A “ten pound pom” boat person remembers…

On hearing all the constant news and debate about “boat people”, I have been thinking a lot about the whole subject of migration. It seems to me that anyone with an ounce of compassion would feel great sympathy for families who dare to risk these dangerous boat journeys rather than stay where they are. Imagine knowing that your family including your children are under threat in your own homeland, and facing a boat journey where the destination is uncertain and your welcome unlikely. Some are saying that it is actually people with money who just decide they want to live somewhere else who take these journeys. I find that hard to believe.

I have only had a close association with one “boat person,” someone who fled Vietnam with her family. I worked with this lady, whose whole family had worked so hard to make a life here and her story was incredibly sad but inspiring too. But whatever, my heart breaks for these people, especially when small children and babies are involved.

I was a “boat person” in 1971 – except that as a “ten pound pom”, I came out on a four week journey on a big, stable ship in relative comfort with lots of food and much entertainment. I came with my first husband and two small children aged four and one. I was 24 at the time, and in retrospect, even that journey was only bearable for the young and fit. I will never forget boarding that boat in Southampton and standing on the deck, waving goodbye to some family members. We had streamers and the band played Auld Lang Syne – a song I still can’t hear without those feelings of leaving “home” returning with bells on! It was an extremely emotional moment.

While there had been months leading up to it, I don’t think the reality of this situation had dawned on me until that boat pulled away from the shore. My husband’s parents lived in Harare (Rhodesia) at that time. They came down to Cape Town to meet with us, on our journey, which is one of the main reasons we had taken the boat rather than the plane. It eventuated that we had only 6 hours on shore with them in South Africa. Another day, firmly etched into my mind. It was the last time we ever were to see my father in law.

It was only when I got back on the boat to complete the next part of our journey, that I had any idea just how far this trip was taking us. I had always thought of Africa as a nation far, far away, and yet, we were travelling another ten days to reach our destination. Australia really is a whole world away.

And comparing this experience again with asylum seekers, it had begun with me filling in a small coupon in a newspaper asking for people to come and live in Australia. After that, we were never left alone for long, receiving many brochures in the mail encouraging us to come and live in this chosen land. I can’t say that I didn’t have serious doubts about this but on the other hand, I was curious to try something different. I think at the time, I saw it as an adventure, a chance to travel, to see other lands and all for 20 pounds! We had to attend an interview at Australia House, where it was insisted we all turned up, even our young baby. The joke at the time was that she would be held up to the light, just to make sure she was white! Remember the “white Australia” policy? And so, eventually we got on that boat and set off.

When we arrived at Circular Quay just after dawn on a morning in October, we stood on deck, seeing for ourselves at last the Harbour Bridge and the newly completed Opera House, which we had seen already in so many pictures. We disembarked, and got given badges of different colours. Ours were blue, and we were herded with other blue-badged Poms into a bus and taken to the Endeavour Hostel in Coogee. We were only here a few weeks before my husband found a good job and we were able to move out. The conditions were quite adequate, but trust me, it was not an easy time for a young Mother and two young children. Imagine if you will what it must be like for those who find themselves in Detention Centres where perhaps no one even speaks their language or understands their culture.
I wonder what your migration stories are? This was just the very beginning of the story for us of course. I always thought we would return to our homeland. But, here I am 40 years later. Stay tuned…

Were you born somewhere other than Australia? Share your story with the Starts at Sixty community in the comments below…