citizens attempted to enter the building and reclaim it for its pre-war public use of reading (Ahmetašević 2016). After being denied entry without paying the admission fee, citizens established a public reading room at the entry staircase in front of the building. This led to an even bigger movement called ‘The City Hall is Ours’, which calls residents of Sarajevo to gather at the staircase twice a week and appropriate it for reading. Residents have requested

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that the city administration create a public reading room inside the building and open it to the public once a week. Their aim is to return City Hall to its role in the city’s urban life as a place where residents of Sarajevo can gather regardless of their differences (Jedan Grad Jedna Borba 2006). The movement continued for at least six months but their demands have not been met, as of the time of writing this book. Thus, while the complex’s reconstruction united international actors who gave support for it, it did not restore it to its pre-war function as a physical and symbolic place of the city’s shared, everyday culture and residents’ interaction. The meaning and representation of the rebuilt City Hall as a place of multi-ethnic encounter has also been contested. Soon after the end of the war, two memorial plaques with the same inscription in the Bosnian and English languages were installed at its entrance: “On this place in the night 25th–26th August 1992, Serbian criminals set on fire National and University Library of Bosnia and Herzegovina. Over 2 millions of books, periodical, and documents vanished in the flame. Don’t forget, remember and warn!”2 The syntagm ‘Serbian criminals’ has caused ethnic controversy as it identifies the criminals who destroyed the building only by their ethnicity instead of specifying who exactly they are, i.e. BSA generals or politicians. Public reactions indicate that residents of Serbian ethnicity perceive the inscription to be a generalization that proclaims a collective guilt of Serbian people (Bajić 2011). Its opponents argue that, as such, the phrase was unjustly used against Sarajevo’s residents of Serbian ethnicity, who survived the siege together with their Bosniak and Croatian neighbors and fought against the BSA. Its proponents, particularly residents and local politicians of Bosniak ethnicity, argue that the inscription is “completely justifiable” (S.B 2016), as it only states who destroyed the building, in addition to when and what the damage was. As such, they believe, it could not offend Serbian people or equate them with criminals amongst Serbian people. On the contrary, it removed guilt from the Serbian people by suggesting that it was the criminals who committed the violence (and not the whole of the ethnicity) (Ramić 2016). Such ethnic arguments and tensions amongst Sarajevo’s population indicate that ethnicity, rather than shared worldview, is the lens through which residents perceive the meanings of architecture. Apart from sparking ethnic debates amongst the ordinary population, the plaques have also provoked political controversy on the state level. Serbian politicians argued that the inscription stigmatized the entire Serbian nation (Ramić 2016). The inscription was the reason why the

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Prime Minister and President of Serbia declined to attend the centenary celebration of the First World War, which took place at City Hall on 28 June 2014. Serbian Prime Minister Aleksandar Vučić stated that he could not stand next to the “plate which speaks about the Serbian fascist aggressor” (Al Jazeera 2014). Serbian President Tomislav Nikolić indicated that he “cannot go there where someone will accuse his people” and that such an inscription was not a way to achieve reconciliation (Al Jazeera 2014). An irony is that, in the 1990s, both of these men were members of the Serbian Radical Party, which disseminated ethno-nationalist propaganda that sustained ethnic tensions and war. Media reported that the European Commission requested that the Mayor of Sarajevo remove two memorial plaques for the occasion (Coolin 2014). While this did not happen, in 2016, when City Hall hosted a summit of 100 business leaders from southeast Europe, the memorial plaques were temporarily covered by flags of Bosnia-Herzegovina and the European Union. Media assumed that the covering was done out of respect for the delegation from Serbia, led by the Serbian President (Radio Sarajevo 2016). The majority of public reactions evident in the media condemned this act as scandalous. Some perceived the covering of the plaques as an attempt to erase the history and memory of Sarajevo (Coolin 2014). In typically sarcastic Bosnian-Herzegovinian manner, some journalists suggested that future generations should remember that the building burnt because of the August sun or after a cigarette butt was accidentally thrown to the ground (Coolin 2014). While the building of City Hall was restored to its original form, its meanings and memories remain contested and entangled.

Invention of Tradition: Post-war Religious Architecture While shared heritage and public buildings linked to the integrated Bosnian-Herzegovina state and identity are being contested, new ethnically exclusive architectural symbols have been produced in the urban fabric of both Sarajevo and East Sarajevo. Both cities engage in what Hobsbawm (1992) referred to as ‘the invention of tradition’ through the construction of religious symbols that function as a tool for production and territorialization of exclusive post-war ethnic identities. Since the end of the siege, 11 new orthodox churches have been constructed in East Sarajevo. Seven of them are located in areas of East Sarajevo that border

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Sarajevo directly, while four were built in the administrative center of East Sarajevo, Pale. They all reflect the traditional Serbian-Byzantine style, which marks the Serbian land, links it to Serbia and denies its relation to Bosnia-Herzegovina. A number of these churches also operate as memorial churches, with memorial rooms devoted to BSA soldiers killed in the war. Given their location in areas of majority Serbian population, far enough from Sarajevo, the new Orthodox churches have not caused significant public controversy. However, the construction of new mosques in the post-war Sarajevo has. Since the end of the siege, most of the mosques and Islamic religious buildings that were damaged and destroyed during the war were reconstructed. Moreover, a number of new mosques were constructed (Bećirbašić 2008) and the Islamic Community of Bosnia and Herzegovina announced a plan to construct five more new mosques in the city starting in 2008 (Martin 2008). The heightened presence of Islamic religious buildings has provoked debates and opposition amongst religious and secular Bosniaks and residents of other ethnicities. Proponents argue that the increased construction of mosques represents a physical and functional need to make up for the religious buildings that were destroyed during the siege. This is a strong argument in the case of the whole of BosniaHerzegovina, which saw 1472 mosques destroyed in the war (Akšamija 2010). However, it does not fully apply to the case of Sarajevo, where one of 86 pre-war mosques in Sarajevo was completely demolished and where others sustained repairable damage. Another argument is a historic fact: no new mosque had been built in Sarajevo in the previous century, but 27 had been destroyed since the end of the First World War due to the secular politics of identity in Yugoslavia (Martin 2008). A mismatch in this argument is the fact that most of the new mosques were constructed in the socialist-period suburbs of Sarajevo, in places where they had not existed before, rather than on the sites where they were demolished. Another justification for the construction of new mosques is the need to cater to the increased number of Bosniaks who moved to Sarajevo as wartime refugees or after the war (Akšamija 2010). The construction of mosques applies to the Ottoman-period urban principle that each borough should have a mosque (Cerović 2008). However, many opponents question whether new mosques are indeed a necessity, considering that many Bosnian Muslims are secular, and many also argue that half of the newly built mosques are empty. However, such rhetoric merely camouflages particular politics of identity.

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All this indicates that the increased number of post-war mosques is not merely a physical and functional need, but also has symbolic value and plays a role in mediating the politics of ethnic domination. The construction of new post-war mosques functions as a tool for religious marking of Sarajevo’s territory—transforming the socialist-period town that symbolized Yugoslav brotherhood and unity into an Islamic part of the city (Bećirbašić 2008). Akšamija (2010) argues that mosques represent a spatial expression of the Bosniak nation. According to her, their heightened post-war construction represents an architectural tool for writing national history for the purposes of social transformation. Different ethnic groups are strengthening their national consciousness and cohesion by r­ einforcing ethnic ties through their distinct cultural heritage. Drawing on Močnik’s concept of ‘societal militarization’ Akšamija (2010) argues that post-war religious architecture is the post-war struggle over ethnic nationalisms with civilian weapons. According to her, it represents an aesthetic instrumentation of cultural heritage and religion for the purposes of demarcating ethnic territories and giving a visual form to the presence of a particular community in space. Mosques and churches operate as spatial codes of ethnic belonging in the territory, replacing national flags; they inscribe ethnic myths and histories in space. The local media commented that the construction of mosques represents an increasing Islamicization of Sarajevo. An Oslobodjenje journalist, Hamza Baksić, stated that the construction of the mosque in Ciglane represented a demonstration of power rather than a requirement, because the Ali Pasha Mosque is located close to the new mosque (Bećirbašić 2008). Vildana Selimbegović from Dani warned that with the construction of new mosques, Sarajevo is rapidly becoming a Muslim city in which a “Muslimania” is being implemented (Selimbegović 2008). Reactions from some citizens of Croatian background on an internet portal questioned whether this new Sarajevo has room for Serbs, Croats and other non-Muslims and suggest that the behavior of the Islamic Community and the silent endorsement of the members of Muslim political parties “do not contribute to hope in a more normal and happier future at all” (Bećirbašić 2008). Others commented that the former multi-ethnic city was becoming an Islamic city in which the non-Muslims are unwanted. Opponents also questioned whether the new mosques would endanger the multi-ethnic character of the country where residents cherished their religious tolerance (Martin 2008). As Akšamija (2010) argues, in the rush

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to invest territories with ethnic symbols, Bosnian-Herzegovinian multicultural heritage is being negated, which to a certain extent contributes to the weakening of the Bosnian-Herzegovinian ethnically mixed identity.

Reconstruction as Conflict by Other Means In this chapter, I have given a detailed account of the reconstruction of three significant buildings that were destroyed during the siege and the construction of some new secular and religious buildings. They are only a part of a larger story about how post-war construction of architecture in Sarajevo and East Sarajevo largely operates as a tool for mediating ethnic struggles between the two cities. The siege was fought over an attempt to create a divided and ethnically cleansed city, and in a sense it was achieved in the post-war period but with different territories and tools. The shells, bullets and barricades have been removed and replaced by forms, meanings and uses of post-war architecture. While the struggle for the multiethnic city is not lost, architecture in both Sarajevo and East Sarajevo is largely used as a tool for ethnic marking of territories and the inscription of exclusive ethnic identities on the built environment. I have discussed different spatial strategies of the post-war rebuilding of architecture and analyzed their roles in the production of post-war ethnic identities and relationships, as evidenced by how residents have engaged with these buildings through everyday uses and public discourses. The reconstruction of some of the destroyed buildings highlights an effort to restore the city’s pre-war places and symbols of ethnic mix. Examples include repairing/covering a building’s wartime scars, which is the case with the post-war transformation of the parliament and government complex, and the creating of a replica of its pre-war form, which is the case with City Hall. Both buildings have been rendered examples of Sarajevo’s ability to overcome wartime wounds and restore its pre-war landmarks of ethnic co-existence and tolerance. This, however, was achieved only through the buildings’ forms and their official representation, as their everyday uses and discourses about them continue to be contested. Public reactions to the reconstruction process of the Building of Friendship of Greece and Bosnia and Herzegovinia indicate that the buildings are perceived as symbols of domination of particular ethnicities, in this case Bosnian Serbian. Its official political uses indicate that even the interior architecture is mobilized to maintain the post-war country’s polit-

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ical division. Also, while the restored City Hall is represented both locally and internationally as a hallmark of cosmopolitan culture, the post-war transformation of its everyday uses indicates that such symbolism is lost in the city’s everyday culture. The library as a pre-war space of multi-ethnic cultural exchange and interaction has been taken away from the residents in favor of ‘selling’ the building as an urban brand to tourists. While projects such as “Open Parliament” exhibit an attempt to infuse architecture with a culture of democracy, there is still a long way to go until pre-war civic spaces are fully reclaimed by residents. The construction of new religious buildings in both Sarajevo and East Sarajevo shows how new post-war ethnic symbolism is produced through architecture. New post-war mosques and churches are also used as architectural tools for the ethnic marking of territories, albeit through different practices of power. While the construction of new churches in East Sarajevo is overt, the building of new post-war mosques is camouflaged as necessity. As cases of constructing religious buildings related to other ethnicities are rare in both cities, new religious buildings can also be seen as tools for mediating post-war ethnic domination and marginalization. The post-war reconstruction of the former newspaper building indicates a different form of identity struggle—the dispute over constructing the global vision of Sarajevo through built form. The building’s new post-war architecture reflects a desire to render the city as being able to rise from amidst wartime debris and transform into a cosmopolitan European metropolis. Not only did this override the building’s wartime symbolism as a place of shared multi-ethnic struggle against violence and war, but its reception by residents, as evident in public discourse, indicates that its official representation is merely a camouflage for private interests of individuals linked to the ethnic parties that hold political power in post-war Sarajevo. The reconstruction of the former newspaper building should also be seen in the context of the new post-war construction projects financed by private investment, albeit international ones. For example, the UNIS twin towers were reconstructed in 1999 through the investment of a joint enterprise founded in 1998 by merging the Bosnian-Herzegovinian state-owned company UNIS with the privately owned company Kuwait Consulting and Investment Co. Unlike the case of the newspaper building, the reconstruction of Sarajevo’s twin towers returned the building to its original form and its renaming produced a new architectural symbol. While the previous name symbolized local Sarajevo’s brotherhood and unity between a Serbian Momo and a Bosniak Uzeir, the new name symbolizes the economic union

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of Bosnia-Herzegovina and Kuwait. As Kuwait is a Muslim-majority Middle Eastern state, this economic coalition has an Islamic connotation, which defies the towers’ pre-war multi-ethnic symbolism. A mixed-use residential and business tower, Bosmal City Centre, located to the west of the suburb of Grbavica, is a shared project between companies from BosniaHerzegovina and Malaysia. Although the contemporary architecture of these buildings represents a physical expression of the city’s effort to emerge as a modern western capital, the naming, ownership and economic support for their construction reflects the city’s alignment with the global east. These cases indicate that the urban identity of post-war Sarajevo is contested and entangled. In a sense, post-war Sarajevo remains a place of both encounter and clash between eastern and western civilizations.

Notes 1. Comments from the internet forum “Bošnjaštvo”, thread: http://www. bosnjastvo.com/forum/viewtopic.php?p=2226&sid=fe7ce5811f64f20ec1 e353d6c4638959, last accessed on 12 September 2011. The internet forum does not exist anymore. 2. This is the actual English translation although it contains grammatical mistakes.

References Ahmetašević, N. (2016, December 12). Narodna čitaona: Vijećnica je naša [People’s Reading Room: The City Hall Is Ours]. Bilten. http://www.bilten. org/?p=16269. Accessed 25 Oct 2017. Akšamija, A. (2010). Contested Identities: Identity Politics and Contemporary Mosques in Bosnia and Herzegovina. In S.  Allievi (Ed.), Mosques in Europe: Why a Solution Has Become a Problem (pp.  318–354). London: Alliance Publishing Trust. Al Jazeera. (2014, June 12). Vučić neće u Sarajevo zbog ploče na Vijećnici [Vučić Is Not Going to Sarajevo Because of the Plaque on the City Hall]. Al Jazeera Balkans. http://balkans.aljazeera.net/vijesti/vucic-ne-ide-u-sarajevo-na-stogodisnjicu-prvog-svjetskog-rata-0. Accessed 12 Sept 2017. Alić, D. (2002). Site of Memory and History: Sarajevo Town Hall (Vijecnica). In S. Akkach (Ed.), De-Placing Differences, Architecture, Culture and Imaginative Geography, 3rd Symposium, Centre for Asian and Middle Eastern Architecture (CAMEA), The University of Adelaide, Australia.

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Badescu, G. (2014). City Makers, Urban Reconstruction and Coming to Terms with the Past in Sarajevo. In B.  Kotzen & S.  Garcia (Eds.), Reconstructing Sarajevo: Negotiating Socio-political Complexity. London: LSE Cities. Bajić, B. (2011, January 12). Srpski narod nije kriv za Markale [Serbian People Is Not Guilty for Markale Massacre]. http://www.banjalukain.com/blog/srpskinarod-nije-kriv-za-markale. Accessed 12 Sept 2011. Barry, E. (1999). How the Vijecnica Was Lost: All the Sympathy in the World Hasn’t Rebuilt the Sarajevo Library. Metropolis Magazine, 18(9), 108–113. Bečar, L. (2015, February 2). Vijećnica ponovo na prodaju? [City Hall for Sale Again?]. Balkan Diskurs. http://www.balkandiskurs.com/2015/02/02/ vijecnica-ponovo-na-prodaju/. Accessed 12 Sept 2017. Bećirbašić, B. (2008, April 11). 99. džamija za multietničko Sarajevo [99 Mosques for the Multi-ethnic Sarajevo]. BH Dani. Bećirbašić, B. (2010, April 8). Važno je sačuvato vanjske tragove opsade [It Is Important to Preserve Traces of the Siege]. Dani. http://www.bhdani.com/ default.asp?kat=txt&broj_id=669&tekst_rb=18. Accessed 12 Sept 2011. Bošnjaci. (2005, February 11). Spektakulrano otvoreni "Avazovi” tornjevi [Avaz Towers Opened Spectacularly]. http://www.politika.rs/rubrike/Beograd/ Titovo-ime-nosi-osam-ulica-na-obodu-Beograda.lt.html. Accessed 12 Sept 2017. Cerović, E. (2008, April 18). Teheran nije glavni grad [Teheran Is Not the Capital City]. Portal NWBiH.com. http://nwbih.com/news.cgi?ref1=1386. Accessed 12 Sept 2011. Commission, to Preserve National Monuments of Bosnia and Herzegovina. (2006). Gradska vijećnica, historijska građevina [City Hall, Historic Building]. Komisija za očuvanje nacionalnih spomenika. http://old.kons.gov.ba/main. php?id_struct=6&lang=1&action=view&id=2860. Accessed 12 Sept 2017. Coolin. (2014, May 31). Skandalozno: EU delegaciji smeta ploča na ulazu u Vijećnicu! [Scandalous: The EU Delegation Minds the Plaque at the Entrance to the City Hall]. brzevijesti.ba. http://www.brzevijesti.ba/clanak/14478/ skandalozno-eu-delegaciji-smeta-ploca-na-ulazu-u-vijecnicu. Accessed 12 Sept 2017. Č ubro, M. (2010, May 10). Vijećnica: Ima para, a nikom se ne žuri [City Hall: There Is Enough Money, but Nobody Is in Rush]. Postal Sarajevo.ba. http:// sarajevo.co.ba/vijecnica-ima-para-a-nikom-se-ne-zuri/. Accessed 12 Sept 2011. Đerković, A. (2010, November 14). Trijumf (raz)graditelja [The Triumph of the (de)constructors]. radiosarajevo.ba. http://www.radiosarajevo.ba/content/ view/37249/90/. Accessed 12 Sept 2011. Djugum, A. (2011, September 8). Sarajevska Vijećnica vraća stari sjaj [Sarajevo City Hall Shines Again] Radio Slobodna Evropa. https://www.slobodnaevropa.org/a/sarajevska_vijecnica_vraca_stari_sjaj/24321238.html. Accessed 31 Oct 2017.

