When the sound of silence is cause for alarm
Teachers are concerned at the effect that frequent commemorative silences in schools are having upon their pupils, it was reported last week. One grammar schoolteacher in the South East said that her school held silences for Remembrance, the Westminster Bridge attack, the London Bridge attack, the Manchester bombings and the first anniversary of the Manchester bombings. She said: “The message for children is there’s a never-ending series of reasons to feel sad.”
I’m inclined to agree. What purpose do these silences fulfil, beyond the sense – primarily for adults – that a satisfying
The air is thick with the noise of grown-up catastrophising
communal ritual has yet again been enacted? Furthermore, if such silences are often repeated, the visceral power of such a rare moment – traditionally observed on Remembrance Sunday – is eroded.
The truth is that the world can indeed provide us with a never-ending series of reasons to feel sad. The families and friends of those who have died in terrorist atrocities will feel that sadness much more acutely. They deserve all the respect, sympathy and practical help we can give them – but not, I think, arbitrarily imposed silences on groups of schoolchildren across the country.
The modern response to atrocities is very strange. At one level we have developed a greater appetite for mass commemorative gestures than ever before, while at another we seem indecently eager to assure the world that we are
“moving on”. A TV crew will often interview stray passers-by on the anniversary of any given atrocity, in the city where it occurred, only to be told in the approved manner: “We’re strong. It hasn’t destroyed us. We’re moving on.” No one states the obvious in response, that if the interviewee has not personally lost a loved one in an attack, it is quite normal for them to “move on”. If they have lost someone, however, “moving on” is not an option: the complex grief and pain will last for many years.
The generation of adults during the Second World War cultivated a stiff upper lip during the most extraordinarily difficult times, and it is entirely possible that their stoic understatement helped their own children to develop a positive attitude to life. Today, in a statistically much less dangerous era, the air is thick with the sound of grown-up catastrophising, whether over Brexit, Trump, terrorism or impending nuclear war. It is, of course, the adult condition to worry, but not perpetually to broadcast one’s innermost fears. Our children are more anxious than those of previous generations. Is it any surprise?