A COLLECTION OF SHORT STORIES – BY RODERIC GRIGSON
Contents
1. Stories of Migration and Belonging
2. HEALING HANDS FROM AFAR – By Roderic Grigson
3. THE CIRCLE OF STORIES –By Roderic Grigson
4.FLAVOURS OF A CITY – By Roderic Grigson
5.THE GOLDEN JOURNEY – By Roderic Grigson
6.FROM DESERT SANDS TO CITY STREETS – By Roderic Grigson
INTRODUCTION A JOURNEY THROUGH MULTICULTURALISM
Stories of Migration and Belonging
In our long-established writing group known as The Scribe Tribe, we embarked on a creative journey to explore multiculturalism through storytelling. An anthology was the result—a collection of deeply personal narratives that capture the essence of cultural diversity and its profound impact on our lives in Melbourne and beyond.
These stories written by me were taken from within those pages to showcase the transformative power of storytelling. They bridge cultural divides, foster understanding, and celebrate their spirit. From the struggles of Chinese labourers during the Australian Gold Rush to the post-war migration of Europeans and the contemporary experiences of Vietnamese and Afghan immigrants, each narrative offers an intimate glimpse into the joys and challenges of building a new life in a foreign land.
Readers will encounter a rich tapestry of voices—stories of individuals leaving their homelands in search of opportunity, the cultural exchanges that shape their new communities, and reflections on identity and belonging. These narratives illuminate the hardships of migration—discrimination, isolation, and the loss of familiar surroundings—while celebrating the strength, ingenuity, and contributions of those who have enriched Australia’s multicultural landscape.
These stories bring together diverse cultural perspectives: Chinese labourers carving out livelihoods during the Gold Rush, Greek and Italian migrants whose traditions and cuisine have become integral to Australian life, Ceylonese migrants facing discrimination in the country of their birth and Afghan refugees seeking sanctuary from conflict. It also highlights European migrants who arrived after World War II, bringing skills, labour, and stories of survival and reinvention that helped shape modern Australia. At its heart, this collection is a tribute to Melbourne, a city renowned for its dynamic multiculturalism. Its vibrant neighbourhoods—Chinatown, Springvale’s Vietnamese community, Dandenong’s Indian and Afghan precincts, Lygon Street’s Italian eateries, Oakleigh’s Greek quarter, and other post-war European enclaves—are more than just
settings; they are living testaments to the city’s rich cultural heritage. Some stories reflect Melbourne’s historical roots, while others reveal the contemporary experiences of immigrant families navigating modern Australian society. Together, they celebrate the ongoing evolution of multiculturalism—a mosaic of cultures, traditions, and lived experiences.
Through the anthology, all fifteen writers honour the journeys of those who came before us while inspiring future generations to embrace diversity. We invite you to immerse yourself in these heartfelt stories, celebrate our shared humanity, and reflect on the richness that multiculturalism brings to our lives. May these narratives encourage you, as they have us, to see the world through the eyes of others and cherish the threads that weave us into a collective whole.
Roderic Grigson Writer and Editor
HEALING HANDS FROM AFAR – By Roderic Grigson
I never thought much about the people behind the masks until I found myself in a hospital bed, grappling with an illness I didn’t fully understand. As an older Australian with a chronic heart condition that had required open heart surgery twenty-one years prior and a history of metastatic colon cancer in the past seven years, I’d grown used to frequent trips to the hospital. But this time, something was different—not just in my body but in the faces of those around me.
The first few days were a whirlwind of confusion and discomfort. I was admitted to the hospital with unexplained chest pain, light-headedness and severe shortness of breath, a combination of symptoms that defied easy diagnosis. My initial care involved an intricate dance of six specialists, each from a different corner of the globe, trying to solve the mystery of what was wrong with me.
First came Dr Haran, from Sri Lanka, my GP, who had trained as a cardiologist in the
U.K. and whose calm demeanour belied the intensity of his scrutiny. He ordered a barrage of tests—an echocardiogram, blood work, and an angiogram—and explained each step with patience that put me at ease. “Your heart is like an engine,” he said, his Sri Lankan-English accent lending a certain rhythm to his words. “We need to check every part to make sure it’s running smoothly.”
Next was Dr O’Malley, a pulmonologist from Ireland, who had a twinkle in his eye even as he asked me to cough into a spirometer and undertake lung function tests. He was thorough, poring over the X-rays and scans of my lungs with the precision of a detective. “The airways are your lifeline,” he said. “We need to ensure nothing’s obstructing them.” His Irish lilt made even medical jargon sound like poetry, momentarily distracting me from the anxiety gnawing at the edges of my mind.
Dr. Chen, a neurologist from China who had lived and worked in the U.S., joined the team to rule out any involvement of the nervous system. She was brisk and efficient, her questions piercingly precise. “Have you had dizziness? Numbness? Any unusual headaches?” she asked, her sharp eyes scanning my responses. Her focus was unrelenting, as though every detail was a potential clue to my condition.
Then, there was Dr Theron, a Gastroenterologist from South Africa, whose warm voice filled the room as he gently probed my stomach. He spoke of acid reflux and bloody stools and ordered an endoscopy and a colonoscopy. “Once we look inside and gather all the information, I’ll explain what’s happening in your digestive system and what might be causing your symptoms,” he explained, his tone rich with empathy.
Finally, Dr Ibrahim, an infectious disease specialist from Iran, rounded out the team.
She was meticulous, asking about my working for the United Nations in various hotspots around the world and more recent international travel, my dietary habits, and my exposure to animals. Her Persian accent gave an air of authority to her words, but it was her compassion that struck me most. “Sometimes, the smallest pathogen can cause the biggest problems,” she said, her brow furrowing as she analysed the results of a blood culture.
When initial tests raised questions about the possibility of malignancy, Professor McKenzie, an Australian oncologist, joined the team. He had treated me when I was diagnosed with colon cancer, and his presence was calm and reassuring. His voice measured as he explained the next steps in investigating the nature of my symptoms. “We need to rule out all possibilities, even the rare ones,” he said, his tone imbued with quiet authority. “But I want you to know that whatever we find, we’ll face it together.” His expertise and kindness reassured me during what could have been an incredibly frightening time.
Each of these doctors brought not only their expertise but also a piece of their homeland’s medical traditions and approaches. Their discussions were a symphony of accents and ideas, each contributing a unique perspective to the puzzle of my illness. They huddled together, sharing scans, debating possibilities, and collaborating in a way that felt almost magical to witness.
In the end, it was a collective effort that revealed the culprits. A gastrointestinal bleed caused by the long-term use of low doses of aspirin as a blood thinner had brought my blood count down to critical levels, putting my heart under stress to process the reduced levels of oxygen. This resulted in a dangerous build-up of pleural fluid in my lungs, which was affecting my breathing.
The extensive CT scans also showed a 2cm nodule on my lower left lung, which turned out to be a primary lung cancer after a follow-up needle biopsy.
“The tests show that the cancer is at a very early stage, and since you are a non- smoker, the chances of it having spread elsewhere is very low,” Prof Mckenzie said, studying the pathology results. “I will schedule a brain scan to be sure as these types of cancers first reappear in the brain stem.”
The diagnosis was sobering, but I felt an odd sense of relief knowing that these brilliant minds had come together to find an answer.
With the diagnosis in hand, my care shifted to a broader team of specialist surgeons, anaesthetists, radiologists, pathologists, pharmacists, nurses and therapists who planned my treatment and care in the hospital with military-like precision.
My thoracic surgeon, Mr. Darling, was an Australian from Bendigo. “A couple of years ago,” he said, “I would have had to remove your entire lower left lobe. But thanks to modern surgical advances, we can now excise the section of the lung closest to the malignancy.”
Undergoing a major surgical procedure was not new to me. As I was wheeled into the holding room outside the operating theatre, I felt a strange sense of familiarity.
A masked anaesthetist nurse leaned over me. “I’ll give you something to help you relax,” she said, her sparkling blue eyes warm with reassurance while sliding a needle into my arm with practised ease.
“You’ll just feel a little prick…” Darkness swallowed me.
I awoke in the recovery room to the blurred outline of a nurse hovering over me, her face partially obscured by a mask.
“How do you feel?” she asked. “Try coughing and take a few deep breaths if you can.”
“How did the operation go?” I croaked, my mouth as dry as the parched deserts of the Sinai—terrain I knew well from my time with the UN.
“The surgeon will be here soon to give you the details, but by all accounts, it went well,” she replied, her Irish lilt a soothing melody to my ears. “Here, sip this slowly,” she said as she held a small cup of water to my mouth, and as the cool liquid trickled down my throat, it felt like liquid gold.
My care shifted to a succession of nurses who looked after me until I left the hospital days later.
Among them was Priya, a nurse from Kerala, India. Priya’s presence felt like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. Her voice was calm and steady, her accent infused with the lyrical rhythm of Malayalam. She often spoke of home, painting vivid pictures of Kerala’s lush backwaters, swaying coconut palms, and bustling spice markets.
One evening, as she adjusted my medication and chatted about her family, I asked her why she had come to Australia. She paused, then smiled wistfully. “Back home, being a nurse is about more than just a job; it’s a calling. However, opportunities for growth can be limited. Here, I can learn more, provide for my family, and still do what I love—taking care of people.”
Priya was more than just skilled; she had an intuition that made her seem almost prescient. When I felt overwhelmed by pain after major surgery or consumed by anxiety, she seemed to know before I could say a word. Her kindness extended beyond her professional duties. She would often bring a thermos of spiced tea during her breaks, offering me a small sip as though sharing a part of her culture to comfort me.
Then there was Win, a student nurse from Burma, whom the staff affectionately called “the vampire.” Early every morning, like clockwork, she appeared at my bedside, syringe in hand, ready to draw yet another vial or two of blood. She always had a mischievous smile and a joke at the ready. “It’s for science,” she’d say with a wink, her Burmese accent adding a melodic quality to her words.
Win’s precision was unmatched; I barely felt the prick of the needle. Despite the monotony of her task, she carried it out with an oddly contagious enthusiasm. “Back home,” she said one morning as she labelled another vial, “I used to work in a rural clinic. We didn’t have half the equipment we have here, but we made it work. Coming to Australia has given me the chance to learn, become an RN, and help more people.”
Her humour and warmth made the repetitive blood draws feel less like a chore and more like a strange ritual of connection. Even on my worst mornings, her cheerful banter lifted my spirits.
There was also Linda, the Charge nurse who travelled from the Mornington Peninsular every day; Maya and Grace, both experienced nurses from the Philippines; Shelley, a trainee nurse from Bendigo; and Anna, a senior physiotherapist from the UK, each with their own stories and approaches to care. Maya’s gentle presence was a balm, while Anna’s firm encouragement pushed me to take my first steps after surgery.
And then there was Finau, an ICU doctor from Tonga, who sat by my side on one of my worst nights, his calm presence helping me navigate the storm of fear and uncertainty.
I began to notice more accents—Nigerian, Kiwi, South American, Egyptian, Vietnamese, and Scottish, among the many Australian ones—each attached to someone who seemed genuinely invested in my recovery. These healthcare workers had left behind their families, their homes, and the familiarity of their own countries to fill critical gaps in Australia’s healthcare system. They worked long hours, often under immense pressure, yet approached their roles with unwavering dedication.
One morning, as Priya helped me take my first independent steps, I found myself tearing up—not from pain but from gratitude. “Thank you,” I whispered, my voice cracking.
“For what?” she asked, genuinely surprised.
“For coming here,” I said simply. “For being here.”
She smiled, her face lighting up with quiet pride. “We’re all in this together,” she replied.
When I finally left the hospital days later, I couldn’t help but reflect on the patchwork quilt of humanity that had cared for me. The hands that healed me came from every corner of the globe, stitched together by a shared commitment to service. They had brought with them not only their skills but also the rich tapestry of their cultures, infusing the hospital with a sense of connection and hope.
Australia might have its struggles, but in the faces and hands of its Australian and international health workers, I saw a nation’s heart beating strong—an unspoken promise that we could grow stronger together, one healing touch at a time.
THE END
THE CIRCLE OF STORIES –By Roderic Grigson
In a quiet, sun-dappled corner of Australia, where the vast land stretches to the horizon and the red earth holds the secrets of the past, Ngarra, an old Aboriginal woman, sat beneath the shade of a towering gum tree. Her wrinkled skin seemed to glow like the ancient rocks around her, and her dark eyes, deep as the earth itself, reflected the wisdom of generations. The land was alive with the songs of the wind rustling through the leaves, the calls of the birds, and the quiet hum of the earth beneath her.
Ngarra had lived on this land her whole life. She had witnessed many changes— decades of transformation that seemed both rapid and slow, like the shifting tides. But through it all, her people’s stories remained steady, anchored in the land like the roots of the trees. These stories were not just told with words; they were written in the stars above, in the rivers winding through the land, and in the songs sung around the fire.
They were the Dreamtime, the timeless stories that spoke of creation, of the animals, the spirits, and the deep connection between her people and the land.
