The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier

When I started this blog, I never intended for it to be solely reviews. Unfortunately it seems to have turned out that way, to the extent that I'm tentative about posting non-review blogging posts now. However, I've recently found a few things I wanted to write about, and seeing as that's what blogs are for... I might as well use the opportunity while it's there.

Two weeks ago, I was in Paris, visiting the touristy places in one of the best-known historic cities in Europe. I have a lot to say about a lot of things I saw there, but for now, I want to talk about the Arc de Triomphe.

The Arc de Triomphe stands at a junction between several big roads in Paris, the biggest being the Champs Elysées and the Avenue de la Grande Armée. It was built by Napoleon to honour his troops on their journey home. It can be seen from just about any point in Paris that stands above three stories high, but disappears surprisingly fast when you walk away from it at ground level.

An impressive white edifice, it stands proud and tall, with an ornamented but elegant design. The views from the top level are stunning. But the thing that really struck me when I was at the Arc, was not inside the giant structure at all.

Between two of the giant pillars there is a plain gravestone, with some flowers and a flame that is always lit.

“Ici repose un soldat Francais, mort pour la patrie.”

Here lies a French soldier who died for his country.

The tomb of the unknown soldier is a tradition I've known about for as long as I can remember, but until I stood there, under the arch, I didn't really understand it. I've never seen the soldier in Westminster Cathedral (a little closer to home), so I don't know if I would have been affected the same way there.

But as I stood there, surrounded by crowds, reading the signs that asked me to treat the site with the respect it deserved, I realised that it wasn't just the tomb of an unknown soldier. It was the tomb of every unknown soldier.

Here lies a man who fought and died for his country. Wrong or right, he took up arms to fight a force he believed needed to be fought. The Generals sat above him, somewhere, and directed him, but he was the one fighting. He was the one that faced the enemy on equal footing. And somewhere along the line, somehow, he was killed.

It happened to a lot of men. There are thousands upon thousands of graves, of those who died in two world wars. Some were recovered, named, buried. Their families knew and mourned properly.

But some just never came home.

Reality and fiction say a lot about how difficult it is to mourn properly when there is no closure. Burying a close loved-one, especially one who dies young, must be hard; I have been very sheltered in this in my life so far, but I can imagine something of what it would feel, even if my imagination could never truly harness the reality. It's even harder to imagine what it must be like to lose someone and never know what happened, to never be able to bury them.

So, when I stood beside the grave under the Arc de Triomphe, I think I realised just how much it must have meant. The symbolism behind the Unknown Soldier may have allowed people just a touch of what they needed. Perhaps they could imagine that their beloved lay underneath that well-loved grave; that buried in state is the man that they adored in their time. And while he was never named, he is still there, at rest.

It hit me with a cold wind, and I stared for a long moment.

Looking up, there is a lot of the Arc that is impressive, and important; a very powerful monument. It contains the names of many. But none of them meant anything to me; a name is just a name if it's someone you don't know and never will.

But an Unknown Person, unnamed... that could be anyone. And I think that will stay with me a lot longer than the views along the Champs Elysées.