Colonial war grief and gendered mourning: How women’s black attire exposed systemic erasure of Anzac’s violent origins

The Anzac myth’s erasure of Indigenous grief reflects a broader colonial pattern where Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander communities were excluded from national mourning rituals despite bearing the brunt of frontier violence linked to WWI recruitment. Women like Aboriginal activist Pearl Gibbs, who protested war memorials on stolen land, were systematically silenced. Traditional Indigenous practices of mourning—such as *kanyini* (deep relational grief)—challenge the Anzac narrative’s individualised sorrow.

The 1916 black attire echoes Victorian widowhood culture, where black signified respectability and moral authority—tools later co-opted by the state to frame war as a 'noble sacrifice.' This mirrors how WWI memorials in Europe and Australia were used to legitimise conscription and suppress anti-war movements. The Gallipoli campaign itself was a colonial enterprise, with ANZAC troops fighting under British imperial command to secure Ottoman territories.

In Turkey, the Gallipoli campaign is remembered as a defensive victory against imperial invasion, with *şehitlik* (martyrdom) framed through Islamic and Ottoman traditions rather than grief as spectacle. In Vietnam, war memorials like the *Hoa Lo Prison* (Hanoi Hilton) centre state propaganda over individual mourning, reflecting a top-down grief narrative. Māori *tangihanga* rituals, which span generations, contrast with Anzac Day’s fleeting public displays, highlighting how mourning is politicised differently across cultures.

Research in trauma studies (e.g., Herman’s *Trauma and Recovery*) shows that collective mourning rituals can either heal or exacerbate societal divisions, depending on whether they acknowledge structural violence. Sociological studies of memorialisation (e.g., Winter’s *Sites of Memory*) reveal how states instrumentalise grief to foster national identity. The Anzac myth’s focus on 'mateship' aligns with Durkheim’s theory of collective effervescence, but obscures the Durkheimian 'anomie' of post-war disillusionment.

Artists like Emily Kame Kngwarreye (Aboriginal painter) and Yoko Ono have used black as a medium to critique war’s erasure of Indigenous lives, while poets like Judith Wright linked Anzac Day to the destruction of Australia’s ecosystems. In Christian traditions, the 'black' of Good Friday symbolises sacrifice, but this is often co-opted to sanitise secular militarism. Spiritual frameworks like Buddhist *dukkha* (suffering) offer a lens to critique war’s cyclical violence without glorifying it.

A decolonial Anzac Day could integrate Indigenous protocols, such as *Welcome to Country* ceremonies, to acknowledge pre-colonial land and the war’s role in dispossession. Scenario modelling suggests that shifting from 'sacrifice' to 'resistance' narratives could reduce militarisation’s appeal among youth. Future memorials might adopt *truth and reconciliation* frameworks, as seen in South Africa’s post-apartheid healing processes.

Pacifist women like Vida Goldstein (Australia’s first female political candidate) and conscientious objectors were imprisoned for opposing WWI, yet their stories are excluded from Anzac Day lore. Migrant communities, such as Italian-Australians who faced internment during WWII, are also erased from the narrative. The voices of disabled veterans—often rendered invisible in war memorials—challenge the myth of 'heroic recovery.'