One afternoon, Ngarra received an invitation from the town’s multicultural festival— a celebration that was now an annual event, bringing together people from across the world. The organizers had asked her to speak, knowing that her wisdom would bring a unique perspective to the gathering. Ngarra was intrigued. She had heard stories of the immigrants who had arrived in Australia, bringing their own histories, their languages, and their customs. While her people’s stories were ancient, she also understood that all stories were part of the same cycle, woven into the same land.
On the day of the festival, Ngarra stood before a crowd in a bustling hall. The walls were adorned with colourful tapestries and flags from all over the world—red and gold banners from China, the green, white, and red of Italy, and the deep blue of Greece. The air was thick with the sound of multiple languages, each voice a unique note in a song of diversity. People from different corners of the world had gathered—Sudanese elders and families from Vietnam, the Pacific Islands, Torres Straits, Sri Lanka, a group of young Koreans, and local Australians—their faces all lit with curiosity and excitement about the festival. The smell of food filled the air—spices from Sri Lanka, roasted lamb from Lebanon, sweet pastries from Greece—mingling together in a fragrant celebration of culture.
Ngarra stood at the front of the room, her presence commanding yet peaceful. She wore a simple dress of earth tones, with intricate patterns of ochre painted on her skin—a mark of her connection to the land and to her ancestors. Her long silver hair was tied in a loose braid, and her hands, weathered and strong, rested on a walking stick carved with symbols of her people’s stories. She took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the land beneath her feet, the heartbeat of Australia. The room quieted as she began to speak, her voice a soothing rhythm that seemed to blend with the natural world outside.
“I come from a land that speaks in whispers,” she began, her voice calm yet rich with the depth of time. “The land speaks to those who listen carefully. It tells stories of the animals, the trees, the sky, and the stars. It tells of my people, the first people, who have walked this land for tens of thousands of years. Our stories are woven into the earth, and they are told not just by words but by the wind, the river, and the fire.”
As Ngarra spoke, the audience listened intently, some nodding along, others gazing at her with wide eyes. She could see the curiosity in their expressions—the desire to understand, to connect. She paused for a moment, allowing her words to settle in the air like the dust after a storm.
“When we first met those who came from distant lands,” she continued, her gaze sweeping across the room, “we did not see strangers. We saw travellers—like the birds who travel across the seas, like the rain that comes from faraway places. We understood that we were all part of the same land, though our ways were different. Your ancestors, like mine, have stories to tell. And now, our stories will meet, like two rivers coming together, each bringing its own gifts.”
As Ngarra spoke of the Dreamtime—the sacred stories of creation—she could feel the connection between herself and the people in the room. It was a connection not bound by time or borders but by the land that held them all. She spoke of how the land was a circle, how it had always been a place where many stories converged, a place where different peoples had once walked together in harmony and could do so again.
“The land is a circle,” she said softly. “It does not begin or end in one place. We all share this land, and in sharing it, we create a larger circle—a circle of stories,
experiences, and of understanding. We must learn to listen to each other to honour each other’s journey, for we are all part of this same story. We are all the keepers of the land’s secrets, and it is through the coming together of all our voices that we will find true strength.”
The room was silent for a long moment as if the land itself had paused to listen.
Then, one by one, people began to speak. A young Lebanese woman with dark, soulful eyes stood and spoke in her native tongue. A translator stepped forward, and in English, she spoke of her family’s journey from the war-torn streets of Beirut to the peaceful shores of Australia. She spoke of the pain of leaving her homeland, of the difficulty of adapting to a new culture, but also of the beauty in finding a new home. Her story was raw, filled with hope and hardship, and it resonated with the people in the room.
A tall Filipino man with a broad smile followed. He spoke of his childhood in the Philippines, of growing up in a small village where everyone knew each other, and how his journey to Australia was a leap into the unknown. He spoke of learning the language, of working multiple jobs to support his family, and how, over time, he had found his place in the Australian community—how his children were now proud to call Australia home while never forgetting their roots.
One by one, others stood to share their stories—stories of courage, loss, and love. A Sudanese woman told of her escape from violence and her journey to safety in Australia. An elderly Italian woman shared tales of her childhood in Sicily and the traditions that had been passed down through generations. The room filled with voices, each one a thread in the larger fabric of the land’s story.
Then, a soft voice emerged from the back of the room. A woman wearing a colourful hijab and a soft smile rose to her feet. Her name was Laila, and her eyes reflected the strength of someone who had endured more than most would ever know.
Laila was an Afghan refugee, and her story began in a land that had known much turmoil. She took a deep breath, her voice steady despite the memories that stirred within her.
“I came from a land where the mountains spoke of wars and the winds carried the scent of sorrow,” Laila began, her accent rich with the sounds of her native Pashto. “I was born in Kabul, a city that once thrived with the laughter of children and the voices of families. But as the years passed, it became a place where fear settled in the streets,
where mothers wept for sons who never returned. The world I knew shattered in an instant. We fled, walking for days, with nothing but hope and the clothes on our backs.”
The room was silent as Laila’s words lingered in the air. She spoke of her journey across borders, of living in crowded, unsanitary refugee camps, of the terrifying uncertainty while waiting for their application to the UN asylum program to be processed, and the pain of being forced to leave behind everything she had ever known. She spoke of families that had been broken apart by being offered settlement in different countries and continents. Yet, even in the face of adversity, Laila’s words carried a sense of resilience.
“When we arrived in Australia,” she continued, “we were extremely grateful and considered ourselves lucky, but I felt like a stranger in a strange land. The language was different, the customs unfamiliar, and the faces I saw were not like my own. But I found something here that I had not expected—people who welcomed me, who listened to my story and shared theirs with me. I found kindness in places I never thought to look.
Slowly, I learned to navigate this new world, and as I did, I realized that our stories, no matter where we come from, are not so different. We are all looking for peace, for love, for a home where we can build a future for our children.”
Laila’s eyes shone with quiet strength as she spoke of the joy she had found in Australia—the opportunities to learn, to work, to contribute. She spoke of the dreams she had for her children, dreams that had once seemed impossible but now seemed within reach.
“We all come from different places,” she said, her voice filled with emotion, “but we are all connected by this land, by the stories we carry, and by the hope we share for a better tomorrow. My journey is just one of many, but it is a journey I am proud to walk. And it is only through the sharing of our stories, through the coming together of our voices, that we can truly heal and build something strong.”
The room erupted in applause, not for the strength of her words alone but for the courage and vulnerability she had shown. Ngarra, standing quietly at the front, felt a warmth in her chest. This was what she had spoken of—the circle of stories expanding, the coming together of different histories and experiences, all woven into the tapestry of the land they shared.
Then, Ngarra smiled and began to share her own story—one that had been told many times around the campfire, passed from elder to elder, a story written in the very bones of the land.
“My ancestors have walked these lands since the beginning of time,” she began, her voice lowering as she remembered the stories her grandmother had told her and her grandmother’s grandmother before that. “We are the keepers of the earth, the sky, and the water. When I was a child, I would run barefoot across the red earth, feeling the pulse of the land beneath my feet. The stars above would guide us, and the elders would speak of the animals—kangaroo, emu, and the eagle—each carrying lessons of strength, wisdom, and patience.”
Ngarra’s eyes softened as she remembered her youth—the land as a vast, living entity and the sense of belonging that came with it. “When the first settlers came, they spoke of owning the land,” she continued, her tone steady. “But we knew that the land could not be owned. It could only be cared for like a mother cares for her children. We shared the land, we shared the fire, we shared the stories.”
Her voice grew even softer as she spoke of the darker times when her people were pushed aside, their voices silenced, and their ways misunderstood. But Ngarra spoke not of bitterness but of resilience, of the quiet strength of survival, and of the deep knowledge that the stories of her people would never fade.
“The land remembers,” she whispered, “and so do we. The stories of my people are not gone. They live in the song of the wind, in the rustle of the trees, and in the hearts of those who listen.”
As Ngarra finished, she looked around the room, seeing faces that had been touched by her words. The circle of stories had expanded, encompassing not just her people’s ancient tales but the stories of all who called Australia home.
And as she walked away from the gathering, Ngarra felt a deep peace in her heart. The stories of the land were not just her people’s to tell; they were for all who cared to listen. The circle was growing, its voice stronger, its reach broader. And she knew, as she had always known, that the land would carry these stories forward, for the land itself was the greatest storyteller of all.
THE END
FLAVOURS OF A CITY – By Roderic Grigson
The aroma of sizzling lamb skewers mingling with the smoky scent of spices wafted through the air as Sophie strolled down the narrow lane in Melbourne’s CBD. She had come to the city years ago to study architecture but had stayed for the food. Melbourne, she often joked with her friends, wasn’t just a city—it was a feast. Each street and neighbourhood told a story, not just of migration and settlement but of adaptation, innovation, and celebration.
Sophie, whose parents had migrated from Ceylon decades ago, grew up in a home where food was a constant presence. Her mother’s fish curry, fragrant with tamarind and curry leaves, and her father’s love for making hoppers for Sunday breakfast were staples of her childhood. And then there was tea—always tea. Ceylon tea had been an unwavering presence in her home, brewed strong and aromatic, served with milk and sugar, or spiced with ginger for special occasions. Sophie had inherited her parents’ love for tea, and no meal felt complete without a steaming cup.
Sophie decided to set herself a mission for the week: to eat her way across the city, discovering the cultural origins behind the dishes that defined Melbourne’s rich culinary landscape. She mapped out her journey, starting in Chinatown on Monday, heading to Lygon Street on Tuesday, and visiting the multicultural heart of Footscray on Wednesday. For the rest of the week, she planned to explore the newer culinary hubs in Tarneit, Epping, Springvale, Clyde, and the vibrant Greek enclave of Oakleigh.
As she embarked on her week-long food journey, Sophie couldn’t help but compare the dishes she tried to the rich culinary heritage she had grown up with. Sophie’s first stop was Chinatown, a bustling hub of red lanterns and fragrant eateries that had stood the test of time. Established during the 1850s gold rush, Chinatown was one of the oldest in the world. She slipped into a tiny restaurant that had been serving Cantonese food since the 1970s. The owner, Mrs. Lin, greeted her with a warm smile.
“You must try the xiao long bao,” Mrs. Lin suggested, pointing to the menu. “And don’t forget the Peking duck. These recipes have been in my family for generations.”
“How do you make the broth so flavourful?” Sophie asked, intrigued.
Mrs. Lin chuckled. “Ah, that’s a secret! But I will tell you this—patience and good ingredients. The soup dumplings are a labour of love.”
Sophie savoured the delicate soup dumplings, marvelling at how the thin wrapper held the rich, savoury broth within. She thought about the Chinese labourers who had arrived during the gold rush, bringing with them their culinary traditions. Over time, these dishes had become Melbourne staples, their flavours subtly evolving to incorporate local ingredients.
As Sophie ate, Mrs Lin shared stories of her family’s migration. “My grandparents came here with little more than hope,” she said. “They worked hard, but food was always a way to feel connected to home. Now, we see people from all cultures enjoying our dishes. That’s the beauty of Melbourne.”
Sophie nodded, thinking of her own mother’s stories of bringing spices to Australia and how her parents had adapted their meals to include local produce like sweet potatoes and zucchinis. When she got home that evening, she brewed herself a strong cup of Ceylon tea, its familiar aroma filling the room, and reflected on how food and drink were universal comforts.
On Tuesday, Sophie made her way to Lygon Street in Carlton, the epicentre of Melbourne’s Italian community. The street buzzed with life, its cafés spilling onto the pavement, where patrons sipped espressos and indulged in decadent gelato. Italian migrants had settled here in the mid-20th century, bringing with them their love of food and family.
Sophie stepped into a trattoria renowned for its wood-fired pizzas. Enzo, the chef and owner, was a second-generation Italian-Australian. “The pizza margherita is our pride,” he said, sliding a bubbling pie from the oven. “But you must also try the gnocchi. My nonna’s recipe.”
“Nonna must have been an amazing cook,” Sophie said as she twirled her fork in the gnocchi.
“She was,” Enzo replied with a smile. “She always said, ‘You don’t just cook with your hands, you cook with your heart.’ That’s why every dish is special.”
The gnocchi melted in Sophie’s mouth, its pillowy texture paired with a rich, slow- cooked tomato sauce. As she ate, Enzo explained how Italian migrants had
transformed Melbourne’s food culture. “Before my grandparents arrived, pasta wasn’t common here,” he said. “Now, you’ll find it on almost every menu. And coffee? Italians gave Melbourne its obsession with good coffee.”
As she sipped her espresso, Sophie thought about how her father had introduced her to Sri Lankan black coffee, brewed strong and sweet, often served alongside spicy short eats like patties and cutlets. Yet even as she enjoyed the espresso, she longed for the comfort of a cup of tea—its strength balanced by the creamy sweetness she loved. She promised herself she’d make some as soon as she got home.
As the sun rose on Wednesday, Sophie set out for Footscray, one of Melbourne’s most diverse neighbourhoods. Here, Ethiopian, Sudanese, Middle Eastern, and Southeast Asian communities thrived side by side, their culinary traditions blending into a vibrant mosaic.
Sophie wandered through the market, where stalls offered everything from Ethiopian injera to Somali samosas. She stopped at a small Ethiopian café, where the owner, Amina, welcomed her warmly. A platter of injera arrived, accompanied by spiced lentils, slow-cooked stews, and sautéed greens.
