I’m not being disrespectful by choosing not to wear a poppy this year

It’s no longer about remembering lost lives

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November is upon us, bringing with it the tides of poppies and the usual high emotions associated with them.

They’ve been flown out to reporters and representatives across the world and the internet puts anyone without a poppy on trial. But it’s been three years since I last wore a poppy. I wore them at school because I had to, but since my final school remembrance assembly I haven’t continued to wear one.

Every year the pressure surrounding wearing a poppy with pride builds and builds, and those who don’t wear them are made to feel more and more as though they are the devil incarnate himself. People assume I’m being disrespectful for not wearing one, and just because I don’t have a paper flower I’m happy lives were lost in the World War.

Not for a minute does anyone consider the great irony that the freedom from oppression won in the World Wars affords me the right to decide what I wear.

But why won’t I wear it? Because it’s not just about remembrance any more. It’s not about remembering and honouring the dead who had no choice but to fight. It’s not about remembering the true horror of those wars. It’s not about remembering the sacrifices made by the millions who died in wars they mostly didn’t want to fight, to protect everything they held dear.

It’s become about forgetting lessons learned and drumming up support for fresh conflict. It’s become about forgetting sacrifices made for peace, in favour of more war. It’s become a tool for the powerful to justify the wars they want fighting, and to justify the deaths on both sides.

It’s all become about the massive hypocrisy of the politician that stands, poppy shining bright on his lapel, and solemnly pays his respects to the fallen of the past, just a few minutes after he’s authorised another bomb. Another life to be taken. Another one whose name we’ll recite in a hundred years and vow that we’d never, ever do it all again.

But surely that little flower that bloomed over the battlefields should be making us remember what, and who, we lost. And what we would never wish to lose again.

I still have to take withering stares and assuming glares every year. I still have to feel the judgement made about my decision. I still have to take an awkward silent stance in conversations of disdain towards anyone without a poppy. I still have to feel like I’m doing such a disservice to those who  died protecting the peace that we’re so, so quickly throwing away.

I’ll always respect those who wear a poppy in remembrance, as so many do. But please, respect my reasons for my own remembrance, without a poppy pinned to my chest.