Burnt Roses

May 8th is the 80th anniversary of V.E day. In this country this is widely viewed as a cause for celebration, but as so few of the survivors remain it feels a little uncomfortable and disconcerting to mark an occasion that most of us have not experienced. The dark truths of 1945 have been sublimated into myth, and this episode in our history has been heavily romanticised.

However it isn’t literal history that is revived, but folk history. Tales of heroic soldiers and airmen fighting evil abroad mingle with the stories of stoic and indomitable women enduring hardship on the homefront. It is considered taboo to question if this is pure and unadulterated truth, as it is believed that to do such a thing dishonours the memory of our ancestors.

Nobody denies that the people of this country were immensely courageous in the face of such aggression and brutality, but it would be equally naive to claim that nobody felt any fear while under such bombardment and assault. After all, it is only human to feel terrified. The Times journalist Max Hastings has alluded to the real fears of young conscripted soldiers posted in unfamiliar and hostile surroundings.

Hastings explains that these were ordinary men, many just boys in their late teens, called up to serve in a war that they did not choose. They were far from the superhuman caricatures painted by the propagandists, instead, “they had been plucked from mostly humdrum but at least sheltered lives, jobs and families to experience sun, rain, snow and mud in hutted encampments or on wasteland training areas, often in the company of men with whom they had little sympathy”. Stating this fact is not to denigrate their bravery and sacrifice, but to show that the very concept of war is inherently monstrous and unnatural.

In the period before 1939, this country was at relative peace with itself, and society was harmonious. With the benefit of hindsight we now understand that the fight against the evils of Nazism was a righteous war, but at that time these soldiers had very little understanding of what was demanded of them. Eventually through sheer tenacity and determination they became brave defenders of this nation, but this was only achieved through a relentless, austere and demanding training regimen. I believe that it is dishonest, and it is more of an insult to our forefathers to claim that these young recruits were blessed with an almost inhuman fearlessness.

Unfortunately this dishonesty is continually perpetuated year after year. I think that it is truly obscene that the myth of the invincible British soldier, who never allowed himself to reveal his emotional vulnerability is invoked whenever a national crisis emerges. This crass stereotype is also alluded to if a famous person in this country admits a personal crisis of some kind.

I must admit that although I love the culture, history and traditions of this country, I find that this enforced emotional coldness is an alien concept to me. As Tim Stanley opines in his book “Tradition”,

“When a Briton behaves in a way that is deemed “UnBritish”, they are judged not only to betray themselves and the country, but the millions who came before us and made Britain what it is…we use this conflict as a textbook on how to behave”.

Obviously, there were people who lived through the war who did not “behave” in an exemplary fashion, but that is also part of the myth that surrounds it.

It is absurd to claim that the people of this nation did not experience any mental or emotional distress during the war. Again, this is insulting. It would be perfectly understandable for individuals to succumb to anxiety and depression, or worse. Emotional repression is not healthy, it is extremely damaging. It is also abnormal to not express any feelings after loved ones die. Suppressing these feelings is yet another British trait which I cannot comprehend or accept. Death is never even discussed in our culture. The actor Martin Clunes lost his father when he was just eight years old, and he remembered very clearly being told not to cry. He said,

“Culturally, we’re very stiff about death-it’s slightly embarrassing. You have a private ambulance come and hurry the thing away, let’s all keep hush, hush, stiff upper lip…the expectation was, “Oh come on, let’s not cry. Let’s be grown-up” How grown-up can you be at eight?”

Clunes illustrates this unnatural and forced cultural expectation, which is inhumane and the cause of so much unhappiness within this nation. It is the reason why mental illness in this country is the worst in Europe.

Italian and French culture is suffused with feeling, the music and paintings reveal open and unashamed levels of emotion. In contrast, British, but especially English people feel embarrassed and awkward. Artistic expression is discouraged, mocked and derided. There is a deep seated suspicion of creative people, they are considered fake or pretentious. It is a society dominated by cynicism and philistinism, where earnestness is routinely destroyed. Our country also has a streak of cruel humour, often utilised to prevent excess sentimentality.

Inevitably, nobody feels confident enough to admit their true thoughts and feelings. The author Harry Mount puts this across succinctly,

“We have a terrible fear of intimacy or socialising-thus our endless jokes, catchphrases, sarcasm, irony, understatement and banter, all conversational devices that keep intimacy and the serious exchange of private information at bay”.

I have found these conversational tactics frustrating, it has stopped me from connecting with others in a meaningful way, and it is an affront to my core personality which is deeply sensitive. My fellow compatriots are often abrasive, and I find this offensive.

T.S Eliot lived through the devastation of the Second World War, and the bleakness he witnessed inspired the meditative cycle of poems “Four Quartets”. In “Little Gidding”, he reflects on loss stating,

“Ash on and old man’s sleeve

Is all the ash the burnt roses leave.

Dust in the air suspended

Marks the place where a story ended”.

These stark images provide a clearer picture of war and its aftermath, and linger far longer in the memory. I would rather read Eliot’s reflective verse than indulge in an empty and meaningless ritual.