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ON CONSCIENTIOUS OBJECTION
As a young conscientious objector during the Great War, I often felt the weight of my beliefs in ways that were both painful and profound. “They called us cowards, but we felt it took more courage to resist the call to kill than to follow it,” wrote Stephen S. Cary, a fellow Quaker and objector who served in WWI. Cary’s words echo the conviction I felt on those front lines, unarmed among men who were prepared to fight. Like him, I endured the stares, the anger, and sometimes the contempt of others who believed my refusal was weakness. Yet my commitment to nonviolence held firm, even in the face of unimaginable devastation all around us.
As November 11 approached, we were exhausted in body and spirit, hollowed by the destruction and death that had filled our days. When the guns finally fell silent on that fateful 11th hour, it was as though the world itself held its breath. Cary would later describe that silence as a kind of vindication for those of us who believed in peace above all—a moment of clarity and purpose. In that stillness, I felt a glimmer of hope rise within me, something that told me the suffering could end, that the world might finally choose another path. In that quiet, I saw a vision of what might be—a world bound together by peace, not torn apart by war.
That silence was more than a pause in the fighting; it felt like a promise. Armistice Day was born out of this shared relief, a vow to commemorate peace itself. It was a day to honor those who had perished and those who had fought, yes—but more than that, it was meant as a tribute to the idea that this war, this horror, would never be repeated. As the years passed, Armistice Day took root across nations. For some of us, it carried an almost sacred weight, a reminder of the lives that had been shattered and the moral injuries borne by those who had returned. We were united in the hope that we could create a world where others would be spared the pain and destruction we had witnessed.
President Woodrow Wilson’s proclamation captured this hope. Armistice Day, he said, should be a day of “solemn pride in the heroism of those who died” and a tribute to “peace and justice in the councils of nations.” He envisioned November 11 as a day of national reflection, a call for unity and a dedication to building a peaceful future. In 1926, Congress took up this mantle, asking Americans to observe Armistice Day with “thanksgiving and prayer” and to remember that the end of the war was a time to “perpetuate peace through goodwill and mutual understanding.” In those early years, Armistice Day was more than a holiday; it was a vow to keep the promise of peace, a day devoted to ensuring that others would not have to endure what we had.
But peace, we learned, is fragile. As the years passed and memories of the Great War faded, the promise began to waver. New conflicts emerged, and the world soon plunged once again into chaos with the outbreak of World War II. The original purpose of Armistice Day—the commitment to prevent another war—was overshadowed by the enormity of the second global conflict. By the early 1950s, Armistice Day had undergone a transformation in the United States. In 1954, President Eisenhower signed legislation renaming the holiday “Veterans Day,” shifting the focus from peace to the valor of service members across all wars. While honoring veterans is indeed vital, this change fundamentally altered the meaning of the day. What was once a solemn pledge to prevent future conflicts had become a celebration of military service itself.
I have no resentment for those who serve in the armed forces; I have known many who answered the call to protect their country and made unimaginable sacrifices. Yet I feel the loss of Armistice Day deeply, because it no longer stands as a testament to peace. Instead, it has become a holiday that seems to glorify war, focusing on valor and heroism without fully confronting the pain and destruction that warfare brings. This shift has left many of us—veterans and conscientious objectors alike—feeling hollow each November 11, knowing that the promise of “never again” has been overshadowed by the legacy of military pride.
In my work counseling veterans over the years, I have seen the lasting scars that war leaves on the human soul. The men and women who return from combat carry a burden that those of us who abstained know in a different way. Many veterans are haunted by memories they can scarcely bear, memories that fill their nights with terror and their days with guilt. I have witnessed the pain of those grappling with moral injury, a wound that cuts deeper than any physical scar. These veterans, like those of us who chose not to fight, are casualties of war. Their spirits are fractured, their lives forever altered by the horrors they have endured. They don’t want to be celebrated for the suffering they have experienced. They want to be understood, to be seen, and to be acknowledged for the toll that war has taken on them.
High rates of PTSD, suicide, and moral injury among veterans reveal just how profoundly war affects those who serve. These issues remind us of the true cost of conflict, a cost that extends far beyond the battlefield. The veterans I know do not want hollow gratitude or superficial “thank you” for their service. Many of them are pained by such gestures, feeling that society sees only their uniforms and not the person behind them, a person who may still be grappling with the consequences of war. Many veterans have told me, “Don’t thank me for my service. You don’t know what I’ve done.” Their stories are a sobering reminder that war is not glory; it is sacrifice, suffering, and often, profound regret.
As each year passes, I remember Armistice Day as it was originally intended: a chance to reclaim that silence, to hear again the “Voice of God” that once seemed to echo through the stillness of that battlefield. I think of Cary’s words and of the quiet conviction that carried us through those dark days. We stood for peace then, and we stand for it now. If we truly want to honor those who have served and those who have fallen, then let our tribute be a commitment to preventing future wars. Let our tribute be a world that does not ask others to bear the burden of killing.
This November 11, let us do more than thank veterans for their service. Let us honor them by striving for a world where fewer people are called upon to carry the weight of war. Let us listen to the silence, remember what it meant, and consider what we can do to fulfill the original promise of Armistice Day. In our rush to celebrate valor, we risk losing sight of the true meaning of remembrance. It is not only about honoring those who served but about protecting the peace they sought to secure. It is about dedicating ourselves, once again, to the ideals that Armistice Day first represented.
Let us hold on to that vision, the vision of a world without war. Let us embrace the hope of Armistice Day, the hope that we will one day lay down arms, not in temporary truce, but in a lasting commitment to peace. For only then will we have truly honored the men and women who fought, the conscientious objectors who stood firm, and the promise of that long-ago silence—the silence that marked the end of a nightmare and the beginning of a dream.
Let this be our tribute, a true honor to those who served and those who believed in the quiet strength of peace. And may we, as Stephen S. Cary wrote, find the courage to resist the call to war, to pursue the path of peace, and to keep alive the spirit of Armistice Day as a day to honor not only the sacrifices of the past but the promise of a better, peaceful future.
