The Vijećnica Building in Sarajevo: A Symbol of Bosnian Vulnerability, Resilience and Hope
by Spahic Omer
This article examines the distinctive architecture of the Nesuh-aga Mosque in Mostar, presenting it as a lasting archetype of Ottoman-Islamic design in the region, one that has withstood the test of time and the trials of history. Synthesizing architectural, artistic, and spiritual sensibilities, the mosque emerges as more than a mere place of worship; it stands as a testament to a sophisticated culture and a refined civilization. The discussion engages with key aspects such as historical context, architectural typology, decorative elements, the dome, the minbar, the mihrab, the mahfil, the minaret, and the two-tiered portico. The methodology employed integrates descriptive, interpretive, and analytical dimensions, approaching the mosque as both a conceptual framework and a spatial reality, tangible as well as experiential.
Figure 1. The city of Mostar, with its iconic Old Bridge, is home to the Nesuh-aga Mosque, which is situated approximately 200 meters to the left – or northeast – of the Bridge.
Figure 2. The Nesuh-aga Mosque is also affectionately known as the “Mosque under the Linden Tree.”
The Nesuh-aga Vučjaković Mosque (džamija Nesuh-age Vučjakovića) in Mostar, Bosnia and Hercegovina, ranks among the few mosques in the city known to have featured a dome from the time of their original construction. It stands as an early architectural specimen. Although a medallion above the main entrance bears the date 1528, this inscription is inaccurate. It was likely added during one of the mosque’s periodic restorations or for other undocumented reasons. It contradicts the content of the existing vakufnama (waqfiyya), a formal legal document that confirms the mosque was built in 1564. Accordingly, the latter date is regarded as authoritative.[1]
The mosque was founded and constructed by Nesuh-aga Vučjaković, a figure about whom little is authentically known, apart from his reputation as a prolific waqif (endower) and his apparent service in a minor military capacity, possibly as a fortress commander (dizdar). Some of his descendants, bearing the same surname, still reside in Mostar. The mosque is also affectionately known as the “Mosque under the Linden Tree,” named after a large, ancient lipa (linden) that once stood in front of it. The tree’s symbolic association may stem from the linden’s revered status in Slavic culture, mythology, and national symbolism, representing beauty, energy, and blessedness.[2]
The mosque was officially closed in 1941, and its reopening date remains uncertain. In the intervening years, it was repurposed as a municipal warehouse before falling into complete abandonment. In 1950, during the era of the People’s Republic of Bosnia and Hercegovina, the mosque was designated a protected cultural monument by the Provincial Institute for the Protection of Cultural Monuments and Natural Rarities.
Then, during the 1992–1995 Serbo-Croat aggression, the mosque sustained severe damage and was rendered unusable. Its 25-meter-tall minaret was destroyed up to the balcony, symbolizing both physical devastation and spiritual assault. Restoration efforts commenced in 1996, culminating in full repairs by 1998, when the mosque was officially (re)launched as a functioning place of worship. In 2004, it was designated a national monument of the State of Bosnia and Hercegovina, which was a recognition that, unlike its earlier designation, emerged from a sovereign framework committed to affirming rather than erasing Islamic heritage.[3]
The mosque was constructed in the mahallah (neighborhood) of Nesuh-aga Vučjaković, once again illustrating the common pattern whereby a mosque and its surrounding mahallah share the same name typically that of the benefactor. This naming convention reflects the foundational role of endowed mosques, which were often accompanied by other religious and socio-educational institutions, as well as a network of shops whose revenues sustained the endowments and invigorated the neighborhood’s economic life. As was customary, the mosque complex was built first, serving as the nucleus around which the mahallah gradually formed and expanded. By 1585, this particular mahallah was home to thirteen Mostar families. Among its residents were members of the city fortress’s military garrison, as well as artisans such as a boot-maker and a blacksmith.[4]
The mosque is situated near the Old Bridge, approximately 200 meters to the northeast. This proximity reflects the historical logic of Mostar’s urban development, which radiated outward from the Bridge as its foundational axis. The area surrounding the Bridge functioned as the epicenter of early urbanization, with growth predominantly fanning towards the north and northeast. Given that the Nesuh-aga Mosque and its mahallah were among the earliest established, their location near the Bridge was both practical and symbolic. This pattern illustrates how Ottoman urban planning initially concentrated around key infrastructural and symbolic nodes—most notably the Old Bridge—before expanding organically, particularly on the eastern bank of the Neretva River, which the Bridge spans. The eastern side was favored for a confluence of geographic, historical, and strategic military reasons, including its defensible terrain, earlier settlement patterns, and its role as the administrative and cultural hub of the city.