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Dnevni Avaz. (2008, June 23). Tone li Zgrada institucija BiH?! [Does the Building of the Bosnian-Herzegovinian Institutions Sink ?!]. Dnevni Avaz. http:// parco.gov.ba/hr/2008/06/23/tone-li-zgrada-institucija-bih/. Accessed 12 Sept 2012. Donia, R. (2006). Sarajevo: A Biography. London: Hurst & Co. FENA. (2006, September 12). Sarajevska pivara postala većinski vlasnik ̵ ̵ “Oslobodenja” [Sarajevo Brewery Became the Major Owner of “Oslobodenje”]. ̵ Oslobodenje. https://www.klix.ba/vijesti/bih/sarajevska-pivara-postala-vecinski-vlasnik-oslobodjenja/060912022. Accessed 12 Sept 2017. FENA. (2011, December 5). Replika zgošćanskog stećka uljepšava Trg Bosne i Hercegovine [Replica of Zgosca Stecak Prettifies the Square of Bosnia and Herzegovina]. vijesti.ba. http://vijesti.ba/clanak/62169/replika-zgoscanskog-stecka-uljepsavatrg-bosne-i-hercegovine. Accessed 12 Sept 2017. FENA. (2014, May 9). SARAJEVO: Otvorena obnovljena Vijećnica [SARAJEVO: The Rebuilt City Hall Opened]. zurnal.info. http://www.zurnal.info/ novost/17985/sarajevo-otvorena-obnovljena-vijecnica. Accessed 12 Sept 2017. Galić, M., Baštinac, S., Hajtić, N., & Tvrtković, H. (2010). Izvještaj o reviziji projekta obnove i rekonstrukcije zgrade prijateljstva izmedu̵ Grčke i Bosne i Hercegovine [Report About Revision of the Reconstruction Project of the Building of Friendship Between Greece and Bosnia and Herzegovina]. Sarajevo: Ured za reviziju institucija BiH. http://www.revizija.gov.ba/revizioni_izvjestaji/specificne_revizije/izvjestaji2009/?id=1726. Accessed 12 Sept 2012. Grabrijan, D., & Neidhart, J.  (1957). Arhitektura Bosne i put u suvremeno [Architecture of Bosnia and the Way (Towards) Modernity]. Ljubljana: Mladinska knjiga. Hobsbawm, E.  J. (1992). The Invention of Tradition. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Jedan Grad Jedna Borba (JGJB). (2006, December 3). Narodna Č itaona: Vijećnica je naša! [People’s Reading Room: The City Hall Is Ours]. 1grad1borba. http://1grad1borba.org/content/narodna-%C4%8Ditaona. Accessed 12 Sept 2017. Kapetanović, J.  (1990). Juraj Neidhart, Zivot i Djelo [Juraj Neidhart, Life and Work]. Sarajevo: Veselin Maslesa. Karabegović, Dz. (2008, March 17). Da ministrima ne bude tijesno [So That Ministers Have Enough Space]. Radio Slobodna Evropa. https://www.slobodnaevropa.org/a/1048003.html. Accessed 12 Sept 2017. Katavić, I. (2007, July 17). Vijecnica ceka novu fasadu [The City Hall Awaits Its New Façade]. Slobodna Evropa. http://www.slobodnaevropa.org/content/ article/709843.html. Accessed 31 Oct 2017. Kazaz, E. (2011, August 26). Vildana Selimbegović, sretna zbog rasizma [Vildana Selimbegović, Happy Because of Rasism]. Elektronske Novine. http://www.e-

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novine.com/stav/50313-Vildana-Selimbegovi-sretna-zbog-rasizma.html. Accessed 12 Sept 2017. Klix. (2008a, May 26). “Igre bez granica” oko Vijećnice [“Games Without Borders” Around the City Hall]. klix.ba. https://www.klix.ba/magazin/kultura/igre-bez-granica-oko-vijecnice/080526007l. Accessed 12 Sept 2017. Klix. (2008b, August 14). “Oslobodjenje” Muje Selimovica [“Oslobodjenje” of Muja Selimovic]. klix.ba. https://forum.klix.ba/oslobodjenje-muje-selimovica-t57280.html. Accessed 12 Sept 2017. Klix. (2009, April 3). Slijedi i treći tender za obnovu Vijećnice [The Third Tender Is to Be Opened]. klix.ba. http://www.sarajevo-x.com/bih/sarajevo/clanak/090403073. Accessed 12 Sept 2017. Lovrenović, I. (1994, May 28). The Hatred of Memory: In Sarajevo, Burned Books and Murdered Pictures. The New York Times. http://www.openbook. ba/obq/no1/ivan_lovrenovic.htm. Accessed 12 Sept 2011. M.K.S. (2006, August 23). Zgrada Vijeca Ministara bice gotova na proljece [The Building of the Council of Ministers Will Be Done in Spring]. Oslobodjenje. Maglajlija, V. (2017, June 12). Graditelj Sarajeva na rubu egzistencije [The Builder of Sarajevo on the Brink of Extension]. http://balkans.aljazeera.net/vijesti/ graditelj-sarajeva-na-rubu-egzistencije. Accessed 12 Sept 2017. Martin, A. (2008, May 14). Odluka o gradnji novih džamija u Sarajevu izazvala novu raspravu [The Decision About the Construction of New Mosques in Sarajevo Provoked a New Debate]. Southeast European Times. Mulić-Bušatlija, S. (2004, December 24). Poklon koji se vraća [The Returning Present]. Dani. Plečić, E. (2003). Obnova zgrade bivseg izvrsnog vijeca uzburkala stare duhove. Perfidnna igra za eliminaciju domacih firmi [The Reconstruction of the Building of the Former Executive Council Woke Old Ghosts Up. Perfidy Game for Elimination of Domestic Companies]. Oslobodjenje. Radio Sarajevo. (2016, May 31). Pokrivanje ploča na Vijećnici: Šta se zapravo dogodilo [The Covering of Plaques on the City Hall: What Has Really Happened]. radiosarajevo.ba. https://www.radiosarajevo.ba/vijesti/bosna-ihercegovina/pokrivanje-ploca-na-vijecnici-sto-se-zapravo-dogodilo/227480. Accessed 12 Sept 2017. Ramić, E. (2016, November 29). Zašto bi “Prosvjeta” i SDP brisali istinu sa spomen ploče na Sarajevskoj Vijećnici [Why Would “Education” and SDP Erase the Truth from the Memorial Plaque on the City Hall]. bosnjaci.net. http:// www.bosnjaci.net/prilog.php?pid=60569. Accessed 12 Sept 2017. S.B. (2016). Da se gosti ne uvrijede [So That Guests Do Not Get Offended]. Slobodna Bosna. https://www.slobodna-bosna.ba/vijest/32579/da_se_gosti_ ne_uvrijede_ploche_sa_natpisima_srpski_zlochinci_na_vijecnici_prekrivene_ zastavama.html. Accessed 12 Sept 2017.

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Selimbegović, V. (2008, April 11). Sedmi dan: džamija u srcu Sarajeva [Day Seven: Mosque in the Heart of Sarajevo]. Dani. Škondrić, D. P. (2010, Septembre 15). Potpuna obnova sarajevske Vijećnice koštat će oko 24 miliona KM.  Završetak radova 2014. godine [The Complete Reconstruction of the City Hall Will Cost 24 Million of KM. The End of Works in 2014]. Radio televizija tuzlanskog kantona. http://www.rtvtk.ba/index. php?option=com_content&view=article&id=16907:potpuna-obnova-sarajevske-vijenice-kotat-e-oko-24-miliona-km-zavretak-radova-2014-godine&cat id=81:europe&Itemid=197. Accessed 12 Sept 2011. Štraus, I. and Neidhart, T. (2003) ‘Project for Reconstruction of Facades of the Object 3 of the Institutions of Bosnia and Herzegovna’. Tafro-Sefić, L. (2011). Parlamentarna Skupstina Bosne i Herzegovine [Parliamentary Assembly of Bosnia and Herzegovina]. Sarajevo: Parlamentarna skupština Bosne i Hercegovine. Udovičić, R. (2002, May 3). Šta se dešava sa najstarijim bh. dnevnim listom: ̵ Oslobodenje se prodaje za 4,7 miliona maraka [What Is Going on with the Oldest Newspaper: Liberation Was Sold for 4.7 Million of Marks]. Media Online. Voloder, N. (2011, August 25). Donacija koje nema [Donation Which Does Not Exist]. ekapija. https://ba.ekapija.com/news/467844/donacija-koje-nemagrci-i-dalje-obecavaju-obnovu-bolnice-kasindo. Accessed 25 Oct 2017. World Monuments Watch (WMW). (2008). Sarajevo City Hall, World Monuments Watch. https://www.wmf.org/project/sarajevo-city-hall. Accessed 12 Sept 2017. Žurnal. (2010, August 5). Zgrada zajedničkih institucija: Šareni spomenik korupciji i kriminalu [The Building of Shared Institutions: Colorful Monument to Corruption and Criminal]. http://www.zurnal.info/novost/2474/zgradazajednickih-institucija-sareni-spomenik-korupciji-i-kriminalu-2. Accessed 12 Sept 2017.

CHAPTER 8

Painful Memories and Parallel Histories

At the end of the war, Sarajevo emerged as a city of ruined buildings, pockmarked by shells on the ground and bullet holes in its facades. These traces of violence carry the burden of the tragic events that occurred during the siege. How these things will be remembered sheds light on the post-war city’s ethnic mix and relationships. Winston Churchill famously suggested that “history is written by the victors”. But the BosnianHerzegovinian war ended without a victor. Donia (2006) argues that while the Dayton Agreement saved the country from further fighting, it neglected to bring peace because it institutionalized the internal division of the state’s territory and population for which the war was originally fought. This resulted in a situation where the political authorities of two Bosnian-Herzegovinian ethnic entities gained the power to shape their own distinct versions of history, which the divided local governments of Sarajevo and East Sarajevo have been inscribing in the urban landscape of these two cities. In this context, not only are the post-war place identities of the two cities affected by the conflicts of the past, but also by a divided present. Urban memory plays a prominent role in dealing with wartime traumas as post-war memorials can shape spatial narratives that can either create the grounds for future ethnic conflicts or convey lessons that can lead to ethnic reconciliation and cohesion. In this chapter, I will discuss the different ways that urban memory has been shaped in the cityscape of Sarajevo and East Sarajevo. Following the © The Author(s) 2018 M. Ristic, Architecture, Urban Space and War, Palgrave Studies in Cultural Heritage and Conflict, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-76771-0_8

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end of the siege, there was a certain spatio-temporal hierarchy of the forms and practices of memorialization. In the first year following the end of the siege, the initial form of memory manifested through minimalist monuments on the asphalt that were made by conserving multiple traces of shellfire on the ground. This was followed by a form of memory that was lifted from the ground and became attached to the vertical surfaces of building facades as plaques. In later years, memory was detached from the surface and the places where violence occurred to take the form of postwar memorials as distinct objects in urban space. I will analyze how the form, spatial distribution and discourse embedded in these memorials are enmeshed in post-war political dynamics. My argument is that the postwar socio-spatial division between Sarajevo and East Sarajevo has been strengthened by parallel versions of history embedded in the cityscape. Most of the memorials shape selective versions of wartime history that cause controversy and can potentially create grounds for future ethnic conflicts. Although there are places that embody the memory of the wartime struggle to preserve multi-ethnic Sarajevo, they are often ephemeral, erased and/or forgotten.

Sarajevo Roses After the siege of Sarajevo, Bosnian Serb Army (BSA) artillery attacks left behind numerous traces of destruction in the city’s urban landscape. As shells shattered on the ground, they made craters in the pavement with splattered pockmarks around their edges that created floral-like patterns in the pavement. While the dead and wounded were lying on the ground, traces of the shells filled with their blood. Due to their floral-like shape, local wartime journalists described them as the ‘bloody roses’ or ‘stone roses’ that flourished on the city’s pavement (Kamenica 1995). The blood was cleared away, but the traces of explosions remained places of painful memories. During the siege, Sarajevans laid flowers over them and posted obituary notices on the surrounding facades to commemorate the victims (Hodžić 1993). At the end of the war, in the second half of 1996, the traces of explosions on the ground were filled in with red resin to form more permanent markers of collective memory known to the public as Sarajevo Roses (Fig. 8.1). The idea for their design came from a professor of architecture at the University of Sarajevo, Nedžad Kurto (Junuzović 2006). The proj-

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Fig. 8.1  Sarajevo Roses. (Photos: Mirjana Ristic)

ect was approved, sponsored and carried out by the Committee for Marking Historic People and Events of the City of Sarajevo. Sarajevo Roses are historic markers of violence on the exact places where it happened. Kurto conceived of them as commemorative objects that would be “not too …stimulating” and “not too much of a monument” like conventional sculptural forms from the socialist period of Sarajevo (Junuzović 2006). His idea was to retain the memory on the ground because, in his words, “explosions happened on the ground, while people lied on the ground or nearby, trying to hide from the grenade which was coming to the ground” (Junuzović 2006: 98). Sarajevo Roses are patched traces of grenade explosions on the ground. Although they are threedimensional, they appear two-dimensional because the thickness of their volume remains invisible below the surface. They can be mistaken for the pavement’s texture as they contain no symbols or inscriptions that would indicate that they are memorials. The only signifier is their red color, which connotes the blood of the victims coagulated on the ground. Formed through the petrification of red resin in the pavement, Sarajevo Roses are ‘scars’ that healed ‘wounds’ in the pavement and urban life that were sustained during the siege while retaining the signs of wartime ‘injuries’. These Roses are multiple markers of places where the wartime violence halted everyday spatial practices of ethnic gathering and mixing (Fig. 8.2). It is estimated that approximately 120,000 shells fell on the city during the siege. Owing to restricted funding, roughly 100 Roses were installed on the sites of the largest massacres, where shells killed three or more people.

