This article contains photos of human remains that are displayed in the British Museum. Please proceed with caution.
I’ve always been a huge museum person, eager to spend hours upon hours pouring over pieces of history and learning the stories behind them. While I’ve spent hours at the Louvre in Paris and the Met in NYC, I hadn’t made it to The British Museum – that is, until I visited London this past November. Though I spent almost half a day exploring the treasure trove of artifacts on display, I left feeling unsettled rather than amazed.
While the British Museum has one of the most extensive collections in the world, it has also come under intense scrutiny for the way in which many artifacts were obtained (re: stolen), and the sensitive nature of certain exhibits.
I was in complete awe at the sheer size of the museum when I first entered, and was utterly fascinated by every room I walked into. I meandered for a while, just appreciating the vastness of the museum’s collection, but I was also on the hunt for a specific statue – a marble caryatid. At over seven feet tall, the marble maiden resides in a desolate corner of the museum. For over 200 years now, she has stood alone, separated from her five sister statues ever since she was stolen directly from the Erechtheion, an ancient Greek Ionic temple on the Acropolis in Athens, by Lord Elgin back in 1802. Elgin is also responsible for chipping off the beautiful, detailed frieze sculptures from the façade of the Parthenon and shipping them back to England. These sculptures, now known as the Elgin Marbles, remain in the British Museum – another point of much controversy.
I remember tearing up when I first read about the separated caryatids back in one of my Classics courses – especially when I saw the empty space that had been left next to the other five caryatids, now housed in the Acropolis Museum in Athens, with the hopes that she’ll eventually be returned to them. But nothing could’ve prepared me for the wave of emotion I felt when I first beheld her, all alone, just standing there. No longer in the company of her sisters, but instead discolored by the artificial museum lights and damaged by the brutal excision from her home atop the Acropolis so many years ago. The people of Greece and many others have called for her return throughout the years, demanding that the caryatid, along with many other wrongfully taken artifacts such as the Moai (stolen from Rapa Nui by Commodore Richard Powell in 1868) and the Benin Bronzes (pilfered in the 1800s during the expansion of British colonial powers into West Africa), be repatriated – yet the British Museum has repeatedly refused, despite constant pleas from Greece, Rapa Nui and the Benin Royal Palace.
The British Empire’s history of colonialism and destruction of world cultures cannot be ignored, as it is central to why the collections at the museum are so extensive and rich. It also calls into question the ethics of retaining artifacts that were obtained as a direct result of this colonialism, especially when their return is being demanded so fervently. Museums are incredibly valuable ways for us to learn about and appreciate history, but what modicum of responsibility do these museums have to acknowledge the origin of certain objects? Should stolen artifacts be returned, especially when demanded by the country the artifact originated from?
With my heart heavy from seeing the marble maiden stand alone, I continued my way through the museums, where I encountered several displays of human remains – specifically, the remains of non-British peoples. I walked through extensive displays of Egyptian mummies, my stomach twisting at seeing the wrapped bodies and ornate sarcophagi behind thick glass, lit by harsh fluorescent lights. The Ancient Egyptians mummified their dead to preserve the physical body so it could move on with the soul to the spiritual afterlife. Preparing for the afterlife was of the utmost importance, and proper mummification was necessary so the soul would have somewhere to inhabit – if the body were to be damaged or destroyed, the spirit may be lost forever, unable to move on to the afterlife. All I could think about when I beheld these mummies was whether or not the souls that once inhabited them had made it to the Duat (the Ancient Egyptian underworld). They’d begun arrangements to be mummified while still alive, hopeful of another world after death. As I stood there, throngs of tourists pushed past me, snapping photos and crowding the glass cases – and I realized that the current resting place of these mummies was perhaps the furthest thing from the peaceful afterlife they had once imagined.
In the next room, I encountered a glass box, encasing the mummified remains of what archaeologists call the Gebelein Man. I think I froze in place when I first beheld the curled-up, mummified body, in shock that death was on such direct display. Buried in around 3500 BC, the Gebelein Man’s body was naturally mummified by the hot sands of Egypt, preserving the remains remarkably well. Though he’s been housed at the British Museum for over 100 years now, a recent CT scan of the body has revealed the cause of death to be a single, penetrating stab wound to his back. I found myself stuck here, staring at this man, who died in a horribly painful way, now contorted and on display for the world to see.
A similar story could be seen in the Jericho Tomb, a reconstructed tomb with the remains of seven people, six of whom died at the same time – likely due to a raid or family feud. The exhibit, shown in this video, consists of a reconstructed cave enclosed by glass panels, with skeletal remains just scattered on the floor. It was incredibly sobering, to see death displayed so plainly and without regard.
Many of the mummified bodies, along with the Gebelein Man, the Barnack Skeleton (one of the most viewed skeletons in the world), and those in the Jericho Tomb, had died in unimaginable and painful ways. Yet even in death, they had still not been granted peace. Many argue that the display of human remains is vital to retaining the historical significance of museums and to learning from the past. But the entire visit, I couldn’t stop thinking about how these bodies were once real living people, now reduced to a spectacle for millions to gawk at.
The British Museum states that they strive to handle human remains in a way that protects the collection and is mindful of ethical obligations – saying they ensure all remains in their care are always treated and displayed with respect and dignity. But is there much dignity in displaying the remains of someone who met a violent end, and likely just desired peace in the afterlife? Is there respect in placing the curled-up, mummified remains of a man who was laid to rest thousands of years ago into a glass box for tourists to gawk at? Education is one thing, but at what point does it go past education and infringe on the ethics of respecting human life and the afterlife? Where must the ethical line on displaying human remains, especially those with tragic stories, be drawn?
Though my visit to the British Museum was remarkable, it also proved to be emotional. I grieved for the caryatid separated from her sisters. I cried for the pain the Gebelein man must’ve felt in his last moments. And I hurt for the countries around the world who had their most culturally valuable artifacts stolen from their lands, with no promise of return.
While there’s no debating the value of museums, there’s also a clear and present necessity for heightened compassion and understanding – in both handling sensitive pieces of history and in acknowledging the origins of so many of the world’s greatest collections. Educational merit is certainly admirable, as is the curation of vast archaeological collections for research and conservation. Museums are vital to the promulgation of world culture and history. But that means they also have a responsibility to acknowledge the full scope of the past – including the not-so-pretty aspects – to do true justice to the artifacts, cultures and humans on display.