Identity and Trauma: Two Forms of the Will to MemoryAuthor(s): Gil Eyal
Source: History and Memory , Vol. 16, No. 1 (Spring/Summer 2004), pp. 5-36
Published by: Indiana University Press
Stable URL: https://www.jstor.org/stable/10.2979/his.2004.16.1.5
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Identity and Trauma
5
Identity and Trauma
Two Forms of the Will to Memory
GIL EYAL
There seems to be general agreement among scholars that in Eastern
Europe, after the fall of communism, there is a crisis of collective memory.
At the same time, there is also disagreement about the causes and nature
of this crisis: some attribute it to postcommunist amnesia, a tendency to
forget the crimes and compromises of communism, which is responsible
for many of the ills of postcommunist society. They usually repeat
Santayana’s famous dictum that “those who cannot remember the past
are condemned to repeat it.” Other scholars, however, entertain the
opposite view and argue that the problem is not forgetting, not that there
is too little memory, but rather too much of it: an excessive preoccupation
with historical wrongs and injuries, and too many competing versions of
history. Claus Offe, therefore, formulated a counter-dictum: “those who
remember history are condemned to repeat it.” The implication being
that strategic forgetting might be preferable.1
It turns out, however, that this sense of crisis is not unique to Eastern
Europe. It pervades also the scholarship on collective memory in the
“Western” world. Pierre Nora’s monumental work on the “sites of
memory,” after all, is introduced with the resignation: “we speak so much
of memory because there is so little of it left,” while Tony Judt’s complaint
about too much memory in Eastern Europe was coupled with the opposite
diagnosis about Western Europe—too little memory and remembering.2
Nor is there shortage of the counter-assertion about too much memory
in West European and North American societies. Observers of the German
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Gil Eyal
6
and American cultural scenes, for example, have discerned a “fascination,
even obsession, with historical memory … [a] surging commitment to
remembering,” and have speculated about its causes and consequences.3
With so many complaints one starts to suspect that the problem
may not lie with the societies in question, and their purported preferences
to forget or to remember, but with the concept of “collective memory”
itself, and those who formulate it. It seems that whenever “collective
memory” is discussed, it immediately elicits doubts, which, to be precise,
touch not only on its quantity, but also more generally on its authenticity,
validity and significance. This suspicion is reinforced by another observation,
namely that the same complaints and doubts have attached themselves
with tenacity, over the past century, not only or primarily to the concept
of “collective memory” but even more so to the concept of individual
“memory,” which ever since Théodule Ribot’s identification of “diseases
of memory” has been at the center of scientific scrutiny and cultural
conflict.4
Why are there so many doubts and complaints about memory, collective
or individual? Is it because it is in the nature of memory to be imprecise,
indeterminate and indeed many times reconstructed or invented?5
I do
not think so. First, one cannot use a universal human constant to explain
a historical event—the rise of contemporary complaints and doubts about
memory. Second, and related, any judgment on the imprecision or
indeterminacy of memory, about whether there is too much or too little
of it, is impossible to render unless against the background of a certain
understanding of what memory is good for, how it should be used, what it
should do for the collective or individual subject. Memory might well be
somewhat imprecise and indeterminate, but it is only when we expect it
to answer some pressing need that we begin to problematize it as such, or
to become concerned with its quality and quantity. And it is not enough
to say that memory is expected to reflect accurately the collective or
individual past, because this merely begs the question: why do we need an
accurate representation of the past to begin with? How accurate should it
be? For what purpose?
I would suggest therefore that the sense of a crisis of memory, and
the diagnosis of too much or too little memory, are generated not by the
universal nature of human memory but by a historically specific will to
memory, a constellation of discourses and practices within which memory
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Identity and Trauma
7
is entrusted with a certain goal and function, and is invested, routinely, as
an institutional matter, with certain hopes and fears as to what it can do.
It is always against this goal that memory is measured and found wanting.
In this article, I will compare the discourses and rituals of collective
memory in the Czech Republic and in Slovakia in order to show that
there are actually two different types of “will to memory” now operative
in Eastern Europe, each of which specifies the goal of collective memory
quite differently. In fact, they correspond to two different understandings
of the functioning of memory in the individual psyche, i.e. of what memory
is supposed to do for individuals: in one version, memory is the guarantor
of identity and maintains it through time—it is the mechanism of retention
responsible for the experience of being a selfsame individual moving
through time; in the other version, however, memory plays a role in overcoming
psychic trauma and the processes of dissociation it sets in motion.
Individuals are healed by remembering that which was repressed. Without
metaphor or hyperbole I can say that the first case represents the type of
will to memory championed by a group of leading Slovak historians and
politicians, while the second is characteristic of the type championed by a
group of important Czech dissidents and politicians. Moreover, I will
show that each of these two different forms of the will to memory tends
to generate its own distinctive set of conflicts around memory, its own
sense and rhetoric of a “crisis” of memory. On the one hand, the investment
of memory with the function of guarantying identity generates the sense
of an embattled memory, attacked and challenged from the outside by
competing versions of the past. It is, no doubt, responsible for the
observers’ complaint about too much memory. On the other hand, the
investment of memory with the function of overcoming trauma and
protecting society from repetition generates the sense of an unstable
memory, undermined from within and continuously swinging between
fact, fantasy and falsity. It is, no doubt, responsible for the complaint
about too little memory.
Why has the will to memory developed so differently in the two
former republics of the once unified Czechoslovak Federation? My account
will highlight how the different goals and utilities ascribed to memory
correspond to the different ways in which Czech and Slovak intellectuals
envisioned their social roles after the fall of communism. When it is
entrusted with the role of maintaining identity, collective memory stands
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Gil Eyal
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for the embeddedness of intellectuals in society, especially in the nation or
ethnic group, whose spirit and destiny they merely articulate. But when
its goal is to heal through truth and to overcome trauma, collective memory
positions intellectuals as the transcendent pastors of the individuals that
compose civil society, whose consciences they guide.6
This is admittedly an ironic conclusion. The early scholars of collective
memory have expended a great deal of effort to carefully distinguish their
object from the writing of history by historians. They presented memory
as popular, organic, living, composed of visual images, while history was
deemed elitist, external, textual and dead. History only came in and took
over when memory was no more.7
But this opposition, I believe, was in
bad faith. After all, when they chose to rename and reinterpret as “memory”
what used to be called in the past “tradition,” “folklore” or “myth,” the
early scholars of collective memory actually begun to reduce the distance
between oral traditions and history as written by historians. Before
Halbwachs, the terms “tradition,” “folklore” or “myth” were typically
opposed to history and subordinated to it as “errors” versus the “truth,”
as the objects of science versus its authoritative subject. The term
“memory,” on the other hand, begun to blur these distinctions. When
social memory studies took off again, after the 1960s, it was in a context
in which traditions, folklore and myths no longer signified errors but
were treated as forms of “subjugated knowledge,” no less valid than the
official history written by historians. This meant that it was impossible,
anymore, to maintain a strong distinction between collective memory
and the writing of history by the historians: on the one hand, history
opened itself up to the subaltern and the popular, as witnessed, for example,
by the emergence of the discipline of oral history; but on the other hand,
memory too opened itself up to history, and historians and intellectuals
begun to construe their work as an “art of memory,” thereby seeking to
partake of the privileged relation to the sacred collective subject that the
term “collective memory” denotes.8
A COMPARATIVE ANATOMY OF THE WILL TO MEMORY
By using the term “will to memory,” I mean to historicize how we use
the concept of collective memory. There are many ways to remember,
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Identity and Trauma
9
recall, recollect and memorialize, and there is nothing given or immutable
about memory or its purpose. As Nietzsche showed already long ago
with respect to punishment, statements about the utility or purpose of a
practice have nothing to do with its origins, and frequently constitute an
attempt to shape it, to bend it this way or that. The datum of the historian
of practices, including the historian of memory-practices, is composed of
the historical accumulation of various interpretations, neither of which is
truer or more meaningful than the others: “whatever exists, having
somehow come into being, is again and again interpreted to new ends,
taken over, transformed, and redirected by some power superior to it.”9
With respect to collective memory, it is possible to distinguish analytically
four dimensions of such interpretations.10
First, an injunction to remember: to paraphrase Nietzsche we could
say that memory was not first devised for remembering; only an explicit
injunction to remember imposes this function on various practices, rituals
and discourses and turns them thereby into forms of “memory-work.”
