Nu zijn we veilig, hier in deze tent, vandaag. [...] Maar stel je voor dat er een dag komt dat je dan toch... dat het niet meer zo is, dat je moet kiezen. Kies je dan voor jezelf, voor je gezin ... of ga je je leven wagen [en] anderen in huis nemen? Ben je een held? Of ben je, net als iedereen, gewoon geen held?
Now we are safe, here in this tent, today. [...] But imagine that there’ll be a day that you, after all ... that it isn’t like that anymore, that you’ll have to choose. Will you choose for yourself, for your family [...] or will you put your life on the line [and] take others into your home? Are you a hero? Or are you, just like everyone else, simply not a hero?
-Spinvis, prior to performing Tienduizend zwaluwen, ‘Ten Thousand Swallows’ (2018).
Interestingly, the amount of museum space in Northern Ireland devoted to the world wars is similar to that of the Troubles. Let us deal with this observation by means of two questions: how are the world wars depicted in museums? To emphasise particularities and open up the debate, I will compare the popular world war narratives on the island of Ireland with those in the Netherlands. To an extent, these public histories are reflections of the national identity and the imagined geographies at play in the minds of its members. This comparison is of importance because as a conflict narrative, the Troubles are competing with the world wars for the public’s attention. Furthermore, the world war era and the Troubles are often understood in each other’s light. Lastly, in light of a new Troubles museum, this comparison sheds light on challenges faced when dealing with conflict museums. The British Empire and the United Kingdom were useful constructs to battle German aggression in 1914-1945. As a result, the world wars are histories for loyalists and unionists to easily rally around and emphasise the positive sides of Britishness. To the nationalist Irish, it distracts too much from their national emancipation and republicanism. By a majority of the Dutch, WWII has been dubbed the most important event in their history (NIOD, 2018). But in addition to honouring and remembering victims like the British, the Dutch appear more invited to rethink their own sense of nation, unlike Britons.
76 i. Two Commemorations
2019’s main ceremony of Remembrance Sunday at Belfast City Hall felt disjointed in several respects. The Royal Irish Regiment (RIR) provided the military band and a third of the honour guard positioned along City Hall’s western wall. The Navy and the Air Force made up the remaining two thirds. Four additional RIR members stood near the cenotaph, each on a corner. Hoarse drill commands could be heard, upon which the honour guard shouldered arms, ordered arms and executed other movements in unison. The shouty manner in which military personnel use their voices, creates two things. In the first place such emphasises that the armed forces comprise a distinct sphere from the rest of society. Second, it presents that distinct sphere as orderly if not rigid, martial if not aggressive, controlling if not controlled. Hardly any words were spoken in an every-day sense, but for one clerical figure who proposed “let us pray”. It was tough to say what portion of the crowd that had gathered (or rather, was still gathering) really answered the invite to prayer with an actual spiritual thought. For all one could say, most people just lowered their gaze and recalled death and war, lost and loved ones. At one point during the one-hour event, a car passed through adjacent Howard Street and Bedford Street, a
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man emerging from its window and crying out something unintelligible. Without much ado the crowd readily ignored it, but apparently, respect for the occasion is not omnipresent. Officials from several organisations (state and non-state) laid poppy laurels. Many of the public were wearing poppies too, both cloth ones and metal pins.
