Comic David Mitchell is a Nazi officer somewhere on the eastern front thinking about the Totenkopf – the skull and bones symbol used by some SS units – on his peak cap. And as he does so it dawns on him that he is not one of the good guys.
There are lots of reasons why this little skit has taken on such an enduring life of its own on the internet, why it is quite so relatable, why it keeps making us laugh, sometimes awkwardly.
Perhaps one of the many secrets of the meme’s success is that it reminds us of a simple truth, that it is hard to admit you ARE wrong, and even harder to admit you DO wrong.
And what of the “are we baddies?” question is asked of a nation, not of individuals?
Can we admit our country – whatever it is – is capable of evil? Well, it seems not all of us can.
Reading the news these days I keep thinking about that David Mitchell meme. Because so many of the stories of our times feature a popular unwillingness to accept that our side, our country, our party is not always in the right.
Let’s take just two prevailing narratives right now: ongoing angst about Russia’s war on Ukraine and the endless rows about Britain’s legacy of slavery.
I guess a lot of people will not see any connection between these two issues, separated, as they are, in both space and time.
But I do: I think both problems flow from a failure to reckon with a shared legacy of imperialism.
Are Russians able to see their country as today’s “baddies” as their leader tries to reconquer old territories? Are Britons – including Scots – able to see themselves as yesterday’s villains as they come to terms with the crimes of empire?
Well, these are not easy asks, whether we are talking about the Russian present or the British past.
Why is this? I think it has something to do with the way both the British and the Russians – like, let’s be honest, plenty of other peoples – often bask in similarly comforting stories of national goodie-two-shoes-ness, of collective nobility, courage, resilience.
At this point nationalists of one flag or another – and those who imagine themselves as patriots – will want to jump in the conversation and say that a positive, aspirational, sharing idea of a collective ‘we’ is no bad thing. Sure. But it can be toxic when it obscures reality, or excuses cruelty.
Look at what is happening in Ukraine.
We do not really know exactly how Vladimir Putin’s citizens think of his “special military operation”.
Recent polls – for what these are worth in an authoritarian regime – suggest support for war has waned but remains at about two-thirds of the population. Is this accurate? Who knows. But there is obviously a large body of opinion that has proven receptive to Kremlin talking points. And there is likely another group of those who would rather keep their heads down in a country where speaking out against the government can have grave repercussions.
Yet some Russians – especially in the exiled intelligentsia – are already trying to grapple with the “are we the baddies?” question and some of the uncomfortable follow-ups it raises, not least about whether guilt or punishment should be collective.
Back in the summer there was a genuinely tense, difficult segment on Dozhd, Russia’s independent TV station now broadcast from the relative safety of Riga, Latvia.
One of its best-known presenters, the Odesa-born Anna Mongait, said she could understand why so many Ukrainians talked about all Russians being to blame for the horrors inflicted upon them. But she was not so forgiving of other nations who do the same. “I don’t understand why the whole world has started to play xenophobia,” she said. Holding all Russians responsible for Putin’s crimes is just unfair, she argued. This is a straightforward, compelling point.
There are those, especially on social media, who will tell you there is no such thing as a “good Russian”: well, there is: Anna bleeding Mongait for starters. Or Konstantin Goldenzweig, for that matter.
The Berlin-based Russian journalist was on the very same Dozhd segment as Ms Mongait.
And he took a different but equally convincing view on what collective responsibility means.
Doing nothing – or too little to stop a war – brought some culpability too, he argued. “We are all complicit in what happened, some to a minimal extent, some to a huge one,” argued Mr Goldenzweig.
Personal and collective responsibility can be so interwoven, so spliced, that they can be hard to untangle. It is always hard to separate the “me” from the “we”, to accept group responsibility.
Germany tried to do so after its defeat in World War Two. Thinkers like Karl Jaspers – a philosopher oppressed by the Nazis – urged his compatriots to recognise a national guilt, to enable national rebirth. Many – though not all – did so.
Later a lot of Britons and Russians also tried to reckon with history when their empires unravelled decades later. But not quite like the Germans.
There are still patriotic Brits who cannot cope with the reality of our greatest collective crime, slavery. So they deny, downplay, divert, dissemble.
These last few weeks have seen desperate attempts by fringier, dafter Scottish nationalists claim it “wisnae us” over our national shame.
Were we the baddies? Yes, of course, we were. And we bear collective if not personal responsibility for our past crimes, the privilege they still bring us and the ongoing trauma they cause.
But if many Brits still cannot acknowledge the crimes of 200 years ago, how do we expect Russians to do the same for the misdeeds of their contemporaries?