Figure 3. During the 1992–1995 Serbo-Croat aggression, the mosque sustained severe damage and was rendered unusable. Its 25-meter-tall minaret was destroyed up to the balcony. Image courtesy of Medžlis Islamske Zajednice Mostar, from Mostarske Džamije: Fotomonografija / The Mosques of Mostar: Photo-Monography.
Figure 4. At the center of the dome lies a medallion of intricate, multicolored design, composed of stylized floral motifs rhythmically repeated and interwoven into a continuous arabesque.
The Nesuh-aga Mosque exemplifies the classical Ottoman architectural typology of the single-domed mosque with a porticoed entrance, albeit on a more modest scale than the neighboring Karađoz Beg Mosque in terms of size, decorative strategy, and overall craftsmanship. Built seven years earlier, the latter remains the most celebrated and imposing example of mosque architecture in Mostar. Despite its smaller dimensions, the Nesuh-aga Mosque incorporates all the essential components characteristic of this mosque type: a central dome supported by pendentives, mihrab, minbar, mahfil, and minaret, as well as a portico crowned with three smaller domes and a humble shadrwan (ablution fountain).
Of particular note is the richly adorned interior of the dome. At its center lies a medallion of intricate multicolored design, composed of stylized floral motifs that are repeated and interwoven to form a continuous floral arabesque. This central medallion evokes the dome of the Karađoz Beg Mosque, though it lacks the latter’s opulent calligraphic inscription encircling the core. From the medallion, radiating lines—resembling chains or nexuses—extend outward across the dome’s surface, intermittently punctuated by small circular motifs that echo the floral arabesques of the center. These nexuses culminate at a decorative band encircling the base of the dome, itself adorned with interlaced floral patterns that mirror the medallion and its connective lines.
Notably, the base of the dome contains no perforations or windows. The decorative band thus serves a dual purpose: compensating for the absence of fenestration and providing a visual and symbolic transition between the vertical walls and the curvature of the dome. In this way, ornamentation assumes both aesthetic and architectural function, reinforcing the dome’s spatial coherence and metaphysical resonance. Thus decorated, the dome resembles a celestial lid, an overarching cap that shelters and guards the worship spaces beneath. By extension, it evokes the image of heaven itself: a divine canopy that watches over and encompasses the earthly realm, symbolically linking the terrestrial with the transcendent.
The dome rests upon pendentives that gently curve upward, forming a seamless architectural transition from the square base to the circular canopy above. These concave triangular segments reach their widest span just beneath the dome, merging with it in a manner that evokes an embrace—an architectural gesture of containment and elevation.
The interior walls of the mosque are whitewashed and devoid of ornamentation, a result of recent renovation efforts guided by a belief in the sanctity of visual purity. The dominance of white imparts an atmosphere of cleanness, freshness, and spiritual clarity, which is an ambiance further intensified by the abundance of natural light that floods the space. This light enters freely through nine large arched windows, none of which is fitted with latticework that might otherwise manipulate or diminish its presence. Instead, the light is allowed to merge unimpeded with the pristine whiteness of the interior, shaping the mood and spiritual tone of the space. There are three such windows on both the qiblah wall and the right side, one on the left, and two at the rear, each contributing to the luminous equilibrium that defines the mosque’s meditative interior.
