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Ethics of Memory
In this decade of significant commemoration, we continue to be challenged to engage with our shared past in a way that is honest, authentic and pluralistic. The complex events we recall and commemorate during this decade are integral to the story that has shaped our nation in all its diversity at home and abroad. They are, however, events to be remembered that will be retold from many different standpoints, and it is through respecting these differing perspectives in all their complexity that we can facilitate a more authentic construction, not only of our intersecting shared history, but of our post-sectarian possibilities for the future.
While memory can be both constructive and re-constructive – that is to say, it is developed over time, built upon by age-old acquisition of the distant senses, imagination and thought – yet central to the concept of ethical remembering must be the notion of authenticity. This in turn is nuanced by what Professor Ciarán Benson describes as,
“the ever-present warning that remembering, whether individual or collective, is always shadowed by uncertainty and, from a responsible, moral perspective, ought to be accompanied by a knowledge of that possibility.”
The act of remembering invites of course risk of an emotional kind, even if executed in private. If executed publicly, as commemorations, it has a wider impact. If the commemoration is to be hospitable to multiple narratives, to a plurality of interpretations, ground has to be given, from earlier, even comforting, foundational myths upon which one’s own personality and communal shared beliefs have relied.
It seems to me useful to reflect on the purpose of the act of remembering as one prepares to issue an invitation to what is an increasingly diverse public to engage in the more public act of commemoration. Issues of the fullness of context, in its being taken into account, or being excluded, cannot morally be avoided. For example, when during our memorial services for the dead in the two wars of the twentieth century we state ‘we shall remember them from the break of day to the setting of the sun’, are we celebrating their lived and lost lives together in the conditions of war as fellow vulnerable human beings, or are we allowed also to see them as the human carnage of conflict, of a clash of imperial aspirations? What is the intention guiding our invocation?
“To fail to remember”, is to “kill the victims twice”, Paul Ricoeur has written. Yes, it is undeniable that in the intimacy of trenches, under terrible bombardment, some of the greatest extensions of human courage, compassion and bravery have been delivered, but at a terrible cost. Acknowledging the context of what we recognise as the heroic should not be a problem.
Who could not be moved by the inscription on a tombstone? But then, if we are to have an authentic act of public memory, should we not be moved in an ever deeper way at what a field of graves tells us of the failure that the slaughter of war has represented, not only in the twentieth century, but in all centuries?
An ‘ethical act of memory’ has to be a critical act of memory, I suggest. There should be an engagement with the issues of context before the act of public memory is transformed to commemoration in any narrow sense. Commemoration is not only a public invitation, it is an act predicated on selection.
The act of selection is challenging, and poses choices, as to what is appropriate as even a temporary excursion into collective memory. Such choices can never be neutral nor is there any way they can be claimed to be objective. Thus, assumptions that guided inclusion and exclusion are best stated.
What can be achieved, I believe, is a transparency of purpose, an honesty of endeavour in keeping open the possibility of plural interpretations and future revision based on new facts or original analysis.
This is put very well in relation to 1916 in Ethics and the Easter Rising again by Johnston McMaster and Cathy Higgins, where they write,
“Remembering ethically is not just about remembering inclusively, honouring all the dead in the mystery of their humanness, it is about taking responsibility ourselves for the present and the future. We cannot afford to be controlled or dictated to from the grave, but as human beings, take responsibility ourselves for our own distinctive time, place and world.”
Thus, the challenge is, for example, to take the peace that we have put on paper in the Agreement we achieved over two decades ago, and use it to achieve peace in communities, a peace that will make dividing walls redundant, allow our children to share schools, read history with respect for difference and, moving through such a shared respect, achieve the ability for a shared fulfilment together in the future, encountering on the way such understanding as is necessary, and such forgiveness as is made possible.
Trading of Atrocities
Commemoration itself can therefore be an important aspect of ethical remembering. However, discretion is required with regard to how we mark important historical events, particularly those that may be exploited for narrow political or partisan purposes. Indeed, some historians have rightly warned us against the perils posed to historical truth by any backward imputation of motives, any uncritical transfer of contemporary emotions onto the past. Time and again, we have seen how history can be used and abused for insidious, morally dubious, purposes. As historian Roisín Higgins puts it,
“[The] fractious nature of the revolutionary period has created many possibilities for commemorative events, as well as a great deal of potential for division.”
