Honour the Dead, Abandon the Living

On ANZAC Day, a man on Elizabeth Street exposed the country Australia refuses to see.

Elizabeth St Sydney, like Elizabeth St, Melbourne, are central thoroughfares to two of Australia’s greatest cities. Melbourne’s Elizabeth St being the better — a subjective comparison from a biased Melburnian.

ANZAC Day is one of the most prominent days on Australia’s calendar. April 25, for the past 110 years, has served as a sombre remembrance of the men and women who sacrificed their lives in defence of Australia during World War 1 and World War 2. Like every other theatre of war that followed World War 2, Australians witnessed sacrifice based on a lie to serve US hegemony and a commitment of subservience to a foreign master.

Australians should never forget those lives lost.

Attending the ANZAC Day March post the Dawn Service marks the commencement of a day where the silence and sombreness of dawn breaking epitomises the landing when Australian and New Zealand forces stormed the beaches of Gallipoli. Australian and New Zealand soldiers were the cannon fodder for the Empire. The story hasn’t changed. Who Australia bends the knee to has — another Empire, a different hegemon, another evil state that revels in terror, whose lust for murder and blood is insatiable.

The eternal flame at the Shrine of Remembrance in each of Australia’s capital cities burns forever in their memory. Australians sacrificed not for God and Country, but for evil and tyranny.

In Sydney, Elizabeth St saw metal barricades stretching the length of Circular Quay to Hyde Park — several kilometres of Sydneysiders clapping and cheering the survivors who remained from World War 2, the Vietnam veterans, or their families marching on their behalf in memory of their parents or grandparents. Representatives of today’s members of Australia’s armed forces — in their divisions and regiments — marched with diggers of the past.

ANZAC Day was bathed in sunshine — a perfect Saturday for revellers who honour Australia’s fallen, as well as those who returned from the bloody conflicts of war. A Melburnian in Sydney on the weekend, I was present at Sydney’s ANZAC Day parade march, and so was Jarryd Green.

Jarryd was another Sydneysider at the march to cheer Australia’s servicemen and women. Amongst the thousands that lined the streets, Jarryd stood out — he was different, a character people would avoid because of his appearance. He wasn’t homeless, but he was an Australian who’d fallen through the cracks. Discarded by the system or dealt an unfavourable hand that, either way, has left him in circumstances no one would want to endure. His face, hardened by adversity, was still soft — his eyes were kind but sorrowful. They carried a thousand tales of despair, and yet he was happy. Everything about Jarryd was memorable, but it was his enthusiasm for remembering Australia’s fallen that was most memorable.

He was typical of someone who’d been failed by the system. Just out of hospital — he still had his identification band on his wrist — he was barefoot, unwashed, hungry and thirsty.

What was humbling was his patriotism — clutching an Australian flag, his love of Australia was obvious, and no matter how much his country had failed him, he was a true blue Aussie — not bitter about his life circumstances or what was his fate. Jarryd was another hero, just like Australia’s diggers.

Intrigued by Jarryd’s enthusiasm, I struck up a conversation with him. I learned about his circumstances, about not judging books by their cover, about sincerity and humility. Jarryd was a great teacher. He epitomised everything there is to understand and know about what it means to be Australian and what Australia means to him.

Jarryd had every right to feel bitter about a country he loves that failed him, but he didn’t. I thought he would have, but I was wrong — I assumed what I felt should have been his feelings, but really I was projecting how I may have felt.

Jarryd is an inspiration — a stranger barely able to survive, riddled with underlying health conditions, but nonetheless someone of genuine spirit.

I learned about Jarryd and his plight in the hour I spent talking to him. I also learned he isn’t homeless, but struggles to eat after all the money he collects from the government goes straight to paying his rent. Once that’s paid, he has no money left and survives by scavenging for food through trash bins.

While talking to Jarryd, he was looking for discarded cups parade observers had left half empty. I asked him if I could buy him a drink — “a Coke would be great, thanks,” he said. I briefly excused myself and went to the Verandah Hotel on Elizabeth St — packed with revellers, former servicemen and women and their families, and current ones too.

I returned to where Jarryd and I were standing — with a can of Coke, two meat pies, two muffins, two ANZAC cookies and $100. No matter what he does with that money, in my mind he has it for food. Jarryd’s gratitude was overwhelming. Tears welled up in his eyes and you could see the emotion consuming him.

The emotions Jarryd was overcome with told you a story — that kindness towards him was foreign, even though it was natural for him to give. That was obvious when the food I purchased for him saw him extend a similar level of kindness and generosity — Jarryd was offering and asking people near us if they would like to share a pie, cookie or muffin.

Jarryd may have fallen through the cracks and we may never know how, but he is far richer than all of us — and he’s a true Aussie that epitomises what this country once stood for and not what it stands for now.