Remembrance Day

November 11th originally celebrated the end of WWI, which ended on the 11th minute of the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918. WWI was supposed to be the war to end all wars; after all the carnage that had occurred, and all the lives lost, no nation would ever go to war again. Or so it was thought.

It was called Armistice Day, and was a remembrance of the end of war, and of all the losses of war.

During the Cold War, in 1954, in the US, it became Veteran's Day. In the rest of the world, it is Remembrance Day. As Effect Measure notes:

Veterans Day does not honor fallen soldiers. That's Memorial Day. Veterans Day is about those who survive their service. Given how we treat them in this country, we should call it Forgetting Day. Once they have served their purpose our current government abandons them.

i.e. New Republican mantra: "Love the war, hate don't give a damn about the warrior."

98 years (and countless wars later) we're still fighting, and young men still die as old men send them to their deaths, for honor and for country. And war profiteer still profit. Some things never change.

Two poems (cribbed from the same site):

Untitled poem

General, your tank is a powerful vehicle.
It smashes down forests and crushes men.
But it has one defect:
It needs a driver.

General, your bomber is powerful.
It flies faster than a storm
and carries more than an elephant.
But it has one defect:
It needs a mechanic.

General, man is very useful.
He can fly and he can kill.
But he has one defect:
He can think.
-Bertolt Brecht



CONSCIENTIOUS OBJECTOR (I SHALL DIE)

I shall die
but that is all
I shall do for Death

I hear him leading his horse out of the stall
I hear the clatter on the barn floor
He is in haste
he has business in Cuba
business in the Balkans
Many calls to make this morning
But I will not hold the bridle while he cinches the girth
And he may mount by himself
I will not give him a leg up

Though he flick my shoulders with his whip
I will not tell him which way the fox ran
And with his hoof on my breast
I will not tell him where the black boy hides in the swamp

I shall die
but that is all
that I shall do for Death
I am not on his payroll

I will not tell him the whereabouts of my enemies either
Though he promises me much
I will not map him the route to any man's door
Am I a spy in the land of the living
that I should deliver men to Death?
Brother, the password and the plans of our city are safe with me
Never through me shall you be overcome

I shall die
but that is all
I shall do for Death
-Edna St. Vincent Millay