ANZAC Day

Imagine a place where former enemies, who fought in the seminal war of their age, got together and had a parade. They marched carrying their respective flags wearing their respective medals, conquerors and conquered alike applauded by each other’s children for the bravery of their youth if not their cause.

This isn’t Kingdom Come. It’s ANZAC Day.

The acronym stands for Australia and New Zealand Army Corps, the first substantial force fielded by the young countries in the 1915 campaign at Gallipoli, Turkey. ANZAC Day is one of 13 public holidays in Australia, the hybrid equivalent of the honor of Veteran’s Day and the patriotism of 4th of July.

Every Turk I met back in November (in Turkey), almost to a person, told me about Gallipoli. A vital tenant of their education and pride is every man, woman, and child gave their all in that last great effort of the Ottoman Empire. After eight months, it essentially ended in a stalemate with loads of people dead from both sides, but represented a turning point in Turkish, Australian, and New Zealand history. For the latter two, it is the event that allowed them to shake free of their British identity. 

I’m ashamed to say, as a lover of both history and geography that I’d never heard of Gallipoli. Real lovers of history would sneer at me.

But to Australia on sunny April 25 . . .

Soldiers of World War I would be 110, so the march is now populated with aging World War II veterans, now 85 themselves, or their progeny. Imagine it thirty years ago.

The parade, which I attended in Melbourne, reflects its destination as an immigration capital of the past century. Turks and Australians march at designated times. Aussies, Brits, Americans, and Russians march with Germans, Italians, and Japanese. For good measure, there are also Nepalese, Serbs, Poles, Sri Lankans, Indians, Koreans, Dutch, and Poles. I’m not kidding, everyone claps when they walk by.

Who had the insight to put together such a march, and all it represents? It makes war seem ludicrous, though no one will deny it’s a reality. Australia (and the rest of the world) would have been a much different place the past 65 years if those wars had ended differently.

This country is by no means Utopia. The Aboriginals, inhabitants for millennia, were usurped by British convict colonies two hundred years ago. The quest to merge multiple cultures continues. Following WWII, it was largely Europeans. Now add Africans and Asians as the new generation of influx. Italians, Greeks, and Poles I’ve met still seem sensitive about being referred to as “wogs.” Now Sudanese, Ethiopians and Somalis make their way alongside Chinese, Indians and Pacific Islanders, all together becoming Australians.

Growth causes pain. Melbourne is a premier place in the world to watch it worked out. You may guess it’s captured my mind, and nothing better represents it than a remnant of old adversaries shuffling proudly down the pavement together.