Before reading the article in depth, my definition of a museum is one that carries the evolution of history and allows us today to experience the life and social norms of a different era. When recalling the museums I had visited in the past 2 years, all I visited were different national history museums rather than memorial museums. All that came to my memory was an admiration for the evolution of history, rather than a focus on the traumatic experiences of history. Much of this has to do with my emotional connection to memorial museums. I agree with the three concepts analyzed by Mannergren Selimovic (2022), Authenticity, Intimacy, and Vulnerability, because the authentic objects presented in such historical memory museums or exhibition galleries symbolize the past as it really existed in history. Civilians’ torn clothes or toys conveyed to me and the other participants the most authentic and brutal history. For me, who was born in a peaceful area, my childhood was full of love and exploration of the world, while for children who experienced war, it was immersed in the sadness of losing family members and fear of the world. The Museum of Historical Memory’s direct interaction with the misfortunes of the past has a direct connection to my emotions. As Yang (2023) analyzes, other scholars have expressed critical views that historical memory museums can cause people pain. However, after reading deeper, I realized the power that memory museums have to emotionally connect people and provide catharsis, as this direct connection to history can be a catalyst for forgiving history and forgetting it.
Reading the article made me connect with the impact Covid-19 has had on the world. I had watched a documentary that featured items such as cell phones and family photos. The documentary was made by recording the last message from a family member on the screen of the cell phone. The message was presented as an encouragement to the family member in the face of the virus, and the time was just before they were taken to the hospital for resuscitation. The film concludes with a screenshot of a cell phone message and a group photo of different families, a story about the experiences of ordinary people in the face of Covid-19, combining individual stories into a social story that emphasizes the impact of the pandemic as a shared experience of each individual. For me, a painful memory is like a trauma on my body that constantly reminds me of the pain the trauma caused me while I was going through it, and when the trauma turns into a scar after time, it serves not only to make you remember the past, but it also serves to make you look at the past straight in the future and promotes a better social development.
Museums hold a unique position as sites of memory, education, and cultural preservation. However, they are also deeply entangled with colonial histories. This past summer, I had the opportunity to visit some of the largest museums and art galleries in Europe, including the British Museum, the National Gallery, and the Prado. I was struck by how many exhibits showcased artifacts acquired through the,t and I was deeply unsettled by the histories that brought them there. It was impossible to ignore the tension between the narratives of preservation and education that museums present and the realities of exploitation and theft that undermine many of these collections.
I am particularly drawn to Selimovic’s article: “The Stuff from the Siege: Transitional Justice and the Power of Everyday Objects in Museums.” Selimovic’s analysis of Sarajevo’s siege exhibitions shows how ordinary objects can foster an empathetic understanding of history. Selimovic writes, “museums are not neutral stages, but agents that convey certain knowledge.” Further, Selimovic describes how museums exist as a form of active archives. I think this framing is especially interesting in terms of how we think about colonial collections. Selimovic writes, “artifacts from war are always a form of testimony that demands an ethical response.”
The colonial gaze—central to how many museums were established and continue to operate—shapes what is displayed and how it is interpreted. War artifacts are often exoticized, stripped of their cultural and historical contexts, and framed as curiosities. Selimovic’s focus on authenticity, intimacy, and vulnerability as critical dimensions of museum artifacts prompts important questions about colonial collections. While these case studies emphasize how objects from Sarajevo’s siege can bridge temporal and spatial gaps to foster a deeper understanding of civilian resilience, looted colonial artifacts often do the opposite. They fail to convey the complete stories of the peoples and cultures they represent because they are displayed outside of their original contexts, often without meaningful collaboration with the communities from which they were taken.
Some questions I’ve been reflecting on include:
1. Selimovic explores how everyday objects, through authenticity, intimacy, and vulnerability, foster empathy and moral imagination. How might these dimensions apply—or fail to apply—to colonial artifacts displayed in Western museums? Can such artifacts ever foster similar forms of ethical engagement, or does their stolen context undermine this potential?
2. Selimovic highlights the participatory aspect of Sarajevo museums, where communities continuously contribute objects and narratives. Could similar community-driven approaches work for decolonizing museum spaces? What would a truly collaborative, participatory model of curation look like for artifacts with colonial histories?
The readings from Selimovic, Yang, and Schindel made me reflect on the purpose and intention behind visiting museum spaces and how to engage with curated objects and memorial spaces in a more participatory way.
I have to admit that while I’ve been fortunate to visit many of the world’s biggest museums and galleries such as the Louvre, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and the British Museum, I’ve often found museums to be extremely overwhelming. As a result, I’ve often followed the crowds to find the more “revered” exhibitions and artifacts – and merely skimmed over the descriptions of certain works that seem more visually aesthetic. Artifacts in these large museums also tend to represent the experiences of royal and elite families and descriptions often fail to mention the stolen or bloodied histories of the people and places in which they came from.
Most of the exhibits I’ve attended in these museum spaces are also created with the same formula: tangible works and their descriptions are curated in large rooms with no forced interactive or reflective exercise. It is up to me, the individual, to look at and read the context behind each piece. I likely haven’t been interested in many of these exhibits for a multitude of reasons, and therefore am unable to recall exhibits or pieces that had a lasting impact on me or my lived behaviors. I have failed to be an effective participatory witness.
As such, I was particularly drawn to Yang’s piece on the AMA y No Olvida transmedia and community project as a framework for becoming a more involved memory activist, co-creator, and ally in museum and memorial spaces moving forward. While Yang effectively highlights the role of each participant in making a moral and political commitment in participatory witnessing, it is clear that building more interactive, audio, and visual elements into exhibits provides more opportunities for visitors to have a more sensory, bodily, and emotional experience. In AMA y No Olvida for example, the projected voices of family members of the people killed by and made political prisoners by the Nicaraguan state enabled visitors to learn about the experiences of victims and survivors in a more direct way, personal, and humanizing way. Visitors did not have to read any additional information to hear these stories, it was built into the experience.
This leads me to my question:
Is participatory witnessing something that is programmed into a space or event, or is it an intentional action of an individual?
The readings collectively emphasize how memory is shaped by space, embodiment, and community engagement in the aftermath of violence. They challenge the idea that official narratives are sufficient for reckoning with the past. Instead, they argue for more participatory, spatial, and sensory forms of remembrance that empower survivors and disrupt imposed silences.
Emilia Yang’s discussion of AMA y No Olvida, pushes the concept of participatory witnessing. Unlike static memorials, this project invites visitors into an “emotional community” through sensory and embodied practices. As Yang writes, “Even with everything they did, they could not erase what happened from our memory, because we have it marked on our bodies.” This notion of embodied grief connects to Estela Schindel’s exploration of how former sites of terror in Argentina have been repurposed as spaces of active citizenship rather than sites of fear. She argues that reclaiming clandestine detention centers (CDCs) fosters new social relationships that counteract the fragmentation imposed by state violence. These examples demonstrate how memory work is not just about recording history; it is about reclaiming space and relationships. I never know what to think about that; this concept can extend to colonizer’s statues in Morocco. I personally believe that these memories should be erased, but I would be scared that the activism that these experiences birthed would be erased too.
Dima Saad’s discussion of Palestinian material memory similarly underscores how objects ( house keys, embroidery, even floor tiles ) become active carriers of loss and resistance. In exile, these objects “stand in for what cannot return,” shaping identity across generations. This tactile approach resonates with Yang’s description of AMA’s barricade altars, where objects from victims—shoes, diplomas, rosaries—are placed on symbolic barricades. These altars challenge official narratives that seek to erase the dead, asserting their presence in both physical and digital memory spaces.
However, while memory can be a tool for justice, it can also sustain cycles of trauma and division. Kris Brown’s study of Northern Ireland’s divided memory culture warns of how localized storytelling can entrench rather than heal conflict. He describes how memory entrepreneurs shape narratives that reinforce competing victimhoods rather than fostering reconciliation. Similarly, Schindel observes that in Argentina, some neighbors of former CDCs live in a state of “knowing but not knowing,” navigating a tension between silence and complicity. These contradictions raise a critical question: Can memory work be truly inclusive, or does it inevitably create competing histories?
Ultimately, these readings push us to rethink traditional forms of memorialization. As Yang suggests, “memory as a possibility for a creative future” is more than just looking back—it is about imagining new social and political horizons.
This raises a question: To what extent should memory be preserved in fixed spaces (like museums or detention centers), and to what extent should it remain fluid, performative, and embodied?
Emilia Yang’s exploration of participatory witnessing and embodied grief in “Collectivizing Justice” resonated deeply with my recent experience volunteering at a Palestine fundraising theatre production called Beyond the Wall. This production employed a journalist-interview format, interspersing real stories with news and media clips, traditional music, and dabke dance. The inclusion of personal narratives and physical objects from Gaza fostered a collective emotional community, much like the concepts Yang highlights, where activism is intertwined with performance to evoke empathy and solidarity.
The play integrated elements of embodied grief and sensory memory by showcasing social media videos from Gaza, Western media coverage, and the emotional performances of Palestinian actors who had personal connections to victims of the ongoing genocide. These components mirrored Yang’s focus on participatory witnessing, where audiences are not passive observers but active participants in confronting injustice through shared emotional experiences.
This production also reminded me of Johanna Mannergren Selimovic’s discussion in “The Stuff from the Siege” about the power of everyday objects in transitional justice. A powerful moment in the play featured a Palestinian elder holding the key to her ancestral home—a symbol of her forced displacement during the Nakba. Selimovic notes that the “authenticity” of such objects lies in their ability to evoke history and intimacy, creating emotional spaces that allow us to connect with others’ experiences. The elder’s key, a simple and ordinary object, held immense historical and emotional weight, symbolizing resilience, loss, and hope for return.
Selimovic’s concept of “mnemonic imagination,” which intertwines memory and imagination, also stood out. She argues that imagination is essential for constructing narratives that connect the past to a more hopeful future. This idea is both pure and transformative as it acknowledges the hardships of genocide and the massive destruction but insists on the power of hope to envision a better world for future generations. The act of imagining a positive future becomes a form of resistance and a collective symbol of agency.
