The Census Came for the Quiet Ones

I have just finished the Australian Census.

Had it not been for the threat of a $364 a day fine, I would have told them where to shove it.

I was angry.  I am angry. Bloody angry. 

The anger surprised me. It was not because I objected to every question. It was not because I failed to understand that governments need information to plan roads, hospitals, schools and services.

It was something more personal than that.

For most of my life, I have asked very little from government. I pay my taxes. I obey the law. I try not to trouble anyone. I have lived quietly, kept my own counsel, and valued the simple freedom of being just another person moving through the world.

The Census reminded me that privacy is no longer something we simply possess.

Memorial Day, observed on the last Monday of May, is a time for Americans to honour the men and women who have died in military service to the United States. This day is marked by ceremonies, parades, and tributes, reflecting the nation's respect and gratitude for those who made the ultimate sacrifice. 

Much like our ANZAC Day, it is a day to genuinely honour those who fought and perished to defend our right to freedom. 

Memorial Day in the United States and ANZAC Day in Australia and New Zealand are both national days dedicated to remembering and honouring military personnel who have served and sacrificed for their countries. While these special days share a common purpose, they differ in their origins, customs, and modern significance. Comparing these two observances provides a way to look into how different nations honour their fallen heroes and reflect on their military histories.

This post explores the history in both and how they are the same yet different.

Imagine this: 

It is the 25^th April, and a German man and his wife from Munich are taking a motoring holiday to the South of France. They pass through the northern French city of Amiens. 

They observe much gaiety among the populace and are wondering what it is all about. 

They pass through the city and 15 km down the road they approach a small town. 

On the outskirts, they pass a cemetery which has a sign “Adelaide Cemetery”. 

Says the man, " that is not a French name. What does it mean? " 

Each war seems to produce its own under-appreciated heroes who, for reasons that have nothing to do with their courage, competence or devotion to duty, are by-passed for promotion or otherwise demoted.

In the Boer War it was Breaker Morant, in WW2 it was Brig Arnold Potts and in more recent days Cpl Ben Roberts-Smith. In WW1 it was Brigadier General Elliott, otherwise known as “Pompey”. Elliott was one of the most direct and forceful brigade commanders in the Australian Army. 

Loved and admired by the troops he commanded because they knew that he would never ask them to perform tasks that he was not willing and able to carry out himself. He was an outspoken critic of the British Army higher command and of the Australian as well when they deserved it. His belligerence and refusal to kow-tow to British higher authority was the seed of his undoing. He clashed with Kitchener, Haig and Birdwood and the fact that he was usually proved right, probably carried more weight against him that his insubordination.

Pompey Elliott was born in an era when Australia seemed to have an endless supply of natural leaders, adventurous explorers and trail blazers, innovative business people and an inborn ethic that gave precedence to common sense.

Fear has always been the most powerful weapon of control,  whether wielded by governments against a small religious sect in Waco or against entire populations during the Covid lockdowns.

In 1993, the Branch Davidians were surrounded, cut off, and pressured into submission before their compound was engulfed in flames.

Decades later, the world experienced a different kind of siege - locked inside their homes, silenced by threats, and forced into compliance. The methods may have changed, but the principle remained the same: instill fear, apply force, and watch obedience follow.

On April 19, 1993, an horrific inferno engulfed the Branch Davidian compound in Waco, Texas, marking the violent end of a 51-day standoff between federal agents and a religious sect led by David Koresh.

What began as an ATF raid to seize what they believed were illegal firearms spiraled into a deadly confrontation that left 76 men, women, and children dead.

To this day, the world debates who lit the match.