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The the nature war as we know it is a self-perpetuating phenomenon characterised by catastrophic political failure, followed by grand proclamations of peace which soon fade as history is refashioned again into a simple tool used by powerfully entitled lunatics to spill more blood. Wash, rinse, repeat.
ANZAC day is a time of the year that is increasingly becoming a source of embarrassment for me. Embarrassment that there are veterans today going homeless because our society and political class see fit to send young men and women like political footballs into conflicts Australia really should not be involved in, and turn a blind eye to the consequences. Our country apparently has the misfortune of being beholden U.S. foreign policy objectives as it seeks to project its hegemonic power globally; so like good little wind-up tin soldiers, our nation jumps when it is told to. Let it be swept under the carpet that the bloodletting occurring in Iraq is a monster created, in a large part by Western hubris. I am embarrassed that terms like ‘patriotic’, ‘national spirit’ and ‘traditional’ are, like the propaganda in those fateful years of the early 20th Century, being fired off indiscriminately like the machine gun fire from the trenches of the Somme. The absurdity of war is more than just the maimed bodies of the dead, but the social and cultural forces that sanction such arbitrary waste.
My family has a rich history serving in the forces during the World Wars and in Vietnam. My Dharug family have suffered under the forces of invasion, having their homes and livelihoods forcibly taken from them by a gluttonous empire. I spent a good chunk of my youth with the Australian Army Cadets and spending time serving community in the services was a serious career option for me at one point. Civil service runs deep in the family and the idea of contributing to community through practical service is both honourable and admirable. Such strong values reinforce what I was taught about ANZAC commemorations, which were about family, community and sacrifice — not nationalism and certainly not the increasing marketisation of these stories and symbols. That the Australian polity seems to be increasingly caught up in the glamorised, mythologised and convenient re-imaginings war, rather than a solemn acknowledgement of the cost it incurs on all it touches, is embarrassing.
Such increasingly twisted messaging is also a profound disservice to those who currently serve in an organisation that is first and foremost (in principle and arrangement) a defensive and disaster relief force, that has the capacity to contribute much to our society and helping others abroad in humanitarian missions. Yet, the recent years has seen them represented more as tools used by our political class for cheap points and for ridiculous military adventures that cannot be justified by sane and reasonable minds. I am disgusted that these messages are being turned into commodities by unscrupulous individuals and business’ selling cheap shit like candy to the gaping mouths of the masses, as they search for some piece of shared identity in a country that cannot reconcile its own inner hurts.
I am embarrassed that I cannot see where it started or where it ends, as my own experiences bring with them a certain bias.
Now I look on and feel repulsed by what is unveiling: the ANZAC spirit increasingly seems to be characterised by what is left on on the butcher’s floor. A spirit of wilful blindness to the ‘Frontier’ Wars. Meek acknowledgement of the service of black diggers abroad, only to be returned and treated with racism and segregation. Or of the women who served and suffered invisibly to the rest of the nation. The ANZAC spirit seems to be blind to civilians who suffered allied war crimes, and who have been more recently at the receiving end of Western hegemony. A spirit that is holier than thou. However, our shit does stink, no matter how much you try to ignore it and spin around those facts with increasingly confusing messages. ANZAC seems to me to be no longer about the experiences of Australians at war, but about a political message. A narrative used to shape identity and quell critical thought without regard for the harsher truths.
As I grow older, I’m starting to understand why my grandfather threw away his medals and will never be seen at an ANZAC event. Ever.
9 Carat 