MUSEUMS IN THE THIRD WORLD

How are historical artefacts looked after in the Third World? It’s true that they don’t get destroyed but very often they’re left to rot in sparse, run-down museums with flickering lights that nobody visits. On what many Third World Museums are like 🧵
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Moving past the question of ‘should they be returned?’, many Westerners and Diaspora Groups agitating for returns have an skewed idea of what the Third World museums these artefacts would be returned to are actually like. They are not the same kind of museum you find in the west Image
For one, the general condition of the museums; these are often in small or underutilised buildings and are empty, sparsely decorated and badly labelled. The displays are frequently poor and uninformative. The museums are often grimy and not well-maintained, have flickering lights Image
Having had the opportunity to visit lots of these places, the other thing you notice is the lack of local visitors. You will be in a national museum and there will be nobody there, locals seemingly uninterested. It would be fair to say a museum-going culture doesn’t really exist Image
I don’t think this is just a product of the British stealing their artefacts or being poor. My experience is a culture of ‘inquisitiveness’ doesn’t really exist in many of these places. I remember actively trying to find a bookshop in Addis Ababa and only being able to find one Image
The general disrepair and emptiness, the lack of locals - it’s not obvious that many people in these countries actually care that much. Their diasporas might for identity-forming reasons but my impression is that artefacts returned to the Third World would be infrequently visited Image
It’s true that museums in Asia are generally better than in Africa and that there is a lot of variation in quality depending on where you are. But these same rules generally apply, just to a lesser extent. Eg. The National Museum in Delhi, India I remember being disappointed with Image
To stress again, there are lots of good Third World Museums - A lot of S. America’s pre-Columbian museums are very good, MENA museums like Tunisia’s Bardo, Qatar’s Islamic, Cairo’s Egyptian Museum (organisationally a mess inside but a lot to see). But IMO general rule still holds Image
Though - even in places that do preserve heritage, you see a lot of botched restoration work. China is infamous for this, in the Silk Road countries for instance there are lots of slap-dash cement job restorations. Some restoration work is well done but a lot of it is very shoddy Image
In all, a British-Nigerian or African-American living in the west might suddenly become passionate about getting an Ife Head returned to Nigeria but if it does get returned it’s unlikely to be visited or looked after as well. Maybe beside the point for activists, but the reality
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To add, my other impression is that the diaspora groups care more about pushing for these kinds of returns than the people in the actual countries themselves - but YMMV Image
David Frum on the Benin Bronzes being returned to Nigeria’s Lagos History Museum: theatlantic.com/ideas/archive/…
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South Africa's richest family had to remove African art on permanent loan from a Johannesburg gallery because it was not being take care of
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5. Dan Ellsberg: “Because that son-of-a-bitch—First of all, I would expect—I know him well—I am sure he has some more information---I would bet that he has more information that he’s saving for the trial.  Examples of American war crimes that triggered him into it…It’s the way he’d operate….Because he is a despicable bastard.” (Oval Office tape, July 27, 1971)

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8. Chile: “I don't see why we need to stand by and watch a country go communist due to the irresponsibility of its people. The issues are much too important for the Chilean voters to be left to decide for themselves.”

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His last interview - and what a set of comments to go out on!
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CROSSING AN AFRICAN BORDER - NAMIBIA TO ANGOLA 🇳🇦🇦🇴

Short Story from Travel Author Paul Theroux’s Book ‘LAST TRAIN TO ZONA VERDE’ about travel in Africa and his impressions of the chaos at the Angolan Border as he crossed it:

“People milled around the stalled vehicles, shouting, selling food out of baskets - small bread rolls, fried cakes, cold drinks, wilted vegetables, and trays of chewing gum and candy. Beyond the crush of these vendors I could see another large crowd pressing toward an open shed with a high roof. Some of those people, mostly teenage boys, the Artful Dodgers that haunt frontiers, hurried toward us. In such circumstances, you sense being singled out and stalked like a lamed prey animal.

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"They have nothing in Angola," he said. He thought again. "But they have money. "

The shop fronts and businesses became denser, closer together, as we approached the border town of Oshikango, but of course, being a frontier, it was only half a town, walled off from its other side by a high chainlink fence running at a right angle across the main street. Parked on that street, waiting to go through Namibian customs, was a long line of trucks, several cars, even some loaded pushcarts and wheelbarrows. They looked as though they had been sitting there for a year, and the scene was of great, almost riotous disorder.

"Be careful." Stephen said. "There are thieves here - and on the other side, many thieves. Don't get out of the car until I give you a signal. I will find someone to help you."

