Michelle Lang RIP: A Casualty of Being a Canadian Heroine
Two Canadian soldiers sat in an empty barracks the other day.
They had packed and itemized dozens of her personal effects: Sweaters, shoes, make-up bag, light jacket, a toiletries kit and carry-all. Three boxes full of a life interrupted by evil.
It’s all that’s left of Michelle Lang’s belongings in Afghanistan, but not of her soaring spirit and her significant, historical contribution to this country. I was writing the year-in-review piece that so many of you liked when the news came through that she and four Canadian Forces servicemen had died in a roadside explosion.
I was mortified: A caring, intelligent, committed, eager, professional, beautiful woman, cut down in the prime of her life.
Did I mention I was mortified?
Whatever took Michelle Lang to Afghanistan was something truly magical, for in all the eulogies and tributes, not one I have heard or read, celebrated the true spirit of wanting to report the war to a nation that is rightly divided between our cause and our duty (Richard Colvin’s rather absurd, hollow, noxious overstatements, notwithstanding).
I suppose such complete gallantry, as that of Ms. Lang, will know no honour great enough.
Michelle Lang represents the very best of us. She is at the very top of what the media has to offer today, not for the journalistic chutzpah it took to pack her bags, but for the decency of wanting something more to offer the people of this great land–a cause that, in no small way mirrors the intent of every soldier charged with the task of bringing peace and sense to a country infested with consummate haters and the most evil doers.
Ms. Lang’s fiance stood weeping at the side of her casket as she was brought home with full military honours–a solitary, red rose to momentarily honour her with, wedged in the palm of his fist.
How do you say good-bye to someone you love so deeply, so intensely? How do you accept their death for a cause you cannot fully measure or feel, perhaps for years? Perhaps forever. The pain of it all is too much to watch, but watch we must.
And never forget.
Some time ago, my wife and I fell into a discussion about a comment our son made. “I wanna to be a soldier one day, Daddy”, he said. “I wanna be just like those guys going after all those bad guys that wanna hurt little kids”. He’s eight.
The boy listens intently, to be sure… But when he left the room, my wife, sensing something more to my deafening silence, said, “No, no way, you’ve got to be kidding, right? You’d let him do that? Please tell me you wouldn’t let him do that!”
Well, I couldn’t. Because it wouldn’t be up to me.
I don’t know what makes one so brave to shove off to the plains of hell to stand on guard for you and me, much less what it took the Globe’s storied, superb journalist Christie Blatchford (one of this country’s best writers) to go off and cover the war, any more than I know what impetus drove brave Michelle Lang to Kandahar–or any other courageous scribe. The difference between a soldier’s duty and a reporter’s notes might be several magnitudes, yes, but to be embedded with fighting troops is, I believe, the gutsiest of civilian commitments.
I have good friends serving in both Iraq and Afghanistan and while we’ve exchanged thoughts about the war and its inherent problems, I have never brought myself to ask the question. I suppose Ms. Lang may have been asked.
Why are you there?
Oh, I understand the mission and its importance, certainly. But what drives anyone to be prepared, at any time of service, to give up their lives in the cause of freedom and honour, isn’t a question I need to ask.
Why? I’ll tell you.
When I was a kid, my old man would take me along to Victory Square every Remembrance Day. We’d stand there, often in the rain, sometimes without an umbrella (he’d forget and it became a life-long joke about him and umbrellas). When the bugler was done ”The Last Call” and the people eventually started to shuffle past, Dad would thank so many of the war veterans whom he knew. “They’re heroes my boy, they’re heroes, and don’t you ever forget it. Without them I couldn’t have made it to this country that gave our family so much opportunity…so much freedom. Never forget to thank them for that”.
And I never did.
One year, one of Dad’s friends–missing a finger, and part of a wrist, that was shot off by the Germans, sat decorated with what looked like a whole mile of medals–and he noticed me crying. “What’s wrong with young Alec, George?” he asked Dad, in a thick but smooth Renfrewshire accent. “I guess he’s old enough to understand now Duncan” my Dad sighed. They knowingly smiled at one another. Truth be told, I’d just watched everyone else crying, so, I cried too. What else was a nine-year old to do? At the end of the service, the man I came to know as ‘Uncle Scotty’ sat down next to me. I never forgot his words. “Ya know son, ey lost myee brother in the wurr. He was just a young lad of twentay. It was the last time I cried in the rain…my Mum taught us to cryee, she was English…all I can remember was the bloody plane goin’ away in the sky until ’twas so wee I couldn’t see it ‘nee more, he’d just come back from a bombin’…shoulda kept ‘im, but I didn’t…..last time I saw ‘im, but every time I tink about ‘im, I just fill up with pride ’cause he did somethun’ for me and you…ya know, young Alec? Next year, ya can stand wit me if yer Dad fergets the brolly” I can hear him in my mind, so clearly.
