Learning to Hear Memories that Talk in Whispers
When I look at the rare images of my grandparents’, I never see them smiling. Even when photographed in casual situations, they sit or stand calm and composed, as if fully aware of the shooting process' long-lasting importance. With their lips tightly closed and eyes squinted, they seem to be able to exchange glances with today’s adult version of me — facing immigration, switching countries, flats, and jobs, but remaining true to myself and my people. True to the memories I have of those who seldom talked about themselves. Voicing the lessons of their past is my duty.
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When I look at the rare images of my grandparents’, I never see them smiling. Even when photographed in casual situations, they sit or stand calm and composed, as if fully aware of the shooting process' long-lasting importance. With their lips tightly closed and eyes squinted, they seem to be able to exchange glances with today’s adult version of me — facing immigration, switching countries, flats, and jobs, but remaining true to myself and my people. True to the memories I have of those who seldom talked about themselves. Voicing the lessons of their past is my duty.
FULL TEXT - here
The Art that Continues to Breathe
When looking at the self-portraits from Khadija’s renowned series In This Space We Breathe, one cannot but feel a certain symbolism. Applying a 19th-century wet collodion photographic process, which assumes the gradual appearance of the image on a glass plate, Khadija created ethereal, haunting portraits that seem to hover between presence and absence, visibility and erasure. When commenting on the logic behind this choice, Saye wrote the following, "…Image-making became a ritual in itself. [In] making wet plate collodion tintypes no image can be replicated and the final outcome is out of the creator’s control. Within this process, you surrender yourself to the unknown, similar to what is required by all spiritual higher powers: surrendering and sacrifice."
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When looking at the self-portraits from Khadija’s renowned series In This Space We Breathe, one cannot but feel a certain symbolism. Applying a 19th-century wet collodion photographic process, which assumes the gradual appearance of the image on a glass plate, Khadija created ethereal, haunting portraits that seem to hover between presence and absence, visibility and erasure. When commenting on the logic behind this choice, Saye wrote the following, "…Image-making became a ritual in itself. [In] making wet plate collodion tintypes no image can be replicated and the final outcome is out of the creator’s control. Within this process, you surrender yourself to the unknown, similar to what is required by all spiritual higher powers: surrendering and sacrifice."
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Reframing Nampula-1963
The bureaucratic machine, which functions according to rules known only to the privileged, speaks its own language—of documents, bills, permits, and passports. The stamps and credentials it produces are symbols of power. Their colorful, geometric designs with official dates and names of institutions may appear childishly naïve at first glance. But, as evidenced in the archive of a Portuguese settler’s family, these documents opened doors to rich housing, travel and leisure, cementing their status and celebrating freedom.
One cannot help but ask: what was left out of the frame?
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The bureaucratic machine, which functions according to rules known only to the privileged, speaks its own language—of documents, bills, permits, and passports. The stamps and credentials it produces are symbols of power. Their colorful, geometric designs with official dates and names of institutions may appear childishly naïve at first glance. But, as evidenced in the archive of a Portuguese settler’s family, these documents opened doors to rich housing, travel and leisure, cementing their status and celebrating freedom.
One cannot help but ask: what was left out of the frame?
FULL TEXT - here
On Memory Landscapes
Bialowieza (or just “pushcha” as we usually call it in Belarusian) is one of the last and largest remaining parts of the immense primeval forests that once took the area of the entire European Plain. Its 94% are located at the territory of Belarus with the area of 40% of the county’s lands covered by forests. More than half of Bialowieza trees are above 100 years old, which means that more than half of them witnessed mass killings committed by first the Soviets and then by the Nazis and stood in silence surrounding hundreds of concentration and labor camps.
When thinking about what those forests were exposed to and what then remained in the “memory” of their thick bark, mighty branches, and the dense network of roots invisible from the ground, I cannot but get back to the endless debate on the definition of memory. In which way does it work? Who (or what) possesses the ability of forming and storing recollections? If nature can remember, what is it that we, humans, can learn from and about it?
