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Archigraphia: On the Future of
Testimony and the Archive to Come

Dragan Kujundzic

Remember: no memory or testimony is possible without the ar-


chive! Remember: memory and testimony are possible only with-
out the archive! Any reflection on testimony, memory, the archive
and archivization has to disarm itself before such an impossible
injunction. And this command orders all our thinking, ethics, writ-
ing, tradition, religion and culture.

Archive of the Past, Archive of the Future

Jacques Derridas Archive Fever starts precisely by drawing atten-


tion to this aporia of the archive. The word arkhe, he recalls at the
beginning of his book, names at the same time the command to
remember, to archive and keep, and the commencement of an
institution of archivization. From the outset, therefore, this aporia
splits the commemorative gesture into two irreconcilable tasks, the
symptoms in fact, to which Derrida gives the name of Archive Fever
(Mal darchive). Like the task of the translator envisioned by Walter
Benjamin (and, as we shall see, translation and archivization go
hand in hand as two members of the re-membering, archiving
agency), the task here marks both the demand to archive, and the
need to give up the task (Aufgabe, Aufgeben), to face up to an impos-
sible pressure to forget the archive in order to remember.

Discourse, 25.1 & 2, Winter and Spring, pp. 166188.


Copyright 2004 Wayne State University Press, Detroit, Michigan 48201-1309.

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Winter and Spring 2003 167

This impossible pressure consists of the fact that any archiving


practice has to announce its own desire for the unique, singular,
indivisible space and memory, the archivization of, as we would say
in English, the one and only. That one is the archival jealousy
of its own memory, its command and injunction to remember its
name, its place and its law. There is no archive without this jealous
and self-preserving order. It is its first (but the order of things is
here uncertain), primordial impulse. We could say, in the lan-
guage of psychoanalysis, that it is its primal drive, not without vio-
lence, and not without its death-drive. It may be the death drive
itself: an injunction to remember, to file and archive, only the one,
the one and only. Only one. Derrida gives three qualifications for
this archival drive: it is an-archic, anarchivic and archiviolitic. In a
very economic condensation which is a trademark of his writing,
Derrida draws attention to the possibility that this primordial jeal-
ousy of the archive has, from the very start, all capacities to erase
any archival trace, even the trace of its own archivization.
The memory, in that sense, is made impossible by the very
imperative of archivization.
Derrida will bring the consequences of this aspect of the ar-
chive to its aporetic and terrible limit, by saying that the archive
fever, in its most violent consequences and possibilities, verges
on radical evil (20).
One may be justified in wondering why should such an impos-
sible aporia be the first impulse of any archivization and why would
it be tied to what Freud famously called the death drive? Because
without this injunction of the one, the first inscription of the singu-
lar event and its passing, no archive, no memory traces, no traces
would have been possible. But what makes the tracing and archivi-
zation possible also threatens the archive at the very origin. This
drive, in Derridas words, works to destroy the archive: on the condi-
tion of effacing but also with a view of effacing its own proper
traceswhich consequently cannot be called proper (10). To
speak in Freuds terms (A Freudian Impression is the subtitle of
Derridas book), the archive would not be possible without this
originary re-pression, the Verdraengung, at the site of its own induc-
tion or production. The archival principle serves the death drive.
And yet, on the other hand, one can justly argue in a very
empirical fashion: we do have existing archives, archives are made,
bequeathed, opened and inaugurated every day, and archives do
succeed in surviving. We even have the Jacques Derrida Archive at
the University of California at Irvine, which is the university where
I work, and I, who am writing this essay, have in the past on occa-
sions served as the archon, the keeper of this archive. So I can attest

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168 Discourse 25.1 & 2

that the archive, even of someone who deconstructs the logic of


the archive, such as Jacques Derrida, is possible, thriving, alive and
well. The Jacques Derrida Archive keeps surviving even the decon-
struction of the archive by Jacques Derrida. It is a permanent de-
construction site.
This survival of the archive, the relationship between archiviza-
tion and survival may be equally essential to the functioning of the
archive. Not unlike, again, Benjamins notion of translation, the
archive may be seen as a site of its own survival, existing in a mode
of a delayed survival of itself. This is made possible by a counter-
pressure exerted by the archive. Let us recall, no archive would
exist without the originary injunction to remember, the repression
that is archiviolitic and anarchivic. And yet, the archival drive simul-
taneously impresses, makes an impression or suppression (Freuds
Unterdrueckung) on the material substrate of the archive, on its
topos, domicile, psyche or culture. In its very archiviolation, it leaves
a trace of itself, it is suppressed and displaced onto another af-
fect (28). And this impression, the trace that finds a support on
the welcoming site or substrate, on the topos which is conducive to
the inscription, vouches for the repetition, the survival, and the
translation of the archive. In a word: it opens the archive to the
future. The memory generated by the suppression is possible on
the condition of forgetting and in turn repressing or displacing
the archive. By the very fact that the suppressed traces do not be-
long to the initial, jealous memory of the one, but are the markers
of alterity (they are other-than-archive), they do not belong to the
archive proper. Rather, they may be seen as the traces or symp-
toms of the originary repression which they leave behind. That
impressed inscription on the substrate (we could call it the forgot-
ten memory of the archive, recalling the second chiasmatic injunc-
tion that opened this essay) informs the wager and the incalculable
opening towards the future: the very idea of the archive depends
on it. Derrida elsewhere calls this opening not the future (which
would imply the future of presence, therefore a metaphysical con-
ception of temporality), but the to-come, a-venir: an opening
through which an archive can receive the unexpected, the unpro-
grammable, the unpredictable, the un-presentable and the un-rep-
resentable. An opening of the unknown is thus produced, which
no archival knowledge prepares us to receive. This opening orients
the archive towards actualizations and inscriptions to come. Over
this structural, infinite and in principle interminable possibility of
the archive to receive new contextualizations, receptions or in-
scriptions, no archive, no law, and no father or keeper of the ar-
chive has any power or control.

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Winter and Spring 2003 169

We have thus two mutually exclusive forces that constitute an


archiving impression. One that belongs to what Freud called re-
pression, a record of passing and death, the recording of death
itself, and on the other hand, the opening that is a promise of, and
to the future, and which, as a trace of its own survival requires,
demands or commands transmission and translation. At the same
time [. . .] the conditions of archivization implicate [. . .] all the
aporias which make it into a movement of the promise and of the
future no less than of recording the past (29).

