3ª EDICIÓN DEL SEMINARIO PERMANENTE

CONTRAFIGURAS
DE NOVIEMBRE DE 2022 A JULIO DE 2023

CONTRAFIGURAS III: DE
ESPACIOS DE PERPETRACIÓN A
LUGARES DE MEMORIA
SEMINARIO DE INVESTIGACIÓN ORGANIZADO POR EL GRUPO REPERCRI
(UNIVERSITAT DE VALÈNCIA)

INSCRIPCIONES:

HTTPS://ENCUESTAS.UV.ES/INDEX.PHP/992816?LANG=ES

PÁGINA WEB:

HTTPS://REPERCRIRG.COM/ES/SEMINARIO-2022/

COORDINACIÓN:

LURDES VALLS
JUANJO MONSELL
MARIA MORANT
IRENE CÁRCEL
ANA GONZÁLEZ
MELANIA TORRES
CORA CUENCA
CRONOGRAMA.

Sesiones de lectura y análisis.

Noviembre 2022 Pierre, N. (1992). “Entre memoria e historia. La

(17.11.22) problemática de los lugares” en Les lieux de mémoire.
Ediciones Trilce. Pp. 19-40
Diciembre 2022 Rapson, J. (2015). “Introduction” in Topographies of
(15.12.22) suffering. Buchenwald, Babi Yar, Lidice. Berghahn
editions. Pp. 1-23.

Huyssen, A. (2003). “Introduction” in Present Pasts.

Urban Palimpsests and the politics of memory.
Stanford University Press. Pp. 1-11.
Enero 2023 Winter, J. (2014). “War memorials and the mourning
(19.01.23) process” in Sites of Memory, Sites of Mourning.
Cambridge University Press. Pp. 78-116.

Koselleck, R. (2011). “Monumentos a los caídos como

lugares de fundación de la identidad de los
supervivientes” en Modernidad, culto a la muerte y
memoria nacional. Centro de estudios políticos y
constitucionales. Pp. 65-103.

Febrero 2023 Tumarkin, M. (2019) Twenty Years of Thinking about

(16.02.23) Traumascapes in Fabrications, 29:1, pp. 4-20.
DOI: 10.1080/10331867.2018.1540077
Marzo 2023 Rothberg, M. (2009). “Introduction: Theorizing
(23.03.23) Multidirectional Memory in a Transnational Age” in
Multidirectional Memory. Remembering the Holocaust
in the Age of Decolonization. Stanford University Press.
Pp. 1-33.

Rothberg, M. (2009). “W.E.B Du Bois in Warsaw:

Holocuast Memory and the Color Line” in
Multidirectional Memory. Remembering the Holocaust
in the Age of Decolonization. Stanford University Press.
Pp. 111-135.

Sesiones de investigación.

Abril 2023 [Por determinar]

(20.04.23)
Mayo 2023 [Por determinar]
(18.05.23)
Junio 2023 [Por determinar]
(22.06.23)
PRESENTACIÓN:

A lo largo de las dos ediciones anteriores del seminario Contrafiguras pudimos

constatar, primero, la volatilidad de la noción de “perpetrador” y las
particularidades que ésta presenta a la hora de pensarla dentro de contextos
específicos y, en segundo lugar, la problemática particular que esta noción
presenta en relación con el caso español, tanto a causa de la duración de la
dictadura franquista como por la ausencia de procesos judiciales en torno a la
misma. En el transcurso de estas dos ediciones se puso de manifiesto que la
categoría de “perpetrador” -que remite a la figura de quienes idearon,
planificaron y ejecutaron actos de violencia política- presenta una
indeterminación conceptual que sólo puede ser resuelta cuando su estudio se
inscribe en un marco histórico, social y geográfico concreto. Así, cuando
atendemos al contexto específico en el que se produce la perpetración de
crímenes de violencia política, la singularidad de los espacios en los que acaece
dicha perpetración cobra una importancia capital.

En esta tercera edición del seminario permanente del grupo de investigación

REPERCRI nos adentraremos en el estudio y análisis de lo que se ha denominado
en el contexto anglosajón “Spatial Turn”. Este giro empieza a producirse, dentro
de los estudios culturales, en los años 90, pero sólo recientemente ha sido puesto
en relación con el estudio específico de la violencia política. Atendiendo a los
objetivos del proyecto de investigación Prometeo: “De espacios de perpetración a
lugares de memoria. Formas de representación”, en el que se inserta este
seminario de investigación, nuestro propósito en la presente edición es aunar el
giro hacia el perpetrador con el giro espacial. La premisa de la que partimos es la
siguiente: entre el perpetrador y los escenarios en los que este comete sus
crímenes se traza una relación de significación recíproca. Es decir, el victimario
imprime sobre el espacio las marcas de su idiosincrasia, convirtiéndolo en un
lugar de perpetración con unas determinadas características, pero, a la vez, este
lugar y su configuración particular acaban modelando tanto al perpetrador y la
tipología de sus crímenes como al proceso de memorialización de los mismos.
Nuestro objetivo en el seminario “Contrafiguras III: De espacios de perpetración
a lugares de memoria” es analizar la configuración de esta relación de
codependencia entre el perpetrador y sus espacios para poder comprender cómo
y en qué términos se produce el proceso de memorialización de estos últimos,
esto es, para entender cómo los espacios de perpetración se recuerdan, se
resignifican, se museifican y se reintegran dentro de unos marcos sociales
siempre cambiantes una vez el crimen ha sido cometido.

Para ello, hemos decidido trabajar, en la primera parte del seminario, con una
serie de textos de índole fundamentalmente teórica que abordan desde diferentes
prismas las problemáticas inherentes a los lugares que han sido marcados por la
perpetración de violencia política. A lo largo de estas sesiones nos ocuparemos de
cuestiones como: la relación que se establece entre los espacios de perpetración,
la historia y la memoria nacional; los entrelazamientos que se trazan entre estos
lugares y su entorno -ya sea éste de carácter urbano o natural-; el papel
desempeñado por los diferentes agentes sociales en la resignificación de los
espacios de perpetración; los variados procesos de memorialización que se han
desarrollado en dichos lugares y las controversias que estos han suscitado; la
integración y perduración de la experiencia traumática en ellos y, en último lugar,
las interconexiones que se establecen entre algunos espacios de perpetración
pertenecientes a diferentes contextos temporales y geográficos.

La primera parte del seminario, propiamente de lectura, se desarrollará en

sesiones de dos horas con una periodicidad mensual, desde noviembre de 2022
hasta marzo de 2023. Después, en las tres sesiones finales, de abril a junio de
2023, se presentarán diferentes trabajos de investigación en los que se vertebre
la cuestión de la perpetración con la reflexión sobre el espacio. Esta segunda parte
del seminario contará con la participación de algunos investigadores invitados,
pero también estará abierta a todos aquellos participantes del seminario de
lectura que quieran presentar y discutir sus trabajos de investigación. Para poder
coordinar estas sesiones se abrirá un CfP para los participantes del seminario
entre los meses de enero y febrero de 2023.
INSCRIPCIÓN Y CALENDARIO:

Tanto la participación en el seminario de lectura como la participación en forma

de comunicación en esta segunda parte del seminario se certificará al final del
curso, siempre y cuando se haya asistido, al menos, al 70% de las sesiones.

Para participar en el seminario será necesario inscribirse en el siguiente enlace:

https://encuestas.uv.es/index.php/992816?lang=es .

Una vez cerrada la lista de participantes, se facilitará el dossier de textos a través

del correo electrónico que se haya indicado.

A fin de promover la participación de investigadores de otras universidades, el

seminario seguirá realizándose en modalidad online. Este tendrá lugar el
tercer jueves de cada mes, en horario de 15 a 17h (UTC+1/GMT+2). El
seminario se complementará con algunas sesiones de trabajo extraordinarias que
se realizarán en modalidad presencial en la Universidad de Valencia y de las que
iremos informando a través de la página web del grupo.
DOSSIER DE LECTURA
(MATERIAL DE TRABAJO INTERNO. SE RUEGA A LOS PARTICIPANTES UE NO HAGAN DIFUSIÓN
DE ESTE MATERIAL)
 PIERRE NORA

Pi erre N ora en
Les lieux de mémoire

***

Traducido del francés por

Laura Mase/lo

Ediciones

TRILCE
Pierre Nora en Les lieux de mémoire

Historia, janvier. París, 2000, pp.18-21.

14 Ver el esclarecedor trabajo de J. Blanchard, «L'histoire commynienne. ENTRE MEMORIA E HISTORIA
tique et mémoire dans l'ordre politique» en Annales ESC, sep-oct 1991, n 5,
La problemática de los lugares
pp. 1071-1105.
15 Pierre Aries, «¿Qué nos lleva a escribir memorias?» en Ensayos de la memoria,
1943-1983, Norma, Bogotá, p. 411. .
16 Las excavaciones de la autopista A29 han devuelto muchas VIllas galorromanas.
Los arqueólogos han encontrado un co_njunto de viviendas de adobe alrededor de
un patio cuadrado, con mosaicos y banos. . ., . .
17 Ver Hans Georg Gadamer, «Historia de efectos y aphcaciOn» en Ramer Warmng
(ed.), Estética de la recepción, Visor, Madrid, 1989.
18 Similares prevenciones circulaban en los momentos de pleno desarrollo de la his-
toria de las mentalidades, en especial de la noción de mentalidad que de
utilidad para el tratamiento historiográfico. Ver Pierre Nora, cole:hva»
en J. Le Goff, R. Chartier y J. Revel, La Nueva Historia, p. 455, MensaJero, Bllbao,
1988. d H" i 64
19 Stevan Englund, «The Ghost of Nation Pasl», en Journal oj Mo ern ts ory ,
(June 1992), pp. 299-320, Chicago. .
20 Una actualización plena del asunto del uso del pasado puede l_eerse en
Hartog y Jacques Revel {dir.), Les usages polftiques du passe, Enquete, Parts, 1. Elfin de la historia-memoria
2001. h . alM
21 Hue-tam Ho Tai, «Remembered Realms: Pierre Nora and Frene_. Nahon e.mo.r_y»
en The American Hlstorical Review, vol. 106, 2001. Sobre la cnttca de la distmcton Aceleración de la historia. Más allá de la metáfora, es necesario evaluar
entre historia y memoria puede consultarse Eelco Runia, <<Burying the Dead, Cre- qué significa esta expresión: un vuelco cada vez más rápido hacia un
ating the Past», Hístory and Theory 46 {October 2007) y Anita Kasabova, «Memory,
memorials, and commemoratiom}, Hist?ry and {October 2008), pasado definitivamente muerto, la percepción global de todas las cosas
350. En esta última erudita contribucion se exrunma cnbcamente la relaciOn pnVI- como desaparecidas, una ruptura del equilibrio. El desarraigo de la vi-
legiada de la historia con la producción de verdad, al tiempo que se que vencia que aún permanecía en el calor de la tradición, en el mutismo
memorias, memoriales, e historias son discontinuas con las expenenctas de.l_pre-
de la costumbre, en la repetición de lo ancestral, bajo el impulso de un
sente y que la continuidad ente pasado y presente en ellas es
22 Ver David Lowental, «Distorted Mirriors», en Cross Current, College, sentimiento histórico de fondo. El acceso a la conciencia de sí bajo el
London; Kenneth Maxwell, «Western Hampshere" e?- .Foreing Aj[mrs, vol.. 77, signo de lo ya acabado, la culminación de algo iniciado desde siempre.
p 158 2004· Lucette Valensi, «HistOria nacional, histona monumental. Les heux Se habla tanto de memoria porque ya no hay memoria.
(nota crítica)», El contemporani: revista d'história, Univ. de Barcelona. 1

Centre d'Estudis Historiografics nº 8, 1996, pp. 39-44. . ,

23 Maurice Halbwachs, Le Cadres sociaux de la mémoire {1925), A. Mtchel,
1994, La Mémoire Collective {1950), A. Michel. París,l997, {edition critique de Ge-
rard Namer). , .
24 Marie-Claire Lavabre. «Maurice Halbwachs y la sociologm de la memona», en Anne
Pérotin-Dumon {dir.). Historizar el pasado vivo en América Latina, 2007; Anne
Pérotin-Dumon y Roger Bastide, <<Mémoire collective et sociologie du
L'Année socíologique, 1970, pp. 65"108; Tzvetan Todorov, Les Abus de la. memoire,
Arléa, París, 1995 [traducción castellana: Paidós, Barcelona, 2000], P. Ricoeur. La
Memoria, la historia ... o. cit.
La curiosidad por los lugares en los que se cristaliza y se refugia
la memoria está ligada a este momento particular de nuestra historia.
Momento bisagra en el cual la conciencia de la ruptura con el pasado se
confunde con el sentimiento de una memoria desgarrada, pero en el que
el desgarramiento despierta suficiente memoria para que pueda plan"
en tearse el problema de su encarnación. El sentimiento de continuidad se
vuelve residual respecto a lugares. Hay lugares de memoria porque ya
no hay ámbitos de memoria.
Pensemos en esa mutilación sin retorno que significó el fin de los
campesinos, esa colectividad"memoria por excelencia cuya boga como
objeto de historia coincidió con el apogeo del crecimiento industrial.
Este desmoronamiento central de nuestra memoria no es, sin embargo,
más que un ejemplo. El mundo en su totalidad entró en ese baile debido
al fenómeno tan conocido de la mundialización, la democratización, la:
masificación, la mediatización. En la periferia, la independencia de las r

nuevas naciones impelió a la historicidad a las sociedades ya sacudidas·'

de su sueño etnológico por la violación colonial. Y, a través del mis-
mo movimiento de descolonización interior, todas las etnias, grupos,

18 19
Pierre Nora en Les lieux de mémoire
familias con fuerte capital memorial y débil capital histórico. Fin de las
sociedades-memorias. como todas las que aseguraban la conservación
y transmisión de valores, iglesia o escuela, familia o Estado. Fin de las
ideologías-memorias, como todas las que aseguraban el pasaje regular
del pasado al porvenir o indicaban. desde el pasado. lo que había que
retener para preparar el futuro, ya fuera reacción, progreso o incluso re-
volución. Es más: lo que se dilató prodigiosamente, gracias a los medios
masivos de comunicación, fue el modo mismo de la percepción históri-
ca, remplazando una memoria replegada sobre la herencia de su propia
intimidad por la película efirnera de la actualidad.
Aceleración: lo que el fenómeno acaba de revelarnos abruptamente es
la distancia entre la memoria verdadera, social e intocada, cuyo modelo
está representado por las sociedades llamadas primitivas o arcaicas y
cuyo secreto estas se han llevado, y_ la historia, que es lo que hacen con
el pasado nuestras sociedades condenadaS al olvido por estar envueltas
en 'eí cambio. Entre una memoria integrada, dictatorial--e inconsciente
de sí misma, organizadora y todopoderosa, espontáneamente actuali-
zadora, una memoria sin pasado que desecha eternamente la herencia,
remitiendo el antaño de los ancestros al tiempo indiferenciado de los
héroes, de los orígenes y del mito, y la nuestra, que no es sino historia,
traza y selección. Distancia que no ha hecho más que profundizarse
a medida que los hombres se han atribuido, y cada vez más desde los
tiempos modernos. el derecho, el poder e incluso el deber del cambio.
Distancia que encuentra hoy su punto culminante convulsionado.
Este desarraigo de memoria bajo el impulso conquistador y erradicador
de la historia produce un efecto de revelación: la ruptura de un vínculo de
identidad muy antiguo, el fin de lo que vivíamos como una evidencia: la
adecuación de la historia y la memoria. El hecho de que en francés haya
solo una palabra para designar la historia vivida y la operación intelectual
que la vuelve inteligible (lo que los alemanes distinguen corno Geschichte
e Historie), carencia del lenguaje señalada a menudo, revela aquí su pro-
funda verdad: el movimiento que nos arrastra es de la misma naturaleza
que el que nos lo representa. Si aún habitáramos nuestra memoria, no
necesitaríamos destinarle lugares. No habría lugares, porque no habría
memoria arrastrada por la historia. Cada gesto, hasta el más cotidiano.
sería vivido como la repetición religiosa de lo que se ha hecho desde siem-
pre, en una identificación carnal del acto y el sentido. En cuanto hay tra-
za, distancia, mediación, ya no se está en la memoria verdadera sino en
la historia. Pensemos en los judíos, confinados en la fidelidad cotidiana
al ritual de la tradición. Su constitución como «pueblo de la memoria» ex-
cluía una preocupación por la historia, hasta que su apertura al mundo
moderno le impone la necesidad de los historiadores.
Memoria, historia: lejos de ser sinónimos, tomamos conciencia de que
todo los opone. La memoria es la vida, siempre encarnada por grupos vi-
20
Entre memoria e historia
vientes y. en ese sentido, está en evolución permanente, abierta a la dia-
léctica del recuerdo y de la amnesia, inconsciente de sus deformaciones
sucesivas, vulnerable a todas las utilizaciones y manipulaciones, capaz de
largas latencias Y repentinas revitalizaciones. La historia es la reconstruc-
ción siempre problemática e incompleta de lo que ya no es. La memoria es
un fenómeno siempre actual, un lazo vivido en el presente eterno; la histo-
ria, una representación del pasado. Por ser afectiva y mágica, la memoria
solo se ajusta a detalles que la reafirman; se nutre de recuerdos borrosos,
empalmados, globales o flotantes, particulares o simbólicos; es sensible a
todas las transferencias, pantallas, censuras o proyecciop.es. La historia,
por ser una operación intelectual y laicizante, requiere análisis y discurso
crítico. La memoria instala el recuerdo en lo sagrado, la historia lo deja
al descubierto, siempre prosifica. La memoria surge de un grupo al cual
fusiona, lo que significa, como dijo Halbwachs, que hay tantas memorias
corno grupos, que es por naturaleza múltiple y desmultiplicada, colectiva,
plural e individualizada. La historia, por el contrario, pertenece a todos y
a nadie, lo cual le da vocación universal. La memoria se enraíza en lo con-
creto, el espacio, el gesto, la imagen y el objeto. La historia solo se liga a las
continuidades temporales, las evoluciones y las relaciones de las cosas. La
memoria es un absoluto y la historia solo conoce lo relativo.
En el corazón de la historia, trabaja un criticismo destructor de me-
moria espontánea. La memoria siempre es sospechosa para la historia;,
verdéldera _ es. destruirla y reprimirla. La historia es deslegi-
tirnizacwn del pasado viVIdo. En el horizonte de las sociedades de his- '
toria, en los límites de un mundo completamente historicizado, habría
desacralización última y definitiva. El movimiento de la historia, su am-
bición no son la exaltación de lo que pasó verdaderamente, sino su ani-
quilamiento. Un criticismo generalizado conservaría sin duda museos,
medallas y monumentos, es decir el arsenal necesario para su propio
trabajo, pero vaciándolos de lo que, para nosotros, los hace lugares de
memoria. Una sociedad que se viviera a sí misma integralmente bajo el
signo de la historia no conocería, como sucede con una sociedad tradi-
cional, lugares donde anclar su memoria.
Uno de los signos más tangibles de este desarraigo de la historia respecto
a la memoria es quizá el inicio de una historia de la historia, el despertar,
muy reciente en Francia, de una conciencia historiográfica. La historia,
Y más precisamente la del desarrollo nacional, constituyó la más fuerte
de nuestras tradiciones colectivas, nuestro medio de memoria por exce-
lencia. Desde los cronistas de la Edad Media hasta los historiadores con-
temporáneos de la historia «totah, toda la tradición histórica se desarrolló
como el ejercicio regulado de la memoria y su profundización espontánea,
la reconstitución de un pasado sin lagunas y sin fallas. Desde Froissart,
21
Pierre Nora en Les lieux de mémoire
sin duda ninguno de los grandes historiadores tenía el sentimiento de
no representar más que una memoria particular. Commynes no tenía
conciencia de haber recogido solamente una memoria dinástica, La PopeM
liniére una memoria francesa, Bossuet una memoria monárquica y crisM
tiana, Voltaire la memoria de los progresos del género humano, Michelet
únicamente la del «pueblo» y Lavisse la memoria de la nación. Muy por
el contrario, estaban convencidos de que su tarea consistía en establecer
una memoria más positiva que las anteriores, más abarcadora y más
explicativa. El arsenal científico del que la historia se proveyó en el siglo
pasado no hizo más que reforzar el establecimiento crítico de una memo-
ria verdadera. Todos los grandes reajustes históricos han consistido en
ampliar el cimiento de la memoria colectiva.
En un país como Francia, la historia de la historia no puede ser una
operación inocente. Traduce la subversión intema de una historia-mernoM
ria por una historia-crítica. Toda historia es crítica por naturaleza, y to-
dos los historiadores han pretendido denunciar las mitologías mentirosas
de sus predecesores. Pero algo fundamental se inicia cuando la historia
comienza a hacer su propia historia. El nacimiento de una preocupación
lústoriográfica es la lústoria que se obliga a bloquear en ella lo que no es
ella, descubriéndose víctima de la memoria y esforzándose por liberarse
de esta. En un país que no le haya dado a la historia un papel rector y
formador de la conciencia nacional, la historia de la historia no se encar-
garía de ese contenido polémico. En Estados Unidos, por ejemplo, país
de memoria plural y de aportes múltiples, la disciplina se practica desde
siempre. Las interpretaciones diferentes de la Independencia o de la gue-
rra civil, por más graves que sean sus implicaciones, no ponen en juego
la tradición estadounidense porque, en cierto sentido, no la hay o no pasa
principalmente por la historia. Por el contrario, en Francia, la historiografía
es iconoclasta e irreverente. Consiste en apoderarse de los objetos mejor
constituidos de la tradición -una batalla clave como Bouvines, un manual
canónico como el petit Lavisse- para desmontar su mecanismo y reconsM
tituir lo más fidedignamente posible las condiciones de su elaboración. Es
introducir la duda en el corazón, el filo crítico entre el árbol de la memoria
y la corteza de la historia. Hacer la historiografía de la Revolución francesa,
reconstituir sus mitos e interpretaciones significa que nos identifiquemos
en forma más completa con su herencia. Interrogar una tradición, por más
venerable que sea, es no reconocerse más meramente como su portador.
Pero no son solo los objetos más sagrados de nuestra tradición nacional los
que se propone una historia de la historia; al interrogarse sobre sus medios
materiales y conceptuales, sobre las modalidades de su propia producción
y las intermediaciones sociales de su difusión, sobre su propia constitución
en tradición, es la historia entera la que entró en su edad historiográfica,
consumando su desidentificación con la memoria. Una memoria converti-
da ella misma en objeto de una historia posible.
22
Entre memoria e historia
Hubo un tiempo en que, a través de la historia y en torno a la nación,
una tradición de memoria había parecido encontrar su cristalización en
la síntesis de la Ili República, desde Lettres sur l'histoire de France de
Augustin Thierry (1827) hasta Histoire sincere de la nationjran¡;aise de
Charles Seignobos (1933), adoptando una cronología amplia. Historia,
memoria, nación mantuvieron entre sí más que una circulación natu-
ral: una circularidad complementaria, una simbiosis en todos los nive-
les, científica y pedagógica, teórica y práctica. La definición nacional del
presente requería entonces imperiosamente su justificación mediante la
ilustración del pasado. Presente debilitado por el trauma revolucionario
que imponía una reevaluación global del pasado monárquico; debilitado
también por la derrota de 1870 que tornaba más urgente aún, en relación
tanto con la ciencia alemana corno con el institutor alemán, verdade-
ro vencedor de Sadowa, el desarrollo de una erudición documental y la
transmisión escolar de la memoria. Nada iguala el tono de responsabili-
dad nacional del historiador, mitad cura, mitad soldado: prorrumpe por
ejemplo en el editorial del primer número de la Revue historique (1876),
en la que Gabriel Monod podía ver legítimamente cómo d.a investigación
científica de ahora en adelante lenta, colectiva y metódica>> trabaja de una
<<Inanera secreta y segura por la grandeza de la patria y a la vez por el
género humano». Ante la lectura de un texto como ese, parecido a tantos
otros, cabe preguntarse cómo pudo aceptarse la idea de que la historia
positivista no era acumulativa. En la perspectiva encaminada a una cons-
titución nacional, lo político, lo militar, lo biográfico y lo diplomático son,
por el contrario, los pilares de la continuidad. La derrota de Azincourt o
el puñal de Ravaillac, el Día de los Engañados o tal cláusula adicional de
los tratados de Westfalia obedecen a una contabilidad escrupulosa. La
erudición más fina agrega o recorta detalles al capital de la nación. UniM
dad poderosa de ese espacio memorial: de nuestra cuna romana al
imperio colonial de la III República no hay más ruptura que entre la alta
erudición que anexa nuevas conquistas al patrimonio y el manval escolar
que de estas impone la vulgata. Historia santa porque la nación es santa.
Es por la nación que nuestra memoria se ha mantenido en lo sagrado.
Comprender por qué se deshizo la conjunción bajo un nuevo impulso
desacralizador redundaría en mostrar cómo, en la crisis de la década
del treinta, el par Estado-nación fue remplazado progresivamente por
el par Estado-sociedad. Y cómo, en el mismo momento y por razones
idénticas, la historia, que se había convertido en tradición de memoria,
se tornó, en forma espectacular en Francia, saber de la sociedad sobre
sí misma. En ese sentido, pudo multiplicar indudablemente las aproxiM
maciones a memorias particulares, transformarse en laboratorio de las
mentalidades del pasado; pero, al librarse de la identificación nacional,
dejó de estar habitada por un sujeto portador y, simultáneamente, per-
dió su vocación pedagógica para la transmisión de los valores: así lo
23
Pierre Nora en Les lieux de mémoire
demuestra la actual crisis de la institución escolar. La nación ya no es
el marco unitario que encerraba la conciencia de la colectividad. Ya no
está en juego su definición, y la paz, la prosperidad y la reducción de su
poder hicieron el resto; ya no está amenazada sino por la ausencia de
amenazas. Con el advenimiento de la sociedad en sustitución de la na-
ción, la legitimación por el pasado, por ende por la historia, cedió ante la
legitimación por el futuro. Al pasado, solo se podía conocerlo y venerarlo,
y a la nación, servirla; al futuro, hay que prepararlo. Los tres términos
recobraron su autonomía. La nación ya no es un combate, sino lo dado;
la historia se volvió una ciencia social; y la memoria un fenómeno pura-
mente privado. La nación-memoria resultó la última encarnación de la
historia-memoria.
El estudio de los lugares de memoria se encuentra entonces en el cruce
de dos movimientos que le dan, en Francia y actualmente, su lugar y
su sentido: por una parte, un movimiento puramente historiográfico, el
momento de un retorno reflexivo de la historia sobre sí misma; por otra,
un movimiento propiamente histórico, el fin de una tradición de tnemo-
ria. El tiempo de los lugares es ese momento preciso en que un inmenso
capital que vivíamos en la intimidad de una memoria desaparece para
vivir solamente bajo la mirada de una historia reconstituida. Profundi-
zación decisiva del trabajo de la historia, por un lado; advenimiento de
una herencia consolidada, por otro. Dinámica interna del principio crí-
tico, agotamiento de nuestro marco histórico político y mental, aún su-
ficientemente poderoso para que no le seamos indiferentes, suficiente-
mente evanescente para no imponerse sino a través de un regreso hacia
sus símbolos más restallantes. Ambos movimientos se combinan para
remitirnos a la vez, y en el mismo impulso, a los instrumentos básicos
del trabajo histórico y a los objetos más simbólicos de nuestra memoria:
los Archivos en el mismo nivel que el azul-blanco-y-rojo, las bibliotecas,
los diccionarios y los museos en el mismo nivel que las conmemoracio-
nes, las fiestas, el Panteón o el Arco de Triunfo. el diccionario Larousse
y el muro de los Federados.
Los lugares de memoria son, ante todo, restos. La forma extrema bajo
la cual subsiste una conciencia conmemorativa en una historia que la
solicita, porque la ignora. Es la desritualización de nuestro mundo la
que hace aparecer la noción. Aquello que segrega, erige, establece, cons-
truye, decreta, mantiene mediante el artificio o la voluntad una colecti-
vidad fundamentalmente entrenada en su transformación y renovación,
valorizando por naturaleza lo nuevo frente a lo antiguo, lo joven frente
a lo viejo, el futuro frente al pasado. Museos, archivos, cementerios y
colecciones, fiestas, aniversarios, tratados, actas, monumentos, santua-
rios, asociaciones, son los cerros testigo de otra época, de las ilusiones
24
Entre memoria e historia
de eternidad. De allí viene el aspecto nostálgico de esas empresas de
veneración, patéticas y glaciales. Son los rituales de una sociedad sin
rituales; sacralidades pasajeras en una sociedad que desacraliza; fide-
lidades particulares en una sociedad que lima los particularismos; dife-
renciaciones de hecho en una sociedad que nivela por principio; signos
de reconocimiento y de pertenencia de grupo en una sociedad que tiende
a no reconocer más que a individuos iguales e idénticos.
Los lugares de memoria nacen y viven del sentimiento de que no
hay memoria espontánea, de que hay que crear archivos, mantener ani-
versarios, organizar celebraciones, pronunciar elogios fúnebres, labrar
actas, porque esas operaciones no son naturales. Por eso la defensa por
parte de las minorías de una memoria refugiada en focos privilegiados
y celosamente custodiados ilumina con mayor fuerza aún la verdad de
todos los lugares de memoria. Sin vigilancia conmemorativa, la histo-
ria los aniquilaríé{ rápidamente: Son bastiones sobre los cuales afian-
zarse. Pero sí lo que defienden no estuviera amenazado, ya no habría
necesidad de construirlos. Si los recuerdos que encierran se vivieran
verdaderamente, serían inútiles. Y si, en cambio, la historia tampoco
se apoderara de ellos para deformarlos, transformarlos, moldearlos y
petrificarlos, no se volverían lugares de la memoria. Es ese vaivén el
que los constituye: momentos de historia arrancados al movimiento de
la historia, pero que le son devueltos. Ya no la vida, no aún la muerte,
corno los caparazones de caracoles de moluscos en la orilla cuando se
retira el mar de la memoria viva.
La Marsellesa o los monumentos a los muertos viven así esa vida am-
bigua, plena del sentimiento mezclado de pertenencia y de desapego. En
1790, el 14 de julio ya era y aún no era un lugar de memoria. En 1880, su
institución como fiesta nacional lo instala corno lugar de memoria oficial,
pero el espíritu de la república todavía lo tenía corno un regreso verdade-
ro a las fuentes. ¿Y hoy en día? La pérdida misma de nuestra memoria
nacional viva nos impone sobre ella una mirada que ya no es ingenua ni
indiferente. Memoria que nos atormenta y que ya no es la nuestra, entre
la desacralización rápida y la sacralidad provisoriamente relegada. Víncu w
lo visceral que aún nos mantiene deudores de aquello que nos hizo. pero
alejamiento histórico que nos obliga a considerar con desprendimiento su
herencia y a establecer su inventario. Lugares rescatados de una memo-
ria que ya no habitamos, semi-oficiales e institucionales, semi-afectivos
y sentimentales: lugares de unanimidad sin unanirnismo que ya no ex-
presan convicción militante ni participación apasionada, pero en los que
palpita todavía una suerte de vida simbólica. Vuelco de lo memorial a lo
histórico, de un mundo en que teníamos antepasados a un mundo de la
relación contingente con lo que nos hizo, pasaje de una historia totémica
a una historia crítica; es el momento de los lugares de memoria. Ya no se
celebra la nación, se estudian sus celebraciones.
25
 Pierre Nora en Les lieux de mémoire
2. La memoria atrapada por la historia
Todo lo que hoy llamamos memoria no es memoria, entonces, sino que
ya es historia. Todo lo que llamamos estallido de memoria es la culmi
nación de su desaparición en el fuego de la historia. La necesidad de
memoria es una necesidad de historia.
Es sin duda imposible prescindir de la palabra. Aceptémosla. pero
con la conciencia clara de la diferencia entre la memoria verdadera, hoy
refugiada en el gesto y la costumbre, en los oficios a través de los cuales
se transmiten los saberes del silencio, en los saberes del cuerpo, las
memorias de impregnación y los saberes reflejos, y la memoria
mada por su pasaje a la historia, que es casi su opuesto; voluntaria y
deliberada, vivida como un deber y ya no espontánea; psicológica, indi-
vidual y subjetiva, y ya no social, colectiva, abarcadora. De la primera,
·. .'·' inmediata, a la segunda, indirecta, ¿qué sucedió? Se lo puede percibir
en el punto de culminación de la metamorfosis contemporánea.
Es ante todo una memoria archivista, a diferencia de la otra. Descansa
enteramente en lo más preciso de la traza, lo más material del vestigio, lo
más concreto de la grabación, lo más visible de la imagen. El movimiento
que se inició con la escritura termina en la alta fidelidad y la cinta mag-
nética. Cuanto menos se vive la memoria desde lo interno, más necesita
soportes externos y referentes tangibles de una existencia que solo vive
a través de ellos. De allí la obsesión por el archivo que caracteriza a lo
contemporáneo y que implica a la vez la conservación íntegra de todo
el presente y la preservación íntegra de todo el pasado. El sentimiento
de un desvanecimiento rápido y definitivo se combina con la preocupa-
ción por la significación exacta del presente y la incertidumbre del futuro
para darle al vestigio más sencillo. al testimonio más humilde. la digni·
dad virtual de lo memorable. ¿Acaso no hemos tenido que lamentar la
destrucción o desaparición por parte de nuestros predecesores de lo que
nos permitiría saber, como para no tener que recibir el mismo reproche
de nuestros sucesores? El recuerdo es pasado íntegro en su reconsti-
tución más minuciosa. Es una memoria registradora, que delega en el
archivo el cuidado de recordar por ella y multiplica los signos en los que
se ubica, como la serpiente con su piel muerta. Coleccionistas, eruditos
y benedictinos se habían dedicado en otros tiempos a la acumulación de
documentos, como marginales de una sociedad que avanzaba sin ellos y
de una historia que se escribía sin ellos. Luego la historia-memoria colocó
ese tesoro en el centro de su trabajo erudito para difundir sus resultados
a través de los mil intermediarios sociales de su penetración. Hoy, cuando
los historiadores se han desprendido del culto documental. toda la socie·
dad vive en la religión conservadora y en el productivismo archivístico.
Lo que llamamos memoria es en realidad la constitución gigantesca y
vertiginosa del almacenamiento material de aquello de lo que nos resulta
26
Entre memoria e historia
impos.ible acordarnos, repertorio insondable de aquello que podríamos
necesitar recordar. La <<Inemoria de papel» de la que hablaba Leibiliz se
h_a convertido en una institución autónoma de museos, bibliotecas, depó-
sitos, centros de documentación, bancos de datos. Solo en lo relaciona-
do archivos públicos, los especialistas estiman que la revolución
s? tradujo, en algunas décadas, en una multiplicación por
mil. Ninguna epoca ha sido tan voluntariamente productora de archivos
como la nuestra. No solo por el volumen que genera espontáneamente
la moderna, no solo por los medios técnicos de reproducción y
conservacwn de que dispone, sino por la supe_rstición y el _r_espeto de la
t{aza. A medida que desaparece la memoria tradicional, nos sentimos
obligados a acumular religiosamente vestigios, testimonios. documen-
tos, imágenes, discursos, signos visibles de aquello que ya fue, como si
ese dosier cada vez más prolífico debiera convertirse en no se sabe bien
qué prueba ante qué tribunal de la historia. sagrado se concentró en
la traza, que es su negación. Imposible juzgar de antemano qué tendre-
mos que recordar.- De- allí- la inhibición de destruir, la conversión de todo
archivos, la dilatación indiferenciada del campo de lo memorable, el
de la función de memoria, ligada al sentimiento
mismo de su perdida y el reforzamiento correlativo de todas las insti-
tuciones de memoria. Se produjo una extraña inversión entre los pro-
fesionales, a quienes antes se reprochaba la manía conservadora, y los
es de archivos. Hoy son las empresas privadas y las
administraciOnes publicas las que aceptan archivistas con la recomen_
dación de conservar todo, cuando los profesionales han aprendido que
lo esencial del oficio es el arte de la destrucción controlada.
pocos años, la materialización de la memoria se ha ampliado
prodigiOsamente, multiplicado, descentralizado, democratizado. En la
época clásica, los tres grandes emisores de archivos se reducían a las
grandes familias. la Iglesia y el Estado. ¿Hoy quién no se siente en la
obligación de consignar sus recuerdos, escribir sus Memorias, no solo
cualqui,.er_ actor de la historia, sino los testigos de ese actor, su esposa
o su medico? Cuanto menos extraordinario es el testimonio, más digno
parece de ilustrar una mentalidad promedio. La liquidación de la me-
moria_ ha saldado con una voluntad general de registro. En una ge-
neracwn. el imaginario del archivo se ha enriquecido prodigiosa_
mente:_Un eJemplo "?-otario fue el año del patrimonio en 1980, que llevó
la nocion hasta los lrmites de lo incierto. Diez años antes el Larousse de
1970 todavía restringía el patrimonio al «bien que viene, del padre 0 de
la madre». Para el Petit Robert de 1979 es «la propiedad transmitida por
los antepasados, el patrimonio cultural de un país». Con la Convención
del Patrimonio mundial de 1972, se pasó de modo muy brusco de un
concepto muy restrictivo de los monumentos históricos a un concepto
que, teóricamente, podría no dejar nada afuera.
27
Pierre Nora en Les lieux de mémoire
No solo conservar todo, conservar todo de los signos indicadores de
memoria, aun si no se sabe exactamente de qué rne1noria son indica-
dores. Pero producir archivo es el imperativo de la época. Tenemos el
ejemplo sorprendente de los archivos de la Seguridad Social -suma
documental sin que representa actualmente trescientos
kilómetros lineales, masa de memoria bruta cuyo procesamiento por
computadora permitiría leer virtualmente todo lo normal y lo patológi-
co de la sociedad, desde los regímenes alimenticios hasta los géneros
de vida, por regiones y profesiones; pero, al mismo tiempo, masa cuya
conservación así corno su posible explotación requerirían opciones drás-
ticas y sin embargo inviables. ¡Archive, archive, siempre quedará algo!
¿No es acaso el resultado al cual llega, de hecho, la muy legítima pre-
ocupación por los recientes testimonios orales, otro ejemplo ilustrativo?
Actualmente, solo en Francia hay más de trescientos equipos dedicados
a recoger «esas voces que nos vienen del pasado» (Philippe Joutard).
Muy bien. Pero cuando se piensa por un segundo que se trata de archi-
vos de un género muy especial, cuyo establecimiento exige treinta y seis
horas por cada hora de grabación y cuya utilización no puede ser pun-
tual, dado que su sentido surge de la audición integral, es imposible no
interrogarse sobre su explotación posible. Al fin de cuentas, ¿de qué vo-
luntad de memoria son testimonio: la de los encuestados o la de los en-
cuestadores? El archivo cambia de sentido y estatuto por su contenido.
Ya no es el saldo más o menos intencional de una memoria vivida, sino
la secreción voluntaria y organizada de una memoria perdida. Duplica
lo vivido, que a su vez se desarrolla a menudo en función de su propio
registro los informativos están hechos de otra de una
memoria segunda, de una memoria-prótesis. La producción indefinida
del archivo es el efecto recrudecido de una conciencia nueva, la más
clara expresión del terrorismo de la memoria dlistoricizada».
Es que esa memoria nos viene del exterior y la interiorizamos como una
imposición individual pues ya no es una práctica social.
El pasaje de la memoria a la historia ha hecho que cada grupo rede-
finiera su identidad mediante la revitalización de su propia historia. El
deber de memoria ha convertido a cada uno en su propio historiador. El
imperativo de la historia ha superado ampliamente el círculo de los his-
toriadores profesionales. Ya no son solo los ex marginados de la historia
oficial los obsesionados por recuperar su pasado sumergido. Son todos
los cuerpos constituidos, intelectuales o no, entendidos o no, quienes,
al igual que las etnias y minorías sociales, sienten la necesidad de salir
en busca de su propia constitución, de reencontrar sus orígenes. Casi
no hay familias entre cuyos miembros uno no se haya lanzado reciente-
mente a la reconstitución lo más completa posible de las existencias fur-
28
Entre memoria e historia
tivas de donde proviene la suya. El incremento de las investigaciones ge-
nealógicas es un fenómeno reciente y generalizado: el informe anual del
Archivo nacional eleva la cifra al43% en 1982 (contra 38% de consultas
universitarias). Un hecho llamativo: no es a historiadores de oficio a
quienes se les debe las historias más significativas de la biología, la físi-
ca, la medicina o la música, sino a biólogos, físicos, médicos y músicos.
Son los propios educadores quienes han tomado en sus manos la histo-
ria de la educación, desde la educación física hasta la enseñanza de la
filosofía. En medio de la disgregación de los saberes constituidos, cada
disciplina se ha impuesto el deber de revisar sus fundamentos mediante
el recorrido retrospectivo de su propia constitución. La sociología sale en
busca de sus padres fundadores, la etnología explora su pasado desde
los cronistas del siglo XVI hasta los administradores coloniales. Hasta
la crítica literaria se dedica a reconstituir la génesis de sus categorías y
de su tradición. La historia netamente positivista, incluso cartista en el
momento en que los historiadores la abandonaron, encuentra en esa ur-
gencia y esa necesidad una difusión y una penetración en profundidad ,
que no había conocido antes. El fin de la historia-memoria multiplicó las'\
memorias particulares que reclaman su propia historia. \
Está la orden de recordar, pero soy yo quien tengo que recordar y soy
yo quien recuerda. La metarnorfosis histórica de la memoria se produjo
con una conversión definitiva a la psicología individual. Ambos fenóme-
nos están tan estrechamente ligados que es imposible no constatar su
exacta coincidencia cronológica.
¿No fue a fines del siglo pasado, cuando se sintió cómo tambalearon
en forma decisiva los equilibrios tradicionales, en particular el mundo_,-:·.',
rural, apareció la memoria en el centro de la reflexión filosófica con Berg- ',
son, en el centro de la personalidad psíquica con Freud, en el centro de ·
la literatura autobiográfica con Proust? La fractura de lo que fue para
nosotros la imagen misma de la memoria encarnada en la tierra y el
advenimiento repentino de la memoria en el corazón de las identidades
individuales son las dos caras de la misma fisura, el inicio del proceso
que hoy hace explosión. ¿Y no es a Freud y a Proust a quienes se debe
los dos lugares de memoria íntimos y sin embargo universales que son
la escena primitiva y la famosa magdalena? Decisivo desplazamiento el
de esa transferencia de memoria: de lo histórico a lo psicológico, de lo
social a lo individual, de lo transmisivo a lo subjetivo, de la repetición a la
rememoración. Inaugura un nuevo régimen de memoria, asunto privado
a partir de ese momento. La psicologización integral de la memoria con-
temporánea acarreó una economía singularmente nueva de la identidad
del yo, de los mecanismos de la memoria y de la relación con el pasado.
Pues en definitiva es sobre el individuo y solo sobre el individuo que
pesa, de modo insistente y al mismo tiempo indiferenciado, la imposi-
ción de la memoria, así como de su relación personal con su propio pa-
29
Pierre Nora en Les lieux de mémoire
sado depende su revitalización posible. La disgregación de una memo-
ria general en memoria privada otorga a la ley del recuerdo un intenso
poder de coerción interna. Crea en cada uno la obligación de recordar y
convierte a la recuperación de la pertenencia en el principio y el secreto
de la identidad. En compensación, esa pertenencia lo compromete por
entero. Cuando la memoria ya no está en todos lados, no estaría en
ninguno si, por una decisión solitaria, una conciencia individual no de-
cidiera tomarla a su cargo. Cuanto menos colectivamente se vive la me-
moria, más necesita hombres particulares que se vuelvan ellos misn1os
hombres-memoria. Es como una voz interior que le dijera a los corsos:
«Debes ser Córcega» y a los bretones: «¡Hay que ser bretón!». Para com-
prender la fuerza y la convocatoria de esa asignación quizá habría que
mirar lo que ocurre con la memoria judía, que hoy en día despierta entre
tantos judíos desjudaizados una reciente reactivación. Es que en esa
tradición que no tiene otra historia que su propia memoria, ser judío es
recordar serlo pero, una vez interiorizado, ese recordar irrecusable poco
a poco va interpelando a la persona entera. ¿Memoria de qué? En última
instancia, memoria de la memoria. La psicologización de la memoria le
ha dado a cada uno el sentimiento de que su final-
mente del pago de una ' tra relación con el pasad? reside en ese juego sutil de lo infranqueable
Memoria-a'rchfSo. memori3.-deber, falta un tercer rasgo para completar
este cuadro de metan1orfosis: memoria-distancia.
Porque nuestra relación con el pasado, al menos tal como se desci-
fra a través de las producciones históricas más significativas, es muy
diferente de la que se espera de una memoria. Ya. no una continuidad
retrospectiva, sino la puesta en evidencia de la discontinuidad. Para la
historia-memoria de antaño, la verdadera percepción del pasado consis-
tía en considerar que no había pasado verdaderamente. Un esfuerzo de
rememoración podía resucitarlo; el propio presente se volvía a su mane-
ra un pasado diferido, actualizado, conjurado en tanto presente por ese
puente y ese arraigamiento. Para que hubiera sentimiento del pasado,
era necesario sin duda que interviniera una falla entre el presente y el
pasado, que aparecieran un «antes» y un «después». Pero se trataba me-
nos de una separación vivida en el modo de la diferencia radical que un
intervalo vivido en el modo de la filiación por restablecer. Los dos gran-
des temas de inteligibilidad de la historia. al menos desde los tiempos
modernos, progreso y decadencia, expresaban muy bien ese culto de la
continuidad, la certeza de saber a quién y a qué le debíamos ser lo que
somos. De allí la imposición de la idea de «orígenes», forma ya profana
del relato mitológico, pero que contribuía a dar a una sociedad en vías
de laicización nacional su sentido y su necesidad de lo sagrado. Cuanto
más grandes eran los orígenes, más se agrandaban. Porque era a naso-
30
Entre memoria e historia
tras mismos a quienes venerábamos a través del pasado. Esa relación
es la que se rompió. Del mismo modo que el futuro visible, previsible,
manipulable. delimitado. proyección del presente. se ha vuelto invisible.
imprevisible, indominable, hemos pasado, simétricamente, de la idea de
un pasado visible a un pasado invisible; de un pasado llano a un pasado
que vivimos como una fractura; de una historia que se buscaba en el
continuo de una memoria a una memoria que se proyecta en lo disconti-
nuo de una historia. Ya no se hablará de «orígenes» sino de <<nacimiento».
El pasado nos es dado como radicalmente diferente, es ese mundo del
cual estamos escindidos para siempre. Y es en la evidenciación de toda
la extensión que así nos separa que nuestra memoria confiesa su ver-
dad, como en la operación que de golpe la suprime.
Porque no hay que creer que la sensación de discontinuidad se con-
forma con lo vago e impreciso de la noche. Paradójicamente, la distancia
exige el acercamiento que la conjura y le da su vibrato a la vez. Nunca se
anheló con tanta sensualidad el peso de la tierra bajo las botas, la mano
del Diablo en el año mil y el hedor de las ciudades en el siglo XVIII. Pero
la alucinación artificial del pasado no se puede concebir precisamente
más que en un régimen de discontinuidad._Toda la_dinámica de
Y de lo extinguido. En el sentido original de la palabra, se trata de una
diferente de lo que buscaba la antigua re-
Por Integral que se pretendiera, la resurrección implicaba
efectivamente una jerarquía del recuerdo hábil para armonizar luces y
sombras de modo de ordenar la perspectiva del pasado bajo la mirada de
un presente orientado. La pérdida de un principio explicativo único nos
precipitó en un universo explosionado, al tiempo que promovió hasta al
objeto más más improbable, más inaccesible a la dignidad del
misteno histonco. Es que antes sabíamos de quién éramos hijos y hoy
somos hijos de nadie y de todo el mundo. Como nadie sabe de qué estará
hecho el pasado, una atormentada incertidumbre transforma todo en
traza, indicio posible, sospecha de historia con la cual contaminamos la
inocencia de las cosas. Nuestra percepción del pasado es la apropiación
vehemente de lo que sabemos que ya no nos pertenece. Exige ajustarse
con precisión a un objetivo perdido. La representación excluye el fresco,
el fragmento, el cuadro de conjunto; procede por iluminaciones puntua-
les, multiplicación de extracciones selectivas, muestras significativas.
Memoria intensamente retiniana y poderosamente televisiva. ¿Cómo no
ver el vínculo, por ejemplo, entre el famoso «regreso del relato» que se
ha podido verificar en las más recientes maneras de escribir historia y
la omnipotencia de la imagen y del cine en la cultura contemporánea?
Relato verdad muy del relato tradicional, con su repliegue
sobre SI mismo Y su gumn sincopado. ¿Cómo no relacionar el escrupulo-
so respeto por el documento de archivo la pieza misma bajo los
31
Pierre Nora en Les lieux de mémoire
ojos-, el singular avance de la oralidad -citar a los actores, hacer oír
sus voces-, con la autenticidad de lo directo a la que, además, hemos
sido acostumbrados? ¿Cómo no ver en ese gusto por lo cotidiano en el
pasado el único medio para restituir la lentitud de los días y el sabor de
las cosas? ¿Y en esas biografías anónimas el medio para entender que
no es masivamente que se confían las masas? ¿Cómo no leer, en esas
burbujas de pasado que nos llegan a través de tantos estudios de micro
historia, la voluntad de igualar la historia que reconstruin1os con la
historia que vivimos? Memoria-espejo, podría decirse, si los espejos no
reflejaran la historia de lo mismo cuando, por el contrario, lo que busca-
mos descubrir en ellos es la diferencia; y, en el espectáculo de esa dife-
rencia, el repentino fulgor de una identidad perdida. No ya una génesis,
sino el desciframiento de lo que somos a la luz de lo que ya no somos.
Esa alquimia de lo esencial es la que contribuye extrañamente a ha-
cer del ejercicio de la historia, del cual el brutal avance hacia el futuro
debería tender a eximirnos, el depositario de los secretos del presente. No
tanto la historia, además, sino el historiador. por quien se cumple la ope-
ración taumatúrgica. Extraño destino el suyo. Su papel era sencillo en
otros tiempos y su lugar estaba inscripto en la sociedad: volverse la pala-
bra del pasado y el pasa fronteras del futuro. En ese sentido, su persona
contaba menos que el servicio que brindaba; de él dependía no ser solo
una transparencia erudita, un vehículo de transmisión, un simple guión
entre la materialidad bruta de la documentación y la inscripción en la
memoria. En último caso, una ausencia obsesionada por la objetividad.
De la desintegración de la historia-memoria emerge un personaje nuevo,
dispuesto a confesar, a diferencia de sus predecesores, el vínculo estre-
cho, íntimo y personal que mantiene con su tema. Mejor aún, a procla-
marlo, profundizarlo, hacer de él no un obstáculo sino el impulsor de su
comprensión. Porque ese tema le debe todo a su subjetividad, su creación
y su recreación. Es él el instrumento del metabolismo, que da sentido y
vida a lo que, en sí mismo y sin él, no tendría ni sentido ni vida. Ima-
ginemos una sociedad enteramente absorbida por el sentimiento de su
propia historicidad; se vería en la imposibilidad de generar historiadores.
Viviendo por entero bajo el signo del futuro, se limitaría a procedimientos
de registro automático de sí misma y se conformaría con máquinas para
auto-contabilizarse, remitiendo a un futuro indefinido la tarea de com-
prenderse a sí misma. Nuestra sociedad, en cambio, ciertamente arran-
cada a su memoria por la amplitud de sus cambios, pero por ello mismo
más obsesionada por comprenderse históricamente, está condenada a
convertir al historiador en un personaje cada vez más central, pues en él
se opera lo que ella querría y de lo cual ya no puede prescindir: el histo-
riador es aquel que impide que la historia no sea más que historia.
Y del mismo modo que debemos a la distancia panorámica el primer
plano y a la extrañeza definitiva una hiper-veracidad artificial del pa-
32
Entre memoria e historia
sado, el cambio del modo de percepción vuelve a llevar al historiador a
los objetos tradicionales de los cuales se había apartado, los referentes
usuales de nuestra memoria nacional. Y entonces vuelve al umbral de
su casa natal, la vieja casa deshabitada, irreconocible. Con los mismos
muebles de la familia pero bajo otra mirada. Delante del mismo taller,
pero para otro trabajo. En la misma obra, pero para actuar en otro pa-
pel. Inevitablemente entrada la historiografía en su era epistemológica,
definitivamente concluida la era de la identidad, inevitablemente atra-
pada la memoria por la historia, ya no es un hon1bre-memoria sino. en
su propia persona, un lugar de memoria.
3. Los lugares de memoria, otra historia
Los lugares de memoria pertenecen a dos reinos, es lo que les confie-
re interés, pero también complejidad: simples y ambiguos, naturales y
artificiales, abiertos inmediatamente a la experiencia más sensible y. al
tnismo tiempo, fruto de la elaboración más abstracta.
lugares, efectivamente, en los tres sentidos de la palabra,,_ ma-
teria_J., simbólico y funcional, pero simultáneamente en grados diversos.
fncluso un lugar de apariencia puramente material, como un depósito
de archivos, solo es lugar de memoria si la imaginación le confiere un
aura simbólica. Un lugar puramente funcional, como un libro didácti-
co, un testamento, una asociación de ex combatientes solo entra en la
categoría si es objeto de un ritual. Un minuto de silencio, que parece
el ejemplo extremo de una significación simbólica, es a la vez el recorte
material de una unidad temporal y sirve, periódicamente, para una con-
vocatoria concentrada del recuerdo. Los tres aspectos siempre coexis-
ten. ¿Es acaso un lugar de memoria tan abstracto como la noción de ge-
neración? Esta es material por su contenido demográfico; funcional por
hipótesis, dado que asegura a la vez la cristalización del recuerdo y su
transmisión; pero simbólica por definición, pues caracteriza mediante
un acontecimiento o experiencia vividos por un pequeño número a una
mayoría que no participó de ellos.
Lo que los constituye es un juego de la memoria y de la historia,
una interacción de dos factores que desemboca en una
nación recíproca. Al principio, tiene que haber voluntad de memoria. Si
se abandonara el principio de esa prioridad, se derivaría rápidamente
de una definición restringida, la más rica en potencialidades, hacia una
definición posible, pero blanda, que admitiría en esa categoría a cual-
quier objeto Virtualmente digno de recuerdo. Un poco como las reglas
correctas de la crítica histórica de antes, que diferenciaban conveniente-
mente las «fuentes directas», es decir las que una sociedad ha producido
33
Pierre Nora en Les lieux de mémoire
voluntariamente para ser reproducidas como tales -una ley, una obra
de arte por ejemplo-- y la masa indefinida de las «fuentes indirectas», es
decir todos los testimonios que dejó la época sin pensar en su utilización
futura por parte de los historiadores. Basta que falte esa intención de
memoria y los lugares de memoria son lugares de historia.
En cambio, queda claro que si la historia, el tiempo, el cambio no
intervinieran, habría que conformarse con un simple historial de los me-
moriales. Lugares entonces, pero lugares mixtos, híbridos y mutantes,
íntimamente tramados de vida y de muerte, de tiempo y de eternidad, en
una espiral de lo colectivo y lo índividual, lo prosaico y lo sagrado, lo in-
mutable y lo móvil. Anillos de Moebius anudados sobre sí mismos. Pues,
si bien es cierto que la razón de ser fundamental de un lugar de memo-
ria es detener el tiempo, bloquear el trabajo del olvido, fijar un estado de
cosas, inmortalizar la muerte, materializar lo inmaterial para -el oro es
la única memoria del dinero--- encerrar el máximo de sentidos en el mí-
nimo de signos, está claro, y es lo que los vuelve apasionantes, que los
lugares de memoria no viven sino por su aptitud para la metamorfosis,
en el incesante resurgimiento de sus significaciones y la arborescencia
imprevisible de sus ramificaciones.
Dos ejemplos, en dos registros diferentes. El calendario revolucionario:
lugar de memoria por excelencia dado que, en su calidad de calendario,
debía brindar a priori los marcos de toda memoria posible y, en tanto
revolucionario, se proponía, por su nomenclatura y su simbólica, <<abrir
un nuevo libro para la historia>> como dice ambiciosamente su principal
organizador, «devolver enteramente a los franceses a sí mismos>>, según
otro de sus autores. Y, con ese fin, detener la historia en el momento de
la Revolución indexando el futuro en días, meses, siglos y años a partir
del conjunto de representaciones gráficas de la epopeya revolucionarla.
iMéritos más que suficientes! Lo que para nosotros, sin embargo, lo cons-
tituye aún más en lugar de memoria es su fracaso en transformarse en
lo que habían querido sus fundadores. En efecto, si hoy viviéramos a su
ritmo, se nos habría vuelto tan familiar, como el calendario gregoriano,
que habría perdido su virtud de lugar de memoria. Se habría fundido
en nuestro paisaje memorial y solo serviría para contabilizar todos los
otros lugares de memoria imaginables. Pero su fracaso no es definitivo:
surgen de él fechas clave, acontecimientos asociados a él para siempre,
vendimiario, termidor, brumario. Y los motivos del lugar de memoria se
vuelven sobre sí mismos, se duplican en espejos deforrnantes que son su
verdad. Ningún lugar de memoria escapa a esos arabescos fundadores.
Tomemos ahora el caso del famoso Tour de la France par deux en-
jants: lugar de memoria igualmente indiscutible pues, al igual que el
<<Petit Lavisse>>, formó la memoria de millones de jóvenes franceses en los
tiempos en que un Ministro de Instrucción Pública podía extraer el reloj
de su bolsillo para declarar por la mañana a las ocho y cinco: «Todos
34
Entre memoria e historia
nuestros niños están en los Alpes». Lugar de memoria también, por ser
inventario de lo que hay que saber de Francia, relato identificatorio y via-
je iniciático. Pero resulta que las cosas se complican: una lectura atenta
muestra en seguida que, desde su aparición en 1877, Le Tour estereoti-
pia una Francia que ya no existe y que en ese año del 16 de mayo que ve
la consolidación de la república, logra su seducción por un sutil encanta-
miento del pasado. Libro para niños cuya seducción viene en parte, como
sucede a menudo, de la memoria de los adultos. Eso es lo que está hacia
atrás de la memoria, ¿y hacia adelante? Treinta y cinco años después de
su publicación, cuando la obra reina todavía en vísperas de la guerra, es
leída ciertamente como recordatorio, tradición ya nostálgica: como prue-
ba de ello, pese a su rediseño y puesta a punto, la vieja edición parece
venderse mejor que la primera. Luego el libro escasea, solo se emplea
en los medios residuales, en el medio del campo; se lo olvida. Le Tour
de la France se convierte poco a poco en una rareza, tesoro de desván o
documento para los historiadores. Deja la memoria colectiva para entrar
en la memoria histórica, luego en la memoria pedagógica. Para su cente-
nario, en 1977, en el momento en que Le Cheval d'orgueilllega al millón
de ejemplares y la Francia giscardiana e industrial, ya afectada por la
crisis económica, descubre su memoria oral y sus raíces campesinas,
se lo reimprime y Le Tour entra nuevamente en la memoria colectiva, no
la misma, esperando nuevos olvidos y nuevas reencarnaciones. ¿Qué es
lo que consagra a esta estrella de los lugares de memoria: su intención
inicial o el retorno sin fin de los ciclos de su memoria? Evidentemente
ambos: todos los lugares de memoria son objetos en abyme.
Es incluso ese principio de doble pertenencia lo que permite operar, en la
multiplicidad indefinida de los lugares, una jerarquía, una delimitación
de su campo, un repertorio de sus variedades.
Efectivamente, si bien pueden verse claramente las grandes categoría&
de objetos que pertenecen al género -todo lo que corresponde al culto a
los muertos, lo relacionado con el patrimonio, todo lo que administra la
presencia del pasado en el presente-, también ---es-··c¡ertü": sin embaigü,
qUé- algunos, que no entran en la estricta definición, pueden pretender
hacerlo e, inversamente, muchos e incluso la mayoría de los que lo inte-
gran por principio, en realidad deben quedar fuera. Lo que constituye a
ciertos sitios prehistóricos, geográficos o arqueológicos en lugares, o aun
en lugares consagrados, es a menudo aquello que, precisamente, debería
prohibírselo, la ausencia absoluta de voluntad de memoria, compensada
por el peso contundente que en ellos depositaron el tiempo, la ciencia, el
sueño y la memoria de los hombres. En cambio, cualquier límite o línea
divisoria territorial no tiene la misma significación que el Rin, o el «Finís-
terre>>, ese <<fin de las tierraS>> al cual las páginas de Michelet, por ejemplo,
35
Pierre Nora en Les lieux de mémoire
le dieron sus títulos de nobleza. Cualquier constitución, cualquier tratado
diplomático son lugares de memoria, pero la Constitución de 1793 no tie-
ne el mismo peso que la de 1791 , con la Declaración de los derechos del
hombre; lugar de memoria fundador; y la paz de Nimegue tampoco tiene
la misma "gravitación que, en los dos extremos de la historia de Europa, el
reparto de Verdún y la conferencia de Yalta.
En la mezcla, es la memoria la que dicta y la historia la que escribe.
Es por eso que hay dos áreas que merecen que nos detengamos, los
acontecimientos y los libros de historia, porque, al no ser mixtos de
memoria e historia sino los instrumentos por excelencia de la memoria
en historia, permiten delimitar claramente el terreno. ¿Toda gran obra
histórica y el género histórico en sí mismo no son acaso una forma de
lugar de memoria? Ambas preguntas requieren una respuesta precisa.
De los libros de historia, solo son lugares de memoria los que se basan
sobre una rectificación mismo de la memoria o constituyen sus breviarios
pedagógicos. Los grandes momentos de fijación de una nueva memoria his-
tórica no son tan numerosos en Francia. Las Grandes Chroniques de Fran-
ce son las que, en el siglo x:m, condensan la memoria dinástica y establecen
el modelo de varios siglos de trabajo historiográfico. Es la escuela llamada
da historia perfecta>> la que en el siglo XVI, durante las guerras de religión,
destruye la leyenda de los orígenes troyanos de la monarquía y restablece
la antigüedad gala: por la modernidad de su título, Les Recherches de la
France de Etienne Pasquier ( 1599) constituyen un ejemplo emblemático.
Es la historiografía de finales de la Restauración la que introduce brusca-
mente el concepto moderno de la historia: las Lettres sur l'histoire de Fran-
ce de Augustin Thierry (1820) son su comienzo de juego y su publicación
definitiva en forma de volumen en 1827 casi coincide por pocos meses
con el verdadero primer libro de un ilustre principiante, el Précis d'histoire
moderne de Michelet, y los inicios del curso de Guizot sobre <<la historia de
la civilización de Europa y de Francia>>. Es, finalmente, la historia nacional
positivista, cuyo manifiesto sería la Revue historique (1876) y cuyo monu-
mento es la Histoire de France de Lavisse en veintisiete volúmenes. Lo mis-
mo ocurre con las Memorias que, justamente debido a su nombre, podrían
parecer lugares de memoria; lo mismo con autobiografias o diarios íntimos.
Las Mémoires d'outre-tombe, la Vie de Henry Brulard o el Joumal d'Amiel
son lugares de memoria, no porque sean mejores o más notables, sino
porque complican el simple ejercicio de la memoria con un juego de interro-
gación sobre la memoria misma. Lo mismo se puede decir de las Memorias
de hombres de Estado. De Sully a De Gaulle, del Testament de Richelieu
al Mémorial de Sainte-Héléne y al Joumal de Poincaré, independientemente
del valor desigual de los textos, el género tiene sus constantes y sus especi-
ficidades: implica un saber de las otras Memorias, un desdoblamiento del
hombre de pluma y el hombre de acción, la identificación de un discurso
individual con un discurso colectivo y la inserción de una razón particular
36
Entre memoria e historia
en una razón de Estado: todos motivos que obligan, en un ·panorama de la
memoria nacional, a considerarlos como lugares.
¿Y los «grandes acontecimientoS>>? Del conjunto, solo lo son los pertene-
cientes a dos clases, que no dependen para nada de su grandeza. Por un
lado, los acontecimientos a veces ínfimos, apenas advertidos en el momen-
to, pero a los que el futuro, por contraste, les confirió retrospectivamente
la grandeza de los orígenes, la solemnidad de las rupturas inaugurales.
Y, por otro, los acontecimientos en que se puede decir que no pasa nada,
pero quedan inmediatamente cargados de un sentido fuertemente simbó-
lico y son en sí mismos, en el instante de su desarrollo, su propia conme-
moración anticipada, pues la historia contemporánea multiplica todos los
días, a través de los medios de comunicación, intentos fallidos. Por una
parte, por ejemplo, la elección de Hugo Capeta, incidente carente de brillo
pero al cual una posteridad de diez siglos culminada en el cadalso le dio
un peso que no tenía en su origen. Por otra, el vagón de Rethondes, el
apretón de manos de Montoire o el recorrido por los Champs-Élysées en la
Liberación. El acontecimiento fundador o el acontecimiento espectáculo.
Pero en ningún caso el acontecimiento mismo; admitirlo en la noción sería
negar su especificidad. Por el contrario, es su exclusión la que lo delimita:
la memoria se aferra a lugares como la historia a acontecimientos.
Nada impide, en cambio, en el interior del campo, imaginar todas las
distribuciones posibles y todas las clasificaciones que se imponen. Desde
los lugares más naturales, ofrecidos por la experiencia concreta, como los
cementerios, museos y aniversarios, a los lugares más intelectualmente
elaborados, de los cuales no nos privaremos; no solo la noción de genera-
ción, ya mencionada, de linaje, de «región-memoria>>, sino la de <<repartos»,
sobre las cuales se basan todas las percepciones del espacio francés, o la
de <<paisaje como pintura>>, inmediatamente inteligible si se piensa, en par-
ticular, en Corot o la Sainte-Victoire de Cézanne. Si se acentúa el aspecto
material de los lugares, ellos mismos se disponen según un amplio degra-
dé. Primero están los portátiles, y no son los menos importantes puesto
que el pueblo de la memoria da el ejemplo supremo con las Tablas de la
ley; están los topográficos, que todo lo deben a su ubicación precisa y a
su arraigamiento en el suelo: eso ocurre con todos los lugares turísticos, \
como la Biblioteca nacional, tan ligada al Hotel Mazarin como los Archivos i
nacionales al Hotel Soubise. Están los lugares monumentales, que no de- ,1
ben confundirse con los lugares arquitectónicos. Los primeros, estatuas i
o monumentos a los muertos, adquieren su significación de su existencia'
intrínseca; aun cuando su ubicación no es indiferente, una ubicación dife-
rente encontraría significación sin alterar la de ellos. No sucede lo mismo
con los conjuntos construidos por el tiempo y que cobran significación por
las complejas relaciones entre sus elementos: espejos del mundo o de una
época, como la catedral de Chartres o el palacio de Versalles.
Si en cambio se tiene en cuenta la dominante funcional, se desplega-
37
 Pierre Nora en Les 'tieux de mérñoire
rá el abanico desde los lugares claramente destinados al mantenimiento
de una experiencia intransmisible y que desaparecen con quienes la
vivieron, como las asociaciones de ex combatientes, hasta aquellos cuya
\razón de ser, también pasajera, es de orden pedagógico, como los libros
lde texto, los diccionarios, los testamentos o los «libros de familia» que
en el período clásico redactaban los jefes de familia para sus descen-
1
dientes. Por último, si se es sensible al componente simbólico, están por
,' ) ejemplo los lugares. y los lugares dominados. primeros ,
¡ espectaculares y tnunfantes, unponentes y generalmente Impuestos ya
sea por una autoridad nacional o por un cuerpo constituido, pero siem-
pre desde arriba, tienen a menudo la frialdad o la solemnidad de las
ceremonias oficiales. Lo que se hace es acudir a ellos más que ir. Los
segundos son los lugares refugio, el santuario de las fidelidades espon-
táneas y de los peregrinajes del silencio. Es el corazón viviente de la me-
moria. Por un lado, el Sacré-Creur, por el otro, el peregrinaje a Lourdes;
\ por un lado , los funerales nacionales de Paul Valéry, por otro el entierro
'de Jean-Paul Sartre; por un lado, la ceremonia fúnebre de De Gaulle en
,' Notre-Dame, por otro, el cementerio de Colombey.
Se podrían refinar hasta el infinito las clasificaciones. Oponer los lu-
gares públicos a los privados, los lugares de memoria pura, que se agotan
tdtalmente en su función conmemorativa -como los elogios fúnebres ,
Douaumont o el muro de los Federados-, a aquellos cuya dimens ión
de memoria es solo una entre s us múltiples significaciones simbólicas,
bandera nacional, circuito de fiesta, peregrinajes, etcétera. El interés
de este esbozo de una tipología no está en su rigor o exhaus tividad.
Tampoco en su riqueza evocadora. Sino en el hecho de que sea pos ible.
Muestra que un hilo invisible une objetos sin relación evidente, y que la
reunión al mismo nivel del Pere-Lachaise y de la Estadística general de
Francia no es el encuentro surrealista del paraguas y la plancha. Hay
una red articulada de esas identidades diferentes, una organización in-
consciente de la memoria colectiva que debemos tornar consciente de sí
misma. Los lugares son nuestro momento de la historia nacional.
Un rasgo simple pero decisivo los coloca radicalmente aparte de todos
los tipos de historia a los que, antiguos o modernos, estamos acostum-
brados. Todos los enfoques históricos y científicos de la memoria, ya se
hayan dirigido a la de la nación o a la de las mentalidades sociales, traba-
jaban con reaLia , con las cosas mismas, cuya realidad se esforzaban por
captar en vivo. A diferencia de todos los objetos de la historia, los lugares
de memoria no tienen referentes en la realidad. O más bien, son s u s pro-
pios referentes, signos que solo remiten a sí mismos, signos en estado
puro. No es que no tengan contenido, presencia fisica o historia, p or el
contrario. Pero lo que los hace lugares de memoria es aquello por lo cual,
38
Ent re memoria e historia
precisamente, escapan a la his toria . Templum: recorte en lo indetermina-
do de lo profano -espacio o tiempo, espacio y tiempo- de un círculo en
cuyo interior todo cuenta, todo simboliza, todo significa. En ese sentido ,
el lugar de memoria es un lugar doble; un lugar de exceso cerrado sobre sí
mismo, cerrado sobre s u identidad y concentrado sobre su nombre, pero
constantemente abierto sobre la extensión de sus s ignificaciones.
Es lo que hace que su historia s ea la más trivial y la menos común.
Tema s obvios, el m a terial más clásico, fuentes al alcance de la mano, los
métodos menos sofisticados. Pareciera que volvimos a la h istoria de ante-
ayer. Pero se trata de algo muy diferente. Esos objetos no son aprensibles
s ino en s u empiricidad más inmediata, pero el tema clave está en otro
lado, incapaz de expresarse en las categorías de la his toria tradicional.
Crítica histórica transformada enteramente en historia crítica, y no solo
de su s propios instrumentos de trabajo. Des pertada de su propio sueño
para vivirse en s egundo grado. Historia puramente transferencia! que, al
igual que la guerra, es un arte de pura ejecu ción, hecho de la frágil felici-
dad de la relación con el objeto vigorizado y del comprom iso desigual del
historiador con su tema. Una historia que solo se basa, al fin de cuentas,
sobre a quello que moviliza, un vínculo tenue, impalpable, apenas deci-
ble, aquello que permanece en n osotros como inarraigable apego carnal a
esos s ímbolos sin embargo marchitos. Reviviscencia de una historia a la
Michelet, que hace pensar inevitablemente en ese des per tar del duelo del
amor del que tan bien habló Proust, ese momento en que la dominación
obsesiva de la pasión por fin cede, pero en que la verdadera tristeza está
en no s ufrir más por lo que tanto se ha sufrido y que ya no se comprende
más que con la cabeza y no con la sinrazón del corazón. ._
Referencia bien literaria. ¿Hay que lamentarla o por el con trario, jiis--
tificarla plenamente? La época la justifica. En efecto, la memoria solo ha
conocido dos formas de legitimidad: histórica o literaria. Además, ambas
se han ejercido paralelamente pero, hasta nuestros días ,: en forma sepa-
rada. Hoy la frontera se borra, y sobre la muerte ca s i siiriultánea de la
historia-memoria y de la m emoria-ficción, nace un tipo de historia que
debe a su nueva relación con el pasado, otro pasado, su prestigio y su
legitimidad. La historia es nuestro imaginario sustitt;t.to. Renacirriiento
de la novela histórica, boga del documento personalizi¡ld o, revitalización
literaria del drama histórico, éxito del relato de historia oral, ¿cómo se
explicarían sino como el relevo d e la ficción debilitada? El interés por los
lugares en el que se afirma, se condensa y se expresa el capital agot ado
d e nuestra memoria colectiva obedece a esa sensibilidad. Historia. pro-
fundidad d e una ép oca arrancada a s u profundidad, novela verdadera
de una época sin verdadera novela. Memoria, promovida_ahc:entro de lá
historia: es el duelo resplandeciente de la literatura. · ' ., ·
 INTRODUCTION