That it not to say that we should censor memory of painful events. To do so would be, at best, amoral, I suggest. For example, during the War of Independence the acts of aggression unleashed by Crown forces and administered by the Black and Tans and Auxiliaries in particular were often in the form of exemplary collective punishments and reprisals. Such horrors would be contrary to the modern-day Geneva Conventions and would be considered illegal under international law.
Being as they were, an escalation of state-approved violence, these acts became the mark of a policy and strategy of holding control. They were aimed at subjugation, installation of fear in a public that had in its midst those that sought and were fighting for independence.
There is little doubt that the infliction of economic damage by both the Auxiliaries and Black and Tans was not merely a spontaneous series of acts by the uncontrolled, or the drunken. Rather it was a key strategic tool, a response of empire, employed in an attempt to quash support for any separatism that constituted a threat to that empire.
The move by the British forces towards attacks on business and co-operatives, including rural creameries – which were major employers and sources of essential foodstuffs – marked an escalation in both the wider socio-economic impacts and the sophistication of reprisal tactics, harming local economies and livelihoods by punishing the civilian population through the destruction of a cherished public utility or key employer.
Reprisals and collective punishments were a key aspect of empire rule by the different forms of empire that were increasingly coming under opposition from below. Empire was challenged, along with its imposition of colonial power, laws, attributes and ideologies. Such violent tactics were already an established strategic tool of imperialist military strategy by the time they occurred in Ireland during the War of Independence. Such acts, and anticipation of them, drew a violent response in turn from a repertoire of responses, be it in relation to land, language or poverty, responses and innovations, too, that were available to Irish nationalists motivated by both new and recalled humiliations of which there was no shortage.
The changed nature of the RIC, it having been augmented by a newly arrived force, some inexperienced in terms of discipline, and recently discharged, perhaps unemployed, soldiers, others officers ideologically driven, meant that its Irish-born members were now at risk of being constituted as part of the enemy forces. Those, and there were many, who may have joined for security of job and pension, or for housing or educational opportunities for their children, who were embedded in a community in previous times, were now in changed circumstances, targets, and the killing of them was often the instigation of forays from barracks by the new forces, burnings, exemplary collective punishments, and further tragic loss of life.
Of course, the British forces were not alone when it came to reprisals and atrocities. Violence breeds violence. Cruelty is learned and, indeed, the history of Irish Republicanism is one in which the callous disregard for human life has been displayed on too many occasions, with civilians often constituting the target, in what is often termed “The Irish Struggle”.
War is always ugly, and posthumous glorification is neither desirable nor morally sound. We must, therefore, I believe, seek to enable all of our citizens to engage with history and commemoration in a way that is inclusive, ethical, pluralist and honest, allowing for the evaluation of motives and of actions on all sides with fairness.
In terms of inclusivity, we have at times fallen short in our duty of public remembering in some significant areas of our shared history – for example, in Ireland, the State’s channelling of grief for those who died during World War I or those who died and suffered in the succeeding conflicts of the War of Independence and the Civil War. Indeed, on occasion, in the later 1920s for example, the State could be accused of being partisan and exclusive and thus divisive.
Such an approach to official remembering, in which the State was often absent or selective, resulted in additional grief for many relatives of those who died in the struggle for Irish independence, owing to the sense that they had not received due recognition for their loss. This adds weight to the argument for State commemoration for all of those who lost their lives in the fight for Irish independence, even as a palliative measure that might aid personal grief.
Recalling frailty, error or weakness is more difficult, it seems, for much of historiography. Speaking of strength in the pursuit of hegemony of narrative seems easier. Yet to achieve a capacity for peace or fulfilment, we need a recognition of weakness as well as strength, of error and failure, as well as of certainties vindicated.
Arriving at such a “narrative hospitality”, to quote Paul Ricoeur, such as I suggest, requires generous effort, and reaching an accommodation with conflicting versions of the past is merely a stage in the journey, via understanding, to what might be the destination that is forgiveness for past hurt, neglect or omission; a destination which, in so many areas of conflict, at home and abroad, past and present, many participants may never reach.
It should be understood that we are concerned here with a very tentative horizon of completion, of a critical historical knowledge aware of its limitations, built on such a reconciliation of narratives as avoids binary opposites:
“Between history’s project of truth and memory’s aim of faithfulness is that small miracle of recognition [that] has no equivalent in history.”