The mihrab of the mosque, like its surrounding walls, is whitewashed and unadorned. Such is an intentional gesture towards purity and contemplative restraint. It is shaped as an elongated pointed arch culminating in a sharp apex. This minimalist treatment aligns with the mosque’s broader aesthetic, where light and geometry take precedence over ornament. At the rear of the prayer hall, a wooden mahfil or gallery spans the entire width of the interior. Constructed from warm-toned, likely locally sourced wood, it features vertical balustrades and is supported by robust wooden posts. A simple yet elegant staircase ascends from the right side, offering access to the elevated platform. The gallery’s presence introduces a layered spatial rhythm, balancing the horizontal expanse of the prayer area with vertical articulation.
The minaret is distinguished by a single balcony, supported not by muqarnas—as seen in the Karađoz Beg Mosque—but by a series of corbels arranged in a radial pattern, forming a decorative ring beneath the balcony. Architecturally, the shaft of the minaret is a tetradecagon (14-sided polygon) up to the balcony, after which it transitions into a cylindrical and more slender form, culminating in a cone-shaped stone finial.
Figure 5. The mosque’s interior is bathed in abundant natural light.
Figure 6. Elements of Western classical ornamentation are discernible in the design of the minbar’s door, reflecting a nuanced stylistic synthesis.
The stone minbar is a classical Ottoman exemplar, adhering to the established typology with only minor and largely negligible deviations—variations that pertain more to scale and ornamental detail than to structural or symbolic essence. In its overall composition, it closely mirrors the minbar of the Karađoz Beg Mosque, though the latter is notably larger and exhibits a distinct decorative vocabulary. However, there is an interesting—and even stunning—difference.
In the minbar of the Karađoz Beg Mosque, the arched door is crowned with a pointed triangular form, reminiscent of a pediment or gable. At the peak of the triangle sits a stylized finial—possibly flame-like or minaret-inspired—serving as both a decorative flourish and a symbolic marker, perhaps signifying spiritual elevation and guidance. Flanking the triangle are two curvilinear stone scrolls that soften the angularity of the pediment and introduce a rhythmic balance. Just below the triangular crown lies a horizontal band of Arabic calligraphy. Inscribed are the words of the Islamic fundamental faith formula: “There is no god except Allah.” The formula appears twice, once from right to left, as is customary, and once in reverse, from left to right. The triangular field and surrounding scrolls are filled with intricate carvings: vines, palmettes, and stylized foliage, all executed in high relief.
On the other hand, the door of the minbar in the Nesuh-aga Mosque is dominated by a round Roman-style arch, with molding in relief. The arch bands suggest influences from either Gothic or Renaissance styles. At the apex of the arch is a circular opening (oculus), possibly symbolic or formerly filled with a decorative element such as a medallion or carved motif, though it is now missing. In Christian architecture—whence this influence likely originates—such an oculus often contained religious metaphors. In the Islamic context, it may similarly feature an ornamental pattern, or it may be left blank, allowing the circle to function as a symbolic void. On either side of the arch’s top are volutes which are spiral elements resembling those found in Ionic-order capitals. These represent a hallmark of Western classical ornamentation, and are not typical of traditional Islamic minbar design. Why is this the case? We will explore the answer when discussing the portico and the capitals of its pillars.
Whereas the interior walls, the mihrab, and the mahfil of the Nesuh-aga Mosque are all newly refurbished—radiating freshness, modern sensibility, and artistic restraint—the dome’s interior and the overall condition of the minbar have been only partially restored. They remain largely in their original state, bearing visible signs of aging and wear. As a result, the decorative details of the minbar have become nearly unrecognizable, their contours blurred by time. The dome’s ornamentation is relatively well preserved, yet its plasterwork and paint reveal inconsistencies and deterioration.
This juxtaposition creates a stark contrast between the old and the new, the refurbished and the faded, the palpable and the enigmatic. Some may interpret the disparity as incongruous—perhaps even as a sign of unprofessionalism or a lack of cohesive vision. However, from a broader and more open-minded perspective, this very inconsistency may be read as a form of continuity and confluence: a dialogue between yesterday, today, and tomorrow. It speaks of longevity, resilience, and enduring service.