As the Holocaust passes out of living memory, there is a new urgency to

formulate ways in which its narratives may yet be encountered and attended
to. This book turns to landscape to offer one possible solution. Three case
studies are explored: the Buchenwald Concentration Camp Memorial near
Weimar, Germany; the Babi Yar Ravine in Kiev, Ukraine, where a mass grave
holds the remains of victims of an Einsatzgruppen massacre; and the site
of the mass grave and razed village of Lidice, in the Czech Republic, also
the result of an Einsatzgruppen operation. These landscapes are considered,
initially, as intensely localized and geographically rooted, and in turn as co-
ordinates in larger, often globally constituted networks of commemoration.
Across these landscapes and networks, I suggest, encounters with topogra-
phies of suffering – landscapes formerly inhabited by those from the past
with whom they may attempt to empathize – are significant co-ordinates in
the formation of contemporary Holocaust cultural memory.
Why landscape? The complexity and significance of the relationship be-
tween the violence of war and the physical environment has been established
(Russell and Tucker 2004; Russell 2001; Closmann 2009), as has the nota-
ble impact of military processes on landscape features; militarization ‘oper-
ates through landscape which it changes or maintains, in both a physical
and cultural sense’ (Coates, Cole and Pearson 2010: 3). The fundamentally
geographical nature of many of the events of the Holocaust in particular has
furthermore been recognized (Cole et al. 2009), as has the idea that ‘narra-
tive of extermination’ of the concentration camp is best expressed in geo-
graphical terms (Koonz 1994: 258–80). The ‘Nazis’ appropriation of the trope
of landscape in their genocidal redefinitions of nation, home and Heimat’
(Baer 2002: 77), and their practical harnessing of topography in processes
of mass killing and burial, affected the way victims experienced the Holo-
caust as it happened. Furthermore, the Holocaust demands a positioning
of the self in relation to this history (Baer 2002: 68–69). I suggest that the
2 TOPOGRAPHIES OF SUFFERING

examples of Holocaust landscapes discussed in this book provoke within the

viewer what Mitch Rose and John Wylie (2006: 477) have called ‘the tension
of regarding at a distance that which enables one to see’. This tension is an
issue for everyone who encounters these commemorative places with what
Amy Hungerford (2003: 105) has described as an ‘intense concern’ for the
victims of the past.
Landscape invites scholarship from many different disciplines across the
social and natural sciences and humanities (see Thompson 2009: 7). For the
purposes of this investigation into contemporary encounters with Holocaust
history, approaches from two of these disciplines are particularly significant:
cultural memory and cultural geography. As will become clear, there is a no-
table confluence in the way scholars from these disciplines have approached
‘landscape’ in recent years. Alongside these influences from cultural mem-
ory and geography, this book also draws on elements of ecocritical thinking.
My interrogations of Holocaust literature – from testimony to fiction – pay
particular attention to representations of encounters with the specifically
‘natural’ elements of the landscapes discussed. Ecocritical thinking is fun-
damentally concerned with the nature and representation of the relationship
between human beings and the world they inhabit, and maintains faith in the
potential of universal environmental sensibility.
One might well question the relevance of this environmental sensibility
to a book concerned with Holocaust memory. Genocide scholar Mark Levene
(2004: 440) usefully articulates the justification for this focus when he claims
that ‘[a] world without genocide can only develop in one in which principles
of equity, social justice, environmental stability – and one might add genuine
human kindness – have become the “norm”’ (my emphasis). Indeed Levene
(2010) nominated climate change as ‘the elephant in the room’ of genocide
scholarship. The audience responded with concerns about the intentions
of actors; in the case of genocide, the destruction of people is an explicit
goal. Climate change, even anthropogenic, may have lethal consequences
but, they suggested, it should not be seen in the same light. Yet such a dis-
tinction is compellingly disrupted in Rob Nixon’s (2011: 2) recent discussion
of poverty and activism in the ‘global South’, in which the definition of what
constitutes violence and perpetration is opened up. Nixon promotes aware-
ness of slow, ‘attritional violence that is typically not viewed as violence at all’,
encompassing climate change, deforestation, and the radioactive aftermath
of war. He simultaneously broadens the category of victimhood; his focus
is not necessarily on the targets of genocidal attacks, but on the poor who
have few tools to combat the violence of capitalism, a capitalism that writes
‘land in a bureaucratic, externalising and extraction driven manner that is
often pitilessly instrumental’ (2011: 17). This broadening of what constitutes
violence underscores the comparative frameworks into which the Holocaust
 INTRODUCTION 3

is drawn throughout this study. The victims of slow violence, the poor, are
rendered ‘dispensable citizens’, akin to those who, in Holocaust discourse,
Giorgio Agamben (1995) describes as ‘bare life’; life that does not deserve
to live. Examples of this rendering are visible in each part of this book, both
within and beyond the context of the Holocaust.
The interaction between local, national and global environments fun-
damental to an ecocritical perspective is a central concern throughout this
book, and one of its fundamental organizing principles. Each section begins
with a consideration of a site-based memorial as a geographically specific
space, with due attendance to local and national histories and associated
discourse. I trace ideological heritages and the shaping of memorial topogra-
phies by particular regimes and ‘memorial entrepreneurs’ (see Jordan 2006:
11). With this fundamental platform in place, I move on to consider various
mediations and remediations of each place, with a focus on literary texts. The
final chapters of each part of the book all consider globally dispersed medi-
ations of these sites beyond their original geographical locations. This struc-
ture was in part determined by the sites themselves, which were selected
for the unique ways in which they are all deeply rooted and simultaneously
de-territorialized, but it is also influenced by recent developments in the
disciplines of memory studies and cultural geography which will be explored
briefly in this introduction.
The first chapter on Buchenwald examines the past and present land-
scapes of the camp itself and the surrounding area, which includes the his-
toric city of Weimar and the picturesque, forested, Ettersburg slopes. Tracing
a series of landscape ideologies and redefinitions I harness existing schol-
arship to provide a comprehensive overview of Buchenwald’s journey from
idyllic hunting land to concentration camp memorial. Close attention is then
dedicated, in Chapter 2, to the literary work of Semprun, who experienced
Buchenwald as an inmate from 1943 to 1945. Three of Semprun’s texts, The
Long Voyage [Le Grand Voyage] (1963), What a Beautiful Sunday! [Quel beau
Dimanche!] (1980), and Literature or Life [L’écriture ou la vie] (1994), dis-
cuss his memories of Buchenwald in detail. These texts are ideally suited to
a consideration of process and mediation; he returns to particular moments
over and over again, revising and reimagining his past, laying bare the funda-
mentally metamorphic nature of memory. The chapter exposes the potential
of Semprun’s literature to animate the landscapes of Buchenwald for those
who encounter them. Guided by Semprun, the investigation is grounded in
the specific cultural history of this locale, allowing for an interrogation of the
relationship between humanity and the natural world specific to the German
context. The overall discussion of Semprun’s Buchenwald proposes that a
fundamentally affective form of memory-work may be prompted by encoun-
ters with literature and landscape, and concludes that landscape can and
4 TOPOGRAPHIES OF SUFFERING

will continue to play a role in interpreting atrocious pasts and providing a

platform for ethically driven response.
The final chapter of part one undertakes a transcultural comparison be-
tween the Holocaust and Southern U.S. legacies of racial inequality, based
on analysis of journalist Mark Jacobson’s travel memoir The Lampshade: A
Holocaust Detective Story from Buchenwald to New Orleans (2010). Probing
potential shared ground between very different forms of human and ‘natural’
violence, this chapter traces Jacobson’s journey from a flooded post-Katrina
New Orleans – where a lampshade apparently made from human skin drifts
to the surface in an abandoned house – to the Ettersburg slope and Buch-
enwald, the original home of this particular piece of Nazi iconography. The
resulting narrative, I suggest, calls for a reconsideration of racial boundar-
ies commensurate with emerging discourse on genocide and environmental
disaster.
Part two begins with an exploration of Babi Yar in Kiev, which considers
the atrocity that took place at the ravine, and the landscape of the ravine
itself as a microcosm of the larger topography of the Holocaust in Ukraine.
Commemoration at Babi Yar has been extremely slow to appear and is still
emerging only hesitantly against a backdrop of political and cultural margin-
alization of the Holocaust in Ukraine, particularly in comparison to a recent
official focus on the suffering of the Ukrainian people under Stalin. Both
Hitler’s and Stalin’s campaigns in Ukraine resulted in a similar disruption
of landscape and landscape experience; an increased acknowledgement of
such similarities, I argue, might go some way to countering the marginaliza-
tion of Holocaust memory in Ukraine. Chapter 5 then moves on to focus on
what has become an alternative commemorative medium for Babi Yar itself:
the mediation and remediation of the atrocity in literature. I trace a journey
through text, beginning with a testimonial account of Babi Yar by Ukrainian
survivor Dina Pronicheva. I then track the integration of this account into
Anatoli Kuznetsov’s biography of his life in Kiev as a witness to the German
invasion (Babi Yar: A Document in the Form of a Novel, 1972), and its sub-
sequent mobilization in the fiction of the English writer D.M. Thomas (The
White Hotel, 1981). This literary trajectory was instrumental in creating the
international awareness of the atrocity that prompted the creation of a com-
memorative landscape thousands of miles away on the Colorado plains: the
Babi Yar Memorial Park in Denver, the subject of the final chapter in part two.
Inaugurated in 1982, the park represents the efforts of community groups
in Denver to draw attention to continued marginalization of minority groups
in Soviet territories during the Communist era. Landscaping at the park aims
to highlight certain distinctive geographical features that resonate with the
specific environment of the site in Kiev, including a natural ravine on which
the park is centred and a similar grassland ecosystem. The park is currently
 INTRODUCTION 5

undergoing a process of reorientation. Chapter 6 examines the new design’s

integration of the Holocaust into a nationalized narrative concerning the War
on Terror.
Part three explores commemoration and activism surrounding the at-
tempted annihilation of the Czech village of Lidice. As in the preceding
parts, the investigation begins with the place itself. Chapter 7 thus consid-
ers the significance of the Nazis’ attempt to remove Lidice from history and
memory by re-landscaping the area and covering it with German soil. The
international reaction to this act has had notable results: both places and
people around the world were named ‘Lidice’ in memory of the village, which
was itself rebuilt as a result of a community fundraising project based in
Stoke-on-Trent almost immediately after the end of the war. The new Lidice
is both living space and memorial complex, comprising a museum, one of the
largest commemorative rose gardens in the world, and a large area of open
landscape where the original village stood, and where faint traces of former
structures are visible. I provide an overview of this complex environment,
paying close attention to the particular methods of landscaping that have
been employed there.
Chapter 8 moves on to examine the various textual representations of Lid-
ice that emerged in the years following its destruction. I isolate a tendency
to frame it within a narrative of the disrupted pastoral; a nostalgic vision
which demonstrably resonates with people across many cultures. The final
chapter focuses in particular on inscriptions of Lidice into local contexts
via cosmopolitan memory processes, again demonstrating a variety of trans-
cultural forms of engagement. I finally turn to the mobilization of Lidice in
recent years: the chapter examines two particular cases of town twinning, as
proposals for the Czech village to be officially linked to Khojaly, Azerbaijan
(announced February 2011) and Stoke-on-Trent, UK (planning underway
since September 2010) take shape. In looking closely at the dynamics of
twinning, the final chapter evaluates the potential cosmopolitanism of this
emerging network.
Before embarking on the three journeys that comprise the main part of
this book, this introduction unpacks recent scholarly trajectories on land-
scape and memory, considers ways in which nature and literature may medi-
ate memory, and interrogates the ethical potential of associated encounters
with the Holocaust. I outline a theoretical confluence between cultural
memory and cultural geography, demonstrating landscape’s fundamental role
in shaping memory and experience. Whilst an explosion of work on memori-
als and monuments (see Confino and Fritzsche 2002: 1; Young 1994: 1–16)
has resulted in a climate of ‘memory fatigue’ (Huyssen 2003: 3), refocusing
attention on the larger landscapes which contain these structures and the
processes that shape them may revitalize the study of commemorative spaces
6 TOPOGRAPHIES OF SUFFERING

and the encounters they facilitate. At the nexus of cultural memory and cul-
tural geography lies scholarship on ‘difficult heritage’ (MacDonald 2009; Lo-
gan and Reeves 2009), ‘dark tourism’ (Lennon and Foley 2000; Sharpley and
Stone 2009) and ‘tourists of history’ (Sturken 2007). A plethora of related
work has considered both the experiences of visitors at sites of former atroc-
ities and the challenges faced by those who curate and manage these places.
My own contribution to this body of work will be considered in further detail
later in this introduction.

