The Reverence of Anzac Day

Each year on April 25th, Australians rise in the half-light of dawn and gather in silence. At war memorials, on beaches, in small country towns and bustling cities, we stand shoulder to shoulder in stillness. The lone bugle call of the Last Post cuts through the morning air, and the refrain echoes in our hearts: Lest we forget.

Anzac Day is more than a public holiday. It is a sacred ritual etched into the soul of the nation. It calls forth reverence, remembrance, and a collective pause. We honour those who served, those who never returned, and those who returned carrying invisible wounds. We hold their names close, whispering them across generations, wrapped in poppies and solemn vows.

But even as we remember, a deeper question stirs: What does it truly mean to not forget?

“Lest we forget” is not a passive phrase. It is a sacred injunction, a national promise. It asks us not only to remember the past but to learn from it. Not only to honour the dead, but to transform the living. It asks us to look beyond the uniform, the battlefield, and the solemn speeches—and to examine the choices we make today that shape tomorrow’s history.

The tragedy of war is not only in its death toll, but in what it reveals about how we live. If remembrance is only ritual, then forgetting comes easily. But if remembrance becomes responsibility—an active, evolving moral commitment—then Anzac Day can become more than memorial. It can become momentum.

This article invites us to consider Anzac Day not only as a tribute to the past, but as a call to the future. Not as a moment of mourning alone, but as a turning point—a time to reflect on the kind of nation we are still becoming. And in doing so, we may discover that peace is not the opposite of war—it is the promise we must keep in their name.

The True Weight of ‘Lest We Forget’

“Lest we forget.” The words are carved into stone, printed on banners, spoken in whispers at dawn. But over time, even sacred phrases can become so familiar that they begin to lose their edge. Repeated without reflection, they risk becoming ceremonial rather than catalytic—echoes of the past, rather than guides for the future.

Yet the original power of this phrase lies in its demand. “Lest” is not gentle. It’s a warning, a pleading, a preemptive cry. Let us not forget, because to forget is to fall asleep. To forget is to risk repeating what should never be repeated. And forgetting, in the truest sense, doesn’t happen in memory—it happens in action. In policy. In silence.

When we remember Anzac Day solely as a historical event, we risk reducing its meaning to military strategy, national identity, or inherited ritual. But the truth is, war is never only about history. It is about humanity. It is about the choices made when diplomacy fails, when fear overtakes vision, when conflict is seen as inevitable and peace as naive.

To remember truly means to allow ourselves to feel the weight of war—not just the heroism, but the horror. The trauma that echoes through families. The grief that never ages. The moral wounds that don’t heal with medals. The silence that follows the gunfire, where souls struggle to find peace again.

There is a danger in remembrance that does not transform. If we remember without renewing our commitment to peace, we risk building monuments instead of movements. We risk venerating the sacrifice without questioning the systems that made such sacrifice necessary.

To truly carry the weight of “lest we forget,” we must be willing to ask difficult questions:

• Are we creating a society where future generations will be asked to make the same sacrifices?

• Are we remembering war while still investing in the machinery that sustains it?

• Are we honouring the fallen by actively building a world where such loss becomes unthinkable?

These are not accusations—they are invitations. To go deeper. To be honest. To allow Anzac Day to be not just a reflection of our past but a re-visioning of our future.

When remembrance is alive, it doesn’t just bind us to what was. It opens us to what could be. And from that space, a nation can begin to heal—not just from the wars of the past, but from the inner divisions that continue to ripple through our collective consciousness.

Honouring Veterans Beyond Ceremony

It is a sacred and rightful act to honour those who have served in war. To acknowledge the courage it takes to step into danger for the sake of others. To bow our heads in gratitude for those who did not return—and those who did, bearing burdens few can understand.

But honouring veterans must go beyond wreaths and speeches. It must extend into the ways we care, listen, and build the kind of world they were asked to protect. The deepest honour we can offer is not merely remembrance, but the creation of a society where the trauma of war is neither glorified nor repeated.

The experiences of veterans are often complex, layered with loyalty and loss, pride and pain. Many who return from war do so carrying invisible wounds—psychological, emotional, and spiritual. The journey home is not simply about geography; it’s about reintegration, healing, and meaning-making in a world that often struggles to comprehend what they’ve lived through.

