The Pilgramage
Trip Start
May 24, 2006
1
37
47
Trip End
Nov 30, 2006
Gallipoli, Turkey
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Like any other child going through the Australian schooling system, I had the "Gallipoli Legend" beaten into me from the beginning. I clearly recall all the memorial services from pretty well my first day at school, the poppies, the trumpets, the words "Diggers" and "Rats of Tobruk" being tossed around, the Anzac biscuits, the games of two up the old men played in the pub after the marches. I did have a great-grandmother in the trenches of Northern France, but apart from that, little personal connection to Anzac day and what it meant, and never did I envisage myself making the pilgrimage to Anzac Cove. I saw the weeping teenagers with the flag draped around their shoulders at the dawn services on TV every April 26th, and internally questioned whether they had any idea what the war and the suffering that came with it was about, and how much of it was just for show.
Being in Istanbul, that close to such a historical site, it was less out of patriotism and more out of the fear of denunciation once I returned home that I was making this side step trip. I was relieved to discover that a few other people on the mini-bus were feeling the same way (They were all Australians and New Zealanders except for one confused South African who'd been dragged along by his Aussie girlfriend) and we were talking about it when we stopped for apple tea and ozmat, a toasted sandwich with goats cheese. We finally reached the small town closest to the cove at lunch time, by now it was completely overcast and chilly. We shared a simple communal meal in what looked like a town hall, and it was a bizarre coincidence that the guy sitting next to me was from Victor Harbor, where my grandparents have always lived and where my mum grew up.
We met Ali, our tour guide who had a flair for story telling and the dramatic. He was a fierce elderly man, who had grown up in the area and was ardently showing his respect for the Anzacs and everything they stood for.
I had felt strange talking to the Turks in Istanbul about going to Gallipoli, the vague idea that I was going to "dwell on the carnage between your people and ours" which seemed to me a pretty hostile message to the locals. I stood corrected on arrival, it seems that Turkish-Australian relations have only been strengthened by the battle that happened there so long ago, and more importantly, the remembrance of it. I soon discovered that their blame lay with the British, their diplomatic blunders in the lead up to World War I and their militaristic misconduct towards their colonial regiments on Butlers Beach left the Turkish with a bitter taste in their mouth.
Their affection for Australians could also have been accounted for in the fact that Ataturk, their esteemed leader, rose to power after his leadership role in the spectacular defeat of the Anzacs, thus resulting in the unified and independent secular state of Turkey. Ataturk' face, name, words were imprinted everywhere in Turkish culture, his statues in the centre of every town, plaques mounted on every official building, the name of the airport, a constant reminder of his creation of a nation his people were so proud of.
It was a bizarre feeling to stand on the beach, looking up at the cliffs that the soldiers faced at 4.30am on the 26th of April, 1915, and being able to relate to the total demoralization that they suffered from. It was hard to imagine men as young as 15 spending eight months on this beach or close to it, shells raining down on them, having left home convinced they were in for a great adventure. It was all a rather moving experience.
We visited all the significant memorial sites, Anzac Cove and the site of the sunrise ceremonies, Lone Pine, The Turkish memorials and the ones for the New Zealanders too. It was fascinating to see what remained of the trenches, mostly filled in from almost 100 years of erosion, but still clearly visible. At one point, the Turkish and Australian trenches were a mere 20m apart.
There was a great story that Ali animatedly explained, one day a white flag appeared from the Turkish trenches signaling an unofficial ceasefire. A bag stuffed tightly with tobacco was flung over the enemy lines with a single note attached with "Paper?" written on it. The Anzacs gathered up all the paper they could find, newspaper, letters, scrap from their journals, and tossed it over to the Turks. The unofficial ceasefire continued, with nothing but smoke coming from either trench.
This story only culminates the rumours about the sentiments felt in fighting each other, and lends an idea as to why the Anzacs managed to evacuate thousands of troops in the dead of night with only one or two casualties. It made me wonder why we don't show the overwhelming respect that the Turks show us in our parades and memorial services, they were so hospitable and kind to us.
We concluded the tour with the presentation of pieces of shrapnel to each person on the tour, they were found by Ali as a child when he would explore the old battlefields with his father some 70 years ago. It was a fascinating trip around and I had a much clearer understanding of the sequence of events and the legacy that remains, a priceless souvenir. Another Anzac Day won't pass the same way again.
The rain began to fall as we piled back on to the buses, and traveled by ferry over the Bosphorus to Çennakale, officially crossing over from the European continent to the Asian one, and the rain kept pouring on into the night.