Every Remembrance Day I visit him and it’s like the words echo from his grave.
I heard the same story several times over the years. The day he died, I told the story to my old man, and now I’m sharing it with you.
Maybe I do know what possesses someone to want to put their lives on the line. It’s more than guts. Well beyond bravery. It’s the most heroic gesture I can think of. Whenever I see another flag-draped casket coming home, I think about Uncle Scotty.
I’m not a war-monger, but I know; war if necessary, but not necessarily war. It’s never about winning. It’s about managing your losses.
We live in such ugly times. Ugly times that need war, for now; war that took the life of Michelle Lang and every single last one of our fallen service men and women, well before their time. But these are sacrifices we made, without fear.
We are Canadians, this is what we do. No one fights like us. We made Vimy the story it has become–and so many before and so many after.
We are Canadians. We die for freedom. With honour and dignity. It’s a choice we made long ago.
And such is the choice of a hero or heroine: To die, perhaps, for you and for me; or in such related service, before their time. Michelle Lang will live forever in our hearts as Canadians–she must. We should celebrate such daring, such valor. She must never be forgotten.
To be brutally frank, I don’t know if I would stand in front of my boy if he made the decision to go. And I don’t know if I wouldn’t.
Because sometimes the only thing you have left is the memory of the plane off in the distance.
Goin’ away in the sky…until it’s so wee you can’t see it anymore.
Alex, what a beautiful piece. you had me in tears.
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You’ve left me speechless. I absolutely loved this Alex.
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Alex,
What a beautiful article, I too am in tears… Thank you
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Thomas said it for me.
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Alex this is just way beyond what I could have ever expected from you.
What a writer you are. You captured the essence of this woman and added your own story so beautifully. I don’t know how anyone couldn’t be reduced to tears. You are really something else.
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Thx so much. Very kind.
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I look at the other blogs you list and have visited everyone of them. My conclusion is that you are untouchable. Alex the post you did today shows the kind of heart that is totally absent in the media. If any of your competitors think they are equal then they’re dreaming. Your post was overwhelming and I’m so grateful to be one of your readers. Your old man should be very proud. Is he still alive?
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Too kind. Thank you.
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We are reminded of G. K. Chesterton’s contradiction of terms, in his typically paradoxical definition of courage: A strong desire to live taking the form of a sincere readiness to die. So it is with young men, who, as Dr. Samuel Johnson suggested thought meanly of themselves for never having been a soldier. In our lifetime, the call never came for us to take up arms. On the matter of women being put in a war setting, my feelings are traditional and said to be old fashioned, which does not take away from the courage of those who do allow themselves in such a setting. None the less, the whole idea of “imbedding” the media is, it think wrong, be they male or female, they are a distraction to our soldiers and the job immediately at hand.
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It cannot be said enough that this is a marvelous piece. I got you through Bourque watch and now come here every day to read something. You have put together some very strong opinions. I loved this article. It was human and refreshing to see a writer be so honest.
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Thank you very much for the kind words. I enjoyed writing this very much.
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Alex,
A wonderfully touching tribute to an heroic reporter and those who gave their lives with her and all who gave their lives in far too many wars.
We must not forget that those who see the future are the ones who end up heroically defending our right to live for that future. Most that have fallen in battle did so far before it was their time to leave us. We long for the days when we were kids their age, but we would never want to face what they faced before they died.
I will never forget visiting that windswept stretch of Normandy’s coast at Juno Beach on Remembrance Day four years ago. It was hard to imagine the horror the young Canadians faced when they stormed the dunes on June 6, 1944.
The hard reality of it all hit me the next day as I stood, alone under a warming sunlit sky on a cold November day at the Canadian War Cemetery at Bretteville-sur-Laize where so many of the fallen from the battle of Falaise Gap are buried.
I had slowly walked row after row of white maple leaf-adorned headstones– studying closely the names of mere teenagers. Most of them were from towns on the prairies or in eastern provinces. Then I glanced down and noticed the name of a 20-year-old private whose hometown of New Westminster, B.C. was inscribed on the headstone.
