Silence can be a lot of things – awkward, painful,
emotional, heartbreaking, even sometimes funny.
One year ago today, as I sat across from Harmon Black – an
old Second World War vet, cooped up in a small apartment on the second floor of
a retirement home – the silence was nearly too much to bear.
As a rookie reporter, I really wasn’t prepared to walk into
this situation. One year and a few hundred interviews later, I’m still not sure
I could handle it.
My question to Mr. Black:
“Why should the country remember the sacrifices you made for the
world on November 11th?”
Seconds went by, dragging on like hours. A clock ticked on
the far wall. His oxygen tank gasped as he struggled for every breath.
His stare was fixated in one place as the thoughts churned
in his head.
I was initially hoping for some stoic, impressive response.
As more seconds ticked off that clock, I was just hoping for anything.
But I could never be prepared for what came out of his
mouth.
“I’m not so sure we should.”
The 90-year-old man kept his stare fixated upon me as he
tried to elaborate on his answer. He wasn’t looking at my face, however, and I
was thankful for that. I’m sure I looked as stunned as I felt. His apartment
was a little chilly, so I’d kept my jacket on as I sat down across from him in the
living room. His eyes were fixated on my lapel – on the red poppy pinned to my
coat.
Suddenly I felt dirty. I felt rude and intrusive. Here I
was, asking this man to recount the worst years of his life to me as I sat
across from him wearing a steadfast reminder of the friends who died alongside
him and the men he killed.
Acknowledging the silence and looking up to my face now, Mr.
Black changed his tone.
“I think maybe we should honour the veterans 365 days a
year,” he said. “There, maybe you should write that.”
And I did.
I sat at my desk for an hour or more, trying to find a way
to write that story. It was the last of three Remembrance Day pieces I was
writing. The other two carried a tone of exuberance and pride. I made the
decision to look past the honest and real words of this 90-year-old man.
And it’s been with me ever since.
Last week, I made a small donation to a man from the
Royal Canadian Legion and picked up a poppy – the same as I have every year
since I can remember. This year, however, it just didn’t feel right. There was
more than the constant finger pricking and the agony of finding a method to pin
it without it falling off. There was the look on Harmon Black’s face in my mind
every time I looked at it – the same way he saw the faces of others when he
looked at mine.
This
man doesn’t need a day to remember something he’s tried his entire life to
forget.
"I
just think every day of some of the things we did. It just makes me think I'm
some kind of an animal."
After sitting on this for 365 days, I see now the follow-up
quote Mr. Black offered me was not simply a cop-out. It worked well as one – an
easy way to dodge a much more serious topic. But he was right.
When we spend one day a year respecting the actions of two
million men and women, we acknowledge only the bravado and pride of their
accomplishments under the Canadian flag. Tossed aside is the complexity of such
a holiday – our pride and their guilt, our duty to remember and their longing
to forget.
Harmon Black doesn’t need a day to remember the atrocities
he bared witness to 70 years ago. Harmon Black needs a day to remember there
are still thousands of others who went through the same thing, and millions more who
care and are willing to extend a helping hand.
This November 11th, remember these men and women were not
directed by Steven Spielberg. Their pain is real. Take time to honour not the nationalism of
war, but the silent casualties and their individual struggles.
Thank you, Mr. Black.