“In Ethiopia, food is meant to be shared,” Amina said, tearing a piece of injera and scooping up a bit of stew. Sophie followed suit, savouring the tangy flatbread and the complex spices.
“This is incredible,” Sophie said. “Do you make everything yourself?”
Amina nodded. “Of course. My mother taught me how to cook. She said food is not just for the stomach; it’s for the soul.”
Sophie’s final stop was a Middle Eastern bakery, where she indulged in baklava and sipped strong Turkish coffee. The owner, Yusef, spoke of his family’s migration from Lebanon. “Food is memory,” he said. “Every bite takes me back to the hills of my childhood.”
As Sophie bit into the honey-soaked baklava, she thought about the Ceylonese, now Sri Lankan, sweets her mother would make for New Year celebrations—kokis,
semolina-based cakes, and syrup-soaked oil cakes. Each dessert carried the warmth of home. That evening, as a final ritual to her day, she brewed a cup of tea, its earthy aroma a reminder of her roots and her family’s traditions.
On Thursday, Sophie ventured further afield to Tarneit and Epping, suburbs that had blossomed into vibrant multicultural hubs.
In Tarneit, she began her exploration at a South Indian restaurant famous for its dosas. The thin, crispy crepes arrived filled with spiced potato masala, accompanied by a trio of chutneys and steaming sambar. “You must try it with the coconut chutney,” the waiter suggested, and Sophie gladly took his advice. The creamy, slightly sweet chutney balanced the spices perfectly.
Next, she wandered into a local Indian sweet shop where rows of brightly coloured treats glistened under the lights. She picked up a box of gulab jamuns and kaju katlis. “These are my childhood favourites,” said the shop owner, Meera, handing Sophie a warm gulab jamun to try. “In India, sweets are a symbol of celebration, and we make them the same way our ancestors did.”
Sophie couldn’t help but think of the festive meals her family would prepare for Sinhala and Tamil New Year, with tables laden with sweetmeats, milk rice, and pickles.
From Tarneit, Sophie made her way to Epping, a suburb known for its strong Middle Eastern and Mediterranean influences. Her first stop was a bustling Turkish kebab house where the owner, Hasan, greeted her warmly. “Our lamb kofta is the best,” he said confidently, serving her a plate with fresh tabbouleh, hummus, and warm, pillowy flatbread.
As she ate, Hasan shared stories of his family’s journey to Australia. “My father taught me how to make kebabs back in Turkey. Here, we use the same spices and techniques, but we’ve also learned to adapt to local tastes. That’s the beauty of cooking in a place like Melbourne.”
Sophie’s next stop was a Lebanese grocer, where shelves were stocked with olives, jars of pickled vegetables, and tubs of creamy labneh. The owner, Amal, offered her a taste of freshly baked manakish topped with za’atar. “Food is about sharing,” Amal said. “When we moved here, we brought our traditions with us. Now, it’s wonderful to see people from all cultures enjoying them.”
As the day came to an end, Sophie reflected on how these suburban culinary enclaves told stories of migration and adaptation. In both Tarneit and Epping, food wasn’t just sustenance—it was a bridge between worlds, a way to preserve heritage while embracing new beginnings. That evening, Sophie indulged herself with a fresh pot of Ceylon tea, letting its familiar aroma and warmth wrap around her like a hug from home.
Springvale, known for its strong Southeast Asian presence, was Sophie’s destination on Friday. The area was a feast for the senses, with vibrant colours, bustling crowds, and the unmistakable aroma of sizzling meats and fresh herbs wafting through the air. The streets were lined with Vietnamese, Cambodian, Malaysian, and Thai restaurants, interspersed with grocery stores displaying exotic fruits like durian, mangosteen, and dragon fruit.
Sophie began her exploration at a small Vietnamese café known for its banh mi. The crusty baguette was perfectly balanced with savoury pork, tangy pickled vegetables, fresh coriander, and a touch of chilli. “This is the best banh mi I’ve ever had,” Sophie said to the owner, Anh.
Anh smiled proudly. “It’s my grandmother’s recipe. She used to bake the bread herself back in Vietnam. Here, we use a local bakery, but the fillings are just like how she made them.”
Next, Sophie visited a bustling Thai street food stall where she tried pad kra pao, a spicy stir-fried basil dish. The vendor, Somchai, handed her the plate with a grin. “Be careful,” he warned. “It’s hot, but that’s how it’s meant to be.” The fiery heat was tempered by the fragrant jasmine rice, and Sophie found herself savouring every bite.
One of the highlights of her visit was a Malaysian mamak stall, where the smell of sizzling satay and rich curries filled the air. Sophie decided to try teh tarik, Malaysia’s famous pulled tea, prepared by an energetic vendor named Azlan. With a theatrical flair, Azlan poured the tea back and forth between two metal cups, creating frothy, creamy perfection.
“This looks amazing,” Sophie said as Azlan handed her a steaming glass.
“It’s not just a drink,” Azlan said with a laugh. “Teh tarik is a tradition. It’s about taking your time and enjoying the moment. And, of course, it has to be sweet!”
Sophie took a sip and immediately understood the appeal. The tea was smooth and rich, with just the right balance of sweetness and creaminess. She closed her eyes, savouring the taste. “This is incredible. It reminds me of the tea my parents make, but so much frothier.”
Azlan beamed. “That’s the magic of the pull. It cools the tea and gives it that texture.
You should try it with some kaya toast next time.”
Sophie ended her day with a dessert stop at a traditional Vietnamese che stand. She marvelled at the colourful layers of mung beans, jelly, and coconut milk in her glass.
The vendor, Mai, explained, “Che is not just a dessert; it’s a celebration. We eat it at festivals and family gatherings. It’s meant to bring happiness.”
As Sophie walked back to her car, her bag filled with treats from the local market, she couldn’t help but feel grateful for the warmth and stories shared by the community. Springvale wasn’t just a place to eat; it was a place to connect with the heart of Southeast Asia in Melbourne.
Saturday took Sophie to Clyde and Oakleigh, two neighbourhoods that exemplified Melbourne’s growing culinary diversity.
In Clyde, Sophie began her day at a local farmers’ market, where the air was filled with the aroma of sizzling spices and freshly baked bread. At one stall, she tasted homemade Afghan bolani, flatbread stuffed with potato, herbs, and spices. “This bolani is amazing,” Sophie said to the Afghan vendor, Nadia.
“Thank you,” Nadia replied, her eyes lighting up. “My mother and I make them together. It reminds us of home. In Afghanistan, food isn’t just about eating; it’s about community. We’re happy to share it here.”
Sophie moved on to a Sri Lankan stall, where she tried string hoppers with a fragrant coconut sambol. The vendor, Sunil, explained, “In Sri Lanka, breakfast is often a feast. We believe food is a way to bring people together, whether it’s family or strangers.” Sophie laughed, thinking of her father’s elaborate weekend hopper feasts, where every bite seemed like a piece of art.
Her final stop in Clyde was at a Filipino food stall, where halo-halo was being prepared with precision and care. The colourful layers of shaved ice, sweet beans, fruit, and leche flan were both a treat for the eyes and the palate. The vendor, Maria, laughed as Sophie marvelled at the dessert. “Halo-halo means ‘mix-mix’ in Filipino,” Maria said. “It’s a little bit of everything, just like our culture.”
Later that day, Sophie made her way to Oakleigh, Melbourne’s vibrant Greek precinct. The streets buzzed with energy, the sounds of bouzouki music mingling with the scent of charcoal-grilled souvlaki.
She entered a bustling taverna, where the owner, Nikos, welcomed her with a wide smile. “Welcome, welcome! Let me bring you something special,” he said, disappearing into the kitchen.
Nikos returned with a platter of mezze—tzatziki, dolmades, grilled octopus, and perfectly fried calamari. Sophie dug in, savouring the bold flavours. “This is incredible,” she said.
“Good food is meant to be shared,” Nikos said. “In Greece, the table is where life happens—celebrations, conversations, even arguments! We bring that spirit here to Oakleigh.”
As Sophie finished her meal, Nikos insisted on bringing out loukoumades—golden, honey-soaked doughnuts sprinkled with cinnamon and walnuts. “You can’t leave without something sweet,” he said with a grin.
The sense of community in Oakleigh was palpable. Families and friends filled the tavernas, their laughter echoing in the warm evening air. For Sophie, the food was more than delicious; it was a celebration of heritage, togetherness, and joy.
As Sunday arrived, Sophie sat at her desk to reflect on her week. Melbourne’s food scene wasn’t just about flavours; it was about stories. Each dish she had tasted carried with it the hopes, dreams, and resilience of those who had brought their traditions to this city.
Sophie had enjoyed the week so much that she promised herself she would do it again. She still had to explore the hip and throbbing Fitzroy and Brunswick Streets with their Spanish and Latin American flavours, and there was Box Hill, Caulfield and Glen Huntly.
In Melbourne, food was a universal language. It spoke of migration and adaptation, of preserving heritage while embracing change. It told the stories of communities finding their place and making their mark. And it reminded Sophie of the beauty of diversity—how it nourished not just the body but the soul.
Sophie brewed herself a final cup of Ceylon tea for the week, the amber liquid swirling in her favourite porcelain mug. As the familiar aroma filled the room, she felt deeply connected to her roots. Tea, like food, was her way of grounding herself and celebrating the rich tapestry of cultures that made Melbourne her home. She decided
she would write about her journey, capturing the voices and flavours that had shaped her city.
Because in Melbourne, every meal was a story waiting to be told.
THE END
THE GOLDEN JOURNEY – By Roderic Grigson
In the quiet of a Melbourne evening, surrounded by the hum of passing cars and the distant chatter of pedestrians, Liang Daniel sat in his late grandfather’s study, dust motes dancing in the golden glow of a desk lamp. The scent of aged paper and sandalwood filled the air. He had come to sort through his grandparents’ belongings, but instead, he had discovered something unexpected—a leather-bound journal, its edges frayed with time.
His fingers traced the delicate Chinese characters on the cover, ink faded but barely legible: “The Journey of Jinhai Liang”. With a deep breath, he opened it. The pages were filled with long vertical lines of traditional Chinese calligraphy that he found difficult to read. Daniel could make out some of the characters, but they were not the modern forms he was familiar with. He pulled out his laptop and signed into an internet site he had used before that provided translations from traditional to simplified Chinese.
The Liang family had left China with heavy hearts and desperate hopes. Taishan, once their home, had become a place of suffering. Years of war, corruption, and famine had left entire villages starving. The Ǫing government’s taxes grew unbearable, and bandits roamed the countryside, making it unsafe to farm or trade. The land that had once nurtured them had turned against them, offering only hardship in return.
Translating the traditional forms was no easy task, but Daniel leaned in, his curiosity sharpening. Each character felt like a puzzle piece, a fragment of a story long buried. He had always wondered what had driven his family to leave China; now, with the journal in his hands, he was closer than ever to uncovering the truth.
Then had come the rumours—whispers of gold buried in the distant lands of Australia, a place called Gum San, the Golden Mountain. Letters from those who had gone before spoke of riches beyond imagining, fortunes lying beneath the soil, waiting to be claimed. For Jinhai, it was a chance for his family to escape their fate and carve out a new life where his sons would not grow up in poverty. It was a gamble, but staying behind meant certain ruin.
The wind carried the scent of salt and hope as the ship cut through the churning waters of the South China Sea. Aboard, crammed together with hundreds of other hopeful souls, was the Liang family—father Jinhai, mother Meilin, and their two sons, Liang Wei and Liang Jun. They hailed from Taishan, a land of rice fields and narrow, winding paths flanked by tall bamboo. Life there had been hard, ravaged by war, famine, and the relentless hand of poverty. The rumours of gold in Australia had been enough to make Jinhai trade his meagre land for passage across the sea.
Daniel’s hands trembled as he turned the page. He imagined the desperation his ancestors must have felt, the weight of uncertainty pressing on their shoulders. He swallowed hard, compelled to read on. The images they were creating in his mind seemed so real. It was like he was there watching them.
Their journey had been long and arduous. Days bled into nights of rocking waves, seasickness, and the ever-present stench of unwashed bodies. Meilin clutched Jun to her chest, humming lullabies to keep the terror of the unknown at bay. Wei, barely twelve, sat silently near the ship’s edge, his dark eyes fixed on the horizon, searching for a glimpse of the promised land.
“Wei,” Jinhai murmured, resting a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Are you afraid?”
Wei hesitated before shaking his head. “No, Baba. Just wondering what it will be like.” Jinhai nodded, his eyes distant. “It will be different, but we are together. That is what matters.”
“Do you think there will be dragons there?” Jun piped up, his small fingers clutching his mother’s sleeve.
Meilin chuckled, pressing a kiss to her son’s forehead. “Perhaps, little one, but we are strong. We will tame them.”
Daniel leaned back, slowly exhaling as he closed his eyes for a moment. His head ached from deciphering the unfamiliar characters, his vision blurred from the strain. Yet, beyond the ink and paper, he could almost feel their emotions—the uncertainty, the fear of the unknown, the weight of a journey with no clear destination. A deep gratitude settled within him for all they had endured.
