Dawn service a time for reflection, not spectacle

By Alan Attwood
April 22, 2006

In the beginning there was an eerie quiet. Before dawn on April 25, 1915, Australian troops packed into boats rowing towards the murky Gallipoli Peninsula were struck by the oppressive stillness. An engineer wrote later they expected, even hoped for, "all hell to be let loose every second, machine-guns, shrapnel, anything but this nerve-racking silence".

The first Anzac Day services, which began within the following decade, made a feature of silence. Many of these events were simple affairs, often open only to veterans; the first official dawn service was conducted at Sydney's Cenotaph in 1927. Services big or small followed a familiar pattern. In the pre-dawn darkness veterans would be ordered to "stand-to". Then came two minutes of silence, broken by a lone bugler.

It was simple; effective; replete with symbolism. So why have we allowed ceremonies to mark the nearest thing we have to an Australian national day to become tacky travesties of what they were meant to be? Modern Anzac Day services are in danger of succumbing to the Major Event syndrome, tricked up with scripts and soundtracks and special effects. Early on Tuesday afternoon, for example, ABC TV will telecast the dawn service from Anzac Cove along with a feature, Spirit Of Place, that, according to one program guide, includes "a musical performance and evocative lighting of the cliffs and gullies, set against images of the Gallipoli landing 91 years ago". What, no spouting fish?

The good news is that this time, unlike last year, there has been no brouhaha about John Farnham singing (or not) at Gallipoli. The bad news is that the swing towards showbiz spectaculars continues unabated. And, of course, there are the souvenirs. An establishment in the ACT has been advertising a "Sands of Gallipoli" plaque - "antique nickel finish metal plate on a wooden base featuring authentic sand collected from the beaches of Gallipoli". So now we know what all those trenching tools were for.

In recent times, there has been controversy about the impact of roadworks and the swelling tourist tide on the former battlefields. One positive aspect of last year's Farnham fuss was that it raised the question of what was, or wasn't, appropriate on the peninsula - even in a concert separate from the official commemorative service. New Zealand's PM put the kybosh on Whispering Jack but made it clear that her home-grown Finn brothers would also not be appropriate.

In the flood of letters and talkback calls debating this issue, two struck me as especially poignant. The first recalled a lone pilgrim to the peninsula starting to sing the Eric Bogle song And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda in the pre-dawn silence then, slowly, thousands participating in an improvised, and very moving, singalong. The second, rejecting the Disneyfication of the site, described the impact of "the grim sadness of the place; its silent melancholy".

The place is its own memorial. It doesn't need slick ceremonies. Nine years ahead of the centenary of the Gallipoli landings - an anniversary to send major event planners into a frenzy - is not too early to suggest that perhaps the peninsula should be given the Uluru treatment. Just as climbing the Rock, once practically compulsory for visitors, is now deemed to be disrespectful, so too could the Gallipoli site benefit from more reverence and simplicity, less sound and lights and PA systems. The story is so strong it does not need artificial aids.

As for Melbourne's official service at the Shrine, I have wished for years that they would do away with the sepulchral, rather banal commentary that precedes the unseen bugler. The immense power of the occasion comes from the gathering of strangers in the gloom; the flickering light of the flame, surrounded by pensive faces; and, above all, the enveloping darkness and silence that recall the conditions of the original heroic and tragically botched military operation.

The day and the way it is remembered has evolved over the past 91 years. The veterans of the first landing have all gone now. Technology has changed everything. No doubt there are computer whizzes around who reckon they could produce a powerful big-screen simulation of the events on Anzac Cove if given half a chance. They should politely be told to keep their memory sticks to themselves. And any major-eventer with plans for massed choirs or Russell Crowe reading some poetry should be reminded that this is a service, not an opening or closing ceremony. Silence can be the most powerful sound; also the hardest to achieve.

Early in the afternoon on Anzac Day there will be a call for silence at the MCG. A huge crowd is expected to witness the annual game between Essendon and Collingwood, which, in its way, has become an important part of the ritual of the day. This doesn't strike me as inappropriate - much less so, certainly, than showbiz presentations or souvenir plaques, complete with pilfered sand. After all, those early Anzacs loved a game of cards or cricket or footy. Any diversion would do. Anything to help them forget what followed that first nerve-stretching silence.

Alan Attwood is a Melbourne writer.