Remembering the Belgrano

Jingoism, according to the American Heritage Dictionary, is defined as ‘Extreme nationalism characterized especially by a belligerent foreign policy; chauvinistic patriotism.’

Technorati Tags: falklands war, britain, conservative, reagan, thatcher

Whatever your politics, whatever your geographic, your upbringing, education or situation - you have within you a hook, an anchor, a piece of toughed old rope stapled to your heart that occassionally gets pulled when the nation needs it. Your nation, the country of your birth! How ever you try to deny it, at sometime in your life the tug of this national identity, this seemingly irrational pride, becomes overwelmingly strong. Unfortunately it blinds you to the obvious absurdity of pride induced by war and conflict, terror and distruction. Throughout history our illustrious leaders recognize and leverage this twisted phenomenon to the detriment of us all!

One of my strongest memories as a kid is one rubbed deep into my heart – and continues to define my passion and interest in society, its politics and the importance of a credible historical perspective.

In 1982 Great Britain was forced into defending its honor. The military government, Junta, of Argentina saw in Britain a decrepit, tired, and lazy European nation uneasy and unwilling to defend its nation state, and the sovereign territory over whom it surveyed in the South Atlantic. The Falkland Islands, a very small, and largely insignificant cluster of islands teasingly close to Argentina had always been an open sore of dispute between the two nations. Great Britain’s colonial power - the Rule Britannia guts and glory - had faded. Cheeky despots of tinpot nations, former outposts of the British Empire, and other delightful dignitaries of revolt lined up to test the mettle of this seemingly bankrupt paper tiger. Argentina, it appeared, was just one more in an endless line of opportunists. To the nation at-large it was becoming and all too familiar and accepted product of our demise.

1982 saw my thirteenth year of age, my exposure to high school and a teenage battle to build an identity and confidence with friends and peers alike. Nothing special about my school. Just another state-run academic sausage factory with crammed classes and over-unionized frequently under-paid but radically normal teachers forced to sell the usual carelessly crafted curriculum down the disinterested throats of average city kids. So a brewing war and the sense of something outside the norm stoked the passions within us all!

Prime Minister Margaret ‘Maggie’ Thatcher, an unlikely ‘Churchill’, elected in a moment of weakness by a nation exhausted by the social decay of 1970’s trade unionism, civil strife and the painfully slow deconstruction of a one proud global power, found her moment in history and banged the steady beat of a rousing war leader taking a nation into battle seemingly against the odds. Who wouldn’t be proud? The once proud lion putting its teeth back in and sharpening its claws for one last bloody soiree.

Great Britain was committed to a military encounter with the nation of Argentina and, after a two week build up of the largest naval battle fleet since the Korean War, was lined up for a highly anticipated fight that gripped the entire nation, the world media, and most definitely the focus of a budding teenager like myself!

The British Task Force took two weeks to sail across the world, from Europe to the southern tip of South America. Aircraft carriers, destroyers, nuclear-submarines, frigates, cruisers, reconditioned troop transporters, raced across the world’s oceans as top speed. Embedded BBC reporters told an increasingly aroused nation every nugget of Government-censored news coverage and how we ate it up and like Oliver Twist we simply had to have more!

Picture the enemy, those naughty ‘Argies’, with two weeks prior warning of the arrival of an entire battle fleet – the last remnants of a once great naval power. The passion and the excitement built day by day! What to do! Defenses, French missile purchases, United Nations resolutions, United States Secretary of State peace talks, themed-Latin-Power pop songs, the excitement was building into a frenzy not seen since Britain won the 1966 soccer World Cup.

My memory kicks into high gear. Another mundane school day of academic dogma magically transformed into a day of strong recollection and torn emotions. The school Head Master mysteriously called each and every class, every teacher, every pupil into the school grand hall for an uncharacteristic address!

Up on the stage stood the Head Master, the ‘Lex Luther’ character one only ever met when scheduled for a taste of corporal punishment, or the reward of an athletic ribbon. One of these I received often, and the other never. Next to the head master stood the heads of each department and like the Soviet Politburo they stood strong but quiet behind their bear.

In one shockingly swift speech, with no politically correct front-loading, Lex rubbed his hands with wondrous glee and with a gentle roll of his feet he informed us that war had begun in the South Atlantic and the Royal Navy, that proud vessel of sheer Britannic might, had encountered, toyed with and subsequently sunk the Argentinean flag ship – the destroyer General Belgrano.
With one mighty ‘Huzzah!’ my soul, and every one of those English peoples across the land were united in glee, shockingly honest pride and a sickeningly desperate demand for more blood, so long as it was on the losing side of course. The loss of twelve hundred souls might have been mentioned between the cucumber sandwiches and crumpets, I forget.

To compound the spirit of the moment and the subsequent three weeks of battle, upon the school stage was placed a large score card. The losses of the Argentinean armed forces in one column and the sacrifices of a proud Bulldog nation under the flag of Queen and the deliverance of God under the other.
Luckily Britain won. Maggie went on to win a second and third term in office and, as they say, the rest is history.

Almost twenty-five years later, and whilst my pride in the country of my birth remains indelibly strong, I’m keen to blend such stringent memories of nationalistic pride, war and the perception of a greater good with an even stronger understanding of a very powerful and wholly accurate word; Jingoism.
Lest we forget the power and danger of such a dangerous national obsession. History will remind us.

“The Battle for the Falklands” (Max Hastings & Simon Jenkins)