Duty Calls

People love to complain about things, but in a democracy the responsibility for change sits squarely on our shoulders. You may not get the candidate you vote for, but the act of voting itself is a show of respect for those who fought (and died) to ensure you have a say at all. On this Remembrance Day weekend, it’s more important than ever to honour their sacrifice at every opportunity.

BC is currently conducting a mail-in referendum on electoral reform. We have been given a chance to change a system that many of us have griped about for-seeming-ever. I won’t try to describe the options here because the details are irrelevant for anyone outside of BC, and anyone inside BC has until November 30 to mail your ballot to Elections BC—only you’d better mail it in well before the 30^th because postal service is hiccupping on Canada Post’s rotating strike. And it’s important that your ballot is counted. This is what democracy is all about, Charlie Brown.

There’s been a buzz about something in the wind for the past few weeks, but not much in the media besides advertisements for and against electoral reform, neither of which did much to unravel the mystery of the alternatives to the system we have now.

The system that’s literally been in place for centuries. The system that, with some alteration, is why Hillary Clinton won the popular vote in the States, but lost the presidential election. That’s why I’ve paid attention to this referendum. I don’t want something similar to happen here.

I know, I know. It’s confusing. I dislike recommendations to visit anyone’s website for more information because I don’t spend a lot of time on the Internet. Government websites aren’t always easy to navigate, and the 1-800 toll free phone number generally advises me that “our call volume has exceeded our capacity, so please try again later.” Information can been spotty and not very well explained. In truth, I was so befuddled by the options to “first past the post” that I almost declined to vote at all. Then I thought, No, I have to vote; it’s a privilege and my responsibility, but figured I’d stay with the status quo. But then I realized I’m unhappy with the status quo, and maybe I should consider the options—or at least watch the news blurb wherein the options were, as it turned out, sorta kinda outlined and didn’t impress me into changing my mind.

Ter and I watched the televised debate between the Premier and the Leader of the Opposition a couple of days ago. That was where the three alternatives being offered were explained in a way that chimed. It helped me make up my mind not only to vote at all, but to think about the choices and consciously decide which one aligns with my sense of how government should look.

It didn’t take that long. Sure, it took some effort because I had to use my brain, but when I gave myself five minutes to focus, some things became clear. Better yet, when I finally opened the referendum package that came in the mail, I understood what I was reading. I almost messed up the ballot, but I caught myself and got it safely in the mail this afternoon. “Look at us,” I said to Ter, “participating in the democratic process!” Considering that women weren’t allowed to vote a hundred years ago, it’s more precious to me than ever.

Truly, BC reader, you didn’t have to have watched the debate to comprehend the write up in the package you received; just give yourself five minutes to focus. Think about whether or not you’re okay with where we’re at. If you are, say so. If you’re not, do the work, then make it count.

From now on, complaining is not an option.

Holidaze

For years now, people have complained about Christmas showing up in October. That’s never bothered me, probably because I love Christmas, but this year I’ve noticed something I’m sure was not the ordinary until now.

There used to be space between holidays. Sometime after school started, harvest froufrou would kick off Thanksgiving (breathe), then Hallowe’en (not an “official” holiday but you’ll see my point) would be proclaimed (breathe), then Remembrance Day (breathe), then Christmas would get into gear, followed (followed, mind you) too soon by Boxing Day and New Year’s, after which we’d get a few weeks off before being confronted with Valentine’s Day in early February. Retailers gave consumers a break between reasons to consume, but that no longer happens.

Hallowe’en candy is in stores just after school starts. Thanksgiving is celebrated with little to no preamble, probably since it’s counter-intuitive to promote acquiring more stuff at a time when we’re meant to be grateful for what we have. Poppies are on lapels before Hallowe’en – no discredit there, as November 11 is hardly a goldmine for the veterans – but this year I saw my first Christmas commercial mere hours before the first trick-or-treaters emerged on October 31. Geez. That blew my mind. I mean, I try to restrain my Yuletide spirit until November 11, and I believe the rest of the world should do the same thing.

