
In a course that I run on responses to international crimes, I paint my students the following scenario: Canada is taken over by a brutal dictatorship that suppresses human rights. The regime lasts for twenty years before democracy is restored. During the dictatorship, one in every ten Canadians was an informant of Canada’s secret police. We do not know who they are. They could be our loved ones, co-workers, bosses, or the person who has made us our morning coffee on the way to work. Now, we have a chance to find out because the new government decides it is best to open the secret police’s records and let us find out.
Would you look?
The responses from students are fascinating not because any one of them is more persuasive than any other but because all and none of them are. Some students don’t hesitate. They are confident that they would absolutely check the files. They simply want to know. They seem convinced that the truth will set them free or bring closure by offering some critical tidbit of information that is necessary to move on. I respect their self-assurance, though I suspect that if the exercise were a little less abstract and they were staring down at an envelope which just might include the names of their mother or brother, the situation would look a little different. Imagining that moment is something like Schrödinger’s informant. Everyone is and everyone isn’t an informant – until the envelope is opened.
Other students are more anxious about the prospect of revealing who may have informed on them. They worry about what they might find and what information – what context and what truths – might be omitted. Might finding out ruin relationships that they once valued? How would it make them feel, and would it be worth it? One student believed that if someone they cared for informed on them during the dictatorship and they needed to know, then that informant would tell them.
Others wonder: what itch would knowing scratch and why do they have it at all? What can they do once they know? Rather than bringing closure, might finding out pieces of unsavoury and incomplete information only make that itch worse? Might the wounds of the past fester and undermine their healing once the scars have been picked at? Is there any place here for forgetting? Can we accept that sometimes forgetting may actually be a virtue, even if it runs contrary to the accumulated wisdom and insistence of transitional justice scholarship that all bad pasts must be confronted?
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