
Image from WWI. Injured soldiers and the remains of those not so 'fortunate' share the same space.
My Grandma is a ninety-nine-and-half-year-old French lady. She was born in 1914 at the outbreak of WWI. Her father died on the Western Front in August 1918; it was only three months before the armistice.
Grandma was just one out of
6 million French children who lost their fathers. Her mother had a small sewing shop in Southern France, specializing in widows' dresses, by far the most popular garment at the time.
When she was in her 30s, my Grandma also lived through WWII, and in 1945, she went to Germany with her husband, a military man who was part of the French occupation forces that were stationed there until the 1960s.
Grandma didn't like living with Germans; they reminded her of her lost father. She still doesn't like the Germans much. I guess she never thought about the fact that both German
and French soldiers were used as cannon fodder, manipulated into fighting wars that profited only the heartless, greedy politicians and bankers.
One could reasonably argue that during her long life, Grandma, like many of her contemporaries, experienced the full horror of the 20th Century and the steady devolution of humanity.
Comment: As Gilad Atzmon once said: