On the train home from university this afternoon, I boarded a carriage with very few spare seats. I set up shop (read: positioned myself in a corner with The Age) opposite a distinctive group of individuals, who were chatting excitedly with smiles miles wide on their faces. Usually I try to steer clear of noisy groups, whether it be business men, school kids or screaming children, because I like to read in peace and relative quietness. But for some reason, I decided to stay put and have their conversation as a background soundtrack to my travel home.

The train took off and I started to read. But I was soon taken by the conversation this group of people were having. The first thing I noticed were their accents. Each person seemed to speak our mother tongue with their personal flavouring on top. Some were sweetened and drawn out, others spoke in sharp consonant soundbites. One man I found quite difficult to understand, yet another spoke clear and precise English, as if it was a language she’d known from birth, with just a hint of something special on the side. As I studied their faces, I noticed the diverse ethnicities they represented. Of the six people, some were dark, some of Asian heritage, and another appeared to be Middle Eastern. I heard one man speak of his hometown in Saudi Arabia. He was a hardware worker. One woman thought he’d said ‘hairdresser’ rather than hardware worker, and after clarifying his profession through adjectives they both understood, they had a laugh about their mixup. They bonded over their struggle to learn English but their pursuit of it, regardless.

I came to realise that among this group, one woman seemed slightly out of place. She was an Indian woman, significantly older, spoke of navigating Melbourne’s public transport system, and with correct grammar and articulation. She asked questions of the others, and stimulated conversation through these open-ended inquiries. The other members were only too happy to answer, practicing their English and enjoying the interaction and celebrating their achievements in managing to construct appropriate and coherent responses.

They discussed what might happen if they missed their exit station the next time they took the train, alone. The older woman pointed to the map on the train wall behind them, and used her finger to guide them along the line as she explained how to navigate the map of Melbourne. They were to get off at Parliament, today, and the group carefully named the stations before and after their stop, to familiarise themselves with the suburban stations surrounding the city loop.

As the train pulled up to Parliament, what I had thought to be a group of six suddenly ballooned into a group of a much larger scale. The woman turned around and announced to the seats behind her that they were arriving at their station, and to get their Myki’s out, ready to touch off upon exiting the station. As I scanned those I’d previously ignored in the nearby seats, I began to realise what they had in common. I can only assume, but I’m fairly confident, that each of those youthful individuals were new arrivals on our shores. These people were migrants from war-torn countries, others coming from backgrounds of poverty and hardship. Some had left behind their families and friends, and all were making an enormous change in hope of a better life in a land more prosperous and filled with opportunities, than their home.

It was incredible to see how excited they were. They were so full of energy, hope and delight. They were making friends, overcoming obstacles and making the most of what life has given them. And I was able to gauge all of this from about five minutes on a train. Not even speaking with any of them directly. Just overhearing their conversation.

As they left the train and stepped onto the ground at Parliament, my eyes turned back to my newspaper. I scanned the page titled World. Bombings, corruption, hope for basic human rights and democracy, suicide. Pakistan, Iran, Turkey, Egypt. Bulgaria, Myanmar, Libya, and Syria. So much violence, and seems so far away. But it’s closer to home than many of us care to realise. We are a multicultural society, and it is so important that we continue to welcome people to our country. They may be escaping, fleeing, or simply looking for a better life. Some will stay, others may return to their homeland. But we should accept people not just for who they are, but because they are who they are. Everyone has a different story, and it is only through sharing these stories that we enrich our own lives and in turn, the lives of others.

These people appreciate what we take for granted, they persevere and fight for their human right to be treated with respect.

So in the midst the politics of 457 visas, stopping the boats, illegal immigrants and the like, maybe what we need to consider is the value of our culture as a melting pot. We should consider the risks people have taken and the choices they have made in coming to this country, and treat them as whole, and special, people. We need to stop treating people like abused animals; herding them, dictating to them,  mistreating them, and start to speak with them, as our equals.

Because that’s the right way forward for Australia. And politicians aren’t doing us, or themselves, justice, if they choose to act otherwise.

  1. Eva Setton said:

    really good piece ! our politcians should read it ! xx

  2. Bill and Monnie Fenner said:

    Such a good piece of writing and advice, I agree.

  3. Sharon levy said:

    Well said! Yes, infact animals are treated with much more respect than these people in Australia.

    • Bobolop Payaso said:

      In fact immigrants and animals are treated pretty much the same, I would venture. Conditions at the Villawood migrant (sic) detention centre are not that far off the living conditions of battery hens, and the importing of immigrant workers to fill the fiscal and labour gaps that will inevitably arise when the ageing population of Australia stops working and has to be looked after is a commodification of human sweat that is not at all unrelated to the commodification of butchered flesh and fur coats.

  4. M.Y. Polly Tix said:

    Astutely observed and brilliantly expressed!

    Thank you, and spread the word far and wide!

  5. Bobolop Payaso said:

    An interesting piece, keenly observed and nicely articulated. The reader, however, cannot fail to note the insidious “We versus They” dualism snaking its way into the narrative, as if the writer were seeking to position themself as the welcoming party of a generous land where a fair go should and will be bestowed unto all. You speak as a person who just happened to be on the train before the immigrants arrived, but unless you are aboriginal, something of which your piece gives no indication, you are actually observing your own ancestors sitting on the train with their accents and war-torn backgrounds, which begs the question: would you have used the same language to refer to your parents, or to yourself fresh off the boat? The texture of the narrative is one of tolerance to brown faces, and the hope that the melting pot effect (an unhappy image anyway, what with scum floating to the top and everything else going to get burned at the bottom) will somehow blend us all into one happy homogeneous smudge. Apart from the obvious limitations I see in the notions of tolerance – the biggest one being that it is up to the tolerator to decide when to be tolerant and social and when to slam the doors shut – I would like to make one final observation that Indians as a colonised people have been speaking English, with correct syntax and grammar, for as long as the equally colonised Australians.

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