Silence.
The stillness of the early morning, just before the sky lightens at dawn.
The air is heavy with meaning. With reflection and contemplation.
The bugler has just finished playing the last, haunting notes of The Last Post.
Heads are bowed.
Silence.
—–
The war memorials around Australian and New Zealand are silent today. More silent than usual.
Remembrance, that sacred recollection of those of our armed forces who served, suffered and died in our name, is a less communal commemoration this year, at least in terms of physical closeness.
Instead, across the country at dawn, we remember alone, or in small family groups, many on our balconies and at the end of our driveways.
It feels very different.
I'm the son of a Vietnam Veteran, For as many years as I can recall, our family has attended the ANZAC Day Dawn Service, first with Dad, and, in more recent years, without him.
I'm also the grandson of a Second World War POW, who was held for years in German prison camps.
Both men used to march in the Sydney ANZAC Day parade, when their health permitted.
That was anything but silent.
As kids, our hands were sore from clapping and waving our small plastic Australian flags.
The pipe bands, and drum bands, who gave the marchers their accompaniment, played songs I can still recall and hum.
The people clapped and cheered and waved, thanking our surviving veterans for their service, and honouring our dead.
When I first started attending the March, there was a riderless horse at the front of the parade, with boots backward in the stirrups. It was, my mother and grandmother said, to remember the veterans of the Boer War. The empty saddle and reversed boots were to signify that no Boer War veterans remained alive.
As the years passed, so did the last remaining WWI veterans.
There aren't many WWII diggers left now, either.
And this year, no parade. No gatherings at all.
Except that, as long as we keep faith with our veterans, alive and no longer with us, the commemoration will not be diminished.
It seems less grand. Less visually arresting, by force of numbers.
But it is no less an act of communal remembrance. Indeed, it is, in some ways, more.
It is good to remember, and to honour, together.
But it is good to remember, and to honour, alone, too.
We remember the men and women who, answering their country's call, enlisted and were sent to serve in our name in wars, war-like conflicts and peace-keeping missions across the world.
We remember their selfless service. We remember their privations and suffering; physical, mental and emotional.
We remember those who returned home as heroes, and those who felt betrayed by their country's poor treatment when they returned.
We remember those who came home, but never really left.
We remember those who did not come home at all.
These are the words of the ANZAC Dedication:
At this hour, upon this day, ANZAC received its baptism of fire and became one of the immortal names in history.
We who are gathered here think of the comrades who went out with us to battle but did not return. We feel them still near us in spirit. We wish to be worthy of their great sacrifice.
Let us, therefore, once again dedicate ourselves to the service of the ideals for which they died.
As the dawn is even now about to pierce the night, so let their memory inspire us to work for the coming of the new light into the dark places of the world.
We remember them this year, apart, but together.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.
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.
Lest We Forget
