The Imagined Childhood

I have often been reminded of my own childhood, of the events in which I acted either unusually brave or unusually cruel. And more often than not would I be the only one without the slightest memory of such incidents. It is so strange to me that I sometimes wonder if all those they said were such made-up, improvised just to make fun of me, but then their sincerity and their seriousness would assure me the authenticity of those incidents.

I was told, not long ago, by my father that at the age of 3 or 4 I beat the shit out of another kid, who was apparently bigger and older than I and attempted to bully me, and whose parent was so embarrased they did not even try to scold me. Said I was so hard on that kid it produced a certain effect of intimidation to others around. But I was only, what, 3 or 4 years old? Surely I don't remember any of that.

But this tale told by my father, combined with other things in my recent life, had a significant effect on me, if only gradually. For example, I came to realize, with disenchantments, certain aspects of my own personality: I was, and probably still am, a much colder person than I thought I was.

And so when Benedict Anderson ends his book with an analogy between a nation's made-up history and a person's narrated childhood, it is my opinion that this is a much easier and much stronger entry point than concepts like "print-capitalism" or "pirating nationalism":

After experiencing the physiological and emotional changes produced by puberty, it is impossible to ‘remember’ the consciousness of childhood. [...] How strange it is to need another’s help to learn that this naked baby in the yellowed photograph, sprawled happily on rug or cot, is you. [...] Out of this estrangement comes a conception of person-hood, identity (yes, you and that naked baby are identical) which, because it can not be ‘remembered,’ must be narrated.

The discrepancy between a person's imagined childhood and a nation's imagined history needs no stressing; for one, the former is narrated and believed only by the closest people of that person, mostly authentic, while the latter is often fabricated for power's sake, and the people are made to believe by repetitiions, in textbooks, during national festivals or anniversaries, under political and moral pressure.

Similarly, because a community of a billion human beings is just impossible to be illustrated not to mention to be remembered, it too must be narrated for such an identity to exist. But Anderson's account for a nation's "fashion[ing] it ‘up time'" its own history seems simple-minded to me:

Nations, however, have no clearly identifiable births, and their deaths, if they ever happen, are never natural. Because there is no Originator, the nation’s biography can not be written evangelically, ‘down time,’ through a long procreative chain of begettings. The only alternative is to fashion it ‘up time’ – towards Peking Man, Java Man, King Arthur, wherever the lamp of archaeology casts its fitful gleam.

The fact that a nation cannot have a specific "birthday" is no major reason why it does not fabricate one for itself, since it has fabricated so many things for itself already. I suspect there's more to it than a simple "there's no alternative." And this surely has something to do with the novelty of this modern idea "nation." 

Suppose a man new to the environment wants to impress others when introducing himself, the first thing he says is very unlikely to be something like "I have a very large family tree," unless he knows and all other people knows that there's a consensus around here that whoever has a larger family tree is more respectable. Would a young country be more or less revered in the international society today, compared to a country with long history? (Of course the People's Republic of China is much younger than it claims, or wants other nations to believe.) Suppose, in addition, that a man wants to impress others by some miraculous deeds, and if he succeeds, does it matter which family he comes from now? Maybe it does, but whatever reason that may be for, it is not for the length of time here. 

The long history that every version of modern nationalism around the world wish they had is likely to serve two functions: first, a longer history provides a wider "net" to capture the vast majority of the population, that is to say, for the people to imagine each other as brothers and sisters, the family tree must be very large, generations must be innumerable, at least presumably; second, when such a modern apprehension of time as "homogeneous, empty time" is in place, the strength of a nation would also be perceived in a quantitative fashion. Really, how old a nation is has nothing to do with, at least no direct impact on, the strength of its community; sometimes an ancient history might even be an obstacle for modern developments. But for the national psychology, such a long history is quite indispensible. (And this is where both Marxism and liberalism failed to explain the success and obstinacy of nationalism all over the world; in other words, this is where Anderson's account matters.)

The fact that such national history is fabricated points to the opportunity as well as the danger of modern nationalism. Opportunity because however small and new a nation or proto-nation might be, a proper narrative always has the chance of building up a new nation-state. Take Taiwan as a potential case: is it possible to imagine a new nation, not in the name of "China", but in the name of "Taiwan," maybe "Taiwan" exclusively, that would remodel the ipso facto island country into a legitimately recognized political entity both in the eyes of its citizens and the international society? What then would that nation be like; specifically, what kind of "childhood" would it imagine for itself? What identity does it imply? (This is hardly about political values, as so many liberals assume. This is about belonging.)

Danger because the fabrication requires deliberate forgetting as well as remembering. It might be worth pondering on the publishing of this Anderson book, not as a neutral academic research project, but as a conscious political act, to counter the "fake" memory of any nation with ... what, the truth? Is it really possible, after what Bernard Williams said about relativism, after what Kuhn said about history of science, (the oh-so innocent natural science!) does anybody really believe in an objective, neutral, "true" version of history, waiting for some good old historians to discover? Such polemics can easily backfire.

As I look back on my old diaries recording not so much what happened to me as what I experienced, felt, thought at the time being, I always experience that kind of estrangement typical of a man deeply changed. I don't recognize myself in that diary. I don't know that guy, I'm not familiar with such personality. Before I would somewhat proudly say "I've grown." But now, I hesitate to give in to such optimism. Maybe it's just a "paradigm shift" that includes both gains and losses, only unlike science, the puzzle-solving capability is not necessarily increasing. One can grow; one can also just grow older.

What then does these unfamiliar selves mean to the present self? Similarly, what then does those "true" histories told by those unfamiliar "true" selves (true in the sense that they were narrated by the past selves, not in the objective neutral sense) mean to us, provided we are already so accustomed to a certain narrative necessarily fabricated but not necessarily for some power holders' sake? The demand to "not forget our national shame" (勿忘国耻) is an invitation and an urge at the same time; it elicits a signal from everyone, and imaginarily separates the population into two. For me, the diaries written by past selves are a reminder of a simple fact, which most alleged patriots and nationalists tend to forget: I change. People change. That's what people do.