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Fig. 8.2  Spatial distribution of Sarajevo Roses and memorial plaques. (Map: Mirjana Ristic)

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They are most densely distributed in the city center in the old Ottoman and Austro-Hungarian towns. They exist at the city’s main market, corners of the main pedestrian zone, and courtyards and squares around religious buildings, where shells halted the practice of exchange of daily supplies and queueing in crowds for bread and water. In the modernist socialist town to the city’s west, they mark the markets along the main boulevard, as well as sport courts and school grounds where grenades stopped play. Apart from indicating the places of civilian deaths, Sarajevo Roses also mark the distribution of Sarajevo’s wartime urban life. As most of the city was exposed to the BSA positions and thus was dangerous, the wartime urban encounter was restricted to places for trade of necessary goods that were hidden behind buildings or canopies and changed their location in order to prevent being revealed and targeted. Sarajevo Roses thus testify to both the wartime terror and violence as well as citizens’ resistance. Their form and distribution generate unconventional practices of encounter with urban memory. Unlike traditional monuments that dominate the surroundings and guide residents’ journeys, their spatial disposition does not establish any particular spatial order, orientation or hierarchy. One cannot know where to find them as there are no maps or signs to indicate their position in the city. Despite being in prominent locations that are potentially visible to a large number of Sarajevans and visitors, they remain within the pavement surface, unobtrusive and unnoticeable from a great distance. They attract attention in a discreet way if one perceives the contrast between their red color and the material of the surface—either grey asphalt or white stone tiles. One can walk over them without even noticing them. Rather than intentionally, they are encountered accidentally by ordinary passers-by while pursuing the same spatial practices that were targeted during the siege—shopping, playing, praying and other activities. While wartime violence halted these practices and denied what Lefebvre (1996) called ‘the right to the city’—that is, the right to freedom, socialization, mixing, inhabitation, participation and appropriation—Sarajevo Roses reclaim such rights. They are memorials that do not impede the journey, but rather invite passers-by to pause and contemplate the history, move on and continue walking. As documentary historic markers, Sarajevo Roses testify to wartime violence only with their naked presence, through silence. Kurto conceived of them as markers of everyday collective suffering of “all the individuals who lived in Sarajevo during the siege. They should not have become commemoration only to those who were wounded or killed on those places”

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(Junuzović 2006). However, they are ‘mute’ monuments that do not include any textual or symbolic description of what their instigator intended them to mean. The effect of their silence is what Barthes (1978) refers to as ‘the death of the author’—that is, the cessation of his control over meanings that, according to him, enable the ‘reader’ of the discourse to construct multiple meanings. Ehrenhaus (1988) argues that the absence of speech should not be understood as merely the refusal to speak, but rather as the encounter that invites individuals to question the meanings of silence where we expect speech. “What happened here?” is a common question asked by citizens born after the war when passing by a Rose (Panjeta 2013). Instead of giving reassuring answers and interpreting a particular version of history, the silence of Roses engages the audience to actively construct their own versions of the past. Memory becomes a bottom-up process of interpretations of the past initiated by the viewers (Young 1992). The existing research and newspaper articles indicate that citizens perceive Sarajevo Roses as signifiers of violence against innocent people, symbols of the attack on the city, or as “unique…marks of heroic defense” and multi-ethnic resistance (Junuzović: 120–131). These are only some stories, but they illustrate that the Roses do not have fixed symbolism, but rather that they are open to multiple semantic interpretations. In a city with an ongoing conflict in the present, the memory that allows different individual versions of the past to coexist does not impede the possibility of ethnic reconciliation. Sarajevo Roses are also silent about the identity and ethnicity of the victims and perpetrators of violence. Residents commented that, during the siege, they did not divide themselves along ethnic lines but into those who planted Roses by their lives, and the survivors who watered them with their tears.1 This is because the shells during the siege also did not distinguish a Muslim, Croat or Serb. The shells targeted ethnic mix and heterogeneity as universal values of urbanity. Roses are cosmopolitan places of memory that commemorate victims as “members of the civil society” (Junuzović 2006: 95). The only indicator of their affiliation is the name ‘Sarajevo Roses’, which marks them as the signifier of the entire city. They are memorials to violence against multi-ethnic Sarajevo as a sociospatial assemblage of urban networks, places, flows, patterns and spatial practices that sustained encounter and mixing with Others regardless of their ethnicity. Bevan (2006: 8) argues that BSA violence during the siege involved a strategy of ‘destruction of memory’, which he described as “ ­ethnic

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cleansing or genocide by other means”—by demolition of symbols and places that provided visible evidence of the history of coexistence of different communities in the city. Roses prevent and invert such attempts at erasure of the past. They inscribe the history of ethnic mixing on the ground of the city. Sarajevo Roses remember the difficult past without trauma. Their naked presence and silence is powerful in the sense that it prevents the erasure of memory of violent events during the siege, while at the same time does not impose any particular version of the past or motivate confrontations about history. Rather, they allow multiple versions of memory and history to coexist and thus they open up the possibility of reconciliation and reestablishment of Bosnian inter-ethnic unity. They are at once reminders of the worst terror, death and violence and also symbols of the city’s resistance to warfare and post-war resilience. Ehrenhaus (1988) argues that silence can also speak while, according to Carney (1993), the rhetoric of silence can be seen as both intentional and political. By giving no explanation of the meaning and sense of deaths during the war, the only universal message that the Roses’ silence potentially sends is that war and nationalism make no sense and are meaningless. The Roses also operate as dialectic memorials that juxtapose the past and the present (Stevens and Ristic 2015). They prompt residents of and visitors to the city to see the layers of time in space and inquire about the present through the lens of the past. Not only are they able to reflect on the violence against the city and its residents during the siege, but also on the ongoing post-war reconstruction process. They invite passers-by to pause and contemplate the past and then move on, continue walking and turn towards the future. Despite strong sentiments, the Sarajevo Roses have been slowly vanishing in the years following their installation. Today, many of them are difficult to recognize due to their faded color, while others have been damaged or have disappeared in the reconstruction of streets and buildings (Halilović 2008). The public have responded largely by accusing city authorities of neglecting rather than protecting and maintaining the Roses (Akcija Gradjana 2009). In November 2008, one of Sarajevo’s non-governmental associations organized a gathering in front of the Catholic Cathedral with the aim of raising awareness about Sarajevo Roses and calling the city’s authorities to protect them from further destruction, neglect and oblivion (Muhić 2008). The effect of this campaign was that, in 2009, the city’s authorities prepared the project and budget for replicating the

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Roses in the places from which they disappeared. However, nothing was realized and the media suggested that the project was only a propaganda tool of local politicians who tend to use Sarajevo’s tragic story as a means of maintaining their power. In 2011, Sarajevo’s residents organized the painting of faded Roses throughout the city. However, this only had a temporary effect as the color of the Roses continued to turn a paler shade of red. At the time of this writing in October 2017, the city had begun an initiative to conserve and restore seven Sarajevo Roses in the city center. Still, some of the Roses were removed and replaced with newly constructed monuments that tell a different story of the past, which will be explored in the rest of the chapter.

Memorial Plaques Simultaneously with the emergence of Sarajevo Roses, Sarajevo’s cityscape was also marked with memorial plaques (Fig. 8.2). Their installation was the official project of the Committee for Marking Historic People and Events of the City of Sarajevo, whose intention was to mark “the places in which the innocent citizens of Sarajevo got killed—were murdered” (Committee 1996). Plaques were installed on building facades, with the exception of one that stands vertically as a tablet on the ground. They are 60 cm-wide, 80 cm-tall, white stone slabs that have a centrally positioned inscription, a Bosnian-Herzegovinian coat of arms along the upper edge, and a decoration composed of branches of the Lillian flower (the symbol of the Bosnian medieval kingdom) along the left edge.2 The inscription on the plaque was written in Roman script in the Bosnian language. The centrally positioned sentence, written in the biggest letters, gives the main explanation of the plaque: “On this place, Serbian evil-doers (date) killed (number) of the citizens of Sarajevo”. Below this sentence is a message written in smaller letters: “Let the dead rest in peace, recite Al-Fatiha and say a prayer, remember and warn”. The bottom of the plaque has the signatory message: “The Citizens of Sarajevo” (Fig. 8.3). In 2008, in some places, the Committee of the Canton of Sarajevo added new plaques on which the names of the victims and their year of birth and death were inscribed (Committee 1996). The named plaques have different forms. Some are white stone, zig-zag profiled plaques with names carved on their upper sides that face the gaze of the audience (Fig.  8.3). These were installed on the walls below existing memorial plaques. In other cases, names and dates were engraved on bronze plates

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Fig. 8.3  Memorial plaques on the wall of Markale Market Hall and Markale open market. (Photos: Mirjana Ristic)

that were installed on facades near the existing plaques. At the city’s central market, where the largest massacre occurred in February 1994, the centrally positioned wall oriented toward the market was turned into a red canvas with the inscribed names and dates of birth of the victims (Fig. 8.3). Some 23 memorial plaques were installed throughout the city, at the sites of massacres with the largest number of casualties (Committee 1996) (Fig.  8.2). Some of them overlap with the locations of Sarajevo Roses. Although they are less numerous, plaques are more noticeable than Sarajevo Roses as they have been lifted from the ground to the viewer’s eye level. They were often installed on the front facades of buildings and at the entrances where they confront and impose themselves on the viewers. The centrally positioned memorial wall in the background of the main market is visible and legible from any spot within the marketplace and from the opposite side of the street. The names on the zig-zag profiled plaques were inscribed on their upper sides, where they also face the gaze of the audience directly.

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Unlike Sarajevo Roses, the plaques operate as conventional monuments that include inscriptions and say explicitly what they mean.3 The use of the Bosnian language indicates that Bosnian-Herzegovinians of all ethnicities are the targeted recipients of the message. The sites of the plaques’ installation were remembered as the places of ‘killing’ or the ‘slaughter’ of a number of Sarajevo’s citizens that took place on a particular date. The victims of violence were described as ‘the citizens of Sarajevo’, which indicates that residents of all Bosnian-Herzegovinian ethnicities lost their lives in the explosion on the site. The plaques on which the names of the victims and dates of their deaths were inscribed made the gender and ethnicity of the victims more explicit, since Bosniaks, Bosnian Serbs and Croats are distinguishable by personal names. Chronological analysis of the names of the victims on the plaques in the city documents the destruction of Sarajevo’s ethnic mix by the BSA during the siege. Of the 26 victims of the first massacre during the siege, 14 were Bosniaks, 10 Bosnian Serbs and two Bosnian Croats; only one of 35 victims of the last massacre was non-Bosniak.4 Apart from the victims, the plaques also give information about the perpetrators of violence. They were constructed as the subject of the main sentence of the inscription, whereas the victims are put in the place of the object of their violence. They were described by a syntagm “Srpski zločinci ”, which the international media most commonly translated as “Serbian criminals”. More precisely, the word “zločinci” is a composite of two Bosnian words: “zlo” meaning “evil” and “činilac” meaning “actor”, “agent” or “doer”. A more accurate translation of the message of the plaque would be that, on the location where the plaque was installed, “Serbian evil-doers” killed a number of citizens of Sarajevo, which future generations should remember and be warned of. The inscription on the memorial plaques has caused public controversy. According to Scott, “in speaking we remain silent”, too, as any “decision to say something is a decision not to say something else” (Scott in Ehrenhaus 1988: 42). Ehrenhaus (1988) argues that speech can be incomplete and selective, such that it directs interpretations in one way rather than another. The syntagm ‘Serbian evil-doers’ has produced this effect. It is an unquestionable fact that the perpetrators of violence were criminals and evil-doers of Serbian ethnicity. The International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia proclaimed the BSA guilty of massacres in Sarajevo and sentenced its generals in Sarajevo to life in prison (ICTY 1999; 2007). However, as this was not stated clearly in the plaques’ inscriptions, their meaning is ambiguous and opens up a question of who the Serbian evil-doers are.

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According to Bajić, a Bosnian-Serb politician from Sarajevo who is a member of a Bosnian-Herzegovinian multi-ethnic party, this description leaves room for generalization of the guilt as the collective guilt of the Serbian nation, whereas, in his words, “the guilt can be assigned to individuals, groups of individuals, institutions, states, but not to the nation” (Bajić 2011). He argued that the syntagm ‘Serbian evil-doers’ is understood amongst the Serbian population as “the proclamation of the entire nation as evil and criminal, without a possibility that anybody is innocent” (Bajić 2011). As a result, “the majority of Serbs feel that they were unjustly accused”, which, as a counter-reaction, makes them pose a question “and what do they do to us?” (Bajić 2011). The effect is the strengthening of the distinction and division between ‘us’ and ‘them’. As well, according to Bajić (2011), this produces material suitable for political manipulation and propaganda by pro-nationalist and pro-separatist Bosnian-Serb politicians. They use this as ‘proof’ of the undermined status of Bosnian Serbs in Bosnia-Herzegovina, in addition to denying massacres by the BSA and boycotting the official annual commemoration of the victims, which takes place in front of the plaques with the inscription of the largest number of casualties. As the wording on the plaques was selected and approved by the Municipality of Sarajevo, the message is equated to the official politics of the city. Moreover, although there is no evidence that a public discussion was held, the inscription constructs the message as the opinion of Sarajevo’s population. As a result, the controversy over its meaning provokes ethnic contestation and makes reconciliation problematic. Plaques are rhetoric monuments that tell a version of Sarajevo’s wartime history that have caused ethnic controversy and potentially lay the groundwork for conflicts in the future. In many cases, locations of plaques overlap with those of Sarajevo Roses. While the Roses remain on the ground, the plaques lift the controversial inscription of history up onto the city’s facades, to the level of the human eye, and make them more prominent than the cosmopolitan memory of the Roses.

The Monument to the Murdered Children of the Besieged Sarajevo 1992–1995 It is estimated that 1620 children lost their lives during the siege of Sarajevo (Velić 2010). At the end of the war, the independent Children’s Organization for Peace, Love and Friendship proposed the idea of building a monument

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to the children of Sarajevo who were killed (Borogovac 2008). In March 2007, the City of Sarajevo opened a competition for the design of the monument and its jury awarded first prize to a Sarajevan sculptor named Mensud Kečo. The project was managed by the City of Sarajevo, sponsored by the Canton of Sarajevo and nine municipalities, and the construction work was undertaken by a private Sarajevo-based company (Radević 2009). Construction began on 6 April 2007, the Day of Sarajevo, and the monument officially opened on 9 May 2009, Victory Day over Fascism. The monument was built at the entrance to the Great Park, which is the main park in Sarajevo, in the central part of Marshall Tito Street, which is one of the busiest traffic and pedestrian arteries in the city. Such a prominent location makes the monument visible to large numbers of residents and visitors. The monument was built on a small square surrounded by park benches, which makes it not only an object seen in passing but a place for contemplation. On the opposite side of the street, the open area in front of a former department store, which was replaced by a modern shopping center, was transformed into another city square that was named the Square of the Children of Sarajevo. Kečo’s design was composed of a circular-shaped base with a glass sculpture positioned in its center (Fig. 8.4). The upper surface of the concrete base, measuring 10 m in diameter, is covered by a bronze cast with engravings of children’s feet. The cast was made from molten bullets that were fired during the siege (Katavić 2010). The engravings were made with sisters, brothers and close relatives of the children who lost their lives during the siege, all of whom imprinted their feet on the base of the monument (Fig. 8.4). The glass sculpture that rises above the base is composed of two glass figures of different heights. They are arranged such that the taller figure is leaning over the smaller one, intending to symbolize a mother trying to protect her child (Velić 2010). The figures are completely separate, the gap between them meant to represent the detachment of the relationship and the mother’s loss of the child. When looking from the other side, the sculpture resembles a sand tower, which has associations with children at play. Apart from the monument, the western edge of the square is marked by seven columns on which the names of the children who died are engraved. As of May 2011, 502 names had been engraved, with the remaining 800 intended to be added after they were determined through research (Velić 2010). The location and design of the monument have provoked significant public reaction, including inter-ethnic debate. Before construction began,

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Fig. 8.4  The Monument to the Murdered Children of the Besieged Sarajevo 1992–1995. (Photos: Mirjana Ristic)

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the Serbian Organisation of Dead and Missing Civilians disputed the monument’s site, arguing that it was the location where eight Serbiannationality soldiers of the Yugoslav People’s Army were killed (Šarac 2008). This was possibly camouflage to obstruct the monument’s installation, as the organization had asked for the postponement of construction until the bones of the soldiers had been exhumed. After the monument was erected, the general Sarajevan public described its form as “mistaken” and even as “the mockery of the city of Sarajevo” (Borogovac 2008). Arguments were made that the sculptures were too small and inadequate to pay enough respect to the victims, and that their shape was too abstract for ordinary people to comprehend their meaning. Some citizens even found it offensive, arguing that they had a phallic appearance (Radević 2009). Moreover, the durability of the sculptures is debatable and the glass material of which they are made could be broken by hooligans. The monument’s green color, which is traditionally associated with Muslims, caused dissatisfaction among some non-Muslim residents. While Kečo described the green color as the inevitable outcome of using glass of such thickness (Kečo 2009), some Croat-affiliated media questioned whether the aim of the creation of the green monument was to say that only Bosniak children were killed during the war or that Sarajevo became a Muslim city after the war (Katolički tjednik n.d.). This was an unjustified claim as the names of children engraved on the seven columns to the side of the monument include the names of children of all ethnicities and suggest that it was the ethnic inter-mixing of childhoods of Sarajevo’s youngest residents that was killed during the war. This ethnic debate turned into a sharper political confrontation over the monument’s name, which occurred among the members of the City Council at the time of the monument’s construction. On the insistence of representatives of the parents of the children who had died, the initially suggested name, “The Monument to the Killed Children of Sarajevo”, was soon replaced by the title “The Monument to the Murdered Children of Sarajevo” (Lemo 2017). This was because, the group argued, the children were not killed by accident, they were intentionally murdered (Lemo 2017). Also, in early 2007, the Assembly of the Canton of Sarajevo suggested that the monument should be renamed “The Monument to the Murdered Children of the Besieged Sarajevo”. This proposal was supported by the representatives of the parents of the children, as well as some members of the City Council of the Bosniak-led party (the Party of Democratic Action), while the members of the pro-multi-ethnic party (the Social Democratic Party) opposed the suggestion (FENA 2007).

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The SDP disagreement was based on the argument that there were also innocent Serbian children who lost their lives in the BSA-held suburb of Grbavica at the hands of Army of Bosnia and Herzegovina (ABH) artillery and snipers (Chaps. 3 and 4). They argued that Sarajevo was the united capital of that part of the city, too, and therefore the monument should be devoted to all the children who died during the siege of Sarajevo, without making the distinction between ours and theirs (Pećanin 2007). However, the SDA contra-argument was that the monument should be devoted exclusively to “the children who are the victims of those who were in the city” because “any other approach would mean equalizing the victim and the aggressor” (Halimović 2009). The City Council approved the official name of the monument as “The Monument to the Murdered Children of the Besieged Sarajevo 1992–1995”. As a result, the renaming of the monument shaped a selective version of Sarajevo’s wartime history that excluded some of the city’s youngest victims from the collective memory of Sarajevo. It would be inaccurate to argue that the monument thus operates as a tool for ethnic exclusion as its seven columns list the names of children of all ethnicities who were killed during the war. Rather, the naming of the monument indicates that, at the time of its construction, the city was not yet ready to deal with memory of its own perpetrators.

