Welcome To Australian Essay
“Welcome to Australia.” Her voice rung with the familial tongue of our home land. The short woman, who stood with a small group, extended her arms towards us as we walked from the arrival gates. Men in suits with stone white faces shook my mother and father’s anxious hands. With heavy accents, in broken attempts, the men greeted my brother and I in the language of our home. Our responses were meek and fragmented as our nervous clouded our tired minds. A flash of light and quick smiles were formed before we were ushered away, with our few belongings in tow, from the building that trembled with hope and opportunity. As we left, I thought I caught the words of the nameless men: “Be good, little migrants. We have saved you, so don’t mess it up.”
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My parents nodded politely, the fatigue evident in their hazy brown eyes and deeply woven smiles. After months spent in a dismal temporary home, I found comfort in the steady hum of the car as we passed through the busy metropolis. Sachi continued to speak of the English language lessons and the school my brother and I would attend. The school would give us provisions, she said, since English is not our native tongue.
“They will hardly need them,” Dad winked at me, “I taught them well.”
Sachi smiled, returning to speak of our home. Mum and Dad asked questions when their weariness allowed and nodded constantly to avoid looking anything below civil. I left the conversation as my eyes followed the tall towers of prosperity. Watching the pedestrians and city swirl together, I wondered about their lives. Their families, homes, where they truly belonged.
“Look Nasira,” my father, bringing me back to the conversation, tilted his head towards the building adjacent to the car. I vaguely recalled the meaning the symbols made, ‘museum.’ The grand limestone building stood tall and proud, an ode to antiquity in a modern city of grey and metal. “I think we will be
My parents nodded politely, the fatigue evident in their hazy brown eyes and deeply woven smiles. After months spent in a dismal temporary home, I found comfort in the steady hum of the car as we passed through the busy metropolis. Sachi continued to speak of the English language lessons and the school my brother and I would attend. The school would give us provisions, she said, since English is not our native tongue.
“They will hardly need them,” Dad winked at me, “I taught them well.”
Sachi smiled, returning to speak of our home. Mum and Dad asked questions when their weariness allowed and nodded constantly to avoid looking anything below civil. I left the conversation as my eyes followed the tall towers of prosperity. Watching the pedestrians and city swirl together, I wondered about their lives. Their families, homes, where they truly belonged.
“Look Nasira,” my father, bringing me back to the conversation, tilted his head towards the building adjacent to the car. I vaguely recalled the meaning the symbols made, ‘museum.’ The grand limestone building stood tall and proud, an ode to antiquity in a modern city of grey and metal. “I think we will be