Ricoeur is suggesting, recognising, as we must, that what must come to be shared is beyond any narrow limitation, be it of history or memory.
In order to move beyond the hospitality of narrative, a parity of esteem in the discourse of dealing with past events is necessary. It is an approach, however, that may in time create the possibility of a necessary forgiving.
Remembering those voices who have been forgotten, excluded from public memory, either wilfully or perhaps unwittingly, is so very important if we are serious about nurturing a comprehensive ethical public memory. We must remember, too, as Ricoeur expounded so well, that there is a reciprocal relationship between remembering and forgetting which affects both the perception of shared, historical experience and the production of historical narratives.
Approaching anew the tasks of remembering and forgetting in an ethical way is transformative. As philosopher Hannah Arendt has written, forgiveness is the only way to undo “the irreversible flow of history”:
“Forgiveness is the necessary corrective for the inevitable damages that result from action. […] Without being forgiven, released from the consequences of what we have done, our capacity to act would, as it were, be confined to one single deed from which we could never recover; we would remain the victims of consequence forever.”
Thus, it is only through such an ethical remembering, as we now have an opportunity to attempt to undertake, that we can avoid revisiting the blinding categories of censure or denunciation, or indeed revenge and bitterness.
Remembering Those Excluded
Memory of Ireland’s War of Independence is complicated by the fact that it was followed so closely by the Civil War, resulting as it did in certain events and figures from the War of Independence often receiving less attention than the subsequent Civil War.
Ethical remembering requires us to include those who may hitherto have been excluded from official, formal accounts of history, and to shine a light on overlooked figures and actions in an attempt to have a more comprehensive and balanced perspective on the independence struggle. For example, the different social class background from which Volunteers came is important, as is the level at which they had the possibility to participate. Those who participated in the struggle for Irish independence constitute a long spectrum that stretches from academics of emancipatory disposition, through insecure smallholders, agricultural labourers with little rights, to shop boys and the trades. They each sought independence, I suggest, through the prism of their social class experiences.
A central dimension of ethical remembering is a refusal of any kind of conscious or unconscious amnesia, not only of persons but events. Indeed, to reject important, if painful, events of the past is to deny those affected by them recognition of their losses or the right to have memories of those losses. I repeat that I believe that to do this would be counterproductive and potentially amoral.
Moral Vacuum and Gender Violence
Ethical remembering entails, too, the inclusion of the voices of the marginalised and the disenfranchised in our recollections of the past. It must show a willingness to do justice, for example, to the essential roles played by women in this period that we now commemorate.
Sinead McCoole has written that women were the “eyes and ears” of the conflict, providing safe houses, procuring arms, visiting prisons, spying and relaying vital intelligence and messages. While we have details of this in their pension applications in the 1920s, and in other decades, too, their work in the struggle for independence was, for too long, neither recognised, nor treated with any parity, in terms of respect, with male counterparts.
Ethical recall should also include an examination of under-researched or avoided areas, such as the violence against women that occurred during this period. The examples of sexual violence that occurred during the War of Independence and later the Civil War can be viewed, as Professor Linda Connolly of Maynooth University has argued, “[as] a dark secret of the period’s historiography”. Commemorations should not ignore horrific acts, such as head-shorning and sexual violence including the raping of women.
It is important, too, to recognise the complexity that arises in seeking to differentiate between what were strategic acts of a military campaign and what were, in particular situations, acts carried out from a mixture of motivations, acts of cruelty, old hatreds, envy or greed.
It is imperative that the Irish Revolution is not perceived as a war solely about or achieved by men. The civilian impact, where women come decisively into play, is so often neglected in the historical narratives of the period. The experience of women must be considered comprehensively, together with an examination of social class, if the commemoration of the War of Independence is to address seriously the most difficult questions of the past.
Gender-based violence occurred and was inflicted with cruelty. It is an aspect of the revolutionary period that has been hidden, suppressed and denied for too long. It deserves a proper contextual examination. The assumptions as to what was to be the role of women in Irish society was of course to become a slow-burning issue that would reveal so much of what was bad and exclusionary rather than what might be good and inclusive right into our own times.
We must face the exclusionary nature of the State that emerged a century ago. We must muster the courage to face the role played by institutions, including religious institutions, in providing the fuel and the exclusionary language for what became confessionalisms that fostered division, not cooperation.
