What is the cost of lies?

This searing inquiry by Soviet scientist Valery Legasov (played by Jared Harris) in the opening scene of Chernobyl (2019) that preambles the happenings narrated in the five-episode miniseries, is a simple and effective probe when in the quest of examining both, the fault lines of a failed or failing system, and the intentions that spearhead seemingly monumental projects with a disproportionate human cost. Later in the show, Legasov asserts, “Every lie we tell incurs a debt to the truth. Sooner or later, the debt is paid.”

This reference to a debt that Chernobyl latently addresses, does not take the culprits in a chokehold. Instead, it is one that the victims of these very systems and institutions of greed, power, indifference and dominance incur. Whether one traces the silent impact of Manhattan Project’s Trinity nuclear tests, across several US states and parts of Mexico and Canada, or one studies the implications of the hegemonic violence of Britain in both Ireland and India, via the manifestation of famine for several years, the findings distressingly showcase consistent tormentors and tormentees.

In this (almost) post-colonial era, discussions about the more latent implications of colonialism and 'development' are fast gaining pace, at least in cognizant circles. Relatedly, I recently came across an exhibition at Nieuwe Instituut in Rotterdam, the Netherlands, that addresses comparable themes. Titled Soengoe Kondre / Submerged Heritage and curated by Vincent van Velsen, an Amsterdam-based critic, writer, researcher and curator, the design exhibition examines the implications of a popular colonial infrastructural project in the interior of Suriname, the former Dutch colony on the Caribbean coast of South America. This exhibition, which illustrates a research project undertaken in Suriname, aims to investigate—via the emphasis upon the environmental destruction, extraction of resources, displacement, socio-political and cultural annihilation—the many ways in which colonialism is often entangled with capitalism.

During the 1960s, an area of 1560 square metres in Suriname was submerged under water, to create the Brokopondo water reservoir or the Professor Doctor Ingenieur W. J. van Blommestein Meer, as part of the Afobaka dam and the hydraulic power plant meant to power Alcoa Corporation’s single aluminium smelting factory. Stationed within the Brokopondo province, it was sold off as a developmental project to the locals at the time of its construction. However, the floods that came soon after, and affected one-third of the province, spanning nearly 1560 square kilometres, revealed the extractive nature of the project. To understand the human cost of this incident, van Velsen, along with Daphne Bakker and Miguel Peres dos Santos, researched through the archives and interviewed several members of the communities that experienced the dam’s construction, the subsequent flooding and the consequent forced migration. Combining these personal tales with archival material, van Velsen presents the exhibition along with a film conceived by artist Miguel Peres dos Santos. “Using both archival and newly created footage, Peres dos Santos critically reframes how the dam was communicated to the public at the time of construction to question and reverse the direction of the colonial gaze,” mentions the press release.

To understand more about the research project and the exhibition, STIR interacted with van Velsen over a video call. The edited excerpts from the conversation are as follows:

Almas Sadique: Tell us about your research on the Afobaka dam and the subsequent flooding in Suriname.

Vincent van Velsen: The research started years ago, inspired by a story in my family, about my father's grandmother on his maternal side. She is from a place called Kofikam that doesn’t exist anymore. And, while some of her anecdotes about Suriname fascinated me, I never took the time to dig into it, until I began talking to Miguel Peres dos Santos, who is an artist, researcher, and teacher from Portugal. He had worked on a project in Curaçao together with Egbert Alejandro Martina, called the Geographies of Freedom. This film was partially shown at the Nieuwe Instituut. We could trace parallels between the two stories, in Suriname and Curaçao. What happened in Curaçao is that they built an oil refinery and it had a lot of influence on the environment, people, working conditions and hierarchies within the colonial period. There were a lot of similarities in that sense, there have been major infrastructural projects in the Caribbean which benefit the Dutch. So, we began work on the project together. At a certain point, Daphne Bakker also joined us. She's a writer and researcher with an architectural background, and she is from Suriname. She was aware of the history of the building of the power dam and the influence it had on the people who used to live there or still live there. That’s how it started, in around 2019.

Our plans to visit Suriname got sidetracked during the COVID-19 pandemic, so we changed our plan and organised some online lectures with scholars who have researched on related subjects, and people who have written about the implications of bauxite mining in a colonial context. We also spoke to two people from Suriname who have a specialised understanding of the legislative aspects and local administration of Suriname. They told us how things were during the colonial period, as well as about land rights and how that played a role in this project, how people were taken away from their land, although they had certain rights, but those were officially not deemed credible.

