Tonight,
I was speaking to a young boy: one who has spent the last three years
in Turkey with his family, and who is delightful; often-smiling,
intelligent-eyed.
My
sister asked him what Gallipoli was like. It was a rather abrupt
question. I would not have thought to ask it, and yet, I was
intrigued by the coming answer. The events that occurred on that
steep, rocky hillside and skinny beach have always fascinated me. The
terror, bravery, anguish, honour. . . I am struck by that inevitable
and useless loss of human life. The way men survived, (or did not
survive) through it will continue to arrest my attention for years to
come.
I
knew what would be said in answer to my sister's question. Gallipoli
is a beachy cove, rocky hills, blue sea.
But
even though I had inwardly asked the question, I knew I would not get
the answer I wanted.
The
answer I wanted could not be worded. The answer to the question,
"What was Gallipoli like?" Is to go there myself; to walk
along the slim strip of beach; to drink in the blue and grey tones of
the sea and feel the hot air mix with the breeze that comes sweeping
off the ocean with a tumbling, gentle glimpse of the significant
past; to climb one of the dirty hills, never mind the dusty slopes,
just for the sheer beauty of knowing how the soldiers did it in 1915,
though without the inescapable gunfire and panic.
I
want to see, and feel, and breathe in that place. I want to know; to
really know the answer
to the question.
And
the answer to every question like it.
What
is Gallipoli like? Well.
I might just have to go
and see.
1 comment:
YES...take me with you :)
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