Moses and the Trauma of the Archive

Archive Fever was written as the keynote address at the confer-


ence on Memory: the Question of Archives, held in the Freud
Archive in London in 1995, and is therefore also a reflection on
the very site of the archivization of psychoanalysis. It is also one
of Derridas great polemical essays about psychoanalysis, one that
should be read in the context of his polemical encounters with
Michel Foucault or Jacques Lacan . This time, the polemics takes a
form of contestation of Freuds Moses: Judaism Terminable and Inter-
minable by Yosef Haim Yerushalmi (to whom Derrida dedicates Ar-
chive Fever), and over Freuds last book, Moses and Monotheism. And,
above all it is a polemics about the archive that is tied to the idea
of monotheistic religion.
What is the relevance of the death of Moses for the concept of
archivization and why should precisely that essay by Freud, among
so many possible others, serve as the exemplary case on which to
build a polemics around the archive and archivization? The an-
swer, if one is possible, revolves around naming, the name of god,
and of the name of psychoanalysis itself.
The argument of Moses and Monotheism, published in 1939, is
well-known but worth repeating, particularly in the context of the
debate about the archive. The founder of Jewish monotheism and
the giver of the Mosaic laws, Moses was an Egyptian who led the
Jews out of bondage and imposed on them the monotheistic reli-
gion of Pharaoh Amenhotep IV. The leader of the Jewish tribe
turned out to be too strict in imposing the new religion, including
the custom of circumcision, and was therefore killed by his newly
chosen brethren. The memory of the crime underwent a period
of latency, during which another god was sought by the Jewish
tribe. It was found in the kindred Semitic tribe in Midian and the
volcanic deity called Yahveh. Over a period of years the initial, ori-
ginary monotheistic god prevailed, and the two deities were

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170 Discourse 25.1 & 2

merged, as was the Mosaic giving of the laws projected on another


priest, also called Moses. What has been kept and preserved, ar-
chived therefore, under the name of Jewish monotheism, is this
repressed memory of the originary patricide, inscribing itself as
the trauma of chosenness and survival. And that repressed memory
can be described by the already established contradictory mecha-
nism of archivization.
The initial impulse to keep the memory of the one and only
God, of the monotheistic tradition, accumulates its energy pre-
cisely from this initial anarchivic and archiviolitic trauma: the
death of the primal father and the injunction to repeat his laws.
That injunction, according to the well-known Freudian schema,
having come from the now dead father, has a much more powerful
bond and commands a much more forceful obligation than that
of any father alive. But that memory is what, precisely, needs to be
forgotten or rather repressed in order for the law, the Mosaic
nomos, to be perpetuated throughout history. It has suffered the
fate of repression, the state of being unconscious, before it could
produce such mighty effects on its return, and force the masses
under its spell [. . .] in religious tradition (130).
The traumatic separation from the tribal father creates yet an-
other element essential for the functioning of monotheism, ac-
cording to Freud. It commands the return, a belated attempt, to
regain the moment before the murder. It is this moment before
the murder, that of chosenness, that allows the survival of the tradi-
tion in the repressed memory of the initial catastrophe.
The monotheistic experience of the Jewish people is therefore
tied to the archivic survival: their existence in history, what returns
as monotheism, comes from the fact, noted by Cathy Caruth, that
the Jews were violently separated from Moses and survived.
In a way, the entire people have become the substrate or the
subjectile on which this initial archiving repression left its impres-
sion. Caruth gives a cogent description of this condition: Mono-
theism for Freud is [. . .] not simply a return of the past, but of the
fact of having survived it, a survival that, in the figure of the new
Jewish god, appears not as an act of being chosen by the Jews, but
as the incomprehensible fact of being chosen for a future that re-
mains, in its promise, yet to be understood (71).
What are the consequences of this archiviolitic survival? The
situation described as the return of the repressed father of mono-
theism challenges the capacity of historical, referential descrip-
tion. We know that the catastrophe has happened, but only
because of the traces and impressions that cover, veil or repress the
originary crime. To the very moment of the archivic catastrophe

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Winter and Spring 2003 171

belongs a delay, to which Freud will give the name of Nachtraeglich-


keit: How far the accounts of former times are based on earlier
sources or on oral tradition, and what interval elapsed between an
event and its fixation by writing, we are unable to know (51). The
text (the one that tells or archives the story of the monotheistic
tradition), Freud continues, tells us enough about its own his-
tory, and is formed by two distinct forces, diametrically opposed to
each other, that have left their traces on it (my emphasis). One force
would be the one of repressing the originary moment, or crime,
keeping the originary moment mute, encrypted or secret, the
text in accord with secret tendencies. The other, diametrically
opposite tendency, would be the one which wanted to record ev-
erything, anxious to keep everything as it stood. Thus, Freud
says in one of his most memorable formulas, the distortion of the
text is not unlike a murder. The difficulty lies not in the execution
of the deed but in doing away with the traces (52).
In accord with the already established analysis of the archive,
we could say that any archivization, and in this case, the particular
archivization of monotheism (and that is hardly just any ar-
chive), obeys the same logic. It wavers between the repressed im-
perative to archive the singular, one and only, but also dead
(father), and the imperative to perpetuate the law of this inaugural
injunction into the future. Freud in effect gives here something
like both the deconstruction of the Judaic, monotheistic origins,
and the deconstruction of a programmed, certain, predictable,
given futurity. The laws given to us come from an uncertain, di-
vided, and contradictory origin, jealous of itself yet always in need
of future translations. And by the very fact that the traces left by
this archiviolation remain forever detached from the originary
event (the effect of delay), they will be open to future inscriptions,
interpretations and receptions, over which, we should repeat, no
archon, gatekeeper, priest, the guardian of the law and maybe not
even God himself, has any power. No longer is [thus an event]
given in a temporal or historical modality dominated by the past
(Derrida 33). Precisely because monotheism stems from this trau-
matic experience, by the fact that it is inscribed on the life of the
entire nation and therefore dispersed, or detached from the ori-
gin, the meaning of this experience of survival is given over to the
heterogeneous multiplicity of topoi, to the incalculable future and
to the to-come, avenir. If the project that we know as psychoanalysis
and that we ascribe to its first archon Sigmund Freud has any fu-
ture, it is precisely in this capacity to wrench itself out of and away
from the monotheistic bond which serves as its impetus, but with-
out repeating yet another monotheistic or Oedipal crime. It is a

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172 Discourse 25.1 & 2

project of being the son otherwise, of both belonging, and detach-


ing itself from the identitary bond, a perpetual unraveling of its a-
filiation.

