IMAGINE: What if you were unable to forget anything? What if you constantly remember every detail of every moment of your life? I posed these questions on an online forum a while back and some smart but argumentative members had a field day with the notion.
From them, I learned that our brains are remarkably complex, but they have limits. Forgetting serves an important function in allowing us to prioritise information and make room for new experiences and knowledge. Without this ability, our brains could become overloaded with information, leading to cognitive issues such as decreased ability to focus, recall pertinent information, and make decisions.
Additionally, not all memories are pleasant, and being unable to forget traumatic experiences could have severe psychological consequences.
Furthermore, our ability to learn relies on the process of forgetting less relevant or outdated information to make space for new learning. Without forgetting, our capacity to learn new things might be severely hindered.
In essence, while perfect memory might sound appealing on the surface, it would likely lead to significant cognitive challenges and potentially impair our ability to function effectively.
The reason I brought up the issue of memory is because I became obsessed with it as soon as I entered Primary 1 in our village’s primary school in 1960. This was due to my struggle to memorise the multiplication table. As I struggled with it, I wondered why it was so hard to remember what I learned. It was not that I completely sucked at it, but I wished that it had been slightly easier.
Also, around that time, I was exposed to a tale about an invisible ‘bridge’ that connected the real world to the spiritual one. Although my mother explained that the storytellers were just having a good time or killing time, the tale stuck with me because I was obsessed with the notion that there was a place ‘where memories lingered’ waiting to be summoned or recalled.
The whole thing started way back, with stories about a stranger who showed up from faraway lands. Our people welcomed him with open arms, but he preferred being alone up on a mountain a few miles from the village. He wanted to live in the quiet of the wild, in a cave on its rocky slope.
No one knew why he was there and what he did with his time. Occasional passersby talked about him sitting still for hours and barely eating, even though there was plenty of food around. Now and then, someone would bump into him on the mountain trails, but they had very little to say about their encounters. Most of them said they only watched him from a distance. Still, through them, we caught glimpses of the mystery man’s life.
Time passed, and the stranger became part of the story of the cave. His silent prayers and deep thoughts became his legacy. When he died, he didn’t leave much behind, just some instructions to his few acquaintances for his cremation. They must have had high respect for him, or perhaps they were just honourable men, for they spent almost two days tending to the pyre to ensure that he was properly cremated. Where they buried the bone fragments no one remembers because all the men had since passed away.
After he was gone, word got around that the cave was like a sanctuary and especially beneficial for people who needed to let go of their troubling memories. It all started when a man decided to rest in the cave for a while as he was quite tired on the way back to the village. He was back from a hunting trip which he undertook because he wanted to get away from the village for a while. He had been feeling anxious and depressed. Without meaning to, he fell asleep. He reported later that in his sleep (perhaps he had a dream, he wasn’t sure) he both felt and “saw” his bad memories drifting away. When he woke up, all his mental and emotional problems were gone.
By and by, people began to make some kind of pilgrimage to the cave to meditate and petition for or recall good but fading memories. Some reported that their good memories became clear after that. People could also ask for the fulfilment of or hold onto happy memories. On rare occasions, some reported that their wishes were fulfilled.
But, like with anything mysterious, there were rules. One big one was that nobody could or was allowed to bring up memories that were dark or harmful. The memories won’t budge, no matter how hard they were recalled or prayed for.
Meanwhile, the sceptics pooh-poohed the goings-on saying that those involved were gullible and simple-minded. Some of these sceptical individuals were cynical and loud, which explained why the believers and the gullible tended to go to the cave surreptitiously under the cover of hunting or other excuses.
One day, my father, an uncle, and I found ourselves in a little cave on the mountain. To us, a cave that’s only big enough to fit a normal-sized house is considered little. We were looking for a type of tree whose bark could be processed and woven into ropes. Those were the days when our people couldn’t just buy factory-made ropes as we were too far away from the nearest shops.
After studying the place for a few moments, Uncle Lom suddenly asked aloud, “I say, could this cave be where memories wait to be summoned?”
That was the last thing that I expected to hear, so I turned to look at my father for any sign or reaction. He did not say anything, but his eyes flit around the interior of the cave.
“Is the story true, Uncle Lom?” I asked.
“It must be true. I want it to be true. Hello, memories! Are you there?” he shouted. I could not tell whether he was serious or just having fun.
Father looked at me and said, “Uncle Lom is crazy. Don’t pay attention to him.”
“Oi! Hello!” Uncle Lom hollered again. “Oi! Oh, look! Who the hell pasted a poster of Elvis Presley on the wall? Crazy bastard!”
True enough, in a little shady nook, was a faded black-and-white poster of the King of Rock and Roll. There were a few holes in it and the edges had curled inward, but the face of Elvis was unmistakable.
“Why would anybody stick the poster in here,” Uncle Lom asked as he struck a match to get a better look at it.
“Who is Elvis?” Father asked.
“Aiya! Don’t you ever listen to the radio? Kid, tell your father who Elvis is,” said Uncle Lom.
“I listen to the news only,” said Father.
“Uncle, maybe the guy who put the poster there was dreaming of seeing Elvis,” I ventured.
“What? You mean, go to the USA?” said Uncle Lom.
“Why not?” I retorted.
“Stupid wish!” said Uncle Lom. “Do you know how far the country is from us?”
“I know! Our teachers said it’s extremely far … thousands and thousands of miles away,” I said.
“Do you people know how much money is needed to go there? Even if we sold this mountain, it would not be enough,” said Uncle Lom.
“Maybe that was why the person who put up that poster asked for his wish to be fulfilled,” said Father.
“We are assuming that this is where memories linger to be summoned,” said Uncle Lom.
“Not ‘we’! Just you,” said Father.
“Is this the cave, uncle?” I asked hopefully.
“Look, kid. All I know is that if Elvis Presley were to sing in this cave, it would be called the Rocking Cave,” said Uncle Lom, and at that, he laughed and laughed at what he thought was a clever joke till tears ran down his cheeks.
Father and I looked at each other blankly and did not laugh because we did not get the joke.
After lunch, we moved on down the mountain towards home. It was slow going because Father and Uncle Lom each had a heavy load of tree bark. Halfway down, we stopped to drink from a stream and rested on rocks that jut out of the water.
As he rolled a pinch of tobacco to make a cigarette, Father asked Uncle Lom, “What did you scratch on the cave wall just now?”
“The name of my girlfriend,” said Uncle Lom.
“When are you going to marry her?” Father asked.
“I haven’t even asked her,” Uncle Lom replied.
“If that cave is where memories lingered, you don’t have much to worry about,” said Father.
In later years as an adult, having seen and experienced various aspects of life, I cared less about the veracity of the tale.
Instead, I learned to appreciate it for its psychological, philosophical, moral, and other implications.
At its core, the tale delves into the nature of existence and the human quest for meaning and transcendence. The story invites contemplation on the nature of memory and consciousness.
Memories, those precious fragments of our past, form the foundation of our identities, shaping who we were, who we were, and who we hoped to become. They are the vivid recollections of joyous triumphs, cherished moments of love, and even the lessons learned through hardship and pain. Memories are the compass that guides us through the labyrinth of time.
Therefore, we ought to mourn not only the loss of our memories but also the collective memories of our societies and civilisations. Let’s honour the memories that once lived within us — the laughter shared with dear friends, the tender moments with family, the milestones achieved against all odds, the love that blossomed, the dreams that were pursued, and the adventures that defined our lives.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the New Sarawak Tribune.
