On Saturday, as on every ANZAC Day, I stood again upon ground that is more than public space.
It is holy ground. A place set apart in the life of this nation.
Like a living altar in time, where we step away from the noise of a restless world and return to what is enduring, what is costly, what is true.
This day does not ask for casual memory. It calls us into deep remembrance. Into reverence. Into listening.
We listen to the silence between the bugle calls.
We listen to the stories carried in the soil. We listen to the names, etched not only in stone, but in spirit. Here, we are reminded of who we are, and whose shoulders we stand upon.
For this is a day marked by sacrifice. Lives given. Futures surrendered. Sacrificial love poured out for family, for Country, for one another.
For me, the Acknowledgement and Welcome to Country is never a performance.
It is a sacred act of truth. A moment of bowing my heart, mind, and spirit to the ancient custodians of this land, and to all who have walked it, cared for it, and, in time, defended it with their lives.
In that act, we hold together the old stories and the new. The ancient memory of Country, and the more recent memory of war, the deep kinship to this land, and the courage of those who stood in its defence.
This land remembers. It holds the imprint of struggle and survival.
It carries the echoes of courage and the weight of loss.
And so, each year, we give thanks, not for glory, but for love. Sacrificial love that was willing to lay itself down. Love that chose others above self. Love that endures beyond death.
On Saturday, at the Martin Place Cenotaph, as at all cenotaphs across this country, we stood within a sacred space. And yet, that sacredness was broken. That moment was disturbed. That place was dishonoured.
Such acts do not merely disrupt a ceremony, they wound something deeper in all of us. They failed to recognise the weight of what is held in these spaces. They forgot the cost that has been paid by our sons and daughters.
And so we feel anger. We feel grief. We feel a deep and rightful sense of shame at what has been done. But we must not allow the actions of a few to diminish what is sacred for many.
We will not surrender these places. We will not abandon this memory, in Glebe and Redfern and elsewhere. We will not let the sacred be silenced. Instead, we will stand again. Still. Steady. Resolute.
We will remember. And in remembering, we honour those who gave everything.
In remembering, we will protect what is sacred.
In remembering, we will become worthy of the legacy entrusted to us.
Lest we forget.
Uncle Ray Minniecon is a Kabi-Kabi and Gurang-Gurang pastor, veteran and social advocate who lives in Sydney.