The Name of the Father

To Yosef Hayim Yerushalmis Freuds Moses belongs an innova-


tive and original discovery in Freuds archive: that for his 35th birth-
day Freud received from his father a Bible with the Hebraic
inscription reminding him of his circumcision and, in effect, thus
reiterating the inaugural event of the filial submission to the father
and the receiving of the law. The Bible itself, the Phillipsohn
Bible, that Sigmund Freud had studied in his youth, was re-bound
in new leather, thus reinforcing the impression that what in effect
took place in this receiving of a gift was a renewed circumcision of
Freud who thus for his 35th birthday also receives again, and as a
kind of double affirmation, the law of the fathers from the hand
of the father.
It is in conjunction with this event which serves as its initiatory
pivot, that Yerushalmi launches his analysis of Moses and Monothe-
ism in a book that, itself, has as its subtitle the question of Jewish
identity: Judaism Terminable and Interminable. Several motiva-
tions or tactics guide Yerushalmis analysis. The first is an attempt
by the historian to re-assess the myth about Moses, and erase, or
take away from Freuds analysis, the insight about the primal
crime. The second, to interpret Freuds work and life in the light
of the filial re-inscription symbolized by the gift of his 35th birthday
and prove that Freud, in effect, was not an atheist but a believing
Jew, or at least a Jew who kept close to his origins, albeit maybe
in secret. From this, Yerushalmi draws the final conclusion that
psychoanalysis itself may be perceived as a Jewish science. While
well cognizant of the terrible resonance that such a label has had
in another historical configuration, (psychoanalysis was in effect
accused by anti-Semites of being a Jewish science), Yerushalmi
wants to give a new skin, so to speak, to this label and re-direct it
towards another, more affirmative possibility: what had been so
strenuously denied, to turn Balaams curse [the anti-Semitic accu-
sations about psychoanalysis being a Jewish science] into a bless-
ing, (Yerushalmi 1991, 100). This interpretation would re-affirm
both Freud and psychoanalysis as structurally bonded to the iden-
tity of the Jewish people. After such an analysis, Freud himself
would appear as the Psychological Jew (the capital letters are
Yerushalmis) in whose guise Jewishness has become almost pure

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Winter and Spring 2003 173

subjectivity (Yerushalmi 1991, 10). It is an attempt, as Derrida


says, on the part of Yerushalmi, to circumcise Freud, to re-circum-
cise him by figure while reconfirming the covenant (42).
It was almost imperative that an argument which wants to re-
inscribe or appropriate Freud in and for the Judaic tradition in
such an essentialist manner would have to counter, head on, the
very book in which Freud, at the end of his life, cast such a doubt
about the purity of Jewish origins (Moses was an Egyptian and was
killed by the Jews). Yerushalmis argument is impeccable, as far as
the historical analysis goes. He engages an enormous and impres-
sive knowledge of both the psychoanalytic movement, the biblical
interpretation, and historical data in order to prove that, in effect,
neither was Moses crime committed, nor did the Bible record
such an event, and one can only direct the reader to this impres-
sive and important volume. But this scholarship seems to fail pre-
cisely at the point which it would claim as its success, that is, at the
very site of the archive.
We have seen why Freuds notion of the archive and psycho-
analysis itself creates an insurmountable challenge to the historical
analysis which constructs itself as an uninterrupted genealogy, or
has a referential frame as the guiding principle. Such an analysis,
like the one attempted by Yerushalmi, will not be able to perform
successfully such an appropriative gesture on psychoanalysis. If
anything, psychoanalysis is the science which put into question the
possibility of writing subject with capital letters (Jewish or not,
let alone psychological) and assuming its indivisibility or purity
(pure subject). Equally problematic is the attempt to reclaim
(Jewish) history by proving that the events that Freud writes about
did not in effect happen. Freuds colossal insight resides in his
analysis of the archival logic of the historic event. The historians
task always comes after the fact, and the event can be read only in
the traces that cover the originary trauma. The historians work is
always that of deciphering the ashes left after the catastrophe of
history. It is actually in the insistence of the ashes to speak, testify
and tell the story, precisely in the absence of the discernible refer-
ent, that history returns as a ghost and speaks most forcefully. Thus
Freuds analysis of the narrative about Moses, while fully cognizant
of its limitations, is more probable in its assessment of how the
Jews could survive until this day as an entity (176) precisely be-
cause it reads into this event the effects of the traumatic survival.
These effects cannot be read in a strictly referential or testimonial
manner but constantly require interminable analysis and the an-
swer, forever delayed, is promised only in and to the always delayed
future.

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174 Discourse 25.1 & 2

Freuds concept of historical analysis (Freud was also a histo-


rian, analyzing case histories) will show its advantage most
clearly over any historicizing discourse when confronted with the
event for which Freuds whole life and work prepared him, and of
which Moses and Monotheism, to this day, represents probably the
most profound analysis. Freud is in many ways the most vigilant
proleptic analyst of the event that he had not lived long enough to
live through, to which to testify or in which to die.
It is the last chapter of the book, Monologue With Freud,
that makes Freuds Moses truly unique in its appropriative attempt.
It is the moment when the historian abandons the meticulous task
of archivization and working in the archive and turns directly to
Freud for explicit answers about his Jewishness. In that moment,
the meticulous archival work collapses under the phantasmatic
erasure of the archive and under the attempt of the historian to
speak directly to Freud and ask him directly whether, genetically
or structurally, psychoanalysis is really a Jewish science (Yerus-
halmi, Freuds 100). Derrida does not fail to perceive this change
of register, from the scientific book immersed in the archive, to
fiction, the change which suspends all axiomatic assurances,
norms and rules [. . .] and in particular its relationship to the
known and unknown archive (52).

