Andrew Burnett justifies the British Museum's decision to return to New Zealand nine fragmentary Maori bones but to retain seven tattooed heads (Toi moko) claimed by the Te Papa Museum for repatriation.
He also refers to the museum's earlier decision to return to Tasmania two cremation ash bundles. For both of these claims the British Museum commissioned me to provide an independent report, and I recommended return in each case.
Burnett's explanation merits scrutiny, both for the way in which the Te Papa claim was handled and the light it sheds on the values and assumptions of the British Museum more generally.
The currents which swept the seven Toi moko from New Zealand to Bloomsbury in the 19th century were turbulent and strong. A grisly market was fuelled by acquisitive European collectors. We can be certain of one thing.
Neither the individual Maori, nor their kin would ever have acquiesced to such a fate. Nor would they have been impressed by the addition of holes from insect infestation that today pockmark their Toi moko in the British Museum.
Burnett's assertion that "the Tasmanian cremation ash bundles and Maori bones were clearly intended for mortuary disposal" is open to challenge. This is a criterion for return in the museum's policy.
The ash bundles were worn by Tasmanians as charms and seven pieces of Maori bone arguably show signs of being prepared for conversion into artefacts. This transforms them into a category of human remains "that have been modified for a purpose other than mortuary disposal", which the museum's policy says should be retained in the public interest.
Confused? So am I. The British Museum repatriates human remains against its policy and retains tattooed heads to which its criteria are not designed to apply.
This is all nonsense. The policy throws dust in our eyes. By examining whether the claim meets the museum's criteria, we lose sight of the most important question of all: what possible moral justification can there be for keeping these heads in London against the wishes of the Maori?
This concerns more than the remains of dead people. How the museum treats such claims speaks of its relationship with and obligations to living communities. But because it holds all the cards, it shames me as a colleague and as a UK citizen in the way it behaves.
A true measure of enlightenment lies in the respect shown to those who stand dispossessed through the abuse of power. For the museum, the challenge is to renegotiate with such moral constituencies the terms on which it engages externally. The reward could be a form of universalism deserving of international respect.
Tristram Besterman is a freelance writer and adviser on museums and cultural issues
He also refers to the museum's earlier decision to return to Tasmania two cremation ash bundles. For both of these claims the British Museum commissioned me to provide an independent report, and I recommended return in each case.
Burnett's explanation merits scrutiny, both for the way in which the Te Papa claim was handled and the light it sheds on the values and assumptions of the British Museum more generally.
The currents which swept the seven Toi moko from New Zealand to Bloomsbury in the 19th century were turbulent and strong. A grisly market was fuelled by acquisitive European collectors. We can be certain of one thing.
Neither the individual Maori, nor their kin would ever have acquiesced to such a fate. Nor would they have been impressed by the addition of holes from insect infestation that today pockmark their Toi moko in the British Museum.
Burnett's assertion that "the Tasmanian cremation ash bundles and Maori bones were clearly intended for mortuary disposal" is open to challenge. This is a criterion for return in the museum's policy.
The ash bundles were worn by Tasmanians as charms and seven pieces of Maori bone arguably show signs of being prepared for conversion into artefacts. This transforms them into a category of human remains "that have been modified for a purpose other than mortuary disposal", which the museum's policy says should be retained in the public interest.
Confused? So am I. The British Museum repatriates human remains against its policy and retains tattooed heads to which its criteria are not designed to apply.
This is all nonsense. The policy throws dust in our eyes. By examining whether the claim meets the museum's criteria, we lose sight of the most important question of all: what possible moral justification can there be for keeping these heads in London against the wishes of the Maori?
This concerns more than the remains of dead people. How the museum treats such claims speaks of its relationship with and obligations to living communities. But because it holds all the cards, it shames me as a colleague and as a UK citizen in the way it behaves.
A true measure of enlightenment lies in the respect shown to those who stand dispossessed through the abuse of power. For the museum, the challenge is to renegotiate with such moral constituencies the terms on which it engages externally. The reward could be a form of universalism deserving of international respect.
Tristram Besterman is a freelance writer and adviser on museums and cultural issues
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Museums Journal June 2008, p17
Museums Journal June 2008, p17
