I try to contemplate the circumstances and the commonality of the lives of those who suffered and died. I try to breathe mindfully and appreciate the the feel and texture of the momument and the environment in which it is placed. It’s hard to look at or watch others during this time of contemplation.
I think the best thing is to walk around and take in everything that has been done in a quiet mood. This allows you to get lost in what it is that you are viewing. Since most of the sites are for sad reasons, its important to try and get an idea of what they must have gone through. In general its just a good idea to stay fairly quiet because you never know who is next to you viewing a site and they could be offended by any action you make that is anything short of total respect for what you are viewing.
I visit the graves of those I love personally or those I admire. Sometimes I reflect on the trauma & the loss more than other times. I think it is important to remember the dead.
In a village in southern Kalimantan I was involved for a short time in a memorial ceremony that was both haunting and powerful due to its communal power and essence.
In a house where an elderly man was dying a number of men met in the late evening. Through the night they work building a simple board coffin. The activity is empowered by the fact the men drank local rice wine as they work.
Touch seems to be such a huge part of memorializing. I often see people, and know that I too, touch things at the sites they visit. The wall, the grass, the dirt. I don’t know if this touch is a grounding agent to remind myself why I am there, and where THERE is, or if it’s the need to connect more fully, feel more sympathy, for what happened there before you.
After reviewing the list of locations and realizing that I have not been to any of them, I now see that my primary practice “at” these sites is complete avoidance. Is this expressive of my American midwest-centric life, general skepticism toward tourism, (repressed) rabid individualism, or straight-up denial? Is it a privilege to think that I have not suffered trauma, at least not of a form sufficiently shared to merit a destination marker, or is this willful ignorance? Does lack of engagement with the traumas of others express lack of empathy?
There seems to be a need for silent contemplation at these sites. People seek that quiet moment, that introspective and personal space, which strangely, is expected to happen in a public space, within the community of other visitors. There are times when this ‘mourning’ becomes a token mourning, almost as if that were the etiquette expected at such sites. Children especially, are initiated into the practice of reverence at such sites, told how to behave, to be quiet, to move in a certain way – ‘in memory of’. How one conducts oneself at memorials becomes a norm, regardless of whether you authenticate the feelings involved. At what point in time does the immediacy of a memorial start to fade away, and become a monument?
I try to contemplate the circumstances and the commonality of the lives of those who suffered and died. I try to breathe mindfully and appreciate the the feel and texture of the momument and the environment in which it is placed. It’s hard to look at or watch others during this time of contemplation.
I think the best thing is to walk around and take in everything that has been done in a quiet mood. This allows you to get lost in what it is that you are viewing. Since most of the sites are for sad reasons, its important to try and get an idea of what they must have gone through. In general its just a good idea to stay fairly quiet because you never know who is next to you viewing a site and they could be offended by any action you make that is anything short of total respect for what you are viewing.
I visit the graves of those I love personally or those I admire. Sometimes I reflect on the trauma & the loss more than other times. I think it is important to remember the dead.
In a village in southern Kalimantan I was involved for a short time in a memorial ceremony that was both haunting and powerful due to its communal power and essence.
In a house where an elderly man was dying a number of men met in the late evening. Through the night they work building a simple board coffin. The activity is empowered by the fact the men drank local rice wine as they work.
Touch seems to be such a huge part of memorializing. I often see people, and know that I too, touch things at the sites they visit. The wall, the grass, the dirt. I don’t know if this touch is a grounding agent to remind myself why I am there, and where THERE is, or if it’s the need to connect more fully, feel more sympathy, for what happened there before you.
After reviewing the list of locations and realizing that I have not been to any of them, I now see that my primary practice “at” these sites is complete avoidance. Is this expressive of my American midwest-centric life, general skepticism toward tourism, (repressed) rabid individualism, or straight-up denial? Is it a privilege to think that I have not suffered trauma, at least not of a form sufficiently shared to merit a destination marker, or is this willful ignorance? Does lack of engagement with the traumas of others express lack of empathy?
There seems to be a need for silent contemplation at these sites. People seek that quiet moment, that introspective and personal space, which strangely, is expected to happen in a public space, within the community of other visitors. There are times when this ‘mourning’ becomes a token mourning, almost as if that were the etiquette expected at such sites. Children especially, are initiated into the practice of reverence at such sites, told how to behave, to be quiet, to move in a certain way – ‘in memory of’. How one conducts oneself at memorials becomes a norm, regardless of whether you authenticate the feelings involved. At what point in time does the immediacy of a memorial start to fade away, and become a monument?