Lieux to Landscape

Founding texts on cultural memory and cultural geography – the study of

how groups engage with and make sense of the landscapes around them (D.
Atkinson et al. 2005: xiv) – bear significant similarities. By ‘cultural mem-
ory’, I refer to the diverse and ever-expanding body of scholarship which has
developed since a model of collective memory was propounded by French
sociologist Maurice Halbwachs ([1925] 1992 and [1950] 1980). Since Halb-
wachs’s innovation, memory scholars have considered ways in which individ-
ual memories become part of larger social and cultural frameworks, and vice
versa. Halbwachs’s work rendered ‘the boundaries between [the collective
and the individual] permeable’ (Crownshaw 2010: 2), prompting a tendency
to see personal memories as existing in an inevitable dialogue with associ-
ated cultural texts, representations and media. Examinations of the interplay
between memory and varied cultural frameworks, then, fall into the cate-
gory of ‘cultural memory’. Halbwachs (1980: 156–7) implicitly prompts us
to consider memory’s relationship to landscape by affirming the centrality
of space and place to the way people think about the past; his discussion
of ‘implacement’ posits groups and their environments as ‘mutually respon-
sive’ (Browne and Middleton 2011: 40) and essential to stabilizing collective
memory (Halbwachs 1980: 140).
The cultural turn in geography left behind ‘spatial science’ to achieve more
holistic considerations of ‘humanized space’, notably echoing Halbwachs’s
model of implacement. As Todd Samuel Presner (2007: 11) notes, ‘while the
discipline of cultural geography lies primarily outside of literary and cultural
studies, there are a number of significant points of contact … not the least of
which is the idea that culture is spatially constituted’. Early cultural geogra-
phers frequently conceptualized landscapes as ‘indigenous’ spaces in which
identity and place were organically connected (Wylie 2007: 23), often through
a nostalgic lens which mourned the post–World War II loss of romantic rural
vistas and ways of life (see Hoskins [1954] 1985). This markedly nostalgic
nationalism led to a distinct research focus on remnants that seemed to fix or
 INTRODUCTION 7

embody particular pasts. In memory studies these tendencies can be traced

to Pierre Nora (1989: 7), whose attempt to stay the ‘acceleration of history’
resulted in an exhaustive seven volume essay assemblage of French lieux de
mémoire, including texts and sites from ‘true memorials – monuments to the
dead [to] objects as seemingly different as museums, commemorations, ar-
chives, heraldic devices or emblems’ (Nora 2001: xix). Whilst dealing with a
broader spectrum of social collectives, even Halbwachs (1950: 50) originally
conceived of collective memory as taking place within ‘the theatre’ of his na-
tional society. It is crucial to note, particularly in relation to the first section
of this book on the camp at Buchenwald, that both disciplinary trends have
been traced back to nineteenth century German romanticism, ‘from whence
ideas about the particularity, value, and vitality of certain “cultural groups”
… first emerged’, later to ‘culminate in twentieth-century cultural nation-
alism’ (Wylie 2007: 22). Implied here is a ‘superorganic’ understanding of
culture (Duncan 1980) as existing ‘both above and beyond the participating
members’ of that culture; ‘an entity with a structure, set of processes, and
momentum of its own’ (Zelinsky 1973: 40–1). The analyses in this book are
wary of assuming these ‘naturalized affiliations between subject and object’
(see Campbell 2008: 3) that reify culture, granting it autonomy beyond indi-
vidual or even group human participation and endeavour.
Awareness of landscape’s memorative preservation of ‘the order of things’
(Yates 2001: 17) is implicit in both Halbwachs’s notion of implacement and
Nora’s (1989: 7) crystallization of the ‘history of France through memory’
(2001: xx), a text which assumes that symbols and sites can ‘embody’ mem-
ory. These texts can thus be read as ‘specific representations’ of that memory
(2001: xviii), a logic which set in motion a tendency in others to overlook
the way in which memorial sites are subject to continuous evolution.1 Much
1980s US cultural geography echoed Nora’s notion of embodied memory,
in examinations of ‘repositories of myth, imagination, symbolic value and
cultural meaning’ (Wylie 2007: 44–5). The influential Berkeley School priv-
ileged a focus on the ‘ordered presentation’ of visible objects as they exist in
relation to one another (Sauer 1963: 97–98), extending to material manifes-
tations in landscape, rather than associated processes (Mikesell and Wagner
1962). Reading landscapes as text undeniably results in rich, highly textured
works (see Schama 1995; Iles 2003). However, this turn cast landscape as
an archive from which stable meanings may be retrieved and recuperated. A
similar tendency has been prevalent in discussions of the ‘sites and events’ of
‘dark tourism’ which are often seen as ‘products’ (Lennon and Foley 2000: 3),
a term implying both fixity and homogeneity, and, furthermore, casting the
tourist as consumer. Recent scholarship continues to define sites of ‘difficult
heritage’ as lieux de mémoire (Logan and Reeves 2009: 2), reinforcing a dom-
inant assumption that such places ‘harbour’ memory, and echo Nora’s con-
8 TOPOGRAPHIES OF SUFFERING

nection between site and nation-state (see MacDonald 2009: 2). Certainly
such places have often become visitor attractions because of their perceived
role in the construction – or destruction – of nations and national identity,
but this is by no means the only way in which they are encountered, as
the transculturally grounded explorations in this book demonstrate; for ‘the
meanings of landscape, either historically or for the future, are never simply
there, inherent and voluble’ (Dorrian and Rose 2003: 17). Buchenwald, Babi
Yar and Lidice are, therefore, not read here as representations of memory, but
as co-ordinates in the dialogue that fuels memory’s dynamism and evolution.
Early cultural geographers also generated the understanding that perceiv-
ing the world as landscape (either those we dwell in or travel through) is
itself an objectifying ‘way of seeing’ (Cosgrove and Daniels 1988), drawing
attention to the questionable ethics of landscape traditions. Perhaps rightly,
the landscape mode has frequently been seen to function as a duplicitous
vehicle for transcendent redemption. This possibility is interrogated in my
consideration of the difficult relationship between Buchenwald and the ideo-
logical heritage of nearby Weimar in part one; Semprun positions Johann
Wolfgang von Goethe as a figure who ‘see[s] with landscape’ and in doing so
assumes the privilege and mastery of a detached vision germane to European
elite consciousness (see Cosgrove [1984] 1998: 1).
It should be noted at this stage that the fundamental viability of repre-
sentation in itself is one which haunts discourse surrounding the Holocaust.
The perceived extremity of original victim experience has generated a sense
that it remains ‘unclaimed’ (Caruth 1996: 4) and accordingly cannot find
adequate representation, whether in literature, the visual arts, or in place.2
We are warned that aestheticizing the Holocaust in representation risks re-
deeming it (Adorno 1965: 125–7), even through the act of writing its history
(Friedlander 1993: 61). We are left with the delimitation that ‘neither acts of
remembrance or ethical action’ can ‘provide a sense of what it was like to be
there’ (Bernard-Donals and Glejzer 2001: 2). In this context, it seems that
promoting landscape as a way of seeing, or at least as a platform for encoun-
tering, the Holocaust, risks replicating a perspective which has been linked
to its perpetrators; the object of the gaze – including the human subject – is
evaluated and classified, deemed other and objectified (see Milchman and
Rosenburg 1998: 229–232). Following this logic, Zygmunt Bauman (2000:
92) argues that the modern culture that made the Holocaust possible is a
‘garden culture’: ‘If the Jews are defined as a legitimate problem, if the garden
needs weeding, then there is a surely a “rational” way to proceed’ (Markle
1995: 128). This perspective is explored in my discussion of landscaping
practices at Lidice in section 3, where I suggest that the nationalistic, su-
perorganic bounded nationhood central to Nazi ideology, explicit in Blut und
Boden [blood and soil] rhetoric, must be acknowledged but not reinscribed
 INTRODUCTION 9

as the genocide is remembered and commemorated. Bauman’s gardening

metaphor takes on an uncomfortable literality in Holocaust landscapes,
which were often implicated in genocidal processes, a notion probed in my
discussion of Ukrainian topography in Part 2.
Each case study in this book, then, attends to earlier cross-disciplinary
conceptualizations of landscape and associated ethical concerns. However,
beyond this, I promote a new way of perceiving landscape influenced by more
recent scholarship which has acknowledged that monuments and memorials
are constantly subject to ‘shifting social frameworks’ (Rigney 2008: 94), and
performative and dynamic processes (Rigney 2008: 94; Parr 2008: 1). Un-
derstanding memory as ‘embedded in social networks’, as a set of ‘practices
and interventions’ rather than a textual or representational medium (Confino
and Fritzsche 2002: 5) grounds a turn ‘from “sites” to “dynamics” parallel to
a larger shift of attention within cultural studies from products to processes,
from a focus on discrete cultural artefacts to an interest in the way those ar-
tefacts circulate and interact with their environment’ (Erll and Rigney 2009:
3). Memory is never static, as the texts around which it circulates are contin-
uously involved in processes of mediation and remediation (Erll and Rigney
2009: 1–14). Attention to movement and process led cultural geographer
W.J.T. Mitchell (1994: 1) to proclaim that landscape ‘circulates as a medium
of exchange’, in other words, that landscape itself ‘travels: [is] not just liter-
ally transported, but that values, beliefs and attitudes that work through and
emerge from specific landscape practices and “ways of seeing” can be seen
to migrate through spaces and times’ (Wylie 2007: 122). This book sees both
landscape and memory as created through social processes, evolutionary in
a way that defies the fixity of Nora’s lieux. Landscapes ‘are always in the
process of “becoming,” no longer reified or concretized – inert and there – …
always subject to change, and everywhere implicated in the ongoing formu-
lation of social life’ (Schein 1997: 662). Furthermore, as Dorrian and Rose
(2003: 17) argue, ‘landscapes are always perceived in a particular way at a
particular time. They are mobilized, and in that mobilization may become
productive: productive in relation to a past or to a future, but that relation
is always drawn with regard to the present.’ Such mobilizations are clearly
demonstrated in my discussion of Lidice’s twinning with Khojaly and Stoke,
highlighting the extent to which landscape and memory are fundamentally
realms of the present. Thus, whilst Confino and Fritzsche (2002: 5) take
memory ‘out of the museum and away from the monument’, I return to these
‘sites’ of memory as landscapes; not as places which embody memory, but
as co-ordinates in dialogue with others that produce it. Where ‘site’ implies
stasis (Rigney 2008: 93), ‘landscape’ implies metamorphosis.3 I focus, then,
not only on ‘sites’ as they can be seen to represent political and institutional
agendas, but as experiential frameworks.
10 TOPOGRAPHIES OF SUFFERING

As indicated above, these landscapes are considered both as geographi-

cally rooted territories, determined by specific local national polemics and
co-ordinates in global memory trajectories. In relating Buchenwald to New
Orleans and observing the mobilization of Babi Yar in Denver and Lidice in
Azerbaijan and the United Kingdom, I follow Neil Campbell (2008: 8) in
thinking space ‘rhizomatically’, ‘beyond its function as national unifier’, as
‘unfinished multiple, and ‘open’’ in order to ‘trac[e] divergent, entangled lines
of composition that both interconnect and split apart constantly’. Probing
the way in which memory may appear simultaneously locally determined and
geographically uncontainable, Presner (2007: 12) advocates a focus on how
‘language and the places of encounter … have become deterritorialized and
remapped according to new constellations, figures and sites of contact’. This
cultural-geographical approach fruitfully maps historical events in nexuses,
rather than marked points on a chronological line, allowing ‘a new topology of
concepts and problems to surface’ (Presner 2007: 14). Crucially, rhizomatic
geography is one of ‘becoming’ (Campbell 2008: 34), not ‘arboreal’ rootedness
or completion, a notion explored in relation to Semprun’s testimonial litera-
ture in part one. As I will also propose throughout each section of this book,
such geographies facilitate what Michael Rothberg (2009: 3) calls memory’s
multidirectionality, its subjection ‘to ongoing negotiation, cross-referencing
and borrowing’; each section closes with a consideration of ways in such mul-
tidirectional work is performed in the respective public sphere discussed,
and to whose benefit or detriment.
Similarly, whilst I explore ways in which landscapes have historically
been perceived as organically linked to particular national identities in the
service of both genocide and memory, I am mindful that such perceptions
have all too often led to a focus on ‘roots’ rather than ‘routes’, on ‘dwelling’
rather than travel (Campbell 2008: 4). I therefore embrace Campbell’s ‘mo-
bile genealogy’, ‘a cultural discourse constructed through both national and
transnational mediations, of roots and routes, with its territories defined and
redefined (deterritorialized) from both inside and outside’ (2008: 8). As such,
I place each of my three case study sites in transcultural context. Pioneered
by Wolfgang Welsch (2009) as a methodological premise for literary anal-
ysis, transculturalism moves beyond the kind of intercultural delimitation
fundamental to the lieux de mémoire. Astrid Erll (2011a: 7), echoing other
key thinkers in a move beyond the lieux (see Confino and Fritzsche 2002:
1–24; Rigney 2008: 93–4), has argued that Nora’s binding of nation-state
and ethnicity constitutes an ‘old-fashioned concept of national culture and
its puristic memory’, which refuses the multiethnic, multicultural reality of
contemporary life. A transcultural view allows for this reality, provides a lens
through which we may comprehend ‘the sheer plethora of shared lieux de
mémoire that have emerged through travel, trade, war, and colonialism’ (Erll
 INTRODUCTION 11

2011a: 8). Accordingly Erll (2011a: 11) conceives of transcultural memory

‘as the incessant wandering of carriers, media, contents, forms, and practices
of memory, their continual “travels” and ongoing transformations through
time and space, across social, linguistic and political borders’. Key to the
transcultural turn is the opening up, or transcendence of, national borders,
and a cosmopolitan outlook characterized by a reluctance to lose sight of or
universalize cultural specificities (see Bond and Rapson 2014), an approach
maintained in each section of this book as I navigate between local sites and
transcultural networks.
The transcultural lens facilitates a focus on deterritorialization, a term
which, as noted above, can generally be used to describe the ‘definition and
redefinition of territory’ (Campbell 2008: 8). In introducing the notion of
cosmopolitan memory, Daniel Levy and Natan Sznaider (2006) utilize the
term hyphenated4 to highlight the way in which site-specific atrocities may
become ‘de-territorialized’ from their original locations via related mediatory,
commemorative and social processes. Accordingly, the potential exists for a
variety of memory texts to become more accessible to people from diverse
cultural backgrounds and geographic locations, as new global links place
them at the centre of a dynamic creation of ‘new connections that situate
… political, economic, and social experiences in a new type of supranational
context’ (Levy and Sznaider 2006: 10). The limitations and potential of this
theoretical model will be discussed in relation to the twinning of Lidice with
Stoke-on-Trent and Khojaly in Part 3. Levy and Sznaider’s use of the term
‘de-territorialization’ resonates with its conceptualization by Dorrian and
Rose (2003: 16), who propose the de-territorialization of landscape as ‘up-
rooting it from its location within fixed webs of signification and transporting
it, trailing a set of potentialities which can produce effects in new domains.
This is certainly not an argument for evacuating … the “content” of the term’.
Thus when I suggest the de-territorialization of memory from landscape at
various points in Topographies of Suffering, I similarly maintain that neither
landscapes nor the memories connected with them are necessarily evacu-
ated in the process. As theories of transculturalism, cosmopolitanism and
multidirectionality have developed, the inherently processual, travelling na-
ture of both memory and landscape has come to the fore. Yet as Susannah
Radstone’s (2011) summary of the emergence of transcultural and multi-
directional theories insists, locatedness remains central to the experience,
practice and theory of memory. Thus in drawing attention to the many ways
in which Holocaust memories may travel across Europe and beyond, this
book also recognizes the geographical specificity of their origins in Germany,
Ukraine and the Czech Republic.
The local-global dynamic recognized by the transcultural turn is also fun-
damentally resonant with the ecocritical sensibility maintained throughout
12 TOPOGRAPHIES OF SUFFERING

the analyses offered here. As Lawrence Buell (2005: 12) notes, ‘environ-
mental criticism’s working conception of “environment” has broadened …
to include … the interpenetration of the global by the local’. Ecocritical at-
tachment to the earth functions at these two interconnected levels. That we
feel intensely for the local environments we inhabit and consequently strive
to protect them may lead to a concern for the world in its entirety, for each
local environment is a part of that larger whole. Ecocritical logic is sceptical
towards:
mythographies of national landscape … intensified both by mounting critique
of the perceived ethnocentricity of all such myths and by the increasing aware-
ness that the environmental problems the world now faces ‘are quite unaware
of national and cultural boundaries’ (Claviez 1999: 377). National borders by
no means regularly correspond with ‘natural’ borders (Buell 2005: 81–2).

Accordingly, my discussions of various textual mediations – the work of Sem-

prun, Jacobson, Thomas, Kuznetsov and Millay, amongst others – are under-
taken from a broadly ecocritical perspective.
Concurrent with the embrace of transcultural dynamism, memory studies
scholars have increasingly drawn attention to the processes of mediation and
remediation that keep memory moving. The introduction now moves on to
briefly highlight the potential of the key mediating factors of commemora-
tive dynamism I explore in this book: the shaping of natural processes and
elements by heritage professionals, and literary representations of the land-
scapes in question.

‘Natural’ and Literary Mediation

Within the context of Holocaust memorials, a ‘return to nature’ may seem

conceptually appropriate as a way to lay the victims of industrialized pro-
cesses (see Bartov 1996: 3–4) to rest, yet extended studies of visitor en-
gagement with natural materials in these landscapes are surprisingly rare.
Nonetheless, work on commemorative landscape in general offers some use-
ful insights. The apparent vulnerability, mutability and regenerative capacity
of many ‘natural’ materials renders them powerfully affective, leading John
Dixon Hunt (2001: 16) to argue that landscape will always enjoy ‘a funda-
mental advantage’ over other commemorative forms. Much existing discus-
sion of memory and landscape tends to echo official discourse surrounding
commemorative practice at Holocaust memorials; that is, nature is frequently
designated as a witness to human violence (see Schama 1995: 24). This an-
thropomorphic pre-mediation of nature is clearly illogical – ‘culture perpet-
uates itself though the power of the dead, while nature, as far as we know,
 INTRODUCTION 13

makes no use of this resource except in a strictly organic sense’ (Pogue Har-
rison 2003: ix) – but affective nonetheless. As Elaine Scarry (1985: 288–9)
explains, whilst ‘[t]he naturally existing external world … is wholly ignorant
of the “hurtability” of human beings … [t]he human imagination reconceives
the external world [by] quite literally, “making it” as knowledgeable about
human pain as if it were itself animate and in pain’. Whilst the natural world
‘cannot be sentiently aware of pain’, ‘its design, its structure, is the structure
of a perception’. Thus we grant nature perception, and likewise memory,
for its design, structure and dynamism are akin to those of perception and
memory. Whilst this book pays due attention to the affectivity, I also keep in
mind nature’s intrinsic amorality and its purely organic response to human
violence and death.
To say that natural regeneration consoles us does not rely so completely
on the anthropomorphic logic that grounds an assumption of sympathy, for
we can be consoled by something without any agenda of its own. In this book
the affectivity of regenerative growth is considered alongside the rhetoric of
ruins. Ruins are the remains of deliberately constructed human structures,
worn down by the encroachment of natural elements, but they are not to be
conflated with them; ruins are constantly diminishing, whilst nature ‘grows’.
Yet the two together have affective impact: ‘inert matter is made increasingly
meaningful by its juxtaposition to living forms … we are pleased by the con-
trast between the fixity of the inert and the mutability of its natural frame’
(Stewart 1998: 111–112). This juxtaposition, and the affectivity of natural
regeneration, is considered in detail in relation to Semprun’s mediation of Bu-
chenwald, the work of memorial entrepreneurs at the Babi Yar Park in Denver,
and landscaping practices at Lidice. Michael Roth et al. (1997: 5) argue that
ruins ‘embody the dialectic of nature and artifice’; ruins are often the ‘work’ of
nature. It is often suggested that ruins take us closer to the events of history,5
but in actuality ruins, precisely in their visible dialogue with nature, force
us to realize the unbridgeable gap between the present and the past, a gap
which my own discussions of sites strives to recognize. Charles Merewether
(1997: 25) has argued that ‘ruins collapse temporalities’, when in fact they
may reassert them. Natural materials are central to this reassertion, unique in
their ability to record the passing of time; nature, that which exists both be-
fore us and around us, forces a recognition of the impossibility of collapsing
temporal distance between the past and the present. In fact, nature presents
us with the stark reality of this distance in a way that cannot be avoided or
glossed over in the commemorative environment. Our sentimental anthropo-
morphism may render it affective, but it is in its indifferent growth – its very
lack of agenda – that it situates us in relation to history.
This book also highlights the frequently pastoral sensibility fundamental
to the affectivity of nature at commemorative sites. No longer simply an in-
14 TOPOGRAPHIES OF SUFFERING

vocation of an ‘lived harmony between people and place’ which was only ever
imagined, yearned for rather than lived (Gifford 1999: 31), the term ‘pastoral’
has itself evolved to describe a particular state of mind which reduces the
complex to the simple (Peck 1992: 75). Always-already elegiac, the pastoral
‘takes the form of an isolated moment, a kind of island in time, and one which
gains its meaning and intensity through the tensions it creates with the his-
torical world’ (Lindenberger in Peck 1992: 75; also see Young [1994: 120] on
the ‘unexpected, even unseemly beauty’ of concentration camp landscapes).
In my discussions of the mediation of the memory of landscape in literature
(and film, in Part 3), I demonstrate the way in which Western associations of
rural nature with an ideal past have shaped a range of mediatory texts and pro-
cesses. In such texts, nature, like the ruin, becomes a link to a past to which
we might long to return and avert catastrophe ahead, a spatial and temporal
marker – for natural growth records the passing of time – inherently tied up in
Western cultural consciousness with a sense of belated responsibility (Soper
1995) similar to that which inspires the retrospective creation of memorials.
In a departure from the study of memorial spaces as realms of representa-
tional fixity, then, I pay particular attention throughout this book to ‘natural’
elements of landscape which are constantly in flux: plants, soil, topographi-
cal contours, weather and climate. I also isolate the processes of mediation
that shape the affectivity of these natural forms in memorial landscapes –
processes to which I now turn attention. Perhaps unsurprisingly in light of
the above discussion of nature’s affective potential, despite the increase in
the use of technology in Holocaust museums the ‘natural’ areas of memorial
landscapes continue to capture curatorial and visitor imaginations. Camps
and mass graves were often located away from urban centres, and with the
passing of time they increasingly lend themselves to integration with their
surrounding natural environments. Their management, as several examples
in this book demonstrate, reveals a distinctive curatorial reliance on nature’s
commemorative value, as something that can both sympathize and console.
However, and not unlike its museum counterpart, the memorial landscape
raises ethical issues for curators which warrant an attention that has so far
been largely lacking in scholarship on the subject. Perhaps this is because
theorists assume, as Sarah Farmer (1995: 98) does, that ‘[u]nlike the writer
of a book or the director of a museum, the custodian of a memorial site is
not free to select what to tell and what to leave untold’. This is a suggestion
largely refuted in this book, as I demonstrate the extent to which commemo-
rative curation is also a process of subjective history-writing much the same
as that which occurs within the walls of museums and which similarly medi-
ates visitor experience (see Baruch Stier 2003: 126).
Whilst museum spaces are often subject to intense scrutiny, and even un-
intended echoes of perpetrator ideology are subject to critique (see Crown-
 INTRODUCTION 15

shaw 2010: 208), such rigorous interrogation of representative strategy has

infrequently been applied to the natural landscapes that exist in dialogue
with museal structures. A rare exception can be found in Michael Addis and
Andrew Charlesworth’s (2002) study of Auschwitz and Plaszow, which takes
into account the effect human intervention, or its lack, may have on visitor
experience. In considering the extent to which management practices may
constitute an unwitting parallel with Nazi ideology, they note that ‘[u]niform
lawns are more likely [than meadows] to let us regard the victims as the
authorities did, as “Figuren”, objects, a mass’ (2002: 246). This study re-
minds us that, outside as well as inside, curators are polemically motivated,
and they create meaning as well as simply organizing objects which are in
themselves perceived as meaningful. In doing so they narrativize visitor per-
formance (see Patraka 1999: 122 and Young 1994: vii), a practice considered
in relation to the specific topography of each memorial site in this book.
Finally, as Chris Pearson (2009: 152) argues, ‘[t]he environment as natural
entity’ is frequently overlooked in investigations into the construction of me-
morials and the way they are experienced, as is the way in which ‘memorials
actively engage with their environment and in turn the environment naturally
engages with them’. Inspired by such gaps, this book examines how both
curatorial polemics and environmental factors contribute to contemporary
landscaping of Holocaust memory.
The final mediating co-ordinate I rely on is literature, a representational
form which has been embraced by scholars of memory (see Erll 2011b:
144–71), and, more recently, cultural geography (see Wylie 2007: 206–7),
for whom it ‘brings to the fore the possibility of sharing stories via landscape
experience’ (Lorimer 2006). Landscape writing, in particular, may provide
a way into understanding experiences of ‘mobility, exile, distance and non-
belonging’ (Wylie 2007: 211), ‘to reintroduce … questions of subjectivity
and the self ’ (2007: 213). Attention to landscape is often notable as a com-
ponent of Holocaust writing, not least because victim experiences were fre-
quently diasporic; new landscapes were encountered through deportation
and internment, and subsequent descriptions often foreground testimonial
accounts.
However, as noted previously, all representative forms meet a challenge in
the context of the Holocaust. In the case of literature by original witnesses,
there are undoubtedly problems of translation: how can experiences belong-
ing to the past – experiences which only exist in memory – be effectively
translated into language? This question is particularly central to my discus-
sion of Semprun’s work. The perception that literature is an aestheticizing
form that inevitably transforms experience into linear narrative, and the idea
that personal narratives invite personification (see Lang in Levi and Rothberg
2003: 330 and Hungerford 2003) – also plague discussion of literary repre-
16 TOPOGRAPHIES OF SUFFERING

sentation, concerns which become more explicit and divisive with regard
to literature about the Holocaust created by those who did not experience
it (see Vice 2000: 1; Wiesel in Lewis and Appelfeld 1984: 155). Analyses
of Holocaust literature in this book do not aim to advance the debate over
which genres are appropriate or acceptable, but focus instead on the capacity
of these texts to animate Holocaust in the reader’s imagination; for ‘[w]hat
is remembered of the Holocaust ‘depends … on the texts now giving them
form’ (Young in Levi and Rothberg 2003: 335).
I am, then, less concerned with discrepancies between history, memory
and representation, than with the intricate and intimate relationship be-
tween these co-ordinates. Thus I focus not solely on the texts themselves,
but on their relationship with the imaginative work of memory they may
potentially provoke. As Huyssen (1995: 2–3) reminds us, ‘[r]e-presentation
always comes after … The past is not simply there in memory, but it must
be articulated to become memory.’ Literary mediations of Holocaust memory
by visitors to commemorative sites are therefore examined alongside those
produced by those originally persecuted at them, for the journeys taken by
all inform the way a site can be interpreted and understood. As Kathryn
Jones (2007: 36) suggests, many survivors ‘use the familiarity of the journey
in order to engage with the uninitiated reader’s everyday experience[s]’, and
furthermore that the experiences of travellers to Holocaust sites are struc-
tured by their recollection of related literary material (2007: 60). Thus these
authors ‘contribute to the interactive, dialogical relationship between Ho-
locaust memorial and visitor’ (2007: 61). However, crucially, Jones (2007:
51) concludes her discussion of visitor engagement by underlining the way
in which, at times, metaphors of travel may be ‘evoked solely in order to be
negated’, serving only ‘to underline the irreducible gulf constructed by the
authors between the reality they experienced in the camps and the knowl-
edge of their addressees and readers who did not enter this world’. Thus she
advocates the use of metaphorical associations as a way into accessing the
experience of victims, but not as a way to take ownership of this experience.
The particular form of ‘becoming’ implied in Jones’s descriptions of the pro-
ductive interplay between memorial environments, literature and memory,
and the gulf that is nonetheless maintained between victim and visitor, are
key characteristics of the model of memory proposed in this book.

Encountering Past Others: Visitors and Victims

The notion that landscape experience has played an inherent role in the
acquisition of power recurs in postcolonial discourse (see Tolia-Kelly 2010).
Correspondingly, travel is sometimes seen to be superficial, vicarious and
 INTRODUCTION 17

fundamentally self-serving, ‘a way of having the encounter [with the other]

while keeping it in the realm of otherness and fantasy’ (Clark 1999: 167). A
similar logic casts tourists as consumers (Urry 1990), a notion endorsed by
Lennon and Foley’s model of dark tourism.6 Yet travel should not necessarily
be interpreted as a claim to ownership, either of place or the experience of
others. Susan Sontag (2007: 228) reminds us that ‘[t]o be a traveller … is to
be constantly reminded of the simultaneity of what is going on in the world,
your world and the very different world you have visited … it’s a question of
sympathy … of the limits of the human imagination’. Self-other engagement
may indeed be confined to certain limits, but some sense of limitation – cer-
tainly an avoidance of total identification – is ethically desirable for reasons
which will be discussed shortly.
There are understandable ethical concerns about the integration of sites
of atrocity into tourist itineraries which may potentially normalize atrocious
histories and provide a form of entertainment, concerns exemplified in de-
bates surrounding the inclusion of Auschwitz-Birkenau to ‘stag’ weekend
itineraries in Krakow;7 the seriousness demanded by the concentration camp
sits ill within a category predominantly embedded in concepts of leisure,
pleasure and relaxation. However, binary opposition between touristic states
such as pilgrimage (commonly understood as a sacred endeavour) and lei-
sure (aligned with secularity and comparative profanity) can be disrupted:
‘The notion of leisure contains elements of purposefulness and dedication,
while pilgrimage, the pursuit of the transcendent, also carries with it senses
of travel, excitement and adventure’ (Keil 2005: 480). Furthermore, ‘[m]any
forms of contemporary tourism can be said to be guided by a self-conscious-
ness about the potential superficialities of everyday tourism’ (Sturken 2007:
11). Tourism is too complex to be understood merely as a means to a straight-
forward and predictable end; rather, it ‘instantiates, a hermeneutics … based
on the interpretation of a multiplicity of texts and markers, all oriented to
producing knowledge of Self and Other’’ (Koshar 2000b: 103). Rudy Koshar
follows Michel de Certeau (1988: xiii) in emphasizing the potential of every-
day activities to transgress prescribed limits of meaning, returning autonomy
to consumers; rendering them ‘unrecognised producers, poets of their own
acts’, creators of ‘sentences’ or ‘trajectories’ which, whilst ‘composed with
the vocabularies of established language … trace out the ruses of other in-
terests and desires that are neither determined nor captured by the systems
in which they develop’. This recognition of consumer autonomy is not fully
embraced in studies of dark tourism, but a valuable precedent can be seen in
MacDonald’s (2009: 147) in-depth review of tourism to Nuremburg, which
recognizes audiences as ‘active rather than passive’. MacDonald’s methodol-
ogy also accommodates ‘the gloriously unavoidable nature of human interac-
tion’ (2009: 21). Such unavoidable interactions similarly shape my handling
18 TOPOGRAPHIES OF SUFFERING

of each case study site in this book, an aspect of my own methodology which
is mainly explored in the concluding chapter.
Victims and visitors are capable of forging their own paths through land-
scapes, and mark out trajectories between them, a phenomenon particularly
evident in my discussion of Jacobson’s navigation between Buchenwald and
New Orleans. The terms in which I consider the potential of the sites to
facilitate engagement with difficult pasts is grounded in a phenomenologi-
cal strain of cultural geography (Tilley 1994; D. Abrams 1996; Ingold 2000;
Cloke and Jones 2001; Wylie 2005, 2006) influenced by Maurice Merleau-
Ponty (1962: 303–4): ‘the system of experience is not arrayed before me as
though I were God, it is lived by me from a certain point of view; I am not
the spectator, I am involved’. Leaving behind models of place as ‘decentred
from agency and meaning’ and ‘equivalent to and separate from time’ (Tilley
1994: 9), phenomenological studies of landscape recognize varied modes of
perception, such as smell, hearing, and touch, ‘releas[ing] the visual gaze
from its detention as the accomplice of Cartesian spectatorial epistemology’
(Tilley 1994: 9). Hence the potential of the phenomenological approach in
the context of the Holocaust as understood by Bauman; that is, as an event
resulting from an excess of Cartesian rationalism. This strain of scholarship
sees landscape as a participatory platform, a space of engagement; some-
thing with which we are ‘intertwined’ (Wylie 2007: 152). Ingold (2000: 207)
similarly proposes that a phenomenological approach renders landscape a
space for ‘attentive involvement’, a phrase which places the subject in an
intimate relationship with the world around us without ‘making it’ the same.
Furthermore, whilst pure phenomenology is focused on bodily experience in
the world, the ‘lived immediacy of actual experience’ (Thrift 2008: 6), there
is a cognitive dimension to phenomenological immersion which prompts dis-
cussion, analysis, reflection and theorization of that bodily experience. In
this way, immersion in landscape retains an element of essential reflexivity
which my studies of Buchenwald, Babi Yar and Lidice hope to maintain.
These places are always guided by personal memories, but also ‘replete with
social meanings’ due to the ‘constant process of production and reproduction
through the movement and activities of members of a group’ (Tilley 1994:
16). Thus landscape, like memory, is conceptualized as a production, ‘both
constituted and constitutive’ (Tilley 1994: 17).
Phenomenological cultural geography has also set a precedent in the em-
brace of nonrepresentational perspectives, or in Hayden Lorimer’s (2005:
84) phrasing ‘more-than-representational’ theory:

The focus falls on how life takes shape and gains expression in shared experiences,
everyday routines, fleeting encounters, embodied movements, precognitive trig-
gers, practical skills, affective intensities, enduring urges, unexceptional inter-
 INTRODUCTION 19

actions and sensuous dispositions. [This] offers an escape from the established
academic habit of striving to uncover meanings and values that apparently await
our discovery, interpretation, judgement and ultimate representation.

Influenced by Deleuzian thought, a relational approach to geography has

been increasingly popular since the late 1990s (Wylie 2007: 199). Relational
geography presents ‘a topological picture of the world’ more concerned with
‘networks, connections, flows and mobilities’ (Wylie 2007: 199) than with
the specificities of particular spaces and how they are experienced. In privi-
leging ‘connective properties’ over the traditional geographical denominators
of ‘distance and position’ (Wylie 2007: 204), relational topology presents a
challenge to conventional ways of thinking about landscape. Whilst it can
be argued that in such an approach ‘a certain topographical richness is be-
ing sacrificed for the sake of topological complexity’ (Wylie 2007: 205), it is
worth looking for memory both as it is forged within memorial spaces and
as it creates new ones. Accordingly, whilst each part of this book opens with
a topographical reading of the site in question, topological networks, flows
and mobilities emerge throughout each one, connecting Buchenwald to New
Orleans, Babi Yar to Denver, and Lidice to Stoke-on-Trent, Khojaly and be-
yond. There may be tensions between these spaces, but this can be seen
as contributing to, rather than negating, the discourse that both surrounds
them and constitutes their dynamism.
The cultural geographic model of phenomenology as discussed here has
fruitful implications for the contemplation of the Holocaust and its victims,
if we consider what a phenomenological inhabitation of the past might be.
Clearly such a model implies the breakdown of formerly assumed delimiting
borders between victim and witness, just as landscape might collapse the
divide between the world and the self. Such a breakdown is visible in trauma
theory; according to Dori Laub (in Felman and Laub 1992: 57), for example,
witnesses who view traumatic testimony become not only ‘participants’ but
‘co-owners’ of the experiences described therein, in a troubling conflation
of self and other. This overextension could similarly be seen to characterize
some variations of Marianne Hirsch’s model of ‘postmemory’ (1997). Devel-
oped to describe ‘the second generation response to the trauma of the first’
(2001: 8), postmemory usefully articulates the way memories of events we
have never lived through are both intensely powerful and intensely mediated;
a form of ‘imaginative investment and creation’ (Hirsch 1997: 22), an ‘en-
counter with another, an act of telling and listening … to another’s wound,
recognizable in its intersubjective relation’ (Hirsch 2001: 12). Postmemory’s
potential for reciprocity – for a meaningful encounter between the self of the
present and the other of the past – is appealing. However, this compelling
concept has been overapplied, often without sufficient critical distance, in
20 TOPOGRAPHIES OF SUFFERING

subsequent studies of memory, not least because Hirsch herself places few
limitations upon it;8 indeed she posits postmemory as ‘a space of remem-
brance’ open to those who care enough to inhabit it (1999: 8). As Weiss-
man (2004: 17) has argued, the very idea ‘that a deep personal connection
to the Holocaust is enough to transform its learned history into inherited,
lived memory’ is ‘dubious at best’. According to this logic Alison Landsberg’s
(1997: 82) ‘spaces of transference’ – film or museum spaces which give the
participant ‘a kind of experiential relationship’ that ‘might actually install in
us “symptoms” or prosthetic memories through which we didn’t actually live’
– also raise questions.
Whilst both Hirsch and Landsberg are arguably uncritical of an empa-
thy unconstrained by the limitations of a bounded self, Dominic LaCapra’s
(2001: 102) notion of ‘empathic unsettlement’ provides an approach to sec-
ondary witnessing which avoids the ‘extreme identification’ (LaCapra 2001:
103) implicit in some variations of post- and prosthetic memory. Covering
a number of loosely defined modes of response in which an individual is
significantly affected by exposure to a traumatized other, the empathically
unsettled subject remains aware of the caesura inherent to an ethical self/
other relation. LaCapra (2001: 102) redefines the limits of traumatic trans-
ference, suggesting that, whilst secondary trauma cannot be discounted as
a potential response, ‘it is blatantly obvious that there is a major difference
between the experience of camp inmates or Holocaust survivors and that of
the viewer’.9 Thus he remains keen to restrict the use of the term trauma
to ‘“limit cases” that pass a certain threshold’ (Bennett 2005: 9). Further-
more, LaCapra (2004: 41) recognizes that ‘empathy is an affective relation to
the other recognized as other, while identification involves acting out [their]
problems’. Empathic unsettlement, then, might characterize an onlooker
whose genuine concern for the others of the past leads them to attempt
to imagine others’ past suffering whilst simultaneously acknowledging their
bounded selves. Such a possibility is implied in Derek Dalton’s (2009) ex-
ploration of a visit to Birkenau, in which the author identifies himself with
Amy Hungerford’s model of an onlooker who shows ‘an intense concern with
the subject despite that they are not themselves survivors’ (2009: 188). Re-
assured by evidence of many small acts of performative commemoration,
‘responses … as unique and personal as the thousands of people who visit
Auschwitz Birkenau each year’ (2009: 211) Dalton concludes that whilst ‘[t]
he experience of visiting Auschwitz-Birkenau as a dark tourist must entail an
experiential failure’ (2009: 211), the site nonetheless provides ‘a powerful
backdrop – a type of mise en scène – that helps animate the imagination’.
This is a ‘small paradoxical triumph … worth celebrating … whilst I cannot
‘live [the] loss’ [of victims] … I can pause to imagine their suffering’ (Dal-
ton 2009: 218). Dalton’s ‘out-of-wartime temporality’ (2009: 218) refuses
 INTRODUCTION 21

the extremity of empathic overidentification, and the metamorphosis of the

landscape itself is essential in this realization of difference. His imagination
is also animated through an on-site consideration of relevant literary ma-
terial that was fundamental to his experience at Birkenau, for his visit was
mediated by both ‘the exhibits and sights’ he encountered there and ‘the
memory of … representations that are evoked by being there’ (2009: 118).
The three case studies discussed in this book demonstrate the diversity of
the mediatory co-ordinates that ground our encounters with past suffering,
envisioning how our relations with the others of the past may be founded
upon a fundamentally ethical premise; demonstrating intense concern, yet
avoiding complete identification.
Throughout these case-based explorations, I rely on the notion that visits
to sites of atrocious histories are rooted in complex personal motivations as
well as previous encounters with diverse media, both literary and visual. The
same factors inevitably shape academics who work on these landscapes. In
some cases, as in Dalton’s essay, the resulting work takes into account the
personal experiences of the writer alongside a consideration of theoretical
or conceptual concerns. In turn, this adds to the rich archive of existing
work by survivors, travel writers and even authors of fiction, all of whom con-
tribute to the mediation and remediation of memorial landscapes. As Lucy
Bond (2011: 749) notes, some ‘testimony-criticism’ of this nature risks ‘en-
gendering a conflation of biography and analysis’ to produce ‘a form of the-
ory that draws upon the author’s own experiences as its principle frame of
reference’ (Bond 2011: 749). Critiqued in the particular context of 9/11 lit-
erature, Bond notes that an overemphasis on personal experience risks the
despecification of the event’s larger sociopolitical context. Clearly a similar
risk may be extended to the Holocaust context, but some examples of what
we might call Holocaust testimony-criticism, notably those which avoid the
inclusion of the self within an extended traumatic paradigm,10 are enriched
by the integration of an author’s personal response to the landscapes in ques-
tion (see Bartov 2007; MacDonald 2009). Such authors are most successful
when they maintain a separation between themselves and the others of the
past, focussing reflexively on their encounters as secondary witnesses. Thus
the final challenge, perhaps, of work such as this, must be to situate not
only the self but also myself, in relation to the Holocaust and its landscapes.
Beneath the theoretical models explored in this book lies my own sense of
unsettlement in the face of historical suffering. More explicitly personal co-
das complete each chapter, and this separation of analysis and biographical
recollection is deliberate, for my own experience is but a small part of my
frame of reference. I optimistically maintain that both the specificity of past
suffering and the unique contexts in which it occurred are thrown into relief,
rather than obscured, by my own involvement.
22 TOPOGRAPHIES OF SUFFERING

Notes
1. Nora himself was aware of the necessarily evolutionary nature of memory sites, stat-
ing that their capacity for metamorphosis is central to their existence (1989: 19), but
memory is still seen to be ‘attached’ to such sites.
2. See Elie Wiesel’s commonly cited remark that the Holocaust is ‘[t]he ultimate event,
the ultimate mystery, never to be comprehended or transmitted’ (in Roth and Beren-
baum 1989: 3).
3. As Ann Whiston Spirn argues, ‘dictionaries must be revised, and … older meanings
revived’; ‘[O]lder meanings’ – based on the etymology of ‘scape’ from the Danish skabe
and the German schaffen (‘to shape’) – imply both the association between people and
place which creates landscape and their ‘embeddedness in culture’ (1998: 17).
4. In order to maintain a clear usage, when I discuss ‘de-territorializations’ of memory
from landscape I adopt their spelling. When referring to an attempt to attach a fixed
meaning to a particular landscape, I employ the term ‘territorialization’.
5. Young, for example, remarks on the common habit of ‘mistaking the piece [the arte-
fact or ruin] for the whole, the implied whole for unmediated history’ (1994: 127).
6. In certain contexts this has been illuminating. Marita Sturken (2007), for example,
demonstrates how a culture of fear and paranoia in the wake of specific acts of terror-
ism – the Oklahoma City bombings in 1995 and the destruction of the World Trade
Center in 2001 – resulted in particular consumer behaviours motivated by desire for
security, comfort and the consolidation of specific forms of North American national
identity. This analysis serves to articulate ways in which tourism, memory production
and identity are deeply related, but does not advance understanding of the tourist
beyond existing assumptions about their susceptibility to manipulation by capitalist
systems.
7. For example, the head of the Holocaust Educational Trust Karen Pollock stated that
the advertisement of Auschwitz visits ‘alongside nights of drinking and clubbing’ was
‘entirely inappropriate (NineMSN 2010), and subsequent defence by an associated
tour operator (‘Denzil’, NineMSN 2010). Whether or not one agrees with the inclu-
sion of Auschwitz in such an itinerary, the motivations of and behaviour exhibited by
the tourists in question are undoubtedly worthy of note. Outrage is understandable,
but too frequently results in dismissal, which rarely advances discourse. Whilst ‘[c]
onsensus … leads to invisibility’, ‘[c]ontroversy … may be the most important factor
in keeping memory alive’ (Rigney 2008: 94).
8. Whilst originally a term to describe ‘second-generation memories of cultural or col-
lective traumatic events and experiences’ (1997: 22), Hirsch’s definition of the sec-
ond generation (‘those who grew up dominated by narratives that preceded their
birth, whose own belated stories are evacuated by the stories of the previous gen-
eration shaped by traumatic events that can be neither understood not recreated’)
(1997: 22) – is somewhat loose.
9. The viewer in the context of LaCapra’s discussion is someone exposed to Holocaust
testimony videos, but the principle can arguably be applied to those who contem-
plate the suffering of others in various other mediums.
10. For example the ‘travelling’ of trauma implied by Caruth: ‘In a catastrophic age …
trauma may provide the very link between cultures: not as a simple understanding
of the pasts of others but rather … as our ability to listen through the departures we
have all taken from ourselves’ (1996: 11). The potential of listening through shared
departures is arguably undermined by the overextension of the trauma itself.
PRESENT PASTS

Urban Palimpsests and the Politics ofMemory

Andreas Huyssen

STANFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS

STANFORD, CALIFORNIA
 I Introduction

The Crisis of History

Historical memory today is not what it used to be. It used to mark

the relation of a community or a nation to its past, but the boundary be-
tween past and present used to be stronger and more stable than it appears
to be today. Untold recent and not so recent pasts impinge upon the pre-
sent through modern media of reproduction like photography, film,
recorded music, and the Internet, as well as through the explosion of his-
torical scholarship and an ever more voracious museal culture. The past
has become part of the present in ways simply unimaginable in earlier cen-
turies. As a result, temporal have weakened just as the experi-
ential dimension of space has shrunk as a result of modern means of trans-
portation and communication.
In times not so very long ago, the discourse of history was there to
guarantee the relative stability of the past in its past ness. Traditions, even
though themselves often invented or constructed and always based on se-
lections and exclusions, gave shape to cultural and social life. Built urban
space-replete with monuments and museums, palaces, public spaces, and
government buildings-represented the material traces of the historical
past in the present. But history was also the mise-en-scene of modernity.
One learned from history. That was the assumption. For about two cen-
turies, history in the West was quite successful in its project to anchor the
 2 Introduction

ever more transitory present of modernity and the nation in a multifaceted

but strong narrative of historical time. Memory, on the other hand, was a
topic for the poets and their visions of a golden age or, conversely, for their
tales about the hauntings of a restless past. Literature was of course valued
highly as part of the national heritage constructed to mediate religious,
ethnic, and class conflicts within a nation. But the main concern of the
nineteenth-century nation-states was to mobilize and monumentalize na-
tional and universal pasts so as to legitimize and give meaning to the pre-
sent and to envision the future: culturally, politically, socially. This model
no longer works. Whatever the specific content of the many contemporary
debates about history and memory may be, underlying them is a funda-
mental disturbance not just of the relationship between history as objective
and scientific, and memory as subjective and personal, but of history itself
and its promises. At stake in the current history/memory debate is not only
a disturbance of our notions of the past, but a fundamental crisis in our
imagination of alternative futures.
For it was really the future that captured the imagination of post-
Enlightenment Europe and the United States after independence. In the
wake of the eighteenth-century revolutions and the secular imagination
they unleashed, the spaces of utopia, rather static and confined since
Thomas More, were increasingly temporalized and set in motion, and the
road to utopia became fair game for a worldly historical imagination.
Progress and historical teleologies were embraced across much of the po-
litical spectrum, but this inevitably meant shedding the past. The price
paid for progress was the destruction of past ways of living and being in
the world. There was no liberation without active destruction. And the
destruction of the past brought forgetting. From the beginning, moder-
nity was Janus-faced in its negotiations of cultural memory. The Roman-
tic lament about a world lost under the onslaught of industrialization, ur-
banization, and modernity only goes to show how fast and intense the
transformations toward the future had already become by 1800. The other
side of this loss was what Nietzsche, in his Untimely Meditations, called the
nineteenth century's hypertrophy of history, which he countered with his
seductive call for creative forgetting.
 Introduction 3

The Hypertrophy of Memory

Today, we seem to suffer from a hypertrophy of memory, not history.

It is not always clear what is at stake in this semantic shift, and the intense
recent debates about history vs. memory have only rarely carried us beyond
entrenched professional or political interests. But there is agreement that
the playing field has been radically altered. The question is about whether
the change is for better or for worse, and there seems to be an overriding de-
sire to decide one way or the other.
Of course, memory is one of those elusive topics we all think we have
a handle on. But as soon as we try to define it, it starts slipping and sliding,
eluding attempts to grasp it either culturally, sociologically, or scientifi-
cally. After more than a decade of intense public and academic discussions
of the uses and abuses of memory, many feel that the topic has been ex-
hausted. Memory fatigue has set in. Although I would agree with a certain
sense of excess and saturation in the marketing of memory, I think that the
call simply to move on risks forfeiting what the recent convulsions of
memory discourse have generated. Directed against the culture industry's
exploitation of hot themes and popular topics, the call to forget memory
just reproduces the industry's own fast-paced mechanism of declaring ob-
solescence. And it fails to give us a plausible explanation for the obsession
with memory itself as a significant symptom of our cultural present. The
first essay of this book attempts instead to suggest an historical explanation
of contemporary memory culture and its politics.
Memory used to be associated with canonical traditions or
with the structures of rhetoric that were considered absolutely essential to
make social and cultural memory possible. Since Romanticism and the de-
cline of the rhetorical traditions, memory was increasingly associated with
ideas of experience and its loss. Readers of Wordsworth's PreLude or of
Proust's A La recherche du temps perdu are well versed in the bittersweet
tunes of memory. But neither Wordsworth nor Proust was compelled to
think about memory and forgetting as social and political issues of global
proportions, as we are today. If the Romantics thought that memory
bound us in some deep sense to times past, with melancholia being one of
its liminal manifestations, then today we rather think of memory as a
mode of re-presentation and as belonging ever more to the present. After
all, the act of remembering is always in and of the present, while its refer-
4 Introduction

ent is of the past and thus absent. Inevitably, every act of memory carries
with it a dimension of betrayal, forgetting, and absence. This is what the
epistemological discourse of constructivism, which in its legitimate cri-
tique of the naturalization of tradition and nation often overshoots its
mark, ultimately and correctly implies.
Thinking about memory in this way makes us realize that today's
emphatic interest in memory does have consequences for the past. If the
historical past once used to give coherence and legitimacy to family, com-
munity, nation, and state, in a discourse that Eric Hobsbawm called the
"invention of tradition," then those formerly stable links have weakened
today to the extent that national traditions and historical pasts are increas-
ingly deprived of their geographic and political groundings, which are re-
organized in the processes of cultural globalization. This may mean that
these groundings are written over, erased, and forgotten, as the defenders
of local heritage and national authenticity lament. Or it may mean that
they are being renegotiated in the clash between globalizing forces and new
productions and practices oflocal cultures. The form in which we think of
the past is increasingly memory without borders rather than national his-
tory within borders. Modernity has brought with it a very real compres-
sion of time and space. But in the register of imaginaries, it has also ex-
panded our horizons of time and space beyond the local, the national, and
even the international. In certain ways, then, our contemporary obsessions
with memory in the present may well be an indication that our ways of
thinking and living temporality itself are undergoing a significant shift.
This is what the whole academic debate about history vs. memory is sub-
Iiminallyall about, but one wouldn't know it by listening in. And yet, the
most interesting aspect of the debate is what it may portend for the emer-
gence of a new paradigm of thinking about time and space, history and ge-
ography in the twenty-first century.

