Anzac Dawn

This morning after work, I took a quick shower and returned to the City, for my second Anzac Dawn service. In Sydney at least. My 26 year old son, who lives downtown, was also up for it. This was his third or fourth Dawn service. A couple of years ago he had done me proud by attending the Gallopoli Dawn service, in Turkey.

We grabbed a cab and at 4.30am joined some 15,000 in Martin Place. A solemn yet rare crowd for a public Sydney gathering. Looking around, I noted the dominant feature of the participants, mono-cultural. At first you wonder what’s different, before realising there are no Asians, Arabs or Africans amongst the worshippers. A real bush crowd.

These days such a crowd seems incongruous for Sydney, until our Lebanese Governor, Maria Bashir AC, got up to recite the 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 to the battlefields of All Wars, 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 more dedicate ourselves to 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 new light into the dark places of the world.

Unbelievably, a generation of schoolchildren were subjected to a New South Wales school curriculum which watered down and denied our history of defending freedom. A blatant attempt at cultural genocide. A history curriculum so deplete of true representation that Premier Bob Carr stepped in a few years ago and said, 'Enough !'.

My sons generation have thankfully recognised the downgrading of their history and said, ‘Bugger off - we’re going to Gallipoli.’ A generation of kids who were, in fact, proud of their grandparents. They easily recognise the reality and necessity of War, in stark contrast to the delusions of dopey peaceniks. A generation of kids identify with their kin, who fought to ensure their continuing freedoms.

Tacked onto the end of the official Dawn Service party, like an afterthought, were some Vietnam Vets. They were the Kings Cross bikers who hang outside a strip club on their blue milk crates, day and night. All grey hair and beards, clad in denim and leathers, proud of their club colours. The colours of Vietnam Veterans.

In the late eighties, I took my son into the City for the first official welcome home Parade of the forgotten Vietnam veterans. The servicemen and women whom enlightened university students had previously denounced and spat upon - 'Fucking baby-killers !'. The Vets belated Sydney Parade was therefore due recognition and the righting of a national disgrace.

Last night driving through the Cross, I noticed a group of Vets surrounding a strip-club spruiker, in animated conversation. Pensioner bikers laying down the law to a bemused middle-eastern heavy. I love those Vets in Kings Cross. May they always have a presence there with their Harley Davidsons and ready smiles.

They bear witness to a supreme sacrifice, too often forgotten. They were spat upon. We should never forget them. Next time you’re in the Cross toot your horn and give ‘em the thumbs-up.