Ethics of Memory
In this decade of significant commemoration, we continue to be challenged to engage with our shared past in a way that is honest, authentic and pluralistic. The complex events we recall and commemorate during this decade are integral to the story that has shaped our nation in all its diversity at home and abroad. They are, however, events to be remembered that will be retold from many different standpoints, and it is through respecting these differing perspectives in all their complexity that we can facilitate a more authentic construction, not only of our intersecting shared history, but of our post-sectarian possibilities for the future.
While memory can be both constructive and re-constructive – that is to say, it is developed over time, built upon by age-old acquisition of the distant senses, imagination and thought – yet central to the concept of ethical remembering must be the notion of authenticity. This in turn is nuanced by what Professor Ciarán Benson describes as,
“the ever-present warning that remembering, whether individual or collective, is always shadowed by uncertainty and, from a responsible, moral perspective, ought to be accompanied by a knowledge of that possibility.”
The act of remembering invites of course risk of an emotional kind, even if executed in private. If executed publicly, as commemorations, it has a wider impact. If the commemoration is to be hospitable to multiple narratives, to a plurality of interpretations, ground has to be given, from earlier, even comforting, foundational myths upon which one’s own personality and communal shared beliefs have relied.
It seems to me useful to reflect on the purpose of the act of remembering as one prepares to issue an invitation to what is an increasingly diverse public to engage in the more public act of commemoration. Issues of the fullness of context, in its being taken into account, or being excluded, cannot morally be avoided. For example, when during our memorial services for the dead in the two wars of the twentieth century we state ‘we shall remember them from the break of day to the setting of the sun’, are we celebrating their lived and lost lives together in the conditions of war as fellow vulnerable human beings, or are we allowed also to see them as the human carnage of conflict, of a clash of imperial aspirations? What is the intention guiding our invocation?
“To fail to remember”, is to “kill the victims twice”, Paul Ricoeur has written. Yes, it is undeniable that in the intimacy of trenches, under terrible bombardment, some of the greatest extensions of human courage, compassion and bravery have been delivered, but at a terrible cost. Acknowledging the context of what we recognise as the heroic should not be a problem.
Who could not be moved by the inscription on a tombstone? But then, if we are to have an authentic act of public memory, should we not be moved in an ever deeper way at what a field of graves tells us of the failure that the slaughter of war has represented, not only in the twentieth century, but in all centuries?
An ‘ethical act of memory’ has to be a critical act of memory, I suggest. There should be an engagement with the issues of context before the act of public memory is transformed to commemoration in any narrow sense. Commemoration is not only a public invitation, it is an act predicated on selection.
The act of selection is challenging, and poses choices, as to what is appropriate as even a temporary excursion into collective memory. Such choices can never be neutral nor is there any way they can be claimed to be objective. Thus, assumptions that guided inclusion and exclusion are best stated.
What can be achieved, I believe, is a transparency of purpose, an honesty of endeavour in keeping open the possibility of plural interpretations and future revision based on new facts or original analysis.
This is put very well in relation to 1916 in Ethics and the Easter Rising again by Johnston McMaster and Cathy Higgins, where they write,
“Remembering ethically is not just about remembering inclusively, honouring all the dead in the mystery of their humanness, it is about taking responsibility ourselves for the present and the future. We cannot afford to be controlled or dictated to from the grave, but as human beings, take responsibility ourselves for our own distinctive time, place and world.”
Thus, the challenge is, for example, to take the peace that we have put on paper in the Agreement we achieved over two decades ago, and use it to achieve peace in communities, a peace that will make dividing walls redundant, allow our children to share schools, read history with respect for difference and, moving through such a shared respect, achieve the ability for a shared fulfilment together in the future, encountering on the way such understanding as is necessary, and such forgiveness as is made possible.
Trading of Atrocities
Commemoration itself can therefore be an important aspect of ethical remembering. However, discretion is required with regard to how we mark important historical events, particularly those that may be exploited for narrow political or partisan purposes. Indeed, some historians have rightly warned us against the perils posed to historical truth by any backward imputation of motives, any uncritical transfer of contemporary emotions onto the past. Time and again, we have seen how history can be used and abused for insidious, morally dubious, purposes. As historian Roisín Higgins puts it,
“[The] fractious nature of the revolutionary period has created many possibilities for commemorative events, as well as a great deal of potential for division.”
