A word hurts, sometimes it kills. A word saves, utters love. To a large extent it's the language that decides the ethos of culture: the language we use, which is largely hereditary, but also shaped by us every day with the people we share our lives with. While preparing a workshop in Mostar, where we were to learn the craft and secrets of building a bridge, we could not leave out a Workshop of the Word. Why, the word is the fundamental tool of Neimar', the bridge-builder.
The place had been chosen excellently for us - an old madrasah resting on a rocky bank of the Neretva River, adjacent to the Old Bridge, with a small garden in the lower court and, inside, the books of the Koran on the shelves. Mufti of Mostar, who had recommended it, understood that in a city so hot and buzzing with tourists, this place would grant us shade, quiet and self-communion.
One of the essential issues of cultural dialogue in the borderland community is that of language competence: the languages the inhabitants speak, knowledge of the languages spoken by one's 'neighbours', and command (good or otherwise) of the common language. It might be (as was the case in Czernowitz, the capital of Habsburg Bukovina) that inhabitants are multilingual, speaking five or six languages quite naturally, with their own lingua franca (German in Bukovina at that time). It might be (as is the case in Poland) that the dominant language, whether culturally or administratively, ousts the other languages to the extent that their continued existence is threatened, a situation which various activist groups strive to counteract. It might also be (as in the Caucasus) that neighbours do not know one another's language, or even the language of the state, thus making their isolation even greater. All of these situations may lead to tensions and conflicts within multicultural communities; they may become weapons in the hands of ideologues and politicians of all sorts; or they may bind a community together and be a civilising influence within it.
Missing language
Prior to the 1992-93 war, people spoke the so-called Serbo-Croatian language in Mostar. And although today the inhabitants have no problem understanding one another, there are two separate languages: Bosnian and Croatian.
Just as, when a common language was being created at the turn of the 2Oth century, linguists searched for all that united the southern Slavonic languages, now all that separates them is being sought: Bosnians appeal to the Ottoman and Islamic traditions, while Croatians trace back their Latin and Catholic roots.
Although such issues should not be belittled, they are not the core language problem in the contemporary borderland regions and in cities like Mostar, Birmingham and Sejny, where our workshop's participants live. The problem is the absence of a language which could name common things, which belongs to a common cultural heritage, which could unite the inhabitants with all those who have lived here before them. This language is sorely missing from borderlands and multicultural societies in the contemporary world: it has been forgotten, censored, ousted into non-existence by ideologues of centuries-old divisions, at war with one another in all possible areas of life. Hence the language we speak is a language of confrontation, of defence of our separateness. We inhabit separate districts of multicultural cities, separate worlds, mahalas and ghettos, yet we do not have command of the tongue - just as there is no such sphere in our environment - of agora, the place of meetings, building together, forgiveness, dialogue, being together in diversity and otherness.
The Old Bridge of Mostar
The Workshop of the Word was dedicated to learning and re-remembering the language of agora. One cannot erect a bridge that will last without establishing a language which expresses it. One cannot learn the secrets of building a bridge without learning the language the Book of the Bridge has been written in. We knew national languages associated with the religion and culture to which we belong; we knew the myths, tales, beliefs and customs that are tied to them. Now we were to learn - or maybe co-create to some extent - the language used by the Neimars.
The place where we worked was very much in need of a reminder of the myth of borderland, a story that would gather together different people under one roof or canopy of heaven. We set out to find a language which would again unite the multicoloured pieces of a broken mosaic. The way that the Old Bridge of Mostar was built by the Ottoman master Hayruddin in 1566 was a brilliant inspiration to us in deciding what things to do - and the order in which to do them - during the Workshop of the Word.
First of all, two towers were set up on both sides of the Neretva: Tara and Halebija. They symbolise all that is tied to a distinct shore, our separateness and the need to defend our identity. Creating the Lexicon of the Bridge Builder, we tried to find words to inscribe on the space of both towers and tell a story of the towers' symbolism: words speaking of division, differentiation, singularity. It would be wrong to say that these words had a negative meaning. That might have been the case had the towers remained separate towers: we remembered that without them there would be no bridge.
