You’ve likely been looking forward to going back to civilian life for a while; for many in the service, the day when they get to unlace their boots, lay aside their helmet, and come back home is something they keep in their mind’s eye as they serve. What few tell you, though, is that when you do finally transition from active service to veteran, you often find yourself making a very significant mental shift.

It used to be that only 27% of veterans reported having a difficult time readjusting to civilian life; nowadays, 44% of those who served post-2001 have communicated difficulty with re-entry. Research points to a variety of factors to this phenomenon, including psychological trauma, physical injuries, and the passing of friends in the service.

You’re just coming home, and you want the readjustment process to be as easy as possible for yourself. But how can you transition smoothly back into civilian life, regardless of the factors that may otherwise impact your experience? In this article, we’ll break down how you can maintain and fortify your own personal resilience as you integrate back into civilian life.

Overcoming Health Challenges

Firstly, a life of service can have a variety of impacts on veterans’ health, ranging from physical disabilities to mental disorders. Some of these effects are widely talked about, like learning how to live with amputations, or the symptoms and treatment options for PTSD. Others are much more understated, yet can still have a significant impact on veterans’ quality of life.

Some of these understated health challenges are:

• Depression/Anxiety: It is unfortunately very common for veterans to develop these two mental conditions, which can sap your energy and impact your overall well-being if untreated.
• Arthritis: One in three veterans will develop some form of arthritis caused by traumatic injuries or muscle overuse.
• Chemical Exposure: Exposure to harmful “forever” chemicals at military bases can cause a variety of other health complications.
• Insomnia: Insomnia is an all-too-common side effect of service that can drain your energy long-term, affecting your ability to reason and worsening the symptoms of other disorders.
• Reluctance to Seek Help: The military attitude of self-discipline and pushing through pain can, in of itself, contribute to making other conditions worse.

Many of these health concerns can be mitigated by seeking outside support. Activities like journaling, seeking therapy (either of the physical or mental variety) to learn tactics that will help the healing process, and connecting to other veterans in your community. Honoring and allowing yourself to process your memories of service during days like remembrance day can also be helpful, as it allows you time to meditate on the good and let go of the bad.

Selecting a Career Path

As you embark on re-entering the civilian world, you might rightly question: what occupation do you want to choose? Some may consider returning to the field they worked in prior to service; others, perhaps, want to leverage their return for a new beginning in an entirely different career.

Unfortunately, the job market has been markedly harder for job seekers, with 70% of applicants reporting they’ve had issues getting their foot in the door. Mentions of employers leaving applicants without a response have more than doubled on platforms like Glassdoor, and lurking fears of a recession have reportedly negatively impacted employers’ drive to hire.

Even in this climate, returning veterans like you can still leverage their experience into a new job. Skilled trade positions have risen in availability, yet applications for these jobs have dropped by 49% from 2020 to 2022, leaving openings for returning veterans looking to leverage their abilities in a new way. Some of the positions open for returning veterans are:

• Electricians
• Plumbers, pipefitters, and steamfitters
• CNC operators
• Welders
• Machinists
• HVAC technicians
• Railroad workers
• Heavy-lift truckers
• Boilermakers

Not all of these positions will align with your interests or your existing skill set, so before applying, consider which ones your experience might translate to seamlessly. Or, if you’re open to learning a new trade, consider enrolling in classes that will give you the foundational knowledge needed to transition to an entry-level role. With the high availability of skilled worker jobs, that extra level of experience will likely land you a role quickly; and there’s also a degree of satisfaction and overall well-being in using your skills in a constructive manner.

Finding Community Support

Finally, there will be days when you feel alone. Transitioning back into civilian life after such a long period of service can feel extremely alienating. It’s crucial that you remember that you aren’t alone, even on the days when you feel the most down.

If you start feeling down, explore veteran communities in your area. Swap stories, attend support groups where you can talk with others who share your experiences, and get connected with services that can provide aid if you need it.

Resilience is a trait you’ve already demonstrated in your years of service. Don’t be afraid to lean on others as you integrate back into the civilian world – brothers in arms share their burdens, and maintaining that sense of community will make it that much easier to readjust to the new status quo.

Photo Credit

Image is from Unsplash

Guest Author Bio
Charlie Fletcher

Charlie Fletcher is a freelance writer from the lovely “city of trees”- Boise, Idaho. Her love of writing pairs with her passion for social activism and search for the truth. When not writing she spends her time doodling and embroidering. And yes, she does love all kinds of potatoes!

I had joined a group of various other nationalities who were wearing long pants, fleeces and appeared ready for a cold, damp sojourn though it was over 30 degrees Celsius (almost 90 F) and sunny outside. I wore a T-shirt and shorts, plus a good pair of hiking shoes. I didn’t bring any heavier clothing.

“The first cavern is 13 degrees C. (54 F) and the second is 6 degrees C (43 F). Should be a fun time for you!”

One of Slovenia’s many caves.

Our guide, a gentleman in his forties was amiable, but his eyes betrayed that he had had some life experiences he probably didn’t like to share, not an uncommon trait in former Yugoslavia with its vicious civil war and genocides of the 1990’s. We will call him Goran, though that is not his real name.

Slovenia had gotten off better than most. Being the closest state to non-Communist Europe sharing a border with Austria, the Slovenians had created an organized and prosperous region. After the communist regimes started to fall apart they had the savvy and wherewithal to quickly put together armed veterans, police and volunteers to create a formidable force to combat troops that former Yugoslavia sent to fight them. In fact the Yugoslav army had a great number of Slovenians who were less than enthusiastic about subduing their brethren.

We entered the caverns, part of a breathtaking system of some of the biggest and most beautiful caverns in the world. The first cavern was a cool relief for me from the oppressive heat I had been experiencing all day. After about 45 minutes we passed through a doorway to a second and much cooler cave. This was just comfortable for me and I explored side caverns and enjoyed the views the grottoes offered. Goran looked at me, at first somewhat amused and then finally looked rather puzzled that his guest wearing a T-shirt and shorts should not be suffering after almost two hours in what he considered to be very cold circumstances.

I smilingly explained, “I’m Canadian. Anything over 0 degrees Celsius (32 F) is shorts weather!”

He laughed and seemed to feel anyone tough enough to brave the cold of the caverns was worth opening up to a little. He told me that he grew up here and always enjoyed nature, hunting and fishing. When the Civil War started he enlisted to fight communist troops attempting to reconquer his country. Given his experience with a rifle he was assigned sniper duty.

The summer home of Yugoslavia’s former communist leader Tito was located on Slovenia’s beautiful Lake Bled.

Now, perched in a tree cradling a rifle with a telescopic sight, Goran could see a wave of Yugoslav communist troops advancing. Their regular infantry he knew would be well represented by Slovenians and the hope was that they would not wish to harm their fellow countrymen. Goran also had no desire to shoot anyone.

As he watched, the front line troops wavered in their advance. The communist officer pulled out a pistol and proceeded to coldly shoot several of his own men in the back. Angered, Goran focused the cross-hairs of his sniper rifle on this officer’s forehead.

“Let’s just say that bastard never shot anyone again!”

In a scenario replayed time and again the communist army either retreated or deserted to the Slovenian side, leaving the country free and with minimal damage after an only two week conflict. Slovenia was almost unscathed and remains free and prosperous thanks to men like Goran. Unfortunately history reports the rest of former Yugoslavia was not so fortunate and things only settled after years of conflict and genocide.

Things have now normalized and tourists are flocking to Slovenia, Croatia and other countries of former Yugoslavia. Many scars remain however and many survivors bear both mental and physical evidence of this horrid war.

Photo Credits

Photos are by Stella van der Lugt – All Rights Reserved

Welcome to Fiscal Fiasco Round Two – and this time it’s really important, because we’re talking about ships. Earlier this spring the Canadian government announced that it was paying Irving Shipyards $288 million just to design the new Arctic Offshore Patrol Ships (AOPS) for the Royal Canadian Navy. Not build, just design. Click here for the CBC report on the announcement:

The proposed Arctic Offshore Patrol Ship (AOPS)

Now I’m a former naval officer, and I appreciate well-designed ships. I also have nearly a decade of experience working in private industry selling high-tech systems to the military (full disclosure: I don’t sell weapons) and I know well that complex engineering projects don’t just happen – they need to be designed first. But it’s not like Irving is taking their blue pencil to a completely blank drawing board: the government already paid $5 million for an existing design that was used to build an Arctic Patrol Vessel for the Norwegian Navy. Sure, we have to “Canadianize” it (for who knows what glaring errors those poor, benighted Norwegian designers might have made – it’s not like Norway ever builds ships or anything) but as the linked article reports, the design costs for other vessels similar to the AOPS cost no more than $20 million. So where does the $288 million go?

