Anzac Day

On Friday I was optimistic enough to board a bus with the intenton of going to the markets. Of course, being Anzac Day here in Australia, the bus detoured before we got to the centre of town and started heading somewhere entirely not near the markets.

I got off before I ended up somewhere in the remotest suburbs where I believe they still worship the sun and eat people*, and found myself in a square in the midst of a bunch of boys in kilts. The Anzac Day parade! For a moment of horror I thought I might actually be in the parade, and flattened myself against the nearest building until they'd gone past.

I think it was getting started just as I arrived. Pretty soon the boys in kilts were marching in tight formation and playing the bagpipes. They were wonderful! I called up the Man who was still out of town, so that he could hear them play. I think he could; I certainly couldn't hear him over the din! They really were fantastic. It quite brought a tear to my eye, to imagine all those sweet, fuzzy-cheeked teenage boys practicing earnestly in their bedrooms for the big day. My Scottish grandmother would have loved it.

Actually it brought more than one tear to my eye; I could feel myself getting all choked up and emotional and it was pretty embarrassing. Remembrance Sunday and Anzac Day parades and services always get me worked up. As I wandered the streets with my shopping bag, trying to find a way through to the markets and pretending I had something caught in my eye, I wondered why it was affecting me so much. Then I realized - it reminds me of my grandparents, now all dead. (Either that or I'm a big softie.)

My paternal grandmother - the Scottish one - never showed much interest in World War 2 nostalgia, but she did had a soft spot for the bagpipes. Grandma was not the most refined of ladies, and my mother, who came from gentler stock, would marvel at her brashness. My mother was especially tickled to discover the two greasy cassettes (stashed away in a greasy drawer) of bagpipe music, the covers depicting some Highland dragoon in full dress uniform, playing with gusto. I never heard Grandma actually play the tapes, or any music besides the radio, but I liked to imagine I inherited an appreciation of bagpipe music from her. (No, I don't have any in my music collection. Be realistic now.) If she'd been standing next to me on Friday, I imagine she wouldn't have shown any outward pleasure but would have started earnestly telling me all about the Scottish National Guard, if there is such a thing, and naming the songs with a knowledgable air.

My Grandad on my mother's side was an avid viewer of World War 2 films, and enjoyed recounting yarns from the war to my two brothers, who just loved his stories. We never heard anything from the 50s, 60s, or 70s, but boy did we hear about the 40s! He didn't bore all and sundry with his memories, but if you were at my grandma and grandad's house in the late 80s/early 90s, and everything had gone quiet and my brothers and Grandad had disappeared somewhere, you could bet you'd find them in the study, Grandad slowly and thoughtfully telling some tale, and the two little boys happily playing Lego at his feet and occasionally asking for clarification of some detail of the story. Grandma Baines wasn't all that bothered about the stories, but there was one she loved to tell jointly with him, about the time when they were newly married, and she'd gone to visit him when he was stationed nearby, and she drove out of the barracks with him hiding in the boot of the car so that they could enjoy a day out together! It's an especially good tale if you know how upright and ladylike she is. I can just imagine the soldiers at the gate letting her out with a respectful wave, and no idea about the illicit cargo in the back!

On Remembrance Sunday, Grandad would sit in his armchair in front of the television watching the parade, televised live from London. Grandma also seemed to enjoy it. Sometimes they'd exclaim in recognition as the BBC presenter introduced yet another set* of marchers, and Grandma would reach across her armchair to his and he would clasp her gnarled old hand in his big strong one and they'd smile at each other. My brothers would comment knowledgeably whenever they could - they still have an amazing knowledge of World War 2 trivia! It must have been very nice for grandad to have such a receptive young audience for his memories, but then, he was a good storyteller.

I never really wondered why Grandad never went to London to march wearing all his medals. We were Oop North, and London was a long way. Grandma and Grandad never went out much anyway. Then my mother told me some time later that he wouldn't have wanted to march even if he had lived closer to the capital. He may have only told my brothers about the fun stuff, the camaraderie and the cool planes and the generals' cunning tactics, but he had a lot of bad memories tucked away in his head too. Once after we were all in bed, he'd become very maudlin and told her about his friend, who'd been sitting right beside him wherever it is they were (my mother doesn't remember the details) and suddenly his head was blown off. I think he may have had a lot of anger hidden away in him, and marching in pomp and circumstance with his shiny medals and being congratulated by the establishment would have seemed hypocritical. Grandad was a bit of a philosopher and had quite the rebellious streak in him. I wish I'd had more time to ask him about stuff like that, but I was 18 when he died, and had only just stopped being obsessed about my belly fat and wondering if I was ever going to lost my virginity all the time.

Grandad's ambivalent attitude towards military pageantry and the Man's rabid pacifist stance I guess help explain why I am rather uncomfortable with the whole Anzac Day thing. Sure, I get all teared up when I see the shrivelled old men walking slowly but with such pride in their old uniforms, and I think of all their young pals who didn't make it, but are not forgotten. But I feel a deep discomfort every time some smug politician pontificating about how 'the Legend of Anzac Day will live on'; it feels like the tragic event of thousands of young men being sent needlessly to their deaths is being used to justify the rather boorish nationalism that is popular in some circles of Australia right now - and why?

I also feel uncomfortable when the sacrifice of that (WWII) generation is held up as an example to us younger people of how we should obey our politicans and the Establishment - Anzac Day is a military celebration after all, and the military is not known for its accommodation of dissent and free spirit. But didn't most of those boys (and girls) go to war because there was little choice? Wasn't the war for them mainly about survival, and making sure their friends survived with them? My Grandad's favourite tales were of the times he and his pals had adventures where they got one up over their superiors, and had fun under the radar of the authorities. He was no lover of military hierarchy.

I also hate how politicians of all persuasions use these events as an opportunity to puff themselves up and make themselves look good. I hate that they use the tragedy of war to make themselves look good and raise their popularity ratings.

After I'd extricated myself from the parade and done my shopping, I met one of the Man's friends for a couple of drinks. He was in town to participate in the parade, as he's a fighter pilot. We talked a bit about Anzac Day and Remembrance Sunday (the British version, a dignified event that doesn't come with gurgling voice-overs about 'The LEGEND of the ANZACS!!') and he told me what it was about for him. It was simply about remembering the fallen, and the lost friends. Politicians may enjoy the opportunity for posturing, but when don't they? They kiss babies and smile for the cameras every time they open a hospital, but it doesn't mean that hospitals shouldn't be opened, or the war dead shouldn't be remembered.

I did feel a bit better about it after I went home from the pub. And I've never had a problem with there being a day to remember those lost in war. I just hate when it's hijacked by people with another agenda, and when it's used to make war seem glorious. I feel it's used to justify a rather silly nationalism.

Yet, Australia's ability to celebrate and express patriotism is one of the things I admired most when I first got here. The British are so whingey and desperate to make themselves sound sophisticated that they are terrified to express any love for their country. Can poor Australia ever win?!

Anyway, it's all over now, and I have to go finish cleaning the oven. It really stinks!!


*I'm a city girl!
**Platoon? Division? Troop?