With renewed determination, he turned the page. The faded Chinese characters, etched with time, only deepened the authenticity of the story unfolding before him.
When the Liang family finally arrived in Port Phillip, Melbourne, they were overwhelmed by the sights and sounds of a bustling colony. The docks teemed with ships, their sails billowing in the salty breeze as cargo was unloaded by sweating labourers. The streets were alive with a cacophony of sounds—merchants hawking their wares, the clatter of horse-drawn carriages, and the chatter of people in a dozen different languages. European settlers strode past in their stiff coats and bonnets while Chinese traders carefully laid out silks and teas on wooden carts. The scent of fresh bread from a bakery mingled with the pungent aroma of fish from the harbour.
Daniel could almost hear the clamour of the marketplace, the voices blending in a mix of foreign tongues. He imagined his great-great-grandparents stepping into this strange, new world, clutching their few possessions, standing on the threshold of an uncertain future.
Melbourne was a striking mix of grand stone buildings with intricate facades and hastily constructed wooden shanties. The city was expanding rapidly, and its skyline was punctuated by the rising smoke from factories. Wealthy business people strolled through the unpaved avenues in polished boots while ragged gold-seekers trudged past, their eyes weary with the weight of failed dreams. In the distance, the grand silhouette of St. James’ Cathedral loomed over the city, its bells tolling a reminder of the passage of time.
For Jinhai and his family, Melbourne was overwhelming yet full of promise. They saw others like themselves—Chinese men bargaining in tight clusters, their voices thick with dialects from Canton and Fujian. There were tea houses filled with the scent of jasmine and fried dumplings, where weary travellers gathered to exchange news and plans for the goldfields. But there was also hostility—suspicious glances from European settlers, signs posted on shop doors that read “No Chinamen Allowed.” It was clear that survival in this land would require resilience and careful navigation.
They had only a short reprieve. They spent a few nights on the wharves amongst the barrels and bales before being herded onto another boat that would take them to Robe, South Australia. The colonial government had imposed a hefty tax on Chinese arrivals, forcing many to land in South Australia and undertake a gruelling trek to the goldfields on foot.
Daniel set the journal aside, his stomach grumbling in protest. As much as he wanted to keep reading, he needed a break. He headed to the kitchen, quickly assembling a sandwich and downing a glass of water. The simple meal satisfied his hunger, but his mind remained fixated on the journal’s contents. Without wasting another moment, he returned to his seat, picked up the journal, and dove back into its pages.
The march to Victoria was gruelling, stretching over 400 miles. The red dust clung to their skin, their clothes, their very breath. They walked in long lines, carrying whatever meagre possessions they had—bundles of dried fish, sacks of rice, pickaxes, and cooking pots. Jinhai walked beside his sons, his back straight despite the burden on his shoulders. Meilin, though weary, never faltered, knowing that their future depended on her endurance.
Upon reaching the goldfields at Ballarat, they were met with a chaotic sprawl of tents, wooden shanties, and the constant clang of picks against rock. The air reeked of sweat and unwashed bodies, a mingling of languages creating an unceasing hum of desperation and ambition.
They settled in Canton Town, an enclave of Chinese diggers who had carved out a space of their own amidst hostility from European miners. The camp bustled with makeshift shops, communal kitchens, and shrines where incense burned day and night. Here, the Liang family found refuge among familiar customs, even as they were eyed with suspicion by outsiders.
Jinhai and Wei joined the gold-seekers, digging under the hot sun from dawn until dusk. The tunnels below the ground were stifling, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and sweat. Shadows flickered in the glow of oil lamps, casting eerie figures on the rock walls. The walls of the tunnels creaked and groaned, whispering dangers of cave- ins. The deeper they dug, the harder it became to breathe, the weight of the earth above pressing down on their shoulders. Some miners used cradles to sift through dirt and water, rocking them back and forth to separate gold from gravel. Others worked in narrow shafts, hammering at quartz veins, searching for rich deposits. It was painstaking, exhausting labour, but the glint of gold specks in a pan made every aching muscle worth it.
One evening, as they worked, Wei looked up at his father, wiping sweat from his brow. “Baba, do you think we will ever find enough?”
Jinhai smiled faintly, gripping his pickaxe. “Gold is not always about luck, my son. It is about patience. The earth rewards those who endure.”
After a catastrophic cave-in that left many miners entombed beneath the earth, Jinhai and Meilin made a life-altering decision. They could no longer stake their future on the treacherous whims of the mines, where each day was a gamble between fortune and death. With their hard-earned savings—gold painstakingly sifted from riverbeds and pried from stubborn rock—they turned away from the darkness underground and toward the promise of stability.
With their hard-earned savings, scraped together from years of backbreaking labour, they secured a modest storefront in Ararat, a town pulsing with the relentless energy of the gold rush. Their general goods store, though small at first, became a vital lifeline for miners, both Chinese and European, who came seeking supplies to sustain them in the harsh and unforgiving landscape. Shelves were stocked with essentials—sturdy tools, thick canvas, dried meats, sacks of rice, and delicacies imported from China that offered weary diggers a taste of home.
Meilin, with her quiet strength and steady hands, transformed the shop into more than just a place of commerce. She prepared steaming bowls of broth and rice, fragrant dumplings, and hot tea for miners who arrived exhausted and hungry, their bodies aching from hours of toil. The warmth of her kitchen was a welcome refuge, a brief respite from the exhausting work in the goldfields.
Jinhai, meanwhile, built a name for himself as a fair and honest merchant. He never overcharged desperate miners, nor did he take advantage of those who had fallen on hard times. The goldfields became a distant memory, replaced by the steady rhythm of life behind the counter, of friendships forged over trade and conversation. Word of his integrity spread quickly, earning the respect of both the Chinese community and the European settlers. Slowly, their humble store grew, expanding its offerings and deepening its roots in the town.
Over the years, the store became more than just a business—it became a gathering place, a cornerstone of the community where news was exchanged, friendships were forged, and weary souls found a moment of solace. With time, the family flourished, no longer bound to the perilous goldfields but firmly planted in a life of their own making— one built not from luck but from resilience, hard work, and an unyielding belief in a better future.
Daniel paused, rubbing his tired eyes. Hours had slipped by unnoticed, and his throat felt parched. The strain of translating the ancient characters and piecing together their meaning had left his head throbbing. He pushed back his chair, stretching stiff muscles as he made his way to the kitchen. A cool glass of water soothed his dry mouth, refreshing him just enough to continue. With a deep breath, he sat back down, ready to dive back into the past.
Years passed. The gold rush waned, and many miners moved on, seeking fortune elsewhere. The Liang family, however, stayed. Wei married a young woman from the community, while Jun went on to apprentice with a carpenter. Meilin, once a woman of Taishan, now spoke English alongside her mother tongue, her hands as skilled in shaping dumplings as they were in tending the shop.
Wei’s children, growing up between two cultures, attended local schools and worked alongside their parents in the family shop, which had expanded to become one of the most trusted businesses in Ararat.
When Daniel’s parents were growing up, their family had long since transitioned from miners to business owners. They learned to bridge the gap between their Chinese heritage and the Australian way of life, proving their place in a community that once saw them as outsiders. His grandparents had fought hard for acceptance, ensuring their children received proper education and opportunities.
Daniel’s father, Liang Michael, had grown up working in the family store, learning the importance of resilience and respect. His mother, Lin Mei, had come to Australia as a young woman, studying finance and eventually working in banking. The two had met in Melbourne, both aware of the sacrifices their families had made before them. They had instilled in Daniel a deep appreciation for his roots. However, he had never truly understood the depth of his heritage—until now.
Daniel himself had been raised in the comfort of modern Australia, his childhood filled with footy games, weekend markets, and family gatherings where the aroma of his grandmother’s dumplings mingled with the scent of freshly baked lamingtons. He had struggled, at times, to reconcile his Chinese heritage with his Australian upbringing. But as he read further into his ancestor’s words, he began to understand.
Daniel closed the journal, his fingers trembling slightly as he ran them over the worn leather cover. His heart pounded in his chest, heavy with the weight of the past. His family had come to this land with nothing but hope and the will to survive. They had endured backbreaking labour, weathered discrimination, and sacrificed more than he could ever comprehend. Yet, through sheer grit, they had carved out a future, turning struggle into strength, hardship into legacy.
His gaze drifted to the framed photo on the desk. His grandparents stood side by side, their faces lined with the echoes of their journey, their eyes still warm, still kind. How many times had those hands, now forever still, toiled under an unforgiving sun? How many nights had they laid awake, wondering if their sacrifices would ever be worth it?
A lump rose in his throat as he reached out and touched the edge of the frame. His voice came out as barely more than a breath. “Thank you,” he whispered. “For everything.”
The golden journey had never truly been about gold. It had been about survival, about learning to adapt in a world that was not always welcoming, about holding onto family when everything else felt uncertain. They had arrived as strangers, outsiders in a foreign land. But through resilience and love, they had made it their home.
And now, Daniel stood on their shoulders, their sacrifices woven into his very being. He was not just a descendant of their journey—he was its continuation. Clutching the journal to his chest, he closed his eyes and made a silent vow.
He would honour them. He would carry their story forward.
THE END
FROM DESERT SANDS TO CITY STREETS – By Roderic Grigson
The Promise of the Outback
In the 1860s, Australia’s untamed wilderness—its vast, unforgiving desert—was the final frontier. The British had ventured into the heart of the continent, building telegraph lines and searching for gold, but they soon realized that the harsh, sun-baked outback had more to offer than just its mineral wealth. It provided its challenges, a never-ending horizon of sand and scrub, and distances too wide to cross on horseback.
By the time the British settlers had arrived, Australia was already home to a multitude of Indigenous cultures, each of which had adapted to the land’s harsh rhythms for thousands of years. But for the European settlers, it was a different story. Their horses, though strong, struggled under the burning sun. They had no solution to carry goods across the vast distances of the outback. The answer, however, came from across the seas—from the dry plains of Afghanistan.
The Arrival of the Ghans
The British, accustomed to the hot, dry regions of India, had been familiar with camels for centuries. But to navigate the heart of Australia’s deserts, they needed more than just the animals. They required skilled Afghan camel herders—men who had spent their entire lives in the harshest, most remote landscapes in Central Asia, mastering the art of navigating with camels as both transport and companion. These men, known as “Ghans,” had a deep connection to the creatures, understanding every facet of their needs and behaviour. They were the keepers of a tradition, passed down through generations, of survival in the most brutal environments.
The first wave of Ghans arrived in Australia in the 1860s, brought by the British colonial authorities to work as camel drivers for the overland telegraph project. It was a dangerous and arduous task to string wires across the wild, unpredictable terrain of the outback, and the Ghans’ camels—capable of going without water for days—became the perfect solution. They hauled heavy loads of supplies, food, and materials across deserts that had once seemed impenetrable.
Among the first Afghan herders to land in Port Augusta, South Australia, was a man named Mohammad, who had spent his youth trekking across the rugged, mountainous landscape of his homeland. His father had taught him everything there was to know about camels—how to speak to them, how to read their subtle body language, and how to navigate the desert with nothing but the stars as his guide.
Mohammad, like the others, was brought to Australia under the promise of work and adventure. He arrived with little more than a small caravan of camels, a few fellow herders, and a heart full of hope. The sight of their camels—a long line of towering, strong creatures with thick lashes and broad, leathery feet—was as much a statement of endurance as it was a symbol of a long-standing way of life.
Upon their arrival, the Ghans quickly set to work. They became the lifeblood of the outback, creating the famous camel trains that would travel across vast distances, bringing supplies to towns and outposts that were otherwise inaccessible. The work was gruelling and often dangerous. The Ghans had to contend with extreme heat, storms of dust and sand, and treacherous terrain, all while maintaining a deep connection to their camels and navigating their way through uncharted territory.
Life in the Outback
It wasn’t just the work that was tough; it was the isolation. The Afghans were far from home, in a strange land, surrounded by people whose culture and language were completely foreign to them. In Australia, the Ghans were often met with suspicion. Their long robes and turbans marked them as different. They were strangers in a strange land, and at times, even their fellow settlers viewed them with distrust.
Mohammad had experienced this firsthand. The white settlers, having little to no understanding of his background, often called him and his people “Afghans” in a generalised and sometimes derogatory way. The term, though applied broadly to all camel herders from the region, did not reflect the diversity of their origins. They came not just from Afghanistan but from areas that spanned the length of Central Asia—from the mountainous edges of the Hindu Kush to the deserts of Baluchistan.
Despite the harsh treatment, Mohammad and his companions persevered. Over time, they established small communities in outback towns like Alice Springs and Port Augusta, where they settled, their livelihoods forever tied to the land. The camels, too, adapted, finding a new home in Australia. Many of them escaped, eventually forming wild herds that still roam the outback to this day.
In the evenings, after a long day of work, Mohammad would sit by the campfire, gazing at the stars. The vastness of the Australian sky, so similar to the one he had known in Afghanistan, filled him with a quiet sense of peace. Sometimes, when he spoke to his fellow herders, they would reminisce about their homeland. They spoke of their families, of the way the mountains in Afghanistan had once seemed to touch the sky, of the smell of fresh bread baking in the streets of Kabul, and of the bustling bazaars where they had once bought spices and fabrics.