Just to reiterate: we’re not talking about doubling, or even tripling, the typical design cost. We’re talking about fourteen times the amount.

Being a political moderate who leans more to the right than the left when it comes to government philosophy, my gut instinct is to shrug and say something like, “Oh well, there must be a reason – these things are complicated and I’m sure the media is exaggerating a bit.” But beyond the extraordinary gulf between 20 and 288, what really bugged me about this was the fact that, when questioned by reporters, neither government minister at the podium could give a clear answer. It was waffle-waffle-this and waffle-waffle-that. The closest I know of to an actual answer was offered by Public Works Minister Rona Ambrose (quoted from the linked article):

“We are implementing what’s called a design and then build strategy,” the minister told CBC News. “What that means is that we are spending more money up front on the design and production phase. That’s important because we want to make sure that the shipyards, and the navy, and the coast guard, get the design correct.”

Okay, so we’re spending more up front. On what? What? Tell us, Rona! What on Earth costs $288 million before a single rivet is driven into a hull plate? There must be an answer, so why is it so hard to lay it out? According to the article, the journalists were cut off by government “media handlers” before too long and the politicians were whisked away. Why? This is a pretty obvious question that should have a pretty obvious answer. Are we paying for training? For consultants? For trips to Norway to ride on their ice-breaker and see if we like it? What? All of a sudden, I’m suspicious.

We have an election underway here in British Columbia, so I offer this bit of advice to everyone who will be elected to the new legislature: know your stuff, and give straight answers – even if they’re unpleasant answers. The vast majority of Canadians would rather hear an unpleasant but complete truth than a waffly and opaque “key message”. To the soon-to-be politicians in my province, please learn from Fiasco Round Two at the Federal level and remember what it was like when you were just a citizen. If you tell the truth, you’re always going to make somebody unhappy. But if you dodge and weave and ultimately say nothing, you’re always going to make everyone unhappy.

Photo Credits

AOPS rendering copyright Her Majesty the Queen in Right of Canada

Mackay & Ambrose photo copyright the Calgary Herald

Here is a news article that describes the announcement:

http://www.ctvnews.ca/politics/f-35s-would-cost-45-8-billion-feds-hit-reset-button-1.1076408

I chose this article after a long search for something that actually talked more about the facts than about the political manoeuvring surrounding this huge program. As a retired member of the Canadian Forces and a businessman who’s worked for companies that provide (non-weapon) equipment and services to the military, I’m completely fed up with the focus placed on partisan opinions offered by politicians of all stripes, the media in general and all those ignorant yahoos who comment online after news stories.

I don’t care which political party makes the decision: I just want the right decision made for Canada.

I’m sure we all remember the vicious debate in the early 90’s over the decision to replace our ancient Sea King helicopters with the EH-101. This relatively minor program somehow became the key issue that swept Jean Chretien and the Liberals into government in 1993 with a promise to scrap it. The new government duly cancelled the contract, paid about a billion dollars in penalties, and then spent millions more conducting a “real” procurement process. And what were the findings of that painfully-long process: the Cormorant helicopter, which is a less well-equipped version of  – you guessed – the EH-101. It was bad enough that the original choice was overturned at great expense, but at least we should have been able to take comfort in the fact that a new government had vindicated that choice and we could finally move forward. But no. To accept the Cormorant would have been so personally embarrassing to Jean Chretien that the decision was delayed for years more – basically until Chretien had retired and it could be quietly made with no mention of the 1993 bombast. And here we are, in 2013, still flying Sea Kings that were ancient in 1993.

Some may recall a less-trumpeted military procurement program that is equally absurd. This is the Victoria-class submarines, which were offered to Canada at a steal in the early 1990’s by the British who wanted to make their submarine fleet all-nuclear and they had these four, almost-new diesel boats to get rid of. From a military and economic point of view, the decision to take this virtual gift was a no-brainer, yet the government dithered for a decade while the subs sat and rusted in a British port. By the time someone in Ottawa finally agreed that these subs were a good deal and necessary to replace our Oberon subs – which were even older than the Sea Kings – the “almost-new” boats were actually approaching the requirement for mid-life refits. The past ten years have seen seemingly endless problems with the Victoria-class subs, and I can’t help but wonder how many of those problems could have been avoided if we’d actually taken them when they were first offered.

So now we’ve reopened the debate on the F-35. This is, in my opinion, a good thing since I believe that the F-35 is not the best choice when the F-18 Super Hornet is available. But I can’t help but worry that we’ve started a new, epic age of partisan name-calling, bruised egos and complete dysfunction amongst our decision-makers. Our current fleet of F-18’s are only 30 years old, so I guess we safely have another 10-20 years before they reach the antiquity of the Sea Kings and the Oberons, but God help our future pilots if common sense is once again grounded and our government succumbs to the mob-rule of armchair generals, lobby groups and name-calling, self-serving public figures.

This is not a partisan article, and I’m in no way supporting one political party over another. Please let me state my point again. I don’t care which political party makes the decision: I just want the right decision made for Canada. Wouldn’t that be a refreshing change?

Photo Credits

Fighter comparison image produced by The National Post – All Rights Reserved

F-35 Thumbnail – Wikipedia Public Domain

I was inspired to consider this question once again after I received some feedback from a reader. There is currently an online contest underway which involves my novel Virtues of War, and one of the questions the participants are asked is this: Which of the four main characters is your favourite and why? The answers given have no bearing on the contest itself; they’re just part of the fun of allowing readers to put in their two cents on the book and many have answered with colour and enthusiasm.

But as I read through the latest answers the other day one response really stuck with me. This was the answer:

“I suppose my favourite character amongst the 4 main characters is Jack Mallory. He’s willing to commit mass murder of civilians, but at least he’s not a completely psycho killing machine, or a sleazy climber, like the other 3 are.”

Mass muder of civilians by Jack? Another character a psycho killing machine? Are you sure you read Virtues of War, lady? I was taken aback by the response. But I was also fascinated. The reaction of this reader wasn’t at all what I’d intended, but it was certainly a possible result of the story I told. Jack doesn’t personally engage in mass murder of civilians, but he is a soldier in a campaign of warfare and terror that without question does result in significant civilian casualties. And so I asked myself the Big Question: what is Jack’s moral obligation in the war in which he served?

Some context. On one hand, Jack is a volunteer in his military, so he could never claim that he was forced to join an organization he opposed; Jack is also an officer, and would traditionally be held to a higher standard of conduct and responsibility. On the other hand, though, Jack is very young – twenty-two – and is on his first operational deployment with no prior experience to call upon; Jack is also a very junior officer, and not really in a position to made strategic decisions on the conduct of the war.

So does Jack have a moral obligation to oppose any military conduct which he feels is unethical or immoral? Some would argue, without hesitation or doubt, yes. In the Canadian Forces which I served, it was made very clear to us that we were obliged to follow orders, unless we were given an immoral order. A common example we were given was being ordered to shoot unarmed prisoners. Another was being ordered to kill non-combatant civilians. It seemed pretty clear-cut in the classroom. It isn’t always so in reality.

Another viewpoint is to accept the fact that soldiers will kill each other in battle – that’s what war is, after all – but that to kill civilians is morally unacceptable. This was very clear-cut in warfare centuries ago, when lines of redcoats would form up against lines of bluecoats and blast away at each other while the landed gentry looked on from their picnics on the hill. But this changed in the twentieth century when the entire nation became involved in the war effort and to bomb civilian factories was seen as justifiable in order to weaken the enemy combatant. And in the twenty-first century, when wars are rarely if ever fought between professional armies but rather between armies and “irregulars” – be they terrorists, freedom fighters or both – it can be nearly impossible to know who the enemy is.

