Far, Far Away
Does it make sense to want to wipe the slate clean?
Bilingual introduction for photo-documentary book Musée Immédiat : photographier les pays de l’Est de l’Europe en période de transition culturelle (Essarter Publishing, 2017) • French: “Histoire(s) Immémorielle(s)”
From the Greek word historia meaning “inquiry”, history ventures to tell the story of men and to unveil what might have shaped its course. Carefully outlined within our schoolbooks, its narrative aims to be objective, fixed, linear. It is as though history were about gathering clues in the hope of unfolding a long written story.
And yet, history is a construct. An evolution is considered as such following efforts to analyze and synthesize. A series of events appears logical on the condition of creating causal links through our minds. The past being in essence that which is no longer, any direct observation of the historical fact seems unachievable: only through its remains can history be unravelled. The historical approach itself emerges at the crossroads of multiple readings. Setting out to understand a civilization, one must first take interest in its economy, its psychology and technology, to name only a few.
As such, the historical narrative feeds on a constellation of stories. The most obvious example for this is testimony. But as scientific discourse endeavours to make nature speak, doesn’t it count as a narrative in itself? While history leans towards science in that it seeks an objective grasp of reality, it remains subjected to the lens of subjectivity all the same. Only through consciousness can that which we call “history” be elaborated: an attempt to render reality, an interpretation, a testimony, a tale, a fable.
In that view, shouldn’t the etymology of the word “history” be taken literally, thus prompting us to regard it as a mere inquiry — a quest for answers, rather than an outcome? If history is about research, what are we to make of certain regimes’ will to establish an “official memory”, in doing so suggesting the existence of an absolute truth shared by all?
Erasing the past: the necessity to sort
More than twenty years past the independence of Ukraine, the “decommunisation” laws issued by president Porochenko in 2015 indicate a resolve to divorce the country’s Soviet past. This is evidenced by the hunt for Soviet symbols, the banning of the Communist Party and the dismantling of statues now perceived as the stigma of days one would sooner forget.
In the eyes of Volodomyr Viatrovych, the historian behind the memorial laws and director of the Ukrainian Institute of National Remembrance, “These monuments […] take us back to a time when individual liberties were being repressed. That’s why they shouldn’t be in our streets. Because everything we see in the public space forms our consciousness. And I, for one, do not want my children to walk this city looking at monuments dedicated to murderers¹.” Erasing decades of Russian domination to join the ranks of European democracy’s “diligent students”: here lies Ukraine’s hope.
This massive historical cleansing is that of a worn out country scarred by the separatist Donbass war – with an assessed death toll of over 10,000 deaths². As Kiev is being faced with the self-proclaimed People’s Republics of Donetsk and Lugansk, reaffirming Ukraine’s independence towards its former motherland weighs as a priority. But the memorial laws also echo a paradox lived daily by the inhabitants: while history books have long presented Lenin as a criminal, most cities still possessed effigies of him in 2015, along with streets and squares named in glory of the party.
To kill the word is to kill the concept. To rename the places associated with submission, some believe, is to break one’s shackles.
Yet when emancipation means demolishing works of art, objects and places soon to become the last witnesses of a page in history, can one really speak of progress? Aren’t we running the risk of transforming memory’s vital issue into a game of discourse and interests, thus obliterating the reality experienced by individuals on intimate grounds? In cities such as Kiev where the vast majority of buildings date back to the Soviet years, does desiring a clean sweep of the past even make sense?
To remember is to sort
To build a “collective memory” is to believe that memory must be institutionalized — to apply a moral seal in order to pass on official values. Certain events might thus be found worthy of celebration in that they match the grand vision one has for the nation. In contrast, whatever causes discomfort might be cast into the shadows. One way or another, it seems to be a matter of rewriting, shaping and breaking down the past to retain only what is deemed acceptable.
That such an approach be even considered certainly has to do with sorting being a part of memory. Being a gateway to knowledge, memory stores information and keeps it. But it works in a partial, differentiated way: without rejecting one thought to retain another, and without putting our memories in order, how could any later sought information be retrieved? Without dropping certain conceptions, how could any thinking be achieved? Worse still: failing to distinguish between before and after, and for lack of filtering the information flowing through our minds at each passing moment, how could one avoid sinking into madness?
Regardless, the stakes of oblivion supersede that of knowledge: memory is also a matter of defence. Were it not for a certain amount of amnesia, escaping trauma would be impossible — and any attempt to move on would prove pointless. Should memory fully restore past experiences, we would be condemned to relive former sufferings on a loop.
Broadly speaking, forgetting makes it possible to cast out unwanted realities. From vexations to obligations, and down to every tangible proof which opposes my thinking, only that which suits my conscience shall remain. Such is the cornerstone of “selective memory”, which strikes out what offends. Therein lies the paradox of memory — made of alterations, voluntary and involuntary actions, spontaneous reminiscence and chosen oblivion.
Far from being a threat, the ability to forget protects the individual on a psychological level. It also creates the conditions for community life. For without repressing³ certain desires and urges, what hope would there be for social peace? If men were unable to forget, could they even forgive?
Memory: the birthplace of identity
Memory has to do with control. This is what sets it apart from history: while the latter can be told, the former requires an intimate relationship with the event. One cannot dictate remembrance: it can only be experienced — in other words encountered through subjectivity. Put differently, memory is individual in essence.
How could it then be thought to reflect shared experiences? Isn’t the very phrase “official memory” an oxymoron? And ultimately, what does it tell us about the intents of those gunning for it?
Memory allows us to build an identity: to know who I am, I must be aware of having existed and confident that I am persisting in my own being. There would be no present time if there were neither a past nor a future. We couldn’t dream of knowing ourselves, nor project into the future, if we weren’t aware of what has made us who we are.
