To Be Dead
A work of short fiction by Olivia Wertheimer:
~~~~
To be dead.
Peace is for those who were given their correct funerary rights. For those who lay with their ancestors, or at least away from the prying eyes of strangers.
Always prying.
“Ooo, could you imagine posing with that one.”
“I wish they would let us take pictures again.”
“Oh that’s disgusting.”
She wanted to slam her fists against glass, to let them know her fury. But all she could do was make them think there was a chill, an effect that made these freaks more excited to come visit.
For those not at peace, to be dead is to know pain.
Perhaps not physical, the stabbing and burning was no more. Yet when not at peace, the pains of the heart are stronger, all consuming. There were others in this hell who had long ago lost themselves, lost to the pain of neverending mockery.
“I heard there’s a slut’s skull here.”
“Which one?”
“The one that says oddity!”
The laughter was worse than the words. The words changed as the decades did. As flowing skirts turned to pants, then at times cheap copies of the silken gowns of yesteryear.
But the laughter.
That was always the same.
It transcended language.
To these monsters, she was the monster. She and the others. And how? How could they point and laugh at the lost babies? At those who’d gone through more physical pain than they’d ever know? At those who were ripped from their final resting place, forced to be on display.
What could they do?
They tried screaming.
They tried breaking things.
They tried pleading.
But even those who weren’t laughing, who viewed their bodies with disgusting pity, just…left. No change.
The plaques may have been updated, rules with those flashing modern cameras updated so they were no more, but they were still trapped.
Forced to witness parties among the remains, cheap costumes, and more of that laughter. Skull candies would be passed around, and plastic props would be shared with the same respect given to them.
There was no joy for them.
No rest.
To be dead is to watch.
To be dead is to wait.
One day, it might even be nice
To be dead
~~~~
This piece of short fiction was written in fall of 2023, in response to those who continued to push for the Mutter Museum and other museums displaying human remains to continue to display the remains of those who were never in a position to consent to said display.
The speaker is left vague albeit feminine in order for this piece to be applicable to all instances of this happening.
May remains be returned to the families and tribes of the deceased.
May we no longer torment victims of colonialism long after they’ve left the mortal coil.
May we be better.
Please read the writings of Aparna Nair, Dr Lyra D Monteiro, and others fighting to decolonize museums and archaeology.
