Historical memory and the necessity of remembrance

On September 18, 1985, Dr Julio César Strassera stood in front of an Argentinian courtroom and delivered a heartfelt speech on the horrors of the country’s military dictatorship. Acting as the Chief Prosecutor against Jorge Rafael Videla and his advisory cabinet in the famous Trial of the Juntas, Strassera uttered the words that have, since then, been embedded in Argentinian history: “I wish to use a phrase that is not my own because it already belongs to all the Argentine people. Your Honours: Never again.” As the room erupted into applause, the sentiments of memory, non-repetition, and truth clarification became mantras for years to come, both in the country and the region as a whole. What Strassera did in that trial, beyond pursuing the judicialisation of a former head of state in a civil court, cemented Latin America’s mission to reckon with its own violent past.

From Guatemala’s civil war to Chile’s military dictatorship to Colombia’s internal conflict, Latin America is a turbulent territory. By the end of the nineteenth century, the region’s most prevalent regime types were military dictatorships and civilian oligarchies, which inevitably created the sociopolitical basis for the struggles that arose in the following years. Today (in spite of rapidly decreasing statistics), Latin American countries account for a third of all murders in the world. The continuous presence of criminal groups has aggravated existing humanitarian emergencies. It comes as no surprise then that the region’s violent image has shaped the discourse around its developmental struggles, prompting the Global North to ignore how these societies, battered by waves of conflict, have embraced their violent history in the pursuit of non- repetition.

Known in academia as “historical memory,” the politics of remembrance emphasises the necessity to recognise national instances of violence. For the most part, it seeks to aid the victims, persecute the perpetrators, and clarify the truth through an attempt to achieve national reconciliation. Nevertheless, in my view, it speaks to so much more than that. Historical memory necessitates a society’s collective reckoning with its national past,   as   demonstrated by Chile’s Museum of National Memory and Human Rights, Colombia’s   Centre for Historical Memory, and Argentina’s National Memory Archive. Thus, reducing remembrance   to   the    acknowledgement of injustices is insufficient, for historical memory only transcends time when it is constantly and justly commemorated. It must be able to breach the realm of political discussion and become part of a common national understanding by occupying physical and academic spaces. For example, Chile has dedicated an entire museum to documenting the atrocities of Pinochet’s regime, ensuring that memory surpasses the theoretical sphere in favour of occupying physical space. By allocating a portion of the city to depict a turbulent part of the country’s history, Chileans who walk past the museum will be confronted, even unconsciously, with the need to remember. Similarly, the Colombian and Argentine archives ensure that memory permeates every aspect of academia as historiography must face the current pursuit  of  truth and compassion every time it discusses national stories. Ultimately, by constantly reinforcing the necessity to confront the past, these countries achieve the necessary element to adequately treat historical memory: consistency.

Evidently, there are multiple reasons why the persistent remembrance of violent historical events might make people uncomfortable. But, I maintain that there is a moral value and a civic duty in recollection. As a matter of fact, historical memory should not be a theme of political debate, even when remembering is an inherently political act. The past should be thoroughly studied and rightfully understood since future generations must be taught what happened, even if they are awful memories. The nation’s tenets and the establishment of its future path lie in the recognition of history, however brutal and unappealing it may be. In a way, a nation without its history is nonexistent, and we must not hide under the façade of perfectionism—every country has its own previous troubles and is responsible for avoiding raising ignorant civilians. After all, every member of a given political community has been affected, in one way or another, by its past, and not everyone has the luxury of dismissing it.

It is because of this that memory— in its very essence—is political. Those who control, erase, and direct a collective understanding of violence dictate who deserves to be mourned and who does not, as history and its consequences are altered to fit personal narratives. There is nothing more dangerous than people who refuse to reckon with their national past since they wield the power to eradicate the pain of those who have no choice but to dwell on theirs. If this were centred on Chile, Argentina, or Colombia, the denial of historical memory signifies the dismissal of thousands upon thousands of internal victims in favour of a fabricated narrative. What is worse, this negation is a despicable insult to those who shared their suffering at the hands of the perpetrator—be this the state, an armed group, or systemic injustice—and to those who are no longer able to complain.

Therefore, this is an invitation to do with histories of violence what Latin America has attempted to do with theirs, etching into memory all its painful details. Historical memory is not about glorifying violence but about approaching it with the respect and solemnity it deserves. In many instances, history is fond of sugarcoating violence, but this is a reminder that certain situations, like the forced disappearances under Videla, the murders under Pinochet, and the extrajudicial killings in Colombia, should be told as crudely as possible. Memory only works when we internalise its full impact, despite how upsetting it may be.

There is honour in remembering our national history since we owe it to everyone who has been lost in the pages of historical omissions, either by evil intent or mere ignorance. In my case, I strive for remembrance in the name of the weeping “Mothers of La Plaza de Mayo,” for the victims in Chile’s National Stadium, and for the peasants caught in Antioquia’s crossfire. It is for them that we have to remember so that we can all collectively embrace Strassera’s closing words and claim “never again.”