Claire Duffy's blog about public speaking and communication (in real life). Speak well, do well!
This Armistice Day is the 95th anniversary of the end of the Great War. Great statesmen have made many great speeches to honour and mourn those dead, but Australian Prime Minister Paul Keating’s 1993 Remembrance Day Speech at the Funeral of the Unknown Soldier stands out among the finest.
Keating’s speechwriter Don Watson wrote in his memoirs that Keating “painted word pictures, created images and moods at a stroke. He could turn ideas into icons, make phrases that stuck…” And as Paul Daley put it recently in The Guardian:
Keating was best when he…spoke to the nation. The two finest speeches of his prime ministership: at Redfern in 1992, to acknowledge the grotesque injustice to Aborigines at the heart of Australian sovereignty, and on Remembrance Day 1993, to dedicate the tomb of the Australian Unknown Soldier at the Australian War Memorial in Canberra… tapped sleeping national sentiments (of pride, of sorrow, of profound loss, of anger, guilt and burning injustice) about two very different stories critical to the definition of Australian nationhood. That both speeches are equally reprised two decades later by Keating’s legion of ideological foes … and his allies alike, speaks profoundly of the emotional insights he drew upon.
This speech speaks to everyone. The words are simple, the sentiments clear. The man died in a ‘mad, brutal, awful struggle’, and ‘his tomb is a reminder of what we have lost in war and what we have gained’. You can listen to it here, or read the transcript below.
We do not know this Australian’s name and we never will. We do not know his rank or his battalion. We do not know where he was born, nor precisely how and when he died. We do not know where in Australia he had made his home or when he left it for the battlefields of Europe. We do not know his age or his circumstances – whether he was from the city or the bush; what occupation he left to become a soldier; what religion, if he had a religion; if he was married or single. We do not know who loved him or whom he loved. If he had children we do not know who they are. His family is lost to us as he was lost to them. We will never know who this Australian was.
Yet he has always been among those whom we have honoured. We know that he was one of the 45,000 Australians who died on the Western Front. One of the 416,000 Australians who volunteered for service in the First World War. One of the 324,000 Australians who served overseas in that war and one of the 60,000 Australians who died on foreign soil. One of the 100,000 Australians who have died in wars this century.
He is all of them. And he is one of us.
This Australia and the Australia he knew are like foreign countries. The tide of events since he died has been so dramatic, so vast and all-consuming, a world has been created beyond the reach of his imagination.
He may have been one of those who believed that the Great War would be an adventure too grand to miss. He may have felt that he would never live down the shame of not going. But the chances are he went for no other reason than that he believed it was his duty – the duty he owed his country and his King.
Because the Great War was a mad, brutal, awful struggle, distinguished more often than not by military and political incompetence; because the waste of human life was so terrible that some said victory was scarcely discernible from defeat; and because the war which was supposed to end all wars in fact sowed the seeds of a second, even more terrible, war – we might think this Unknown Soldier died in vain.
But, in honouring our war dead, as we always have and as we do today, we declare that this is not true.
For out of the war came a lesson which transcended the horror and tragedy and the inexcusable folly.
It was a lesson about ordinary people – and the lesson was that they were not ordinary.
On all sides they were the heroes of that war; not the generals and the politicians but the soldiers and sailors and nurses – those who taught us to endure hardship, to show courage, to be bold as well as resilient, to believe in ourselves, to stick together.
The Unknown Australian Soldier we inter today was one of those who by his deeds proved that real nobility and grandeur belong not to empires and nations but to the people on whom they, in the last resort, always depend.
That is surely at the heart of the ANZAC story, the Australian legend which emerged from the war. It is a legend not of sweeping military victories so much as triumphs against the odds, of courage and ingenuity in adversity. It is a legend of free and independent spirits whose discipline derived less from military formalities and customs than from the bonds of mateship and the demands of necessity.
It is a democratic tradition, the tradition in which Australians have gone to war ever since.
This Unknown Australian is not interred here to glorify war over peace; or to assert a soldier’s character above a civilian’s; or one race or one nation or one religion above another; or men above women; or the war in which he fought and died above any other war; or of one generation above any that has or will come later.
The Unknown Soldier honours the memory of all those men and women who laid down their lives for Australia.
His tomb is a reminder of what we have lost in war and what we have gained.
We have lost more than 100,000 lives, and with them all their love of this country and all their hope and energy.
We have gained a legend: a story of bravery and sacrifice and, with it, a deeper faith in ourselves and our democracy, and a deeper understanding of what it means to be Australian.
It is not too much to hope, therefore, that this Unknown Australian Soldier might continue to serve his country – he might enshrine a nation’s love of peace and remind us that in the sacrifice of the men and women whose names are recorded here there is faith enough for all of us.
The Hon. P.J. Keating MP
Prime Minister of Australia