What’s that, Ru? The rest of the world should wait until the veterans have been remembered before we launch into the annual consumer frenzy like good little lab rats? And where were you on the first weekend in November, hmmmmmm?

Okay, okay. I confess—I was at Canadian Tire, topping up on twinkle lights and stopping at Starbucks for a steamed eggnog. Sue me. I have lately been so overwhelmed by the bad news and negativity in the world that I was desperate for something to make me happy. Well, Christmas makes me happy. The lights, the food, the music, the convivial cheer that seems more prevalent among strangers—in the face of death and destruction and people behaving badly, I’m all for indulging in a little premature holiday spirit.

I digress. Sort of. As Dr Seuss pointed out, and contrary to what the big eastern syndicate would have us believe, Christmas doesn’t come from a store. And it doesn’t matter anyway, when I know what’s coming on December 24: the first Boxing Day sale ads, mixed in with New Year’s sale ads, bleeding into Valentine’s Day diamond commercials in January, blurred by Easter treat blurbs in February, Mother’s Day flower adverts in April and so on and so on ...

Believe me, I’m into the holidays this year, and because I’m into them, I want to slow down and enjoy them—even the commercials (the celebratory food and drink ones, not the appalling Black Friday ones)—before the marketing moguls snatch the Yuletide season from my grasp.

Merry Christmas in advance!

A Patch of Poppies

I was in a bit of a quandary about Remembrance Day this year. Too many newscasts fraught with gun violence and acts of terrorism, and civil wars in places we don’t hear about because there’s no business interest for the West – I’ve been pretty cynical of late, so the timing wasn’t great for November 11. It seemed to me that the sacrifices made, the lives lost and families destroyed during, well, every darned war we’ve seen since The Great One and The One to Stop All Others, have all been for naught. Pointless. A truly senseless waste because, looking at where we are now, it solved nothing. The world is still in conflicted turmoil with no apparent end in sight.

Toss my deity, Sting, into the mix. For months, I’ve been looping Children’s Crusade, one of my favourite songs from his first solo album. I don’t think he’s that wild about it, but I love it despite – or perhaps because of –  its tragic theme. Poppies are prominent throughout, starting with the boys who perished in the first World War, through to 1980s London, where the next generation have become what he poetically called “opium slaves”. It’s hardly his fault that I happened on a rogue patch of poppies and the phrase “poppies for young men” immediately came to mind. I thought, Brilliant – a theme for my Remembrance Day blog post! Only in the months between then and now, I lost my perspective.

Duelling dictators, ongoing problems in the Middle East, the Russians (another subject on Sting’s first album that remains annoyingly relevant), religious wars, civil wars, nuclear wars ... the list goes on and on, ad nauseum. By this time last week, I was nothing more than resigned to go through the motions. I mean, you have to wear a poppy, right? Otherwise, you’re being disrespectful. But inside, I viewed the poppy as a symbol of a failed exercise.

When Ter and I talked about Remembrance Day, I ’fessed up with my mixed feelings. She did not disagree. She even sympathized, as I had a point about how messed up the world remains despite the staggering loss of life in those two wars. A few hours later, after she’d pondered the predicament, she was able to adjust my perspective by reminding me of context.

“Don’t look at the world right now,” she said. “You have to remember that the threat back then was present moment. If those sacrifices had not been made, our parents’ lives would have been vastly different and so would ours. In that respect, what they gave was supremely profound and made a definite difference at the time. And at the time is what matters.”

She was right, of course. Then, as if to prove her point, I saw news interviews with a couple of the few surviving veterans who fought in WWII. They each told a story of imminent threat, of an enemy so powerful that neither thought anything of signing up to stop it. They were not fighting against future dictators or nuclear nutballs or religious extremists. They were fighting to save their Now.

