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My childhood was spent near Anzac Hostel, a repatriation centre for invalided soldiers, predominantly from the First World War. It was a towered white building on a large block of land surrounded by Moreton Bay figs, a gathering place for cicadas in summer.
I was torn between the desire to sneak into the property in the hope of being able to boast that I had seen greengrocers, orange drummers, redeyes and other colourfully named cicadas, and my fear of the men in the hostel, whom people described as shell-shocked or damaged. They, and the Western Australian flowering gums along the road, each of which bore the name of an Australian soldier killed in the war, were the physical reminders of war and of Anzac Day in particular.
Even to children these things intimated a reality only later to be entered: the sadness of war. As did the Anzac Day celebrations, largely composed of fellow soldiers and those who had lost husbands, brothers, fathers and lovers in the war.
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My childhood was spent near Anzac Hostel, a repatriation centre for invalided soldiers, predominantly from the First World War. It was a towered white building on a large block of land surrounded by Moreton Bay figs, a gathering place for cicadas in summer.
I was torn between the desire to sneak into the property in the hope of being able to boast that I had seen greengrocers, orange drummers, redeyes and other colourfully named cicadas, and my fear of the men in the hostel, whom people described as shell-shocked or damaged. They, and the Western Australian flowering gums along the road, each of which bore the name of an Australian soldier killed in the war, were the physical reminders of war and of Anzac Day in particular.Even to children these things intimated a reality only later to be entered: the sadness of war. As did the Anzac Day celebrations, largely composed of fellow soldiers and those who had lost husbands, brothers, fathers and lovers in the war.
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Today the celebration of Anzac Day has changed notably. Its participants encompass soldiers who have fought in a variety of wars since 1945, their relatives and descendants, and people who find the rituals of the day moving and encouraging.
- The focus of the day has switched
- from honouring and grieving the soldiers who died at Anzac Cove and in the trenches
- to honouring and celebrating the heroism of all those who have fought in the Australian armed forces.
Anzac Day has also been increasingly used as a commonplace by politicians for praising distinctively Australian values. They have accordingly spent heavily on facilities for remembering the war, focused on the site of the battle rather than on the hometowns of those who grieve, and often yielded to the temptation to glorify war.
The change of focus has not been universally accepted. The tension between remembering those who have died in battle and celebrating those who have fought in battles makes the celebration of Anzac Day inherently controversial. It is seen by many to canonise military values.
I believe that the risk is less to glorify war than to sanitise it by allowing time and space to take away its physical reality, and with it the sadness of war. The relationships involved in it are reduced to those that link soldiers on the battlefield to one another and to those at home who support them faithfully.
"Anzac Day is an occasion for dwelling compassionately on the things that bind us together, not those that separate us into allies and enemies."
If we celebrate Anzac Day we should be drawn to reflect on the full range and power of relationships involved in war. That means keeping in mind the relatives and friends of those who fought, not simply at Anzac Cove but in all Australian military actions, and especially the families who lost husbands, sons and brothers. We should also hold these relationships in our imagination, not simply at the moment when people fought, were wounded, died or survived, but afterwards.
Our reflection should include the way in which soldiers who survived negotiated the changed relationships with families, friends and lovers when they returned. It should encompass also the way in which the lives of families were devastated by the loss of children, lovers or parents, were affected by fathers returning with symptoms of stress and addiction and by the violence which sometimes accompanied it.
It should include, too, the long, dependent lives of those at Anzac Hostel and elsewhere who were so affected by physical or mental illness as a result of their war service that they lived the rest of their life in institutions or home care.
If we hold in our imagination those Australians who fought in war and the complex relationships that frame their lives, we should remember also the young people, women and children today around the world who are drawn into suffering or inflicting the horrors of war by necessity and not by choice.
On Anzac Day we should celebrate, not the achievements, but the humanity of soldiers recently caught in war, and be encouraged to attend to their welfare, especially to the hardest affected among them.
In a society and world in which military metaphors and binary choices are extended increasingly to international relationships, immigration, customs, policing and welfare, Anzac Day is an occasion for dwelling compassionately on the things that bind us together, not those that separate us into allies and enemies. It is a time for children to visit boldly those who live in the Anzac Hostels of our day and for both together to delight in the variety and the sound of cicadas.
