Assignment, revisited

One day, when I was in middle school, I went to a museum as part of the school trip. Next day, as an assignment, I had to write an essay on it. I am not sure what I wrote, but I am quite sure it was nothing extraordinary. It was probably about the bus ride, a few things we saw, what I ate, what my friends said, and how grateful I was to have this opportunity.

Over the next few years, I got a chance to visit a few more museums around the country, including the ones in Lahore and Taxila. Going to these places, I felt that a museum was a place that displayed some precious artefacts, celebrated the glory of the past and recognised the contribution of important people. And that was it. Some museums that I went to were in better state than others, but they all had the same central theme of celebration. If I had to write another essay after every visit, it would have been probably just a longer version of one that I wrote when I was in middle school. None of those trips, by the way, were particularly inspiring.

I started loving museums much later in life when I learned the basic lesson that a museum is not just a window (into one's past), it is also a mirror (reflecting who one is). It is a place not just to talk about what an incredible journey a country has had, but also how it also took several wrong turns.

I have been fortunate to go to the Museum of Memory and Human Rights in Santiago, Chile that focuses on the tragedy, trauma and injustice of the Pinochet years. The day I was there, there were school children visiting, looking at letters of other Chilean children just like them, who wrote to their parents who were never going to come back. It is hard not to feel a deep pit in one's stomach looking at the photos, letters and toys of the traumatised children. I have been to the Royal Museum of Central Africa outside Brussels that tries to confront the horrors of Belgium's colonial past. It is far from perfect, but it is impossible to leave without feeling the pain of the Congolese people. Last week, I went to the National Constitution Center in Philadelphia and spent most of my time in the exhibits that focused on the civil war and the position of the confederate states in defending slavery. Even a century and a half later, the letters by some of the confederate leaders are full of vile and disgusting emotions and abhorrent ideas.

There is much to celebrate in history, art and culture in our midst. The land is full of incredible achievements of remarkable individuals. All of those stories are important and must be told. But our story, like that of any other country, is not monochromatic. And we should not represent it as a dull shade of a single colour. There are golden moments and patches of dark. Interspersed in the tapestry of time, there are deep wounds of injustice and exclusion, memory of trauma and tragedy. Even within these stories of pain, there are tales of bravery, dignity, decency and the commitment to the highest human values. Living amongst us are plenty of people who, or whose families, have lived those moments. They too are part of our history. They too have a lot to offer. All of these stories also deserve to be told and preserved.

If I were to write a letter about a museum to my younger self instructing him how to write his essay, I would tell him to imagine the museum as a jigsaw puzzle that tells the story of the country. To imagine each piece, beautifully carved with intricate patterns representing a period with honesty. I would ask my younger self to recognise which pieces are there, and wonder which ones are missing.