The wounded culture

War obliterates things and people, burns cities and human lives. But in its fury, it also produces another consequence: it strikes at places of knowledge, negates culture, and seeks to extinguish the collective memory of a people. Schools destroyed, libraries burned, archives lost: it is knowledge that turns to ashes, knowledge that disappears, perhaps to make way for propaganda that seeks only to further divide.
War, in short, does not only cause damage in the present: war seeks to rewrite the past, and in doing so, to shape the future.

This is a long-standing vice. The desire to erase buildings and books strikes at the very heart of a people's identity: this is why certain events, due to their symbolic significance, have had such a profound impact on the history, both contemporary and otherwise, of many peoples.
When, in 1992, Bosnian Serb army shells struck the Vijećnica, Sarajevo's great National and University Library, one of the city's symbols, one of the most serious attacks on cultural memory and knowledge occurred: the building burned down (lasting three days), destroying almost all (over 90%) of the library's 1.5 million volumes, including more than 150,000 manuscripts and rare books. The tangible cultural heritage of Bosnia and Herzegovina, the voice and history of a people, was reduced to a pile of rubble.

History, even recent history, is littered with similar episodes. The mausoleums destroyed by jihadist militants in Timbuktu in 2012; the museums, archaeological sites, and archives devastated by the so-called Islamic State (ISIS) in Mosul, Iraq, between 2014 and 2017; The famous Buddhas of Bamiyan, Afghanistan, carved into the rock in the 6th century and blown up with explosives by the Taliban in 2001. These, among many other events, have left scars but also opened new paths.

In Sarajevo, the Vijećnica—the seat of the City Hall—revived in 2014 as a library and cultural center, a symbol of rebirth. In Timbuktu, local artisans rebuilt the destroyed mausoleums, reaffirming the continuity of a millennia-old tradition. In Mosul, thanks to UNESCO, churches and mosques have been restored and today convey an image of pluralism and resilience. In Bamiyan, the empty niches of the Buddhas have become a place of remembrance and research, and new archaeological discoveries at the same site are further enriching our knowledge.
Everywhere, from the rubble, a sign of hope has risen, along with the memory of what happened. Reconstruction projects have sprung up, archives have been digitized, schools have welcomed new students, and libraries have acquired new knowledge to preserve.

After a conflict, reconstruction isn't just material. There's certainly the human reconstruction of those who escaped death and are dealing with the many wounds that have opened up in their hearts. But there's also—and this is an aspect of the former—the reconstruction of those who want to return to preserving and passing on knowledge and culture. Not propaganda and division, but social cohesion and confidence in the future. A true infrastructure of peace.

Stefano Caredda
NP December 2025