This is a chapter from Trevor Pateman, Between Remembering and Forgetting, published February 2020 and available at Amazon, Blackwell online, and Waterstones.
We are afraid of forgetting. From school days on, we are
chastised for it and as we sense ourselves ageing become terrified of any
forgetfulness as if it can only be a premonition of much worse to come. At
school, we got gold stars for remembering and now in our diaries dutifully note
birthdays and wedding anniversaries shameful to forget. The diaries themselves
are usually printed with reminders of dates we are expected to remember –
Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Valentine’s Day (such is modern romance).
The United Nations encourages us to remember a quite different list, to
be found at
http://www.un.org/en/sections/observances/international-days/ and
currently extending to one
hundred and fifty six
days, beginning with the International Day of Commemoration of the Victims of
the Holocaust on 27th January and ending on 20th December
with International Human Solidarity Day. The month-long breathing space before
it all starts up again is partly owing to the congestion created by the
different parties of organised Christianity who remember Saviours born on
different Christmas Days. Partly also to the fireworks and inebriation
obligatory at New Year. Some of the UN days have a tragic connecting logic:
World Tourism Day on 27th September is followed on the 28th by World
Rabies Day. Other juxtapositions suggest something else: World Philosophy Day
on 15th November is shortly followed on the 19th by World Toilet Day,
a delight for fans of Rabelais and Mikhail Bakhtin.
Our obsession with not forgetting anyone or anything is
exhausting. We are trying to remember too much and we don’t know how to prioritise,
as the time managers might put it. As a result, not only do we have
over-stuffed diaries but - to take something I want to discuss
- over-stuffed city streets cluttered with bronze and stone
effigies, monuments in perpetuity to personages who were erected in order
not to be forgotten.
Many tourists visiting London will already know that it is
Nelson on top of the column in Trafalgar Square. But other characters are
memorialised there, asking for whose names would put an end to anyone’s
aspirations to become a TV quiz millionaire. Nobody knows, nobody cares, but if
I have driven you to your smart phone you will discover that they include George
IV (who contends for the title of England’s most dissolute king), General Sir
Charles Napier (“the best way to quiet a country is a good thrashing”) and
Major General Sir Henry Havelock (Memoirs of the Afghan Campaign). You
don’t even have to make it up.
At the edge of the square, a backdrop to King Charles the
First on the inevitable horse was once provided by large bold letters arranged downwards
through three storeys and drawing attention to Coles’s Truss Manufactory. They
have long since been removed, despite the apostrophe being correctly placed1.
But take down those other monuments to past glories because we now no longer
have any use or have simply forgotten? Oh
no. They are history, they are heritage. True, no one is corrupt enough to
claim that the monuments have artistic merit. No one even tries that on. I defy
you to find an aesthetically pleasing, artistically significant monument to a
dead king or general bigged up on a plinth or a horse or doubly on both. You
might, I suppose, try the Bronze Horseman – the equestrian monument to Peter
the Great in St Petersburg. But then look again and you’ll see that it’s the
nameless horse which is the success story, not the toy rider. One day they will
erect Vladimir Putin and sit him on a motorbike; there will be much
knowledgeable discussion of the bike.
I realise that there are people now who want to bring more
balance, more diversity to our city streets and squares, people who want to big
up a different kind of person. It’s been done recently in London, where in
Parliament Square the bronze effigy of a suffragette now stands among the dead
men: Millicent Fawcett holding a tea towel to advertise the firm of Gillian
Wearing. It’s dire, and necessarily so. If imagination does not extend beyond
bigging up in the traditional mould - bronze or marble, on a plinth, upright
bearing, best foot forward, chin up, strong gaze towards heaven - then you
reduce the challenge and energy of your revolutionaries, your radicals and
feminists, to fit the smugness of your generals, your slavers and those famous
only for their accident of birth. Get rid of them
all. Have the courage of your own forgetting. But also have the courage to
remember in different ways – how is it that we have limited them so
disastrously?
