“Lest We Remember”? Thoughts on Civic Memorials
In Aotearoa, we’ve had a few recent occasions of civic memorials. The more rare event was the passing of a prominent member of the British royal family—Prince Philip—and the second, an annual event for those of us down under, ANZAC Day—a public holiday to commemorate Australian and New Zealand troops who have fought and died in various conflicts and wars.
Recently, looking out from the library window at the institution where I work and study, the New Zealand flag was flying half mast. I was rather taken aback; firstly and primarily because I hadn’t been aware we had flagpoles at the front of our campus to begin with! (Apparently my observation skills are somewhat lacking.) But secondly, this was the first time I recalled them being used. Many events worthy of public commemoration have occurred over the last few years in Aotearoa—the assertions of protection and cry for justice at Ihumãtao, the deaths of citizens from the COVID-19 pandemic—yet it was the death of Prince Philip that caused our flag to be flown at half mast.
The same sorts of tensions and contradictions also exist in our celebration of ANZAC Day. I still remember visiting the States a few years ago and being so taken aback with the acknowledgement of “our troops” that broke out in public spaces fairly often. We simply don’t have a cultural equivalent in Aotearoa, yet interestingly, ANZAC Day has seen a great revival in interest over the last few decades. In the 1950s and ‘60s, interest in ANZAC Day turned into annoyance for most New Zealanders as the Day legally stipulated sport and other entertainment was banned. During the same time over the Tasman, Australia's involvement in the Vietnam War and questions about their connection to the British Empire brought celebrations almost to a halt. It’s only been since the 1990s in which ANZAC Day has become again a civic event of note, with commemorations now taking place frequently and extensively.
Furthermore, a commonly held (often Pãkehã) assumption is that World War I was the defining conflict of New Zealand. It was the moment in which New Zealand became New Zealand to the rest of the world, and asserted its own identity beyond Britain. Yet, as more Pãkehã historians like Vincent O’Malley seek to show, the defining conflicts that arguably defined our modern nation state was the “Great War for New Zealand” culminating with the Crown’s invasions of the Waikato. In contrast to the well-rehearsed memory of Gallipoli, officially commemorated the very next year after the event in 1916, civic memory for the New Zealand Wars (including the Waikato conflicts among others in Kororãreka, Taranaki, etc.) was only made official in 2019 with the establishment of Te Pūtake O Te Riri on October 28—over 150 years after the fact. Many tangata whenua, of course, do not have the same amnesia as Pãkehã such as myself in failing to recall the deep and lasting impact of these conflicts, conflicts which continue to ring throughout our society and whenua.
As a Christian from a dissenting tradition, one which consciously broke church life and community away from the state, civic memorial events have held a certain discomfort for me. This however, can allow me a certain sense of smugness. Speaking as a Pãkehã, I wonder what I leave out in my memory of Aotearoa, of nationhood, of war, of conflict, of the past?
Rather than ramble on from my own perspective, I decided to ask a few Christians I knew to hear their thoughts on ANZAC day, civic memorials, and on how as a Christian they grapple with the tensions of memory. Chris is a New Zealand veteran involved in thirty years of various overseas campaigns, Jono is a theology student who lives in Mãngere, Tim is a Dad who works in digital media at UoA, and Ari is a Vic graduate who wished she’d gone to Toi Whakaari. Their comments have been edited for clarity and length.
~
Firstly, did you do anything to commemorate ANZAC day just past? If so, what did you get up to?
Chris: Attended a military Dawn Service and then led a civic service in my community.
Jono: I usually go to a service, but didn’t this time. Felt more complex this year.
Tim: I attended the dawn service at Auckland Museum with my daughter. I took my kids to it when they were children, and my daughter seemed to really engage with it, so it has become something of a tradition for us to go, and have breakfast at McDonalds afterwards. There’s now even more impetus as her boyfriend is in the Navy and was marching in the parade.
Do you do something like this every year?
Tim: We attend more often than not—except for last year, of course, when we stood at the gate.
Second, did you do anything to commemorate the passing of Prince Philip? What was that like hearing about it?
Ari: No, I didn’t do anything. It felt like an acquaintance telling me their grandparent had died—a little sad, a sense of distance and “they had lived a good long life.” I was mostly remembering the memes from when he left hospital a couple of weeks beforehand.
In what ways do you think your faith informs your interaction with these types of national memorial events?
Jono: I’m interested in the narrative of sacrifice. Who do we sacrifice for? What is the narrative of nation building that shapes that in a formal sense?
Chris: My faith does not inform my attitude towards the monarchy, although I believe Her Majesty the Queen’s role as defender of the faith is important—at least from the perspective of being a temporal and constitutional bastion for societal principles and ethics. As a veteran, my faith influences my belief that we should stand up for others less able to defend themselves.
Ari: I think faith asks us to carefully consider the idea of war—whether we end up as pacifists, or proponents for a just war, faith invites us to carefully look at how we respond to death and killing of others. Faith also invites remembrance. As the World Wars become more distant, it’s counter-cultural to have a strong public announcement of these memories, as the modern world seems to me to be more focused on the future and what’s next rather than dwelling on the past.
