I thought remembrance was a celebration of war. I was wrong

I’ve long refused to wear a poppy, recalling ‘the old lie’; but I’m now confronting my own refusal to learn

A few houses away from me, a young man died. Sergeant Sutton from the London Regiment was killed in 1918. He was 22, the son of Harry and Rebecca. A couple of doors down, a 19-year-old died. An Irish family who lived nearby lost Private Patrick Joseph O’Brien. On the next road, the neighbours at Nos 72 and 74 each lost a son. Rifleman Claude Arthur Ashby died a month before the war ended. He was 17.

It’s a very middle-class thing never to have known anyone in the army, and I can’t imagine my current neighbours’ kids joining up. But 17? God. I saw a picture once of a soldier who had wet himself in terror under bombardment. A frightened child. So many frightened children. So long ago. A pointless war. I remember learning about the poetry that taught me not to fall for “the old lie” and all that, and so I don’t wear poppies. One of my daughters once answered an exam question on the causes of the first world war with: “It’s like they were all dressed up and had to find somewhere to go.” I got what she meant. The arms race already under way between the major powers meant a war was inevitable. Only this was no party, but mass slaughter. So, no glorifying the military-industrial complex for me. Remembrance is a private act, not a public display. Terrible wars are happening right now that no one thinks can end. I know these arguments well, for I have made them. But I was wrong.

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from The Guardian https://ift.tt/2z5nPyE