Susan Sontag (1933 – 2004) holds our morality in high regard and approaches it as one would a beloved old glove: beats it up a bit to keep the fibers supple and responsive.
In Regarding the Pain of Others, Sontag deals with the limits of compassion, particularly as it pertains to visual imagery.
Do photographs make something more real and therefore imperative? Or are we so saturated with images it neutralizes their power?
Sontag proposed in her 1979 essay On Photography that “our capacity to respond to our experiences with emotional freshness and ethical pertinence is being sapped by relentless diffusion.”
For a long time some people believed that if the horror could be made vivid enough, most people would finally take in the outrageousness, the insanity of war. […] Awareness of the suffering that accumulates in a select number of wars happening elsewhere is something constructed. Principally in the form that is registered by cameras, it flares up, is shared by many people, and fades from view.
In Regarding, however, Sontag concludes that photographs have an effect in that they deliver a “reality that exists independent of the attempts to weaken its authority.” We know the Twin Towers fell in 2001 because we saw it in photographs, despite us being far away and despite it being undeniably unfathomable.
As our reality shifts to make room for visual data outside our immediate lives, what are the limits of empathy? What is our capacity for caring? How do we achieve kindness? Christie Watson, a British nurse of twenty years, in a profession that “demands a chunk of your soul on a daily basis,” wrote a beautiful memoir of endless stores of human kindness. Sontag points out care is closely tied to pity.
It is an issue of caring, but an issue of memory. How do we know, remember, what once happened? How do you jump from a localized occurrence to a collective memory? And how do you jump from a collective individual memory to a collective societal memory carried through time?
All memory is individual, unreproducible—it dies with each person. What is called collective memory is not remembering but a stipulating: that this is important, and this is the story of how it happened, with the pictures that lock the stories in our minds.
Photographs and images are, like people, witnesses. Those who document for our benefit and speak for our ears. For those who carry this burden of witness know all too well they cannot affect how we feel. Not really. It also falls on us to look, seek, and learn.
Visual imagery is still monumentally important. I use the word “monument” deliberately. I remember going to the Holocaust Memorial in Boston when it opened. You walk single file through pillars and over grated lights, and the experience is supposed to remind you of gas chambers. Of course, they can’t remind us of anything because we have no memory of it. They invoke in us a feeling of terror that kickstarts our empathy. Hopefully. But will that still have an effect in fifty years? One hundred? 1
Ultimately, the limits of feeling are just that: feeling. Feeling is not knowledge. As Sontag reminds us, the dead don’t care about the living, and the living will never understand the dead, and this impasse, breachable by death or near death, just is. 2We don’t exist when we die. Sontag closes the book:
We don’t get it. We truly cannot imagine what it was like. We can’t imagine how dreadful, how terrifying war is; and how normal it becomes. Can’t understand, can’t imagine. That’s what every soldier, and every journalist and aid worker and independent observer who has put in time under fire and had the luck to elude the death that struck down others nearby, stubbornly feels. And they are right.
Without understanding, is there any way to avoid reenacting atrocities?
Read this illuminating essay alongside James Geary’s study of language, which invites us to see anew metaphor and its effect on knowledge and meaning, or Eli Wiesel’s Night, a first-hand account of his time in Auschwitz, which advances our collective memory.