Film - Raymond Nashar, 'El Ajnabi', Australian Centre for the Moving Image

[WOMEN SINGING FOLK SONG]

RAYMOND NASHAR (VOICEOVER): I used to be Lebanese. At least I always knew I wasn't Australian. From a very young age, the mean kids would often tell me to go back to where I came from. Even though I'd never been there, it still made sense that I belonged there and that one day I would go back.

In 1994, my family and I spent five months in Lebanon. I was 15. For the first three days, I stayed in my room, by my grandfather's deathbed. People thought I was just jet-lagged. For the next week or so, I wandered the village of my forefathers with my headphones on, wondering what was happening back home-- back where I came from.

It was like another planet, and I was an alien. The buildings bore the scars of war and poverty. The streets weren't like Australian streets. They were just spaces between the buildings. It was beautiful, but it wasn't me.

I used to try and hang out with the boys. It was fun when some of them let me wear their army uniforms. Back in Australia, I cut my hair differently. I wore different clothes and different shoes, and I listened to different music to the Lebanese kids. My Lebanese was slower and had a lot of English words.

Slowly, I warmed to these strangers who are my blood. Discovering my heritage was an unforgettable experience. But losing my identity was scary.

In Lebanon, my relatives would refer to me as "el ajnabi"-- "the foreigner." I asked a cousin, and he said "you're not really Lebanese. Your home is in Australia. You're on a holiday here." And he was right. I wasn't even a citizen, because my mom worried I'd be conscripted if I applied.

I thought I'd discover who I was in Lebanon. Instead, I discovered two lands that I love completely but no place that I completely belonged to.

- This is me in Lebanon with my Lebo haircut and my Lebo jeans and my Lebo beach shoes. That's Lebanon.

[WOMEN SINGING FOLK SONG]

Film - Sami Laga, 'Heart of Otara', Australian Centre for the Moving Image

SAMI LAGA: I am the third youngest member in my family and the darkest. I am proud of my colour. I grew up in what many people consider as one of the most dangerous places in New Zealand, Otara, but to me it is home.

I’ve good memories of home, celebrating birthdays with my sister Luana, mum busy in the kitchen and the family feast. To mark a special occasion my dad and uncles always killed a pig. My family also had rough times. My parents would argue a lot and dad was always getting drunk. He did eventually start to cut down the drinking but God decided that it was time for dad to leave us.I remember that night very clearly, the screaming, the yelling and the sound of breaking glass. With dad gone, mum struggled to raise five kids.

My little brother had just been born and my sister suffered from the type of leukaemia called aplastic anemia. It was a hard time for us and I missed my dad. Mum met a new partner. They decided it was time to make a fresh start. She didn’t tell us we were moving to Australia until we arrived. I hated it at first, I miss friends and family. Over time I have accepted living in Australia but my heart is still in Otara it is the land of my father, my family and it is my home.

Film - Agnes Karlik, 'The Story of an Immigrant Filmmaker', Australian Centre for the Moving Image

The ship Anna Salen arrived in Fremantle on the 31st of December 1950, my father and I amongst the 1,522 passengers. We escaped communist Hungary for Vienna, leaving behind my mother and two sisters. But Vienna became dangerous so we decided to migrate to Australia.

We stayed as refugees in a camp in Nordenham while we waited to leave. I worked a as translator in the camp and on the ship. I learnt that many families were also torn apart. For those five weeks the ship was our berth. I slept in a bunk sharing with the many other women. Everyone worked to help out and to find ways to amuse ourselves. We grouped together around our own languages but everyone ate together and attended English classes.

My father made a film of our journey. At Fremantle trains on the wharf took us to the camps. We were sent to Northam. We slept in barracks, divided by Army blankets separating the families and adjusted to camp life in Australia. We moved on quickly to Perth searching for a place to develop my father’s film. He heard of a lab in Melbourne. The lab Hersh’s Films offered my father a job, so Melbourne became our new home. Migration is a very mixed experience. You can certainly find freedom, peace and a new life but there is pain and sadness leaving so much behind. We were never reunited with my mother and sisters.

Film - Adam Nudelman, 'The Shoemaker', Australian Centre for the Moving Image

[MUSIC PLAYING]

NARRATOR: I'm always asked why I paint shoes. My poppy was a shoemaker. He was kind-- gentle but quiet. Except for work, he lived a frugal existence in almost complete isolation and squalor.

