rememberance

When I was a kid in Prague, we lived in an unremarkable suburban house. The house was in the middle of a row of three such houses. The house south of us had a plaque on the ground floor, marking the spot where a 22 year old man was killed during the Prague uprising in May of 1945. I passed by that plaque every day. War was very real, very tangible, it was a part of our recent history and something we learned a great deal about in school.

Canada has a glorious war record, certainly far more glorious than the land of my birth. Ten percent of all Canadian soldiers died in the rancid mud of Europe in WW1 and Canadian soldiers were equally heroic in the campaign against Hitler's tyranny. Without the terrible sacrifices of those soldiers, many of whom came back wounded physically and scarred emotionally and many of whom paid the ultimate price and never returned - we simply would not have the freedom we have in this glorious country. I would not have the freedom to grumble and complain about our stupid politicians and the imbeciles who call into radio talk shows to rant about Rememberance Day glorifying imperialism would not have the freedom to do that! How clueless, how obtuse, how cruel can some people be.

Today, on the 11th day of the 11th month at the 11th hour, I stood up, sang "Oh Canada" and watched the moving ceremony on Parliament Hill. I watched the wrinkled, weatherd faces of all those old men who went to Europe a lifetime ago, in their late teens and early twenties, to fight a terror which was about to devour the civilized world. I stood as the lone piper played and I cried for all those young men who never made it back. I also cried for all the young men and women today who have forgotten, despite the impassioned plea made so long ago by Colonel John McCrae - read the last few lines and please, please never forget:

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.