Present Pasts and Our Modernity

This book is not interested in taking sides in the battle between his-
torians and memorians. In my dual role as cultural historian and literary
critic, I remain convinced that the explosion of memory discourses at the
end of the twentieth century has added significantly to the ways we un-
derstand histoty and deal with the temporal dimensions of social and cul-
 Introduction

turallife. Issues of memory have become part of public discourse and cul-
turallife in ways rarely achieved by professional historiography alone. The
title essay of this book explores that constellation in both its generative and
. its problematic dimensions.
At the same time, we need to acknowledge that the value of history is
contested today in ways that differ from Nietzsche's critique of the archival
and the monumental. The pressures on the traditional notion of history as
objective and distinct from memory are so manifold today that it would be
hard to weigh them all in their respective validity. The critique ofhistoriog-
raphyas a tool of domination and ideology, forcefully articulated by such
socialist historians of the late nineteenth century as Walter Mehring in Ger-
many, and later by Walter Benjamin in his radical, though overstated, po-
litical critique of all historicism; the post-Nietzschean attacks on linearity,
on causality, and on the myths of origin or telos as articulated in the work
of Foucault, Lyotard, and Derrida; the postcolonial critique of Western his-
tory as fundamentally implicated in an imperialist and racist Western
modernity-these arguments are too well known to bear repeating here in
detail. The attack on the history-modernity linkage has become such an idee
rerue in cettain intellectual circles today that one may well want to come to
the defense of the embattled enterprise of writing history that, to my mind,
remains an essential component of the power of memory discourse itself.
But something else still underlies the current political and conceptual
arguments against historiography. The enlightened notion that one can
learn from history has been so violently disproved both at the social and
the political levels as well as in its experiential dimension that the very le-
gitimacy of the historical enterprise is shaken. Who today can give a con-
fident answer a la Friedrich Schiller to the question to what end one
should study universal history? Although we would probably first want to
question concepts like "universal" and "history" in line with one or the
other of the above-mentioned critiques, we would no doubt continue and
engage the past with gusto. Today's turn against history is very unlike
Henry Ford's infamous "history is bunk." The desire for narratives of the
past, for re-creations, re-readings, re-productions, seems boundless at every
level of our culture. History in a certain canonical form may be delegit-
imized as far as its core pedagogical and philosophical mission is con-
cerned, but the seduction of the archive and its trove of stories of human
achievement and suffering has never been greater.
6 Introduction

But what good is the memory archive? How can it deliver what his-
tory alone no longer seems to be able to offer? We know about the notori-
ous unreliability of memory and the false promises of authenticity it is often
endowed with. The issue today cannot be Nietzsche's creative forgetting,
which would be nothing more than selective memory. Clearly, for Nietz-
sche the "free spirit" was the agent of creative forgetting, but such aristo-
cratic intellectualism is both undesirable and unrealistic at a time when
the threat of socially produced amnesia is just too great to ignore. Nor can
the solution be a simple return to the promises of the future, as they are
again being articulated today in the neoliberal discourse of economic and
technological globalization. Such triumphalism of global flows is nothing
but a form of uncreative forgetting that ignores the history of capitalist
cycles and the crashes of technological utopias. Already the globalization
fantasies of the 1990S have themselves become part of the memory
archive and its cabinet of delusions. It is all the more important that at a
time when an avalanche of memory discourses seems to have overwhelmed
an earlier activist imagination of the future, we actually do remember the
future and try to envision alternatives to the current status quo. It just
will not do to replace the twentieth century's obsessions with the future
with our newly found obsessions with the past. We need both past and
future to articulate our political, social, and cultural dissatisfactions with
the present state of the world. And while the hypertrophy of memory can
lead to self-indulgence, melancholy fixations, and a problematic privileg-
ing of the traumatic dimension of life with no exit in sight, memory dis-
courses are absolutely essential to imagine the future and to regain a
strong temporal and spatial grounding of life and the imagination in a
media and consumer society that increasingly voids temporality and col-
lapses space.

Media of Cultural Memory

The essays of this book, which were written between 1996 and fall
2001 and which appear here in slightly modified or expanded form, at-
tempt to counter such tendencies toward the voiding of time and the col-
lapsing of spatial boundaries. They read specific urban phenomena, art-
works, and literary texts that function as media of critical cultural memory
today. The focus is exclusively on objects and practices in the present. One
 Introduction 7

of the most interesting cultural phenomena of our day is the way in which
memory and temporality have invaded spaces and media that seemed
among the most stable and fixed: cities, monuments, architecture, and
sculpture. After the waning of modernist fantasies about creatio ex nihilo
and of the desire for the purity of new beginnings, we have come to read
cities and buildings as palimpsests of space, monuments as transformable
and transitory, and sculpture as subject to the vicissitudes of time. Of
course, the majority of buildings are not palimpsests at all. As Freud once
remarked, the same space cannot possibly ha ve two different contents. But
an urban imaginary in its temporal reach may well put different things in
one place: memories of what there was before, imagined alternatives to
what there is. The strong marks of present space merge in the imaginary
with traces of the past, erasures, losses, and heterotopias. The center of
Berlin and its reconstruction after unification provide a key example for
the workings of such an imaginary.
Literary texts have never, not even in modernism, been able to deny
their palimpsestic nature, and the philological problem of differing edi-
tions has always distinguished literature from buildings or monuments.
The trope of the palimpsest is inherently literary and tied to writing, but it
can also be fruitfully used to discuss configurations of urban spaces and
their unfolding in time without making architecture and the city simply
into text. Reading the city of Berlin or New York's Times Square as pa-
limpsest does not mean to deny the essential materiality of extant build-
ings. Reading memory traces in the sculpture of Doris Salcedo or in the ar-
chitecturallandscaping project of Buenos Aires's Memory Park does not
transform these objects into just another form of writing. My concern in
all these essays is to respect the fundamental materiality and formal tradi-
tions of the different media of memory I discuss. My focus on reading
palimpsests is not some imperialism of ecriture, a reproach sometimes
voiced against literary criticism after Derrida as well as against certain
forms of deconstructive architecture. It is rather the conviction that liter-
ary techniques of reading historically, intertextually, constructively, and
deconstructively at the same time can be woven into our understanding of
urban spaces as lived spaces that shape collective imaginaries. In a more
pragmatic vein, the urban essays in this book attempt to understand the
fundamental temporality of even those human endeavors that pretend to
transcend time through their material reality and relative durability.
8 Introduction

One other thing remains to be said as I look back on more than a

decade of critical work on memory. My overall choice of topics and mem-
ory media in this book is guided by the conviction that too much of the
contemporary memory discourse focuses on the personal-on testimony,
memoir, subjectivity, traumatic memory-either in poststructuralist psy-
choanalytic perspective or in attempts to shore up a therapeutic popular
sense of the authentic and experiential. If the 19805 were the decade of a
happy postmodern pluralism, the 1990S seemed to be haunted by trauma
as the dark underside of neoliberal triumphalism. The concern with
trauma radiated out from a multinational, ever more ubiquitous Holo-
caust discourse. It was energized, in the United States as in Latin America
or South Africa afrer apartheid, by the intense interest in witness and sur-
vivor testimonies, and it merged with the discourses about AIDS, slavery,
family violence, child abuse, recovered memory syndrome, and so on. The
privileging of trauma formed a thick discursive network with those other
master-signifiers of the 1990S, the abject and the uncanny, all of which
have to do with repression, specters, and a present repetitively haunted by
the past.
Surely, the prevalence of the concern with trauma must be due to the
fact that trauma as a psychic phenomenon is located on the threshold be-
rween remembering and forgetting, seeing and not seeing, transparency
and occlusion, experience and its absence in repetition. But trauma cannot
be the central category in addressing the larger memory discourse. It has
been all too tempting to some to think of trauma as the hidden core of all
memory. Afrer all, both memory and trauma are predicated on the absence
of that which is negotiated in memory or in the traumatic symptom. Both
are marked by instabiliry, transitoriness, and structures of repetition. But
to collapse memory into trauma, I think, would unduly confine our un-
derstanding of memory, marking it too exclusively in terms of pain, suf-
fering, and loss. It would deny human agency and lock us into compulsive
repetition. Memory, whether individual or generational, political or pub-
lic, is always more than only the prison house of the past.
The more serious political question emerges when the psychoanalytic
notion of trauma is simply transferred to the historical arena. We are used
to distinguishing berween personal memory and public memory. But what
happens when we talk about historical trauma? What is at stake when we
consider, as we seem to do ever more frequently, the whole history of the
 Introduction 9

twentieth century under the sign of trauma, with the Holocaust increas-
ingly functioning as the ultimate cipher of traumatic unspeakability or un-
representability? And what if this assessment is then extended-under the
guise of various forms of apocalyptic and anarchic thinking-to the whole
history of enlightenment modernity: modernity as the trauma that victim-
izes the world, that we cannot leave behind, that causes all of our symp-
toms? The newly found popularity of Horkheimer and Adorno's Dialectic
of Enlightenment, the cult status of Benjamin's angel of history, and the
trauma work of Cathy Caruth, Shoshana Felman, and others all raise the
suspicion that we are simply rearticulating Freudian phylogenetic fantasies
in a different, significantly darker key. Ultimately, this is philosophy of
history entering through the back door-not via Hegel or Marx, to be
sure, but via Freud. This approach to history as trauma, I would suggest,
does not help much to understand the political layers of memory discourse
in our time, although it may well represent one of its major articulations.
At the same time, explorations of memory in our world cannot do
without the notion of historical trauma. The focus on trauma is legitimate
where nations or groups of people are trying to come to terms with a his-
tory of violence suffered or violence perpetrated. But the transnational dis-
course of human rights may give us a better handle on such matters than
the transfer of psychoanalysis into the world of politics and history. For it
is precisely the function of public memory discourses to allow individuals
to break out of traumatic repetitions. Human rights activism, truth com-
missions, and juridical proceedings are better methods for dealing with
historical trauma. Another is the creation of objects, artworks, memor.ials,
public spaces of commemoration, as they are discussed in this book. Here
the analysis of how memory and forgetting pervade real public space, the
world of objects, and the urban world we live in becomes crucial. The re-
construction of Berlin as the German capital after unification provides a
perhaps unique case in which this latter dimension has produced a para-
digmatic public memory space, even if many of the architectural and plan-
ning results have left us more than dissatisfied.
Perhaps for that reason, I could not bring myself to exclude more
properly literary readings from this book. Actually, the literary essays on
Spiegelman and Sebald should serve to highlight the difference that per-
tains between reading texts and reading urban space. They also show how
contemporary texts that mix language and image foreground the palimp-
10 Introduction

sestic nature of all writing to great effect and in creatively new ways. Both
are memory texts in the most emphatic sense, working in complex ways on
the issue of history and its represen tation-the history of the Holocaust in
the case of Spiegelman and the history of the saturation bombings of Ger-
man cities in W orld War II in the case of Sebald. Both authors are funda-
mentally concerned with haunted space and spatial imaginaries. Both texts
acknowledge that, contrary to the belief of many historians, representa-
tions of the visible will always show residues and traces of the invisible.
Spiegelman's and Sebald's texts haunt us because they themselves are
haunted. A literature that is both post-mimetic and postmodernist, both
historical and attuned to the erasures of the historical record, partakes in
the force play of remembrance and forgetting, vision and blindness, trans-
parency and opaqueness of the world.
At the same time, we cannot be entirely confident that contemporary
memory discourses and the cultural products they generate will fare better
than traditional history in shaping public debate in the long run. The para-
dox is that memory discourses themselves partake in the detemporalizing
processes that characterize a culture of consumption and obsolescence.
Memory as re-presentation, as making present, is always in danger of col-
lapsing the constitutive tension between past and present, especially when
the imagined past is sucked into the timeless present of the all-pervasive vir-
tual space of consumer culture. Thus we need to discriminate among mem-
ory practices in order to strengthen those that counteract the tendencies in
our culture to foster uncreative forgetting, the bliss of amnesia, and what
the German philosopher Peter Sloterdijk once called "enlightened false
consciousness." I hope that in some small measure this book may con-
tribute to such discrimination. For who wants to end up in the land of the
lotus-eaters enjoying one's own oblivion before the real journey into the
past has even begun, that journey into the past without which there can be
no imagining the future?
 4
War memorials and the mourning
process

The search for the 'meaning' of the Great War began as soon as the war
itself. For some people that search goes on to this day. Visible evidence
of that quest may be found in towns and villages throughout Europe.
There are war memorials in virtually all of them: sculptures, plaques, or
other objects that recall the 1914-18 war and the sacrifices it entailed.
Whom or what do they commemorate? Precisely what about the
Great War do they ask us to remember? There is no single answer to
these questions. Different cultural norms and religious traditions yield
different meanings. First, the visible or stated subject of commemoration
varied as between national communities. In France, a visitor to any
major town or village will encounter a monument aux morts. This
funereal term locates French war memorials within a tradition of
suffering and sacrifice. In Britain and other Anglo-Saxon countries, and
in Germany and Austria, the visitor will soon find his way to the local
war memorial or Kriegerdenkmal. Here the specific subject of remembrance
is at times fixed less precisely; the suggestion is that war memorials
invite us to recall more than the central facts of loss of life and
bereavement in the Great War.
But central facts they remain. While ambiguities of iconography and
ritual are undeniably present in war memorials, and while they
embody and proclaim a host of commemorative messages about war,
they do not obliterate the simple truth that people die in war, and in the
Great War their number was legion. That message may be direct; it
may be indirect or muted; it may be drowned in sentimentality or lies,
but between the lines of noble rhetoric, through the mass of figurative
or sculptural detail, the harsh history of life and death in wartime is
frozen in public monuments throughout Europe and beyond.
Decades after the Great War, what we now see obscurely, or with a
hurried glance, was once visible and arresting to all. In this chapter, I
concentrate on war memorials as foci of the rituals, rhetoric, and
ceremonies of bereavement. This aspect of their significance has not
attracted particular attention from scholars in this field. Most have

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 War memorials and the mourning process

been drawn to war memorials as carriers of political ideas, from

Republicanism1 to nationalism,2 imperialism? fascism,4 Stalinism,s or
the multiple justifications of the call to arms.6 There is as well a
flourishing interest in these objects as public sculpture, and art and
architectural historians have contributed much to our understanding
of their character and form?
From the Acropolis to the Arc de Triomphe, war memorials have
been central to the history of European architecture and public
sculpture. They have been important symbols of national pride. But
however powerful the aesthetic or political message they carried or
attracted, these monuments had another meaning for the generation
that passed through the trauma of the war. That meaning was as much
existential as artistic or political, as much concerned with the facts of
individual loss and bereavement as with art forms or with collective
representations, national aspirations, and destinies.
War memorials were places where people grieved, both individually
and collectively. The ways they did so have never been fully
documented. For anyone living in Europe, these 'documents' are part
of the landscape. To find them one must simply look around. The still
visible signs of this moment of collective bereavement are the objects,
both useful and decorative, both mundane and sacred, placed in
market squares, crossroads, churchyards, and on or near public
buildings after 1914. Some were built during the war, mostly in the
decade following the Armistice. They have a life history, and like other
monuments have both shed meanings and taken on new significance
in subsequent years.
This chapter tells one part of their life history and the life history of
those who built them and visited them, and of some whom they
helped to cope with loss. To understand war memorials is to see more
clearly how communities mourned together during and after the Great
War.
War memorials inhabit three distinctive spaces and periods: first,
scattered over the home front before 1918; second, in postwar churches
and civic sites in the decade following the Armistice; and third, in war
cemeteries. The first category includes many objects of commemoration
which drew on heroic images of war. The second had ecumenical and
conventional patriotic elements, emphasizing at once the universality
of loss and the special features of national political and aesthetic
traditions. These local war memorials arose out of the postwar search
for a language in which to reaffirm the values of the community for
which soldiers had laid down their lives. The third embodies a more
enduring achievement and a more universal language, drawing on
particular traditions but, on occasion, transcending them.

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 Catastrophe and consolation

The Home Front, commemoration and citizenship in

wartime
Preserving the nation at war
After August 1914, commemoration was an act of citizenship. To
remember was to affirm community, to assert its moral character, and to
exclude from it those values, groups, or individuals that placed it under
threat. This form of collective affirmation in wartime identified individuals
and their families with the community at large, understood both in
terms of a localized landscape and a broader and more vaguely defined
national entity under siege or threat.
The first event commemorated was the call to arms. Mass armies
were mobilized in all the major combatant nations without any
significant opposition or obstruction, and monuments were built early
in the war to celebrate this unprecedented response to the call to arms.
Where the prompting of notables stopped, and popular initiatives
began is very difficult to determine. Proud citizens of a working-class
district in the East End of London marked the voluntary enlistment of 65
men in a street of 40 houses in one cul-de-sac by setting up what they
called a 'street shrine'.8 The religious echo was one they chose, possibly
reflecting the strength of Irish Catholicism in the area, but also blending
well with general views of the war as a conflict of the children of light
against the children of darkness. 9 According to the Bishop of London,
the Anglican rector of South Hackney helped to create the shrines,
which were visited by the Queen in 1917.10 In Australia and New
Zealand, celebrating the act of volunteering was also central to
commemoration. The lists engraved in stone during the war of those
who had joined up helped to encourage further enlistment; later lists
formed a permanent and immediate chastisement of those who chose
not to go.ll
As soon became apparent, the war the men of 1914 engaged to fight
was nothing like the war that developed after the Battle of the Marne.
Henceforth, the focus of commemoration shifted away from the
moment of mobilization to the stupendous character of the conflict
itself. One form of such commemoration was the collection and
preservation for posterity of the ephemera of war. This was by and large
a civilian operation, although many soldiers were collectors as well. It
was also a patriotic act, and led (unintentionally at times) to the creation
of what remain to this day the most important public repositories of
artefacts and documents about the war.
In Britain, an officially sponsored Imperial War Museum was formed
in 1917, ironically enough on the grounds of the former 'Bedlam' lunatic
asylum.1 2 It houses many military objects and records, as well as an

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 War memorials and the mourning process

invaluable collection of photographs, manuscripts, books, and works of

art. In France, the initiative was private. What is now known as the
Bibliotheque de documentation internationale contemporaine started
as the repository of wartime records, collected by the Leblanc family in
their apartment in avenue de Malakoff, but intended from the start as a
state museum. In the trench journal Tacatacteufteuf, soldiers on leave
were encouraged to visit the collection, which ultimately was indeed
passed on to the City of Paris, and then the University of Paris, in one of
whose outlying campuses it remains to this day.B The Australians
established a 'War Museum' (now the Australian War Memorial) in
October 1917. Soldiers were invited to submit objects for display. As
Ken Inglis has written, one 'Digger' replied forthrightly:
The COC recently made a request for articles to be sent to the Australian War
Museum, especially those illustrating the terrible weapons that have been used
against the troops in the war. Why not get all the Military Police photographed
for the Museum?14

A more austere parallel is the private initiative of a German

industrialist, Richard Franck, which led to the creation of the Kriegsbib-
liothek (now the Bibliothek fur Zeitgeschichte) in Stuttgart.IS The
Director of the Historical Museum in Frankfurt was responsible for yet
another German collection of documentation and ephemera related to
the Great War.I6 On a smaller scale, the Cambridge University Library,
spurred on by the University Librarian, gathered together a war
collection of printed books and other documentsY Similar efforts
produced war collections in the New York Public Library.
Most of these acts of preservation were intrinsically valuable. They
were the work of civilians, many too old to fight, or with sons in
uniform, and determined to preserve the dignity and honour of their
country's war effort. By their very nature, they both glorified the war
effort and contained, at least initially, little about the appalling character
and costs of trench warfare.
This was in part a function of censorship. But it also reflected some
features of the mystification of warfare, especially in the press, whose
'eye-wash' struck many soldiers as absurd or dangerous. IS Commemor-
ating the war in this ill-informed and blatantly non-combatant manner
took on the air of propaganda, as indeed some intended it to do. Like
most propaganda, it did not dwell on the sadder facets of the war: the
maimed, the deformed, the dead, the widows, the orphans, and the
bereaved.
After the war, the character of such collections was criticized
powerfully by the pacifist activist Ernst Friedrich, who set up an
Anti-war Museum in Berlin in 1924. Its collection of documents and
gruesome photographs showed everything the patriotic collections

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 Catastrophe and consolation

omitted. In displays of savage images of the mayhem caused by war,

Friedrich pointed out graphically the dangerous selectivity of the
patriotic collectors of wartime memorabilia, documents and books.l 9 It
is important to note that even though Friedrich's monument to the
victims of war was more unsparing and (in a sense) more truthful than
the pro-war collections, both arose out of prior political commitments.
Commemoration was a political act; it could not be neutral, and war
memorials carried political messages from the earliest days of the war.

War memorials and popular culture

The mobilization of popular culture on behalf of the nation's war effort
occurred in all combatant countries, and was bound to mark commem-
orative forms. Each nation developed its own language of commemor-
ation, but some features were universal. One was the tendency to locate
the men of 1914-18 in the long history of martial virtue. There is hardly
any difference between the treatment of Marlborough at Blenheim,
Nelson in Trafalgar Square and, a century later, Hindenburg in Berlin,
except that Hindenburg was immortalized in gigantic form while the
war was still going on. The victor of Tannenberg became a towering
figure, whose lofty achievements were symbolized by a three-storey
model placed prominently in the Tiergarten in the heart of Berlin.
The celebration of military or naval commanders was one way in
which to glorify national military traditions. In some countries, though,
a more egalitarian language was used to proclaim the virtues of the
martial spirit. In Australia and New Zealand, generals and admirals did
not bear this symbolic weight; the common soldier or sailor was the link
with the past. 20 In France, both elevated and obscure soldiers celebrated
the Gallic military tradition.
What cities did on a grand scale, individual households could
replicate in a more domestic manner, thanks to the emergence of the
thriving industry of wartime kitsch. Commemorative images were
marketed on a mass scale in the Great War. Iron Hindenburgs were
available in many materials and sizes. 21 As I note in chapter 5, the
French martial tradition was sold in poster form through the thriving
'industry of imagerie d'Epinal.
Whether on the level of national celebration or domestic ornamentation,
each nation adopted its own distinctive commemorative forms. One
excellent example is the German phenomenon of 'iron-nail memorials'.22
These objects decorated sculptures, plaques, and domestic items like
tables, and have (to my knowledge) no equivalent in France or Britain.
We can learn much about them from an instruction book prepared by
two public-spirited Germans early in the war. They were made of
'Ready-for-use materials' and were ideal 'for patriotic undertakings and

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 - ,I
War memorials and the mourning process

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12. The Iron Hindenburg

ceremonies in schools, youth groups and associations'. These objects

were described both as 'war landmarks' and as war memorials, but the
distinction between the two was rarely clear. In each case, the figure or
image to be celebrated or sanctified was outlined or described by a
series of nails. The iron cross was the most popular choice for such

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 Catastrophe and consolation

objects, requiring according to the handbook between 160 and 200 nails
per cross. 23 Among the images they displayed were iron crosses
embellished by the Imperial initial or the date, but other nail memorials
picture the turret or outline of a U-boat, Teutonic floral designs, swords,
and mosaic designs for table tops.
Austrian examples of this form of patriotic art may also be found,24
but it would be a mistake to assume a common Catholic origin. Indeed,
Crucifixion images and motifs were probably more prevalent in
Protestant than in Catholic art, especially in Germany, where Marian
and other saintly iconography proliferated. Furthermore, the culture of
popular nationalism in Imperial Germany was essentially Protestant.
Sedan Day was to some extent an anti-Catholic festival, and the
ambiguous place of Catholics within the state was not resolved before
1914. Iron-cross nail memorials fit in much more closely with Protestant
celebrations of the Prussian military genius and the grandeur of the
Kaiserreich. 25
Ceremonies at which these iron-nail memorials were created or
displayed enabled patriots of whatever faith to show their commitment
to the cause. Some paid for the privilege of nailing by contributing to a
war charity or benevolent organization. Others introd uced schoolchildren
to the nobility of sacrifice in war by the declamation of lofty poetry. We
can get some idea of the deliberate medievalism of this practice by citing
one of these poems:

From whistle of lead, the bloody wound

A warrior falling
A red cross on the white ground
A trusted arm;
Leaning and leading in the heat of battle
A red cross arm
A good bed is made
Warm and comfortable ...26

And so on into a misty, medieval past remote from the ugliness of

industrialized war.
A 24-part ceremony surrounding such poetic affirmations was
outlined for school or other civic use. It was replete with the choreography
of uplifting allegorical Teutonic plays, songs, and noble poetry. Items
22-4 were the following: 'Deutschland tiber alles', a Pledge of Truth and
Faith in Victory, and a round of' A mighty fortress is our God', Luther's
hymn. The imagery of cleansing through the shedding of blood is
repeatedly invoked, further suggesting the militarized Christianity of
the memorial itseIf.27 It is not at all surprising that such iron-nail
memorials, and the ceremonies surrounding them, soon framed the lists
of the faIIen. 28

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 War memorials and the mourning process

This is indeed the commemorative art of Tannenberg, not Verdun,

and we can almost see the idealized form of Hindenburg, presiding in
spiri t over these ceremonies, just as he had done after his victory. Here is
his own version of it, written just after the war:
In our new Headquarters at Allenstein I entered the church, close by the old
castle of the Teutonic Knights, while divine services were being held. As the
clergyman uttered his closing words all those present, young soldiers as well as
elderly 'Landsturm', sank to their knees under the overwhelming impression of
their experiences. It was a worthy curtain to their heroic achievement. 29

Some of the central themes of commemoration are visible in these

early wartime rituals and the legends surrounding them. The need to
reaffirm the nobility of the warrior by an appeal to 'ancient' tradition,
the tendency t9 highlight soldiers' sacrifice and civilian debt, and the
consequent unending duty of dedication to some noble communal task:
all are expressed here in a romanticized form which described a war
which changed rapidly after August 1914. So rapidly indeed that these
rituals and the verse they inspired, were bound, as Sassoon put it, 'to
mock the corpses' of whatever nationality 'round Bapaume'.

War memorials after 1918: metaphor and allegory in

public space
The phenomenon of 'nail memorials' is just one example of the initial
phase of commemorative art, in which the glorification of sacrifice was
expressed in a deliberately archaic language, the cadences of knights
and valour, of quests and spiritualized combat. The problem with this
language was that it was too unreal, too uplifting, too patriotic, and
insufficiently sensitive to the desolation of loss. For this reason, other
forms of commemorative art emerged, both during and after the war.
These objects and rituals expressed sadness rather than exhilaration,
and addressed directly the experience of bereavement.
These two motifs - war as both noble and uplifting and tragic and
unendurably sad - are present in virtually all postwar war memorials;
they differ in the balance struck between them. That balance was never
fixed; no enduring formula emerged to express it, though traditional
religious images were used repeatedly to do so.
Both religious and lay communities devoted themselves to the task of
commemoration after 1918. The resulting monumental art provided a
focus for ceremonies of public mourning beginning in the decade
following the Armistice, and continuing to this day. The languages,
imagery, and icons adopted varied considerably according to artistic
convention, religious practice, and political conviction. They also
reflected more mundane considerations, such as the ability of the

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 Catastrophe and consolation

community to pay for monuments. Consequently, some plans were

scrapped and others had to be scaled down or redesigned to suit the
means of the donors. Despite powerful currents of feeling aboutthe need
to express the indebtedness of the living to the fallen and the near-
universality of loss in many parts of Europe, commemoration was and
remained a business, in which sculptors, artists, bureaucrats, church-
men, and ordinary people had to strike an agreement and carry it out.

The business of commemoration

As Bertrand Tavernier showed in his recent film La vie et rien d' autre, the
mix of the profane and the sacred is vividly evident in the chequered
history of public commemoration after the Great War. His account of the
mixed cast of characters surrounding postwar commemorative work is
remarkably close to reality.
The first group of actors consisted of public officials. These were
either elected or self-appointed notables who took upon themselves the
time-consuming and frequently fractious task of drawing up plans,
interviewing artists, arranging subventions, overseeing acquisition of a
site, and the final construction or emplacement of the memorial.
'Quality control' was a worry for both artists and their patrons;
self-appointed groups offered their services to communities seeking to
distinguish between appropriate and inappropriate commemorative art. 3D
Some people had personal reasons for investing so much time in the
business of commemoration: they had lost a son, or a brother, or another
loved one. Others did it in the same way as they approached urban
renewal or traffic problems. Even allowing for English understatement,
the proceedings of the local committee which oversaw the construction
of the Cambridge War Memorial, at a prominent intersection near the
railway station, resemble discussions about many other town or
university affairs. To such perennial committeemen, the construction of
a war memorial was just one more task to overcome.31
Some individuals devoted themselves to this work with unusual
energy and dedication. Consider the case of the war memorial in
Mulhouse in the east of France. Over 2,000 men from this city had died
on active service in the war. One man was primarily responsible for the
construction of the town war memorial. Max Dollfus, delegue genera Ie of
the organization Souvenir became vice-president of the
Comite d'initiative pour Ie Monument aux Morts. The mayor was titular
head of the committee, but Dollfus did the work. He spent five years on
the project. After initial discussions about what to do in 1919-20, during
which no consensus emerged, two commissions were convened, a
commission financiere and a commission artistique. Dollfus chaired both. A
site was chosen on a prominent boulevard, and an estimated budget of

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 War memorials and the mourning process

TRUMPINGTON
WAR MEMORIAL

Ceremony of Unveiling and Dedication

SUNDA Y. 11TH DECKMan. 1921

13. Poster advertising the inauguration of the war memorial, Trumpington,

Cambridgeshire, 11 December 1921

250,000 francs was prepared, for the costs of the monument and a
garden in which it would be set. The artistic committee invited eighteen
artists to submit designs. Of these, seven produced models in October
1922. The choice was in the hands of a jury composed of both local
people and outside specialists, including the director of the Office of

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14. The War Memorial at March, Cambridgeshire, after Remembrance Day

Fine Arts in Strasburg, and the president of the Societe des amis du
Louvre. They chose three projects as worthy of prizes, of 5,000, 4,000,
and 1,000 francs each. The first and third were both given to the same
team, which had submitted two designs to the committee. They were
both the work of the prominent Catholic sculptor Maxime Real del

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 War memorials and the mourning process

Sarte, who was awarded the job of constructing the memorial, in

conjunction with a firm of architects in Mulhouse. To obtain the services
of Maxime Real del Sarte was a major achievement for the city. He was a
celebrated artist, an ancien combattant who had lost an arm in combat at
Les Eparges, and who went on to design over fifty war memorials. 32 His
plan for Mulhouse was suitably impressive. It included two statues of
deliverance and peace, two chimeres (mythical beasts), an obelisk, and a
floral garden with reflecting pools.
The original estimate of costs was increased to 300,000 francs, to be
divided between professional payments, works, materials, and other
purchases. The conseil municipal set aside 50,000 francs for the project,
and looked to private donations for the rest. The final cost was 309,000
francs. The deficit was made up through the indefatigable efforts of
individual fundraisers. Approximately 260,000 francs were raised from
8,563 donors. One woman, Mme Henriette Deiber, whose son was killed
in 1918, knocked on 630 doors in a working-class quarter, and over 3,000
schoolchildren from 31 schools collected about 8,000 francs.
Five years after the project had been approved, the monument was
ready for assembly, and the landscaping was finished. The statues
weighed 7,500 kilograms each, and the surrounding construction and
chimeres required two blocks of 10,500 kilograms each. It was completed
in June 1927 and officially inaugurated in that month. 33
The Mulhouse memorial was characteristic of many other commem-
orative projects. One public-spirited individual, who happened to be
the brother of the president of the Chamber of Commerce, spent years in
committee-work and negotiation to see it through. In small towns, it was
usually the mayor. 34 He had to navigate through artistic, political, and
financial troubles, the solutions to which required the help of many local
people, great and obscure.
Money was never irrelevant to the task at hand, nor were the interests
of local contractors and artisans. Local committees attached late-fee
penalties to the agreement with sculptors, who were often well-known
local craftsmen. Unlike a man of the standing of Real del Sarte, they
could be instructed explicitly as to the requirements of the community.
The small town of Belvaincourt in the Vosges insisted on a guarantee
that the statue would be unpainted. The village of BuIt opted for granite
from the Vosges for a poilu, sculpted 'on the model of 1871', 'painted and
bronzed', and precisely 1.80 metres high. Public funds were also
supplemented by private subscriptions. 35 In some projects, the costs
were shared by the municipality, the department, the state, and local
inhabitants. In some communities people gave generously; in others,
they did not.36
Financial problems were not always resolved through public donations.
The Cambridge War Memorial had to be scaled down when funds ran

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 Catastrophe and consolation

out. An eight-foot-high returning soldier became a six-foot-high statue.

The design intended to make the figure'S stride abnormally long, to
emphasize its athleticism; the smaller version did not increase this
distortion, but visually reinforced it. 37 The reasons for this effect are
pecuniary, not artistic, and this in a town where some of the richest
private institutions in the country were based. Most were engaged in
their own, private acts of commemoration, which limited their contribution
to other public projects.38
However sacred the task of commemoration, it still touched all the
chords of local loyalties, petty intrigues, favouritism, apathy, and
indifference. It also was about contracts, payments, and profits. In all
major combatant countries there were firms like Swanser & Son of
Kingsway, London, who advertised regularly as makers of 'Memorials,
bronze, brass, duralumin'.39 Their appeal serves to remind us that the
business of commemoration was always that: a business, shaped by the
character of the community which undertook it. 4o

Metaphor and religious expressions of mourning in

commemorative art
Some war memorials were essentially religious in character; others,
primarily secular. It is important, though, not to exaggerate the
difference. In Germany many memorials wi th specific religious reference
were placed not only in churchyards and cemeteries but also in public
thoroughfares. The separation of church and state in France, and the
character and history of Anglican iconophobia made it more difficult to
adopt such flexibility in reference to explicitly religious imagery, but
exceptions occurred in these countries too. It is preferable to speak of
religious expressions in commemorative art as a whole, rather than to
limit the discussion to those located within the precincts of parish
churches or their superior institutions.
Furthermore, as I suggested in chapter 3, the pagan perimeter of
Christianity was inhabited by a host of spiritualists, many of whom
believed that their practices were compatible with traditional religious
teachings. Their quasi-religious approaches to communicating with the
dead should also be considered when approaching the varied terrain of
commemoration after the Great War.
With these caveats in mind, it may be useful to suggest that religious
commemorative art had certain features found less prominently in
secular forms. Not surprisingly, artists and sculptors drew on the rich
traditions of late-nineteenth-century funerary art. 41 Among the choices
available for religious commemorative sculpture, the Pieta was perhaps
best suited to express the sadness of the millions who had lost their sons.
It also fitted on rectangular surfaces of a funerary kind, and drew the
viewers' gaze to the fallen body held in the Madonna's arms.

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We can see this form of religious art throughout Europe, and

especially in Germany. Consider a few examples. In 1927, the sculptor
Otto Hitzberger carved a wood Pieta as a war memorial for the
Laurentiuskirche in the Moabit district of Berlin.42 The same motif was
used by Ruth Schaumann for her 1929 stone casting of a Pieta sponsored
by the German Catholic Women's League, and placed in the crypt of the
Frauenfriedenskirche in Frankfurt. The inscription is specifically female:
'In praise of our husbands, sons, brothers, fathers, R.I.P.'43 Here the
metaphor was direct: there is no image of a soldier, only the unstated
metaphor of the equivalence of his death with the Passion of Christ.
Variations abound. They included the Pieta form, but with mother
and fallen soldier, as in the town of Brotterode, by Hans Dammann,44
and in Karl Haussmann's sandstone sculpture (1929) in the old
cemetery in Grotzingen. 45 There is the parallel motif of the comrade and
fallen soldier (the work of Hermann Neppel iri 1923), placed in the
market square of Backnang,46 and the more classical design by Friedrich
Bagdons (also 1923) in the entrance to the cemetery at Freudenstadt,
incorporating an unclothed seated woman staring out over a prone and
unclothed dead man identified as a soldier only by his helmet. 47
Other scenes from the New Testament were used in similar ways in
other German war memorial art. In 1922 Georg Busch designed an
altarpiece for the Chapel of the Nails in Bamberg Cathedral. His work is
in painted lime wood, and depicts the two Marys and St John grieving
over the body of Christ. 48 At Euskirchen, a plaque was placed in the
town Gymnasium. It was designed by Albert Figel in 1922, and lists
teachers and students killed in the war. The image is of a dead soldier
attended by three angels, with the archangel Michael on the right and St
Barbara on the left. 49 At Frauenzell, the war memorial shows a statue of
Jesus cradling a dying soldier, still holding a hand grenade. 50
Clearly the range of Christian reference was infinitely malleable and
easily identified. Many examples of such art are visible in stained-glass
windows in churches throughout Europe. Here the rule of horizontality
does not apply. In glass, at least, religious motifs point upwards. In the
Pas-de-Calais, 235 churches had been destroyed or severely damaged
during the war. The stained glass incorporated in these resurrected
churches shows the same ingenuity at adapting Christian metaphors
and sacred stories to contemporary history. The flight from Egypt
paralleled the flow of refugees away from the north of France early in
the war. 51 Joan of Arc makes an appearance here, as at the church of
Saint-Martin at Graincourt-Les-Havrincourt,52 and there are many
neighbouring churches, as at Eglise Notre-Dame at Bertincourt, with
scenes of Mary interceding with Christ for the soul of a dead soldier,53 or
(at Ecourt-Saint-Quentin) of angels accompanying the souls of the fallen
to heaven. 54 Stained glass in Britain was used to similar effect, with
images of tanks and aircraft adding to the traditional lexicon of warfare

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 Catastrophe and consolation

in art. 55 The stained-glass windows at Brampton in Cambridgeshire

show a soldier receiving the Sacrament at the front, and other scenes
equating the Passion with the war. In one window a soldier's gaze at a
wayside crucifix leads us to the same message. 56 In Germany, similar
adaptations appeared. One example is the stained-glass window in
Kemnath Cathedral, showing a Benedictine monk holding a cross and
kneeling next to the coffin of a dead soldier.57
None of this iconography is surprising or particularly original. Those
in mourning who turned to the churches for aid in their sorrow were
bound to dwell on traditional devotional art and sculpture. In Britain
and (not surprisingly) in Ireland, Celtic crosses were particularly
popular.58 As Catherine Moriarty has shown, wayside crucifixes and
crosses appeared in many parts of England,59 as indeed they did in
British war cemeteries, where Reginald Blomfield's Cross of Sacrifice, a
bronze sword on a stone cross, was placed. 6o
The Cross of Sacrifice was an abstract, chivalric, form. In some war
art, though, crucifixion was more closely related to the fate of individual
soldiers. The best-known example is Derwent Wood's 'Canada's
Golgotha', a commemoration of an alleged German atrocity, showing a
crucified Canadian soldier, surrounded by a group of mocking German
soldiers. The diplomatic furore produced by this bronze sculpture
resulted in its removal from displays of official Canadian war art.
Whatever the morality of its suppression, the realism of this sculpture
was far removed from the healing intentions of most commemorative
art which referred to Christian iconography for consolation, not
accusation. 61
One important vehicle for the propagation of Christian messages of
consolation was photography. Here the suffering of Christ could be
suggested in the mutilation of his image in wayside crosses or churches.
The Saarburger Cross, an image of Christ with outstretched arms,
magically liberated from the Cross, obliterated presumably by bom-
bardment in the first months of the war, was especially popular. It sold
well as a wartime postcard. Other illustrations showed churches and
religious objects torn by war, in the same way (it was suggested) as were
the bodies of soldiers. These images were widely distributed before and
after 1918.62
In many ways, therefore, both 'high' and 'popular' culture (rarely
divided clearly in any case) found in traditional images and techniques
the inspiration for much of their work. In Germany, older art forms were
rediscovered. The removal from Colmar in Alsace to Munich of the
Isenheim Altarpiece 'for restoration' or 'safekeeping' in 1917 led to a
renewed interest in Grunewald's art. According to one scholar, he
provided a language to express the anguish many felt about the
'crucifixion' of Germany during and after the war. 63 The sources of

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 War memorials and the mourning process

Rouault's remarkable series of engravings, Miserere, explicitly located in

the artist's meditations on the 1914-18 war, may similarly have been late
medievaL64
Both popular craftsmen and avant-garde artists experimented with
religious forms and icons in the aftermath of the war. The German
sculptor Ernst Barlach created a remarkable aerial, suspended sculpture
of an angel in the Gustrow Memorial, removed by the Nazis from
Magdeburg Cathedral.65 Otto Dix and Max Beckmann both chose the
triptych as the framework for their extraordinary paintings on the war.
Dix's may have been a direct comment on Grunewald's crucifixion. His
interest in the old masters is evident both in his war art and in his overall
painting technique. 66 One context of the work of Dix, Beckmann, and a
host of other artists is the efflorescence of religious commemorative art
after the Armistice.
None of it reached the nadir of despair perhaps most powerfully
evoked in the masterpiece of Hans Holbein, Christin the Tomb, painted
in 1521, to which I will refer in chapter 6. Here there is no vertical line, no
attendant mourners, no hope at alL Even Grunewald's masterpiece,
with its pock-marked and hideously tortured Christ, places the crucifixion
in a cycle of hope. Not so Holbein. Dostoyevsky's Prince Mishkin
captures its chilling effect when he tells us that 'some people may lose
their faith by looking at that picture!'67 That is what those seeking
sustenance from religious art after the Great War least wanted.
Consequently, the rudiments of hope, of aesthetic redemption of the
suffering of the war, of resurrection, of transcendence are never far from
commemorative art of religious inspiration.

Bereavement, political messages and civic war memorials

Hope is a central theme in secular commemoration of the Great War. It is
expressed in a multitude of ways, some banal, some profound. But there
is another level on which to understand the wave of construction of
these monuments after the Great War. They were built as places where
people could mourn. And be seen to mourn. Their ritual significance has
often been obscured by their political symbolism which, now that the
moment of mourning has long passed, is all that we can see. At the time,
communal commemorative art provided first and foremost a framework
for and legitimation of individual and family grief.
Other interpretations of war memorials stress their political character.
George Mosse refers to them as places where the nation worshipped
itself. They are conservative expressions of the 'cult of the fallen',
successfully exploited by Fascists in Italy and Germany.68 Patricia
Dogliani has pointed out the significance in Italian commemorative art
of messages about the Risorgimento.69 A study of American war

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 Catastrophe and consolation

memorials is appropriately entitled War memorials as politicallandscape?O

These, and many other works, have enriched our understanding of
the character of civic commemoration. But we must beware of mistaking
the part for the whole. War memorials had a specific purpose; lack of
attention to this can lead to misunderstanding their meaning. One
scholar, adopting a Foucaultian framework, has interpreted war
memorials as exercises in biopolitics'. His argument takes this form. In
the construction of war memorials, death is deconstructed: its horror, its
undeniable individuality, its trauma, and the ignominy often associated
with it, are buried. Then it is reinvested with meaning, as an abstraction,
a collective sacrifice remote from individual extinction. 'A nos morts' is
a disembodied message - there is no one speaking. Similarly, the dead
are no longer individual people. They appear solely as names, inscribed
on the war memorial. Their sacrifice thereby takes on the form of an
expression of a general will, a collective spirit embodied in the state. In
these memorials, the state affirms its right to call on its citizens to kill and
to die. The only way to see their force is to place them in the context of
'une veritable economie de pouvoir'.71
Such are the fruits of this kind of semiological analysis. The strength
of this approach is that it identifies war memorials as sites of symbolic
exchange, where the living admit a degree of indebtedness to the fallen
which can never be fully discharged. What this interpretation lacks,
though, is an historical sense of the meaning ascribed to war memm:ials
at the time they were constructed. That meaning was highly personal. It
used collective expression, in stone and in ceremony, to help individual
people - mothers, fathers, wives, sons, daughters, and comrades-in-arms
- to accept the brutal facts of death in war.
One expression of the sombre, existential purpose of war memorials
set in civic space is their relative freedom from expressions of anger and
triumph. There are clear national differences here, reflecting the
distinction between victors and vanquished. But even in the victorious
powers, the faces of noble soldiers sculpted in stone in hundreds of
village squares only occasionally express exhilaration. Fatigue, and a
reflective acceptance of duty and fate, are etched into their features.
They have been through the fire, and rarely proclaim its virtues.
When anger appears, it is located less in soldiers than in the bereaved.
One good example is the war memorial at Peronne, on the Somme,
where a mother stands, clenched fist outstretched in rage, over the
prone body of her son. However, as Annette Becker has shown, the
sculptor Paul Auban simply refashioned a pre-war memorial to the
victims of shipwreck by putting a uniform on the dead man.72 The evils
of war, like the cruel twists of natural disasters, are hardly moments for
political celebration; the elemental fact is that they leave armies of the
dead and the bereaved in their wake.

