In Florence, Italy, at the dawn of the Renaissance (the end of the 15th century), fundamentalist priest Girolamo Savonarola cast a spell over the populace of the city. Savonarola declared war on culture, artistic creations, and any objects that reflected pride and vanity. His rabid followers cheered as Savonarola's "bonfire of the vanities" turned magnificent masterpieces into ashes for the "greater glory of God."
Eventually, the citizens of Florence and Catholic Church officials tired of his excesses and disposed of Savonarola--sending his body up in flames--and restored the enlightened ideals of the Renaissance.
Savonarola's ugly chapter of terror teaches us that to pave a path toward enlightenment you must defeat current tyrants, not dead ones.
Yes, we shouldn't have to stare at statues of despots and abusers in our main squares, workplaces, thoroughfares, and malls. Most of the tributes to bondage should be removed but not destroyed. Place them in warehouses and museums, where scholars and spectators can gain insights into human nature and the expression of values throughout history from studying them.
Philosopher George Santayana got it right when he warned: "Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it."
In retaining some representative objectionable monuments we could deflate them and their oppressive ideologies by constructing monuments alongside them with a different message such as this story, a montage created from slave narratives:
My name is Mustapha. My slave master called me Mary. When I was 17 years old I was kidnapped from my tribe in Africa. I was dragged in chains to the bottom of a big ship. The kidnappers called themselves Portuguese. There were many other slaves crushed together on the ship. We were given very little food or water during the long voyage. The floor was always wet or flooded and the air stank. Many became sick and died. They were thrown into the sea. When we arrived in the New World I was forced to stand almost naked in a marketplace where slave owners looked at me and touched me. I was terrified, lonely, and cried without stop. I was sold to a plantation owner. Over the years my master and his three sons raped me. I gave birth to three children whom I loved even though they were produced by sin. They were the only things that were mine. But when they were grown they were ripped from me and sold to other plantations. I never saw them again. I found a small book that had been thrown away and tried to learn how to read. A spy reported me. The master took away my book. He said it was a bad example for other slaves and threatened to punish me severely if I was ever found with a book again. I once tried to escape, but the bloodhounds caught me. I was whipped so badly that I was a cripple for the rest of my life.
And the man next to me, sitting high on his horse, devoted his life to keeping me a slave
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