Two minutes of silence
I’ve started writing this at about 11.05 in the eleventh day of the eleventh month 90 years after the signing of the Armistice Treaty that ended the First World War. It is a day to remember all those lost to warfare, but especially, I think, those lost in the first world war. I do not have the space here, nor the inclination today, to write a serious piece upon war. It will, perhaps, be enough to state the following three things:
I am proud to have personally known a veteran of that war – my grandfather – and appalled and astonished by the things that happened to him. He was a lot braver and a lot tougher than I will ever be.
The first world war is so utterly unlike the second that it is, perhaps, unfortunate that they are so closely classified together. Before the second world war, ‘WW1’ was the ‘great war’ and ‘the war to end all wars.’ Sadly this latter moniker was a less than accurate prophesy. It may very well be the case that there was little reason at all for the horrors of the first world war, a war somewhat cuttingly described in ‘Blackadder Goes Forth’ (a fine and touching commentary for all it’s toilet jokes) as ‘A war that would be a damn sight simpler if we’d just stayed in England and shot fifty thousand of our men a week.’ From an anglocentric perspective, the same cannot be said for the second world war. It is more awful because of this, perhaps, but it must be said that whatever the truth regarding the necessity, or lack thereof, of the first world war, this in no way diminishes the sacrifice and heroism displayed by the men on the ground who had, by various means, the situation thrust upon them.
I hate war. It is the most awful thing that is commonly done.
What I do wish to write about is a rather smaller thing. The poppy itself. This came to mind due to a long-standing debate between two of my friends regard one’s adoption of the white poppy, a symbol of a hope for peace, and the others adherence the wearing of the traditional red. The fine details of their particular debate is not the issue, but the broad strokes run something like this: The one position maintains that the best way to respect those fallen in battle is to hope for peace, that their sacrifice means that no-one else will suffer the same fate. The other maintains that this is a personal politicisation of remembrance day, and that the first argument, though well meaning, is in some way disrespecting the fallen by abducting the service and turning it to own end. The wearing of the white poppy, it cannot be denied, is a political statement, and the second argument would make the claim that such campaigns, however well-meant, are out of place during acts of remembrance.
I have sympathy for both these ideas, and a peculiar habit of my own. In my adult life I have always bought the poppy, donating a few pounds to Royal British Legion. I then never wear the poppy. I do this for the following reason – the common misconception that wearing a poppy in some way implies support or accepted justification for warfare. It does not, but I would never want anyone to think that I do hold those opinions. I would rather have those who understand the real meaning of the poppy look down upon me for the ignorance I display by not wearing one, despite the fact that I do, in fact, side with them. I must confess that, despite the fact that it has been around since the 1930’s, I was completely unaware of the existence of the white poppy until this year, which gives a little more personal meat to the debate – for it is now possible that I might wear one. The British Legion, it is worth noting, care not which you wear (in fact, they also claim that they don’t care if, as I, you don’t wear one at all).
I do not attend the ceremonies, as I refuse to ridicule the entire affair by being an atheist pretending to pray, pretending that he believes that the ‘souls’ (itself a nonsense) of the dead still somehow exist and declaring things to a god I honestly believe is a nonsense inherited from our ignorant past. I choose not to remember by group-chanting nonsense – it’s my choice. Such ceremonies are for those who do believe, and I have no place there. Every year I do observe the two minute’s silence. It is a fine tradition – it shows respect, but more importantly, it brings about a moment of contemplation, everyone giving two minutes of themselves over to the consideration of those lost to war.
Every year I am left with the same question as everyone else – what happens during those two minutes? Few of us often give time over to contemplation. The modern world is very immediate and involving, and our petty concerns fill us to the brim. It is in these two minutes that we find perspective upon our lives. We can see, perhaps, and albeit briefly, the small things that do not matter, the larger things that do. Sadness fill us too, but not a destructive, self-seving pity. It is a positive, understanding sadness – perhaps an insight into the wounds of our shared mortality, a sympathy for the suffering of others, or the simple recognition of a tragedy. Fundamentally, it is a sadness that effects us all, binds us together and links us forever with those who have gone before.