Andrew Hamilton is consulting editor of Eureka Street.Main image: A ward for the totally and permanently incapacitated in an Anzac Hostel, 1919 (National Archives of Australia)
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EXISTING COMMENTS
"On Anzac Day we should celebrate, not the achievements, but the humanity of soldiers recently caught in war, and be encouraged to attend to their welfare, especially to the hardest affected among them." I wholeheartedly agree. As a primary schoolboy I can remember singing "Abide with me" and "O God our help in ages past" in a school choir, as old diggers walked up or were wheeled up to the cenotaph to place flowers. Their wives, kids and grandkids etc. were part of the scenery, but it was the gnarled old blokes, weeping or blankfaced, who freaked me out. As I grew older and marched in parades, and later served in the Army reserves, the futility of war and the horrors they endured became clearer. Thank you, Andrew, for writing these words: "In a society and world in which military metaphors and binary choices are extended increasingly to international relationships, immigration, customs, policing and welfare, Anzac Day is an occasion for dwelling compassionately on the things that bind us together, not those that separate us into allies and enemies." My boy played the Last Post at his school this morning, as I, and my father in his time, had done before him. We've talked it out, and my son knows that his maternal German great-grandfather, his Australian Pop, and his deceased paternal great-grandfathers, and other rellies, had served in different armies; yet along with their families they had all faced the prospects of the same kinds of violence and horrors. Words like victory and defeat ring hollow when you look in the faces of the survivors.
Barry G | 23 April 2018
I used to say to myself, “I must go to a dawn service one day.” I never got there and now, if offered the opportunity, I would refuse. I sometimes have dinner at my local RSL but always book for after the nightly Last Post is played. I wouldn't have chosen to go otherwise but I visited Gallipoli in 2014 (some months after all the official activities) as part of an organised tour of Turkey. I was the only one of my tour group who wept. To the rest, I assume, perhaps wrongly, that the past has been “consigned to history”. I wept because my son is in the Australian Army and I could see the waste of all those lives, past, present and future. My son joined the Army completely out of the blue and said to me repeatedly when I expressed my concerns, “Mum, it's the Australian 'Defence' Force.” As it happened, he joined just before we joined (like lapdogs) the US in Iraq and as far as defence goes, it has all gone downhill from there. When my son first went to Afghanistan I told him that he should always do the right thing but he should never try to be a hero. If the worst ever befalls him, I won't be celebrating anything. He'll understand. He doesn't go in for all the glorification himself. Unlike the rest of my tour group in Turkey who are probably fairly representative of present day Australians, there is nothing like having a serving member of the armed forces in the family to live with unimaginable fear when they are deployed because the reality of war comes right into your home.
MargaretMC | 23 April 2018
This gentle reflection powerfully brings to mind the damage inflicted by war. I have attended dawn services in our town and been struck by the number of people attending and the palpable sadness. The hymn "Abide with me" a very poignant reminder of our loss. In recent days I've also been reading Kenneth Slessor's classic poem "Beach Burial", with its soft and humble beginning and ending in humanity's shared reckoning.
Pam | 23 April 2018
I would wish two things on Anzac Day. Firstly, that everyone who wants to remember the courage and valour of those who served reads Erich Remarque's 'All Quiet on the Western Front'; it's a reminder that war is about killing and being killed. Secondly that all politicians be excluded from any active part in the commemorations; lest we forget that it was the failure of politicians that led us into most past wars and that will lead us into the next.
Ginger Meggs | 23 April 2018
Fr Andy. Thank you for your memories, and thoughts in this very fine article. And for the image of authentic, human fragility.
AO | 23 April 2018
In Australian cities this evening people will gather on Anzac Eve to commemorate all who suffered in war emphasising the need for prevention of future wars. These peace vigils organised by the Independent and Peaceful Australia Network.
Annette Brownlie | 24 April 2018
Grandfather, 3 great uncles in WW1 and Uncle in WW2. Lived with 1 great uncle as a child. He was shell shocked and shell remained in his head - it could not be removed. One great uncle permanently damaged, 1 uncle had PTSD. As an 8 year old left home at 4 am to attend the Museum ANZAC service. Cry every time when I hear that trumpet.
Noeline Champion | 24 April 2018
i am encouraged by this as i have just listened to Richard Flanagan address the National Press club.
Noel Jeffs | 24 April 2018
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