Tim: I think gratitude and acknowledgement of sacrifice is an important expression for a follower of Jesus, but I am reluctant to tie nationalism and faith too tightly together. While patriotism is laudable, I feel that allegiance to Christ must supercede allegiance to the state. However, civic duty and participation is to be encouraged within the community of faith when it doesn’t conflict.
Do you feel any sense of duty towards these types of events as a Christian?
Ari: I mentioned above, I didn’t feel any duty to Prince Philip and I would say my faith invites me to question whether duty is owed to a figurehead rather than my neighbours. I feel more of a sense of duty around ANZAC day, but it’s a nebulous feeling that I don’t have words for: I’m thinking of the poetry; the Turkish ambassador saying the men were now safe on their shores; the cold morning air; the bugle at dawn; the puffed breaths as people mumble through “E Ihowã Atua” and the volume rising on “God of nations”; huddling with friends and family for warmth; warm sleepy breakfasts afterwards. My grandfather served in the military in WWII, but never spoke about it, so attending ANZAC day always reminds me of him and how he might feel about the day.
Tim: I feel duty to these as a citizen and as one who has an interest in history, because if we don’t remember our history we are doomed to repeat it. Being a citizen does and should inform my faith response, and being a follower of Jesus does and should inform my civic duty.
Many of these moments of civic memorials are embedded with Christian language, prayers, even hymn singing. How do you feel about these features?
Jono: ANZAC Day to me is an interesting mix of civic religion and colonial hangups. Scott Worthy argues that ANZAC Day is a site in which Christian imagery is co-opted in the name of affirming a national identity for Aotearoa in the context of the wider British Empire. Since its very beginning, the use of Christian hymns and motifs around self-sacrifice and family was not simply the work of colonial politicians but Pãkehã church leaders. The evolution of ANZAC Day into a site of secular religion continues to promote particular colonial narratives of memory and erasure. I often wonder what we’re saying in the church of Aotearoa by participating in these events of civic religion but very rarely mourning the New Zealand Wars or other conflicts of injustice in our history in the same way we seek to honour and glorify God in a romanticised lament on distant land.
Ari: Often when I go to the dawn service or hear Christian language at the Waitangi dawn service, I hear Christians be stoked that there’s a Christian veneer on the day, but remembering is never about a solitary day. Does the inclusion of Christianity make a difference to the daily lives of the civic members who are saying those words on ANZAC day?
Tim: I feel saddened that many of these traditions use aspects of faith such as prayer and hymn singing, yet the civic leaders and many of the participants are ambivalent at best, and sometimes even openly hostile or derisive towards God in our society. Yet if we were to remove these aspects of the service, what would be left? It is at such times of memorialisation that faith offers something truly unique in the way of comfort and hope.
Chris: I personally feel good about it. People search for meaning, surety and purpose when the moorings of their world are shaken. When we lose loved ones it is typically important to us, that we know they died in pursuit of a purpose greater than themselves and that the grave transforms their sacrifice and suffering into rest and life eternal. Without a deeper meaning, sacrifice’s reward is the short lived recognition of peers.
Are they other days of national importance you wished we recognised more? In what way?
Tim: I would like to see greater emphasis on the true meaning of Christmas and Easter. Yet alongside the irony of people celebrating a festival they don’t believe in, I am grateful that these festivals are still recognised at all, and that there hasn’t been a move to abolish them in secular society.
Ari: I wish we recognised He Whakaputanga—the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Celebrating He Whakaputanga makes no sense unless you understand its history and the context that brought it and thus te Tiriti about, so I’d like to see that celebrated by understanding/teaching/learning the history more.
How do you feel about symbols of nationhood such as our flag or national anthem? What do they miss out?
Tim: I love the reo Mãori version of the first verse of our national anthem, because the words translated back into English have much less ambiguity than the original English. It was when I heard my son singing the reo from memory at an ANZAC dawn service that I decided I needed to memorise it. We never sang the Mãori version when I was at school.
Chris: Our National Anthem is one of the most beautiful anthems I’ve heard. I believe it speaks to our national principles. Our flag is fine, but if it were to change to a silver fern I’d be supportive.
Any final thoughts?
Ari: To be honest, I’m surprised you associated Prince Philip’s death and ANZAC day, they don’t feel like they’re in the same league to me. I think it’s because I don’t think Prince Philip contributes in any way to my sense of “New Zealand-ness” whereas ANZAC day does.
I also don’t think you can have a conversation around national identity in New Zealand without discussing te Tiriti o Waitangi and our relationship with it.
Tim: Gallipoli is often regarded as the place where New Zealand’s nationhood was forged. New Zealand’s participation in the Dardanelles campaign is something that needs to be memorialised as a mistake to not be repeated. It was the unwarranted invasion of another sovereign state, based on flawed motives and bad planning. If there is a lesson to be learned as a nation, and even as individuals it is the need to evaluate for ourselves the motivation for doing something, especially an act of war.
Chris: Civics goes beyond the occasional observance of sacred days in the calendar (as important as these are). I would like to see our national curriculum teach civics so our rangatahi have a sense of national identity, endowment, and responsibility for future stewardship.
~
Andrew Clark-Howard is currently an editor at Metanoia.