We also looked into a few publications that are personal accounts from the 1980s and 1990s. I also looked for objects that could say something about the dam and I found pamphlets that the companies had made to sell the idea of the power dam to the colonial government and later, to the people. The pamphlets provide information about how the dam worked and what it looked like. We also found stamps with the image of the dam, since it was considered an important work of the nation. We also have a textile installation within the exhibition with an imprint of the dam, the adjacent lake reservoir and the factory. So, that’s how it started and Nieuwe Instituut was involved from quite early on to support it.

Almas: What are some personal anecdotes you came across while interviewing members of the communities who witnessed the Afobaka dam’s construction?

Vincent: Amongst the few archives that we have, there is little mention of the people. When the dam closed on February 1, 1964, a week later, Kofikam, the place where my great-grandmother hails from and which is 20 kilometres from the dam, was flooding. However, people were still there. They didn’t want to leave. Most of the older generation didn't believe that the place would actually flood because the Maroon community (people who freed themselves from slavery) had been living there for two to three centuries. The Maroon community, which had left the plantations and gone into the forests to start their own communities, also had a deep distrust of the colonial government. When these people from the city came to tell the people in the inland region about the floods, they first thought this was an attempt to seize their land, which, of course, was not an absurd assumption. However, as the water level began to rise, they had to leave the place. This was painful, both on a physical level, since they were unprepared, and on a mental level. We spoke with 12 to 15 people about their experiences during this time and they mentioned how intense and traumatic it was. But, for young children, this was also a bit exciting since they could move out of where they had always lived and to someplace new.

Almas: What were the demographics, professions and lifestyles of the Brokopondo province in Suriname before the dam was built? How did it change when the dam was being built?

Vincent: The communities residing there were self-sufficient and in tune with their environment since they had lived there for so long. They had their lands where they grew their food. They would hunt in the forest for whatever was necessary. If they needed wood to build a house, they would do that. Since wood was abundant in the region, due to the presence of the Amazon, it was the most abundantly used material. The Maroons would chop wood, shape them into logs and float them towards the city. There, they would sell wood or timber, get some money, buy oil and sugar and then come back to the inlands. This is something that they did once every year. So, there wasn’t a lot of connection with the city, and they were self-sufficient. 

When the dam was built, a lot of them were displaced, even before the floods. These were mainly the Saramaccan people and people in Kofikam, which are two of the six main Maroon tribes in the region. Most of them moved to the north, closer to the city. This also meant that they weren’t connected to the river anymore and that affected their livelihoods. They couldn’t fish anymore. Previously, the river was their main access for movement to different places. After the dam was built, this was not possible. Although the power dam was built to supply electricity, they also didn’t receive this amenity for many years and decades despite promises.

Also, the displaced people were given houses that were referred to as sheds or dog sheds or dog houses, even, because these weren’t proper residences. These new houses were not built taking into consideration the family structure. They were also not made out of the same materials, which made it difficult to deal with the heat. Since they were displaced, people could not grow their food anymore, since the land in the new place was infertile. As a result, they became a part of an economy that they were not used to and did not have any knowledge about. They had to start working for a particular company and report to bosses. If you're self-sufficient, you don't know that concept and also you don't look forward to it. A lot of people ended up in poverty in these really bad houses, without a job, and reliant on food packages from the government, at least for the first few years.

Almas: Why was this particular region chosen to build the aluminium smelting factory and the dam?

Vincent: This mainly has a connection with bauxite mining. Suriname is rich in bauxite, which is why they started mining in the 1930s. This expanded during the Second World War. During that time, Suriname was the main supplier of aluminium, to build all the aircraft. All the bauxite was exported from Mungo, a city in the east. So, at a certain point, the government, together with the company, decided that they didn’t want to ship all the bauxite from Suriname, but, instead, build a factory, a smelter, that could make the aluminium within the country itself. Since this would need a lot of power, the decision to build the Afobaka power dam on the Suriname River, and the smelter a little distance away, was made. This location was also some 100 kilometres away from the city. 

The dam starts at the exact point from which the settlements of the Maroon community start. The reason behind this is the friction that exists, even to this day, between the Maroons and the city people. Certain people look down upon Maroon communities, which is very interesting to say because if you compare it to Jamaica where there are major Maroon nations, people look up to them because they freed themselves from slavery. In Suriname, the colonial narrative was different and this led to people viewing the Maroons as primitive. Their culture and people were not valued and this played a major role in choosing to build the dam in their territory. I think that's kind of what the infrastructure influence was. Some other sites in the country could have served as good sites for the dam, however, they were not chosen.