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Prost was the first to draw attention to what he called the 'monument
funeraire', both patriotic and pacifist in French commemorative art of
the Grea t War.73 More recently Annette Becker has discussed sensi ti vel y
many other instances of the iconography of bereavement in war
memorials. Old people, women, children: they are there in the
memorials themselves. A mother with a Breton headdress, alongside a
father, cap in hand, stand near a cross in the war memorial at Plozevet.
At Gentioux, in the Departement of Creuse, a child points to the
inscription 'Maudite soit la guerre'. The sculptress Emilie Rodez
engraved the same message in the monument at Equeurdreville, near
Cherbourg, recalling the children of the village who died in the war.
This monument is unusual in that it shows mother and children as
victims, rather than primarily as mourners. More characteristically, at
Suippe, in the Marne, a woman brings in the harvest alone, sadly gazing
at all that is left of her husband, his helmet. At Compiegne, in one of Real
del Sarte's monuments, a mother and child grieve together. 74
The Compiegne memorial reveals another level of meaning. The child
in this statue looks to his mother with a questioning face. What are we to
assume she is enjoined to tell him? Surely that his dead father died for a just
cause. But there is little in war memorials to suggest that they are there to
instil in the young a belief in the virtues of their return to the battlefield.
Citizenship is affirmed in war memorial art, but it is expressed in terms
of a sacrifice which must never be allowed to happen again. The Abraham
and Isaac myth, the Akedah, is the clear reference. As in Genesis, the
message is the end of human sacrifice, not its eternal perpetuation.
Almost all commemorative monuments also express a sense of
indebtedness. The living can go about their lives in freedom because
of the selflessness and dedication of the man who fell. But it is only
now, decades later, that anyone could see this message as repetitive,
or enjoining a repetition. To do so ignores the sheer magnitude of the
war effort, the pain of loss, the exhaustion of the populations who
endured it, and the reluctance of many Europeans to contemplate the
need to fight yet another war against Germany, until forced to do so by
the Nazis.
This is not to suggest that most war memorials were pacifist. A few
were; the overwhelming majority were not. But the attitude to the war
they represent reflects their local character and their sensitivity to the
needs of the bereaved, whose identities were in no sense a mystery to
those who attended the annual ceremony, or who stopped for a
moment's reflection or just passed by. The names inscribed were of the
men who had died, to be sure. They were also the names of families in
mourning, and pointed out who needed help in the aftermath of the war.
The form of many war memorials and the ceremonies surrounding
them reinforce the view that their initial and primary purpose was to

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help the bereaved recover from their loss. In many war memorials there
is a fence, doorway, or border clearly marking the distinction between
an area adjacent to the monument, a space set apart from the rush of
daily life. In some larger memorials, the border described the space set
aside for mourners, either family members, veterans, or officials,
speaking for the community, who were present during annual
commemorative ceremonies. But this point must not be pressed too far,
since there was a more practical reason why war memorials were
enclosed: to protect the monument from accidental damage through
contact with passers-by, or even from the attentions of grazing animals.
In these village sculptures, there was no space for individuals to stand
between the memorial and the fence. They, and everybody else, stood
alongside it when they remembered the dead?5
These took many forms, but they usually involved a
procession to the war memorial, either on 11 November or on other
similarly hallowed days relating to great battles like the Somme. The
order of the procession showed the character of the ceremony. In
Royston in Hertfordshire, the war memorial was inaugurated in March
1922. The monument was visited in turn by the Anglican vicar and
Congregational minister, followed by 'a large number of relatives of the
fallen men carrying wreaths', 150 ex-servicemen from the town, the
local Voluntary Aid Detachment of nurses, and then civic groups,
including the fire brigade, the urban district council, the girl guides, and
the boy scouts. The chairman of the memorial committee spoke first,
recalling the Biblical story of King David, who mourned the loss of his
son, but who nonetheless returned to his tasks. He noted 'if we live true
and useful lives', then our turn will come to meet the fallen 'on the
Eternal shore'.76 The memorial itself is unusual, in shadowing the
Tommy in stone with ghostly white stone figures in relief, representing
the men of Royston who had gone to wars past??
In Macclesfield, the procession was led by all the local worthies,
the Mayor, the Town Clerk, the Town Council, the Board of Guard-
ians, the War Memorial Committee, the Higher Education Committee,
the headmaster of the local grammar school. We see the full battery of
the Protestant voluntary tradition, the same tradition that had created
the Pals' battalions of volunteers, many of whose names were inscribed
on the memorial itself. They made way at the memorial for a soldier,
Private George Taylor, blinded in the war, and (as the local newspaper
report noted) 'being particularly pitiful as he leaned on the shoulder of a
comrade who led the way'. Those bereaved looked up at the memorial,
which showed a soldier gassed, and a grieving woman, 'a wife, mother,
sister and sweetheart, who suffered in silent agony, and without
complaint. She stands in the attitude of sad but stoic sorrow, holding in
her hand a wreath of remembrance.'?8

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 War memorials and the mourning process

In Dartford, the war memorial was unveiled by a lady, her 'voice,

broken with emotion, but bravely struggling to express a calmness she is
far from feeling'. Her words were followed by a stirring speech by the
mayor asking the living 'to reap the harvest, so prodigal in the sowing,
before the forces of evil once more capture the citadel of human
intelligence and set men warring against their fellows'.79
In both places, we can see clearly the two essential components of
these ceremonies: the public recognition, and mediation through ritual,
of bereavement; and the appeal to the living to remember the dead by
dedicating themselves to good works among their fellow men and
women. Grief and indebtedness, sadness and personal commitment are
the pillars of local commemoration.
British ceremonies parallel the structure of ritual surrounding war
memorials in interwar France, described so eloquently by Antoine
Prost. so The local processions of mourners, the local dignitaries and
veterans were all there. So were the town schoolchildren. What they
heard was not a recounting of the names of glorious generals, or a
celebration of the grandeur of victory, but a simple list of the names of
the fallen. They heard old soldiers speak in the name of the living and
the dead; they heard of the horrors of war and of the need to act for peace
as the first duty of citizenship. Equality in death meant a dedication to
promote equality in life; the appeal was for an extension of the
camaraderie of arms into civilian life, in order to temper the petty local
quarrels that faded into insignificance when set against the terrible
sacrifices of the war. S ! The rhetorical emphases in French ceremonies
and the prominence of veterans reflect the specific features of the
tradition of the nation in arms.82 But it was natural that ex-soldiers
should feel a special responsibility to their fallen comrades, a responsibility
expressed through care of their often makeshift gra ves on the battlefield,
and care to mark their sacrifice in later years. The wartime pledge not to
forget the tombs of the fallen, stated openly in French trench journals,B3
was honoured in later years in front of village war memorials.
There are important differences in national forms of commemoration.
Utilitarian war memorials were preferred in many parts of Britain, a
reflection of Protestant traditions remote from French political
Some English communities carried on the old Puritan war against graven
images, preferring obelisks to crosses. Obelisks abound in France, too, in
part because they were cheaper to build than figurative art. Images of
chivalry were preferred in some British memorials, though they are not
entirely absent in French war art. Gertrude Alice Meredith Williams put a
Crusader knight on horseback among Great War infantrymen in her
design for the Paisley War Memorial. Even though he survived the war,
the myth of Lawrence of Arabia is intrinsically tied up with the war. His
gravestone shows the same search for the medieval. Eric Kennington

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 Catastrophe and consolation

carved an effigy of Lawrence, berobed, and with legs crossed,

Crusader-style, for his grave in Dorset.85 A similar monument was built
for Andre Thome, a 'soldier of the right' who fell near Douaumont at
Verdun. New Zealand memorials commemorated the dead; most
Australian memorials list all who served, not just those who fell. This
distinction arises in part from the fact that New Zealand had conscription,
but Australia did not. 86 In addition, the uniformity of ritual in France was
missing in Britain, where administration never became the work of art
perfected by French bureaucrats.
Particularities abound, especially on the regional level.87 But the
absence of hatred, or triumph, or worship of the military per se is evident
not only on both sides of the English Channel, but also in Antipodean
memorials. In their place, we find abundant evidence of commemorative
ceremonies as moments of collective bereavement, during which the
special place of those who lost their loved ones, their comrades in arms,
friends, or family members, was recognized and solemnized. 88 War mem-
orials marked the spot where communi ties were reuni ted, where the dead
were symbolicall y brought home, and where the separations of war, both
temporary and eternal, were expressed, ritualized, and in time, accepted.
That act was located specifically in time and place. Once the moment
of initial bereavement had passed, once the widows had remarried,
once the orphans had grown up and moved away, once the mission of
veterans to ensure that the scourge of war would not return had faded
or collapsed, then the meaning of war memorials was bound to change.
They could have had no fixed meaning, immutable over time. Like
many other public objects, they manifest what physicists, in an entirely
different context, call a 'half-life', a trajectory of decomposition, a
passage from the active to the inert. Their initial charge was related to
the needs of a huge population of bereaved people. Their grief was
expressed in many ways, but in time, for the majority, the wounds
began to close, and life went on. When that happened, after years or
decades, then the objects invested with meaning related to loss of life in
wartime become something else. Other meanings derived from other
needs or events may be attached to them, or no meaning at all. The
public experience of fete and civic ritual has also tended to fade away,89
so that now, seventy-five years after the Armistice, war memorials have
become the artefacts of a vanished age, remnants of the unlucky
generation that had to endure the carnage of the Great War.

War cemeteries, abstraction and the search for transcendence

So far I have examined the passage from wartime celebration to postwar
commemoration in religious and secular space. There was one other site
of memory important for collective bereavement in the aftermath of the

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 War memorials and the mourning process

Great War. War cemeteries were civil in character, as befitted the fact
that men of all beliefs and of no belief fell in the war. These cemeteries
were the repository of remarkable commemorative art, and some of it
reaches a level of abstraction and universality unattainable in other
memorials. Four examples are at Verdun, at the Cenotaph in London, at
Thiepval on the Somme, and in Vladslo in Belgium.

The Trench of the Bayonets

The mix of traditional forms - pagan as well as Christian - with abstract
motifs appears clearly in the war memorials located in military
cemeteries. Consider the case of the monument near Verdun at what has
become known as the Trench of the Bayonets. The story of this trench
was bathed in myth. The facts are undisputed. The 3rd company of the
137th French Infantry Regiment was wiped out on 12 June 1916, in a
ravine between Thiaumont and Douaumont. After this engagement, the
trench they had occupied was found to have been completely filled in.
Protruding from the earth at regular intervals were a number of
bayonets, beneath which were the remains of the men of this unit.
Legend had it that they had stayed at their posts until buried alive;
common sense suggests that they were buried by bombardment, and
that their graves were marked by the German soldiers who, briefly, had
occupied this sector.90
The Trench of the Bayonets, like the Battle of Verdun, became the
stuff of myth, therefore, during the war itself.91 A French army
commission was sent to Douaumont in 1917 to verify the incident. They
found an aviator who had flown over the battlefield on 12 June, and who
told of seeing ground shift suddenly, thus accounting for the cave-in of
the trench. What better, more moving, symbol could there be of the
indomitable will of the French army not to be broken at Verdun? The
Commission decided that the site must be preserved.
To realize this objective, an American banker, George F. Rand,
donated 500,000 francs. He had visited Verdun in December 1919, and
had been deeply moved by the site and worried about its desecration.
He noted that while the men buried there are mute, 'their appeal to the
world is eloquent'. Urgent action was needed, since 'already bayonets
were stolen and gashes made in the guns and pieces taken away as
souvenirs'.92 Immediately after conferring with Clemenceau and
confirming the gift, Rand was killed in a plane crash. The monument
therefore had a double meaning: to remember the giver as well as the
event he wished to commemorate.93
The form of the memorial was minimalist. The architect-in-chief of
the Meuse and Marne, Andre Ventre, summed up the idea behind his

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 War memorials and the mourning process

design in the following terms:

It is evident that nothing could typify the tragedy and heroism of the bayonet
trench better than the trench itself. With its rugged, broken outlines and in its
narrow space in which are entombed the erect forms of nearly one hundred
soldiers, the trench is enclosed with an impressiveness no monument could ever
equal.
My design comprises a steel and concrete covering over the position, protecting
the protruding rifle barrels and bayonets from the rain and snow and providing
also a suitable tomb for the dead soldiers who, of course, remain interred in the
trench. The structure will be heavily reinforced with steel and everything
possible to ensure durability will be done. I guarantee the monument to last for
at least 500 years.94
The monument was inaugurated in December 1920 by a host of
dignitaries: the President of the Republic, Millerand, Generals Joffre,
Foch, and Petain. Rand's surviving son and American dignitaries were
also there. As one contemporary observer put it, the sacred character of
the monument was entailed by its design:
The Trench of the Bayonets will be everlastingly protected against the attacks of
time or the cyclical pillage of the tourists. It will also be saved from the invasion
of vegetable growths that would destroy its aspect and will remain under the
dome of stone which shelters it, the symbol of all the trenches of the French front
where the same magnificent drama of anonymous sacrifice has taken place. 95
In its 'utmost severity' and its avoidance of 'Anything cheap or
approaching the fantastic', the monument to the Trench of the Bayonets
sidestepped the dangers of 'sacrilege'. Instead it took on the character of
a Roman memorial. The emerging bayonets were likened to the slaves
supporting Roman generals who, according to Herodotus, heard voices
saying to them: 'Look behind you; they make you what you are: 96
The need to preserve the sacred from the twin dangers of 'destruction
and commercialization' is a repeated theme in the creation of war
memorials after the Armistice. The Trench of the Bayonets is unusual,
though, in its austere avoidance of allegory, figurative art, or ornamen-
tation. The hope is to approach the timeless by avoiding contemporary
icons. The preference for the traditional is explicit. As one observer put
it, the Trench of the Bayonets resembles the 'eternal monuments of
Brittany, of that primitive age when man fought against the savage beast
and the chaotic forces of nature'. The reference to Breton forms was
entirely appropriate; the 137th Infantry was composed of men from
Brittany and the Vendee, two of the most traditionally Catholic and
conservative regions of France.97
This monument is both unique and characteristic of many others
built in the immediate postwar years. The fact that it was a joint
Franco-American venture set it apart from most other commemorative

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 Catastrophe and consolation

projects. But in its character and iconography, it was like many others.
Both Rand and the architect Ventre understood that the sites of memory
needed preservation to stop the voyeur or the tourist from degrading
them. But what form was appropriate to the necessary act of preservation?
Their answer was original. They concluded that the most fitting
memorial was the site itself, unembellished, unchanged. That is why
they simply covered it with a concrete shell. Safe from the elements and
the public, the men whose sacrifice symbolized millions of others',
could rest in peace, undisturbed by art. The Trench of the Bayonets is a
war memorial of a special kind: a tomb frozen in time and preserved not
by, but from art.
Such minimalist sensibilities drew attention to the unmistakable fact
that the site of memory was a tomb. But there is one irony which must be
recognized. The location chosen for commemoration was flat; the place
where the bayonets were found was a series of shell craters some 30
metres away. The memorial is, therefore, on an imaginary site of
heroism. It is at best adjacent to the place where the men of the 137th
regiment died. 98 Thus from the very outset the attempt to preserve the
site of memory 'as it really was' entailed the creation of myth. Given the
nightmarish quality of the landscape created by ten months of combat, it
is hardly surprising that no one knew the precise location of the Trench
of the Bayonets. What mattered was to preserve a site as modestly and
austerely as possible, and this they did.
In the architecture which appeared both elsewhere at Douaumont
and throughout the vast military cemeteries of the Western Front,
artistic forms approached and sometimes replicated the simplicity of
the Trench of the Bayonets. Many drew on pagan and Christian motifs
to announce and (where possible) preserve the sacredness of the site.

Lutyens and elemental commemoration

A striking minimalism is evident in two of the most important British
war memorials, the Cenotaph in Whitehall and the Memorial to the
Missing at Thiepval on the Somme. Both are the work of Sir Edwin
Lutyens, and show the specific features of abstract funerary art, so
different from wartime patriotic commemorative forms and from
postwar exercises in civic or religious art.

The Cenotaph
The story of the creation of the Cenotaph in Whitehall in the heart of
London has been told many times. 99 But some features of this
extraordinary moment of British commemoration are worth noticing
here as they specify the distinctive features of what Lutyens himself
referred to as the 'elemental mode' of commemorative art.

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 War memorials and the mourning process

16. The Cenotaph, shortly after the unveiling ceremony, 11 November 1920

It was elemental in form and substance. Lutyens was a geometrician,

who saw in mathematical relationships a language to express both
architectural ideas and religious beliefs of an unconventional kind. He
was a pantheist who moved in theosophist circles, through his wife's
commitment to the movement and their friendship with some prominent
spiritualists, Oliver Lodge, Arthur Balfour, and above all Annie Besant,
president of the Theosophical Society and life-long champion of the
cause of India. Lutyens' theosophy was ecumenical rather than occult,
and his work in India as architect of New Delhi deepened his
knowledge of and commitment to express what he took to be universal
truths.1° 0 'All religions have some truth in them', he wrote to his wife
Emily in 1914, 'and all should be held in reverence.'lOl
Those universal truths were expressed in his two great projects in
commemoration of war. The Cenotaph was initially meant to be the
temporary centrepiece for a march past of the victorious armies and
their leaders in London on 19 July 1919, along the lines of a similar
parade in Paris five days earlier. The catafalque erected for the event in
Paris was hastily removed when Clemenceau and other leaders
objected to its 'Germanic' monumentality.1 02 The object designed by
Lutyens for the London march, in contrast, was so powerfully evocative

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 Catastrophe and consolation

of the mood of collective bereavement that, later that year, it was

transformed by popular demand into a permanent, indeed, the permanent
British war memorial, fixed to the place in Whitehall it had been meant
to occupy only temporarily.1 03 An abstract architectural form had
somehow managed to transform a victory parade, a moment of high
politics, into a time when millions could contemplate the timeless, the
eternal, the inexorable reality of death in war.
A cenotaph is, literally, an empty tomb, and by announcing its
presence as the tomb of no one, this one became the tomb of all who had
died in the war. In the heart of London, in Whitehall, in the middle of the
street adjacent to the Houses of Parliament - the seat of government -
Westminster Abbey, and Horse Guards Parade, it brought the dead of
the 1914-18 war into history. It did so without the slightest mark of
Christian or contemporary patriotic or romantic symbolism, a feat
which did not endear Lutyens or his work to traditional Christians.1°4
There is a mathematical precision to the work which is entirely
invisible to most viewers. It was unabashedly ancient, recalling Greek
forms, with their curved surfaces creating the illusion of linearity, or
entasis. As Lutyens himself noted of the Cenotaph:
all its horizontal surfaces and planes are spherical, parts of parallel spheres
1801 ft. 8 in. in diameter; and all its vertical lines converge upwards to a point
some 1801 ft. 8 in. above the centre of these spheres. 1Os

Lutyens the geometer took the form of Greek commemorative architecture

but stripped it of any hint of celebration.
Lutyens' Cenotaph is a work of genius largely because of its
simplicity. It says so much because it says so little. It is a form on which
anyone could inscribe his or her own thoughts, reveries, sadnesses. It
became a place of pilgrimage,106 and managed to transform the
commemorative landscape by making all of 'official' London into an
imagined cemetery.
How far we have come from the patriotic mode of commemoration,
from the collection of artefacts of victory, from the trophies distributed
among Allied communities, or the evidence of heroism under arms.
Lutyens' Cenotaph leapt over the mundane into myth, and by doing so
provided a focus for collective mourning of a kind unknown before or
since in Britain.
There is an interesting recent analogy to the phenomenal appeal of
the Cenotaph, which helps account for its strength. Maya Lin's Vietnam
Veterans Memorial of 1982 is like the Cenotaph in many ways. She also
brought the American dead of the Vietnam war back into American
history, by placing the memorial between the Lincoln memorial and the
Washington monument. She also eliminated all hint of a celebration or
affirmation of patriotism, the nobility of arms, or the dignity of dying for

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 War memorials and the mourning process

a just cause. All we see are names, and our own reflection. Just as in the
case of the Cenotaph, the Vietnam memorial has become a point of
pilgrimage, drawing people to it as none of the more figurative and
cliched monuments has done.10 7 Both monuments go beyond the
political, and beyond conventional architectural forms, to express
existential truths too often obscured in the rhetorical and aesthetic fog of
war and its aftermath.

Thiepva/
Though Lutyens drew on classical forms, he tended to reduce them to
simpler and simpler outline or notation. This process has no better
expression than in the Monument to the Missing of the Battle of the
Somme at Thiepval. The hill dominated the battlefield. The terrifying
and murderous task of taking it and the surrounding terrain was one of
the most appalling chapters in the history of the war. Total casualties on
both sides exceeded 1 million men; perhaps 600,000 died among the
British and French forces. Of the British and Allied losses, the bodies of
approximately 73,000 of these men were never found. It is their names
which are inscribed on the internal walls of Lutyens' memorial.
Lutyens again chose geometry to express the inexpressible nature of
war and its human costs. He took the form of the triumphal arch, and
multiplied it. Four such arches describe the base of the memorial; their
height is two and a half times their width, and they are superseded by a
series of larger arches placed at right angles to the base. The ratio of the
dimensions of the larger to the smaller arches is also precisely 2!- to l.
The progression extends upward, from smaller arch, and therefore
smaller area of emptiness to larger arch, and larger area of emptiness, to
still larger arch in the centre of the monument, to nothing at all. We
arrive at the vanishing point well above the ground, just as was the case
with the Cenotaph. Just as in the case of the Cenotaph, Lutyens
brilliantly managed to create an embodiment of nothingness, an
abstract space unique among memorials of the Great War.
In the centre of the monument is a simple sarcophagus, from which
one sees two small cemeteries of French and British soldiers, whose
names are 'known to God', as the British inscription reads. All around
are the other, smaller monuments to phases or encounters in the Battle
of the Somme. The Thiepval monument is in the red brick characteristic
of the region, and, depending on the angle of vision, it is either massive
(when the open archways are hidden) or spacious (when the archways
are confronted head-on).
One prominent recent interpreter, the architectural historian Vincent
Scully, has described the face of Thiepval as 'a silent scream', a cry of
protest against the unimaginable suffering of the Battle of the Somme.
This is probably mistaken, though a good indication of the extent to

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17 . The Monument to the Missing at Thiepval (Somme)

which great art attracts different meanings in different generations. It is

difficult to accept Scully's view that Thiepval was meant to be 'an
enormous monster' with 'demonic eyes', or a 'horrific mask'.lOs We of
the late twentieth century see these things in the monument, but
Lutyens did not put them there. He was a conventional patriot, whose
wartime swings of mood followed closely the trajectory of the fortunes
of the British army.l09 Pacifism was simply not in his bones.
Not that Lutyens romanticized the battlefields or the cemeteries
covering them. On the contrary. He wrote to his wife in July 1917 from
France, and told her about the shock of seeing the detritus of warfare
and some of the awful wrecked terrain of the Western Front.
The 'cemeteries' - the dotted graves - are the most pathetic things, specially
when one thinks of how things are run and problems treated at home.
What humanity can endure, suffer, is beyond belief .. .
The graveyards, haphazard from the needs of much to do and little time for
thought. And then a ribbon of isolated graves like a milky way across miles of
country where men were tucked in where they fell. Ribbons of little crosses each
touching each across a cemetery, set in a wilderness of annuals and where one
sort of flower is grown the effect is charming, easy and oh so pathetic. One thinks

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 War memorials and the mourning process

for the moment no other monument is needed. Evanescent but for the moment is
almost perfect and how misleading to surmise in this emotion and how some
love to sermonise. But the only monument can be one in which the endeavour is
sincere to make such monument permanent - a solid ball of bronze!ll0

Here we see in embryo the two facets of Lutyens' commemorative art:

the minimalist and the geometric, either nothing or a ball of bronze to
commemorate loss of a kind and on a scale unfathomable perhaps even
to those who went through the battle.
The same impulse is behind his design of a 'Great Stone of
Remembrance', a white altar, placed in British military cemeteries,
alongside Blomfield's Cross of Sacrifice. 1ll Once again Lutyens's choice
was ecumenical and abstract, not Christian. He sought out pictures of
the Great Stone Elephant at the Ming tombs in China, and aimed to use
such imagery to escape what he took to be the narrow parochialism of
Christian symbolism. ll2 It is not at all surprising that his approach was
not to the taste of all Christians, or that the British government found a
way to incorporate both his approach to commemoration and that of
more conventional architects like Blomfield and Sir Herbert Baker, his
rival and colleague with whom he had worked in Delhi before the war. l13
Lutyens designed over ninety war memorials, both private and
public, and many of his public commissions bore the same distinctive
marks of mathematical abstraction in preference to figurative or
allegorical forms. His design for a memorial at St Quentin, which was
never realized, as much as his completed plans for memorials at Etaples,
Arras, Gezaincourt, Hersin, and Barlin in the Pas-de-Calais all show the
same mind at work.I 14 It was not at all a mind closed to conventional
imagery, especially when an individual was commemorated. Witness
the mounted cavalry officer, by Alfred Munnings, on a plinth designed
by Lutyens in commemoration of Edward Horner in the Church of
St Andrew, Mells, Somerset. Lutyens also accompanied Horner's
mother when the two of them placed a tablet in the parish church for
Raymond Asquith, the Prime Minister's son and her son-in-law.!15 Here
too the subject was the loss of one man. But so many individuals had
died that, for Lutyens, a different language was required to express the
meaning of the 'lost generation'. While inspecting sites for the war
memorial at Mells, Lutyens simply noted of the people accompanying
him: 'All their young men are killed.'1l6 In this setting he went beyond
Christian symbols of sacrifice, and explored what he called more
'elemental' (or universal) responses to the terrible loss of life in war.
His monument to the missing at Thiepval is not a cry against war, bu t
an extraordinary statement in abstract language about mass death and
the impossibility of triumphalism. In Thiepval Lutyens diminished the
arch of triumph of Roman or French art, and indeed of his own imperial

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 Catastrophe and consolation

designs in New Delhi, executed on the eve of the war, literally to the
vanishing point. Whether or not his calculations had it in mind, it is a
singular fact that the most imposing view of this monument is from the
air, where it presents a majestic form, light and eternal, invisible to those
of us who come to Thiepval, as the soldiers did in 1916, on foot.

Kathe Kollwitz and Vladslo

Lutyens was present at the dedication of his war memorial at Thiepval
on 2 August 1932.117 A few days before, another war memorial had been
erected at the Roggevelde German war cemetery, near Vladslo in
Flemish Belgium. It is the work of Kathe Kollwitz. Her sculpture is of
two parents mourning their son, killed in October 1914. There is no
monument to the grief of those who lost their sons in the war more
moving than this simple stone sculpture of two parents, on their knees,
before their son's grave.
There is no signature of the artist, no indication of individual
proprietorship, no location in time or space. Only sadness, the universal
sadness, of two aged people, surrounded by the dead, 'like a flock' of
lost children. The image is Kathe Kollwitz's own.I1S The story of her
struggle to commemorate her son Peter's death in war testifies both to
her humanity and to her achievement in creating a timeless memorial, a
work of art of extraordinary power and feeling. Through the monument
to her son Peter, she brought commemorative art to a level beyond that
of most of her contemporaries.
Kathe Kollwitz was forty-seven when the Great War broke out. She
was a prominent Berlin artist, whose lithographs A weavers' rebellion
(1898) and Peasants' war (1908) established her as a master printmaker
and visual poet par excellence of the suffering of the masses. She was the
granddaughter of a Konigsberg pastor, and his message of duty and
calling informed all her work. Her husband was a physician, whose
practice was in the drab Prenzlauer Berg district of Berlin, and whose
pa tients brought before her eyes the evidence of deprivation, degrada tion,
illness, and tragedy which she transformed into art. 119 Her aim was to
avoid formalism and overelaboration, and to use drawing and
printmaking to simplify and render immediately accessible the humanity
of her subjects. Her drawings of working-class life, past and present, all
exhibit her belief in the need to keep 'everything to a more and more
abbreviated form ... so that all that is essential is strongly emphasized
and all that is unessential denied' .120
Peter Kollwitz volunteered early in the war, and was killed, on 30
October 1914, aged eighteen, in Flanders, not far from Langemarck, a
name henceforth synonymous with the self-sacrificing idealism of
German youth. 121 'Your pretty shawl will no longer be able to warm our

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 War memorials and the mourning process

boy', was the touching way she broke the news to a close friend. 122 To
another friend she admitted, 'There is in our lives a wound which will
never heal. Nor should it.'123
By December 1914, she had formed the idea of creating a memorial to
her son, with his body outstretched, 'the father at the head, the mother at
the feet' to commemorate 'the sacrifice of all the young volunteers'. She
initially thought of placing it 'on the heights of Schild horn' near
Berlin.124 As time went on, she attempted various other designs, with
Peter above the parents,125 with the parents 'kneeling, as they carry their
dead son',126 with Peter's body wrapped in a blanket. 127 Then she
wrestled with the possibility that 'a relief of the parents might be set
upon his grave', or near the entrance to the war cemetery where Peter
was buried. 128 The relief became a sculpture in the round by November
1917, with the parents kneeling before their son's grave, 'leaning against
one another. Her head very low on his shoulder.'129
Dissatisfied with all these designs, Kiithe Kollwitz put the project
aside temporarily in 1919. Her commitment to see it through when it
was right was unequivocal. 'I will come back, I shall do this work for
you, for you and the others', she noted in her diary in June 1919. 130 Five
years later, she kept her word. Her idea was still to sculpt two parents,
kneeling before their son's grave, perhaps at the gate of the cemetery,
'block like figures, Egyptian in size, between which the visitors would
pass'.l3l In October 1925, she began work on the parents. In June 1926
Kiithe and Karl Kollwitz visited the German war cemetery at Roggevelde.
This is what she saw:

The cemetery is close to the highway ... The entrance is nothing but an opening
in the hedge that surrounds the entire field. It was blocked by barbed wire ...
What an impression: cross upon cross ... on most of the graves there were low,
yellow wooden crosses. A small metal plaque in the center gives the name and
number. So we found our grave ... We cut three tiny roses from a flowering
wild briar and placed them on the ground beside the cross. All that is left of him
lies there in a row-grave ...
We considered where my figures might be placed ... What we both thought
best was to have the figures just across from the entrance, along the hedge .. .
Then the kneeling figures would have the whole cemetery before them .. .
Fortunately no decorative figures have been placed in the cemetery, none at all.
The general effect is of simple planes and solitude ... Everything is quiet, but
the larks sing gladly.!32

The project occupied her throughout the following years, and she was at
last able to complete it in April 1931. 'In the fall- Peter,- I shall bring itto
you', she noted in her diary.133 Her work was exhibited in the National
Gallery in Berlin and then transported to Belgium, where it was placed,

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 Catastrophe and consolation

not near the entrance, but adjacent to her son's grave. l34 There it rests to
this day.
Kathe Kollwitz's war memorial was an offering to a son who had
offered his life for his country. She could not complete it until eighteen
years after his death. This alone should tell us something about the
process of bereavement described so movingly in her diary and in her
work. On 31 December 1914, she noted in her diary:

My Peter, I intend to try to be faithful ... What does that mean? To love my
country in my own way as you loved it in your way. And to make this love work.
To look at the young people and be faithful to them. Besides that I shall do my
work, the same work, my child, which you were denied. I want to honor God in
my work, too, which means I want to be honest, true and sincere ... When I try
to be like that, dear Peter, I ask you then to be around me, hel p me, show yourself
to me. I know you are there, but I see you only vaguely, as if you were shrouded
in mist. Stay with me ...

She spent hours sitting in his room. 135 In October 1916, she wrote in her
diary that 'I can feel Peter's being. He consoles me, he helps me in my
work.' She rejected the idea of spirits returning, but was drawn to the
'possibility of establishing a connection here, in this life of the sense,
between the physically alive person and the essence of someone
physically dead'. Call it 'theosophy or spiritism or mysticism', if you
will, she noted, but the truth was there nonetheless. 'I have felt you, my
boy - Oh, many, many times.'l36 Even after the pain of loss began to
fade, she still spoke to her dead son, especially when working on his
memorial. 137 Kollwitz continued to be haunted by dreams of her son,
and felt his presence in the same way that other bereaved parents did
throughout the world.l38
What gives Kollwitz's mourning an added dimension was her sense
of guilt, of remorse over the responsibility the older generation had for
the slaughter of the young. This feeling arose from her initial reaction to
Peter's decision to volunteer. Her attitude was apprehensive but
positive. Her vision was internationalist and hostile to the philistine
arrogance of official Germany. But, as she said time and again, she
believed in a higher duty than mere personal self-interest, and had felt
before 1914 that 'back of the individual life ... stood the Fatherland'.l39
She knew that her son had volunteered with a 'pure heart', filled with
patriotism,140 'love for an idea, a commandment',141 but still she had
wept bitterly at his departure. 142
To find, as she did later in the war, that his idealism was misplaced,
that his sacrifice was for nothing, was terribly painful for many reasons.
First, it created a distance between her and her son. 'Is it a break of faith
with you, Peter', she wrote in October 1916, 'if I can now see only
madness in the war?'143 He had died believing; how could his mother

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 War memorials and the mourning process

18. Gedenkblatt fur Karl Liebknecht by Kathe Koliwitz, 15 January 1919

not honour that belief? But to feel that the war was an exercise in futility
led to the even more damaging admission that her son and his whole
generation had been betrayed'. This recognition was agonizing, but she
did not flinch from giving it artistic form.l 44 This is one reason why it
took so long for her to complete the monument, and why she and her
husband are on their knees before their son's grave. They are there to
beg his forgiveness, to ask him to accept their failure to find a better way,
their failure to prevent the madness of war from cutting his life short.
Kathe Kollwitz also wrote in her diary of the 'need to kneel down and
let him pour through, through me. Feel myself altogether one with
him.'145 This form of prayer was deeply important to her, and showed
that despite the depths of her grief, she never abandoned the outlines of
her Christian humanist faith. Before the war, she had produced two
remarkable etchings entitled From many wounds you bleed, 0 people and
The downtrodden. Both are in triptych form,146 and both show a body
remarkably similar to Holbein's Christ in the Tomb. In 1903 she produced
an etching entitled Woman with dead child - Pietd,147 and became
renowned for her images of mothers and children. One of her most power-
ful etchings is a starkly primitive woman holding a dead child, modelled
for her in 1903 uncannily by her son Peter.l 48 The Christian Lamentation
motif found perhaps its most celebrated form in her work entitled

111

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8: /7 791 . : 0/ 7 0. 5.9 /10 09: 90::
 War memorials and the mourning process

Memorial print for Karl Liebknecht, which dwells more on the mourning
workers than on their murdered leader. Here we can see the influence of
the Christian sculpture of Ernst Barlach, whose war memorial sculpture
in Gustrow Cathedral she admired in later years. 149 Her Mary and
Elizabeth (1928) is derived from contemplating a devotional painting
attributed to Konrad Witz and hung in the art gallery of Berlin-Dahlem.1so
As we shall see in chapter 6, a return to the German Renaissance was not
unique in the postwar period.
What does separate the Kollwitz memorial from so many others,
either of religious or secular inspiration, is its sheer simplicity, and its
power to escape from the notation of a particular school of art or
ideology. Her memorial to her son Peter has a timelessness derived
from her gift for taking an older religious frame of reference and
remoulding it to suit a modern catastrophe.
I saw Kiithe Kollwitz'smemorial to her son ina light drizzle, not atall
foreign to the region of Belgium. What it produced was extraordinary: a
hunched-over figure in granite, with drops of water falling from her face.
At Roggevelde, on their knees, Kiithe and Karl Kollwitz suggest a
family which includes us all; and that may be precisely what she had in
mind. The most intimate here is also the most universal. The placing of
her memorial in the German war cemetery where her son's body lay
was a family reunion, a foretaste of what her broad religious faith
suggested would happen at some future date. The sense of completeness,
of healing, of transcendence is transparently present in her moving
account of her last visit to the memorial. She was alone with her husband:

we went from the figures to Peter's grave, and everything was alive and wholly
felt. I stood before the woman, looked at her - my own face - and I wept and
stroked her cheeks. Karl stood close behind me - I did not even realize it. I heard
him whisper, 'Yes, yes: How close we were to one another thenP51

Conclusion
Touching war memorials, and in particular, touching the names of those
who died, is an important part of the rituals of separation which
surrounded them. Many photographs of the period show mourners
reaching out in this way,152 thus testifying that whatever the aesthetic
and political meanings which they may bear, they are also sites of
mourning, and of gestures which go beyond the limitations of place and
time.
Freud's essay of1917 on 'Mourning and melancholia' provides a way
of understanding these gestures.1 53 For some people the burden of
bereavement is bearable; for others, it is crushing. The latter Freud

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 Catastrophe and consolation

20. Die Eltem, by Kathe Koilwitz, Roggevelde German war cemetery, Vladslo,
Belgium

114

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 War memorials and the mourning process

termed 'melancholic'. They are trapped in a forest of loss, unable to

focus on what had been torn from their lives. Their loss is palpable, but
also generalized. In contrast, the non-melancholic mourner tests the
reality of loss and ultimately disengages from the departed. The
melancholic cannot do this, unless some mediating element can help
isolate the loss, and establish its limits. Then the individual knows what
is gone, and what has survived. Is it fanciful to suggest that rituals at war
memorials, and in particular the reading of the names of the fallen, and
the touching of those statues or those names, were means of avoiding
crushing melancholia, of passing through mourning, of separating from
the dead and beginning to live again? Ritual here is a means of
forgetting, as much as of commemoration, and war memorials, with
their material representation of names and losses, are there to help in the
necessary art of forgetting.
This rite de passage was expressed in many different languages. Most
of them were traditional, drawing on ancient motifs and tropes from
religious, pagan, and secular sources. Art placed in cemeteries tended to
a greater degree of abstraction than did that located in village squares or
within the perimeter of churches, but even in the work of Lutyens or
Kathe Kollwitz the humanist tradition is still robustly intact.
This point raises one of the most widely debated issues of the cultural
history of the early twentieth century: the clash between 'traditional'
and 'modernist' approaches to twentieth-century art. When we
contemplate war memorials erected before the 1960s, the evidence is
overwhelmingly on one side. There are numerous instances of the
stubborn survival in the aftermath of the Great War of older forms in
commemorative art. What may be termed 'traditionalism' in wartime
and postwar religious and secular commemoration entails everything
the modernists rejected: romanticism, old values, sentimentality, in
sum, late-Victorian and Edwardian cliches about duty, masculinity,
honour. Of course, both the 'modernist' and the 'traditional' forms of
imagining the war were in evidence long before the Armistice, and they
were never as distinctive as apologists on both sides suggested. But
even when we add the towering examples of commemoration in war
cemeteries to the catalogue of civilian art, religious or secular, the
strength of traditional modes of expressing the debt of the living to the
dead must be acknowledged.
That strength, I argue, lay in the power of traditional languages,
rituals, and forms to mediate bereavement. Irony's cutting edge - the
savage wit of Dada or surrealism, for example - could express anger and
despair, and did so in enduring ways; but it could not heal. Traditional
modes of seeing the war, while at times less profound, provided a way
of remembering which enabled the bereaved to live with their losses,
and perhaps to leave them behind.1 54 This is the central reason why

115

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 Catastrophe and consolation

most commemorative art until the Second World War harks back to
earlier conventions, rather than forward to pure abstraction.
We confront here questions which may be posed and answered more
appropriately by poets than by historians. How healing occurs, and
what quietens embitterment and alleviates despair can never be fully
known. But not to ask the question, not to try to place the history of war
memorials within the history of bereavement, a history we all share in
our private lives, is both to impoverish the study of history and to evade
our responsibility as historians. For we must attend to the faces and
feelings of those who were bereft, and who made the pilgrimages to
these sites of memory, large and small, in order to begin to understand
how men and women tried to cope with one of the signal catastrophes of
our century.

116

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 Fabrications
The Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians, Australia and
New Zealand

ISSN: 1033-1867 (Print) 2164-4756 (Online) Journal homepage: https://www.tandfonline.com/loi/rfab20

Twenty Years of Thinking about Traumascapes

Maria Tumarkin

To cite this article: Maria Tumarkin (2019) Twenty Years of Thinking about Traumascapes,
Fabrications, 29:1, 4-20, DOI: 10.1080/10331867.2018.1540077

To link to this article: https://doi.org/10.1080/10331867.2018.1540077

Published online: 03 Feb 2019.

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FABRICATIONS
2019, VOL. 29, NO. 1, 4–20
https://doi.org/10.1080/10331867.2018.1540077

ARTICLE

Twenty Years of Thinking about Traumascapes

Maria Tumarkin
School of Culture and Communication, University of Melbourne, Australia

ABSTRACT
I have been researching and writing about traumascapes for
the past two decades. The central argument guiding my
research is simple: physical sites of violence and loss are
much more than mere backdrops to the traumatic events
that take place in their soil. They are deeply implicated in
individual and collective processes of grieving, remembering,
and meaning-making. I deploy an autoethnographic approach
in this paper, charting my progression through key ideas
informing my research, and exploring in depth the dominance
of the memorialisation trope in the majority of sustained
engagements with places of trauma. I reflect on several recent
cultural shifts that have been instrumental in changing our
understanding of and relationship with physical sites of
trauma, including the mainstreaming of grief’s public life
(once wild and uncontained spontaneous memorials, for
example, are now culturally expected, almost mandated, in
the West), the resolute everywhereness of traumascapes, the
gradual depathologisation of trauma in public conversations
and cultural imaginings, and a quiet revolution in the way we
do memorialisation. I tentatively propose the next stage in
imagining the future of sites inscribed with violence and loss,
arguing for the necessity of superseding the idea of traumas-
capes in human engagement with such places.

Defining Traumascapes
I have been researching traumascapes for the past twenty years. The central
argument guiding my research is simple: physical sites of violence and loss
are much more than mere backdrops to the traumatic events that take
place in their soil. In the last few decades, such sites have emerged as places
of undeniable power and vast cultural (and transcultural) significance in
the Western world. This significance is directly connected to the crucial
and varied ways in which traumascapes can and have become implicated in
individual and collective processes of mourning, remembering, and mak-
ing meaning of specific traumatic events and their legacies. It is important
to note that physical sites of trauma across the world have long histories of

CONTACT Maria Tumarkin m.tumarkin@unimelb.edu.au School of Culture and Communication, The

University of Melbourne, Australia
© 2019 The Society of Architectural Historians, Australia and New Zealand
 FABRICATIONS 5

cultural circulation and engagement. Still, their increased visibility in the

West is a relatively recent phenomenon.
One of the major reasons for the centrality of place in the aftermath of
violence and loss is to be found in the nature of trauma itself – both individual
and shared. Defining trauma is necessarily a fraught task. In my research, I have
drawn on the extensively developed understanding of trauma as contained not
in an event as such, but in the way this event is experienced and re-experienced
across time, frequently across generations. “Trauma,” wrote James Berger, “is
not simply another word for disaster.”1 Unlike other kinds of subjectively
processed life events, trauma entails “qualitative departures from one’s ordinary
modes of experiencing.”2 In Cathy Caruth’s influential formulation, “trauma is
the confrontation with an event that, in its unexpectedness or horror, cannot be
placed within the schemes of prior knowledge.”3 As Berger further explained,
“the idea of catastrophe as trauma provides a method of interpretation, for it
posits that the effects of an event may be dispersed and manifested in many
forms not obviously associated with the event.”4
Traumascapes are, therefore, not simply material locations of traumatic
events, but are physical places constituted by experiences of particular events
and their aftermath. These experiences include, but are not limited to, mean-
ing-making, mourning, and remembering, be they private, shared, ritualised,
impromptu, one-off, ongoing, deliberate, involuntary, etc. Such experiences
are frequently dispersed across time and tend to belong to a range of indivi-
duals and collectivities: people directly affected by an event, families of those
lost, eyewitnesses, locals, visitors, those with a prior connection to a particular
place, journalists, artists, etc. It's important to note that traumascapes are
specific, material locations of traumatic events, as opposed to, say, purpose-
created sites of memorialisation and/or mourning. Of course, not every site of
a tragedy becomes a traumascape. Traumascapes do presuppose a shared set
of experiences of a particular event’s extended aftermath and, often, a grap-
pling with the event’s legacy. A final note: what makes a physical site of
tragedy into a traumascape cannot be neatly mapped onto the numbers of
lives lost or the extent of devastation, or, for that matter, the prominence of
media coverage in the immediate aftermath and beyond. It is the nature of
experiences after the event traumascapes anchor and/or trigger that distin-
guishes this distinct category of places from other physical sites of tragic
events. When I say “the nature of experiences,” I also mean that many of
the experiences made possible and sometimes inescapable by traumascapes
are essentially affective.5 In other words, traumascapes are haunted and
haunting places, where visible and invisible, past and present, physical and
metaphysical come to coexist and share a common space. These are places
that get to us, that affect us at the very core, that make us feel everything from
awe to unease, from fear to epiphany, from a burst of involuntary memories to
a sense of deep, all-powerful transformation.6
6 M. TUMARKIN

Notes on Methodology
In this paper, I’ll look back at what interested me about physical sites of
trauma when I first started noticing powerlines running between trauma
and lived experience of places about two decades ago. I will reflect on
moments of clarity, dead-end strips in my early research – about where
they led me. And then the last ten years – my ideas about the role
traumascapes play in mourning, remembering, and making meaning
have been both shaken and extended. I’ll discuss how, to what effect. At
the end, I will tentatively propose the next stage in imagining the future of
sites inscribed with violence and loss, which is to say I will argue for the
necessity of superseding the idea of traumascapes in human engagement
with such places.
This paper is thus organised around principles of autoethnography. The
autoethnographic approach gives me an opportunity to reflect critically on
my research trajectory and to represent my research truthfully as a domain
productively interlinked with, rather than separate from, my history and
lived experiences. In other words, autoethnography, the way it is deployed
in this paper, is a way of not replicating the damaging dichotomy between
the researcher’s work and their being in the world – the dichotomy that
strikes me as foreign and dangerous. For me, it is also a way of asserting
from the outset, unapologetically, that my research is always personal,
which is to say registered bodily and psychically, often approached intui-
tively, its precise shape and areas of urgency determined by something I
can only call my moral core.
Finally, I am writing about other people’s pain, and entering this
territory comes with a very profound set of ethical responsibilities. A
steadfast commitment to rigorous self-examination is a non-negotiable
part of these responsibilities. To write about other people’s precarious
and traumatised lives requires every researcher to keep asking themselves
what is at stake for them in their research, why they are doing what they
are doing, in the name of what, driven by what. The autoethnographic
framework both enables and supports this continuous interrogation of
one’s positionality, history, privileges, biases, blind spots, agendas, and
motivations.

