On a beautifully clear morning in October 1971, we stood on the deck of the Chandos ship – The Australis –  ending our four week journey from Southampton. With our four year old son and one year old daughter clasped in our arms, we watched the sun rise over Sydney Harbour Bridge and the Opera House.  We had seen so many pictures and there at last they were – for real.  Despite being a bit blurrily tired after a disturbed night ( a woman escaping from her drunken, angry husband had sought refuge in our tiny cabin!) – it was exciting to get our first glimpse of our new country.  We had experienced all sorts of happy and difficult incidents on the trip over – and as we stood there, glad to have finally arrived, we had no idea at all what the next weeks, months and years would hold.

We were instructed – as ten pound poms – to eventually make our way off the ship and to gather  on Circular Quay to find out where we would be going next.  Up until this moment, we had no idea.  We were put into groups and our members were given blue badges and herded on to a bus.  Off we went – still completely ignorant about our destination, and watching the scenery go by in a mixed fog of excitement, anticipation, fatigue and nervousness.  We arrived after about half an hour at the Endeavour Hostel  in Coogee.  I can remember being a bit surprised that we had seen so many red roof tops en route – not one sheep, kangaroo or koala in sight!  I remember saying that if we had been taken in a plane, not knowing where we were heading – and been dropped in this hostel – we could be in pretty much any city anywhere.  We had been warned before our departure of the perceived “horror” of migrant hostels, with Nissen Huts and very basic facilities, so we were pleasantly surprised to find ourselves in a fairly modern unit with a bedroom for the children, a little living room with a sofa bed for us, a kitchenette and a bathroom and toilet.  This seemed quite adequate. And for a few weeks it was.

All our meals other than breakfast which we managed in our own unit, were taken in a communal dining room.  The food was less than exotic and after four weeks on the boat, it did seem like a dream to be able to cook our own food again, and perhaps present these poor little beings who had had no choice about coming on this adventure with us,  with some simple scrambled eggs and fish fingers for their dinner!

My husband quickly set about finding work, and was lucky to do so fairly quickly.  Meanwhile, I made friends with another migrant with three children, and we spent our time letting them all play together, and sometimes walking down to Coogee beach which in those days, was fairly quiet and not at all teeming with cafes as it is today.  Fortunately, after about 5 weeks, we were offered the opportunity to move to a Commonwealth Unit in Eastlakes, the rental of which was heavily subsidised by the Government and so gave us the chance to get ourselves together and organise more permanent housing.

Many details have faded into obscurity now that it is forty years down the track but what I do remember is feeling so very sorry for migrants who did not speak English nor understand the culture.  Even though I was not one of these, life could often be confusing and lonely.  There were little things like being asked to “bring a plate” and doing just that, there was the teasing about my “posh” English accent, (even though I am NOT actually English – I gave up explaining the difference!), the butcher who – when I asked for a small piece of “liver” (didn’t know it was lamb’s fry!) asked me wittily, if I were having a party!  There was the constancy of caring for two small children without any family support, making friends wherever I could, not having a clue about the geography of Sydney and where we should set out to live.  Above all, there was home-sickness.  And I soon found that it was better not to discuss this too much – or I might well be told to “just go back then”.  There was no email or Facebook (oh, if only there had been!) and telephone calls were prohibitively expensive.  We had short quick talks with family that often only lasted three minutes.  Can you imagine?

There are so many more stories to tell about the experience of migration.  But what I know as I write this, is that home-sickness never completely goes.  Regret for leaving family has to be lived with.  My children are now true blue, Auusie-educated adults.  They have had a very different upbringing than I did – and sometimes, it shows.  I am an Australian.  I am a Guernsey girl.  I have two homes.  I love them both.  I don’t completely belong in either.  There is a huge complexity of emotions involved with this situation and a complexity of reasons for migrating in the first place.  So, I no longer react to being asked why I just didn’t go back if I wasn’t happy here!  And… I will confess – I really don’t care WHO wins the Ashes!

This is my true experience with which, at long last, I have found peace.  What is your migration experience?  Is it different from mine?