Peter Rope: Anzac

It was the morning of the 25^th of April, and five people scrambled out of bed at 5:30am and into the darkness. The reason for this auspicious awakening was Anzac day. And my flatmates and I were scrambling to make, what I thought was a small, beachside dawn service.

Having driven to the beach in question we were forced to park a far stretch away. I expected a turnout of two hundred or so people, but the scarcity of parking suggested otherwise. It was surprising in the half light at such an early hour to see so many cars sitting in the cold dark dawn as we walked.

By the beach we joined the gathered throng. Mothers and fathers, children and grandparents, young people, and couples. All demographics in the country represented it seemed, and in various states of zombified alertness. I was impressed and surprised by the vast numbers of people who were sacrificing their morning rest to get up so early on what has become a public holiday, and was proud to count myself amongst that number.

We ended up a vast distance away from the memorial all the crowds were converging towards, with hundreds of people between us. But could luckily still hear the proceedings due to a speaker on a pole that had been erected only ten metres away from where we were standing. We stood upon the beginnings of a concrete boat ramp, leading from the grass to the water at high tide. The masses were silent, reverent.

The service had already begun. The minister was giving an introduction and a short talk about the sacrifice the Anzac soldiers had made which next transitioned into a prayer. He mentioned Jesus, he mentioned the Holy Spirit, in his prayer. And it seemed to me the mood in the crowd was tangible. People looked away, people tuned out his words. They were indifferent, they were tolerant, and they didn’t care. These were words the crowd didn’t relate to, and didn’t want to hear.

And it seemed to me this sort of language hits people’s ears like a foreign language even in my own homeland. The sacrifice of our soldiers is much more real and tangible than the sacrifice of Christ. And the comparison is a comparison that seems oddly out of place. It echoes on the periphery of New Zealand society, the place were we relegate such infrequent occasions as weddings and funerals.

After the prayer is over with, silence. There are no sounds coming from the speaker nearby, the crowd seems still and reverent. In the silence I can distinctly hear the high tide lapping upon the beach close by, slowly, sadly, and the rhythm reminds me of some poetic lines by Matthew Arnold, lifted from his poem Dover Beach.

Sophocles long ago

Heard it on the A gaean, and it brought

Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow

Of human misery; we

Find also in the sound a thought,

Hearing it by this distant southern sea.

The Sea of Faith

Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.

But now I only hear

Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,

Retreating, to the breath

Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear

And naked shingles of the world.

We sing the national anthem. God save New Zealand. The bagpipes play and the crowd disperses to café after café, lit by the light of the new day. And all I am thinking is, God, where did we go wrong.



The poem Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold in it’s entirety (http://www.victorianweb.org/authors/arnold/writings/doverbeach.html