This week marks the 100th anniversary of Anzac Day — the first major military action faced by ANZAC forces during World War I (although the day now also commemorates those lost in all military operations Australia has been part of).

My whole family was affected by World War II, from my Grandpas who enlisted, to my Grandmas who waited patiently at home, and my Nanna and Grandad who were evacuated from London as children (and forced to leave their parents behind).

Of course it’s also bigger than that, and every Anzac and Remembrance Day I always make sure to pause and think of those seriously affected by war — people who have lost loved ones; people who have witnessed or suffered from atrocities at the hands of others; people who are unspeakably brave in the face of a very real threat to their lives.

It is undeniably because of these people that we enjoy the lifestyle we have in Australia today and we must not forget the sacrifices made by those who came before us.

Last year I attended the dawn service in Melbourne with a group of friends. I’d never been before and I was blown away by the experience. It was a freezing morning and to see such a large crowd assembled in the pre-dawn darkness was so moving. I spent most of the service reflecting on the stories of heroism that were shared, as well as the many stories of courage we probably don’t know. For me the most incredible moment was when the Last Post rang out into the morning. Never have I experienced that many people maintaining a respectful silence — there’s always someone murmuring to their neighbour or fidgeting in their bag. But on this day there was pure stillness.

Until the national anthem was played; then a ripple moved through the crowd as people started to hum along. I can’t adequately describe how it felt to be a part of that, but thinking about it now still gives me goosebumps. It was a magical moment that simply warms my heart.

More than anything else though, for me Anzac Day means family. For as long as I can remember my family has met to watch the servicemen and women march through Melbourne before moving to one of the nearby rowing sheds to have lunch with the other families from Grandpa’s battalion. My Grandpa doesn’t really talk about his experiences during the war, but that these men have come together decades afterwards speaks volumes about the bonds they formed during those terrible years.

One thing I particularly remember from my first few years of attending the march is my aunt always waiting to see the Vietnam veterans go by so she could give them a wave and a cheer. I was confused and then horrified when she told me that people didn’t always do that and in fact used to shout abuse and spit at them. I’m so thankful she taught me that, so I too could make a point of showing my support — whether or not you agree with the politics doesn’t change that these people lived through the horror of that period and they deserve to be recognised for that.

But most of my Anzac Day memories don’t have anything to do with war.

I remember how much my Grandma loved bagpipes. She would always get a bit tiddly when Colin the pipemaster led his boys into the room, and tear up when they started to play. It’s because of her that I hear the beauty in bagpipes, too. And I laugh when I think about how she would always giggle and flirt with the pipemaster even though he was probably 30 years her junior when they started to visit our boatshed.

I remember my Grandpa’s generosity, paying for our lunch as often as we would let him (something he still tries to do at every opportunity!) And while he’s not good at saying it, on those days I can especially feel how proud he is of his family.

I remember that time we put a mini pastry on my sister’s shoulder without her noticing (so now it’s in all the photos from that day). And my Dad and uncles heading out to the balcony to share jokes they couldn’t say in front of Grandma.

I love that recently my uncles and cousins have joined the march, helping to carry the battalion’s banner and flag wearing their family’s medals with pride. These days, my family makes up most of those representing the battalion – which is both sad, for those lost, and beautiful because it means they’re not forgotten.

After all, that’s the most important part of Anzac Day. In this age of media saturation we are all very well versed with what war looks like and the brutality faced by those who served. We cannot let that service go unrecognised and unremembered.

Lest we forget.

Image via Unsplash