Finally, the readings emphasized the transformative power of collective mourning and activism in resisting oppressive narratives. While authoritarianism is not as overt in Canada as in other contexts, it is only through protests, boycotts, and collective activism that change occurs here as well. The production of Beyond the Wall demonstrated that grief and solidarity can transcend borders, uniting individuals in a shared vision of justice and hope for a better future.
There were a ton of juicy concepts that came up in this week’s readings… Selimovic introduced the “visceral shudder”, the “heritage of peace”, “moral imagination”, “prosthetic memory”; Yang offered “sustained sense of loss”, “museum of suffering”; Schindel had some beautiful things related to “haunting”, “system[s] of reciprocal obligations”, and restoration. I’m having trouble choosing which to zero in on, but I think what I found most moving this week was the way that intimacy was woven into the discussion of memory and witnessing. These readings brought me back to a feeling of desperate need for community and connection, and recognition of how profoundly people need each other.
As I was reading the Selimovic article, I was particularly touched by the way that objects from people’s lives were honoured, as well as the intimacy of the act of “[giving] the lived civilian experience […] significance”, (222) in order to take everyday objects and use them to show the “material legacy of this life” (ibid). Of course, these were more than just objects- they “were never meant to be anything but ordinary, and yet now they carry the pain of lost webs of human relation” (231). This made sense to me deep in my bones- there’s a reason why my Grannie still has her mother’s clothes in her closet, why I use the measuring spoons my mom gave me every time I bake, and why museums about war and conflict are making room for items from people’s personal lives, far beyond what war museums would more traditionally have.
Selimovic talks about how recognizing the meaning these everyday items carry makes room for “productive encounters with the everyday”. Yang similarly comments on how they can not only allow us to witness the “sustained sense of loss”, and “show the physical imprint of violence”. They personalize people, and “forge spaces of appearance out of disappearance”. In many cases I feel weird about commemorations or depictions of atrocities that draw heavily on photos with graphic violence, not only because I have serious concerns about their usefulness, but also because in my view there is much to worry about in terms of “trauma porn” and commodification & consumption of suffering. In many ways I feel like the creative use of everyday objects offers opportunities to respectfully share narrative without sacrificing the power and weight of someone’s story.
I see where things could get problematic if the tone in spaces of remembering moves away from intimacy and into voyeurism, where it is a “museum of suffering” (Yang) for people to consume and then move on with their days (“we look in silence, we walk away, nothing happens”, Selimovic 224). At the same time, I think that the way that these everyday encounters make things and people “tangible” (Selimovic) is quite powerful. I had a prof at UBC who taught human sexual health define intimacy as the feeling of being deeply seen and known, and I remember at the time this really and truly rocked my world. Selimovic’s definition pushes my understanding of intimacy further, where we don’t need to know the other person’s experience, we just need to open a space where we can be receptive to the other’s experience, without trying to reduce the other person’s experience into something we can easily describe, articulate, or understand (paraphrasing p232). I often feel overwhelmed by how complicated it feels to figure out how to do things in a good way, but this is one of those times where it seems beautifully simple. I don’t need to know an experience to be receptive to witnessing it. By extension, building spaces where we can be receptive to witnessing is politically and socially meaningful. Participating in witnessing is incredibly significant to how space opens up for community to happen– “Life itself depends on the feeling of total intimacy that emerges in these moments of the collective”(Yang, 632). I’m sure by the time we meet I’ll have thought of a bunch of reasons to be stressed by complexity again.
Question(s):
How can we facilitate intimacy without voyeurism?
What role does moral imagination play in shaping shared narratives and memory?
Museums often seek to depict the weight of historical trauma caused by an event, but many times they fail to have a preparatory stance. To this day, several museums have stolen artifacts that should never have been taken. However, when thoughtfully and intentionally curated, museums allow what Selimovic explains is a reimagining of an alternative present, one that remains deeply connected to, rather than detached from, the memories and lived experiences of the past. These readings have allowed me to reflect on the importance of not seeing a strict binary between past and present.
One point Selomovic raised that I hadn’t considered before is “how the heritage of peace is less curated than the heritage of war” and the importance of curating everyday objects so that ‘collected’ memories about events are turned into ‘collective memories.’ In explaining this process, Selomovic mentions mnemonic imagination- the process of allowing viewers in museums to be more than visitors by actively engaging in reimagination and interpretation – situating memory as fluid rather than static. In destabilizing preconceived notions of the past or in how we usually understand an event, the author also mentions prosthetic memory, the “sensory experience of encountering objects” which speaks to the corporeal experience one can have while looking at objects and the memories one can acquire indirectly through mediated experiences despite our presumed disconnect from that ‘past.’ In reading this text, this was my first time learning about transitional justice and museums as avenues for affective power which in turn can promote healing and address injustices and abuses.
While reading Schindel’s piece, I was struck by how I had never considered the oppressive role architecture plays in the ‘Process of Social Reordering.’ This concept addresses how people relate to one another and how they exist and occupy spaces within the city. It was interesting to learn about the ways in which spatial restructuring of Argentina’s regime of terror plays a critical role in shaping the right to the city, particularly in a militarized society where individuals must fight to exist as agents of change and autonomous beings. In such a context, the right to live in the city, one often flooded with terror, must be earned rather than granted. In Schindel’s piece, we see how a dictatorial past such as the use of CDC in Argentina continues to impact the present. To this day, many people are unable to fully articulate or process what occurred in those centers, largely due to the collective fear instilled by the dictatorship. Thus, I found Schindel’s interpretations of the CDCs quite compelling as they challenge the notion of the clandestine detentions as invisible given their power to permeate the social fabric of the country even after the regime of terror. The CDC’s recovery is therefore quite important in the re-imagination of a better present and future for Argentinians. I found the following quote quite transformative: “the detained-disappeared and the CDC [may even become] alibis to stir up the neighborhood and make it both think, and think about itself. Rather than with rep-resenting the past, it has to do with energizing the present.” I find the recovery processes of memory that these spaces aim to provide particularly significant, as their focus on the present rather than solely the past offers a distinct approach to remembrance.
In Yang’s reading the notion of participatory witnessing caught my eye and I believe it applies to advocacy efforts as well. I was also particularly drawn to the author’s concept of ‘the locative space of memory’ which allows for “cross-pollination between the familiar private space, the streets, the exhibition space, and the public space into the creation of sense memory.” AMA’s ability to allow visitors to be dynamic and participatory actors played into the affective experience of trauma, facilitating the act of remembering, the presence of empathy, and collective efforts to seek justice.
In what ways has Canada offered spaces for participatory witnessing?
In going through the readings for this week, I was moved by the descriptions of how these different museums evoked such powerful responses for visitors, especially community members impacted by the events that the museums focused on. I reflected on my own experiences visiting museums, and realized that very few had encouraged what Selimovic calls “sustained engagement” for me. However, I can think of one experience in which I felt that I had a chance to engage in participatory witnessing. A couple of years ago, I visited the Blackfoot Crossing Historical Park in Alberta for a class field trip. The exhibits there focused on sharing the culture of the Siksika First Nation, but also walked visitors through the history of how the Nation was impacted by colonialism and forced assimilation. It was quite compelling to see how the Nation thrived prior to colonization and the strength that they acquired from their traditional practices – and then how that was torn away by colonizers. The opportunity to walk through the Nation’s history allowed me to experience what Selimovic calls “prosthetic memory” of the events that occurred on that land which I did not witness firsthand, as well as the strength and persistence of the Siksika Nation. Looking back now, I do think that by engaging with objects representative of those memories and understanding the meanings of those objects for the Siksika people, those memories and meanings became part of my own memory in a way. I am reflecting on Yang’s discussion on how “affect can be a force in social change”. I resonate with this, as my genuine affective response to witnessing the memories of the Siksika Nation compelled me to act and support justice-seeking for the Siksika Nation and all Indigenous groups in Canada.
I think that the museums described in this week’s readings are further proof that these sorts of sites can support justice-seeking through the interactions and reflections that they promote, and even through their simple existence. In this way, I think that museums can be revolutionary spaces. I thought it was particularly powerful how, in each of the readings, the theme of silence arose, and the museums served a purpose in beginning to open up those silenced topics. Through collections of everyday objects which speak for themselves via the meanings that they hold, conversations and connections between people were opened, thus empowering communities through their reciprocal recognition of how they were affected by the political struggle in their region. I think that “reciprocal commitment” is exactly what terroristic and oppressive regimes are afraid of, which is why silencing and dividing people is such common practice in contexts of oppression. Thus, the “sustained engagement” among visitors and “reciprocal commitment” created by these sites can be a real source of power for communities.
Some questions I have based on this is: how does sharing memories of traumatic events foster solidarity, how can this be done in a way that promotes healing, and how can creative modes of sharing support this process?
This week’s readings collectively explore how memory and justice are fostered through spaces and objects in post-conflict societies, offering me a perspective I had never considered before. They helped me see spaces and objects as deeply intertwined with memory and justice, something I had not thought about previously.
Schindel’s piece highlights the role of place in healing and reconstructing social networks shattered by violence. Transforming former sites of terror into public spaces into spaces for memory and community engagement enables society to counteract pervasive fear and mistrust instilled by state terror. It prompted me to think about how these physical spaces, once symbols of oppression, can become catalysts for collective healing and resilience.
Selimovic’s exploration of everyday objects in Sarajevo’s museums reveals how ordinary items, when curated in exhibitions, can evoke powerful emotional responses and foster inclusive narratives of the past. This made me reflect on how personal artifacts in my own life hold deep meaning. By focusing on the intimacy, authenticity, and vulnerability of these objects, I have come to appreciate how museums can bridge personal experiences with collective memory. It is fascinating to consider how something as simple as a mundane object can carry complex memories and expand our imagination.
Examination of participatory witnessing in Nicaragua’s memory museum project by Yang underscores the importance of collective memory in resistance against ongoing state violence. Through embodied performances and shared grief, the museum becomes a dynamic space for activism and healing. This participatory framework creates emotional communities that recognize victims not only as sufferers but as active agents in the struggle for justice. The idea that a museum can go beyond traditional commemoration to foster a participatory space that centers victims’ experiences and challenges official narratives of impunity is powerful and inspiring. It made me think about the potential for similar spaces to exist in my own context, where voices can rise amid ongoing violence and seek justice through collective memory and engagement.
