The Weight of Memory: Why We Preserve the Past

Pictured: Marshals Eremenko and Chuikov with sculptor Yevgeny Vuchetich at Mamaev Kurgan, 2 February 1963.

There is a heaviness to memory—a quiet, invisible weight that settles in our hearts as the years move on. It comes to us through the voices of those who can no longer speak, through the fragile pages of letters, the scent of an old book, or a photograph that captivates us. For me, that weight often rests in the life and legacy of Marshal Vasily Chuikov—a man who embodied resilience, leadership, and complex humanity.

When I hold a piece of the past—a wartime artifact, a fading photograph—I feel an almost sacred responsibility. These fragments are more than relics; they are echoes of courage, pain, and endurance. They remind me that history is not a distant story. It is a living presence that asks something of us: to remember, to reflect, to research, and to carry forward the lessons that others paid dearly to teach.

Preserving memory is not always easy. It can be lonely work. There are moments when I wonder why I relentlessly pursue it—late nights spent researching, writing, translating, piecing together lives long gone. Yet, every time I think of stopping, I am drawn back by the simple truth that remembrance matters. Memory is how we resist forgetting, how we honor the unseen, and how we root ourselves in something larger than the fleeting rush of daily life.

Since my mother’s passing earlier this year, this truth has taken on new depth. Memory has become both a comfort and a burden—a bridge between what was and what still endures. She taught me to find beauty in history, to listen for stories others overlooked, and to believe that even quiet work can leave a mark. In a way, this blog continues that conversation with her—one that stretches across time, loss, and love.

Marshal Chuikov wrote about the significance of the human spirit—that willpower and faith can outlast even the fiercest battle:

“The greatest strength of our nation is its people. This is clearly demonstrated by the resilience and unwavering faith of our soldiers in victory, even when it seemed impossible to breathe and death stalked them at every turn” (from От Сталинграда до Берлина).

I think memory works the same way. It is an act of will. To remember is to say, this still matters. They still matter. And in that act, we too are remembered—as caretakers of history, keepers of meaning, and witnesses to the endurance of the human soul. So yes, memory has weight. But it’s a weight worth carrying...