Dark Tourism

Not too long ago I came across the spectre of Dark Tourism. Having an inquisitive mind, I decided to explore. Dark Tourism – a term coined over 30 years ago, depicts the travel to dark places where evil infiltrated every single space. Where there was no hiding place. Where attempts to escape were futile.

My musings prompted me to consider whether Dark Tourism, with its accounts of genocide perpetrated by the warmongers; the fascists; the despots, the vile excuses for human beings, should indeed be preserved for posterity or whether we should simply leave these ‘killing fields’, Cambodia being only some of them, to the ravages of time.

It seems shameful to engage in Dark Tourism, but who am I to say what happens to these places of mass murder. Where cruelty beyond comprehension was administered relentlessly; unforgivably. I have never lived through such horror. I have never felt my children snatched from my loving arms; thrown into furnaces; my boys taken away to be soldiers or my girls as teenage brides. For some God continues to exist. For others; no longer. It makes sense.

Perhaps, we should be asking those who suffered, what they think? Are they not the best people to ask. Not the tourists. Even now as I write this sentence the Dark Tourism Industry is continuing to preserve the narrative of what came before. Or should it be exploit?

And it’s not just the buildings and the spaces that keep the narratives alive. People do too. Photographers and journalists photograph the crimes committed against humanity. They photograph the dead; the destruction; the sacrifice. Such images show the lines etched in the young and old alike. There is nothing pretty about war.

Artists paint the pictures in vivid hues of blues and greens reds and purple. Dazzling arrays of colour fill the canvas. They paint in black and white; monochrome. It captures the horror expressively, so they say. Really! And whilst the artists paint, the balladeers; the soloists; the folk singers and even school children sing the songs of oppression; of pain and suffering; loss and hate. If only singing could stop the wars. If we sang loud enough, perhaps it can.

The historians keep the stories alive as they converse with the survivors. Recording narratives for posterity, only to be stored away in some archive, to gather dust. Leaving humanity cursed never to learn. And as time moves on, the novelists write of love that conquers all. They write of survival and of hope as the victims; the innocents, are swept forward into the unimaginable. The abhorrent.
The academics meanwhile, ‘critically analyse’ the data. They want you to reflect on what you read; what you see, and take action. Action that will transform, not the lives of those who suffered, for they are long gone, but those whose suffering is passed down from generation to generation. Destined never to be stopped.

And, what about me? What do I think about the crazy world of Dark Tourism? What do you? Should these stories be preserved long after the dead have left this mortal world; their place of suffering, or should we as some purport leave the places of horror to decay, until time itself erases the horror. Erases the memory.

But, is it so easy to erase such horror? When so many images; so much literature continues to endure and keeps the horror alive. I have read so many stories of the horror of war and genocide; of loathing, of purification. I cannot unread what I have read. These stories continue to haunt me, even now, many years later. Stories that make me fear for what could happen if the despots are not stopped.

I signed up to the image of Dark Tourism a long time ago. I just didn’t know it. I walk around the graveyards; the churchyards; the cemeteries, urban spaces, that overlook green fields, busy roads. Life always goes on, doesn’t it? These urban spaces of solitude are shown little respect. Frequently vandalised, they have the very soul ripped out of them. They seek to preserve history in some small way. They are losing the battle.

Still; such places bring me a sense of peace as I seek out the names engraved on the stones. Names weathered by time. Families who live together are often buried together. These faceless names, bring a sense of peace as I create my own stories about the lives of those I was destined never to meet. My imagination goes into overdrive, as I speculate about the death of a young child, fated never to be cursed by the ravages of time; as I contemplate the stories I will never hear; family life I will never share.

A visit to the World War 1 trenches, is equally Dark Tourism. Although how one solitary trench can truly depict the horror of war; the terror; the loss of comrades; friends; brothers in arms, I will never know. Military graveyards, all neat and tidy, silently embrace the dead. Maintain their memory. Keep them safe. And in these places of war, I observe. I listen. I feel. I find peace in the unthinkable.

We never learn do we. Every single day somewhere in this beautiful world we continue to rage war. To fight to the death. We rape; we murder; we maim; we destroy; we illicit untold misery. Old words captured in new stories.

So, please dear reader let me leave you with just one more thought. I beg of you, let the words of peace, not war, galvanise the world. Say them loud and with passion, so all humankind can hear. And let’s keep the stories alive of those who have suffered, who continue to suffer today, and who will suffer tomorrow. Whether it’s through Dark Tourism; through the sustained narratives of the storytellers; through the photographers film; through the songwriters song; through the artists brush, let’s keep these narratives alive.
Lest we should ever forget how close we are to such suffering ourselves.