Poppy day services

The symbolism of Poppy Day is quite moving, made more so when one is in very foreign parts.

For years, one’s only contact with poppy day has been a vicarious viewing of the poppies on the lapels of newsreaders and politicians. But this year was different. The British Embassy was selling poppies, and we were expected to attend a remembrance service at the ambassador’s residence.

It was a very hot day, and a tent had been erected in the residence garden to house the small congregation. In front the Union Jack hung limply on a flagpole. To the left were the Gurkhas who guard the Embassy, and a pile of wreaths. Beyond the flagpole was a low wall, over which one could see the Congo River.

The service was short and moving. Members of the military and embassy staff read different parts of the service. There was a degree of self-consciousness as they enounced the familiar religious phrases: but whether they are believers or not everyone shares the sense of grief and regret for the loss of life. One can’t help thinking of similar stilted services which have been held throughout the empire over the years, and how the sentiments have changed. Then there was pride in the unthinking sacrifices made by young men; now many have a more cynical view of the use of military solutions.

There’s an embarrassing moment: as we are about to observe the two minutes’ silence, a button is pressed to play the last post, but technology decides to be difficult and nothing happens. The two minute’s silence ends up as four somewhat awkward ones. No one minds, and the high officials duly lay the wreaths at the base of the flagpole.

Afterwards we have soft drinks on the verandah of the residence. I am duly introduced to all the military officers there: three Lt Colonels and one General. The general and one of the Lt Colonels are with the UN. The general is a small meek man: one can’t help wondering how he would have coped if he were in General Delaire’s position in Rwanda surrounded by manic, machete wielding genocidaires.

These four Officers, and one NCO are, I am told, all the British military in the country – since Britain has obviously got its hands full with Afghanistan it prefers to pay others to be peace keepers in the DRC.

As we finish our warm orange juice, we chat about this and that. Then, with breathtaking frankness one of them confides in me. “Being posted here means only one thing: my career is finished. All prospects of promotion are dead in the water. The funny thing is, that once you’ve got used to the idea, its quite liberating.”

Post script: being several months late in finishing the above, it seemed more topical to wait until the following November to put it out. The ceremony this year was rather different: the Last Post was played by real buglers. The service was attended by the top General of the UN in the Congo from India, UN officers from India, Pakistan, Ghana, Nigeria, Kenya, Malaysia, and Ambassadors from Ghana, Tanzania, India and Kenya. The fact that it had been taken more seriously was confirmed by the serving of cold draft beer after the formalities were over. And instead of boiling sun we were blessed by a European drizzle.