This injunction to remember may take different forms and be justified by
reference to various beliefs and needs. Frequently, though not universally,
it is provided by identifying a certain lapse of memory—forgetting—which
may be variously interpreted as caused by external distortion and censorship,
as we shall see in the Slovak case; or as in the Freudian model by
internal repression and motivated forgetting; or it may be attributed to
modernity, to the rapidity with which events follow one another, and the
breakdown of traditional ways of life.11
More generally, however, we could
say that the injunction to remember is provided by a certain problematization
of memory. Whether or not forgetting is an explicit focus, memory
is suddenly highlighted as a problem and as something toward which the
actor has a duty. Probably the paradigmatic example is provided by the
Bible. As Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi notes, the Hebrew verb zakhor (which
means “remember!” in the imperative case, as in “[one] must remember”)
appears in the Bible no less then 169 times, and involves an unconditional
injunction to remember, incumbent on both the people and God as part
of their eternal covenant. Forgetting appears almost as many times, but
not as the source of the injunction to remember. It is a duty—“do not
forget…”—which itself follows from the fact that the Jewish God makes
himself manifest in history, and thus memory and faith are almost one
and the same thing. Or as Amos Funkenstein puts it, while other peoples
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Gil Eyal
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“traced their origins back to mythical times” as a sign of their “true
nobility,” the Hebrews accepted the stigma of youth and substituted for
it a historical consciousness of being the “Chosen People.” Consequently,
memory was problematized as a religious duty—to worship God and to
become a holy people meant to recall a particular historical period, in the
course of which the special covenant between God and his Chosen People
was forged.12
The second dimension of the will to memory has to do simply with
what is to be remembered. What is, so to speak, the mnemonic substance
upon which memory operates? Or put more simply, which part of the
past is deemed of consequence for the present and hence must be
remembered? There is, for example, an important distinction regarding
the time horizon of memory: is it the remote past of the scriptures, as in
Jewish rituals and prayers? The immediate events of the recent past, still
part of collective experience, as in memorial books? Or the past of historiography,
stretching as far back as the records permit, and punctuated by
events of political, economic and cultural significance?13
Already in this
distinction we can see that at stake are not simply quantitative time
differences but completely different ways of construing the object of
memory. The very idea, for example, that what has to be remembered is
“events” is specific to only certain forms of the will to memory. A good
example is the instruction of the Passover Haggadah that “each generation
should consider themselves as if they themselves were rescued from Egypt.”
In a certain limited sense the exodus from Egypt is mentioned here as an
“event” to be remembered, but as a historical event, with all its details, it
is completely uninteresting from the point of view of the ritual prescribed
by the Haggadah. The exodus is significant not as an event, but as an act
of divine intervention in history, as part of that “invisible history” which
lies underneath the manifest surface of the world and is stretched between
destruction and redemption.14
Significantly, the Haggadah asks the
believers to “consider themselves as if they themselves were rescued from
Egypt,” i.e. not to remember an event but to place themselves, once again,
within that invisible history, and in a sense reenact it.
Another example of a different mnemonic substance is trauma. As
we shall see in the section dealing with the Czech dissidents, the literal
interpretation of trauma as a real event is only the gambit in a much more
complex game of interpretation in which trauma acquires completely
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Identity and Trauma
11
different dimensions as fantasy, as false memory, etc. In a sense, trauma
completely escapes the historical or biographical time of events. It stands
for psychological pain so powerful, so enduring—not necessarily due to
its own characteristics but by virtue of the force of repression that paradoxically
is meant to make it disappear—that it becomes impossible to
localize in a sequence of events; in fact, it marks a fissure in the chain of
events. It pervades the psyche, present at all times. The task of memory is
to combat repression and its abnormal consequences by exposing oneself
to this pain, regardless of how real was the traumatic event.15
The third dimension of the will to memory has to do with what it
means to remember. What is the mnemonic operation? How does memory
work? There is, for example, an important distinction between repetition
and recollection,16
but I don’t think it exhausts the various options at
play. Repetition itself is open to a whole range of interpretations, from
unreflective habit to elaborate and conscious “arts of memory” to the
dramatic form of reenactment. It brings into play various techniques of
memory-work, such as the prayer through which the faithful concentrate
their thoughts on the object of memory, or the rituals of reenactment, as
in the Jewish holidays of Passover and the Feast of Tabernacles meant to
reenact and memorialize the exodus from Egypt and the giving of the
Torah on Mt. Sinai.17
Recollection, as well, may be construed in different
ways. It may be seen as a creative reconstruction of the past in light of
present interests, as in the “invention of tradition,” or it may be seen as an
effort of memory, neither to repeat nor to reconstruct but to recover
traces of what has been lost, forgotten, covered over or censored. The
techniques of memory-work at its disposal may vary widely, from
archeological and philological investigations, as we shall see in the section
dealing with the Slovak historians, to confession and public shaming, as
we shall see with respect to the Czech dissidents.
Finally, forms of the will to memory differ, as I emphasized earlier,
also in how they interpret the goal of memory, its utility, effect or function.
The investment of memory with the function of preserving collective
identity over time is quite common. Already in Halbwachs’s classical
formulation, collective memory “provides the group [with] a self-portrait
that unfolds through time … and allows the group to recognize itself
throughout the total succession of images.” Pierre Nora, as well, acknowledged
his debt to Halbwachs in this regard: “Memory is life, borne by
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Gil Eyal
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living societies founded in its name … a bond tying us to the eternal
present…. Memory is blind to all but the group it binds—which is to say,
as Maurice Halbwachs has said, that there are as many memories as there
are groups.” The other high priest of memory, Anthony Smith, concurred:
“One might almost say: no memory, no identity; no identity, no nation.”18
But this is by no means the only utility ascribed to memory. Let me return
to the example of Jewish prayers and rituals in the diaspora. Both Nora
and Smith cite these as a quintessential example of how memory functions
to integrate the group,19
but their treatment is completely anachronistic.
For memory to be ascribed this role, collective identity itself has to be
first problematized. It has to come under scrutiny and be treated with a
critical attitude for it to become part of an injunction to remember and
then also the goal of remembering. The “degree of creative freedom”
from the contents of tradition, as Funkenstein would put it,20
has to be
much larger. To ascribe this quite modern problematization to Jewish
medieval practices is to describe them in terms very distant from their
own. Within the rituals and prayers of medieval Jewry, the goal of memory
was not to integrate the collectivity, nor to recall the glorious past of the
nation and restore her to her true self. This, as we shall see, will be a much
better description of the goal of memory for the Slovak historians (or for
Zionist intellectuals and politicians, for that matter). The purpose of
memory was essentially religious, to reconstitute, over and over again
until the time of redemption, the special covenant between the Chosen
People and God. Memory became fused with the condition of exile, and
together they attested to divine election.21
And there are other purposes
ascribed to memory, as well, especially a whole family of utilities having to
do with “coming to terms with the past,” or “settling accounts.” These
may range from the simple wish to pay tribute to those who were wronged
in the past; through the search for “reconciliation,” which only the truth
about the past could provide; through the claim that the truth about past
crimes and the persecution of their perpetrators will protect society from
cycles of retributive violence;22
to the more elaborate versions, as we shall
see in the Czech case, in which memory, by overcoming trauma, is meant
to cure society and protect it from itself, from its tendency to repeat
abnormal and dangerous patterns of behavior.
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Identity and Trauma
13
THE SLOVAK HISTORIANS: MEMORY AS THE GUARANTOR OF IDENTITY
In the last decade before the fall of communism, a group of professional
historians holding mid-level positions in the Slovak communist academic
hierarchy, set out to produce a new official version of Slovak history. After
the fall of communism, as these historians were advanced to key posts in
the cultural elite, and managed to strike bargains with the postcommunist
political elite, their version of Slovak history was incorporated and
enshrined in the 1993 constitution of the new Slovak state.23
This version of Slovak history was a narrative about the formation,
continuity and final identity of the nation. The injunction to remember
was provided by the sense of an external assault on the nation. Its enemies—
especially the Hungarians, but also the advocates of Czechoslovakianism—
were seeking to undermine its identity and territorial integrity, indeed its
very existence, and for that purpose they censored and falsified crucial
elements of the nation’s history. For a small nation such as the Slovaks,
memory was a crucial bulwark against the encroachments of stronger
nations:
History has … a commission to teach; the arterial highway of life
should be an artesian well of life.… This school of History [sic], as it
seems, has been attended only by the small and weak. The great and
powerful had no need to learn; they have been creating History
themselves, and if History did not match their needs, they modified
History without hesitation.… But as I have already mentioned: we
cannot lose our memory.… We cannot forget the history of Slovak–
Magyar relations.… “God keep us from losing our internal sense of
being, our most inherent meaning, but, as well, our ability to resist.
We will always remain a small nation, but, as far as we defend our
truth, we will never remain powerless.”24
Of the two assaults, the Hungarian one was perceived as the more serious,
an intentional misrepresentation of Slovak history motivated by irredentist
ambitions.25
Hungarian historians and politicians claimed that Slovaks
settled in the territory of latter-day Slovakia only after it was conquered
by the Magyars, and by the invitation of Hungarian kings. The Slovak
historians, on the other hand, claimed that the settlement of Slovaks on
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Gil Eyal
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the territory of latter-day Slovakia far preceded the Hungarian invasions,
and that there was a continuous, unbroken history of Slovak presence in
the land.
