Мост вместо стены: почему роман Иво Андрича «Мост на Дрине» актуален в эпоху раскола идентичностей

“We have built our house in the middle of the road.” This phrase is attributed to the Serbian geographer Jovan Cvijić in describing the Balkans a region which, because of its geography and history, has long been a crossroads of civilizations and religions, a bridge between East and West. Perhaps The Bridge on the Drina, by Nobel Prize–winning author Ivo Andrić, is one of the finest literary works to embody this historical and human reality. In this part of the world, Islam, Eastern and Western Christianity, and Judaism interacted and at times collided leaving their traces upon the memory of both the land and its people. It is impossible to speak about the novel without speaking about its author, Ivo Andrić, one of the giants of Balkan literature and himself an embodiment of the complexity of identity in that region. Andrić was born in Bosnia into a Croatian family. His life and cultural world were closely connected with Serbian and Yugoslav circles, he wrote in Serbo-Croatian, and much of his fiction was set in Bosnia. His literary legacy has therefore been claimed and sometimes contested by more than one national tradition. It is almost as though Andrić’s own life tells us that a human being can belong to more than one place, and that identity is not always a closed box into which a person can neatly be placed. Even his doctoral dissertation dealt with the development of spiritual life in Bosnia under Ottoman rule. The Bridge on the Drina takes us through centuries of Bosnian history, beginning in the Ottoman period. In the background of the novel appears the practice of the devshirme, through which some Christian boys from the Balkans were taken into Ottoman institutions, where some entered the military or administrative establishment and, in certain cases, rose to the highest ranks of the state. From this emerges one of the novel’s most moving images. On the banks of the River Drina, mothers stand watching in anguish as their sons are taken away. The river itself becomes a boundary between two worlds: the world of childhood, family, and memory, and the unknown world awaiting them on the other side. One of those children is Mehmed Pasha Sokolović, who will later become one of the most powerful statesmen of the Ottoman Empire. Yet despite the passing years and his rise to the highest levels of power, he carries within himself the memory of that first crossing and the wound of separation. And from that memory, the bridge is born. A bridge is built across the Drina, and with the passage of time it becomes far more than a structure made of stone. It becomes a meeting place. Generations cross it. Different communities gather around it. The lives of Muslims, Christians, Jews, merchants, peasants, soldiers, travelers, and lovers intersect upon and around it. Empires change. Borders shift, Wars come and go. People are born and die. But the bridge remains, bearing witness to them all. Here, in my view, lies one of the most beautiful human meanings of the novel: something born from the memory of pain is transformed, over time, into a place where human beings can meet. Out of separation, a bridge was born. And this image reaches far beyond the history of Bosnia. It becomes a universal human symbol. The bridge is the opposite of the wall. A wall separates; a bridge connects. A wall says: we are here, and they are there. A bridge says that there is a path between the two shores, and that it can be crossed. Andrić was the product of a world of many nationalities and religions, and for much of his life he believed in the idea of Yugoslavia: the possibility of creating a common political space for peoples with different nationalities, religions, and historical memories. Later history also demonstrated how fragile such shared spaces can become when identity is transformed from a natural form of belonging into an instrument of political conflict. This is why reading The Bridge on the Drina seems particularly important in our own time. We live in an age in which religious, national, and ethnic identities have once again returned forcefully to politics. In moments of fear, belonging can become a means of dividing humanity into “us” and “them.” Here I am reminded of Amin Maalouf’s beautiful and disturbing expression: “Deadly Identities.” Identity can mean memory, culture, belonging, and enrichment. But when it is reduced to a single, closed identity and politically mobilized against others, it can become fuel for conflict. This is also why we need to question theories of a “clash of civilizations,” which view the world as a collection of opposing civilizational blocs, as though conflict between them were an inevitable destiny. History itself is far more complicated. Civilizations have not existed only in states of war. They have also lived through exchange, borrowing, trade, migration, love, marriage, translation, and coexistence. The boundaries between them have never been as rigid as some theories would have us believe. Perhaps Andrić’s bridge is the most powerful metaphor with which to answer the idea that human beings are condemned to perpetual conflict. We do not need to abandon our identities in order to live with others. Nor do we need to forget our memories. Nor erase our differences. What we need is a bridge. A space where people who are different can meet without having to become identical; where one person can cross toward another without losing who they are. This is why I do not read The Bridge on the Drina merely as a novel about Bosnia. I also read it as a long meditation on humanity, history, and memory and on our ability to transform some of the wounds of history into places of encounter. It all began with a child crossing the river, being taken away from his mother. Then the place of that pain became a bridge for others to cross. Perhaps this is one of literature’s most beautiful functions: to take the wounds of history not to deny them or forget them but to ask whether we can build something else upon them. A bridge instead of a wall. Because the alternative, as the history of the Balkans has taught us, and as our own histories have taught us as well, is for every human being to remain standing on one shore, afraid of the human being standing on the other. Let us struggle for justice for humanity .let us be reminded that out of pain, we can build vast spaces for hope, coexistence, and understanding because the alternative is devastation. Subscribe to Our Newsletter Get the latest CounterCurrents updates delivered straight to your inbox. Salim Nazzal is a public intellectual and writer. He has authored 30 books covering cultural and social issues, in addition to novels, plays, and poetry. He is the President of the European Palestinian Cultural Forum.