The Australia and New Zealand Army Corps were attacked upon arrival in Gallipoli, Turkey, 25 April 1915. The vast majority did not return. Dawn services are held every year to commemorate.

It still amazes me how profound this day is to so many New Zealanders and Australians. It has been 89 years since so many of our soldiers were massacred at Gallipoli. And we will still take the time to remember them. This year I am at the Cenotaph, Whitehall, London. The observers are mainly younger Antipodeans like myself. We sing softly, tissues emerge, and the atmosphere is steeped in grave remembrance.

My great-great uncle died at Gallipoli. Although I'm Kiwi, he fought for the Australians after jumping ship to Sydney when my great-great grandfather was still learning to walk. No other ancestors died there as far as I know. Yet still, something stirs in me as amidst the Last Post horn and the minute silence. I remember the young men, much younger than I, fighting for Mother England all those years ago. Some argue that it was this devastating battle in Turkey that led to the collective Kiwi spirit, the event that led New Zealand to figure out its own identity after so many years as England's younger sibling. It's such a shame that it took bloodshed to start to come about.

I don't profess to understand the part of human nature that causes conflict. I can only hope that by remembering, and letting peace prevail in my life, that it can permeate others.

Lest we forget.

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