Some more context. Jack is captured by civilians while delivering humanitarian aid, watches as one of his colleagues is killed and then is beaten nearly to death himself. The result for Jack is permanent disfigurement and emotional suffering. When Jack is rescued and civilian mobs outside begin to threaten his rescuers, should Jack have spoken up from his stretcher and protested against the orbital bombardment that destroyed a city block and killed hundreds?

Tough question. Were the civilian mobs the enemy? What was their real intent and, just as significantly, why had they formed into an angry mob in the first place? What was the greater context into which Jack entered? And was his military justified in harming civilians because it was the civilians who had struck first?

Compare this fictional situation to any number of real-world scenarios today. Because it’s fiction it can be easier to choose sides. But in the real world, with very few exceptions, the actions of men and women in warfare – whether they’re uniformed military or active civilians – are a result of a complex web of motivations, beliefs and circumstances. For an outside observer to state a simple, black and white answer is insulting and patronizing to those involved. No situation in war is simple or black and white, and the raw, emotional power that can seize those thrust into life and death circumstances can’t always be countered by a lofty principle or philosophy.

Believe me, I wish it could.

Photo Credits

Civilian photo – image source – Mohammed Abed/Agence France-Presse — Getty Images

Soldier photo – image source – New York Post

It was the smells that I had come to dread most of all. In fact, the thought of the smells, and what they signified, amounted to a real fear. Even today, some odors still affect me and bring back frightening memories.

I had learned to handle a lot of the different noises. I had become used to a number of them and could even tell to some degree what they were caused by, and whereabouts they were. But the awful smells that a person had to encounter under a bombing siege were something that I dreaded most of all.

The thought of being killed was an element I had not pondered. I believed in the theory that “if the bomb had your number on it, you would cop it – no matter where.” I was however, truly afraid of being horribly maimed or losing a limb. I had seen injuries and heard the cries of so many people hurt in the unending raids that I knew it was far harder to live when terribly burnt or mutilated than it was to be killed outright.

I had witnessed members of families who had lost loved ones. Their suffering was of a different and agonizing kind.

This story is about a twenty-four hour period in my life during the bombing of London in World War II. I lived with my mother in the dockland area of East London and I was 14 years old at the time. My older sister was married and lived in North London. My brother was also married and served in the Royal Navy. He had evacuated his wife and baby son to Somerset some months previously.

At one time, there was nowhere in the world so heavily bombed as the dockland area of London. There were far more casualties there amongst the civilians than were in the entire armed forces. The Forces, unless they had duties in the London area, were forbidden to take their leave (or furlough) there because of the continuous danger of air raids.

The area in which I lived was known as “the docks.” It was the target for the heaviest bombing throughout the war. There were fire bombs, land-mines, oil bombs, pilot-less planes, rocket missiles and incendiary bombs. Long after the actual docks were completely destroyed and made utterly useless, the raids still continued on the residential districts for miles surrounding the dock area. This bombardment continued in an entirely indiscriminate manner for almost five years.

As I was really only a young kid, it would have been possible for my mother and I to evacuate to a safe place but she had the kind of grim determination that said, “No one will make me leave my home”. We suffered very much because of this decision – not only in terms of danger but also in lack of food, water and heating. I virtually had no friends near my age still living close to us. But I guess it was my mother’s kind of “grit” that made the whole nation bind together in their determination to win the war.

On the day I want to tell you about, my brother Bill had telephoned our home to say he was being sent on a four-day course to a ship located at the Victoria Embankment in London. H.M.S. Chrysanthemum was a ship that in peacetime was a showplace for tourists. It had been made over as a training ship for the Royal Navy soon after war was declared.

Bill had been given permission to sleep at our home and was phoning to tell us he would be staying for three nights. We had not seen him for about nine months so it was a very joyful occasion. However, we were concerned as to how we were going to provide the extra food needed for his breakfasts and suppers. I was very excited that I was going to see my big brother again and took great pains with my appearance. I remember dampening my hair (rolling it in pipe cleaners) so that it would produce a great amount of “frizz.” This, I considered, was very attractive. I chose to wear the only dress that still fitted me properly. One needed ration coupons for clothing and these were almost as precious as were the food coupons.

Most families in our area had air-raid shelters in their tiny gardens but we did not have one. To take cover during daylight raids, we would sit beneath the stairs. Night time raids forced us to get out of warm beds, place blankets under the dining room table and lie there in the hope it would provide some protection. Windows were always covered with “black-out” materials and sticky strips. These were to help prevent glass from flying about should the windows be blown out.

Bill drove up to our home on a naval motorcycle at about noon. He told us over lunch that his wife had asked him to go to their apartment in East Ham, about five miles away. She needed him to pack up and mail some extra clothing for her and their son. I badly wanted to have a ride on his motorcycle and so asked if I could accompany him. Bill explained that this was not allowed. He suggested I travel by tram and meet him at his home. He also asked me to break my journey on the way and go to “Boyd’s – The Piano People”. He needed me to pay a further installment on a piano he had been buying for some time. I agreed and said I would walk the remaining three or four blocks to his apartment which was in the upper part of a large house. It seemed like it would be fun to help him sort and pack the clothing.

I knew the piano shop very well, having gone there to make payments for Bill a number of times. I had only been in the shop for a few minutes when the air-raid sirens began to wail. The Manager immediately told customers and staff to go down into the basement cellar. I told him I would prefer to leave because my brother was waiting for me and I only had a short way to go. By now it was obvious that the warning had not been given early enough. We could already hear the drone of the approaching bombers and the “ack-ack” of the anti-aircraft guns. There was nothing I could do but take cover.

The cellar had been very well fortified with sandbags and the only window was boarded over. There was one naked light bulb to light the room. It was also evident from the blankets, books and knitting materials laying around that the staff had tried to make life down there as comfortable as possible on the numerous occasions they had needed to use it. I was also relieved to note there was a toilet next to the shelter, and that too had been well protected.

We sat under cover for almost two hours. Every time there was an extra heavy barrage outside, the staff would chat louder – as if this would help to screen their alarm. It was one of the worst bombardments we had endured for weeks. Finally, the sirens sounded the “All Clear” signal. I was one of the first out into the street and what met me there was shocking. Everything seemed to be ablaze. Firemen, policemen, air-raid wardens and ambulance workers were rushing about in a furious frenzy. All were grime-covered and many had soaking wet clothes. As the raids were so constant, I knew these people were continually on duty and never had time for rest.

Great plumes of black smoke billowed over the area. The smell of broken gas mains was alarming and I clutched my gas mask closer to me. It was forbidden to ever go out without carrying one. I dreaded the thought of having to use it sometime for the “proper thing” and had tried to dodge going to the gas mask practices whenever possible.

I started to pick my way towards my brother’s home. Broken glass and rubble was everywhere. Again, the smell of burning, wet wood and gas turned my stomach. Each time I tried to hurry, I was stopped by an official who told me, “It is impossible to get through this way….try going around such-and-such a street”.

After what seemed an age, I got to within a block of my destination. There were several army trucks positioned right across the road. It was impossible for anyone to enter. I asked a policeman if I could go through because my brother was waiting for me. He explained there was an un-exploded land mine hanging from a tree in a garden further down the road. The order was that no one would be allowed to go near until such time as it was either detonated or made inactive.

Peering through the dirt and smoke, I tried to see which house was the one to which they were referring. It was impossible to tell. I hung around as close to my brother’s road as permitted. Any time an official rushed past me, I inquired as to which house had the land-mine. Finally I was told, “Number thirty nine.” To my horror, I realized it was Bill’s home.

Knowing there was an air-raid shelter in his garden, I agonized as to whether or not Bill was sitting in it, perhaps unaware of the land mine hanging on the tree. I began to tremble and wondered whatever I would tell my mother. I knew his house had been empty for several months and that the shelter would not have been maintained properly.

The acrid smell of the smoke was nauseating. An ambulance man who was struggling to carry a stretcher told me to move away. It seemed there was a large earth removal truck being brought into the road to help dig for an entire family who were buried beneath a house there. So far, all attempts to free them had failed. I moved further away but as soon as the machine began to dig and I caught a whiff of the stench that came from the hole it made, I knew I had to leave.

