When did 'refugee' become a dirty word?

We moved to Australia in the early 1990s. It was a very different place then—the White Australia policy had only been lifted 20 years ago, ‘multiculturalism’ was a foreign concept, and Eddie Mabo was demanding land rights for Aborigines. We were the only ethnic family in our upper middle-class suburb on Sydney’s North Shore, and people openly referred to us as ‘foreign’, ‘darkies’ or more politely, ‘that dark-skinned migrant family’.

Mum and Dad left India—a country they loved, filled with people they knew and customs they understood—because they felt they could give their children a better life here. They arrived with two children under the age of ten, one suitcase between four, and USD$200 in a bum bag strapped to Dad’s waist. It was our life savings—all the money our family had.

With a recession underway, my father, who had a degree from a prestigious Delhi university, managed a KFC on the other side of town for $28,000 a year. With my mother’s part-time salary, it was just enough to pay the rent on our one bedroom apartment and put food on the table. Mum bought my school uniform several sizes too big and took the hems up. Each year, she’d lower them a bit, and so my two tunics lasted me all four years of primary school.

We didn’t love it here immediately. The kids at school laughed at my accent and the fact that I didn’t know the capital of Australia. I quickly learnt to imitate the accent and brushed up on my geography. Kids are malleable like that. It was harder for Mum, who’d lost her network of family and friends. At age 9, I was already babysitting my younger brother because my parents had to work. I remember refusing to eat the lunch she’d packed because the other kids would make fun of our rice and curry, calling us ‘smelly’ and making gagging noises when I opened my lunchbox.

So different from today—when I open my lunchbox at work and all my colleagues are dying for a taste!

Yes, a lot has changed in Australia, and despite the fact that I have deep-seated Indian roots, I consider myself profoundly Australian. Not because I can eat meat pie and understand Aussie Rules. Not because I have an Australian accent or an Australian passport. I feel Australian because I wept with pride when Kevin Rudd, the PM I elected, apologised to the Aborigines. I wept because, as an Aussie, the Stolen Generation was my shame too. I feel Australian because I walked across the Harbour Bridge in protest when John Howard announced our march into Afghanistan. I feel Australian because I can remember when Rainbow Paddlepops were 50c. I feel Australian because everyone I love and grew up with lives here. I am not suggesting these are the hallmarks of a typical Australian—just that these are the moments when I knew that this country was my country.

And I feel lucky to have had the upbringing I had, considering my father grew up in the ghettos of Delhi, in post-Partition India. What a difference a generation makes. Today, my parents live in a lovely, four-bedroom home in the same suburb I grew up in. So many ethnic families have moved there, there is even a local Indian spice shop, packed with people from all parts of the world who just happen to want some traditional garam masala. 

But mostly, I just feel lucky when I realise that if my parents had chosen to come to Australia today, it would not be possible. They wouldn’t pass half the criteria, with my mother’s lack of hard skills, our limited funds at the time, and the scarcity of visas available today. And I feel a sense of gratitude and admiration for my parents that I cannot quite put into words. I remember the fear with which I boarded the plane to England for my GAP year when I was 18. I had a job to go to, ample funds, only myself to look after, and the knowledge that if anything went wrong, I could just call home. And still, I remember, amongst the excitement, being afraid of what would happen when I got to the other side of the world. The courage it took my parents to leave, the struggle they experienced—not just financially but emotionally—I shall always respect those who decide to embrace the experience of the perpetual outsider for the sake of their family.

So when I see people arriving here on boats, my heart goes out to them. And when I read the vitriol surrounding these so-called ‘boat people’, my heart breaks. I am proudly, and fiercely Australian, but today, as the fourth riot in three days breaks out on Christmas Island, as we ready the first ‘shipment’ of people to be sent to Malaysia, as we ‘process’ more and more asylum seekers, I feel ashamed to be Australian. It is rare to feel shame for this country—we have so much to be proud of.

But as a nation, and such a privileged one as that, I fear that we will return to the attitudes I thought we had left behind with the White Australia policy. Because naïve as this sounds, I hold my beloved nation, the one we refer to as The Lucky Country, to a higher standard than that. I understand that refugees are a loaded subject, with no easy solution. But in some way, all of us have experienced the migrant experience—the feeling of being an outsider, the frustration of not being understood, or worse, not understanding. And as both a migrant and an Australian, I want to my raise my children in a nation where ‘refugee’ is not a dirty word, the way ‘migrant’ was only twenty years ago.