Fear and Loathing on Remembrance Day
Well here we all are again, Remembrance Day. Originally Armistice Day, November 11th is the anniversary of the day that hostilities ended on the Western Front, ending World War 1. Almost immediately it became a day universally recognized by the allied nations as a day to remember those that fell during the war. After World War 2, the British government and the rest of the Commonwealth changed the name to Remembrance Day as Armistice Day was no longer an appropriate title for a day which would commemorate all war dead.
End of the history lesson.
This day always infuriates me, not because of ongoing conflict in the world (of course this doesn’t help my demeanour), instead I become enraged by the continued marginalization of this day. Poppy puppy bullshit aside, let me quickly reflect upon one of my memories of what Remembrance Day was, and perhaps should be again.
Now I just turned 27 recently, so I am not an old man, but I can remember a time when everything shut down on Remembrance Day, even some 7-Elevens. Nothing needed to be open because November 11th was a day dedicated to one pursuit: remembrance and reflection. Today (at least in Manitoba), it seems like all that society has time for is the morning to reflect upon the sacrifices of those that have fallen in wars. As it stands today, I can visit the mall and any major retail outlet between the hours of 1p-6p. Or I could get nicely toasted at the bar anywhere between 1p and midnight.
What is it with us? Has it become too hard for us to actually plan ahead for a day that we can’t go to the supermarket? Are we so empty and shallow that we actually need to be able to shop today? Is this what the fallen soldiers of WW1 fought for? I truly doubt it. In fact, I’d put real money on them being super fucking pissed if they knew that they fought, killed others, and died just so trailer trash and yuppies alike could shop at Wal-Mart for 99¢ socks, or pick up a café latte at Starbucks 85 years later on their day of remembrance. Those that have fallen in war made the ultimate sacrifice, and as a society we should be ashamed that we can’t even set aside a full day as a tribute to them anymore. I think it’s the least that we can do, Lest we forget.
For The Fallen
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables at home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England’s foam.But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain,
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.Laurence Binyon (1869-1943)
In Flanders Fields
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place: and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.John McCrae (1872-1918)