FULL TEXT - here
Bialowieza (or just “pushcha” as we usually call it in Belarusian) is one of the last and largest remaining parts of the immense primeval forests that once took the area of the entire European Plain. Its 94% are located at the territory of Belarus with the area of 40% of the county’s lands covered by forests. More than half of Bialowieza trees are above 100 years old, which means that more than half of them witnessed mass killings committed by first the Soviets and then by the Nazis and stood in silence surrounding hundreds of concentration and labor camps.
When thinking about what those forests were exposed to and what then remained in the “memory” of their thick bark, mighty branches, and the dense network of roots invisible from the ground, I cannot but get back to the endless debate on the definition of memory. In which way does it work? Who (or what) possesses the ability of forming and storing recollections? If nature can remember, what is it that we, humans, can learn from and about it?
FULL TEXT - here
Memory Wars in Belarus 1937-2020
One out of four, and 1941 are two numbers everyone who went through the Soviet and post-Soviet schools in Belarus is familiar with. The former stands for the statistics of the Belarusians who died in the Great Patriotic War, the latter marks the year this war began. However, when I first came to Europe as a teenager, I was amazed to discover that no one actually knew either of my people’s heroism or our great victory. The war, as I found out then, did not even start in 1941 — nor was it defined as “patriotic”. Rather it was everyone’s — “world war” — with patriotism not attributed to nationalities.
FULL TEXT - here
One out of four, and 1941 are two numbers everyone who went through the Soviet and post-Soviet schools in Belarus is familiar with. The former stands for the statistics of the Belarusians who died in the Great Patriotic War, the latter marks the year this war began. However, when I first came to Europe as a teenager, I was amazed to discover that no one actually knew either of my people’s heroism or our great victory. The war, as I found out then, did not even start in 1941 — nor was it defined as “patriotic”. Rather it was everyone’s — “world war” — with patriotism not attributed to nationalities.
FULL TEXT - here
My Great-granddad Saw the Statue of Liberty
In the part of the world where I was born, researching family history was a pastime rather unpopular. Soviet children were more encouraged to learn the biographies of mythical martyr-pioneers than those of their own grandparents. Books describing in detail the self-sacrifice of young Zoya and Shura Kosmodemyansky were solemnly handed to outstanding pioneers – not without the automatically expected readiness to follow their heroic path one day.
With our heads crammed with the names of politically correct biographies, we lacked genuine interest to what was around, real, and much more relevant. We lacked curiosity and respect to our own yesterday – something that the Empire was eager to make us never know.
And we never did.
FULL TEXT - here
In the part of the world where I was born, researching family history was a pastime rather unpopular. Soviet children were more encouraged to learn the biographies of mythical martyr-pioneers than those of their own grandparents. Books describing in detail the self-sacrifice of young Zoya and Shura Kosmodemyansky were solemnly handed to outstanding pioneers – not without the automatically expected readiness to follow their heroic path one day.
With our heads crammed with the names of politically correct biographies, we lacked genuine interest to what was around, real, and much more relevant. We lacked curiosity and respect to our own yesterday – something that the Empire was eager to make us never know.
And we never did.
FULL TEXT - here
The Country of Chernobyl Children
Letters from Belarus
“What’s wrong with those bastards? Why are they protesting? What do they want??”, a Lukashenko’s supporter shouts into a news camera at a pro-governmental rally in Minsk. “Those bastards” are Belarusians who come out into the streets every week to peacefully express their disagreement with the results of the rigged presidential elections and the brutality of the riot police against civilians. “Aren’t they happy with what we already have in this country? We have a variety of sausages in shops, we have cheese, milk and sugar! In the times of WWII, my grandmother had nothing! She had to eat potato peels not to die of hunger!”
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Letters from Belarus
“What’s wrong with those bastards? Why are they protesting? What do they want??”, a Lukashenko’s supporter shouts into a news camera at a pro-governmental rally in Minsk. “Those bastards” are Belarusians who come out into the streets every week to peacefully express their disagreement with the results of the rigged presidential elections and the brutality of the riot police against civilians. “Aren’t they happy with what we already have in this country? We have a variety of sausages in shops, we have cheese, milk and sugar! In the times of WWII, my grandmother had nothing! She had to eat potato peels not to die of hunger!”
