Museum Transformations. Группа авторов

Russia, and Rwanda, there are museums dedicated to traumatic histories that follow the paradigm established by Holocaust museums.¹

      The proliferation of holocaust museums across the globe in the late twentieth century has been so prominent that it has itself become the subject of study. The phenomenon has been described as part of a “global rush to build memorials” (Williams 2007) in an “international difficult histories boom” (Attwood in Chapter 3, this volume, citing Macdonald). Several scholars perceive the growth of holocaust museums as part of the millennial “explosion of memory discourses” (Huyssen 2003, 4) that has followed the postmodern fall of official narratives. Now, as formerly marginalized groups bring their reckonings of the past into the public fold, they find that they lack the resources of officially recorded histories. As a consequence, their versions are couched as memory – personal, embodied, and tragically avoidable – as opposed to the impersonality and inevitability of official history.

Since most of these museums focus on the attempts by criminal regimes to obliterate or suppress populations, they must resurrect memory in the face of erasure and concealment. The making of these museums has thus involved prodigious effort and imaginative agility, as their proponents have had to assemble archives in the face of official silence, or find objects in the rubble of destruction. In contrast to the difficulties faced by the pioneering projects of this sort, however, attempts to make holocaust museums or museums of trauma today are at least facilitated by the support of international networks of specialists, consultants, and professional associations, who have helped develop a useful blueprint for future holocaust museums. With narrative techniques that switch between honoring individual victims and conveying the mass scale of destruction, with an increasing consensus about the kinds of objects acceptable for display, with a somber or monochromatic design language, and with emotive architectural forms that use hard materials, sharp edges, and acute angles to evoke a sense of discomfort and disorientation, the holocaust museum has become crystallized as a museum genre.²

      As scholars discuss the aesthetics, ethics, and politics of the many forms taken by the phenomenon, an important strand in the debate centers on the legitimate ownership of memory in such museums.³ Thus, the memory inscribed within Holocaust museums dedicated to the Shoah may be contested between Jewish and non-Jewish victims of the Nazi regime. In turn, the visibility of this Holocaust may make groups such as Armenians and Kurds rue that they are victims of earlier, forgotten genocides.

      The competitive jostling of different groups for acknowledgment and visibility of their historical traumas is best demonstrated by the controversies that have beset the Canadian Museum for Human Rights, currently under construction in Winnipeg, Manitoba. The museum was the brainchild of Israel “Izzy” Asper, a Jewish Canadian media magnate of Ukrainian origin who felt that Canada needed an institution like the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington, DC (Steiman 2007). As the project gained federal support and became a Canadian national institution, its proposed foregrounding of the Shoah as its central theme came under attack. Other groups too demanded representation within the museum, including the aboriginal peoples of Canada and Ukrainian migrants, whose forebears had suffered under Stalin. These groups reportedly asked for floor-area shares proportionate to the losses suffered by their communities (Stephen Inglis, pers. comm. 2010). In a morbid extension of Canadian multiculturalism, a public poll showed that Canadians believed the museum needed to be “fair,” “inclusive,” and “equitable” and “should not elevate the suffering of one community over another” (Adams 2011).

The construction of new museums about traumatic pasts is usually justified as a way of addressing a society’s need to bear witness, to mourn, to bring about reconciliation, and thus to repair old wounds. The suggestion is that these museums offer a “talking cure” for societies: just as an individual can be healed through a retelling of the story of her trauma, the social body too will be able to repair itself through a cathartic recollection of traumatic historical events. In truth, however, the greatest value of such memorialization lies not in its relationship with the past, but in its instrumentalization of the past to intervene in the present and shape the future. The evocation of yesterday’s injustice inevitably makes a case for reparation today; the memorialization of past trauma can be mobilized to press for tangible gains in the here and now. Many observers have noted how Holocaust memorialization serves as a charter myth for Israel; the sheer scale and horror of Jewish suffering testify to the necessity of a Jewish homeland – while also making the Palestinian issue shrink in comparison.

      The power held by holocaust museums to affect current political equilibriums thus makes them projects with prospective consequences rather than merely retrospective institutions.⁴ Thus, when the paradigm of the holocaust museum is newly harnessed to tell the history of a community, we should ask: What sort of intervention is this museum expected to make? What forces initiate the project and carry it through to completion? And under what circumstances is a community able to make a trauma museum for itself, and under what circumstances is this a desire that must be thwarted?

      In this chapter, I ask these questions of two institutions that have arisen in India which are inspired by Yad Vashem, Israel’s national Holocaust Memorial complex in Jerusalem. The first institution that I consider is the Khalsa Heritage Complex, built in the Sikh pilgrimage center of Anandpur Sahib in Punjab. This spectacular museum was intended as a memorial to a history of Sikh suffering. But, as we shall see, when the institution finally came into being, it delivered a message that was the exact opposite of the one that was originally intended. The second institution I shall consider here is the Tibet Museum, constructed by the Tibetan government-in-exile in the small Himalayan town of Dharamsala. In scale, budget, appearance, and ambition, this museum could hardly be more different from the Khalsa Heritage Complex. Yet, through very different circuits and circumstances, this museum too is umbilically connected to Yad Vashem. As we follow the different trajectories taken by these two museums, we will see the circumstances in which a difficult memory becomes possible, or a difficult amnesia becomes a necessity.

Punjab

      Badal’s tears

      Parkash Singh Badal wept. Surrounded by hundreds of flickering flames of candles, listening to a soft voice intoning the names of the children murdered in the Holocaust, seeing their faces in blown-up photographs that loomed out of the darkness, Parkash Singh Badal, chief minister of the north Indian state of Punjab, wept as he stood in the gallery of the Children’s Holocaust Memorial in Yad Vashem.

The year was 1998. Badal and his retinue were visiting Jerusalem on the world tour they had undertaken to seek inspiration for a monument they needed to build in Punjab the following year, for 1999 would be the tercentenary of an important event in Sikh history. On April 13, 1699, the tenth Sikh guru, Guru Gobind, had instituted a baptism ritual through which his followers became the Khalsa (Pure) ones. From then on, they were to bear the five distinctive signs of Sikhism on their bodies, including their turbans and unshorn hair; they were also to follow a regimen of prayer and a prescribed code of conduct. With the institution of this rite, Sikhism ceased to be a Hindu sect and emerged as a distinct religion. In many ways then, 1699 was the foundational moment for Sikhism, and its tercentenary called for a special celebration in the religion’s epicenter in Punjab.

      Among other projects to mark the anniversary, Parkash Singh Badal announced that he would build an ajooba (literally, a wonder or a spectacle) in Anandpur Sahib, the town in which the Khalsa was founded, and which was now a major Sikh pilgrimage site. To understand what such a monument could be, Badal and his entourage embarked on an extensive tour of museums and monuments dedicated to the histories of various communities. Now in Jerusalem Mr. Badal had found what he sought. Emerging from the emotionally charged display in the subterranean chamber of the Children’s Holocaust Memorial, Mr. Badal is reported to have asked: “Who made this? Just as the Jews have suffered, so have the Sikhs. We need a memorial like this for our community” (MacFarquhar 2003, 44) Within two days of his visit to Yad Vashem, Mr. Badal had met the architect of the Children’s Memorial and tasked him with constructing a similar memorial complex