I wondered how badly the raid had hit the part of London that my sister lived in. I decided to telephone her as soon as I could. I thought again of my mother alone all this time and I decided it was better if I returned to her. I knew she would be worried sick about me and my brother because she could probably tell in which area the bombs had dropped. One became accustomed to the scream of the bombs and able to judge, roughly, where they would land. Knowing there was nothing I could do to help Bill, I made my way to a telephone box to call my mother. I tried for a long time to get through to her and finally decided that the lines must all be down.

After making my way back to the main road for the tram ride home, I was relieved to see the trams were still running. When I boarded one, the driver refused my fare. He told me he could only take me part of the way because further down the road, the track had been bombed. As we rode along I could see nothing but utter chaos everywhere. Many buildings I knew well were completely missing – they were now just piles of steaming rubble. Some buildings were still ablaze. I was particularly upset to see Trinity Church also on fire. My parents had been married there. Firemen were still trying desperately to cope with the flames but lack of water defeated them.

I saw families dragging pieces of furniture and personal belongings from their homes – a hopeless attempt to save something. Outside some blitzed houses, there were the familiar tarpaulin-covered bodies. Ambulance drivers were striving to block hysterical family members who wanted to ride in the already over-crowded ambulances. They were told to make their own way to the hospitals to see their injured relatives. One woman was screaming, “Which hospital? Which hospital?”…..but I don’t think the driver even knew the answer to that question.

Foul air filled my lungs. Burning wet wood smelled like death. The bells and sirens of the various fire trucks, ambulances and bomb disposal squads were almost deafening. My head ached, I was hungry and cold. By this time it must have been around 7 p.m.

On leaving the tram, I made my way as quickly as possible towards my home. A number of times I was redirected on a much longer detour because some roads were completely impassable. By 8:30 p.m. it was getting dusk. This did not bother me as I only had about ten more minutes’ walk to reach home. I was very tired by now. Picking my way between holes in the pavement and piles of debris, I stumbled over a fire hose. The pain that shot through my ankle was almost unbearable. At first I thought I had broken a bone but on examining it, I decided it was a bad sprain. There was nothing I could do but go on.

As I turned a corner from the main road I saw a Women’s Voluntary Service Van standing a few feet away. I hobbled up to the lady on duty and offered her the 2 ½ pence I had saved on my tram fare. She took one look at my appearance and handed me a tea-bun, adding, “Go on Missy, that’s okay.” I thanked her gratefully and ate the bun so fast that I caused myself to have a pain in the chest. On leaving her van, she called after me asking what I had done to my ankle. Looking down, I saw with dismay that it was now very badly swollen and I wondered how much further I could manage to walk.

Much more slowly, I then proceeded to carefully make my way towards my home. Suddenly there was the sound of aircraft and almost at once the whole sky was lit up by flares dropped from the planes. The noise of the aircraft flying so low was terrorizing. I knew when planes came over, to light up a whole area, before the wave of bombers, that it was the forerunner of a very heavy air attack. I hopped along faster and as best I could, trying to ignore the pain in my foot.

My heart almost stood still as once again the sirens wailed their warning. Knowing how important it was to reach my road quickly, I hurried along and tried to keep out of sight. The last thing I wanted was to be placed in another shelter. I jumped out of my skin when an air-raid warden bellowed at me.

“Take cover! Take cover!” In my concentration not to stumble again, I had not seen him. Ignoring him, I limped my way onwards but he quickly overtook me. I can still remember his haggard face. His eyes were red rimmed and bloodshot. He quite likely had not had time to take his clothes off for days. We argued about my going on in the raid and I tried to explain why it was so necessary for me to continue. However, the “ack-ack” of the anti-aircraft guns made it almost impossible to communicate. In a momentary lull, the warden bawled at me that the bombers were almost overhead. He pushed me towards a building that I knew to be almost a shell of what had previously been a school. This building had received a direct hit some months before. Desperately, I pleaded with him not to make me go inside but he was adamant and he hustled me back the way I had so recently and painfully come.

We had hardly reached the shelter when the first stream of bombs started to shriek their way downwards. One, two, three, four – then a lull, and suddenly another one was on its way. I knew that the missing sound of an explosion meant another un-exploded bomb and how vicious and terrible they could be. The shelter was a very small one. It had obviously been part of a basement in the school. The sandbags smelled of damp canvas and some were burst. The wood used to shore up the walls stank as if they had already been in a grave. I knew I would hate it in there and wished miserably that I could have managed to take my chances outside.

When my eyes had become accustomed to the dim light, I saw to my disappointment that there were no amenities at all. It was cold and damp. Being the last person to enter the shelter, I was huddled between the warden and an old man. It was obvious he was employed at the Gas Works at Becton for his clothes reeked of gas. Older men had been pressured to return to work from which they had previously retired to replace the young men who had gone to the war.

The plain wooden bench on which we sat was very uncomfortable. I peered down the shelter to look at the other occupants. It seemed they used the shelter regularly because they had blankets and little packages of food with them. There were a mixture of ages, shapes and sizes as best as I could tell in the dim light. How I wished I had been allowed to run through the rain of shrapnel and flying glass rather than sit in this cramped, poorly equipped cover. Each time a bomb exploded a little too close for comfort I heard an Irish voice increase in volume another string of “Hail Mary’s.” I squinted to get a better look at a woman sitting quietly at the far end. She was a very weird shape. Her bust line was unusually large. Next to her sat a young man who shouted “there you go!” every time the shelter was violently shaken. After some hours of this I felt I wanted to strangle him!

Some time later, there was a quiet spell in the pandemonium outside. Everyone started to speculate on what was happening. The “ack-ack” of the anti-aircraft guns had also ceased yet it was still possible to hear the drone of the planes. Every so often there was a kind of swishing noise followed by a small thud.

After the disturbing quiet had lasted for awhile, the air-raid warden stood up, rubbed his stiff legs and went outside. He might have been checking on what was happening there but on the other hand, I knew that men sometimes slipped out for a moment to relieve themselves. “Lucky thing!” I thought. A few minutes later he returned. We all waited expectantly to hear what he had to tell us.

“It’s hell out there,” he said. “Whole world seems to be on fire. They’re using a new kind of fire bomb. It’s called an incendiary and they are coming down in thousands!”

We continued to wait in the dank shelter in a numbed, miserable silence. My thoughts returned again and again to my family. I wondered how my sister was faring in her area of London. She had already been bombed out once from her home and was still mourning the loss of her beloved cat. What agonies of mind must my mother be suffering on her own? I tried not to think of whether she might be injured or killed. In my heart I truly believed we would survive this dreadful time. It was these thoughts that helped me to get through that night.

The hours dragged on and on and I dozed from time to time. In one quiet period, a tired, dirt-covered policeman entered the shelter. His tin hat had a large dent in it and his gas mask case was broken. He had come in to count how many people were sheltering there. The warden gave him a drink of water from a flask. I asked him the time. It was almost 4 o’clock a.m.

As we continued to wait, thoughts still flew around in my head. Was my brother safe from the hanging land mine? Was my own home intact? How about my cat Tim? He had a way of sensing trouble and would vanish long before the alarms sounded. Was my sister at home or at work? It did make a difference. I imagined my mother lying alone on the floor beneath the table listening to the world shattering around her.

I dozed again and a sudden increase in the bombardment above woke me in alarm. On opening my eyes I saw two tiny lights shining across the shelter from me. “Oh God!” I thought. “It’s a rat!” My heart thumped in my throat and the constrictive feeling made me feel faint. I tried to breathe deeply. I was far more frightened that a rat was among us than I was of the havoc outside. The woman opposite me moved her head slightly and I saw the dim light shine on her spectacles. I knew then that my imagination had tricked me.

After a while I dozed some more and must have leaned against the man next to me. As I gradually awoke I became acutely aware of the sour, pungent smell of stale cigarette smoke on his clothes. This made me more conscious of the closeness and dank odor in the air. I longed even more for the “All Clear” to sound.