But this new life in Australia had its own rhythm, and Mohammad found solace in its routine. The days were long, and the work was difficult, but there was a sense of purpose. He had become a part of something larger—a network of people who were bound together by a shared task. He and his fellow Afghans were helping to tame the wilderness, building the infrastructure that would allow Australia to grow.
One night, as Mohammad sat with his camel, watching it graze on sparse patches of grass, he heard the distant sound of hooves. Another herder was approaching with a new caravan. The man dismounted, his tired face breaking into a smile as he approached Mohammad.
“Peace be upon you,” the newcomer said in broken English, extending his hand. “And upon you peace,” Mohammad replied, shaking his hand firmly.
“More camels to carry the load. We’ll need them for the new telegraph line.” Mohammad nodded. The job, though exhausting, was essential. With each new mile of telegraph line they built, the vastness of the Australian outback became a little smaller, a little more accessible. But there was still much work to do.
As the years passed, the Afghan herders played an integral role in shaping Australia’s history. They traversed the country, laying the foundations of communication and trade that would help connect the isolated corners of the continent. The work they did was largely unsung, but it was vital to the country’s growth.
The Decline of the Camel Train
As the 20th century dawned, the world changed in ways that the Afghan camel herders could never have anticipated. The rise of motorized transport, particularly trucks and trains, made the camel caravans less necessary. The camel trains, once so essential to the movement of goods across the outback, began to fade into history. The Ghans, too, found their role diminishing.
Some returned to their homelands, while others settled in Australian towns, where they began new lives. But the legacy of the Afghan herders remained. Their camels, still roaming wild in the deserts, are a living testament to the contributions they made to Australia’s development.
Though the Afghan herders had once been strangers in a foreign land, they had left an indelible mark on the Australian outback. Their camels helped tame the wilderness, their hardiness helped connect distant communities, and their presence—though often overlooked in the larger narrative of Australian history—became a symbol of endurance, survival, and adaptation.
Even now, the descendants of those Afghan camel herders remain a part of Australia’s multicultural fabric. Their contribution to the story of this land is still felt in the camels that roam the outback and in the quiet spirit of the people who once walked alongside them, leading their camels across the vast, sun-baked expanse of the Australian desert. The Refugee
Crisis: A New Journey Begins
As the centuries passed and the waves of migration shifted, the story of the Afghan people in Australia didn’t end with the camels. In recent decades, another chapter in their migration journey has unfolded—a chapter that has seen a resurgence of Afghan communities moving to Australia, with many settling in urban centres like Melbourne. This migration is distinct from that of the Afghan camel herders of the 19th century, but it carries with it echoes of the past, as it too involves the pursuit of a new life in a foreign land, the quest for safety, and the hope of a better future.
The story of the Afridi family spans continents, cultures, and decades, a tale of migration, struggle, and eventual settlement. From the dusty streets of Kabul to the vibrant, multicultural city of Melbourne, their journey is a testament to resilience and hope, the legacy of generations striving to find peace and opportunity in a world that often seems unforgiving.
It was in the late 1980s when the Afridi family—comprising father Ahmad, mother Amina, and their two young children, Tariq and Laila—first faced the dire conditions in their homeland. Kabul, once a city of beauty and history, was rapidly transforming under the pressures of conflict. The Soviet invasion of Afghanistan had left the country in ruins.
By the time the Afridi family realized that their safety was no longer guaranteed, the city had become a battleground.
Ahmad, a respected schoolteacher, and Amina, an aspiring doctor, had always dreamed of offering their children a future where education and opportunity were within reach. But with the Taliban’s growing influence and the constant threat of violence, their dream seemed increasingly out of grasp. Every day in Kabul was a risk—whether from the shifting frontlines or the growing desperation among civilians. They knew they had to leave, but the path out was uncertain, treacherous, and filled with danger.
As the war raged on, Ahmad and Amina began making secretive plans, whispering about the possibility of emigrating to a country where their children could be free from the daily threats of war. They had heard stories of people finding safety and a new life in distant lands, but which land could they turn to? It wasn’t until the UNHCR (United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees) offered asylum programs to those fleeing Afghanistan that their hope finally turned into action.
The evening was calm in Kabul, the kind of peaceful dusk that painted the sky in soft purples and golds. Ahmad sat with his son Tariq on the roof, their feet dangling over the edge, looking out across the city where the minarets of mosques towered above the old buildings. The distant rumble of conflict was becoming a constant presence, but for a moment, they could pretend that life was as it had always been.
Tariq had grown accustomed to hearing gunshots echoing in the distance, but tonight, he was silent, staring at the fading light.
“Dad,” Tariq asked, his voice barely a whisper, “Do you think things will get better?”
Ahmad’s hand rested on his son’s shoulder, a sad smile on his face. He had always been the strong one, the protector, but now his resolve was waning.
“I don’t know, son,” Ahmad replied softly. “I wish I could promise you it would get better. But sometimes, in life, we must make the hardest choices.”
Tariq turned to his father, his brow furrowing. “Are we leaving?”
Ahmad looked down at his son, the weight of the decision pressing heavily on him. “Yes,” he said, his voice steady. “We’re going to find a place where you and Laila can be safe. A place where you can grow up without fear.”
Amina, his wife, joined them on the roof, her eyes red from the tears she’d hidden earlier. She had been packing. The family had made their decision—it was time to leave, to flee the city before it became completely unsafe. The Taliban’s presence was growing stronger by the day, and the future of Afghanistan was uncertain.
“Ahmad, is this really the right choice?” Amina asked, her voice trembling. “What will happen to our home? Our family?”
Ahmad pulled her close, his face tight with the weight of the decision. “It’s the only choice we have. For them.” He looked at Tariq and Laila, who had come to join them on the roof, her small hand holding onto her brother. “For all of us.”
The Long Road to Refuge
The Afridi family’s journey out of Afghanistan was not a simple one. In the mid-1990s, they fled Kabul, joining the thousands of other displaced families heading toward the Pakistani border. The trip was perilous—fraught with the fear of being caught by the Taliban or soldiers from warring factions. They crossed treacherous mountain passes, their bodies and minds exhausted by the ordeal. Along the way, Ahmad kept up a brave front for his children, telling them stories of a better life they would one day live.
Arriving in Pakistan, they found themselves in a refugee camp in Peshawar. In this sprawling settlement, thousands of Afghans lived under the constant strain of uncertainty. The camp was overcrowded and unsanitary, but it offered a modicum of safety. Here, in the midst of the thousands of tents, the Afridi family lived for several years. Their lives became a routine of survival—tending to daily needs, seeking food and clean water, and doing their best to adapt to the new environment.
In their small tent, Amina prepared a meal of rice and lentils, her hands moving with the practised ease of someone who had done this countless times before. Tariq, now a teenager, sat by the edge of the camp, staring into the distance. His mind wandered back to Kabul, to the life they had left behind. He could still remember the cool breeze on his face as he ran through the streets with his friends before the world changed.
“Are you okay, Tariq?” Amina asked, noticing her son’s faraway gaze.
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “I miss Kabul. I miss everything. I don’t even know how to talk to these kids here.”
Amina set the bowl of food down beside him. “You will learn, son. And remember, this is just a chapter. We have survived the hardest part already. We will keep moving forward.”
“I know,” Tariq muttered. “But… it’s hard.”
Meanwhile, Laila, always the optimist, had made a few friends in the camp. She ran over to her mother, excitedly waving a small picture she had drawn on a scrap of paper. “Look, Mama! I drew a house like the one in Kabul. But with flowers. And birds. And…”
Amina smiled softly, stroking her daughter’s hair. “It’s beautiful, Laila. You always know how to find the beauty, don’t you?”
Laila nodded, her eyes bright with hope. “Yes, Mama. Even when the world is sad, I can still see the flowers.”
In the camp, Ahmad and Amina were determined to keep their children’s education alive. Ahmad would often gather groups of children, teaching them basic reading and writing. Amina, with her medical training, volunteered at a makeshift clinic, helping with the basic healthcare needs of the refugees. These small acts of resilience kept the family going. But the dreams of a brighter future were never far from their minds.
One evening, after years of waiting, the family received a message that would change everything. They had been accepted for resettlement in Australia, a country that had long welcomed refugees and offered the possibility of a new life.
In 2001, the Afridi family was granted UNHCR refugee status and relocated to Australia, where they were assigned to Melbourne. This city was known in the camp for its cultural diversity and vibrant immigrant communities. The Afridi family arrived full of hope yet also full of uncertainty. They had heard stories of the opportunities Australia offered. Still, the reality of settling in a new country—especially one so far from home— was daunting.
Arriving in Melbourne: The New World
The journey from Peshawar to Melbourne was a strange and unfamiliar one. The Afridi family had heard of Australia—of its beauty, its opportunities, and the promise of safety—but the reality of arriving in a land so far removed from Afghanistan was overwhelming. The moment they stepped off the plane at Melbourne’s Tullamarine Airport, the air felt crisp and unfamiliar. The hustle and bustle of the airport—people moving quickly, the language so different—left them feeling out of place.
They were greeted by a government official who spoke to them in broken Dari, a language they knew. Still, the reality of starting over in a strange place quickly became evident.
“Hello, my name is John. I’ll help you get settled here,” said the man, smiling warmly but speaking in a way that felt so alien to them.
Ahmad nodded, though he felt a twinge of fear. “Thank you,” he said, though his accent made the words sound unfamiliar to his own ears.
Amina looked around nervously. “Is this… is this where we will live?”
John pointed toward the exit. “Yes, we’ll take you to a place in Dandenong. It’s a neighbourhood with lots of families like yours. You’ll feel more at home there.”
As the family drove through the streets, Tariq sat by the window, watching the unfamiliar cityscape unfold. The houses were neat, the streets lined with trees, and everything seemed too perfect, too far removed from the dusty, war-torn streets of Kabul and the crowded refugee camp in Peshawar.
“I don’t think I’ll ever fit in here,” Tariq muttered under his breath, feeling a wave of homesickness wash over him.
“You will,” said Ahmad, his voice calm yet firm. “It will take time. But we are here now.
This is our new beginning.”
Everything was new: the language, the customs, the food, the way of life. Yet, unlike the refugee camps, this was a place of promise. The wide, tree-lined streets, the fresh air, and the organized chaos of a modern city—everything felt like a new beginning.
Their first few years in Australia were challenging. Ahmad struggled to find work in his field. Though he had a university degree in education from Kabul, his qualifications weren’t recognized in Australia, and he had to start over. He took on a variety of low- paying jobs, from working in warehouses to driving a delivery van, all while continuing to study and improve his English. Amina faced similar struggles in her medical career, as her qualifications were not easily transferable. But she, too, took on whatever jobs she could find, eventually working as a caregiver in an aged care facility, a role she could perform with her experience and compassion.
Tariq, now a teenager, was enrolled in a local high school where he found the transition particularly difficult. He had been separated from his friends in Kabul and had lost so much in the journey—his home, his community, and his country. Yet, the school provided an environment where he could slowly rebuild his confidence. Tariq’s first few months in Melbourne were filled with confusion, isolation, and uncertainty. He would come home from school, his face a mixture of exhaustion and frustration. English was still a hurdle; the culture felt alien, and the kids in his class spoke too quickly, laughed too loudly, and often seemed to forget he was even there.
Cricket: The Bridge
One warm Saturday afternoon, as he walked through the park near their new home in Dandenong, he noticed something that stopped him in his tracks. A group of boys were gathered around a large tree, playing cricket.
Tariq had watched cricket on TV back in Kabul with his father—his family would gather to cheer for their national team, but he’d never played it himself. However, there was something familiar about the game, something that made him feel like he could belong. The ball flew through the air, and the kids shouted, laughing and calling out to one another in thick Australian accents. It was the kind of scene he hadn’t experienced since his childhood in Kabul.
Curiosity tugged at him, and before he realized it, he was standing on the edge of the field. One of the boys, a tall teenager with a wide smile, waved at him.
“Oi, mate! You want to join us?” he called out, holding a bat in one hand.
Tariq hesitated. He wasn’t sure if he could join in if he even knew how to play properly. “I, uh… I’ve never really played before,” Tariq replied shyly.
The boy grinned. “No worries! We’ll teach you. It’s just like hitting a ball. You can’t mess it up.”
Tariq’s heart raced. This was his chance to break through the wall that had kept him feeling like an outsider. He nodded, stepping forward tentatively.
“Name’s Ben,” the boy said, tossing him a worn bat. “And you are?” “Tariq,” he replied quietly, feeling the weight of the bat in his hands. “Alright, Tariq. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Ben bowled the first ball, and Tariq stood there, staring at it as it came toward him. It wasn’t as fast as he expected. The ball was smaller than a soccer ball, but the motion of the game, the fluidity of it, felt oddly comforting. The moment the ball approached, he swung the bat instinctively.
“CRACK!”
The ball flew off the bat, soaring through the air, high and long. Tariq stood there, stunned for a split second. His eyes followed the ball, and then, in a blur of movement, one of the other boys dashed and caught it mid-air.
“Nice shot!” they all cheered. “First try! You’ve got some skills, mate.”
