Back to Winter during her fortnight stay in Australia. Unlike her young spirit for indie gigs at The Grace Darling Hotel or mural art along Hosier Lane, she went to the most common tourism site but most contemplative one; a Shrine.
The latte coloured sanctuary amidst the gigantic building was nothing compared to the grandeur architecture of any palace. However, the trapezium roof and countable pillars in the front doors almost depicted the most humble version of Palladian architecture. “Let’s go.” She urged herself. A monument welcomed her like a warm hearted host serving a number of name in its body. The names of locations she knew since her first geography class at school such as Java Sea and Borneo. The year she never thought that violence really happened anywhere in the world. Especially in the wars that took souls and dreams away into ashes or drawn underneath the earth. Worst part: wound of condolence in the loved one. The shrine initially was meant to commemorate the heroes in the world war. As time went by, it let all Australians who have served in any war to be commemorated. Inside the building was a spacious hall full with sense of sacrality. As far as she wander, the shrine not only provided exhibition, but it also gathered people for talk. “Every 11th of November, before midday, at 11 AM, A ray of light will hit the Stone here…” she heard a tour guide explained to a couple of middle age tourists. She took a look at a marble stone sunk below the pavement right in the centre of the hall. “Greater love hath no man.” She read the written message down there. She picked an imitative red rose from the cup next to the love story of a soldier, left the echoed voice belonged to the tour guide and climbed to the upstair leading to unknown end that turned out to be a quiet balcony. “What actually is the different between sacrifice and victim in a war?” She traced back her memory to the previous day while she attended a random lecture in Clayton while waiting for acquaintances. The lecture called Australia’s Black History. Just like its name, it was even darker than an espresso she bought in the class; the story of Aborigine’s massacre during British invasion. An aborigine slave who was accused of white man murder and the aftermath was the massacre in the river that can broke anyone’s heart. She stared right to the monument and back forth to the building. She was trapped in a superficial grief of remembering the person who passed away due to political interest; the war, the massacre and the kidnapped. Melbourne and Shrine of Remembrance showed her that tragedy- even the most bloodiest one could be a foundation to build a strong nation. In a lecture class, the fact of Aborigine massacre as a victim of colonialism would construct consciousness of tragedy through academical pulpit. Whereas Shrine of Remembrance gave a strong symbol that Australian will always respect their prior heroes who was sacrificed themselves in battlefield. As she returned home, she wondered how could tragedy like 65’s mass murder never openly discussed massively or how could the kidnapped of some activist in new order never moved the citizens to dig out the truth. The death with no corpse was psychologically torturing because the loved one might expect their lover would come back. That was why she walked to the palace and hold black umbrella with the people who care. The calling of the Shrine that led her to admit tragedy and speak up.
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