Tomorrow is 11/11. Today is Remembrance Sunday. We should all know what this means, but sadly a fair few don't. So. Let's have a little history lesson.
Armistice Day is a memorial to the troops, men and women (well, boys and girls in most cases) who gave their lives for king and country in World War I. The poppy became a familiar emblem, as they seemed to spring up over the trenches, graves and No Man's Land in Flanders, a site of unimaginable bloodshed and horror. The red petals signified the blood of fallen soldiers. And on the eleventh minute of the eleventh hour on the eleventh day of the eleventh month, millions share in a two minute silence. Lest we forget.
To most people, wearing a poppy is a sign of respect.
So what does that make people like me? Disrespectful? Apparently so.
On Friday, I was working on a desk where a box of poppies had been placed. As brokers, lawyers and recruiters passed by, a few stopped to make a donation and buy a paper poppy. Most smiled politely as they walked off, knowing the rain was inevitably going to end up soaking the paper and they'd have to buy a few more before Remembrance Sunday. One gentleman was different though.
He stood there, after pinning his poppy to his suit and barked, "Why aren't you wearing a poppy?" There are set guidelines in what I can and cannot wear at work. And a poppy isn't part of my ensemble. After picking my jaw off the floor, that's what I responded. With a smile of course.
"Well, it's disgraceful. I judge people who don't wear a poppy. Those men died for our freedom. It's nothing more than a total lack of respect." Before I had a chance to reply, he was off, probably to go and salute the flag or sign up for the RAF to serve Queen and Country himself, I'd assume.
I then had a conversation with another man, new to London. He bought a poppy, and mentioned if his nan could see him now she'd be turning in her grave. I was intrigued. I asked him why. He explained that during the war, she'd lost her husband. Killed in action. She'd got a modest amount to live off. But what use was money when she's lost her soulmate? When three children were now fatherless? Three children who would never, ever know their father. Countless grandchildren who'd be deprived the chance to get given a sloppy wet kiss and a shiny pound every visit. Great-grandchildren who'd ask their granddad what his dad was like, and did he have smelly socks too.
An entire future changed, lost, robbed. She didn't feel anger to the man who killed him. Because that same story would be played out across millions of homes throughout the world. It may have even been the case of her husband's killer. Who knew whether his wife became a widow.
This guy standing at my desk was a friendly man, so I said I actually agreed with his nan.
Because as much as I can respect the bravery through absolute fear of those who went to war, especially those who were drafted and did it though obligation rather than choice, I unreservedly and unapologetically do not respect anyone killing another human, in the name of anything.
My heritage means that WWII has had more of an effect on me than the first. It wasn't just Jews who were targeted by Hilter's megalomania. Between 3,000-5,000 people were executed, beheaded, or worked to death in concentration camps. Why? Because they categorically refused to join in the war, to even raise their hand in salute to Hitler. To the point where if it meant their own life being lost, they could go to the grave with a clear conscience and hands clean of blood. In the UK and America, the same group was arrested, beaten and imprisoned. Children were pulled out of schools, jobs were lost. All in the name of neutrality and peace.
You see, to me, buying a poppy in a way says I support the war. That I thank my fellow Englishman for killing German, Japanese, Italian men. And I could never do that. I appreciate the sacrifices made for freedom as much as I despise the methods in which said freedom was gained. But I can't ever show my support for killing. Because honestly, if someone handed me a gun and told me to take away someone's life to guarantee my own, I couldn't do it. I've been massively selfish throughout my 28 years and made huge, stupid mistakes that I'll pay the price of until my dying day. But I'd like to think my heritage plays a part in who I am, and those values are entrenched deep in my bones.
We shouldn't remember the dead on one day of the year. In the almost-century since that first Remembrance Sunday, despite politicians and leaders wearing red poppies crying 'Lest We Forget', wars are getting more and more barbaric, with new way of killing soldiers as efficiently as possible being developed every day.
Recently, a clipping from a Lancashire paper has done the rounds. A month ago, ex-RAF bomber Harold died at 99 years old. He died a single man with no children, his friends long gone. He died alone. He most definitely would have had stories to tell, but they died with him. The lessons we could have learnt are gone.
So it seems Lest We Forget are just three words. Because we're forgetting about the people who lived through a massive world war, people who have experience all of us can learn from. Our youth shouldn't learn cold facts from books. They also shouldn't share a token #lestweforget on Facebook or Twitter. They should be in residential homes, listening to the people who lived the horror of war before another generation dies and their wisdom lost.
If you wear a poppy, good on you for remembering. But the dead have paid the price of war, as unfair and cruel as that is. We should be there for the living, so they don't die alone. Because only through their stories can we learn lessons of the past.
So, unlike Kellie, I won't be wearing a poppy. You can judge me if you like. But it won't matter. I'll be busy planning another trip to speak to a generation that soon won't be here.
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