Trauma and Place

I first started thinking about place and trauma when my family came to
Australia from the imploding Eastern Europe more than a quarter of a
century ago (I was sixteen at the time). A few years later, I was studying
twentieth-century history at the University of Melbourne and getting
nowhere with my studies. My grades were fine, especially for someone
 FABRICATIONS 7

with a very limited English, but my head was muddy. My problem was that
I couldn’t locate myself in Australia. I felt little about where I was, apart
from the acute, daily pain of displacement. And this disconnection, this
indifference, made what I was doing in my degree feel random and thin –
why X and not Y, why now and not later? Underneath these questions
were the real questions: Who should I talk to so I can feel differently about
being in Australia? Where should I go? What air should I breathe?
More university. Honours (I wrote on the history of sleep), then a PhD.
I was a first-generation migrant from what used to be called the Second
World, and being offered a three-year scholarship which gave me and my
young daughter enough money to live on was like finding a bag of
hundred-dollar notes on the street. In my Honours year, someone came
to speak to students interested, maybe, in doing a PhD. “It’s a long and
lonely three years, boys and girls,” they said. “Write about what really
matters to you or you’ll go batty.”
For a long time in my PhD I didn’t know what I was doing. Sure, I
submitted forms and nailed words to paper and declared something or
other: my subject-matter, my research questions, methodology, framework,
fieldwork, the shoulders of which particular giants I intended to stand on,
but that was a game. I did not mean any of it. Inside, I was just following
hunches, being pulled towards thickets of felt meaning I sensed in the
world around me and for which I could find no language. I was that dog
that the German writer W. G. Sebald talked about – running through a
field seemingly with no rhyme or reason, nose to the ground. Yet the dog
“invariably finds what he is looking for,” Sebald wrote. What I found
eventually, years later, was the necessity of doing the kind of work that
didn’t slide across lived experiences of place on the way to somewhere else,
but instead put place in the way of thinking, made it a stumbling block, got
it to trip up, or derail altogether, well-oiled tracks of enquiry.
I knew from the start that I wanted to write about trauma in some way
(write about what really matters to you or you’ll go batty), but how? Cathy
Caruth, Shoshana Felman, Dori Laub, Dominic LaCapra – in the 1990s
when I wrote my PhD, the collective import of these trauma theorists’
work in the West seemed to provide the only convincing alternative to a
medicalised, pathologised view of trauma espoused in diagnostic manuals
and most obviously exemplified, since 1980 at least, by the concept and
symptomology of post-traumatic stress disorder.7 Susannah Radstone
describes this body of work as texts “which opened up the Humanities to
trauma.”8 For Radstone, the development of early trauma theory was
closely linked to, on the one hand, deconstruction, poststructuralism,
and psychoanalysis, and on the other hand, clinical work with survivors
of certain kinds of trauma.9 At the time I was struck by Caruth’s argument
that “trauma seems to be much more than a pathology, or the simple
8 M. TUMARKIN

illness of a wounded psyche: it is always the story of a wound that cries out,
that addresses us in the attempt to tell us of a reality or truth not otherwise
available.”10 The story of the wound, but also as Laub famously posited,
“an event without witness.”11
At the same time, I found that a great deal of trauma theory I was reading
resembled a trail of smoke curling up and away from what felt vitally
tangible to me – from specific bodies, lives, families, places. I wanted to
find a way of writing about trauma as something solid, both materially
present and materially potent. Not a curtain in the window moving in
response to something powerful that cannot, yet or ever, be seen, but a
man in gumboots, blocking the doorway, in a house on fire. I was looking
for ways to access trauma both materially and non-pathologically and a year
and a half into my thesis, I had it: I needed to get to trauma by way of place.
In my thesis, I reflected on the dearth of scholarship concerned with
interrogating the nexus of trauma and lived experiences of place:
In the texts about individually and collectively experienced trauma, I find fre-
quent evocations of inner and symbolic spaces, of individual and collective
psychic geographies, yet little attention seems to be paid to material sites marked
by traumatic histories. So landscape of memory, the most frequently used spatial
trope in contemporary literature on collective or historical traumas, is never a
pub or a forest – it is rather an abstract and metaphoric terrain. At the other end
of the spectrum, geographers and historians concerned with the phenomenology
of space and place tend, on the whole, to shy away from digging explicitly for and
around trauma.12

Landscapes of violence and tragedy (Foote), wounded space (Bird Rose),

places of the colonial uncanny (Gelder and Jacobs), sites of memory and
mourning (Winter), wounded spaces (Rose), placescapes (Casey), spaces of
death (Taussig) – none of these figurations explicitly brought concepts of
trauma and place together.13 Only Dominic LaCapra’s engagement with
Claude Lanzmann’s non-lieux de la mémoire, non-sites of memory (after
Pierre Nora’s lieux de mémoire), conceptualised some sites of memory as
sites of trauma, linking trauma lingering in physical places to the failure to
mourn (and so, in a sense, rendering sites of trauma pathological).14 For its
part, trauma theory in the early-to-mid 1990s was incisive on time (time
was a central category, with trauma theorised as something that cannot be
assimilated or fully experienced at the time it happened), but it was not
great on place. In fact, Caruth and others were suspicious of trauma being
imagined as locatable in specific sites. Caruth, for instance, argued that
“the impact of the traumatic event lies precisely in its belatedness, in its
refusal to be simply located, in its insistent appearance outside the bound-
aries of any single place or time.”15
Bringing trauma and place together in my research allowed me to begin
thinking about some of the ways in which sites inscribed with trauma were
 FABRICATIONS 9

materially implicated in the production and re-production of mourning,

remembering, and meaning-making across extended swathes of time (i.e.
inter-generationally) as well as for diffuse communities (of mourners,
bystanders, locals, tourists, etc.) and constituencies. Traumascapes were
concrete and material. They were constituted through experienced and
imagined repetitions of trauma. I wanted to know how they mattered, what
sorts of experiences and interactions they triggered and sustained, what
kind of cultural work they performed, what they let us see about the
present and the past and about hauntingness as, in the words of Avery
Gordon, “a constituent element of modern social life.”16 To “study social
life,” Gordon wrote, “one must confront the ghostly aspects of it.”17 I cried
with exhilaration and relief when I read Gordon’s Ghostly Matters – the
first “academic” book which made me cry.

Beyond Memorialisation
At the time I was working on my PhD, the question most commonly asked
in any grappling with places inscribed with violence or loss went some-
thing like this: What should we do with such places? Do/should we
remember them, forget them, memorialise, reconstruct, set aside, reinte-
grate them? In other words, the overwhelming majority of sustained
engagements with places of trauma, however such places were named
and conceptualised at the time, was done through the idiom of memor-
ialisation. Memorialisation is still the endpoint of most conversations
about traumascapes. It doesn’t matter whether these days we are also
talking at length about anti-memorials, counter-memorials, temporary
memorials, spontaneous shrines. It doesn’t matter either that we are get-
ting more and more sophisticated in how we think about memorialisation
so that, for instance, historian James E. Young, one of the most influential
thinkers on the topic, could declare, following an international competi-
tion held in 1994 to design a Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe in
the middle of the recently reunified Berlin, “better a thousand years of
Holocaust memorial competitions and exhibitions in Germany than any
single ‘final solution’ to Germany’s memorial problem.”18 Five hundred-
plus design entries came in. None ended up getting built. Young celebrated
the impasse. Years later, as a member of the jury for the World Trade
Centre memorial competition, Young would talk about the World Trade
Centre memorial as a process, which began with the first candlelit vigil and
the first spontaneous shrine and remains ongoing well past the construc-
tion of the permanent memorial on the site of Ground Zero.19 In response
to her once controversial Vietnam Veterans Memorial design, Maya Lin
wrote, “the memorial is composed not as an unchanging monument, but
as a moving composition to be understood as we move into and out of
10 M. TUMARKIN

it.”20 While a growing recognition of memorialisation as a process that

cannot be neatly fixed in time as well as a process that does not and should
not seek to solve or cover up fraught questions of meaning, interpretation,
and legacy which often coalesce around traumascapes, the basic premise
remains intact – it is still us, humans, doing things to sites of trauma.
In my research, I wanted to shift the conversation to consider both the
fate and power of traumascapes, and this required the flipping of the
central question. My argument was not that we should stop thinking
hard about what we were doing, and not doing, with these places: on the
contrary. It was our moral obligation to consider our duty of care to these
places, to historicise and repoliticise, and so to lay bare, the often hidden
trajectories of our (non)engagement, but the question “what do we do?”
often worked to obscure and displace another question that did not get
asked nearly enough – “what do these places do to us?”
I can see now, even though I couldn’t quite articulate it at the time, that
I was also bothered by the deeper ethical implications of the manifold
pondering of human agency (both used well and misused) in relation to
sites of trauma. Anthropologist Ghassan Hage talks about different forms
of domination in colonial and neo-colonial contexts and about the need to
distinguish those forms of domination, which are marked by the dynamic
of extraction.21 He is referring first to the extraction of labour and
resources from certain kinds of individuals and groups – the extraction
which leads invariably to the diminishment of their life force. There are
other forms of extraction, of course, and different things and resources to
be extracted, including meaning, moral value, legitimacy, cultural and
intellectual capital. Places in our lives are deeply vulnerable to this kind
of extractionist logic. “What do we do with places of trauma?” is simulta-
neously a morally necessary question and an extractionist one.
My thinking around the conjoining of trauma and place was deeply
influenced by the work of anthropologist Deborah Bird Rose, who coined
the term “wounded space,”22 spoke about the ethics of reciprocity as
distinct from the ethics of care, and would write the following words
which were to guide much of my thinking in the last decade or so:

Our boundaries around what is sayable, and our elisions that treat as real only that
which can be subject to constricted modes of social analysis, have the potential
either to excise a great range of experience and knowledge, or to drag it back into the
familiar, thus depriving it of its own real power.23

Thinking with trauma allowed the widening of the net to include experi-
ences and knowledges (as real as anything) that were not necessarily
visible, explicable, mappable, or available for social analysis.
Traumascapes – the coming together of trauma and place – allowed me
to escape two prisons at once. I needed place to talk about trauma
 FABRICATIONS 11

materially and I needed trauma to talk about places in a way that was not
locked into the extractionist paradigm.

The Cultural Work of Traumascapes

What kind of cultural work do traumascapes perform? Below is twenty
years of my research distilled in a paradigmatic genre of our times: a
listicle.
* Traumascapes can elicit, shape, and sustain remembering.
* Traumascapes can crystallise identities and meanings.
* Traumascapes can enable and anchor public and private expressions
of grief.
* Traumascapes can create communities and publics – often commu-
nities of survivors, but also communities of mourners.
* Traumascapes can act as focal points or catalysts for truth-seeking and
justice-seeking.
* Traumascapes can emerge as cathartic locations.
* Traumascapes can become portals for individual experiences of shame,
brutalisation, loss of meaning, and humiliation, to become reconfigured
as socially shared experiences.
* Traumascapes can transfer and externalise the burden of memory
carried by survivors.

It’s All Changing

A lot has changed in the last two decades. Today, grief is a persistent and
significant part of public life, public sites, and public conversations. Our
ideas of what grief might look like in the immediate aftermath and long-
term, how it may be expressed, what sites it may seek to inhabit, what
communities and publics it may create are all changing profoundly. These
ideas are no longer formed by the experts, but are instead negotiated and
reimagined publicly. An increasingly thriving subgenre of grief memoirs,
for instance, seeks to lay bare much that is uncontained and unscripted
about human responses to loss, while at the same time working to create a
new, non-clinical language for speaking about grief.24 We are witnessing a
new emphasis on the right to grieve as part of processes of peace-building,
reconciliation, and political settlement. Online, we have an explosion of
memorial and bereavement sites, which seek to create and sustain virtual
communities of mourners. In most Western nations, spontaneously
erected temporary memorials appear virtually without fail in the wake of
tragedies of many kinds (these seemingly omnipresent landscapes of grief
date back only a couple of decades).
12 M. TUMARKIN

In the aftermath of the Port Arthur massacre in April 1996, it seemed

both remarkable and gut-wrenching that Walter Mikac should leave his wife
Nanette’s runners and stuffed toys belonging to his daughters, six-year-old
Alannah and three-year-old Madeline, at the exact places where they were
killed by Martin Bryant and that, in no time, these objects should be
surrounded by toys, candles, letters, flowers, left there by the public. Now
teddy bears are a staple. In 2012, officials in Connecticut had to ask well-
meaning Americans to please stop already – within a week of the shootings
at Sandy Hook Elementary School, the town was drowning in tens of
thousands of donated bears. Sociologist Karen J. Engle calls it “kitsch
communitarianism.”25 Philosopher Bruno Latour calls it “Dingpolitik,” a
democracy of things.26 I came across a photograph of a distraught woman
in Connecticut carrying a teddy bear nearly twice her size.
Temporary memorials, spontaneous shrines now appear pretty much
without fail following an untimely death of one hundred, one thousand,
one. In Koonung Creek Linear Reserve in Doncaster, where 17-year-old
Masa Vukotic was stabbed to death by a stranger. At the base of
Melbourne’s West Gate Bridge after Arthur Freeman threw his 4-year-
old daughter Darcey off. At Martin Place in Sydney – so many flowers
there, following the Lindt cafe siege, that the media took to photographing
them from the sky. En masse like that, they resembled a topographic
feature, a mound or lake. At a St Kilda corner where sex worker Tracy
Connelly used to stand, her back straight, before she was violently mur-
dered by a client. Tracy’s corner, it was known as.
Jill Meagher was 29 when she was raped and murdered by serial sex
offender Adrian Bailey in 2012 on her way home from a night out. Jill and
her husband lived in Brunswick, part of Moreland City Council. This is
Oscar Yildiz, the council mayor at the time of Meagher’s murder:

Oh my god, Maria, to be honest with you, I didn’t think we were going to get
thousands after thousands of people marching down streets. The flowers were
incredible. We had people from all over Australia coming to the march. People
from all over Australia delivered flowers. I was blown away. I expected maybe a
hundred people. And I expected maybe three or four bunches of flowers.

Robert M. Bednar writes that a temporary memorial is not only “an active
attempt to keep the memory of the past loss present and alive in the public
sphere – but also a talking-back to the death itself through material
means.”27 Talking back to death, yes. Also, talking back to the world – to
this world so compulsively ready to move on to the next thing.
In June 2014 Jordan Porter, an admired Melbourne-based graffiti artist
in his twenties, stripped naked and got on the train roof as his train was
approaching Balaclava Station, two stations from my home station
Elsternwick on the Sandringham line. Jordan was about to leave the street-
 FABRICATIONS 13

art scene for the art-art scene. The train-surfing stunt was meant to be his
“last hurrah” – somewhere nearby, a mate was meant to be taking photos.
It ended up being “death by the overhead wires.” Around that time
Balaclava Station was under reconstruction, a mess of scaffolding and
fences and workers. That night, the station and many trains were graffiti-
bombed. Jordan’s tagging name “Sinch” appeared in a hundred different
iterations. On the walls of buildings around East St Kilda, and across the
city, I saw graffiti messages addressed to Sinch. Back at the station itself,
bouquets of flowers with notes were tied to a temporary construction
fence. After a few days I saw a typed note from Jordan’s family, attached
by duct tape, positioned beside some of the flowers:

All cards have been removed for safe keeping

The family thanks you for all your love and support.

The train station was turned into a primary portal between the dead and
the living, between Jordan’s family and strangers grieving his untimely
(and painfully farcical) death.
The proliferation and naturalisation of what I am calling “the public life of
grief” strikes me as one of the most significant recent developments. Sites of
trauma are now unquestionably at the very centre of individual and communal
rites and modes of mourning: they are perceived as essential in the aftermath of
sudden loss, interacted with vigorously and in a complexly plural array of ways.
Another significant change I want to mention here concerns ways in which
scholars in the broad field of cultural geography are increasingly thinking about
materiality and spectrality as co-existing and interconnected. The earlier oppo-
sition of materiality and immateriality, of objects and material remnants, on one
hand, and affects and representations, on the other, is being actively challenged
from within the field.28 As part of this challenge, “repertoires of enactive practice
through which the relational, processual, and affective materialities of space and
place might be apprehended” are being developed and debated.29 The sizeable
barriers I encountered at the start of my research in making discursive space for
the irreducibly material and irreducibly affective are gradually fading.

Time/Place for Something Else?

Ghassan Hage talks about “concepts intervening in reality as a material
force in its own right.”30 Concepts bring something to life rather than
seeking to pin down something that already exists. It is probably fair to say
that the concept of traumascapes, taken up, significantly extended, and
refined by scholars across the world, did intervene in reality at some point
as a material force. I want to suggest that it is time for the next phase.
14 M. TUMARKIN

One of the most insightful recent critiques of the non-clinical theorisa-

tions of trauma in Western scholarship concerns the necessity of moving
away from an almost exclusive focus on event-based traumas to “account for
and respond to collective, ongoing, everyday forms of traumatising
violence,”31 including racism, colonialism and neo-colonialism, institutiona-
lised misogyny, ableism, and other structural and insidious forms of oppres-
sion. Yes, we are talking about the wholesale decolonisation of trauma
theory – the process, in which the first step is the recognition of the very
specific historical and geographical context for the rise of a particular vision
of trauma in Western humanities. As Stef Craps argues, “the concept of
psychological trauma is a Western artifact determined by its origins in a
variety of late-nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century medical and psycho-
logical discourses dealing with Euro-American experiences of industrialisa-
tion, gender relations, and modern warfare.”32 The particulars of this history
have unsurprisingly engendered blind spots as well as indifference to certain
forms of suffering and certain groups of sufferers. We might go further and
call up Judith Butler’s concept of “grievable lives” in an attempt to reckon
with people and experiences seemingly forgotten or unnoticed in the most
influential trauma theorisations in Western humanities. As Craps forcefully
puts it, “trauma theory’s failure to give the sufferings of those belonging to
non-Western or minority groups due recognition sits uneasily with the
field’s ethical aspirations.”33 Alongside the failure to reckon with what
Maria Root called “insidious trauma,”34 we can also point to the failure to
deeply consider the fraught nature of cross-cultural applications of Western
concepts of psychic trauma in global settings. Psychiatrist Derek
Summerfield has famously pointed out that psychiatric universalism “risks
being imperialistic.”35 These critiques are vitally reshaping models of psychic
trauma in humanities as well as identifying trauma’s limitations as a cate-
gory of understanding, analysis, and redress.
In the last decade, the development of Avery Gordon’s work on haunt-
ing as a structuring presence in our social life has similarly focused on
“modern forms of dispossession, exploitation and repression,”36 on what
she calls “repressed or unresolved social violence.”37 While Gordon’s early
thinking can be traced to Derrida’s writing on spectres and the ghostly
presences and traces, it has come to diverge significantly from Derrida’s
view of the spectral as “the non-living present in the living present.”38 For
Gordon, writing in 2011,

haunting is one way in which abusive systems of power make themselves known and
their impacts felt in everyday life, especially when they are supposedly over and done
with . . . or when their oppressive nature is continuously denied. . .39

Gordon sees “something-to-be-done” and “futurity”40 as characteristic of

haunting, as opposed to the more familiar tropes of paralysis, debilitating
 FABRICATIONS 15

displacement, dissociation, repetition, and unending mourning. For

Gordon, this “something-to-be-done” is an insistent demand haunting
makes on us in times of emergency. Within it, she cautiously suggests,
are possibilities for political movement and change. “Something-to-be-
done” takes us to the question that must be asked if anything is to change
in the world around us and in the world yet to come: “how to live
otherwise than in the putatively inevitable repetition of the degradations
and depredations that injure us.”41 Moving beyond traumascapes is, for
me, about taking to heart Gordon’s foregrounding of futurity and the
necessity of theorising the relationship between lived experiences of place
and structural and insidious forms of traumatic and social violence. The
movement beyond traumascapes is the movement towards sites of
conscience.

Sites of Conscience
Sites of conscience are a global phenomenon. In Australia, however, we have
been slow to recognise its significance and radical potential. At present,
Parramatta Female Factory Precinct (PFFP) Memory Project is the only
Australian member of the International Coalition of Sites of Conscience.42
The PFFP Memory Project is a growing and immensely important art,
memory, and social research project situated on the site of the Parramatta
Girls Home in Western Sydney, on the traditional lands of the
Burramattagal clan of the Darug Nation. The PFFP precinct is also the
location of Australia’s first purpose-built convict Female Factory and
Australia’s first purpose-built orphanage for Catholic children.43 As such,
it is the country’s most significant source of social memory of the institu-
tionalisation and incarceration of women and children. The PFFP project
was initiated by a collective of adult survivors of the Parramatta Girls Home
who were interned during their adolescent years. These women refer to
themselves as Parragirls.44 Parragirls, some of whom were Aboriginal, con-
tinue to suffer lifelong effects of the Home’s systemic abuse, brutalisation,
and separation from family. The project is led by Bonney Djuric, artist and
Parragirl, and Lily Hibberd, artist and social researcher.
In 2005 Bonney Djuric climbed on top of some rubbish bins and
jumped over the fence into what would become later the PFFP site. She
said she wanted to see if the site still had any power over her. Power. This
is important. The site was a women’s prison by then; the material parts of
it connected to Bonney’s time at the Parramatta Girls Home in 1970 were
no longer in use and increasingly, as she discovered, gripped by decay.
Bonney’s jumping into the site, perforating it with her body, the same body
that was subjected to abuse here when she was fifteen, and that continued,
decades later, to be marked by the time spent at this place, made possible a
16 M. TUMARKIN

reclamation of sorts. The visit, Bonney says, allowed the power that this
place held over her life to shift to her. This was the start of the PFFP
project.
To conceive of the PFFP memory project precinct as a site of conscience
is to see it as much more than a site of memory or complex heritage or
trauma. It is to recognise that sites of complex shared trauma are often
“tamed” and “domesticated” through the dominant heritage paradigms of
preservation, memorialisation, and top-down interpretation. On a funda-
mental level, sites of conscience are distinguished by their ability to move
us: “from memory to action,”45 from isolation to community, from social
invisibility to cultural legitimacy, from looking away to looking at, from
neglect to vitality, from victim to witness, and, finally, from safely in the
past to powerfully and palpably present.
As a site of conscience, the PFFP memory project site is being trans-
formed into a place of witnessing and reckoning, a locus of cultural vitality,
and a permanent community hub. First, though, the site needed to be
made into a safe and life-giving place for Parragirls themselves – a task that
we might consider accomplished thanks to the tireless work of Bonney,
Lily, and others, even though such a task will always be precarious because
of its dependence on the good will of changing governments as well as the
presence of sufficient barriers to hold developers back. One example of
how the PFFP project functions at present is the development of the Living
Traces initiative.46 As part of the project, Parragirls collaborate with artists
and printmakers to document the disappearing graffiti at the former
Parramatta Girls Home (graffiti left by interned girls is one of the most
important material traces of lived experiences of incarceration and brutal-
isation and is at risk of complete disappearance), unpack its meaning
through personal knowledge and memory, and work on creative interpre-
tations at collaborative on-site workshops. In other words, Parragirls are
producing their own historical record, using their first-hand knowledge to
excavate meaning and provide interpretation of vital historical traces, and
are, at the same time, making art on the physical site of and in direct
response to their lifelong trauma.
Liz Sevcenko, the director of the International Coalition of Sites of
Conscience, writes that sites of conscience can act as “critical tools for
building a lasting culture of human rights.”47 The cultural work sites of
conscience can perform involves publically confronting past violations of
rights and personhoods through documentation and creation of archives,
preservation of material traces, and through laying bare the ongoing legacy
of such violations for individuals, families, communities, and nations. At
the same times, these sites must publically engage with the ways these
violations persist in the present. In Australia, the history of the institutio-
nalisation of women and children is little known, poorly documented and
 FABRICATIONS 17

frequently challenged. Many of those who have the first-hand knowledge

of this history have come to distrust their own memories, or need mne-
monic aids to excavate buried or secreted-away memories.
As a site of conscience, PFFP Memory Project can keep in the public
consciousness the knowledge that incarceration of children leads to the
erosion of self through humiliation, degradation, loss of autonomy, and
that such incarceration produces intergenerational trauma and results in “a
devastating legacy of anger, anxiety, depression, distrust, fear, guilt, low
self-esteem, obsessiveness, phobias, poor confidence, recurring nightmares
and substance abuse.”48 Further, incarceration of children is the responsi-
bility of the whole society because it involves the breaking of the funda-
mental social contract. This knowledge, kept alive and urgent, can provoke
and sustain all-important public debates about what incarceration does to
children as well as the catastrophic consequences of “the penalisation of
precariousness,”49 which also includes penalisation of trauma, desperation,
poverty, and foreignness. In turn, these debates could lead to incremental
changes in public policy (I am thinking of off-shore and on-shore deten-
tion centres, for instance).
At the same time, the PFFP project can become a powerful cultural
space for the ongoing public reckoning with the findings of the Royal
Commission into Institutional Responses to Child Sexual Abuse. Following
the completion of the Commission’s work, we now have a massive, nation-
wide archive of personal testimonies and vital insights (based on painstak-
ing, rigorous research) into brutalisation of children across the nation in
and by institutions entrusted with their care. It is clear that Australia needs
cultural spaces that can keep alive a major public conversation about the
intergenerational legacy of endemic child abuse in our institutions and
about the societal responsibilities to victims, survivors, and their families.50
The PFFP memory project can play a critical part in the nation-wide
reckoning with individual and shared trauma of institutionalisation and
incarceration. Sites of conscience are able to keep memories, histories,
experiences, and their ongoing legacy alive and urgent in the public
imaginary as open wounds, provocations, calls to action, and urgent
questions. This is why they are the next step in our thinking about that
vital relationship between traumatic histories and material places.

Notes
1. James Berger, “World of Hurt: Reading the Literatures of Trauma,” Contemporary
Literature 38, no. 3 (Fall 1997): 570.
2. Berger, “World of Hurt,” 570.
3. Cathy Caruth, Unclaimed Experience: Trauma, Narrative and History (Baltimore:
Johns Hopkins University Press, 1995), 153.
18 M. TUMARKIN

4. Berger, “World of Hurt,” 570.

5. I am drawing on Brian Massumi’s illuminating definition of affect as a “prepersonal
intensity corresponding to the passage from one experiential state of the body to
another and implying an augmentation or diminution in that body’s capacity to act.”
See Brian Massumi, “Notes on the Translation and Acknowledgments,” in A
Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia, eds. G. Deleuze and F. Guattari
(Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1987), xvi.
6. Maria Tumarkin, Traumascapes: The Power and Fate of Places Transformed by
Tragedy (Melbourne: Melbourne University Press, 2005).
7. See Shoshana Felman and Dori Laub, Testimony: Crises of Witnessing in Literature,
Psychoanalysis and History (London: Routledge, 1992); Cathy Caruth, ed., Trauma:
Explorations in Memory (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1995); Cathy
Caruth, Unclaimed Experience: Trauma, Narrative and History (Baltimore: John
Hopkins University Press, 1996); and Dominic LaCapra, History and Memory after
Auschwitz (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1999).
8. Susannah Radstone, “Trauma Theory: Contexts, Politics, Ethics,” Paragraph 30,
no. 1 (2007): 9.
9. Radstone, “Trauma Theory,” 10.
10. Caruth, Unclaimed Experience, 4.
11. Dori Laub, “An Event Without a Witness: Truth, Testimony and Survival,” in
Testimony, 75–92.
12. Maria Tumarkin, “Secret Life of Wounded Spaces: Traumascapes in Contemporary
Australia,” PhD diss. University of Melbourne, 2002.
13. See Kenneth Foote, Shadowed Ground: America’s Landscapes of Violence and
Tragedy (Austin: University of Texas, 1999); Deborah Bird Rose, “Rupture and
the Ethics of Care in Colonized Space,” in Prehistory to Politics: John Mulvaney,
the Humanities and the Public Intellectual, eds. Tim Bonyhady and Tom Griffiths
(Melbourne: Melbourne University Press, 1997); Ken Gelder and Jane M. Jacobs,
Uncanny Australia: Sacredness and Identity in a Postcolonial Nation (Melbourne:
Melbourne University Press, 1998); Edward S. Casey, Getting Back Into Place:
Towards a Renewed Understanding of the Place-World (Indianapolis: Indiana
University Press, 1987); Jay Winter, Sites of Memory, Sites of Mourning: The
Great War in European Cultural History (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1995); and Michael Taussig, Shamanism, Colonialism, and The Wild
Man: A Study in Terror and Healing (Chicago: University of Chicago Press,
1986).
14. See LaCapra, History and Memory after Auschwitz, 10.
15. Caruth, Trauma, 9.
16. Avery Gordon, Ghostly Matters: Haunting and the Sociological Imagination
(Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1997), 7.
17. Gordon, Ghostly Matters, 7.
18. James E. Young, “Germany’s Holocaust Memorial Problem – and Mine,” The Public
Historian 24, no. 4 (2002): 68.
19. James E. Young, “The Stages of Memory: Reflections on Memorial Art from the
Holocaust to 9/11,” public opening keynote address at the Australian Centre for
Jewish Civilisation, Monash University, 19 September 2016.
20. Jenny Edkins, Trauma and the Memory of Politics (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2003), 81.
21. Ghassan Hage, “White Concepts,” The Wednesday Lectures hosted by Raimond
Gaita, The University of Melbourne, 3 August 2016.
 FABRICATIONS 19

22. Rose, “Rupture and the Ethics of Care.”

23. Deborah Bird Rose, “Recursive Epistemologies and an Ethics of Attention,” in
Extraordinary Anthropology: Transformations in the Field, eds. Jean-Guy A. Goulet
and Bruce Granville Miller (Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press, 2006), 97.
24. See, for instance, Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking (New York: Knopf,
2005); Joyce Carol Oates, A Widow’s Story: A Memoir (New York: Ecco, 2011);
Meghan O’Rourke, The Long Goodbye (New York: Riverhead Books, 2011); and
David Rieff, Swimming in a Sea of Death: A Son’s Memoir (New York: Simon &
Schuster, 2008).
25. Karen J. Engle, “Putting Mourning to Work: Making Sense of 9/11,” Theory, Culture
& Society 24, no. 1 (2007): 61–88.
26. See Bruno Latour, “From Realpolitik to Dingpolitik, or How to Make Things
Public,” in Making Things Public: Atmospheres of Democracy, eds. Bruno Latour
and Peter Weibel (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 2005), 14–44.
27. Robert Bednar, “Materialising Memory: The Public Lives of Roadside Crash
Shrines,” Memory Connection 1, no. 1 (2011): 17–33.
28. Derek P. McCormack, “Remotely Sensing Affective Afterlives: The Spectral
Geographies of Material Remains,” Annals of the Association of American
Geographers 100, no. 3 (2010): 640–654.
29. McCormack, “Remotely Sensing,” 643.
30. Hage, “White Concepts.”
31. Stef Craps, Postcolonial Witnessing: Trauma Out of Bounds (London: Palgrave
Macmillan, 2013), 4.
32. Craps, Postcolonial Witnessing, 3.
33. Craps, Postcolonial Witnessing, 3.
34. See Maria Root, “Reconstructing the Impact of Trauma on Personality,” in
Personality and Psychopathology: Feminist Reappraisals, eds. L. S. Brown and M.
Ballou (New York: Guilford Press, 1992), 229–265; and Maria Root, “Rethinking
Racial Identity Development: An Ecological Framework,” in We are a People:
Narrative and Multiplicity in Constructing Ethnic Identity, eds. P. Spickard and J.
Burroughs (Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press, 2000), 205–220.
35. Derek Summerfield, “Cross-Cultural Perspectives on the Medicalization of Human
Suffering,” Posttraumatic Stress Disorder: Issues and Controversies, ed. G. M. Rosen
(New York: Wiley, 2004), 238.
36. Avery Gordon, “Some Thoughts on Haunting and Futurity,” Borderlands 10, no. 2,
(2011): 1.
37. Gordon, “Some Thoughts on Haunting and Futurity,” 2.
38. See Jacques Derrida, “Marx & Sons,” in Ghostly Demarcations: A Symposium on
Jacques Derrida’s Spectres of Marx, ed. M Sprinker (London: Verso, 1999), 254.
39. Gordon, “Some Thoughts on Haunting and Futurity,” 2.
40. Gordon, “Some Thoughts on Haunting and Futurity,” 3.
41. Gordon, “Some Thoughts on Haunting and Futurity,” 4.
42. See the official website of the International Coalition of Sites of Conscience, http://
www.sitesofconscience.org/.
43. The Factory operated on the site between 1821 and 1847, while the Roman Catholic
Orphan School was open between 1844 and 1866.
44. All of the information regarding PFFP Memory Project is cited here courtesy of
Bonney Djuric and Dr Lily Hibberd, and with their explicit permission. I offer my
heartfelt gratitude for their generosity in sharing their ground-breaking research and
resources with me. See Bonney Djuric, Lily Hibberd, and Maria Tumarkin, “The
20 M. TUMARKIN

Parramatta Female Factory Memory Project: From a Heritage Site to Australia’s

First Site of Conscience,” presented at National Trusts of Australia and Australia
ICOMOS Conference, Melbourne, 6 October 2016.
45. See the official website of the International Coalition of Sites of Conscience: http://
www.sitesofconscience.org/.
46. Bonney Djuric and Lily Hibberd, “Arts NSW Grant Application,” 2015 (used with
permission).
47. Liz Sevcenko, The Power of Place: How Historic Sites Can Engage Citizens in Human
Rights Issues (Minneapolis, MN: New Tactics in Human Rights Project, The Centre
for Victims of Torture, 2004), 6.
48. Paul Ashton and Jacqueline Z. Wilson, eds., Silent System: Forgotten Australians and
the Institutionalisation of Women and Children (Melbourne: Australian Scholarly
Publishing, 2014), x.
49. See Loic Wacquant, Punishing the Poor: The Neoliberal Government of Social
Insecurity (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2009).
50. Maria Tumarkin, submission to Australian Heritage Council regarding the National
Heritage Listing of Parramatta Female Factory Precinct, 23 September 2016.
MULTIDIRECTIONAL MEMORY

Remembering the Holocaust in the

Age of Decolonization

Michael Rothberg

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 1

Introduction: Theorizing
Multidirectional Memory
in a Transnational Age

Beyond Competitive Memory

In a characteristically provocative essay on the relationship between

racism and anti-Semitism in contemporary America, the literary critic
Walter Benn Michaels considers the seemingly incompatible legacies of
slavery and the Nazi genocide in the United States:
Why is there a federally funded U.S. Holocaust Museum on the Mall in Wash-
ington, DC? . . . The difficulty of coming up with a satisfactory answer to this
question has produced a certain exasperation among African Americans, memo-
rably expressed by the notorious black racist Khalid Muhammad when, in the
wake of a visit to the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum, he told an audience at
Howard University on ™ April }uuk that “the black holocaust was }¤¤ times worse
than the so-called Jew Holocaust. You say you lost six million. We question that,
but . . . we lost “¤¤ million. Schindler’s List,” as Muhammad put it, “is really a
swindler’s list.” The force of these remarks consists not in the absurd Holocaust
denial but in the point—made precisely by his visit to the Holocaust Museum—
that commemoration of the Nazi murder of the Jews on the Mall was in fact an-
other kind of Holocaust denial. Why should what the Germans did to the Jews be
treated as a crucial event in American history, especially when, given the absence
  Introduction

of any commemoration of American racism on the Mall, what Americans did to

Black people is not?1

In this passage Michaels takes up one of the most agonizing problems of

contemporary multicultural societies: how to think about the relationship
between different social groups’ histories of victimization. This problem,
as Michaels recognizes, also fundamentally concerns collective memory,
the relationship that such groups establish between their past and their
present circumstances. A series of questions central to this book emerges
at this point: What happens when different histories confront each other
in the public sphere? Does the remembrance of one history erase others
from view? When memories of slavery and colonialism bump up against
memories of the Holocaust in contemporary multicultural societies, must
a competition of victims ensue?
Michaels’s stance toward his example in his essay on anti-Semitism
and racism is somewhat cagey; he acknowledges Muhammad’s racism
and the “absurd” nature of his Holocaust denial, yet he seems simulta-
neously to embrace a fundamental feature of Muhammad’s argument.
Like Muhammad, Michaels implies that collective memory obeys a logic
of scarcity: if a Holocaust Museum sits on the Mall in Washington (or
just off of it, as is the actual case), then Holocaust memory must literally
be crowding the memory of African American history out of the public
space of American collective consciousness. There are plenty of legitimate
ways to engage critically with the fact and function of the U.S. Holocaust
Memorial Museum, and there is certainly a great need to engage with
the ongoing fact of American racism, but Michaels’s argument begs some
important questions: Does collective memory really work like real-estate
development? Must the claims of memory always be calculated according
to their relevance for national history? Is “commemoration of the Nazi
murder of the Jews” really a form of “Holocaust denial”?
Although few people would put the matter in such controversial
terms, many other commentators, both inside and outside the academy,
share the understanding of memory and identity articulated by Michaels.
This study is motivated by a sense of the urgency of the vexing issues that
Michaels raises, but it challenges the widely held ideas about the nature of
collective memory and its links to group identity that undergird Michaels’s
provocations. Like Michaels and, indeed, Muhammad, many people
 Introduction ™

assume that the public sphere in which collective memories are articulated
is a scarce resource and that the interaction of different collective memories
within that sphere takes the form of a zero-sum struggle for preeminence.
Because many of these same commentators also believe that a direct line
runs between remembrance of the past and the formation of identity in the
present, they understand the articulation of the past in collective memory
as a struggle for recognition in which there can only be winners and losers,
a struggle that is thus closely allied with the potential for deadly violence.
While there can be no doubt that many manifestations of contemporary
violence, including war and genocide, are in part the product of resentful
memories and conflicting views of the past, I argue that the conceptual
framework through which commentators and ordinary citizens have ad-
dressed the relationship between memory, identity, and violence is flawed.
Against the framework that understands collective memory as competitive
memory—as a zero-sum struggle over scarce resources—I suggest that we
consider memory as multidirectional: as subject to ongoing negotiation,
cross-referencing, and borrowing; as productive and not privative. This
shift in perspective allows us to see that while Muhammad and Michaels
both speak of Holocaust memory as if it blocks memory of slavery and
colonialism from view (the model of competitive memory), they actually
use the presence of widespread Holocaust consciousness as a platform to
articulate a vision of American racism past and present. This interaction
of different historical memories illustrates the productive, intercultural
dynamic that I call multidirectional memory.
In focusing on the politics of commemoration, Michaels criticizes
the role memory plays in public discourse about the past and its impact
on the present. As its title indicates, this book also places memory at the
center of analysis, although it adopts a less skeptical position toward its
object of study than does Michaels. But what is memory? And why does
it feature so prominently in this book? These are crucial questions that I
will return to below and throughout this study. The literature on memory
is enormous and continues to grow at a staggering rate—a growth that has
itself become an object of study!2 For now, let me note the useful mini-
malist definition from Richard Terdiman that orients this book: memory
is the past made present. The notion of a “making present” has two im-
portant corollaries: first, that memory is a contemporary phenomenon,
k Introduction

something that, while concerned with the past, happens in the present;
and second, that memory is a form of work, working through, labor, or
action.3 As Alon Confino and Peter Fritzsche write, “Memory [is] a sym-
bolic representation of the past embedded in social action”; it is “a set of
practices and interventions.”4 Multidirectional Memory considers a series
of interventions through which social actors bring multiple traumatic
pasts into a heterogeneous and changing post–World War II present.
Concerned simultaneously with individual and collective memory, this
book focuses on both agents and sites of memory, and especially on their
interaction within specific historical and political contexts of struggle and
contestation. Making memory the focus of this work allows me to synthe-
size concerns about history, representation, biography, memorialization,
and politics that motivate many scholars working in cultural studies.5 Not
strictly separable from either history or representation, memory nonethe-
less captures simultaneously the individual, embodied, and lived side and
the collective, social, and constructed side of our relations to the past.
In both its individual and collective versions, memory is closely
aligned with identity, one of the most contested terms in contemporary
debate. What is the relation between memory and identity? As readers
familiar with the writings of Walter Benn Michaels will know, his pur-
pose in propounding an implicit theory of competitive memory is not
in any way to valorize memory or collective identity. Indeed, much of
Michaels’s work has offered a thoroughgoing critique of both memory and
identity and what he sees as the straight line that connects them in mu-
tual confirmation. This attitude certainly differentiates him from Khalid
Muhammad, who enters the arena of competitive memory in order to
stake out a claim for a militant black identity. My perspective differs from
both of these polarized positions. Unlike Michaels, I don’t see all claims
of memory or identity as necessarily tainted; instead, I see such claims as
necessary and inevitable. But unlike Muhammad, I reject the notion that
identities and memories are pure and authentic—that there is a “we” and
a “you” that would definitively differentiate, say, black and Jewish identi-
ties and black and Jewish relations to the past. I differ from both of these
positions because I reject two central assumptions that they share: that
a straight line runs from memory to identity and that the only kinds of
memories and identities that are therefore possible are ones that exclude
 Introduction g

elements of alterity and forms of commonality with others. Our relation-

ship to the past does partially determine who we are in the present, but
never straightforwardly and directly, and never without unexpected or
even unwanted consequences that bind us to those whom we consider
other. When the productive, intercultural dynamic of multidirectional
memory is explicitly claimed, as it is in many of the cases I discuss in this
book, it has the potential to create new forms of solidarity and new visions
of justice.
The understanding of collective remembrance that I put forward
in Multidirectional Memory challenges the basic tenets and assumptions
of much current thinking on collective memory and group identity.
Fundamental to the conception of competitive memory is a notion of the
public sphere as a pregiven, limited space in which already-established
groups engage in a life-and-death struggle. In contrast, pursuing mem-
ory’s multidirectionality encourages us to think of the public sphere as
a malleable discursive space in which groups do not simply articulate es-
tablished positions but actually come into being through their dialogical
interactions with others; both the subjects and spaces of the public are
open to continual reconstruction. Equally fundamental to the concep-
tion of competitive memory is the notion that the boundaries of memory
parallel the boundaries of group identity, as we’ve seen with Michaels and
Muhammad. As I struggle to achieve recognition of my memories and
my identity, I necessarily exclude the memories and identities of others.
Openness to memory’s multidirectionality puts this last assumption into
question as well. Memories are not owned by groups—nor are groups
“owned” by memories. Rather, the borders of memory and identity are
jagged; what looks at first like my own property often turns out to be a
borrowing or adaptation from a history that initially might seem foreign
or distant. Memory’s anachronistic quality—its bringing together of now
and then, here and there—is actually the source of its powerful creativity,
its ability to build new worlds out of the materials of older ones. Finally,
those who understand memory as a form of competition see only winners
and losers in the struggle for collective articulation and recognition. But
attention to memory’s multidirectionality suggests a more supple social
logic. The struggle for recognition is fundamentally unstable and subject
to ongoing reversal, as Hegel recognized with his famous “Master/Slave
“ Introduction

dialectic”: today’s “losers” may turn out to be tomorrow’s “winners,” and

“winning” may entail learning from and adopting the rhetoric and images
of the other. Generally speaking, moreover, the examples of multidirec-
tional memory explored here are much too ambivalent and heterogeneous
to reduce too quickly to questions of winning and losing—which is not
to say that there is little at stake in articulations of collective memory, for
quite the contrary is true.
In order to demonstrate the stakes of the past in the present,
Multidirectional Memory takes remembrance of the Holocaust as its para-
digmatic object of concern. Michaels’s and Muhammad’s choice to stage
the problem of the stakes of memory and identity in relation to the Nazi
genocide of European Jews is not accidental. Indeed, there is probably no
other single event that encapsulates the struggles for recognition that ac-
company collective memory in such a condensed and global form. While,
as historians have demonstrated in multiple national contexts, public
Holocaust memory only emerged belatedly as a widespread collective form,
the last half-century has seen such memory move toward the center of
consciousness in many Western European, North American, and Middle
Eastern societies—and significant inroads have been made throughout the
rest of the world as well.6 The spread of Holocaust memory and conscious-
ness across the globe sets the stage for and illustrates perfectly the multidi-
rectional dynamic I draw attention to throughout this book.7 I argue that
far from blocking other historical memories from view in a competitive
struggle for recognition, the emergence of Holocaust memory on a global
scale has contributed to the articulation of other histories—some of them
predating the Nazi genocide, such as slavery, and others taking place later,
such as the Algerian War of Independence (}ugk–“ ) or the genocide in
Bosnia during the }uu¤s. Because of the Holocaust’s salience to the rela-
tionship of collective memory, group identity, and violence, an exploration
of its ongoing public evocation in multiple national contexts stands as the
central example of this book’s exploration of multidirectional memory.
But multidirectional memory, as its name implies, is not simply a
one-way street; its exploration necessitates the comparative approach I
adopt here. My argument is not only that the Holocaust has enabled the
articulation of other histories of victimization at the same time that it
has been declared “unique” among human-perpetrated horrors (a point to
 Introduction 

which I return below). I also demonstrate the more surprising and seldom
acknowledged fact that public memory of the Holocaust emerged in rela-
tion to postwar events that seem at first to have little to do with it. Here,
we can observe that Michaels’s and Muhammad’s staging of Holocaust
memory in competition with the memory of slavery, colonialism, and rac-
ism is also not accidental. As a series of case studies treating intellectuals
and artists ranging from Hannah Arendt and W. E. B. Du Bois to French
anticolonial activists and experimental documentarians will demonstrate,
early Holocaust memory emerged in dialogue with the dynamic transfor-
mations and multifaceted struggles that define the era of decolonization.
The period between }ukg and }u“  contains both the rise of consciousness
of the Holocaust as an unprecedented form of modern genocide and the
coming to national consciousness and political independence of many of
the subjects of European colonialism.8 This book argues that far from
being an arbitrary conjunction of two separate histories, this observation
about the early postwar period contains an important insight into the
dynamics of collective memory and the struggles over recognition and
collective identity that continue to haunt contemporary, pluralistic societ-
ies. The fact that today the Holocaust is frequently set against global his-
tories of racism, slavery, and colonialism in an ugly contest of comparative
victimization—as is the case in Muhammad’s infamous speech and in the
pronouncements of many “defenders” of the Holocaust’s uniqueness—is
part of a refusal to recognize the earlier conjunction of these histories that
I explore in Multidirectional Memory. But the ordinarily unacknowledged
history of cross-referencing that characterizes the period of decolonization
continues to this day and constitutes a precondition of contemporary dis-
course. The virulence—on all sides—of so much discussion of race, geno-
cide, and memory has to do, in other words, partly with the rhetorical and
cultural intimacy of seemingly opposed traditions of remembrance.

