Today, at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month in what is the 11th year of this millenium, I stood for a minute of silence to honour those around the world who are sacrificing or who have sacrificed so much to save so many from tyranny and terror.
War is hell.
I have very little idea of how horribly wrenching, how diabolical war is. Only by reading and hearing the stories of those who were (and are) there can I even begin to understand the depth of sacrifice made by those who served and still serve. How they paid, how they still pay for that sacrifice every day - with visible AND invisible scars.
Being a pacifist at heart, I wonder sometimes why anybody would voluntarily choose to put his or her life at risk, to enter the very jaws of death. And then I see the images - soldiers making a difference in people's lives, the incredible gratitude expressed by those whose lives have been impacted - and I read or watch the stories of those who have served ... and would do it again in a heartbeat.
I remember vividly that one of the pictures that held a prominent place on the wall when I was growing up was a photo of my favourite uncle, who served as a very young man in the Korean War. It was framed in gold-tone, and had an inscription under it with a silver banner-background, which said, "PER ARDVA AD ASTRA" (per ardua ad astra) - Latin for "Through Adversity to the Stars" - motto of the Royal Canadian Air Force. When Uncle returned from overseas, he developed severe psoriasis - which the doctors said was a nervous reaction to all he had seen over there. To this day he has never once spoken freely of his experiences. Yet all he must have endured still speaks for him.
So the answer to my question about why - though it is hard to accept - starts to emerge.
When I look at my children and try to imagine some despot trying to take over and steal their lives, their freedom from them, I start to understand why.
When I see photographs of soldiers helping children in war-torn countries to get medical help or carrying them to safety, I start to understand why.
When I hear stories of those who looked beside them in the trench after an explosion threw them several feet - only to see a crater where a friend had once been - yet who picked up their gun to try to survive and still save those who were left, I start to understand why.
When I watch the people standing at the cenotaph every November 11, rain, snow, sleet or cold, wearing uniform, poppy, and hearing aid from being too close to the big guns on board ship, considering themselves to be the lucky ones because they made it back, and their fallen comrades to be the heroes because they didn't - I start to understand why.
Some things are worth fighting for.
War is hell.
I have very little idea of how horribly wrenching, how diabolical war is. Only by reading and hearing the stories of those who were (and are) there can I even begin to understand the depth of sacrifice made by those who served and still serve. How they paid, how they still pay for that sacrifice every day - with visible AND invisible scars.
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| This image of a soldier and a Haitian child holding hands I found through Google Images at : http://www.acclaimimages.com/_gallery/ _image_pages/0420-1002-2714-0442.html |
I remember vividly that one of the pictures that held a prominent place on the wall when I was growing up was a photo of my favourite uncle, who served as a very young man in the Korean War. It was framed in gold-tone, and had an inscription under it with a silver banner-background, which said, "PER ARDVA AD ASTRA" (per ardua ad astra) - Latin for "Through Adversity to the Stars" - motto of the Royal Canadian Air Force. When Uncle returned from overseas, he developed severe psoriasis - which the doctors said was a nervous reaction to all he had seen over there. To this day he has never once spoken freely of his experiences. Yet all he must have endured still speaks for him.
So the answer to my question about why - though it is hard to accept - starts to emerge.
When I look at my children and try to imagine some despot trying to take over and steal their lives, their freedom from them, I start to understand why.
When I see photographs of soldiers helping children in war-torn countries to get medical help or carrying them to safety, I start to understand why.
When I hear stories of those who looked beside them in the trench after an explosion threw them several feet - only to see a crater where a friend had once been - yet who picked up their gun to try to survive and still save those who were left, I start to understand why.
When I watch the people standing at the cenotaph every November 11, rain, snow, sleet or cold, wearing uniform, poppy, and hearing aid from being too close to the big guns on board ship, considering themselves to be the lucky ones because they made it back, and their fallen comrades to be the heroes because they didn't - I start to understand why.
Some things are worth fighting for.
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