Half a year earlier, in the Dutch city of Nijmegen Dodenherdenking, or the May 4 ‘Commemoration of the Dead’, was an entirely different experience. The mayor, Christian- democrat Hubert Bruls, occupied a very central position. In his politicised speech he actively denounced nationalist movements on the rise throughout the continent, who he says are working counter to a united and peaceful Europe. Eight members of the National Reserve Corps forming the honour guard bore no arms during the ceremony. Neither the city itself nor the province it is in has a connection to this particular unit. Granted, Dutch full-time service regiments do have names that refer to localities such as Gelderland, Friesland and Limburg. Also, Nijmegen is not a capital of anything nor the centre spot of a wider ethnic group. If anything, the city is often stamped leftist and constitutes one end of a region that one author has recently dubbed the “Greenbelt”. Above average, it is inhabited by voters that support socialist and environmentalist parties. At a rough 90 degree angle, this region crosses the conservative Bible Belt, and stretches from Amsterdam, through Utrecht and Wageningen, and finally – by bridge, one could say – to Nijmegen (Voogd, de, 2019). The ceremony is held close to the Nijmegen end of this Waal bridge, apt because of its military value during the time primarily commemorated. Instead of a sea of poppies, a narrator tells the crowd precisely by whom and for whom laurel wreaths are placed at the war memorial: a particular wreath is for, say, members of the military and the merchant navy who lost their lives. Other short though specific moments during a ceremony are thus reserved for minorities who were murdered in labour camps and extermination camps, or civilians who lost their lives due to war-related starvation and disease. Instead of the stately cenotaph with classical pillars in an arch around
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it, the central monument is a male figure walking hurriedly holding up a tattered flag, looking over his shoulder.
ii. Constructivist Nationalism & The Freedom Museum
The latter commemoration practice ties into two elements of Dutch nationalism, namely pragmatism and the ironic element ‘anti-nationalism’. This pragmatism is described as trying to give as many people as much of what they want, ideally keeping the peace as a consequence (Amaya-Akkermans, 2014). Therefore, civilians, the military and minorities should be treated with a clear separation though within the same context. Dutch anti-nationalist nationalism has some inherent contradictions. Many Dutch people harbour suspicion of uniforms, (militarist) authority, national institutions, grotesque emotive displays of patriotism organised by the state or voiced by an individual. Although many in the Netherlands very likely have a ‘weak spot’ for their nation, as one author wrote, an overt display of love for the nation is frowned upon and quickly ridiculed, or instils feelings of awkwardness. A committee of academics appointed by the government found that Dutch history and identity could and should not to be essentialised. That, if anything, was its sole essence. The sense of nation is to be forever revised, as new influx, social divides and viewpoints arise (Kešić & Duyvendak, 2016). It is however wrong to think that Dutch pragmatism means that their doings are solely logical, calculated, cold and devoid of romanticism. Apparently, there are war memories and histories that are valued so deeply that a large and significant portion of the Dutch populace goes to great lengths to canalise them into very clear-cut commemorations. In all, The Commemoration of the Dead seems somewhat of an exception to supposed Dutch suspicion of state authority, the military and nationalism, albeit only a little.
It is rather commonplace among people in the Netherlands to ask one another whether one would have been ‘good’ or ‘bad’ during ‘the war’, or what you would have done during a foreign occupation at all. Sometimes in jest, as often in all seriousness. This behaviour has its
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academic counterpart, perhaps even its origin. Leading historian Loe de Jong wrote a huge series of books on the war, but was criticised for thinking too much in this dichotomy (Haasnoot & Houwink ten Cate, 2001). Gradually, the experience in western, continental Europe has been increasingly presented as complicated in essence. The Bevrijdingsmuseum (‘Liberation Museum’) in Groesbeek displayed a temporary exhibition on the Waffen-SS during late 2017 and early 2018. In historiography too, new attention has emerged for Dutch members of this multinational fighting force, challenging the idea of the Netherlands as an essentially occupied, pro-Allied country (Roekel, van, 2019). However on the other hand, Allied soldiers reaching the Netherlands in 1944-1945 tend to judge the Dutch as very helpful, relieved and grateful. The lack of mountainous terrain or woodlands forced the Dutch to fall back on administrative resistance of forging documents and hiding people in danger in the attic – the Sten gun-wielding saboteur was more prominent elsewhere. Also, throughout the war, the Germans remained frustrated as the neighbouring ‘Germanic brethren people’ refused to join the Nazi cause en
masse (Beevor, 2019 (2018)).