Almas: What was the extent of the catastrophic impact of the flooding, in terms of human life, animal life and properties?

Vincent: I think displacement is the main part, or the most direct. Around 5,000 to 6,000 people had to leave their homes and living environments. There were almost no deaths during the move, but there are a lot of stories about the older generation passing away in the 10 or 20 years after the displacement, mainly due to homesickness and being ripped away from their way of living and their culture. The new living conditions didn’t cater to their needs. The allotted wooden houses, with two rooms for one family, were built out of materials that couldn’t withstand weather conditions. There are several accounts of roofs leaking, not when it would rain but actually the roof itself. So the material would somehow melt under the sun, and, perhaps, emit harmful fumes. All of this impacted their mental and physical health. The untimely passing of the older generation also meant that a lot of knowledge passed away before being transmitted to the younger generation. But, there is no actual proof of people dying because of these roofs or the living conditions and the homesickness. This was also not documented well, and now, after so many decades, it’s difficult to trace this.

On a slightly positive side, one of my aunts, who is in her 90s, said that for women there was some liberation in the process of displacement. Earlier, women were not allowed to move or go to the cities without their uncles or fathers or a male relative. However, after the displacement, it became possible to move freely via cars and trains. The social cohesion receded, but this also led to the community falling apart, on the flip side.

Almas: Tell us about the exhibition: curatorial process, spatial design, reactions and next steps.

Vincent: We have been working on this project for a long time. It was difficult to bring all this research together under one exhibition. So, we structured the exhibition space into three parts. It starts with the reconstruction of the life and culture that existed in the spaces that don’t exist anymore. For instance, the lake that currently exists near the dam was not there earlier. It was also an exercise for myself, and I guess also for visitors too, to understand that this is not natural. It's man-made. It's like an intervention in nature, space, culture and life. And something else existed before. This is traced via a series of photographs by a Dutch photographer who visited several times and photographed some of the bigger villages there. In the second space in the exhibition, we showcase research from the government, about the dam, its location, its opening, and the subsequent flooding. This space also showcases images and documentaries of animals being rescued during the flood, a background about bauxite mining, the function of a smelter and archival pamphlets communicating this information. In the last part of the exhibition, the film by Miguel ties the entire thing together.

The exhibition’s opening was quite intense because it’s the kind of history that has not been addressed much. To look at that kind of history that you have been trying not to think about for years, decades, and all of a sudden, it's there in a film format and you see things you know and recognise. There were some emotional reactions, which made me believe there is a certain value to this research. I was afraid that the project had become too personal and people would not relate to it as much. But people were excited, they visited several times and came with their family members. Even my father came to the opening and said, “Oh this is what you were doing.” I had gone with my father twice to interview his aunts and he was really important in the project because they know him and this is very much his history, but somehow he didn’t connect all of this. But he made sense of the entire thing when he came at the opening.

The show opened in September and in February, we went to Suriname to show the film that Miguel made, in three different places—Klaaskreek, which is one of the villages people were displaced to; the National Archives of Suriname in the Paramaribo city and in Pikienslee, which is a Saamaka village in the inland. This is one of the Maroon foundation villages and it has the Saamaka Marron Museum. These three screenings were very positive. There were some questions about hosting more screenings in Suriname and other places. We will do that early next year but we also need to research more. We are also trying to find funding for a translated and more comprehensive version of the exhibition in Suriname. We also hope to publish a book on this, such that it can hold the transcribed interviews that we did, as well as the archival images presented in the exhibition.

Almas: What is the relevance of understanding this history?

Vincent: The exhibition looks into the way architecture can have a significant influence on the world, on environments, on cultures, on people, and for a very long time. It helps one understand that such industry-driven or capital-driven acts can have so much impact, while, on the economic level, it didn't do anything for the people who had to deal with it or its consequences. At the same time, it didn’t do much for the state or the nation, for Suriname itself. And now they have to deal with this aftermath while also maintaining the dam and the lake. That insight is quite important to think more than twice about doing such things.

‘Soengoe Kondre / Submerged Heritage’ is on view until June 2, 2024, at Nieuwe Instituut, Rotterdam, the Netherlands.