Archiviolation, Testimony and Translation

Every archive has something of a jealous God. It imposes the


keeping of the idiom, the name or the singular event, close to itself
and one with itself. But, at the same time, the archival impulse
requires inscriptions, writing, graphic traces and translation, in
order to launch itself into historical and material existence. In that
sense, the conditions of archivization correspond closely to the ori-
ginary command to translate that precedes even the Mosaic laws,
that of the tower of Babel. The command to translate is actually
double and contradictory (elsewhere, Derrida says that God always
contradicts himself ). God forbids the building of the tower of
Babel, but at the same time commands the translation of his name
in the multitude of languages. He jealously keeps to himself the
name while ordering its transmission by means of translation:
translate me, translate me not. (The same holds for the testimonial
logic: testify to me, testify not). That is why by structural necessity
the archive corresponds or stands in the closest proximity to the
monotheistic tradition. Or it is that tradition itself. (Monoto-
notheism! Nietzsche would protest). Derrida says as much in Ar-
chive Fever, when he writes that the archive always holds a problem

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Winter and Spring 2003 175

of translation. With the irreplaceable singularity of a document to


interpret, to repeat, to reproduce, but each time in its original
uniqueness, an archive ought to be idiomatic, and thus at once
offered and unavailable for translation, open and shielded from
technical iteration and reproduction (90). Archive fever would
also be the name of the jealous God, commanding the repetition
and translation of its name (of the idiomaticity of the archive),
and forbidding and restricting its iteration. To let the translator of
Archive Fever into English speak: So even the documented origin
of the archive cannot cleanse it of such corruption; an archive may
always be in the process of translating itself and from itself, by it-
self (Prenowitz 108).
Yerushalmis Freuds Moses repeats precisely these gestures of
violent archivization and actualization of the archivic violence, in
the divided strategy by means of which the book approaches, or
reproaches, or encroaches on the work of Sigmund Freud. One
appropriative gesture is that attempt of finding a final proof in
the archives that Freud and his workindeed, contrary to the very
nature of the psychoanalytic project and its essential premises
belonged to the Jewish people in a way that would be bereft of any
capacity for dissent or difference from itself. That would be the
primary repression repeated by Yerushalmi. The other appro-
priative move would be to keep this archive jealously for itself but
also, as attempted in the monologue with Freud, to shield it from
translation and appropriate the future receptions of the psycho-
analytic project. It appropriates Freud and psychoanalysis for the
teleological purity of the one, for the logic that the entire psycho-
analytic project, in the founding moment of its own archivization,
attempts to displace, psychoanalyze, dismantle and deconstruct.
Derrida keeps the strongest, most forceful protest of his po-
lemics with Yerushalmi for the moment when this appropriation
of both the inaugural moment of the archive (the past, the mem-
ory), and its disseminative, unrestrained capacity for the to-come,
become appropriated by Yerushalmi for the unique, singular and
totalizing topos of Israel. The two strategic appropriations are
worth quoting. One pertains to Yerushalmis admonition that
Freud, by means of his stubborn adherence to the Oedipal, betrays
what is most Jewish, the openness to the future (Yerushalmi,
Freuds 95). The future therefore, in Yerushalmis interpretation,
belongs in an essential way to the people of Israel. The other ap-
propriation comes from his other equally celebrated book, Zakhor:
Jewish History and Jewish Memory, where Yerushalmi writes that
Only in Israel and nowhere else is the injunction to remember
felt as a religious imperative to an entire people (9).

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176 Discourse 25.1 & 2

This sentence, Derrida says, makes him tremble and wonder


whether it is just (Archive 76). The allocation of the archive to a
topographic locale which in a totalizing manner would be the only
place for the memory of the future is precisely what psychoanalysis,
as a project, sets from the start to challenge. The repressed topos
of the archive can make its effect felt because the repressed mate-
rial, made unconscious, becomes dispersed in the multiplicity of
psychic, material or geopolitical topographies. While their origin
resides in the archiviolitic event, traces have a capacity for disper-
sion beyond its unifying control. And every actualization of the
archive is also an intervention into the archive, and may be also a
creative or critical contestation of its originary violence, and there-
fore not one and the same with it. That dispersion is the very struc-
tural possibility for the archive to appear in history. If an analogy
with the Jewish people is sought regarding Freud and psychoanaly-
sis, we could say that the repressed traces of the Mosaic archive
dispersed themselves and created something like the unconscious
of Europe, the European Jewry itself, located in a heterogeneity
both in relation to their place of origin and in relation to the multi-
plicity of the new topographies. Psychoanalysis represents both the
most cogent formalization and the most productive outcome
of this dissemination. We said productive: psychoanalysis works
through the traumatic experience of its origin. The diaspora of the
archival impressions is the very condition of the archive and can
be reduced and returned to a unique topos, a return in effect
structurally impossible, only with a considerable amount of vio-
lence.
The authentication of the archive attempted by Yerushalmi
goes in the opposite direction of the psychoanalytic project and
carries with itself all the familiar and predictable violence of the
one: As soon as there is the One, there is murder, wounding,
traumatism. Lun se garde de lautre. The One guards against/keeps
some of the other [. . .]. At once, at the same time, the One forgets
to remember itself to itself, it keeps and erases the archive of this
injustice (78). Derridas argument at this point not only themati-
cally challenges the univocity of the one, but also, in a rhetorical
manner, and in a condensed economy noted earlier, displays the
impossibility of the archivic certainty as soon as the impression is
deposited to writing. The very violence that splits the archive here
is condensed into the trace that is forever divided, more than one
and less than one, in a formula that needs to be translated, at least
twice: Lun se garde de lautre. That archivic ambivalence and origin-
ary ambiviolence which Yerushalmi wants to appropriate to the One,
belongs, Derrida notes, to the very discovery by psychoanalysis that

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Winter and Spring 2003 177

goes by the name of Nachtraeglichkeit, the originary delay. The logic


of after-the-fact turns out to disrupt, disturb, entangle forever the
reassuring distinction between the two terms of the alternative, as
between the past and the future (80). In a word, the appropria-
tive gesture by Yerushalmi fails, while reiterating the archiviolence,
since this appropriation runs counter to the very heart of the psy-
choanalytic project and the archive of the work that we know by
the name of Sigmund Freud.