As far as I know, we were the only visitors to set foot inside their house. We only ever entered the back kitchen area. All the other rooms remained a complete mystery.

My great-aunt Manya rarely emerged from her self-imposed bedroom exile. As a child, I would sense her loneliness and sadness eking out through the keyhole.

My nana was once a very strong woman. She would regularly disappear into one particularly mysterious room, reemerging with gifts of socks, stockings, shoes, and sandals.

It was not until I stood beside my poppy's deceased body at the Jewish funeral parlor that I first truly realized my grandparents were Jewish. He-- along with my nana, great-aunt Manya, dad-- immigrated from Poland to Australia in late 1940s. They had somehow survived the Nazi persecution of the Jews.

My father and I had to clean up their house. What we found were rooms stuffed full to ceiling with rags, boxes, clothes, and other general bits and pieces. My nana's gift room was full, floor to ceiling, with brand new shoes still in their boxes. These had been left over from my poppy's shoe shop.

[MUSIC PLAYING]

Within my paintings, I continually return to motifs such as shoes, shoe boxes, wooden dolls, towels, and humanless landscapes. I see these as vessels or narratives, each potentially containing small snippets of information about my grandparents and their families in that moment in history which had perversely affected them.

My discovery of my Jewish background has led me to explore and question my own identity. That's why paint.

[MUSIC PLAYING]

Film - Firas Massouh, 'Hyper Ballad', Australian Centre for the Moving Image

NARRATOR: When I was little, my father used to leave Beethoven's music playing on the Soviet made vinyl record player while I slept in my mother's arms. He even used to carve up little sticks out of wood for me to imitate symphony conductors. He read poetry to me, taught me how to play chess, and used to tell me about rare stones.

He was a geologist. His life was not an easy one, but it was my mother who told me stories of his part as a Communist activist during the late '60s in Syria. They were both arrested several times.

He moved from Damascus to Moscow to write his doctoral thesis. He met my mother, a medicine student, at Moscow University. They shared a similar past and they wanted to share a future together.

They married during one Russian summer. Then I was born. I became their new travel companion from Russia to the Ukraine, to Greece, Cyprus, Turkey, Lebanon, and finally, Syria. My father was once again in a place they did not understand him.

He wanted to leave again. Australia, he said, the bottom of the world-- warm, quiet, and peaceful. But an opportunity to work in the Emirates had presented itself and we moved there instead. Australia started to become more of a reality while I was studying.

My father's fancy about that magical continents perhaps treated me to take the initiative to move to Melbourne and to live his dream. My ambition to travel and study was a choice that was provided to me by my parents, a choice that is rooted in a desire to pay tribute to my father, to thank him by continuing the spirit of discovery that he started. And one day, he will still make it here.

Film - Astrid Silberman, 'A Fishy Problem', Australian Centre for the Moving Image

[MUSIC PLAYING]

ASTRID SILBERMAN: We need "trucha, merluza, lenguado". I was about to get the dictionary when it struck me. This very simple process wouldn't be so simple after all.

The first time that I had to prepare gefilte fish, my mum was visiting. We had arrived in Melbourne from Buenos Aires 2 and 1/2 years before, looking for a better place to raise our two daughters. I started to think, what was tradition-- sticking to the exact family's recipe or using the same concept to invent our new family recipe? Anyway, I doubted that the fish that swam Rio de la Plata waters would be swimming around the Pacific or any other water around Melbourne.

I decided to interpret tradition. My mum and I'd made a list of the type of fish that we used in Buenos Aires-- something fatty; a couple of nice taste; and something for colour, preferably pink. With that list, I went to the fish shop. We made a wonderful gefilte fish out here. It tasted like the start of new traditions.

The following year, my mum couldn't come for the High Holy Days, and my sister was starting to freak out. We are not going to have gefilte fish. For us, not eating gefilte fish at Jewish New Year was like Christmas without a tree. I answered calmly that I knew exactly what we needed, and we would do it.

I ordered the fish from the same shop. Everything was ready. It was the beginning of a new era. We could do our own gefilte fish. I had the complete process in my head. Every single step, I felt confident.

I opened the package and saw the mountain of fillets of different colours. Something was wrong. My sister appeared over my right shoulder. Why didn't I mince it?

