I begin by acknowledging the traditional owners of the land on which we meet, and I pay my respects to Elders past, present and emerging.
I also acknowledge Her Excellency the Governor-General, Sam Mostyn; Australian Defence Force leaders; Australian War Memorial Chair Kim Beazley; Australian War Memorial Director Matt Anderson; and my colleagues from across the Parliament.
I extend my respects to all serving Defence members and all veterans here today. You honour us with your presence.
Each year, we begin the Parliamentary year with the Last Post ceremony.
From across the Parliament and across the political spectrum, we join here in solemn remembrance of generations of Australian sacrifice.
We join in gratitude for the difference Australians in uniform have made in the world when it was so desperately needed.
We reflect on the courage and strength of character that, for decades, has defined those who have served in our name.
And, bonded by the power of Lest we forget – that most unadorned of sentences that dwells within us like a heartbeat – we vow to keep the flame of memory burning so brightly that its glow reaches future generations.
Today we adjourned the Parliament so that everyone who wished to could come mark the opening of this Atrium and Anzac Hall, an addition to the Australian War Memorial that makes that flame burns so much brighter.
What a sublime and powerful addition it is. A bold vision turned into a reality that enhances the institution of which it is now part.
It amounts to an act of profound respect from the nation to all who have served in our name, and all who serve now.
The fighters for peace, the keepers of peace.
It honours all who went and all who fell. It honours those who came home, including the many whose hearts never knew peace again.
It is an act of remembrance that also acknowledges that while our troops are supported, not every conflict has been – and that, too, is part of our hard-won freedom.
So much here is on a profoundly human scale.
From the fluffy dice that Captain Lukas Wilds took from his V12 Monaro and carried with him to Afghanistan, to every window on G for George, each one an invitation to imagine the face on the other side as they flew against the odds, ever deeper into enemy skies.
Amid the array of artefacts, read all the words. Listen to the voices.
Look at the faces and get lost amid the smiles, the hope and camaraderie – the counterpoint to war’s relentless, inhuman arithmetic. They are its true cost.
Yet, amid this loss and sacrifice, what pulses so powerfully is life, and an abiding sense of what is worth fighting for. As Australians. As human beings.
It pulses with the hope that drives every peacekeeping mission.
And it pulses with love – along, inevitably, with the grief that is love in the face of the final absence.
I’d like to quote from one letter displayed here. It was written by Hilda Barnes on the 30th of June 1945, about her son Pilot Officer Keith Osmond Barnes, reported missing over Germany in January 1944.
It is a reminder of the forms that hope can take. And I quote:
“… we are still hoping he may be found in hospital somewhere … he may have lost his memory or even disfigured by burns.
“I am enclosing a photo of him. I thought it might help if he has lost his memory. You will have an idea of what he looks like. He was 20 years and 10 months of age at his presumed death.”
Then the following line:
“He is our baby.”
Next week it will be 81 years since Hilda Barnes wrote that letter. Here in this place of memory, her words call to us still – as does the face of the son she longed for in vain.
Along with so many others, generation after generation.
When the Australian War Memorial opened during World War II, nearly a year before G for George was delivered to No. 460 Squadron, Prime Minister Curtin said it would bring our nation closer to the meaning of Australian courage, sacrifice and faith.
Even as we move further away in years, the Atrium and Anzac Hall bring us even closer.
And as they do, that heartbeat within us grows louder.
Lest we forget.