Even to use an analogy, I am reluctant to mention the possibility. I mean kidnapping. I cannot say the word without adding, God forbid. But will you imagine it? A child kidnapped. Would you ransom the child? You would sell everything you own and give it to the criminals to get the child back.
No one would tell you not to pay ransom to the kidnappers because it would be buying stolen goods from thieves. The kidnappers are thieves, and worse. Yet we deal with them if we must.
Thus the analogy: If we want to recover looted antiquities, we have no choice but to deal with the thieves—and ransom the loot. Otherwise, it will be lost forever.
Let me extend the analogy. Suppose a kidnapped child were ransomed by other kidnappers who thought they could get even more money by holding the child longer and squeezing the parents. The moral difference between parents ransoming their child and a second set of kidnappers buying the child to make money is obvious. In short, whether the “purchase” of the kidnapped child is right or wrong depends on who the purchaser is and why the purchase is made.
The same is true of looted antiquities. There are two kinds of purchasers of looted antiquities: those who buy—ransom, if you will—objects to make them available to scholars and the public; and those who hide away objects for their own enjoyment or as investments for later sale to other purchasers who also maintain them in secrecy.
There is a world of difference between these two types of purchasers. The one is to be encouraged; the other is to be condemned (and perhaps jailed). The one includes enlightened, public-spirited collectors as well as museums; the other includes mean-spirited misers who may even be criminals.
Unfortunately, this distinction is rarely, if ever, made in discussions of what to do about archaeological looting.
Several years ago, a tiny ivory pomegranate, used as a scepter head, came on the antiquities market in Israel. An inscription around the shoulder of the pomegranate read: “Holy to the priests, belonging to the T[emple of Yahwe]h.” If this reconstruction of the inscription is correct (as most scholars think it is), then this eighth-century B.C. ivory pomegranate is probably the only surviving artifact from Solomon’s Temple.
No one knows where or how the pomegranate was found or how it made its way onto the antiquities market. The best guess is that it was recovered in a Jerusalem excavation and stolen before it was registered. In any event, it was later smuggled out of Israel and offered on the market in Europe. In secret negotiations, the Israel Museum purchased it for $550,000. Thank goodness!
It was displayed in a special room of the museum all by itself and thousands upon thousands of Israelis and tourists have flocked to see it. Scholars have written several articles about it. And it is now a precious part of Israel’s heritage.
This is not the ideal way for an important antiquity to come to a museum. But there was no choice. The question is this: Is it better to ransom a looted antiquity or to let it disappear underground, lost to scholarship and the public forever?
Even to use an analogy, I am reluctant to mention the possibility. I mean kidnapping. I cannot say the word without adding, God forbid. But will you imagine it? A child kidnapped. Would you ransom the child? You would sell everything you own and give it to the criminals to get the child back. No one would tell you not to pay ransom to the kidnappers because it would be buying stolen goods from thieves. The kidnappers are thieves, and worse. Yet we deal with them if we must. Thus the analogy: If we want to recover looted antiquities, […]
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