The Cross on Zlatište Hill Yet, some Bosnian Serb media interpreted the Monument to the Murdered Children of the Besieged Sarajevo as a tool for the division of victims according to ethnicity and questioned what would happen if similar proposals came from the Republic of Srpska. In March 2008, the Association of Concentration Camp Survivors of the Republic of Srpska (ACCSRS) indeed proposed the construction of a monument that would be devoted exclusively to the Serbian victims, including killed and missing civilians and soldiers. The proposal included a 26  m-tall, 16  m-wide cross, on which 5869 names of victims from both the current cities of Sarajevo and East Sarajevo would be inscribed (Šarac 2008). This number of victims stood in contrast with the data possessed by the Ministry of Internal Affairs of Sarajevo Canton, which indicated that 110 Serbian civilians were killed in three cities’ municipalities in the period from 5 April 1992 to 31 December 1994. According to ICTY sources, 836 Sarajevo civilians of Serbian ethnicity were killed (N.H. 2013). The proposed site was Zlatište

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Hill, which was the key wartime artillery and sniping position that became a part of the territory of the city of East Sarajevo after the war. The cross would be lit and visible from most parts of Sarajevo, both day and night, similar to the cross in the western side of Mostar, which is controlled by the Croats (Šarac 2008). After the proposal for the monument was made, the organization waited for sponsors and donations to begin construction, which was scheduled for April 2008 (Šarac 2008). Several years after, on 21 September 2014, residents of Sarajevo indeed awoke to a 4  m-wide, 10  m-tall cross on Zlatište Hill, visible from the center of the city and its western parts. The cross, made of two intersecting lampposts painted white, was installed secretly during the night by members of the ACCSRS. The placement of the cross caused a series of disputes and protests among citizens, media and organizations in Sarajevo affiliated with all Bosnia-Herzegovina’s ethnic groups. The major matter of controversy was the size and location of the cross. The multi-ethnic Bosnian Youth Movement commented that, for Sarajevans, Zlatište Hill was a “symbol of death and crime” because it was one of the key places from which the city was destroyed and its residents were killed during the siege (Halimović 2008). As such, the construction of the cross at that location was seen as representing “the repeated aggression from the hill” (Šarac 2008) and described as a shameful provocation and disrespect to the victims of the war (Karabegović 2014). The president of the Association of the Murdered Children of Sarajevo, Fikret Grabovica, commented that the monument represented an attempt to equalize the victim and the perpetrator (Karabegović 2014). The Bosnian Muslim Peoples’ Party contended that they did not oppose the construction of the memorial to all victims regardless of their ethnicity, but that the construction of such a grandiose cross represented an abuse of religious symbols for the political purpose of showing the dominance of a particular ethnicity over the territory. Even Bosnian Serb media, politicians and residents contested the monument. The vice-president of the BH Federation, Svetozar Pudarić, who is an ethnic Serb, stated that the cross was intended to provoke Bosniaks (Jukić 2014). The Serbian Civil Council of Sarajevo also opposed the cross, arguing that it would weaken relations between the Bosnian-Herzegovinian ethnic groups (Halimović 2008). Many residents of East Sarajevo also objected to the cross, which they saw as a tool for political propaganda in the campaign for the Republic of Srpska (RS) parliamentary elections that were being held in October 2014 (Jukić 2014). The pro-multi-ethnic Social-Democratic

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Union of Bosnia and Herzegovina called citizens to join the protest against the cross, while the citizens of Sarajevo sent a petition for the prohibition of its construction to the Constitutional Court of Bosnia and Herzegovina and to the Office of the High Representative (OHR) (Jukić 2014). The OHR responded that the proposal to build the cross was “a provocation whose clear intention was to create conflict” (Halimović 2008). In contrast, the construction of the cross was welcomed by some RS politicians, who justified it as the need to commemorate the suffering of the Serbs during the siege of Sarajevo (Jukić 2014). The Serbian Organization of the Dead and Missing Civilians argued that residents of Sarajevo did not have the right to oppose the construction of the monument on Zlatište Hill, which is “the land in the Serbian possession, on the territory of the Eastern Sarajevo and, in the end, in the Republic of Srpska” (Šarac 2008). Nevertheless, the Assembly of East Sarajevo issued a statement that the Commission for Memorials of East Sarajevo did not receive any request to build the cross (Vijesti 2014). The Assembly indicated that construction of it without a permit and without the blessing of the Orthodox Church is illegal and called on those who installed it to remove it. In December 2014, some three months after its construction, the cross was demolished by two Bosniak residents of Sarajevo (Mišljenović 2014). The authorities of East Sarajevo concluded that the demolition, which did not endanger safety in the area, could not be called a crime because the installation of the cross was not authorized (Mišljenović 2014). The pro-nationalist Serbian media commented that its demolition represented an act of vandalism (Klix 2014). Although the proposal and the installation of the cross by ethnonationalist actors represented an example of politicization of memory in public space, the resistance to building such a monument in some ways brought Sarajevo and East Sarajevo together. Residents and politicians from both cities recognized the use of religious symbols as a provocation by isolated individuals and organizations in order to trigger ethnic tension. Such reactions indicate that there is hope for coming to terms with the troublesome past in order set the stage for a shared future.

Absences of Memory Still there is a long way to go, as the question of commemorating Serbian civilian victims of the siege in Sarajevo remains open. In response, in 2011, a vice president of the Federation of Bosnia-Herzegovina, Svetozar Pudarić, began an initiative to build a memorial to the residents of Sarajevo

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murdered by the 10th Mountain Brigade of the Army of the Republic of Bosnia and Herzegovina (ABH), commanded by a local gangster Mušan Topalović Caco (N.H. 2013). This ABH unit was notorious for the torture and killing of about 30 Sarajevo residents, predominantly of Serbian ethnicity, whose bodies were thrown in the Kazani pit located on Trebević Mountain, below BSA positions and about 1.5 km to the north of the city center.5 Pudarić’s argument was that the city had to deal with this bitter past of its own criminals and their crimes. The then-mayor of Sarajevo, Alija Behmen, indicated that the city has both the political will and a moral duty to mark the spot of suffering of innocent civilians in order to set the stage for a normal and civilized future (N.H. 2013). The proposed monument in Kazani would be the first memorial devoted to victims who were not killed by BSA grenades and snipers. While there was general agreement that this memorial should be built, its potential location and form caused divided opinions. The City of Sarajevo and Pudarić proposed the installation of a plaque that would mark the original location of the crimes in Kazani. They argued for keeping the area as natural-looking as possible in order to best convey the horror of the site. This proposal was contested by the Serbian-dominated Association of the Families of the Missing Persons of Sarajevo-Romanija Region (hereafter: the Association of Missing Persons). They contended that the proposal was a fraud by the Bosniak-dominated local government of Sarajevo, arguing that a plaque in a remote and hardly accessible site where not many people would see it would not be enough. This indicates that the authenticity of the memorial was less important than its location, size and visibility, which were understood to be a physical indication of how significant the crimes and/or suffering were. The proposed inscription on the plaque was also contested. City authorities proposed devoting the plaque to “the killed residents of Sarajevo”. The Association of Missing Persons considered this unacceptable as, they argued, the plaque must state “the innocent Serbs killed in the war”, or “killed Serbs, the residents of Sarajevo” (Filipović 2013). A Serbian member of the BosnianHerzegovinian Parliament, Slavko Jovičić, stated that the Republic of Srpska must not accept the Sarajevo initiative for the memorial as it would be “a manipulation and the disguise of the truth” (Filipović 2013), and a tool for washing the crimes out. Instead, the Association of Missing Persons argued for the construction of a commemorative mausoleum on a central square in front of the new Orthodox Church, which would include a memorial room with the names

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of the victims and an Orthodox chapel for dedicatory religious ritual (N.H. 2013). The square was claimed as the property of the Orthodox Church, which was nationalized during the communist period when the plaza was constructed and named the Square of Liberation. After the war, it was renamed to “The Square of Liberation—Alija Izetbegović” to honor the first president of the independent Bosnia-Herzegovina, which was seen as Islamicization of public space by the Orthodox Church because Izetbegović was a practicing Muslim (N.H. 2013). Conversely, the proposed commemorative center would invest the square with orthodox religious symbols and practices and thus reclaim the area as Orthodox land. Even Pudarić, who was an ethnic Serb, rejected the idea of the mausoleum with a memorial room arguing that it would be politicization of memory for the purpose of ethnic marking of the territory (N.H. 2013). While neither the plaque at Kazani nor the memorial mausoleum in front of the New Orthodox Church were constructed or installed, in December 2015 a black marble plaque was installed in At Mejdan Park, located on the southern riverbank some 1000 m to the south of Kazani and some 200 m south-west of the New Orthodox Church. The plaque was erected by an independent non-governmental initiative, called “Because I Care”, arguing that the fact that City of Sarajevo did not construct or install the memorial to date indicated that the local authorities were not ready to deal with this crime (Slobodna Bosna 2014). The plaque bore the following inscription written in Bosnian: “To the civilian victims of the war crime in Sarajevo committed by the 10th mountain brigade of the ABH”. Very shortly after the plaque was installed, it was demolished by unknown actor(s). This indicates that although there is a political will, reconciling painful wartime memories is still a contested issue.

Post-war Counter-memorials In response to the ‘cold war’ led through memorials in Sarajevo and East Sarajevo, the Sarajevo Centre for Contemporary Art (SCCA), an independent mobile art center that supports contemporary Bosnian-Herzegovinian public artwork, ran a multi-disciplinary project entitled “De/Construction of Monument”, from 2004 to 2007. The project involved a series of events and interventions in public space aimed at rethinking and reinterpreting existing monuments devoted to both recent and distant pasts, by questioning and redefining their form, function and meaning. This was largely a deconstructive project aimed at unpacking, demystifying and

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demythologizing the past and how it constitutes socio-political and cultural realities in the present. Through commemorative art installations in public spaces, artists engaged in critical analysis of the state, and the dominant political, ideological and aesthetic values of the post-socialist BosniaHerzegovina and the former Yugoslavia in general. Its last phase, entitled the “New Monument”, consisted of an open public competition for new types of monuments, exhibition of submitted proposals, voting by the audience and the jury, and installation of the best proposals in public space. Two of the winning proposals address the history of the latest war and will be discussed in detail here. The first is a counter-monument entitled “New Monument” designed by Sarajevo-born and Paris-based artist Braco Dimitrijević (Fig. 8.5). The monument is a 150 cm × 150 cm × 300 cm cubic stone block located in front of the main entrance of the History Museum of Bosnia and Herzegovina. Each of its sides has an inscription carved in Bosnian, French, German and English: “Under this stone lies a monument to the victims of War and the Cold War”. With its location, geometric shape,

Fig. 8.5  “New Monument” by Braco Dimitrijević. (Photo: Mirjana Ristic)

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material and color, the monument ‘speaks’ to the museum, which is a modernist international-style building characterized by cubic forms covered by glass and white stone. The museum was founded in 1945 as the Museum of the Revolution of Bosnia and Herzegovina. Its collections and exhibitions played a role in the construction of the Yugoslavian myth of brotherhood and unity by showcasing history of the National Liberation Struggle—that is, the shared sacrifice of the Yugoslavian peoples in the anti-fascist struggle during the Second World War.6 In 1993, it was transformed into the History Museum of Bosnia and Herzegovina with a mission to convey the “complete history of Bosnia-Herzegovina” from its first mention in historic documents to the last war. Its collection includes two permanent exhibitions: “Bosnia and Herzegovina through Centuries” and “Besieged Sarajevo”, various historic collections, a library and a documentation center. “Besieged Sarajevo” focuses on the life, resistance and persistence of residents during the siege. In this context, Dimitrijević’s monument aligns with the museum’s narrative—it is a public art statement of resistance against the ideologies that led to the war. According to the author, the monument has an ironic connotation aimed at countering “the empty monument platforms all over the city” (SCCA n.d.a). The artist’s idea to bury the monument can be understood as a statement that the post-war ‘memory war’ in Sarajevo has ‘killed’ the monument itself. The monuments are dead in the sense that the politics behind their construction has made their form, function and meaning futile to the extent that the monument itself can be buried. Such a spatial gesture is also aimed at challenging residents and visitors to ask questions: Does the monument exist at all? If so, what does it look like and what message(s) does it convey? Who are the victims to whom it is devoted? What are the war and the cold war that it commemorates? The mute stone block without explanation is semantically unstable, fluid and open to the construction of multiple interpretations. History is not fixed but open to political appropriation and critique in which art forms in public space play a crucial role. This links to Dimitrijević’s idea to replace monolithical meta-narratives with the idea of coexisting truths. His commutative artwork is invested with the notion of ‘post-history’ in the sense that it triggers multiple interpretations of history by its visitors (Dimitrijević n.d.). The artwork becomes a ‘ruin in reverse’, a medium for inquiring, critiquing and subverting the past from the perspective of the present and future. The non-existent monument is an ideologically free monument and, as such, it becomes a window for rethinking and critiquing the existing ideo-

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logically charged commemorative forms that proliferate in the urban fabric of Sarajevo. Some 100 m to its south is the second monument, entitled the Canned Beef Monument, which was designed by Sarajevo-born and New  Yorkbased artist Nebošja Šerić Šoba. This monument is an enlarged version of an Ikar-brand can of spam on a pedestal with an inscription: “Monument to the International Community, from the Grateful Citizens of Sarajevo” (Fig. 8.6). According to the author, the monument represents a material expression of gratitude to the International Community (IC) by the people of Bosnia-Herzegovina for both the wartime humanitarian help and the post-war political aid they had received (SCCA n.d.b). During the war, the city received 160,000 tons of food, which sometimes included suspicious products that were out of date and/or barely edible. The most notorious was the Ikar meat can, which had no inscription of the origin, content or expiry date. As Šoba argues, the only thing that residents of the besieged Sarajevo were sure about was that they had no other choice. They remember the Ikar can with disgust stating that “[c]ats and dogs did not want to eat it and people had to” (Klix 2003).

Fig. 8.6  Canned Beef Monument by Nebojša Šerić Šoba. (Photo: Mirjana Ristic)

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With its pop-art form and style, the monument subverts the idea of gratefulness, ridicules IC aid and points to its inadequacy (Sheftel 2011). The IC role in the war has been contested because the embargo on the import of arms that the UN imposed at the beginning of the war disadvantaged the ABH defense of Sarajevo (Sheftel 2011). The monument uses a literal-figural depiction to convey a witty and ironic message: instead of allowing them to defend the city, the IC provided the residents of the besieged Sarajevo with suspicious canned food (Klix 2003). In typically sarcastic Bosnian-Herzegovinian manner, residents were grateful to the UN for making sure that they were not murdered while hungry. The monument also questions the consequences of the war in the post-war period. The Dayton Agreement has institutionalized the divisions for which the war was fought (Donia 2006). To monitor relations between the two BosnianHerzegovinian ethnic entities, the most executive power in the state belongs to the EU-led Office of the High Representative (OHR) in BosniaHerzegovina, which has created a dependent state that cannot operate on its own. With the Canned Beef monument, Šoba’s intention was to send a message that the IC political aid that Bosnia-Herzegovina receives today is similar to the wartime help of food: it is “mysterious and with unknown ingredients, by [a] mysterious manufacturer and with an undetermined period of validity” (SCCA n.d.-b). The initial idea was to place the memorial in front of the Presidency Building, which is a place of reception of numerous international delegations visiting Sarajevo. As Šoba indicated, at this place, the monument would give a symbolic message to international politicians: “We know what we have to swallow!!!” (Klix 2003). The eventual placement of the monument in front of the Historic Museum puts the artwork in the context of the larger history of wartime survival that the museum conveys. It adds another layer to the narrative of resistance of Sarajevo’s residents in a style that is both documentary and surreal. The Canned Beef Monument uses dark humor, which the citizens of Bosnia-Herzegovina are proud of and see as a legitimate mode of communication (Sheftel 2011), to both deal with wartime trauma and counter political reality in the post-war period. Humor invested in the built form becomes both a coping mechanism and a form of political action (Sheftel 2011). Both memorials represent what Young (1992) has referred to as ‘countermonuments’—they are abstract and conceptual, conceived of to challenge the intrinsic nature of conventional monuments (Young 1992). Their aim is to provoke rather than console, to change rather than create stability, and to trigger interaction rather than be ignored (Young 1992: 277).

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For Foucault (1977), counter-memory is a tool for speaking truth to power. Memory scholars have often used this concept in the context of monuments that convey distorted or silent memories in order to reveal the literal truth (Sheftel 2011). Both memorials have a bottom-up subversive power, which not only exposes but undermines the dominant top-down narratives of the war that are divisive, repressive and oppressive. They are urban forms through which the residents of Sarajevo raise their voices and express memories that could otherwise be dangerous (Sheftel 2011). They are a means of critique of both the past and present in Bosnia-Herzegovina.

