A pint in Robinsons last Thursday night and I was sat beside a man with a poppy on his cap. He spoke proudly of his attire, and just as bitterly as the wrongs done unto his community by my own hand.
This time last year I was in Belgium; on Remembrance Sunday, with my lapels unperforated, I was in Ypres. There I saw representatives of the 16th Irish and 36th Ulster Divisions marching side-by-side, in just the same manner that their forbearers would have bled.
Later I visited Messines, a town that was utterly killed in the First World War. By that I mean there was not a brick left standing. Upon returning, one man could only identify where his house once stood by the remnants of the floor tiles of what had been the hallway. People returned, all except the wealthiest number, to rebuild their home from scratch. They had nowhere else to go.
Just outside the town was an Anzac cemetery, relatively small for a war cemetery; it was roughly the same size as Kilbroney Old Cemetery in Rostrevor. The difference is the graves in Rostrevor were filled over centuries, whereas these in Messines were filled in a matter of seconds.
As I walked along the gravesides I read the inscriptions upon the stones, to men not so far from where they had fallen. Many stones had no names, but were merely labelled “To an Irish soldier,” and in some cases to just “A soldier.” In one instance a former life was only identifiable by a uniform, and in some cases not even that.
Once again, this year, there follows the traditional argument between those who wear a poppy and those who do not. A recurring case in point is the debate around James McClean, the Stoke City footballer from Derry, who has clearly and consistently made his position clear. Yet that is never enough for some.
We spend so long arguing over our responsibility to honour those gone before us, versus our right to keep our lapels intact, that we forget that another, arguably far more meaningful, vestige of this time of year, that is the minute’s silence. It offers an opportunity to conscientiously recognise bravery, sacrifice, and the senseless waste of blood, sweat, and life that occurred between the years of 1914 and 1918.
I come from a staunch republican background, on both sides of my family. My grandfather, from Warrenpoint, was either in the IRB or the IRA during the War of Independence. At some point in the 1930s, he had enlisted his younger brother, my great uncle, to sell that other floral accoutrement around Newry.
After this his brother became a ‘person of interest’ to the RUC and decided to drop the ‘d’ from his surname (‘Rogers’ is the Anglicised version of the surname), before seeking passage to England. He ended up in Cheltenham, Gloucestershire, where he was recruited into the RAF. He died over Düsseldorf in 1942.
What is more, my great uncle died a member of the No. 218 (Gold Coast) Squadron, but for most of his service was part of another unit. His time was up, and he was due to go home, but a member of the 218 was taken ill and could not make their assignment and so Rodgers volunteered. That was to be his making; his son was born not long after.
What is the proper way by which one should remember a man like that? A lily, a poppy, or by going into Church, lighting a candle, and reflecting on a life lived and lost?
This is a time of year, particularly in the midst of an election campaign, when political leaders will clamber over each other to signal their respective virtues in effort to prove that they are fit to lead.
There are many “killers in high places who say their prayers out loud,” as Leonard Cohen wrote, and it does not seem that an adequate number harbour the appropriate recognition of how events can avalanche and political opportunism can snowball into such devastating events.
Just as at a funeral, the flowers may form part of the tribute, but they are not the reason in themselves that you’re there.
Debates about poppies should not distract us from where our minds should be this time of year.