If War Was a School Yard

I have never felt comfortable with Remembrance Day. I’ve never wanted to wear a poppy. I’ve always felt awkward at 11:00 on 11/11. 

It’s because I have a particularly unpopular belief that we don’t need to be honouring soldiers; we need to be grieving them. Whether they lived or died, their lives, souls, hearts, and families were (are) changed forever. War is loss. Loss is grief. 

I strongly believe that since the beginning of humans, wars have been acts of cowardice. The patriarch/matriarch sends out their young men (children, in my opinion), to fight and die for them. Calling it honourable, or patriotic, or that they are fighting in the name of freedom, convincing people that dying for their leader, or for their country, is somehow different than being murdered. 

If Donald Trump and Kim Jong Un want to duke it out in a room all by themselves, then that’s their choice. Training young people to fight on their behalf and calling it an army, calling it War, is simply a legal way around calling it murder. 

My strong beliefs on this topic have never made me popular. And in fact make people angry and uncomfortable. Year after year, I am obligated to sit or stand through an assembly honouring the soldiers from WW 1&2, silently observing, remembering, and showing gratitude. That makes ME uncomfortable. 

So this year I decided that if I have to be part of it, then I have the right to express my thoughts on it. 

I want to use the analogy of a school yard to explain how I see war. Because here’s the thing, we are taught in Kindergarten to keep our hands to ourselves, to respect other people and their belongings, to respect personal space, to never retaliate, to listen, to share, and to apologize. Those are agreed upon, socially acceptable rules. 

But what if they weren’t? 

What if War was a school yard? 

Setting the scene ... children are running around laughing and squealing. Playing tag, playing various sports, swinging on swings, climbing on the climbers. There is a lot of excitement and joy. 

Out of nowhere, Joey throws a rock at Ahmed. It hits him in the head and he is momentarily dazed. Julie runs over to her teacher, yelling “Miss, Miss! Joey threw a rock at Ahmed and it hit him in the head!!” 

Meanwhile, Joey’s classmates have gathered around him and are encouraging him. Ahmed’s classmates have helped Ahmed up, checked his wound, and are standing protectively around him. 

The teachers arrive. 

Joey’s teacher instructs her class to stand together and wait. 

Ahmed’s teacher instructs his class to go find as many rocks as they can. 

The 2 teachers approach each other and in quiet tones, discuss the situation. Joey might have thrown the rock, but it was Ahmed’s rock in the first place. Moreover, Joey’s parents and Ahmed’s parents have been throwing rocks at each other for a number of years. In fact, Ahmed’s teacher is convinced that Joey snuck into her classroom to steal the rock and had planned to throw it. The teachers voices are still hushed so no one knows what they are saying. It’s private. It’s confidential. It’s a matter of school security. But the kids can see the frustration and anger growing. They can already tell that the teachers dislike each other. That’s been something kids have known for years. The ongoing hate between these 2 teachers has been well-known throughout the school for over a decade. 

Each teacher returns to their group of students. They don’t tell them what they talked about. Because that is confidential. 

Ahmed’s teacher tells the kids that Joey and his friends will never stop throwing rocks at them unless they fight back. 

Joey’s teacher tells the kids that it was Ahmed’s rock. That Ahmed’s ancestors had even had rocks they threw. And that the only way to stop all the rock throwing is to fight back. 

So the teachers send the kids off to gather as many rocks as they can. They send them out into the yard to throw rocks at each other. They tell them it’s okay because they have PERMISSION this time. That yes we have rules about not hurting people and not retaliating. We have laws and police and government and voting processes and consequences. But that because the teachers have given permission, this period of time doesn’t count. 

So the teachers walk as far away from the kids as they possibly can, without actually leaving the school yard. In fact, they have collected a couple of kids to come stand in front of them because the teachers don’t want to get hit by rocks. 

Then the field breaks into a frenzied blur of screams and wails and flying rocks and blood and children falling to the ground. 

The teachers talk to the children who are guarding them and they send them back and forth with messages, with bandaids, and with more rocks. Some of those kids don’t make it back without bruises and bleeding cuts, if they make it back at all. 

As the fighting continues and there are less and less children still standing (and rock throwing), the teachers talk to each other every once in awhile. Maybe they could come to some sort of agreement. 

When it looks like Ahmed’s classmates are pretty much worn out, or have been knocked out, Ahmed’s teacher tells Joey’s teacher that they give in. 

Joey’s class can have all the rocks. And can have the larger part of the field to play in, as well as all 4 basketball hoops. Joey’s teacher also gets the first cup of coffee in the morning, the better parking spot, first in line at the photocopier, and gets the ONLY comfortable chair the school has. 

So the teacher’s blow their whistles and go inside, while the children are left to help each other up, or call for ambulances, and go back to class. 

The teachers are cranky. Especially Ahmed’s teacher. Joey’s teacher feels a bit smug, to be honest. 

The children, on the other hand, are defeated and in pain. Both sides. Nobody won. There is blood everywhere. Broken bones. And a deep, deep hatred for the other class has developed. 

For the rest of the school year, there is tension and sadness among the students. Children have flash-backs. They live in fear. Ahmed’s class plays in the smaller part of the field that has the swing set. And Joey’s class plays in the larger part with the basketball court. They also have piles and piles of rocks. 

Those rocks are terrifying. 

They evoke memories of the pain. The anger. The hatred. 

And the children are never told about the parking spot, the coffee pot, the photocopier line, the comfortable chair, or anything else the teachers declared as confidential and a matter of school security. The children never really knew what they were fighting about. Or fighting for. They only know they were defending their classmates, their teacher, and their class’s way of life. 

3 generations later, nothing has changed. The school yard is divided the same. The rocks sit there as a reminder. The teachers have come and gone, but take over from the last teacher. Maybe changing their stance slightly. 

And one day, Suzie decides she wants a goddamn rock and is fed up with not having access to basketball. With generations of hurt and fear and anger leading the charge, she crosses the boundary line and takes a rock. Chanel sees her and tells on her. But Devon has already called out for his classmates who are gathering more rocks. 

The children only know what they have been taught. What they have been indoctrinated to believe. They listen to their teachers. The teachers are their leaders. The ones in authority. The ones with power. The teachers make the decisions and instruct the students on whether or not to throw rocks. 

Suzie throws the rock at Chanel. 

Unfortunately for Suzie, she wasn’t told to throw the rock. She didn’t have permission. So Suzie ends up in the principal’s office and gets kicked out of school. 

In the end, there is no resolution. 

War never has a resolution. 

People die. People are maimed. People suffer from PTSD. People lose their homes, their families. No one wins. 

The leaders who send their soldiers off to murder each other are not the ones who have to carry out those murders or the ones who have to live with the emotions and memories of war. 

My complicated feelings about Remembrance Day don’t mean I am dishonouring the people sent to fight on behalf of leaders who never learned to share the toys in the sandbox. It means that I am grieving the loss of the life they had. I am grieving for all the people not in the armies who were and are affected by war. I am grieving for the generational trauma and for the depth and breadth of hate, fear, sadness, anger, and loss. 

My choice to turn down a poppy pin is not a sign of disrespect. It is a sign of deep respect for all those affected by wars, in all places, in all times. My absence of a poppy is a sign of my deeply rooted belief in pacifism. 

May you have peace

May you be safe

May you have comfort 

May you love yourself as you are

Be kind, to yourself too