Marginalised groups have found Anzac an entry into Australian mainstream.
It's Anzac season again - that time of year when politicians and corporations sink their snouts into the commemorative trough and critics wring their hands in disgust. Politicians jostle for the title of patriot-in-chief. Commercial interests commandeer the Anzac brand to peddle everything from biscuits and beer to men's magazines. And a vocal minority - generally of the ideological left - protests that Anzac commemoration glorifies war.
I am among the critics of the Anzac circus. I have condemned Anzac's growing commercialisation and questioned why Australia is spending upwards of $535 million - more than all other nations combined - on commemorating the centenary of the First World War. Remembering the tragedy and suffering of the First World War is important, but turning war memory into a nationalist festival is wrong. 
While the ideological lines in the battle of Anzac have barely shifted in 100 years, I have observed a phenomenon over the course of the centenary commemorations that defies these conventional categories.
So potent has Anzac become that it is now a means for disadvantaged and marginalised groups to seek entry into the Australian mainstream. These groups do not criticise Anzac for its militaristic, colonial or racist connotations. Rather they seek to be embraced by it.
Harjit Singh is a 29-year-old Sikh Australian. Growing up in Perth in the 1990s, he copped the usual playground abuse dished out to kids who looked different.
Despite being called a "curry muncher" and a "raghead", Singh never questioned the deep affection he felt towards his adopted country.
That is, until   September 11, 2001. In an atmosphere of fear and ignorance, Singh's turban took on sinister connotations. He was physically threatened and called everything from "terrorist" to "Taliban" and "Osama".
In 2002, he went to the annual Australia Day fireworks in Perth. "There was that much abuse thrown at me and my family, I stopped attending and haven't been back."
Not being able to celebrate Australia Day was a low point. "It made me feel like I was not welcome in the country I dearly loved and considered my own."
What do you do when the country you have grown up in, whose accent you speak with and whose values you embrace, rejects you?
Singh's crisis of identity coincided with the extraordinary revival of Anzac commemoration that began in the 1990s. Governments have poured millions of dollars into educational resources about military history. While cultural institutions like the National Library have suffered funding cuts, the Australian War Memorial has enjoyed a budget bonanza.
Given the Anzac-drenched Australia in which he was raised, it's not surprising that Singh rediscovered a sense of belonging through military history.
He remembers the thrill he felt when he learnt that the Sikhs were part of the largest volunteer army in the First World War, and that they had fought at Gallipoli alongside Australian forces. "I grabbed this information with delight and started using it to argue that Sikhs and Australians fought together in the war and, therefore, I could be a Sikh Australian!"
Singh's discovery that 19 Sikhs enlisted in the Australian Imperial Force has hastened his reconciliation with his Australian identity. He sees parallels between the Anzac spirit and the Sikh religion. "It's my firm belief that when the soldiers of the 14th Sikhs were fighting and dying together with the Anzacs in Gallipoli, they called each other mates or brothers. That common bond of mateship is what I hold onto as a true Australian value and, accordingly, it is also my true north as an Australian Sikh."
Singh's experience has echoes in Aboriginal communities, where there is an ongoing effort to recognise the black soldiers who served in the First World War - more than 1300 have been uncovered so far. The acclaimed play, Black Diggers, written by Tom Wright and directed by Wesley Enoch, tells the story of Aboriginal soldiers who fought for nation and empire, only to return in many cases to the same racism and segregation they suffered before the war. The play does not challenge the Anzac legend, but rather demands that the Aboriginal role in its creation be recognised.
The Boys from Barambah project in Cherbourg, south-eastern Queensland, has a similar desire to place the experience of Indigenous Anzacs on the historical record.
Vietnam veteran Eric Law has overseen the creation of an exhibition, book, film and website about the 47 local men who defied the rule that soldiers had to be of "substantially European descent".
Like Black Diggers, the government-funded project does not criticise the Anzac legend. To the contrary, The Boys from Barambah seeks to "Celebrate the spirit of the Anzacs in our community [and] pass on the spirit of the Anzacs to the younger generations of Indigenous and non-Indigenous children."
Disadvantaged and marginalised Australians seek to stake out their own piece of the Anzac legend, which is testament to its extraordinary power. It's also a reminder that Anzac is a mythology onto which Australians project their own biases and desires. Some look at Anzac and see militarism and chest-puffing jingoism. Some see commercial or political opportunity. Others see respectful commemoration and gentle national pride. For those who stand on the outside looking in, Anzac can look like a ticket to membership of "Team Australia".