Beersheba Day Revisited

We arrived in Be’er Sheva by minibus, thanks to Frank Stein of the ZFA. There were only a handful of us on the bus and I felt a pang of disappointment picking out a couple of seats from the several vacant ones. But once I got through finishing up my lecture for the benefit of my teenage son, explaining WWI and British colonialism, bolshevism and the incubation of the Balfour declaration and the Allenby campaign, spilling over from the ride on the number 18 bus, across the central station and into our subsequent departure whereupon the poor bugger was finally pardoned, I was free to relate to the other passengers on the way down to the special 90th Beersheba Day anniversary. And not withstanding our numbers, there were some interesting conversations going on that I could partly eavesdrop on over the radio’s incessant bleating. It wasn’t the only time that day I could freeload off other people’s conversational gifts.
When we got to Be’er Sheva it seemed we’d arrived just in time. We followed the crowd leaving down the constricted street lined with unfashionably outdated single story shops. After a few minutes we got to an intersection with a cordoned off street facing a small park with a bust of General Allenby. There were lots of primary school kids mingling around, herded by slightly harried but unflustered teachers, between the legs of Australian diplomats, Christian residents, tourists, security men, WWI Heritage Association reps and modern day Australian soldiers in sharply pressed dress uniforms. Russian pensioners watched and conferred amongst themselves bemusedly. Meanwhile local Police officers walked up and down the street like cerulean galahs, heads craning into their clavicles, as they talked into the two-way radio receivers hanging off their insignia.
I still hadn’t managed to down my morning coffee so Assaf and I bought something to drink at the corner felafel shop, open and serving a cluster of small town clerks and local businessmen at 9:30 am. Zei gezunt mates! Here’s to your long lives, eating all that deep fried fat first thing in the morning; til 120.
We crossed over to the other side of the street, where the crowds were a bit thinner. The Australian ambassador was being interviewed on the sidewalk, and hopefully explaining the significance of that battle for the pre-incumbent State of Israel 90 years ago. Then some one started lecturing over the loud speaker, a nice enough middle aged fellow alternating between Hebrew and faltering English, til the mounted light horsemen came into view their horses plodding down the road. The school kids started cheering wildly. Really! I thought. It’s not Princess Di or Ninet either. But a camera was filming them and they didn’t need any more winding up from the floor manager, not any more than stone throwers in an intefada playing up for the cameras. But who cares? It all added magic to the "circus has come to town" atmosphere.
Then we trundled off down the road to the Commonwealth War Cemetery. It was hot and we were after some shade. Assaf sprawled out in a patch of it afforded by a row of juvenile gum trees. But I set off strolling around on the closely cropped and trimmed green buffalo grass lawns between the neatly arranged rows of white headstones, a sea of them, in narrow beds of miniature gardenias and manicured ground hugging creepers. Soon the cemetery was filling up too. There was a welcoming swarm of locals, minus the school kids, and some Israeli soldiers too, amongst the throngs of tourists. About 60 representatives of the Light Horsemen Association, descendants of the original 4th and 11th regiment soldiers who fought in the famous charge, formed a guard of honour for the various dignitaries to file through. Being Israel it wasn’t all that easy to clear onlookers out of the way but they were good-naturedly well behaved and eventually moved their video productions aside.
The service was highly respectable, emotional but restrained. But the heat was confounding and as the ceremony dragged on at least one of the re-enacting soldiers dressed in their woollen WWI uniforms fainted in the unseasonable 30 degree plus heat. Wreaths were laid and speeches made. More than once my breathing got ragged. Conferring with others later on, I think the New Zealand ambassador got top honours on the day for his speech.
By noon we trundled off again to an obelisk shaped monument. As we left the cemetery some of the re-enactors were being photographed alongside gravestones of fallen relatives. A modest service for the fallen Turkish soldiers was held, against the backdrop of the old Turkish railway station and a second old stone building which had once lined the old Turkish railway line.
The re-enactment of the famous light horse charge was the dusty highlight of a long day. This extra ceremony started at 15:30 and drew yet another crowd. There seemed to be a lot of younger people from the town and from the outlying areas. I heard some peppering Australian soldiers with questions. It was more like kindly sympathetic verbal fan mail. The soldiers had come over from their various postings around the Middle East and personaly I was impressed with their patience and the air of familiarity with which they answered questions; even a major general and a colonel, in olive green uniforms, lacquered boots and gold insignia. Elsewhere a silver haired born again Baptist elucidated for our benefit his overwhelming love for Israel and Jews. “The bible says that those who treat god’s people well will be blessed. And it’s thanks to those light horsemen 90 years ago that Australia and New Zealand are such lucky countries today.”
The light horsemen charged across the flat at a canter kicking up billows of dust and the crowd cheered merrily. At the end of the canter the men and horses lined up ceremoniously in a grand arch, the Southern Cross flapping gallantly in the wind in the familiar blue flags and imperial red colours.
One old WWII digger from the Northern Territory, carrying a first aid kit and a camera, who didn’t actually ride, but wore knee high ridding boots and olive jodhpurs told me, “This is just the start. Gallipoli has become like a sacred site for Australian backpackers, now the same thing’s taken off and happening along the Kakoda Track in New Guinea. Maybe Beersheba is next?”