IN BOSNIA AND HERZEGOVINA, so much ultimately comes back to who's a Muslim, who's a Croat, and who's a Serb. When Yugoslavia disintegrated in the early nineties, animosities between these three groups exploded into a civil war that left some 200,000 dead and more than two million homeless. Today, the land is divided between the Serbian Republic and the Muslim-Croat Federation, which function like two independent states.

Osmanagic sees the pyramids as symbols that might help foster a common identity. "This is something that can unite people instead of dividing them," he likes to say, and his grand plan is to turn Visoko into a national archaeological park. But the reality is that the dig might be just another stage in the conflict. Which is why, if you want to understand what's happening in Visoko, you have to visit Medjugorje.

Twenty-six years ago, Medjugorje was a podunk town in the southern, mostly Croat half of Yugoslavia. That changed on June 24, 1981, when two teenage girls out hiking crossed paths with an apparition of the Virgin Mary cradling the baby Jesus. Shortly afterwards, they brought four of their friends along, the apparitions reappeared, and the Vision rush was on. Since then, some 20 million Catholic pilgrims have come to look at "Apparition Hill"—a stampede that has become a major driver of the regional economy.

Given all that, it's little wonder there's an appetite for a Muslim miracle. A NATO officer who was visiting the pyramids and asked not to be identified put it to me this way: "Isn't it obvious? The Muslims are trying to create their own Medjugorje. Why should the Croats get all the tourists?" That's a cold assessment, but it explains why Bosnia's Muslim politicians have been falling over themselves to support the project. Both major candidates for the Muslim slot in Bosnia's three-seat presidency visited the site last summer. And the incumbent, Sulejman Tihic, personally pressed the case for the pyramids to the director-general of UNESCO, Koichiro Matsuura, at an international summit in Croatia last June.

Osmanagic vehemently disputes the notion that the dig is all about ethnic bragging rights, pointing out that he gave a presentation to the Catholic cardinal in Sarajevo, and claiming that official representatives from more than 30 countries have visited the site. Yet Muslim nations have shown the most interest, by far. Last July, former Malaysian prime minister Mahathir Mohamad toured the dig with a group of investors to see how his country could help. (Osmanagic says Malaysian companies have donated nearly a third of the total budget, including roughly $220,000 from a single import-export company.) At a talk by Osmanagic in Zavidovici that I attended last September, the ambassador from Libya showed up, along with representatives from the Iranian, Egyptian, and Pakistani embassies. No other countries sent emissaries.

On my last morning in Visoko, I witness what feels like an example of outright political posturing at the Pyramid of the Moon when Vahid Heco, Bosnia's minister of mining and energy, and Ferid Otajagic, the minister of urban planning, show up in fancy suits and sunglasses.

"We've come to see how we can help the foundation," Heco announces to me, in front of a camera from a Bosnian TV network. "And we are going to help!"

I ask Heco to elaborate; he responds that the Pyramid of the Sun Foundation recently requested $52,000 from his ministry.

Will they get all that money?

"They will," he says with a grin, then adds, "Very fast."