[MUSIC PLAYING]

Film - Ximena Silberman, 'Second Life', Australian Centre for the Moving Image

[MUSIC PLAYING]

XIMENA SILBERMAN: My name is Ximena-- a bit hard to pronounce for the Aussies. So when I arrived in Melbourne in 2003, I started using my second name-- Paula. I hate it. I'm not Paula. I'm Ximena, and that's what my friends call me in Buenos Aires.

I met them at university, studying architecture. A group of us decided it would be fun to rent a place so that we could all draw our plans together. There were 15 of us. A legend was born-- "el estudio de quince". It wasn't very glamorous. We worked very hard, usually not sleeping for days to meet our deadlines. Some couldn't cope, and they left.

Among the ones that stayed was my best friend Amalia, a heartbreaker. She only liked the bad boys. She ended up a single mother, a fantastic mother.

There was Yoshi, born to Japanese parents. He would be Japanese or Argentinian, depending on the circumstance. He likes to meditate. Needless to say, he never met any deadlines. And Ale, also known as "El Padre", "The Father"-- the most talented and humble person I ever met.

We moved to Australia, looking for a better future-- my husband, my daughter, and I. We landed in Caulfield. My uncle and aunt live there. A new dimension-- attending Shabbat dinners, eating bagels-- I discovered my Jewish heritage.

To migrate is like being born again. Nobody knows you, and you don't know anyone. For us, we at least had family. My husband found a job. My daughter started kinder. I started my business. We started making friends.

I still think I see my old friends' faces in the crowd sometimes, but I like it here. Life is good. Paula needs to go. I'm going back to my real name, Ximena. But to make it easier for people, I now spell it with H.

[MUSIC PLAYING]

Film - Adam Barolsky, 'My Beautiful Schwesters', Australian Centre for the Moving Image

TRANSCRIPT

[PIANO PLAYING]

ADAM BAROLSKY (VOICEOVER): When I missed Cat's 21st, I cried and cried on the phone to her from our little flat in Perth. I felt so forlorn sitting in an empty lounge room and thinking of the wealth I left behind.

Bushty, we all call her that in the family, it's not her real name, only the result of my parents' confusion about their Litvak heritage. Bushty wrote me [INAUDIBLE], an angry, despairing, accusing email that was unanswerable. It demanded reparation, it demanded we come back to Johannesburg.

When she celebrated her 40th last year, she pleaded again on video. She said, so you're really putting down roots. Bricks and trees, flowers and bees, my schwesters and their schnauzers.

In my nightmares, my little sister's buried after some terrible accident or violence. And I'm standing again in West Park Cemetery where our parents are buried.

In reality, Cat was kicked to the ground by her celebrity boyfriend, and I was at work.

In reality, Bush was bound and gagged in her home, and I was sleeping.

Bush writes for four years to become, as Cat says, the first doctor in the family. Cat finds a boyfriend who will protect her. Bush has a secret liaison with a nice Muslim boy, but she won't tell.

Schnauzers, bowzers, wowzers, trousers, schnauzers.

In my fantasy, Cath and Bush arrive to stay with us forever. Though I hope happy refugees, they discover their luck.

But when I travel the freeway to work for the first time, my guts told me a whole other truth. I cried in the car twice, and it felt much better. But not really. I cry in the toilets on the plane after I visit. I think about my parents with their graves lined up side by side. Schnauzers, bowzers, wowzers, trousers, schnauzers. My beautiful schwesters.

Film - Hannan Kuea, 'Wise Woman', Australian Centre for the Moving Image

My grandmother was a business woman. She traded herbs and spices.

I will help her in the market, after she will tell me stories about her own life and ghost stories. My grandmother could tell something of the future. She told me one day, “when you grow up, someone will come from far away, from your father country, to marry you”. Everyone knew her because she was ‘imrahaikim’ (?)(wise woman).

My grandmother call me “ben benty” (daughter of my daughter). We were very close. When I was 15 my grandmother died. The woman said she passed away. I felt cool wind that washed over my body.

As my grandmother predicted I married a man from south(?). Now I have my own children. I tell my children a lot of stories about my mother. Sometimes I tell them stories about my grandmother. How she could see the future.

