Decolonization practices

Drawing on critical heritage studies and postcolonial theory,Footnote ¹² an increasing number of museums in recent years have engaged in practices aimed at decolonizing their collections and exhibition spaces.Footnote ¹³ At the core of this process lies the deconstruction of the museum as an autonomous site of authority divorced from the sociohistorical conditions that shaped its emergence.Footnote ¹⁴ The myth of the universal museum, imbued with cultural internationalism, has become irretrievably outdated.Footnote ¹⁵ Ethnographic museums, in particular, have come under scrutiny for their role in providing scientific and aesthetic justification for an imperialistic culture of spoliation and the subjugation of the “other.”Footnote ¹⁶ The reconceptualization of colonialism as a structure rather than an event has set these museums on a path of continuous decolonization.Footnote ¹⁷

The decolonization of museums starts from the application of critical museology. To use Shelton’s definition, this discipline identifies the process of critically interrogating the field of “practical” or operational museology, with all its rules, protocols, and organizational structures.Footnote ¹⁸ Decolonization is thus an inherently multifaceted process, involving a variety of actions by museums, starting with the recognition of a culture of coloniality within museums.Footnote ¹⁹ Such operation might lead to the restitution of cultural property – a concept particularly popular with the public opinion,Footnote ²⁰ but also entails a polyhedric palette of in museo practices and approaches. It concerns, among others, the manner in which cultural property is handled, labeled, researched, catalogued, and showcased; the conditions under which it can be accessed; the museum’s acquisition practices, its operations of public engagement and marketing, as well as staffing and budgeting patterns.Footnote ²¹ In certain cases, it can lead to an institutional change of name.Footnote ²² It certainly has a lot to do with language, not only through the use of the proper idioms and Indigenous terminologies but also in terms of graphic choices: Sāmoan author and Professor Albert Wendt, for example, suggests avoiding italicizing Indigenous words and definitions, so as to not treat them as “foreign” to the objects to which they refer.Footnote ²³

Against this background, the MEG’s decolonization plan sets the goal of engaging in a “translocal dialogue” and “fair exchanges” with descendants of the colonized communities. To this end, it identifies three guiding principles that look, respectively, toward the past, present, and future of the institution: (1) the continuous study of the museum’s collections, of the objects’ provenance and their acquisition, (2) the reestablishment of a link with the “source communities,”Footnote ²⁴ and (3) the encouragement of creative exchanges with artists, researchers, audience, and culture bearers.Footnote ²⁵ The museum’s Collection Management Policy (CMP) translates these statements of principles into practical guidelines governing MEG’s activities.Footnote ²⁶

Acquisition and access

The first item addressed by the CMP is the museum’s acquisition policy.Footnote ²⁷ The criteria embedded therein aim to ensure that, should the MEG wish to acquire objects to complete its collections, such purchases are not only legally and ethically validFootnote ²⁸ but also align with the museum’s decolonization program. Accordingly, the CMP identifies as a fundamental acquisition principle the traceability requirement, to be checked at the time of purchase. It also clarifies that provenance research should be carried in collaboration with the representatives of Indigenous peoples and local communities. This additional requirement, as Durand explains, is a necessary response to the curators’ lack of the specific knowledge possessed by source communities regarding objects that are sacred, should not be purchased, or should not be displayed. In addition, the CMP preemptively identifies a category of “sensitive objects,” which are typically the subject of restitution: human remains, ritual and sacred objects, and archaeological objects (which are often the product of illegal excavations). While the MEG does not actively acquire human remains, it continues to collect objects from the other two categories. Finally, the CMP identifies a limited number of priority themes for the museum’s purchases that speak to its Western colonial heritage of ethnographic violence.Footnote ²⁹ Framing the acquisition policy within a defined narrative can serve as an active tool of decolonization, not only by directing research efforts and highlighting specific themes but also by preventing the acquisition of objects that would be more appropriately situated in a different context. The same however was not done with respect to the disposal policy regulating the transfer of collection objects.Footnote ³⁰ While this is presented as “complementary” to the acquisition policy, it remains detached from decolonization considerations. This is partly explained by the existence of a separate section dedicated to the restitution and return of cultural property. However, this approach appears to leave a gap with respect to problematic objects that cannot be addressed through restitution— for instance, when restitution is materially impossible, or when source communities do not wish for a particular object to reenter their possession. In such cases, alternative solutions are required. Yet the guidelines currently contemplate the delivery or destruction of collection objects solely in connection with considerations of scientific coherence, storage optimization, object deterioration, or health risks.