From Uniqueness to Multidirectionality

One of the major stumbling blocks to a recognition of the interac-

tions that take place among collective memories is the belief that one’s
own history, culture, and identity are “a separate and unique thing,” to
adopt a phrase that W. E. B. Du Bois uses critically and that I discuss
[ Introduction

further in Chapter k. This is especially true when it comes to thinking

about the Nazi genocide of European Jews. Along with its “centering”
in public consciousness in the last decades, the Holocaust has come to
be understood in the popular imagination, especially in Europe, Israel,
and North America, as a unique, sui generis event. In its extremity, it is
sometimes even defined as only marginally connected to the course of
human history. Thus, Elie Wiesel has written that “the Holocaust tran-
scends history,” and Claude Lanzmann has claimed that “there is an un-
breachable discrepancy” between any of the Holocaust’s possible histori-
cal causes and the ultimate unfolding of the events.9 Even arguments for
uniqueness grounded in history sometimes tend toward ahistorical hyper-
bole. In an essay that seeks to differentiate the Nazi genocide from “the
case of the Native Americans,” “the famine in the Ukraine” under Stalin,
and “the Armenian tragedy,” Steven Katz argues that the “historically and
phenomenologically unique” character of the Holocaust ensures that the
Nazi genocide will differ from “every case said to be comparable to” it.10
Initially, asserting the uniqueness of the Holocaust served to counter the
relative public silence about the specificity of the Nazi genocide of Jews in
the early postwar period that many historians of memory and students of
historiography have described. Such assertions thus played a crucial role in
fostering understanding of the genocide and generating acknowledgment
and study of its horrific particularities and traumatic legacies. Although
one of my purposes in Multidirectional Memory is to complicate this view
of the early years of silence by drawing attention to articulations of Holo-
caust memory that have remained absent from the standard corpus, I cer-
tainly agree that in the first postwar decades there was a necessity to asser-
tions of the Holocaust’s specificity.
But, even if understanding of that specificity has not become uni-
versal today (and what historical understanding ever does?), by the time
Wiesel, Lanzmann, and Katz were writing, acceptance of the uniqueness
of the Holocaust was widespread. At the same time that this understand-
ing of the Nazi genocide emerged, and in direct response to it, intellectu-
als interested in indigenous, minority, and colonial histories challenged
the uniqueness of the Holocaust and fostered research into other histories
of extreme violence, ethnic cleansing, and genocide. Many of these lat-
ter intellectuals have argued that, while it is essential to understand the
 Introduction u

specificity of the Nazi genocide (as of all events), separating it off from
other histories of collective violence—and even from history as such—is
intellectually and politically dangerous. The dangers of the uniqueness
discourse are that it potentially creates a hierarchy of suffering (which is
morally offensive) and removes that suffering from the field of historical
agency (which is both morally and intellectually suspect).11 This critique
of uniqueness discourse undergirds Michaels’s and Muhammad’s com-
plaints about the place of the Holocaust in U.S. public culture.
Despite their obvious intellectual and political differences, however,
many proponents and critics of uniqueness share the model I’m calling
competitive memory: that is, both groups tend to understand memory
of the Holocaust as taking part in a zero-sum game of competition with
the memory of other histories. Thus, on the one hand, the proponents
of uniqueness assiduously search out and refute all attempts to compare
or analogize the Holocaust in order to preserve memory of the Shoah
from its dilution or relativization. Deborah Lipstadt, one of the leading
scholars studying Holocaust denial, suggests links between those who
relativize the Holocaust through comparison and analogy and those who
deny its very existence; both groups, she argues, blur the “boundaries be-
tween fact and fiction and between persecuted and persecutor.”12 Blurring
is also the concern of literary critic Richard Golsan. In a discussion of
the trial of Maurice Papon, a French police secretary-general during the
Vichy period who will play a key role in this book, Golsan worries that
comparison between French complicity in the deportation of Jews and
French persecution of Algerians during decolonization, which Papon was
also involved in, “could only deflect the focus from the Vichy past and,
more significant, blur the specificity of the Final Solution.”13 On the other
hand, critics of uniqueness or of the politics of Holocaust memory often
argue, as do Michael and Muhammad, that the ever-increasing interest
in the Nazi genocide distracts from the consideration of other historical
tragedies. For instance, in his study of the creation of the U.S. Holocaust
Memorial Museum, Edward T. Linenthal expresses a concern that “of-
ficial Holocaust memory may also function as a ‘comfortable horrible’
memory, allowing Americans to reassure themselves that they are engag-
ing profound events, all the while ignoring more indigestible events that
threaten Americans’ sense of themselves more than the Holocaust.”14 In
}¤ Introduction

one of the more extreme versions of this argument, David Stannard asserts
that the uniqueness argument “willingly provides a screen behind which
opportunistic governments today attempt to conceal their own past and
ongoing genocidal actions.”15
There is, of course, some truth in both of these views. Relativization
and banalization of the Holocaust do take place, although perhaps more
frequently at the hands of a culture industry that seeks to exploit its cur-
rency than among marginal or oppositional intellectuals and activists.
Conversely, undue stress on the singularity of the Holocaust at the ex-
pense of its similarities with other events can block recognition of past
as well as present genocides, if not generally with the full intentionality
implied by Stannard. The fact of such a blockage of recognition is one of
the lessons of Samantha Power’s convincing study “A Problem from Hell”.
In summing up her account of American response to the threat and actu-
ality of genocide in the twentieth century, Power writes that “perversely,
America’s public awareness of the Holocaust often seemed to set the bar
for concern so high that we were able to tell ourselves that contemporary
genocides were not measuring up.”16 Memory competition does exist and
sometimes overrides other possibilities for thinking about the relation be-
tween different histories.
The existence of such contradictory and intractable positions on the
uniqueness of the Holocaust suggests that the controversy is not an em-
pirical, historical one. Rather, as Fredric Jameson has argued with respect
to the related and more general issue of historical periodization, such con-
troversies always turn on the deployment of narratives, and not on facts
that can be objectively adjudicated: “The decision as to whether one faces
a break or a continuity—whether the present is to be seen as a historical
originality or as the simple prolongation of more of the same under differ-
ent sheep’s clothing—is not an empirically justifiable or philosophically
arguable one, since it is itself the inaugural narrative act that grounds the
perception and interpretation of the events to be narrated.”17 If the place
and status of the Holocaust is not determined purely through recourse to
the historical archive, as Jameson’s argument implies, then getting beyond
the deadlock characteristic of the uniqueness debates requires thinking
about the work of memory and representation—the consequential arenas
in which narrative acts shape understanding.18 The competitive memory
 Introduction }}

model functions something like what Michel Foucault, in the introduc-

tion to his History of Sexuality, calls “the repressive hypothesis.” Foucault
argues that the popular notion of sexual prohibition in the Victorian age
should not be made “into the basic and constitutive element” in a history
of sexuality because “negative elements” were “only component parts that
have a local and tactical role” within a larger incitement and dissemina-
tion of discourses on sexuality.19 Similarly, I would argue that the negative
elements of the competitive memory hypothesis are only component parts
of a larger dissemination of memory discourses.
An overly rigid focus on memory competition distracts from other
ways of thinking about the relation between histories and their memorial
legacies. Ultimately, memory is not a zero-sum game.20 Instead of memory
competition, I have proposed the concept of multidirectional memory,
which is meant to draw attention to the dynamic transfers that take
place between diverse places and times during the act of remembrance.
Thinking in terms of multidirectional memory helps explain the spiraling
interactions that characterize the politics of memory—the fact, borne out
by Muhammad’s reference to the “black holocaust,” that the use of the
Holocaust as a metaphor or analogy for other events and histories has
emerged precisely because the Holocaust is widely thought of as a unique
and uniquely terrible form of political violence.21 Assertions of uniqueness
thus actually produce further metaphorical and analogical appropriations
(which, in turn, prompt further assertions of uniqueness). However, such
moments coexist with complex acts of solidarity in which historical mem-
ory serves as a medium for the creation of new communal and political
identities. It is often difficult to tell whether a given act of memory is more
likely to produce competition or mutual understanding—sometimes both
seem to happen simultaneously. A model of multidirectional memory
allows for the perception of the power differentials that tend to cluster
around memory competition, but it also locates that competition within
a larger spiral of memory discourse in which even hostile invocations of
memory can provide vehicles for further, countervailing commemorative
acts. The model of multidirectional memory posits collective memory
as partially disengaged from exclusive versions of cultural identity and
acknowledges how remembrance both cuts across and binds together di-
verse spatial, temporal, and cultural sites. While I hold that understanding
}  Introduction

memory as multidirectional is ultimately preferable to models of compe-

tition, exclusivity, and exceptionality, I also consider cases in this book
where memory’s multidirectionality functions in the interests of violence
or exclusion instead of solidarity.

Rethinking Screen Memory

Some critics targeting the Holocaust’s alleged domination of the

spheres of collective memory adopt a psychoanalytic terminology and de-
scribe remembrance of the Holocaust as a “screen memory” (Deckerin-
nerung). According to this Freud-inspired argument, memory of the Holo-
caust doesn’t simply compete with that of other pasts, but provides (as the
arguments of Linenthal and Stannard alluded to above suggest) a greater
level of “comfort” than confrontation with more “local” problems would
allow. Thus, in a sophisticated version of this argument, film scholar Mir-
iam Hansen speculates that “the popular American fascination with the
Holocaust may function as a ‘screen memory’ in the Freudian sense, cov-
ering up a traumatic event—another traumatic event—that cannot be ap-
proached directly. . . . The displaced referents . . . may extend to events
as distant as the genocide of Native Americans or as recent as the Viet-
nam War.”22 While Hansen’s argument echoes Michaels’s, her emphasis
on displacement—as opposed simply to silencing—opens up a potential-
ly more productive approach to the relation between different traumat-
ic events. Multidirectional Memory incorporates psychoanalytic insights,
such as Hansen’s, but my reading of Freud shows that his understanding
of screen memory approximates the multidirectional model I develop here
rather than the model of competition: the displacement that takes place
in screen memory (indeed, in all memory) functions as much to open up
lines of communication with the past as to close them off.23
Memory is, as Freud recognized, primarily an associative process
that works through displacement and substitution; it is fundamentally
and structurally multidirectional, even though powerful forces are always
trying to shape it according to more or less rigid psychic or ideological
parameters.24 In the }[uu essay “Screen Memories” and again a decade
later in The Psychopathology of Everyday Life, Freud tries to understand
why some memories from childhood are preserved and some are not. In
 Introduction }™

particular, he asks why “the content of some people’s earliest memories

consists of everyday impressions that are of no consequence and could not
have affected the child emotionally, but were nonetheless noted in copious
detail . . . whereas other, roughly contemporaneous events are not remem-
bered, even though the parents testify that the child was profoundly af-
fected by them at the time.”25 Pursuing networks of associations between
the particularities of a memory and other events in an individual’s life,
Freud determines that the banal memory of the everyday is in fact a screen
memory, “one that owes its value as a memory not to its intrinsic content,
but to the relation obtaining between this content and some other, which
has been suppressed” (“Screen” }u). Despite its apparent innocence, screen
memory stands in or substitutes for a more disturbing or painful memory
that it displaces from consciousness. (Note that the screen memory is at
some level authentic, according to Freud; it is not a mere fantasy.) The
mechanism of screen memory thus illustrates concretely how a kind of
forgetting accompanies acts of remembrance, but this kind of forgetting
is subject to recall.26
As Freud clarifies in “On Childhood Memories and Screen
Memories,” a chapter in The Psychopathology of Everyday Life, the content
of the screen memory has a variety of “temporal relation[s]” with “the sub-
ject it has screened out.” He distinguishes between “retrospective,” “antici-
patory,” and “simultaneous” screen memories in order to clarify that the
content of a screen memory can be formed by projections from repressed
memories that happened after, before, or at the same time as the remem-
bered events.27 Noting the temporal complexity that Freud finds in child-
hood memories (and pointing out that the memories at stake in “Screen
Memories” are probably Freud’s own), Hugh Haughton writes that “the
notion of the ‘screen’ or ‘cover’ becomes increasingly many-layered and
multidirectional.”28 The English translation of Deckerinnerungen (literal-
ly, “cover memories”) as “screen memories” is thus apt, if not literal, since
such memories do encapsulate two notions of the “screen”: they serve both
as a barrier between consciousness and the unconscious, and as a site of
projection for unconscious fantasies, fears, and desires, which can then be
decoded. Consequently, screen memory is, in my terminology, multidirec-
tional not only because it stands at the center of a potentially complex set
of temporal relations, but also—and perhaps more importantly—because
}k Introduction

it both hides and reveals that which has been suppressed. The example
of screen memory—which as with so many concepts in Freud begins
as a special case but ends up seeming to encompass almost all acts of
remembrance—suggests the limits of the model of memory as competi-
tion. While screen memory might be understood as involving a conflict of
memories, it ultimately more closely resembles a remapping of memory in
which links between memories are formed and then redistributed between
the conscious and unconscious. To be sure, the truths of memory are often
in tension with the truths of history; as with many of the multidirectional
exchanges that I consider here, the “motives” of screen memory are “far
removed from the aim of historical fidelity” (Freud, “Screen”  }). Yet both
screen memories and multidirectional memories provide access to truths
nonetheless, truths that produce insight about individual and collective
processes of meaning-making. Thinking about screen memories and mul-
tidirectional memories as less “pathological” than “normal” proves to be
a boon to interpretation.29 Awareness of the inevitability of displacement
and substitution in acts of remembrance points toward the need both
to acknowledge the conflicts that subtend memory and work toward a
rearticulation of historical relatedness beyond paradigms of uniqueness.
If multidirectional memory functions at the level of the collective as
screen memory does at the level of the individual, there remain obvious
difficulties with moving from Freud’s model to a discussion of the inter-
section of memories of the Holocaust and colonialism. First, while screen
memory is individual and biographical, multidirectional memory, as I
use it, is primarily collective and historical, although it is never divorced
from individuals and their biographies either. Additionally, while screen
memory replaces a disturbing memory with a more comforting, everyday
scene, the multidirectional memory explored here frequently juxtaposes
two or more disturbing memories and disrupts everyday settings. These
are important distinctions, but further reflection also helps to modulate
the apparent starkness of the differences between screen and multidirec-
tional memories.
Let’s take these difficulties one at a time, beginning with the ques-
tion of what we mean by collective memory. The work of the French soci-
ologist Maurice Halbwachs is crucial here since it helps to break down the
commonsense opposition between individual and collective memory. For
 Introduction }g

Halbwachs and the tradition that has emerged from him, all memories are
simultaneously individual and collective: while individual subjects are the
necessary locus of the act of remembrance, those individuals are imbued
with frameworks common to the collectives in which they live.30 The
frameworks of memory function something like language—they provide
a shared medium within which alone individuals can remember or articu-
late themselves. The philosopher Avishai Margalit’s distinction between
two forms of collective memory, common and shared, helps clarify further
how memory operates beyond the individual: “A common memory . . . is
an aggregate notion. It aggregates the memories of all those people who
remember a certain episode which each of them experienced individu-
ally. . . . A shared memory, on the other hand, is not a simple aggregate
of individual memories. It requires communication. A shared memory
integrates and calibrates the different perspectives of those who remember
the episode . . . into one version. . . . Shared memory is built on a division
of mnemonic labor.”31 The memory at stake in multidirectional memory,
and indeed in most collective memory today, resembles Margalit’s shared
memory. When we talk about collective Holocaust memory or about col-
lective memories of colonialism and decolonization, we are talking pri-
marily about shared memory, memory that may have been initiated by
individuals but that has been mediated through networks of communica-
tion, institutions of the state, and the social groupings of civil society.
In contemporary societies, mediascapes of all kinds play a predomi-
nant role in the construction of the memory frameworks described by
Halbwachs. While global media technologies make possible a new kind of
common memory, via the creation of global media events that all might
witness simultaneously, the lack of an Archimedean point of reference
ensures that even memory of such events (like the attacks of September }},
 ¤¤}) will ultimately more closely resemble shared memory with its divi-
sion of labor and calibration of different perspectives. Both Halbwachs
and Margalit, however, seem to overestimate the degree to which collec-
tive memory will converge into “one version.” Multidirectional memory
is collective memory insofar as it is formed within social frameworks; it is
shared memory insofar as it is formed within mediascapes that entail “a
division of mnemonic labor.” Yet the concept of multidirectional mem-
ory differs from both of these others because it highlights the inevitable
}“ Introduction

displacements and contingencies that mark all remembrance. Collective

memory is multilayered both because it is highly mediated and because
individuals and groups play an active role in rearticulating memory, if
never with complete consciousness or unimpeded agency. Competitive
scenarios can derive from these restless rearticulations, but so can visions
that construct solidarity out of the specificities, overlaps, and echoes of
different historical experiences.
The other difference between screen memory and multidirectional
memory concerns the question of the affective charge of the memories at
issue. For Freud, screen memories stand in for and distract from something
disturbing—either a traumatic event or an illicit, unacknowledged desire.
As we have seen above, many critics think that memories of the Holocaust
function this way, at least in places like the contemporary United States
that are temporally and spatially far removed from the events of the Nazi
period. What is odd about the case of Holocaust memory, however, is
that such memory hardly seems innocent or comforting. And yet, as the
concept of screen memory reveals, the content of a memory has no in-
trinsic meaning but takes on meaning precisely in relationship to other
memories in a network of associations. My interest in multidirectional
memory takes off from this insight to complicate assumptions about what
in memory is “innocent” and what is “disturbing,” about what serves as
a necessary screen for the projection of memories and what as a barrier to
remembrance. Looking at particular cases leads me to conclude (in the
spirit of Freud, but sometimes with opposite results) that one cannot know
in advance how the articulation of a memory will function; nor can one
even be sure that it will function only in one way. The concept of multidi-
rectional memory holds memory open to these different possibilities, but
does not subscribe to a simple pluralism, either. While a given memory
rarely functions in a single way or means only one thing, all articulations
of memory are not equal; powerful social, political, and psychic forces
articulate themselves in every act of remembrance.

On Comparison and Justice

Because of the complex psychic demands that Freud identified, in-

dividual memory emerges and recedes in fits and starts—especially when
 Introduction }

the memory of traumatic events is at stake. The same holds true for collec-
tive memory. When we look at collective memory historically, one thing
we notice is how unevenly—and sometimes unexpectedly—it develops.
Memories of particular events come and go and sometimes take on a sur-
prising importance long after the materiality of the events remembered
has faded from view. An important epistemological gain in considering
memory as multidirectional instead of as competitive is the insight, devel-
oped here through historical case studies, that the emergence of memories
into the public often takes place through triggers that may at first seem
irrelevant or even unseemly. Thus, to give a concrete example that will
prove significant for this book, the practice of torture seems like an un-
likely trigger for Holocaust memory—for how could a practice as wide-
spread, if repellant, as torture conjure up the extremity of genocide? But
in France during the Algerian War of Independence many observers un-
derstood the French state’s widespread use of extrajudicial violence as just
such a reawakening of the past. As I discuss in Chapters “ and , some sur-
vivors of the Nazi camps, such as the Austrian/Belgian writer Jean Améry,
even cite the discussion of torture as one of the impetuses for their own
public articulation of Holocaust memory. But this is not the end of the sto-
ry. For a practice that triggered memory of Nazism at one moment could
later serve as a trigger in France for memory of the Algerian War itself—
a war that had for almost four decades seemed to be blocked from view
even as, in its wake, Holocaust consciousness experienced an incredible
growth. Thus, the turn of the millennium in France (and elsewhere) has
seen renewed debates about torture, renewed interest in the connections
between the Holocaust and the Algerian War, and a sense—expressed in
Michael Haneke’s film Caché, among other places—that post–u/}} poli-
cies in the United States echo older histories of imperial and fascist vio-
lence.32 It is precisely that convoluted, sometimes historically unjustified,
back-and-forth movement of seemingly distant collective memories in and
out of public consciousness that I qualify as memory’s multidirectionality.
As these examples, which will be pursued at much greater length later in
this book, begin to suggest, thinking of memory as multidirectional in-
stead of competitive does not entail dispensing with a notion of the urgen-
cy of memory, with its life-and-death stakes. Rather, these examples alert
us to the need for a form of comparative thinking that, like memory itself,
is not afraid to traverse sacrosanct borders of ethnicity and era.
}[ Introduction

The shift in the conceptualization of memory from competition to

multidirectionality that this book advocates has methodological implica-
tions for comparative thinking and study. A central methodological prob-
lem and opportunity concerns the constitution of the archive for compar-
ative work. Far from being situated—either physically or discursively—in
any single institution or site, the archive of multidirectional memory is
irreducibly transversal; it cuts across genres, national contexts, periods,
and cultural traditions. Because dominant ways of thinking (such as com-
petitive memory) have refused to acknowledge the multidirectional flows
of influence and articulation that collective memory activates, the com-
parative critic must first constitute the archive by forging links between
dispersed documents. As this book demonstrates, there is no shortage of
cross-referencing between the legacies of the Holocaust and colonialism,
but many of those moments of contact occur in marginalized texts or in
marginal moments of well-known texts. The evidence is there, but the
archive must be constructed with the help of the change in vision made
possible by a new kind of comparative thinking. The greatest threat to the
visibility of this marginalized archive of Holocaust memory in the age of
decolonization is the kind of zero-sum thinking that underwrites the logic
of competitive memory. The greatest hope for a new comparatism lies in
opening up the separate containers of memory and identity that buttress
competitive thinking and becoming aware of the mutual constitution and
ongoing transformation of the objects of comparison.33 Too often com-
parison is understood as “equation”—the Holocaust cannot be compared
to any other history, the story goes, because it is unlike them all. This
project takes dissimilarity for granted, since no two events are ever alike,
and then focuses its intellectual energy on investigating what it means to
invoke connections nonetheless.34 The logic of comparison explored here
does not stand or fall on connections that can be empirically validated for
historical accuracy; nor can we ensure that all such connections will be
politically palatable to all concerned parties. Rather, a certain bracketing
of empirical history and an openness to the possibility of strange political
bedfellows are necessary in order for the imaginative links between differ-
ent histories and social groups to come into view; these imaginative links
are the substance of multidirectional memory. Comparison, like memory,
should be thought of as productive—as producing new objects and new
 Introduction }u

lines of sight—and not simply as reproducing already given entities that

either are or are not “like” other already given entities.
Emphasizing the dimension of imagination involved in acts of re-
membrance should not lead to assumptions of memory’s insubstantiality.
Remembrance and imagination are material forces as well as fundamen-
tally human ones. They cannot be wished away, nor, I believe, should
they be. Despite the plentiful evidence of violence and willed oblivion
that can accompany hegemonic (and sometimes even subaltern) acts
of remembrance—and despite this book’s predominantly dark subject
matter—Multidirectional Memory has been written under the sign of op-
timism. Because the structures of individual and collective memory are
multidirectional, they prove difficult to contain in the molds of exclu-
sivist identities. If memory is as susceptible as any other human faculty
to abuse—and here again Muhammad’s speech serves as a convenient
example, although only one of many—this study seeks to emphasize how
memory is at least as often a spur to unexpected acts of empathy and
solidarity; indeed multidirectional memory is often the very grounds on
which people construct and act upon visions of justice.
A theory of multidirectional memory can help us in the task of “re-
framing justice in a globalizing world,” to cite the title of a relevant essay
by political philosopher Nancy Fraser.35 Fraser argues that today’s debates
about justice—which she defines as “parity of participation” (™)—need to
move beyond the “Keynesian-Westphalian frame” that has defined them
for most of the post–World War II era. By this she means that the accelera-
tion of globalization creates injustices that a previously taken-for-granted
nation-state framework based on a national citizenry can no longer solve
(if it ever could). For Fraser, drawing attention to the way capitalism, mi-
grations, and other transnational forces break the nation-state frame also
brings into view a third dimension of justice beyond economic redistribu-
tion and cultural recognition that theorists need to account for, a dimen-
sion she associates with questions of political representation: “Whether
the issue is distribution or recognition, disputes that used to focus exclu-
sively on the question of what is owed as a matter of justice to community
members now turn quickly into disputes about who should count as a
member and which is the relevant community. Not just the ‘what’ but also
the ‘who’ is up for grabs” ( ). Additionally, addressing the issue of the
 ¤ Introduction

subjects or “who” of justice entails, Fraser argues, thinking about the pro-
cedures or “how” of justice ([k). The matters of “who” and “how” point
toward what she calls “meta-political” issues concerning the “framing” of
disputes over justice. Framing entails decisions about who is permitted to
claim the right to speak about issues of injustice affecting them. In a glo-
balizing world, in which transnational factors (such as flows of capital and
ecological degradation) coexist with or even predominate over national
factors, debates about framing become unavoidable elements of a quest for
justice. As Fraser sums up the political force of her argument, “Struggles
for justice in a globalizing world cannot succeed unless they go hand in
hand with struggles for meta-political democracy. . . . [N]o redistribution
or recognition without representation” ([g–[“).
As my opening example of Michaels and Muhammad illustrates,
debates about collective memory and group identity are primarily strug-
gles over injustices of recognition, over whose history and culture will
be recognized. Such injustices are real, but the rethinking of the relation
between memory and identity can contribute to a rethinking of cultural
recognition beyond zero-sum logic.36 Fraser helps us see that part of the
problem may lie in the assumed nation-state framing of the problem of
recognition, although she also recognizes, as I do, that the nation remains
a significant player in questions of recognition, redistribution, and politi-
cal representation. Despite Michaels’s and Muhammad’s desire to fix the
memory wars to the landscape of the Mall in Washington, the articula-
tions of cultural recognition and collective memory I consider in this book
do not remain tied to the fetishized sites of the state—which doesn’t mean
that they ignore the salience of state spaces either. Such articulations also
allow us to supplement Fraser’s account.37
In Multidirectional Memory I reveal how memory of the Nazi geno-
cide and struggles for decolonization have persistently broken the frame
of the nation-state during the entire period of Keynesian-Westphalian
dominance. Fraser admits that there have been exceptions in the post-
war period to the framing of justice on the terrain of the nation-state,
but she doesn’t consider in a substantive way what such exceptions might
contribute to reframing justice: “Occasionally, famines and genocides
galvanized public opinion across borders. And some cosmopolitans and
anti-imperialists sought to promulgate globalist views. But these were
 Introduction  }

exceptions that proved the rule” (“u–¤). Multidirectional Memory focuses

on just such exceptional views and makes visible a countertradition that
not only foregrounds unexpected resonance between the Holocaust and
colonialism but also can provide resources for the rethinking of justice. In
addition to moving the logic of recognition beyond identitarian competi-
tion, the theory of multidirectional memory and the countertradition it
helps expose can contribute to what Fraser calls “the politics of framing”:
“Focused on the issues of who counts as a subject of justice, and what is
the appropriate frame, the politics of framing comprises efforts to estab-
lish and consolidate, to contest and revise, the authoritative division of
political space” ([¤). A work of scholarship does not intervene directly
in the materiality of political space, although many of the intellectuals I
address were actively involved in political struggle. Rather, I undertake an
archaeology of the comparative imagination in the hopes that document-
ing these earlier attempts to reconceptualize the subjects of justice can
inspire our present and future projects to remake political space.

Argument and Outline of the Book

In Multidirectional Memory, I put forward arguments that are theo-

retical, historical, and—in a world not yet free from colonialism or geno-
cide—inevitably political. Let me reprise them while also outlining the
scope and trajectory of the book. At the level of theory, I rethink the
conceptualization of collective memory in multicultural and transnation-
al contexts. Fully cognizant of the differentials of access and power that
mark the public sphere, I nevertheless provide a framework that draws at-
tention to the inevitable dialogical exchange between memory traditions
and keeps open the possibility of a more just future of memory. I identi-
fy the misrecognition of collective memory as a zero-sum game—instead
of an open-ended field of articulation and struggle—as one of the stum-
bling blocks for a more inclusive renarration of the history of memory and
a harnessing of the legacies of violence in the interests of a more egalitar-
ian future. Several of the chapters of Multidirectional Memory also suggest
the need to think outside the universal/particular opposition that marks
much discussion of the politics of identity and cultural difference. Many
of the writers, intellectuals, and activists considered here point us instead
   Introduction

toward a multidirectional ethics that combines the capacious open-end-

edness of the universal with the concrete, situational demands of the par-
ticular. An ethics of multidirectional memory involves creating fidelity
(in the sense given that term by Alain Badiou’s Ethics) with the multiple
events and historical legacies that define any situation.38 A politics built on
that ethical foundation will require a notion of transnational, comparative
justice that can negotiate conflicting and sometimes mutually exclusive
demands made on unstable and shifting terrain.
At the historical level, Multidirectional Memory uncovers a mar-
ginalized tradition that has implications both for Holocaust studies and
postcolonial studies—and can serve to stimulate the kinds of ethical and
political thinking I call for here. Drawing on this tradition of Jewish and
non-Jewish writers, artists, and political figures, I renarrate the received
history of Holocaust memory. I demonstrate, first, that the early postwar
period is richer and more complex than earlier studies, with their stress on
a period of silence and repression that lasts until around the time of the
Eichmann trial in }u“}, have allowed. Shifting attention to unexpected
texts, such as the writings of Du Bois on the Holocaust, or underexplored
contexts, such as André Schwarz-Bart’s engagement with the Caribbean
diaspora, reveals both more Holocaust remembrance than we’ve been led
to expect in this era and markedly more comparative forms of memory
than would come to predominate in later decades. My renarration of this
early postwar period reveals, additionally, that the emergence of collec-
tive memory of the Nazi genocide in the }ug¤s and }u“¤s takes place in
a punctual dialogue with ongoing processes of decolonization and civil
rights struggle and their modes of coming to terms with colonialism, slav-
ery, and racism. Tracing events and reading texts from the late }uk¤s to
the beginning of the twenty-first century, I make the case for a long-term
minoritarian tradition of “decolonized” Holocaust memory.
This new approach to Holocaust memory has implications, in turn,
for those concerned primarily with the varied experience of decolonization
and the aftermaths of colonialism. Postcolonial studies can learn from the
history of Jews and anti-Semitism in Europe in a number of ways. In par-
ticular, the experience of Jewish difference within modern Europe—and
the frequently violent reaction Jews confronted—foreshadows many of the
debates and problems faced by postcolonial societies and by postcolonial
 Introduction  ™

migrants in contemporary Europe.39 Even if the histories of Jews and for-

merly colonized peoples diverge significantly, Europe’s ambivalent memo-
ry of the Nazi genocide has left traces that inflect policies and discussions
concerning race, religion, nationalism, and citizenship today. Attention
to the history of Jews on the continent can serve as a timely warning
not to homogenize conceptions of Europe on ethnic, racial, or religious
grounds—a tendency that has understandably played an important role
in postcolonial critique but is now more frequently associated with con-
servative (and increasingly liberal!) perspectives within Europe. While
minority and postcolonial critique has had a tendency sharply to distin-
guish Jews from postcolonial subjects on the grounds of Jews’ presumed
“whiteness”—a tradition that harks back to founding texts by Césaire
and Fanon and is based on a somewhat ahistorical understanding—the
tradition uncovered here draws attention to possibilities for solidarity as
well as distinction. Shared histories of racism, spatial segregation, geno-
cide, diasporic displacement, cultural destruction, and—perhaps most
important—savvy and creative resistance to hegemonic demands provide
the grounds for new forms of collectivity that would not ignore equally
powerful histories of division and difference.
Multidirectional Memory consists of four sections of two chap-
ters each and addresses more than a half-century of cultural history in
Europe, North America, the Caribbean, and North Africa. It begins with
the observation that some of the earliest responses to the Nazi genocide
placed it on a conceptual continuum with colonialism and antiblack rac-
ism. Part I, “Boomerang Effects: Bare Life, Trauma, and the Colonial
Turn in Holocaust Studies,” considers the figures through which such
connections were made in two influential works from the beginning of
the }ug¤s: Hannah Arendt’s attempt to read the history of Nazi terror back
through imperialism in The Origins of Totalitarianism (Chapter  ) and
Aimé Césaire’s understanding of Nazism as the return of the colonial
repressed in his polemical pamphlet Discourse on Colonialism (Chapter
™). Arendt’s notion of the “boomerang effect” and Césaire’s “choc en re-
tour” (translated as “boomerang effect,” but more literally a backlash or
reverse shock) both describe the unexpected debt of totalitarianism to co-
lonialism, although the two writers approach these links from different
directions and with significantly different political assumptions. Despite
 k Introduction

presciently drawing detailed connections between two now seemingly

separate histories, Arendt proves unable to elude discourses of the hu-
man, the progressive, and the universal that remain complicit with the
violence she is trying to explain. While Arendt remains at the limits of
Eurocentrism, Césaire aims his polemic specifically against European self-
understanding. Drawing on multiple intellectual and cultural traditions,
Césaire uses the choc en retour to expose the multidirectional ripple effects
of extreme violence. While focused especially on European disavowal of
colonial atrocities, Césaire also exposes how an inability to come to terms
with Nazism inflects late colonial discourse. Césaire’s Discourse, along
with his student Frantz Fanon’s Black Skin, White Masks, helps us to forge
a multidirectional trauma theory that accounts for the experience of colo-
nialism and genocide, although investment in a certain version of Marxist
theory and the exigencies of anticolonial struggle sometimes impair his
attention to the specificity of the Nazi genocide.
Part II, “Migrations of Memory: Ruins, Ghettos, Diasporas,” con-
tinues the consideration of the early postwar period and adds attention
to the spaces and places of memory’s movements. Two writers who suc-
cessfully negotiate the multidirectional perspective opened up by Arendt
and Césaire bookend this section: W. E. B. Du Bois and Caryl Phillips.
In between, I discuss the more ambivalent case of André Schwarz-Bart.
In Chapter k, Du Bois’s visit to the ruins of the Warsaw Ghetto in }uku,
which he reflected on in a }ug  article, becomes the occasion for modeling
multidirectional memory. Placing “The Negro and the Warsaw Ghetto”
within the larger context of Du Bois’s thinking about Jews, Nazism, race,
and resistance, I demonstrate how, against the backdrop of the cold war
and continued segregation in the United States, Du Bois rearticulates his
concept of “double consciousness” to incorporate the experiences of other
minority groups. In particular, his powerful response to the ruins of the
ghetto and to Nathan Rapoport’s much-maligned Ghetto Monument
demonstrates the workings of a multidirectional memory able to hold
together the disparate histories of blacks and Jews while simultaneously
allowing for the rearticulation of their specificities. In Chapter g, I con-
tinue the discussion of blacks and Jews through attention to two writers
who also foreground ghettos, ruins, and other diasporic spaces as sites
of multidirectional exchange. Here I pursue the anachronistic aesthetic
 Introduction  g

projects of Schwarz-Bart and Phillips, which bring together that which

is supposed to be kept apart. Although forms of anachronism constitute
different types of “error” when perceived from a historicist perspective,
they can also be powerfully subversive and demystifying in the ways that
they expose the ideological assumptions of historicist categorization, as
novels such as Schwarz-Bart’s A Woman Named Solitude and Phillips’s
Higher Ground and The Nature of Blood demonstrate. While Schwarz-
Bart struggles—and might ultimately be seen to fail—to find a literary
form for the anachronistic juxtaposition of black and Jewish histories,
Phillips employs fragmentation and intertextuality in order to develop
an aesthetic premised on nonappropriative hospitality to histories of the
other. Both writers, however, continue the attempt by Du Bois to think
through colonialism’s and genocide’s disruptions of space and time, and,
in different manners, they reflect on possibilities for resistance to the lega-
cies of those disruptions.
The historical resistance to Nazi occupation and European colonial-
ism lies at the heart of Part III, “Truth, Torture, Testimony: Holocaust
Memory During the Algerian War,” and Part IV, “October }, }u“}: A Site
of Holocaust Memory?” Here I focus intensely on metropolitan anticolo-
nial resistance during the late stages of the Algerian War of Independence.
Part III explores how the resonance between the violence of decoloniza-
tion and that of the Nazi genocide created a multidirectional network of
memory that facilitated the emergence of survivor testimony as a powerful
genre for exposing both forms of violence. At the very moment when the
Israeli state was staging survivor testimony in the Eichmann trial, Jean
Rouch and Edgar Morin set out to experiment with documentary form by
producing what they called “cinéma vérité.” Their documentary, Chronicle
of Summer, the topic of Chapter “, turns out to feature testimony by a
Holocaust survivor at its center and juxtaposes that testimony with discus-
sions of race, decolonization, and colonial war. Turning to contemporane-
ous discourses of the anticolonial movement in France, I demonstrate how
the notion of “truth” that is central to cinéma vérité circulates in attempts
to expose the violence of the late colonial state. In particular, controversies
about torture, censorship, and the use of concentration camps in the fight
against the Algerian independence movement lead to the importance of
testimony as a mode of articulating the suppressed truth of colonialism.
 “ Introduction

In the same year that the Eichmann trial and Chronicle of a Summer
staged Holocaust testimony in public, Auschwitz survivor and memoirist
Charlotte Delbo published her first book—a collection of open letters,
surrounded by Delbo’s editorial comments, on the Algerian War. Chapter
 demonstrates how the same context of torture, censorship, and camps
that elicits Rouch and Morin’s film also prompts Delbo to reflect on the
form of testimony and the shape of the public sphere. Much more explicit-
ly than Chronicle, Les belles lettres is a political text; it takes part, materially
and discursively, in a network of anticolonial activity. Harnessing memory
of the Nazi occupation and genocide, Delbo’s text offers possibilities for a
critical, leftist politics of Holocaust memory that also possesses implica-
tions for a moment defined by “war on terror.”
By the time Les belles lettres was published and Chronicle of a Summer
opened in Paris in the fall of }u“}, the country was facing another crisis
pertaining to the war in Algeria. At the very moment when the war seemed
headed for a certain end with the coming independence of Algeria, vio-
lence intensified in the metropole as well as in the colony. Ongoing vio-
lent confrontations between the French state, the Algerian independence
group the Front de Libération Nationale (FLN), and the extreme right-
wing Organisation Armée Secrète (OAS) culminated in a police massacre
of dozens of unarmed, peacefully demonstrating Algerians in the streets
of Paris during the evening of October }. Part IV continues to explore
the echoes that the Algerian War has cast around the globe and uncov-
ers a multinational archive of texts that respond to the October }, }u“}
massacre and roundup by Maurice Papon’s Paris police. Long absent from
the dominant collective memory of France, October } has in recent de-
cades become a significant site of mobilization for antiracist and migrant
groups. Drawing on research into contemporaneous responses among the
cohort of anticolonial activists discussed in the previous chapters as well
as works produced long after the events, this section of the book argues
that the October events constitute a significant turning point in French
Holocaust memory and that a lasting multidirectional network connects
the Nazi past to this episode of the Algerian War.
In Chapter [, I focus in particular on contemporaneous responses
in order to mount an argument about race, gender, and universalism.
Considering both a little-known journalistic text by the French writer
 Introduction  

Marguerite Duras and a recently rediscovered novel by the African

American writer William Gardner Smith, I demonstrate how the French
state’s late colonial racialization of the war led to intensified connections
with the experiences of Jews under Nazi occupation. I also show how
these texts can help us rethink discussions of the universalization of the
Holocaust by foregrounding complicity and revealing a multidirectional
alternative beyond the universal/particular opposition—an opposition
that nevertheless sneaks back into Smith’s novel through a simplified gen-
dering of memory. Chapter u tracks the return of attention to October
} since the }u[¤s in order to argue for an ethics of multidirectional
memory subtended by a fidelity to historical comparison. Here the key
texts are a novel by the French detective fiction writer Didier Daeninckx,
the Austrian filmmaker Michael Haneke’s  ¤¤g feature film Caché, and
a novel for young adults by French-Algerian writer Leïla Sebbar. I also
read the latter two works in relation to the }uu–u[ trial of Papon for
crimes against humanity during the Holocaust, which offers fascinating
evidence of the current status of multidirectional memory and testimony
and of the transformations under way due to generational shifts. As both
the trial and the works of Sebbar and Haneke suggest, the figure of the
child has taken center stage as a site of uneasy, multidirectional memory.
This chapter reflects on the possible ethical and political significance of
the child as a bearer of memory and postmemory in a moment of violent
global transformation.40
As the scope and scale of Multidirectional Memory suggest, the book
cannot possibly offer a comprehensive survey of all texts, films, or political
movements that engage with both the Holocaust and European colonial-
ism. But it does provide both in-depth analysis of many key texts from
this not-yet-recognized, six-decade-old tradition and close consideration
of moments of epochal change—such as the transitional early postwar
years and the }u“} turning point when Holocaust memory increasingly
entered the public sphere and many formerly colonized nations attained
independence. I hope that other scholars will find it worthwhile to apply,
adapt, or correct the approach undertaken here. Certainly, the methodol-
ogy of the book could be directly applied to other obviously “multidi-
rectional” works such as Michelle Cliff’s Abeng (}u[k; Anne Frank and
the Caribbean), Anita Desai’s Baumgartner’s Bombay (}u[u; the Holocaust
 [ Introduction

and the colonization of India), Nancy Huston’s The Mark of the Angel
(}uuu; the Algerian War and the Holocaust), or W. G. Sebald’s Austerlitz
( ¤¤}; the Holocaust and Belgian colonialism). In addition, the writings of
French–Jewish–North African scholars Hélène Cixous, Jacques Derrida,
and Albert Memmi constitute a fertile terrain for further investigation.
Perhaps more crucially, the concept of multidirectional memory might
help scholars working on other historical and cultural traditions—histo-
ries and traditions that sometimes overlap explicitly with those discussed
here and sometimes do not. Multidirectional legacies of violence haunt
the histories of indigenous peoples on a global scale and cut across the
former Yugoslavia and other parts of the former Soviet Bloc as well as
Afghanistan, South Africa, Argentina, and other formerly colonized na-
tions. Meanwhile, labor migrants and their descendants in Europe often
find themselves confronted with the ghosts of the past at the same time
that they experience the prejudices of the present.41 Finally, there are the
prospective multidirectional legacies of the American war in Iraq, a coun-
try scarred by colonialism, dictatorship, and genocide, and now by neoim-
perialism and civil war.
That unhappy current conjuncture shadows this book, but the book
also directly confronts those shadows at a couple of key moments. Indeed,
the Algerian War, which figures so prominently in these pages, has in-
creasingly become a charged and highly politicized reference point at the
turn of the new millennium, as Haneke’s film Caché also attests. The
Bush administration frequently references Algeria as an analogy for Iraq,
and the Pentagon even hosted a screening of Gillo Pontecorvo’s The Battle
of Algiers, apparently in order to “benefit” from its insights into coun-
terinsurgency.42 Having considered the Algerian question throughout the
second half of this book, I briefly turn to another multidirectional politi-
cal hotspot in conclusion. Along with the Iraq War and the “war on ter-
ror,” which, with their liberal use of torture and indefinite detention, have
produced uncomfortable echoes of the Holocaust and colonial adventures
past, the other dominant political site of multidirectional memory today
is the ongoing Palestinian-Israeli crisis. In the Epilogue, “Multidirectional
Memory in an Age of Occupations,” I briefly consider the implications of
my theory of collective memory for that intractable struggle as well as for
the claims of indigenous peoples.
 Introduction  u

I use this short epilogue to make a few concluding points relevant

to the book’s exploration of multidirectional memories of genocide and
colonialism. Through the example of the Israeli historian Benny Morris,
I argue that invocations of the Holocaust in the context of the Israeli/
Palestinian conflict are part of a larger multidirectional network that in-
cludes apocalyptic colonial fantasies of the dissolution of the “Western”
self—fantasies that in Morris’s case reference France’s “loss” of Algeria
and call upon the Conradian vision of savagery that plays a disruptive role
in Arendt’s account of imperialism and that Césaire acutely critiques. I
further argue that despite the obvious ugliness of many of the invocations
of the Holocaust in the context of contemporary Middle Eastern politics
(and elsewhere!) and the temptation to declare a moratorium on such ref-
erences, the theory and history of multidirectional memory suggests the
need to confront a different possibility. While all intercultural memory
does not foster cross-cultural understanding—as the case of Morris illus-
trates here—comparisons, analogies, and other multidirectional invoca-
tions are an inevitable part of the struggle for justice. Against the alterna-
tives to comparison—an intense investment in the particularity of every
case or the promulgation of absolutely neutral and universal principles—I
offer the multidirectional option: an ethical vision based on commitment
to uncovering historical relatedness and working through the partial over-
laps and conflicting claims that constitute the archives of memory and the
terrain of politics.
 4

W. E. B. Du Bois in Warsaw:
Holocaust Memory and the
Color Line

}uku

In }uku, the African American scholar and activist W. E. B. Du Bois

traveled to Poland, where he witnessed firsthand the rubble left behind by
the Nazi occupation and war. Observing the remains of the Warsaw ghet-
to, site of the heroic and desperate }uk™ revolt of Jews condemned to die in
the Treblinka death camp, Du Bois reflected on matters of race, identity,
and resistance. He later wrote in “The Negro and the Warsaw Ghetto,”
an essay published in }ug  in the magazine Jewish Life, that this visit led
him to reassess and revisit his declaration of }u¤¤ that “the problem of the
twentieth century is the problem of the colour line.”1 In the Jewish Life ar-
ticle, Du Bois recounts earlier visits to Poland in the late nineteenth cen-
tury and prewar twentieth century and discusses how they helped him to
“become aware of the Jewish problem of the modern world” (}k). Turning
to his most recent visit to Warsaw, Du Bois then remarks on the novelty
of the Nazi assault, the complete destruction it left in its wake, and the ef-
forts of the Polish people to reconstruct their city. He focuses particularly
on the fate of the Jews of the ghetto and mentions visiting the recently un-
veiled Warsaw Ghetto Monument.
Although relatively unknown and quite brief, “The Negro and the
}}  )#8=#3*:•3•))38H

