My Remembrance

I feel I don't know enough about politics or world history to easily form an opinion on "war". On one hand, I wouldn't choose to fight as a first course of action, unless I was being attacked at which time I expect I'd defend myself. Yet, if I was being attacked in response to my own act of invasion, then my attacker would also just be defending themselves. At the back of my mind (where I archive things like my lottery winings to-do list, and my preparedness plan for off-world living) I always expect when faced with a fight-or-flight situation, I'd make a balanced, moral decision. But is that just me being naive? Seldom are all sides of tough decisions clearly defined.

Still, no matter if a person makes a right or wrong decision, I feel that all life has value. And it's with that perspective that I found the Hiroshima Day of Peace and our visit to the Orkney Islands equally moving.

Hiroshima Day
At 1:45 a.m. on August 6, 1945, a US B-29 bomber, named Enola Gay , took off from Tinian Island in the Mariana Islands. It carried the world's second atomic bomb, the first having been detonated three weeks earlier at a US test site in Alamogordo, New Mexico. About 140,000 +/- 10, 2000 (including 20,000 soldiers) were dead by the end of December 1945; 90% of these are thought to have been killed within 2 weeks after the bombing.


And so, every year on August 6, the mayor of Hiroshima issues a Peace Declaration, a plea for harmony, asking all world leaders to never let an event such as Hiroshima ever happen again. And all around the world, every year on August 6, groups gather to offer a visual petition of support for this appeal.
In St. Thomas, led by the Quaker community, folks of all ages gather at Pinefore Park to make paper laterns. The candles are lit and the little peace beacons are gently set adrift in the lake. The petitioners sit quietly, reflecting and possibly praying, as the glowing paper lights find their way to the current. Sometimes the loudest cry is silence.

Scapa Flow in the Orkney Islands

A highlight of our recent trip to Scotland was a journey to the Orkney islands, which are clustered off the northern shore.



I knew very little of that part of the country, except that it was the last land to the north. Other than the Shetland Islands, the next stop is the North Pole.

Prior to our departure from Canada, I spent considerable time reflecting on what it might be like to travel to a location which, to me, could feel very remote. I thought the feeling of seclusion might weigh heavy on me as I've had times of isolation in my life which became periods of sadness.
What I didn't consider was how it might feel visiting a region, such as the Orkneys, which had been entrenched in war, and how fresh the memories could still be.


As bad as my baddest day has been, I've never been in a war, never had my home invaded and have never been imprisoned. I've never been told to kill anyone or witnessed anyone being killed. Being in Britain, particularly on the Orkney's, reminded me how fortunate I am that I've never been faced with those moments.

The North Sea crossing was rough, with alarms sounding from several cars on our catamaran ferry, indicating the choppier areas. The small islands we passed were desolate for trees, and now inhabited only by sea birds and sheep.

Approaching the harbour of Saint Margaret's Hope, I was surprised to see gun turrets flanking the shoreline. Seeing these images, digitally frozen in my camera, gave me an unexpected chill.

We wandered fields which for years were prisoner-of-war camps, the remnants of bunkers now sheltering grazing cows.

Rusted carcases of ships, purposely sunken to prevent passage through several of the waterways, emerge as the tide recedes.



I know war has a profound impact on both the victors and victims, but how do you begin living a normal life again after that kind of experience.

Maybe you can't.

I wonder, who would I be if I'd lived through a war?

I know I wouldn't want to forget everything that happened, and yet I wouldn't want to live in a shrine; to hold onto history, but not to live immersed in it.

I hope, whether in agreement with the purpose of the conflict or not, I'd appreciate life even more after having survived it.