An Act of Remembrance

Posted on 16 November 2022


The Falklands War. Credit to: djwosa (Pixelbay).

The act of remembrance takes place on the second Sunday in November and it commemorates the sacrifices of members of the armed forces and of civilians in times of war. It was a tradition inaugurated by George V on the 17th November 1919 when he proclaimed “that at the hour when the Armistice came into force, the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, there may be for the brief space of two minutes a complete suspension of all our normal activities … so that in perfect stillness, the thoughts of everyone may be concentrated on reverent remembrance of the glorious dead”(Rose, 1983).

It is a historical narrative which collectively bestows a shared national identity and with this assumed memories of loss and grief. Society is positioned within assumed memories of grief and loss. The culture of identifying with a national identity of grief and loss also connects society to the armed forces through the ideology of protecting the nation for King and country. Furthermore the act of remembrance bridges the gap between past and present and reinforces what we, as a society are now and what we have now. Remembrance is entwined with this ideology and is a performance of a presumed position.  This in turn enables a culturally acceptable permission for war veterans to grieve. So as war veterans we are given permission to behave in a certain way which is endlessly repeated in villages, towns and cities across our land.

It seems to me that this traditional narrative, whilst historically entrenched in our own social history, has created an acceptable space for me to grieve as well. I have always found ways to represent my grief beyond this acceptable space. Alone I perform an anniversary waltz to a backdrop of lyrical embodiment from the song Paranoid Eyes from the album The Final Cut by Pink Floyd. I brought this album on my return from the Falklands. It is taken from its medal ribbon covered sleeve; to be dusted down and listened to before I put on my uniform of Remembrance Sunday. I wear my uniform, of blazer, black shiny shoes  

with my medals hung from my chest. My white handkerchief is hidden in a pocket of my blazer ready for the tears that are swallowed during this collective performance. My queen’s schilling is made ready for my visit to the pub after the church service.  The finishing act of this well trodden performance of remembrance is played out in a local public house. As I wander home down the cold and leaf covered Cornish country lane. I reflect on how I am represented during this religiously imposed service and how my wishes of representation are not heard. Where are the alternative narratives that tell the tales of sacrifice and loss?

I think about how we are not given permission to grieve unless we put on this constricting straight jacket of commemoration. I pause in the lane and reflect on the time I met one of best my friend’s brother for the first time. Michael, one of my best friends, who was killed down south. I did not seem to have any words at this meeting. When I held the mother of a fallen Argentine soldier in my arms and again words seemed to fail me in that moment as I fought back the tears. As I look across the fields, I realise that words from pulpits and contained within sermons will never be adequate. I pull my winter coat around me not allowing that cold November wind in. I am lost in my own remembrance as one crystal tear drop of loss falls into my white handkerchief. I neatly fold the handkerchief into a precise square with military precision and replace it in my inside pocket. I move on down the lane as the lyrical poetry of the Final Cut enters my head.  

Button your lip and do not let the shield slip. 

Take a fresh grip on your bullet proof mask 

And if they try to break down your disguise with their questions  

You can hide, hide, hide, behind paranoid eyes  

(Pink Floyd, 1982) 

 

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