A silence has never sounded so loud

Anzac Day 2012, Perth

There were 40,000 people gathered in King’s Park for the dawn service on Anzac Day. That’s 40,000 people who have heaved themselves from their slumber to crush onto special services that operate on all train lines throughout the city around 04:30, and then onto free shuttle buses from the centre of Perth to its highest point, to watch the dawn, to stand in silence, and to honour the Anzacs who have served and who have fallen.

Anzac Day feels as if it’s something holy for Australians, and Kiwis, too. There is nothing celebratory about this public holiday. It is mournful, reverential, and utterly unifying.

I couldn’t, for a moment, imagine Remembrance Day being revered and honoured to this degree in the UK. I couldn’t imagine public transport companies making special arrangements to ensure that people can attend memorial services, in the middle of the night and in locations generally not accessible to buses. I couldn’t imagine people honouring anyone who has served in the Armed Forces, and perhaps suffered for it or sacrificed themselves to it, to this degree without there arising a clamour of the indignity of glorifying war.

There is no glory in Anzac Day. There is pride, yes. And there is heartfelt sorrow. But there is no glory.

However, there is also something deeper than recognising the contribution of their Armed Forces on Anzac Day. It marks the day when two very young nations came of age in horrific, brutal circumstances. Anzac Day is a scar; but it is neither a battle scar worn with a warrior’s pride and nor is it a shameful reminder of a juvenile misdemeanour. It’s a scar that traces history, not to be forgotten, a reminder of who these people are and what they have been through.