Film - Maria de Maria, 'Journey Home', Australian Centre for the Moving Image

So which one are you mum?

That is me, the little girl with the plaits. This is the only picture of my family all together, many years ago in Calabria…

[continues in Italian as subtitled on screen]

So mum what was it like for you when you first arrived in Australia?

[Answers in Italian as subtitled on screen] 

What was the hardest thing for you to face mum?

[Answers in Italian as subtitled on screen]

You’ve always kept busy, sewing, cooking at the restaurant, with your embroidery, English and computer classes and your women’s club, you’re just remarkable. I’ve always admired your courage. You’ve been a tower of strength for us mum. I love being part of two worlds and if it hadn’t been for you and dad, I wouldn’t be the person I am today.

[Answers in Italian as subtitled on screen]

Film - Mark Silver, 'To Sevek', Australian Centre for the Moving Image

Hello Dear Sevek, your photo has been with me all my life hanging on our wall next to mum’s youngest brother Malat.

I feel I have always known you, the stories of your life have been real before my eyes.

[speaks in foreign langauge] your first words that our mother described were on Black Monday when there were bombs falling around you in Warsaw. I wonder what it must have been like, at three years old, having to leave the comfort of your extended family home for a long cold journey to the east escaping with your parents the clutches of the jackboots. Mum and dad still had the key to their house in their pockets.

Seven years later they would come back to the devastation of the holocaust discovering that all their family left behind had been murdered in the most horrific ways. The rubble was total.

What my mother could never forgive herself for till her dying day was losing you. Not in the minus 50 Celsius below and the hunger of Siberia but a few years later in the warmth of Uzbekistan where they sheltered for the rest of the war.

How could she have stopped the typhoid that griped your feverishly small young body? She never stopped working out ways that she should have or maybe could have, prevented your death.

The 5th of February 1942 was forever locked into their psyche. A day of quiet solitude and a candle lit in memory of the beauty of a life cut short.

Your bright undying image is standing before my eyes, you blonde angel mine, your wise little blue eyes that shined with the blueness of the sky. You beloved son, the joy of your sound of your laughter echoing in the greatness of the forest, my dear son, little happiness have you in your short life and suffering a lot in you short days. Like an eagle carrying his offspring to a secret nest which is impossible to defend against a terrible storm did I carry you on my shoulders to a safe place far from the danger and humiliation to a free and happy life. They built another life out of the rubble.

So hello dear Sevek, I wonder what you would make of us all today. We are in a land that is vast and full of wonder. Our parents have passed on now. You have one brother in Israel and me here, two nieces and two nephews, cousins, still a couple of uncles, a few more distant auntie and lots of friends that know about you. Dad always said how kind and gentle and loving you were. You kept them going maybe you are also keeping us going our little Sevek, you are the world we lost, the links with our heritage.

Your hopes and dreams are ours and they’ll live on in us through us the bond of love between us remains unbroken forever. We found instead adversity and suffering and hunger and suffering from illness until in the end your clear soul parted with the body in the wide steppes encircled with mighty hills covered with external snow.

The only consolation and comfort for my aching heart is the bright picture of you in which I touch with trembling lips and circle with fatherly tears.

Joshua Z Ibbershtejn born…10th June 1937 died 5th February 1942 Kolchoz (?)Comintern (?) Uzbekistan.

Film - Anastasia Solomidis, 'Leaving Tropeoulhos', Australian Centre for the Moving Image

[In Greek]

I am from a village which is called Tropeouhos. When a government office came to the village, he asked who wanted to migrate to Australia. When my husband asked me "What do you think, should we go to Australia?". I thought about it and answered "Better we go, because with work we can get on with life". So we decided to go.

We had an enjoyable trip on a boat called "Kirinia". We docked in Freemantle where we found two people from home. They told us not to worry about anything, that things would go well for us... and that we would see and love Australia.

We went to Bonegilla and there we found things very nice. They had small bungalows for us to live in, more than enough food and even a school for the children. After this we went to Sydney. I am very happy that I find myself in this land, this land that has embraced all the migrants. And that my children have grown and prospered and for this I am very thankful.

