For years now, my experience of Anzac Day has been fraught. On one level, it has offered an experience of intimacy with the grandfather I never met, who fought in World War Two and died of a war-related injury. On another, the glorification of war has made me increasingly uncomfortable.
We honour the service of those killed as if they were serving something good and just, as if they knew what they were doing, and as if they had any say in the matter. We also remember the lives of some, while wilfully forgetting others.
This year, as I wait to be reunited with my fiancée from Afghanistan, my discomfort is heightened by New Zealand's compromising involvement in her country, and our government's compromising response to the bombing of Afghan civilians. It is further heightened by an awareness of her sense of persecution, as a Muslim, after the Christchurch massacres. As a result, I do not feel able to partake in any Anzac celebration that resembles a traditional service, as if nothing has changed.
The Christchurch massacres mark the end of an era in Aotearoa New Zealand. Previously, we would never have seen our police on the streets with assault rifles. Large gatherings would never have been subject to heavy gate control or rigorous bag checks. Terrorism was never thought (by the majority) to be something that could threaten, let alone characterise, our society. Aotearoa New Zealand was lauded as a safe and inclusive nation, ranking number two on the Global Peace Index.
But that perception has been shattered. That era, that semblance of peace, has ended. Now, we are forced to face the reality that peace is more than the apparent absence of violence.
The state of our nation now hangs in the balance as we grapple with this reality, and as we struggle with the demands of genuine peace, and the degree of personal and collective responsibility that it entails. We have failed our sisters and brothers of Islam, who were unable to gather safely in our midst. We failed to respond to racism and the threat of white supremacy, or to the repeated pleas and warnings from those who were threatened.
The short-term response to the massacres has been one of large-scale public support and solidarity. Large numbers attended mosques across the country, and gathered at civic vigils to offer prayers and support, and to commemorate those killed. The press dedicated significant airtime to the stories of the victims and their families, and to our Muslim communities.
"Now, we are forced to face the reality that peace is more than the apparent absence of violence."
Words of intended support and solidarity have also been widespread. 'They are us' and 'This is not us' have become catch cries for those seeking to express their shock and disbelief, in solidarity with the victims. However, these words reflect the extent to which 'we' consider ourselves the arbiters of identity and justice, and as separate from the atrocities of racism and white supremacy.
As we approach Anzac Day, plans to incorporate a Muslim prayer into a local commemoration service have engendered strong and violent opposition. A former serviceman of the New Zealand Airforce says, 'A terrible tragedy has just happened and I feel for the people that died, but Anzac Day is not a day for them, it is a day for our guys.' Evidently, when we say 'They are us', we mean that our common identity is dictated by a particular (white) norm; that 'they' are only 'us' when we say so, and to the extent that they conform; that sameness is more important than difference, and that some lives are more important than others.
Muslim servicemen fought as members of the New Zealand and Australian forces, and every year the predominantly Muslim people of Turkey open their arms to the families of our veterans, to commemorate the atrocities of Gallipoli. Furthermore, while those atrocities saw the loss of 58,000 allied troops, including 11,000 New Zealand and Australian troops, they also saw the loss of 78,000 Ottoman Turkish (Muslim) troops.
So, at the going down of the sun and in the morning, who is it that we will remember? If only 'our guys', then who are they? Another line of the same poem, 'For the Fallen', by Laurence Binyon says, 'To the innermost heart of their own land they are known.' And yet here in Aotearoa New Zealand, while we honour those who lost their lives abroad, we forget the Maori lives lost while defending their own land against the Crown. This social amnesia, as Moana Jackson calls it, enables us to forget the past, to forget the history of colonisation and the violent alienation of Maori land, and to say in response to the Christchurch massacres, 'This is not us'.
This is us, and we will not be one until we acknowledge it and embrace, rather than eliminate, difference. We can no longer presume to know who 'we' are, or what defines 'us'. Genuine and enduring peace requires trust and relationships of understanding that recognise and rectify injustice, prevent the perpetuation of hatred, and ensure an outcome that values the lives and identities of all.
Daniel Kleinsman is a lawyer and activist currently based in Wellington, New Zealand. He graduated in law in 2014, and then spent two years in the Marist seminary, before returning to postgraduate studies in international human rights law. He is currently working as a lawyer specialising in Treaty of Waitangi claims and public law.