It was around 5:30 a.m. when there began a particularly ear splitting and furious bombardment of guns and exploding bombs. This caused everyone in the shelter to start talking hurriedly and excitedly. It was almost as if we were trying to put a protective shell around us. A small pale man sitting opposite me began to explain in much detail how his neighbours had been burned to death in their home. Apparently an oil bomb had landed in their garden. On exploding, the fire had run directly into their house. “They didn’t stand a chance,” he said, adding, “even if they had been in their garden shelter it would have got them.” This story led to other persons telling equally gruesome accounts of what had happened to their families and friends.

One woman said that after one very bad night of intense bombing, she and her family had decided to travel up to the centre of London to look for shelter and a place to sleep on one of the underground station platforms, as many thousands of bombed-out people had to do. “What was it like?” asked a voice from the far end of the gloomy room. “Orrible!” the Cockney voice replied. “Ain’t goin’ agin – take our chance ‘ere. At least we can soon git ‘ome and see if there’s anyfin’ standin’.” She said this in an almost joking tone. I felt it was to cover her feelings.

I asked again, “What is the time?” and was told about 6:30 a.m. My legs were numb with cold and the hours of sitting on the hard wooden bench. I longed to stretch but there was not enough room.

Without the screaming warning of a falling bomb, the shelter suddenly seemed to quake. We felt as if we had been lifted upwards and then violently dumped down again. We had all automatically ducked towards the floor. “My Gawd”, said a different Cockney voice nearby. “That was bleedin’ near!” The noise and sensation of movement was something unfathomable. The air became thick with dirt and smoke. Everyone coughed a lot and tried to clear their throats. My ear drums felt as if they would burst and my chest seemed to be pressed by a heavy weight. The shelter suddenly seemed to be a lot colder. Whatever it was that had exploded was obviously very close, if not right on top of us.

By the time the air had cleared a bit we found that the tiny light we had sat under for so many hours was shattered. The utter blackness was terrifying. Each time I felt someone move near to me, I froze. We sat in a very uneasy silence, broken only by a voice trying to pray and someone quietly crying.

A new wave of bombers passed over and again we counted the bombs as they fell. “For God’s sake, how much longer?” enquired a voice in the sooty gloom. The nerves in my teeth jumped every time an explosion boomed. The pain was agonizing and frightening. I prayed that it would stop for I had fears of becoming entirely toothless if it didn’t!

I could hear that the woman opposite me was making unusual sounds. I couldn’t determine what was happening to her. Gradually I became aware that the man next to me was very silent. The air was fetid. I listened to some poor soul retching in the darkness and dreaded the thought we might have to sit near a pool of vomit for some time. We sat on and on in the total darkness. I had a lump in my throat and began to feel panicky. The waiting seemed like an eternity.

Some time later, we heard the “All Clear” sounding. A cheer of relief went up from us all. We heard the warden rise from his seat and feel his way in the darkness. “I’ll soon have us out of here”, he said. He started pulling the sacking covers away from the metal door of the shelter. His breathing was loud as he strained to open it. He tried over and over again but it would not budge. We all sat listening intently in the darkness until at last he exclaimed, “Christ! It won’t move!” Another man clambered over feet and knees in an attempt to help the warden. The door refused to move and quickly there was a feeling of panic in the shelter.

My breathing seemed to be affected and I really thought I was going to die. The warden quickly took charge of the situation. He shouted over the noise of the voices asking questions and he convinced us that very soon there would be rescuers to get us out. The woman sitting across from me finally spoke up about her problem. Apparently she had a very violent nose bleed a while before and she was, by her description, “entirely covered in blood”.

I told the warden that I could no longer feel the man next to me. We all scrambled about on the floor feeling with our hands and after a minute or two we located him. The warden had a small flashlight and we saw the man was unconscious and had a very large gash beneath his right ear. It appeared that a piece of shattered wood, blown from a wooden bean, had entered his head when the ‘hit’ had partly collapsed the shelter. There was nothing we could do in the darkness to help him except that the warden took the man into his arms to help keep him warm. We placed his legs and feet across our laps and tried to rub them in an attempt to keep his circulation going.

An old man’s weak voice asked if we wanted to sing. No one answered him. I guess that everyone’s throats were as parched as mine. The Irish voice still droned on in fervent prayer. After a while, we heard sounds above us. Voices shouted to ask if anyone was injured. We shrieked back in chorus, “Yes, get us out!” Much noise went on above us. A thumping and banging sound made me think there was a truck moving back and forth. I wanted, above all, for the light to come on. I felt that if only I could see and there was some amount of light, everything would be okay.

As we waited, I thought about what would happen to my family without me. Thankfully I took comfort from the fact that there were people outside who were aware of our imprisonment. We all knew they would never stop in their labours to release us. My mind seemed to wander. I almost felt like laughing. I thought, “What a funny situation!” I wrote in my mind’s eye glowing epitaphs about myself. These, of course, would be printed after my removal from the “bowels of the earth.” This was a line I was sure I had read in the Bible. Thoughts of my mother again soon sobered me. The feeling of being outside of myself and looking in, had vanished. I was very conscious of being extremely cold and hungry and that my ankle and teeth hurt badly.

I bent over to feel if the swelling in my ankle had gone down at all. To my horror I realized there was about three inches of water around my feet. Someone else discovered this at the same time and shouted, “Water’s coming in!” Alarmed voiced queried, “How?” and “Where?” The warden sensed this was a situation that could get out of control. He bawled above the uproar, “I guess it’s a broken water main. Don’t worry. The rescue squad knows we’re here. They’ll have us out in no time.” I felt the bitter taste of bile rise in my mouth. I fought the feeling of wanting to vomit and bit my lips until I realized I could taste blood.

Anxious mutterings and questions broke the intense concentration of everyone in that underground prison. We waited in huddled misery and listened to the hurried labours of our rescuers. Slowly the water continued to trickle in. It crept higher and higher as the moments dragged by. I couldn’t stop myself from continually putting my hand down to see how quickly it was rising. It was now up to my mid-calf and my frozen feet felt as if they did not belong to me.

It was comforting to listen to the shouted orders and banging going on over us. However, with each thrust of their tools, more of the shelter and debris collapsed around us. Breathing became more difficult as the dirty atmosphere choked us. But we remained hopeful. We knew that they, whoever “they” were, toiling away above us, would never give in until we were reached.

The water rose higher. There was continuous coughing. We realized that with each effort to help us the shelter disintegrated more and more, causing extra danger every minute. The water level was now near our knees and it was terribly cold. I felt light headed and thought, “It’s alright, I can swim.” And then reality dawned on me – there was nowhere to swim. Resignation was very close to hand. My head throbbed violently and my ears felt as if they were on fire. I began to feel that it didn’t matter if I ever got out. All I wanted to do was sleep.

There was a deafening noise above and unexpectedly a sudden rush of air and light. Pieces of broken wood and debris fell with a loud splash into the water around us. I peered towards the light, unable to see. Very firm hands grabbed me and I was hauled unceremoniously upwards. The cold air hit my face like a whip. I couldn’t open my eyes as it was too bright. I could still hear the shovels and other tools striking the metal cover of the shelter. The voices were warm and assuring as the rescue party encouraged those who waited below.

Being almost the last person to enter the shelter, I was one of the first to come out. The warden followed with the unconscious man. He looked terrible. A fireman with a black-streaked face and sore, red eyes pulled me through the soil and rubble. His mouth had caked crescents of dirt around it. I just stared at him, unable to move on my own. He quickly handed me over to a waiting ambulance man. Although he looked completely exhausted, he had to almost carry me away from the now rapidly collapsing shelter. I could only stumble as my feet and legs were numb. He asked me if I needed a stretcher and I told him no.

As we moved away from the digging party, I heard voices saying things like, “It’s a miracle they got out!” and, “That was a close shave!” I turned to see how the others were faring just as the woman with the huge bosom was pulled from the hole. As she was released, a large, terrified tabby cat sprang from inside her coat. The woman screamed, “Don’t let him go, don’t let him go. He’s all I’ve got now!” Willing hands grabbed towards the cat but he was already gone. I felt as if I was apart from all that I was looking at. It did not seem to be real. But the smells were very real. Dried blood, sweat, urine, burning flesh, dampness – they were too real not to believe. Once again I felt the bile burning in my throat and I thought I would be sick. But nothing came.