Film - Giovanni Sgro, 'Australia: per Forza e per Amore', Australian Centre for the Moving Image

My name is Giovanni Sgro. I was born in a peasant family in Seminara, Calabria. In 1952 I migrated to Australia. I was one of the first assisted migrant. I had no intention of migrating to Australia or anywhere else, but, one afternoon in February while I was at work at the olive oil factories, I heard a whistle. I recognised it as a family whistle. It was my brother, call me to go home because I had to leave at 5 o’clock that afternoon to migrate to Australia.

At home my mother and sister were crying and had already packed a small suitcase with my few possession. My father had mailed the application without telling me. I protest and then went off to the piazza. My cousin and a few others follow me to convince me to go, as I only had two hours to catch the train to Naples. In the end they convince me but just to make sure I didn’t change my mind, one of them come with me.

I spend two weeks at Bagnolli in the migration camp at Naples because the ship broken down. It then took 44 days to sail to Melbourne.

From Melbourne we went by train to Bonegilla Military Camp where I spend three horrible months and took a part the Bonegilla Revolt. I finally got work as a painter in Cobram painting the Church and Convent. By 1954 I was in Melbourne where I became very active with my Union.

I then become involved in the Labour Party because I realised that migrant were discriminated against and they were just numbers. Because I was involve in politic the Conservative Government of the day refuse me citizenship and re-entry visa, so I could not go to Italy to visit my sick mother. That was very hard for me and my parents, but I was convinced that what I was doing was right.

It wasn’t until 1973 after the election of the Whitlam Labour Government that I was grant a Australian Citizenship at the big ceremony at the Coburg Town Hall. In the early 70 I was one of the founder of FILEF, the Italian Federation of Migrant Workers and their Family in Australian and the first President of Ethnic Community Council of Victoria.

I was one of only two people have been imprisoned in the dungeon of the Parliament House with the then Principle of Brunswick Girls High School. I had disrupt the opening of State Parliament to demand a new School. (?) in 1979 I was elected to Parliament, to the Upper House, to bring home the reality that Australia’s a multi cultural society. I made part of my maiden speech in Italian.

That was the first it had been done in an English speaking Parliament. Later I was elected to Deputy President and Chairman of Committee. It was not only an honour for me who had arrived here with no English and very little school but for the migrant community in this country.

My Parliamentary Office was the busiest office because many ordinary people of all backgrounds recognised my as one of them. I hadn’t wanted to come to Australia. My father forged my signature because he thought I could have a better life. It’s only recently that I have understood that.

All my life in Australia I have worked to create a better society. I have been happy here, I have enjoyed my life. I have a wife and three daughters and grandchildren, but I cannot forget where I was born. In the daytime I work in Australia but at night I am in Seminara, Calabria.

Film - Nella Siciliano, 'Next Generation', Australian Centre for the Moving Image

My father came to Australia from Sicily, Italy in 1952. He married my mother by proxy in 1955 and she arrived not long after.

Even though I was born in Australia in the late ‘50s, being in a family only speaking Italian it was difficult for me to understand English when I started school. After my first few days of school my parents were asked to come to school and speak to the teacher. Because mum didn’t speak any words of English dad came. He was asked why his daughter did not speak English.

Being the only child from a non-English speaking family made me feel different and isolated from the other children at school. However, as time went on I picked up the language and completed my school years. Dad’s parents arrived in Australia in 1963 and lived with us for a little while. In the same year dad bought our first TV, so I had windows into two different worlds.

Around the age of 10 years I was asked to go with my grandmother to the doctor to translate. To me it was boring sitting and waiting at the doctors rooms. I was often asked to go with family members to see doctors and specialists as I was the eldest and understood best. Sometimes I wonder if I said the proper thing in relation to their illness or, was it like a game of Chinese whispers. I was a child go-between in an adult world.

As my school years came to an end, in the country there were not many opportunities to continue studies. I worked in the local supermarket for a while.

In 1976 I met Dom Siciliano and in June 1977 we were married. I came to Cobram and worked with my husband. We have four children, three sons and one daughter. Our children grew up and completed their school studies locally. Our sons have stayed and worked on the family orchard. Our daughter said she would like to go to University. Her father said he would think about that. I said that my daughter was getting the opportunity I did not have and if she had the scores to enter University I would be happy for her to go. I thank God she was admitted to University and that her dad agreed.