That it not to say that we should censor memory of painful events. To do so would be, at best, amoral, I suggest. For example, during the War of Independence the acts of aggression unleashed by Crown forces and administered by the Black and Tans and Auxiliaries in particular were often in the form of exemplary collective punishments and reprisals. Such horrors would be contrary to the modern-day Geneva Conventions and would be considered illegal under international law.
Being as they were, an escalation of state-approved violence, these acts became the mark of a policy and strategy of holding control. They were aimed at subjugation, installation of fear in a public that had in its midst those that sought and were fighting for independence.
There is little doubt that the infliction of economic damage by both the Auxiliaries and Black and Tans was not merely a spontaneous series of acts by the uncontrolled, or the drunken. Rather it was a key strategic tool, a response of empire, employed in an attempt to quash support for any separatism that constituted a threat to that empire.
The move by the British forces towards attacks on business and co-operatives, including rural creameries – which were major employers and sources of essential foodstuffs – marked an escalation in both the wider socio-economic impacts and the sophistication of reprisal tactics, harming local economies and livelihoods by punishing the civilian population through the destruction of a cherished public utility or key employer.
Reprisals and collective punishments were a key aspect of empire rule by the different forms of empire that were increasingly coming under opposition from below. Empire was challenged, along with its imposition of colonial power, laws, attributes and ideologies. Such violent tactics were already an established strategic tool of imperialist military strategy by the time they occurred in Ireland during the War of Independence. Such acts, and anticipation of them, drew a violent response in turn from a repertoire of responses, be it in relation to land, language or poverty, responses and innovations, too, that were available to Irish nationalists motivated by both new and recalled humiliations of which there was no shortage.
The changed nature of the RIC, it having been augmented by a newly arrived force, some inexperienced in terms of discipline, and recently discharged, perhaps unemployed, soldiers, others officers ideologically driven, meant that its Irish-born members were now at risk of being constituted as part of the enemy forces. Those, and there were many, who may have joined for security of job and pension, or for housing or educational opportunities for their children, who were embedded in a community in previous times, were now in changed circumstances, targets, and the killing of them was often the instigation of forays from barracks by the new forces, burnings, exemplary collective punishments, and further tragic loss of life.
Of course, the British forces were not alone when it came to reprisals and atrocities. Violence breeds violence. Cruelty is learned and, indeed, the history of Irish Republicanism is one in which the callous disregard for human life has been displayed on too many occasions, with civilians often constituting the target, in what is often termed “The Irish Struggle”.
War is always ugly, and posthumous glorification is neither desirable nor morally sound. We must, therefore, I believe, seek to enable all of our citizens to engage with history and commemoration in a way that is inclusive, ethical, pluralist and honest, allowing for the evaluation of motives and of actions on all sides with fairness.
In terms of inclusivity, we have at times fallen short in our duty of public remembering in some significant areas of our shared history – for example, in Ireland, the State’s channelling of grief for those who died during World War I or those who died and suffered in the succeeding conflicts of the War of Independence and the Civil War. Indeed, on occasion, in the later 1920s for example, the State could be accused of being partisan and exclusive and thus divisive.
Such an approach to official remembering, in which the State was often absent or selective, resulted in additional grief for many relatives of those who died in the struggle for Irish independence, owing to the sense that they had not received due recognition for their loss. This adds weight to the argument for State commemoration for all of those who lost their lives in the fight for Irish independence, even as a palliative measure that might aid personal grief.
Recalling frailty, error or weakness is more difficult, it seems, for much of historiography. Speaking of strength in the pursuit of hegemony of narrative seems easier. Yet to achieve a capacity for peace or fulfilment, we need a recognition of weakness as well as strength, of error and failure, as well as of certainties vindicated.
Arriving at such a “narrative hospitality”, to quote Paul Ricoeur, such as I suggest, requires generous effort, and reaching an accommodation with conflicting versions of the past is merely a stage in the journey, via understanding, to what might be the destination that is forgiveness for past hurt, neglect or omission; a destination which, in so many areas of conflict, at home and abroad, past and present, many participants may never reach.
It should be understood that we are concerned here with a very tentative horizon of completion, of a critical historical knowledge aware of its limitations, built on such a reconciliation of narratives as avoids binary opposites:
“Between history’s project of truth and memory’s aim of faithfulness is that small miracle of recognition [that] has no equivalent in history.”