Memory starts out as personal memory. He was killed in the
war, and she remembers him and will remember him until she dies when all will
be forgotten. In peacetime, if he had died in a car accident, then neighbours
and friends would rally round. In wartime, it is quite different. Everyone has
their loss, their losses. Likewise, in a mining disaster when many die it is a
community which is affected as well as families and individuals. So
instead of those who have not suffered rallying round those who have, we have
shared suffering, shared grief. In that context, it is not surprising that
people should look towards shared remembering.
Grief fades with time, and so too does memory. If we are
afraid of that, or guilty about it, then one function of a shared ritual of
remembrance is to keep the memory alive, perhaps even revive the grief. In some
ways it seems a bit perverse; in other respects, we might argue that nothing is
ever truly forgotten, no grief ever truly exhausted and so it is better to
return, from time to time, to the scene of the crime committed against our
hopes and happiness. Or at the very least to show some respect, especially to
the memory of those who died that others might live.
In New South Wales, the Mount Kembla mining disaster of
1902 killed ninety six miners leaving thirty three widows and one hundred and
twenty fatherless children in the adjacent mining village. We can be sure that
none of those children are still alive, but an annual commemoration of the
disaster still takes place on the 31st July and the memorial erected still
stands. Why? Well, probably some children of the fatherless children are still
alive and their lives were no doubt marked in some way, probably a very
significant way, by an event which preceded their birth. The disaster is part
of their history, even part of the history of one or two further generations.
The last Holocaust survivor will die in the near future,
but the Holocaust will take much longer to die in the lives of its children,
grand-children, great-grand-children. Eventually, however, it will become one
of those things which took place a long time ago and in another country, rather
like the Conquest of the Incas which is not now marked by solemn occasions
anywhere, though its horrors have been amply documented, and for centuries, in
historical works.
But it is not just for short-term memory purposes that
people want the monuments, the commemorations, the days of remembrance; they
want them to remind us of something, to teach us a lesson. We learn early on
that life is about being taught lessons. Mount Kembla reminds us of the
negligence of mine owners, one of the most enduring negligences, still
delivering its deaths on every continent. So the point of the commemoration,
one might say, is directed beyond and outside the circle of those who were most
immediately and intimately affected. That, of course, means that there is the
possibility of a tension arising between the needs of those directly in line of
the hit and the motives of activists and ideologues. It is a commonplace that
suffering is hi-jacked, agitators heading to the scene, the current disaster
cut and pasted onto the standard issue placard. The Holocaust is well on the
way to suffering a similar fate, not so much remembered and grieved over as
used to coerce.
Such mismatches between suffering and how it is made use of
are most obvious in the ways in which nation states officially recognise the
war deaths of those they have sent to fight and, sometimes also, the civilians
who were victims of the enemy. In the old Soviet Union, the party line dictated
that the twenty million casualties in World War Two could only be memorialised
by huge and brutal installations which suggested the crushing might of Russia
and the iron will of its fighters. But those memorials - lacking any elements
of simplicity, intimacy and privacy - must surely have left those still
grieving with feelings of awkwardness and confusion. It could have been done
differently.
One day during a 1998 holiday, I walked around the National
Gallery of Armenia in Yerevan. My attention was caught by a very large painting
(196 x 250 cm) which depicts all kinds of simple but very colourful flowers
stuck in jam jars, often only a few to a jar, lined up in rows as if on
shelves, some pieces of fruit also scattered around. I smiled, felt warmed, but
also felt that the painting expressed some sadness. I looked at the gallery
description. It told me that the painting - by Martiros Saryan and dated to
1945 - was a tribute to Armenians who had fought in the Red Army, both those
who survived and those many who died. I was astonished and moved. I now saw the
jam jars placed on simple graves with whatever flowers were to hand, and
imagined the actions and feelings of those who bent to place them there. Perhaps
also, the flowers could belong in the centre of kitchen tables, set to
celebrate a safe homecoming.
If that second way of seeing the
painting is legitimate, then Saryan has done a very interesting thing. His
painting allows for the expression of both sadness and joy. If we follow
through that idea, it suggests that our habit of firmly separating celebrations
from commemorations or remembrances, gaiety from solemnity, should at least
sometimes be disrupted. It often is at modern funerals which try to celebrate
the life of the deceased instead of mourning their passing. That has its
dangers. It may work well for a professional colleague or even a friend of
long-standing. It may be harder for those still punched into immediate grief
and, worse, little more than denial if they seek to find laughter simply
because too much embarrassed by tears.
