It’s early May 2025, around 4 AM, and I’m lying in bed wide awake, gazing at the enormous moon that’s casting its glow over everything.
Flashback to 1940, 85 years ago, when I was just a 7-year-old, quietly sobbing on a worn leather sofa in my pajamas, still damp from fear. I was gazing out of a window, hoping the moon would somehow keep my parents safe from the bombings in London.
That day, my dad secured a label to my gas mask strap with my name and address. He made me recite it, and then there was that jarring moment when he reminded me of my identity number in case I got separated from the group of evacuees. CJFQ was 29:4. Some memories fade, but those numbers? They’re etched in my mind. The rest of the events that followed are a jumble. My host at the billet didn’t want to let me in as I stood at the bottom of the stairs, trembling with anxiety. As an adult, my default emotion is fear, which I can’t help but link back to my childhood during the war and the instinct to survive. After a couple of harrowing incidents, I was allowed back to London, though I’d rather confront bombs than see the locals bullied.
Now, as we commemorate the 80th anniversary of VE Day, I worry it might devolve into another overly patriotic reminder of World War II. Sure, in 1945, we felt a lifting of a weight—the bombings ended, and we heard rumors of celebrations in London’s West End—but it wasn’t just about survival. The remnants of war lingered; we anxiously awaited news of the young man next door, enveloped in rumors about Japanese POW camps. The horrors of the Holocaust had just started to unravel, leaving adults utterly drained and grappling with grief. They had lived under the specter of invasion for five long years. Churchill spoke of fighting on the beaches and never surrendering, yet he never claimed we wouldn’t be invaded. Honestly, the fact that we weren’t is nothing short of miraculous, and that realization sat heavy with the adults. They seemed ill-equipped to handle it all.
I still recall asking my father about the concrete blocks that started appearing on our sidewalks, along with those black metal cylinders lining the curbs. He explained they were meant to thwart Nazi tanks, while barrage balloons filled the sky to create smoke screens. Living near armament factories and docks, our area—Bexley Heath—was a tragic theater of dogfights between Spitfires and Nazi planes. Searchlights and mobile anti-aircraft guns even stationed themselves just behind our home. During air raid drills in our shelter, the thunderous noise of that gunfire was terrifying, not just to us, but presumably to the Germans as well.
I really want everyone to remember that war is horrific. I fear we’re starting to see alarming echoes of history repeating itself. On VE Day in 1945, the backdrop was the complete ruin of many cities. Tens of millions were either dead or displaced. It was hard to genuinely celebrate in May 1945.
I apologize for being a downer. I hope, at the very least, we can all come together to genuinely enjoy this 80th anniversary. Looking back, I think I found joy amid the chaos back then. There were children’s street parties with treats like junkets and bland blancmange, evaporated milk pretending to be cream, and scarce chocolates—those days of rationing.
But what stands out in my memory is when someone brought out a winding gramophone and set it on the garden wall. The adults began to dance, gracefully, losing themselves for a moment. They held one another so tightly! I remember seeing my dad kiss my mom on the forehead, a rare moment of tenderness. Was this an expression of relief as the war drew to a close? Or were they grappling with the inevitable scars from those harrowing years, needing a moment to gather the strength to imagine a fairer, peaceful world?
And now, here we are, our planet facing myriad threats. History has shown us that solutions don’t often emerge from dictatorial regimes. We should strive for a collective wisdom that can guide us through the global crisis. Time is slipping away.
This week, that moon took me back to my childhood during the war, memories both painful and filled with resilience. I look back at how the older generation, worn and weary, sought to create a better world. And they did.
Let’s not fail them. We must remember and ensure such horrors never occur again.