Reading these articles made me realize that I had never considered memorial spaces like museums in the ways they describe. This is partly because most of my life was spent under the dictatorship in Myanmar, where such spaces barely exist. The museums that do exist primarily display historical artifacts that glorify the country’s history of kingdoms and conquests, with little attention given to the struggles of marginalized groups and the ongoing human rights violations they face. The absence of dedicated spaces for memory and justice may contribute to the persistence of violence and the difficulty in raising voices for justice amid continued repression. These articles have highlighted for me the importance of such spaces in preserving memories and fostering community engagement to collaboratively seek justice.
Question:
In the context of ongoing violence, how can we foster participatory witnessing and the creation of collective memories in a way that empowers communities, ensures inclusivity, and promotes healing and justice?
This week’s readings are the first I have thought about transnational and spatial justice and the ways in which memory intersects with those concepts. But this summer I was widely exposed to these ideas, as a student-led revolution toppled the dictator government in Bangladesh. In the weeks leading up to Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina’s resignation, we faced internet blackouts, blockage of cellular networks, careless usage of policy force on civilians, and violent anti-government rallies. The protest ended in the collapse of Hasina’s 16 year iron hold over Bangladesh. During and following this political upheaval, graffiti and street art flooded the streets of Bangladesh, echoing the voices of the oppressed.
Selimovic (2022) discusses how “memory politics that play out in post-conflict societies carry immense power to affect the future”. The street art in Bangladesh today are sites of “collective emotional fabric” for victims and citizens. The accessibility and inclusivity of the art is such that it ensures messages resonate across socioeconomic and demographic divides. The existing graffiti on the walls of Bangladesh is a representation of the way the country has utilised urban infrastructure for collective memory.
Estela (2012) talks about authoritarian governments’ political will to restructure cities and shape residents’ spatial practices. She further mentions how these tendencies manifest in “authoritarian architecture – public buildings, squares and open spaces that discouraged assembly and mobilisation”. This fits the Bangladesh narrative perfectly as street art was heavily invigilated by the previous regime, to gag freedom and collective action. This was a deliberate attempt to crush any form of dialogue or resistance towards the regime’s unethical practices.
Additionally, Yang (2023) refers to participatory witnessing as memory activism that invites political action. The revolution street art has opened up a political space in which society at large can participate and witness in the pain the past regime has left behind. As Yang has mentioned, such witnessing also creates an “an emotional community” which has also played a role in the renewed moral and political commitment of the Bangladeshi people. These murals not only document the regime’s violence but also gave voice to the pent-up rage fuelled by years of denied justice.
This also made me realize that expressions and formats of memorial art can vary. While the installation of the War Childhood Museum and the exhibition ‘Sarajevo under Siege’ at the History Museum focused on displaying everyday objects to foster collective grief, the Bangladesh street art focused on textual presentations. This highlights an important consideration that transnational justice does not look the same in every country. This is supported by Selimovic’s point that “fractures in local communities often differ from the priorities of top-down transitional justice and peace-building efforts”.
How has street art played a role in transnational justice in your own country? Has participatory witnessing from such work created any impact on issues at home?
My favourite way to get to know a city, its history, its citizens, and its layered contexts is by visiting its museums. To understand the good, the bad, the social and political contexts, and the memories shared through objects that museum curators deem worth preserving and sharing. Museums (memory specific or otherwise), alongside reclaimed CDCs, are spaces where the past and present collide and where the impacts of death and war are embodied in everyday objects.
Across Yang, Selimovic, and Schindel’s articles, the themes of agency and participatory witnessing in spaces of memory and justice were compelling and emotional. In all three cases, visitors became active participants in preserving and interpreting history, experiencing subjective yet personal interpretations of the past.
Selimovic’s recollection of witnessing the everyday object of the child’s blue jumper induced a vulnerable sensation in me. It reminded me how an object, often one that may go unnoticed, can create such visceral sensations and can carry so much weight. These everyday objects serve as living memories of lives disrupted by conflict, oftentimes unnecessary and irreversible conflict. The relationship between individual and collective memory, as proposed by Selimovic, challenges me to rethink my connection with history and trauma. These everyday objects, though material and fragile, embody strength and resilience despite their deliberate silencing, urging us to bear the weight of collective memory and persistence in our everyday.
Schindel’s explorations of CDCs emphasize the role of visitors in shaping meaning, turning “sites of horror” into “sites of truth” reflecting trauma, resilience, and collective activism. I learned that visitors contribute to collective memory, not just by learning but by actively engaging in dialogues with community members. Preserving the memory of these spaces requires ongoing conversations and dynamic action, not static inaction. As visitors, we must approach with humility, recognizing witnessing as a commitment rather than an intellectual interest, something I will carry with me as I continue to get to know cities through their museums.
Yang’s discussion of the sensory and emotional involvement of visitors with sites serves as an embodiment of resistance, mourning, and survival. We discussed the monuments in Nicaragua and Mexico last class and how they became stronger with the collective engagement of visitors. This creates connections among visitors through the emotional communities formed in the aftermath of trauma. I believe it is our responsibility to engage in participatory witnessing, encouraging our embodiment of the grief and resilience of others to truly understand history and justice. From the AMA’s acts of resistance in Nicaragua to the transformation of CDCs in Argentina, these practices reflect a refusal to let systems of oppression dictate the terms of memory. Participatory witnessing emerges as an inherently political act, challenging narratives imposed by power and creating spaces for marginalized voices.
* What responsibilities do we bear as witnesses in our everyday? What responsibilities do we bear as witnesses when engaging with histories that are not our own?
* How can we address the dynamics involved in deciding whose memories are preserved, how they are represented, and who gets to curate these narratives?
Latin America, as reflected in both in Schindel and Yang’s articles, has been a place of massive human rights violations and state repression. Mexico is not the exception. And one of the things that kept popping up while readings both articles was exactly how we (the Mexicans) remember “el 2 de octubre” (October 2nd). Back in 1968, within a much larger global context of student uprisings, Mexican students, mainly from public universities, were protesting their disagreement with the federal government. This was met with repression and violence at every turn which culminated on that Oct 2nd. Thousands of students and people in support of the protests, gathered in a Mexico City neighbourhood called Tlatelolco, which has a big plaza surrounded by several residential buildings. A series of speeches were planned when the Mexican Army started firing against the students. Official numbers say between 20-30 students died, while the number is estimated closer to 400 people killed, thousands injured, and even more who were detained. It is curious how the Mexican people have chosen to remember this massacre, particularly when the government has made it clear they will never reveal neither who gave the exact order to start shooting nor bring to justice anyone who was involved. And this massacre was overshadowed by the 1968 Olympic Games which took place in Mexico City just 10 days after the massacre; the government made sure to make it seem as if everything was normal. Other than the plaza itself in Tlatelolco, which existed before 1968, there are no memorials or sites of memory in relation to this massacre. Every year there is a march to commemorate those who were killed with the motto “el 2 de octubre no se olvida” (October 2nd is not forgotten).
And yet, there are little to practically no physical sites for how both family members and the general public can learn/remember what happened that day. And even to this day, the topic is still considered a bit of a taboo even though it’s been more than 50 years. I wondered if this is just how Mexican people practice memory/remembering but then I think about the Day of the Death were we put physical ofrendas, either in the form of an altar or at the cemetery, and many of these ofrendas contain objects that belonged to those who have passed away. So it is not that we do not like to remember, but I keep having questions about the Mexican collective memory of violent events, particularly those carried out by the State. What does that say about our collective memory?
Questions:
Are physical sites of memory necessary to remember/for transitional justice to occur? If there are no physical sites of memory, how is the collective memory formed?
What is necessary for a museum to become a site of memory?
I went a different way with my post but I was also wondering about the necessity of physical sites of memory, especially for the diaspora. For those displaced by conflict, are they missing out on something crucial to justice and healing that can be found in physical sites of memory?
By transforming memorial spaces and everyday objects into active sites of memory, solidarity and justice, participatory witnessing enables individuals to engage with the human experience of conflict and its aftermath. This process fosters moral and mnemonic imagination, encouraging reflection on past pain, present resilience, and a collective vision of what must be avoided in the future.
Selimovic’s article explored how the curation of everyday objects in the History Museum of Bosnia and Herzegovina and War Childhood Museum like a child’s sweater or the recreation of a kitchen evoked strong feelings through authenticity, intimacy, and vulnerability. These objects illustrated the tension between their ordinariness and the extraordinariness of the siege of Sarajevo they represent. Yang expands on this by framing participatory witnessing as a performative and political act. The AMA y No Olvida Museum in Nicaragua uses sensory and spatial memory to counteract official narratives of denial, offering a space for grassroots justice and collective mourning. Schindel, meanwhile, explores how the opening of Argentina’s clandestine detention centers (CDCs) bridges transitional and spatial justice. The author argues that transforming these spaces into memory sites actively resists the social and spatial fragmentation caused by state terror, allowing communities to heal and get together. Participatory witnessing, as seen across these contexts, invites us not only to remember the past but also to ensure that it fosters justice, solidarity and responsibility.
I sat with these thoughts to reflect on how my own experience engaging with memorial sites have been. In India, war memorial museums display centuries-old artefacts from Mughal swords to the uniforms worn by Indian soldiers in the British army during the world wars. These artefacts serve as important touchpoints for national memory, emphasizing collective heroism and resilience. However, the way they are curated sometimes feels more like static archives of history, lacking the emotional intimacy that draws visitors into the lived experiences of those involved. My visit to Hoa Lo Prison and Cui Chi tunnels in Vietnam added another layer of understanding. There, the display of artefacts like shackles, food bowls, and diaries offered an even more intimate and visceral connection to the suffering endured during the war. While the focus of these two contexts differs – India’s war memorials often celebrate collective heroism, and Hoa Lo Prison highlights the individual and systemic suffering of war – both demonstrate how memorial sites can move objects from private memory to collective remembrance.