Entangled Pasts In this chapter, I have discussed different ways that Sarajevo has dealt with its wartime collective memories through urban form, as well as how people engage with them through everyday uses and public discourses. The presented case studies are only a part of a broader story about how urban memory has been shaped in post-war Sarajevo and East Sarajevo. The focus was on memorials related to the siege of Sarajevo, while the cases of the post-war transformation of memorials from other periods of the city’s history, including those from or related to the Austro-Hungarian or the socialist period, did not find space in this book. The memorials that I analyzed in this chapter indicate that although some aspects of Sarajevo’s wartime are still contested and hurt, they provide a number of lessons about the question of how to deal with contested history without producing trauma and/or turning monuments into foci of future ethnic tensions. The form of memorials plays a role in addressing this matter. The postwar memorial landscape of Sarajevo includes examples ranging from spatial strategies of conserving traces of violence on the ground (Roses), attaching collective memories to the city’s facades (plaques), and materializing it into monuments taking shape in both literal and abstract forms (the cross on Zlatište Hill, Monument to the Murdered Children, artistic abstract memorials). Roses are documentary markers in the form of scars preserved in the city’s urban tissue. As Woods (1993) would suggest, they remember the suffering and loss, and acknowledge the vulnerabilities and failures from which the city can revitalize and reinvent itself through built form. They also rectify the damaged pavement surface and enhance its functionality for everyday spatial practices of movement and encounter (Stevens and Ristic 2015). As such, Roses are an example of how the

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socio-spatial wounds of past violence can be transformed into tools for the city’s resilience. They show the capacity of difficult, painful and contested heritage to set the stage for positive social change (Macdonald 2008). The newly constructed memorials generally exhibit a desire to make a particular version of history visible to and engaged with by large audiences through their form and location. The most extreme case is the cross on Zlatište Hill, which represented an overt (ab)use of memory for the purposes of ethnic marking of territory and causing political tension. This monument was a part of the larger story of how memorials in Sarajevo and East Sarajevo operate as tools for ethnic struggle. For instance, on 20 May 2014, a plaque devoted to the wartime BSA general Ratko Mladić was installed on the wall located on the East Sarajevo side of the memorial park Vraca, which is divided by the Inter-Entity Boundary Line (IEBL). The plaque was installed by members of the Veteran Association of East Sarajevo, with the permission of the Municipality of East New Sarajevo, arguing that, although Mladić committed genocide against the Bosniak population, the plaque commemorated his deeds in 1992, which included the lining up of two battalions of self-organized Bosnian Serb people. The plaque provoked fierce reactions from Sarajevo residents and media and was described as a “brutal provocation” of the non-Serbian population, offensive to the memory of the victims of the siege and a continuation of genocide by other means (Pettigrew 2014). Some residents of East Sarajevo shared the disappointment of the residents of Sarajevo, as they felt that the plaque obstructed the peace. However, in November 1996, the body of Mušan Topalović Caco, the commander of the controversial 10th Mountain Brigade of the ABH, was exhumed and buried in the memorial cemetery in Kovači, which is devoted to the Bosniak martyrs killed in the defense of Sarajevo during the siege, thus reframing Caco as a hero. While politicians speaking at the official burial ceremony portrayed Caco as a defender of Sarajevo, many residents commented that he was a war criminal who killed innocent non-Bosniak citizens and thus damaged the reputation of the ABH. Such bottom-up objections by residents of all ethnicities to the politically provocative forms of memory indicate that, although top-down political parties use memory as a tool for gaining power by maintaining ethnic tensions, there is hope for coming to terms with the contested past and for a shared future. Abstract memorials by Šoba and Dimitrijević provide responses to such memory struggles through built form. The Canned Beef monument uses a form that represents the lowest ‘common denominator’—the memory

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of a food item to which all residents regardless of their ethnicity could relate. Dimitrijević’s memorial challenges the very memorial form by burying a monument, thus posing a question of whether memorials to the siege should be built at all. Discourses embedded in post-war Sarajevo’s memorials and how they are conveyed also affect the coming to terms with painful history. The post-war memorials in Sarajevo range from silent to overtly rhetorical memorials to ambiguous memorials that challenge dominant memory discourses. Referring to how they construct meanings, Barthes (2001) makes a distinction between ‘writerly’ and ‘readerly’ texts. The former challenge passive consumption of symbolism and invite the audience to construct many meanings. The latter have pre-given meanings that motivate the audience to consume unique truths inertly. Sarajevo Roses operate as writerly texts. They do not have fixed meanings but rather are open to multiple interpretations, thus resisting appropriation by distinct ethnic ideologies. A similar effect is achieved with abstract memorials by Šoba and Dimitrijević, albeit in a different manner—through abstraction that motivates the audience to ask questions. These are memorials to the present-past (Huyssen 2003) that challenge both the troublesome past and the contested present. They come from people’s bottom-up initiatives to contest top-down monuments. They work similarly to the wartime civilian resistance, except that artists have taken on the role of political activist in the post-war period. The memorials, such as the plaques and the Memorial to the Murdered Children of the Besieged Sarajevo, indicate that the past is contested in the present as the interpretations of the memorials’ meanings depends on the ethnic backgrounds of the audience. They also convey a generalized or selective version of history that produces ambiguous meanings that sustain ethno-nationalist ideologies. As a result, they create the potential for extending the ethnic conflict from the past to the present. In the case of Sarajevo and East Sarajevo, where residents of different ethnic groups who previously led conflict live, the perception of “who we are” remains unresolved. While there is a general will and consensus to commemorate the victims of all ethnicities, the absence of the memorial to the isolated cases of ABH crimes against non-Bosniak civilians indicates that the question of remembering the perpetrators of violence still hurts. The case studies discussed in this chapter demonstrate that the complex history and legacy of Sarajevo’s siege cannot be represented by a single memorial form or narrative. Rather, multiple interpretations of history

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coexist in different sites within the city and remain negotiated through architecture and urban space. Despite the post-war memory boom, Sarajevo’s memorial landscape is still unfinished as there is still potential to honor the shared resistance and sacrifice of residents of all ethnicities in the struggle against violence during the war. Yet, the existence of these diverse memorial forms and discourses indicates that Sarajevo’s memorial landscape is not dominated by a hegemonic meta-discourse but rather is open for public negotiation, disagreement and dialogue on contested versions of the past that may coexist in a society without being hidden. The articulation of these confrontations can lead to better inter-community understanding and coexistence in the future.

Notes 1. Information from informal conversations between the author and residents of Sarajevo during her fieldwork in 2008. 2. The author did not find any information about the designer of the plaques or the intentions of their design, so this part of the discussion is based solely on observational analysis. 3. The author did not find any information about who created the inscription and what the exact intention of its meaning was, but it is fact that the message was approved by the Canton of Sarajevo. It is also not known whether the citizens of Sarajevo, who were stated as those who signed the message, were consulted in a public discussion in which they agreed with the message. 4. The author’s analysis of data from the Oslobodjenje newspaper. 5. Due to such crimes, the Bosnian-Herzegovinian wartime government attempted to arrest Caco in October 1993, in an operation in which nine police officers and seven citizens that his brigade had taken as hostages were killed. Caco was arrested and killed the next day. 6. Being positioned at the frontline to the north of the BSA-occupied Grbavica, the museum building was significantly damaged during the latest war.

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Bajić, B. (2011, January 12). Srpski narod nije kriv za Markale [Serbian People Is Not Guilty for Markale Massacre]. http://www.banjalukain.com/blog/srpskinarod-nije-kriv-za-markale. Accessed 12 Sept 2011. Barthes, R. (1978). Image-Music-Text. New York: Hill and Wang. Barthes, R. (2001). Mythologies. New York: Hill and Wang. Bevan, R. (2006). The Destruction of Memory: Architecture at War. London: Reaktion. Borogovac, M. (2008). Stakleno Ruglo za Ubijenu Djecu Sarajeva [Glass Mockery for the Killed Children of Sarajevo]. Dnevni Avaz. http://www.dnevniavaz.ba/ forum/viewtopic.php?f=35&t=3964#p37852. Accessed 12 Sept 2011. Carney, L.  S. (1993). Not Telling Us What to Think: The Vietnam Veterans Memorial. Metaphor and Symbolic Activity, 8(3), 211–219. Committee, for Marking the Memory in Sarajevo. (1996). The Decision to Erect Memorial Plaques on the Places Where Innocent Citizens of Sarajevo Got Killed—Were Murdered. Dimitrijević, B. (n.d.). Letter to Braco Dimitrijević About Post-History. Braco D i m i t r i j e v i ć .   h t t p : / / b r a c o d i m i t r i j e v i c . c o m / i n d e x . php?p=pages&title=LETTER-TO-BRACO-DIMITRIJEVIC-ABOUTPOST-HISTORY. Accessed 31 Oct 2017. Donia, R. (2006). Sarajevo: A Biography. London: Hurst & Co. Ehrenhaus, P. (1988). Silence and Symbolic Expression. Communication Monographs, 55, 41–57. FENA. (2007). U Velikom parku bit će spomen-obilježje ubijenoj djeci Sarajeva [Memorial to the Murdered Children of Sarajevo will be in the Great Park]. Klix. https://www.klix.ba/vijesti/bih/u-velikom-parku-bit-ce-spomenobiljezje-ubijenoj-djeci-sarajeva/070130048. Accessed 12 Sept 2017. Filipović. M. (2013, January). RS: Srbima ubijenim na Kazanima spomen centar [Memorial Centre for the Serbs Killed in Kazani]. Vecernje Novosti. http:// www.novosti.rs/vesti/planeta.300.html:414394-RS-Srbima-ubijenim-naKazanima-spomen-centar. Accessed 12 Sept 2017. Foucault, M. (1977). Language, Counter-Memory, Practice: Selected Essays and Interviews. Ithaca: Cornell. Halilović, J. (2008, November 3). Reakcije: Nestaju sarajevske ruže [Reactions: Sarajevo Roses Are Disappearing]. Portal Sarajevo-x.com. http://www.sarajevo-x.com/bih/sarajevo/clanak/081102033. Accessed 12 Sept 2011. Halimović, Dž. (2008, March 12). Kome treba krst iznad Sarajeva? [Who Needs the Cross Above Sarajevo]. Radio Slobodna Evropa. http://www.slobodnaevropa.org/content/Article/1047356.html. Accessed 12 Sept 2011. Halimović, Dž. (2009, June 10). Spomenici kao oružje za etničke rasprave [Monuments Are Weapons for Ethnic Disputes]. Blog United Bosnia and Herzegovina. http://haler.blogger.ba/arhiva/2009/06/10/2207309. Accessed 12 Sept 2011.

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Hodžic, S. (1993, May 28). Bez Rijeci i violoncela [Without Words and Violoncello]. Oslobodjenje. Huyssen, A. (2003). Present Pasts: Urban Palimpsests and the Politics of Memory. Stanford: Stanford University Press. International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia (ICTY). (1999, December 20). Stanislav Galic detained by SFOR in Bosnia and Herzegovina, Press Release JL/P.I.S./456-e. United Nations International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia. http://www.icty.org/en/press/stanislavgalic-detained-sfor-bosnia-and-herzegovina. Accessed 23 Apr 2017. International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia (ICTY). (2007, December 12). Prosecutor v. Dragomir Milošević, ICTY Trial, Case No. IT-98-29/1-T. United Nations International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia. http://www.icty.org/x/cases/dragomir_milosevic/tjug/en/071212.pdf. Accessed 5 Oct 2017. Jukić, V. (2014, September 24). Bosnian Serbs Erect Huge Cross Above Sarajevo. Balkan Insight. http://www.balkaninsight.com/en/article/serb-cross-onzlatiste-angers-sarajevo. Accessed 31 Oct 2017. Junuzović, A. (2006). Sarajevske ruze: ka politici sjecanja [Sarajevo Roses: Towards Politics of Remembering]. Sarajevo: ArmisPrint. Kamenica, E. (1995, September 3). Ko je na redu [Who Is Next]. Oslobodjenje. Karabegović, Dž. (2014). Krst na Zlatištu postavljen uprkos protestima [Cross on Zlatište Hill Despite Protests]. https://www.slobodnaevropa.org/a/krst-nazlatistu-postavljen-uprkos-protestima/26598148.html. Accessed 31 Oct 2017. Katavić, I. (2010, May 10). Na spomenik djeci Sarajeva postavljena imena [Names Inscribed on the Monument to the Murdered Children]. Radio Slobodna Evropa, žrtava. http://www.cyberbulevar.com/vijesti/bih/sarajevo-spomenik-nedovrsenim-djetinjstvima-/20080813/. Accessed 25 Oct 2017. Katolički tjednik. (n.d.). Zeleno, što volim zeleno [Green, I Like Green]. Katolički tjednik. http://www.katolicki-tjednik.com/vijest.asp?n_UID=1879. Accessed 12 Sept 2011. Kečo, M. (2009, February 25). Orkestrirani napadi na spomenik ubijenoj djeci [Orchestrated Attacks at the Monument to the Killed Children]. Sarajevo-x. com. http://www.sarajevo-x.com/bih/sarajevo/clanak/090225081. Accessed 12 Sept 2017. ̵ Klix. (2003, September 5). Nebojša Šerić Šoba: Spomenik medunarodnoj zajednici u Sarajevu [Nebojša Šerić Šoba: The Monument to International Community in Sarajevo]. Klix.ba. https://www.klix.ba/magazin/kultura/ nebojsa-seric-soba-spomenik-medjunarodnoj-zajednici-u-sarajevu/030915001. Accessed 31 Oct 2017. Klix. (2014, September 24). Vandali Razvalili Beton: Novi napad na krst na Zlatištu iznad Sarajeva! [Vandals Destroyed the Concrete: New Attack at the Cross at Zlatište Hill Above Sarajevo]. http://www.kurir.rs/planeta/1568823/ sarajevo-novi-napad-na-krst-na-zlatistu. Accessed 12 Sept 2017.

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Lefebvre, H. (1996). Writings on Cities. Oxford: Blackwell Publishing Ltd. Lemo. S. (2017, April 6). Položen kamen temeljac za spomenik djeci [Cornerstone for the Monument to Children Laid]. Nezavisne novine. http://www.nezavisne.com/novosti/bih/Polozen-kamen-temeljac-za-spomenik-djeci/8224. Accessed 31 Oct 2017. Macdonald, S. (2008). Difficult Heritage: Negotiating the Nazi Past in Nuremberg and Beyond. London/New York: Routledge. Mišljenović. S. (2014, December 5). Hatić: Ja sam srušio krst na Zlatištu, ponosan na to što sam uradio! Vecerernje Novosti. http://www.novosti.rs/vesti/ naslovna/republika_srpska/aktuelno.655.html:522811-Hatic-Ja-sam-srusiokrst-na-Zlatistu-ponosan-na-to-sto-sam-uradio. Accessed 31 Oct 2017. Muhić, S. (2008, November 27). U narednoj godini počinje obnova sarajevskih ruža [Reneval of Sarajevo Roses Will Begin in the Next Year]. Dnevni Avaz. http://www.islambosna.ba/index.php/vijesti/vijesti-bih/1238-u-narednojgodini-poinje-obnova-sarajevskih-rua. Accessed 12 Sept 2011. N.H. (2013, March 16). Spomenik na Kazanima [Memorial in Kazani]. Slobodna Bosna. https://www.slobodna-bosna.ba/vijest/6070/spomenik_ na_kazanima.html Panjeta, A. (2013, April 6). Sarajevske ruže nestaju s ulica i iz sjećanja: ‘A šta je to bilo?!’ [Sarajevo Roses Are Vanishing from the Streets and Memory]. Slobodna Bosna. http://www.slobodna-bosna.ba/vijest/6632/sarajevske_ruze_nestaju_s_ ulica_i_iz_sjecanja_a_sta_je_to_bilo.html. Accessed 9 May 2017. Pećanin, S. (2007, April 13). Naša i njihova djeca [Our and Their Children]. Dani. http://www.bhdani.com/default.asp?kat=kol&broj_id=513&tekst_ rb=1. Assessed 12 Sept 2012. Pettigrew, D. (2014, August 19). Spomen-ploča Mladiću nastavak genocida [Memorial Plaque to Mladić is a Continuation of Genocide]. Al Jazeera. http://balkans.aljazeera.net/vijesti/spomen-ploca-mladicu-nastavak-genocida Radević, M. (2009, February 19). Spomenik djeci Sarajeva: Pljacka na racunu uspomena [The Monument to the Children of Sarajevo: The Robbery on the for Account of the Memory]. radiosarajevo.ba. http://forum.radiosarajevo. ba/index.php?topic=1207.0. Accessed 12 Sept 2011. Riedlmayer, A. (1995, April 4). Killing Memory: The Targeting of Bosnia’s Cultural Heritage: Testimony Presented at a Hearing of the Commission on Security and Cooperation in Europe, U.S. Congress. www.haverford.edu/relg/sells/killing. html. Accessed 12 Sept 2011. Šarac, G. (2008, March 26). Izgradnja spomen-obilježja stradalim sarajevskim Srbima [Construction of the Memorial to the Perished Sarajevan Serbs]. Novi Reporter. http://www.novireporter.com/look/reporter/nr_article.tpl?IdLan guage=11&IdPublication=2&NrIssue=263&NrSection=5&NrArticle=3257. Accessed 12 Sept 2011.