Such a state sends a powerful message about the importance of preserving the authenticity of the past, not merely for nostalgia, but as a means of understanding the present and charting a meaningful and fruitful future. It also illustrates the fluidity of form and external appearance, contrasted with the constancy and immutability of principle and essence. Whatever may befall people and their cities, and whatever transformations their built environments may undergo, they must remain faithful to their identity, values, purpose, and mission.
Outlines and configurations may change, but the quintessential aspects of life endure—and it is these that form the true pivots of success. Sometimes, it is precisely the contrasts and inconsistencies around us—those jarring juxtapositions of old and new, faded and fresh—that jolt us into seeing things differently: more critically, more accurately, and with deeper appreciation. In architecture, such moments of tension are not necessarily flaws. They can be thresholds of insight, teaching us that authenticity is not uniformity, and that continuity is not sameness. It is the ability to hold multiple truths—historical, aesthetic, spiritual—within a single scaffold.
Figure 7. The qiblah wall: an apparent visual imbalance in architectural composition.
If one carefully observes the mosque’s main entrance and the spatial relationship between the mihrab and the three windows perforating the qiblah wall—two flanking the mihrab and one positioned above—it becomes evident that a subtle asymmetry governs the arrangement of structural elements in relation to their neighboring components.
The entrance itself is located beneath the central bay of the tripartite portico that adjoins the mosque, yet the doorway and the path leading to it are notably skewed towards the bay’s right extremity rather than aligned with its axial center. The door is recessed within the arch of the bay, which forms part of the mosque’s rear wall, but—like the approach through the portico—it leans markedly towards the right, where the arch’s substructure anchors the composition. This asymmetrical disposition is further accentuated by the juxtaposition of two panels flanking the entrance: to the left, a modest white marble plaque bearing an inscription that records the mosque’s most recent restoration and its benefactors; to the right, a larger, unadorned, and blank dark-brown wooden panel, roughly twice the size of the former.
The visual imbalance is further compounded by the material stratigraphy: the stone blocks forming the arch and the pendentives that support the bay’s diminutive dome appear aged, possibly original, whereas the masonry surrounding the door is evidently newer, likely introduced during the latest phase of repair. This contrast in texture and chronology contributes to the overall optical irregularity, rendering the entrance a site of layered historical and architectural tension.
Nonetheless, upon closer inspection, it is conceivable that the entrance door is, in fact, positioned correctly within the mosque’s original architectural logic, and that the apparent asymmetry arises from a subtle distortion in the portico itself. It appears that the entire portico structure may have been “shifted” slightly to the left, thereby generating the visual imbalance that now characterizes the mosque’s frontal composition. This displacement could plausibly be attributed to the spatial intervention of the minaret, which stands prominently at the right end of the mosque’s facade, or perhaps to other, less discernible structural or historical contingencies. Whatever the underlying cause, the result is an optical and architectural incongruity that provokes reflection and invites inquiry.
Figure 8. The mosque entrance and its frontal spatial composition.
Similarly, a close examination of the mihrab reveals a notable deviation from the expected axial symmetry that typically governs mosque design. Rather than being equidistant between the two arched windows flanking it on the qiblah wall, the mihrab is perceptibly closer to the left window, disrupting the visual equilibrium that such arrangements usually uphold. This asymmetry is heightened by the placement of the sole upper-level window on the qiblah wall. According to the principles of architectural coherence, aesthetic congruence, and even intuitive visual logic, this window ought to be positioned centrally, directly above the mihrab’s apex and equidistant from the two lower windows. Yet, this is not the case.
Instead, the upper window aligns neither with the mihrab nor the flanking windows, but rather with the apex of the arch formed by the upward convergence of the pendentives that support the mosque’s dome. It is precisely where the two pendentives meet that the arch culminates, and directly beneath this point the upper window is situated. While this alignment may reflect a structural logic internal to the dome’s support system, it introduces a discordant relationship with the visual and symbolic geometry of the qiblah wall. The result is a layered incongruity: the upper window is in perfect synchrony with the dome’s structural arch, yet out of alignment with the mihrab and the lower fenestration, thereby underscoring a deeper architectural and artistic dissonance.
