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. – John McCrae
One of the more peculiar eccentricities of my cognition is the way it tends toward the use of archaic terms and formats. For some reason I’ve never quite been able to determine, I generally prefer older versions of things to newer ones; I love the romance of airships and trains over the sterile efficiency of airplanes, my favorite car (alas, currently parked at my ranch) is a replica of a 1929 Mercedes coupe, and whenever possible I cook from scratch. My dress style tends toward the retro, my desk is a roll-top and my reticence to get new cell phones is legendary. It’s rare that I read a book written after I was born or watch a television show recorded after I graduated from high school, and the astute reader has probably noticed that my writing style more closely resembles that of the 19th century than that of my native 20th. So it’s probably not surprising that I’ve been heard to refer to Istanbul as “Constantinople” without a trace of ironic intent, and I always refer to today’s observance by its original name, “Armistice Day”, rather than the more new-fangled “Veterans Day”.
But while I will acknowledge most of these as examples of my charming eccentricity and can even laugh at myself about them, I will seriously defend my preferred nomenclature for this day. It’s not only the fact that “Armistice Day” recognizes the actual reason for the memorial, the effective date of the armistice which ended the First World War 98 years ago today; nor is it the fact that some countries (such as France and Belgium) still refer to it by that name; nor the fact that the American use of the day to honor veterans both living and dead, whether they participated in a war or not, actually subverts the original intent of a day to honor those whose lives were senselessly lost in the greatest sustained campaign of carnage the world had to that point ever seen. No, it’s that for me designating the day as “Veterans Day” is, frankly, somewhat jingoistic and uncomfortably fascist. As longtime readers know, I have nothing against military men; if anything, I have kind of a thing for them. But respecting individuals isn’t at all the same as participating in the creepy mandatory obeisance we’ve seen growing over the past few decades, and dedicating a day to the end of a war is a far different thing from using it to glorify the machinery of war. As I’ve said many times before, the best way I can think of to honor veterans is to stop making so goddamned many of them.
Every year on this day, I’ve paid homage to the ancient and powerful relationship between warriors and whores, and I invite you to click on that link; the essay you’ll find contains more links to the earlier columns. But given that after the end of the Cold War, the US government decided to instead devote itself to endless and mindless warfare against both its own people and those of foreign lands, I decided this year to make note of another bond between whores and military men: our own government’s mad and evil campaign to destroy as many of our lives as possible for no reason whatsoever except the enrichment of the military/police-industrial complex and the self-aggrandizement of the evil sociopaths who declare themselves our rulers and believe they have the right to dispose of us as they will.
Here in the UK, it’s Remembrance Day, for remembering all the war dead, including civilians.
It’s still called Armistice Day in the UK; initially services of Remembrance were held on 11 November. It was moved to the nearest Sunday during WW2. Poppies are sold by the Royal British Legion to raise funds for ex-servicemen (and women). At the 11th hour a two minute silence was held to remember; more recently this two minute silence happens both on 11 November and on Remembrance Sunday (if the 11th isn’t on a Sunday). The services are held at the Cenotaph (the empty grave) in London and at war memorials which are found in almost every village in the UK. ‘Almost’ because the memorials carry the names of those who died, but there are perhaps 20 towns and villages where all those who went to war returned from it.
Poppy seeds can lie dormant in the ground for many years before germinating; and to germinate, the soil must be disturbed.
More recently, those who don’t wear a red poppy have come to be vilified when they appear in the media — almost ‘poppy fascism’ — and white poppies, symbolising peace, and green poppies (remembering the Irish) have appeared.
An ‘armistice’ is a ceasefire, not a surrender. I’m with those who think that the origins of WW2 lie with events on 11 November and at the ‘Peace’ conference.
And I’m with Wilfred Owen:
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.
I don’t think there’s any doubt that the Second World War was largely caused by the ruinous and humiliating “peace” conditions forced on Germany at the end of the First, but that’s on the head of fucking power-mad, victory-drunk politicians. It’s not a reason to eschew observing the end of a horror. And you’re right about the meaning of “armistice”, which is another reason I like it; if our species is ever to give up warring on each other, we need a lot more armistices and a lot fewer victories.
Don’t get me wrong, Maggie. I may not wear a poppy but I can donate to the Fund. And I weep for those generations of young men who never returned, not just those on ‘our’ side; for those that returned but never talked about what they say; for those shot for ‘cowardice’ (while their officers were treated for ‘shell-shock); for those who were widowed and left in poverty; for fatherless children; for those women for whom there were no men; for those who died in the ‘Troubles’ here — some before my eyes as I watched, helplessly; for those who died in extermination camps — a visit to one is a very chilling experience; for all those and more who were touched by war.
I donated, ‘silently’ as they say here, to the Fund. They only had red poppies, no white, no green. I didn’t take one.
Regarding “the ancient and powerful relationship between warriors and whores” I recommend Richard Wilbur’s excellent poem “Place Pigalle,” the last stanza of which is so Goddamned good that it still makes me grind my teeth in envy, 30 years after I first read it. Wilbur’s works are dense – he’s sort of a latter-day Hopkins in my view (I mean stylistically) – but they are worth the work.
You instruct as often as you entertain, Maggie, and you do both with unusual directness and grace. I look forward to your posts every morning.
I’m curious…What do you refer to Israel as? Palestine?
Israel has existed on and off in one form or another for 3000 years. That’s long enough for me to remember it.
You should look into Ralph Raico’s Great Wars and Great Leaders: A Libertarian Rebuttal when you get the chance. Speaking of wars, I find it funny that the left claims to be anti-war, but almost never spoke out against Bill Clinton and Barack Obama’s military escapades. (Hypocrisy Much?)