Ashes, Memory and Testimony

In the concluding chapter of Archive Fever, Derridas book


turns on itself and, as it were, begins anew. It should be noted that
the book itself is organized by chapters called Exergue, Pream-
ble, Foreword, Theses and Postscript. It demarcates itself
against any authentic moment of archivization of itself; it is an im-
possible archive which only begins, or comes too late, but never is
as such. This should be understood as a rhetorical and syntagmatic
illustration of the anasemic, heterogeneous and multiple logic at
work in Freuds and Derridas understanding of archivization.
There, at the end of the book, which in a sense becomes its begin-
ning, Derrida brings us to Pompeii and Freuds analysis of Jensens
Gradiva. It is at this site that the young archeologist talks to the
ghost of a woman, and wakes over the imprint left in the ashes by
this midday ghost (Mittagsgespenst). It is in this moment when the
archeologist reflects on the inscription and the writing directly
made on the ashes by the ghost, that the archive of the future and
the future of the archive thrust themselves forth and make their
impression with utmost urgency.
At the end of Moses and Monotheism and at the eve of the
Shoah, Freud reminds us that the archiviolence that pertains to
Jewish monotheism has the capacity to replicate itself throughout
history, and on the body of the people chosen by this archivization.
The Jewish people murdered god but did not admit to it.
Through this they have, so to speak, shouldered a tragic guilt.
They have been made to suffer severely for it (Freud 176). And,
a bit earlier, talking about Christianity undergoing a similar resis-
tance by those who are badly christened, he says: The hatred
for Judaism is at bottom hatred for Christianity, and it is not sur-
prising that in the German Nationalist Socialist revolution this
close connection of the two monotheistic religions finds such a
clear expression in the hostile treatment of both (117). (That
Yerushalmi at the end of his book could still write that Freudin

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178 Discourse 25.1 & 2

1939!could not have anticipated the full horror of the war


and the devastation of a third of a Jewish people [Yerushalmi,
Freuds 98] testifies to Yerushalmis lack of understanding of the
anticipatory force of psychoanalysis and its most outstanding
achievements and insights. If Moses and Monotheism has any mean-
ing, it is in its attempt to understand, interpret and against all hope
diffuse what Freud saw coming better than anyone. This book also
allows us, better than any historical assessment to this day, to re-
flect on and work through the violent consequences of this cata-
strophic event and its devastating archive. Of this one and of so
many others).
Jacques Derrida formalizes this line of Freuds thought in his
Archive Fever by pointing out that if Freud suffered from archive
fever, it was precisely because he or his discovery had a capacity to
partake in the archive fever or disorder we are experiencing
today, concerning its lightest symptoms or the great holocaustic trage-
dies of our modern history and historiography (90, my emphasis).
And a bit further on, in Derridas interpretation, psychoanalysis
probably produced its most profound insight by allowing us to ex-
plain why anarchiving destruction belongs to the process of archi-
vization and produces the very thing it reduces, on occasion to
ashes, and beyond (94).
Freuds insights into the nature of archive allow us to compre-
hend something that has happened as the most catastrophic event
in Jewish history. Psychoanalysis was always already a thought of that
catastrophic event. That event is eminently tied to modernity, that
begins with monotheism, the technological capacity of archiviza-
tion which gave this history its technical reproducibility and the
logic of sacrifice activated by the Nationalist Socialist regime.
(Freuds work initiated after the first world war works through the
trauma, death, artificial and phantom limbs, the death drive, mass
destruction, but also anticipates the ultimate writing on ashes and
the archiviolence of the following war). Freuds insights into the
nature of the archive belong to the thought of modernity compara-
ble to that of Walter Benjamin. It thinks the possibility of infinite
multiplication and technical reproducibility of repression and de-
struction at work in the modern archive, like in the striking exam-
ple of the most sophisticated machine of archivization, the
computer. As is well-known, the first computer, the IBM-owned
Hollerith machine, was first put to use on a grand scale for the
systematic archivization of the European Jewry in rounding it up
for the concentration camps. And Freud understood, perhaps bet-
ter than anyone, why such an event, while multiplying an archive,
could at the same time produce, in an equally infinite capacity, its

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Winter and Spring 2003 179

complete erasure. Leaving only the ashes to speak in the absence


of the catastrophic event. The catastrophe that produced them re-
mains, but as ashes, gone up in smoke and forever erased.

Sarajevo: the Gaze of Testimony and the Archive of the Other

Theo Angelopoulos Ulysses Gaze (1996) narrates how a mod-


ern day Ulysses (Harvey Keitel) seeks to find three undeveloped
reels by the Manakis brothers whose first movie, which does exist,
and is one of the first ever, depicts women weaving, somewhere in
the Balkans. (That movie is actually shown at the beginning of
Ulysses Gaze.) The quest for knowledge leads Ulysses through many
scenes repeating the violence of history that constitutes the space
known as the Balkans: in Greece, Albania, Macedonia, Romania,
then Belgrade and Sarajevo. (A scene in the movie shows an insig-
nificant village, Janina, filmed by the Manakis brothers in Macedo-
niainsignificant but exemplaryas the voice over narrates: All
European armies have marched through it.) It is to the Sarajevo
of the last war that the teleology of his will to know takes him, and
finding the reels, it finds its destination, its end. The undeveloped
reels are kept by a Jewish curator, to be killed with his entire family
soon after he hands the movie over to Keitel. The last scenes depict
Sarajevo in the fog, the only time when the city is at peace. And in
that moment of peace is the time to bury the dead. And it is in
this moment of suspended shared danger that the youth orchestra
(the young Serbs, Croats, Muslims, playing together, the Jewish
curator explains to Keitel) can perform in the open. A communal-
ity appears in the face of a catastrophe, during the fog, which re-
orients Ulysses heading, to the possibility of another Bosnia, an-
other Europe.
Ulysses Gaze subverts the entire Greek, and therefore exem-
plary European notion of the ontology of gaze and space, starting
at least with Platos cave, and proposes another dislocation of the
Greek logos, a certain Greco-Jewish contamination, as Jacques
Derrida has it in Violence and Metaphysics: a dislocation of
our identity, and perhaps of identity in general; it summons us to
depart from the Greek site and perhaps from the very site in gen-
eral (82). These are Derridas words about another patient Jew,
Emmanuel Levinas (Jewgreek, greekjew is how Joyce calls his
Ulysses, and how Derrida calls Levinas [Violence 153]). This dif-
ferent site and sight will be motivated not by the will to know, see
or name, which can only testify to the already programmed catas-
trophe of history. (This will to know is in itself complicitous in