This functional and aesthetic asymmetry notwithstanding, it must be emphasized that such irregularities may well stem from structural constraints or subsequent renovations, especially in historic mosques. Yet, in the case of Mostar’s mosques, and the Nesuh-aga Mosque in particular, these deviations are by no means to be construed as deficiencies. Rather, they are architectural echoes of endurance. It is scarcely imaginable what these sacred spaces have had to withstand. Historically, they were subjected to some of the most calculated and vicious forms of nationalistic bigotry and Islamophobic violence, from the militant atheism of the communist regime to the barbaric, radical-nationalist aggressions perpetrated by the Serb and Croat barbarians.
The perennial target was Islam itself, as both a spiritual worldview and a civilizational ethos, and Muslims as a constitutive people, with their identity, heritage, and future aspirations. Unsurprisingly, mosques, being the most visible and assertive affirmations of Islamic presence, stood at the forefront of these destructive campaigns. Given the longevity and ferocity of the crusades, spanning more than a century from the Ottoman withdrawal to the birth of sovereign Bosnia and Hercegovina, it is nothing short of miraculous that Islam, Muslims, and their mosques have survived.
This struggle for survival and affirmation—national, historical, and religious—was never easy. It unfolded through cycles of devastation and resilience, despair and hope, leaving indelible scars not only in collective memory and historiography but also upon the traditions, heritage, and existential legacies of the Bosniak people. Mosques, as embodiments of survival, hope, and aspiration, absorbed the brunt of these assaults. Their architectural irregularities and aesthetic imperfections are not flaws, but wounds—etched into their very forms and organic bodies. These wounds are mirrored in the soul of every conscious Bosniak and inscribed into the narrative of the nation itself.
Thus, historic mosques such as the Nesuh-aga Mosque must be regarded not merely as buildings, but as national emblems, veterans of civilizational struggle whose scars testify, remind, and inspire. They are golden treasures and inexhaustible sources of awakening. Our architectural and aesthetic criteria must therefore be expanded and enriched, allowing us to perceive their ostensible asymmetries and irregularities as eternal trans-structural beauties, manifestations of a higher order of meaning and purpose. These mosques belong to another realm, one governed by otherworldly aesthetics and metaphysical logic. The Nesuh-aga Mosque is undoubtedly among them. Its slight physical irregularities resemble the humbling and inspiring wounds of a veteran whose sacrifices were instrumental in securing the freedoms and dignities now widely enjoyed.
Figure 9. Outside the mosque stands a dual-sectioned portico, composed of two architecturally distinct yet functionally integrated segments.
Outside the Nesuh-aga Mosque stands a dual-sectioned portico, composed of two architecturally distinct yet functionally integrated segments. The first adjoins the mosque directly and is roofed by three tiny domes, which divide the space beneath into three bays. This domed segment, supported by massive columns and mediated by arches, serves as a transitional zone between the exterior and the interior prayer hall, which is a semi-enclosed area that accommodates worshippers for gathering, social interaction, and spiritual preparation. It further accommodates worshippers during peak congregational times, serving as an auxiliary prayer space, and offers a quiet refuge for latecomers or those seeking solitude and contemplative prayer.
Extending outward from this domed portico is the second segment, roofed with a sharply pitched wooden flat covering, meticulously topped with stone slabs and supported by stone pillars. Such a structural ensemble exemplifies Mostar’s vernacular architectural idiom, where the interplay of wood and stone achieves both climatic resilience and aesthetic harmony. It is a hallmark of Mostar’s vernacular architecture and a feature widely employed in its traditional buildings. This outer portico, while covered, remains fully exterior in character. Shoes are not removed here, signaling its role as an intermediate social space rather than a spiritual threshold. It facilitates informal gathering, relaxation, and communal interaction before and after worship, embodying the mosque’s role not only as a site of devotion but also as a midpoint of civic and cultural life. Its function is also environmental, protecting from solar exposure in summer and from cold air currents in winter.
