When a nation loses its voice, it turns to memory.
In these strange days, when truth feels rationed, pride is punished, and we’re told to smile through the shambles, we look not to politicians, but to each other. This isn’t just a letter. It’s a lifeline, thrown from the heart of ordinary Australia to anyone still listening. If you’ve ever felt like a stranger in your own country, then maybe, just maybe, this was written for you.
We’re writing to you from the gutter. Not because we’ve lost who we are, but because we’ve been kicked here. Kicked by smooth-talking suit-wearers with global dreams and no backyard roots. While they toast each other in parliament and overseas palaces, we’re left staring at the price tags in the supermarket and wondering when Australia became a parody of itself.
We used to be proud. Not loud, American-style flag-waving proud, ( sorry Chook! ) but quiet proud. The kind that came from doing a good job, from raising decent kids, from a backyard BBQ where no one was fancy but everyone was welcome. We worked, we paid our way, we looked after the neighbour’s dog when they went away. That was patriotism...practical and lived.
But now? We’re told we’re hateful if we love our country. Dangerous if we question authority. Selfish if we want to keep our farm. Backward if we don't trust the UN. It’s as if being Australian is something that needs to be corrected.
And so we look back. Not to escape...but to remember. The ANZACs didn’t march into machine gun fire for a surveillance state. The shearers didn’t strike so some bureaucrat in Brussels could tell us how much meat to eat. Our grandparents didn’t build this country from nothing just so we could be told by the WEF that “you’ll own nothing and be happy.”
Still, we’re not broken. Not really.
Because deep down, the Spirit of Australia is still there. She’s just tired. Maybe a bit bruised. Still able to cry over a Slim Dusty song on the radio. Still able to find joy in a lamington and a hug from an old mate.
We remember our boys in the trenches of the Somme, soaked to the bone, hearts heavy, spirits low. What lifted them? A letter from home. A scribbled joke from a mate. A photo of Mum by the stove, Dad with grease on his hands. Or a giant eye dropper. They didn’t keep going for medals. They kept going for us.
So this is our letter - from the modern trenches: the Centrelink queue, the tax return, the half-empty trolley with the full receipt. And like our boys did back then, we take heart in small things. The smell of rain on dirt. The cry of a galah or the kookaburra. The memory of what we really are. Not QR codes and climate pledges - but people. Bloody stubborn, fiercely loyal, irreverently funny people.
We might feel down, but don’t count us out. We’ll write, we’ll laugh, we’ll remember, and we’ll pass the torch.
The Spirit of Australia hasn’t died.
She’s just waiting for someone to write her a letter.
Signed with love,
A Few of the Forgotten but Never Beaten.
If you’re reading this, maybe it’s time you wrote one too. Not to a politician, but to a mate. A neighbour. A grandchild. Someone who’s never heard the real Australia spoken aloud. Write a yarn, share a joke, tell a true story. Light the fire again. Because the Spirit of Australia isn't a memory - she's a living thing. And she’s waiting, pen in hand.
How about it? Let's do it. Let's celebrate OUR Australia and tell the politicians and government to get fucked because we still have that ANZAC spirit, even if you bastard politicians and media don't.
Monty
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