It’s a small city on the eastern side of the Dardanelles Strait – a perfect base to explore the many battle sites of the Gallipoli peninsula… which is why I’m here.
On the 25th April 1915, thousands of Australian and New Zealand soldiers (Anzac's) landed at a cove on the Gallipoli Peninsula before dawn to capture high ground and assist a British force to control the sea route to the Black Sea. Over 8700 Australian soldiers did not return from the battle, which dragged on for 9 long months. Ever since, Australians have celebrated the sacrifice of these men on the 25th April every year – a national holiday, Anzac Day.
Although I’ve heard the story a thousand times, to actually see the place where the legend began is a special moment. We are traveling with a couple of other Aussies and we fall quiet as we approach the landing site – it’s a shitty little beach 20 metres wide and 600 metres long. There’s pretty big mountains on the beachfront, and I can imagine how confusing it would have been to arrive here in the dark, expecting low foothills and getting cliffs ... all the while being shot at.
As we walk along the beach, I’m struck at how unimportant it all seems now, even though at the time it was an ‘essential’ tactical maneuver. One thing makes me sad and angry- these young men who died probably didn’t even know who the Turkish people were, what they stood for and why they were there on a beach on the other side of the world, fighting and getting killed. I can’t understand fighting for a cause I don’t believe in, let alone not even knowing what the fight was for.
No comments:
Post a Comment