Film - Kenan Besiroglu, 'Yeni Hayat = New Life', Australian Centre for the Moving Image

[In Turkish]

My name is Kenan Besiroglu, my family including myself, my wife, and my son, we departed from Sumsun and took a flight from Ankara to Australia. We were excited because we were going to a new country, and sad because we were leaving our loved ones.

On 12 July 1970 we arrived in Melbourne at Tullamarine Airport at 4:00 in the afternoon. They took us to Broadmeadows Hostel. We were tired. Our relative who arrived here before us took us to his home. 

Before long we found jobs. We found a carer for my nine month old son. We started work, I was at General Motors in Port Melbourne. I had been here for a week. I took a train from Abbotsford to the city and then a bus. I was working at Number 11. My workmates were from other countries. I was working the day shift. 

One day the boss came to me with someone who could speak Turkish. He asked me to do 4 hours overtime. I said to him I can stay but I wouldn't be able to go to the train station. The boss said, "Don't worry about it. There's also a Greek guy from Richmond. The Italian leading hand will give you a lift to the train station." I said "Ok".

When we finished work the Italian guy gave us a lift to the city. But we couldn't find the train station, it was raining. We spent an hour trying to ask people, but couldn't explain it to them.  We were not able to talk to each other either. He was new in Australia as well and couldn't speak English. I couldn't speak it either, and we didn't understand each other's languages. We were communicating through signs. I could catch a taxi home but I didn't want to leave my friend. I saw a Richmond sign on a tram, I tried to say to my friend "Take this one". He did not want to leave me, we were still communicating through signs. He took the tram and left me. I took a cab, and explained my address with difficulty, but managed to get home. It was 11 at night, my family was waiting outside the house for me. They were about to go to the Police. But when they saw me they were very happy. I told them why I had been late and we had a laugh. 

In 1970 we had our first photo taken. We started living in Housing Commission flats, and started to settle into our new country. Years went by and our son started school. In 1977 we bought a house. I became involved in community activities. I served in various community associations. 

In 1980 our daughter was born. We were very happy. When we have time we go for holidays and have picnics with friends. We continue to work.

When I look back it's been 37 years. I am 64. Many of our relatives in Turkey have passed away. I love my two children, and three grand-children, my daughter-in-law, and my wife and Australia very much. On behalf of the Besiroglu family I wish you all a happy and peaceful life.

Film - Fatma Coskun, 'New Life, New Country', Australian Centre for the Moving Image

[In Turkish]

In a small village amongst mountains and valleys in Corum, I was born as the seventh child of poor farmers. Because my father did not have the opportunity to go to school, he sent my two older brothers to the city to go to school. With my twin sister, we went to the city to look after them. 

I didn't go back to the village. I got married. We lived with my husband's family. Then we decided to move out. We were having a lot of financial hardship, because of the cost of living. We decided to migrate to Australia.

After waiting three years, we were very happy to hear, that it was our turn on the waiting list. When we went to the village to say goodbye to my family, my mother and father were very sad to hear the news. We became even more sad when my father, with tears in his eyes, said "I wish I could help you. Go work hard and be happy".

It is impossible to forget the look on his face. On the 5th August 1972, when we went to the capital city Ankara, for final visa processing, the officer said to us "I'm very sorry. By mistake we called you instead of another family with the same surname". My husband and I were shocked. Our two sons were unaware of anything and just looking at us. We thought, how can we go back? Because we had sold everything and didn't have anything other than our suitcases. We said to them, "Please don't send us back".

After waiting a couple of hours they called us in. We were told, "Your process has been completed and you are flying out tomorrow". My husband was over the moon. We were in Melbourne within 24 hours. I was very anxious. "What was going to happen in the future".

On the second day of arrival, we started to work. And our daughter was born. Because we were working we did not have any financial problems. We could afford everything we wanted. Time flew and twenty years went by. Then we invited my father, and mother to visit us in Australia. They liked it here very much. They did not want to leave. When my father was going back, he said "Daughter, I wish you had invited us 20 years ago. How beautiful this country is. We would live here, we would not go back".

We had no problems anymore. Our children got married. We have two grandchildren. We are very happy. We love Australia very much.

Film - Memet Gunes, 'My Second Home', Australian Centre for the Moving Image

MEMET GUNES: I was born in 1943 in the village of Dutratla. In the mountain city of Carce, I am the second child of 10 children. The summer months are hot, and the winter months are long, cold with heavy snow. The homes in my village were decorated with handmade rugs and clims. People live in harmony with nature and the elders are highly respected. I was lucky enough to be one of the few children in this village to have received an education.