This broad spectrum of political choices is explored by the museum, which changed its name to Vrijheidsmuseum (‘Freedom Museum’) in 2019. One section of the establishment appreciates the tough reality of the war in a very accessible way. In it, the visitor is confronted with scenarios that were faced by many individual people during the actual war. They include a police officer who has doubts about serving the occupier’s regime, and a family that ponders the idea of using their teenage child in (non-violent) acts of survival and resistance. Politically the most awkward one is about a young man who wishes to avoid Arbeitseinsatz (forced labour employment) by joining the Waffen-SS. After the short narratives, the visitor is presented with three options and is invited to think about what she or he would have done, and what the outcome might have been. Although the specific names in the scenarios are fictitious, the different outcomes are explained by actual historic examples – with both happy and bad endings. The temporary exhibition of 2020 dealt with Allied looting in the wake of Market
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Garden. Again, the museum sought to draw attention to narratives that complicate the simple and traditional stories.
The extent to which the museum embodies constructivist nationalism is that it very much invites the individual visitor to think about another individual in her or his time and environment. Given the very low threshold – one only has to push a button to make a choice in the trilemma – it is bound to have a large range. Although indirectly and canalised, it still fits the constructivist mindset of allowing the public to form their own opinions and denying singular truth. As such the Freedom Museum seems part of a wider movement that focusses on individualist story-telling. The War Museum Overloon (Oorlogsmuseum Overloon) offers mostly traditional military history, displaying a huge amount of weaponry used in all the major European theatres. In recent years, however, it started to ask people to put themselves in the shoes of those who lived through 1940-1945. Although still focussing on military equipment and institutions, a recent temporary exhibition in the National Military Museum (Nationaal
Militair Museum) focussed heavily on the sole lives of a Canadian and a German soldier. The
most famous WWII tourist attraction in the Netherlands is based on an individual too. Anne Frank’s hidden home has garnered so much attention because her vividly penned-down experiences are so widely known. Visitors might not be able to imagine an abstract foreign nation in full, but might come to understand one fellow human being in a rather intimate manner.
During the above described commemoration service, five national flags were flown, being the Dutch, American, Canadian, Polish and the Union Jack, emphasising the liberated and their liberators. At the end of the permanent exhibition, the Freedom Museum too urges an internationalist take in a very simple manner. A series of black rectangular metal bars denote casualties per country during WWII. The one for the Soviet Union is especially striking as it is easily mistaken for a supporting pillar of the museum building itself. Given that some bars are under a feet high this mere statistic alone is baffling. Stunning to Dutch people too is the loss
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of life in the former overseas empire: over 2,5 million Javanese subjects perished in 1942-1949 (NIOD, n.d.). After all, in addition to informing, this museum too commemorates, and seeks to instil respect. But not solely for the individuals you just met, but for all who suffered the human catastrophe that was WWII.
In the end, however, Dutch public history and memory remain far from perfect. The Dutch were unable to see the bad in their actions in the last major colonial war of 1945-1949, caused by a similar sense of anti-nationalism that prevails to this day. As a neutral country severely victimised by German nationalist extremism, how could such a people be anything but a benevolent imperial overlord? Weren’t Indonesian nationalists the same as the German extremists? Although Asian perspectives are on the rise, many Dutch people prefer to retreat into the comfortable role of the victim (Romijn, 2020). That said, as a WWII narrative, the Netherlands can teach a broader perspective: individualist, constructivist and internationalist.
iii. Ulster Identity: An Essentialist Nationalism
Rather than treating the public as someone to be guided, on the surface the Belfast commemoration experience seemed more open to individual interpretation. In part, this ‘open source’ kind of public history is created through phrases like “Lest we forget”, leaving to the beholder what she or he wishes to remember. Yet, like the near omnipresent poppy, they are also pretty vague nodes of recognition. What exactly do they encompass? What exactly are we supposed to not forget? Who gets to decide that? Like national flags, they suggest that we are all attached to the same values, yet it also leaves implicit and unsaid what exactly those values are. Britishness in Ulster however, as Brian Graham & Peter Shirlow wrote, is internally divided along the lines of a concept they show a hostile allergy for: marxism.