This injunction to remember meant that the characteristic mnemonic
operation of the Slovak will to memory was the recovery of traces of national
existence, traces lost, forgotten, censored or falsified. Slovak historians
and archeologists literally dug for evidence demonstrating Slovak precedence
in the land, early Slovak sovereignty, Slovak cultural creativity, etc.
For example, they produced archeological evidence to argue that the
remains of old Slavonic settlements from the fifth and sixth centuries were
identical with the Slovak settlements reported in historical sources from
the eleventh century. This was meant to prove that the ancestors of the
Slovaks occupied the territory of present-day Slovakia prior to any other
claimants, especially the Hungarians.26
Other archeological investigations
traced Samo’s realm, the oldest political structure reported in the sources,
to the area of latter-day Slovakia, and his fortress of Wogastisburg to the
vicinity of Bratislava.27
Similarly, Slovak historians identified the later Great
Moravian kingdom as “the first Slovak state,” showing that its borders
corresponded to present-day Moravia and Slovakia combined, and arguing
that the Great Moravian “nation” was composed of two ethnic groups—
Moravians and Slovaks—of whom “only the Slovaks have maintained their
specific national identity.” This was meant to show that the ancient Slovaks
were not mere tribes, but a “state-bearing nation.” In fact, the first statebearing
nation in the area, even prior to the Czechs.28
Throughout these
investigations, historiography, archeology and philology were assigned
the role of reaching into the distant past and recovering that which has
been lost or forgotten:
If historiography is to give a satisfactory answer to the question how,
despite these adverse conditions, the Slovaks have survived, how
they have constituted themselves into an independent ethnic and
political association on the map of Central Europe, it must needs
reach far back into the past, down to the foundations of Slav Samo’s
realm, Pribina’s principality and Great Moravia itself, which molded
Slovakia into a definite country, cemented the Slovak substrate and
thus built the foundations of a modern nation.29
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Identity and Trauma
15
What exactly were they recovering? What was the peculiar mnemonic
substance upon which this will to memory worked? As with the “invisible
history” of Jewish memory, underneath the visible events there was a
more fundamental level wherein one could discern the nation as an actor
of a wholly different history—national-economic, national-social, nationallinguistic,
etc.: “a nation is a historically developing social organism. Its
integrating basis is the ethnic-linguistic identity of society through different
stages in its economic-social development. On it rests consciousness of
historical continuity…” At this level what counted were not events, but
the “constants of history”— labor, life, territory, language and consciousness.
Together they comprised the continuity of national existence.30
Even
after its fall, so claimed the Slovak historians, the Great Moravian kingdom
bequeathed to its inhabitants a distinctive civilization informed by the
linguistic innovations of Cyril and Methodius, the apostles to the Slavs,
and the memory of a unified political existence within a clearly demarcated
territory. Slovak philologists and geographers have analyzed Slovak place
names, idioms and customs to show that this civilization was preserved in
Slovak oral tradition and folklore, and found its way through them even
into Hungarian language and culture. “Slovak history was not lost, but it
became, in this way, an autonomous part of Hungarian history.”31
In short,
the mnemonic substance was composed of all these traces left behind not
simply by individuals, but by the nation, by this “historically developing
social organism.”
Within this social organism, memory played an important function.
Its goal was to preserve the identity and continuity of the nation through
the ages, such “that not even an almost millennial denial of their rights in
the Hungarian state succeeded in etching away their national unity.”32
The heritage of Great Moravia was carried and preserved by the laboring
masses, the peasants, who dug into the soil and preserved in the simple
constants of their way of life the memory of Great Moravia and Slovak
statehood:
A state which had for nearly a hundred years formed and informed
the history of Central Europe perished…. Some older historians
interpreted it as a national catastrophe that meant the interruption
of the nation’s life. It is impossible to agree with that. Today we
know that Slovakia and the Slovaks simply reached the threshold of
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Gil Eyal
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a new life, a new age which, however, was not so favorably disposed
toward them.… Centuries had to pass before our two nations met
again in a common state, before we found ourselves on the same
path in a battle for national freedom.… All this could come to pass
only because the Slovak plains and valleys were not abandoned after
the fall of Great Moravia. Once more the peasant cut his plough
into the soil; the scythe swished on the meadow; songs could be
heard on a hillside and a child’s tears in the cradle. Life and work,
the two constants of history, preserved Slovak society from extinc-
tion.33
This narrative of Slovak history, and the role it apportioned to
memory, was enshrined not only in texts, but also in visual art. An example
can be seen in figure 1. It is a painting by F. Gajdo˘s, which used to hang
in the Hall of the Knights in Bratislava Castle. It is there no more, owing
no doubt to the grandiose socialist-realist style in which it is rendered,
but the narrative of history it depicts is precisely the same as that enshrined
in the postcommunist constitution. At the bottom center we see a lonely
female figure, from which the whole composition flows upwards on both
sides. It no doubt represents the Slovak nation—its spirit, origin and
historical destiny. The details in the bottom part of the painting are
unimportant for our purposes. Suffice it to say that they depict the rise
and fall of Great Moravia, and they include in the tale also Cyril and
Methodius, the inventors of its unique civilization. More important for
our purposes are the two figures in the center of the painting who are
watching the events unfolding below: one, a peasant woman, stern and
resolute, looks upon the warriors. From her position, right in the middle
of the composition, exactly above the sad national spirit at the bottom,
we can recognize her significance. We meet again the national spirit,
identical and yet now in the form of a peasant woman, the toiling masses,
hardened and strengthened by years of servitude to foreign invaders.
Through work and tradition she ensures the nation’s survival and thus
connects the past and the present. She is memory incarnate and embodied.
To the right, and a little bit below, a man seated in the classical “thinker”
pose, watches the battle too. He obviously represents the national intelligentsia,
or even more specifically, the national historian who is the other
guarantor of the nation’s survival through the years, the other bearer of
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Identity and Trauma
17
Fig. 1. F. Gajdo˘s, Od vel’key moravy po dne˘sok (From Great
Moravia until today). Source: Matú˘s Ku˘cera, Postavy
vel’komoravskej histórie (Personalities of Great Moravian
History) (Martin: Osveta, 1986), p. 205.
collective memory, erudite and textual. The final scene above them is less
interesting for our purposes. It clearly depicts a group of socialist “new
men” and women, confronting and vanquishing their opponents by
peaceful means. It is noteworthy that the painting no longer needs to
indicate whether these “new men” and women are the international
proletariat who has transcended the bonds of nationality, or the newest
and final incarnation of the Slovak nation, the Slovak working class. It is
eloquently silent on this point. As the historians have averred: “national
historical consciousness is the inevitable basis of modern socialist con-
sciousness.”34
I dwelled on this painting at some length, especially because of the
figure of the thinker. It eloquently depicts the “will to memory” encapsulated
in this form of historiography. The first thing we must note about it
is that it is embattled. It is no coincidence that in the painting the historian
appears right above the warriors and almost among them. Historical
memory is a battlefield, and the stakes are no less than the nation’s very
existence. Or put differently, we can say that this form of the “will to
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memory,” which invests memory with the function of guarantying identity,
tends to generate its own sense and distinctive rhetoric of a “crisis” of
memory: it typically depicts an external assault on collective memory by
competing narratives composed by the enemies of the nation, who thus
attempt to undermine its identity, integrity and territorial claim, indeed
its very existence.
