Today, on both sides of the Tasman, we take pause, united in remembrance and reflection. We gather not to glorify war, but to honour those who have and continue to serve, those who sacrificed and those who never came home.
Exactly 110 years ago, before the first light of dawn broke over the shores of Gallipoli, Allied troops landed on a foreign beach under heavy fire. Their mission: to silence the Turkish guns and clear the way for Allied naval forces. What followed were eight months of unimaginable hardship — a brutal campaign that claimed the lives of 2779 New Zealanders, 8719 Australians and a combined 44,000 Allied soldiers.
Gallipoli marked not just a military chapter, but the beginning of a tradition, a day where we reflect on courage, service and loss. A day where we remember that the freedoms we enjoy were built on the sacrifices of those who fought for something greater than themselves.
Here at the University of Otago, our connection to this legacy is deeply personal. When New Zealand was called to service 573 students, 21 staff and a university councillor answered. By the war’s end, nearly a fifth of them would never return.
We gather today to remember their stories. We remember Prof Daniel Waters, who traded his lecture theatres for the New Zealand Tunnelling Company. We remember Percy Pickerall, the inaugural director of the University of Otago Dental School, who served in the New Zealand Dental Corp.
We remember Owen Wilkinson, who graduated with a bachelor of commerce and served at Gallipoli in the New Zealand Field Artillery Unit. We remember Frederick Montgomery, who paused his studies to serve in Gallipoli.
We remember Lieutenant-colonel J. Hardie Neal, who interrupted his studies to train and organise the Third New Zealand Field Ambulance. We remember H.P.J Childs and F.F. Adams, two Otago students who lost their lives during the war.
The call to service did not end in 1918. In World War 2 over 700 students, staff and alumni stepped forward to serve their country. Some returned with stories and wounds they would carry for the rest of their lives, while others gave everything.
We remember the big names such as history professor Angus Ross, who earned several military honours and wrote a history of his battalion, and Frederick Te Tiwha Bennett, who served in the Maori Battalion with distinction before pursuing studies in dentistry here at the university.
But we must also remember the small names such as William Sutherland, who was called for service, leaving a gap as a lab assistant in the physics department.
Anzac Day reminds us history is not confined to a book or monument. It lives in the footsteps of those who once sat where we sit, whose futures were forever altered by war.
For me, remembrance is personal. I think of my granddad, Captain Bruce Watson, who served with the 41st Squadron of the Royal New Zealand Air Force during the Vietnam War. He called it the "weekly milk run": we would call it 50 flights in and out of Vietnam aboard his beloved Bristol Freighter.
I remember standing beside him at a dawn service, sharing that profound silence — both of us later reflecting on how many servicemen and women had stood in that very place, once young, once hopeful, going about their day. It was a quiet reminder that those we honour were people just like us.
Later, as his battle with cancer worsened, I asked my granddad what he was most proud of — his family business, his role as a father, a husband? He paused and simply said it was his service. Knowing he had done his part, made his sacrifices, so that his family could live in a more peaceful world.
I share this not as a grand political statement, but as a reflection of a simple truth — that each of us carries a responsibility. A duty to honour their legacy not only in remembrance, but in action.
The men and women we remember today did not serve with the hope that future generations would gather to list battles and losses. They served with the hope that their sacrifices would build a foundation for something better. A safer, freer and more peaceful world. That is the enduring mission left to us.
Peace is not an accident. It is built deliberately: through compassion and understanding. Through our daily choices as individuals but also our choices as a nation. It is built when we stand against injustice, even when it is easier to remain silent. It is built when we create communities of dignity, respect and empathy.
The legacy of the Anzacs challenges us to reflect not just on what they gave for us, but also what we are doing with the world left in our care.
For us students here today, that mission mightn’t be fought on battlefields but rather in our classrooms and conversations. It’s found in standing up for one another and bridging divides.
Every generation shares this duty; both to reflect, to ask ourselves just as they did: How will we leave the world more peaceful than we found it?
But also to act. To shape a world where war remains history, not a headline.
As we continue this day of remembrance, let us honour their memory not only with silence and reflection, but with purpose, compassion and action. Let us carry forward the values they embodied: courage in the face of adversity, unity in times of division and a steadfast commitment to a better tomorrow.
Each of us has the power, in ways both great and small, to contribute to that enduring mission. Whether it’s through service to our communities, standing up for what is right, or simply ensuring that those who sacrificed are never forgotten — not just in words, but in the lives we lead.
If we can do that, if we can live with that sense of duty, of kindness, of commitment to peace, then we ensure that the legacy of the Anzacs is not just remembered, but realised.
We will honour them — not just today, but every day — in how we choose to shape the future they dreamed of. A future defined not by conflict, but by co-operation. Not by fear, but by hope.
That, I believe, is how we will truly remember them.
Nō reira, tēnā koutou, tēnā koutou, tēnā tātou katoa.
• Liam White is president of the Otago University Students’ Association.
