Showing posts with label remembrance sunday. Show all posts
Showing posts with label remembrance sunday. Show all posts

Saturday, November 11, 2017

Remembrance Sunday/Veteran's Day 2017



Ideally I am a pacifist. And I acknowledge that I am able to hold such a view because of people who fought and died for my right to have freedom of thought.

There are not many veterans in my family, as they were mostly too old or too young for World War I (I'm still trying to figure out from a couple of letters we have exactly what happened to my grandfather Alex - he may have been a POW in Russia just before the Revolution), & during World War II if they had not been imprisoned or murdered then they were fleeing and living a refugee life. Albert's eyes were too bad for him to be allowed to serve as a chaplain in Korea, although he did try to enlist. However, his twin, my Uncle Charles, went to Berlin with the US Army in 1945, and remained as a reservist for the rest of his working life.

Charles was a physiotherapist, working with children in a Houston hospital. Every Xmas, he would don a Santa suit and bring gifts to the kids (we have some interesting photos with Albert and with me in that Santa suit!). One year, his army buddies helped him arrive in style via helicopter.

Today remembering all veterans and those who fell. Let us not waste the chance we still have to make tikkun olam in this world. Shavuatov.

Sunday, November 11, 2007

remembrance sunday

poppy day is here. bbc online has memories from survivors of the First World War here.

this is one of my favourite poems by the war poets:

Break of Day in the Trenches

The darkness crumbles away
It is the same old druid Time as ever,
Only a live thing leaps my hand,
A queer sardonic rat,
As I pull the parapet's poppy
To stick behind my ear.
Droll rat, they would shoot you if they knew
Your cosmopolitan sympathies,
Now you have touched this English hand
You will do the same to a German
Soon, no doubt, if it be your pleasure
To cross the sleeping green between.
It seems you inwardly grin as you pass
Strong eyes, fine limbs, haughty athletes,
Less chanced than you for life,
Bonds to the whims of murder,
Sprawled in the bowels of the earth,
The torn fields of France.
What do you see in our eyes
At the shrieking iron and flame
Hurled through still heavens?
What quaver -what heart aghast?
Poppies whose roots are in men's veins
Drop, and are ever dropping;
But mine in my ear is safe,
Just a little white with the dust.

Isaac Rosenberg
(1890 - 1918)