ANZAC DAY 1983
(in Small Town New Zealand)

Smothering darkness cloaks us as we march through the gates of Terangimoaho Marae. Behind us lies a two hour journey along deserted roads through the sleeping towns of Katikati, Tauranga and TePuke. Yet in this pre dawn darkness we could be anywhere.

Behind me, Boy Scouts barely able to contain excitement and anticipation, hush suddenly.

A raw wailing sound, source unseen, pierces the darkness. In the inky blackness the sound is unreal, ethereal: later I come to recognise the significance of the Karanga, a symbolic weeping for friends and family lost in distant places. At the same time the Karanga acts as a beacon to guide us through the unseen gates of the marae.

We file through the gates and come to a stop in front of the wharenui. Not a sound now from anyone. The harsh sobs, rendered deep within a woman on the wharenui veranda continue. This is no act, the cry for lost ones is real and felt. Even those who have never stepped on a marae before comprehend the depth of this act. The mood is set. Emotions are released and seem as raw as the cold morning air.

Following the welcoming speech by an elder onto the marae, the assembled RSA members, LOF and Boy Scouts, on command, group in front of the main assembly hall. Prayers are said and hauntingly beautiful Maori songs are sung. Family and friends join in. There is a large representation of the Maori community and we pakehas slowly come to some understanding of the maoriness of the setting and feelings which arouse. There is an awareness that similar dawn services are being held throughout New Zealand. A moment is taken in time which annually unites us as New Zealanders.

Those around me let the odd tear slip down frosty cheeks. Two young children playfully fight the folds of a woollen blanket. It is good as our minds quickly span time to keep one foot firmly in the here and now. The laughter of children is truly precious. Reminders of war and words of peace and hope are spoken, then the last post is sounded. Surely even the sternest of hearts must respond to the chords. Cars are still arriving, bright lights on metal roads.

Darkness is still on us as the 200 persons now assembled file into the hall. For the first time we cast a friendly glance at those around us. Bush shirts and jeans, gumboots, others in suits. Representatives of the police, traffic and fire brigade departments look smart in their uniform jerseys. People are accepted for what they are. Appearances aren't important. Crowded as we are in the small community hall, there is a feeling of closeness, togetherness. We support each other. The meaning of fellowship touched on during the reading of the RSA lesson clarifies. Those seeking their identity as New Zealanders need only to attend an ANZAC service such as this to find the true meaning of being a New Zealander.

People sing as wreaths are carried forward and placed before photographs of those who served for New Zealand. In this small Ruatoki community most families were directly affected. During the Second World War over eighty brothers, sons, fathers and husbands served. Of these eighteen were not to return. The effect of the well remembered music begins to show. Immobile faces signal private memories. Thoughts flow. Near me, a beautiful young teenage Maori girl leans back against the wall. In her arms is another younger girl, who in turn reaches out and strokes a young girl, kisses her head and includes her in a threesome cuddle. Handkerchiefs are passed around. Even an outsider such as I can't help but gulp back a tear.

Finally, RSA members stand and one by one place a single poppy amongst the wreaths of green and red. One remaining representative of those who served in the First World War steps forward. Later individuals stand and clearly state their name, rank and serial number. I learn of representatives from within the services of Air Force, RNZ Navy, Engineers, Submarines, Tanks. A single nurse whose grey hair and frail body gives away her age draws enthusiastic applause. The commemorative dawn parade ends in the dining hall where we breakfast on bowls of stewed beef and sausages. Veterans and others cheerfully pass around bottles of rum, topping up mugs of coffee with glee. Laughter and noise abound.

And what's it all for, this outpouring of emotion? Hopefully not all for the past. The past is - the past. To me the true meaning of ANZAC Day on the eve of the twentieth century is the closeness New Zealanders feel for each other. In war racial differences, personal arguments and prejudices are cast aside to fight a common enemy. ANZAC Day should serve to remind us that we can all work together as one people, that we can triumph in the face of adversity, that as New Zealanders we are all equal to the challenges the world has to offer.

The task for each of us is to foster the spirit of ANZAC Day in our daily lives, to strive to make this world a better place for all who follow us. Then, and only then, we may think that our loved ones have not died in vain.

They shall grow not old
as we that are left grow old
Age shall not weary them
Or the years condemn them
At the going down of the sun
and in the morning
We will remember them

©Copyright 1983 by Sue Baker-Wilson