Published in Pure Haiku, Elephants Never, and From the Ashes — a poetry anthology by Animal Heart Press — Narmadhaa Sivaraja enjoys writing travel haiku, poetry, and fiction at The Chaos Within. She’s on Instagram as @narmadhaa_s — go over and say hello!
Image: © Relja Cvjetićanin, 2020
It was 6 am on a Saturday morning. I was scrolling through Facebook, sipping my coffee in bed. Everything was perfectly ordinary and as expected. Then I saw it: a family friend with his wife and child. He wore a crisp brown suit, his wife a lavish dress and high-heeled boots, and their 10-year-old son a polished brown suit to match his dad’s. They were positively glowing at the camera. The caption told me they were at Albert Hall in Canberra for their citizenship ceremony. My jaw dropped—I wasn’t shocked at the fanfare but at their joy and grins at the ceremony.
I first met this friend when I moved to Canberra. He was my brother’s friend and housemate. He opened his house up to me while I tried to find a longer-term share house. His family had one room, my brother and I had another, and a couple had the third room. Seven people in a three-bedroom and one-bathroom house. We all got along splendidly.
Every morning, I’d see him rush for his first job. I’d then briefly see him at lunch before he sped off to his second job. He’d work through most of the night at his third job and come home well past midnight. In less than 7 hours, he’d be off again. He worked three jobs at any given time. One of them was a cleaning contract for McDonald’s. The fast-food chain store hired contract companies to do the cleaning, and the contractors hired supposedly “unskilled” migrants like my friend to work inhuman hours for less than minimum wage.
It was then that I realised that my friend was not an exception but the norm for many migrant workers in this country. After that, I started seeing the pattern everywhere—the guy who pushed shopping trollies at Belconnen Woolies, the kitchen hands at Civic’s affluent restaurants, the dishwashers at the Emirates catering cafe at the airport—everywhere were people who’d left their countries in search of a better future, and ended up cleaning glasses, mopping floors, scrubbing the sick of moneyed youth, and treated more poorly than they’re paid.
When I saw my friend celebrating becoming a citizen, I was shocked that he regarded it so highly. I couldn’t tell if he expected to be treated any differently now that he had an A4-sized paper verifying his citizenship. It was astounding to me that he’d be so naive to think that the same people who underpaid and undervalued his time, labour, and good-naturedness would suddenly consider him their equal just because he had “done his time” for the past 7+ years.
That’s what I was thinking of when I walked into the Thebarton Community Centre a couple of months ago for my own citizenship ceremony.
My life in this country has been so drastically different from my friend’s. I’ve had a full-time job that allowed me to work from home—before, during and after the pandemic—and paid me enough to rent a place and live life on my own terms. I had the time and space to rest and recuperate, go out for a drink with friends, and go on long hikes at leisure. I had experienced subtle racism and discrimination but have never been insulted, assaulted, or humiliated for who I am.
I was the lucky one: my Australian friends were supportive and were always there for me, even when I didn’t know I needed them. And only one acquaintance ever exclaimed, “Your English is so good!”—evidently shocked that it was even possible for someone like me. Thanks, Sue, your English is good, too.
As I waited for the ceremony to begin, I didn’t feel the same elation my friend supposedly felt. I couldn’t lie to myself that people would see me differently just because I had a citizenship certificate locked up in my cupboard. I knew then that I’d still be rejected from jobs because of my unpronounceable name. My work would still be second-guessed because I’m not a native English speaker. A pretty good IELTS score couldn’t change that mentality, so I doubt a citizenship certificate would.
In the 45 minutes or so that I waited for the ceremony to kick off, a strange thought occurred to me. Everything I’d done for the last 7 years had been directed towards this moment—towards becoming a citizen. It should’ve felt like crossing the finish line in a summer marathon. It was nothing like that. The ceremony lasted 15 minutes—the single shortest event in the entire series of procedures I went through in the last 7 years, from the day I decided to apply for a visa to the time I accepted that certificate. Heck, even filling out my citizenship application took longer.
I was happier when I cleared the citizenship test two months prior. I felt more connected to Australia and its issues while filing my taxes over the last four years than I did in those few moments holding the pledge in my hands. And so when they asked all 130-something individuals from 30-something countries to stand and recite the words that would miraculously make us one of them, I didn’t even feel like saying the words aloud. I lip-synced, of course. Pursed lips wouldn’t’ve been a good look when I was being sworn into Australianism—or neutralised, as someone in the back seat joked to his new-citizen friend.
But I suppose that’s what makes a life: the journey to the destination and our encounters along the way.
When I think about my friend in Canberra, I don’t remember him as the guy in a crisp suit. I remember him as the guy with bloodshot eyes, grabbing a bite to eat before running off to make more money to support his family. That’s Australian. Just as much as the millions of people who spent their Saturday nights in public watch parties cheering on the Matildas. My friend was probably at work those nights, along with the many thousands across the country who work in our restaurants, hospitals, and supermarkets, doing thankless jobs. I have friends who were at those watch parties. And I have friends who couldn’t even dream of it.
It’s not lost on me that I could’ve been in either group. My perspective of the Australian lifestyle is forever challenged by the contrasts that exist amongst us and the two worlds I somehow find myself associated with in the same way.
© Narmadhaa Sivaraja, 2023
be:longing 