Ex-Sydneysider and Advocate columnist STUART PEARSON explains what Anzac Day means to him.
THE genes of two families flow through my blood.
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On my father's side, I am descended from an English family that arrived in Australia in the 1840s. They eventually settled as pioneers in Wiradyuri country around Grenfell. There, they bred horses, owned a saddlery and went on to establish a thriving coachbuilding business well-regarded throughout the NSW Central West.
On my mother's side, my forebears were hard-working folk from the Scottish Lowlands. They were a large family whose lads were proud to have jobs, even if they had to work long hours for little pay.
In the early 1900s my Australian family was prosperous. But on the other side of the world, my Scottish family was struggling to make ends meet after the untimely death of the father.
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When war was declared in 1914, boys from both families enthusiastically enlisted. The Australian lads thought it would be an adventure. The Scottish boys were motivated by a mix of patriotism and a desire to escape their poor circumstances.
But things didn't work out as either family expected. Fame, glory and prosperity escaped them all.
One of the Australian boys who enlisted in Bathurst contracted 'Trench Foot' while in France. It became so severe that gangrene set in. To save his life, his right leg was amputated above the knee. He returned home and spent a year learning to walk again with a prosthetic leg. He served less than two months at the front, but he would spend the rest of his life paying for it.
My Scottish family fared even worse. Seven healthy sons went off to war, but only one returned unscathed! Three were killed in battle, one died from disease and two more were horrifically wounded. Only one, the youngest, managed to escape the carnage by being stationed away from the front lines with the Royal Flying Corps.
I have a photograph of my Scottish family, taken in 1908. All members of the family look healthy, strong, skilled and proud of their achievements in rising above poverty. A decade later, half the family was dead and others bore wounds that disabled them physically and mentally.
The family broke up and the survivors migrated to Canada or Australia for what they hoped would be a better life. But even that escaped them. One sister suffered a nervous breakdown. Another brother became a violent alcoholic. A third died prematurely from a work-related disease.
Finally, the death and destruction became too much for Lizzie, the mother. She had brought the children into the world and had proudly watched them grow into fine young men, only to see them cut down in the prime of their lives. Lizzie became demented, was officially declared 'insane' and spent the last years of her life in a mental asylum, where she wandered the corridors calling out for her boys.
Around the world today some people view war as 'honourable' and the people who participate in it as 'heroes'. Bands play stirring martial music and films are produced glorifying the exploits of men and occasionally women in uniform.
I don't subscribe to this point of view.
War is not glorious. It is brutal, bloody and destructive. War breaks down men and women and dehumanises them. They become killing machines or fodder. War is unnatural. Humans are social animals. Our instinct is to live communally with others, not slaughter them.
I am not against war, though. Occasionally, it may be necessary, even vital to obtain a lasting peace. It should only be used as a last resort. Unfortunately, some leaders believe in being the aggressor, using patriotism and nationalism to strike first.
War is bloody awful. It destroys countries, economies and families.
From a purely personal viewpoint I respect and honour the sacrifice of my Scottish and Australian families, as well as all other casualties in conflict. But as for war itself, I hate it.
Lest we forget.