Some veterans wrestle with moral injury—a deep sense of having transgressed their own conscience, not always from what they did, but from what they saw, or were asked to accept. Others feel estranged from a society that thanks them but does not truly understand them. And many more face long, silent battles with depression, anxiety, or post-traumatic stress.

When remembrance is limited to public ritual, it can unintentionally overlook these deeper realities. True remembrance listens. It honours veterans by asking: What do you need? What truths must we face together? What systems have failed you? It means providing support long after the parade ends—mental health services, community reintegration, employment support, and spaces to tell their stories with honesty and dignity.

But it also means asking another question—perhaps the hardest one of all: How do we prevent future generations from having to endure the same?

This is where remembrance meets responsibility. To honour veterans is not to romanticise war, nor to be bound by an unquestioning nationalism. It is to see the full humanity of those who served, and to work toward a world where their sacrifice is not only remembered—but transformed into a new way forward.

One veteran once said:

“I don’t want to be remembered as a soldier. I want to be remembered as someone who believed in peace, even when surrounded by war.”

This is the bridge we must build. From soldier to citizen. From weapon to word. From surviving to healing. And from remembrance to renewal.

From Memory to Mission: Peace as a National Responsibility

If remembrance is to be more than ritual, it must become mission. Anzac Day offers not only a time to look back in reverence, but a chance to look forward with intention. And the most powerful intention we can set—the one most worthy of those who sacrificed—is the intentional, institutional building of peace.

Peace cannot remain the realm of poets, protestors, or private hope. It must be made public. Structural. Strategic. It must be placed at the very heart of governance, alongside defence and diplomacy, health and education. If we are to say, “Lest we forget,” then we must also say: “Let us remember to choose differently.”

This is why the call for a Department of Peace is not symbolic. It is essential.

Imagine a dedicated body within the Australian government tasked with developing a culture of peace: across schools, communities, policy, international relations, and interfaith dialogue. A department that studies not just what causes war, but what prevents it. A team that works proactively to resolve conflict, mediate tension, and empower the next generation with peace literacy—just as we do with digital literacy, or environmental awareness.

We already institutionalise defence. We budget for it, plan for it, strategise around it. What if we gave peace the same infrastructure, the same foresight?

The concept is not new. Countries like Costa Rica, which abolished its military in 1949, have redirected resources into education, healthcare, and sustainability—and stand today as a living model of what it means to place peace at the centre of national policy. Ministries or departments of peace have been proposed or implemented in places like Nepal, the Solomon Islands, and the United States, offering both local and global frameworks we can learn from.

Peace is not passive. It is not simply the absence of war. It is the presence of justice, equity, and systems designed to resolve conflict without violence. It is about reshaping the conditions that lead to violence in the first place—poverty, inequality, dehumanisation, and political stagnation.

On Anzac Day, we honour those who stepped into war because peace was absent. But what greater tribute could we offer than to ensure that peace is never absent again?

This does not dishonour their service. It completes it.

It says: We heard you.
It says: Your sacrifice is not a story of the past, but a directive for our future.
It says: We will carry what you gave us not in silence, but in action.

By remembering with purpose, we can begin to build a country where peace is not an afterthought, but a foundational value. Where children learn not just about battles, but about bridges. Where governments are measured not only by economic growth, but by the strength of their compassion, the depth of their dialogue, and the courage of their nonviolence.

This is the promise we can make today. Not just lest we forget, but let us begin.

The Intergenerational Mandate: Youth, Peace, and the Future

Anzac Day is one of the few national observances that reaches deeply into the hearts of all generations. From the elderly veteran who wears medals close to his chest, to the schoolchild reciting poetry at a dawn service, remembrance moves across time. In schools and homes, through assemblies and stories, the legacy of war is passed down like sacred inheritance.

But what exactly are we passing on?

Are we giving young people stories that inspire healing, or trauma that repeats in silence? Are we inviting them into a culture of critical thought, compassionate leadership, and creative peacemaking—or simply asking them to remember without question?

The way we engage youth on Anzac Day reveals our vision for the future. If we tell them that war is inevitable, we prepare them for it. If we show them that peace is possible—and teach them how to build it—we empower them with purpose.

We must begin to educate for peace with the same seriousness and investment we bring to maths, science, and history. Peace literacy—skills in emotional awareness, conflict resolution, restorative justice, cross-cultural dialogue, and civic compassion—should not be optional. They should be foundational.

