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Abstract

d into one suitcase squeezed next to the tent and air mattress at the back of this tiny car. As we drove off, I turned my head one last time, taking a mental snapshot of my friends playing on the street, the street I had taken so many bike rides on; the next chapter of my life was about to begin.</p><p id="7f4c">The next few weeks were filled with caravan parks and adventure as we found our way through Czechoslovakia, Hungary, then Yugoslavia. Our very small supply of canned food ran out fairly quickly, and by the time we arrived in Skopje, my parents had almost run out of money. As it turned out, we weren’t going to be able to cross over to Greece without visas. So, my parents sold the car and the tent, bought the visas and our train tickets to Athens — from now on there was no safety net, our knowledge of an immigration program in Greece was only based on hearsay, but my parents had hope.</p><h1 id="dd98">Junkies’ house</h1><p id="6a80">Walking up a hill towards the public toilets in my blood-stained dress wasn’t what I imagined when I awoke that morning in my grandma’s house. My panicked parents walking closely behind me trying to hide the stains from prying eyes.</p><p id="3eec">Who could have predicted that I would get my very first period on the night we had to sleep on a bench, because my parents finally ran out of all the money, and checked in the rest of our belongings at the train station’s lockers (which we didn’t have access to unless payment was made to get them out).</p><p id="cb93">I washed my dress, stuffed some toilet paper down my knickers (saved some for later) and off we went. At this point, my parents haven’t eaten for about 10 days, and my period was the last straw; they decided to reach out for help. We headed to the closest post office to make a ‘reverse charges’ phone call to my uncle in Australia.</p><p id="146b">Although we weren’t the only ones in the post office’s waiting room, it became all too much for my Mum and she just broke down crying. There was an older lady sitting there, she asked what was wrong (in Greek), I replied that we don’t speak Greek, we’re Polish. She said ‘me too’.</p><p id="4530">After listening to my Mum, the lady said she knows someone who’s desperately looking for a labourer for their construction business. She also mentioned that if we were interested, she owns a run-down (abandoned) house in the suburbs that she’s scared to renovate because she has ignored it for too long and junkies have broken in, vandalised it, and stay there from time to time.</p><p id="9734">The very next day my dad had a job

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and we had a roof over our heads. The house came as advertised; graffiti on walls, piss on the floor, and used needles all over the place. That first night we slept on the mattresses that came with the house, with the doors boarded up, using nails instead of keys. My sister and I covered up the mattresses with some of the clothes we recovered from the lockers to reduce the stench.</p><p id="f9ef">Over the period of the next nine months, we slowly renovated the house and furnished it with the furniture we found on the street. It’s amazing how many beautiful antiques people threw away in those days — before antiques became a thing. Finally, our application to Australia was accepted, it was time to pack up again, say our goodbyes to the friends we met along our journey and, this time, reduce our lives into four pieces of luggage instead of one.</p><h1 id="6738">The plane</h1><p id="b85a">I’ve never been on an airplane before, I was anxious and excited at the same time. The engines roared, pushing the plane forward and my back into the chair as it took off into the clouds. I felt exhilarated, adrenalin pumping through my veins, in that moment, I knew I have fallen in love with flying.</p><p id="07f2">After many hours in the air, we were greeted in Sydney by my grand-uncle and his wife; we received our first koala (the plushy toy type). After a few quick photos, we drove off into our new life, a promise of a better future.</p><figure id="cddd"><img src="https://cdn-images-1.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:800/1*LYavMpUnml2q8DpVjSWkJw.png"><figcaption>Image courtesy of author — at the Sydney Airport with my grand-uncle in the middle (I’m on the far right)</figcaption></figure><h1 id="eddc">My house</h1><p id="5ae2">Many years have passed since that amazing day, I have travelled far and wide, and had many adventures. I will be forever grateful to my parents for taking such a risky move, and for bringing my sister and me along for the ride. I also feel truly privileged for my family being one of the few that was accepted by Australia at the time; this is not an easy country to get into, but a truly blessed one.</p><p id="7308">As I write this I’m sitting in my study with the Aussie sun streaming through the window, I can hear the birds singing, I sing along with them; I celebrate my life and all those that filled it with colour, adventure, and joy. Each of my experiences (the good and the not so good) shaped who I am today. Most of all, I’m grateful to the 9-year old me, who vowed to make my life interesting and came through on that promise.</p></article></body>

California Dreamin’

Escaping the clutches of communism; through the lens of a child

Grandma’s house

Barely awake, eyes still shut, I awoke in my grandmother’s lounge/guest bedroom to the barking of the neighbour’s dog. It was a beautiful summer’s morning, I was 9 and to me, the world was full of wonder, waiting to be discovered and claimed. In that half-awake state, I reflected on life and vowed that my life was not going to be the same as that of the adults who surrounded me, I was going to reach for more; I would travel and experience as much of this beautiful world as humanely possible.

