I am always conflicted on Remembrance Day.

I mostly feel sad in different ways. I feel sad that we even have a Remembrance Day because there is so much to remember, and I feel sad for all the people who have suffered because of war.

“War is hell,” writes Buddhist philosopher and educator Daisaku Ikeda in the opening sentence of his book The Human Revolution. I can’t imagine living through a war. Fortunately, most of us living here have not had to experience it, but my parents and grandparents have. Even though I have not lived through a war, war has shaped my life.

I would not be here in Canada if it were not for the Second World War. My parents immigrated here in the early’50s because they couldn’t find a place to live. There was a housing shortage in England because the bombings had left London almost completely flat.

During the war my parents had been evacuated. Their families were broken apart and their education was disrupted. They weren’t evacuated until after the Blitz, and they came back in time for the buzz bombs. They remember all too well the horror of war. My father saw his neighbour’s house blown apart. My mother describes how a bomb landed on her doorstep.

I grew up listening to these stories. I heard stories of their hardships, as well as stories of how they somehow were able to keep it together.

I recently found out my grandfather was in Afghanistan along what was then the India-Afghanistan border, protecting British interests, before the First World War. My grandfather was a career soldier who somehow survived four years of the First World War when the average survival rate amongst the infantry was six months. He was in many major battles. He was shot, bayoneted and gassed, but he lived to tell the stories. He died way before I was born, but my father tells me he suffered from post traumatic stress disorder and would often have terrible nightmares. The stories are horrific. Pulling dead or almost dead men off the barbed wire, crawling over dead bodies, and having a donkey explode underneath him and his fellow soldiers leaving him for dead.

When the Second World War broke out, my father’s parents had to send three sons to fight against the Nazis. One never returned. My Uncle Bert died in Anzio, in Italy. He stepped on a mine during a beach landing. In 2001, I went to Italy with my parents and sisters. We went to Anzio and to the British war graves found him. It was an extremely emotional day. Attached to the graveyard is a war museum. The staff was warm and receptive and kept the museum open late for us. Above all they were extremely grateful to us. They thanked us over and over again for the sacrifice my uncle made. I will never forget that day.

As part of his military service after the war, my father was sent to Hamburg, as part of the occupying forces. There, he witnessed the terrible destruction the Allies had inflicted. He attended war trial proceedings. My father experienced both sides of the war. He was a victim of war as well as a victor. But he always reiterates that war is hell. The stories he and my mother tell are testaments to that.

These stories have shaped the outlook of my life. They influence my political views, my spiritual beliefs, my educational choices and even my career. Even though I am a peacenik, I always wear a poppy on Remembrance Day. I want to honour my family as well as remember those who gave so much of themselves because to me to remember is to end all war.

Judith Sainsbury is a member of the Guelph Mercury Community Editorial Board.