Too often, young people are asked to honour the dead without being equipped to protect the living. They hear of courage, but not always of conscience. They learn dates and battles, but not necessarily how to prevent the next one. This is not remembrance. This is disconnection dressed as tradition.

What if Anzac Day included not only silence, but also conversation—between generations, across communities, through schools and policy? What if young people were seen not as passive recipients of history, but as co-creators of a new culture? One that values dignity, care, and imagination over force and fear.

Australia’s future will not be written only in parliaments or pulpits, but in classrooms, households, and youth movements. And the values we seed in our children will become the ethics of our institutions.

In many indigenous cultures, a decision is not made unless its impact on the next seven generations is considered. Anzac Day gives us a moment to pause and reflect: What legacy are we preparing for the seventh generation from now?

To remember is to plant seeds. Let us choose to plant peace.

A Spiritual Reflection: From Mourning to Meaning

War is not only a political failure—it is a spiritual wound. It tears not just at nations, but at the very fabric of our shared humanity. Behind every battle is the shadow of disconnection: from one another, from our own higher nature, from the possibility that we are not separate at all.

Peace is our natural state. It is our inheritance.  Peace is not something to be achieved—it is something to be remembered. Reclaimed. Restored.

And so, on Anzac Day, we are invited not only to mourn, but to listen—beneath the names, beneath the silence, beneath the solemn ritual—to the soul of the nation itself. What does it long for? What is it becoming?

There is no contradiction in both grieving war and aspiring toward peace. Mourning is not weakness. It is sacred acknowledgment. And meaning-making is not denial—it is the beginning of transformation.

War is not the antithesis of peace, but a distortion of our deeper longing for union. The soldier’s impulse to serve, to protect, to sacrifice for others—these are noble qualities. When elevated beyond the battlefield, they become the very foundation of peaceful society.

What we must reject is not the individual courage of those who served, but the systemic belief that violence is inevitable. That conflict must end in conquest. That power must be proven through domination.

The real remembrance, then, is spiritual. It calls us to see the soul in one another, to dismantle the illusion of enemies, and to build systems aligned with the truth that we are one.

This doesn’t erase difference—it sanctifies it. It doesn’t ignore history—it redeems it. Through a spiritual lens, we are not here to glorify sacrifice, but to honour it by ensuring it is never again required.

The journey from mourning to meaning is a sacred one. Anzac Day offers us a threshold—a liminal space where we can choose again. We can choose to build a world in which love, not fear, guides our decisions. In which the divine within each person is recognised and protected. In which peace is not a prayer whispered in the aftermath of war, but a living presence in all our relationships, policies, and institutions.

If we listen deeply enough, the silence of the dawn service is not empty. It is full of invitation.

The Call of Anzac Day Today

As the first light breaks across the land on April 25th, we gather in silence. The air is still. The earth holds its breath. We bow our heads not only to remember, but to listen—to the past, to the present, and to the deeper promise we are called to make.

Lest we forget is more than a tribute. It is a turning point. A line we draw through history, not to divide, but to direct. It calls us to honour sacrifice by shaping a society in which sacrifice is no longer the cost of peace. It urges us to remember not only the fallen, but the future.

And that future depends on us.

The greatest honour we can offer those who served is not in the repetition of war stories, but in the writing of new ones—ones in which courage becomes compassion, strategy becomes stewardship, and power becomes peace.

The Ministry for Peace exists not to rewrite the past, but to fulfil the promise of remembrance. It envisions a nation where the legacy of Anzac is not only preserved in ceremonies, but carried forward in policy, education, and culture. A nation where peace is not left to chance, but made structural and visible in every sphere of public life.

Anzac Day reminds us that memory is sacred. But it also reminds us that memory without mission is hollow. We owe it to those who have gone before us to do more than remember—we owe them a future worth fighting for, not with weapons, but with wisdom, integrity, and vision.

So this year, as we place the poppies and stand in silence, may our remembrance be full of resolve. May we mourn, and then move. May we reflect, and then rise. May we carry forward the best of what Anzac has come to mean—not war, but service; not division, but unity; not fear, but love.

And may we, with quiet courage and unwavering intention, begin to build the Australia that peace deserves.

---

Let remembrance become reform.
Support the establishment of a Department of Peace in Australia.
Join the movement for a future guided by compassion, cooperation, and conscious leadership.