Whenever there is war, there is a degree of chaos. For some, their lives change suddenly, while for others their lives remain fairly stable while they hear about the events unfolding elsewhere. For my family, this was most evident for my grandparents during the Second World War.
For my paternal grandfather, the conflict meant a youth interrupted by the instability of the war and an early adulthood spent displaced by it. For my maternal grandfather, war meant being recruited to fight overseas and returning to a country where it had be life as usual in his absence.
As a civilian in a war zone you are very much the victim; what happens to you is often beyond your control. In that, inevitably there is a degree of peace of mind not shared by the fighters. Your priority – survival – may put you in many troubling situations, but when it comes to ‘fight or flight’, flight is a valid option. As a child talking to my grandparents, it was always my paternal grandfather who felt comfortable recounting his experiences during the war. His stories were vibrant. One time he recounted the moment when Nazi forces entered his town and forced the soldiers there to pile their weapons in the town square. Then, after WW2 when he was stuck behind the Iron Curtain, he recounted the fear when requesting a job near the border with West Germany – particularly after the official shuffled his papers and gave them a long stare before telling him to return the next day. Despite food shortages and living for years with barely the clothes on his back, life was an adventure for my paternal grandfather. Luckily, he made it to the West with his identity papers and school transcripts, so it was possible for him to eventually make it to Toronto where he finished his Mechanical Engineering degree from U of T in 1952.
Being a combatant is more challenging to recover from. My maternal grandfather was older. He had just finished up a degree from Western University when war broke out, and he was put in charge of a group of soldiers when he was sent overseas. He never spoke much about his time in the war. All of the close friends he went over with died in combat as the western forces pushed across Europe. His time in combat was cut short when a convoy he was in charge of was attacked after Nazi forces downed trees on the road. He came out with a deep gash from his ankle to his knee. The man who replaced him died the next day. Returning to Canada was surreal, and in retrospect he likely suffered from PTSD.
Between my two grandfathers, I have learned a lot about the effects of conflict. That moment when you leave, knowing you may never see your family again. The shock of coming home from the chaos of war to a home that has not changed. If there is one thing they both agreed on, it is that war is something to be avoided at all costs.
Now, more than ever, these stories resonate with me. Currently, refugees are risking everything to reach Europe and hopes of a better life. It is important on November 11th to remember those who have died in conflicts over the years, but it is also important to recognize the ones who are living through it right now. Their struggles and suffering can be better understood by remembering the struggles of our forebears, but they can only be eased by our actions now.
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