There are two homes that exist within me. One which I carry in my heart, a distant memory of the homeland I was born in. Another that I can feel beneath my feet, a foreign soil on which I have learned to bloom.
My parents, however, exist suspended between these two worlds — tethered to both by a soft invisible string, yet never fully embraced by either. They live in a permanent in-between, carrying their homeland in their bones whilst charting a country that will never quite feel like their own. Australia has offered them safety, freedom, and opportunity. But the promise of belonging remains distant, never speaking the warm, familiar language of home.
They have no idea what it’s like, to lose home at the risk of never finding home again, to have your entire life, split between two lands and, become the bridge between two countries. – Rupi Kaur
In our society, there is a great celebration of the children of immigrants: the bright youth, who weave their parents’ sacrifices into polished stories of triumph. Their achievements are held up as proof of perseverance, of a promise of opportunity fulfilled. But in this admiration, there lies a growing neglect as we turn away from the parents themselves, who have torn down and rebuilt every part of their lives for their children. Australia loves a good migrant story, but only when it shines — dressed in diplomas, TED Talks, and polished arcs of resilience.
We do not linger on the raw, unvarnished stories. The ones lined with calloused hands, broken accents, and the art of silent success. Success which manifests in ways that are much quieter, sweeter, and infinitely heavier; measured not in accolades, but in sacrifices. Mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles, grandparents, all of whom have submitted themselves to a spiritually homeless existence.
They live every day tethered to the memory of the home that they embraced for years and the lonely reality of a new land that will never truly fulfill them. Belonging to neither, suspended between both, they endure. And so, in our eagerness to celebrate the fruits of their efforts, we mustn’t forget the roots buried deep in unseen soil, carrying the weight of two worlds so that their children can walk lighter.
Sour surrender;
to trade a world where love arrives unannounced to a dystopia filled with nameless neighbours,
to call a land home that mispronounces your name even if it remembers.
There are many quiet traditions that persist in immigrant households; small rituals rooted not only in culture but an overwhelming ache of loneliness. Loneliness that can only be hushed by the feeble attempt to latch on to anything that feels like home. And for our family, it’s no different.
My parents often immerse themselves in anything that echoes of home: food, film, music, dance, media. Every second day my mother’s voice cracks on a glitchy Facetime with her own mother, a fleeting attempt to bridge oceans through flickering screens. Their grief for the life they once lived hums beneath these rituals, as they seek out people and communities where they can still hear the song of their mother tongue, tender and familiar.
Our home is adorned by fragmented parts of a life once lived. I’ve always thought of myself as a bit of a hoarder — maybe this is a trait I’ve learned from living in a house riddled with memories of a family I’ll never truly get the chance to get to know. Through my parents I’ve learnt to decorate my room as well as my soul and my heart by these memories. A ring I wear on my hand passed down from my grandmother’s wedding, the rug laid down on my bedroom floor that once covered my great grandfather’s living room, the paintings that hang on my walls — drawn by the frail hands of my uncles and aunts.
Often, I find myself looking through my parents’ old family photos, faded windows into a life lived before me. Captured moments of my parents’ youth – a youth that slipped away from them too soon, traded for a better life. Tracing my fingers over these photos, I can almost see a golden hue that shines around them, a kind of light that belongs to memory alone. There, in those frozen frames, they are wrapped in a love that feels untouched by time. True warmth sacrificed for a better life. A life that has allowed me to speak, dress, act, and truly live as my heart desires. Freed from the confines they endured, but still shaped by the sacrifices they carry on my behalf.
My parents’ definition of home has always been different to mine. For them home is a place where the scent of saffron and chai swims in the air like an invisible welcome. Where Persian rugs sprawl across the floor, like a woven garden blooming beneath one’s feet. Where tables are adorned with dried fruit, sugared almonds, decorated glasses and rosewaters sweets. The walls are furnished by the delicate strokes of Hafez and Persian miniature carpets. The echo of Persian ballads and the laughter of family fills the rooms. This is what home will forever mean to my parents; a place of culture in the presence of their loved ones.
But for me, it’s different. For me, home is anywhere my parents are.
I have watched my parents backs bend and seen their spirits torn,
I have held them and watched them mourn.
My mother says I carry all her light,
I look at her and smile,
I hope I am everything she wanted me to be.
I hope I am proof enough that her sacrifice was worthwhile.
The loneliness of immigrant parents is a quiet sorrow that rarely asks to be seen, but one that we must learn to recognise. It is a raw sacrifice, so vast that words will forever fail to hold its weight. And yet, not once have I heard my parents utter a complaint, nor witnessed any flicker of bitterness in their eyes. They have carried their aches with dignity, threading beautiful lives filled with hope. I am living proof of their sacrifice, blessed with the full life they gave me, even if it cost them pieces of their own.
This to me is the truest meaning of love. To choose another’s happiness and comfort over one’s own, again and again, without expectation of recognition. Immigrant parents may carry their loneliness like a second skin, but within them burns a love so fierce, so enduring and so unconditional that it shapes generations — a quiet testament to everything they chose to give.
It is an honour,
to feel a love so endless,
it stills sorrow’s voice.
