An Archive of Absences
It is late at night and we lay awake next to each other – grandma and I, each under our own warm blanket but still close, so I can listen to her soft voice. “Oma, can you tell stories from your childhood again? The one of you and your brother and your mother living in that tiny attic room when you had just moved here after the war, when the farmers were so mean to you, and your brother stole one of their goats so you had something to eat? Or the one of how you and grandpa fell in love?” I already knew most of these stories but every time there was hope that my grandma would add another little detail she had not mentioned before. Or that starting with one story, she would somehow remember another moment of her life which she had not told me about before. This story of the tiny attic room feels so far away now from my reality, as if from a historical documentary where everyone wears rags in the same beiges and browns.
History–the translation of this word in my native language German would be Geschichte. It stands both for what happened before us, as well as the stories we tell each other to make sense of our personal experiences.
I had a school subject called History in which I learned about the sociopolitical past of my country, Germany, and the history of the world in relation to it and as perceived by my country. These histories contain facts such as numbers, places, and names: statistics. But they also contain biases.
We cannot travel back in time so our understanding rests on the oral and written records of historians, primary and secondary witnesses, and our ancestors. Growing up, I loved listening to my grandma’s stories–histories–of life, her life, when she was growing up. When she was my age, just 21. When she met my grandpa at the bank and knew, even before exchanging their first words, that she would one day marry him. When she was pregnant with my mother and had to marry suddenly. When I was born in the blue house that we still live in today.
“These histories contain facts such as numbers, places, and names: statistics. But they also contain biases.”
As a child, I took these stories and her excellent memory for granted. But now that she is growing older and I live further away and don’t see her as often, I wonder, what will happen to those stories? Will I remember them? Will she be able to share them again next time I see her?
Last year, my grandpa passed away unexpectedly. He never told me his stories. I never asked him to. But I wonder what he would have told me had I asked him.
My life is closely linked to theirs –their decisions to move places and change work –and the very coincidence that they met, originally being from different parts of our country. I am thinking more and more about creating an archive of my family’s stories. Stories of those who are alive. Stories of those who are remembered. Stories for those who come next.
What stories will I tell my children and grandchildren? And what are these stories made of? I find my grandma’s stories so fascinating because the world changed so much during her life–from World War II to a divided country to the Internet and her granddaughter studying on another continent while she had never left our country until after marriage. Our stories – my grandma’s, my mother’s, and now, mine – are made of people we love and care about. But also of those we let go. They are made of smells and tastes, of experiencing something for the first time, and something for the last time, of summer vacations, of flour spread on the floor by a toddler, of scarcity and abundance, of chocolate sent by relatives in the same yet not the same country, of oranges for Christmas, of clothes we held on to, and opportunities we let go, of being there for each other, and of learning how to give space to each other.
“Our stories – my grandma’s, my mother’s, and now, mine – are made of people we love and care about. But also of those we let go.”
If there was a book of our family history in which every member would write something for the next generations–and maybe I will start such a book while my grandma still remembers and is still able to write them down–I would want to write about the love and solidarity in my family. While we each pursue our own interests, and while our values might differ at times, each year on Christmas Eve we come together again at my grandma’s house and there is a space for everyone.
Susanne Niemann is a designer, environmentalist, and university student from Germany, based between Berlin and Abu Dhabi. Her artistic and academic interests range from social and cultural anthropology, community building around arts, and critical design pedagogy to emerging media, digital heritage, and design for social impact. She uses her designs and illustrations to educate and empower, currently with the Intersectional Environmentalist community.
Artwork by Noor Althehli