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 - Esteban Guerrero, 'La Patria o la Tumba = The Homeland or the Tomb', Australian Centre for the Moving Image

ESTEBAN GUERRERO: My folks always ask their children “Why you all so rebellious?” I say it runs in the blood.

In 1973 Uruguay was being ruled by Military Government. My parents had become left wing Socialists. My father met great revolutionaries the likes of Che Guevara and Fidel Castro. ‘La patria o la tumba’, is a line in the Uruguayan anthem which means ‘the homeland or the tomb’.

For many Socialists that did not support this new homeland they would be sent to camps or just go missing. With the new Military regime Uruguay was indeed dead to my parents, so they fled for Australia in 1974. Mum was twenty one, dad was thirty two. They both learnt the English language easily although my mum still has a ‘just off the boat’ accent in spite of being here for 30 years.

They built a new life here, opening the very first South American bakery in Yarraville. They had four kids Ernesto Cirilo, Monica Alejandra, Juan Ramon and me, Esteban Guerrero. They built a big network of friends and enjoyed life with the family.

I was five when I went to Uruguay. My father decided it was possibly the last opportunity to see Manuelo, my grandfather, as he was aging. I don’t remember too much, except some memories of an amazing fiesta and meeting my grandfather and my step sister. My parents left Uruguay because they had to. Now Uruguay has a Socialist government but it’s probably too late for my parents to return…but not for me. I would see Manuelo who is still with us at 96 and spend time with my step sister and her children. They say her son looks just like me.

I keep learning new things about my parents and I am particularly impressed with my mum and my dads rebellious past. And so that’s where we get it from.

Film - Zephlyn Neilsen, 'Home', Australian Centre for the Moving Image

My mother once told me that as a young child I would say to her, Mommy, I don't like it here. I want to go home.

[MUSIC PLAYING]

But we were home. And for that, she had no response.

Is home a physical place, or is it something more intangible-- a feeling, a place from the past?

My life as a child consisted of long, sun-soaked days spent running around in cut-off denim shorts and crunching dry couch grass under bare feet.

The road we lived on petered out a few blocks after our sandy drive, and the land returned to the tumbling anarchy of bushland. All around me, I could feel the salty water of our creek and the bush, vibrating, beckoning, offering the unknown, offering so much more than the land of people.

I would ride my horse through the long grass, hot sun beating down and the flies buzzing around our heads. For relief from the heat, we would gallop along the inlet's sandy shore, ending with a plunge into the brown, still water, me swinging from her tail.

She loved to swim-- Starry. I didn't name her. She belonged to my uncle next door. He was a dodgy bookmaker, and that's not the half of it.

This wasn't some turquoise Gold Coast beach, but the gritty, muddy waters of the mangrove lands where the fish as well as the mosquitoes bred.

The first fish I ever caught from Saltwater Creek was an eel. This wide, salty water was dark and never revealed its considerable depths. My mother was always afraid that some old, crusty shark had found its way over the sandbar and was heading for her brown-skinned babies.

It was from her that I learned that home isn't always where you might expect to find it, and that sometimes in life, you've got to make your own.

Film - Mykel Mifsud, 'The Art of Rhyme', Australian Centre for the Moving Image

MYKEL MIFSUD: From as soon as I could talk I've been told I take things too literally, but I think it's only out of respect for the English language.

Too many people use words that just don't carry the meaning of what they're trying to get across and that's where it began.

Hip Hop music sends me into a trance, an altered state of consciousness.

It's when constant rhyme is no longer a restriction and each syllable flows off the tongue with perfection.

A stream of language communicated by masters of the spoken word, each phrase carefully selected to accompany the spine trembling bass and harmonious melody.

Ever since being introduced to rhyming couplets as a child, I've had an interest that has developed into the appreciation of the often self indulgent Battle Raps, a showcase of the artist's imagination, with tales of lyrical ability manifesting into a physical force not to be reckoned with.

It's the deeply encrypted notions pouring into your mind, you pause, taking a moment to decipher the metaphoric speech before it registers in a sudden awakening.

That's the buzz, allowing your mind to be blown away, storming the front of your imagination and pushing it to the limit. A lot of people only see Rap music as gangsters and drug dealers in the ghetto but it is so much more.

To me Rap is the appreciation and respect for the art of rhyme.

That's why it's more than an interest or hobby, more than the bass shaking my windows, more than the voices of Diabolic, Big Al, Big Pun and Necro echoing out of my bedroom. That's why I sacrifice hours of sleep every night dedicated to perfecting my art.

Film - Dragush Larti, 'The Sacrifice', Australian Centre for the Moving Image

DRAGUSH LARTI: A family should be strong and loving; I learnt that from my auntie Lina. Two years ago she made a sacrifice that saved my dad's life.

