The call has sent ripples through the veteran community — but behind the protest lies a deeper story of neglect, frustration and a system many say has failed those it was meant to serve.
Every year on April 25, politicians and dignitaries stand before the nation, flanked by medals and wreaths, to speak of sacrifice. They recite familiar lines: “Lest we forget.” “We will remember them.” “We honour their sacrifice.” But this year, a growing number of veterans are asking: what exactly have we remembered?
The call to boycott official Anzac Day services comes from No Duff Charitable Trust, a grassroots veterans’ group that formed in 2017 to fill the gaps they believe have been left by government agencies. It isn’t about disrespecting the day, says co-founder Aaron Wood, a 24-year army veteran who served in Somalia, East Timor, Afghanistan and the Solomon Islands. It’s about demanding respect beyond the ceremonies.
Wood is quick to clarify: “We’re not calling for a boycott of Anzac Day – that’s like boycotting Christmas or your birthday. We’re calling for a boycott of the political theatre. The speeches. The sound bites. The empty promises.”
Instead of marching under the words “lest we forget,” Wood wants veterans to mark the day their own way – either before or after the official services – with mates, in silence, or not at all.
Behind the protest is a damning reality. Despite a 2017 government-commissioned review that made 64 recommendations to overhaul veteran support – from creating a proper register to expanding mental health care and financial aid – many of the core issues remain. Veterans still struggle to access timely support, thousands are excluded by a narrow legal definition, and government agencies can’t even say how many veterans live in Aotearoa.
A crisis ignored
Wood’s frustration,shared by many veterans and their whānau, isn’t just philosophical – it’s statistical. There’s still no official tracking of veteran suicides. Unemployment among veterans is 1.7 times the national rate. Recommendation 44 of the 2017 Paterson Report called for a comprehensive register. It still doesn’t exist.
“They can’t even tell you to the nearest 10,000 how many operational veterans we have,” Wood says. “How can you support people you don’t even count?”
Other issues are just as stark: A restrictive legal definition of “veteran” that locks out thousands, near-total absence of transitional support when people leave the forces, and a mental health system that, according to the Wai 2500 inquiry, ignored psychological trauma for generations.
And while the recent amendments to the Veterans’ Support Act were meant to address many of these gaps, only 51 of the 64 Paterson recommendations were implemented in any form. Just four were fully actioned. Others – including several related to financial aid, family care, and data – were simply closed without change.
Between 2016 and 2020, No Duff depended fully on volunteers, taking over 1,000 crisis calls – many being referrals from well-resourced and funded state agencies like Corrections and Veterans’ Affairs itself. However, without funding, they burnt out. The referrals, Wood says, never stopped.
When asked why he’s pushing so hard now, Wood recounts the suicide of a young corporal just days after No Duff launched. Nine years on, he says, nothing has really changed.
“In three weeks this February and March, four veterans took their own lives. We’re averaging more than the Defence Force’s own suicide estimates – and those are nine years out of date.”
The situation, he says, isn’t just unsustainable. It’s shameful.
In a written statement, Veterans’ Affairs acknowledged that not every recommendation of the Paterson Report has been actioned. A spokesperson said that while some would require “substantial changes to the principles that underlie veteran legislation” or “significant changes in the roles and responsibilities of other agencies,” many had been addressed through law or policy changes.
“New legislation was passed in 2020 to action some of the recommendations, others have been actioned through policy changes, and in some cases, the desired result is being achieved through other means,” the spokesperson said.
They pointed to Te Arataki, a veteran support strategy launched in 2022, as one of those new approaches outside the original review. “It was an approach not considered during the Paterson review and one that is showing improved outcomes for veterans and their families.”
But veterans like Wood say those outcomes aren’t being felt on the ground. The registry still doesn’t exist. The legal definition still excludes many. And the services veterans are referred to, he says, still send too many back into the same cycle of crisis.
“We don’t feel like it’s for us”
Marcus Amosa, a veteran of tours to East Timor and Afghanistan, describes the transition out of the military as “tough”. Wood says it is effectively just a three-day seminar and a sheet of paper explaining how to write a CV.
Now reintegrated, Amosa’s been trying to reconnect with his local RSA, but says many “contemporary veterans” feel alienated. “We walk into an RSA, and it doesn’t feel like our place. We’re not against Anzac Day, but the day doesn’t speak to our reality either.”
Amosa says he’s still planning to attend a service but fully supports the intent behind the boycott. The broader issues – mental health, veteran recognition, practical support – are too important to ignore. “There’s already been a report. Already been recommendations. Why haven’t they been acted on?”
While the actual scale of the boycott and its potential impact is unknown for now, Wood says No Duff isn’t done. If meaningful action and change doesn’t come soon, he says they’re exploring potential legal action against the government and New Zealand Defence Force for failing to discharge its statutory duty of care.
However, for now, the boycott is about visibility. Despite not being sure of how many people would participate in the boycott, Wood said the call had so far received strong support from those within the veteran community. There had been several ideas floated on what the boycott could look like – including everything from adjacent services, turning backs during speeches, or not showing up at all. “We’re just asking people not to stand in silence and pretend everything’s fine. You can still honour the day. Just don’t pretend the system isn’t broken.”
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As dawn breaks on another Anzac Day tomorrow, the words will ring out again: Lest we forget. For veterans like Wood, that phrase has become hollow. What’s been forgotten, he says, isn’t history – it’s reality. The stories of the living. The struggle to be seen. The calls that go unanswered.
And this year, some will stand apart to make sure no one can ignore it.
This is Public Interest Journalism funded by NZ On Air.
