My questions of Anzac Day
So we gathered around the cenotaph against a spectacular backdrop of golden and russet autumn leaves and to the murmuring hum of the local community.
The wreaths were laid, the last post rang out and prayers were offered. In an unexpected and humbling gesture, I was asked if I would like to march with the folk. For a fleeting instant, I wondered if that would be appropriate. There was a family rumour that someone in my background had gone to Vietnam, but not much was spoken about this and I didn’t think it was my place to ask.
So would I march? Clearly, the local RSL gentlemen were comfortable or they would never be offered this sublime gesture. It was an undeserved privilege and I tried to keep in step with my gangly three left feet.
As we strode along the road I thought of those very young boys, who, not all that long ago, had also strode along the streets of their community.
So here are my questions about the day that is always poignant and sad and magnificent. I have never found answers to any of these questions but then perhaps I am not supposed to.
As these young men marched… were they excited, nervous, terrified, thrilled, proud or a combination of everything and other emotions that have no words?
We have learnt how to put a man on the Moon and a vehicle on Mars. We have mapped the human genome. We know how to do brain surgery and donate organs to one another. How come we have never learnt the secret of peace? Has the wholesale slaughter of farm boys taught us nothing?
And on a crisp autumn day as I am walking along and the sun is shining and I am surrounded by a marvellous community and everything seems so right…then why am I crying?