Warsaw Ghetto” deserves close attention here for several reasons. First,
it supplements the discussion we have started with Arendt and Césaire
about the relationship between the Holocaust and the discourses of race
and resistance that were circulating in proximity to the cold war and an-
ticolonial movements. While Arendt and Césaire take us to the brink of a
workable notion of multidirectionality, they don’t always elude the pitfalls
of the universal/particular dichotomy; Arendt leaves us stranded at the
limits of Eurocentrism, while Césaire’s anti-Eurocentric antidote some-
times hesitates about the specificity of Jewish particularity. In contrast,
Du Bois can serve as a model of multidirectional memory because of the
way his writings on Jews, race, and genocide hold together commonality
and difference in a revised version of double consciousness. In addition,
the insights Du Bois derives from the ruinous geography of the Warsaw
Ghetto about the links between spatial organization and racial violence
echo throughout the alternative, multidirectional tradition.
The years in which Du Bois visited and wrote about Warsaw remain
underexamined in Holocaust studies, but they have left their mark both
on Holocaust memory and on interdisciplinary cultural studies. I have
in mind not only Arendt and Césaire but also the German-Jewish phi-
losopher Theodor W. Adorno, who contributed one of the first reflections
on the cultural impact of the Holocaust in the same year that Du Bois
visited Warsaw. While Adorno’s “Cultural Criticism and Society,” written
in }uku and published in }ug}, consists primarily of a Marxist critique of the
concept of culture, that essay is probably as well known today for one par-
ticular phrase in its surprising final paragraph as it is for the concerns that
occupy the vast majority of Adorno’s text. In concluding his discussion of
cultural criticism Adorno inaugurated what has become a long-standing
discourse on the relationship between Nazi terror and aesthetic represen-
tation. Adorno’s claim that “to write poetry after Auschwitz is barbaric”
continues to be quoted and misquoted long after his death in }u“u.2 Over
the years, Adorno’s reflections on Auschwitz have come to stand for much
more than a judgment on poetry and instead have been taken to sug-
gest the impact of extreme, socially sanctioned violence on culture in its
broad, anthropological sense. Both Adorno’s }uku dictum and Du Bois’s
equally famous assertion about the color line testify to the effects of such
quintessentially modern experiences as genocide, slavery, and colonialism
 W. E. B. Du Bois in Warsaw }}™

on conceptions of history, culture, and community. Adorno and Du Bois

each link a conceptual problem (how to think about aesthetics or his-
tory) with a material reality defined and divided by categories of “race”
(Auschwitz, the color line). With their rhetoric of “after Auschwitz” and
the twentieth-century color line, both writers further link the problem of
racial division to spatial and temporal caesurae.
While I have considered the writings of Adorno on Auschwitz else-
where, here I focus on how Du Bois’s less well known visit to Warsaw
reveals a dynamic intertwining of histories and memories that has meth-
odological implications for Holocaust studies, postcolonial studies, and
African American studies.3 Du Bois’s encounter with the remains of the
Warsaw Ghetto in }uku confirms the need for a comparative approach to
the multidirectionality of collective memory that considers questions of
politics, aesthetics, and the public sphere in a nonreductive, transnational
framework. Du Bois’s post-Holocaust reinvocation of the color line—a
line that can be understood as at once material and conceptual—takes on
further significance in the light of the discourses that have come to define
the place of the Holocaust in contemporary scholarship. All disciplinary
and interdisciplinary formations necessarily draw lines that both differen-
tiate their field of inquiry from other fields and delineate territories within
their field, but not all lines are equal. At present, scholars of the Holocaust
tend to fall into two dominant positions, which, in an effort to bring
together questions of epistemology and questions of representation, I have
elsewhere termed realist and antirealist. On the one hand, there exists a
well-known antirealist discourse that draws an infrangible line between the
Holocaust and all other events. Filmmaker and writer Claude Lanzmann
illustrates this position in his response to the }u[ Holocaust television se-
ries: “The Holocaust is unique first of all in that it erects around itself,
in a circle of flames, a limit which cannot be breached because a certain
absolute is intransmissable: to claim to do so is to make oneself guilty of
the most serious sort of transgression.”4 On the other hand, another strain
of scholarship on the Holocaust insists on erasing all lines of discontinuity
between the genocide and other histories. In his realist study of “moral
life” in the concentration camps, for example, Tzvetan Todorov “affirm[s]
the continuity between everyday experience and that of the camps.”5
Ultimately, these starkly opposed visions mirror each other since each
}}k )#8=#3*:•3•))38H

is necessarily predicated on what it excludes—whether evidence of the

Holocaust’s comparability to other events or of its specificity. Because Du
Bois’s essay on the Warsaw Ghetto avoids the binary opposition between
absolute discontinuity and complete continuity that characterizes much
discourse on the Holocaust and its relation to other histories, it helps point
the way toward new, multidirectional approaches to genocide, racism, and
collective memory. My analysis of “The Negro and the Warsaw Ghetto”
suggests that a modified notion of Du Boisian “double consciousness” may
supply a methodological innovation crucial to helping Holocaust scholars
move beyond the realist/antirealist deadlock and cultural theorists move
beyond competitive models of memory.6
Du Bois’s response to the catastrophe of Nazi genocide also suggests
the possibility that other interdisciplinary projects that have had little to
say about the Holocaust, such as postcolonial studies and cultural stud-
ies, may benefit from an encounter with discussions in Holocaust studies.
The image of Du Bois in Warsaw focuses questions about the politics of
memory and the production of discourses on the past, and it provides a
point of intersection from which to remap the seemingly divergent ge-
nealogies of Holocaust memory and the global color line. While both
Holocaust memory and the color line may seem today like stable, quasi-
natural objects, our consideration of the context of the late }uk¤s and early
}ug¤s reveals the instability and nonobviousness of their significance. At
the same time that Du Bois was revising his notion of double conscious-
ness in the face of the ruins of Warsaw, Hannah Arendt was forging a
constellation connecting imperialism and totalitarianism, Aimé Césaire
was reading the Nazi genocide in the light of colonial violence, and the
French Communist painters André Fougeron and Boris Taslitzky were
imagining a haunted postwar France marked by the encounter of fascism
and colonialism. Du Bois’s writings on the Holocaust, Jews, and Nazism
both confirm the general climate of the period and offer new insights.7
The cases of Césaire and Arendt have illustrated the difficulty of holding
together in memory and historical understanding a sense of the speci-
ficity of the Holocaust and colonialism and an account of more general
processes of modern Europe’s racialized violence. In rethinking the color
line from the ruins of Warsaw, Du Bois provides both an example and a
method for conceptualizing memory beyond the logic of competition.
 W. E. B. Du Bois in Warsaw }}g

The lesson of Du Bois in Warsaw is in the end equally crucial for

Holocaust studies, postcolonial studies, and ethnic studies in general:
the varieties of racial terror that have marked and marred the twentieth
century—in everyday as well as extreme forms—leave their tracks on all
forms of knowledge. While my discussions of Arendt and Césaire have
demonstrated the importance of temporality for the conceptualization of
the colonial encounter and its uncanny return to Europe, here I argue that
space is also determinant: Du Bois’s article on Warsaw reveals how racial
thinking as well as racial violence emerge simultaneously with the produc-
tion of “biopolitical” space. Just as the previous discussion highlighted
the importance (and difficulties) of reconceptualizing narrative so as to
avoid the progressive temporality upon which colonialism feeds, analysis
inspired by Du Bois suggests that both disciplinary and social space must
be the locus of resistance to racial discourses and practices. In order to
understand the extent of racism’s relevance to the disciplinary and inter-
disciplinary production of knowledge, we as critics need first to map the
conceptual and material lines of demarcation that hold together as well as
divide different histories.8 Seeking points of contact between apparently
separate histories, I foreground the unevenness of historical processes and
the multidirectionality of memory in moments of cultural translation,
even as I begin from the assumption that such processes and memories
are—at some fundamental level—deeply implicated in each other. To
render intelligible Du Bois’s transnational encounter with Warsaw and
his article in Jewish Life necessitates working out of multiple histories; to
render it significant for contemporary concerns necessitates also working
against the grain of those histories.

The Climate of Memory

In the year }uku Du Bois addressed international Peace Congresses

in New York, Paris, and Moscow and voiced his opposition to the cold
war.9 In September of that year, while on the way back from Moscow he
also made his third trip to Poland. The first had come during his time of
study in Wilhelmine Germany in }[u™; the second had been during an ex-
tended visit to Nazi Germany in }u™“. As Du Bois wrote in “The Negro
}}“ )#8=#3*:•3•))38H

and the Warsaw Ghetto,” his }ug  Jewish Life essay, these visits had a pro-
found effect on his thinking of the problem of the color line:
The result of these three visits, and particularly of my view of the Warsaw ghetto,
was not so much clearer understanding of the Jewish problem in the world as it
was a real and more complete understanding of the Negro problem. In the first
place, the problem of slavery, emancipation, and caste in the United States was no
longer in my mind a separate and unique thing as I had so long conceived it. It
was not even solely a matter of color and physical and racial characteristics, which
was particularly a hard thing for me to learn, since for a lifetime the color line had
been a real and efficient cause of misery. . . . [T]he race problem in which I was in-
terested cut across lines of color and physique and belief and status and was a mat-
ter of cultural patterns, perverted teaching and human hate and prejudice, which
reached all sorts of people and caused endless evil to all men. (}g)

In this passage, we see the same proximity of problems of conceptualiza-

tion to the material conditions of racism that is found in the more famous
prophecy of the problem of the twentieth century. Here, however, Du Bois
displaces the clear-cut distinctions that previously isolated the “problem of
the twentieth century” in the fact of the “color line,” and instead shifts to a
discourse that questions such isolation at both the conceptual and material
levels. Du Bois registers this shift in the Negro problem at two levels: both
as a phenomenon “conceived” “in [his] mind” and as an element of the
“real.” The displacement of the problematic of race and the transgression
of the color line that Du Bois contemplates after his }uku visit to Poland
by no means entail the abandonment of his insight about the twentieth
century. Rather, it points to the ongoing need to return and revise that line
of thought and to appreciate its historicity—a revisionary task already in
process in Du Bois’s repeated rearticulations of “the problem of the twen-
tieth century.” If the situation of black Americans is now, for Du Bois, no
longer conceived of as “separate and unique,” the color line has not ceased
to register its effects; it remains the “real and efficient cause” and condition
of African American life. In this new conception the “race problem” cuts
across a variety of lines of social demarcation, but precisely this transver-
sal conceptual movement demonstrates how those lines remain in force as
efficient, local causes. The color line lives on, as does the specificity of Af-
rican American life, but the lines that connect the African diaspora from
 W. E. B. Du Bois in Warsaw }}

within and those that differentiate it from European American life without
exist in a new relation to other histories of racism and violence.
In order to understand the specific qualities of those relations between
black and Jewish histories and their effects on conceptualizing race and
culture, we need to address the question of why Du Bois was so powerfully
moved by the spectacle of postwar Warsaw and what in particular might
have catalyzed this process of theoretical revision. First, we need to take
account of the historical dynamics shaping the appearance of Du Bois’s
article. The period surrounding Du Bois’s trip to Warsaw in }uku and the
eventual publication of the article in }ug  comprised the height of cold war
hysteria and of Du Bois’s persecution by the United States government—
he was indicted in }ug} as an “unregistered foreign agent.” Although not
yet a party member, Du Bois was, in fact, closely aligned to communism
at the time and Jewish Life was a Communist Party journal. While it is
necessary to approach critically the Stalinism of intellectual and activist
figures like Du Bois and the editors of Jewish Life—especially in consider-
ing a moment when anti-Semitic repression was reaching new heights in
the Soviet Union—temporarily bracketing our post–cold war sensibilities
can also produce unexpected insight into issues of history and memory.10
The cold war produced a very particular context for discussions of racism
and the Holocaust in the United States. Mainstream organizations of both
African Americans and Jewish Americans attempted to tailor their con-
cerns to the cold war anti-Communist consensus. For African Americans,
this meant an evisceration of a previously prominent internationalism.
According to Penny Von Eschen’s study of African American responses to
the global dimensions of the color line, “By }ug¤ there was a fundamental
transformation of anticolonial discourse and a dramatic narrowing of cov-
erage of Africa and the Caribbean in the black American press. Headlines
concerning anticolonial movements, labor strikes, and the changing role
of American corporations had disappeared. The greatly reduced volume
of discussion of colonialism and Africa mirrored U.S. security concerns
that British or French colonial excesses might open the door in Africa to
the more dangerous Communists.”11 While the mainstream black press
generally decontextualized and de-historicized the international scale of
the problems of race, color, and empire in this era, some marginalized
}}[ )#8=#3*:•3•))38H

intellectuals on the left, such as Du Bois, continued to put forth radical

critiques that linked global and local contexts of racism.
At the same time, and contrary to current practices, most Jewish
American organizations were reluctant to draw public attention to the
Nazi destruction of European Jewry. Although a variety of factors were at
play in this decision, the desire of most American Jews of the time to in-
tegrate into mainstream American society led to tacit or overt support for
a foreign policy that downplayed past German crimes in favor of an alli-
ance against Soviet “totalitarianism.” Contrary to her intentions, Arendt’s
conceptualization of totalitarianism was used as part of this project. The
conjunction of a communal desire to assimilate with a broader national
shift in geopolitical alliance meant that in the late }uk¤s and early }ug¤s the
American Left became the dominant purveyor of what we would now call
Holocaust memory. We have already seen in our discussion of Fougeron,
Taslitzky, and Césaire how the French Communist Party fostered contin-
ued discussion of Nazism in the context of postwar France’s colonial wars,
but in the United States, at least, the party went even further in recogniz-
ing the specificities of Nazi oppression of Jews. According to Peter Novick,
“One of the most striking features of Communist and pro-Communist
rhetoric in the late forties and fifties—and particularly of the Jewish
Communists and pro-Communists from whom the mainstream Jewish
organizations were desperately trying to dissociate themselves—was the
frequency with which that rhetoric invoked the Holocaust.”12
Given these political splits within the cold war discourses of African
Americans and Jewish Americans, the existence of Du Bois’s article is
both anomalous and easily locatable. During this era, the pages of the
Communist Jewish Life were filled with references both to the Holocaust
and to local and global racial politics. The magazine was supportive of
Du Bois during his cold war troubles, as it was of other black leftist ini-
tiatives such as the We Charge Genocide campaign.13 Although it is dif-
ficult to grasp today, despite our several significant examples, communism
provided one of the discursive spheres, both in the United States and
elsewhere, in which the articulation of genocide and colonialism could
first be attempted—and this long before the intellectual vogue for either
Holocaust or postcolonial studies. To put it in other terms, a notion of
the specificity of Nazi genocide emerged against a background of relative
 W. E. B. Du Bois in Warsaw }}u

silence and universalizing condemnations of atrocity precisely through

its articulation in the kind of comparative framework that would later
be stigmatized as relativizing the uniqueness of the Holocaust. That this
emergence of Jewish specificity happened within a universalist movement
that was simultaneously persecuting Soviet Jews is not only a cruel histori-
cal irony but another indication of the irreducible complexity of collective
memory.
Besides noting this larger historical context, it is also important
to consider the specificity of Du Bois’s address in “The Negro and the
Warsaw Ghetto.” While shaped by the cold war context, Du Bois’s ar-
ticle might furthermore be seen as a strategic intervention within the Left,
since it is clearly intended for a Jewish Left audience. The article was
indeed first presented as a talk at the Jewish Life “Tribute to the Warsaw
Ghetto Fighters” on April }g, }ug  (Du Bois, “Warsaw Ghetto” }k). Du
Bois’s political solidarity with Jewish suffering in World War II was not al-
ways automatically given. In response to a }ukk campaign by the American
Jewish Committee (AJC), which wanted to present a Declaration of
Human Rights to address the fate of Jews and others in Europe, Du Bois
responded sharply. In answer to a letter of appeal from the AJC’s president
Joseph Proskauer, Du Bois wrote:
Under paragraph five you appeal for sympathy for persons driven from the land
of their birth; but how about American Negroes, Africans and Indians who have
not been driven from the land of their birth, but nevertheless are deprived of their
rights? Under paragraph six you want redress for those who wander the earth but
how about those who do not wander and are not allowed to travel and neverthe-
less are deprived of their fundamental human rights?
In other words, this is a very easily understood declaration of Jewish rights but
it has apparently no thought of the rights of Negroes, Indians and South Sea Is-
landers. Why then call it the Declaration of Human Rights?14

Du Bois’s response remains relevant today insofar as it anticipates concerns

with the contemporary status of depoliticized “humanitarianism.”15 In this
letter, as in his Jewish Life article, Du Bois places emphasis on differenti-
ating black (and other) politics from a falsely universalist human rights
discourse and from the history of European Jews. In a classic example of
ideology critique, Du Bois reveals the specific interests behind the univer-
sal claim, and he invokes instead a differentiated field of potential rights.
} ¤ )#8=#3*:•3•))38H

Yet Du Bois’s debunking of the universal and insistence on specificity are

enunciated against a background of shared concerns.
Long before the Holocaust or even the Nazi period, Du Bois reports
that he had already recognized certain commonalities between the experi-
ences of African Americans and those of Jews and other minorities in the
United States and in Europe. Referring in Dusk of Dawn to the “continu-
ing and recurrent horror” of lynching during his college days at the end
of the nineteenth century, Du Bois writes, “Each death was a scar upon
my soul, and led me on to conceive the plight of other minority groups.”
Along with mention of the lynching of Italians in New Orleans and anti-
Chinese riots in the West, he also reports that “echoes of Jewish segrega-
tion and pogroms in Russia came through the magazines.”16 Such echoes
of Jewish history also appear in The Souls of Black Folk when, for example,
the protagonist of the short story “Of the Coming of John” compares
himself to Esther, the Jewish queen who risks her life to save her people:
“Here is my duty to Altamaha [his hometown] plain before me; perhaps
they’ll let me help settle the Negro problems there,—perhaps they won’t.
‘I will go in to the King, which is not according to the law; and if I per-
ish, I perish.’ ”17 John’s identification as a Jew in the interests of addressing
the Negro problem—a not unheard of trope in African diaspora political
rhetoric—finds its equivalent in a story Du Bois tells in the Jewish Life ar-
ticle and elsewhere, a story that might be seen as allegorizing his position
of enunciation in “The Negro and the Warsaw Ghetto.”
During his first trip to Europe in the }[u¤s, Du Bois writes:
I was travelling from Budapest through Hungary to a small town in Galicia, where
I planned to spend the night. The cabman looked at me and asked if I wanted to
stop “unter die Juden.” I was a little puzzled, but told him “Yes.” So we went to a
little Jewish hotel on a small, out of the way street. There I realized another prob-
lem of race or religion, I did not know which, which had to do with the treatment
and segregation of large numbers of human beings. I went on to Krakow, becom-
ing more and more aware of two problems of human groups [that is, Jews and
Poles], and then came back to the university, not a little puzzled as to my own race
problem and its place in the world. (“Warsaw Ghetto” }k)

As he enters the site of Central and Eastern European Jewish life and the
pages of Jewish Life, Du Bois passes into a “Jew,” and it is from this geo-
graphical and discursive position among the Jews that Du Bois articulates
 W. E. B. Du Bois in Warsaw } }

his response to Nazi terror and the Warsaw Ghetto. But the anecdote also
suggests that such a position can only be the product of necessary misun-
derstanding. This passage stages a series of misapprehensions: from the
cabman’s misreading of Du Bois’s ethnicity, through Du Bois’s own inabil-
ity to place the Jewish question on his conceptual map of human commu-
nities, to the way those two confusions displace Du Bois from his custom-
ary self-conception. In this passage, as throughout the article, “separate
and unique” racial, ethnic, or religious group identities are revealed as all
but category errors, even as they are also revealed as “a real and efficient
cause of misery” (to reprise the language cited earlier). Here, however, Du
Bois goes further in suggesting that puzzlement might be an appropriate
rhetorical and political strategy for the apprehension of the simultaneous-
ly global and local dimensions of intersecting histories. The anecdote thus
serves both as a warning against the perils of transcultural and transnation-
al encounters and a defense of the idea that only by passing through such
perilous encounters can the traveler gain insight into the world. It is per-
haps especially significant that Du Bois stages himself in this article pre-
cisely as a traveler, since mere months before the appearance of this article
he had been denied a passport to attend another peace conference in Brazil
because of his allegiance to communism.18
We can already see that “The Negro and the Warsaw Ghetto” is
a multidimensional performance that walks a line between and across a
series of overlapping spaces: that of cold war America, that of the Left and,
in particular, the Jewish Left, and that of African American and African
diaspora experience in an era of segregation at home and decolonization
abroad. Du Bois acknowledges the heterogeneity of those spaces, yet he
also cautions against discourses of “uniqueness” and “separation.” If, as
David Levering Lewis has suggested, “the signature of Du Boisian racial
discourse” is that “seemingly unconnected turning points in history [are]
tied together didactically,” this article avoids the two most obvious pitfalls
of that method: equation and separation (Biography of a Race } u). Rather,
in essaying to create a map contoured by relationships of heterogeneity,
Du Bois removes Holocaust memory (and African American life) from
the respective risks of stultification and banalization attendant upon hy-
perbolic discourses of uniqueness or similarity.
}   )#8=#3*:•3•))38H

The Space of Destruction and the

Rebuilding of Memory

The overlapping spaces alluded to above only tell half the story, how-
ever. Until we acknowledge the specificity of Warsaw in }uku, the full im-
plications of Du Bois’s article for understanding racism and genocide and
for renewing Holocaust studies and postcolonial studies remain partially
obscured. While the cold war and Du Bois’s potential political strategies
play an important role in shaping the discourse of “The Negro and the
Warsaw Ghetto,” the text and the particular history it recounts cannot be
reduced to its historical context or to an instrumental understanding of
Du Bois’s intentions. Two fundamental features of Du Bois’s experience
need to be taken into account that exceed the determinations of the cold
war moment: the landscape he encountered and the aesthetic form of Na-
than Rapoport’s Warsaw Ghetto Monument. The situation in Warsaw in
}uku brought home to Du Bois the extent to which Nazi violence, and in
particular the genocide and the Vernichtungskrieg (war of annihilation) in
the East, constituted a particularly radical and perhaps new instance of
global racial terror:
I have seen something of human upheaval in this world: the scream and shots
of a race riot in Atlanta; the marching of the Ku Klux Klan; the threat of courts
and police; the neglect and destruction of human habitation; but nothing in my
wildest imagination was equal to what I saw in Warsaw in }uku. I would have
said before seeing it that it was impossible for a civilized nation with deep reli-
gious convictions and outstanding religious institutions; with literature and art; to
treat fellow human beings as Warsaw had been treated. There had been complete,
planned and utter destruction. Some streets had been so obliterated that only by
using photographs of the past could they tell where the street was. And no one
mentioned the total of the dead, the sum of destruction, the story of crippled and
insane, the widows and orphans. (“Warsaw Ghetto” }k–}g)

When Du Bois visited Warsaw, the city was in the middle of a massive
project of reconstruction. Upon liberation from the Nazis on January },
}ukg, “the city area was covered with a mass of rubble estimated at  ¤ mil-
lion cubic metres” (see Figure ™).19 Two-thirds of the population had been
killed (including hundreds of thousands of Jews from the Ghetto) and the
city was [g percent devastated (Warsaw n.p.). At the time of Du Bois’s visit
#B8 ™ Photograph by Israel Gutman of the ruins of the Warsaw Ghetto
in July }ukg. Courtesy of the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum Photo
Archives.
} k )#8=#3*:•3•))38H

parts of the city had already been reconstructed, but vast areas remained in
rubble, in particular on the site of the former Ghetto (as }uk[ photographs
of the newly unveiled Ghetto Monument illustrate).
Du Bois’s reaction registers several different disturbances. For in-
stance, he clearly appears shocked at the conjunction of civilization and
barbarism now revealed as definitive of a certain moment of German his-
tory. As various commentators have remarked, Du Bois had a particular
affinity for German culture. In Russell Berman’s convincing interpreta-
tion of The Souls of Black Folk, Du Bois was able to imagine the notori-
ously racist Wagner and his opera Lohengrin “standing in as sites of a life
without prejudice” at a moment when racial violence and segregation were
at a peak in the United States.20 Even while condemning pre-Holocaust
Nazi oppression of Jews, Du Bois asserts that during his German visit of
}u™“ he “cannot record a single instance” of “personal insult or discrimina-
tion,” something that “would have been impossible . . . in any part of the
United States” (Du Bois: A Reader ™k). Thus, the intersection of the mate-
rial evidence of later Nazi atrocities with an appreciation of German high
culture probably had a particularly powerful effect on Du Bois. His men-
tion of literature and art in this context also brings him close to Adorno’s
dictum on poetry after Auschwitz.
But the landscape itself registers the greatest impact in this passage.
Above all, the sight of Warsaw as a postapocalyptic null point calls for a
rethinking of the social geography of race. Du Bois, as he makes clear,
is no stranger to racial violence. And indeed, in an earlier postwar mo-
ment before his visit to Warsaw, Du Bois was more likely to equate Nazi
and colonial violence. For instance, in The World and Africa (}uk), Du
Bois writes, “There was no Nazi atrocity—concentration camps, whole-
sale maiming and murder, defilement of women or ghastly blasphemy of
childhood—which the Christian civilization of Europe had not long been
practicing against colored folk in all parts of the world in the name of and
for the defense of a Superior Race born to rule the world.”21 In contrast
to this earlier view of commensuration, however, the analogies Du Bois
makes with American racism in the previous passage from “The Negro
and the Warsaw Ghetto” are offered only to mark their difference from
postwar Warsaw. They suggest a landscape of enforced and policed segre-
gation, while the site in front of him seems to call for a different analysis
 W. E. B. Du Bois in Warsaw } g

and mapping. On the one hand, Warsaw has experienced the erasure of all
lines of social differentiation. By the end of the war, the “obliteration” is
so complete that only “photographs of the past” can orient the process of
rebuilding. On the other hand, such absolute destruction could only result
from a racist vision of absolute segregation different from, but related to,
that which lies behind the racist violence that Du Bois mentions and with
which he is already amply familiar in the United States. This situation
of absolute erasure predicated on absolute separation contextualizes the
“Negro problem”—not in the sense that Warsaw somehow belittles or
trumps American racism with the invocation of a “greater” violence, but
rather insofar as it reveals the more subtle and insidious operation of the
color line in the very different political geography of Jim Crow America.
Together with his writings on the color line in The Souls of Black Folk
and beyond, Du Bois’s reflections on the landscape of Warsaw provide
a complex portrait of how race and space are produced simultaneously:
it is not only “color” that matters, the Warsaw article makes clear, but
also especially the “line” that articulates and produces spatial differences
together with racial ones. In Du Bois’s careful articulation of relation
and difference, Warsaw and Jim Crow lie at separate points along what
Giorgio Agamben, following Foucault, calls a “biological continuum.”22
In a suggestive discussion of the ethical and philosophical implications
of Auschwitz, Agamben helps locate the key to understanding the kind
of violence and destruction Du Bois witnessed both in Europe and in
the United States. Agamben notes that the Nazis seemed to combine two
forms of power—sovereign and biopolitical—that Foucault had theorized
as distinct: “In Hitler’s Germany, an unprecedented absolutization of the
biopower to make live intersects with an equally absolute generalization
of the sovereign power to make die, such that biopolitics coincides im-
mediately with thanatopolitics” ([™). In a }u“ course at the Collège de
France discussed by Agamben, Foucault identified racism as “precisely
what allows biopower to mark caesuras in the biological continuum of
the human species, thus reintroducing a principle of war into the system
of ‘making live’ ” (Agamben [k). In this account, racism represents the
ability to rewrite the political domain of “the people” as the biological
space of a population and then to “mark caesuras” in that space in order
to differentiate and isolate various (and variously valued) populations. As
} “ )#8=#3*:•3•))38H

both postwar Warsaw and Jim Crow America make clear, the concept of
a biopolitical space is not a metaphor but the goal of a political project. In
Warsaw, Du Bois confronts the result of Nazi plans to create “a volkloser
Raum, a space empty of people” in Central Europe (Agamben [g). This
empty space, which Agamben calls “an absolute biopolitical space” ([“), is
the extreme result of the production of a racial geography. Rethinking the
color line from the ruins of Warsaw means grasping legalized segregation
as part of a shared logic of biopower (a shared logic that Agamben himself
does not pursue historically). Not simply confined to their own “ghettos,”
blacks and Jews are linked by virtue of the very caesura that divides them
along the biological continuum. Du Bois’s unpacking of the intimate links
between race and space proves more able than Césaire or Arendt to mark
distinctions within Europe and America, while simultaneously bearing
witness to the shared biopolitical logic that cuts across dominant and colo-
nized societies.
Du Bois’s discourse, however, does not consist only of this map-
ping of the biopolitical space of violence and destruction, but attempts
also to locate the place of a counterdiscourse. Just as Du Bois’s entry into
the Left public sphere of Jewish Life allows the articulation of a strategic
relationship between black and Jewish histories, his engagement with the
aftermath of Nazi genocide reveals another form of relatedness in the ef-
forts to resist total destruction. Again, the conceptual and the material are
closely aligned, as the respective reconstructions of discursive and urban
space come together in an act of resistance against terror. After noting the
city’s obliteration, Du Bois remarks on the process of reconstruction that
had begun immediately following the war:
The astonishing thing, of course, was the way that in the midst of all these mem-
ories of war and destruction, the people were rebuilding the city with an enthu-
siasm that was simply unbelievable. A city and a nation was [sic] literally rising
from the dead. Then, one afternoon, I was taken out to the former ghetto. I knew
all too little of its story although I had visited ghettos in parts of Europe, particu-
larly in Frankfort [sic], Germany. Here there was not much to see. There was com-
plete and total waste, and a monument. And the monument brought back again
the problem of race and religion, which so long had been my own particular and
separate problem. Gradually, from looking and reading, I rebuilt the story of this
extraordinary resistance to oppression and wrong in a day of complete frustration,
with enemies on every side: a resistance which involved death and destruction for
 W. E. B. Du Bois in Warsaw } 

hundreds and hundreds of human beings; a deliberate sacrifice in life for a great
ideal in the face of the fact that the sacrifice might be completely in vain. (“War-
saw Ghetto” }g)

If, in contemplating the city, Du Bois opens this passage with an unprom-
ising Christian discourse of resurrection in which the city “literally ris[es]
from the dead,” the next lines change direction once again. The temporal
marker “Then” denotes a new moment in the discourse and introduces a
somewhat different model of resistance to destruction: that of the futile
but heroic Warsaw ghetto uprising. The ambivalences and shifts of this
discourse draw attention to what is not quite spoken but haunts the pas-
sage: the landscape of Warsaw, even in destruction, is not one. The site of
the Jewish ghetto does not rise as the rest of the city does—indeed there
is “not much to see” there—because there is no “people,” no “city and na-
tion” to revive it. While destruction tends literally toward a leveling of the
landscape, Du Bois silently reinscribes a difference within the forms of ex-
treme violence. In the place of the political terms that are relevant to the
reconstruction of the postwar Polish polis, on the site of genocide remain
only the ruins of memory: “waste, and a monument.”
Indeed it is Nathan Rapoport’s monument whose agency is high-
lighted in this passage and which “brought back” the key Du Boisian
problem of race—here linked with the related problem of religion and
with the article’s persistent questioning of notions of separateness and
uniqueness. Nathan Rapoport’s famous monument had been unveiled the
previous year amidst the rubble of Nazi destruction on April }u, }uk[—the
fifth anniversary of the beginning of the ghetto uprising. Considering
that the Nazis had destroyed [  of the city’s u[ historical monuments
(Muszynski and Krajewska, Warsaw n.p.), Rapoport’s monument must be
imagined as significant, not just as a memorial to the fate of Polish Jews
but as a symbol of Warsaw’s rebirth. Yet, if the memorial to the ghetto is
linked to the city as a whole, it also stands apart from it and, as Du Bois
recognizes, carries its own story. While the Polish nation “ris[es] from the
dead,” Du Bois himself must “rebuil[d]” the ghetto narrative “from look-
ing and reading.” Why does Du Bois bother to distinguish between the
immediacy of the heroic Socialist resurrection of Poland and the highly
mediated and ambivalent heroism of the ghetto? Again, while tactical po-
litical matters related to the specificity of Du Bois’s address to the Jewish
} [ )#8=#3*:•3•))38H

Left may be at stake, a more interesting explanation can also be found in

the monument itself.
Rapoport’s monument, I would argue, spoke so directly to Du Bois
because its form is itself Du Boisian: it is a monument of and to a kind
of double consciousness. Rapoport, a Polish Jewish sculptor, had spent
time in the Soviet Union during the war as a refugee from the Nazis.
His work is marked both by Socialist realism and by Jewish motifs, as
well as by other currents in classical and modern art to which he had
been exposed during study and travel in France and Italy.23 The Warsaw
Ghetto Monument presents these different currents in the form of a stark
opposition between the heroism and suffering of the Jews. The monument
is double-sided: it consists of a wall of blocklike granite with a statue of
bronze figures emerging from one side of the wall and a stone bas-relief
carved out of the other side. The bronze figures represent the ghetto fight-
ers, whose resistance and sacrifice Du Bois notes, while the bas-relief de-
picts a train of huddled figures herded toward their death by barely visible
Nazi soldiers. As James Young notes in The Texture of Memory, the monu-
ment brings together “the broadest of cultural archetypes—the lumbering
mytho-proletarian figures of the Stalinist era and the typological image of
Jews in exile” (}gg). On the one hand, the monument fixes these two forms
in a doubled portrait of Jewishness that—despite details such as guns, a
grenade, and Nazi helmets and bayonets—tends toward the timeless in
its classical portraits. On the other hand, Young points out, there is also a
“movement between sides” in which “the ancient type seems to pass into
the shaded wall only to emerge triumphantly out of the other side into
the western light: one type is literally recessive, the other emergent” (}k).
The ambiguities and oppositions of this double-sided, multiply significant
form recall Du Bois’s own theory of double consciousness and his com-
mitment to a progressive, universalist historical narrative, as they speak to
the polarized cold war political context in which Du Bois found himself
in the late }uk¤s.
Rapoport’s monument has been the subject of controversy within
Holocaust studies, receiving criticism in particular for its universalizing,
Socialist dimension from those who seek to maintain Jewish particular-
ity within Holocaust memory. In his landmark Against the Apocalypse:
Responses to Catastrophe in Modern Jewish Culture, David Roskies provides a
 W. E. B. Du Bois in Warsaw } u

powerfully pessimistic assessment of Rapoport’s work. Reading the monu-

ment as a capitulation to a Stalinist aesthetic that compromises the Jewish
tradition of response to catastrophe, Roskies asserts, “When mourning
goes public in a public idiom, the price for accessibility can be very high
indeed.” He takes Rapoport to task for “separat[ing] and dichotomiz[ing]
the knowledge of apocalypse and the statement of group survival” (™¤}– ).
Roskies does capture an important risk of Holocaust representation in
general and an important feature of Rapoport’s monument in particu-
lar. But Du Bois’s remarks on the monument and the apparently active
role that it and the spectacle of Warsaw played in his thinking lead me
to dispute Roskies’s pessimism, if certainly from a different perspective.
While Roskies favors a “synthesis” that would bring together “old and
new artistic forms to create a new archetype of destruction” over the “di-
chotomized” form of Rapoport’s monument (™¤ ), it may be the very split
within the monument that opens it up to nonappropriative readings of the
sort practiced by Du Bois. Not simply an ossifying dichotomy, the double-
sided form of the monument serves as an occasion for the articulation of
multidirectional memory.
The response of Du Bois demonstrates another possibility for the re-
ception of Holocaust memory beyond the universalist, de-Judaizing camp
and the autonomous Jewish tradition propounded with such eloquence by
Roskies. At least in Du Bois’s contemporary reading, Rapoport’s monu-
ment is situated at neither of these poles. Rather, that reading combines a
recognition of the specificity of the Jewish catastrophe—signaled by the
break in his discourse on the rebuilding of the city that introduces the
monument—and a broad understanding of how that history forms part
of a larger path of destruction premised on an unusually virulent biopoliti-
cal vision of racial segregation. For all of its Stalinist triumphalism, the
memorial does also suggestively embody the double vision necessary for
understanding the Nazi genocide beyond competitive models that would
seek to displace its memory or enshrine it in a quasi-sacred uniqueness.
The dual structure of Rapoport’s monument bears comparison to the an-
tiphonal structure of The Souls of Black Folk and to the exploration therein
of the “two-ness” of African American culture. Double consciousness in
that text refers to the fact that minorities are both “gifted with second-
sight” by virtue of their inside/outside position vis-à-vis dominant culture
}™¤ )#8=#3*:•3•))38H

and are plagued with a lack of “true self-consciousness” because they are
“always looking at [their selves] through the eyes of others” (Souls }¤–}}).
The simultaneity of estrangement and insight that Du Bois locates in the
black experience of modernity certainly finds its analog in twentieth-cen-
tury Jewish history and its articulation in Rapoport’s monument.
In suggesting that the form of Du Bois’s imaginings of black culture
parallels the form in which Rapoport articulated Jewish history, I am not
suggesting that Du Bois equates the experiences of slavery and colonialism
with those of genocide. It is precisely the question of form to which I want
to draw attention. The doubleness inherent in the transmutation of exile
into resistance that characterizes the Warsaw memorial also characterizes
the ultimate expression of African American culture’s “two-ness” in Souls:
the Sorrow Songs. In concluding his book, Du Bois turns to “these songs
[that] are the articulate message of the slave to the world” (}g“), and that
message turns out to parallel the monument’s: “Through all the sorrow of
the Sorrow Songs there breathes a hope—a faith in the ultimate justice
of things. The minor cadences of despair change often to triumph and
calm confidence. Sometimes it is faith in life, sometimes a faith in death,
sometimes assurance of boundless justice in some fair world beyond. But
whichever it is, the meaning is always clear: that sometime, somewhere,
men will judge men by their souls and not by their skins” (}“ ). In fact,
however, Rapoport’s monument is similar less to the Sorrow Songs them-
selves than to Du Bois’s interpretation of them, for both Rapoport and
Du Bois are trying to find forms to express a postemancipation context of
extreme suffering twinned with hope for a different future.
If, as both Young and Roskies suggest, the monument seems to put
forth a narrative in which the particularity of Jewish alienation and ex-
ile is transcended in the universality of socialist resistance and insight, it
also resists that narrative by freezing the two sculptures in what Walter
Benjamin might have described as a tense constellation of dual claims.
While Communist ideology was open to the articulation of Holocaust
memory in the immediate postwar period, the particular form Rapoport
gave it might be seen also as subversive to the Stalinist context through its
smuggling in of Jewish particularity, even if only on the backside of the
monument. Du Bois’s concept of double consciousness and his response
to the monument in his }ug  article serve as a further reminder that both
 W. E. B. Du Bois in Warsaw }™}

sides of the oppositions between the particular and the universal, exile and
resistance, need to be understood as relational terms. Not only are the two
sides ineluctably related to each other, but both Du Bois and Rapoport
suggest in their different media that, on the one hand, experiences of par-
ticular suffering can be brought into dialogue with each other and that,
on the other hand, emblems of universality need to be understood within
specific historical and political contexts.24 As a framework for thinking
about the Nazi genocide, this relational view contrasts with the dominant
understandings of the Holocaust both in the academy and in popular
culture. It neither sacrifices the specificity of the Holocaust to a generic
notion of modernity as catastrophe nor does it isolate the genocide of the
Jews as an unrecuperable “excess” beyond history and representation.
When seen in the context of his many writings on racism, anti-
Semitism, and Nazism, Du Bois’s short article can be seen as bringing to
fruition the cosmopolitanism with flesh that Césaire would call for a few
years later in his Lettre à Maurice Thorez. Through allusion to Rapoport’s
Warsaw Ghetto Monument, Du Bois suggests a model of resistance to
racial terror premised on double consciousness. But double consciousness
does not remain what it was in his earlier writings. The “unique” bifo-
cal relationship of double consciousness that Du Bois charts in The Souls
of Black Folk between African American subjects and dominant culture
gets refigured in “The Negro and the Warsaw Ghetto” as a more general
form for the expression of particular relationships between minority and
majority culture and between victimization and survival. Double con-
sciousness is no longer simply a condition of African American life or, for
that matter, of Jewish life in Europe. Rather, it is a conceptual, discursive,
and aesthetic structure through which the conditions of minority life are
given shape in order to ground acts of resistance to the biopolitical order.
Displacing the color line and the problem of race entails conceptual work
as well as political engagement. That remains true today.

Problems of the Twenty-First Century

The encounter of W. E. B. Du Bois with the ruins of the Warsaw

Ghetto serves as a model of memory’s multidirectionality. Du Bois’s ar-
ticle is at once a reflection on the process of memorialization he observed
}™  )#8=#3*:•3•))38H

during his visit to the devastated site of one of the Holocaust’s most tragic
sequences and a generous act of memory in its own right that cuts across
ethnic boundaries. Du Bois defies the logic of scarcity that defines so much
thinking about collective memory and group identity, especially when the
memories and identities involved are those of blacks and Jews. He dem-
onstrates how the other’s history and memory can serve as a source of re-
newal and reconfiguration for the self—granted one is willing to give up
exclusive claims to ultimate victimization and ownership over suffering.
In the “second-sight” of Du Bois, the ruins of the ghetto become a com-
mon property, a public resource for reflection on the lines of race, culture,
and religion that divide groups from each other even as they create new
possibilities for alliance.
The problem of the twenty-first century may not be the problem of
the color line.25 And yet all those concerned with the legacies of violence
that marred the twentieth century and have carried over into the twenty-
first would do well to reflect on the variety of lines that demarcate contem-
porary societies. Considering race and violence in a comparative frame-
work allows those interested in the Holocaust to benefit from a relaxation
of the border patrol that too often surrounds and isolates discussion of the
Shoah in antirealist discourses. Without collapsing the Nazi genocide into
the banal litany of modern catastrophes that realist approaches sometimes
court, a modified form of Du Boisian double consciousness allows a more
subtle, multidirectional approach to the dialectic of the universal and the
particular.
Such an opening up of Holocaust studies can also lead to a pro-
ductive dialogue with those interested in colonial and postcolonial is-
sues—especially if the latter are also willing to engage in self-reflection
on the assumptions about memory and identity that often underlie their
work. If developments within Holocaust studies have contributed to the
Holocaust’s marginalization in other fields, that is by no means an ad-
equate explanation for the extent to which one of the most important
events of the twentieth century has not played a role in the elaboration of
a politically and historically sensitive cultural theory. Cultural studies in
general and postcolonial studies in particular have tended to avoid ques-
tions of extreme violence of the kind that Du Bois reflected on after his
visit to Warsaw and focus instead on everyday forms of violence, power,
 W. E. B. Du Bois in Warsaw }™™

and knowledge. Meanwhile, the trauma studies tendency within literary

theory has not for the most part developed a vocabulary for bringing its
sophisticated exploration of psychic extremity together with the kinds of
mundane political and material circumstances that my archaeology of
Du Bois’s visit demonstrates are unavoidable in assessing the meaning of
traumatic histories (although, as my discussion of trauma theory in the
previous chapters suggests, these questions are very much on the agenda).
The coexistence of multiple tendencies within disciplinary and interdisci-
plinary fields is, of course, not only unavoidable but also welcome as the
source of further innovations. Yet without crossing conceptual, geographi-
cal, and material borders in pursuit of shared problems, how would we
ever find W. E. B. Du Bois in Warsaw?
Du Bois’s visit to Warsaw took place under very precise, overdeter-
mined circumstances, but the text he wrote in order to reflect on and draw
conclusions from that experience may still serve as a paradigmatic example
of the kind of transnational encounter that interdisciplinary studies at their
best should pursue. Neither free from the tactics of political calculation
nor simply dogmatic propaganda, “The Negro and the Warsaw Ghetto”
traces a limit experience—that is, it directs us toward the border regions
of thought and history. In this text’s work of multidirectional memory,
multiple categories and experiences collide and coexist: histories of slav-
ery, colonialism, and genocide; the politics of the cold war; extreme and
everyday forms of violence; the marginal cultural identities of European
Jews and American blacks; the aesthetics of exile and resistance. Setting
all of these factors into play against the backdrop of Warsaw in ruins, Du
Bois becomes, like Walter Benjamin’s Angel of History, an observer of the
catastrophe of modern history.26 Yet, unlike the Angel, Du Bois also faces
forward and attempts to wrest a place from which to speak and act from
the sedimented layers of history and memory. In the words of the last
subtitle of the article, he seeks a “path to the future.”
The path that Du Bois began to chart in “The Negro and the Warsaw
Ghetto” would not remain his alone. The French Jewish novelist André
Schwarz-Bart would pick up on the ruinous landscape of the Warsaw
Ghetto as the basis for his own multidirectional moves in La Mulâtresse
Solitude, an African Caribbean novel that also prompts a rereading of
Schwarz-Bart’s Holocaust classic, Le dernier des justes. A generation later,
}™k )#8=#3*:•3•))38H

the space of the ghetto and the uncanny geographies of diaspora would
similarly subtend the writing of Du Bois and Schwarz-Bart’s Caribbean
heir, Caryl Phillips. Following an extended discussion of the way that black
and Jewish histories intersect in the literary memory work of Schwarz-Bart
and Phillips, the following two sections illustrate how the lessons of Du
Bois’s visit could also resonate powerfully in a rather different context—
that of France during and after the Algerian War of Independence. Here
also acts of multidirectional memory serve as the grounds for resistance to
a situation of routinized racial violence. Deploying the materials of mem-
ory with equal care, metropolitan opponents of the colonial war—some of
them Holocaust survivors—and an international set of writers, activists,
and artists (including the African American novelist William Gardner
Smith) juxtaposed the German occupation and genocide of World War II
with the practices of torture, censorship, and racialization deployed by the
French state in its effort to maintain and manage its most prized colonial
possession. Such juxtaposition both provided a platform for anticolonial
resistance and contributed to a greater consciousness of the specificity of
the Holocaust in the French public sphere. Like Du Bois, these activ-
ists demonstrate that the transnational circulation of memories cannot be
contained by a zero-sum logic.