The poppy is a powerful image, whether one thinks of war or of opium. Although, sadly the two are often intertwined.
Robert Fisk wrote a powerful piece in last Sunday’s Independent Newspaper in which he explained why he does not wear a poppy, although he honours, in his own way, the sacrifice of the war dead. In the article, he recalls his father, ‘Old Bill Fisk’ first attending memorial services in his heavy black coat and Haig poppy, before casting aside his poppy, certain that nobody understood the experience he and his comrades endured. If you did not understand war through personal experience, then the wearing of the poppy was a vainglorious gesture , which credited the war mongers, not the dead.
Having read Fisk’s articles with interest over the years, and valuing his opinions, being a poppy wearer, I questioned the motives behind my choice. Did I mock the war dead by wearing a poppy? Why do I wear the poppy? Do I, a man who has never served a day before the colours, look for second hand glory? Do I have a political belief to push?
If I answer ‘yes’ to any of the above then I am concerned.
Then last night, after an evening of introductions and air kisses, working the company name hard in an environment of glass towers and the faux ancient, I caught sight of myself in the midnight reflection of a DLR carriage. I never normally seek to change my image (it is familiar by now, if not always welcome) but my hand went unbidden to the battered paper pinned to my lapel. Working gently, aware of the distortion of reflection, my fingers straightened the blood red card of the petals and reformed the green leaf Robert Fisk finds so ridiculous. Battered card became a poppy once more.
Catching this unconscious manouvere, I remembered, remembered the sacrifice of those Flanders men, their forebears and all those men and women who followed. Do you know the most important thing? I needed reminding.
I shouldn’t. Two great uncles died in WWII and my grandfather died in WWII, shot down by the Luftwaffe a month before his son, my father, was born. I was raised with an acute awareness of sacrifice; but still I forget.
Living in a world marked by conflict but driven by the fog of action, progress and media, I forget my history, my upbringing and those who give their lives so that others may live.
I need reminding. I need the battered poppy on my lapel. I welcome the opportunity to contribute some of what I have to those who have given much.
Why do I write this in an African travel blog? For good reason. I do not just remember Spitfire pilots. I remember the West African infantry men who died in far off East Africa during WWII; I remember the South Africans who died across the world in the second global conflagration; I remember the bereaved families of all those Africans scarred by modern conflict.
The poppy holds no creed, nor politics for me; it is my rosary, for good or for bad.
