They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
Laurence Binyon, “For the Fallen”
Leanne and I left for the Dawn Service at about 5:30 this morning. We turned up to find the area around the Cenotaph cold, dark and absolutely packed with thousands of spectators, along with hundreds of old veterans, current soldiers, sailors and airmen, and two bands. There were also a few protestors outside Victoria’s Law School in the Old Government Buildings, waving anti-war banners. But more about them in a later post.
Anzac Day has a special symbolism in New Zealand. It is our only truly unifying national day. But it is a day of remembrance, not of celebration. We remember New Zealand’s first, shocking exposure to modern war in 1915, as thousands of inexperienced Commonwealth soldiers embarked on an ill-planned amphibious assault against Turkey’s Gallipoli Peninsula. Over 8000 Kiwi soldiers accompanied Australians on the first Anzac mission. And more than a quarter of them were killed in the next few months.
The Strategist was also at the dawn service, and expressed well the sentiments and quiet ritual of the occasion:
Nowadays, most public events are loud and garish, with blaring music, pompous speeches, and an emphasis on entertainment and happy endings. Dawn Parade is different. It is solemn, simple, and slow-moving. There is poignancy, but no outpouring of grief. There is silence, and within that silence space and time for personal reflection. There is an ending as the bugle notes fade in the cool morning air, but something is always left unresolved.
One leaves Dawn Parade with mixed emotions: pride, gratefulness, wonder, sorrow, and a sense of hollowness, as if something vital has been lost and can never be recovered…
There are always speeches at Anzac Day services, but what is left unsaid is more significant. We don’t talk much about what it means to be a New Zealander. Kiwis today are rarely vocal in their patriotic or nationalistic feelings. And Waitangi Day is tainted by political division. So we flock in our thousands, every year, as the number of veterans dwindles, the crowds get younger and the memory of war becomes more and more distant. Remembering our history. Reflecting on what it means to be a New Zealander.
And remembering that to die in the defense of freedom, and to fight in the hope of peace, is never in vain.
I should mention Hayley Westenra’s rendition of the National Anthem. I’m not a particular fan of hers but I think she did a great job.
Leanne took the photo of a member of the Military Police seen talking to a group of children after the service. To me the image symbolizes the protector or guardian role of the New Zealand military, and reminds me that veterans of previous wars believed they were protecting their family – those weaker than themselves – when they left to fight.
Afterwards we walked along the waterfront, watching the sun rise, and came across La Moqueuse, a French patrol boat based in New Caledonia. It was interesting for two reasons: firstly because of the antiquated but powerful piece of equipment pictured above – the Bofors 40 mm, which was used in anti-aircraft, maritime and ground roles by most sides in the Second World War, including by New Zealand forces. Even though the WWII veterans we saw earlier were elderly and diminishing in numbers, some of the equipment they used is still going strong.
And secondly because of the idea of national forgiveness. There were Anzac ceremonies in Turkey, on battlefields where Anzacs fought the Turks. I saw the national wreath-laying ceremony on TV, in which representatives from Japan, Germany, Italy and Turkey – all former enemies in the World Wars – lay wreaths in remembrance of New Zealand war dead. We don’t hold nationalistic grudges, but even so the graciousness of the Turks in hosting Anzac commemorations, which after all remember a foreign invasion of Turkish soil, which was defeated at a cost of over 80,000 Ottoman lives.
In comparison to that holding a grudge against the French for their state-sponsored terrorism in Auckland Harbour 22 years ago would seem almost petty. And we now accept French warships without public protest. To me, national “forgiveness” is about viewing people from other countries as individuals, and not seeing them as collectively guilty for what happened many years ago. It shows that New Zealanders tend not to fall prey to short-sighted nationalism and xenophobia.
This is the Ataturk Memorial in Wellington, which we visited on Armistice Day last year. It is a gift from Turkey and commemorates Turkish statesman and general Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, as well as his fellow Ottoman soldiers and the ANZACs who perished in the Battle of Gallipoli. Apparently the area of the memorial looks very similar to the Gallipoli (now Gelibolu) Peninsula.
Inscribed at the base of Ataturk’s memorial:
Those heroes who shed their blood and lost their lives, you are now lying in the soil of a friendly country. Therefore rest in peace. There is no difference between the Johnnies and the Mehmets to us where they lie side by side in this country of ours. You, the mothers who sent their sons from far away countries wipe away your tears, your sons are now lying in our bosoms and are in peace. After having lost their lives on this land they become our sons as well.
More than 100,000 New Zealanders fought in 20th century wars. Tens of thousands of them never returned. And at the going down of the sun and in the morning, we will remember them.
I started attending Anzac services, though not at dawn, when I was a cadet in the ATC in Stratford (48 Sqn.). I would march in the parade and sometimes participate in the cenotaph guard, which was a real honour.
What a great post man. Possibly your best post yet.
Left by Luke on April 26th, 2007