The poppy itself is a symbol of respect. I am sure that we do not need to recount the reason why it became the symbol it is, but it is a fine symbol, and I would proudly bear it were it not for the ignorance of my peers. I refuse, point blank (ironically), to show support for any kind of militaristic agenda, whether that be based upon ignorance or not. It is perfect possible that I give away many political and cultural signals that I am not aware of, some of which I do not even understand. Judgements of character made upon hair length and clothing, for a start, have always been something of a small mystery to me. Social cliques exist only to extend these judgements, right, wrong or otherwise, but although I have little time for them, once I am aware of their existence, to act as if I did not would be idiotic pride.
I deny the second argument. The wearing of a poppy of any kind is fundamentally a political act, for it carries its own gentle agenda. To wear one is to attempt to compel others to join in remembering those that have been lost to war – a noble agenda, certainly, but an agenda non-the-less. The agenda thrust upon the red poppy by ignorance is something I want to avoid. The white poppy neatly circumvents this; however, it also symbolises some things that I have reservations about.
I am fortunate in many ways. I have never been in any danger of starving to death, for a start. More pertinently, I have also lived through a period in history where I have not been conscripted (nor forced by circumstance) to take part in a war. The quick review of history in my mind tells me that this is a pretty rare thing for boys born to working class families such as myself. Quite a few of my friends joined the army, but they volunteered, and though there were certainly pressure put upon them, this is a discussion for a different time. I hope, now, that I will never have to go to war. It terrifies me. Regardless of how you paint it, almost every society that has every existed has periodically killed a vast percentage of its young men (which is not to say that women are exempt, or play no part in war, but I’m speaking from a specific perspective here) – specifically those between the ages of 14 and 30. I hope that I’ve got away with it. This period in any man’s life still boasts the highest mortality rate (what with suicides, deaths by violence and accidents drunken, bravado-related or otherwise; 15-25 is statistically the worse, I believe), but I see no reason to organise something to help with this. I want every boy to be as lucky as me.
I want peace. Clearly people have a terrible capacity for cruelty and violence. I do not believe, however, that simple pacifism is the answer to this, nor that surrendering all capacity to wage war would be of any use. Violence, like it or not, is part of the human situation. I believe that certain military actions (generally peace-keeping) can be justified. I simply wish to urge all peoples to avoid war – especially wars of the kind that the First World War is the archetype. If the white poppy is of any help in overcoming the ignorance of others, and helps to show the world that there are those who, like me, recognise the sacrifice and honor of men killed by war, then it is a great thing. Yet again, though, the ignorance of others holds me back from adopting it. To a large number of people, the wearing of a white poppy would symbolise simple pacifism, which I do not wish to represent.
In short, if either of the symbols were understood, they would suffice. As they are not, I cannot whole-heartedly agree with wearing of either. I would not criticise those who do wear either, perhaps they are simply a little braver than I. I find myself supporting the first argument, and denying the second, but with reservations on both sides. The wearing of a poppy is political act – it is up to you to decide which you wear, and simply adhering to the traditional red without recognising that you are incapable of entirely divorcing yourself from the implications it has, both directly and indirectly, is no use to anyone. Yet the second argument hits home in a different way. The poppy is there also for our non-political consideration. It is a political object, but it is also more. It is a thing that reminds us to spend two minutes a year in solemn remembrance. Red or white will suffice for this. Choosing to wear on not to wear either is not a matter of respect for the event of remembrance. It is up to you to decide on a different basis – whether-or-not you believe that displaying your political convictions is more important than how they are interpreted. It is a decision that only matters before or after the two most important minutes of the entire process, but if I do decide to wear one in the future, I think it will be white. The mistakes that people will make in what it symbolises are closer to my intention.
This year’s poppy, or last year’s poppy, or the year before that’s, sits in a pen-pot upon my table. Another, date of purchase unknown, sits in my car. At some point they will be tidied away. I remember buying each one, but not which is which. I ignore them for months at a time. I did not ignore them this morning. Ninety years after the signing of the Armistice Treaty that ended the First World War, at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, I sat in quite contemplation and considered those who had fallen in war. I thought of the carnage and suffering of the trenches. I thought of my grandfather and the millions like him. As the last post played to bring me back to the world a slightly better man, I remembered a little thing from long ago that reminded me of the debate between my friends and the utter irrelevance of it.
Once, as a small child, I asked about world war three. I wondered when it had been fought. It was an easy mistake to make, WW3 was term commonly uttered during the eighties with an inevitability that threatened to place it into history one way or another. My parents, who lived through the Second World War as children, replied with a certain dark amusement. ‘It hasn’t yet, with any luck, it never will.’
Amen.