KEY POINTS:
As a new migrant to New Zealand, I was warned by a Kiwi friend: "Don't go into town tomorrow or you might get beaten up." That was 13 years ago and the "tomorrow" was Anzac Day.
Every one of the 12 Anzac Days since I have lived in fear of being lynched because of the colour of my skin. I heeded my friend's advice and lived in fear of offending anyone on such a momentous occasion - until now.
This Anzac Day I wanted to attend the Dawn Parade in Rotorua. Weeks before, I pictured my own lynching, the vile looks, verbal abuse and barrage of insults.
I racked my brains for ways to convey the fact that I was not the enemy New Zealand soldiers fought. I thought I would wear a T-shirt printed "Singapore Girl, Not Japanese" or "Thank you Anzacs from Singapore".
But then I imagined headlines: "Stupid Japanese girl freezes to death at parade - inappropriate dress". The T-shirt idea was dumped.
I then thought it better to have a placard, or a sign around my neck, but my Kiwi friend, whom I was going to hide behind at the parade, suggested I might be too presumptuous. Perhaps no one would bother with me. After all, this is 2007.
Perhaps there would be lots of yellow faces there. I might be making light of a solemn occasion and therefore be downright disrespectful. It was not all about me.
My friend did little to allay my fears but I decided to go anyway, sans signs, sans messages and brave the onslaught head-on.
I would attend to pay my respects to the Australian and New Zealand soldiers who fought valiantly to stave off the Japanese from occupying Singapore, my birth country. Many lost their lives doing it.
I was completely unprepared for what hit me when I walked up to the crowd at the Ohinemutu church on the shores of Lake Rotorua. As the haunting strains of singing filtered across the chilly still night, the waters of the lake lapped softly on the shores. The sky was dark, the lights in the churchyard shone on headstones and through swirling fog. It gave me a feeling of surrealism.
I felt a lump in my throat as I listened to the speech of an airman of World War II, a son of Rotorua. He put vivid messages in my mind's eye of his enlistment in the Air Force, his train departing and his family on the platform waving him off. The love he wished he had expressed. How he fought in the air above Europe but thought of his friends on the ground - his fellow servicemen who never made it back home to New Zealand.
As he completed his speech an orange glow touched the horizon, outlining Mokoia Island. The fog was weaving in and out of the hills on the opposite shore and the lake birds began to stir.
I felt a part of the silent, solemn crowd and fought to keep the tears from running down my face as the three-gun salute brought whimpers from the police dogs, and when the bugle punched the stillness with the morose The Last Post and when the New Zealand National Anthem was sung.
I pictured young men decades before I was born, cold and homesick, rising to bugle calls, desperate for the warmth, the love and familiarity of their country, homes and families. Some of them never made it back and lie buried on foreign shores.
Nothing brought home this fact more than seeing the veterans march past. Dignified, silver-haired men, a couple in wheelchairs, medals on their jackets, memories reflected in their sad eyes. Their emotions overflowed in the crowd and I too was filled with pride and gratitude to see in person the few of those who fought to preserve our freedom.
I was tempted to take up the invitation over the PA system to adjourn to the marae for coffee and mingle. Or perhaps turn up at the RSA later because I so desperately wanted to thank these veterans.
But I would not push my luck. Perhaps next year. I would not insult these brave men and risk reminding them of the colour of their enemy, even though I am not Japanese.
I left the parade wondering what each person had taken from this experience, if anyone had learned from such a commemoration of those who put their lives on the line for us.
I know I did. I learned about brave men who put their beliefs into action and fought to keep the world safe from tyrants and bullies. There are still men and women today doing exactly that.
I feel ashamed that I have not felt such strong convictions about continuing to keep the world safe. And I made a promise to myself to attend every Anzac dawn parade, regardless of the colour of my skin. It was not about me.
* This is an abridged version of Shirley Chan's account.
