I wouldn’t ordinarily rush to the Imperial War Museum in London, because the place is one tricky proposition. I spent hours there when I was young, researching black servicemen in the first and second world wars, as part of a bigger project about multicultural London. (Newsflash – it’s been multicultural since for ever.)
The archives are incredible, and the staff could not have been more helpful, yet every day, ambling past the giant death machines at the doors of the museum, past the flying injury-bringers that hang from the ceilings, I couldn’t help but think: pick a lane, guys. Either war is a bad thing, featuring real humans who lose their comrades, get hurt and killed, or if not, are changed for ever, in the service of an idea that later turns out to be some imperialist bullshit. Or, war is a good thing, because look at all this mighty equipment. It can’t be both.