This is not an accidental feature of this will to memory. As we have
seen, it is the source of its very injunction to remember, and without the
sense of external challenge, without the multiplication of memory, it loses
its raison d’être. Hence, the Slovak historians inhabit an agonistic world,
in which they constantly do battle with competing versions of history:
they vehemently dispute the claims made by the “American-Hungarian
historian” Imre Boba, about the localization of Great Moravia in what is
today Serbia. It is immaterial that Boba has lived in the US for more than
forty years, and that originally he was Polish-Hungarian. They detect here
a Hungarian “political aim … to deny the historical validity of Slovak
territory.”35
They even accuse certain “Hungarians” of censoring and not
publishing the true findings of archeological excavations for “political”
reasons. For similar reasons, they have felt compelled to do battle also on
another front, against certain Russian historians who argued that Great
Moravia was the “first common state of Czechs and Slovaks,” i.e. the first
“Czechoslovakia.” Here too they detected a sinister plot, attempting to
thwart the Slovak struggle in the 1960s to federalize Czechoslovakia, and
in the 1970s and 1980s to protect this federalization and increase the
autonomy of the Slovak Federal Republic. This is precisely why they have
insisted that in Great Moravia only Moravians and Slovaks came together,
of which the latter played the leading role. No longer were Slovaks to be
consigned to the position of “lesser brothers” to the Czechs.36
A similar sense of external assault has generated also the recent
tendency to remember and rehabilitate the Slovak fascist puppet state of
World War II. Before the fall of communism this was typically the work of
émigré historians, themselves old Ludaks (i.e. members of Hlinka’s fascist
People’s Party) or their offspring, who were trying to justify and rehabilitate
their own actions. But as the conflict with the Czechs intensified, and the
latter accused the Slovak elite of harboring fascist sympathies, the struggles
over the historiography of the Tiso regime and the uprising against it (the
so-called “Slovak National Uprising”) became analogous to the struggles
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19
over the historiography of Great Moravia. To rehabilitate the Tiso regime,
or at least to present the Slovaks as essentially antifascist, became synonymous
with defending the nation’s identity by preserving its memory.37
The second thing to note about Gajdo˘s’s painting is that the historian,
the narrator, is in the painting. This form of “will to memory” is not only
embattled, but also embedded:
the historian is then naturally not only the subject, but also the object
of history. In other words, the past affects us not only … by its
conscious element, but also by its unconscious and unknown element.…
this double relation manifests itself as a strong tie between
the historian’s social standing and his scientific endeavors….38
As I noted earlier, the whole point of the “memory turn” overtaking the
social and human sciences is that the boundaries between history and
tradition, the scientific and the popular, are blurred, and that with the
same postmodernist gesture by which the historians invite the “subjugated
knowledges” in, they also acquire the capacity to identify with them and
to enjoy the prestige of embeddedness and authenticity. The historian is
inside the painting, he no longer enjoys an objective viewpoint, but by
the same token he also becomes the voice of collective memory and thus
acquires the function of preserving the nation’s identity. As the Slovak
dissident historian Jozef Jablonickí put it: “The results of historical science
are not produced in the laboratory, it is a societal science. History is a
national discipline.”39
THE CZECH DISSIDENTS: MEMORY AS A MEANS OF OVERCOMING TRAUMA
While the Slovak form of the will to memory was elaborated by a group
of historians who climbed within the communist hierarchy, the Czech
form was mostly a dissident affair. It originated in the struggle of the
dissidents to reclaim history and memory as an act of resistance against
communist power, which they depicted as a power to erase and forget.40
The injunction to remember articulated by this group is well captured
in the first page of Milan Kundera’s wonderful Book of Laughter and
Forgetting. He notes how the figure of Vladimir Clementis was systemThis
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atically erased from history books after his execution. And yet, there was
a trace left behind: a famous picture still showed the Czech leader Gottwald
donning a fur cap given to him by Clementis just moments before the
picture was taken. Though Clementis was airbrushed out of the photograph,
his cap remained behind, a visible warning to those who knew
that, as Kundera put it: “the struggle of man against power is the struggle
of memory against forgetting.”41
Memory emerged as a moral duty, as
“historical responsibility,” because power benefited from forgetting and
encouraged it. Forgetting was rife and systematic, caused by repression
and censorship, and historical memory was full of “black holes,” where
nobody knew anymore what had happened. The dissident response,
therefore, all across Eastern Europe but especially in the Czech Republic,
was to champion memory against the regime, to hold commemorations
of people who were purged and of events that were censored, and to
dedicate underground samizdat publications to them.42
But what was the point of remembering? In Kundera, as in Václav
Havel, memory is a heroic gesture of individual resistance meant to create
the possibility of “living within the truth.” Mirek keeps a diary, he tells his
friends, because “nothing we do is in violation of the constitution …
trying to hide, feeling guilty—that’s the beginning of the end.”43
For the
individual, memory is indispensable for authentic life conduct. Maybe
this form of “living within the truth” could also serve as an example for
others and motivate them to resist the regime? Quickly, however, the
dissidents discovered that their heroic resistance was met with general
indifference among the wider public, and certainly was not emulated. It
was at this point that their memory campaign turned in a different
direction, and they begun to articulate a different sort of goal for it. In
good Freudian fashion, they interpreted the indifference of the public as
evidence for a more insidious form of motivated forgetting, a sort of
amnesia pact between the regime and its subjects. They began to champion
memory not simply as a tool of resistance against the regime, but also as
a means of effecting an internal transformation in the hearts and minds of
ordinary communist citizens, and thereby undoing the moral corruption
of communism.
A good example is their analysis of the expulsion of the Sudeten
Germans after World War II.44
The very fact that they chose to write
about this topic is instructive, because the expulsion, in which three million
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Identity and Trauma
21
ethnic Germans were forcibly removed from their homes and driven across
the border, was conducted by the Bene˘s government before the Communists
rose to power. Clearly, choosing to write about the expulsion in
samizdat during the 1970s, the dissident historians were not seeking to
expose the injustices wrought by Communists. Their interest in the
expulsion stemmed from the thesis that it prepared the moral climate for
communism: that it perverted standards of justice by applying the notion
of collective guilt, and thus prepared the way for the show trials of the
1950s; that it created a communist constituency of individuals who were
complicit in the expulsion, benefited from it, and were thus profoundly
interested in forgetting what took place; and that it encouraged looting
and thus undermined respect for private property:
The transfer … taught the nation not to respect … the principle of
property, a value created over generations. It ... taught [the nation]
to steal.... The alienation of property in socialist ownership … does
not have its source and spring in the origin of socialism, but here in
the immense stealing and robbing of German property.45
The point of writing about the expulsion, then, was to break the amnesia
pact between the regime and the nation, a pact upon which communism
rested. Memory, as represented by the dissidents, was therefore an antidote
not simply to the “external” censorship of the regime but to the internal
processes of repression and dissociation, which conditioned individuals
to “live within a lie” and to become complicit in their own subjection.46
In the course of this debate, the mnemonic substance of the Czech will to
memory transformed as well: from the event of the expulsion to the trauma
of moral complicity, which, because individuals wished to deny it,
immobilized them in the face of totalitarian power and made them
complicit with it even more.
We can recognize in this dissident will to memory the psychoanalytic
model of the effect exercised by childhood trauma on adult psyches. The
argument proceeds as follows: because it is too painful to remember, trauma
is repressed. Repression, however, is active and motivated forgetting, and
it is preserved only through a constant internal (though unconscious)
vigilance. This constant effort distorts the personality of the adult, in
extreme cases causing individuals to dissociate and split their personalities.
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Gil Eyal
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The only way to overcome these problems is to recover the memory of
the original trauma and acknowledge it.47
This was precisely the structure
of the dissident argument: the very normalcy of societal and individual
psyches was staked on the operation of memory. With so much to deny
and forget, reality split into two—official and personal—and with it
individuals as well. To be a communist subject meant to conduct a double
life of dissimulation, to say things one does not mean and be silent about
certain things that were unmentionable; to do certain things as pure
meaningless ritual, and to avoid doing and taking responsibility for what
really mattered; to refuse, in a sense, authenticity and identity. We can see
how the argument of trauma, denial and dissimulation completely changed
the mnemonic substance. The trauma, first, has been pushed outside the
framework of meaningful time, before communism, as a sort of “original
sin”; and then it was stretched to form a chain of repetition, of continuous
acts of complicity each of which is a “mini-trauma” all of its own.48
This trauma model explains why the memory campaign of the
dissidents did not subside after the fall of the communist regime in 1989,
when, ostensibly, censorship was no more and the truth about the past
could be told. On the contrary, it became more intense, more public,
shriller, and since now they also possessed political power, far more consequential.
For the trauma to cease to exercise its pernicious effect, and for
individuals to recover their moral responsibility, the trauma and the whole
chain of moral complicity that ensued from it had to be confessed and
witnessed, rather than simply remembered and told. This was the peculiar
mnemonic operation of this will to memory. To tell the truth about the
past did not mean simply to recover an event that was lost or censored,
but to own up to its significance; to recognize that one has denied it in
the past and to accept responsibility for one’s moral complicity; or at the
very least watch somebody else do that, and through identification with
the negative hero of the confession drama overcome one’s trauma as well.
Postcommunist citizens, argued the dissidents, needed to confess that
they too were complicit in the crimes of communism, even if in a passive
sort of way. They needed to own up to dissimulation, in order to break
with it. Any refusal to do so, any failure to admit to such guilt, was
interpreted by the dissidents as a motivated failure of memory, the effect
of unconscious repression and denial. Hence the attempts of the dissidents
to organize various confessional campaigns, in which the traumas of
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Identity and Trauma
23
communism would be remembered, told and witnessed. One of the first
acts of Havel as president, for example, was to issue a public apology to
the Germans about the expulsions. Such apology was meant to start a
chain of confessions from those who had moved into German property
and thereby break the spell that held them enthralled to the old totalitarian
mentality. Then, by association, confession should have spread to all those
who had similarly collaborated with the crimes of communism.