The ambulance man asked if I was injured. I told him I was fine and then felt completely surprised at my reply. He quickly ran his hands over me and when he saw my ankle, he told me to get off it as soon as possible. I stared at him in a detached manner and far in the back of my mind I thought, “He looks dreadful – as if he has been going for a hundred years.” I sensed he wanted to get back to the other so I thanked him and again said I was okay.

A policeman approached me and wanted my name and address. He was trying to account for the number of people who had been in the shelter. He then asked if I could get home on my own. I told him I could manage and did not have far to go. He looked relieved and advised me to start as soon as I was able. Smiling, he added, “I don’t suppose you’ll be able to have a hot bath dearie. The water mains were all blown up yesterday.”

“Yesterday?” I thought. “What a funny word! When was yesterday?” It seemed like eons ago. My only thought now was to get back to my mother. Shakily, I picked my way across the mess. It was a very slow and painful process. My shoes were covered with mud and slime. I could feel water squeezing between my toes each time I took a step. My dress clung wetly to my legs and felt very uncomfortable. I knew I looked awful. My hair was covered in dirt and hung in long, straight lumps. I hoped I could reach home without being made to take any more detours.

After a dozen or so steps I realized there was a middle aged woman standing in front of me. She was holding a large enamel cup of hot tea. Without a word she thrust it into my frozen hand and waited for me to drink it. The sudden heat of the cup in my hand acted like an electric shock. I stared with terrified eyes into her face as I felt the hot urine running down the insides of my thighs. Her eyes travelled to my feet and the steaming puddle around them. She gently took the cup from my hand and said, “Oh Gawd! You poor little sod!” This sympathy was more than I could bare and a dry sound, something like a gunshot came from my parched throat. She put a comforting arm around my shoulders and said in her Cockney twang, “Cummin dearie, I’ll fix yer up”.

We proceeded very slowly past houses entirely devoid of windows. Some had no roofs. Rubble, hoses, wood, bricks and pools of water were everywhere. I asked if she knew if the road I lived on had been hit. She replied she was not sure but that she felt it was alright. When we finally reached her house, I saw that it was nothing more than a shell of its former self. Part of the roof was intact and the rest covered by a tarpaulin. None of the windows remained but they had been boarded up with slats of broken wood. She took me through the house into the garden where there was an outside toilet. Placing me on the toilet seat, she left me sitting there with the door open. Returning with a towel, she explained she was unable to wet it as there was no water but she had moistened it with some tea from her flask. I cleaned my face and legs as bet I could but I knew that I must have looked a pretty awful sight.

Having drunk the tea, I thanked her gratefully and started on my way again. What was I to find? I had been away from my home for almost twenty four hours. I imagined the anxiety my mother had gone through worrying about her children. I wondered if my sister was safe in her part of London. Above all, what was I to tell my mother about Bill?

As I turned out of the road of the woman who had helped me so kindly, I looked back and saw she was once again carrying her flask and cup – going out again to nurture some other unknown soul with her own precious ration of tea. I wished fiercely that such a brave person might be spared further torments of uncalled-for hostilities. I recalled her high-pitched Cockney whine and my answering “Ta”, unconsciously in her own kind, to thank her for her generosity.

At last I arrived at my own street. What had been a green-grocer’s shop on the corner was now only a steaming crater. A neighbour I knew well was standing as if rooted to the spot, staring blankly at the rubble. I asked him if the family who lived over the shop was alright. He lifted his shoulders, unable to answer me. His grey face quivered and I knew what his silence meant.

With my shoulders heaving, I stumbled on down my street. It was difficult to see through the smoke and grit. Carefully picking my way between piles of someone’s roof tiles and glass, I could see my own home and it appeared to be stable. I hobbled along, feeling very apprehensive and frightened at what I might find. It was almost as if in a dream that I noticed the Victoria gates and fences that had been the decoration outside the homes had all gone. I stared at the black stubbles of iron left in the concrete and then remembered that they had been taken away for making munitions a long while ago.

At last I was in front of my own home. With my heart in my mouth, I saw that the windows had been blown out and a number of roof tiles were strewn around the front of the house. There was no sign that anyone had tried to cover the gaping holes in the window frames. Again, I felt that tight restriction in my throat as I wondered what had happened to my mother.

What would she say when she saw me? I looked filthy and exhausted. I attempted to brush some of the grime from my dress. I was surprised to see streaks of blood all over the skirt. With shaking hands I feebly tried to brush my hair back from my face but I knew my efforts were worthless. My head ached and it seemed that my brain was nothing more than a blank weight in my head. The pain in my foot made it hard for me to concentrate.

My mother had never been a demonstrative person. I think life had dealt too many unfair blows for her to completely let her guard down. I did not expect her to shriek in delight at my safe homecoming. But I longed that, just once, she would put her arms around me and say, “Thank God, you are safe.”

I stared at our front door as if willing it to open. I leaned against the porch to ease the pain in my ankle. Finally, I decided that if I knocked on the door in my usual manner, she would realize I was alright.

It seemed an eternity before I heard the latch turn. The door opened only slightly and finally, my mother stood there. Silver curls lay on her forehead. The rest of her silver and red-gold hair hung down her back in complete disarray. I had never seen her look like that before. I felt as if I were staring at someone I did not know.

There was complete silence between us and I squirmed in anguish on my one good foot. I asked, “Mum, are you alright?” She did not answer. I stared at her feet and saw to my relief that my cat was brushing against her shins. Through his coat of fur, I could see the sores that were the sign of the malnutrition he suffered. We had tried so hard to keep him fit but it was impossible with the food that we could offer.

Again, I looked into my mother’s face. It was like a piece of grey marble. Her eyes seemed to be staring right behind me. Panic filled me and I was startled to feel a sense of guilt flood through me. Did she have news of Bill that I did not know? I thought again of the hell she must have suffered and I repeated, “Mum?” There was still no movement from her. Hurriedly I rushed on to explain how I had tried to telephone her but that the lines were all down. She still did not move. “I really did try,” I said weakly.

Unable to bear the silence any longer and filled with terror at what her news might be, I asked again. “Mum? Is Bill…..?” Her eyes moved slightly to just above my head. They reminded me of two pieces of grey stone. My ankle was aching so badly that I had to lean against the doorway. The pain was making me feel faint again. Once more, I burst out, “Mum? Are you…..?” The blank eyes turned to look straight at me and she made a small movement behind the door. As she turned back and walked down the passageway all I heard her say as I entered the house was “Come in”.

~ The End ~

Photo Credits

Firemen – Public Domain

Thumbnail Dornier 17 Bomber – Creative Commons

London Blitz – Public Domain

Dornier 17 Bombers Over London – Public Domain

Blitz Bomb Damage – Creative Commons

Blitz Fire – Public Domain

Guest Author Bio

Mary Piggott
Mary was born in London, England, the youngest of four children. Her Mother was widowed when Mary was only one year old. This led to her Mother working long, hard hours at whatever she had the opportunity to do. A lifetime of “making do” and scraping was the only life the family knew and this also resulted in each child having to leave school early to find work. Mary always had the ambition to travel and has visited over fifty countries. In 1967 Mary and her husband Colin immigrated to Canada with their little daughter. Mary is a talented artist who enjoys painting, writing and the challenge of crossword puzzles.

Progress on the F-35 Lightning II has been plagued with problems and delays, with nation after nation cutting back on their planned orders as the price tag threatens to climb ever higher. The F-35B short take-off and vertical landing (STOVL) variant has been particularly troublesome, and has called into question the fidelity of the entire aircraft design. Did the designers make too many compromises to try and fit too many roles into a single airframe? Is the STOVL variant a white elephant that has unnecessarily sent the program costs soaring higher than any interceptor? Why did the plane’s manufacturer, Lockheed Martin, continue to pump money into a back-up engine design even when the US Congress cancelled funding for it? To many observers, the F-35 program has come to represent all that has gone wrong with the American defence industry, with giant corporations bloated from decades of government largesse unable to work efficiently or quickly, yet still nimble enough to lobby effectively in Washington, DC, whenever defence programs look threatened by budget cuts.