Within Ulster Britishness, working-class loyalism differs from more middle-class unionism, Graham & Shirlow explained, using Somme commemorations as case. The former feel a greater attachment to Ulster or even more local entities, the latter focusses on the union
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that the entire UK is, and is more London-oriented. This reveals an additional problem (Graham & Shirlow, 2002, pp. 885-887). It upholds the myth that UK identity is an inclusive family of nations: people have been excluded based on their Irishness or, more recently, immigrant background (McVeigh, 2015).
Ironically, loyalist working-class communities too have oft been forgotten. And in that very aspect, the memory of the Battle of the Somme fits very well, if not furthers that sentiment and outlook. This image consists of an Ulster protestant people that sacrificed life and limbs for Britain, thus demonstrating their military prowess and loyalty. Yet, prior to 1914, the Ulster British feared Westminster might grant Ireland Home Rule, amounting to a betrayal. Right after the war, they felt their government did very little to enhance their living conditions at home. During the Troubles, negotiating with the Republic of Ireland and the IRA again showed that to the government in London, Ulster was by-passable in favour of other interests (Graham
Figure 30: A mural containing symbolisms of the Red Hand Commando, a loyalist paramilitary group, next to a 1914 poem by Laurence Binyon. Picture by Jean Querelle.
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& Shirlow, 2002, p. 894). Ulster loyalism follows a logic of essentialist nationalism: they are British, loyal to the Crown, ready to fight for their freedom at the Boyne, the Somme or the streets of Belfast regardless of the opposition. No constitutional change or (international) political negotiation can change that. Those who fought for Britishness in the trenches of the Somme are thus to be remembered and honoured.
A temporary exhibition in 2019 in the Lisburn Linen Centre/Museum featured the homecoming of Great War soldiers. Confirming the pattern set out in the previous chapter, all names of those from that town who died in 1914-1918, accompanied by small photographs, make up almost half the exhibition. A few hundred little pictures adorned the wall. This has two implications that relate to the idea of the human individual. In the first place, it shows the huge impact it must have had on a community like Lisburn’s. All would have had parents, siblings, lovers, friends and perhaps children. This kind of remembrance objects is reminiscent of the famous RUC piece that contains all officers who were killed during the Troubles. But, secondly, it also means that individuals in history are prominently defined by the organisation they were part of. In other words: there is not so much space for the individual challenges and options that raced through the heads of many when the German Imperial Army thundered across Belgium. Only those who enlisted, for whatever reason, are to be remembered. And today, they are subsumed into unionist and loyalist politicised memories.
When I examined the Royal Ulster Rifles Museum in Belfast, a small group of visitors, including a son, conversed with a museum host. The young teenager wished to do a school project on an ancestor that had served with the Rifles. He was steered away from solely studying the specific ancestor, which made sense as the history of an individual combatant is likely too small even for an elementary or secondary education project. Instead, the museum host proposed, perhaps he could focus on the battalion and its route through France. Like in popular history, the inclination seems towards traditional operational military history, or
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individuals opt to take up arms in the first place (or in the case of conscription, why they do not argue against it as much as they might have done). An alternative, or additional strand, for amateur research like this could revolve around social pressures and political choices that relate to fulfilling military service. If the reason a social group agreed to fighting a war is left undiscussed and left unchallenged it is easier for political elites to fill in this part of history. Fighting, with battle cries of “No Surrender”, has been portrayed as the only option to deal with challenges like Irish emancipation. Other interactions with political opponents are thus easily branded weak or treasonous. In the end, the loyalist version of the Battle of the Somme need not be denied entirely. And the discipline of military history is well-worth studying, if we remember we are dealing with human bodies and emotions, ripped apart by shells and thousands of personal choices made by ordinary individuals.
Perhaps the advice from the museum host is understandable given where it comes from.