Remembering through my Father's eyes

Every November 11th, I think of my father—not specifically in uniform, not on the battlefield, but in the striped pyjamas of a prisoner of war. He was a Polish soldier, a resistance fighter, a teacher, a writer, and a man who believed that the greatest act of patriotism was not defined by hatred, but by love for truth, freedom, and the dignity of every human being. Every November 11th, on Remembrance Day, we honour the fallen. But remembrance, for me, has always been more than battles, medals, or history books. It is about love, the kind that survives when the world forgets what it means to be human.

In 1944, my father spent Christmas Eve in a concentration camp in Austria. He was one of many prisoners who had nothing left but his voice and his memory of home. Despite hunger, exhaustion, and the ever-present pall of death, he and his fellow prisoners organized a small Christmas celebration. Polish, French, Italian, and Greek voices filled the barracks. The prisoners barely understood each other, but together they sang songs of faith and homeland that rose beneath the ceilings of a place built for cruelty and fear. Even the block leaders and guards chimed in, moved by something that transcended orders and nations.
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My father helped create not only a new Christmas but also a new attitude... and hope. There were no decorations beyond a modest tree, no warmth beyond the shared breath of hope. And yet, through music and togetherness, they made something sacred: a cherished memory... an armistice of the heart.

I barely knew my father, as I was very young when he died. But what I did know about him was this: love is not the absence of suffering; it is what allows us to endure it. And his story reminds me that remembrance is not only about mourning the dead soldiers who fought so valiantly for their countries. It is about protecting what they lived for: courage, freedom, and the quiet commitment to keep believing in goodness.

This Remembrance Day, I honour my father not only as a soldier, but as a man who knew that love could still be sung in a place meant to silence it. His story calls us to remember that peace is not given. It is created again and again through compassion, forgiveness, and the courage to keep our hearts open. In remembering him, I remember what it means to be human and the courage to love.
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Lest I forget.