Today is Remembrance Day in Canada, called Veterans Day in the United States. It is traditional to wear a poppy pin leading up to today to commemorate the men and women who served and lost their lives in war. I no longer have the heart and stomach to participate, and I wonder how many people out there feel the same way.
I first started to feel this embarrassment about how a caring sentiment turned into an accessory to political posturing several years ago when I discovered the Chosen Soldier Project, which matches you with a deployed service member to send letters and goodies. The first soldier I was matched with, Jackie, asked me to send her sunflower seeds, the snack she missed the most. I mailed her a large plastic container in her next parcel. The last soldier I was matched with, Brian, was a higher ranking officer, and is, for some reason I can’t really articulate, the one whom I think of most often. The last mail Brian sent me was a letter on two postcards, which I still have, to let me know that he shared his parcel with his team of 12, and that he was from a small town about an hour from where I live. He told me that he missed wintery Christmases at home. I don’t keep in touch with any of these people, but they have never been far from my mind. I stumble on Brian’s postcards from time to time and re-read them, and my heart beats faster knowing that the package of baby wipes I sent were used by about a dozen people for the equivalent of a shower per wipe. How does one square sending toilet paper, sanitary pads, sunscreen and lip balm to Afghanistan while our elected officials are out-screaming each other over who supports the troops more? And what exactly were Jackie and Brian doing in Afghanistan in the first place?
The final straw for me was last year, when I went to Belgium in October. Despite living in Europe when I was younger, I’d never been to the WWI memorials in Ypres and the surrounding area, and thought it’d be a nice way to spend the day. It changed my life. (For some background on Canada’s role in World War I, in particular what happened in Ypres and the memorials, you can read more here.) You can know the historical context which created the conditions for these events, these places, but there was nothing that prepared me for the overwhelming mix of sadness, anger, loss, panic and hopelessness I felt.
Guest book at St. Julien Canadian Memorial.All the memorials have one of these structures in which a guest book can be found, and people added Canadian coins and trinkets. The one pictured here is for the St. Julien Canadian Memorial, one of my first stops, which features the Brooding Soldier statue. With its head down and hands folded, the statue faces the direction from which the chlorine gas came to claim the lives of Canadian soldiers.
It was a cloudy day, and had just rained. My dad and I went up to the memorial just ahead of a group of British tourists (who must have been on the same trip we were, because we encountered them more than once throughout the day; in fact, they were our North Star to one of our destinations when we were hopelessly lost. We followed their bus, figuring they must be en route to somewhere we would want to go, and it worked!). The echo of birds could be felt, that’s how quiet it is up there. We signed the guest book, a damp binder that had lists of names from faraway places, pledging to never forget. When I was signing, the first of several of these, you know who popped into my mind? Brian and his squad members.
Our next stop was Hill 62 (Sanctuary Wood) Canadian Memorial. More than the memorial I remember the cemetery nearby, Sanctuary Wood Cemetery. Rows upon rows of graves that mark the final resting place of people who lost their lives a century ago, a place far from home and loved ones. It seems unreal that a place with such a horrific past is on such a beautiful road.
The road to Hill 62.I don’t know if you can tell from this photo, but it had started raining again (it was taken from the car). Perhaps a product of my overactive imagination, but it felt like the clouds were gathering overhead the closer we got in some sort of melancholy welcome, to set the right mood. Below are photos of the memorial entrance and cemetery.
Entrance to Hill 62. Sanctuary Wood Cemetery, a small section of the world that bears silent testament to a tiny portion of the human loss of WWI. Sanctuary Wood Cemetery. If you look closely, you can see the nationalities on the tombstones. Do you see the maple leaf on the stone in the centre?One of the next stops was Menin Gate in Ypres. Ypres is a beautiful city that buried many dead, with Menin Gate chosen as a memorial site. For anyone who hasn’t seen it up close, the arch has etched in it the names of the dead, inscribed by regiment and corps. There are thousands and thousands of names, from all over the world.
Menin Gate. A car passing under Menin Gate. A road out of the centre of Ypres passes through the arch, so it’s well traveled.It was about 3 in the afternoon, and the sun was beginning to cast longer shadows. It felt cold under the arch, and I don’t know why, but I found myself trying to read all of the names, as if I must memorize them. In the alcoves on either side were displays of wreaths of poppies. At this point, I stopped trying to hide my tears.
A tiny section of the names on Menin Gate. The wreaths at Menin Gate. In the lower left, you can see a small display of photos that had fallen over. I took a photo after I righted it. Look how young they are.How many family members, so far removed generationally and geographically, come here to touch these names? Who thought about these names these days? Would there be a memorial somewhere with Brian’s name on it someday, his photo being pushed over by the wind, relying on strangers to straighten it?
Our final destination was Tyne Cot Cemetery. We arrived at about 5 in the evening. For those who have never made the journey, some of it is in on narrow dirt roads, and the cemetery is surrounded by farms. My heart started racing as soon as we approached the cemetery entrance. I’ll finish my story below the photos.
At the cemetery entrance. Tyne Cot Cemetery. Tyne Cot Cemetery. Tyne Cot Cemetery. Two graves of Canadian soldiers in Tyne Cot Cemetery.The first thing I noticed was how quiet it is. Imagine being in a soundproof room in which time had stopped. I felt like I had accidentally found a secret place in the world where a few weary souls are allowed to rest undisturbed, like the world was providing a safe cocoon for them, away from the noise and stress. As I was meandering among the graves, I very quickly noticed how young the buried were. My eyes prickled with tears again. These kids, these 18 and 19 year old corn fed boys from the prairies, were led to die here by adults, denied their futures, their dreams. And none of these boys had any quarrel with each other. For the first time in my life, I hoped that there was no afterlife, so that these kids never found out how futile their deaths were, that peace was not going to be achieved then, and not a hundred years later.
I came home from that trip two weeks before Remembrance Day. I was thinking about the kids buried in Belgium, about Brian and Jackie, and about the people who were our alleged enemies, who also paid a steep price, and I couldn’t reconcile how the politicians could be wearing giant poppies while tearing their hair out about protecting freedom. I was done. It’s not the fault of the legions who sell the poppy pins to raise money for veterans; I still donate. I just can’t dissociate the poppy from the feeling that we are falsely celebrating wars as the only guarantee of protecting our freedom, and indeed, that today’s wars are actually protecting our freedom, instead of doing everything in our collective power to make war history. How can our government representatives fist pump today in solidarity and shout freedom, but spy on us while simultaneously cutting funding for veterans?
If do you wear a poppy, I don’t look think that’s bad; I understand that for many people, it still holds a special meaning of remembrance and gratitude, and I don’t want to take that away from anyone. What I hope you do additionally though is something to stop the madness of what war is today. No more. The fallen fought for a better tomorrow, and I think we can build that better tomorrow without war. We owe them that.
Besides donating your money and your time to organizations that work with veterans and in war zones, I hope you keep the pressure firmly and consistently on your elected officials. Don’t let them get away with wanton war-mongering; don’t let them get away with telling you that there isn’t any money for veterans; don’t let them get away with telling you that accidentally bombing a hospital or a wedding can’t be helped. Most importantly, don’t let them convince you that the people that helped usher our countries into war can’t be held accountable.