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When Monuments Can(Not) Speak
“Scheiße!...” he whispers, tearing his eyes from the mobile phone and uneasily looking around. “Mauthausen OÖ Gedenkstätte/Memorial,” repeats the indifferent voice of the announcement – obviously not the bus stop the little passenger in bright sport shorts was planning to get off. For a while, we remain the only travelers on Bus 361 that rattles along the gravel road through the bucolic landscape of Upper Austria. And although our stories and destinations have little in common, still there is something that brings us together. We are both afraid of what we could find there. He probably more.
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“Scheiße!...” he whispers, tearing his eyes from the mobile phone and uneasily looking around. “Mauthausen OÖ Gedenkstätte/Memorial,” repeats the indifferent voice of the announcement – obviously not the bus stop the little passenger in bright sport shorts was planning to get off. For a while, we remain the only travelers on Bus 361 that rattles along the gravel road through the bucolic landscape of Upper Austria. And although our stories and destinations have little in common, still there is something that brings us together. We are both afraid of what we could find there. He probably more.
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Memory Landscapes: Between Lost Hopes and Temporary Solace
Even though in the Second World War every fourth citizen of Belarus was killed, our sites of memory are not numerous. Last century, our ancestors had to face not two but three wars (with the third one waged by the Stalin regime against its own population), but in my homeland most are now silent — or silenced. Historical traumas have to battle for a place under the sun of memory, and in many post-Soviet countries it was the victorious rhetoric that won.
FULL TEXT - here
Even though in the Second World War every fourth citizen of Belarus was killed, our sites of memory are not numerous. Last century, our ancestors had to face not two but three wars (with the third one waged by the Stalin regime against its own population), but in my homeland most are now silent — or silenced. Historical traumas have to battle for a place under the sun of memory, and in many post-Soviet countries it was the victorious rhetoric that won.
FULL TEXT - here
Farewell, Memory!
Have we lost the art of remembering? With the inescapable reach of digital memory and the rise of state-led censorship — as seen in Putin’s Russia — our ability to remember is in existential danger
The black box of human memory has always been an intriguing subject, hasn’t it? Its immense power drives every facet of daily life — to recognize faces, to guide us to the office, or to dial a pin code — while never really knowing why and what exactly we remember and for which reasons we forget. For centuries the mysteries within this black box inspired philosophers, poets, and scientists to break its code — to no avail. Whether it was the romantic notions of Marcel Proust, mesmerized by intense childhood recollections, or the ambitions of Franz Gall, pioneering an ill-begotten pseudoscience, these thinkers ultimately failed to elucidate all the mysteries of human memory. Mnemosyne, it appears, is good at preserving her secrets.
And yet, not one of these thinkers could have predicted how the inner workings within the black box would now be leading an autonomous life out of it. Today, as our dependence on digital memory takes hold, our capacity to remember has diminished, leaving our senses vulnerable to manipulation and misremembering.
FULL TEXT - here
Have we lost the art of remembering? With the inescapable reach of digital memory and the rise of state-led censorship — as seen in Putin’s Russia — our ability to remember is in existential danger
The black box of human memory has always been an intriguing subject, hasn’t it? Its immense power drives every facet of daily life — to recognize faces, to guide us to the office, or to dial a pin code — while never really knowing why and what exactly we remember and for which reasons we forget. For centuries the mysteries within this black box inspired philosophers, poets, and scientists to break its code — to no avail. Whether it was the romantic notions of Marcel Proust, mesmerized by intense childhood recollections, or the ambitions of Franz Gall, pioneering an ill-begotten pseudoscience, these thinkers ultimately failed to elucidate all the mysteries of human memory. Mnemosyne, it appears, is good at preserving her secrets.
And yet, not one of these thinkers could have predicted how the inner workings within the black box would now be leading an autonomous life out of it. Today, as our dependence on digital memory takes hold, our capacity to remember has diminished, leaving our senses vulnerable to manipulation and misremembering.