Next to the acquisition policy, the right of access to the museum’s collection is another crucial step in the decolonization process, both in its positive (facilitating access) and negative dimension (limiting access where necessary).Footnote ³¹ This is a particularly good parameter to measure how things have changed in Europe during the last 25 years. Durand recalls that when she first started working in a museum, access to collections was only granted to researchers with a traditional academic background. Artists and members of the source communities seeking to reconnect with their ancestors’ heritage were denied access in the overwhelming majority of cases. This restrictive approach reinforced the elitist control over museum collections, strengthening their exclusionary nature.Footnote ³² The CMP, on the contrary, clearly states that the MEG’s collections are available for consultation in particular to the members of the source communities, as well as students, researchers, and artists embarked on a cross-cultural creative approach.Footnote ³³ Consultations follow a specific procedure, which entails the presence of the collection’s manager. Roberta Colombo, curator of the MEG’s Oceania Department, explains that she makes the conscious choice to welcome descendants of the source communities by clarifying that it is their objects that they are going to see. Along the same lines, the CMP states that “[t]he MEG encourages the indigenous peoples to visit the museum and to look at their cultural property” (emphasis added).Footnote ³⁴ Restoring access represents the first step to understanding decolonizing initiatives as a necessarily collective practice.Footnote ³⁵ Importantly, the right of access also entails the right to exclude objects and contents from public availability. The CMP addresses this aspect by providing a disclaimer that clarifies how certain information from the MEG’s database might not be available to the public because it concerns ritual or ceremonial activities that, according to the communities of origin, should not be accessed based on age, gender, initiation, or status.Footnote ³⁶ For a Western sensibility, such limitations appear arbitrary and potentially discriminatory; its understanding requires a substantial shift of perspective and the embracement of an alternative relational paradigm to the objects in the collections.

Reactivation and display

One of the most innovative aspects of the CMP is arguably the guidance it provides with respect to the reactivation of the museum’s collections.Footnote ³⁷ Objects from colonized communities are bearers of meanings and spiritualities that often were severed by the violence that marked their initial acquisition.Footnote ³⁸ In Encounters, journalist and analyst Kanyana Mutombo, born in the Democratic Republic of Congo, denounces that many of the objects he encountered in the museum had been deactivated, or chose to deactivate themselves. Importantly, he observes that “what has fallen asleep can reawaken.”Footnote ³⁹ In a similar way, artist Deneth Piumkshi Veda Arachchige from Sri Lanka laments that the Nāga-Kanyā kolam theater mask from the MEG’s collections has been silenced and imprisoned behind a glass box. The mask “needs to breathe”, yet its permanence within the museum has caused it to become disconnected from the daily life of its people.Footnote ⁴⁰ These and other testimonies from Encounters highlight one of the fundamental paradoxes of ethnographic institutions engaged in decolonization, as they attempt to consciously manage objects that were not created nor imagined to sit in a museum.Footnote ⁴¹ Durand’s suggestion to address this paradox is to view these objects not only in space but also in time. When seen in the context of an ongoing process, the discomfort caused by their presence in the museum can be attenuated by recognizing that they might not remain there permanently or that their meaning and status might eventually be resolved with guidance from the source communities and their representatives. In this perspective, the CMP acknowledges the relational nature of such objects and sanctions their interaction with groups or individual members of the source communities, as well as artists or interpreters. Moreover, it recognizes that an object’s meaning is realized through its association with the intentions of its intended users. Nevertheless, these guidelines continue to frame the preservation of the physical integrity of the objects as the ultimate constraint on such interactions. Here, the paradox emerges once more as the museum imposes its own standards and assessment on the risk analysis of damage or destruction. This tension reflects the challenge of reconciling moral and ethical responsibilities toward source communities with Western constructs of due diligence and a duty of care, which traditionally bind museums primarily to their own reference communities.Footnote ⁴² Yet, this conservationist paradigm ultimately promotes the blunt reification of objects, which may have been intended to serve a very different cultural function.Footnote ⁴³