Tariq grinned, his face flushed with excitement. For the first time since they had arrived in Australia, he felt like he belonged, like something in this new life made sense. His heart still raced, but now it wasn’t from the uncertainty of being in a foreign land; it was from the adrenaline of the game, the rush of playing, and the camaraderie of the kids around him.
“You’re up to bowl next,” Ben said, tossing him the ball. “We’ll show you the ropes.
Don’t worry about messing up.”
Tariq stood, his feet planted firmly in the grass. He had always been a soccer player back in Kabul, but this felt different. There was an energy in the air, a spirit of shared purpose. He gripped the ball and tried to focus, remembering the matches he’d watched with his father. He bowled the ball to Ben, who expertly struck it, sending it flying once more across the field.
Over the next few weeks, Tariq found himself meeting up with Ben and the other boys nearly every weekend. The game of cricket had become his bridge into this strange new world. He learned the rules, figured out the best way to bowl, and even started developing a competitive streak. But more than that, he made friends.
One afternoon, after a particularly exciting match where Tariq had scored his first fifty, helping his team win the game, Ben slapped him on the back with a grin.
“Mate, you’ve got a real talent for this. How long have you been playing?” Tariq laughed, his smile wide. “This is my first time. Ever.”
“First time?!” Ben looked at him in disbelief. “You’ve got the natural instincts. You should play for the school team!”
Tariq paused; the idea of actually playing cricket in school was both thrilling and terrifying. He wasn’t sure he was ready for it, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized he wanted to try.
“Maybe I will,” Tariq said, looking around at his new friends. He wasn’t sure what his future in cricket would hold, but for the first time, he felt a glimmer of belonging in this new land.
That evening, Tariq came home to find his parents sitting at the dinner table. Amina had cooked a hearty Afghan meal—rice, lamb, and a salad of cucumber and tomatoes— and the scent filled the house, grounding him in the familiarity of home. His younger sister, Laila, was already talking about her new friends from school. As always, Ahmad was reading the newspaper, his face a mix of concentration and quiet joy.
Tariq set his schoolbag down and sat at the table, still grinning from the game.
“How was school today?” Ahmad asked, his eyes soft with the ever-present concern of a father who had seen his children grow up too quickly in the midst of upheaval.
Tariq paused before answering. “It was good. Actually, better than good. I played a cricket game today—some of the boys from school. We won. I think I’m getting better at it.”
Amina raised an eyebrow, her smile both proud and curious. “Cricket, huh? You know, your father used to love watching cricket back in Kabul. You’ll have to show us some time.”
Tariq’s heart lifted at his mother’s words. For a moment, it felt like Kabul wasn’t so far away. He could still share his world with his family, even in this unfamiliar place.
“You should try out for the school team,” his father suggested, his voice filled with quiet encouragement. “It might be a good way to make more friends here.”
Tariq looked down at his plate, his mind racing. The thought of being on a school team, of playing for something bigger than just a weekend game, made his stomach flutter. He hadn’t imagined it would be possible, but now, it seemed like a real possibility.
“I think I will,” he said, smiling to himself.
As he helped clear the table that evening, Tariq’s thoughts swirled with excitement. Cricket had given him something new—a language, a game, a group of friends—and, most importantly, it had given him a sense of belonging that he hadn’t felt since arriving in Melbourne.
At home, Amina and Ahmad noticed the change in him. He was more confident now, more open. He shared stories of his new friends, of cricket matches, and how he was slowly learning the language. Tariq had never imagined that the key to his new life in Australia would be something so simple—so Australian—as a game of cricket.
“You’re not the same boy who came here with us,” Ahmad said one evening, his eyes filled with quiet pride. “You are becoming Australian, Tariq. But you will always carry our heritage with you.”
Tariq smiled. “I am both,” he said, looking at the cricket bat leaning against the wall. “And maybe I can teach my friends how to play soccer.”
A few months later, Tariq stood at the edge of the cricket field at school, dressed in the school’s cricket whites, his bat in hand. It was the first match of the season, and the butterflies in his stomach were almost unbearable. The students from his class, now his friends, clapped and cheered as he walked to the pitch.
Ben waved from the sidelines. “You got this, mate!”
Tariq nodded, his grip on the bat tightening. This was more than just a game—it was proof of how far he had come. From the refugee camp in Peshawar to the cricket field in Melbourne, he had found his place. The game wasn’t just cricket; it was a part of his journey, a symbol of his strength, and an affirmation of his new life.
As the bowler came charging toward him, Tariq smiled, his heart pounding. The ball came at him, fast and sharp, and instinctively, he swung the bat.
The sharp sound of the ball hitting the bat was sweet—a perfect shot. The crowd erupted into cheers, and for the first time in a long while, Tariq felt truly at home.
At that moment, he wasn’t the shy Afghan refugee anymore. He was Tariq—the boy who had found his place in the game, on the field, and in the world.
The Integration
Laila, still a child, adapted more quickly. She excelled in her studies, picking up English at a rapid pace, and promptly became the bridge between her parents and the Australian community. She translated for them, helping them navigate the complexities of the healthcare system, the education system, and the labyrinthine paperwork that came with being a new migrant family.
As the years passed, the Afridi family began to build a life in Melbourne. They settled in Cranbourne, a suburb known for its cultural diversity, where many other Afghan families lived. The area offered a sense of connection to their homeland and provided a network of support. The Afridi family participated in Afghan cultural events, shared meals with other refugees, and celebrated holidays like Eid and Nowruz in the same way they had in Kabul—except now, it was in the comfort of their new home, surrounded by new friends.
Ahmad, now more fluent in English, was able to secure a teaching position at a local school that specialized in providing education to migrant students. His students were often children of refugees, just like Tariq and Laila, and he brought a deep sense of empathy to his work. Amina, after many years of studying and completing additional certifications, became a nurse in a local hospital, where she was able to care for others and give back to the community that had embraced them.
Tariq, now an adult, had overcome the challenges of adolescence in a new country. He graduated from university, earning a degree in engineering and played cricket every weekend at the local club level. He was no longer the scared teenager who had fled Kabul; he was a confident young man with a future in front of him. Laila, too, had found her calling, studying law at university with the hope of becoming a human rights advocate. She often spoke at community events, sharing the stories of refugees and the importance of multiculturalism in Australia.
The Afridi family’s journey from Kabul to Melbourne is a story of transformation. They arrived in Australia as refugees, scarred by the violence of their homeland. Still, they rebuilt their lives with the help of their community, their resilience, and their deep connection to their Afghan roots. Though they would never forget the hardships they had endured, they found strength in their new identity as Australian citizens—blending their Afghan heritage with the opportunities offered by their new home.
The Afridi family is just one of countless stories that shape the multicultural mosaic of modern Australia. Their journey is a testament to the power of migration—how people, displaced by war and hardship, can find new beginnings in places far from home. As the Afridi family moves forward, their children, now fully integrated into Australian society, carry with them the rich traditions and stories of Afghanistan, ensuring that the sacrifices of their parents are never forgotten.
THE END
HERITAGE AND HEARTACHE
The ceiling fan whirred lazily in the sitting room of the Greig household in Colombo, its rhythmic hum punctuated by the occasional clink of teacups. Life in post-colonial Ceylon was an intricate dance for the Burgher community, navigating the shifting tides of a nation striving to define itself after independence in 1948.
For Helena, the matriarch of the family, this dance required poise, strength, and a deep love for her family and their way of life. Helena, whose Scottish father worked in an important position for the British Colonial Administration on the island, had married an English Tea Planters daughter. Helena had a privileged life, given her father’s ancestral roots and standing on the island. Born on the island, she was one of the first women of her background and generation to go to secretarial school, passing out with flying colours. She had worked most of her adult life in senior office administrative positions at British companies based in Ceylon.
Helena’s husband, Edward, had a fascinating history that shaped his outlook on life. Edward, the son of a British Tea Planter from Lancashire who married a local Sinhalese woman when Ceylon was a Crown colony of Britain, served in the Royal Ceylon Navy during World War II, an experience that exposed him to the complexities of global conflict and the value of camaraderie across cultural lines. Stationed at the port of Trincomalee on the east coast, he witnessed the naval base’s strategic importance. Edward worked alongside British and Allied officers, controlling the movement of maritime traffic in the southeastern theatre of operations. The discipline and structure of military life left a lasting impression on Edward, instilling in him a deep sense of duty.
After the war ended, Edward transitioned to civilian life, finding work with a British- owned shipping company in Colombo. His time in the Navy made him an asset in the maritime industry, where his knowledge of logistics and his ability to navigate the intricacies of international trade proved invaluable.
Edward’s tales of his naval days—from watching grand warships dock at Trincomalee to the long nights spent working underground in the freezing cold of air-conditioned operations rooms, communicating in secret cyphers with warships and troop transports at sea—fascinated his children Christopher and Elizabeth.
“You know,” Edward would say with a wry smile, “the sea teaches you patience. It’s vast and unpredictable, but if you learn to respect it, it’ll guide you safely home.”
Helena often listened with a mix of pride and affection, appreciating the strength and wisdom her husband brought to their family.
“You know, Helena,” Edward said one evening over a cup of tea, “there was a time when being a Eurasian meant something special. We weren’t just clerks or railway engineers; we were the bridge between worlds.”
Helena smiled, stirring sugar into her own tea. “And we still are, Edward. But the world is changing, and we have to find our place in it. And remember, we are no longer classed as Eurasians! We are now considered Burghers.”
Edward sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Yes, I know. I just hope Christopher and Elizabeth will have the opportunities we had. This Sinhala Only Act the opposition party is talking about … it’s going to make everything so much harder.”
“They’re resilient,” Helena replied firmly. “And so are we.”
The Burghers, descendants of Dutch, Portuguese, and other European settlers who had intermarried with locals, had once enjoyed a privileged position in Ceylonese society. But independence brought uncertainty, as the new government prioritized Sinhala and Tamil identities in its quest for national unity.
In 1956, when Christopher was six, the political landscape shifted dramatically with the election of S.W.R.D. Bandaranaike and the introduction of the Sinhala Only Act. The Parliamentary Act replaced English with Sinhala as the sole official language of Ceylon, with Tamil excluded from the act.
The Greig household buzzed with concern. Edward and Helena discussed the implications over dinner, their voices hushed so as not to alarm the children.
“This is going to be a big problem,’ Edward said, shaking his head. “Not just for us Burghers, but also for the Tamils.”
Helena nodded. “It seems a very short-sighted policy. I think the future looks very uncertain, but we must learn to adapt.”
Peaceful protests against the Act by the Tamil community, who constituted 25% of the population and faced disadvantages in government jobs, education, and public services, were met with police and mob violence, further alienating them.
For Christopher, the changes were first felt at school. The Burgher boys, once fluent in English and confident in their European heritage, now found themselves caught between worlds. Christopher began learning Sinhala, but his accent and unfamiliarity with the language marked him as different. To improve his diction, Helena sent him to the Buddhist temple down the road, where a Buddhist priest schooled him in the language.
Despite these challenges, Helena was determined to preserve their family’s unique identity. She taught her children to bake festive breudhers and Christmas cakes, cook lamprais and love baila music while ensuring they respected the Sinhala and Tamil cultures around them.
“We are part of this country,” she often told them. “Our roots run deep here, just as theirs do.”
Christopher, who was born in 1950, grew up in this period of transition. He attended the esteemed St. Thomas’s College in Mount Lavinia, where his father and uncles had also schooled. The sprawling grounds, colonial architecture, and towering banyan trees evoked a sense of tradition and discipline. The prestigious college was a melting pot of Burgher, Sinhala, Tamil and Muslim students from wealthy families, and it instilled in Christopher a strong foundation in Western education and Christian values.
Mornings at the college began with chapel services, where hymns filled the air, and students recited prayers that echoed through the halls. Christopher excelled in literature and history, developing a love for Shakespeare and a fascination with the stories of the British Empire. His afternoons were spent on the cricket field, where he honed his skills as an all-rounder, earning the admiration of his peers and coaches alike.
“You’ve got quite the arm, Greig,” his cricket coach said after Christopher bowled out the captain of a rival team. “Keep at it, and you’ll lead this team one day.”
The college also encouraged debates and discussions, where Christopher often found himself defending the legacy and identity of the Burgher community in a changing Ceylon.
“We’re not just relics of colonial rule,” Christopher argued during a student debate. “We’ve contributed to this country in countless ways, from the railways to law and education. Our place here is as valid as anyone else’s.”
Sunday mornings were spent at the Anglican church, followed by cricket matches on the sandy grounds near the beach. His evenings, however, were steeped in the sounds and smells of Ceylon: the rhythmic drumming of temple ceremonies, the aroma of curries wafting through the streets, and the chatter of Tamil vendors at the market.
By the 1960s, Christopher had grown into a curious and sensitive teenager. He often confided in his mother, sharing his thoughts about their family’s place in a rapidly changing Ceylon.
“Do you think we’ll always belong here?” Christopher asked one evening as they sat on the verandah, watching the sunset paint the sky in shades of orange and purple.
Helena tilted her head thoughtfully. “Of course, we belong here. This is our home.” “But so many are leaving,” Christopher said, his voice tinged with worry. “Uncle
Ashton wrote from Australia last week. He says there’s more opportunity there, less… less judgment.”
