Stop

One hundred fifty-eight Canadian soldiers have lost their lives serving in Afghanistan since 2002. Corporal Ainsworth Dyer was the first to make the ultimate sacrifice in this hard and war-ravaged land. Master Corporal Byron Greff is the most recent casualty. Greff died just a few days ago—the victim of a suicide bomb attack in Kabul along with four other NATO soldiers, eight contractors and four civilians.

Each loss has had a devastating effect on the soldier’s families, and serves as a jarring reminder of the terrible price Canadians are paying to improve the lives of people a half a planet—and culturally a century removed from our own.

The images of many of these young men and some women have the power to stop you cold. They seem to understand, as they peer out of their standard issue armed services photograph, a flash of the Canadian flag over their shoulder, that they are already gone. The hard jaw line and rigid posture unable to mask the fear and sadness of a fate that seems predetermined. Some appear resigned to their path. Others truly fearful. Their eyes say loudly what the voices cannot.

They are ordinary young men and women—indistinguishable, save for the uniform, from folks you would see on the street every day. Yet every time they leave their compound or head out onto the roadway they must surely ask themselves—is this it for me? Will I be the 159th? Will my picture be featured in the local newscast or paper tomorrow?

These are ordinary folks making sacrifices most of us cannot imagine.

For some this sacrifice seems out of place, difficult to define and perhaps bewildering. That is, if they consider it at all. For it is far too easy to compartmentalize the terrifying jobs that our neighbours and family members are doing in Afghanistan. Sudan. And elsewhere around the globe.

The politics, history, strategy and geography of war are complex and, at times, abstract. Notions of what it means to be human, civilized and compassionate become entangled with the need for purpose and order. This is tough stuff—particularly when purpose is defined by self-serving governments, institutions or individuals. So instead we talk about duty, honour and responsibility. It is easier.

But at the split second the shutter opens and closes on the army issue photographs of those who have been lost—the purpose seems less clear. Duty suppresses a powerful desire to stay—a heartbreaking longing to see their children, their wives, husbands and parents just one more time.

Perhaps this is why we stop each year on Remembrance Day. Not just to remember the sacrifices our families have made in conflicts around the world. And not just to remind ourselves of the cruelty we can and do inflict upon our fellow humans.

Remembrance is about stopping—if but for a few moments or hours. It is about pulling ourselves out of the swirl of tasks and distractions that occupy our days.

Remembrance is about stopping to consider why we fight, what is at stake and the horrific price we pay. It’s about stopping to hear the lament of the lone plaintive horn. Stopping to consider the life Master Corporal Greff might have lived—or that of his infant daughter who must now grow up without her dad.

Thelma and Edgar Nobbs tell about how war disrupted lives around the globe in 1939 (see story page 10). People put aside their hopes, dreams and plans for years to fight for something bigger than themselves. Some, of course, never came home.

Still today, Canadian men and women are putting their lives on hold and willingly entering conflict knowing they may never come home again.

On Friday let us all make some time to stop and remember.

rick@wellingtontimes.ca