The message of silence

At first light, in the half-shadow between night and day, we gather as Australians to remember.

We gather in silence. We gather in stillness. We gather in reverence.

It is in that fragile moment—when darkness gives way to light—that the nation speaks most truthfully to itself. Not in the noise of politics, nor in the churn of grievance, but in the quiet covenant we renew each ANZAC Day: we will remember them.

This year marked my second dawn service at Naarm/Melbourne since moving here from Boorloo/Perth in April last year. And like so many Australians, I have long held this day as sacred. Sacred not in a narrow or sectarian sense, but in the civic spirit that binds us: a shared inheritance of sacrifice, service, and memory.

Which is why the rupture was so jarring.

To boo during a Welcome to Country at a dawn service is not merely bad manners. It is not merely dissent. It is a profound failure to understand the very thing we had gathered to honour.

Because ANZAC Day is not about exclusion. It never has been.

A country still becoming itself

The men and women we remember did not fight for a brittle, fearful idea of Australia. They fought—across Gallipoli, Kokoda, El Alamein, Long Tan, and beyond—for a country still becoming itself. A country that has grown, however imperfectly, toward a broader understanding of who belongs, and whose stories matter.

The Welcome to Country does not diminish that legacy. It deepens it.

It reminds us that the story of this land did not begin in 1915. That the ground upon which we stand has older custodians, older memories, older sacrifices. And that the Australian story—if it is to mean anything—must be capacious enough to hold them all.

What we witnessed was a small minority attempting to fracture that understanding. But they failed.

They failed because they were met—not with escalation—but with something far more powerful: the impulsive resolve of the majority. The applause that followed did not seek to shout them down so much as to restore the balance. To reaffirm that respect is not a scarce resource. That honouring First Nations culture does not come at the expense of honouring our veterans: thousands were, and are veterans. Thousands more serve in our armed forces today. These things, in fact, belong together.

And at the centre of it all stood Uncle Mark Brown.

For the second year in a row, he carried the burden of that moment with dignity, stamina, and courage. To stand in that space—before a dawn crowd, in the full knowledge that disruption would come again—and to proceed regardless, is no small act. It is a form of service in its own right.

'The price of liberty is eternal vigilance'

The disruption of silence at a second Dawn service in a row is a palpable reminder of the trouble brewing overseas; that these lands are not immune or safeguarded from those troubles. They never have been. That the ANZAC legacy matters, because of one indomitable truth.

As John Philpot Curran stated in Ireland, 1790; 'the price of liberty is eternal vigilance.' If we are to keep our democracy, then we must defend it. Not merely against global threats in times of war, but on the domestic front. Even in the conversations we have.

This is because there is, in the end, a deeper question here about patriotism.

Patriotism is not noise. It is not disruption for its own sake. It is not the refusal to listen.

Patriotism is the capacity to stand in the cold of early morning, shoulder to shoulder with strangers, and recognise that we are part of something larger than ourselves. It is the humility to inherit a country honestly, with all its complexity. It is the discipline to show respect; even—and especially—when we disagree.

To boo at dawn, in that most solemn of civic rituals, is not an assertion of national pride. It is a diminishment of it.

Because ANZAC Day asks something more of us.

It asks us to remember not only the dead, but the values for which they stood: courage, endurance, mateship—and yes—respect. Respect for each other. Respect for the land. Respect for the idea that Australia is not finished, but still being made.

At dawn, we are given a choice.

We can cling to the darkness: division, resentment, smallness of spirit.

Or we can step into the light: toward a fuller, more generous understanding of who we are.

This year, despite the disruption, the choice of the overwhelming majority was clear.

They chose the light.

Lest we forget.

Jesse J. Fleay is a Boorloo-born Noongar writer and academic living in Naarm. He lectures in Politics and International Relations at Monash University. Views are his own.