Objects do not have an inherent value or significance. Instead, it is people - individuals and societies - that attach meaning and importance to things. As a consequence, anything can become special. Even an old scrap of paper. Proof of this can be found by clicking on the image to the left. In normal circumstances it would be quite unremarkable, simply a record of how much someone paid for a meal onboard a ship. However, the fact that it forms a link with one of the worst shipping disasters of the 20th century makes it very special. Indeed, it is so special that it could be preserved in a museum like Sjöhistoriska museet (Sweden's national Maritime Museum). This institution possesses a number of objects relating to the MS Estonia. This was the name of the ship that left the Estonian capital, Tallinn on 27th September 1994. Shortly after midnight of the following day it sank in the Baltic Sea resulting in the deaths of an estimated 852 passengers and crew.
Just over a year before that disaster my father-in-law was a passenger on that very same ship. At some point after it sank he came across his old receipt. He hadn't meant to keep it. He had simply forgotten to throw it away. If he had rediscovered it on, say, 26th September 1994 he might well have tossed it onto the recycling pile. Now he treasures it as a memorial of the disaster and as a reminder of how uncomfortably close he came to being a part of it.
Who knows, perhaps one day he might donate it to Sweden's Maritime Museum? If he does decide to do this it will be preserved by archivists and curators with the same care as that devoted to a rare mediaeval manuscript or a priceless painting. This is because the receipt forms an intimate link to a moment of history. This mundane little thing is something to which we can all relate. It is therefore far more effective than the large stone monuments that have been erected to commemorate the disaster. It's a tiny, fragile paper memorial to all those people who had the misfortune to travel on the MS Estonia just under one year and two months after my dear father-in-law.
Just over a year before that disaster my father-in-law was a passenger on that very same ship. At some point after it sank he came across his old receipt. He hadn't meant to keep it. He had simply forgotten to throw it away. If he had rediscovered it on, say, 26th September 1994 he might well have tossed it onto the recycling pile. Now he treasures it as a memorial of the disaster and as a reminder of how uncomfortably close he came to being a part of it.
Who knows, perhaps one day he might donate it to Sweden's Maritime Museum? If he does decide to do this it will be preserved by archivists and curators with the same care as that devoted to a rare mediaeval manuscript or a priceless painting. This is because the receipt forms an intimate link to a moment of history. This mundane little thing is something to which we can all relate. It is therefore far more effective than the large stone monuments that have been erected to commemorate the disaster. It's a tiny, fragile paper memorial to all those people who had the misfortune to travel on the MS Estonia just under one year and two months after my dear father-in-law.
