The white stone bridge shimmers in the Mostar heat, arching over the turquoise waters of the Neretva River: a perfect postcard from the Turkish Ottoman Empire. But the centuries-old architecture is an illusion. Look closer and the stone is unmarked by the passage of time. Mostar Bridge is lamb dressed as mutton.

A Bosnian Croat shell destroyed the original bridge during the 1992-95 conflict, and the recently opened replica has been fêted by the media as a symbol of integration. The bridge is an ideal metaphor for inter-ethnic relations, but not in the way intended. The bridge is open, rebuilt with foreign aid, but nobody is crossing it. Mostar remains a divided city, with the Croats and Bosniaks (Bosnian Muslims) living on either side of the bullet-hole-spattered boulevard that served as the frontline. The rest of Bosnia remains equally split.

Photo: Paul Lowe / Panos

The build-up to conflict began in 1980 with the death of Tito, the much-loved dictator who had ruled Yugoslavia since the end of World War Two. By not favouring any ethnic group, Tito kept Bosnia peaceful. Without Tito’s uniting influence, ethnic tensions resurfaced.

In 1992, a referendum in favour of Bosnian independence caused the Bosnian Serbs, led by Radovan Karadzic, to take up arms to prevent the formation of what they feared would be a Muslim state. The World War Two legacy contributed to the ensuing savagery, with many Serbs taking revenge for massacres by the Nazi-aligned Croatian Ustase. Neighbours slaughtered each other, and alliances between the three ethnic groups were formed and broken in a merry-go-round of power-mongering and profiteering.

NATO intervention eventually ended the war in 1995, splitting Bosnia into two main entities: the Bosnian Serb-dominated Republika Srpska, in which referring to someone as Bosnian instead of Serbian invites an angry rebuke; and the Bosniak-Croat-dominated Federation. This split cemented the population displacements caused by ethnic cleansing, and although people can now legally reclaim the homes they were evicted from, many have chosen not to return to towns where their family members were murdered. The train between the entities empties at the last station before the boundary, leaving only bemused tourists to wonder where everyone has gone.

The conflict decimated Bosnia’s infrastructure. Even with substantial international aid, unemployment is around 42 per cent. The pre-war economy was based on agriculture, industry and services. So far, only agriculture seems to be thriving in this largely rural state. Driving through the rutted roads of Bosnia is an exercise in avoiding farmers who plod along pitch-black roads on horse-drawn carts.

The lack of legitimate employment sustains a huge black-market economy. Even high-street shops sell pirate CDs and clothes, and a recent visit by a faded 1990s pop star found him complaining about having to sign hundreds of copies of a ‘Best of’ CD he had never released.

Industrial output plummeted during the war, and has yet to recover. The sprawling steel plant that dominates the Zenica skyline now only operates at five per cent of capacity, when once it employed 25,000 people.

Bosnia’s poor reputation hampers attempts to rebuild the tourist industry. Despite breathtaking scenery, great skiing and dirt-cheap accommodation, tourists won’t visit through fear of returning minus a leg. Most urban areas are safe, but 2,000 square kilometres of mines remain along the former confrontation lines.

Nobody wants more war but ethnic divisions are now ingrained and poverty exacerbates this problem. Despite international attempts to promote integration, Bosnians express a desire to remain apart for fear of renewed hostilities. They have some justification for this wish. The recent violence in Kosovo spilled over into Bosnia, when Bosnian Serbs attacked mosques. As long as Bosnians face a poor quality of life, the country will risk more such flare-ups.

Michael Logan