This week’s readings made me reflect on how memory transforms trauma into justice and resilience. Yang’s idea of participatory witnessing which frames memory as an active and relational process resonates deeply with my work. At our dance academy in India, we use dance to provide children who have experienced sexual abuse with tools for self-expression, safety, and resilience. One theme that stood out was memory as resistance. In Nicaragua, the AMA memory Museum uses personal artifacts such as clothing and tools to create emotional communities and challenge state narratives that erase violence. Similarly, in India specifically, s ilence around child sexual abuse prevents survivors and families from confronting their pain. At the academy I’ve seen how children’s stories emerge in transformative ways. One young girl expressed herself through a dance inspired by Kalaripayattu (a traditional martial art) saying, “This is how I protect myself.” Such acts align with the museum’s ethos of resisting erasure through personal narratives and symbolizing agency against systems of structural violence.
The readings also made me think about how memory spaces shape justice. The Partition Museum in Amritsar preserves lived experiences of displacement through everyday objects, which Selimovic describes as productive encounters with the everyday, linking ordinary items to extraordinary histories. Yet, the museum often omits stories of women and children who experienced sexual violence during Partition, echoing the haunting silences described by Schindel. With an estimated 75,000 to 100,000 women abducted or raped during Partition, this absence mirrors the challenges we face at the academy. Providing children with platforms to share their stories involves careful navigation to prevent retraumatization reflecting Yang’s emphasis on trauma-informed storytelling. The idea of participatory witnessing, where survivors control their narratives, inspires me to imagine justice spaces that empower survivors as leaders in collective memory and truth-telling.
Another insight was justice as relational and ongoing rather than a final outcome. Yang’s sustained sense of loss emphasizes how memory fosters recognition over closure. For many children at our academy justice means acknowledgment. After learning self-defense, one child told our volunteers, “I feel like I have a shield now.” This reminded me of the AMA museum’s symbolic reparations, which honor victims’ dignity through meaningful objects. Public policies often focus on punitive measures, neglecting the importance of care-based justice systems that integrate prevention, emotional support, and healing. These readings challenge policymakers to embrace frameworks that prioritize relationality and community over retribution.
The most profound takeaway was the relationship between memory and imagination. Asavei’s concept of mnemonic imagination connects memory with the capacity to envision new futures, turning loss into creativity and possibility. At the academy, I remember, we once asked children to draw what safety looked like. One child drew a tree with very wide roots and branches that wrapped around her and her friends, representing the future she wanted to build. Similarly, the AMA museum fosters solidarity and hope creating a political community of care that not only mourns but also inspires. This vision of memory as generative challenges us to think of justice not as a destination but as an evolving process rooted in resilience and imagination.
Questions:
1. What does it mean to truly hold space for others’ pain without trying to resolve or explain it? How might this shift our understanding of justice, solidarity, and community?
2. Is it possible to create memory spaces that transcend binaries of trauma and healing, and instead embody the fluidity of human experience?
3. In what ways can memory activism bridge the gap between individual healing and collective justice in societies with entrenched silences?
I wrote last week about the archives and I wish I had Elsie Mather’s words then: I feel they are a “necessary monster.”
This week, I found myself reflecting on Johanna Mannergren Selimovic asserting that “in general, the ‘heritage of peace’ – including everyday resilience and resistance to violence – is far less curated and displayed than the heritage of war.” For me, this insight bled into all the other readings this week and my consideration of participatory witnessing and objects of memory. I got really hung up on the word “curated,” because curation seems to imply some distanced from the realized context of, in this case, the object. Like if it’s selected and preened and chosen to make a certain statement, it becomes less true. But I think having dwelt upon it for several days, that I don’t think curation makes a story less true, it just makes it different-true, because now it is about what happened and what is said happened. All our stories are curated, and all our stuff is too.
Honestly spoiler alert, but I have long thought of the object I am bringing in tomorrow as speaking to the heritage of war, but it struck me that it also speaks to a heritage of peace. Some aspects of this are tangible: would I have this object, generations later, if it was not also a peace product? Would it have survived? Some aspects of this are intellectual and emotional: would it have been valued? Saved? Worn? Would we care, would it be treasured? Would I think of it as an object of memory if it was not both an object of war and peace? What really brought about this thought spiral was reading about the barricades reimagined as alters in the AMA y No Olvida. The barricades were, and are, items of war and of peace and all the living that happens in the middle, even when they are not alters.
This then set a whole other train of thought on its tracks, about how all the remembering we do happens in the middle of the thing we’re remembering, especially when the memory is so tactile you can almost remember it into feeling (or tasting, smelling, seeing or hearing) again. Like, what I remember most about receiving a phone call with life-changing news is not what was said, but my hands curling aimlessly around the wrought iron bannister of the set of steps I was sitting on. I was further reminded of this poking through the War Childhood Museum website and reading excerpts from the book. People describe the rice used to make popcorn that they wish they could find but cannot (Sabiha, 1987), Monopoly and dominoes in the basement by candlelight (Alisa, 1984), being held tight by your mom and feeling safe (Elma, 1989) or licking powdered milk from their palm (Asja, 1988). These moments are war heritage and peace heritage and they were formed in the moments they were lived, in eating popcorn, losing Monopoly, being held and licking palms clean of favourite treats.
What are our responsibilities as participatory witnesses? Who are we responsible to? How do we make sure we are doing an okay job at it?
“Ways of remembering are intrinsically linked to ways of inhabiting.” – Ivan Illich, cited in ‘Now the Neighbors Lose Their Fear’: Restoring the Social Network around Former Sites of Terror in Argentina by Estela Schindel
A few weeks after I arrived in Kyiv, I went on a walk with a colleague. As we maneuvered through the city, she pointed out how the city had been marked by the Revolution of Dignity. Some streets had deep red stains, still. Others had scratches and grooves from anti-tank “hedgehogs.” In some places, those hedgehogs remained. Cobblestone streets that had been torn up to create barricades had their stones replaced in a sometimes inconsistent manner. She described that she had been in university at the time. That she and her boyfriend and university friends had come to join the protest. That they hadn’t expected it would turn violent. She pointed out a landmark and explained that when the riot police showed up, her boyfriend and other men formed a human blockade in front of the women.
Reading the articles from this week, I feel that this experiences is an example of “active memorializing events,” as Emilia Yang described in Collectivizing justice: Participatory witnessing, sense memory, and emotional communities. My colleague was recreating scenes from the revolution and the Soviet occupation in a “locative space of memory.” At the same time, many of these physical reminders of events remained because Ukrainians had chosen to keep them as objects of memory.
A few weeks later, we were walking through a different part of town and she pointed out a building to me. “See how no one will pass in front of it?” she said, “they cross the street to avoid passing in front.” I watched, and indeed, many, though not all, crossed the street just before this building, often crossing back after they had passed. “That used to be a building for the KGB,” she explained. “People used to be disappeared in there.”
I was reminded of this experience while reading the Estela Schindel article, ‘Now the Neighbors Lose Their Fear’: Restoring the Social Network around Former Sites of Terror in Argentina. Unlike the CDCs Schindel describes, however, this building in Kyiv, this site of terror, had not been reclaimed, and it lives on in the memory and habits of Ukrainians as a site of terror.
All this makes me wonder: why these sites and not the countless others? Which sites remain linked to terror and which sites are allowed to become innocuous? Whose memories are highlighted and whose are disregarded by the collective? Whose responsibility are these sites?
The conceptualization of affect, along with the notion of memoryscapes, are two of my takeaways of these readings. Thinking about the everyday as memory node, as proposed by Selimovic, allows me to better visualize “the inherent (im)mobilities of memory” (Sheehan et al.) and, at the same time, to see memory as a spatial construct or at least as a spatial generator/modifier.
How people relate to space, embedding their own memories in it while integrating space into their memories, is at the core of the notion of memoryscapes (Kappler). This relationship, as it can be conceptualized from the affect theory, emerges from emotional ties we create after living transformative events—whether traumatic or not. Objects that have been embedded in such events, as the ones displayed in the museums visited by Selimovic or curated by Yang, are, even before being museumalized—this is, transformed into artifacts to be exhibited—, memory nodes. They are, let’s say, conferred special powers to mobilize memories. The classical example in literature would be the Proustian madeleine, which can be translated, in pop culture, into the Egon’s ratatouille.
Sensory cues are one of the mechanisms used by Yang to make the AMA museum works towards its goals. This museum, however, relies more on visuals and sounds rather than on tastes or tactile experiences. In any case, the evocative power of objects is intertwined in Yang with the no less powerful space as a memory node, even if its only recreated. Having the objects, the evocative music, and the family members of the victims within such evocative space creates what could be called a memoryscape in which the struggle for justice would take place.
The power of spaces as memory nodes is more evident in the Argentinian case study showed by Schindel. One of the things that drew my attention in this article, beyond the conceptualization of spaces as memory mobilizers and so on, was a foot note in which Schindel problematizes the use of the term ‘memorialization,’ saying that it is used in the article “somewhat uncomfortably as an indicator of a tendency to a certain standardization of the approach to the spatial inscription of social memories” (475). One of the books cited along with this short reflection is entitled The Urge to Remember: The Role of Memorials in Social Reconstruction and Transitional Justice, by Judy Barsalou and Victoria Baxter (2007).
So my question would be: What could be the risks of ‘memorialize’ spaces and objects which have been embedded in atrocities and violence?
Works Cited
Kappler, Stefanie. “Sarajevo’s Ambivalent Memoryscape: Spatial Stories of Peace and Conflict.” Memory Studies, vol. 10, no. 2, 2017, pp. 130-143, doi.org/10.1177/1750698016650484.