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180 Discourse 25.1 & 2

many ways with the violence taking place, as exemplified by a cyni-


cal anecdote spun in Sarajevo during the siege; one neighbor to
another, as a curse, says a Serb to a Muslim: May your house ap-
pear tonight on CNN! CNN is therefore not where war and de-
struction are, war and destruction are where there is CNN. The
citizens of Sarajevo understood that better than the liberal West
or Europe). Rather, this alternative sight will be motivated, or
imagined, by an utmost passivity: weaving, keeping, the patient
commemoration of danger which wards off exactly that kind of
ophtalmo-phallocratic gaze of war under which the European his-
tory unravels or ruins itself. It is in weaving and keeping, in danger,
that, as Levinas says, the face of the other, in this nudity, exposed
unto death [. . .] reminds one of the very mortality of the other
person (107). The responsibility to the other will always have pre-
ceded the certainty of the name, the testimonial sight or gaze.
In one of the last scenes of the movie, the blank frames flicker
in front of Ulysses gaze. On the blank screen he sees, maybe, the
catastrophe of history: the face of every person who died in the
Bosnian war; the end of a site and of a sight, a sight/site of Europe.
But in the blank flickering of the frames, an opening: the blank,
undeveloped film, an unseen, untestifiable memory of the unpro-
grammed other, patience, passivity, a promise, a future. For exam-
ple, an example. An example? In the meantime, Sarajevo is in fog.
The world is blind.

Eichmann in Jerusalem, Milosevic in the Hague:


Testimony, Memory, Justice

In the amended indictment of Slobodan Milosevica docu-


ment available on the website of the International Criminal Tribu-
nal for the Former Yugoslavia, on page 31, there is a list called
Schedule G, Persons killed in Djakovica/Gjakove2 April 1999.
This is just a tiny part of the list of persons killed and enumerated
by the indictment of Milosevic, and four other members of the
government. It is lodged between several dozens of pages listing
the victims of the atrocities. But this one succeeds in drawing the
attention of the reader whose concentration may be dulled by the
endless litany of victims. The twenty persons on Schedule G with
the exception of Vejsa Arlind, who was five, are all women. Or
should we say female, since a large number of them is of age 2 to
14. Here is the list, the Schedule G, as it is presented in the
Amended Indictment:

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Winter and Spring 2003 181

Schedule G
Persons Killed at Dakovica / Gjakove2 April 1999
Name Approximate Age Sex
CAKA, Dalina 14 Female
CAKA, Delvina 6 Female
CAKA, Diona 2 Female
CAKA, Valbona 34 Female
GASHI, Hysen 50 Not indicated
HAXHIAVDIJA, Doruntina 8 Female
HAXHIAVDIJA, Egzon 5 Not indicated
HAXHIAVDIJA, Rina 4 Female
HAXHIAVDIJA, Valbona 38 Female
HOXHA, Flaka 15 Female
HOXHA, Shahindere 55 Female
NUCI, Manushe 50 Female
NUC I, Shirine 70 Female
VEJSA, Arlind 5 Male
VEJSA, Fetije 60 Female
VEJSA, Marigona 8 Female
VEJSA, Rita 2 Female
VEJSA, Sihana 8 Female
VEJSA, Tringa 30 Female

What happened to them? Why were they killed? What is the possi-
ble military, or any other reason for exterminating Caka Diaona,
age 2, for what political advantage? These questions without an-
swer have been haunting me ever since I ran into the list and
printed it out. During the war in Bosnia and Kosovo, many reasons
in the official Belgrade press were given for fighting in Sarajevo or
in Kosovo: reasons of territorial integrity, protection of the Serbian
people of the real or imagined menace from the other, Muslim or
Kosovar side, self-protection of the Yugoslav military or paramili-
tary troops, protection of sovereignty. Some were victims, it was
said, of collateral damage. I, together with a large number of Ser-
bian intellectuals, or members of the opposition, who have been
opposing the Milosevic regime from the very beginning, never be-
lieved or accepted these rationalizations. We feared, as we pro-
tested the atrocities done by the regime, but never enough, forever
never enough, that the civilians were killed. Just as Serbian civilians
were killed in Bosnia, and in Kosovo, and in Croatia. It is always
civilians, civility, taken hostage by the military, or, to jump to the
conclusion, by the goals or telos of sovereignty, that are caught as

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182 Discourse 25.1 & 2

victims. And all we are now left with is this somber, ascetic list, and
the question why. And if I say that such lists are possible on all sides
of this conflict, I am not in any way trying to relativize anyones
responsibility, only to underscore that situation of civilians being
taken hostage.
If one looks at the indictments, one finds precious little to go
on, to explain what happened there. This is how the indictment
describes the events of these atrocities:

a. Dakovica/Gjakove: On or about 2 April 1999, forces of the FRY and


Serbia began forcing residents of the town of Dakovica/Gjakove to leave.
Forces of the FRY and Serbia spread out through the town and went
house to house ordering Kosovo Albanians from their homes. In some
instances, people were killed, and most persons were threatened with
death. Many of the houses and shops belonging to Kosovo Albanians
were set on fire, while those belonging to Serbs were protected. During
the period from 2 to 4 April 1999, thousands of Kosovo Albanians living
in Dakovica/Gjakove and neighboring villages joined a large convoy, ei-
ther on foot or driving in cars, trucks and tractors, and moved to the
border with Albania. Forces of the FRY and Serbia directed those fleeing
along pre-arranged routes, and at police checkpoints along the way most
Kosovo Albanians had their identification papers and license plates
seized. In some instances, Yugoslav army trucks were used to transport
persons to the border with Albania.

