It’s ANZAC day, a special date in our calendar down in this part of the world. If you are in the Northern Hemisphere, you’ll need to know that ANZAC stands for the combined services of Australia and New Zealand in the two World Wars. Together, we joined with our allies to fight off the threats in Europe, the Middle East, Africa and closer to home. On this date, we commemorate the fallen ANZAC soldiers. It’s a day that stops the nation. People attend dawn services and wear the red poppy on their lapels, sometimes alongside the service medals of generations gone before. The red poppy is the symbol of this day, as it reminds us of the battle of Flanders Field, now covered in red poppies. A stark visual reminder of the bloodshed and lost souls of war.
I have always been horrified by war. The thought of having to go away to fight when you probably don’t want to. Lucky for me, the only ‘traumatic echo’ I have of war, is the commando comic images burned into my childhood memories: young men being blasted into the beyond. I can’t fully comprehend that real soldiers spent their last days killing people and suffering as they watched their comrades injured or wiped off the face of the earth. It’s a strange kind of political game I have never, ever understood. I blame patriarchy and the male mentality for believing war is a solution to state issues. I will never sit with the ‘glory’ of war and I consider it to be a pointless, criminal waste of life.
My brother, when we were growing up, was fascinated by war, what little boys weren’t? Where we lived in Papua New Guinea, war relics were easy to find. There was a mount in our town of Lae, that was tunnelled out and used by the Japanese as a base hospital. As a result, the land around the town was littered with artifacts of war. Unexploded shells, bullets, and even, in the jungles beyond our town, crashed warplanes. I remember two particular finds. A Japanese war helmet with a bullet hole in it. And somehow, more poignantly, an Allies service food bowl with it’s fork rusted right through the rim. When the war ended, rather than surrender, the Japanese blew up the entrances and died inside. And like any antipodean school child, I have heard the stories about Japanese atrocities, I’ve read the books and been horrified by the cruelties inflicted upon Japanese-held prisoners of war. But there were human souls inside that mountain who died because of war, too. They died because they were soldier-pawns in a bigger game of war, played out by bigger men making decisions in rooms far from the fighting.
I just don’t get it.
We commemorate the bravery of those in the war effort. Not all war effort, but WW1 and WW2. These particular wars seem to have a sanitised, mythical greatness about them in our national psyche. I do feel it was unthinkably brave to ‘do your duty’ if you were so unfortunate enough to be born in a time of war. And so they were. Brave beyond comprehension. I can’t imagine the incredible damage done to so many psyches, faced with the gritty duty of firing on other human beings. My mother told me that my grandfather had a drinking problem because he had gone to war. He was away when she was born; a brand new husband and father who returned to his fledgling little family, a vastly different person. I wonder who he would have been without that war. Who she would have been?
How far does warfare reach into the hearts and minds of the generations beyond?
Yes, we should remember them. But what is that remembrance for if we do not also begin to ask the questions that no one considers patriotic. Why? Why did it happen? How can we stop it happening now? And it is! There are wars happening all over this planet, does it matter less because it is not our family members firing the bullets or taking them? Does it matter that one of the greatest weapons of war across Africa is sexual assault and female mutilation?
War is not the only way to solve problems. We are a race of intelligent souls, there are alternatives. There are radically different ways of thinking that could lead to a better future.
I mean no disrespect to our fallen ancestors; the terrible cost exacted by war on family after family. What I mean to say is that I can’t believe that we cannot get our act together and look for peace. Let us not create another reason for another commemoration. That is the reason why, on this day,
I Remember Them.
I guess that makes me a pacifist. How about you? Do you have feelings about this? How is it that commemorations are our solemn duty, but having the conversations about how to stop it all, is not?