Four and a half years ago, we moved to the US. “A permanent move!” we thought. We bought a house, found the right school for the kids (which turned into the wrong school, so we had to swap schools), bought cars, and got involved in a community (several communities really, but who’s counting?).
I know. I’m writing about a taboo subject, and it’s bound to polarise opinions. When have you known me to shy away from a contentious issue? Let me be clear that this isn’t an invitation to tell me how wrong you think I am. It’s an invitation to read my perspective. You may agree, you may not.
CONTENT NOTE: Discussion of depression ahead. If you recognise yourself or someone you love in anything in this post, please reach out to mental health services in your area. Some non-emergency services listed at the end. The Greeting. “Hey! How … Continue reading →
So, here we are in part 2 of the ongoing repatriation saga.
Packing and moving over continents is always a stressful act. The emotions tied to watching your possessions be carefully, or not so carefully wrapped and boxed can be overwhelming. It’s easy to dismiss possessions as nothing more than trinkets, clutter that fill your living space, but for most people those are expressions of themselves. The tiny fat dodo bird made of green glass that sits on my mantle may be nothing more than a dust collector to visitors, but for me, it is the embodiment of a carefree, relaxed week with my oldest family friends in Mauritius. It’s the memories of that week, the comfort of being my
self around people who’ve known me almost my entire life, and the memories of childhood holidays with the same people that that week evoked, all encased in a squat glass bird.
Gather round, grab a bean bag, get comfortable. I’ve got some things to get off my chest, so let’s start with my story of expatriation and repatriation.
Fashionable and stylish on our departure from Brunei
On the 1st of February 1975, my parents and I arrived in Australia from Brunei as new migrants. My mother was 41, my father 47. I wasn’t yet 6 years old. My siblings would join us from India a few months later as we set out to reunite the family. Through a series of circumstances and choices, we found ourselves uprooted both from the home my parents had created in Brunei, and from the boarding schools my siblings had called home for so many years. We were flung together, casting about for a foothold in our new country, our new home, trying to stitch up the edges of a family.