It was the sirens that woke me at 5.30am in the pre-dawn
dark; speeding police cars, blue and red lights flashing across my ceiling.
But it was the incongruous sound of pedestrians, the clatter of many footsteps and groups of people chatting brightly as they passed my window, that drew me from my bed.
I looked out across the suburb. The
beachside carpark, normally empty at this hour, was weirdly full. The dark streets were
filled with cars, pacing, looking for parking spaces. Desperate opportunists helped
themselves to the empty spots in our private off street carpark. A tide of people
in warm clothing, carrying nothing but their mobile phones, all moved in the
same direction. The quietest time of the morning bustled with human activity
not even seen at the height of daytime peak. Yet it was dark. It was 5.40am.
Something was going on. Something had happened at the north
end of the beach and everyone without exception was heading towards it.
Unlike the city2surf, the one day of the year that brings
unprecedented crowds to Bondi, there had been no preparation, no weeks of
signage warning us of the event, no street cordons set up the night before or
media tents lined up along the beach. Yet this was something that everyone knew
about. Except me it seemed.
Then I remembered.
Anzac Day. This was no normal Anzac Day, but the 100th
anniversary which the media and press had been milking so relentlessly, that I had
taken to actively avoiding the news. The commercialisation and hype around this
tragic event – "that should never have happened" in the words of one
returned digger – had reached heights of tasteless hyperbole, robbing the
occasion of its real meaning and requiring a plastering on of forced pathos.
Now masses of people who in previous years slept through
dawn on Anzac Day, were now driven by a nation-wide collective compulsion to
hurry out of bed in the dark and rush to the beach.
I sat in my living room and tried to mediate while 20,000
people gathered at the RSL for the dawn service. I sat in silence and tried to
empty my mind of all the judgement and needless mess. The crowd on the beach stood
in silence. I imagine there were then speeches. I imagine they collectively remembered
the horrible slaughter of Australian and New Zealand soldiers, at Gallipoli in
1915 and in all wars and conflicts.
An hour later in the cool blue day's sunlight – while the
young radio DJ malapropped about today's "celebration" instead of
"commemoration" – the crowds flowed back from the beach in groups and
pairs, chatting, laughing, glowing with a warm communality of having shared an
emotional experience.
And I wondered what had each of them learned?