To that extent, drawing the shape of an “official memory” means working towards an identity extending beyond the individual scale. It all seems to boil down to this: building a common identity base — symbols, references, and a set of shared values. The bottom line? Gather generations around a national project and ensure its long-term sustainability.
It makes obvious sense for a totalitarian regime to try to take hold of memory, as it provides access to the very intimacy of a person. Controlling memory makes it possible to iron out differences for the better luck of ideology. For isn’t the latter all about achieving uniformity? Doesn’t the word “communism” imply just that — a will to manufacture togetherness by evolving individual beliefs into one-track thinking?
Those who have long suffered the Soviet diktat certainly seem to denounce such endeavours. After submissiveness, came the time for freedom. But as for the authorities condemning Russian legacy in Eastern Europe, aren’t they in turn showing signs of manipulation? Doesn’t using the law to influence intimate thoughts and beliefs amount to walking in the footsteps of totalitarianism? Even so, don’t “common grounds” need to be established one way or another, in order to exist?
The immediate incorporation of events and controversial situations in Eastern Europe — namely Ukraine, Belarus and Latvia — appears to echo such an idea. Continuous upheaval of borders, manipulation of cultural pasts, destructive conflicts and artistic waves are the very soil on which new imperatives are being raised.
In the Donbass and elsewhere, men and women are searching for a sense of identity and landmarks. The museum, whether collective or individual, public or private, has become the birthplace of an urgent re-appropriation of the past.
Reinventing togetherness after the gods have fallen
It is safe to say that the official markers of a culture taken from a given period tell us just as much about the institution as they tell us about the individual. The supporters of an “official memory” are found within the ranks of ambitious politicians, just as they are found within homes in search of authority — where there is a myth, there is a need for fantasy.
Still, the challenge is great. Across territories marked by Russian domination, a cultural revolution, as much as social and geopolitical, is happening. For decades, ideology has contributed to moulding the identity of citizens. The latter are now being confronted with the following issue: how are “common grounds” to be rebuilt after the effigies have fallen? How is one to evolve in the face of cultural chaos and history denial?
On the ruins of totalitarianism, a new model has yet to be raised. Of yesterday’s statues, only the base remains. Topped with new heroes or abandoned, the pedestal punctuates urban and rural landscapes — as if to remind us that man has always been an animal of symbols.
The latter is caught in a paradox: condemned to look to external figures in order to grow, he is also responsible for creating his own idols. In telling the story of men, the storyteller also tells his own. But is there really any contradiction to this? If one truly bothers to think about it, isn’t every museum individual?
While it can be argued that effigies precede belief, the opposite also appears to be true: all value is created by man. “God is dead”, as Nietzsche put it. But isn’t it left to each of us to cherish the multiplicity of beliefs which lie at the core of mankind? In the end, isn’t our need for belief precisely what brings us together? As we are being faced with the challenge of creating new values, what are we to do with a history so often viewed as a burden, yet so deeply rooted in our identities?
As stories are usually written by conquerors, the temptation of considering history with suspicion — if not denial — is great. And yet, to strike out the past is to take away any chance of rebuilding. Perhaps the answer rests in finding “the meaning of the future in the past and the meaning of the past in the future”. The person I used to be inhabits the person I will come to be; and whoever I wish to evolve into will need to negotiate with whoever I was.
Such is the challenge of resilience. While the latter helps overcome trauma, it never seeks to erase the past. Quite the opposite, in fact: resilience is about acknowledging in order to endure and move on. It is up to man to take ownership of past sufferings, so that he can look back on his victories and draw strength from them.
Because history rules out experimentation, there is no deriving scientific laws from it. Therefore, the idea of an “official memory” providing absolute truth remains unsatisfactory. This being said, such a issue informs us about a complex page in history — one that is being written in Eastern Europe as it unfolds, even as it is being denied.
Powerless to explain, the historian is left with having to recount. The latter can be found in every man and woman who dares to question their relationship with time. History is everywhere, in every moment, and the museums in which it takes place are none other than our cities, our countryside, our homes. There are as many stories and memories as there are consciousnesses. Since plurality prevents definition, how can the following question be avoided: does history exist — and from there, does the investigation it stands for actually make sense?
Longing to relive an ever unattainable past, memory provides access to some form of timelessness. To ask the question of memory is to ask the question of continuity. While history disunites and blurs, memory unites and extends, at times seeming to bring back experiences with greater intensity than that of the past. What is given to us through remembrance, so to speak, is the possibility to enrich the past.
Memory seeks, but it creates at the same time, adding to the depth of memories that of a soul in constant mutation. Therein lies the ambiguity of reminiscence, as it invents the past while seeming to find it.
More than a mere restitution, memory is an act of creation. Beyond its shortcomings and despite the sufferings it comes with, it is where positioning happens. Without granting such freedom to individuals, society negates itself, failing to represent the diversity it was built on. As we carry history’s wounds, it is for each of us to define our own symbolic relationship with the past and write our identity.
When Soviet statues are being unbolted, it is a piece of the elders’ lives that gets wiped out — and their struggles that are being condemned into oblivion. In facing the scars of history, it is left for individuals to write their identity and symbolic relationship with the past.
Let us conclude for the time being with the words of Simone Weil, taken from her book L’enracinement:
“It would be futile to turn from the past to think only of the future. It is a dangerous illusion to believe that there is even a possibility there. The opposition between the future and the past is absurd: the future brings us nothing, gives us nothing; It is we who, in order to build it, must give it all, give it our life itself. But to give, we must possess, and we possess no other life, other than the treasures inherited from the past and digested, assimilated, recreated by us. Of all the needs of the human soul, there is none more vital than the past.”
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