America - Day 9
Yesterday, in the pouring rain, I visited Arlington Cemetery. It was fitting to see it on such a wet dismal day. When I arrived and walked into the visitor centre, looking round at the photographs and displays on the walls, I saw an elderly man sitting in a window seat on his own, looking at an American flag flying outside. I'm looking at his back, but from his arm movements I can see that he is upset, crying, wiping tears away from his eyes. After maybe a minute, he stood up slowly and walked towards the exit. A few minutes later the atmosphere changed as a group of high school students came in, with characteristic less-than-silence. They seemed to be more concerned about the rain on their clothes than anything else. They were all white school kids.
Yesterday, in the pouring rain, I visited Arlington Cemetery. It was fitting to see it on such a wet dismal day. When I arrived and walked into the visitor centre, looking round at the photographs and displays on the walls, I saw an elderly man sitting in a window seat on his own, looking at an American flag flying outside. I'm looking at his back, but from his arm movements I can see that he is upset, crying, wiping tears away from his eyes. After maybe a minute, he stood up slowly and walked towards the exit. A few minutes later the atmosphere changed as a group of high school students came in, with characteristic less-than-silence. They seemed to be more concerned about the rain on their clothes than anything else. They were all white school kids.
This is America's National Cemetery, the sign in the foyer introduces you to 'The Nation's Most Sacred Shrine', and in case you've missed it there, smaller signs repeat the title at various points on the tour. Visitors are asked to recognise the Honor and Sacrifice of those who served their country and to show due respect. This vast and growing cemetery is not just for men and the lesser number of women killed in action, but it is also for all those who have served America and who have passed away, and for their wives or husbands. It is a very national memorial. There are presidents, generals and ordinary drafted servicemen here. There are funerals every day apart from Sundays. Arlington has its own subway station and an enormous car park. Military veterans; living and dead, come in here every day.
I walked through the rain up to the tombs of the unknown. As a walked I could hear the school party behind me. The teacher and tour guide telling the students about military conflicts and struggles past and present, the students growing ever quieter as the significance of the place dawns on them. I let the group walk past and tag on behind, picking up the commentary. Just before 11 we arrived at the Romanesque amphitheatre which presides over the cemetery at the top of the hill, overlooking the nation's capital Wasshington DC. The main tomb of the unknown stands on a plinth in front. I stood next to a serving soldier in battle fatigues under a portico of the amphitheatre, to get some shelter from the rain. The students stood on the steps outside with their colourful umbrellas, waiting for the guards. The changing of the guard happens on the hour, every hour. Today, the rain was bouncing off the flat-tops of the soldier's white caps. They and their uniforms and their movements were immaculate. Perfect drill, to my untrained eye. The students stood silently in the rain. As the ceremony came to a close, the sky began to brighten and the rain stopped. It started again more heavily a few minutes later.
Armed struggle, liberty, honor, freedom, nationhood, duty and the fight for independence - all wrapped up in American identity. The military are central to that identity.
As I walked back down the hill I thought of the graves of the unknown I had seen in Western Scotland. In small churchyards up and down Scotland's west coast there are clusters of portland stone grave stones. Some are identified with the names of those buried there, but others are 'unknown'. These are of bodies that were washed up on the beaches and rocks from ships sunk at sea by the German Navy or foundered during the Second World Wars. How different a resting place they have. No ceremony, just a clean cut white stone marking a grave in a Church graveyard near to where they were washed up. A peaceful presence. I think of Luke's account of the women going to the tomb where they laid Jesus 'why do you look for the living amongst the dead?' they are asked......