As I am reading this document (and my reading it, today, as it


was from the very first time, proceeds from a sense of profound
mourning: what could we have done to prevent it), it occurs to me
that it proceeds along two different regimes, familiar from other
historical events that have known systematic loss of life, taken out
in large numbers, as life as such. For example, the Holocaust. The
two events remain singular and different, in many ways, and I do
not want to suggest that the atrocities performed by the Milosevic
regime have either the same scope, or systemic dimension, as the
Holocaust. The war in Kosovo for which Milosevic is tried in this
indictment (and other indictments have followed, and Carla del
Ponte has raised another one, for the war crimes in Croatia) did
not have as its goal the total destruction of the Kosovars, and has
not known concentration death camps that resembled those of
Nazi Germany. I belong to those who believe in the singular histor-
ical specificity of the Holocaust. Nevertheless, in the catastrophic
episode that I am bringing to your attention, there are traits of any
technologically enhanced mass genocide that may, in principle,
resemble the experience of mass death of which the Shoah re-
mains the impossible model, a model without a model. Having
inserted this word of caution, let me again make an attempt at an

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Winter and Spring 2003 183

analogy, and draw your attention to two features of these docu-


ments that resemble a possible narrative about the Holocaust. One
is the mere listing of bare life interrupted by the systemic killing,
killing possible only, as Benjamin would say, in the age of technical
reproducibility. In this case, probably by mass executions, by
means of firearms or maybe grenades. The listing of the deceased
in any case betrays a certain technical, systemic approach. What-
ever the killers, the paramilitary were doing on April 2, 1999, they
were killing not individuals, but, in some way, only a bare life that
needed to be eliminated or exterminated. Of this experience, on
the side of the victim, Walter Benjamin wrote on Kafka many years
ago that it is the experience of an individual, and not accessible
to the masses until such time as they are being done away with.
That is, Kafkas experience is an impossible experience of the indi-
vidual death (what other experience is more profound, and which
one belongs more to each being, than ones own death); rather,
the death of Kafkas characters, that which is the most proper, is
the one which is singular but experienced in masses, en masse, de-
prived exactly of that singularity, that experience of dying as a sub-
ject, person, who has the right to die as some kind of minimal
identity. Those listed here died a death that is worse than death,
since, in some ways, it was not death at all. It was death deprived
of its human possibility. Giorgio Agamben has recently thematized
such an experience, an impossible experience, as that of homo sacer,
hovering between the sovereign power and bare life. In the chap-
ter Camp as Paradigm in his book Homo Sacer (and elsewhere,
in the related volume Remnants of Auschwitz: The Witness and the
Archive), Agamben writes that those who are sentenced to death
[in camps] were forced into an extraterritorial threshold in
which the human body is separated from its normal political status
and abandoned, in a state of exception, to the most extreme mis-
fortunes. Such a threshold experience Agamben qualifies as an
experience of those who are killed without the commission of
homicide. This aporia should be understood in light of Benja-
mins interpretation of Kafka. Not that there was no war crime,
that no atrocity took place, but that it took place in a realm where
the human beings killed were deprived, by the very means of their
executions, of their proper deaths. Which is what makes it, among
other things, very difficult to prosecute the crimes of mass destruc-
tion, at least by the existing laws, laws written for everyday life
and for murders, homicides, commissions against individuals, and
not masses.
In Sarah Kofmans Smothered Words, in which she attempts to

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184 Discourse 25.1 & 2

tell the story of her fathers demise in Auschwitz, Kofman also re-
produces the list of those deported to Drancy, among whom was
her father. This list is enveloped by two propositions. One, preced-
ing the list, claims that after Auschwitz, all men, Jewish or non-
Jewish, die differently: they do not really die, because what took
place, down there, death in Auschwitz [or Djakovica, we could
say], without taking place, was worse than death (21). This para-
graph is followed by the fragment of the list of those deported to
Drancy on July 16, 1942. Always lists, dates, names, which do not
mean anything, an endless litany of victims, and that at the same
time mean so much, that mean everything. The paragraph follow-
ing the list states the following: On Auschwitz and after Ausch-
witz, no narrative is possible, if by a narrative one understands
telling a history of events, making sense (25).
The document which transcribes the event that took place in
Djakovica on April 2, 1999, tells very little about the senseless
crime, a crime without a sense, in the originary sense of the word
sense. For what can be told about the killing of Rina Haxiavdija,
age four, even as the narrative tries to recover her death in the
face of justice, as the indictment attempts to recover the memory
of this event and preserve it from complete oblivion? But as the
document tries to create a testimony, it faces us with yet another
aporia of the mass murder, well known from the experience of the
Holocaust. Even if the crime had been witnessed (and there is,
in this case, no indication that it happened, no witnesses are yet
produced), it would be almost an impossible scene of testimony.
Because such crimes of mass annihilation leave no witnesses but
only lists, no sense or narrative with meaning, but a dry and official
recounting without compassion or possible space of mourning. As
it is narrated, the official document leaves no space for mourning,
just like the death marked by lists, by serial numbers, technical
reproducibility, creates an impossible scene of mourning, mourn-
ing for a death that cannot be testified about, of which there is no
testimony, and which, in the strictest sense, it is not death at all.

The Testimony and the Impossibility of Speaking

In the 1997 documentary movie about Eichmanns trial, The


Trial of Adolf Eichmann, there is a scene in which a writer, Yehiel
Denur, appears before the judges. He did it reluctantly, and prior
to the trial refused to testify for a long time. The prosecutors par-
ticularly wanted his testimony, since he was, for them, an especially
valuable and reliable witness, having actually seen Eichmann in a

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Winter and Spring 2003 185

concentration camp. He would provide the first hand testimony.


Such hopes met with the structural limit of any live, first hand
testimony, of the genocide. Once on the stand, the witness, who
called himself katzetnik, the one recognized by number only,
showed the number tattooed on his arm, and proceeded to tell
how in the concentration camp they were all reduced to numbers.
To the insistence of the prosecutor to tell more, to tell what he
saw, the katzetnik could only respond, reiterate, that they were
all numbers, that in Auschwitz there are no names, their names
were their numbers. After repeated insistence by the prosecutor
to tell what he saw, the katzetnik, who was not particularly old,
or ill, fell prostrate on the ground and almost died of stroke in the
court. His inability to testify actually testified, better than any
words, to the Holocaust, particularly in the very inability to testify,
to produce a narrative which would have meaning. To the re-
peated questions by the prosecutor, the katzetnik could only
show the number and go numb, offering his bare life, in a moment
of second death, as a testimony of what was taken from those killed
by numbers and as numbers in the Holocaust. Again Agamben:
The political system of the holocaust corresponds to a localiza-
tion without order (the camp as a permanent state of exception).
The political system no longer orders forms of life and juridical
rules in a determinate space but instead contains at its very center
a dislocating localization that exceeds it and into which every form
of life and every rule can be virtually taken (Homo 175).
From this perspective, continues Agamben, the camps have,
in a certain sense, in an even more extreme form reappeared in
the territories of the former Yugoslavia. At issue in the former Yu-
goslavia is, rather, an incurable rupture of the old nomos and a
dislocation of the population and human lives along entirely new
lines of flight. Hence the decisive importance of ethnic rape
camps (Homo 176). And the importance, I add, to commemorate
the nineteen women and female children exterminated on April
4, 1999, in Djakovica. While the Hague may not be the proper
horizon for mourning, it will open a space for justice, maybe, to
appear.
The Hague marks an innovation in international politics, par-
ticularly as it pertains to the issue of sovereignty. What appears
singular and new today is the project of making States, or at least
head of states in title (Pinochet), and even of current head of state
(Milosevic), appear before universal authorities. It has to do only
with projects or hypotheses, but this possibility suffices to an-
nounce a transformation: it constitutes in itself a major event. The
sovereignty of the State, the immunity of the head of state are no

