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 - 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 - Adam Barolsky, 'My Beautiful Schwesters', 'Enduring stories: Migrant memories' Stories from the Jewish Community ACMI Digital Storytelling

[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 plan 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 - Astrid Silberman, 'A Fishy Problem', 'Enduring stories: Migrant memories' Stories from the Jewish Community ACMI Digital Storytelling

[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 color, 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', 'Enduring stories: Migrant memories' Stories from the Jewish Community ACMI Digital Storytelling

[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]