Before reading the article in depth, my definition of a museum is one that carries the evolution of history and allows us today to experience the life and social norms of a different era. When recalling the museums I had visited in the past 2 years, all I visited were different national history museums rather than memorial museums. All that came to my memory was an admiration for the evolution of history, rather than a focus on the traumatic experiences of history. Much of this has to do with my emotional connection to memorial museums. I agree with the three concepts analyzed by Mannergren Selimovic (2022), Authenticity, Intimacy, and Vulnerability, because the authentic objects presented in such historical memory museums or exhibition galleries symbolize the past as it really existed in history. Civilians’ torn clothes or toys conveyed to me and the other participants the most authentic and brutal history. For me, who was born in a peaceful area, my childhood was full of love and exploration of the world, while for children who experienced war, it was immersed in the sadness of losing family members and fear of the world. The Museum of Historical Memory’s direct interaction with the misfortunes of the past has a direct connection to my emotions. As Yang (2023) analyzes, other scholars have expressed critical views that historical memory museums can cause people pain. However, after reading deeper, I realized the power that memory museums have to emotionally connect people and provide catharsis, as this direct connection to history can be a catalyst for forgiving history and forgetting it.
Reading the article made me connect with the impact Covid-19 has had on the world. I had watched a documentary that featured items such as cell phones and family photos. The documentary was made by recording the last message from a family member on the screen of the cell phone. The message was presented as an encouragement to the family member in the face of the virus, and the time was just before they were taken to the hospital for resuscitation. The film concludes with a screenshot of a cell phone message and a group photo of different families, a story about the experiences of ordinary people in the face of Covid-19, combining individual stories into a social story that emphasizes the impact of the pandemic as a shared experience of each individual. For me, a painful memory is like a trauma on my body that constantly reminds me of the pain the trauma caused me while I was going through it, and when the trauma turns into a scar after time, it serves not only to make you remember the past, but it also serves to make you look at the past straight in the future and promotes a better social development.
How are digital exhibitions changing the way we experience historical memories?
Museums hold a unique position as sites of memory, education, and cultural preservation. However, they are also deeply entangled with colonial histories. This past summer, I had the opportunity to visit some of the largest museums and art galleries in Europe, including the British Museum, the National Gallery, and the Prado. I was struck by how many exhibits showcased artifacts acquired through the,t and I was deeply unsettled by the histories that brought them there. It was impossible to ignore the tension between the narratives of preservation and education that museums present and the realities of exploitation and theft that undermine many of these collections.
I am particularly drawn to Selimovic’s article: “The Stuff from the Siege: Transitional Justice and the Power of Everyday Objects in Museums.” Selimovic’s analysis of Sarajevo’s siege exhibitions shows how ordinary objects can foster an empathetic understanding of history. Selimovic writes, “museums are not neutral stages, but agents that convey certain knowledge.” Further, Selimovic describes how museums exist as a form of active archives. I think this framing is especially interesting in terms of how we think about colonial collections. Selimovic writes, “artifacts from war are always a form of testimony that demands an ethical response.”
The colonial gaze—central to how many museums were established and continue to operate—shapes what is displayed and how it is interpreted. War artifacts are often exoticized, stripped of their cultural and historical contexts, and framed as curiosities. Selimovic’s focus on authenticity, intimacy, and vulnerability as critical dimensions of museum artifacts prompts important questions about colonial collections. While these case studies emphasize how objects from Sarajevo’s siege can bridge temporal and spatial gaps to foster a deeper understanding of civilian resilience, looted colonial artifacts often do the opposite. They fail to convey the complete stories of the peoples and cultures they represent because they are displayed outside of their original contexts, often without meaningful collaboration with the communities from which they were taken.
Some questions I’ve been reflecting on include:
1. Selimovic explores how everyday objects, through authenticity, intimacy, and vulnerability, foster empathy and moral imagination. How might these dimensions apply—or fail to apply—to colonial artifacts displayed in Western museums? Can such artifacts ever foster similar forms of ethical engagement, or does their stolen context undermine this potential?
2. Selimovic highlights the participatory aspect of Sarajevo museums, where communities continuously contribute objects and narratives. Could similar community-driven approaches work for decolonizing museum spaces? What would a truly collaborative, participatory model of curation look like for artifacts with colonial histories?
The readings from Selimovic, Yang, and Schindel made me reflect on the purpose and intention behind visiting museum spaces and how to engage with curated objects and memorial spaces in a more participatory way.
I have to admit that while I’ve been fortunate to visit many of the world’s biggest museums and galleries such as the Louvre, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and the British Museum, I’ve often found museums to be extremely overwhelming. As a result, I’ve often followed the crowds to find the more “revered” exhibitions and artifacts – and merely skimmed over the descriptions of certain works that seem more visually aesthetic. Artifacts in these large museums also tend to represent the experiences of royal and elite families and descriptions often fail to mention the stolen or bloodied histories of the people and places in which they came from.
Most of the exhibits I’ve attended in these museum spaces are also created with the same formula: tangible works and their descriptions are curated in large rooms with no forced interactive or reflective exercise. It is up to me, the individual, to look at and read the context behind each piece. I likely haven’t been interested in many of these exhibits for a multitude of reasons, and therefore am unable to recall exhibits or pieces that had a lasting impact on me or my lived behaviors. I have failed to be an effective participatory witness.
As such, I was particularly drawn to Yang’s piece on the AMA y No Olvida transmedia and community project as a framework for becoming a more involved memory activist, co-creator, and ally in museum and memorial spaces moving forward. While Yang effectively highlights the role of each participant in making a moral and political commitment in participatory witnessing, it is clear that building more interactive, audio, and visual elements into exhibits provides more opportunities for visitors to have a more sensory, bodily, and emotional experience. In AMA y No Olvida for example, the projected voices of family members of the people killed by and made political prisoners by the Nicaraguan state enabled visitors to learn about the experiences of victims and survivors in a more direct way, personal, and humanizing way. Visitors did not have to read any additional information to hear these stories, it was built into the experience.
This leads me to my question:
Is participatory witnessing something that is programmed into a space or event, or is it an intentional action of an individual?
The readings collectively emphasize how memory is shaped by space, embodiment, and community engagement in the aftermath of violence. They challenge the idea that official narratives are sufficient for reckoning with the past. Instead, they argue for more participatory, spatial, and sensory forms of remembrance that empower survivors and disrupt imposed silences.
Emilia Yang’s discussion of AMA y No Olvida, pushes the concept of participatory witnessing. Unlike static memorials, this project invites visitors into an “emotional community” through sensory and embodied practices. As Yang writes, “Even with everything they did, they could not erase what happened from our memory, because we have it marked on our bodies.” This notion of embodied grief connects to Estela Schindel’s exploration of how former sites of terror in Argentina have been repurposed as spaces of active citizenship rather than sites of fear. She argues that reclaiming clandestine detention centers (CDCs) fosters new social relationships that counteract the fragmentation imposed by state violence. These examples demonstrate how memory work is not just about recording history; it is about reclaiming space and relationships. I never know what to think about that; this concept can extend to colonizer’s statues in Morocco. I personally believe that these memories should be erased, but I would be scared that the activism that these experiences birthed would be erased too.
Dima Saad’s discussion of Palestinian material memory similarly underscores how objects ( house keys, embroidery, even floor tiles ) become active carriers of loss and resistance. In exile, these objects “stand in for what cannot return,” shaping identity across generations. This tactile approach resonates with Yang’s description of AMA’s barricade altars, where objects from victims—shoes, diplomas, rosaries—are placed on symbolic barricades. These altars challenge official narratives that seek to erase the dead, asserting their presence in both physical and digital memory spaces.
However, while memory can be a tool for justice, it can also sustain cycles of trauma and division. Kris Brown’s study of Northern Ireland’s divided memory culture warns of how localized storytelling can entrench rather than heal conflict. He describes how memory entrepreneurs shape narratives that reinforce competing victimhoods rather than fostering reconciliation. Similarly, Schindel observes that in Argentina, some neighbors of former CDCs live in a state of “knowing but not knowing,” navigating a tension between silence and complicity. These contradictions raise a critical question: Can memory work be truly inclusive, or does it inevitably create competing histories?
Ultimately, these readings push us to rethink traditional forms of memorialization. As Yang suggests, “memory as a possibility for a creative future” is more than just looking back—it is about imagining new social and political horizons.
This raises a question: To what extent should memory be preserved in fixed spaces (like museums or detention centers), and to what extent should it remain fluid, performative, and embodied?
Emilia Yang’s exploration of participatory witnessing and embodied grief in “Collectivizing Justice” resonated deeply with my recent experience volunteering at a Palestine fundraising theatre production called Beyond the Wall. This production employed a journalist-interview format, interspersing real stories with news and media clips, traditional music, and dabke dance. The inclusion of personal narratives and physical objects from Gaza fostered a collective emotional community, much like the concepts Yang highlights, where activism is intertwined with performance to evoke empathy and solidarity.
The play integrated elements of embodied grief and sensory memory by showcasing social media videos from Gaza, Western media coverage, and the emotional performances of Palestinian actors who had personal connections to victims of the ongoing genocide. These components mirrored Yang’s focus on participatory witnessing, where audiences are not passive observers but active participants in confronting injustice through shared emotional experiences.
This production also reminded me of Johanna Mannergren Selimovic’s discussion in “The Stuff from the Siege” about the power of everyday objects in transitional justice. A powerful moment in the play featured a Palestinian elder holding the key to her ancestral home—a symbol of her forced displacement during the Nakba. Selimovic notes that the “authenticity” of such objects lies in their ability to evoke history and intimacy, creating emotional spaces that allow us to connect with others’ experiences. The elder’s key, a simple and ordinary object, held immense historical and emotional weight, symbolizing resilience, loss, and hope for return.
Selimovic’s concept of “mnemonic imagination,” which intertwines memory and imagination, also stood out. She argues that imagination is essential for constructing narratives that connect the past to a more hopeful future. This idea is both pure and transformative as it acknowledges the hardships of genocide and the massive destruction but insists on the power of hope to envision a better world for future generations. The act of imagining a positive future becomes a form of resistance and a collective symbol of agency.
Finally, the readings emphasized the transformative power of collective mourning and activism in resisting oppressive narratives. While authoritarianism is not as overt in Canada as in other contexts, it is only through protests, boycotts, and collective activism that change occurs here as well. The production of Beyond the Wall demonstrated that grief and solidarity can transcend borders, uniting individuals in a shared vision of justice and hope for a better future.
