Masako Fukui
Fancy a dose of death, disaster or suffering on your next holiday? It’s not as far fetched as you might think. Around the world, more and more tourists are heading to sites linked with murder, tragedy and even genocide. Is it thoughtful pilgrimage or voyeurism? Masako Fukui investigates.
Like the thousands of Australians now at Gallipoli, more and more people are travelling to places that you can describe as dark.
Dubbed dark tourism, holidaying to sites of grim commemoration is one of the fastest growing sectors in the international tourism market, and its popularity is raising new moral and ethical questions about the meaning of death and memorialisation.
Our memorials don’t rise up against injustice. We rise up against injustice. We shirk that responsibility when we go to a memorial instead of doing something.JAMES YOUNG, UNIVERSITY OF MASSACHUSETTS AMHERST
‘I really want to go to Auschwitz,’ says Irit Rosen, who wants to see the barracks where her mother Eva once slept. ‘I guess it’s making it real.’
Visiting the former Nazi concentration camp site in Poland is a form of pilgrimage for many Jews like Rosen. It’s also motivated by a desire to understand or to ‘make real’ the Holocaust, arguably 20th century’s greatest act of human evil.
Even for those who have no intimate connection to Jewish history, Auschwitz and other confronting destinations are now de rigueur on many holiday itineraries. Why this willingness to confront ourselves morally?
A myriad of destinations, from Elvis Presley’s Graceland to New York’s National September 11 Memorial and Rwanda’s sites of genocide fall within the dark tourism spectrum, so it’s difficult to generalise what motivates people to choose greyer shades of travel.
Richard Sharpley, professor of tourism and development at the University of Central Lancashire in the UK, suggests that in the increasingly secular west, people are replacing the void left by the rejection of structured religious practice with new forms of meaning making.
Dark tourism gives people the opportunity not only to grieve publicly, but also to explore their own responses to seemingly inexplicable human suffering, even unimaginable evil.
Of course, motives to travel to the conceptually dark can be just plain frivolous.
‘Some forms of tourism are undoubtedly driven by a degree of voyeurism and schadenfreude,’ says Sharpley.
The camera-toting tourists who descended upon the devastated Italian city of L’Aquila in the immediate aftermath of the 2009 earthquake, for example, are indeed a case of rampant voyeurism.
Mostly, however, our gawking is less consequential than people fear. That’s because most dark destinations—whether they’re ruins or memorials—resonate with the material palpability of the tragic events that they represent. It’s hard not to be moved.
‘Auschwitz is so powerfully present,’ says James Young, distinguished professor at University of Massachusetts Amherst in the US. ‘The ruins are very, very moving because they suggest themselves as extensions of what actually took place there.’
According to Young, the remnants of the barracks or the gas chamber tell the story of the Holocaust almost too well. Artefacts like bins of human hair, mountains of shoes or discarded eyeglasses that once belonged to prisoners are extremely powerful, but that power can be misleading.
‘Artefacts have always been used to endow a particular narrative with the naturalness of the artefact’s form,’ explains Young.
It’s easy to mistake the artefact for actual ‘living proof of whatever’s being explained there’.
IMAGE: HIROSHIMA'S A-BOMB DOME IS THE RUINS OF THE BUILDING CLOSEST TO THE HYPOCENTER OF THE NUCLEAR BOMB DROPPED ON THE CITY BY THE US AT THE END OF WWII. (BRIAN_YTSU; FLICKR.COM/CC/BY-NC.ND/2.0)
The same goes for grandiose memorials and historical monuments. In the past 30 years a number of formidable edifices like Maya Lin’s Vietnam Veteran’s Memorial in Washington, Peter Eisenman’s Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe in Berlin or New York’s National September 11 Memorial have become regular tourist attractions.
Brimming with artistic intent, these memorials may provoke or console, but mostly they inspire awe for being aesthetically intriguing.
The almost deafening waterfalls at the September 11 Memorial, designed by architect Michael Arad, for example, are both disturbing and hopeful. Water is a symbol of life, explains Young, but the fact that the cascading waterfalls never actually fill the voids left by the twin towers suggests a profound loss that can never be filled. The sheer size of the waterfalls and the audacious vision of the memorial can be stirring.
Therein lies the problem of materiality. By externalising memory in material form, there’s always the danger that we relieve ourselves of the moral challenge of remembrance—that once we leave the memorial site, we allow ourselves to forget.
Young issues a warning ‘for visitors not to allow themselves to be overwhelmed by affect’ and miss out on historical explanations and meanings. In other words, as tourists to dark sites, what’s expected of us is not just empathy but a degree of critical historical consciousness. The burden of memory is on us.
That’s a considerable burden given memorials have very little to do with history, let alone historical authenticity. Sites of commemoration are expressions of collective memory, usually contemporary narrative concerns like mateship, heroism, victimhood or the loss of innocence.
Just listen to the narratives surrounding this year’s Anzac Day. History is merely the excuse to tell the stories of bravery, martyrdom, mateship and national pride.
Mythmaking is not the issue, however, the real problem with dark tourism, according to Young, is that we build memorials and visit sites of commemoration without doing anything about current, ongoing persecutions like genocide. Young alludes to the most important part of remembrance—future action.
‘Our memorials don’t rise up against injustice. We rise up against injustice. We shirk that responsibility when we go to a memorial instead of doing something,’ he says.
This particular challenge is left out of most travel brochures and guidebooks. As dark travel becomes more and more popular, there’s a possibility that it will become just another product we consume so we can vicariously experience the gravitas of dramatic events.
Perhaps then this Anzac Day, an idea might be for us to consider an addendum to the familiar ‘lest we forget’. ‘Lest we don’t act’ might not be catchy, but will the sentiment expressed catch on?
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