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186 Discourse 25.1 & 2

longer, in principle, in law, untouchable, writes Jacques Derrida


in his book on On Cosmopolitanism and Forgiveness (57).
The dry enumeration of the indictment, and the dry, objective
official narrative that tells so little about the crime of extermina-
tion, without witnesses and testimony and with no possible mean-
ingful narrative about it, speaks, as Agamben would say in his
Remnants of Auschwitz, The Witness and the Archive, only on the basis
of an impossibility of speaking, and it is in that impossibility of
testifying that the testimony cannot be denied. Auschwitzthat
to which it is impossible to bear witnessby that very means is
absolutely and irrefutably proven (164). In the Hague, before the
judges, the rereading of the indictment, this witnessing without
testimony, may at least for a moment reopen the space in which
these bare lives will again receive their dignity, their individuation,
their death. That horizon in which the face of the other reappears
in its individuation and in its mortality, which holds us hostage is,
maybe, the slim and minimal, but nevertheless bare hope, for the
appearance of justice.

The Future of Testimony, of the Archive to Come . . .

. . . And yet, and yet, there is a future for the archive, perhaps,
and there is, perhaps, an archive for the future. And that hope
would belong, equally, to Freuds notion of the archive which,
while producing the erasure of itself in the name of the one and
the same, also delegates itself to the traces that carry the promise
of the future. Those archigraphic traces open the archive to the
Other, to the memory of the other and to every other other. That
hope may also, paradoxically, belong to the archiving machine
known as the computer. To the capacity to produce the worst also
belongs the capacity of the promise and a future. A reviewer of
Archive Fever noted that the substrate of ash is not remote from
computer technology. What causes ash is fire, a spark, like electric-
ity, which burns right through the silicon. That electronic ca-
pacity, writing right on the ashes, works faster than any other
medium. Pulsing like a heartbeat, it can communicate that evil is
imminent, that a person is in danger, that a life needs to be saved.
Electronic mail elects (Lawlor 798). Using the computer chip,
the silicon chip, returns us back to Egypt, to the desert, every time
we testify to something or deposit something into memory. Every
act of computerized archivization is also an ethical act, a racing
against catastrophe, an act of crossing the desert where no assur-
ance is given. Archivization is an act where the desert comes to

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Winter and Spring 2003 187

haunt us. What is to-come, the a-venir of archivization, will have


been marked by this passage and will have led through the Silicon
Valley, through Egypt and through the desert.
Such a division between the two possibilities of archivization
(we could call this the exemplary space of political and ethical decision
between devastation and preservation), Derrida says, haunts the ar-
chive from its origin (Archive 100). The trace left on the ash in
Pompeii observed by the archeologist, or the trace left on the
flickering silicon screen burnt by the fire, belong and testify to the
order of the spectral. These traces, divided at the origin, haunt
the archive and archivization, from the very beginning to the end.
Without end, infinitely, they open the archive to the to-come, they
give hope and promise to return.
Save. Print.

Works Cited

Agamben, Giorgio. Remnants of Auschwitz: The Witness and the Archive.


Trans. Daniel Heller-Rozen. New York: Zone Books, 1999.
. Homo Sacer: Sovereign Power and Bare Life. Trans. Daniel Heller-
Rozen. Stanford: Stanford UP, 1998.
Angelopoulos, Theo. Ulysses Gaze. New York: Fox Lorber Studio, Video
Release Date 1997.
Caruth, Cathy. Unclaimed Experience: Trauma, Narrative and History. Balti-
more: Johns Hopkins UP, 1996.
Derrida, Jacques. On Cosmopolitanism and Forgiveness. New York: Routledge,
2001.
. Archive Fever: A Freudian Impression. Trans. Eric Prenowitz. Chicago:
Chicago UP, 1995.
. Violence and Metaphysics. Writing and Difference. Trans. Alan
Bass. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1978.
Freud, Sigmund. Moses and Monotheism. Trans. Katherine Jones. New York:
Vintage Books, 1967.
Kofman, Sarah. Smothered Words. Trans. Madeleine Dobie. Chicago: North-
western UP, 1998.
The International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia, Case No. It-
9937-I, The Prosecutor Of The Tribunal Against Slobodan Milosevic, Milan
Milutinovic, Nikola Sainovic, Dragoljub Ojdanic, Vlajko Stojiljkovic. Avail-
able at http://www.un.org/icty/indictment/english/mil-ii990524e
.htm

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188 Discourse 25.1 & 2

Lawlor, Leonard. Memory Becomes Electra. Review of Jacques Derrida,


Archive Fever. The Review of Politics 60 (Fall 1998): 796798.
Levinas, Emmanuel. Time and the Other. Trans. Richard A. Cohen. Pitts-
burgh: Duquesne UP, 1987.
Polin B. Daniel and Kenneth Mandel, Producers. The Trial of Adolf Eich-
mann. New York: PBS Home Video, Video Release Date 1997.
Prenowitz, Eric. Translators Note. Right on [a meme]. Archive Fever: A
Freudian Impression. Trans. Eric Prenowitz. Chicago: Chicago UP,
1995. 103112.
Yerushalmi, Yosef Haim. Freuds Moses: Judaism Terminable and Interminable.
New Haven: Yale UP, 1991.
. Zakhor: Jewish History and Jewish Memory. New York: Shocken, 1989.

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