The pride White Europeans take in their cultural heritage is a paradox, steeped in irony. Their history boasts remarkable achievements—art, science, literature, and democratic ideals—yet atrocities like the transatlantic slave trade, colonial violence, and environmental destruction equally mark it. This tension is most glaring in the European tendency to immortalize their past through statues, street names, buildings, scholarships, cities, and even religious institutions, often named after figures whose legacies are tied to oppression and devastation. How can a culture celebrate its identity while erecting monuments to ancestors whose actions caused immense suffering? This article explores this irony, examining the obsession with commemorating a fraught history and suggesting ways to reconcile pride with accountability.
The transatlantic slave trade, orchestrated by European powers from the 15th to 19th centuries, forcibly displaced over 12 million Africans, with millions dying in transit. This brutal system fueled European wealth, yet figures like Christopher Columbus, who enslaved indigenous peoples, or Edward Colston, a prominent slave trader, have been honored with statues and plaques across Europe. In Bristol, England, Colston’s statue stood until 2020, when protesters toppled it, highlighting the dissonance of venerating such figures. Similarly, Belgium’s statues of King Leopold II, whose Congo Free State saw millions die under forced labor, remain in public spaces, a stark reminder of unaddressed colonial guilt.
This impulse to memorialize extends beyond statues to the naming of streets, buildings, and institutions. In London, streets like Jamaica Road or Blackwall nod to colonial trade routes tied to slavery, while in Lisbon, avenues bear the names of navigators who paved the way for exploitation. Universities, too, reflect this irony: Oxford’s Rhodes Scholarships, funded by Cecil Rhodes, a fervent imperialist, celebrate academic excellence while tied to a man who championed racial hierarchy and land theft in southern Africa. Cities and towns, from Cape Town (named for Dutch colonial ambitions) to Melbourne (after British Prime Minister Lord Melbourne), embed colonial legacies in their very names, normalizing a history of dispossession.
Even religion, a cornerstone of European identity, carries this irony. Cathedrals and churches, like Notre-Dame in Paris or St. Paul’s in London, are architectural marvels, yet many were funded by wealth from colonial plunder or built on land seized from indigenous peoples in missionary campaigns. The naming of religious orders or parishes after saints who endorsed crusades or forced conversions, such as St. Ignatius, linked to the Jesuit missions, further complicates the narrative of spiritual pride.
Europe’s martial obsession adds another layer. War generals like Napoleon Bonaparte or Admiral Horatio Nelson, whose victories cost countless lives, are lionized in stone and name. Trafalgar Square in London celebrates Nelson’s naval triumph, yet the Napoleonic Wars he fought left millions dead. The atomic bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki in 1945, backed by Allied forces including European powers, killed 140,000–200,000 civilians, yet military strategists from this era are often hailed as heroes. Streets named after Field Marshal Montgomery or General Wellington dot European cities, glorifying destruction as achievement.
Environmental devastation, too, is woven into this legacy. The Industrial Revolution, a source of European pride, birthed factories and railways and polluted rivers and skies. European demand for resources drove deforestation, with the Amazon losing 17% of its forest since the 1970s, partly to supply European markets. Yet, towns like Sheffield, built on industrial might, or scholarships funded by chemical giants like BASF, which polluted the Rhine, carry names that obscure this ecological toll.
The irony lies in the uncritical celebration of these names and monuments. Why is a culture so proud of its Enlightenment ideals—reason, justice, liberty—that enshrine figures and systems that contradict those values? Part of the answer is historical inertia: naming conventions and statues reflect the priorities of past elites, not modern sensibilities. Another factor is selective memory, where triumphs in art or science overshadow moral failures. But this selective pride risks perpetuating harm, as it sidesteps accountability for the slave trade, colonial violence, or environmental ruin.
Reconciling this irony requires action. First, Europeans must confront their commemorative landscape. Removing or recontextualizing statues, as seen in Bristol’s toppling of Colston or Antwerp’s removal of Leopold II monuments in 2020, is a start. Adding plaques to explain historical context, as done in some German cities for Nazi-era street names, can educate without erasing. Renaming streets or institutions, such as Oxford’s push to reframe Rhodes-linked spaces, offers another path.
Second, pride should shift to figures who embody justice and progress. Instead of Nelson or Rhodes, celebrate Erasmus, who championed tolerance, or Sophie Scholl, who resisted Nazism. Scholarships could honor activists like Greta Thunberg, whose environmental advocacy aligns with repairing past harms. Religious institutions might highlight reformers like Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who opposed oppression, over crusading saints. Third, restitution is crucial. Reparations for slavery, as demanded by Caribbean nations from Britain and France, or land rights for indigenous groups, address historical wrongs. Environmentally, Europe’s Green Deal, aiming for carbon neutrality by 2050, and reforestation efforts in Scandinavia show how pride can align with repair. Reducing arms exports, a market where European firms like BAE Systems thrive, would curb the legacy of militarism.
Finally, cultural pride must embrace diversity. Europe’s modern identity, shaped by immigration, offers a chance to redefine commemoration. Streets named for multicultural figures—like Zinedine Zidane in France or Windrush pioneers in the UK—reflect a broader heritage. Engaging marginalized voices, such as Afro-European historians or indigenous scholars, ensures a fuller reckoning.
The irony of European pride—building statues and naming streets for ancestors who wrought suffering—demands reflection. By confronting these symbols, redefining heroes, and committing to restitution, White Europeans can forge a pride that honors their culture’s best while addressing its worst. This transforms pride from a monument to the past into a bridge to a more equitable future.