He slipped out of the car and was accosted by a group of boys. He made a circuit of the blocked-off street, returned to the car, and opened the door.

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Then he was gone, hurrying through the mass of people pushing into the shed.

Outside the car (my door fastened by the coat hanger), the boys were pressed against the windows, some calling out, others pleading, "Mynheer! Mynheer!" Stephen returned with a girl of about nineteen or twenty, hardly more than five feet tall. She had a serious face set in a scowl, her jaw thrust out, and wore a blue blouse and a pink skirt, and on her head a floppy-brimmed knitted hat of white wool, like a picturesque peasant in a folktale or nursery rhyme.

"This is Vickie," Stephen said. "She will help you."

Seeing her, hearing this, the crowd of boys began to laugh, provoking Vickie to say something sharp to them, which shut them up.

"How much do I owe you?"

"Don't show any money," Stephen said. He palmed the payment - in gratitude for shepherding me, I had given him twice what he asked. He handed Vickie my canvas duffel.

She hoisted my bag onto her head and hung on to it with both hands. I clung to my briefcase. As we walked down the hot street and fought through the crowd to the customs shed, the boys snatched at my shirtsleeves. "Mynheer!"

Apart from the pestering boys - and more joined them as we went along - the formalities on the Namibian side were straightforward: presentation of signed forms and passport and the usual bag search, with the singular diversion of a Namibian customs inspector lifting my copy of Benito Cereno, squinting at it, then paging through it, his dancing eyes indicating that his head was a hive of subtlety, as if he were looking for an offensive passage.

"You can go." He directed me to the back of the shed, where a narrow walkway with high sides led into a maze.

The same boys followed, about ten of them. I knew their faces by now: the one in the soccer jersey, the one with the woolly Rasta hat, the one with the Emporio Armani T-shirt, the one with the wicked face and broken teeth, the one who kept bumping up against me - his plastic sandals were cracked and his feet were bumped and bruised; several boys had their hats turned backward in the gangbanger style. Customs and immigration did not apply to them, apparently; they pushed and jostled along the narrow passageway, which, I saw afterward, represented no man's land.

At the end of the passageway, Angola was another shed, with a wooden window flap propped open, more people in line, all of it enclosed by chainlink fences and razor wire.
Vickie, surrounded by the mocking boys, pointed to the window and indicated that I should hand in my passport. As I did so, I heard a howl.Image
"You!" It was a man inside the shed, in a blue uniform. "Get away!"

He meant that I should get in line, which I was happy to do, though I was startled by his snarling tone. I was to hear this same intentionally intimidating voice for the next few weeks, always by policemen or soldiers or petty officials.

The Angolan voice of authority is severe, often bitter, usually reproachful, sometimes cruel. When I commented on it or complained, people said, "They've had almost thirty years of war." The war has been over for more than a decade, I would say. "But they were fighting South African soldiers" was the rejoinder.

Actually, the South African soldiers had collaborated with one large Angolan faction. It was my belief that the hostility in all this bluster and obstruction usually meant that a bribe was being suggested.

The nastiness was always from an official, seldom from an Angolan civilian, yet the civilians had suffered too. I could not remember having been spoken to with such deliberate rudeness - not in Africa, not anywhere. But of course I was not in an international airport. I was a mere pedestrian in old clothes who had walked across the border from Namibia with old women carrying sacks of vegetables and baskets of chickens, old men shuffling behind them, and loud boys yelling to each other. Also, on that morning I was the only visible alien seeking to enter.

When my turn at the window came, the Angolan immigration official with the mean face and the abusive voice snatched at my passport and found my visa. But instead of stamping it, he put it aside.

"Where is your letter of invitation?"

No foreigner can enter Angola without a formal (and notarized) letter of invitation. I urge anyone in the United States who believes that we treat visitors bureaucratically and with suspicion to consider the obstacle course that Angola (and many other countries) presents to its foreign visitors: a seven-page application, a prepaid hotel reservation, a prepaid round-trip airline ticket, a set of character references, and an invitation letter from a resident of Angola stating exactly what the visitor will be doing in the country. Then you pay $200 for the visa. And you wait for several months. And you might be turned down, as I was, twice, before getting this visa.

"Why bother?" people asked me. But a country that is so hard to enter makes me curious to discover what is on the other side of the fence.

It so happened that I had the letter of invitation in my briefcase, which (in Portuguese) specified that I was in Angola to visit schools and colleges and give some lectures. I was a writer, it explained. All this tedious detail had the singular merit of being true.Image
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