Housebound and sick with the flu, I find myself sitting in front of the TV watching the most recent repatriation ceremony. I had previously seen short sound bites on the evening news but had never watched the entire ceremony. It’s not that I was indifferent to their sacrifice, but I struggled with a military force that had switched from historical peacekeeping to active fighting.
I’m a pacifist by nature. I’ve heard the Second World War stories my entire life. My parents, who endured life in occupied Italy, were quick to remind us children about making do without. I’ve heard the stories of the bombings, the near run ins with Nazi patrols, the partisan underground night time sabotage campaigns.
I’m thinking of all of this as the Canadian Forces plane gives up its heart breaking cargo of five coffins, each draped in a flag of the country these young people had given their lives for. It is unbearably cold at the airfield in Trenton, the snow is blowing and family members are huddled under tents.
You and I have debated the military mission many times. We don’t agree on the combat role. You were a full time soldier for two years before you entered the seminary. Even then you remained a reservist until they sent you to Rome to study Canon Law. You were a Captain in the Canadian Airborne Regiment of the Queen’s Own Rifles. Years after you left the military, the regiment was disbanded, after a difficult time in Somalia. In disgust, you packed your uniform and medals and mailed them to Ottawa. I listened to your account of the Somalia mission and I realized that the reporting we heard back home was not balanced.
Now as Parliament debates the torture issue, you’ve opened my eyes to the sad reality of war. Now as I watch the repatriation, in my fevered state, I am transported to that frigid tarmac and I am standing holding a blood red rose. The hearse stands before me and I am walking towards the coffin to place my flower. I turn to those beside me and I see your mother and your father. Your small boys take my hand and I realize it is your body in that coffin and I want to continue the debate.
Dulce et Decorum est Pro patria mori (..."It is sweet and honourable to die for one's country.")
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Christmas Eve
It’s the anticipation of the first snowfall that will blanket the city and dress it up for the holiday season.
It’s the anticipation of the gifts under the tree, each one full of possibilities until it’s opened.
It’s the anticipation of a phone call from the man who makes my heart sing. The man who can talk about hockey until the cows come home, but can’t bring himself to tell you what’s in his heart.
It’s the anticipation of the birthday that Christmas Day will bring. Another year, another shock of grey hair, another crop of wrinkles.
It’s the anticipation of the traditional food of Christmas; roasted chestnuts, panettone and torrone.
It’s the anticipation of a day of Peace for the world, a respite from the fighting and the dying, at least for this one day.
It’s the anticipation in the cold night, of a young mother-to-be huddled in a cave, waiting to give birth to the Saviour of the world.
It’s the anticipation of another Christmas Eve……
It’s the anticipation of the gifts under the tree, each one full of possibilities until it’s opened.
It’s the anticipation of a phone call from the man who makes my heart sing. The man who can talk about hockey until the cows come home, but can’t bring himself to tell you what’s in his heart.
It’s the anticipation of the birthday that Christmas Day will bring. Another year, another shock of grey hair, another crop of wrinkles.
It’s the anticipation of the traditional food of Christmas; roasted chestnuts, panettone and torrone.
It’s the anticipation of a day of Peace for the world, a respite from the fighting and the dying, at least for this one day.
It’s the anticipation in the cold night, of a young mother-to-be huddled in a cave, waiting to give birth to the Saviour of the world.
It’s the anticipation of another Christmas Eve……
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