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When a Flag Carries Lives, Not Just Cloth

  • Writer: Phillip Anderson
    Phillip Anderson
  • 1 day ago
  • 2 min read
RAAF Amberley ramp ceremony; caskets draped in the Australian flag
RAAF Amberley ramp ceremony; caskets draped in the Australian flag

I often find myself asking why some people choose to burn our national flag.


The Australian National Flag was born at the same moment Australia became a nation. On 1 January 1901, the colonies federated, and among the first acts of the new Commonwealth was the decision to create a flag to represent who we were—and who we hoped to become. More than 32,000 designs were submitted through a public competition. The chosen design was first flown in Melbourne on 3 September 1901, a date we now recognise as Australian National Flag Day. From its earliest days, the flag was intended as a symbol of shared identity and national pride.


My own relationship with the flag is deeply personal. I have served on four separate occasions in Iraq with the Australian Defence Force. I have travelled throughout this country and around the world under that flag. I have stood at repatriation ceremonies as our fallen were returned home, their coffins draped in the Australian National Flag. In those moments, grief and pride exist side by side—an immeasurable loss carried with dignity by families and comrades alike.


I have played the National Anthem at flag-raising ceremonies and witnessed the silence and quiet respect that settles over a crowd as the flag is raised. I have listened to friends describe becoming Australian citizens, swearing an oath of allegiance, and feeling a deep sense of belonging as the flag flew above them.


For me—and for many others—the flag represents service, sacrifice, shared history, and belonging. It carries stories. It carries memory. Seeing it destroyed can feel deeply personal, particularly for veterans, for families of the fallen, and for those who have chosen this country as their home and identity.


I accept that for some, burning the flag is an act of protest—an expression of frustration with governments, institutions, or policies when they feel unheard or excluded. Perhaps that anger is aimed at the state rather than the people themselves. Even so, I cannot escape the sense of discomfort that comes with watching our national flag reduced to ashes.


Both perspectives exist, and both are real. The tension lies in how we reconcile freedom of expression with respect for symbols that hold profound meaning for so many. Perhaps the more constructive question is not whether the act should offend, but why people feel driven to such symbolic extremes in the first place—and whether we are listening early enough, carefully enough, to prevent anger from replacing dialogue. If debate is to move us forward, it must be grounded in understanding and outcomes, not gestures that divide more than they persuade.


 
 
 

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