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SCCA. (n.d.). Nebojša Šerić Šoba. Sarajevo Centre for Contemporary Art. http://scca. ba/scca-projects/deconstruction-of-monument/new-monument/proposals/ monument-form-pedestal/nebojsa-seric-soba/. Accessed 31 Oct 2017. Sheftel, A. (2011). Monument to the International Community, from the Grateful Citizens of Sarajevo: Dark Humour as Counter-Memory in Post-conflict Bosnia-Herzegovina. Memory Studies, 5(2), 145–164. Slobodna Bosna. (2014). SARAJEVO: Postavljena spomen-ploča za žrtve zločina na Kazanima, traže procesuiranje zločina u opkoljenom Sarajevu [SARAJEVO: Memorial Plaque for the Kazani Victims Installed, Persecutors of the Crime in the besieged Sarajevo are Sought-After]. Buka, December 7, 2015. http:// www.6yka.com/novost/95183/sarajevo-postavljena-spomen-ploca-za-zrtvezlocina-na-kazanima-traze-procesuiranje-zlocina-u-opkoljenom-sarajevu-. Accessed 31 Oct 2017. Stevens, Q., & Ristic, M. (2015). Memories Come to the Surface: Pavement Memorials in Urban Public Spaces. Journal of Urban Design, 20(2), 273–290. Velić, S. (2010, May 9). Postavljena imena ubijene djece [Names of the Killed Children Installed]. Nezavisne novine. http://www.nezavisne.com/dogadjaji/ hronikagradova/59568/Postavljena-imena-ubijene-djece.html. Accessed 12 Sept 2011. Vijesti. (2014, December 2). Assembly of Istočni Stari Grad Municiplity: Conclusions on Cross on Zlatiste, Vijesti. http://www.sarajevotimes.com/ assembly-istocni-stari-grad-municiplity-conclusions-cross-zlatiste/. Accessed 31 Oct 2017. Woods, L. (1993). War and Architecture. New York: Princeton Architectural Press. Young, J. E. (1992). The Counter-Monument: Memory Against Itself in Germany Today. Critical Inquiry, 18(2), 267–296.

CHAPTER 9

Lessons from Sarajevo

In this book, I investigated architectural and urban dimensions of the ethnic-­ nationalist conflict in Sarajevo during and after the siege of 1992–1996. I have demonstrated that the city was not merely a site and target of the conflict, but the very means through which the conflict itself was fought and contested. Sarajevo’s architectural and urban transformations were both a result of and instruments for the city’s socio-spatial transformations from one multi-ethnic city into two relatively ethnically homogenous cities. It was through the wartime destruction of buildings and public spaces that the besieged Sarajevo became fragmented and purified of its places and practices of ethnic mixing. It is through post-war (re) construction, inscription and memorialization in architecture and urban space that the territories of Sarajevo and East Sarajevo are demarcated and purified of ethnic identities, exclusive of ethnic difference, and are produced and embedded in place. It was also through the wartime adaptation of urban morphology, the post-war appropriation of buildings and public space for protest, and creative memorial projects that the war and conflict led by the military and politicians were contested and resisted by ordinary residents, architects, urban designers and artists. Taken together, this demonstrates that the built environment of the city is not merely an arena for political action but a political agent itself. Buildings, streets, monuments, everyday spatial practices, discourses and experience of place can all act as weapons of violence and terror, mediators © The Author(s) 2018 M. Ristic, Architecture, Urban Space and War, Palgrave Studies in Cultural Heritage and Conflict, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-76771-0_9

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of power, and tools for marking territories, production of identities and relations between people. They are also a means of resistance through which these can be subverted, repressed and negated, such that places and people become connected and integrated. Architecture and urban space, both as places that frame our lives and as professions that produce them, can act as catalysts for societal change, for better or for worse. From this point, the insights into the spatial dynamics of the ethnic conflict in Sarajevo, during and after the war, offer a number of lessons for academia and architectural and urban design practice.

Architecture, Urban Space and Political Ideologies The case study of Sarajevo raises awareness of the differences in how civic and ethnic nationalism can be invested in and mediated through architecture and urban space. As discussed by Gellner (1983), Anderson (1983) and Hobsbawm (1992), civic nationalism is an inclusive ideology that creates nations by unifying groups of different people who share the same territory on the basis of common citizenship and ‘shared culture’, which creates equality and sameness. The case of pre-war Sarajevo, which was the most ethnically mixed Bosnian-Herzegovinian city, shows that such ideology creates inclusive places that are open to everybody and have no stable identity. These types of places can be understood through theories such as those proposed by Deleuze and Guattari (1987), who argue for places that have dynamic senses that emerge through flows and connections of differences, or that of Massey (1994), who argues for a ‘progressive sense of place’ produced through social interactions of insiders and outsiders, local and global influences. Pre-war Sarajevo became a pluralist city because it was founded on the intersection of flows, connections and exchange of different cultures that continually took place through practices of the city’s everyday life. Rather than expressing a particular identity, the city expressed a mix of different identities, which is evident both in a juxtaposition of difference in the cityscape through the temples of four faiths in a square kilometer (Karahasan 1994) and symbols of universality and equality of difference promoted through modernist architecture. In contrast, ethnic nations are based on exclusiveness and tend to create purified spaces. As Smith (1986) argues, ethnic nationalism is a divisive ideology that creates nations by separating groups of mixed peoples on the basis of distinct perceived ancestry and vernacular culture, which creates distinction from Others. This type of place can be understood through

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theories of place as that which provides shelter and orientation (Norberg-­ Schulz 1980) and has firm boundaries, unchangeable meanings and stable identities rooted in place. Wartime and post-war Sarajevo shows that, in the case of an ethnic nation sharing the same territory with Others, such ideology transforms plural places into ethnically divided, exclusive and homogenized enclaves, which affect formations of purified forms of identity that are repressive of difference (Coward 2009). The spatial agency of ethnic nationalism can be linked to the process of territorialization (Deleuze and Guattari 1987)—the inscription of fixed socio-spatial boundaries and homogenous identities in place. The reconfiguration of Sarajevo through such enclave logic occurred through the processes of reterritorialization, by which the city was decomposed and its parts recomposed into new ethnically purified cities (Coward 2009). During the war, the city was fragmented into bounded enclaves both through the establishment of the siege line and through sniping terror, which inverted the urban network and connections into barriers to flows of people. The artillery shelling of the city’s built environment largely purified the city of places, symbols and practices of ethnic mixing. These wartime transformations of Sarajevo at the same time operated as a form of reterritorialization of the city (Deleuze and Guattari 1987) on the broader geo-political level. The city’s central position within the geography of Bosnia-Herzegovina created a situation in which the homogenous ethnic enclaves that would emerge through violence and terror would be reattached into new socio-political assemblages—the imaginary Serbian Sarajevo into the imaginary Greater Serbian state and remaining Bosniak Sarajevo into the leftovers of the Bosnian-Herzegovinian state. In contrast, civilian wartime resistance operated as a form of deterritorialization (Deleuze and Guattari 1987)—the process of eroding spatial boundaries through the ways that the residents reconnected the city and linked it to the free Bosnian-Herzegovinian territory by adapting its topography and urban morphology across different horizontal and vertical levels. While the territorialization of Sarajevo was not accomplished during the war, it was indeed achieved in the post-war period, albeit with different boundaries and methods. Since the siege, Sarajevo has emerged as two relatively homogenous ethnic cities in which the wartime violence and terror have been replaced by post-war inscription, reconstruction and memorialization. Yet, both can be seen as parts of an integrated strategy of ‘targeting’ places, practices and symbols of ethnic mix. What was not cleansed by the wartime violence was erased in the post-war period

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through spatial discourse. The renaming of streets and buildings included erasure of both symbols of shared identity and those of particular ethnic identities where they were seen as out of place. Moreover, new ethnic symbols have been produced and inscribed in the cityscapes of both Sarajevo and East Sarajevo through new buildings, street names and monuments that mark the possession of territories and promote distinct ethnic identities based on distinction from Others, thus fostering an ongoing ethnic division. Thus, while the war operated as a politics of ethnic nationalism by other means, post-war ethnic politics became an ongoing war by other means. Although civilian resistance, activism and reactions in relation to rebuilding or renaming of streets, as well as creative memorial forms question and/or challenge the ethnic division, Sarajevo and East Sarajevo function largely as arenas for new forms of ethnic struggle.

Assembling and Mapping the City and Conflict The conflict over ethnic and national identities in general is not the case just for Sarajevo but also for other cities where socio-political struggles take place through different morphologies, cultures, politics and weapons. It happens through bulldozing of Palestinian residential quarters in Israeli cities, destruction of ancient heritage in Iraq and Syria, terrorist attacks in cities across Europe, protests during the Arab Spring, and in other places. I hope that the conceptual framework, methods and findings of this study will be useful tools for thinking and methods of analyzing the political role of architecture and urban space in other cities throughout the world. Assemblage theory has offered tools of thinking that enable study of the complexity of the political role of architecture and urban space. When analyzing “The kind of a problem the city is”, Jacobs (1961: 428–448) defined the city as an ‘organized complexity’ composed of dynamic relationships between various processes, factors and actors. Farias and Bender (2010) contend that the city is a multiple object enacted in manifold different ways and at different sites, scales and moments. Dovey (2016) argues that the key task in architectural and urban design thinking is to avoid a general tendency to reduce the city to singular streams of thought that involve reductions of place to essence, materiality or text. Likewise, understanding the complex architectural and urban dynamics of war and conflict is also a multi-faceted issue that requires dynamic and multi-­ dimensional tools of thinking and methods of analysis. I hope that I have proposed a step in this direction by providing insight into how the current

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field of scholarship can benefit from using assemblage thinking and mapping to understand the nexus between the city and war—the ways they morph one into the other and reshape each other. At stake in understanding the role of architecture and urban space in war and conflict is an exploration of how political ideologies drive morphogenetic processes through which urban territories and place identities are formed and transformed. Assemblage thinking has offered conceptual tools for studying how these socio-spatial processes take place through interactions between material and discursive elements and practices of the city at the same time and across multiple levels and scales. Consistent with assemblage theory, mapping embodies techniques that enable decomposing the city into diverse entities—micro-geography, morphology of buildings and public spaces, spatial practices, discourses and experience of place. Selecting, isolating and recomposing them on the map produced new ways of seeing the city that are invisible to the naked eye (Dovey and Ristic 2015), which enables understanding of how the inter-connections among these different elements relate one to another, transform each other and reshape larger wholes—city, ethnic groups, state. The mapping embodied here has become much more than an illustration of fieldwork or findings—maps were both a research method and findings in themselves. As indicated above, ethnic nationalism tends to produce infolded urban territories with fixed boundaries. Nevertheless, the case study of Sarajevo shows that territories are not bounded areas demarcated by fixed lines but rather a series of interconnected spaces that stretch and relate across three-­ dimensional space, both above and below the ground. The dangerous and fragmented overground city produced through the Bosnian Serb Army (BSA) appropriation of the city’s geography of hills and urban morphology in the valley was by-passed and reconnected, adapting and linking underground, subterranean and interior spaces. Not only were the city’s fragmented enclaves reassembled together on the level of the city but the city itself was also linked into the free Bosnian-Herzegovinian territory on the broader geographic scale. Assemblage thinking thus turns our attention to a fully volumetric comprehension of the politics of architecture and urban space. This feeds into the emerging concepts in urban studies and human geography such as ‘politics of verticality’ (Weizman 2007), ‘politics of air’ (Graham 2015), and the ‘depth of power’ (Elden 2013), which call for investigation of the interplay between space and politics albeit on a larger geographic scale.

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While the politics of ethnic nationalism tend to stabilize boundaries, borders themselves are dynamic and ‘elastic’ entities (Weizman 2007) that change through the interactions among urban violence, terror and resistance, and wartime and post-war spatial practices. Assemblage thinking offers tools for understanding how urban territories form and transform through the interconnections among the city’s material, discursive and experiential elements and practices. The case study of Sarajevo shows that places are not merely delineated by tangible physical barriers, but also by less tangible meanings of place and their experience by the senses. The processes of territorialization that were not overtly visible in the city’s built environment became exposed on the maps. The socio-spatial fragmentation of Sarajevo through wartime terror would be incomprehensible without bringing together snipers’ perceptions and practices, the conception of a divided city and the phenomenology of fear in everyday life in a single map. Likewise, the post-war division between Sarajevo and East Sarajevo would not be possible without mapping spatial discourses. Understanding the relationship between the city and war also involves analyzing a set of forces through which place identities emerge and change (Ristic 2018). Deleuze (1995) contended that difference precedes the formation of identity—identities are generated in relation to difference. Dovey (2016) identifies two types of difference in the context of urban theory—‘places of difference’ and ‘differences between places’. Mapping based on assemblage thinking exposed how Sarajevo as a place of multiethnic difference was transformed into a battlefield for constructing ethnic difference between places—the emergent purified enclaves. The wartime destruction operated as a form of purification of difference by targeting symbols of heterogeneity embedded in buildings and public spaces and spatial practices of mixing. The post-war street renaming and construction of religious buildings inscribed exclusive ethnic identities in place and produced ‘difference that makes a difference’ (Bateson 2000) in the built environments of Sarajevo and East Sarajevo. At stake in understanding the relationship between the city and war are also how different forms of power can be used to generate urban territories and place identities (Ristic 2018). There is a key difference between two forms of power (Dovey 2008). On the one hand, power over is a relationship exercised through one’s ability to influence others or use their capacities to one’s own ends. On the other hand, power to is one’s capacity to act. Analysis of the spatial dynamics of war and conflict is about comprehending the interplay between these two forms of power. Mapping snipers’

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viewsheds enabled comprehension of the set of forces that enabled snipers to control the residents of Sarajevo from a distance through the panoptic gaze. Such vision mediated obstructive rather than productive power (in a Foucauldian sense) as it worked to eliminate ethnically mixed forms of subjectivity by forcefully restricting the capacity of civilians to move and encounter in public space. The post-war discursive practices of socio-­spatial segregation are constructive rather than destructive. Mapping the renaming of streets revealed how power shifted from overt force of terror and violence to less-overt spatial discourse that has been involved in the production of ethnically exclusive identities of place. The post-war renaming of streets functions as part of what Foucault (1995) refers to as a ‘power/ knowledge regime’. It transforms the street network into a spatial narrative that frames the spatial order and hierarchy and becomes embodied in people’s mental image of the city, thus shaping their relationships in and to place. In the post-war period, power over territories acts from underground, to some extent, as the ethnic domination over territories through force and is camouflaged through spatial discourse. Yet, the case study of Sarajevo has also shown that buildings and public spaces can also operate as agents of power to mediate resistance and contest, subvert and negate violence. Architectural and urban design practices can also be used as forms of empowerment as they have the capacity to induce socio-political change. This will be discussed in the following section.

Design as a Catalyst for Societal Changes Architecture and urban design cannot prevent war or design it out. However, the case of Sarajevo is not alone in showing that cities, buildings and public spaces are used as an integral part of socio-political struggles. Although, as discussed above, ethnic nationalism tends to produce places with fixed boundaries and stabilized forms of identities that ground unchangeable forms of being, the city is a place of becoming (Dovey 2010)—that is, a dynamic entity that transforms continually through both top-down planned interventions, and bottom-up self-organized incremental processes. This brings to light the crucial role that architecture and urban design as professions can play as generators of socio-­ political change in the context of major societal challenges. Places that hurt—urban wounds left in the city’s urban fabric by war—may produce further conflict and dissonance if not addressed in an integrative way (Tunbridge and Ashworth 1994; Walkowitz and Knauer 2004). As the

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examples of the post-war inscription, construction and memorialization in Sarajevo and East Sarajevo have shown, planning and design practices can produce exclusive places that can set the stage for political tensions and struggles, socio-spatial segregation and exclusion. I am not suggesting that creating inclusive places will by default trigger social encounter and interaction that would bring the fragmented communities together. Places of shared habitation cannot be restored through architectural and urban design where the politics of exclusion maintains their separation. However, design professionals and policy-makers can produce creative approaches for spatial responses through which they can resist such politics and create places that can potentially contribute to the emergence of new forms of coexistence. Public buildings and spaces can either divide or link places in which people live, strengthen or weaken their relationships, foster or discourage socio-spatial integration and cohesion. It is up to us how we wish to design, appropriate and use them. The potential for positive change cannot be lost, it can only be unused or wasted. Assemblage thinking, on which the conceptual framework of this book is based, distinguishes between the ‘virtual’ and the ‘actual’ (Deleuze and Guattari 1987). In architecture and urban design, this means that the ‘actual’ city is only one version of what is possible (Dovey 2010). While understanding warscapes involved an excavation of the actual city, this is also a step towards opening up what DeLanda (2011) calls a ‘space of possibility’. Understanding where the conflict took place can help with strategies of intervention. A key finding of this study is that the military violence in the besieged Sarajevo was aimed at places that were everybody’s or nobody’s, rather than places related to one particular ethnicity. Nevertheless, buildings and public spaces embody capacities that are not yet realized and actualized. It is possible to imagine a scenario in which places of violence and separation become those of reconciliation and reunification. The task for future research is to reveal how an understanding of the agency of architecture and urban space in war- and peacetime can enlarge the professional imagination about forms of reconstruction, representation of identity, and creation of urban memory without producing trauma and prolonging conflict. A growing body of scholarship indicates that part of the response is in producing creative responses that would strengthen the city’s urban resilience (Schneider and Susser 2003; Vale and Campanella 2004; Lahoud et al. 2010). Urban resilience can be defined as the ability of the city to adapt to changes without crossing a threshold of no return and collapsing

