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The last veterans of the Great War departed this world decades ago; those who endured the trenches and bombardments of the Second World War now number fewer than a thousand, most in their late nineties or beyond. With them vanishes the final tether of direct witness to the twentieth century’s cataclysms. What fades is not merely a generation but a form of moral authority — the living memory that once stood before us in uniform and silence. We have reached a civilizational inflection point: the moment when history ceases to be personal recollection and becomes curated narrative, vulnerable to distortion, neglect, or deliberate revision.

This transition demands vigilance. Memory, once embodied in a stooped figure wearing faded medals, could command reverence simply by existing. Now it resides in archives, textbooks, and the contested arena of public commemoration. The risk is not that the past will vanish entirely — curiosity and conscience ensure fragments endure. The greater peril is that it will be instrumentalised: stripped of complexity and pressed into service for transient ideological projects. A battle becomes a hashtag, a sacrifice a soundbite, a hard-won lesson a slogan detached from the blood that purchased it.

Edmund Burke reminded us that society is a partnership not only among the living, but between the living, the dead, and those yet unborn. This compact imposes obligations. We inherit institutions, norms, and liberties refined through centuries of trial, error, and atonement. To treat them as disposable because their origins lie beyond living memory is to saw off the branch on which we sit. The trenches of the Somme, the beaches of Normandy, the frozen forests of the Ardennes—these were not abstractions of geopolitics but crucibles in which the consequences of appeasement, militarised grievance, and contempt for constitutional restraint were written in blood.

The lesson is not that war is always avoidable; history disproves such sentimentalism. It is that certain patterns recur with lethal predictability when prudence is discarded. The erosion of intermediary institutions, the inflation of executive power, the substitution of mass emotion for deliberation—these were the preconditions that turned stable nations into abattoirs. To recognise them requires neither nostalgia nor ancestor worship, only the intellectual honesty to trace cause and effect across generations.

Conserving society in the Burkean sense is therefore active, not passive. It means cultivating the habits that sustain ordered liberty: deference to proven custom tempered by principled reform; respect for the diffused experience of the many rather than the concentrated will of the few; and humility before the limits of any single generation’s wisdom. Remembrance Day, properly observed, is not a requiem for the dead but a summons to the living. It reminds us that the peace we enjoy is borrowed, not owned — and that the interest payments come due in vigilance, discernment, and the quiet courage to defend what has been painfully built.

As the century that began in Sarajevo and ended in Sarajevo’s shadow recedes from living memory, the obligation deepens. We must read the dispatches, study the treaties, weigh the speeches, and above all resist the temptation to flatten the past into morality plays that flatter the present. Only thus do we honour the fallen: not with poppies alone, but with societies sturdy enough to vindicate their sacrifice.