Being Seen

Philosophers have long debated the merits of universalism versus particularism. Each considers the natures of personal and social responsibility and of how a society should organize itself. In simplest - and most idealistic - terms, universalism promotes equality through a standard and unflinching set of rules, while particularism promotes fairness through accommodating rules to circumstance. Universalism favors a singular set of laws, applied consistently to all members of a society, in contrast to a particularist view which would allow exceptions.

Universalism represents the idea that there exists a common set of basic human rights afforded equally across the multiple identities present in a society. In an ideal reality, this sounds sufficient to maintain social equality. However, as particularists are quick to note, this worldview invalidates the uniqueness of minority experiences, even - or especially - within societies that claim to abide by those universal human rights. Particularism allows for the examination of intersectional identities and their impacts on a person’s lived experience.

In the context of the northeastern Italian city of Trieste, the universalism versus particularism debate is particularly salient when considering the ethnic and cultural amalgamation within its walls. Trieste, once part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire before its Italian annexation in 1918, is the historical home of Croatians, Slovenians, and Italians -- a dynamic that brewed fierce political and social tension for decades.

Especially in the first half of the twentieth century, fascist-influenced particularism guided the Italian government’s hand. While progressive particularism celebrates the dignity in acknowledging the customs and practices of specific groups, right-wing particularism emphasizes these differences for a far more sinister purpose: the ability to divide society to create a hegemonic political order (Laclau). Importantly, in any brand of particularism, discerning the validity of subgroups presents its own inherent conflict: who is worthy of subgroup status in a functioning society? Laclau muses, “I can defend the right of sexual, racial, and national minorities in the name of particularism, but if particularism is the only valid principle, I have to accept also the rights to self-determination of all kinds of reactionary groups involved in antisocial practices.” Such is the paradox of particularism.

In fascist-ruled Trieste, the government wielded particularism as a tool of oppression as it discriminated against Slovenians and Croatians for their unique identities. For example, reforms in the 1920s outlawed speaking the Slovenian language, excluded all non-Italians from public life, and banned non-Italian language education (Renko). As in many other European countries at the time, the police punished violations with lethal means.

The Triestine intellectual Boris Pahor experienced this firsthand as a child in Trieste; he had to enroll in an Italian-speaking school and watched both of his parents lose their jobs as a result of their Slovenian status (Baldasso). He captures this traumatic experience in such short stories as “The Butterfly on the Coat Rack,” in which an Italian teacher humiliates his young Slovenian student in front of her classmates when she speaks her native language. He returns to the child-centered narrative in “The Persimmons,” a short story in which a Slovenian boy navigates the power dynamic between himself and an Italian neighbor, Rico. Rico is portrayed as wealthy and powerful, described as a god overseeing conquered land as he plays with his toys. The narrator experiences feelings of frustration and inferiority, particularly when he visits Rico’s home, where he feels “embarrassed… because I was no longer free as on the railing along the tracks” (Pahor 7). He felt more pride when he played with his sister in his own, less-glamorous territory. He experiences the most anguish when Rico invades his perceived territory, the persimmon tree, and gives his sister one of the fruits. His experience as a Slovenian in Trieste is inherently different from Rico’s. In both pieces, children are subject to unequal social dynamics which confuse and frustrate them. Their Slavic identities are shaping their worlds before they are old enough to know what that truly means, or why it is happening. Pahor strikes the reader through the juxtaposition of innocent children and the disorienting, cruel nature of right-wing particularist politics.

But perhaps one of the most striking examples of the author considering the philosophical dichotomy lies in his most famous work, Necropolis, a narrative about his time in Nazi concentration camps. As he walks through a concentration camp where he was once imprisoned, Pahor considers the voyeurism of the tourists surrounding him. He recognizes that they will never begin to understand what happened to him there: “Under the clear, sunny, sky these images become implausible and I realize that our forced processions have moved into the unreal realm of the past forever. They will become shadows in mankind’s collective subconscious” (Pahor 34). Here, Pahor reflects on the particular experiences of the victims of the Holocaust, which these visitors will never fully grasp and experience. Importantly, he further recognizes the nuances of his own subgroup’s experiences: “there were places where the devastation was far greater… I’ve been aware that my own experiences were modest compared to what others described in their memoirs” (Pahor 129). For as much as he has seen, smelled, and felt, Pahor acknowledges that each survivor’s experience is their own and cannot be generalized. This raises questions regarding the extent to how effective even particularism is at respecting the dignity of individual human experiences. This question, along with its contemporary consequences, will be further explored in the accompanying podcast.