Then we set about filling the space between the towers. Neimar's wonderful mastery makes a tower only a part of a whole; he opens it towards the other shore, turning it into an arm extended to meet. We searched for words that would render this transformation, written in this between-space whose substance we called a flying carpet, a dervish's cloak, an icon's shirt or curtain of silk. On it we put words from stories we had heard from the sages and from wise books, words which support the arch extended between the towers, the bridge on which a man can walk to the other side or where he can meet his beloved.
Throughout the entire workshop in Mostar the language of communication was English. Only occasionally, during evening storytelling or certain workshops, did we ask for the interpreters' assistance. Despite this, we kept on trying to learn our partners' languages. Most of our work was connected with the cultural heritage of Bosnia and Herzegovina, exploring the historical and religious contexts, the sources in the Slavonic languages but also in Latin, Persian, Arabic and Turkish. Words like stecak, dervish and komsija will remain an integral part of our cultural awareness.
Only in poetry
Working on the Lexicon of the Bridge Builder we wondered what qualities a contemporary Neimar should possess. What values should a bridge builder represent in the contemporary world? Everyone participating in the workshop wanted to be Neimar's followers, but what did that mean? What is the nature of his mastery? How can one put it into practice in one's own life?
These questions and reflections helped us conceive the Letter to Neimar and the "Litany to the Good Bridge". From the very start it struck me that young people speak about the Old Bridge in Mostar with such great emotional involvement. Mostarians do not regard their bridge as a material object, but as a human being - a very close one too. Gradually the newcomers from Poland and Britain began referring to the Bridge in the same manner.
This exceptional emotional attitude to the bridge could be expressed only in poetry. The form we naturally chose was "litany" - extended, incantation-like, thanksgiving verse with repetitive rhythmical elements, beseeching and meditative, reminiscent of a prayer invocation, with a refrain uttered by all. We modelled this refrain on a triptych of expressions spoken by young people during the workshop: in English - "Bridge is a world"; in Polish - "Jestem człowiekiem" [I am a human being]; and in Bosnian - "Dobri prevedi me na drugu stranu" [Good One take me to the other side].
In the dervish's tekkia in Blagaj, near Mostar, I came across this story about the difficulty caused by our lack of intercultural competence: 'A foolish man was raving at a donkey. The donkey took no notice. A wiser man who was watching said: "Idiot! The donkey will never learn your language - better that you should observe silence and instead master "the tongue of the donkey"."' Easy to say: master the tongue of the donkey! For this, you need to build a Bridge of Words. We had only just started. What a good feeling not to have stubbornly stayed on the bank of the river we were bound to!
O, Rainbow Bridge, like a child to the mother you nestle close to the dark river whose secret you have learnt, and so you know where we have come from and where we are gojog, yet you keep silent until we ourselves read the book of our name - remember us on the day of judgement, when sharp like a blade you will come to our stray feet over the chasm, on our last road to the other shore.
The Bridge is a World - Jestem człowiekiem - Dobri prevedi me na drugu stranu
(from Litany to the Good Bridge)
Faithful Teacher, who attained the greatest knowledge and disinterestedly remains with the smallest one in this world, who are with me at every crossroad - I, one of a billion bricks in this world, ask of you to light a new candle for me, following you, to smell the wax of consolation and remain human.
Dear Master, you lead me on a winding and hidden path, therefore I fear, for I sense I am just a speck in the whirl of this world -tell me how to continue on this path of mine to its end?
Roaming Neimar, you built the pride of my city, you gave it life and love, you left us soul in every stone of your creation, soul that speaks to every man crossing the bridge - I wish to know you and protect you, my betrothed,from enemies, for I know what it is like without love, now that you are gone.
Nameless Stone-Cutter, master of self-denial who, engulfing the openness, cuts beauty out of what is different - show me, who have lost her way on one side of the river, the way to the other shore.
(excerpts from "A Letter to Neimar")
Krzysztof Czyżewski
"Beyond Borders" (Magazine of European Cultural Foundation) 8/2005