The ghosts of the museum: When artworks demand their history

This debate, which stirs the hushed halls of great museums and the corridors of ministries, goes far beyond the question of objects. It touches on our relationship with time, memory, and what we choose to see—or forget. For these artifacts are not mere decorations. They are fragments of living histories, silent witnesses to past violence, and at times, active participants in present struggles.

01The war of the display cases

Imagine, for a moment, the British Museum on a winter morning. Visitors file past the Parthenon marbles, those Greek sculptures torn from the Temple of Athena in 1801 by Lord Elgin. Among them, a Greek delegation observes the friezes with particular intensity. One murmurs, “Look at these faces. They should be under the Attic sun, not these fluorescent lights.” The scene repeats, in different forms, in dozens of museums across Europe. In Paris, at the Quai Branly, African masks watch visitors from their climate-controlled cases. In Berlin, the Benin bronzes await their return in crates stamped “ready for restitution.”

These objects are not prisoners, but neither are they free. Their presence in Western museums tells a story of domination, looting, and a certain collective amnesia. For decades, their detention was justified with “scientific” arguments: “We preserve them better,” “They belong to humanity,” “The countries of origin don’t have the means to protect them.” Yet when one listens to the voices of the affected communities, another truth emerges.

Take the Ethiopian tabots, those sacred tablets representing the Ark of the Covenant. Taken during the sack of Maqdala in 1868, some are now kept in vaults at the Victoria and Albert Museum in London. For the Ethiopian Orthodox Church, their mere display is sacrilege. “A tabot should not even be seen by laypeople, let alone exhibited in a museum,” explains an Ethiopian priest. “Returning it is not a question of ownership, but of respect for the sacred.” Yet the British museum still refuses to restitute them, arguing they are too fragile to move.

02The art of spoliation

Behind every looted work lies a story of violence, often minimized or sanitized. The Benin bronzes, for example, did not simply “arrive” in Europe. In 1897, a British expedition razed the palace of King Ovonramwen, killed hundreds of people, and carried off more than 3,000 artifacts as war booty. Soldiers described in their diaries how they broke down the doors of sanctuaries, stole sacred objects, and even cut bronze plaques into pieces to transport them more easily.

Yet in museum catalogues, these works are often presented as “gifts” or “acquisitions.” The word “looting” is rarely used. This sterile language maintains a fiction: that of benevolent, almost disinterested collecting. But when one scratches the surface, the reality is less glossy.

Take the case of the moai Hoa Hakananai’a, the giant statue from Easter Island now displayed at the British Museum. In 1868, British sailors literally tore it from its sacred pedestal before the horrified eyes of the islanders. The Rapa Nui recount that since that day, their island has been struck by misfortunes—disease, famine, and even the near-disappearance of their culture. For them, the moai is not a sculpture, but an ancestor. “Returning it would be like returning a member of our family,” explains a representative of the Rapa Nui people. Yet the museum still refuses, arguing that the statue “belongs to the world’s heritage.”

03The color of lies

There is something deeply ironic in the fact that these works, often created to celebrate beauty and spirituality, have become symbols of domination. The Benin bronzes, for example, were originally commemorative plaques meant to adorn the walls of the royal palace. Their intricate motifs—kings in armor, exaggeratedly featured Portuguese, symbolic animals—told the story of the kingdom. Today, these same plaques are displayed in European museums, where they are often presented as examples of “primitive art,” a category invented to justify their appropriation.

This classification reveals an implicit hierarchy: “civilized” art (Greek, Roman, European) deserves to be studied and admired, while “primitive” art (African, Oceanic, Native American) is relegated to the rank of ethnographic curiosity. Yet when one looks closely at these works, one discovers a technical mastery and symbolic richness that rival the Italian Renaissance.

Take the Benin bronzes. Their lost-wax casting technique was so advanced that Europeans took centuries to master it. The details of the Portuguese armor, the expressions on the faces, the play of light on the metal—all testify to exceptional craftsmanship. Yet for decades, these works were presented as “idols” or “fetishes,” terms that reduced them to mere objects of superstition.

04The museum as battleground

Today, museums have become sites of struggle. On one side, institutions like the British Museum or the Louvre resist restitution demands, invoking legal or logistical arguments. On the other, countries like Nigeria, Greece, and Ethiopia are increasing pressure, supported by a public increasingly sensitive to these issues.

In 2017, the Savoy-Sarr report, commissioned by Emmanuel Macron, marked a turning point. For the first time, a European country officially recognized the necessity of restituting African works. “Restitution is not an option, but a moral obligation,” the authors wrote. Since then, France has returned around twenty works to Benin, and Germany has begun restituting the Benin bronzes. But these gestures remain limited. Of the 90,000 African objects held in French museums, only a few hundred have been returned.

Why such slowness? Because restitution is not merely a transfer of objects. It challenges an entire system—that of universal museums, imperial collections, and a certain idea of culture as the exclusive property of the West. “When you return a work, you acknowledge that the story you’ve been telling for centuries is incomplete, even false,” explains a curator at the Quai Branly. “And that, many people are not ready to accept.”

05The scars of time

Returning a work is not just about moving it from one museum to another. It is also about restoring its place in a living history. In Nigeria, the new Edo Museum, designed by architect David Adjaye, was conceived as a place of memory and rebirth. Its galleries, bathed in natural light, are organized to tell the story of the Kingdom of Benin, from the first kings to the looted bronzes. “These works are not relics of the past, but bridges to the future,” explains a Nigerian curator. “They remind us who we were, and who we can become again.”

Yet restitution also raises complex questions. What to do with works too fragile to move? How to ensure their safety in sometimes unstable countries? And above all, how to prevent their return from becoming a mere symbolic gesture, without real reparation?

Some propose alternative solutions. In New Zealand, museums have developed partnerships with the Māori to co-manage collections. In Australia, Aboriginal works are displayed with recordings of the traditional songs that accompany them. And in Europe, digitization projects allow communities to “visit” their artifacts virtually.

But these compromises are not always enough. “A digital copy will never replace the original,” explains a representative of the Rapa Nui people. “These works have a soul. They were created to be touched, carried, venerated. Locking them in display cases or reducing them to pixels is to continue stealing them.”

06The future of ghosts

So what should be done with these museum ghosts? Should they all be returned, without exception? Or should a balance be found between justice and preservation? The answer is not simple. But one thing is certain: the status quo is no longer tenable.

Western museums can no longer content themselves with presenting these works as universal treasures without acknowledging the conditions of their acquisition. They must agree to share—not only the objects, but also the narrative that surrounds them. This means giving voice to the affected communities, recognizing past violence, and accepting that some stories no longer belong to them.

As for the requesting countries, they too must prepare for this new responsibility. Restituting a work also means reintegrating it into a living culture, giving it meaning again, and sometimes confronting difficult truths. In Benin, for example, the return of royal treasures has reignited debates about the monarchy and colonial memory. In Greece, the question of the Parthenon marbles divides historians and politicians.

But perhaps this is precisely what true restitution is: not just the return of objects, but a reconciliation with the past. A past where artworks are no longer war trophies, but witnesses to a shared—and sometimes painful—history.

So the next time you visit a museum, look a little closer at these artifacts. Listen to their silences. They have much to say—if only we give them the chance.