His mother reached for his hand. “Maybe. But leaving isn’t easy either. Think about all we’d leave behind—the people, the culture, everything that makes us who we are.”
“I guess you’re right,” Christopher said with a small smile. “But sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to start afresh.”
“You can start by not forgetting where you come from,” Helena replied softly.
While some spoke of leaving, Christopher’s heart clung to the island—its turquoise seas, swaying coconut palms, and the mosaic of cultures that had shaped his life.
A few of his friends decided to go upcountry during the Esala Perahera in Kandy. This grand procession, dedicated to the Sacred Tooth Relic of the Buddha, was a spectacle unlike any other. Elephants adorned with lavish gold and silver caparisons paraded majestically through the streets, their rhythmic steps keeping time with the beating of geta bera drums. Dancers in vibrant costumes spun and leapt with unmatched grace, their anklets jingling in harmony with the music. Fire dancers twirled flaming torches, creating patterns of light against the dark sky, while whip-crackers announced the procession’s arrival with sharp, resonant cracks that sent shivers of awe through the crowd. The Perahera was not just a religious event but a celebration of heritage that united people from across the country, showcasing the island’s diversity and shared reverence for its history and traditions.
Christopher stood amidst the throng of spectators, his senses overwhelmed by the grandeur unfolding before him. The air was thick with the mingling scents of burning oil lamps and fresh jasmine garlands. The pulsating rhythms of the drums resonated deep within him, stirring something primal and ancient. As the massive tusker carrying the golden casket of the Sacred Tooth Relic passed by, he felt an inexplicable reverence wash over him. There was something mesmerizing about the unbroken continuity of tradition, a bridge between the past and the present that made him feel deeply connected to his homeland.
It was during this time that Christopher met Juliana, a colleague at the engineering firm where he worked. Juliana came from a prominent Dutch Burgher family in Colombo, whose roots traced back to the Dutch colonial period of Ceylon. Her family had built a reputation for excellence in architecture, with her grandfather designing several well- known colonial-era buildings in Colombo. Their paths crossed in the bustling streets of Kandy, the echoes of the Perahera still lingering in the air. Amid the flickering torchlight and the hypnotic sounds of the procession, Christopher found himself drawn to Juliana’s quiet yet perceptive presence. It was as if the magic of the Perahera had woven its spell beyond the spectacle itself, forging new connections in its wake.
Their first real conversation took place during a meeting about a joint project.
“I’ve seen your designs,” Juliana said, pointing to Christopher’s blueprints. “You have a talent for blending practicality with elegance.”
Christopher smiled, a little surprised by the compliment. “Coming from you, that means a lot. Your work on the new courthouse was brilliant.”
Over time, their professional relationship blossomed into friendship and, eventually, love. They often stayed late at the office, discussing not just engineering but also their shared experiences growing up as Burghers in a changing Ceylon. Juliana’s upbringing, steeped in traditions like Dutch-inspired baking and celebrating St. Nicholas Day, complemented Christopher’s more hybrid blend of Sri Lankan and Western customs.
“Do you ever think about leaving?” Juliana asked one evening, her voice contemplative. “With so many of our friends moving to Australia or Canada, it feels like we’re holding on to something that’s slipping away.”
Christopher nodded. “I think about it all the time. But leaving isn’t just about moving; it’s about letting go of a part of yourself. I’m not sure I’m ready for that.”
Juliana often spoke of her family’s history, recounting tales of her ancestors who had sailed from the Netherlands to Ceylon in the 17th century.
“My great-grandfather used to say,” she once told Christopher. “We brought tulips and windmills in our hearts, but Ceylon gave us cinnamon and warmth.’” Her pride in her heritage was evident, but so was her adaptability to the changing world around her.
Their shared heritage and values deepened their bond, but their relationship wasn’t without challenges. Juliana’s family, while supportive, worried about the uncertainty of life in Ceylon and encouraged the couple to consider migration. Christopher’s parents, Edward and Helena, welcomed Juliana warmly, seeing her as a reflection of the Burgher traditions they cherished.
In 1975, Christopher and Juliana married in a grand Anglican ceremony at St. Paul’s Church in Colombo. The wedding brought together Colombo’s Burgher community, with guests celebrating the union with Portuguese-inspired baila music, traditional dishes, and heartfelt toasts. Their marriage symbolised hope for a community striving to preserve its identity amidst the tides of change.
Tensions simmered outside their home. Ethnic violence was becoming more frequent, and whispers of division filled the air. They welcomed their first child, Maya, during this time; however, the escalating ethnic violence and economic hardships pushed the Greig family to make the difficult decision to migrate. Christopher, Juliana, and the rest of the family packed their lives into a few suitcases and boarded a flight to Melbourne, Australia. The departure was bittersweet. As the plane took off, Helena clutched Edward’s hand, tears streaming down her face as she whispered a quiet goodbye to the land they had called home.
Life in Melbourne was a fresh start. The family settled in the modest suburb of Noble Park, surrounded by other migrants from Ceylon and beyond. Edward found work as a bookkeeper while Christopher joined an engineering firm. Juliana, ever resilient, worked for a construction company and became involved in community work, helping newly arrived migrants navigate their new lives. Helena, with her warmth and culinary skills, turned their house into a home where the smell of rice and curry mingled with the crisp Australian air.
For Christopher and Juliana, life in Melbourne was a blend of challenges and opportunities. Ralph and Lilani were born at this time, and they raised their children with stories of Ceylon—of the vibrant streets of Colombo, the golden beaches, and the cultural mosaic that had shaped them. Yet, they also embraced their new identity as Australians, building a life that honoured both their past and their present.
As the years went by, the Sri Lankan Civil War erupted in 1983, and its impact reverberated through the diaspora. The conflict weighed heavily on Christopher and Juliana as they watched their homeland descend into chaos. Letters and phone calls from relatives described harrowing tales of displacement and violence, making them feel both connected to and distant from the struggles back home. Juliana, deeply affected by the suffering of her friends in the Tamil community, organized fundraisers within the Sri Lankan diaspora in Melbourne, advocating for peace and aid for those caught in the conflict.
Life in Melbourne continued to evolve for the Greig family, and with time, they began to distance themselves from their Sri Lankan roots, embracing Australian culture with enthusiasm. Yet, Christopher maintained a connection to his past through the Old Boys’ Association of St Thomas’s College in Mount Lavinia.
Through letters, annual newsletters, and occasional reunions, Christopher stayed in touch with his former classmates. The association, consisting of alums scattered across the globe, was a lifeline to the memories of their youth in Ceylon.
“Did you hear from Richard?” Juliana asked one evening as Christopher scanned a freshly delivered newsletter.
“Yes,” Christopher replied, smiling. “He’s organizing a gathering in Sydney next year.
It’ll be good to catch up with everyone and share how far we’ve come.”
The Old Boys’ Association was more than just a social network; it was a way to give back. Christopher often contributed to the association’s efforts to fund scholarships for students still studying at the college in Sri Lanka. “It’s our way of ensuring that the traditions and values we cherished continue,” he told Maya, his eldest daughter, one evening. “Even if we’re far away, we can still make a difference.”
These connections allowed Christopher to balance his Australian identity with his enduring love for the place he once called home, ensuring that the spirit of his alma mater and the community it fostered lived on in his heart.
Maya excelled in academics and became deeply involved in local Australian activities. She joined school sports teams, participated in cultural festivals, and spoke with a broad Australian accent that blended seamlessly with her peers.
“Dad, can we have a barbecue this weekend? Everyone at school loves it,” Maya suggested one afternoon. Christopher chuckled but obliged, realizing that their family’s future lay in creating new traditions.
Ralph, their middle child, quickly embraced Australian life as well, developing a passion for Australian Rules Football and taking pride in his local team’s victories.
“One day, I’ll play for the AFL,” he declared, his excitement infectious as he practised kicking the ball in their backyard.
Even Lilani, the youngest, adopted a distinctly Australian perspective in her art, painting kangaroos and eucalyptus trees alongside the peacocks and coconut palms inspired by her parents’ stories of Sri Lanka. Their home began to reflect this shift; the walls that once displayed traditional Sri Lankan tapestries now featured framed landscapes of the Australian Outback.
Christopher and Juliana adapted as well, finding joy in Australian traditions like outdoor barbecues, ANZAC Day parades, and even learning to enjoy Vegemite. Juliana started incorporating Australian flavours into their meals, blending her signature curries with locally sourced ingredients.
“You know,” she joked one evening, “if Ceylon had this much lamb, I might have never left!” Christopher laughed, toasting her creativity with a glass of Australian Shiraz.
Over time, the Greigs’ connection to Sri Lanka became more symbolic than practical. Their conversations about the island shifted from daily struggles and memories to broader reflections on heritage. The children’s occasional questions about their roots were met with stories of cultural pride but without the urgency of reclaiming their Sri Lankan identity.
By the late 1990s, the Greigs were firmly rooted in Australian society. They celebrated Australia Day with as much vigour as they once did the many festivals in Ceylon, and their children identified more strongly as Australians of Sri Lankan descent than as Sri Lankans living abroad. Christopher and Juliana took pride in the life they had built, knowing they had successfully blended their past with their present, ensuring a future where their family thrived as Australians. The Greigs remained steadfast in their efforts to bridge cultural divides, hosting gatherings that brought together Sinhala, Tamil, and Burgher families in Melbourne.
Though the Civil War raged on for decades, the Greig family’s commitment to their roots and their new life in Australia became a beacon of hope. They continued to honour Sri Lanka’s rich heritage while advocating for reconciliation and unity. For Christopher, the war underscored the fragility of the island he loved, but it also deepened his resolve to instil in his children a sense of compassion, strength, and the enduring belief in the power of diversity to overcome division.
As the years went by, the Greig family flourished. They remained connected to other families from Ceylon who had made Australia their home, keeping some of the old traditions of food and celebration. Christopher often reflected on their journey—from the bustling streets of Colombo to the wide avenues of Melbourne. While they had left Ceylon behind, the island remained alive in their hearts, a testament to the strength of their roots and the enduring hope for a brighter future.
Years after their life in Australia had blossomed, Christopher, Helena, and their family embarked on a memorable two-week journey to explore Sri Lanka, eager to immerse themselves in the vibrant culture and heritage of the island that had deeply touched their hearts. Upon arriving, the warm, humid air, scented with jasmine and sea salt, welcomed them to an exotic and inviting land.
Their days were filled with adventures through bustling markets that dazzled with vibrant colours, enticing textures, and captivating sounds. Bright stalls overflowed with aromatic spices artfully arranged, baskets brimming with fresh mangoes, papayas, and bananas, and street vendors enthusiastically promoting fragrant local delicacies. The children tasted sweet coconut cakes and crispy, savoury snacks with delight, their excitement mixing harmoniously with the lively chatter of local merchants and shoppers. Exploring further, they visited ancient temples adorned with exquisite carvings, serene Buddha statues, and gardens lush with tropical flowers. At historical sites, they wandered among ruins steeped in history, marvelling at stories of ancient kings and legends. The children’s curiosity led to endless questions as they connected deeply with
their family’s heritage.
One afternoon, as they strolled through lush tea plantations in the hill country, their son Ralph asked, “Dad, did you ever see places like this when you lived here?”
Christopher smiled thoughtfully. “Yes, we visited these tea plantations often. This beautiful land was a big part of our childhood memories. We loved the peacefulness and the fresh air.”
Their daughter, Lilani, hugged Helena’s arm. “And what about you, Mum? What’s your best memory of Sri Lanka?”
Helena smiled gently. “The warmth of the people, sweetheart. No matter where we went, everyone treated us like family. It’s something I’ll always carry with me.”
Their evenings were spent by the sea, dining under breathtaking sunsets painted with fiery oranges, pinks, and purples. They savoured dishes of coconut milk curries, freshly grilled seafood, zesty chutneys, and spicy sambols, each meal a sensory celebration of their heritage.
After two weeks of exploring the beauty and cultural richness of Sri Lanka, Christopher and Helena felt profoundly connected to their roots. The trip not only rekindled cherished memories but also created vibrant new experiences, deepening their love for a country whose warmth and spirit had become an essential part of their family’s story.
For the Greig family, however, Sri Lanka was not the name they used in their reflections. Even decades after the country’s official renaming in 1972, the Greigs and many other migrant Burghers continued to refer to their homeland as Ceylon.
“The name Sri Lanka feels foreign to me,” Edward said one evening after they arrived back in Melbourne. “It’s not just about the name; it’s about what it stood for. Ceylon was where we grew up and built memories. Sri Lanka feels like someone else’s story.”
Helena, now in her 80s, nodded in agreement. “Ceylon is the land of the tea plantations, the cinnamon fields, the churches and the baila music. That’s what we carry in our hearts. Ceylon… it’s distant now.”
Their children occasionally teased them for their insistence on using the old name. “Dad, you know it’s Sri Lanka now,” Maya said with a playful smile.
“Yes, yes,” Edward replied, waving his hand dismissively. “But to me, it will always be Ceylon. And don’t forget it, young lady!”