Not only has the memory campaign of the dissidents not subsided
after the fall of communism but they invested memory with even weightier
hopes and fears. Now that the communist regime was no more, and society
needed to be built anew, the main obstacle was no longer communist
power but its unconscious effects, the subjects it left behind still tainted
by their moral complicity. Memory and confession were called upon to
cure society—healing through truth—and to protect it from repetition,
from the return of totalitarianism in any guise.49
The very normalcy of the
future was staked upon memory:
Nations, like individuals, need to face up to and understand traumatic
past events before they can put them aside and move on to normal
life. This is important for the victims, who can truly heal and resume
their contributions to society only when their dignity and suffering
have been officially acknowledged. But it is just as important for the
collaborators. Preventing dictatorship’s return requires a full understanding
of the mechanisms of dictatorship.… A nation’s decisions
about how to face its past are central to the challenge of building
real democracy.50
Under the weight of this goal, however, memory buckled. The crisis of
memory that ensued, and which is still very much in evidence all over
East Central Europe, was not caused by generalized forgetting and amnesia,
but was the result of the investment of memory with the function of
healing and protecting society. What happened was not unlike what Ian
Hacking shows happens when memory is entrusted with the task of healing
individuals. In the case of repressed memories, which analysts and courts
attempt to coax onto the surface, an inevitable equivocation emerges
between fact, fantasy and falsity. Memory could be construed as recalling
a real event, let’s say child sexual abuse, which has been repressed because
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it was too painful. But it could also be construed as reacting to an imaginary
event, i.e. to a fantasy expressing unconscious desire, which was repressed
as well because it was illicit. Finally, memory could be construed as false.
It could be construed as a learned manner of relating to oneself, of reinterpreting
one’s feelings and memories, with the more sinister implication
of memories being “implanted” by the analyst. Hacking reports veritable
“culture wars” between psychoanalysts, feminists, multiple personality
advocates, parents’ associations and “false memory” foundations championing
these three interpretations, particularly around allegations of child
sexual abuse, with very little possibility of settling on the “true” nature of
the event. The search for “truth in memory,” inevitably, because of what
we want memory to do for us, ends in debacle.51
When it comes to the theory of collective trauma, collective forgetting
and remembering, a similar equivocation presents itself with similarly
pernicious consequences: there is the realistic, factual interpretation,
according to which the trauma is a crime perpetrated in the past on the
innocent, and then forgotten, because knowledge about it was censored,
distorted and misrepresented. This is very similar to Kundera’s original
intent. Such knowledge should be made public once again, in order to
rehabilitate the victims and punish the wrongdoers. Memory heals and
protects society by “settling accounts”: those who suffered are recompensed
for their suffering, whether through reparations; through restitution
of stolen property; through rehabilitation that restores their dignity; or
through the satisfaction of seeing their tormentors punished. Those who
committed crimes are brought to justice and punished, or they are barred
from holding public office, or they are simply exposed and shamed. In
this way, society removes dangerous elements from its midst. The proponents
of this view are well aware that such measures are limited. They will
never reach all the guilty, and certainly they will not touch those who
were complicit in the crimes in a passive sort of way. But this is as it
should be, they say. Settling accounts through restitution, persecution
and screening also acts symbolically on society, sending a clear message of
condemnation, drawing a sharp line between the past and present, and
indeed sacrificing a “scapegoat” for society’s sins, thereby guaranteeing
the establishment of the rule of law in the present, and allowing the majority
of citizens to put the past behind them.52
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Identity and Trauma
25
In the Czech Republic, the proponents of this view included Prime
Minister Václav Klaus and his circle of technocrats, as well as some of the
more “conservative” dissidents allied with him.53
They drafted and
eventually passed the “lustration” law, which required screening the past
careers of any individual holding, or seeking to hold, parliamentary office
or jobs in high-level governmental offices, the military, the intelligence
services, the police corps, state radio and television organizations, news
agencies, state-owned enterprises, railways, banks, high academic positions,
the judicial bench, etc. Any individual who was found to have been in the
past a member of the former secret police, or an informer for it, a former
communist official from the district level up, a former member of the
people’s militia, or of the national front action committees, was barred
for a five-year period from holding these positions. This period was later
extended till the year 2000. They explicitly rejected the thesis of universal
guilt, which as we saw was an essential element of the dissidents’ trauma
model, and turned it back at them:
It was not “we” who did this. None of “us” would ever have had
the audacity, for we do not know this type of ambition. Behind every
arrogant attempt to draw up completely new social institutions, there
lurks the cerebral and sometimes physical violence of a handful of
self-important intellectuals.… The attempt at socialism … was not
“mob violence” … but rather a revolt by a group of leftist intellec-
tuals.54
The term “lustration” served their intention well, as it referred to
the ancient custom of sacrificing a scapegoat to appease the Gods and
purge society’s sins. Czech intellectuals translated it as meaning “purification
by sacrifice, purging.”55
But from the point of view of the dissidents,
of course, the problem was that the distinction between victims and the
guilty was problematic. The evidence at the disposal of screening committees
was mostly from the files of the secret police, and when it came to
identifying collaborators and informers these were especially unreliable.
The dissidents in particular were likely to be accused as “collaborators,”
because when they were arrested by the communist regime pressure was
put on them to inform on their colleagues, and they were mentioned in
the files as “candidates for collaboration.” There were several highly
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publicized cases of such former dissidents being screened by lustration
and then suing in the courts.56
At their disposal the dissidents had an
alternative to lustration, namely confession, with the associated ideas of
universal guilt, trauma and dissimulation. Here the trauma was not
interpreted realistically, but symbolically, as in the Freudian interpretation
of trauma as fantasy. There was no simple distinction between victims and
perpetrators because everybody were complicit in the crimes of communism,
and everybody were victimized by it, especially victimized by their
complicity. The real trauma was internal, caused not so much by the
concrete crime as by the fact that people had to live with repressed knowledge
of its existence. It is not knowledge per se that could overcome
forgetting/denial, nor even persecution and condemnation, which will
merely allow individuals to continue to deny their guilt and project it
toward external figures (scapegoats). Confession was needed and witnessing,
a sort of sentimental education that could be orchestrated through
public apologies, historians’ tribunals, truth and reconciliation commissions,
private meetings between informers and their victims, self-criticism,
the erection of monuments and the building of museums.57
While they had a different vision of the mnemonic substance and
the mnemonic operation from Klaus and his circle, the dissidents construed
the goal of memory similarly. They too warned that the future of society
hung in the balance, and that memory was needed to protect and heal
society. Without confessing to the crimes of communism and without
breaking the cycle of dissimulation, argued the dissidents, there is no
chance that postcommunist societies will be able to lead normal lives.
They will be continuously haunted by unconscious trauma, and highly
susceptible to repetition, even when, or precisely because, they try their
hardest to put the past behind them (i.e. to forget): “We are like an obese
person who forgets that he is loaded down with several dozen extra kilos
and that these are an extra burden for his heart and ultimately shorten his
life.”58
Memory, by contrast, heals through truth. This argument was by
no means unique to the Czech dissidents. It was of course at the core of
recent debates in Germany about the Holocaust, German complicity and
proper commemoration. It has provided the rationale for the “Truth and
Reconciliation” Committees in South Africa, and from there has spread
to Latin America and the rest of the world as a package recommended by
human rights groups and funded by foundations.59
It has been made with
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Identity and Trauma
27
respect to the Bosnian conflict, as an explanation for Serb behavior, and a
suggestion of how to achieve peace and understanding after the conflict is
over.60
It is the justification given by groups like the Russian NGO
Memorial, for why they engage in building monuments to gulag victims.
They explain that memorializing is required in order to guarantee that
society will not return to the past.61
It is also the justification for some
forms of revisionist history in Israel.62
Finally, “false memory” makes its appearance too. This attitude no
longer concerns itself at all with the trauma, because it is obsessed by
what it perceives as a ubiquitous distortion of memory. If memory is
unstable, if it is impossible to decide between fact and fantasy, this must
be because sinister forces still operate to distort it. Memory, which was
meant to heal, becomes itself in need of defense by radical surgery, for
example by the publication of black lists of communist collaborators,
regardless of how they were obtained, how accurate they may be, and
regardless of the consequences. This interpretation is common among
the more extreme fringes of Czech society, but it was initiated, as well, by
a former dissident. Petr Cibulka, the current dark prince of Czech “wild
lustration,” of anticommunist moral panics and conspiracy theories, was a
dissident, member of the famous “Jazz Section,” a Charter 77 signatory,
a political prisoner, even member of the first postcommunist parliament
dominated by the dissidents. Today, however, he is the editor of Rudé
Kravo (Red cow), a magazine responsible for the publication of “collaborator”
lists based on stolen secret police files, and known for the accusation
that Havel, too, was a secret police informer.63
The emergence of “false
memory” thus makes it even more difficult to decide on the “true” nature
of the trauma, and to my mind indicates that the cause of this crisis of
memory is in what memory is required to do, i.e. in the investment of
postcommunist life by a certain will to memory characterized by the idea
that memory protects and heals, that at issue in memory is not justice per
se, but society’s safety, well-being and normalcy.
