Step right into the thrilling saga of Sarah Baartman, a woman who, despite a history books' page or two devoted to her, still remains shrouded in selective memory. Sarah Baartman, a Khoikhoi woman, was paraded around 19th-century Europe like a peculiar exhibition piece. Exhibited like an oddity, her story began in South Africa, stretching across Europe, during a time when the degradation of human dignity in the name of 'scientific curiosity' was just another day at the fair. Most people know her name or, at least, the myths surrounding her life. But peeling back the layers reveals not only a painful chapter of racial objectification, but also exposes the moral posturing of those who claim moral high grounds today.
Sarah first hit London in 1810, put on display to satisfy European ‘curiosity’ about African physique. With a body shape that was considered exotic and atypical for European audiences, Baartman was subjected to ogling that blurred the lines between science and exploitation. Paraded as the 'Hottentot Venus', her body was poked, prodded, ogled at, and she was slapped with tags of 'peculiarity' and 'anomaly'. It’s as if cultural sensationalism from centuries ago has found its modern parallels in today’s media circus. Still, the hypocrisy thrives like a perennial flower.
Fast forward to France, where Baartman took her last solace. Her image remained etched in the European psyche, living on even after she passed away penniless and sick in 1815. The so-called 'learned society' of the time concocted a perverse ‘scientific’ curiosity around her—continuing to gawk at her body long after her soul was gone. Her remains were publicly displayed until the late 20th century. It took the democratic South African government decades to negotiate her repatriation, a telling epilogue to an historic indignity. Amidst their eloquent condemnations of past injustices, the delay is a testament to bureaucratic faux-advocacy.
Baartman’s story is neither a lone tale nor buried in the sands. Yet everyone sidesteps the irony of how societies that profess to champion human rights often exploit such stories as proxy battles. It’s intriguing, even jarring, how much noise academic towers like to make about ‘progress’ and ‘enlightenment’, when the bare bones of truth reveal much commonality between past and present moral failures.
Who chooses to highlight these narratives today? One would think that remembering history involves more than orchestrating one-sided lectures. Even louder demands echo in favor of redefining historical legacies while cherry-picking which stories suit the agenda. Baartman's life was co-opted into stories she never chose, presenting a raw footnote within the big umbrella conversation on human rights and women’s rights. However, the inconsistencies in holding some accountable but not others remain audacious.
She reminds us of a world where academia and media choose buzzwords over substance. Gone are the 'teachable moments' that reflect on real accountability; enter the aggrandized versions driven by cliched phrases and repeated sins. In the end, Sarah Baartman’s life stands as a marker of hypocrisy; a stark lesson sketched in black and white—timeless, uncomfortable, yet persistently invoked with selective zeal.
The broader narrative woven through Sarah Baartman's story isn’t just about what happened then but what it stimulates in our society now. It’s about consistency—or the lack thereof—when dealing with past wounds. Her life insists that we untangle the unbroken patterns of selective morality. So, what will it be—truth, reconciliation, or yet another round of prescribed narratives? Sarah Baartman doesn't offer answers; instead, she underscores the questions that need asking while shattering the mirrors of our selective memory.