The Politics Of Remembering

The more I gather details about my family history, the seven siblings of my mother’s grandmother and the seven siblings of my mother’s grand father, I find myself drawn deeper in the mire of relationships, loose ends that need to be routed to some path somewhere that I have to painstakingly unearth not through the easy means of calling up an uncle here, an aunt there. The uncovered  branches, the partial details, the contradictory references by two different people to certain details, the facts that had not been put to verification over all the years emerge tantalizingly before me as I hastily write down in my diary the questions that want to scale the gaps and crease out contradictions. It is then that I realize that I have to carry the darkness within me, write about them and accept that at no point in the chronicling will I have clarity over everything because I am dealing with history, history created through memory and partial remembering – partial because there are not people to narrate all the facets of the story, and partial also because we choose to forget certain things.

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