There were a ton of juicy concepts that came up in this week’s readings… Selimovic introduced the “visceral shudder”, the “heritage of peace”, “moral imagination”, “prosthetic memory”; Yang offered “sustained sense of loss”, “museum of suffering”; Schindel had some beautiful things related to “haunting”, “system[s] of reciprocal obligations”, and restoration. I’m having trouble choosing which to zero in on, but I think what I found most moving this week was the way that intimacy was woven into the discussion of memory and witnessing. These readings brought me back to a feeling of desperate need for community and connection, and recognition of how profoundly people need each other.
As I was reading the Selimovic article, I was particularly touched by the way that objects from people’s lives were honoured, as well as the intimacy of the act of “[giving] the lived civilian experience […] significance”, (222) in order to take everyday objects and use them to show the “material legacy of this life” (ibid). Of course, these were more than just objects- they “were never meant to be anything but ordinary, and yet now they carry the pain of lost webs of human relation” (231). This made sense to me deep in my bones- there’s a reason why my Grannie still has her mother’s clothes in her closet, why I use the measuring spoons my mom gave me every time I bake, and why museums about war and conflict are making room for items from people’s personal lives, far beyond what war museums would more traditionally have.
Selimovic talks about how recognizing the meaning these everyday items carry makes room for “productive encounters with the everyday”. Yang similarly comments on how they can not only allow us to witness the “sustained sense of loss”, and “show the physical imprint of violence”. They personalize people, and “forge spaces of appearance out of disappearance”. In many cases I feel weird about commemorations or depictions of atrocities that draw heavily on photos with graphic violence, not only because I have serious concerns about their usefulness, but also because in my view there is much to worry about in terms of “trauma porn” and commodification & consumption of suffering. In many ways I feel like the creative use of everyday objects offers opportunities to respectfully share narrative without sacrificing the power and weight of someone’s story.
I see where things could get problematic if the tone in spaces of remembering moves away from intimacy and into voyeurism, where it is a “museum of suffering” (Yang) for people to consume and then move on with their days (“we look in silence, we walk away, nothing happens”, Selimovic 224). At the same time, I think that the way that these everyday encounters make things and people “tangible” (Selimovic) is quite powerful. I had a prof at UBC who taught human sexual health define intimacy as the feeling of being deeply seen and known, and I remember at the time this really and truly rocked my world. Selimovic’s definition pushes my understanding of intimacy further, where we don’t need to know the other person’s experience, we just need to open a space where we can be receptive to the other’s experience, without trying to reduce the other person’s experience into something we can easily describe, articulate, or understand (paraphrasing p232). I often feel overwhelmed by how complicated it feels to figure out how to do things in a good way, but this is one of those times where it seems beautifully simple. I don’t need to know an experience to be receptive to witnessing it. By extension, building spaces where we can be receptive to witnessing is politically and socially meaningful. Participating in witnessing is incredibly significant to how space opens up for community to happen– “Life itself depends on the feeling of total intimacy that emerges in these moments of the collective”(Yang, 632). I’m sure by the time we meet I’ll have thought of a bunch of reasons to be stressed by complexity again.
Question(s):
How can we facilitate intimacy without voyeurism?
What role does moral imagination play in shaping shared narratives and memory?
Museums often seek to depict the weight of historical trauma caused by an event, but many times they fail to have a preparatory stance. To this day, several museums have stolen artifacts that should never have been taken. However, when thoughtfully and intentionally curated, museums allow what Selimovic explains is a reimagining of an alternative present, one that remains deeply connected to, rather than detached from, the memories and lived experiences of the past. These readings have allowed me to reflect on the importance of not seeing a strict binary between past and present.
One point Selomovic raised that I hadn’t considered before is “how the heritage of peace is less curated than the heritage of war” and the importance of curating everyday objects so that ‘collected’ memories about events are turned into ‘collective memories.’ In explaining this process, Selomovic mentions mnemonic imagination- the process of allowing viewers in museums to be more than visitors by actively engaging in reimagination and interpretation – situating memory as fluid rather than static. In destabilizing preconceived notions of the past or in how we usually understand an event, the author also mentions prosthetic memory, the “sensory experience of encountering objects” which speaks to the corporeal experience one can have while looking at objects and the memories one can acquire indirectly through mediated experiences despite our presumed disconnect from that ‘past.’ In reading this text, this was my first time learning about transitional justice and museums as avenues for affective power which in turn can promote healing and address injustices and abuses.
While reading Schindel’s piece, I was struck by how I had never considered the oppressive role architecture plays in the ‘Process of Social Reordering.’ This concept addresses how people relate to one another and how they exist and occupy spaces within the city. It was interesting to learn about the ways in which spatial restructuring of Argentina’s regime of terror plays a critical role in shaping the right to the city, particularly in a militarized society where individuals must fight to exist as agents of change and autonomous beings. In such a context, the right to live in the city, one often flooded with terror, must be earned rather than granted. In Schindel’s piece, we see how a dictatorial past such as the use of CDC in Argentina continues to impact the present. To this day, many people are unable to fully articulate or process what occurred in those centers, largely due to the collective fear instilled by the dictatorship. Thus, I found Schindel’s interpretations of the CDCs quite compelling as they challenge the notion of the clandestine detentions as invisible given their power to permeate the social fabric of the country even after the regime of terror. The CDC’s recovery is therefore quite important in the re-imagination of a better present and future for Argentinians. I found the following quote quite transformative: “the detained-disappeared and the CDC [may even become] alibis to stir up the neighborhood and make it both think, and think about itself. Rather than with rep-resenting the past, it has to do with energizing the present.” I find the recovery processes of memory that these spaces aim to provide particularly significant, as their focus on the present rather than solely the past offers a distinct approach to remembrance.
In Yang’s reading the notion of participatory witnessing caught my eye and I believe it applies to advocacy efforts as well. I was also particularly drawn to the author’s concept of ‘the locative space of memory’ which allows for “cross-pollination between the familiar private space, the streets, the exhibition space, and the public space into the creation of sense memory.” AMA’s ability to allow visitors to be dynamic and participatory actors played into the affective experience of trauma, facilitating the act of remembering, the presence of empathy, and collective efforts to seek justice.
In what ways has Canada offered spaces for participatory witnessing?
In going through the readings for this week, I was moved by the descriptions of how these different museums evoked such powerful responses for visitors, especially community members impacted by the events that the museums focused on. I reflected on my own experiences visiting museums, and realized that very few had encouraged what Selimovic calls “sustained engagement” for me. However, I can think of one experience in which I felt that I had a chance to engage in participatory witnessing. A couple of years ago, I visited the Blackfoot Crossing Historical Park in Alberta for a class field trip. The exhibits there focused on sharing the culture of the Siksika First Nation, but also walked visitors through the history of how the Nation was impacted by colonialism and forced assimilation. It was quite compelling to see how the Nation thrived prior to colonization and the strength that they acquired from their traditional practices – and then how that was torn away by colonizers. The opportunity to walk through the Nation’s history allowed me to experience what Selimovic calls “prosthetic memory” of the events that occurred on that land which I did not witness firsthand, as well as the strength and persistence of the Siksika Nation. Looking back now, I do think that by engaging with objects representative of those memories and understanding the meanings of those objects for the Siksika people, those memories and meanings became part of my own memory in a way. I am reflecting on Yang’s discussion on how “affect can be a force in social change”. I resonate with this, as my genuine affective response to witnessing the memories of the Siksika Nation compelled me to act and support justice-seeking for the Siksika Nation and all Indigenous groups in Canada.
I think that the museums described in this week’s readings are further proof that these sorts of sites can support justice-seeking through the interactions and reflections that they promote, and even through their simple existence. In this way, I think that museums can be revolutionary spaces. I thought it was particularly powerful how, in each of the readings, the theme of silence arose, and the museums served a purpose in beginning to open up those silenced topics. Through collections of everyday objects which speak for themselves via the meanings that they hold, conversations and connections between people were opened, thus empowering communities through their reciprocal recognition of how they were affected by the political struggle in their region. I think that “reciprocal commitment” is exactly what terroristic and oppressive regimes are afraid of, which is why silencing and dividing people is such common practice in contexts of oppression. Thus, the “sustained engagement” among visitors and “reciprocal commitment” created by these sites can be a real source of power for communities.
Some questions I have based on this is: how does sharing memories of traumatic events foster solidarity, how can this be done in a way that promotes healing, and how can creative modes of sharing support this process?
This week’s readings collectively explore how memory and justice are fostered through spaces and objects in post-conflict societies, offering me a perspective I had never considered before. They helped me see spaces and objects as deeply intertwined with memory and justice, something I had not thought about previously.
Schindel’s piece highlights the role of place in healing and reconstructing social networks shattered by violence. Transforming former sites of terror into public spaces into spaces for memory and community engagement enables society to counteract pervasive fear and mistrust instilled by state terror. It prompted me to think about how these physical spaces, once symbols of oppression, can become catalysts for collective healing and resilience.
Selimovic’s exploration of everyday objects in Sarajevo’s museums reveals how ordinary items, when curated in exhibitions, can evoke powerful emotional responses and foster inclusive narratives of the past. This made me reflect on how personal artifacts in my own life hold deep meaning. By focusing on the intimacy, authenticity, and vulnerability of these objects, I have come to appreciate how museums can bridge personal experiences with collective memory. It is fascinating to consider how something as simple as a mundane object can carry complex memories and expand our imagination.
Examination of participatory witnessing in Nicaragua’s memory museum project by Yang underscores the importance of collective memory in resistance against ongoing state violence. Through embodied performances and shared grief, the museum becomes a dynamic space for activism and healing. This participatory framework creates emotional communities that recognize victims not only as sufferers but as active agents in the struggle for justice. The idea that a museum can go beyond traditional commemoration to foster a participatory space that centers victims’ experiences and challenges official narratives of impunity is powerful and inspiring. It made me think about the potential for similar spaces to exist in my own context, where voices can rise amid ongoing violence and seek justice through collective memory and engagement.