We found out about my dad's kidney problem after he had some blood tests for my operation. His kidneys were failing and the doctors said that if he didn’t have a transplant his condition would only worsen. At first it was hard for us to deal with having him hooked up to a dialysis machine at home. Soon I got used to the responsibility of preparing all the tubes and chemicals and helping dad settle in his regular four hour session. Sometimes I would be up until midnight to ensure that he completed the full treatment.

My mum couldn’t bear to see him in pain. He couldn’t do it by himself and I wanted to make sure he was OK. A transplant operation was going to cost a lot of money, more than we could afford and the waiting list for a compatible donor had dozens of names on it. We were worried dad wasn’t going to get the help he needed in time.

Dad travelled to Albania to tell his family face to face that he was very sick. With the dialysis treatment ahead of him he knew he would not see his family for a long time. We got a call from auntie Lina. Despite living halfway across the world in Albania, she had decided to drop everything and travel to Australia to donate her own kidney. Leaving behind her husband, daughters and a job she loved. She had the right blood type to ensure a compatible kidney transplant.

Dad was concerned about Lina. If something happened to her it would be his fault. Lina would say “let’s just get on with it”. She was not scared, she just wanted to help. I think Lina is amazing, she saved my dad and we are all so grateful to her. Lina has truly made me realise the importance of a family. Thank you Lina.

Film - Alice Ewing, 'Drifting in Antarctica', Australian Centre for the Moving Image

Dream. Imagine.

"At length did cross an Albatross
Through fog it came"

I can't believe I'm here. Antarctica!

In this Other World, live thrives. In an everchanging environment.

"A spec, a mist, a shape, I wist!
And then it neared
As if it dodged a water-sprite,
it plunged
and tacked
and veered"

"And now the Storm Blast came,
and he was tyrannous
and strong"

The Sea is deceptive.

"The ice was here,
the ice was there,
the ice was all around:
It cracked and growled,
and roared and howled"

Like the penguins, I've jumped into another world - in a half-awake state of mind...

Now my Dream is Alive. And it is as deep as the Ocean itself.

Film - Carly Weber, 'A Different Perspective', Australian Centre for the Moving Image

My greatest love is photography, and I have been an avid photographer since I was ten years old.

On Thursday 23 September, 1993, one of my favourite bands from San Francisco, called Jellyfish, came to Melbourne. They were supporting Died Pretty on a tour.

I wanted to freeze the moment for prosperity so I smuggled a camera into the Palace. A person who I assumed was a bouncer let me go into the pit while Jellyfish played.

I convinced him I was a photographer for a magazine - what a lie!

Later on I went for a walk to the other side of the stage near the backstage entrance, hoping I would run into one of the guys from Jellyfish.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder and I realised it was the bouncer guy. He was trying to talk to me, but I could not hear him above Died Pretty, so he ushered me into the backstage band room. His name was Cooter Holland, he wasn't a bouncer, he was Jellyfish's tour manager.

For the following hour, I stayed in the backstage band room with Cooter, and we talked about music and photography. As a result of our conversation about photography, I was left inspired to pursue my love for live band photography.

I was given a pass for the 1994 Big Day Out and many of the side shows occurring around the festival. From them on, outside my day jobs, I worked as a freelance photographer. I was given many more photo passes to festivals and general gigs.

My photos have since been published in Beat Magazine and Resistant Harmony Fanzine, both of which are based in Melbourne, and also Fizz Fanzine in Seattle, USA.

I have taken over 1,000 photos of international and local bands. People say my photographs are fairly different than the average photographer because of my short stature - I am four foot two. So it gives a very different perspective on the subjects.

I have acondroplasia, a form of dwarfism. It has been a fantastic experience photographing so many bands, capturing moments never to be repeated, which is the beauty of photography.

Film - Nick Casey, 'My Pop', Australian Centre for the Moving Image

NICK CASEY: I love my pop. He looks after all of my family. My pop had it hard when he was growing up. When someone in the family was sick, he would have to look after him. He's still doing it to this day.

He's an old fellow, but he's cool for an old fellow. He lives in St. Arnaud. I love going there fishing with my pop because he's fun. He taught me a lot. He was the one that taught me how to put a slimy worm on a hook. He also will let me help when he fixes up lawnmowers.

He tells me stories all about how it was growing up with his brothers and sisters. Sadly, many of his family's passed away. Now, he has just buried his mom. I hope I can be like my pop, looking after all my family when I'm older.

Film - Tim Kanoa, 'Life and Learning', Australian Centre for the Moving Image