The display and visibility of these objects also play an important role in their reactivation. Present narratives are often botched, due to an original disjuncture between collectors and curators,Footnote ⁴⁴ and need rethinking. In this context, the voices from the communities of origin prove once again crucial. The act of display concerns not only the placement and arrangement of objects but also the museum’s atmosphere(s), which Bjerregaard defines as “the in-betweenness of objects and subjects.”Footnote ⁴⁵ Crucial to this aspect are the choices of topics that the museum decides to address.Footnote ⁴⁶ Remembering, for example, focused on Geneva in the colonial world. Visitors were greeted by questions printed in imposing letters on the walls, such as “how did the museum profit from colonial violence?” The exhibition set clear and specific goals, developed through selected themes such as the fight against collection anonymity, the hypocrisy of “civilization,” and the roots of current systems of wealth distribution. This path involved objects from the museum’s collection as well as contemporary artistic perspectives in order to investigate the role and authority of museums in times of decolonization. Blick Bassyan’s art installation “Le Casque décolonial,” for example, presented 11 helmet-calabashes, each bearing a poem-message, which embody “a journey from roots to rebirth through resistance.”Footnote ⁴⁷ Remembering also invited visitors to reflect upon their own relationship to slavery. An interactive installation introduced various words (activism, discomfort, humiliation, indifference, hate, etc.) that formed a circle; four lines of thread of different colors hang underneath it, each corresponding to a specific personal situation: “my ancestors were enslaved,” “my ancestors took part directly or indirectly in slavery,” “I don’t feel directly concerned by this history,” and “I don’t know what my links to slavery are.” Visitors were asked to use the thread that corresponded to their situation and, starting from the center of the circle, connect it to the words that resonated with them. This piece not only rendered visitors active creators in the exhibition but also provided an increasingly rich perspective on the audience of the museum, as participants became themselves the object of the exhibition’s study. The active engagement of visitors in the discussion on decolonization constitutes a fundamental practice of decolonization in its own right. The structural entrenchment of colonial narratives within modern societies requires museums to solicit an active public engagement, thereby triggering what Macdonald defines as a form of “critical self-reflexivity.”Footnote ⁴⁸ In this regard, temporary exhibitions provide a fertile space for praxiological museology,Footnote ⁴⁹ although permanent collections, such as the MEG’s The Archives of Human Diversity, should remain central to this process of restructuring.

Decolonization and intellectual property

In Durand’s view, intellectual property (IP) constitutes a crucial tool for reframing the contrasting entitlements to the museum’s collection. This perspective opens the door to a reconsideration of ownership, access, and ethical responsibilities in museum practices. From a legal perspective, the operationalization of this approach is still ongoing and depends largely on the reconceptualization of IP rights within the framework of human rights law.Footnote ⁵⁰ Existing international law instruments create an initial infrastructure for the recognition and enforcement of the source communities’ IP rights, although national implementation remains limited. Article 27(1) of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, for example, protects the right to take part in the cultural life of the community and to enjoy the arts, while Article 27(2) recognizes the right to the protection of the moral and material interests resulting from one’s own scientific, literary, or artistic production. The 2007 United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples’ Articles 11 and 12 codify – among others – the Indigenous people’s rights to maintain, protect, and develop “manifestations of their cultures,” such as artefacts and designs, and the right to use and control their ceremonial objects. The 2003 United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) Convention for the Safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural Heritage recognizes the cultural value of knowledge and traditions and the importance of individual and group participation for their management and transmission. Since 2000, the World Intellectual Property Organization (WIPO) also hosts an Intergovernmental Committee on Intellectual Property and Genetic Resources, Traditional Knowledge and Folklore. These instruments however are not designed with the aim of addressing (physical or intellectual) proprietary claims on tangible cultural objects, but rather protect Indigenous heritage in its broader form, spanning from traditional knowledge to genetic material.Footnote ⁵¹

