The Sand Is Still Coloured

Nawar El Khouri Hage | Jun 05, 2025

Walking to my sister’s house in Caen passes through the Rue du 20ème Siècle (20^th century), a little route with its cobbled stone road and Art Deco buildings. Caen is one of the little towns of the Normandy where D-Day happened - June 6, 1944 - and, where, like many other little towns, the destruction of the WWII kept its marks. That little route was one of the few that missed the destruction of the war, keeping its buildings intact; Caen reserved that little route naming it the 20^th Century Route. Every other route has lost that elegance in building; every other route has been a witness to the war.

Rue de 20ème Siècle eventually leads me into Avenue du Canada. A small tribute to our nation, one of many tributes. This year I walked that route every day and stopped by that little sign every day as well. There was something that attracted me to that sign. The word Canada? Naturally.  

There were many others, Place du Canada with its little round-about, Manège Canada that old building that houses a sports facility, and others too. Canada lives in the heart of the streets of Caen. A constant reminder of the bleak days where Canadian soldiers, through their sacrifices, stopped.

I am certain many before us, Mike and I, have walked the same path and felt the same emotions. I am certain every Canadian who ever had the chance to be in the French Normandy had visited Juno Beach. And so, what is it that I am writing about? I am simply putting in words moments where I felt time froze.

Sitting in the passenger seat on the picturesque little routes leading to Juno Beach I was able to take photos; directional signs with our flag, our maple leaf and our name.  It was an uncharacteristically sunny warm day in January, the type that creates ripples of joy in the mind as the sun touches the skin.

Our GPS led us straight to an outdoor parking lot, empty, awaiting its first visitors, us. We were right by the quay which held a larger than life cross and a flag reading Port du Calvados. Looking onto the sand beach right under the quay were hundreds of empty, large beautiful pink shells, the famous houses of king scallops, the Coquilles Saint-Jacques. Like a child I found myself running down to the beach, shoes off, my toes feeling the sand and I picked as many shells as my hands could hold. For a second I had forgotten where I was.

 I emerged from my dreamy moment, and we walked the little route passing the vintage Carousel where, from the looks of it, over the course of many years, thousands of children have sat on its horses and turned, laughing their hearts out, round and round; while their parents waited, took pictures, and maybe grabbed Un Café Allongé.

We passed the little fish market as fishermen were setting their tents for their daily sales, and saw men and women with their baskets and bags approaching the piles of fresh fish and scallops; haggling for price, saluting one another, telling a few stories. Little town life.

Their voices carried with us as we approached the landmark that we were to visit. The place where men, averaging in age of twenty-two appeared one early morning.

Did they have a sunny bright day?

There are, right by the Centre, a series of large cement blocks, with hundreds of little titanium blocks each one carrying a name. If the name faced the English Channel, then it was the name of one of the Canadians who served in either of the two World Wars or in other times of peace keeping or conflict. All other sides held names of donors. I walked around each one of the blocks, and, maybe through sheer chance, I saw names of donors that I recognized. I could not help but take a picture of one that read “In Memory Of Fallen Comrades of Branch 328 Northbrook ON”.  What are the odds that I would find the name of the original owners of our Lions Club of Land O’ Lakes building? Heroes of the past. Tears.

Might have they noticed the beautiful shells across the beach?

Bunkers, dark and gloomy faced them as they dipped their boots in the cold waters. Past the voices of the fishermen. The sound of the waves breaking sets a tone of awe. That was the sound they heard. A mural in bronze set between walls of bunkers depicts their landing. It might be the tens of movies that we have watched over the years, or the sudden calmness of the place, but an eerie feeling set in the moment I saw the mural. The mural came to life; only it was not those five figures in the mural, but hundreds of young faces instead walking between bunkers, aware of their enemy, hopeful of their survival, fearing the worst.

Did the fishermen greet them with a Bonjour and a smile?

On June 6, 1944, three hundred and eighty-one Canadians mixed their blood with the sand and colored the shells of the Coquilles Saint Jacques.

We left Juno Beach and headed towards Beny-sur-Mer Canadian War Cemetery. A drizzle of rain welcomed us, and another empty parking lot. We walked through the large white entrance and noticed the plaque that reads “This Plaque Commemorates the Cameron Highlanders of Ottawa (MG) Who Fell in the Landings on D-Day and in the Ensuing Battles For the Liberation of Europe”.

A little safe in the wall holds the Visitors Records, I signed our names. And then sat on the stone bench and read the rows of names in the Cemetery Register. I didn’t make it past letter H. More than two thousand names are in that book.

And more than two thousand souls live in the rows and rows of white tomb stones most inscripted with a name, a date of departure, a city of origin and an age. In my walk, I did not see a single stone with an engraved age above twenty-eight. I saw non under seventeen.

Those Liberated Europe.  

Between the rows of white, every now and then, a small Canadian flag or a little poppy flower are planted by a stone. A visitor perhaps?

We walked away and left them behind. The rain took a break, and we noticed a large Canadian flag painted on the ground of the parking lot. Mike took a picture showing our little Citroen tiny next to the Flag.

Tiny.

Twenty-nine thousand, five hundred and eighty-five days separate the day when they landed on the beach in a little town that smelled of gun powder and death, and the day that we recall this year eighty-one years later. And in between those two days life returned, Carousels were filled with the laughter of children, little towns prospered, fishermen sold their colored fish, people, like us, walked streets lined with signs named after Canada; and We Remember.  Lest We Forget.