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into a new regime (Dovey 2016). The city is a complex adaptive system in which diverse material, discursive and experiential entities adapt and transform one into another in indefinite ways (Holling and Gunderson 2002; Walker and Salt 2006). In the context of major societal challenges and changes brought about by war and conflict, Lahoud et al. (2010) argue that this does not imply a simple restoration to the pre-war urban condition, but rather mobilizing the capacity of design and planning practices to produce creative responses through which the city can absorb the past condition of shock and come to a new form of stability. It does not imply either a return to the initial state or a break with the traumatic event, but developing creative adaptive responses to deal with both past disturbances and future instability and risks. In the context of formerly diverse and open cities that have been ‘wounded’ by the politics of social segregation, purification and exclusion—such as Sarajevo but also Aleppo, Nicosia, Cape Town, São Paolo, Montreal and others—resilience would by default refer to the ability of the city to resist and counter-act divisive socio-political forces by producing new forms of social integration and cohesion. However, as Dovey (2016) argues, resilience is not necessarily a positive matter, it can also cause significant issues. The case study of Sarajevo has shown that the investment of ethnic nationalism in architecture and urban space can be resilient, too. As I argued earlier, the ethnic division and purification of the city for which the war was fought has transformed into an ongoing cold war through reconstruction, inscription and memorialization. Although there are no physical barriers between Sarajevo and East Sarajevo, street names demarcate boundaries of their territories, while new religious buildings indicate their ethnic possession and keep difference at bay. This condition is also evident in many other cities throughout the world where both physical and mental barriers create socio-spatially divided and segregated places. For instance, since 1974, Nicosia has been divided by a buffer zone (Calame and Charlesworth 2009). Although Belfast has been reunited, its ‘peace walls’ and street parades still maintain sectarian troubles (Pullan 2011). Although the Wall was removed from the urban fabric of Berlin, it has remained in the minds of its residents (Ladd 1997). Many South American and Asian cities, such as Karakas, São Paolo, Jakarta or Mumbai, have been segregated by urban morphology into formal and informal settlements (Dovey and Kamalipour 2018). A number of U.S. cities are characterized by gates around their neighborhoods (Short 2001). The key question that arises is: What is the capacity of architectural and urban

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design to act as a catalyst for traversing the socio-spatial boundaries and integrating people in places? My aim with this book is not to provide design guidelines: however, there are some lessons for architectural and urban design practice that can be drawn from the case study of Sarajevo. First, in the context of the wartime conflict, architecture and urban design cannot prevent violence and terror. Even placing blue shields to indicate built heritage that should not be targeted in a war can cause inverse effects. However, the case study of Sarajevo has shown that documenting wartime destruction through architectural drawing (Doršner) and urban mapping (the Warchitecture catalogue) can operate as a tool for the city’s defense. Disseminating such material through worldwide exhibitions can act as a form of political activism that makes visible what could otherwise remain invisible. Not only does this raise awareness about the extent of urban destruction but it also continues to mobilize international support for wartime intervention and post-war reconstruction. These drawings and maps can also operate as a form of ‘forensic architecture’— that is, a spatial testimony in legal processes as evidence of war crimes and human rights violations (Weizman 2017). This is relevant in the context of an increasing consideration of placing ‘urbicide’ in international legal definitions of war crimes (Coward 2004). Architects and urban designers can thus become catalysts for social justice. Second, architects and urban designers can also learn from wartime ‘insurgent place making’ (Hou 2010)—that is, the capacity of ordinary people to adapt urban morphology for survival, resistance and defense of terror and violence. The case study of the besieged Sarajevo showed how ordinary people mobilized new forms of spatial thinking to produce creative responses through which the city was transformed from an urbicidal space into a resilient civic place. Urban resilience is about self-organization of cities (Holling and Gunderson 2002; Walker and Salt 2006) and there is much that the planning and design professions can learn about making the socio-spatial mix, integration and cohesion resilient from bottom-up grassroots interventions in architecture and urban space. The accumulation of such knowledge can be of use for future architectural and urban studies about how built form and public space can be adapted for survival and resistance in the context of major societal as well as natural catastrophes. Third, in the post-war context, implementing assemblage thinking into the processes of rebuilding can contribute to creating places with ­progressive senses (Massey 1994), open to and inclusive of difference. Post-­conflict reconstruction is a socio-spatial process that involves reas-

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sembling the city across multiple scales, from the building to the nation, and it takes place through different dimensions of architecture and urban space—material, discursive and experiential. The case study of Sarajevo has shown that some reconstruction practices involved a reduction of place to materiality or text. For example, the restoration of City Hall to its pre-war status as a place of multi-ethnic cultural encounter has not been fully successful. This is because the building’s reconstruction was focused largely on the construction of its form and public representation while neglecting its use in the city’s everyday life as a place of social interaction through education and cultural exchange. Conversely, the case of the newspaper building showed how places of encounter, both material and symbolic, were produced where they have not previously existed. It was through its continual wartime use for underground resistance by ethnically mixed journalists who continued publishing from its basement that the building emerged as a place of shared life and a symbol of a multi-­ethnic co-existence. Moreover, a positive step in the post-war context is the opening up of the parliament building for residents’ visits and participation in political debates. This has contributed to contesting its post-war public perception as a place of ethnic tension and interests. Places are multi-dimensional, and their material, discursive and experiential aspects matter equally. Also, places cannot be reduced to singularities. Inclusive places involve multiplicities of affordance for various uses by different people and meanings open for multiple interpretations of meanings. The case study of Sarajevo shows that construction, inscription and memorialization can promote purified ethnic identities exclusive of difference, thus creating spaces that discourage mixing while encouraging disputes and further conflict. The post-war religious buildings, street names and memorials devoted to victims of one particular ethnicity in both Sarajevo and East Sarajevo are but some examples of what can be termed politically overdetermined architecture and urban design whereby meanings and uses are ethnically biased. In contrast, creative approaches to framing collective memory in public space through post-war counter-monuments—Sarajevo Roses, the New Monument or the Canned Beef Monument—demonstrate the opposite effects. They resist or are critical of ongoing ethnic politics by motivating users to question what they mean and produce multiple interpretations. Part of the answer about how cities can operate as catalysts for positive societal change might be that architecture and urban space do not need to give answers, but rather to pose questions that challenge the forces that shape the built environment within which we live.

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Welcome Back to the Olympic Sarajevo I began this book with the slogan “Welcome to Sarajevo,” which made the city known to the world as a stage set for two global events—the XIV Winter Olympic Games in 1994 and the siege of Sarajevo 1992–1996. This introduction set the scene for the story about how the former cosmopolitan Olympic city became one of ethnic conflict through wartime and post-war transformations of architecture and urban space. I would like to end this book by returning to where I began, in order to highlight the capacity of Sarajevo’s Olympic heritage to contribute to creating new forms of ethnic coexistence in the future. The Olympic heritage—landscape, open spaces and public buildings that were specifically constructed or adapted for the event—is shared secular heritage in the sense that it represents what Nora (1989) has called ‘millieu de memoire’, or ‘sites of memory’ that embody the legacy of the event that Sarajevans still describe as the brightest moment in the history of their city. Ironically, during the siege of Sarajevo, former sportfields became battlefields. Trebević Mountain, which was known as Olympic Mountain, became the mountain from which the city was shelled most intensively during the war, while some of the Olympic playgrounds, such as the bobsled and luge tracks, became prominent targeting positions. The Olympic buildings were amongst the first targets of this conflict. The Olympic Museum was destroyed the night of 21–22 April 1992, when inflammable missiles set the building on fire, gutting its cupola and the upper floor (Bassiouni 1994). The entire museum documentation and a part of the collection of Olympic artifacts vanished in the flames. On 25 May 1992, the Olympic Hall Zetra was shelled and set ablaze (Bassiouni 1994). The fire could not be extinguished as the firemen were targeted by BSA snipers. Its basement became a morgue and the chairs meant for the audience were used as material for making coffins (Kapić 2000). The field of the nearby Olympic stadium in Koševo, which was the site of the opening and closing ceremonies, became a graveyard. The ice hall in the east wing of the Sports Centre Skenderija was also destroyed. Residential buildings in the former Olympic Village, which found itself on the frontline, suffered significant damage in the crossfire. The destruction of Sarajevo’s Olympic heritage can also be understood as purification of places that had invested Sarajevo with cosmopolitan character, as the Olympic heritage involved gathering spaces where residents, regardless of their ethnic background, mixed through spatial prac-

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tices of sport, recreation and play. Such violence became the subject of a new urban iconography. Sarajevo’s art collective “Trio” produced postcards and posters from the besieged Sarajevo through the semantic inversion of Olympic symbols. For instance, in some of the artwork, barbed-wire Olympic circles became signifiers of the encirclement of the city. The violent attacks were represented as shots at the Olympic city, while the flames of Sarajevo’s destroyed buildings were represented as burning the city’s Olympic spirit. Since the end of the war, the Olympic heritage has found itself divided in different areas of Sarajevo and East Sarajevo. The Olympic stadium and halls have been reconstructed and put back to their pre-war functions. However, the sport facilities on the mountains are still in ruins, haunted by the ghosts of war. They are used more by ‘dark tourists’ than by residents. Only the bobsled and luge tracks have been used, as the site of international skateboard competitions (Reuters 2013), as a mountain-bike track and as a hiking path. Its war-damaged surface is also a canvas for graffiti art, including signatures, stencils of the Olympic symbols, and Sarajevo’s landmarks, which challenge the wartime memories associated with the ruins. Likewise, the entire Olympic heritage has the potential to act as a catalyst for overcoming the ongoing ethnic disputes in Sarajevo and East Sarajevo. In 2012, Sarajevo and East Sarajevo won a joint bid to organize the European Youth Olympic Festival in 2019 (Sito-Sučić 2012). The two cities have worked together to restore the wartime battlefields back to the sportfields where another cosmopolitan, global event will take place. I end this book with the hope that, through joint planning, design and reconstruction the future use of the Olympic heritage will contribute to crossing the ethnic borders between them and their residents.

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Index1

A Abstract machine, see Diagram Adaptation, 20, 108, 112–117, 126, 127, 209 Adorno, T. W., 44 See also Resistance; Spatial practices Agamben, G., 68, 120 Akšamija, A., 93, 168, 169 Alexander, J. C., 41, 44 Alić, D., 14, 84, 86, 94–98, 165 Anderson, B., 30, 46, 210 Antagonism, 38, 39, 90 See also Ethnicity; Nationalism Appropriation, 20, 29, 40, 108, 138, 181, 197, 202, 209, 213 See also Resistance; Spatial practices Arendt, H., 59 Army of Bosnia-Herzegovina (ABH), 14, 24n5, 57–59, 65, 73, 77–79, 81, 88, 89, 110, 120, 128n1, 191, 194, 195, 199, 201, 202 Ashworth, G. J., 41, 215

Assemblage thinking, 4–8, 10, 47, 68, 213, 214, 216, 218 Asymmetric conflict, 34 See also Conflict; Siege; War Austro-Hungarian Town, 12, 16, 55, 56, 60, 62, 74, 92, 181 Azaryahu, M., 134, 138 B Badescu, G., 42, 43, 162 Bakarat, S., 42 Banal nationalism, 134 See also Nationalism Bare life, 108, 120 See also Survival; Urban life Barthes, R., 31, 134, 182, 202 Bender, T., 5, 7, 8, 212 Berman, M., 35 Bevan, R., 2, 3, 36, 66–68, 91–93, 97, 147, 182, 183 Billig, M., 134

Note: Page numbers followed by ‘n’ refer to notes.

1

© The Author(s) 2018 M. Ristic, Architecture, Urban Space and War, Palgrave Studies in Cultural Heritage and Conflict, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-76771-0

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INDEX

Bogdanović, B., 37, 98 Border, 132, 134, 136, 140, 143–146, 148, 167, 214, 221 intangible, 21, 147–148 See also Identity; Nationalism; Territory Bosnia-Herzegovina, 14, 16, 24n4, 24n5, 66, 75, 79, 80, 82, 84, 90, 91, 94, 96, 97, 100, 111, 131, 132, 137, 140, 143–145, 157–159, 161, 167, 168, 172, 192, 193, 195–200, 211 Bosniak, 12, 16, 17, 22, 24n3, 59, 62, 65, 66, 75, 77, 82, 92–95, 98, 131, 132, 136–141, 143, 144, 146, 147, 149n2, 154, 158, 159, 161, 165, 166, 168, 169, 186, 190, 192, 193, 201 Bosnian-Herzegovinian parliament and government complex, see Government building; Parliament building Bosnian Serb Army (BSA), 14, 16, 17, 24n5, 51–53, 57–60, 62, 63, 65, 66, 69, 73–75, 77–83, 88–91, 93, 94, 96, 98, 108, 110–112, 117, 119–121, 123, 126, 127, 131, 132, 136, 140, 143, 145, 154, 158, 166, 168, 178, 181, 182, 186, 187, 194, 201, 213, 220 Boundary, 30, 38, 68, 100, 111, 116, 131, 134, 135, 138, 140, 143, 144, 147, 148, 162, 211, 213–215, 217, 218 See also Border Braude, B., 12 Bringa, T., 24n3 C Calame, J., 1, 39 Camouflage, 21, 32, 118, 135, 141, 153, 157, 168, 171, 190 See also Power; Spatial discourse

Canned Beef monument, 198, 199, 201, 219 See also Monument to the International Community Capacity, 2–5, 8, 18, 20, 29, 41, 42, 46, 47, 59, 84, 97, 99, 127, 163, 201, 214–218, 220 See also Space of possibility Carney, L. S., 183 Caruth, C., 41 Catholic, 12, 24n3, 57, 75, 77, 92 Charlesworth, E., 1, 39 Church, 36, 53, 75, 84, 92, 167–169, 171, 193–195 City Hall, 94–100, 101n9, 119, 162–167, 170, 171, 219 See also National Library Code, 7, 30, 134–138, 146, 147, 169 Co-existence, 23, 43, 143, 144, 164, 165, 170, 183, 216, 219, 220 See also Multi-ethnic; Nationalism, civic Cohesion, 45, 93, 124, 169, 177, 216–218 See also Exclusion; Inclusion Complex adaptive systems, 217 Complexity, 5, 8, 10, 37, 47, 88, 212 Conflict and architecture, 1–5, 11, 19, 21–23 and destruction, 4, 6, 7 and public space, 3, 4, 6, 11, 23, 44 and reconstruction, 6, 163, 170–172 See also Identity; Nationalism; Politics; Power; War Corner, J., 9, 10 Counter-monument, 46, 196, 219 See also Memorial; Memory; Monument Coward, M., 1, 2, 34–38, 66–68, 78, 98, 211, 218

 INDEX    

Croat, 12, 16, 17, 24n3, 24n5, 66, 75, 82, 94–96, 131, 132, 137–139, 149n2, 158, 169, 192 Cross on Zlatište Hill, 191–193, 200, 201 D DAS-SABIH, 74, 88, 89 Dayton Agreement, 17, 131, 136, 145, 146, 154, 157, 177, 199 De Certeau, M., 116 Defence, 126–127 See also Resistance; Spatial practices DeLanda, M., 216 Deleuze, G., 1, 5, 6, 9, 68, 100, 116, 127, 135, 210, 211, 214, 216 and Guattari, F., 2, 5, 6, 9, 68, 100, 116, 127, 135, 210, 211, 216 and Parnet, C., 5 Democracy, 32, 33, 39, 86, 90, 158, 171 Destruction, 1, 2, 6, 11, 29, 33–38, 41–43, 46, 47, 67, 68, 73–75, 77–79, 81–100, 119, 124–127, 154, 161, 163–165, 178, 182, 183, 186, 209, 212, 214, 218, 220 See also Terror; Violence; War; Warfare Diagram, 9 See also Map/mapping Difference, 14, 18, 19, 34, 36, 38, 53, 67, 100, 112, 120, 134, 166, 209–211, 214, 217–219 See also Ethnicity; Identity; Mix Difficult heritage, 2, 19, 41–43, 99 Discourse, 8, 30, 31, 45, 134–135, 148, 170, 171, 178, 182, 200, 202, 203, 209, 213–215 Dissonant heritage, 41 Diversity, see Mix

253

Division, 90 ethnic, 7, 11, 18–20, 52, 66, 69, 77, 99, 127, 131, 132, 134, 144–148, 212, 217 national, 17 of territory, 11, 35, 90, 132 See also Border; Boundary, Exclusion; Identity; Nationalism; Territory Dobrinja, 110, 136, 143 Domination, 38, 140, 141, 143, 153, 156, 169–171, 215 See also Power Donia, R., 14, 16, 17, 23n2, 24n4, 79, 86, 87, 94–96, 98, 101n8, 107, 108, 110, 131, 132, 139, 141, 149n1, 162, 177, 199 Douglas, M., 100 Dovey, K., vii, 5, 6, 9, 10, 29, 31–33, 59, 68, 134, 212, 214–217 and Kamalipour, H., 217 and Ristic, M. and Pafka, E., 213 Drake, C. J. M., 77, 80, 94 E East Sarajevo, 17, 18, 20–22, 132, 135–141, 143–148, 153, 167, 168, 170, 171, 177, 178, 191–193, 195, 200–202, 209, 212, 214, 216, 217, 219, 221 Ehrenhaus, P., 182, 183, 186 Elden, S., 7, 213 Enclave, 6, 20, 38, 62, 68, 69, 74, 77, 90, 92, 100, 147, 211, 213, 214 See also Territory Ethnic cleansing, 35, 36, 91, 92, 98, 143, 182–183 See also Identity; Memoricide; Nationalism; Territory

