Who wears a poppy? Do you? If so, why do you? Have you ever faced any evil looks by other Muslims who wonder why you support such a cause? Have you ever felt pressured into wearing one, simply because a colleague or friend is wearing one and you feel you are obliged to do the same?

Do you not wear a poppy? If not, why not? Do you feel this is something that only White British people or the families of those who had ancestors participating in the war should do? Are you strictly against Britain involving in war overseas? Are you confused about how they should be worn?

As a child, my primary school would sell poppies at break time for a pound but besides sitting in silence at 11 o'clock on the 11th of November and passing by a "hall of fame" (if you'd like to call it) of all the students who went to war from my school, I don't think I ever understood a lot about why people wore poppies and more so, why everyone was so excited as soon as they got hold of one. It was almost like showing off and became a part of our identity for two weeks. 

I don't think I have an opinion regarding poppies, for they are only humble flowers that grow in fields though their significance may lead me to form an informed opinion. I don't wear one myself but not for any particular reason. Yes, I do think that those who willingly went to war are brave to leave behind their families and fight for their country (because it was a worldwide war).

Strangely, I almost look down on the army now. I don't know how to explain it very well, but I don't think it's a glorious thing to do and something to be proud of. This is probably based on the fact that mainly civilians and innocent people have died and been injured as a result of UK intervention. Now i see it as - you wonna ventilate your anger? go join the war! - 

Here's Madeleine Fry's opinion on why she no longer feels comfortable wearing a poppy. http://www.therevival.co.uk/forum/general/11352

War sometimes reminds me of a poem I studied for my English GCSE. It's named Dulce et Decorum Est written by Wilfred Owen. Anyone else recognise it?

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!---An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; But someone still was yelling out and stumbling, And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime... Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light, As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--- My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.

I leave you with that and look forward to what you have to say.