Anzac Day conjures a variety of uncomfortable feelings for me.
Every year, I don the pins and attend a service. Most years, I also wake early to view the televised unfolding of the Lone Pine commemoration at dawn.
And every year, the patriot within me is torn.
At the end of my university life, I spent some time in Turkey - long enough to become immersed in the culture, and learn a lot of the language.
I was proud to call the land home, if even temporarily. It is a beautiful land that holds a proud place in my heart.
I still have many friends in Turkey.
The many who welcomed me into the world. We have stayed in contact, and in fact it was from a conversation with one such friend (spoken in whatever broken-Turkish I can still muster), that these thoughts arose.
For 364 days of the year, the Turkish people were wonderfully intrigued by the Australians that lived among them.
But on April 25, there was tension.
It was a time when Australians abound, particularly in the city of Canakkale.
Then, the city's name ceases to be spoken.
Instead, it is transported back a century and referred to only as its Greek name, 'Gallipoli'.
This year, 35,000 people lined the beaches of Anzac Cove.
Contrast that with the 25,000 Australians and New Zealanders who ventured ashore on April 25, 1915.
The first time, it was an invasion. This time, it's commemoration.
My Turkish friend described the annual pilgrimage to the Dardenelles Strait as "a yearly invasion of Australians".
By the end of the 1915 assault, Australia had lost 8709 men while New Zealand lost 2779.
The Ottoman Empire's dead counted up to 86,692.
The loss to Turkish lives was enormous. Worthy of the same grief and remembrance.
Today, along Anzac Cove at Gallipoli there sits a plaque.
Attributed to the modern founder of the Turkish nation, Mustafa Kemal. It reads:
"Those heroes that shed their blood and lost their lives ... You are now lying in the soil of a friendly country. Therefore rest in peace. There is no difference between the Johnnies and the Mehmets to us, where they lie side-by-side here in this country of ours."
Gallipoli is a city that is stuck between the dead and the living.
Beneath the sands where we stand in remembrance, our fallen heroes lie side-by-side.
In grief, can the Johnnies and the Mehmets not also stand side-by-side?
Emma Horn is a reporter with The Daily Advertiser and former archaeologist.