Ricoeur is suggesting, recognising, as we must, that what must come to be shared is beyond any narrow limitation, be it of history or memory.
In order to move beyond the hospitality of narrative, a parity of esteem in the discourse of dealing with past events is necessary. It is an approach, however, that may in time create the possibility of a necessary forgiving.
Remembering those voices who have been forgotten, excluded from public memory, either wilfully or perhaps unwittingly, is so very important if we are serious about nurturing a comprehensive ethical public memory. We must remember, too, as Ricoeur expounded so well, that there is a reciprocal relationship between remembering and forgetting which affects both the perception of shared, historical experience and the production of historical narratives.
Approaching anew the tasks of remembering and forgetting in an ethical way is transformative. As philosopher Hannah Arendt has written, forgiveness is the only way to undo “the irreversible flow of history”:
“Forgiveness is the necessary corrective for the inevitable damages that result from action. […] Without being forgiven, released from the consequences of what we have done, our capacity to act would, as it were, be confined to one single deed from which we could never recover; we would remain the victims of consequence forever.”
Thus, it is only through such an ethical remembering, as we now have an opportunity to attempt to undertake, that we can avoid revisiting the blinding categories of censure or denunciation, or indeed revenge and bitterness.
Remembering Those Excluded
Memory of Ireland’s War of Independence is complicated by the fact that it was followed so closely by the Civil War, resulting as it did in certain events and figures from the War of Independence often receiving less attention than the subsequent Civil War.
Ethical remembering requires us to include those who may hitherto have been excluded from official, formal accounts of history, and to shine a light on overlooked figures and actions in an attempt to have a more comprehensive and balanced perspective on the independence struggle. For example, the different social class background from which Volunteers came is important, as is the level at which they had the possibility to participate. Those who participated in the struggle for Irish independence constitute a long spectrum that stretches from academics of emancipatory disposition, through insecure smallholders, agricultural labourers with little rights, to shop boys and the trades. They each sought independence, I suggest, through the prism of their social class experiences.
A central dimension of ethical remembering is a refusal of any kind of conscious or unconscious amnesia, not only of persons but events. Indeed, to reject important, if painful, events of the past is to deny those affected by them recognition of their losses or the right to have memories of those losses. I repeat that I believe that to do this would be counterproductive and potentially amoral.
Moral Vacuum and Gender Violence
Ethical remembering entails, too, the inclusion of the voices of the marginalised and the disenfranchised in our recollections of the past. It must show a willingness to do justice, for example, to the essential roles played by women in this period that we now commemorate.
Sinead McCoole has written that women were the “eyes and ears” of the conflict, providing safe houses, procuring arms, visiting prisons, spying and relaying vital intelligence and messages. While we have details of this in their pension applications in the 1920s, and in other decades, too, their work in the struggle for independence was, for too long, neither recognised, nor treated with any parity, in terms of respect, with male counterparts.
Ethical recall should also include an examination of under-researched or avoided areas, such as the violence against women that occurred during this period. The examples of sexual violence that occurred during the War of Independence and later the Civil War can be viewed, as Professor Linda Connolly of Maynooth University has argued, “[as] a dark secret of the period’s historiography”. Commemorations should not ignore horrific acts, such as head-shorning and sexual violence including the raping of women.
It is important, too, to recognise the complexity that arises in seeking to differentiate between what were strategic acts of a military campaign and what were, in particular situations, acts carried out from a mixture of motivations, acts of cruelty, old hatreds, envy or greed.
It is imperative that the Irish Revolution is not perceived as a war solely about or achieved by men. The civilian impact, where women come decisively into play, is so often neglected in the historical narratives of the period. The experience of women must be considered comprehensively, together with an examination of social class, if the commemoration of the War of Independence is to address seriously the most difficult questions of the past.
Gender-based violence occurred and was inflicted with cruelty. It is an aspect of the revolutionary period that has been hidden, suppressed and denied for too long. It deserves a proper contextual examination. The assumptions as to what was to be the role of women in Irish society was of course to become a slow-burning issue that would reveal so much of what was bad and exclusionary rather than what might be good and inclusive right into our own times.
We must face the exclusionary nature of the State that emerged a century ago. We must muster the courage to face the role played by institutions, including religious institutions, in providing the fuel and the exclusionary language for what became confessionalisms that fostered division, not cooperation.
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