Robert Fisk: Do those who flaunt the poppy on their lapels know that they mock 
the war dead?
http://www.independent.co.uk/voices/commentators/fisk/robert-fisk-do-those-who-flaunt-the-poppy-on-their-lapels-know-that-they-mock-the-war-dead-6257416.html
 
Robert Fisk @indyvoices Saturday 5 November 2011
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I turned on the television in my Damascus hotel room to witness a dreary sight: 
all the boys and girls of BBC World wearing their little poppies again.

Bright red they were, with that particularly silly green leaf out of the top – 
it was never part of the original Lady Haig appeal – and not one dared to 
appear on screen without it. Do these pathetic men and women know how they mock 
the dead? I trust that Jon Snow has maintained his dignity by not wearing it.

Now I've mentioned my Dad too many times in The Independent. He died almost 20 
years ago so, after today, I think it's time he was allowed to rest in peace, 
and that readers should in future be spared his sometimes bald wisdom. This is 
the last time he will make an appearance. But he had strong views about wearing 
the poppy. He was a soldier of the Great War, Battle of Arras 1918 – often 
called the Third Battle of the Somme – and the liberation of Cambrai, along 
with many troops from Canada. The Kaiser Wilhelm's army had charitably set the 
whole place on fire and he was appalled by the scorched earth policy of the 
retreating Germans. But of course, year after year, he would go along to the 
local cenotaph in Birkenhead, and later in Maidstone, where I was born 28 years 
after the end of his Great War, and he always wore his huge black coat, his 
regimental tie – 12th Battalion, the King's Liverpool Regiment – and his poppy.

In those days, it was – I recall this accurately, I think – a darker red, 
blood-red rather than BBC-red, larger than the sorrow-lite version I see on the 
BBC and without that ridiculous leaf. So my Dad would stand and I would be next 
to him in my Yardley Court School blazer at 10 years old and later, aged 16, in 
my Sutton Valence School blazer, with my very own Lady Haig poppy, its long 
black wire snaking through the material, sprouting from my lapel.

My Dad gave me lots of books about the Great War, so I knew about the 
assassination of the Archduke Ferdinand at Sarajevo before I went to school – 
and 47 years before I stood, amid real shellfire, in the real Sarajevo and put 
my feet on the very pavement footprints where Gavrilo Princip fired the fatal 
shots.

But as the years passed, old Bill Fisk became very ruminative about the Great 
War. He learned that Haig had lied, that he himself had fought for a world that 
betrayed him, that 20,000 British dead on the first day of the Somme – which he 
mercifully avoided because his first regiment, the Cheshires, sent him to 
Dublin and Cork to deal with another 1916 "problem" – was a trashing of human 
life. In hospital and recovering from cancer, I asked him once why the Great 
War was fought. "All I can tell you, fellah," he said, "was that it was a great 
waste." And he swept his hand from left to right. Then he stopped wearing his 
poppy. I asked him why, and he said that he didn't want to see "so many damn 
fools" wearing it – he was a provocative man and, sadly, I fell out with him in 
his old age. What he meant was that all kinds of people who had no idea of the 
suffering of the Great War – or the Second, for that matter – were now 
ostentatiously wearing a poppy for social or work-related reasons, to look 
patriotic and British when it suited them, to keep in with their friends and 
betters and employers. These people, he said to me once, had no idea what the 
trenches of France were like, what it felt like to have your friends die beside 
you and then to confront their brothers and wives and lovers and parents. At 
home, I still have a box of photographs of his mates, all of them killed in 
1918.

So like my Dad, I stopped wearing the poppy on the week before Remembrance Day, 
11 November, when on the 11th hour of the 11 month of 1918, the armistice ended 
the war called Great. I didn't feel I deserved to wear it and I didn't think it 
represented my thoughts. The original idea came, of course, from the Toronto 
military surgeon and poet John McCrae and was inspired by the death of his 
friend Lieutenant Alexis Helmer, killed on 3 May 1915. "In Flanders fields the 
poppies blow/Between the crosses, row on row." But it's a propaganda poem, 
urging readers to "take up the quarrel with the foe". Bill Fisk eventually 
understood this and turned against it. He was right.I've had my share of wars, 
and often return to the ancient Western Front. Three years ago, I was honoured 
to be invited to give the annual Armistice Day Western Front memorial speech at 
the rebuilt Cloth Hall in Ypres. The ghost of my long-dead 2nd Lieutenant Dad 
was, of course, in the audience. I quoted all my favourite Great War writers, 
along with the last words of Nurse Edith Cavell, and received, shortly 
afterwards, a wonderful and eloquent letter from the daughter of that fine 
Great War soldier Edmund Blunden. (Read his Undertones of War, if you do 
nothing else in life.) But I didn't wear a poppy. And I declined to lay a 
wreath at the Menin Gate. This was something of which I was not worthy. 
Instead, while they played the last post, I looked at the gravestones on the 
city walls.

As a young boy, I also went to Ypres with my Dad, stayed at the "Old Tom Hotel" 
(it is still there, on the same side of the square as the Cloth Hall) and met 
many other "old soldiers", all now dead. I remember that they wanted to 
remember their dead comrades. But above all, they wanted an end to war. But now 
I see these pathetic creatures with their little sand-pit poppies – I notice 
that our masters in the House of Commons do the same – and I despise them. 
Heaven be thanked that the soldiers of the Great War cannot return today to 
discover how their sacrifice has been turned into a fashion appendage.

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-- 
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Please consider seriously the reason why these elite institutions are not 
discussed in the mainstream press despite the immense financial and political 
power they wield? 
There are sick and evil occultists running the Western World. They are power 
mad lunatics like something from a kids cartoon with their fingers on the 
nuclear button! Armageddon is closer than you thought. Only God can save our 
souls from their clutches, at least that's my considered opinion - Tony

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