The interaction between IP rights and the actual control of cultural objects therefore remains problematic.Footnote ⁵² Pursuing decolonization through IP requires an expansive interpretation of this branch of the law that fundamentally alters its original rationales,Footnote ⁵³ coupled with a targeted and clearly delineated application. The CMP, on the contrary, simply envisions a “right to be consulted” operating in favor of the source communities; the museum’s duty to obtain prior consent before using or authorizing the use of Indigenous cultural property; the prohibition against knowingly making available cultural material that is secret or sacred without the explicit consent of the relevant Indigenous representative(s); the Indigenous peoples’ right to derive financial benefits from the marketing of products based on their cultural property – although no further specifications regarding rates or conditions are provided.Footnote ⁵⁴ With the exception of the last point, these provisions resemble what in IP law are defined as moral rights. This section of the CMP, however, shifts in and out of IP terminology, leaving it confused and markedly underdeveloped. While it promotes the source communities’ participation in how their cultural heritage is displayed and shared with the public, it fails to realize full Indigenous sovereignty over the museum’s collections, since the museum’s director retains the final say in cases of disagreement.Footnote ⁵⁵ From a legal perspective, a more ambitious project would require the creation of new ad hoc IP rights, which should be rooted in the determinations of Indigenous communities and exempt from time limitations.Footnote ⁵⁶ Such a project entails the radical reconceptualization of the museum’s right of ownership, perhaps through its transformation in detentorship or in a form of guardianship. According to Durand, inspiration for the creation of such new categories of law might come from the experiences of source communities in the United States, Canada, and New Zealand. The Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa, for example, implements the Māori concept of Mana Taonga, acknowledging the spiritual and cultural connections communities have to collection items. This framework creates a truly shared authority over the taonga, or cultural treasures.Footnote ⁵⁷

Restitution

Decolonization of cultural property may require its restitution.Footnote ⁵⁸ In mainstream media, the term has become somewhat of a buzzword, particularly following the publication of the Sarr-Savoy Report, which advocated for the return of thousands of artworks from an institutional standpoint.Footnote ⁵⁹ This practice, however, continues to be viewed with some suspicion within the museum community, which in large part still suffers from the “empty showcase syndrome” – the fear that any individual restitution might trigger a snowball effect, ultimately leaving the museum empty.Footnote ⁶⁰ Nevertheless, major international museums have come under significant pressure to return art that was looted or otherwise acquired as part of colonial occupations.Footnote ⁶¹ In Durant’s view, museums should instead engage with provenance research in a proactive manner, reaching out to source communities to jointly discuss restitution options.Footnote ⁶² From this perspective, the mere digitalization and online publication of museum collections is often insufficient to spark a genuine discussion on restitution, as such information may never reach the source communities. Moreover, the MEG’s practice is not to contact state representatives directly but rather to first engage with local communities or national museums. This happens through the curators’ networks, as well as through the help of nongovernmental organizations such as Local Contexts, which provides copies of the museums’ database to the communities concerned.Footnote ⁶³ This protocol allows the MEG to avoid the risk of failing to establish a direct relationship with the Indigenous people themselves.

From an administrative perspective, restitution is rarely a straightforward process. In the case of the MEG, it requires the involvement of both the administrative council and the municipal council of the City of Geneva, making it inevitably subject to political will. In this context, loan agreements can offer a handy alternative to the transfer of ownership, at least on a temporary basis. Some commentators have been quite critical toward the idea of a loan in lieu of legal restitution, regarding it as a form of disrespect toward the traditional owners.Footnote ⁶⁴ While each restitution case is unique, such a position seems to rely on an overly formalistic approach that fails to recognize the pragmatic benefits of this instrument, which museums can implement autonomously through direct engagement with source communities. The MEG for example adopted such a solution as early as 1992, at a time when the idea of restitution was far from its current understanding. In order to return a Momokai (Māori head) to New Zealand, the museum granted a permanent loan to the National Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa, eventually transforming into a transfer of ownership in 2014.Footnote ⁶⁵

Recently, the idea of digital restitution has also gained traction.Footnote ⁶⁶ The unitary treatment of this concept is complicated by the multiplicity of tools it may involve, ranging from photographs and audio recordings to 3D scans, virtual reality experiences, and online databases.Footnote ⁶⁷ In addition, this practice has raised some pressing concerns of “museum washing,” insofar as it might be used as a shortcut to avoid or avert attention from the genuine restitution of physical objects.Footnote ⁶⁸ It also stirs the age-old debate based on Benjamin’s position over the aura of objects mechanically reproduced.Footnote ⁶⁹ Furthermore, from an IP perspective it might actually end up creating additional problems, as it poses the thorny question of the originality of the copies.Footnote ⁷⁰ Digital restitution, however, may constitute a valid means of returning objects from the musical archives.