Reading these articles made me realize that I had never considered memorial spaces like museums in the ways they describe. This is partly because most of my life was spent under the dictatorship in Myanmar, where such spaces barely exist. The museums that do exist primarily display historical artifacts that glorify the country’s history of kingdoms and conquests, with little attention given to the struggles of marginalized groups and the ongoing human rights violations they face. The absence of dedicated spaces for memory and justice may contribute to the persistence of violence and the difficulty in raising voices for justice amid continued repression. These articles have highlighted for me the importance of such spaces in preserving memories and fostering community engagement to collaboratively seek justice.
Question:
In the context of ongoing violence, how can we foster participatory witnessing and the creation of collective memories in a way that empowers communities, ensures inclusivity, and promotes healing and justice?
This week’s readings are the first I have thought about transnational and spatial justice and the ways in which memory intersects with those concepts. But this summer I was widely exposed to these ideas, as a student-led revolution toppled the dictator government in Bangladesh. In the weeks leading up to Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina’s resignation, we faced internet blackouts, blockage of cellular networks, careless usage of policy force on civilians, and violent anti-government rallies. The protest ended in the collapse of Hasina’s 16 year iron hold over Bangladesh. During and following this political upheaval, graffiti and street art flooded the streets of Bangladesh, echoing the voices of the oppressed.
Selimovic (2022) discusses how “memory politics that play out in post-conflict societies carry immense power to affect the future”. The street art in Bangladesh today are sites of “collective emotional fabric” for victims and citizens. The accessibility and inclusivity of the art is such that it ensures messages resonate across socioeconomic and demographic divides. The existing graffiti on the walls of Bangladesh is a representation of the way the country has utilised urban infrastructure for collective memory.
Estela (2012) talks about authoritarian governments’ political will to restructure cities and shape residents’ spatial practices. She further mentions how these tendencies manifest in “authoritarian architecture – public buildings, squares and open spaces that discouraged assembly and mobilisation”. This fits the Bangladesh narrative perfectly as street art was heavily invigilated by the previous regime, to gag freedom and collective action. This was a deliberate attempt to crush any form of dialogue or resistance towards the regime’s unethical practices.
Additionally, Yang (2023) refers to participatory witnessing as memory activism that invites political action. The revolution street art has opened up a political space in which society at large can participate and witness in the pain the past regime has left behind. As Yang has mentioned, such witnessing also creates an “an emotional community” which has also played a role in the renewed moral and political commitment of the Bangladeshi people. These murals not only document the regime’s violence but also gave voice to the pent-up rage fuelled by years of denied justice.
This also made me realize that expressions and formats of memorial art can vary. While the installation of the War Childhood Museum and the exhibition ‘Sarajevo under Siege’ at the History Museum focused on displaying everyday objects to foster collective grief, the Bangladesh street art focused on textual presentations. This highlights an important consideration that transnational justice does not look the same in every country. This is supported by Selimovic’s point that “fractures in local communities often differ from the priorities of top-down transitional justice and peace-building efforts”.
How has street art played a role in transnational justice in your own country? Has participatory witnessing from such work created any impact on issues at home?
If you are interested to take a closer look, in the context of class, you can check out this article: https://www.thedailystar.net/bangladesh/news/pictures-revolution-told-graffiti-3680291
My favourite way to get to know a city, its history, its citizens, and its layered contexts is by visiting its museums. To understand the good, the bad, the social and political contexts, and the memories shared through objects that museum curators deem worth preserving and sharing. Museums (memory specific or otherwise), alongside reclaimed CDCs, are spaces where the past and present collide and where the impacts of death and war are embodied in everyday objects.
Across Yang, Selimovic, and Schindel’s articles, the themes of agency and participatory witnessing in spaces of memory and justice were compelling and emotional. In all three cases, visitors became active participants in preserving and interpreting history, experiencing subjective yet personal interpretations of the past.
Selimovic’s recollection of witnessing the everyday object of the child’s blue jumper induced a vulnerable sensation in me. It reminded me how an object, often one that may go unnoticed, can create such visceral sensations and can carry so much weight. These everyday objects serve as living memories of lives disrupted by conflict, oftentimes unnecessary and irreversible conflict. The relationship between individual and collective memory, as proposed by Selimovic, challenges me to rethink my connection with history and trauma. These everyday objects, though material and fragile, embody strength and resilience despite their deliberate silencing, urging us to bear the weight of collective memory and persistence in our everyday.
Schindel’s explorations of CDCs emphasize the role of visitors in shaping meaning, turning “sites of horror” into “sites of truth” reflecting trauma, resilience, and collective activism. I learned that visitors contribute to collective memory, not just by learning but by actively engaging in dialogues with community members. Preserving the memory of these spaces requires ongoing conversations and dynamic action, not static inaction. As visitors, we must approach with humility, recognizing witnessing as a commitment rather than an intellectual interest, something I will carry with me as I continue to get to know cities through their museums.
Yang’s discussion of the sensory and emotional involvement of visitors with sites serves as an embodiment of resistance, mourning, and survival. We discussed the monuments in Nicaragua and Mexico last class and how they became stronger with the collective engagement of visitors. This creates connections among visitors through the emotional communities formed in the aftermath of trauma. I believe it is our responsibility to engage in participatory witnessing, encouraging our embodiment of the grief and resilience of others to truly understand history and justice. From the AMA’s acts of resistance in Nicaragua to the transformation of CDCs in Argentina, these practices reflect a refusal to let systems of oppression dictate the terms of memory. Participatory witnessing emerges as an inherently political act, challenging narratives imposed by power and creating spaces for marginalized voices.
* What responsibilities do we bear as witnesses in our everyday? What responsibilities do we bear as witnesses when engaging with histories that are not our own?
* How can we address the dynamics involved in deciding whose memories are preserved, how they are represented, and who gets to curate these narratives?
Latin America, as reflected in both in Schindel and Yang’s articles, has been a place of massive human rights violations and state repression. Mexico is not the exception. And one of the things that kept popping up while readings both articles was exactly how we (the Mexicans) remember “el 2 de octubre” (October 2nd). Back in 1968, within a much larger global context of student uprisings, Mexican students, mainly from public universities, were protesting their disagreement with the federal government. This was met with repression and violence at every turn which culminated on that Oct 2nd. Thousands of students and people in support of the protests, gathered in a Mexico City neighbourhood called Tlatelolco, which has a big plaza surrounded by several residential buildings. A series of speeches were planned when the Mexican Army started firing against the students. Official numbers say between 20-30 students died, while the number is estimated closer to 400 people killed, thousands injured, and even more who were detained. It is curious how the Mexican people have chosen to remember this massacre, particularly when the government has made it clear they will never reveal neither who gave the exact order to start shooting nor bring to justice anyone who was involved. And this massacre was overshadowed by the 1968 Olympic Games which took place in Mexico City just 10 days after the massacre; the government made sure to make it seem as if everything was normal. Other than the plaza itself in Tlatelolco, which existed before 1968, there are no memorials or sites of memory in relation to this massacre. Every year there is a march to commemorate those who were killed with the motto “el 2 de octubre no se olvida” (October 2nd is not forgotten).
And yet, there are little to practically no physical sites for how both family members and the general public can learn/remember what happened that day. And even to this day, the topic is still considered a bit of a taboo even though it’s been more than 50 years. I wondered if this is just how Mexican people practice memory/remembering but then I think about the Day of the Death were we put physical ofrendas, either in the form of an altar or at the cemetery, and many of these ofrendas contain objects that belonged to those who have passed away. So it is not that we do not like to remember, but I keep having questions about the Mexican collective memory of violent events, particularly those carried out by the State. What does that say about our collective memory?
Questions:
Are physical sites of memory necessary to remember/for transitional justice to occur? If there are no physical sites of memory, how is the collective memory formed?
What is necessary for a museum to become a site of memory?
I went a different way with my post but I was also wondering about the necessity of physical sites of memory, especially for the diaspora. For those displaced by conflict, are they missing out on something crucial to justice and healing that can be found in physical sites of memory?
By transforming memorial spaces and everyday objects into active sites of memory, solidarity and justice, participatory witnessing enables individuals to engage with the human experience of conflict and its aftermath. This process fosters moral and mnemonic imagination, encouraging reflection on past pain, present resilience, and a collective vision of what must be avoided in the future.
Selimovic’s article explored how the curation of everyday objects in the History Museum of Bosnia and Herzegovina and War Childhood Museum like a child’s sweater or the recreation of a kitchen evoked strong feelings through authenticity, intimacy, and vulnerability. These objects illustrated the tension between their ordinariness and the extraordinariness of the siege of Sarajevo they represent. Yang expands on this by framing participatory witnessing as a performative and political act. The AMA y No Olvida Museum in Nicaragua uses sensory and spatial memory to counteract official narratives of denial, offering a space for grassroots justice and collective mourning. Schindel, meanwhile, explores how the opening of Argentina’s clandestine detention centers (CDCs) bridges transitional and spatial justice. The author argues that transforming these spaces into memory sites actively resists the social and spatial fragmentation caused by state terror, allowing communities to heal and get together. Participatory witnessing, as seen across these contexts, invites us not only to remember the past but also to ensure that it fosters justice, solidarity and responsibility.
I sat with these thoughts to reflect on how my own experience engaging with memorial sites have been. In India, war memorial museums display centuries-old artefacts from Mughal swords to the uniforms worn by Indian soldiers in the British army during the world wars. These artefacts serve as important touchpoints for national memory, emphasizing collective heroism and resilience. However, the way they are curated sometimes feels more like static archives of history, lacking the emotional intimacy that draws visitors into the lived experiences of those involved. My visit to Hoa Lo Prison and Cui Chi tunnels in Vietnam added another layer of understanding. There, the display of artefacts like shackles, food bowls, and diaries offered an even more intimate and visceral connection to the suffering endured during the war. While the focus of these two contexts differs – India’s war memorials often celebrate collective heroism, and Hoa Lo Prison highlights the individual and systemic suffering of war – both demonstrate how memorial sites can move objects from private memory to collective remembrance.
