While those who lived through the world wars may be retreating into history, let's keep telling their stories. Photo: Rob Gunstone
Remembrance Day always surprises me. It is a day I spend no time anticipating or preparing for, but as 11 o'clock ticks around on the 11th day of the 11th month, I am overcome with a wave of solemnity that builds to a peak in the moments of silence we use to remember those who gave the ultimate sacrifice in war. I have hated being alone on Remembrance Day, as the occasion often slips past unnoticed, and although I am quite capable of remembering and honouring in solitude, I miss the feel of participating in a community looking back at the actions of those in our past.
It is impossible for me to disentangle Remembrance Day from thinking about my own grandfathers, who were both involved in World War II. In the beautiful, deafening silence it is their weathered faces and slightly broken lives that are at the forefront of my mind.
As a history teacher, my favourite part of teaching the mandatory curriculum was helping the Year 9 students learn about Australia's role in the world wars. There is one lesson that is etched in my memory forever; one of the special moments where a planned activity reaped far greater reward than I imagined. The class had completed a unit of work looking at World War II, and for homework I had asked the students to research what the years were like for a member of their family. They could talk to grandparents or great-grandparents if that was an option, or interview parents, aunts, uncles or family friends. I wanted them to engage in their own family history and find their "person" in the historical context they had been learning about.
I remember walking into the classroom with low expectations, hoping one or two of them would have done what I asked. With a tear in my eye and a lump in my throat, I told them about my grandfather and his time in a prisoner of war camp. I told them of his escape from a train on the way to a concentration camp in Austria. I told them of his fighting behind enemy lines with the partisan movement in Italy and his eventual escape into Switzerland over the mountains. I told them about his struggle to adapt back to "normal" life in Australia, a struggle he never really came close to winning.
When I asked who would like to go next, I was surprised to see 20 or so hands volunteering involvement. I spent the lesson listening to the stories sprouting from a generation of 14 year olds.
We heard stories of lost love, amazing sacrifice, strength and courage we couldn't imagine. We heard about the resentment of being excluded from participation, about being rejected and left behind. We heard stories of mateship, affairs, and shenanigans that had students laughing irrepressibly. We heard reflections about changed lives and the inability to ever really get past what was seen and done in wartime. The stories came alive and we immersed ourselves in them.
As the bell rang and the class left, I couldn't help but feel I was looking at the backs of people who had changed a little. The dates and facts were no longer just things they needed to learn and spit back at me on paper. The history had come to life and connected with them on a very personal level.
Trying to regather my emotions of that lesson I fronted the next class, with one fact resounding clearly: we only get to hear the stories of the survivors. Although the versions I heard from those students were no doubt censored, biased and riddled with human subjectivity filtered through generations, the stories were still told. There are so many thousands of stories no one got to tell.
Although this lesson seems like yesterday, it was almost 10 years ago. Those 14-year-olds are now grown up, out in the real world making their own way. I still think of them often and wonder if, on Remembrance Day, their thoughts will be drawn to the person who jumped out of history and spoke to them.
In the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, let us remember. Even though Remembrance Day seems to sit in the shadow of Anzac Day, even though the silence may only be in our minds, even if we have missed the hour, let us remember.
While for most of us, our relatives or loved ones who lived through the world wars are retreating deeper and deeper into history, let's keep telling their stories down through the generations. These are the stories that can be told, unlike those whose owners were unable to bring them home. Let's not waste the privilege.
Stephanie Brown is an English and history teacher who is taking a break while she looks after her three children.