In truth, except for the price tag, none of the political-industrial controversy around this project should affect Canada’s decision to buy, if the F-35 is the right aircraft for our military needs. It does indeed incorporate the most advanced technologies available, including sophisticated sensors, stealth technology, and labour-saving control systems vital to today’s over-taxed pilot. But is it the only choice? The Eurofighter Typhoon has entered service with other NATO countries, and the Swedish Gripen has a proven track record of success, for a fraction of the cost of the F-35. And while the deployment of these fighters may be limited, it’s still far more than the unproven F-35.

But any one of these options brings with it a high cost that goes far beyond the sticker price. One of the difficulties of adopting any new piece of hardware is the significant delay as operators train and get comfortable with it. Canada’s fighter jocks have been flying the F-18 Hornet for 25 years: even if we received our next-generation fighters today it would be several years before the training organization was in place and our pilots were competent enough in their new aircraft to risk their lives in actual military operations.

Happily, there is another option. 20 years ago McDonnell-Douglas recognized some of the deficiencies of its F-18 design, and it began producing for the American military an enhanced F-18 concept known as the Super Hornet. This aircraft would be very familiar to our pilots, but it incorporates fundamental improvements to effectiveness and survivability in combat. It may not be a seductive “fifth-generation” fighter like the F-35, or the F-22 Raptor currently in service with the USAF, but it is more than a match for any foreign forces the Canadian Air Force can expect to do battle against in the next 20 years, including the current generation of fighters being exported by the Russians and, in time, the Chinese.

The Super Hornet is what you might call a “fourth-and-a-half-generation” fighter. While it may not be quite as capable as the F-35, it has the tremendous advantage of being battle-proven, immediately available for delivery, capable of immediate deployment by Canada’s current fighter pilots and training establishment, with all this coming at a fraction of the cost of its unproven, incomplete, unfamiliar and risk-laden competitor. Does Canada need the F-35? No, we need the best all-round option to equip our air force, defend our country and serve our military needs around the world. That option already exists, and is staring us in the face. Canada needs the F-18 Super Hornet.

Photo Credits

F-35 photos from www.jeffhead.com

F-18 photo from www.freeairlineindustry.blogspot.com

The Samuel Johnson prize for non-fiction has just been won by Frank Dikotter’s book Mao’s Great Famine (1958-1962). I had already read a history of the Great Famine some years back so I cannot imagine how many more horrific details Dikotter has uncovered during his trawl of provincial archives; what I had read years ago was dreadful enough. This time I think the Republic of China has banned the book. No state likes to remember its past in any other way but glorious and the people who died as other than heroes.

The collectivisation of farming methods and the enforced militarisation of the citizens produced the greatest government-induced famine the world has known. People denounced each other for hoarding food or keeping chickens; local communist cadres, in charge of food distribution, pretended all was well when the higher echelons of government descended on them and, in some cases, painted the trees with mud so that the officials passing in a motorcade would not realise that the population was so hungry that they had eaten the bark off the trees.

Apparently, some people were obliged to bury their children alive and others hid the fact that they had eaten theirs. Altogether, 45 million people were supposed to have died. Mao Zedong was quoted as saying in 1959: “When there is not enough to eat, people starve to death. It is better to let half of the people die so that the other half can eat their fill.” The local communist cadres were able to withhold food from anyone of whom they disapproved. Old, sick and weak individuals were often regarded as unproductive and hence expendable.

The French celebrate their National Day, “Bastille Day” or the 14 of July (Le Quatorze Juillet). Most people now see it as a day off work and a chance to catch up with the family in another great orgy of feasting. It used to be that every village had a “bal” of some sort with an accordion player. I remember seeing lots of street parties on the 14th of July in the Paris area, and they were often advertised as Bal-Musettes, or those along river banks just outside Paris were called Guinguettes. The booze was cheap, and fun was to be had. They seem to have dropped out of fashion and the most we can expect in the countryside is a bit of a firework display.

Bastille Day celebrates two things – the storming of the prison/armoury to get weapons and the establishment of the French Republic with its declaration of the Rights of Man. The French, at the time, were ruled by an absolute monarch and three levels of government called the Three Estates. The nobility and the church were the first two estates and the third estate represented the common people. When the latter saw that the meetings the king called were not according them their rightful powers, they decided on an armed uprising and attacked the Bastille to gain weaponry. Feudalism was abolished by 4th August and the Declaration of the Rights of Man proclaimed.

When I first came to France many moons ago, my French penfriend’s family took me to the Champs Elysees to watch the huge parade which opened with parades of cadets from the various military schools. This was followed by other troops (I particularly remember the Camel Corps), horse-guards and motorised units. It all took a long time under the summer sun, and I think probably De Gaulle was driven past too.

Nowadays, the French invite their allies to take part so there is the Household Cavalry, and the Band of the Royal Marines. When I went, there was a huge tri-coloured flypast too. I think I found it boring at age 14! I don’t know that I should find it more interesting at my advanced age, as militaristic parades are not my forte.

The aftermath of the revolution was just as horrific as Mao’s Great Famine. People were butchered for what they represented (nobility, clergy, political opponents). Churches were wrecked (think Bamayan and destruction of 2,000 years of heritage), and Christianity outlawed. This led to a dispute between Danton and Robespierre and even more terrifying ordeals for the population. It was called the Reign of Terror. Nobody remembers this as they watch the fireworks on Deauville Beach, but 12th July marches in Belfast are still causing “troubles” during the “marching season”.

The Orange Order however, is by far the most prolific marching group. Typically, each Orange Lodge will hold its own march at some point before the 12th of July, accompanied by at least one marching band.’ (Wikipedia) The forces of order were out with their rubber bullets and water cannons two days ago, just about the same time that an assassin struck in Afghanistan.

When will they ever learn?

Reference

BBC News-World-Europe

Photo Credits

“Bastille Day” and Stormign the Bastille” courtesy of Wikimedia Commons. Public Domain

“Northern Ireland clashes” courtesy of Euronews

Osama Bin Laden is dead. I know the conspiracy theorists thought he’s been dead for years, but just for the sake of the rest of us, I’m going to go out on a limb and believe the most sought-after terrorist in the world did die when and where President Obama said he did.

In parts of the United States, there has been a gleeful rejoicing — and you can be sure, however, that Bin Laden is being mourned somewhere. And just as his life has caused us to ask some big questions, so too has his death. In particular, people are asking: Is it moral to celebrate the death of any human being? Some believe that yes, to celebrate the death of an enemy is only human. Others say that meeting hate with hate only feeds more hatred.

Regardless, Osama Bin Laden’s death has drawn reaction from all quarters. Everyone from the Islamic community to the Roman Catholic church to Lady Gaga has had something to say. Below are some of the comments about Bin Laden’s death that we hope will spark reflection and inspire us to continue to learn about life as a human in all its complexities.

“Geronimo-E KIA.”
— Navy SEAL coded message sent to Washington announcing Bin Laden’s death. KIA is thought to stand for Killed in Action.

“We got him”.
— Reportedly what President Obama said when all evidence indicated Osama Bin Laden was dead.

“Bin Laden is dead. I didn’t kill him. Please let me sleep now.”
—  Sohaib Athar, a Twitter user was unknowingly reporting details of the raid when he complained on Twitter about helicopter noise.

“With a bold red banner and the long-awaited word —”Deceased” — the Federal Bureau of Investigation retired Osama bin Laden from its Most Wanted lists early Monday morning.
— From the article “With Osama Bin Laden Dead, FBI’s Most Wanted Fugitive List Has An Opening, Big Shoes To Fill” by Laura Gottesdiener, Huffington Post

“OK, he’s dead. Can we go home?”
—  Soldier at Bagram, Spc. William Baxter, as reported by Mother Jones magazine.

