When heroes die, myths replace them

THE Czech writer Milan Kundera died earlier this month. For the generation of journalists working in the 1980s and early 1990s, he was an inspiration and an example of literary brilliance to emulate. A loose group of us were attracted, in particular, to Kundera’s work for the way he used allegory to break through Stalinism in what was then “the eastern bloc”.

In the 1980s we drew on writers such as Kundera and Arthur Koestler, Darkness at Noon in particular, to better understand the cruelty of Stalinism. I eventually lost interest in Koestler. Also, for what it’s worth, and without traducing his literary and political achievements, I never really placed Alexander Solzhenitsyn among the great Russian or European writers.

Kundera would, of course, slip into popular culture with the cinematic adaptation of The Unbearable Lightness of Being. I kept a copy of his earlier work, The Book of Laughter and Forgetting, for several years with pieces of scrap paper marking notable passages. His ideas about central/eastern Europe were provocative and insightful. Western Europe and Russia have always tried to pull the Poles, Hungarians and people of the former Yugoslavia and Czechoslovakia (among others) into their civilisational conflicts.

After his death, I recalled some of the early influences as a young journalist. Kundera’s fiction was a necessary critique of oppression and injustice, and a powerful reminder of Soviet injustices and Russian ambitions in eastern Europe. Russia’s war on the Ukrainian people is a reminder of Moscow’s historical quest for empire. But what happens when our heroes — a literary hero, in the case of Kundera — die, or when their work recedes into the background of contemporary affairs? For what it’s worth, Kundera himself pointed out that DH Lawrence’s ideas on sexuality had, by the end of the last century, ceased to be taboo. Nonetheless, to make up for the irrelevance of past ideas, we rely on mythmaking.

Kundera’s literary oeuvre will surely be remembered by many. His ideas, laid down almost four decades ago, have either slipped into common sense, perhaps for their unoriginality, or disappeared in the mists of time. That he became reclusive over the last three decades of his life does not help. We have been unable to ask what he makes of contemporary life, other than reflecting on what he said four decades ago and searching for resonance and validity.

I may be wrong in all of this, but it had me wondering about that great South African pastime, reminiscing about fateful events of the past, obsessing over what someone said three or four decades ago and ignoring the likelihood that they might have changed their minds over the years. None of this means we have to ignore the past. It is simply to say that it is disingenuous and opportunistic to remain in convenient liminality, avoiding responsibility for the past (in which we had no say) and the future.

Myths make heroes

As a general statement, there is a remarkable habit among the living to glorify and exalt thinkers and heroes who lie deep in our pasts. We hold onto their ideas, their words and (mostly) the good things they said and did when they were alive and among us. We do it for any number of reasons; to validate our struggles, to give meaning and substance to our lives (and ideas), even to justify our actions. It is exceedingly difficult to shake off loyalty to the heroes of the past — until ethical or moral considerations enter the picture. Even then, we become moral relativists.

One of the mistakes we make — a factor we overlook or dismiss, sometimes because of expediency, sometimes for ease of thought and seeking affiliation or solidarity — is to imagine that ideas, beliefs and values are eternally valid. We imagine, for instance, that whatever a political leader or thinker said three or four decades ago remains beyond scrutiny. There are ideas, to be sure, that have outlived people. When it comes to politics or social commentary, it is always useful to remember that people may change their minds over years.

There may, of course, be things that are generally unacceptable. They  usually have to do with violence, abuse and restricting freedoms. We should be careful because there are probably as many conceptions of freedom as there are individuals. Most people would agree, today, that slavery is unjust or that violence is unnecessary. To save ourselves or redeem our actions, we often turn to myths built on the ideals of the past.

It seems as if the further someone lies in the past, the greater the myths around them. While we speak fondly about the grace and kindness of the late Archbishop Desmond Tutu and of Nelson Mandela, the ideas of Chris Hani or Steve Biko (even Jan Smuts or Paul Kruger, for that matter) are held onto with limpet-like devotion and presented as “solutions” or at least as answers to today’s problems. Surely these fine folk may have changed their minds over three or four decades (or more) as new information was acquired or inducements arose. Alternatively, we praise them regardless of the facts.

For instance, the same people implicated in state capture and widescale corruption today made the most conciliatory, peaceable, morally righteous and ethically exemplary statements before 1994, after which ANC leaders and members filled Parliamentary benches and offices of state.

Consider the example of the most venal and corrupt, former defence minister Joe Modise, who was praised, almost three decades ago, for having created “a loyal, stable, unified and professional South African National Defence Force, one that has become increasingly representative of the population and credible and legitimate in the eyes of our people”.

In 1990, Modise spoke eloquently about the need “to instil a spirit of devotion, dedication and professionalism” in the body of ANC activists and paramilitary groups. How rapidly that spirit degenerated into corruption and maladministration once Modise came into office. Who could have said when they were alive  that Hani or Biko would not  become corrupt? Who could have said that Jacob Zuma would be a paragon of virtue, for that matter? We have to leave room for irrationalities and for error.

Mythmaking is dangerous, but it makes people feel good about themselves. The myths around religion, especially the Abrahamic religions, make up a safety blanket for believers. Revolutionary myths about utopia are intoxicating. Myths about identity and the safety of belonging are vital for whipping up emotions. In one of Kundera’s later works, Ignorance, he draws attention to the mythical homeland of exiled people. The myth of a homeland looms large while the reality of living in a new country has greater material importance.  

If we return to Kundera’s ideas about eastern/central Europe, as a culture, as opposed to a geographical territory squeezed between Russia and Europe, he remains sceptical about “home” and membership of a homeland. “I wonder if our notion of home isn’t, in the end, an illusion, a myth… I wonder if we are not victims of that myth. I wonder if our ideas of having roots — d’être enraciné — is simply a fiction we cling to.”

Mythmaking as a way of creating membership or belonging, or for identifying heroes, remains part of what we do. However we chose to look at them, myths hold many groups together. Even if our heroes die, we never cease to build communities and societies on myths. Reality only helps us make up new stories about old heroes. It is useful to remind ourselves of the differences between myths and truth, myths and reality.

♦ VWB ♦

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