Most of the people I knew had spent their entire lives in the same location they were born in — rarely did anyone step outside of what was familiar, not even for a vacation. Always working, on repeat, day after day, slowly getting addicted to the mundane. You can only blame them so much, Poland was a communist country at the time and you could get locked up for doing anything that looked remotely suspicious, and that included travel.

The car

I soon realised that I wasn’t the only one in the family with crazy ideas, my Mum sat my sister and me down one day and told us about an uncle she had in Australia — who had escaped the communist regime and lived to tell the tale. Well, they’ve been in contact and he offered to help us with our own escape. My sister and I were sworn to secrecy and my Mum went about working the plan.

A few weeks later I came home from school to find a beautiful aqua Fiat 127 parked in front of our apartment building. Now, this was not a common site in 1987; most of the parking lots in those days were empty as rarely anyone could afford a car. My parents scrambled every cent they have ever saved and bought our escape car. We first used it to visit my grandparents, I didn’t know at the time that I will only see them one more time in my life after this.

Then, one unassuming afternoon, off we went towards the border, with $100 US dollars to our name, and entire life packed into one suitcase squeezed next to the tent and air mattress at the back of this tiny car. As we drove off, I turned my head one last time, taking a mental snapshot of my friends playing on the street, the street I had taken so many bike rides on; the next chapter of my life was about to begin.

The next few weeks were filled with caravan parks and adventure as we found our way through Czechoslovakia, Hungary, then Yugoslavia. Our very small supply of canned food ran out fairly quickly, and by the time we arrived in Skopje, my parents had almost run out of money. As it turned out, we weren’t going to be able to cross over to Greece without visas. So, my parents sold the car and the tent, bought the visas and our train tickets to Athens — from now on there was no safety net, our knowledge of an immigration program in Greece was only based on hearsay, but my parents had hope.

Junkies’ house

Walking up a hill towards the public toilets in my blood-stained dress wasn’t what I imagined when I awoke that morning in my grandma’s house. My panicked parents walking closely behind me trying to hide the stains from prying eyes.

Who could have predicted that I would get my very first period on the night we had to sleep on a bench, because my parents finally ran out of all the money, and checked in the rest of our belongings at the train station’s lockers (which we didn’t have access to unless payment was made to get them out).

I washed my dress, stuffed some toilet paper down my knickers (saved some for later) and off we went. At this point, my parents haven’t eaten for about 10 days, and my period was the last straw; they decided to reach out for help. We headed to the closest post office to make a ‘reverse charges’ phone call to my uncle in Australia.

Although we weren’t the only ones in the post office’s waiting room, it became all too much for my Mum and she just broke down crying. There was an older lady sitting there, she asked what was wrong (in Greek), I replied that we don’t speak Greek, we’re Polish. She said ‘me too’.

After listening to my Mum, the lady said she knows someone who’s desperately looking for a labourer for their construction business. She also mentioned that if we were interested, she owns a run-down (abandoned) house in the suburbs that she’s scared to renovate because she has ignored it for too long and junkies have broken in, vandalised it, and stay there from time to time.

The very next day my dad had a job and we had a roof over our heads. The house came as advertised; graffiti on walls, piss on the floor, and used needles all over the place. That first night we slept on the mattresses that came with the house, with the doors boarded up, using nails instead of keys. My sister and I covered up the mattresses with some of the clothes we recovered from the lockers to reduce the stench.

Over the period of the next nine months, we slowly renovated the house and furnished it with the furniture we found on the street. It’s amazing how many beautiful antiques people threw away in those days — before antiques became a thing. Finally, our application to Australia was accepted, it was time to pack up again, say our goodbyes to the friends we met along our journey and, this time, reduce our lives into four pieces of luggage instead of one.

The plane

I’ve never been on an airplane before, I was anxious and excited at the same time. The engines roared, pushing the plane forward and my back into the chair as it took off into the clouds. I felt exhilarated, adrenalin pumping through my veins, in that moment, I knew I have fallen in love with flying.

After many hours in the air, we were greeted in Sydney by my grand-uncle and his wife; we received our first koala (the plushy toy type). After a few quick photos, we drove off into our new life, a promise of a better future.

Image courtesy of author — at the Sydney Airport with my grand-uncle in the middle (I’m on the far right)

My house

Many years have passed since that amazing day, I have travelled far and wide, and had many adventures. I will be forever grateful to my parents for taking such a risky move, and for bringing my sister and me along for the ride. I also feel truly privileged for my family being one of the few that was accepted by Australia at the time; this is not an easy country to get into, but a truly blessed one.

As I write this I’m sitting in my study with the Aussie sun streaming through the window, I can hear the birds singing, I sing along with them; I celebrate my life and all those that filled it with colour, adventure, and joy. Each of my experiences (the good and the not so good) shaped who I am today. Most of all, I’m grateful to the 9-year old me, who vowed to make my life interesting and came through on that promise.