On Memory

Recently, I have leafed through my old journals from the time when I studied at the University of Chicago, and noticed that I took a few classes that dealt with the notion of memory and our relation to it. My immediate response was a quiet, private smile. Emotionally, it felt good that I was part of such classes but after that I started feeling a strange detachment from that time. I was not certain why was this happening. It was as if everything I did back then had to do with an entirely different person.

Memory of the University of Chicago classes made me think of my own memories in general and suddenly there, in front of me, were select “photographs” of war in Bosnia, which reflected all I had seen during the siege of Sarajevo. I found myself sweating and feeling anxious as if I didn’t want to go to that part of my life, and for the first time, I wanted this life to be someone else’s. In other words, I wouldn’t have minded if all those memories belonged to a different human being altogether, yet the absurdity of the situation kept tugging at me. And I kept hearing its voice.

After all the physical manifestation, I found myself wrapped in fear and “self-hiding” and then came the questions. Why am I “stuck” with this memory, with this experience? It wasn’t a complete moment of “woe is me,” but at the same time, there was certainly an element of self-pity, a Job-esque cry. As I experienced my own memories of war, I forced my mind to take a different turn and step outside of itself. This exit led me to gaze at others. As much as we don’t want to admit this, all of us have a same experience of memory. We are led into its maze, and we are attempting to piece the past with the present. The manifestation of pain and the grotesque may be quite different, however the questions and emotions that are borne out of memory are universal.

One of the questions that comes up has to do with the acceptance of a particular memory and finally taking the responsibility of it. What I mean by this is not that we must assume guilt for an act that we did not commit but rather that memory can become a vehicle that moves us closer to the illusion of life, or to the reality of life. Ultimately, it is our free choice that plays a great role in all of this. We are to move through this life with the knowledge that universally we will always ask similar, if not the same, questions about our own lives (whether they deal with past, present or even future). It is precisely this universality that gives us hope that is sometimes absent from the memory.

Questions about present should arise as we remember and as we feel compelled to record memories. What happens “when memory speaks” (as the title of Jill Ker Conway’s book says)? It presents itself in front of us and tells us in which direction it wants to go and then it is up to us whether we want to go with it or leave it. The point is that if we decide to speak of particular memories (especially those that are painful), they should somehow be connected to our present lives and the decisions we make. Memory oftentimes leads to a “discovery” of identity that remained hidden simply because we chose not to see it (such as St. Augustine’s Confessions). Or perhaps we were not ready to see it. In either case, I am finding that memories cannot be ignored and a new meaning must arise, as long as we are not too self-indulgent in them (such as Jean-Jacques Rousseau).

In the end, it seems that memory wants to create a narrative, which allows us to explore our own imagination and the imagination of others. It also keeps certain aspects of the history alive, which need to be remembered. What if we had forgotten Auschwitz (or any other concentration camp for that matter)? What would happen if I choose to repeatedly ignore memory of war in Bosnia? Memory allows us to create a narrative that explores the ethical and aesthetical of the present and saves us from a historically and philosophically damaging “collective amnesia” (as said by Elif Shafak). We can only remain hopeful that we will be able to not only recognize the grotesque of the grim memory but also see beyond it.