The second segment of the portico—roofed with a sharply pitched canopy—is a later architectural addition to the mosque. Archival evidence, including a black-and-white photograph likely dating to the early twentieth century,[5] reveals that the mosque’s original design comprised only the first domed portico. The absence of the outer segment in earlier visual documentation suggests that its inclusion was part of more recent restoration and reconstruction efforts. This intervention appears to have been guided by a desire to harmonize the Nesuh-aga Mosque with the vernacular typology of Mostar’s traditional mosques, particularly those modeled after the Karađoz Beg Mosque, which has long served as a paradigmatic reference for local mosque architecture. The addition of the sloped-roof portico thus reflects not merely a functional enhancement, but a symbolic gesture, an architectural alignment with Mostar’s collective memory and aesthetic grammar.
The portico presents a particularly intriguing architectural detail—one that resonates with earlier observations concerning the minbar. The capitals of the columns in the first segment of the portico exhibit a hybridized form: rounded and flared, with stylized grooves that evoke the abacus profiles of the Doric order. These elements suggest a restrained classical vocabulary, adapted through local craftsmanship. More striking, however, are the capitals embedded into the external facade walls. These reveal a compelling synthesis of classical motifs and vernacular reinterpretation. They feature volutes—spiral scrolls typically associated with the Ionic order—beneath which appear stylized forms reminiscent of acanthus leaves from the Corinthian order. At the center of this composition, between the outward-extending volutes and foliage, stands a heavily abstracted motif that most likely represents a vase-like base or acanthus bud. This element aligns with classical conventions wherein vegetal ornamentation traditionally emerges from a central organic source in Corinthian and composite capitals.
Figure 10. Some people interpret the motif on the column capital as “Satan’s horns.”
Yet, the interplay of these motifs has generated diverse interpretations. The imam of the mosque noted that some observers perceive the composition as resembling an abstracted face or mask, possibly anthropomorphic or zoomorphic. This perception has elicited discomfort among certain individuals, who have gone so far as to label the image “Satan’s horns.” Such reactions underscore the tension between inherited architectural symbolism and contemporary visual sensibilities, revealing how ornamentation can become a site of contested meaning.
The capitals in question appear to depict an abstracted vessel or vase, a classical motif from which volutes (scrolls) and acanthus leaves radiate. This ornamental configuration reflects a layered stylistic inheritance, drawing from classical antiquity, Romanesque abstraction, and possibly early Renaissance detailing. Its presence on the Nesuh-aga Mosque is neither difficult to trace nor far-fetched to explain. As one of the early mosques in Mostar, the Nesuh-aga Mosque was constructed during a period marked by a pronounced shortage of architectural expertise and technical familiarity with the sophisticated vocabulary of Ottoman mosque design, particularly the engineering of domed structures. To address this deficit, the Ottoman authorities routinely employed skilled Christian (Catholic) craftsmen from nearby Dubrovnik, then part of the Republic of Ragusa. This practice was widespread across the region and reflected the pragmatic inclusivity of Ottoman architectural policy, which prioritized functional excellence and urban development over confessional boundaries.
Naturally, as local communities grew more accustomed to Ottoman architectural norms and as indigenous expertise matured, the reliance on foreign artisans diminished proportionally. Yet in the formative phase, especially for foundational structures like the Nesuh-aga Mosque, the need for external craftsmanship was both glaring and urgent. The stylistic hybridity visible in the mosque’s capitals thus stands as a testament to this transitional moment: a fusion of imported skill and emerging local identity, inscribed in stone. Parenthetically, that the Karađoz Beg Mosque—completed just seven years earlier and likewise employing a workforce from Dubrovnik—contains no discernible “foreign” architectural or artistic elements only underscores the essence of Islamic architectural identity. It demonstrates that borrowing from external traditions was optional rather than mandatory, selective rather than indiscriminate, and personal rather than institutional.