A final note on the social role ascribed to intellectuals by this form
of the will to memory: we already saw how the Slovak will to memory was
characterized by embeddedness. When the historians relinquished the
superiority of history over tradition, they received in return the prestige
of immanence as representatives of society’s collective memory and
guardians of its identity. In the Czech model of trauma and confession,
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Gil Eyal
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the significance of memory is not embeddedness, but individualization.
As Memorial explains: the goal is to “give back to victims their individuality,
which a monstrous system robbed from them.”64
As the guardian of
memory, the intellectual does not become an immanent part of society’s
mechanisms of cohesion and reflection. Rather, he or she stand outside it
as pastors, who take care of the flock by taking care of each individual
soul. The pastors are virtuous individuals who confess and question
themselves regularly, and by virtue of the purity of their example, they are
also shepherds and leaders of the flock: seeing to the truthfulness of the
individual’s confession; prescribing penance; and guiding the individual
conscience toward salvation/healing. This is precisely what Adam Michnik,
for example, endeavored to do for Poles and Jews as he criticized himself,
confessed his fault in ignoring the crime in Jedwabne, and searched for
what exactly would be his “individual responsibility and … guilt” with
respect to it. His, and other Poles’ responsibility, he felt, was not for the
crime, but for denying the truth about the crime, “and that for decades a
lie was repeated.” If Poles were to overcome their “deep trauma which
surfaces with each new debate about anti-Semitism,” they needed to follow
Michnik’s example and leadership.65
CONCLUSIONS
I have sought to show that the sense of a crisis of memory in contemporary
East Central Europe is generated neither by the universal nature of memory
nor by some peculiarly East European “obsession” with the past, but by
two different types of “will to memory,” two different investments of
memory with a certain utility or purpose. I have argued, though I cannot
make the case fully here, that the contrast between these two forms of
memory corresponds to two different understandings of the social role of
intellectuals: one which embeds them in society as the guardians of
collective memory and identity, and the other which positions them outside
it as pastors of individual memory and conscience. On the one hand, we
have a completely immanent claim to represent the collectivity. The
historian is inside the painting. He is identical with the nation’s spirit and
memory. He is an organ of this “historically developing social organism.”
But by the same token, he cannot speak in the name of values or ideals
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Identity and Trauma
29
that are greater than the nation. He is completely within the stream of the
nation’s history and cannot observe it from without. On the other hand,
we have a claim to speak in the name of transcendent values, but this
claim is limited to a pastoral encounter between individuals. The pastor
stands outside the collectivity. He speaks about justice, morality, authenticity
and truth. He addresses himself to the civil society of individuals. But
by the same token, he never tells them who they are. On the contrary, he
seeks to lead them by example to find out, by themselves, through confession,
who they are. It is almost as if intellectuals could no longer partake
at once of the double privilege they enjoyed in the past—transcendence
and representation—and had to choose between them: either representation
without transcendence, as in the Slovak case, or transcendence without
representation, as in the Czech case. I do not think this situation is unique
to East Central Europe, though it may be more obvious for the moment
in postcommunist societies. It stems from a crisis of the social role of
intellectuals, somewhat analogous to what Zygmunt Bauman has
characterized as a transition from the role of legislator—who propounds
universal truths—to the role of interpreter—who translates between
communities and points of view that are valid in equal measure.66
NOTES
1. Claus Offe, “Ethnic Politics in East European Transitions,” Zentrum für
Europäische Rechtspolitik, Diskussionpapier, 1/93 (Bremen, 1993), 22–23. Both
diagnoses—of too little or too much memory—have been made so many times
that it is impossible to provide an exhaustive list of references. Examples of the
first view are John Borneman, Settling Accounts: Violence, Justice, and Accountability
in Postsocialist Europe (Princeton, 1997); and Tina Rosenberg, The Haunted Land:
Facing Europe’s Ghosts after Communism (New York, 1996). Examples of the
second view are Jerzy Jedlicki, “Historical Memory as a Source of Conflicts in
Eastern Europe,” Communist and Post-Communist Studies 32, no. 3 (1999): 225–
32; and Tony Judt, “The Past Is Another Country: Myth and Memory in Postwar
Europe,” Daedalus 21, no. 4 (fall 1992): 99.
2. Pierre Nora, “Between Memory and History: Les Lieux de Mémoire,”
Representations, no. 26 (spring 1989): 7; Judt, “The Past,” 99. To do justice to
Nora’s complex argument, his is truly a middle position between too little and
too much memory. While the “milieus of memory” are no more, the “sites of
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Gil Eyal
30
memory” are fast multiplying in the contemporary period. They are hybrid creatures
between history and memory, depending at once on a “will to remember” and on
history’s dislocation of memory.
3. Natalie Zemon Davis and Randolph Starn, “Introduction,” Representations,
no. 26 (spring 1989): 1–6. See also, Andreas Huyssen, Twilight Memories: Marking
Time in a Culture of Amnesia (New York, 1995), 5.
4. I owe this observation, and many other insights that are at the core of this
paper, to Ian Hacking’s superb Rewriting the Soul: Multiple Personality and the
Sciences of Memory (Princeton, 1995).
5. This is indeed the premise of Maurice Halbwachs, The Collective Memory,
trans. Francis J. Ditter, Jr., and Vida Yazdi Ditter (New York, 1980).
6. I cannot enter here into the question of why Czech and Slovak intellectuals
espoused these different visions of the social role of intellectuals. I addressed this
question elsewhere, by analyzing the struggles over the social role of the intellectuals
prompted by the demise of the Prague Spring in 1968. My argument was that in
the course of these struggles two different coalitions of intellectuals and technocrats
were forged within the two federal republics, each carrying a distinctive vision of
the social role of intellectuals. For more details, see Gil Eyal, The Origins of
Postcommunist Elites: From the Prague Spring to the Breakup of Czechoslovakia
(Minneapolis, 2003).
7. Halbwachs, The Collective Memory, 78–80; Nora, “Between Memory and
History,” 7–8; Rubie S. Watson, “Introduction,” in idem, ed., Memory, History,
and Opposition under State Socialism (Santa Fe, NM, 1994), 8; Jeffrey K. Olick
and Joyce Robbins, “Social Memory Studies: From ‘Collective Memory’ to
Historical Sociology of Mnemonic Practices,” Annual Review of Sociology 24
(1998): 108, 111.
8. Patrick H. Hutton, History as an Art of Memory (Hanover, VT, 1993). The
point that the concept of “collective memory” is an added interpretation superimposed
over the earlier concepts of myth, tradition and folklore is made by Noa
Gedi and Yigal Elam, “Collective Memory—What Is It?” History & Memory 8,
no. 1 (spring/summer 1996): 30–50.
9. Friedrich Nietzsche, On the Genealogy of Morals (New York, 1969), 77.
10. This framework is inspired by a similar one used by Foucault to analyze
ethical programs. Michel Foucault, The Use of Pleasure (London, 1984), 25–28.
For a similar attempt to provide a conceptual framework for the analysis of memory,
see Iwona Irwin-Zarecka, Frames of Remembrance: The Dynamics of Collective
Memory (New Brunswick, NJ, 1994).
11. This last interpretation is common among the scholars of collective memory,
of whom Pierre Nora and Anthony Smith are the most prominent. See Nora,
“Between Memory and History,” 7, 9, 13; Anthony D. Smith, Nations and
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Identity and Trauma
31
Nationalism in a Global Era (Cambridge, 1995). Thus, to the extent that they
relabel as “collective memory” what earlier was called “tradition,” “myth” or
“folklore,” and to the extent that they present memory as a bulwark against the
forgetting brought about by modernity, they should be seen as themselves adding
an injunction to remember to their subject matter, and as articulating a particular
form of the will to memory.
12. Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi, Zakhor: Jewish History and Jewish Memory (Seattle,
1982), 5, 9, 24; Amos Funkenstein, Perceptions of Jewish History (Berkeley, 1993),
11, 50–52. Funkenstein’s concept of “historical consciousness” is, in many respects,
analogous to my idea of a “will to memory.” Funkenstein defines historical
consciousness as “the degree of creative freedom in the use of interpretation of
the contents of collective memory. This degree differs at different times in the
same culture or at different social environments at any given time within the same
culture” (ibid., 10). This concept, explains Funkenstein, mediates and overcomes
the oppositions between collective memory and individual acts of remembrance,
and between history and memory. It is, in short, a form of discourse (ibid., 4–10).
