anzac day 2021

by dorothy Henderson - western australia based media stringer

ANZAC Day 2021 was supposed to be different from ANZAC Day 2020, when the candlelit presence of family groups at the end of driveways replaced Dawn Services around Australia. In 2020 we tried so hard to remember, Lest We Forget that the Covid 19 pandemic was not the only battle to scar us.

This year was different. Eagerly we awaited the rising of the sun on April 25, as we prepared to gather, to mumble in the dark, with the chill air and pale sky to greet us in the somber tone the day demands.

But for some of us in Australia that was not to be. As Perth and the Peel regions of Western Australia plunged into lockdown, we were again reminded that the Covid 19 pandemic is not over. 

In our own household, the recent journey to Perth by a family member, ironically for health reasons, meant we were restricted in movement, and that when he left our home, he was to wear a mask. “Out of an abundance of caution”, we restricted our own movements too. The masks remained in the car, and we all waited to hear if the restrictions were to ease at midnight on 26 April, or if we would still be operating on a “the virus is here” footing. We were. 

This morning I visited the War Memorial in my hometown. I should have been with the 10th Light Horse – Esperance Troop at both services yesterday, enjoying the predictable impact the presence of the horses have on the crowd every year. The pats, the eye-to-eye connection, the medal-laden diggers remembering times past.

But not this year. When I saw the memorial this morning, it was almost festive in appearance. The sun was well and truly up, but not so high that it had chased away the shadows, both real and perceived, that lay across the stark white concrete structure. Bright and cheerful flowers snuggled together at its base, fresh and yet to fade they were almost festive in their gaiety. 

People walked past on the nearby pavement, most leading or being led by dogs. Walking in the peaceful town before it was truly awake. A lady whizzed by on a bicycle, and two people headed towards the TransWA bus station, dragging suitcases behind them as they rattled by. There was nothing sanctimonious about the morning. No lingering trace of the memorial day, other than the bursts of colour around the monument.

Without the people present, the rows of chairs, the aging returned service personnel or the young cadets that usually stand guard, I was able to get closer than normal to the flowers. 

There was something sad about the fact that they lay there unappreciated, now that the wreaths were laid, and the crowd dispersed. But then I looked above them and saw the names inscribed. It seemed fitting that now the people had gone, prayers said and Last Post played, that the flowers remained to keep them company for a little longer. For they were for them: the flowers that bloomed so brightly were there to honour the lives of those robbed of their own chance to blossom.

I left the lonely site feeling content. Though Covid 19 had robbed some of us of the chance to actively participate like we normally would, we had not forgotten. We would not forget. In fact, because we are in the battle of a different kind, maybe we are more aware than ever of the fate of those lost in wars before.