It hit me hard– the realization that this young kid, from almost next door half the world away, had stormed a northern beach in a foreign land and a few days later his life came to an abrupt end– never returning home to the country I so cherish. There he was, buried in this field in the French countryside, resting there all alone for more than 60 years.
I could only think about the day he boarded the tram in New West and headed into town to the train station on his way to the unknown.
Me, this man more than twice the age he was at when he died, now enjoys the freedom back home in our homeland he so bravely defended. It was a profound realization. I couldn’t hold back the tears.
I also realized that I could not say “there but for the grace of God, go I” for I am so fortunate I born when I was.
My heart is with all of the families of all of those who lost their loved ones in Afghanistan over the last few years. Young men and women– all who continue defending so valiantly what I am privileged to enjoy.
Good for you for writing these beautiful words.
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Bless you Bob, for sharing such a wonderful story. Lest we forget…
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Alex,
I went to the ceremonies at the cenotaph this year for Remembrance Day, my first time in many years, and the first since my dad, A World War II vet, poetically died on Pearl Harbour Day, December 7, 2008.
I was absolutely taken—and filled with pride—that so many thousands of Vancouverites of all ages came down to Hastings Street this past year to pay their respects and honour the men and women who have served and continue to serve in our armed forces. It’s a heavy heart that watches the thinning ranks of the WW II vets as they try to march in step in the parade that follows that solemn ceremony.
Yet, it is also a hopeful heart that notes the many young people who are there, and who clap and huzzah the loudest. It makes me think that history is not such a dead thing after all, for a generation that we usually believe is too self absorbed to think past the latest “Gossip Girl’ episode. Or perhaps, they realize they have their own war right now, which brings into sharp relief the understanding that life can be much too short, and that war is indeed, hell. It also tells me that they uderstand what it means to be Canadian, in terms of service to the world.
Regardless how one feels about war, and as you have so nicely laid out, one can be fillled with conflicting opinions about our sorties in Afghanistan (and never so much more than when we lose soldiers and civilians), one cannot help but feel proud of our soldiers who believe with all their heart and show through their actions that they are there to help, not hinder , the process of peace.
Seventy years ago, in a world gone mad, a boy from Saskatchewan gave 6 years of his life to fight against the Nazis. He believed, as those who fight for justice now believe, that evil does exist, that dictators and extremists, (who hurt their own people the most!), must be defied.
Service, in the name of that kind of activity, is the noblest calling.
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Thank you for sharing this Judy. You’re wonderful.
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This is a very special tribute, Mr. Tsakumis. I haven’t read a finer tribute to Michelle Lang. I hope her family sees it.
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Hi Alex, you excel on investigative reporting, but certainly express extremely well the feelings, many of us have regarding emotional issues.
One factor, not mentioned often is that Canadian solders are risking their lives, mainly to avoid giving terrorists complete control of Afghanistan as a training ground.
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Tell that the the idiots running the White House. I’m with ya pal…
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A very moving tribute indeed, Alex. Let’s hope that when all is said and done, the lives of all these young Canadians that were lost in Afghanistan will not have been for naught. Maybe one day mankind will come to realize that war is nothing more than a waste of many young lives and devise a better way of settling disputes. I know it’s wishful thinking, but one can always hope.
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Your hope is my hope, believe me…
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Alex,
Nice and warm piece of writing. For a Five Eleven/ Two Forty guy (see I am paying attention to details) you really know how to go mellow. Hats off to you! I was/ still am like that, too. Just so you know after I’ve returned from my South American travels, I looked through a meter high stack of local papers. I cut out a few articles that interested or moved me. The “Son also rises” is one of them; the other one that made me weep was your recent rendition of personal drama involving your youngest daughter. Thanks for sharing.
Glissando
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Very kind of you. Yeah, the piece on my father was not easy. But if it helped anybody understand how difficult it is for father’s to sometimes understand their impact, and sons to accept same, then target audience reached…my old man was non plussed, but that’s him. Took me a long time to accept. And writing about Giulia is never easy. I spent a good amt of time trying to be strong for everybody else, knowing full-well that I couldn’t pull the situation out of the proverbial fire, like I had so many times before. It would take some intervention. So, when everything turned out I still, to this day, cannot talk about it much because only I know how close I came to having to explain to my wife, that at least once, “Don’t worry, I KNOW it’s going to be okay, trust me” was more instant therapy than intuition. No matter how long God gives me on this earth, I will never be able to fully get past it…a very rough ride. I’ll always worry about her. Much. Thx for your kind words.
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