13. Yerushalmi, Zakhor, 34. As Funkenstein notes, Yerushalmi’s strict distinction
here between secular historiography and religious memory is unwarranted. The
Halakhah (Jewish religious law) contains a well-developed historical consciousness,
while professional historians are never quite capable of separating themselves from
the conventions of collective memory. Funkenstein, Perceptions, 10–11, 15–21. I
chose to keep Yerushalmi’s distinctions here merely for heuristic purposes, since
they are simple and easy to grasp.
14. Yerushalmi, Zakhor, 10–11, 21–24. As Funkenstein shows, however,
Yerushalmi was wrong to attribute such indifference to events and historical details
to “Jewish memory” in general, or even to the author/s of the scriptures. This is
why I preferred to focus strictly on the Haggadah, the ritual text of Passover, as an
illustration of an injunction to remember coupled with indifference to historical
events.
15. Hacking, Rewriting the Soul, 183–97. For my purposes here, I would like
to bracket questions about whether trauma and its effects are “real.” I follow
Nietzsche, who said that the idea of trauma, or of psychological pain, was “not a
fact, but only an interpretation—a causal interpretation—of facts that have hitherto
defied exact formulation—too vague to be scientifically serious—a fat word
replacing a very thin question mark.” Nietzsche, On the Genealogy of Morals, 129.
16. Hutton, History as an Art of Memory, 19, 26.
17. Yerushalmi, Zakhor, 44; Funkenstein, Perceptions, 55.
18. Halbwachs, The Collective Memory, 83–86; Nora, “Between Memory and
History,” 7–8; Anthony D. Smith, “Memory and Modernity: Reflections on Ernest
Gellner’s Theory of Nationalism,” Nations and Nationalism 2, no. 3 (1996):
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Gil Eyal
32
383. See also Jan Assmann, “Collective Memory and Cultural Identity,” New
German Critique, no. 65 (spring–summer 1995): 125–34: “The concept of cultural
memory comprises that body of reusable texts, images and rituals specific to each
society in each epoch, whose cultivation serves to stabilize and convey that society’s
self-image. Upon such collective knowledge ... of the past, each group bases its
awareness of unity and particularity” (132). Even an otherwise trenchant critique
of the concept of “collective memory” affirms this function of providing identity
and integration, but claims that memory can only perform this function for very
small groups of people who share indeed similar experiences. See Duncan S. A.
Bell, “Mythscapes: Memory, Mythology and National Identity,” British Journal
of Sociology 54, no. 1 (March 2003): 72–73, 79 n.3.
19. Nora, “Between Memory and History,” 8; Anthony D. Smith, National
Identity (London, 1991), 33–37.
20. See n. 12 above.
21. Here I must part ways with Yerushalmi, who in somewhat qualified terms
ascribes to memory the role of aiding in the survival of the Jewish people in their
condition of “global dispersion.” Yerushalmi, Zakhor, 5. See the much more subtle
discussion in Funkenstein, Perceptions, 10–13, 15–21.
22. Borneman, Settling Accounts, 23–25.
23. For more details about this group, see Eyal, The Origins of Postcommunist
Elites, 120–31.
24. Vladimír Miná˘c, “Introduction,” in Pavol ˘Stev˘cek, ed., Slovaks and Magyars:
Slovak-Magyar Relations in Central Europe (Bratislava, 1995), 7–10.
25. Du˘san Slobodník, “Some Aspects of Recent Slovak-Magyar Relations,” in
˘Stev˘cek, Slovaks and Magyars, 101–12.
26. Vincent Sedlák, “The Ancient Slovak Settlement Area and Its Management
until the End of the Middle Ages,” and Du˘san ˘Caplovi˘c, “Historical and Habitational
Development in the Carpathian Basin in the Second Half of the First Millennium
in the Optics of the Archeological Sources,” in ˘Stev˘cek, Slovaks and Magyars, 11–
40; Vincent Sedlák, “Staroslovensk´y sídlen´y priestor a dielo Profesora Rapanta”
(The position of an old-Slavic settlement and the work of Professor Rapant), in
Richard Marsina, ed., Historik Daniel Rapant: ˘Zivot a dielo (1897–1988–1997)
(Historian Daniel Rapant: Life and works) (Martin, 1998), 34–47; Richard Marsina
et al., Slovenské dejiny (Slovak history) (Martin, 1992), 23. For my own part, not
being an expert on ancient and medieval history, I would not presume to pronounce
judgment on either the truth or falsity of this claim and of those detailed below.
Suffice it to say that none of these claims have been unanimously accepted by
other scholars, be they Hungarian, Czech, German or American. They remain
hotly contested, and at times even ridiculed.
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Identity and Trauma
33
27. Matú˘s Ku˘cera, Postavy vel’komoravskej histórie (Personalities of Great
Moravian history) (Martin, 1986), 36–44, 50; ˘Caplovi˘c, “Historical and Habitational
Development,” 33; Sedlák, “The Ancient Slovak Settlement Area,” 11.
28. Marsina et al., Slovenské dejiny, 33; ˘Caplovi˘c, “Historical and Habitational
Development,” 35–37; Sedlák, “The Ancient Slovak Settlement Area,” 21–24;
Jan Dekan, Za˘ciatky slovensk´ych dejín a ˘rí˘sa vel’komoravská (The beginning of
Slovak history and the Great Moravian empire) (Bratislava, 1951); idem, “Vel’ká
Morava a problem staromoravskej narodnosti” (Great Moravia and the problem
of old Moravian nationality), Historick´y ˘Casopis 20, no. 2 (1972): 173–85; Matú˘s
Ku˘cera, “Vel’ká Morava a za˘ciatky na˘sich národn´ych dejín” (Great Moravia and
the beginning of our national history), Historick´y ˘Casopis 33, no. 2 (1985), 163–
200; idem, “Vel’ká Morava a slovenské dejiny” (Great Moravia and Slovak history)
in J. Poulík, Bohuslav Chropovsk´y a Kolektiv, eds., Vel’ká Morava a po˘cátky
˘ceskoslovenské státnosti (Great Moravia and the beginning of Czechoslovak statehood)
(Prague and Bratislava, 1985); Stanislav Kirschbaum, A History of Slovakia:
The Struggle for Survival (New York, 1995), 20.
29. Ku˘cera, Postavy vel’komoravskej histórie, 263.
30. Ibid., 5, 234.
31. ˘Caplovi˘c, “Historical and Habitational Development,” 36–37; Sedlák, “The
Ancient Slovak Settlement Area,” 13–18, 21–22; Ján Dekan, Vel’ká Morava: Doba
a uminie (Great Moravia: Period and arts) (Bratislava, 1976); Matú˘s Ku˘cera,
“Problémy vzniku a v´yvoja feudalizmu na Slovensku” (Problems of the rise and
development of feudalism in Slovakia), Historick´y ˘Casopis 22, no. 4 (1974), 541–
64; Kirschbaum, A History of Slovakia, 35.
32. Ku˘cera, Postavy vel’komoravskej histórie, 265.
33. Ibid., 234. Matú˘s Ku˘cera, Slovensko po páde Vel’kej Moravy (˘Studie z
hospodárskych a sociálnych dejín) (Slovakia after the fall of Great Moravia: Studies
in economic and social history) (Bratislava, 1974); Kirschbaum, A History of
Slovakia, 37.
34. Ku˘cera, Postavy vel’komoravskej histórie, 5.
35. Sedlák, “The Ancient Slovak Settlement Area,” 22. The localization of
Great Moravia remains, indeed, a matter of grave dispute. See, for example, Henrik
Birnbaum, “Was Medieval Moravia in the Hungarian Basin?” www.c3.hu/scripta/
books/96/04/04birn.htm (last accessed 16 Feb. 2004).
36. Kirschbaum, A History of Slovakia, 35–36; Marsina et al., Slovenské dejiny,
33. On the Slovak struggle for federalization and in its defense, see Carol Skalnik
Leff, National Conflict in Czechoslovakia (Princeton, 1988). It is quite telling
that while Marxist Czech historians affiliated with the regime tended to hew close
to the official line about “the first common state of Czechs and Slovaks,” dissident
Czech historians such as Du˘san T˘re˘stík tended to ridicule it. See Du˘san T˘re˘stík,
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Gil Eyal
34
“Vel’ká Morava—zemu stuhovavá” (Great Moravia—the migratory land), Lidové
Noviny, 20 Dec. 1995, 8. Thus, for completely opposite reasons, the Slovak
nationalist historians and the Czech dissident historians were united in opposition
to the official line, a precarious unity that unraveled immediately with the fall of
the regime.