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INDEX

Ethnicity, 7, 18, 22, 24n5, 30, 51–53, 63, 65–68, 75, 83, 86, 87, 99, 107, 120, 138, 141, 143, 146, 148, 155, 158, 165, 166, 168, 170, 171, 182, 186, 190–192, 194, 201–203, 216, 219 See also Identity; Nationalism; Territory Ethnic mix, 18, 19, 52, 60, 100, 132, 137, 170, 177, 182, 186, 211 See also Identity; Nationalism; Territory Everyday life, 4, 11, 19, 20, 31, 33, 52, 63, 68, 69, 96, 108, 117, 121, 127, 134, 135, 147, 156, 165, 210, 214, 219 See also Urban life Exclusion, 142, 147, 148, 191, 216, 217 See also Ethnicity; Nationalism; Territory F Fairclough, N., 8, 135 FAMA, 14, 74, 110, 124, 125, 127 Farias, I., 5, 7, 8, 212 Fear, 11, 35, 37, 39, 41, 51–59, 68, 69, 79, 116, 124 See also Landscape of fear; Terror; Topography of terror Federation of Bosnia-Herzegovina (FBH), 17, 131, 132, 135, 136, 145, 149n1, 149n2, 193 Feldman, A., 37 Flyvbjerg, B., 11, 94 Forensic architecture, 2, 218 maps, 8 Foucault, M., 8, 9, 59, 69, 135, 200, 215

G Gehl, J., 67 Gellner, E., 30, 210 Government building, 83, 100, 157, 159 Grabrijan, D., 60, 93, 158, 159 Graffiti, 61, 73, 115–117, 134, 145, 221 See also Resistance; Spatial discourse Graham, S., 1–3, 35, 36, 51, 67, 68, 77, 78, 213 Grbavica, 53, 57–60, 62, 69, 74, 80, 87, 88, 112, 132, 172, 191, 203n6 Grodach, C., 37 H Hanafi, S., 34, 35, 127 Heritage, 1–4, 7, 17–19, 21, 32, 33, 36, 41, 75, 77, 91–99, 141, 159, 167, 169, 170, 201, 212, 218, 220, 221 Herscher, A., 2, 3, 35–38, 67, 68, 100 Hobsbawm, E. J., 32, 97, 159, 167, 210 Hoffman, B., 65, 69 Holiday Inn, 57, 60, 61, 69, 80, 87, 90, 91, 119, 154 Huyssen, A., 2, 202 I Identity and difference, 38, 209, 211 vs. difference, 211 ethnic, 18, 20, 31, 38, 46, 59, 75, 98, 100, 131, 135, 140, 147, 167, 170, 209, 212, 214, 219 as mix, 134

 INDEX    

place, 1, 6, 7, 20, 21, 38, 74, 77, 99, 132, 134, 135, 148, 153, 177, 213, 214 Ideology, 3, 7, 14, 29–31, 33, 36, 37, 84, 90, 92, 135, 143, 197, 202, 210–213 See also Identity; Nationalism; Politics Image, 30 of city, 14, 32 of place, 33, 135 See also Representation; Urban branding Inclusion, 45, 138, 142 See also Cohesion; Exclusion Infrastructural warfare, 77–83 Infrastructure, 1, 2, 17, 20, 39, 42, 51, 77, 78, 83, 89, 127, 132, 140 See also Infrastructural warfare; Terror Inscription, 20, 36, 81, 87, 98, 132, 134, 135, 138–144, 166, 167, 170, 179, 184, 186, 187, 194–196, 198, 203n3, 209, 211, 216, 217, 219 See also Identity; Spatial discourse; Territory Insurgent place making, 126–127, 218 See also Resistance Inter-Entity Boundary Line (IEBL), 135, 136, 140, 145, 147, 201 See also Border; Boundary Interior, 20, 52, 75, 88, 91, 94, 96, 98, 108, 116, 118, 120, 121, 123, 124, 127, 157, 158, 165, 170, 213 See also Resistance International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia (ICTY), 22, 52, 53, 59, 66, 78, 79, 91, 186, 191 Interstitial, 20, 108, 119, 123, 124, 127 See also Resistance Invention of tradition, 167–170 Izetbegović, A., 143, 144, 195

255

J Jacobs, J., 212 Junuzović, A., 178, 179, 182 K Kaldor, M., 1, 33, 34, 79 Kapetanović, J., vii, 84, 158 Kapić, S., 52, 53, 61–63, 69, 73, 78, 79, 87, 90, 108, 115, 117–121, 123, 132, 220 Karadžić, R., 145 Karahasan, Dž., 12, 210 Kebo, O., 61 Knauer, L. M., 44, 215 L La Capra, D., 44 Ladd, B., 39, 217 Lahoud, A., 41–43, 216, 217 Landscape of fear, 52–59 See also Sniping; Terror Lefebvre, H., 11, 29, 68, 69, 181 Lewis, B., 12 Liberation, 20, 33, 80, 82, 83, 107, 108, 145, 161 Little, A., 16, 86 Logan, W., 2, 41, 44 Lukavica, 136, 139, 140 Lynch, K., 32, 33 M Macdonald, S., 2, 41, 45, 99, 201 Maček, I., 117 McFarlane, C., 5 Magaš, B., 62, 74 Malcolm, N., 16, 24n4, 95, 101n6 Map/mapping and diagram, 9 mental map, 32, 69, 148

256  

INDEX

Map/mapping (cont.) and power, 213–215 as a research method, 47, 213 as spatial knowledge, 9 vs. tracing, 9 Markale market, 63, 112, 115, 116, 118, 185 Marshall Tito Street, 55, 63, 115, 118, 119, 143, 188 Massacre, 17, 62–66, 88, 111, 119, 140, 145, 179, 185–187 See also Shelling; Terror Massey, D., 210, 218 Memorial, 12, 21, 32, 45, 46, 53, 145, 158, 166–168, 177–187, 192–195, 199–203, 209, 212 See also Memorialization; Memory; Monument Memorialization, 4, 11, 18, 178, 209, 211, 216, 217 See also Memorial; Memory; Monument Memorial Plaques, 166, 167, 180, 184–187 Memoricide, 2, 19, 34, 36, 37, 97, 164 See also Terror; Violence; War Memory, 1–3, 7, 17–19, 21, 29, 33, 36, 39, 41, 43–46, 65, 77, 91, 92, 97, 98, 107, 116, 140, 144, 147, 162, 164, 167, 177–203, 216, 220, 221 See also Memorial; Memorialization; Monument Misselwitz, P., 1, 3, 39 Mix, 67, 75, 134 Mladić, R., 53, 63, 65, 66, 78, 79, 88, 89, 201 Monument, 7, 12, 21, 31, 33, 46, 134, 145, 159, 162, 178, 179, 181, 182, 184, 186–202, 209, 212, 219 See also Memory; Memorial

Monument to the International Community, 198 See also Canned Beef Monument Monument to the Murdered Children of the Besieged Sarajevo 1992–1995, 187–191 Mosque, 7, 12, 36, 38, 55, 75, 84, 91–93, 95, 168, 169, 171 Müller, M., 5, 8 Multi-ethnic, 6, 18, 21, 68, 83, 86, 87, 89, 90, 92, 97, 99, 100, 132, 138, 142–145, 147, 148, 153, 156, 159, 161, 162, 166, 169–172, 178, 182, 192, 209, 214, 219 See also Ethnic mix; Nationalism Multiplicity, 5, 8, 9, 154, 219 See also Assemblage thinking Muslim, 12, 24n3, 24n5, 65, 66, 78, 82, 86, 88, 90, 93, 95, 96, 101n4, 141, 145, 147, 168, 169, 182, 190, 192, 195 Myth, 30–32, 38, 46, 134, 140, 143, 169, 197 See also Symbol N Nationalism civic, 210 ethnic, 5, 14, 31, 33, 35, 36, 38, 90, 94, 96, 100, 161, 169, 210–215, 217 See also Identity; Politics; Power; Territory National Library, 96, 162–167 See also City Hall Nedžarići, 110, 112 Neidhart, J., 60, 84, 90, 93, 158, 159 New military urbanism, 2 New Monument, 196, 219 New wars, 1, 33, 34, 79 See also War

 INDEX    

Nora, P., 200 Norberg-Schulz, C., 211 O Olympic, 14, 69, 78, 91, 94, 119, 220–221 Open space, 10, 36, 37, 39, 55, 57, 116, 119, 136, 220 Orthodox, 12, 24n3, 57, 75, 167, 168, 193–195 Oslobodjenje newspaper building, 81–83, 100, 159–162 Ottoman Town, 12, 14, 16, 55, 74, 94, 96, 98, 115 P Panopticon, 59 Parliament building, 32, 84, 86–88, 134, 157, 219 See also Government building Partition, 35, 39, 40 See also Division Phenomenology, 6, 35, 67–69, 214 Place identity, 1, 6, 7, 20, 21, 74, 77, 99, 132, 135, 153 place-making, 42, 126–127, 218 sense of, 4, 6, 11, 18, 23, 42, 116, 210 See also Insurgent place making Politics of architecture and urban space, 4, 213 of city, 2, 12, 187 of identity, 12, 34, 69, 83, 94, 168 of place, 2, 10, 36, 168, 212, 216 See also Nationalism, ethic Power, 29, 32, 34, 37, 44, 59, 69, 77, 79, 87, 89, 90, 127, 131, 135,

257

157, 161, 169, 171, 177, 184, 199–201, 210, 214, 215 power/knowledge regime, 135, 215 See also Terror; Violence Pullan, W., 39, 217 R Reconstruction, 4, 6, 7, 11, 18, 21, 29, 32, 33, 39, 41–44, 46, 101n9, 125, 153–158, 160–166, 170–172, 183, 211, 216–219, 221 See also Resilience Reeves, K., 2, 41, 44 Replica, 21, 153, 159, 164, 170 See also Reconstruction Representation of identity, 216 of place, 68 practices of, 6, 134, 147 See also Spatial discourse Republic of Srpska (RS), 17, 59, 131, 132, 135, 145, 149n1, 157, 191–194 Resilience, see Complex adaptive systems Resistance, 3, 4, 10, 17, 19, 20, 29, 33, 61, 63, 83, 87, 93, 100, 107–127, 143, 148, 161, 181–183, 193, 197, 199, 202, 203, 210–212, 214, 215, 218, 219 See also Adaptation, Appropriation, Resilience Rhizomatic practices, 116 thinking, 9 See also Assemblage thinking; Tree-like thinking Riedlmayer, A., 2, 3, 36, 75, 91, 97, 99, 101n9, 183 Rieniets, T., 1, 3, 39

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INDEX

Right to the city, 68, 181 Ristic, M., viii, 8–10, 183, 200, 214 Road of Salvation, 112, 116 Rose, G., 8, 182 S Samper, J., 8 Sarajevo International Airport, 16, 24n5, 57, 136, 145 Sarajevo Roses, 178–187, 202, 219 Scar, 41–43, 170, 179, 200 See also Difficult heritage Schneider, J., 41, 42, 216 Segal, R., 39, 40 Segregation, 4, 7, 31, 35, 39, 40, 42, 141, 143, 148, 215–217 See also Division Serb, 12, 16, 24n3, 24n4, 24n5, 38, 53, 62, 65, 66, 73, 75, 77–82, 86–88, 90–95, 98, 100, 101n4, 108, 131, 132, 137, 138, 140–143, 145, 146, 149n3, 154, 156, 158, 169, 182, 186, 187, 191–195, 201 Serbia, 24n4, 52, 73, 87, 100, 140, 144, 167, 168 Shaw, M., 34 Shelling, 14, 17, 19, 73, 74, 77, 79–81, 83, 89, 91, 108, 123, 124, 211 Short, R. J., 33, 65, 217 See also Terror; Violence; War; Warfare Siege, 14–18, 21, 22, 24n5, 33, 51–53, 55, 57, 59–63, 65, 66, 68, 73–75, 77–80, 82, 83, 88, 96, 98–100, 101n5, 108–112, 118, 121, 124–127, 131–133, 136, 140, 143, 145, 147, 153, 157, 159, 166–168, 170, 177–179, 181–183, 186–188, 191–193, 197, 200–202, 209, 211, 220 See also War

Silber, L., 16, 86 Silver, H., 45 Smesler, N., 41 Smith, A. D., 30, 31, 210 Sniper Alley, 19, 54, 60–62, 69, 112, 116, 120 Sniping, 10, 14, 17, 19, 74, 83, 89, 108, 116, 192, 211 See also Terror; Violence; War; Warfare Socialist Town, 14, 16, 55–57, 60, 62, 74, 80, 112, 181 Space of possibility, 216 See also Capacity Spatial discourse, 74, 134–136, 144, 147, 148, 212, 214, 215 See also Boundary; Representation, practices of; Territory Spatial practices of defence, 126 of resistance, 108 of survival, 68, 108–109 of terror, 2, 18, 51, 126, 214 of violence, 2, 18, 19, 51, 126, 214 Spatio-cide, 34, 35, 37 See also Terror; Violence; War State, 3, 9, 17, 18, 24n3, 30, 32, 33, 40, 42, 43, 45, 66, 77, 83–90, 92, 93, 99, 100, 131, 132, 144, 146, 154, 156, 157, 162, 163, 165–167, 172, 177, 187, 194, 196, 199, 211, 213, 217 Stećak, 84, 159 Stevens, Q., 46, 183, 200 and Ristic, M., 183, 200 Štraus, I., vii, 37, 80, 154, 155 Street names, see Spatial discourse Survival, 17, 20, 68, 82, 108–110, 120, 123–127, 199, 218 See also Resistance; Spatial practices Susser, I., 41, 42, 216 Symbol, 1, 3, 6, 14, 20, 21, 33, 38, 46, 61, 67, 68, 83, 84, 90,

 INDEX    

93–96, 98–100, 132, 135, 137, 138, 143–145, 147, 153, 154, 159–161, 164, 165, 167, 170, 171, 179, 182–184, 192, 193, 195, 210–212, 214, 219, 221 See also Identity; Representation; Spatial discourse T Tartakover, D., 40 Taylor, R.R., 31 Territory deterritorialization, 6, 7, 211 reterritorialization, 7, 68, 90, 100, 211 territorialization, 6, 140, 147, 167, 211, 214 See also Border; Boundary; Exclusion; Inclusion Terror, 1–4, 7, 11, 14, 17–20, 29, 41, 51, 59, 66, 67, 69, 73, 79, 80, 87, 108, 112, 116, 120, 124–127, 181, 183, 209, 211, 214, 215, 218 See also Shelling; Sniping; War Topography of terror, 19 See also Sniping; Terror Toponym, 139, 140 See also Spatial discourse, Street names Trace/tracing, 2–4, 12, 21, 36, 41, 177–179, 200 See also Map/mapping Trauma, 3, 19, 21, 29, 41, 42, 44, 99, 116, 117, 177, 183, 199, 200, 216 Tree-like thinking, 9 See also Assemblage thinking; Rhizomatic, thinking Tumarkin, M., 120 Tunbridge, J. E., 41, 215 Tunnel, 24n5, 40, 110–112, 127

259

U Underground, 20, 83, 100, 108–111, 118, 119, 123, 124, 127, 213, 215, 219 See also Resistance UNIS towers, 87, 90, 154 Urban branding, 33 See also Discourse; Representation, practices of Urbanity, 2, 35, 67, 68, 182 Urban life, 6, 17, 20, 33, 42, 51, 52, 55, 65, 68, 78, 117–120, 126, 127, 134, 138, 166, 179, 181 See also Everyday life Urbicide, 2, 11, 19, 23n1, 34–37, 52, 67–69, 74, 119, 159, 218 See also Terror; Violence; War V Vale, L. J., 31, 42, 84, 216 and Campanella, T. J., 42, 216 Violence and architecture, 4, 11, 19–20, 99–100 and public space, 19, 20, 65 See also War; Warfare Visual barriers, 113, 127 See also Resistance Vraca Hill, 144 W Walkowitz, D. J., 44, 215 War and architecture, 1, 2, 4, 5, 8, 11, 14, 18–23, 29–35, 37–39, 41–43, 46, 47, 69, 73–100, 108, 121, 125, 132, 134, 144, 148, 153, 159, 160, 166, 167, 170–172, 178, 203, 209–213, 215–220

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INDEX

War (cont.) and destruction, 4, 7, 10, 19, 20, 29, 33–38, 41–43, 46, 47, 67, 68, 77, 99, 119, 124–127, 154, 161, 163–165, 178, 182, 183, 186, 209, 212, 214, 218, 220 and public space, 3, 4, 7, 10, 11, 18, 20, 22, 23, 29, 31, 33, 37, 43–46, 51–53, 55, 58, 59, 63, 67–69, 108, 117–119, 124, 126, 127, 134, 135, 138, 147, 193, 195, 196, 209, 213–216, 218, 219 and reconstruction, 21, 42, 43, 46, 153, 159–168, 170–172, 216, 217 See also Conflict; Terror; Violence Warchitecture, 2, 11, 19, 23n1, 37, 74–77, 91, 92, 125, 126, 218 See also Terror; Violence; War Ware, S., 46 Warfare, see War

Warscape, 1–23, 216 See also Conflict; War Weizman, E., 1–3, 7, 8, 35, 39, 40, 126, 213, 214, 218 Winter Olympic Games, 220 See also Olympic Woods, L., 43, 200 Wound, 21, 42, 43, 80, 119, 153, 156, 170, 179, 201, 215 See also Difficult heritage Y Young, J. E., 46, 182, 199 Yugoslavia, 14, 35, 36, 84, 86, 96, 168, 186, 196 Z Žanić, I., 62, 74 Zlatište Hill, 55, 60, 61, 80, 88, 96, 191–193, 200, 201