I’ve been exploring around the Word Press website and it amazes me to think there cannot be a topic on this globe that isn’t covered by one (or many) blogs.
One blog I read said that new writers should write every day for the first month. Hmmm, I think I missed that boat. Also, I should have a consistent theme, or direction. Somehow, that isn’t quite happening yet either. But I promise when TAFE (study) is finished, and this year of upheaval is over, I will resume my life of supreme calm, and provide thoughtful, logical and similarly themed blog posts.
In the meantime, my thoughts go to the events of the past week. Wednesday 25 April, to be exact. This is a day full of poignancy for both Australia and New Zealand. I’m not so familiar with NZ history, but when the First World War broke out, Australia had only just joined its penal colonies and colonial-settled states as a federated nation in 1900. Fifteen years later, they joined the British Imperial Forces to fight her battles in Turkey and then along the Western Front of France and Belgium.
Horrific losses of life occurred during this war to end all wars. The world would never be the same and by 1918, Europe’s land lay battered and destroyed.
The ANZAC spirit of mateship and facing adversity was defined in this war – where the Australian and NZ soldiers were shot down as they landed on the beaches of Gallipoli at the foot of steep cliffs. Now the Turks and Australians are friends, showing that on occasions, time can eventually heal some wounds.
Two years later – to the day – the Australian soldiers fought to save a little town in France called Villers-Bretonneux. As a result, the French (particularly in that area) remember Australians with a great deal of gratitude.
Back home, military and civilian alike rise up in the darkness, to make their way to dawn services, to stop to remember – not to glorify – but to show their thanks. It is not just for the soldiers who fought then, but also those who have fought since to protect our nation.
Many of us go to remember. Why? Because those thousands of names listed on war memorials in France, Belgium and towns and cities throughout Australia, as well as those who came home, scarred and damaged, are family.
I am not alone in this. In WW1, one of my great-great-great uncles fell on the way to Passchendaele. My great-grandfather served in the Field Ambulance on the Western Front – something I am especially proud of – that he helped those in need, rather than being part of the cause of losses in other families His son went to El Alemein in WW2 and lost his life there. My grandmother never really got over the loss of her brother … so much so that in the last few months of her life, it was him she spoke most often of calling her.
In my travels I didn’t make it to these places. One day I might. I would like to see these places of historical significance – both personal and global, and to pay my respects to those who laid down their lives for others.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
Lest we forget.