A crucial aspect, and indeed a conditio sine qua non for this new practice, lies in obtaining the prior consent of source communities to the process of digitalization. Moreover, Western institutions should not retain use of digital items once they have been returned, so as not to perpetuate a form of “digital colonialism” that would completely frustrate the purpose of the entire operation.Footnote ⁷¹ The MEG’s experience provides a practical litmus for these considerations: After returning two sacred objects to a source community in the United States, the museum was asked to erase the digital images of the returned objects from its database. By enforcing this kind of “right to be forgotten,”Footnote ⁷² the MEG addressed one of the main concerns associated with digital restitution – namely, that it often fails to entail a genuine shift of power.

Finally, any discussion of restitution by museums should also engage with the local diasporas. These communities might have an interest – and a right – to oppose restitution. This dynamic was recently highlighted by the US case Farmer-Paellmann v. Smithsonian Institution,Footnote ⁷³ where a New York nonprofit dedicated to securing justice for the transatlantic enslavement of African people fought in court against the return of 29 Benin Bronzes to Nigeria from the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, DC. In Durand’s experience, however, diaspora communities initially interested in safeguarding their relationship with the museum objects end up agreeing to their restitution. When this operation is contextualized within a framework that transcends the mere transfer of ownership, and is viewed instead as a form of remedy for past injustices or as the reactivation of the sacred nature of these objects, their loss becomes less painful.

Reframing the museum

The analysis of the MEG’s experience highlights some recurring themes that characterize its process of decolonization. First of all, the management of the collections pays particular attention to the role of emotions. In a 2016 study of the collections’ importance, for example, the assessment method not only considered the historical, artistic, or scientific value of the objects but also their emotional value and importance for the source communities.Footnote ⁷⁴ The access policy warns visitors that the database contains names of deceased people, which can cause painful feelings.Footnote ⁷⁵ The CMP also acknowledges that the museum’s use of objects from its collections might cause anxiety in Indigenous people, who therefore should be recognized with an active role in the management decisions.Footnote ⁷⁶ Recognizing emotions as part of the collection management enables the creation of “affective encounters” that contribute to the process of reparation of historical injustices.Footnote ⁷⁷ As highlighted by Saab, emotions have a role to play in the creation and evolution of law;Footnote ⁷⁸ decolonization of cultural property might particularly benefit from a structural exploration of this interaction, in order to rebuild a relationship of trust with source communities.Footnote ⁷⁹

Second, the MEG focuses its attention on the issue of consent. The CMP uses the principle of prior consent as a guiding criterion to ensure that uses of cultural properties from the collections do not perpetuate colonial dynamics and to rebuild Indigenous sovereignty over their objects.Footnote ⁸⁰ Consent is also one of the main themes of Encounters. For this space, Amel Merabet, a Swiss lawyer of Algerian descendant, selected a photograph from the MEG’s archive that is purposefully not shown to the visitors. The photograph in question depicts a young woman from a camp un Tunisia, whose image was captured without her consent in the name of “scientific” progress. The choice to introduce this photograph through its absence highlights the violence, racism, and sexism it represents.Footnote ⁸¹ Putting the focus on consent, rather than legality, also allows circumventing positivist arguments concerning the formal validity of transfers of ownership under the laws in place at the time of the initial acquisitions of these objects.Footnote ⁸² From this perspective, Durand views favorably the association between the discussion on the restitution of colonial cultural property and that of Nazi-looted art. In the latter context, it is widely acknowledged that, although some transfers were cloaked in a veneer of legality, their underlying nature was profoundly illicit.Footnote ⁸³

Finally, the MEG engages in what Ariese defines as “decentering”:Footnote ⁸⁴ a shift of narratives and processes that triggers reflections, both within the museum and in its audience. As illustrated, this process takes a variety of forms and can, at times, cause discomfort.Footnote ⁸⁵ Ultimately, it relies on what sociologist Niklas Luhmann described as “second-order observing,” which is predicated on the observation of the observers.Footnote ⁸⁶ Such process allows identifying the colonial epistemological biases of the ethnographic museum and proceeding with their deconstruction.