Three days ago, an alarm went off. We had been waiting a year for it.
It was only an alarm on a phone, but for my family, that robotic melody meant something much bigger. It marked the beginning of my father’s final step towards making Australia home.
In 1983, my mum landed in Melbourne and didn’t leave for 37 years. Waiting for her in baggage claim was my father, a quietly handsome man she had only met twice before.
This third meeting marked the beginning of a new life, a million miles from his village in Punjab.
For my father, moving to Australia meant leaving behind something he would never get back: his family. He would never see his parents, brothers or sisters again. Over the years, he heard of their passing through our landline. All he could do was clutch the plastic receiver tighter and silently grieve the goodbyes he was never able to say.
My parents were given specific instructions by their parents to land here and to never leave. To avoid suspicion, Mum and Dad had to become people they barely recognised. They shed their identities like skin, assuming new names, new stories and new connections. Assimilation meant safety. My father didn’t hear his real name aloud until 2013. When I said it for the first time at 13, he cried.
Since they arrived here, my parents went above and beyond trying to earn their right to stay. They gave more than they were asked for, perhaps believing that if they could prove their usefulness. Australia might eventually accept them as its own. Food drives, volunteering in nursing homes, working through Black Saturday, youth work — they gave their time, their effort and themselves to the community. They always pushed themselves to embody the kind of “Australianness” they believed would make this golden land theirs. In many ways, they succeeded. They raised us to be true-blue Australian kids, even though there were parts of our family’s story we didn’t yet know.
I always knew growing up our family was different, but it was hard to articulate how. We grew up in Frankston, standing out like coffee stains on white tablecloths. Even so, my sister and I had a very typical Australian childhood: playing with other kids in our street, eating ice-cream from the milk bar, and a curfew dictated by the sunset. It was only in the small absences that our difference revealed itself. Why did we never have cousins come to visit us? Why did Dad never speak about his life in India? Why were we proud Sikh children, but never went to temple? What we ‘lost’ in culture, we made up for in love and laughter. We didn’t have much, but we had each other.
Then came 2013, my first year of high school. A big year of change, in more ways than one. It was this year that my parents decided to tell the truth. They were tired of the lies, tired of the secrets and tired of living in fear. They sat my sister and me down and told us their story. Suddenly, my life was unravelling at an alarming rate: my surname was not real; my father’s name was not real. But now they were ready to come forward and speak their truth, hoping the Government would grant them ‘permission’ to continue their lives in this country.
Just like that, my adolescence was shaped by meetings with immigration lawyers and paperwork. Every second month, my parents had to report to the immigration office and endure another interrogation — explaining the same thing: they just wanted to call Australia home. But in those cold rooms, they were treated like criminals. They were repeatedly shamed, compared to terrorists. They were even described as ‘aliens’ invading their own daughters’ home. This traumatised them more than I could put into words.
But in 2017, the situation seemed to change. After four years in limbo, they were apparently being shortlisted for permanent residency. With two daughters born here, it was supposed to be a shoe-in.
Then, with one cold email, the hope that burned in our hearts was snuffed out. In October of that same year, my parents were served a deportation notice — and were told they must leave the country in 30 days. In that moment, the life I recognised was over. My parents were to return to their countries of origin, while my sister and I were to stay here alone. Despite being 18 years old, Jessie did not have the means to support me through my final year of school — and I suddenly had to come to terms with the possibility of being placed in foster care.
After spending days and nights begging for help, we were told we could appeal the notice with a condition: Jessie and I had to write letters on our parents’ behalf, proving how sorry they were for overstaying their visas in 1983. To this day, it remains the most solemn thing I have ever created. To apologise for a mistake that was not yours is one thing; to prove the innocence of a parent who sacrificed everything for a better life for their children is another. Should I have to make my dad apologise for staying away from his family, for not being able to be called by his true name? Should I have to make my mum apologise for marrying a man she barely knew, so she could build a future away from the chaos she left behind? My parents had nothing to be sorry for. Yet at 17, I was forced to apologise for their ‘indiscretion’. All it gave me was shame — shame that I was born into a country that promoted freedom, love and unity, yet seemed determined to tear apart a hard-working family.
After the letters, my faith had been left in tatters — but somehow, we convinced the department that our case was worth re-evaluating. People flocked to help us fight to stay here. Colleagues, family friends and members of the community wrote support letters, insisting that my parents’ home was here. My parents were given a bridging visa and remained on the waitlist for ‘PR’ - permanent residency - for the next eight years.
By now, my dad was 75 and had not visited India in 40 years. In 2025, Mum and Dad finally received PR. But Dad was still stateless and unable to return home. We were told he had to wait a year before applying for Australian citizenship. We set an alarm. We fizzed with excitement and relief. Dad’s dream inched closer.
That alarm went off three days ago. It was time for dad to really call Australia home.