The same might be said of every war that’s ever been fought; after all, the beast was not invented in 1914. It seems there’s always a threat. So long as we believe that war is the way to peace, my little patch of poppies is a blood-coloured point on a long and grisly timeline. However, I want to end this post on a positive note, so here goes:

Remembrance Day will outlast the soldiers who survived those battles. Veterans of more recent conflicts will take their places rather than stand beside them at the ceremonies in successive years. So they should. No one who goes to war should be forgotten or ignored; they deserve our respect and our gratitude. The world has become a more perilous place, yet there are still men and women brave enough to stand in defence of human rights and freedom. If one day a year is all they ask of me in return, I can give this much.

I can wear a poppy and I can mean it.

War (What Is It Good For?)

This post was inappropriate for Remembrance Day, though it was prompted by the occasion. Every year, I see the poppies come out. I pin one on my own coat from respect from the fallen, but I don’t believe in war.

I wonder how many of the soldiers who fight them do believe in it.

I tried to write an appropriately respectful piece about conflict on a global scale, the horrors of two World Wars, the trauma of Afghanistan and the massive damage of ongoing unrest in the Middle East, but it’s too easy to pontificate from my comfy chair in western Canada. I can’t speak from experience (for which I am eternally grateful). None of my loved ones have been sacrificed in service to their country.

So I watch the faces of the veterans during Remembrance Day ceremonies and wonder how they must feel, knowing that the world they fought to improve is spiralling deeper into despair in spite of their heroic efforts. And now that those who survived WWII are dwindling in number, we are reminded of the men and women who fought in Afghanistan and the Persian Gulf, and those on assignment as peacekeepers in hotbeds of civil conflict everywhere else but here. I’m glad I’m not a soldier, or that none of my sibs or nieces or nephews chose a military career. Of course I believe in reverence for those who perish in battle … but on a day when thousands of refugees are flooding out of Syria because of yet another war (or is it part of a big, long, never ending one?), I’m starting to think more about the victims of war than of the heroes who fight them.

It isn’t working, people. Can’t we just stop?

Civic Duty

The first signs sprouted some weeks ago: Elect John Doe or Re-Elect Average Joe.

I asked Ter: “Is there an election coming?”

“Must be,” she replied.

“When is it?”

She shrugged, as unsure as I was. Being BC government employees, our level of awareness starts at the provincial level and works up toward the federal. Since neither of us owns property, we had assumed—wrongly, as it happens—that we couldn’t vote in a civic election.

This round was different for many reasons. The campaigning was more evident, for one thing. Candidates were all over the place, going door-to-door, handing out pamphlets on street corners, telephoning folks to ask for support or, at the very least, to encourage people to get out and vote on November 15. The mayoral incumbent was the one who told me that anyone who’s lived in town for six months is eligible to vote. Armed with that information, I resolved to pay more attention.

Even if I hadn’t bothered, I still took a couple of phone calls from one candidate’s campaign office, and encountered a wannabe city councilor on a street corner during a lunch break last week. I sussed out the signs in the ’hood, getting a sense of which way my neighbours would go. I didn’t go to any debates or meetings, and I didn’t look at any websites, but the proximity to Remembrance Day compelled me to show up on the day. I can vote because people have fought and died to make it my right. There are yet pockets in the world where people are still fighting and dying for the same right. Next time, I’ll be more involved in the process, I’ll look at the issues and decide who best aligns with my own, but this round was strictly a learning experience.

When completely ignorant, I generally rely on the advice of people I know. The MLA for whom I usually vote was advocating for a few candidates, so I decided to go with them. On Election Day, I presented myself at the polling station and was mildly boggled at the number of council seats available. Up to eight names here, three there, another three here—oh, and just one for mayor, thank you very much. Phew. That one I could handle, ’cause I’d already made up my mind.

But I looked very hard at another name on the ballot. Pick that one, something said.

I balked, suddenly uncertain. My pen actually hovered over the other name and I almost, almost, heeded the small voice. In the end, I went with my original decision and went away wondering if I had made the right choice after all. As the results came in later that night, I felt the niggling tug of regret, that I had goofed and should have gone with my gut rather than my head.

