Colonialism in Objects / Der Kolonialismus in den Dingen at Munich's Museum of the Five Continents
The exhibition at Munich’s Museum of the Five Continents (Museum Fünf Kontinente, 8 November 2024 – 18 May 2025) set out to explore three pressing questions: What makes a museum colonial? Is it the people who work there? Or the objects brought back from the colonies? Despite its distinct historical context, the exhibition offers valuable insights for reflecting on Czech involvement in colonial projects and the implications this has for working with non-European artefacts in local collections.
How did objects from former colonies in Africa, Asia or South America make their way into European collections? In the Czech context, the romantic image of adventurers like Emil Holub or Zikmund and Hanzelka prevails—figures who embarked on voyages of discovery and returned with numerous “exotic” artefacts. But were these objects primarily acquired by travellers? And how exactly did they obtain them? The common assumption is that such objects were gifts or items exchanged for goods considered mundane by Europeans but valuable to locals. Although such exchanges may be seen today as ethically questionable, the Munich exhibition presents a much darker narrative behind the formation of its collections.
Some items in the museum in Munich date back to the 1860s, a period when Germany was not yet a colonial power. Many of the artefacts were simply stolen—often during wars or under violent circumstances. In the 1880s, naval doctors Christian Schneider and Wilhelm Schubert brought back around 1,200 objects from voyages along the coasts of Africa, Asia and Oceania. Dozens of these were taken by force. Yet, back in Germany, the doctors were awarded medals for their “services.” A visitor to the museum might not suspect that the musical bracelets from Papua New Guinea on display were seized during a brutal raid in which 45 people lost their lives. The carved prow of Chief Bele Bele’s canoe (tangué) was taken during an attack on the coast of Cameroon, during which the city of Douala was destroyed and several civilians, including women, were killed or injured. The assault was led by Max Buchner, later director of the Munich museum, where the canoe prow was displayed as a war trophy and a symbol of German prowess.
Could the approach taken by the former Museum für Völkerkunde (Museum of Ethnography) —renamed nine years ago to the Museum of the Five Continents—serve as a model for Czech institutions? Between 1884 and 1918, Germany held colonies in Africa, China, and Oceania. By contrast, neither the Czech lands nor Czechoslovakia had comparable colonial possessions. Czech museums also lacked figures such as Max Buchner (director from 1887 to 1907), who openly subscribed to the belief in a “universal struggle of the races” and considered humanism detrimental from a European perspective, or Max Feichtner, curator of the African collections, who undertook an expedition to East Africa with the support of the Nazi government. Under his leadership, the museum incentivised colonial officers to acquire artefacts by awarding prizes. Of the roughly 8,000 objects collected from Cameroon and Tanzania, at least 20% came directly from members of the military or colonial administration.
Although Germany lost its colonies after 1918, it would be inaccurate to say that its museums' history ceased to be colonial. Former colonial actors continued to rely on the infrastructure established by other colonial powers—an opportunity also available to countries like Czechoslovakia. Czechs and Slovaks participated in missions and the art trade, and the Czechoslovak public, like its German counterpart, was exposed to propagandistic narratives that portrayed colonisers as heroic figures—narratives still found, for instance, in the widely read novels of Karl May (1842–1912) set in the Wild West.
Our understanding of colonialism must go beyond the direct control by Europeans of non-European societies, their economic exploitation, and the violent suppression of resistance. Equally important are the ideologies that sustained colonialism, including racism, and the belief in European cultural or religious superiority. These attitudes shaped how colonial-era artefacts were acquired, interpreted, and displayed. In this regard, the exhibition’s narrative strategy—tracing the journeys of objects into the museum—proved effective. It allowed for the presentation of artefacts from diverse geographic origins within a shared interpretive space. While not every acquisition involved overt violence, such violence was nearly always present in some form within the broader colonial context.
Seemingly benign fabric samples brought back from the colonies, for example, were used by European manufacturers to identify weaknesses in local markets and exploit them commercially. The Indian textile market collapsed after 1860 due to an influx of cheap European imports.
Many objects in museum exhibitions were historically used to "prove" the supposed inferiority of non-European cultures compared to Western civilisation. Even when German craftsmen or applied arts students studied woven baskets (ato) from Samoa, the goal was not to understand the techniques or cultural meaning behind them but to enrich so-called “advanced” European culture with “primitive” influences. This raised lingering questions—such as whether the Benin bronzes, brought to Europe after British troops looted Benin City, Nigeria in 1897, could be considered works of art. The Munich exhibition revisited these long-standing doubts with critical distance: if these objects are art, some argued, they must have originated elsewhere, since Africa could not have produced such works. The biases behind such claims are often clear, though sometimes they remain implicit. Similarly, in Czechoslovakia, objects from non-European regions were not treated like European art: they were rarely studied by art historians or critics, and were seldom included in art collections. African masks, like those from Nigeria featured in the Munich exhibition, were discussed only as sources of inspiration for Western artists.
The exhibition also addressed the language used to describe objects from non-European cultures—language often steeped in unconscious bias. Whereas artefacts related to “great” religions such as Buddhism or Christianity are described as religious art, those associated with so-called “natural” religions are more likely to be labelled as fetishes or symbols of “primitive” belief systems. The exhibition highlighted the shortcomings of such vocabulary. Some terms, rooted in racial theory, can be discarded altogether; others demand sensitive reinterpretation through open dialogue.
The exhibition raises many essential questions, not all of which can be fully answered. Yet in most respects, its attentiveness to the evolving nature of our knowledge and its emphasis on listening are successful. The museum does not shy away from its own complex and uncomfortable history. However, this strategy occasionally lacks impact.
The exhibition gave space to non-European voices, including political demands for the return of specific objects. But representation alone is not enough to bring about real change. Alongside these calls, voices from non-Western academic communities, such as the team from the University of Dschang in Cameroon, advocate for the decolonisation of museum practice and greater collaboration with local communities. Can we fully understand the context in which these objects were created and the roles they once—and still—played? Can that be communicated effectively in a museum setting?
These are not questions isolated from the European or Czech experience. They prompt us to consider whether today’s museums can convey the original meaning of Gothic Madonnas or Renaissance prayer books—objects often displayed with as little contextualisation as non-European artefacts.
In many cases, what remains is only formal appreciation, detached from meaning. But we need not remain anchored in the past. Contemporary exhibitions still obscure uncomfortable truths. The luxury items on display in design museums may well be the products of modern slavery—usually in countries outside Europe. Similarly, the acquisition strategies of 19th- and 20th-century art museums often excluded women, non-white artists, and other marginalised creators. If museums begin to critically reflect on their collections, exhibition concepts, and installation strategies—and communicate their doubts and search processes to the public—they can foster discussion not only about colonial legacies but also about a range of pressing contemporary issues.
So, what makes a museum colonial? If, as the Munich exhibition suggests, coloniality can reside in the provenance of collection objects, in the way they are displayed, or in whose voices are included in the narrative, then this is a question Czech museums must also ask themselves.