:: One People, Many Cultures ::



::Living Together in Respect and Friendship::

It’s been a few days since Anzac Day, but I’ve been listening to a few songs over and over since then. Mostly I’ve had them in my head, but not in the annoying way of jingles that get stuck. These all get me thinking about war and the hardships it brings to even those not directly involved.

Get a copy if you can.

Yesterday was ANZAC Day. The day the Australia / New Zealand Army Corps landed at Gallipoli – the day most of our fatalities occured. Anacdotely, I’ve heard it said that half of our fatalities happened on that one day. It may have been half from that particular battle, but either way, it’s an enormous loss and a definining day in the history of this country. Last year I found out that more Turks died than allied soldiers, so the total impact of this beach is incredible.

A listener rang up Triple J the day before to say that they were at Gallipoli with a crowd of Australians, waiting to watch the sun come up as the soldiers who survived might have. I got teary just imagining being there. I don’t know what the hold on me is. None of my family were there. My grandfather’s biggest war story is being left for dead after his plane crashed on the runway. As far as I know, he never faced the enemy.

It got me thinking about who this day affects and how. Dave was born in Australia, but his parents moved here after WW2, so he has even less reason to get emotional than I do and said that the idea of going to Gallipoli doesn’t touch him. But he admitted to tearing up when watching Gallipoli the movie and having a deep respect for the people that fought the war so Australia could be free. Over half the Australian population is as new to the country as Dave’s family is and personally, I think it’s good to know that we all share in our respect for the Diggers and a fervent hope that we’ll never be put into that situation again.

It’s been about 25 years since I’ve eaten an Easter egg. Australian chocolate isn’t the best so Mum would hide a packet of crumpets for me instead. Coming from an agnostic family, I never even knew the meaning behind the egg. That all changed over the past weekend, living with my adopted Lebanese family.

I ate my usual double breakfast before anyone else woke up on Sunday morning, then had to find room for boiled eggs when they did rise. But before I could eat the egg, I had to try my egg against Dave’s mum’s hitting the point of mine against the point of hers. My egg cracked, leaving her the champion. She proceded to beat the rest of the family and told me that, had it been Lebanon, she’d be walking down the street challenging all the neighbours. The winner of each bout would get to keep the damaged egg, so it was a big deal to choose the best egg.

But what’s the egg all about? Apparently, it’s the symbol of rebirth only recently made commercial with chocolate. No one knew how the bunny came into it.

Not long after breakfast, Dave’s sister arrived with her little family, bearing gifts of European chocolate for us all. Dave then brought out a large egg each, again of European chocolate. And finally, his mum disappeared to return with a huge basket full of chocolate eggs and rabbits of all varieties, allowing us each to choose one. The rest were to be kept for visitors. I wonder if the European catholics make Easter such an extravagant occasion.

I was very happy to see signs alerting passersby of the aboriginal community that used to live in the area, when we were house hunting on Saturday. I don’t know how long they’ve been up, but I haven’t noticed them at all before and I saw 4 last weekend. It’s too late to give the land back – the communities probably don’t exist any more anyway – but anything to ensure we remember what we’ve done to these people will help us work to find a place for them in our society. Or better yet, to change our ways to find a place in their society. How is still the big question, but we’re making slow progress.