Yesterday was September 11, the anniversary of the inciting incident for Canada to join a war for the first time in five and a half decades. I’ve been reflecting on what that decision meant for my country, especially since that war ultimately proved futile.
In the view of many of my fellow Canadians, that decision compromised our post-1956 commitment to peacekeeping. We have a proud history as warfighters, but we don’t celebrate that as much as some other countries do.
At the time, we didn’t really have much of a choice. After the terrorist attack, the USA invoked Article 5 of the North Atlantic Treaty (the only time in history to this point where anyone used it). That article obligates all member nations to come to the aid of any member who suffered an armed attack. We perhaps could have “aided” without armed force, but the political pressure at the time was enormous.
It made more sense at the start: the Taliban refused to turn over Bin Laden, and an invasion might have seemed like the only way to get him quickly, before he could carry out another attack. Ultimately, though, he was taken out by a small elite team after being found by years of application of conventional spy craft. And the Taliban wound up back in charge.
I started thinking about all of this last week. It wasn’t that the 9/11 anniversary was imminent. Coincidentally, we had started a rewatch of Flashpoint, a CTV series about a fictional Toronto SWAT team somewhat based on a real segment of the local police. Sam, the team rookie, had been a member of Canada’s elite special ops group, JTF2, and the side story was about an army buddy who had just committed suicide overseas. A teammate asked him if he was “going up to the Highway.”
Just about any Canadian paying attention to the news in that decade would know what she meant: the Highway of Heroes, a segment of the 401 between the exit nearest to the Trenton air force base and the one for the Toronto coroner’s office, along which most of our Afghanistan war dead made their last journey home. Long before the Powers That Be put up highway signs, ordinary people would crowd every overpass to honour our fallen as the processions drove slowly underneath. There was no fanfare, no ceremony, no big expression of the grief we felt. Just people quietly gathering.
At the time, in proportion to the size of our respective militaries, Canadian and Dutch soldiers were doing most of the dying. Those deaths were few in absolute numbers, but that meant that every one was noticed and deeply felt by many who never knew those who made the ultimate sacrifice.
The USA has massive memorials to their soldiers, out in public view. Our equivalent is much quieter, out of sight. In a very tall annex, front and centre in any picture of the Parliament Buildings, there is a small ground-level chamber. Its walls are lined with several large tomes, protected by glass covers, listing every identifiable member of the Canadian Forces killed in any of our few wars. Staff turn a page in each book every day, and inform any known descendants when their loved one’s name will soon appear.
It seems to me very Canadian that the annex is called the Peace Tower.