“Bin Laden’s assassination comes as the crowning of a new peaceful movement that is taking the Middle East by storm.”
—Author and Al-Hayat journalist Hazem al-Amine, who specializes in radical Islamic groups in Lebanon

“It doesn’t bring back all the wonderful people who were killed 10 years ago. It’s long overdue.”
— Bonnie McEneaney, 57, wife of Eamon McEneaney, who died in the 9/11 attacks (msnbc.com)

“We hope this is a turning point away from the dark period of the last decade, in which Bin Laden symbolized the evil face of global terrorism. His actions and those of al Qaeda have violated the sacred Islamic teachings upholding the sanctity of all human life. His acts of senseless terror have been met with moral outrage by Muslims worldwide at every turn in the past decade.”
— Muslim Public Affairs Council President Salam Al-Marayati

“My heart is broken. In the past, we heard a lot of rumors about his death, but if he did die, it is a disaster and a black day.”
— Mohebullah, a Taliban fighter-turned-farmer in eastern Afghanistan

“Faced with the death of a man, a Christian never rejoices, but reflects on the serious responsibility of everyone before God and man, and hopes and pledges that every event is not an opportunity for a further growth of hatred, but of peace.”
— The Vatican

“I feel relieved for my religion, for the future of the Arab world. I feel sad for somebody who was a friend.”
— Jamal Khashoggi, former editor-in-chief of the Saudi newspaper al-Watan. He knew bin Laden and fought alongside other Arabs in Afghanistan during the Soviet era. He last interviewed bin Laden in his home in Khartoum in 1995.

“To be quite frank, I am very happy that this man is dead. I was always raised, obviously, never to hope for someone’s death, but I’m willing to make an exception in this case… He was evil personified, and our world is a better place without him.”
— Gordon Felt, head of a family group for United Flight 93, which crashed into a Pennsylvania field on 9/11.

“A middle-aged nonentity, a political failure outstripped by history – by the millions of Arabs demanding freedom and democracy in the Middle East – died in Pakistan yesterday. And then the world went mad.”
— Robert Fisk, the only Western journalist to have met and interviewed Osama Bin Laden

“Got Bin Laden AND interrupted Celebrity Apprentice? Win for Obama all around.”
— TV host Jimmy Fallon on Twitter

“Forgive me, but I don’t want to watch uncorked champagne spill onto hallowed ground where thousands were murdered in cold blood.
And I don’t want to see any ugly blood stained sheets as proof of death or justice.
Nor do I want to think about bullet-ridden corpses being dumped into the sea.
And it breaks my heart to witness young Americans cheer any death — even the death of a horrible, evil, murderous person — like it is some raucous tailgate party on a college campus.
Why are we not somber?
Where is the deeper, more meaningful reflection?….”
—Kristen Breitweister, 9/11 widow and activist, in her Huffington Post article “Today is not a day of celebration for me”.

Photo Credit

Osama Bin-Laden

“Celebrating Bin Laden’s death”

“Watching TV news of Bin Laden’s death”

By Stephen Zunes

Together, the unarmed insurrection that overthrew the Ben Ali regime in Tunisia and the ongoing uprising in Egypt have dramatically altered the way many in the West view prospects for democratization in the Middle East. The dramatic events of recent weeks have illustrated that for democracy to come to the Arab world, it will come not from foreign intervention or sanctimonious statements from Washington, but from Arab peoples themselves.

While many observers have acknowledged how unarmed pro-democracy insurrections helped bring democracy to Eastern Europe, Latin America, and parts of Asia and Africa, they had discounted the chances of such movements in the region, despite Tunisia being far from the first.

There has actually been a long history of nonviolent pro-democracy struggle in North Africa and the Middle East. Egypt wrested its independence from Great Britain as a result of a massive nonviolent resistance campaign launched in 1919. In Sudan, military dictators were ousted in nonviolent insurrections in 1964 and 1985, though the democratic experiments that followed were cut short by military coups a few years later. In 1991, in a nonviolent struggle succeeded in ousting the Traore dictatorship in Mali, despite the massacre of hundreds of peaceful protesters by the armed forces. Though it is one of the poorest countries in the world, Mali has been one of the most stable and democratic countries in the region ever since. The recently published book Civilian Jihad: Nonviolent Struggle, Democratization and Governance in the Middle East documents numerous other popular pro-democracy movements throughout the Arab world.

The current struggle in Egypt—the center of Arab media, scholarship, and culture—has enormous ramifications for the region as a whole. The predominantly young secular activists who initiated the struggle reject not only the U.S.-backed dictatorship of Hosni Mubarak but also conservative Islamist leaders; they have put together a broad coalition of young and old, Muslim and Christian, poor and middle class to challenge a brutal corrupt regime which has held power for nearly thirty years. Like-minded civil society activists are organizing elsewhere. Indeed, 2011 could be to the Arab world what 1989 was to Eastern Europe.

In the early days of the uprisings, top U.S. officials defended the United States’ close ties with the authoritarian leaders of Tunisia and Egypt and, making lukewarm statements about the need for “reform” and urging “both sides” to refrain from violence (despite the far greater violence from state authorities). They refused to back the pro-democracy movements, call for democratic change, or threaten the suspension of U.S. military aid. However, the very day Tunisian dictator Zine el Abidine Ben Ali fled Tunisia, President Obama came out with a strong statement lauding the pro-democracy movement and criticizing the dictator’s oppression. Similarly, in the early days of the Egyptian protests, Obama administration officials made similar calls for “restraint” on “both sides,” speaking only in terms of reform from within Hosni Mubarak’s authoritarian regime. By the fifth day of the demonstrations, however, apparently not wanting to be on the wrong side of history, the Obama administration started speaking in terms of a transition to democratic rule and making it clear that large-scale repression of nonviolent protesters—which would presumably be implemented with U.S.-supplied weaponry—would be unacceptable.

These shifts illustrate that, despite the longstanding sense of fatalism among Arabs that Washington will ultimately impact what happens on the “Arab street,” the Arab street has proven itself capable of impacting what happens in Washington.

This change is long overdue. The Obama administration, in rejecting the dangerous neoconservative ideology of its predecessor, had fallen back onto the realpolitik of previous administrations by continuing to support repressive regimes through unconditional arms transfers and other security assistance. Indeed, Obama’s understandable skepticism of the neoconservative doctrine of externally mandated, top-down approaches to democratization through “regime change” turned into an excuse for further arming these regimes—which then use these instruments of repression to subjugate popular, indigenous, bottom-up struggles for democratization.

At the same time, there was a subtle, but important, shift in the U.S. government’s discourse on human rights when Obama came to office two years ago. The Bush administration pushed a rather superficial structuralist view. It focused, for instance, on elections—which can, in many cases, be easily rigged and manipulated—in order to change certain governments for purposes of expanding U.S. power and influence. Obama has taken more of an agency view of human rights, emphasizing such rights as freedom of expression and the right to protest, recognizing that human rights reform can only come from below and not imposed from above.

Until now, this had largely been rhetorical. Even now, as of this writing, the United States still needs to take a firmer stance toward Mubarak and the Egyptian military. And, regarding U.S. policy in the region as a whole, the United States needs to stop propping up other Arab dictators and supporting the Israeli occupation through ongoing military assistance.

However, the Obama administration has been reminded of where power actually comes from: Even if a government has a monopoly of military force and even if a government has the support of the world’s one remaining superpower, it is still ultimately powerless if the people refuse to recognize its authority. Through general strikes, filling the streets, mass refusal to obey official orders, and other forms of nonviolent resistance, even the most autocratic regime cannot survive.

One cannot help but admire the Egyptians, who—like the Tunisians, Serbians, Filipinos, Poles, and many others before—have faced down the teargas, water cannons, truncheons, and bullets for their freedom. However, as long as the United States remains the world’s No.1 supplier of security assistance to repressive governments in the Middle East and elsewhere, the need for massive nonviolent action in support for freedom and democracy may be no greater than here.

Stephen Zunes wrote this article for YES! Magazine, a national, nonprofit media organization that fuses powerful ideas with practical actions. Stephen is a professor of Politics and chair of Middle Eastern Studies at the University of San Francisco. He chairs the academic advisory committee for the International Center on Nonviolent Conflict and is the author of Nonviolent Social Movements and Tinderbox: U.S. Middle East Policy and the Roots of Terrorism.

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YES! Magazine encourages you to make free use of this article by taking these easy steps. Zunes, S. (2011, February 01). Egypt: Lessons in Democracy. Retrieved February 02, 2011, from YES! Magazine Web site: http://www.yesmagazine.org/peace-justice/egypt-lessons-in-democracy. This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License

Photo Credits

“Egyptian protesters face anti-riot policemen in Cairo” AP Photo

“Peaceful Protesters in Egypt” Photographer Unknown. If you are the photographer, please contact Life As A Human.