My student years were very tough. This was where I met my wife. And eight years later, we graduate as teachers. My son Ashgan was born soon, and later my daughter Aishen and Hande. We decide to make an application to migrate to Australia. When our application was accepted a few years later, we were happy, excited, and scared. On Saturday, 7 November 1976, we arrived in Melbourne.

We were taken to hostel in Nanavati. A friend who had migrated to Australia prior to us arrived immediately and collected us from the hostel. We stayed with his family for 10 days. I am very grateful and hold high regards to this friend. With friendly assistance, we leased our own home and were both employed within weeks. I began working at the town tire factory. My wife also found employment in a textile factory.

My wife and I also commenced teaching Turkish to prime middle school students on the weekends. We were happy to have been able to continue as teachers, and teach the children the Turkish language and culture, and celebrate our national and religious days of significance. As the teaching profession was of great importance to me, I imitate and become involved in the Victorian Turkish Teachers Association.

Over the years, my involvement in the Turkish community has been a source of personal satisfaction and achievement. I have exhibited my oil paintings, organized cultural exhibition, discussion, forums, and social gatherings. My interest in politics has led me to be involved and to learn about Australian politics and the Australian way of life. I was honored to have met the former Prime Minister of Australia, Mr. Bob Hawke, and other politicals. I have also volunteered with state and federal election campaigns in the past.

My son Ashgan become a doctor. My daughter Aishen is a social worker, and my daughter Hande become a physical therapist. Having achieved our main goal of providing a good future and education for our children, we are proud and live with joy in our adopted homeland. Our children have moved on, and now have established their own families. We now have three grandchildren. My wife and I know in joy and appreciate the things we were not able to experience and appreciate in our younger years.

We enjoyed picnics, going on camps, and engaging in the physical activities such as walking and swimming, writing and reading stories, poems, and drawing. As a Turkish Australian living in peace and harmony in this great country, I extend my sense of gratitude to Australia, and send my regards to you all.

Film - Figen Hasimoglu, 'Dad, I made it!', Australian Centre for the Moving Image

FIGEN HASIMOGLO: I realized that I was leaving my country that I loved so much when the houses started looking smaller, as our plane was taking off. It is so hard to explain my feelings at that time. Hesitation, excitement, sorrow, happiness, curiosity. It's the only time I have felt this way. I love my country, but I had to take this journey to keep my promise to my dad. My dad Seki was the symbol of success for me. All he wanted for his children was that they have a good education.

I will never forget the happiness in his eyes when I was placed at a university. The first thing he did was to buy me a huge Webster dictionary, which I still have. He was 48 when he passed away during my third year at university. Just before he passed, he asked me to keep my family together, even though he knew it wasn't going to be easy for me. We arrived with $300 and everything we owned packed into bags. As we were walking towards the customs officer, a tall man in traditional Australian outback clothing looked at us by saluting with his hat with a big smile, said, welcome to Australia.

I looked at my husband and said, I will love this country. On the second day, we were on Sydney road, hand in hand, so that we do not lose each other. Everything was different-- the taste of milk, the smell of shopping centers, and especially the houses, which were all single story. During the first couple years, we especially tried to find places that reminded of Turkey so we did not feel so homesick. My husband was lucky. He found a job at a mailbox producing factory.

I found it hard, but eventually, a job in a hosiery factory where I worked there for five years. My husband Ali convinced me to do further study. So when my older son Dincha was born in 1990, I started university. When my younger son Erdige was born in 1995, I was finally registered as a teacher. I now teach at Meadow Heights Primary School, and on Saturdays I teach at a local Turkish ethnic school. My sister is Sin, who is now a textile engineer, and my mother Ilqu live in Melbourne. I know that my father will be happy because we are all still together here in Australia.

Film - Sam Haddad, 'Loving Lebanon and Australia', Australian Centre for the Moving Image

We have a saying that only citizens who are loyal to their adopted homeland of Australia can be true to their country of origin. Lebanon is my birth place, where my roots are, where there are thousands of years of civilization and culture, where my extended family and friends are, where the towns in the mountains looks like hanging styles at night, and of course, the food. There is nothing like it in the world. My other love is for my adopted country, Australia. But it wasn't like that when I migrated in 1966.