Question: Is it possible to practice participatory witnessing on digital sites of memory?
This week’s readings made me reflect on how memory transforms trauma into justice and resilience. Yang’s idea of participatory witnessing which frames memory as an active and relational process resonates deeply with my work. At our dance academy in India, we use dance to provide children who have experienced sexual abuse with tools for self-expression, safety, and resilience. One theme that stood out was memory as resistance. In Nicaragua, the AMA memory Museum uses personal artifacts such as clothing and tools to create emotional communities and challenge state narratives that erase violence. Similarly, in India specifically, s ilence around child sexual abuse prevents survivors and families from confronting their pain. At the academy I’ve seen how children’s stories emerge in transformative ways. One young girl expressed herself through a dance inspired by Kalaripayattu (a traditional martial art) saying, “This is how I protect myself.” Such acts align with the museum’s ethos of resisting erasure through personal narratives and symbolizing agency against systems of structural violence.
The readings also made me think about how memory spaces shape justice. The Partition Museum in Amritsar preserves lived experiences of displacement through everyday objects, which Selimovic describes as productive encounters with the everyday, linking ordinary items to extraordinary histories. Yet, the museum often omits stories of women and children who experienced sexual violence during Partition, echoing the haunting silences described by Schindel. With an estimated 75,000 to 100,000 women abducted or raped during Partition, this absence mirrors the challenges we face at the academy. Providing children with platforms to share their stories involves careful navigation to prevent retraumatization reflecting Yang’s emphasis on trauma-informed storytelling. The idea of participatory witnessing, where survivors control their narratives, inspires me to imagine justice spaces that empower survivors as leaders in collective memory and truth-telling.
Another insight was justice as relational and ongoing rather than a final outcome. Yang’s sustained sense of loss emphasizes how memory fosters recognition over closure. For many children at our academy justice means acknowledgment. After learning self-defense, one child told our volunteers, “I feel like I have a shield now.” This reminded me of the AMA museum’s symbolic reparations, which honor victims’ dignity through meaningful objects. Public policies often focus on punitive measures, neglecting the importance of care-based justice systems that integrate prevention, emotional support, and healing. These readings challenge policymakers to embrace frameworks that prioritize relationality and community over retribution.
The most profound takeaway was the relationship between memory and imagination. Asavei’s concept of mnemonic imagination connects memory with the capacity to envision new futures, turning loss into creativity and possibility. At the academy, I remember, we once asked children to draw what safety looked like. One child drew a tree with very wide roots and branches that wrapped around her and her friends, representing the future she wanted to build. Similarly, the AMA museum fosters solidarity and hope creating a political community of care that not only mourns but also inspires. This vision of memory as generative challenges us to think of justice not as a destination but as an evolving process rooted in resilience and imagination.
Questions:
1. What does it mean to truly hold space for others’ pain without trying to resolve or explain it? How might this shift our understanding of justice, solidarity, and community?
2. Is it possible to create memory spaces that transcend binaries of trauma and healing, and instead embody the fluidity of human experience?
3. In what ways can memory activism bridge the gap between individual healing and collective justice in societies with entrenched silences?
I wrote last week about the archives and I wish I had Elsie Mather’s words then: I feel they are a “necessary monster.”
This week, I found myself reflecting on Johanna Mannergren Selimovic asserting that “in general, the ‘heritage of peace’ – including everyday resilience and resistance to violence – is far less curated and displayed than the heritage of war.” For me, this insight bled into all the other readings this week and my consideration of participatory witnessing and objects of memory. I got really hung up on the word “curated,” because curation seems to imply some distanced from the realized context of, in this case, the object. Like if it’s selected and preened and chosen to make a certain statement, it becomes less true. But I think having dwelt upon it for several days, that I don’t think curation makes a story less true, it just makes it different-true, because now it is about what happened and what is said happened. All our stories are curated, and all our stuff is too.
Honestly spoiler alert, but I have long thought of the object I am bringing in tomorrow as speaking to the heritage of war, but it struck me that it also speaks to a heritage of peace. Some aspects of this are tangible: would I have this object, generations later, if it was not also a peace product? Would it have survived? Some aspects of this are intellectual and emotional: would it have been valued? Saved? Worn? Would we care, would it be treasured? Would I think of it as an object of memory if it was not both an object of war and peace? What really brought about this thought spiral was reading about the barricades reimagined as alters in the AMA y No Olvida. The barricades were, and are, items of war and of peace and all the living that happens in the middle, even when they are not alters.
This then set a whole other train of thought on its tracks, about how all the remembering we do happens in the middle of the thing we’re remembering, especially when the memory is so tactile you can almost remember it into feeling (or tasting, smelling, seeing or hearing) again. Like, what I remember most about receiving a phone call with life-changing news is not what was said, but my hands curling aimlessly around the wrought iron bannister of the set of steps I was sitting on. I was further reminded of this poking through the War Childhood Museum website and reading excerpts from the book. People describe the rice used to make popcorn that they wish they could find but cannot (Sabiha, 1987), Monopoly and dominoes in the basement by candlelight (Alisa, 1984), being held tight by your mom and feeling safe (Elma, 1989) or licking powdered milk from their palm (Asja, 1988). These moments are war heritage and peace heritage and they were formed in the moments they were lived, in eating popcorn, losing Monopoly, being held and licking palms clean of favourite treats.
What are our responsibilities as participatory witnesses? Who are we responsible to? How do we make sure we are doing an okay job at it?
“Ways of remembering are intrinsically linked to ways of inhabiting.” – Ivan Illich, cited in ‘Now the Neighbors Lose Their Fear’: Restoring the Social Network around Former Sites of Terror in Argentina by Estela Schindel
A few weeks after I arrived in Kyiv, I went on a walk with a colleague. As we maneuvered through the city, she pointed out how the city had been marked by the Revolution of Dignity. Some streets had deep red stains, still. Others had scratches and grooves from anti-tank “hedgehogs.” In some places, those hedgehogs remained. Cobblestone streets that had been torn up to create barricades had their stones replaced in a sometimes inconsistent manner. She described that she had been in university at the time. That she and her boyfriend and university friends had come to join the protest. That they hadn’t expected it would turn violent. She pointed out a landmark and explained that when the riot police showed up, her boyfriend and other men formed a human blockade in front of the women.
Reading the articles from this week, I feel that this experiences is an example of “active memorializing events,” as Emilia Yang described in Collectivizing justice: Participatory witnessing, sense memory, and emotional communities. My colleague was recreating scenes from the revolution and the Soviet occupation in a “locative space of memory.” At the same time, many of these physical reminders of events remained because Ukrainians had chosen to keep them as objects of memory.
A few weeks later, we were walking through a different part of town and she pointed out a building to me. “See how no one will pass in front of it?” she said, “they cross the street to avoid passing in front.” I watched, and indeed, many, though not all, crossed the street just before this building, often crossing back after they had passed. “That used to be a building for the KGB,” she explained. “People used to be disappeared in there.”
I was reminded of this experience while reading the Estela Schindel article, ‘Now the Neighbors Lose Their Fear’: Restoring the Social Network around Former Sites of Terror in Argentina. Unlike the CDCs Schindel describes, however, this building in Kyiv, this site of terror, had not been reclaimed, and it lives on in the memory and habits of Ukrainians as a site of terror.
All this makes me wonder: why these sites and not the countless others? Which sites remain linked to terror and which sites are allowed to become innocuous? Whose memories are highlighted and whose are disregarded by the collective? Whose responsibility are these sites?
The conceptualization of affect, along with the notion of memoryscapes, are two of my takeaways of these readings. Thinking about the everyday as memory node, as proposed by Selimovic, allows me to better visualize “the inherent (im)mobilities of memory” (Sheehan et al.) and, at the same time, to see memory as a spatial construct or at least as a spatial generator/modifier.
How people relate to space, embedding their own memories in it while integrating space into their memories, is at the core of the notion of memoryscapes (Kappler). This relationship, as it can be conceptualized from the affect theory, emerges from emotional ties we create after living transformative events—whether traumatic or not. Objects that have been embedded in such events, as the ones displayed in the museums visited by Selimovic or curated by Yang, are, even before being museumalized—this is, transformed into artifacts to be exhibited—, memory nodes. They are, let’s say, conferred special powers to mobilize memories. The classical example in literature would be the Proustian madeleine, which can be translated, in pop culture, into the Egon’s ratatouille.
Sensory cues are one of the mechanisms used by Yang to make the AMA museum works towards its goals. This museum, however, relies more on visuals and sounds rather than on tastes or tactile experiences. In any case, the evocative power of objects is intertwined in Yang with the no less powerful space as a memory node, even if its only recreated. Having the objects, the evocative music, and the family members of the victims within such evocative space creates what could be called a memoryscape in which the struggle for justice would take place.
The power of spaces as memory nodes is more evident in the Argentinian case study showed by Schindel. One of the things that drew my attention in this article, beyond the conceptualization of spaces as memory mobilizers and so on, was a foot note in which Schindel problematizes the use of the term ‘memorialization,’ saying that it is used in the article “somewhat uncomfortably as an indicator of a tendency to a certain standardization of the approach to the spatial inscription of social memories” (475). One of the books cited along with this short reflection is entitled The Urge to Remember: The Role of Memorials in Social Reconstruction and Transitional Justice, by Judy Barsalou and Victoria Baxter (2007).
So my question would be: What could be the risks of ‘memorialize’ spaces and objects which have been embedded in atrocities and violence?
Works Cited
Kappler, Stefanie. “Sarajevo’s Ambivalent Memoryscape: Spatial Stories of Peace and Conflict.” Memory Studies, vol. 10, no. 2, 2017, pp. 130-143, doi.org/10.1177/1750698016650484.
Sheehan, Rebecca, Jordan Brasher, and Jennifer Speights-Binet. “Mobilities and Regenerative Memorialization: Examining the Equal Justice Initiative and Strategies for the Future of the American South.” Southeastern Geographer 61.4 (2021): 322-42. ProQuest, http://www.proquest.com/scholarly-journals/mobilities-regenerative-memorialization-examining/docview/2583615158/se-2?accountid=14656.