In Flanders Field
John McCrae
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.
"War is the continuation of policy (politics) by other means."
- Karl von Clausewitz
How do we honor the fallen? How do we honor those who were asked, even ordered, to give up their lives in pursuit of politics and policy with which we disagree?
Or perhaps I should have asked how do I do it? How can I? When I am so opposed not only to this war but to the whole concept?
Yeah, it's gonna be some navel-gazing here. Deal with it. Or don't ;-)
This Memorial Day was an occasion for me to do some reflection, on how I feel about the war dead and about the "patriotism" on display, meant to tell me -- to tell us -- that we honor their "service to their country" to "defend our way of life" or to "defend our freedoms." To the extent we enjoy this way of life -- seen to be crumbling a bit
over the last few months (and oddly enough not from any external threat; what were the chances?) -- or value our freedoms, we are supposed to not only mourn their deaths but treat it as a good thing: That all the wars they died in were just and good and right and true.
Dulce Et Decorum Est
Wilfred Owen
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!--An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime...
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
I don't buy it.
During my childhood the Vietnam War was the "right and true" cause of the moment. I had the good fortune of spending the years of escalation -- 1965 through 1968 -- in Canada, as my dad had been transferred there as part of his job. I say "good fortune" not because my father avoided the draft -- he was in his 30s then -- but because in Canada the question of the war's justness was debated dispassionately: There was little or no emotional attachment, no investment of national pride or faith in democracy or, no sundering of families over the wisdom of the policy so pursued, no venom. It could be brought up in a classroom without the risk of a brawl erupting -- and it was. And there wasn't.
I learned a little something called "perspective," to turn things over in my mind, examine them, and form my own conclusions.
This is somewhat different. I'm older now and the selfishness of childhood -- the sense of everything being about me -- has left (although this diary may convince you otherwise, I'm sure). Now I see the soldiers walking around in the local Wal-Mart or at the Subway. And I know they may be or have been one of the ones packed off to a war in pursuit of a policy aim I oppose. Not only that but I'm old enough to appreciate the importance of demonstrations against this policy, and to participate in them; in other words to have my own sense of what democracy, freedom, and this country mean to me.
Now I wrestle with Memorial Day like I haven't before.
Anthem For Doomed Youth
Wilfred Owen
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries for them; no prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, --
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
It's not the soldier's fault. The politicians, the media, the overlords of the economy -- the "power elite" -- these are the ones responsible. Their policies and their politics are the responsible ones. They present it to us as fait accompli and we can either accept or reject with both options accompanied by serious costs.
But that's another diary. Maybe ;-)
The question is how to honor those fallen from the disastrous decisions that represent, in my mind a failure of humanity on every level -- a failur of empathy (yes that dread word), a failure of connection, a failure of reason, and a failure of creativity and imagination.
I don't hold their deaths as "sacrifice" -- that's supposed to accomplish some greater good. I don't count their deaths in the endeavor as "heroism." Individual acts, yes, and the willingness to save their comrades and civilians, sure, but the endeavor they embark upon isn't "heroic": It's a failure. A defeat. Of the best of what we can accomplish as homo sapien sapiens. And perhaps a necessary one, depending on the foe. But it's failure and defeat nevertheless.
Hawkeye: War isn't Hell. War is war, and Hell is Hell. And of the two, war is a lot worse.
Father Mulcahy: How do you figure, Hawkeye?
Hawkeye: Easy, Father. Tell me, who goes to Hell?
Father Mulcahy: Sinners, I believe.
Hawkeye: Exactly. There are no innocent bystanders in Hell. War is chalk full of them - little kids, cripples, old ladies. In fact, except for some of the brass, almost everybody involved is an innocent bystander
I apologize. I'm sorry I couldn't do more to get our species to understand themselves. And I repent. I will try to get them to do better with whatever time I have left on this planet.
So that there are no more Flanders Fields.
And I will continue searching.