But even with that caveat, we need to
loosen up, be more imaginative about the ways in which we choose to remember as
well as more willing to acknowledge and even welcome the fact that we forget.
For the present at least, all new statues should be firmly off the plinth if
the best we can come up with are effigies in the style of mummification
originally favoured by the nasty party of humanity. Those old statues put up to
forgotten bit-players of Empire should simply come down. They have had their
day.
That a subscription was raised to put up
a monument in perpetuity places no obligations on future generations. Let us
continue to have the history books about English public school boys trained to
put down Indian mutinies and Afghan defiance. But since we have forgotten their
names and if, perchance, do remember but no longer admire, the statues should
be cleared off the streets, out of the parks, and removed to some outdoor
museum – or sent to the scrap yard since they have no artistic or aesthetic
value. There would be no vandalism involved. Private graves in cemeteries are
eventually bulldozed to make way for new coffins or simply to create public
green spaces. No one much cares, though one might want to save for museum
purposes the occasional drooping angel to illustrate how monumental masons have
conceived drooping angels through the centuries. Likewise, one might reserve a
few Queen Victorias and Lenins for the clinical gaze of the historians.
A private subscription or a
centuries-old governmental decision cannot take away from us the right to
control our own public spaces. We are the ones who have to live in them now
and, if the corpses mummified in bronze or stone are forgotten or disdained,
they should go. We redecorate our private living spaces, we re-furnish our
rooms. There is no reason why we should not do the same with our streets and
other public spaces. I know that the urge to clutter public space is very
strong – municipal authorities abhor a vacuum and will never miss an
opportunity to put up yet another street sign. But we should resist the
temptation and if we want to install new things, then we should think more
widely and look to the merits of temporary installations, of things which
change through the seasons like plants and trees, of objects which are less
literal and less static, like fountains - almost everywhere a
neglected genre of public art. We should be more willing to recognise that most
heroes are local heroes and temporary ones too, more suitable for writing about
in history books than parked on a plinth on our pavements, their only devotees
pigeons and dogs.
There is something to be said for a
cityscape where all that is solid melts into air. It has been rammed into us
from childhood that forgetting is a fault. We should challenge that. It’s only
human to forget and we should sometimes accept our humanity. Those men on
plinths had their time and now we have ours. If we are afraid of them, it is
only in the Oedipal way that Don Giovanni is afraid of the ghost-statue of the
Commendatore. From time to time, such fear is overcome and the statues of
Stalin and Saddam Hussein are pulled down to public glee. Since we have largely
forgotten them, there’s not much glee to be had in pulling down the bit
players, the Napiers and the Havelocks. It’s merely a task for municipal
authorities, charged to sustain public spaces which are a pleasure to share
both with our friends and the ever changing cast of strangers who come and go.
All might take passing delight in a less literal cityscape, furnished with
fountains and avenues of trees but not with bodies in rigor mortis petrified on
pedestals. For those who deserve to be remembered, there are much better ways
of prompting our memory2.
1.
In Culture and Anarchy (1869) Matthew
Arnold is horrified by the backdrop standing
where it ought not which was reason enough to search for the photograph;
Arnold has no qualms about Charles the First.
2. This essay was written before I read David
Rieff’s excellent book In Praise of
Forgetting (2016). Rieff takes a cue from Josef Yerushalmi’s Zakhor:
Jewish History and Jewish Memory (1982) and probes the idea that the
antonym of “forgetting” is not “remembering” but “justice” (p. 91) and expands
this by introducing the term “peace”. It is forgetting which often enough enables
peace, even without justice; in contrast the demand to remember links easily to
the demand for justice, understood in terms of crimes and punishments. Rieff
mobilises some significant examples of historical moments when forgetting has
been accepted as a way out from conflict, yielding peace even if it does not
deliver justice. He references the end of white rule in South Africa, Spain at
the time of Franco’s death, Chile in 1990, the 1995 Dayton accords in
Bosnia, and the 1998 Good Friday agreement in Ireland.
