The Anzacs Fought For The Right To Be Wrong

This year, on Anzac Day, two Melbourne RSLs were alleged to have been defaced with graffiti bearing the slogans "F--k the Anzacs" and "Gallipoli – do it again". The reaction was immediate. Social media was in an uproar, talkback radio was alight and many Aussies were genuinely hurt and in disbelief. Anzac Day is a very special day in our national life. It is one of the rare moments that brings Australians together in an increasingly divided society. This is not an apotheois of war. It’s a day to remember. A day to remember the bravery, sacrifice and service of those who fought, suffered and in many cases died for their country.

For many, like me, it is deeply personal, my father John Carr-Gregg fought in WW2, he was in Bomber Command, the branch of the British Royal Air Force responsible for conducting strategic bombing operations against Germany and occupied Europe during the Second World War. The campaign came at an enormous cost. More than 55,000 of the approximately 125,000 aircrew who served in Bomber Command were killed, giving it one of the highest casualty rates of any Allied service branch during the war.

For the record he wasn't a fan of Anzac Day. Like many men of that generation, regardless of branch, his dislike was simpler and more personal: a distrust of the speeches and glorification, discomfort at being cast as a hero, the pain of remembering dead crew mates, and for bomber crews in particular, an uneasy relationship with what they had actually been asked to do over German cities.

Let me be clear, neither Dad - nor any Australian - for that matter, is required to endorse every war Australia has fought. Reasonable people can and should disagree about decisions of governments and conduct of wars. But there is a huge difference between questioning history and desecrating its symbols. Mocking the dead, defacing memorials and deliberately causing distress to veterans and their families isn’t an act of political sophistication. It is an act of scorn. But what I find most interesting is not the graffiti. It’s what it reveals about a wider cultural shift.

After more than forty years working as a psychologist with young people, I have become increasingly concerned by a phenomenon that extends far beyond this particular incident. We appear to be raising a generation in which attention is often confused with significance. In a digital culture that rewards visibility above almost everything else, many young people have absorbed the idea that if you want to matter, you first need to be noticed.

In previous generations, people earned recognition through achievement, contribution, service or expertise. Today, the quickest route to visibility is often outrage.ocial media has created an environment in which disruption attracts more attention than discussion, provocation generates more engagement than persuasion, and performance frequently outweighs substance. The result is a culture in which shocking people can feel more rewarding than convincing them.

Unfortunately, outrage functions like a drug. It produces a temporary rush of attention before rapidly losing its effect. To maintain visibility, the provocation must become louder, more extreme and more offensive. What begins as an attempt to challenge convention can quickly descend into little more than a competition for shock value. That is why this case is so deeply ironic.

The freedoms that allow people to protest, challenge authority and express unpopular opinions exist because previous generations defended democratic institutions, often at extraordinary personal cost. My father did not fight so that everyone would think the same way. He fought so that people would have the freedom to think differently. He fought for freedom of speech, freedom of association and the right to dissent. He fought for the rights of people whose views he may have profoundly disagreed with. That is one of the great strengths of a liberal democracy. But freedom has never meant freedom from consequences.

People are entitled to express offensive views. Others are equally entitled to find those views offensive. The justice system is entitled to determine whether laws have been broken. And the wider community is entitled to draw conclusions about what such behaviour says about the character and judgement of those responsible. The deeper issue here is not Anzac Day. It is whether we are losing sight of the difference between rebellion and maturity.

Mature adults understand that disagreement does not require disrespect. They understand that history can be criticised without being vandalised. They understand that democratic societies depend upon shared institutions and values, even when those institutions are imperfect. Most importantly, they understand that genuine courage is rarely found in acts designed to attract attention. Real courage looks very different. It is found in service rather than self-promotion. In responsibility rather than outrage. In sacrifice rather than performance. It is found in contributing to something larger than oneself. The Australians we remember on Anzac Day understood that instinctively. My father’s legacy is not simply that he fought. It is that he served.

In an age increasingly obsessed with being noticed, that may be the lesson we most need to remember.