Fortunately, the election was won by the candidate for whom I did not vote. I’m happier about that than I would have been had my guy won. But here’s the really weird thing:

This morning, I told Ter what happened to me at the critical moment. She didn’t even blink as she said that the exact same thing had happened to her—only she followed her little voice and voted against her original decision. The final result was determined by fewer than 100 votes. Mine was not one of them, but that’s okay. Ter’s was. She and a handful of others tipped the scale, and for whatever reason, someone new has the top job at City Hall.

Each one of us makes a difference. Every one of us matters. We are all connected. Nothing happens to one that does not affect others, be it a family, a neighbourhood, a town, a country, or the whole big blue planet. You think you don’t matter? Think again. Think beyond yourself and you’ll see.

Lest We Forget

You can only remember if you survived it. In the comfort and safety of your untroubled life, you can merely imagine.

Imagine, then, those who went before, who went bravely and naïvely into battle, face to face with the enemy (boys like themselves), armed with bayonets and met by machine guns. Imagine those who were wreathed in poisoned gas, blinded by smoke and mustard fumes, their throats too choked to scream, heroes robbed of wits and possessed by a terror unseen in your wildest nightmares.

Imagine those who perished in open fields, in wooded copses and muddy trenches. Imagine those who died far from home, who left their mothers and sisters and sweethearts on a mission to retrieve the Kaiser’s helmet and were never seen again.

If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep …

In Flanders Field was written by a man, a witness to the slaughter of a generation sent forth to preserve the liberty of others. In the poem, the dead pass us the torch and warn us against breaking their faith—but can ceasing to fight be considered a break of their faith? They know now, knew as soon as they shed their broken and bloody flesh, that war is not the way to peace. We remember them today because they offered their innocence, their futures, and their very lives to ensure that the world was a safe place for everyone to live.

That it is worse now than it was then, is an insult to their sacrifice.

So remember why they went forth so courageously, in pursuit of an ideal that lies within reach of every living soul yet remains untouched. Remember that war is the worst horror we can visit upon ourselves and do everything in your power to Stop It.

Perhaps then, the dead will sleep.

Poppies

I wear my poppy on my purse. I don’t think it’s disrespectful; no one has said to me, “Hey, lady, it goes on your lapel!” I change up my coats at this time of year, and while I could have bought a poppy for each one, I’ve only just thought of it so will change my practice in 2014. In the meantime, I’ve had the one with me everywhere I go. 

This far into the 21^st century, when there can’t be more than a handful of veterans left who fought in World War I and the number of those who survived the Second is dwindling daily, it’s hard to imagine how horrible war really is. I mean, was. If it was still as horrible as it was during the World Wars, maybe it wouldn’t be happening anymore. Problem is, war has become so sanitized, so easy and impersonal, that we don’t even think about it except to shake our heads and say how awful it is. 

How do we know? We’re safe and secure (relatively) in our padded little corner of the world. War has been happening pretty much through the length of my life. I’m just not affected by it because the battles are fought elsewhere. Sure, Canadian troops are deployed to those places, but I’m not from a military family and the country itself is only under siege from foreign investors. In no way do I mean to belittle the sacrifice of service to one’s nation. I believe in peace. I’m just unsure that war is the way to achieve it. 

So when Remembrance Day comes along, I am reminded of those who serve and have served. We think primarily of the World War vets because the historic value in those conflicts is immense – even though we’ve learned nothing from them except how to make it more comfortable for those indirectly involved. Conflict continues in other parts of the world and young men (and women) continue to endanger themselves for the combined cause of peace and freedom. We have veterans from the Gulf and Afghanistan wars, which got press but were buried amongst other news items so it was hard to pay real attention unless you knew or were related to someone who was actually there. Or worse, who was killed in action. I don’t know why people sign up. I wish there was no such thing as a call to arms. If we could solve our own problems without conflict and bloodshed – and interfering in others – maybe November 11 would become a celebration of peace rather than a requiem for those who died fighting for it. 

I accidentally stabbed my finger on the pin of my poppy the other day. I was about to make a big drama of it until I remembered why I have a poppy in the first place. 

Lest we forget.