El Alamain

In the lingering shadow of ANZAC day we set off on yet another long journey, this time from the tranquility of the lush Siwa Oasis with its salty lakes and dense date palm plantations to the Mediterranean Coastline, which we will follow until we reach our destination: Alexandria. It is a 10 hour Odyssey through the desert, with very little to see except for military check points and the occasional sand coloured wild dog, waiting around for scraps of food and spilled water. Our only deliberate stop will be in El Alamain to spend some time in the Military museum and to visit the graves of the fallen WW2 commonwealth forces.

As we emerge from the bleak outstretched yellow of the western desert and arrive at the coastline we can barely believe out eyes. Hundreds of multi story apartment buildings in varying stages of completion are towering over the azure sea that laps at the pale sand, seeming as incongruous here as the oases seem in the desert. The manicured lawns of beach resorts with names like 'Santa Monica' and 'Costa del Sol' seem wildly inappropriate.

These gated communities are reserved for the uber wealthy minority of the Egyptian population, government officials and pop stars. The billboards feature pale skinned, bikini clad women and handsome young men baring impossibly white teeth. Each apartment is said to fetch around 4 Million EP, plenty more than most Australians would consider paying for their principle residence, let alone their beach-side getaway; yet they must be in high demand, given the volume of dwellings stacked on top of each other, looking not unlike the suburbs of Cairo, except with the occasional sea view. Most of blocks aren't even walking distance from the water's edge.

And in amongst all these obscene structures is the blink-or-you'll-miss-it El Alamain City, where our little white minibus pulls up and releases us, to the sea breeze and the jumbled and confusing Mubarak initiated Military Museum. As usual, the dates and diagrams are just shapes and numbers to me, and I can't process the information they are laying out in English, French, German and Arabic. I stifle giggles as I peruse the uniforms that include what looks like a dead chicken spread eagled on a bullet proof helmet, some boy scout like khaki shorts, and some high waisted pants that are unbecoming even to the lifeless (and hipless) plaster model.

I'm drawn to a flag bearing what looks like a bright red wallaby, but on closer inspection turns out to be a rat, the symbol of those fighting in Libya that became known as The Rats Of Tobruk. I remember a poem learnt long ago, and try to reconcile the fact that those men were crouching in caves in the desert not far from the places I have just visited. Somehow I've always pictured the action WW2 in the damp and muddy trenches of Europe, and not in the dusty desert of North Africa. I marvel in the holes in my knowledge, and hope that someday, someone makes a film about those fighting in the Western Desert, as all the Wikipedia-ing and brochure reading in the world won't educate me as much as a well made movie.

We are back in the van by 3pm, and a few hundred meters later are again out in the elements, being buffeted by the breeze, faced with the massive white cross that towers over the Commonwealth Cemetery. And here, it all makes sense. The arrows and the maps in the museum told me that something happened here, some battle, some political struggle, but here I can see it plainly: people died here, in a part of the war that high school history classes have neglected to teach.

British, Australian, South African and New Zealanders rest here, between the well kept bougainvillea bushes, under the same sun that beat down on them during their horror in the desert. Their names are chiseled into the headstones that bare heart wrenching messages from wives and mothers. 'He made a woman happy' is cut into one. Age 23. Much worse than those that bear names and messages are the ones that declare the fallen soldier interred there 'Known Only To God'. It is an eerie thing, to consider those anonymous men, lying in the ground, their souls commandeered by religion: motivation for so much of the killing in this war, and so many in the past.

I leave the white cross and the graves and the bougainvillea and walk back up the hill to the minivan, considering that in a weeks time I will be visiting the battle fields of Gallipoli- a site that thanks to Mel and many ANZAC services I can locate in my shallow knowledge of military history.

Just as I did in the desert, at our makeshift ANZAC service, I pause to think about the greed and ignorance that motivates humans to kill each other,in places as remote as North Africa, or as urban as New York City. Every time we remember those lost to senseless war we must remind ourselves that wars are not just fought with tanks and ammunition. They are spawned in the mouths of the ignorant, and in the minds of the desperate. War begins with words, and peace begins with us. Lest we forget.