Though the builders of the mosque were foreign craftsmen from Dubrovnik, their work was executed in accordance with the designs and conceptual directives of the Muslim Ottomans (Bosniaks). The incorporation of certain foreign design elements—mostly nuanced, secondary, and unrelated to the core functions of worship—was likely introduced at the suggestion of the artisans and met with the approval of the master-builders and patrons. This collaborative dynamic reveals a deeper truth: Islamic architecture consists of both soul and body. The soul, which is its metaphysical essence, is supreme and constant, rooted in divine orientation, sacred purpose, and spiritual symbolism. The body, which is its material shell, is subject to growth, adaptation, modification, diversification, and enrichment. These transformations are not deviations but enhancements, serving to honor, cultivate, elevate, and facilitate the soul’s presence in space. In this light, the Nesuh-aga Mosque’s stylistic hybridity is not a dilution of Islamic identity, but a testament to its civilizational capacity to absorb and refine, to integrate and transcend.
Hence, Islamic architecture is best understood as a style that embodies the essence of the Islamic ʿaqidah—its belief system and articles of faith—alongside the broader corpus of Islamic moral standards and behavioral values. It manifests through three interrelated dimensions: as a philosophy, a process, and a final outcome, each operating across the planes of conceptualization, planning, design, construction, and use of the built environment. This embodiment unfolds in two complementary modes. First, it occurs latently and intuitively, as a natural outgrowth of the believer’s internalization of Islamic principles, radiated into the built environment through the rhythms of individual and collective life. Second, it unfolds consciously and deliberately, through a series of premeditated methods, procedural steps, and architectural guidelines that translate metaphysical convictions into spatial realities. Like so, Islamic architecture becomes not merely a physical construct, but a spiritual medium. It becomes a vessel through which divine orientation, ethical order, and communal identity are cultivated and sustained.
Based on the foregoing, some of the most remarkable characteristics of Islamic architecture revolve around two interwoven principles: the profundity and inviolability of its meaning, purpose, and wide-ranging functions, and the dynamism, fluidity, and open-endedness of its physical and artistic expressions. Islamic architecture is not merely a cultural artifact; it is the living identity of Muslims, a spatial crystallization of their faith, values, and historical consciousness. It serves as a microcosm of their civilizational awareness and evolution. It is, in essence, their soul rendered in space. Ensuring its universal and timeless appeal, Islamic architecture embodies the principle of unity in diversity: the unity of vision, purpose, and spiritual values, and the diversity of methods, forms, and stylistic articulations. It is this dual fidelity—to metaphysical constancy and material adaptability—that defines its enduring relevance. Indeed, the more a style of architecture internalizes and expresses the tenets of Islam, while remaining open to contextual enrichment and formal diversification, the more authentically Islamic it becomes.
Just as Islam is global in its inspiration and vivacity, so too is Islamic architecture—universal, trans-dimensional, and spiritually expansive. At its functional level, it remains open to and accommodating of all that is pure, innocently good, intrinsically righteous, and constructively beneficial. Like the Muslim ummah itself, Islamic architecture is inclusive, tolerant, and open-minded, guided not by cultural exclusivity but by ethical universality. Its criteria for goodness, beauty, and functionality are rooted in heavenly standards, those revealed principles that affirm the purity of creation, the dignity of humanity, and the sanctity of purpose. It sees mankind as a fraternity in origin, descending from the same parents, journeying towards the same destiny. It views all things as pure and permissible unless explicitly restricted by revelation. It regards human beings as originally pure, truth-inclined, and creatively endowed, unless these dispositions are distorted. And it sees the earth as Almighty Allah’s creation, entrusted to man as the arena of his divine vicegerency. In this light, Islamic architecture is not merely a stylistic tradition. Rather, it is a spatial ethic, a built expression of tawhid (Allah’s Oneness), khilafah (vicegerency), and communal mercy. It is a repository through which divine values are made visible, inhabitable, and enduring.