37. For works that engage in rehabilitating the Tiso regime, or which seek to
present the Slovaks as essentially antifascist, see, for example, Kirschbaum, A History
of Slovakia, 205–23; and Anton Hrnko, Politicky vyvin a protifasisticky odboj na
slovensku, 1939–1941 (Political developments and antifascist resistance in Slovakia,
1939–1941) (Bratislava, 1988). For the history of the debate, see Du˘san Kova˘c,
“The Uprising: More Than a Tale of Long Ago,” Parlamentni Kourier, nos. 7–8
(1994): 99–102. For the Czech accusations, see for example the interview given
by Havel’s spokesman, Michal ˘Zantovsk´y, to Mlada Fronta, 3 Nov. 1991; or
Milan Zitny, “Meciar’s Questionable Supremacy,” East European Reporter 5, no.
1 (Jan. 1992): 68.
38. Matú˘s Ku˘cera, “F. V. Sasinek—Founder of Modern Slovak Historiography,”
Studia Historica Slovaca 13 (Bratislava, 1984), 207.
39. Jozef Jablonickí, “Boj za pravdu o povstani” (Struggle over the truth about
the uprising), Parlamentni Kourier, nos. 7–8 (1994): 4–6.
40. For more details about this group, see Eyal, The Origins of Postcommunist
Elites, 59–78.
41. Milan Kundera, The Book of Laughter and Forgetting (New York, 1980), 3.
42. Milan ˘Sime˘cka, “Black Holes: Concerning the Metamorphoses of Historical
Memory,” Kosmas 3–4, nos. 1–2 (winter 1984): 23–28; Richard S. Esbenshade,
“Remembering to Forget: Memory, History, National Identity in Postwar EastCentral
Europe,” Representations, no. 49 (winter 1995): 74–75, 90–91, n. 15.
43. Kundera, The Book of Laughter and Forgetting, 4. On “living within the
truth,” see Václav Havel, “The Power of the Powerless,” in John Keane, ed., The
Power of the Powerless (London, 1985), 23–96.
44. Bradley F. Abrams, “Morality, Wisdom and Revision: The Czech Opposition
in the 1970s and the Expulsion of the Sudeten Germans,” East European Politics
and Societies 9, no. 2 (spring 1995): pp. 234–55. While the discussion of the
expulsions was key to the dissident memory campaign, it was by no means the
only “black hole” in Czechoslovak history they sought to bring to light. From
1978 to 1989 the dissident historians published 26 volumes of a samizdat journal—
Historické studie (Historical Studies)—in which they researched many issues
considered taboo by the party: the influence of the Catholic Church on Czech
national consciousness; religious history more generally; Masaryk’s social
philosophy; Czech collaboration with the Nazis; Czech anti-Semitism. See Jan
K˘ren, “Czech Historiography at a Turning Point,” East European Politics and
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Identity and Trauma
35
Societies 6, no. 2 (spring 1992): 152–69; H. Gordon Skilling, “Czech and Slovak
Independent Historical Writing, 1982–1984,” Kosmas 5, no. 1 (summer 1986),
157–61; idem, “Czech and Slovak Independent Historical Writing, 1985–1987,”
Kosmas 7, nos. 1–2 (summer/winter 1988): 213–18; ˘Sime˘cka, “Black Holes.”
45. Historian Ján Mlynárik, quoted in Abrams, “Morality, Wisdom and Revision,”
251.
46. On “living within a lie,” see Havel, “The Power of the Powerless.”
47. Hacking, Rewriting the Soul, 183–97.
48. The concept of dissimulation was brilliantly elaborated by Oleg Kharkhordin,
“The Soviet Individual: Genealogy of a Dissimulating Animal,” in Mike Featherstone,
Scott Lash and Roland Robertson, eds., Global Modernities (London, 1995),
209–26. But the canonical analysis was provided by Havel’s famous “greengrocer”
fable. The greengrocer hangs a sign in his shop window: “workers of the world
unite!” He doesn’t really believe in what the sign says, but simply uses it to signal
that he is a good citizen. In this way, however, he forfeits responsibility for the
truth of his public words and deeds. See Havel, “The Power of the Powerless,”
31. This analysis was then repeated in many of his other pamphlets and in various
variations by many of his dissident colleagues. See Václav Havel, “Politics and
Conscience,” in Ján Vladislav, ed., Václav Havel or Living in Truth (London,
1986), 136–57; Petr Fidelius (pseudonym for Karel Palek), “The Mirror of
Communist Discourse,” in Marketa Goetz-Stankiewicz, ed., Good-Bye, Samizdat:
Twenty Years of Czechoslovak Underground Writing (Evanston, IL, 1992), 193–
204; Miroslav Kus´y, “Chartism and Real Socialism,” in Keane, ed., The Power of
the Powerless, 152–77; Watson, “Introduction,” 15–16.
49. “The representatives of this movement consider it vital to prevent a situation
emerging in which citizens, out of fear of the future, would attempt to bring back
some aspects of the old regime.” Ji˘rí Dientsbier and Pavel Rychetsk´y, leaders of
the Civic Movement, quoted in Lidové Noviny, 2 March 1991.
50. Rosenberg, The Haunted Land, xviii.
51. Hacking, Rewriting the Soul, 5–6, 113–27.
52. Borneman, Settling Accounts, 6–8, 23–25; Vojt˘ech Cepl, “The Transformation
of Hearts and Minds in Eastern Europe,” Cato Journal 17, no. 2 (fall
1997): 229–34; Václav Benda, “These are not Normal Times: Interview with
Václav Benda,” East European Reporter 5, no. 2 (Feb. 1992): 42–43.
53. I put “conservative” in quotation marks, because in the volatile political
situation after the fall of communism, the division between “conservatives” and
“liberals” was up for grabs, and in many respects was determined in the course of
the struggle over memory. For more about this dynamic, see Eyal, The Origins of
Postcommunist Elites, 154–60.
54. Václav Klaus, quoted in Respekt, no. 13 (1–12 June 1990). On lustration,
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Gil Eyal
36
see John P. Moran, “The Communist Torturers of Eastern Europe: Prosecute
and Punish or Forgive and Forget?” Communist and Post-Communist Studies 27,
no. 1 (March 1994): 95–109; and Carol Skalnik Leff, The Czech and Slovak
Republics: Nation versus State (Boulder, CO, 1997), 87.
55. Ji˘rina ˘Siklova, “Lustration, or the Czech Way of Screening,” East European
Constitutional Review 5, no. 1 (winter 1996): 57–62. The term “lustration” was
adopted from the Latin. It referred to the Roman ritual, performed by the censors,
of bringing sacrifice every 5 years to appease the Gods. Lumir Klime˘s, Slovnik
cizich slov (Dictionary of foreign words) (Prague, 1992).
56. Rosenberg, The Haunted Land, 34–35, 39–42, 71–72, 92–96; Ben Webb,
“The Prague Spring Takes a Fall,” New Statesman, 27 Aug. 1993, 18–20.
57. Interview with Zden˘ek Kessler in Martin Komárek, GEN—100 ˘Cech˚u dne˘ska
(GEN—100 Czech days) (Prague, 1994–1995); Pavel Dostal, “Are they ColorBlind?”
East European Reporter 5, no. 2 (Feb. 1992): 43; Ján Kavan, “Imperfect
and Wrong,” ibid., 5, no. 1 (Jan. 1992), 61; Rosenberg, The Haunted Land,
367–73. Or see, for example, the debate caused by the publication in Poland of
Jan Gross’s book about the pogrom in Jedwabne, and Adam Michnik’s call for
individual Poles to assume responsibility, not for the event, but for its memory:
Adam Michnik, “Poles and the Jews: How Deep the Guilt?” New York Times, 17
March 2001, A15–A16.
58. Ji˘rina ˘Siklova, “Dilemmas of Transition: A View from Prague,” Peace Review
4, no. 4 (winter 1992): 24–28.
59. Tamar Lewin, “For Nations Traumatized by the Past, New Remedies,”
New York Times, 29 July 2001, 4.
60. Steven M. Weine, “Much Too Much History to Bear: Is Memory Possible
or Helpful in the Aftermath of Ethnic Cleansing?” Transitions-on-Line, http://
archive.tol.cz/transitions/muchtoo1.html (last accessed 17 Feb. 2004).
61. On Memorial, see John Varoli, “Russia Prefers to Forget,” Transitions-onLine,
http://archive.tol.cz/transitions/ruspref1.html (last accessed 17 Feb. 2004).
62. Ilan Pappé, “Parashat Katz ve-Tantura: Historiyah, historiografiyah, mishpat
ve-akademiyah” (The Katz and Tantura affair: History, historiography, law and
the academy), Teoriyah u-Vikoret, no. 20 (spring 2002): 191–217.
63. Rosenberg, The Haunted Land, 117–18.
64. Quoted in Varoli, “Russia Prefers to Forget.”
65. Michnik, “Poles and the Jews,” A16.
66. Zygmunt Bauman, Legislators and Interpreters: On Modernity, PostModernity
and Intellectuals (Cambridge, 1987).
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