FULL TEXT - here
Flucht aus Belarus
Im Jahr 2021 verließ ich Belarus, nicht wissend, ob ich je zurückkehren würde. Unter den Gegenständen, die ich für die wertvollsten hielt, befand sich ein Bild meines Urgroßvaters – es zeigt Mitrofan Serebryakovs Begräbnis im Jahr 1938. Hier steht es, genau vor mir, auf meinem Schreibtisch, nachdem ich in fünf verschiedenen Wohnungen innerhalb von zwei Jahren gelebt habe. Aus dem Nebel des Sepiadrucks, der fast durch ein Jahrhundert von Geburten und Todesfällen schimmert, taucht ein ansehnlicher, bärtiger Mann auf, den ich nicht kenne; friedvoll liegt er in einem offenen Sarg. Der Verstorbene ist umringt von einer Gruppe Trauernder, die meisten junge sowie Frauen mittleren Alters, die idente Kopftücher mit geblümten Borten tragen (wahrscheinlich eigens für diesen traurigen Anlass geborgt oder gekauft) – alle, außer einer, sind ebenfalls Fremde für mich. Die einzige Person, die ich erkenne, ist eine 14-Jährige, die etwas trägt, das wie eine grobe, zu große Männerjacke aussieht – meine spätere Großmutter, Maria.
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Im Jahr 2021 verließ ich Belarus, nicht wissend, ob ich je zurückkehren würde. Unter den Gegenständen, die ich für die wertvollsten hielt, befand sich ein Bild meines Urgroßvaters – es zeigt Mitrofan Serebryakovs Begräbnis im Jahr 1938. Hier steht es, genau vor mir, auf meinem Schreibtisch, nachdem ich in fünf verschiedenen Wohnungen innerhalb von zwei Jahren gelebt habe. Aus dem Nebel des Sepiadrucks, der fast durch ein Jahrhundert von Geburten und Todesfällen schimmert, taucht ein ansehnlicher, bärtiger Mann auf, den ich nicht kenne; friedvoll liegt er in einem offenen Sarg. Der Verstorbene ist umringt von einer Gruppe Trauernder, die meisten junge sowie Frauen mittleren Alters, die idente Kopftücher mit geblümten Borten tragen (wahrscheinlich eigens für diesen traurigen Anlass geborgt oder gekauft) – alle, außer einer, sind ebenfalls Fremde für mich. Die einzige Person, die ich erkenne, ist eine 14-Jährige, die etwas trägt, das wie eine grobe, zu große Männerjacke aussieht – meine spätere Großmutter, Maria.
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“Have You Suffered Enough?”
Europe’s Short Memory and Repressed Belarusians Now Seen as Aggressors
With the current obvious focus on Ukraine’s war against the Russian aggression, in the eyes of some people writing about Belarus might seem inappropriate, untimely. We still have water and roof; our kids go to school and we don’t have to run into the subway to hide from air raids of Russian boys who believe to be on “military training” or saving the Russian-speaking population from neonazi. A 20-years-old relative on my mother-in-law’s side has claimed that Putin was bombing Ukraine “very carefully”, which literally left me in shock at a mere co-existence of these words in one sentence. Comparing to our neighbors on fire, Belarusians are still okey. Our 1,085 political prisoners are okey. Our 46 liquidated human rights and civil society organizations are okey. Our south occupied by the Russian troops is, probably, not so bad, either. At least, we are alive, right?
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Europe’s Short Memory and Repressed Belarusians Now Seen as Aggressors
With the current obvious focus on Ukraine’s war against the Russian aggression, in the eyes of some people writing about Belarus might seem inappropriate, untimely. We still have water and roof; our kids go to school and we don’t have to run into the subway to hide from air raids of Russian boys who believe to be on “military training” or saving the Russian-speaking population from neonazi. A 20-years-old relative on my mother-in-law’s side has claimed that Putin was bombing Ukraine “very carefully”, which literally left me in shock at a mere co-existence of these words in one sentence. Comparing to our neighbors on fire, Belarusians are still okey. Our 1,085 political prisoners are okey. Our 46 liquidated human rights and civil society organizations are okey. Our south occupied by the Russian troops is, probably, not so bad, either. At least, we are alive, right?
FULL TEXT - here
