Writer: Phurah Jack | Photographs: Supplied
In the ongoing journey of decolonisation, one profound and often overlooked question persists: How do we, as Black people, engage with the memory of loss? How does that memory inform who we are today, and, more importantly, how can it shape the path to true freedom?
The idea of loss and the way it shapes memory is not a new concept, but it holds particular weight when it comes to Black identity. In much of post-colonial discourse, the act of remembering has been tied to celebrating resilience, strength, and survival. But what happens when we look beyond that resilience and into the very heart of defeat? It is in the acceptance of our collective loss, our history of colonisation, that true liberation might lie.
The way we hold onto the idea of being “defeated” or “conquered” is crucial. Too often, Black communities cling to narratives of resistance that do not fully acknowledge the historical depth of colonisation. Take Ethiopia, for example—there is still a widespread belief in some circles that it was never colonised. This belief, while a source of pride for some, reveals a deeper problem: the refusal to fully reckon with the colonial past that has affected the entire continent. To truly liberate ourselves, we must accept the reality that no part of Africa has escaped colonisation and the trauma it brings. This recognition is fundamental to our collective healing.
In this context, the idea of defeat should not be seen as a mark of weakness but as a starting point. Defeat in war or conquest can be viewed not as the end but as the necessary precondition for rebuilding and renewal. Without confronting the extent of our loss, we cannot begin to rebuild our identity on our own terms. True freedom begins when we embrace the fact that we have been fundamentally altered by our past and that the very act of resistance must be redefined to include the lessons learned from this defeat. As philosopher and theorist Frantz Fanon (1961) wrote in The Wretched of the Earth, “decolonisation is always a violent event”; the colonised must find their own language of freedom.
This is where memory becomes a crucial tool. Memory is not just about holding onto the past but about how we use it to confront the present. The way we remember the struggles of our ancestors—whether through monuments like the statue of Shaka at the airport or cultural practices—must be critically examined.
These symbols, while powerful, also risk becoming empty gestures if we do not understand their place in the broader narrative of our defeat and its ongoing legacy. The act of remembering is also a form of resistance. Achille Mbembe (2001), in his influential work On the Post-colony, discusses how African memories of colonial violence are often dismissed or erased in the dominant historical narrative. These memories cannot merely be commemorative; they must function as critical tools in the present struggle for identity and sovereignty. Memorials like the Shaka statue or the continued practice of traditional rituals like uLwaluko (Xhosa initiation) are not just markers of past glory—they are living symbols of an ongoing struggle against the erasure of African history and culture.
Consider, for instance, the tradition of uLwaluko and its cultural significance. If this practice had ever been viewed as a threat by colonial forces, it is not hard to imagine that it would have been completely erased from memory. The loss of this cultural heritage, its colonisation, and institutional erasure speak volumes about the extent of the colonial violence that sought not only to control land but to wipe out the very systems of knowledge and identity that we still hold dear.
The Question of Agency: Can the Oppressed Answer for Themselves?
This brings me to a difficult yet essential question: Can the descendants of the oppressed—those who carry the trauma of slavery and colonisation—answer philosophical questions about freedom and identity? Do we, the oppressed, have the agency to define ourselves philosophically, or are we still living under a system where the “adults” (the colonisers) answer for us?
The question of agency and autonomy for colonised peoples is central to much post-colonial thought. Gayatri Spivak’s (1988) essay Can the Subaltern Speak? delves into the complexities of whether those who have been oppressed under colonial rule can truly speak for themselves or if their voices are permanently mediated by colonial structures. In asking whether Black people have the right to answer philosophical questions, I am pointing to the broader issue of whether we, as a collective, are still under the thumb of a colonial mindset that forces us to look to the West for answers. The challenge, therefore, is not just political or economic; it is epistemological. We must develop our own frameworks for understanding freedom, memory, and identity.
The ongoing legacy of colonialism lies in the way we continue to view ourselves through the lens of the oppressor’s eyes, unable to break free of the shackles imposed upon our collective psyche. As Nelson Mandela (1994) famously said, “I am not free if I am not free from the poverty of the mind.” This resonates deeply with the concept of mental decolonisation, which calls for a rethinking of how Black people see themselves and how they choose to define their own narratives. For as long as we are unable to question the foundational myths about our identity that were established by colonialism, we remain prisoners of that system.
Ultimately, what academics and theorists often overlook is that the collective mindset of the oppressed remains rooted in the defeated mind of the colonised. We cannot fully engage with the world as free men and women until we confront and integrate the trauma of our defeat into a new vision of ourselves—a vision that transcends colonial constructs and redefines what it means to be free.
Cedric Robinson (1983), in Black Marxism: The Making of the Black Radical Tradition, emphasises that Black radical thought is not merely about reclaiming land or material wealth; it is about the transformation of consciousness. It is this transformation, which begins with accepting the reality of our loss and defeat, that holds the key to true freedom. Only by confronting our past, unearthing buried histories, and revising the narratives that colonialism imposed upon us can we begin to create the future we deserve.
True liberation, therefore, is not simply about political independence or the acquisition of material wealth. It is about reshaping how we view ourselves, our past, and the possibilities of our future. It is a painful process, one that requires us to face the difficult truths of our history, but only through this confrontation can we begin to heal and move towards a future defined by our own agency.
