There were several occasions when Australia's national day of mourning ceremony for those who died in Victoria's bushfires was genuinely moving.
The speech by Murrindindi shire mayor, Lyn Gunter was a standout for its eloquent expression of heartfelt sorrow for those who perished, and respect for those now coping with grief and loss. As a community leader for a shire where more than 20 towns were destroyed by the fires, she is all-too familiar with the tragedies and anguish that continue to unfold across the region. She spoke with a passion, empathy and conviction that was not echoed in many of the more political speeches heard during the ceremony
Victorian premier John Brumby also spoke with great dignity and compassion, as did the Venerable Chi Kwang Sunim – a Buddhist community leader based at Kinglake.
"There are events that sear our consciousness, lacerate our hearts, and imprint our souls. These are the events and the memories that we carry with us for the rest of our lives," she said.
"The fires that took hold just over two weeks ago not only devastated Victoria, but burnt themselves into our collective being. And in their wake we sense only the grief and tears, the almost inexpressible sadness of lost friends, lost homes, lost communities, lost bird and animal life."
Two members of the Kinglake community joined ex-Seekers songwriter Bruce Woodley and his daughter on stage to sing several newly-penned verses of Woodley’s song "I am Australian" (written in 1987 for the Australian Bicentenary) which paid tribute to those who died, those who survived, and those who battled the fires. It was a moment that clearly moved the crowd that had gathered at the Rod Laver tennis stadium for the nationally telecast ceremony. "Sing it again," called a voice from the auditorium.
But among all the battlefield rhetoric speeches by politicians (how many times did we hear about steely-eyed resilience staring down the fires of hell?) and dignitaries, the ringing of handbells and the baskets of white flowers, there was something missing. Why didn’t we hear the names of those who died? Where were their photographs?
More than 200 people died in the bushfires, and it would have been fitting to acknowledge their loss with a simple ceremony where names were read and bells were rung as a mark of respect. What was the reasoning behind consigning them to anonymity? It doesn’t happen with the Ground Zero memorial ceremonies in New York. The names of all those who died are read as a mark of respect.
Reading the hundreds of tributes posted online in memory of those who died in the fires is a profoundly moving experience. In these heartfelt messages, you can trace the outlines of beautiful love stories, now lost. You can read warmly grateful thanks for dedication to community projects, environmental campaigns and artistic endeavours. There are fond remembrances of shared ideals, trips taken together, laughter at dinner parties, family pride in graduations and weddings, memories of beloved family pets, dreams of living the good life in a community where neighbours cared about each other and their environment.
Among those who died were scientists, people who shaped government policy, artists, conservationists, young families who wanted their kids to grow up learning to appreciate the beauty of the natural world, people who ran small businesses and people who gave their time willingly as community volunteers. Their dreams, their achievements and contribution to making the world a better place deserved to be honoured by reading their names as a mark of respect.
Maybe the politicians and the people who organised the event wanted to avoid death as a theme for the occasion. Maybe they scripted such a Hillsong style "happy-clappy" conclusion to the ceremony because they felt it was important to offer a message of hope. But death is the reason we gather together for any memorial service. We gather to recall and celebrate those we have lost. We cry, we mourn, we comfort each other in our grief and we resolve to honour the memories of those we've lost by honouring what they stood for in our lives. We talk about them. We say their names.
During his speech, Prime Minister Kevin Rudd announced flags will fly at half-mast each year on 7 February 7 to honour those who died. Fine, but they deserve more. Let’s have a Leigh and Charmian Ahern chair in ecology to honour the life’s work of two dedicated champions of threatened plant and animal species. Let’s have a Jenny Barnett fellowship in environmental politics to honour a woman who was a driving force in conservation campaigns. Let's have scholarships to honour the work of sleep research scientists Professor Rob Pierce and educational policy expert Dr Ken Rowe.
Let's have animal welfare scholarships to honour the work of Professor John Barnett in improving standards for livestock transportation and the community dedication of Marcel Smits in educating people to take better care of domestic pets. Lets have a scholarship to the National Institute of Dramatic Art in honour of actor Reg Evans, a wildlife art award in honour of Angela Brunton.
Let's have an annual concert at the Sidney Myer music bowl in honour of those who died, with a message board where people can pin tributes, or a community altar where we can light candles or place flowers in remembrance of those who died.
White flowers, bells and choirs singing Leonard Cohen songs may bring touches of beauty and poignancy to a memorial ceremony. But they are mere trappings if the dead are nameless and absent to a nation still coming to terms with their loss.