In my childhood, doing concerts for in the community with my violin ensemble and parents choir, I was privileged to meet a few M.O.T.H hall war veterans and one of my favourite priests who would recall tales of the 1940s battles. I would look at their wisened faces as they told their stories and how they would get to the point in the story where they had lost a friend. They would get so quiet, bow their heads or look away into the distance - so much to be said - so much silence filled with unspoken pain. So many men still suffering from what would later be named PTSD - holding it all in to protect us from the horrors they faced - affecting them and their families for life. I dont know why I have such an attachment to these men and their stories - maybe its because of the endless episodes of World at War that my dad would play at home or a past life acknowledgement but I am humbled by an entire world of simple, good men and women, stepping up to do what needed to be done so that Hitler would not own the world. I honour their sacrifice and the burden they carried into their personal lives, as a result of what they experienced. I shudder to imagine a South Africa in 1994 surrounded by a world of fascists... (A poppy for you Fr. Foster)
Posted on: Mon, 11 Nov 2013 11:41:31 +0000
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