It goes without saying that the Nesuh-aga Mosque stands as an epitome of the universal yet profound vision of the duality between truth and architecture. It embodies a remarkable ethos wherein spiritual constancy coexists with stylistic adaptability. As a compelling illustration, many of the so-called “foreign” components within the Nesuh-aga Mosque’s architectural configuration can be traced to the 14th-century Rector’s Palace in Dubrovnik, which once served as the seat of the Rector, the highest official of the Republic of Ragusa. The palace was constructed in a hybrid Gothic and Renaissance style, later enriched with Baroque elements, resulting in a harmonious fusion of architectural vocabularies. Its current form dates largely from the mid-15th century, following a major reconstruction after the fire of 1435. That was approximately a century prior to the construction of the Nesuh-aga Mosque.
Finally, when viewed from a distance, the arrangement of the Nesuh-aga Mosque’s sloped portico, the small domes of the portico’s first segment, and the large central dome—though entirely unintended—visually and compositionally resembles a stepped pyramid. The steeply pitched portico roof at the base forms the broadest and lowest “step”; above it, the three small domes create a second tier, narrowing the structure visually; and finally, the large central dome crowns the composition, completing the tapering effect. This stacked, tiered configuration produces the impression of a pyramidal silhouette. However, this resemblance is purely incidental and bears no relation to the mosque’s intended architectural form, regardless of how ingeniously one might interpret its appearance. The design is not meant to evoke a pyramid symbolically, but rather arises from the functional logic of Ottoman architecture, wherein domes cascade in size to achieve both structural coherence and aesthetic harmony—especially in smaller mosques.
Still, the visual symmetry and upward taper do evoke a pyramid-like silhouette. Such is an impression that, while requiring a generous stretch of the imagination, nonetheless gestures towards the endless morphological possibilities and plasticity of form within Islamic architecture. However, the implied resemblance vanishes entirely the moment one steps inside the mosque and engages with the monotheistic, uncompromising principles, values, and messages that the mosque quintessentially embodies. In terms of function, the mosque’s identity remains immutable: it is a center of community development, anchored in the normative teachings of Islam. Everything else—be it aesthetic embellishment, spatial innovation, or cultural adaptation— behaves only as a supportive and complementary layer to this foundational philosophy.
The mosque’s essence is not defined by its outward form, but by its inward orientation towards tawhid, communal upliftment, and the cultivation of spiritual attunement. Positively, Islamic architecture is governed not by autonomous formalism, but by the imperatives of faith; its form is subordinated to function, its beauty to purpose. Where faith leads, form follows; architecture bows to the mission it is called to serve.
Figure 12. The mosque’s visual symmetry and upward taper evoke a silhouette reminiscent of a pyramid.
[1] Hivzija Hasandedić, Spomenici Kulture Turskog Doba u Mostaru (Cultural Monuments from the Ottoman Period in Mostar), (Mostar: Islamski Kulturni Centar, 2005), pp. 22-24.
[2] Ibid., pp. 22-24. Hivzija Hasandedić, Hercegovački Vakufi i Vakifi (Waqfs and Waqf‑Founders of Hercegovina), Anali Gazi Husrev-Begove Biblioteke, 6(9-10), pp. 29–74, retrieved 7 October 2025 from https://www.anali-ghb.com/index.php/aghb/article/view/474.
[3] Hivzija Hasandedić, Spomenici Kulture Turskog Doba u Mostaru (Cultural Monuments from the Ottoman Period in Mostar), pp. 22-24. Medžlis Islamske Zajednice Mostar, Mostarske Džamije, Fotomonografija (The Mosques of Mostar, Photo-Monography), (Mostar: Medžlis Islamske Zajednice, 2018), p. 77.
[4] Hatidža Čar-Drnda, Nastanak Mostara: Urbani i Demografski Razvoj Grada do Kraja 16. st. (The Origins of Mostar: Urban and Demographic Development of the City through the End of the Sixteenth Century), (Sarajevo: Orijentalni Institut u Sarajevu, 2014), pp. 74-75.
[5] Hivzija Hasandedić, Spomenici Kulture Turskog Doba u Mostaru (Cultural Monuments from the Ottoman Period in Mostar), p. 23.
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