A belated record of our attempt to participate in Anzac Day.
I discussed the history and symbols of Anzac Day with T, and asked whether he would like to attend the dawn service. Response: “Will it be boring?” In all honesty I couldn’t respond that it wouldn’t be. Neither T nor J wanted to come, and there was a general consensus that they would prefer that I didn’t go either. However, I decided that I would like to, so I set my internal clock to get up for the local service at 5.45am. The problem with the internal clock is that it doesn’t have snooze…… so though I woke up at my alloted time, I then decided to snuggle for ‘another 5 minutes’, a fatal mistake. So I woke again, too late for that service, but in time to attend another at 7.00am. While getting into the car, P emerged naked to tell me that J was awake and wanted boobie. Oh well, there’s always next year.
While safely back in bed breastfeeding, I sent a prayer to my Uncle H, who died at El Alamein in WWII. Of course I never knew him, but I think he would be OK that I was tending to my child rather than at the service. As the only member of the family to visit his grave, I feel somewhat connected to him.
My first trip to Egypt I didn’t make it there. I was on a limited time frame travelling with someone else, and El Alamein is far from any antiquities or backpacker havens selling banana pancakes and hairbraids, playing Pink Floyd and Bob Marley. I thought I had missed out, but by chance I returned to Egypt three years later (who would have thought?) This time P booked cheap flights on our behalf, and returned with the startling news that we were flying Air Tarom (Romania’s national airline) and would be in Egypt for six weeks. Gasp. I knew this was a grave mistake the moment I heard it. On the upside, I knew that we would have *plenty* of time to get to El Alamein.
After negotiating the mass of white mini vans and bemused stares from locals in Alexandria, we made it to the El Alamien war cemetaries. A sea of white crosses. Left alone, we were at the mercy of the mini van driver to remember to come and get us. Unlike the scene depicted by Lonely Planet, there was no guide and no book to help you locate a grave. The only option was to walk up and down the aisles of white crosses in the Australian cemetary. I started by walking and looking at one row of crosses, then realised I could look at two rows as I walked, and as time marched on, I looked at three rows. Up and down, back and forth. So many people dead. P eventually retreated from the searing heat, but our other travelling companion bravely searched another section for me.
I finally stumbled on my Uncle’s grave – pure chance. Unexpectedly, I was overcome with emotion. He was only nineteen (think Redgum). It seemed so incredibly frightening and lonely to go there and die. Finally, a niece turns up, about 50 years later.
Now I also grieve for my Bestamor (Norwegian for Grandma). In the parenting game of russian roulette, your whole emotional life is staked on the hope that *your* child doesn’t cop the bullet. Or car crash. Or sexual assault. Or drug overdose. Or, or, or. The shattering reality when they do.
T’s second name comes from Uncle H. A small remembrance.
