This goes out to all our parents who, in search of a better life or peace from a war-torn land, left all they knew for foreign shores.
Australia sees a concoction of communities come to life upon its streets. Within its coastline, some are able to trace their roots as far back as the horizon is wide, while others hold a history far shorter in span upon this land. To those who can still recall the day they first set foot on this beautiful soil, and to those whose lives exist in two places upon this Earth, I dedicate this to you.
As the children, and potentially grandchildren of these lineages, it’s difficult to fully comprehend that our parents and grandparents hadn’t also grown up with the familiar scent of ocean spray, cicadas in the summer and the Australian vowels that slide off our tongues. That those inaugural decades of their lives were spent strolling through streets thousands of kilometres from here. Separated by land, oceans, seas and everything in-between.
Land where spring slips into summer, not when the mango ripens, but when the cherries bloom and the dates are harvested. Where footpaths are adorned with coffee tables and neighbours gathered. Where those same fruits are plucked from sidewalks rather than aisles.
It was a life surrounded by friends who crowded around café tables in the evenings, whose houses shared in the warm embrace of the same street lights and with whom they’d share a cigarette so no one went without. Friends who became family when asked to be kum, [pronounced k-oom] or kuma for holy matrimonies, who grieved alongside them when the skies over life became all too heavy, and who became the guardians of their own precious little wonders. Kindred company who now sit in photo albums that we take out when we want to reminisce. Kindred company who if they wanted to visit, can only be found in their memories.
I often hear the words “old times” and “stara vremena” leave the lips of both my own generation and those that came before, respectfully in that order. Four seemingly simple words that by definition are the same, but in weight—and memory—hold entirely different meanings. For us, perhaps a story of youth from years not so far gone. For them, an entirely different life lived, with faces changed and homes abroad.
So, thank you.
Thank you for the multiple jobs and countless years worked without a day off, all to keep the roof over our heads. For the home-cooked meals that awaited us everyday, and that continue to wait upon our stovetops. For the clothes on our backs, and the kilometres driven getting us to after school sports knowing we weren’t athletic prodigies, but loved them entirely. For never asking for a cent in rent, and filling up our tanks with petrol.
Thank you for learning a whole new language; for setting aside the heavy hiss of a š, to make room for letters that require a home on the tips of your lips. Thank you for moving your words from where you’ve always known them in the hollow of your throat, to the strange place between your pout.
Thank you for acclimatising to tomatoes that never quite resembled the ones you knew, and streets unlined with your tree’s sweet offspring—ready for the taking. Thank you for never requesting a cent in return, so we can set down roots that won’t need to be dug up. So one day, our memories can be reminisced over tablescapes and the passing of plates. Thank you for the stories from times gone by and the sacrifices you no doubt survived.
Stories now found in the spices that swirl in our plates, the music of yesteryear that fills early mornings and the values ingrained at the core of our beings. To think that perhaps our mother’s laugh is echoed in a woman on the other side of the world. Soul sisters who once shared a simple street, who laughed until they cried and shared in it endlessly. To think that there are houses that were crafted with our father’s hands, lived in by families we’ve never met. Houses that became homes, walls adorned with memories we shall never know.
So thank you, to those who dedicated their one, precious life in this world to their children, in hopes for something more, somewhere foreign.
For every dream we hold and every success that unfolds, exists because somewhere, on this vast green earth, a humble home stands still and unfilled, in a street that grows quieter still.
With love,
All your children, grandchildren and the souls who will surely follow…