Sarah Anderson: What Is a Shared Memory?

January 30 marked the 50th anniversary of what has come to be known as Bloody Sunday—the day when British soldiers shot 26 unarmed civilians in Derry, Northern Ireland at a peaceful protest march. January 30, 1972, was four years into the middle of the time period that has come to be known as The Troubles—a time when Northern Ireland was deeply divided between two groups—Protestant Unionists and Catholic Republicans—divided over the political status of Northern Ireland. Should Northern Ireland remain part of Great Britain, or should they declare themselves part of the Republic of Ireland who they shared their island with? Of course, these conflicts are always more complicated than we could possibly understand from the outside. But I think that’s the point. There’s always another side, another angle, another way to observe and interpret the world we bear witness to. There’s always more to it. There’s always another layer deeper to go. There’s always another turn of the stone to reveal another facet of the story.

I listened to a BBC interview on the Bloody Sunday anniversary where retired Bishop Ken Good of the church of Ireland said, “In Northern Ireland, we have a shared history, but we don’t have a shared memory.”

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that line ever since I heard it. Northern Ireland politics aside, isn’t that source of all conflict and unrest—political, civil, relational, and vocational? We might have shared experiences, but the way we remember them is as unique as the people who experienced them. A shared experience without shared memories leads to growing divides, increasing “other-ing”, and widening gaps to be filled with misinformation, misunderstanding, and misinterpreting.  

And that can be problematic. 

These past few years have held more shared experiences as a collective culture and global community than ever before. And yet, our experience amid these shared moments couldn’t be more different. In so many ways we are farther apart than ever before. 

And as leaders, I think our biggest temptation coming out of these days—and yet also, still solidly living in them—will be to only tell the story of the people who already follow us—our fans, our audience, our supporters. The temptation will be to only entertain the easiest memories, the ones with the path of least resistance, that confirm what we already think, or require the least amount of critical thinking from us. The temptation will be to become followers to the whims of those who follow us—becoming less thoughtful ourselves and instead just listeners to and believers of the stories that align with us, are already in the fold, thinking those are the only stories and memories that matter.

Which is why I think one the best questions we can ask ourselves, our families, our communities, and the people we might not see ourselves having anything in common with is: How would you tell the story? I know my memory, but what is yours? 

The 50th anniversary of Bloody Sunday, and the various anniversaries and mile markers we hold collectively as a culture and personally in our individual lives, should be reminders to ask ourselves and those around us how our experiences and memories coincide and how they differ. We may share experiences. But we may not share our memories. And to cross the distance that may spread between us, we can begin by asking these questions: 

How else could this story be told?

How else could these years have been experienced?

How have people closest to me experienced this?

How have people nothing like me experienced this?

How do our memories differ? 

How are they the same?

What memory am I missing?

In the memories that feel impossible to me and reality to others, what can I learn? 

Even in our inconsistent memories, what does moving forward together look like? 

What needs to happen in our collective memory before that is possible?

As leaders, we can rally the troops we already have, or we can we can risk the allegiance of those already with us, for the sake of holding space for those whose memories of shared experience differ from ours, but are no less valid. 

We have a shared history. We do not have a shared memory. But maybe, moving forward, we can have a known memory. A listened to memory, an understood, a validated, and an honored memory. 

It may not save the world, but it just may save our souls. And who knows? Maybe those two things are closer than we think.