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I remember that breezy, sunny, late summer day in 1945 when I was playing in the back yard, swinging on the rope swing my granddaddy made for me. My mother bounced off the back steps, clapping joyfully with the news, “The war is over! Uncle Joe is coming home!”
I hardly remember much else from WWII, besides peeling off the foil wrapper from my Juicy Fruit chewing gum, to save the foil for ‘the war’.
Many of the stories I do remember. I invited my father’s friend, Mr. Holden, to come speak to my World History class about his Army experiences in World War I. His memory was bright, his speech was intriguing, and left me with vivid images of dedicated soldiers, valor and courage.
Some years later, I invited an immigrant fleeing the 1971 Bangladesh War of Independence, as a guest speaker in my World History class. He was a military officer in a prison where there was a window in his third-floor cell. In the darkness of night, enough moonlight revealed the nightly horrors of genocide. After digging a mass grave, the land mover scooped dozens of bodies, some dead, some alive, into a ditch before covering it with dirt from the next would-be mass grave. The officer continued to watch helplessly at the earth undulating, rising then falling, then lying still and lifeless.
I also remember the movie, Gandhi, which was a yearly visual lesson for my class. And students were introduced to the histories of Nelson Mandela and Martin Luther King Jr. I’ve personally known only one person imprisoned for peace activism, but there are several I know, even these days, who work tirelessly for peace.
Freedom is not free. It is sometimes fought for - or earned – or won. Let us memorialize those who have given everything, even their lives, for peace. Let us open our hearts in gratitude for those who have sacrificed family, profession, and health. Let us especially honor those who have suffered for our nation, in wartime and peacetime.
--Jan
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