I was working at P&G, building telephone stations for interstate and country Victoria, doing shift work. I was the only Arabic speaking person in that section. There was still a bit of that ignorance about new Australians those days. I got along with most people there very well, except one or two who were not only ignorant, they were arrogant, as well. They kept teasing me by calling me wog and saying, where are your sandals, that kind of thing.

I did not bother answering them. I kept to myself. After a while, I could not take it anymore, so I punched one of them in the jaw. I broke one of my fingers and his jaw. Everyone came to hear the story. Most of them sided with me. They were polite and understanding, and they took the man outside and said, you won't come here to work unless you apologize to Sam. And so he did. From that time on, they were fighting each other who was going to take me to the pub, and who was going to invite me to their parties and barbecues.

This accident helped me develop my values about mateship, tolerance, and understanding, and my love to Australia. Australia took me in her arms and taught me to respect others. It gave me the opportunity to grow, and prosper, and allowed my community to express its culture and heritage, and be a part of this wonderful, multicultural society.

Film - Carla Pascoe, 'The Spaces in Between', Australian Centre for the Moving Image

CARLA PASCOE: (NARRATING) Photos with brief captions. I know only the bare facts of my family history, not the longings and desires of these people whose blood I share. They have secrets that have never been revealed to me.

Ours is the typical migrant success story. When he arrived from Lebanon, my great grandfather struggled as a hawker, but eventually established three shops. His son, my grandfather, won the money for his first bulldozer in a game of Two Up. From this he built a flourishing business.

These are the proud triumphs of our past, but as I grew older, I began to realize that there were some details unmentioned. I have never completely understood my great grandfather's departure from Lebanon. Family legend tells it he decided to come to Australia late at night during a drunken game of cards. Raymond then told his wife he was leaving without her. How could he leave his wife and small children, knowing that he would be gone indefinitely?

The next part of the story troubles me more. When [INAUDIBLE] followed her husband to Australia two years later, she brought three children with her, but she had six, all told. Finances forced her to leave three children behind. How did she decide which children to keep close, and which to leave far away, in the old country?

That decision had fatal consequences. When the family was finally reunited in the new land, two of the abandoned children found the adjustment impossible. One son drowned in the murky waters of Port Phillip Bay. Did he take his own life in despair? This is a question that no one wants to ask.

Behind many of my family photos depicting success and happiness are whole albums of photos that where never taken. Photos of loneliness, rejection, and grief. Images so blurred, I can only guess at their contents.

Between the bold facts of our history are the painful details that make our story human. Here, I reside. These are the spaces in between.

Film - Rita el-Khoury, 'Where do I belong?', Australian Centre for the Moving Image

RITA ELKHOURY (VOICEOVER): Where do I belong? Am I Australian or Lebanese? Summer, 2006 in Lebanon was a dream come true for me and my friends. We were the Australians rocking downtown Beirut. The city was full of tourists and foreigners spending 24 hours a day "orlane". Waking up early, spending the day on a resort, then getting ready for dinner and clubbing was our daily routine, not forgetting the stopover every night at 4:00 AM for afterparty breakfast and the afternoon "algili" somewhere different every day.

On a perfect summer afternoon, having dinner on the beach, staring at the clear see, I found myself speaking about how much I love visiting Lebanon every year. Then my cousin said, how could you care about your country while you barely know it? You are only Lebanese by name. You're simply another tourist. All I was able to reply is I might be very difficult to understand that those of us who are outside do try to make a difference.

That night, Israel bombed Beirut Airport. My holiday was over. I had to leave, but I was unsure how. It cost us a $1,000 for cab to drive us to Damascus Airport. I did not stop asking him questions about safety. The roads were deserted. Time stood still. Unable to close my eyes for the whole 9 hour drive. I'll never forget that image on the Lebanese/Syrian borders; tourists waiting for their visas, buses blocking in the road, kids selling drinks, and people just randomly staring at each other.

In that taxi, I turned to my friend and said, we are safe and finally going back home. At that moment, I had referred to Australia being home. I had thought that Lebanon was my home, the place where I spent 11 years growing up. After that, I realized that I have two homes, so my fear of never belonging disappeared on a taxi journey escaping the war.