Anzac day makes me physically ill.
Always has. Nausea. Anger. Headache. Sadness. Confusion.
When I was young I didn’t understand what this volcanic feeling of about to explode was.
I’m so glad more people are seeing Anzac for what it is, what it’s always been. And so relieved people are saying it.
I don’t understand why people kicking up about the commodification of ANZAC day. It has always and only been commodified. By politicians. To buy votes.
What has always made me so distressed and angry is the national cognitive dissonance.
The amplification and appropriation.
The celebration of the certain achievements of a certain kind of man.
The total disregard for the truth.
The definition of what a hero is.
The hijacking of what REALLY made our nation. Workers rights. Feminism. Multiculturalism, an irreverent can do pioneering spirit with a chip on its shoulder.
I have dreaded this day all week. I can’t wait for it to be over. I just ache for the truth. The truth of why these men were sent. What they felt. How everyone suffered.
Why politicians and the powers-at-be sent other people’s children to stand on the front line for their power, their money, their votes, their land.
How bogans revere it and use the most tenuous links to connect themselves with this myth created to validate more murder, death, homophobia, misogyny, racism.
How Anzac day has always enabled the patriarchy, religion and the state.
How the medals, the parades, the honor has always been slathered on so people didn’t assassinate politicians and burn down the houses of parliament.
Those who returned have never had a place to say ‘They lied to me. They sucked me in. They ripped me off. I trusted them.’
Parents, partners, siblings, children, family and friends have had no place to scream ‘YOU KILLED OUR BOYS. YOU BROKE OUR MEN’.
But they built RSLs. So some could drown their sorrows while others had a moment of peace at home.
And of course the Indigenous and Torres Strait Islanders were treated like shit.
Did you know they were playing Bee Gees ‘Stayin Alive’ at Gallipolli?