by Stephen Brathwaite
I went to the Remembrance Day service today and was reminded that no matter how long I’ve been here (51 years) the surnames being read out of those fallen in 1914-18 or 1939-45 were the names of neighbours and friends of mine now. I’m a newcomer like many but nonetheless, this is my home and I hope to contribute as those neighbours have done.
I was moved by our young mayor playing The Last Post on her trumpet. I was moved to think about the older veterans and the reality of what they dealt with and of the experience of aging and of lives lived and lives lost, of strengths weakened and the melancholy in an old man’s eye as a tear spilled from one of my own.
I felt affection for people around me that I don’t know or know to see but don’t know to talk to. We smile anyway. I was moved by the flypast of the Chinook helicopters and proud that they were a symbol of helping the fallen or delivering supplies or just generally helping but not necessarily symbols of aggression as a fighter jet might have been. I smiled to myself to think that I was pleased they were symbolic of a Canadianism — decency maybe.
I was pleased to see two women walk by in their hijabs and thought how white Mississippi Mills is but how it can be so inclusive as well. Not without growing pains I know but growth takes time. I thought of how appropriate to see them and think of the Canadian mission in Afghanistan and watch a young man lay a wreath who had served there.
Maybe next time the benediction could include words from a rabbi or a Muslim imam and an indigenous elder to reinforce the inclusivity and diversity that is our society and what our men and women in the forces have worked for and continue to work to defend. A day like today reminds me how fragile we are, how we are all fundamentally the same and need to feel valued, how extending a hand is most often met with the same in return if sincerely meant. The ways we’re different are so much less important in the grand scheme of things.