The use of “Ceylon” became a way for the Greig family to preserve their identity and honour the memories of the land they had left behind. In their gatherings with other Burgher families in Melbourne, the name Ceylon was spoken with affection, evoking images of warm beaches, bustling markets, misty green hills covered in tea bushes and a way of life that now only lived in their stories and traditions.
Nalin
The tropical sun bathed the lush green paddy fields of the village of Kurunduwatta in golden light. Located in the heart of post-colonial Ceylon, Kurunduwatta was a microcosm of a nation rediscovering its identity after gaining independence from British rule in 1948. Here, amidst the swaying coconut palms and dusty red lanes, a boy named Nalin grew up, bearing witness to the struggles and triumphs of his country.
Born in 1952, Nalin was the eldest son of a schoolteacher and a housewife. His father, Mr Karunaratne, had been among the first generation of Ceylonese to benefit from access to education under the British system. Still, he carried within him a deep pride in the Sinhala language and culture. His mother, Mallika, was a quiet, resolute woman whose life revolved around her family and the rituals of village life.
The 1950s were a time of hope and transition. Nalin remembered the day his father took him to the Independence Day parade in Colombo. He was just six years old, but the sight of the national flag fluttering high above the crowds, the sounds of traditional drums mingling with military bands, and the speeches calling for unity in diversity left an indelible impression on his young mind.
Back in Kurunduwatta, life was simpler, though not without its challenges. Nalin’s mornings began with the crowing of roosters and the earthy scent of his mother’s wood- fired kitchen. He would accompany her to the well, carrying a smaller pot to fetch water, before hurrying off to the village school where his father taught.
Education in the village was rudimentary but imbued with a newfound pride in local culture. English, though still valued, had to share space with Sinhala and Tamil in the curriculum.
Amidst these changes, Nalin Karunaratne’s family—his schoolteacher father, his homemaker mother, and his younger siblings—found solace and meaning in the cultural and religious festivals that marked the passage of time. Each year, the Sinhala and Tamil New Year in April brought a burst of colour and joy to the village inhabitants. They cleaned their homes meticulously, adorned them with vibrant kolam designs at their thresholds, and prepared an array of traditional delicacies such as kavum, kokis, and kiribath. The smell of freshly fried sweets mingled with the floral scent of temple offerings, and children giggled as they donned new clothes in bright, auspicious colours.
The village came alive with games and competitions: men tested their strength in tug-of-war and climbed grease-covered poles to retrieve prizes, while women showcased their skills in intricate weaving contests. The temple was the heart of the celebration, where families gathered to receive blessings, light oil lamps, and offer prayers for prosperity. As the day turned to night, the sound of laughter and music echoed through the village, creating a sense of unity that momentarily erased the hardships of everyday life.
Later in the year, Vesak, the festival celebrating the birth, enlightenment, and passing of the Buddha, transformed Kurunduwatta into a spectacle of lights and devotion. The village came alive with lanterns of all shapes and sizes, crafted by families working together late into the night. The warm glow of oil lamps illuminated the pathways, and pandals—elaborate, temporary structures depicting scenes from the Jataka tales—drew crowds eager to admire their artistry and listen to the moral lessons they conveyed.
The scent of incense wafted through the air as devotees offered flowers and lit oil lamps at the temple. Nalin loved accompanying his father to these displays, where the hum of devotional chants and the gentle flicker of candlelight instilled in him a profound sense of peace and reflection. The temple’s courtyard became a hub of activity, where devotees meditated, chanted, and offered flowers at the feet of the Buddha statues. Nalin particularly loved the evening processions, where monks clad in saffron robes led the way, followed by children carrying lotus flowers and elders chanting in serene unison. The air was heavy with the fragrance of incense, and the sound of gongs echoed through the quiet night, instilling a profound sense of peace and reflection.
Equally mesmerizing was the Esala Perahera in Kandy, which Nalin’s family visited when he was ten. This grand procession, dedicated to the Sacred Tooth Relic of the Buddha, was a spectacle unlike any other. Elephants adorned with lavish gold and silver caparisons paraded majestically through the streets, their rhythmic steps keeping time with the beating of geta bera drums. Dancers in vibrant costumes spun and leapt with unmatched grace, their anklets jingling in harmony with the music. Fire dancers twirled flaming torches, creating patterns of light against the dark sky, while whip- crackers announced the procession’s arrival with sharp, resonant cracks that sent shivers of awe through the crowd. The Perahera was not just a religious event but a celebration of heritage that united people from across the country, showcasing the island’s diversity and shared reverence for its history and traditions.
For Nalin, the Perahera was a revelation—a celebration that encapsulated the spiritual and cultural richness of his homeland.
The village’s culinary heritage was equally vibrant and diverse, deeply rooted in the island’s rich traditions. Meals in Kurunduwatta were communal affairs, bringing families together over steaming pots of rice accompanied by a variety of curries. Each curry carried its own distinctive aroma, from the tangy tamarind and spicy chilli of fish ambul thiyal to the creamy richness of coconut-infused dhal curry. Mallika’s kitchen was a treasure trove of spices—cinnamon, cardamom, and cloves—that perfumed the air and gave life to her cooking. The local delicacies extended beyond daily meals; sweets like aluwa, made with roasted rice flour and jaggery, and lavariya, coconut-filled string hoppers, were essential during festive occasions.
Food was not just nourishment but a bridge to deeper connections. Farmers shared pickled vegetables during harvest celebrations, while weddings and temple events featured banana-leaf feasts, where an array of dishes was artfully arranged. Mallika often exchanged recipes with neighbours, ensuring that the culinary traditions of the village were passed down through generations.
Complementing the culinary richness was the practice of Ayurveda, a holistic healing tradition that seamlessly blended with the rhythms of life in Kurunduwatta. The village ayurvedic practitioner, an older man named Piyasena, was revered for his deep knowledge of medicinal plants and treatments. When children fell ill, Mallika would visit him to collect decoctions made from herbs like gotu kola and coriander. For more serious ailments, massages with herbal oils or poultices made from crushed leaves provided relief.
Ayurveda was also integral to daily wellness. Nalin remembered his grandmother beginning her mornings with kottamalli tea, a coriander-infused drink believed to cleanse the body. Seasonal changes were accompanied by dietary adjustments, with bitter greens and cooling herbs making their way into meals to balance the body’s humours. During festivals, ayurvedic principles guided the preparation of certain foods believed to bring harmony and vitality.
These traditions of food and healing added another layer of depth to life in Kurunduwatta, enriching the Karunaratnes’ daily existence. These practices symbolized not just sustenance and health but a profound connection to the land and its enduring heritage.
These festivals, culinary traditions, and holistic practices were more than mere celebrations; they were the lifeblood of the community, binding people together in shared joy and reverence. Yet, beneath the vibrant surface of village life, the seeds of division were beginning to sprout as political and social changes rippled across the nation. Nalin, growing up amidst this evolving landscape, would come to understand both the beauty and the fragility of his heritage.
The political winds of the country were shifting rapidly. In 1956, when Nalin was four years into school, S.W.R.D. Bandaranaike became Prime Minister and implemented policies aimed at promoting Sinhala as the national language. While Nalin’s father supported the cultural revival, he worried about the marginalization of Tamil-speaking communities. The boy overheard many conversations between his father and neighbours about the rising ethnic tensions. Words like “language riots” and “communalism”, though not fully understood, settled in his memory.
By the 1960s, Nalin had grown into a lanky teenager with a penchant for reading and an aptitude for mathematics. His father’s modest salary ensured that books were a rare luxury, but the village library, housed in an old mud-and-thatch building, became his sanctuary. There, he discovered the works of Martin Wickramasinghe and Mahatma Gandhi, alongside translations of Shakespeare and Dickens. Each book opened a window to a world beyond the paddy fields, even as it deepened his appreciation for his roots.
The decade also brought modernity to Kurunduwatta in small but significant ways. The arrival of electricity in 1963 was an event celebrated with village-wide festivities. For Nalin, it meant the magic of a radio that crackled with news, Sinhala music, and cricket commentaries. It was through this radio that he first learned about the Vietnam War, the moon landing, and the struggles of civil rights movements across the globe. These stories of struggle and resilience resonated with his own observations of life in Ceylon.
Yet, beneath the surface of idyllic village life, the seeds of division were beginning to sprout. The first real crack in Nalin’s world came in 1971, during the youth insurrection led by the Janatha Vimukthi Peramuna (JVP). He was nineteen and preparing for his university entrance exams when the rebellion erupted. Kurunduwatta, like many rural villages, found itself caught in the crossfire of a conflict fueled by frustrations over unemployment, poverty, and social inequality. Several young men from the village, disillusioned by broken promises of independence and the widening gap between rich and poor, joined the uprising. Soldiers patrolled the once-peaceful lanes, and checkpoints became a common sight.
Nalin’s father’s school was temporarily closed as the government attempted to contain the rebellion. The disruptions forced Nalin to study at home, where he struggled to concentrate amidst the tension. Families in the village whispered about disappearances and arrests. One of Nalin’s closest childhood friends, who had joined the rebels, vanished without a trace. The atmosphere of fear and uncertainty brought the community together in quiet solidarity, but it also highlighted the fragility of their lives.
The rebellion left lasting scars on the nation and on Kurunduwatta. For Nalin, it marked a turning point in his understanding of his country. Conversations with his father became more intense and philosophical.
“We fought for independence,” Mr. Karunaratne would say, “but freedom without justice is an empty dream.”
The events of 1971 deepened Nalin’s resolve to seek a better understanding of the forces shaping his homeland, even as they left him with lingering questions about the path ahead.
In 1972, Ceylon became the Republic of Sri Lanka, severing its last ties to the British Crown. Nalin, now a university student in Colombo, was both proud and anxious about the future. The campus was a hotbed of political activity, with student unions debating socialism, nationalism, and the growing ethnic divide. It was here that Nalin met Meera,
a Tamil girl from Jaffna whose calm intellect and desire for equality challenged his perspectives.
Their friendship blossomed into a romance that defied the norms of their time. Nalin knew the risks of their relationship, especially given the escalating ethnic tensions. The Standardization policy, introduced in 1971 to address disparities in university admissions, had disproportionately affected Tamil students, fueling resentment.
Meera’s stories of discrimination and her family’s struggles in the north opened Nalin’s eyes to the other side of the narrative he had grown up with.
The love between Nalin and Meera was tested by the turbulent politics of the 1970s.
The declaration of Sinhala as the sole official language, coupled with economic challenges, widened the rift between communities. During a visit to Jaffna with Meera, Nalin witnessed firsthand the impact of these policies. The vibrant town, with its ancient temples and bustling markets, was shadowed by a sense of alienation. Yet, the hospitality of Meera’s family and their unwavering hope for reconciliation left a lasting impression on him.
In 1975, Nalin graduated with a degree in mathematics and returned to Kurunduwatta as a teacher, following in his father’s footsteps. The village had changed in subtle ways. The younger generation was more restless, questioning traditions and seeking opportunities in cities or abroad. The radio had been joined by a lone television set at the community centre, bringing images of a rapidly modernizing world.
Nalin and Meera’s relationship remained a secret and known only to a few close friends. They corresponded through letters and met occasionally in Colombo. The political landscape, however, continued to darken. Ethnic violence flared sporadically, and the dream of a united Sri Lanka seemed increasingly elusive.
The 1980s ushered in an era of profound tragedy and upheaval for Sri Lanka, as the civil war erupted in 1983 following the Black July pogroms. The violence swept across the island, deepening the divide between Sinhala and Tamil communities.
Kurunduwatta, though far from the northern conflict zones, was not immune to its effects. Fear and mistrust seeped into village life, with whispers of political affiliations and hidden sympathies dividing neighbours who had lived together for generations.
“Do you think there will ever be peace?” Meera asked, her voice laced with both hope and fear.
Nalin sighed, kicking a stray pebble into the lake. “I want to believe so. But it feels like we’re being forced apart like our histories are being rewritten to make us enemies.”
Meera turned to him, her eyes searching his face. “My father says we should leave.
That there’s no future for us here. He wants to go to Canada.” Nalin’s stomach tightened. “And what do you want?”
She hesitated, looking at the rippling water. “I want to stay. This is my home as much as it is yours. But if things keep getting worse… I don’t know if we’ll have a choice.”
Nalin reached for her hand, holding it gently. “Then we fight for it. For a future where we don’t have to choose between love and survival.”
Meera smiled sadly. “I wish it were that simple, Nalin.”
Their conversation lingered in Nalin’s mind long after they parted that evening. The divisions growing around them were no longer just political; they were personal, threatening to tear apart the very fabric of the country he loved.
Nalin watched in anguish as the war escalated. Letters from Meera became less frequent, their contents increasingly tinged with worry for her family in Jaffna. When Meera’s family’s home was shelled during an air raid, her parents fled to India, leaving her to navigate the dangers alone. Meera’s accounts of displacement and survival shook Nalin, but they also deepened his determination to stand by her.
By 1985, the war had begun to affect even the remotest corners of the country.
Refugees fleeing the conflict arrived in villages like Kurunduwatta, their stories of loss and devastation a haunting reminder of the nation’s fractured state. Nalin became involved in efforts to support these displaced families, organizing donations and temporary shelter through the local temple. Yet, his actions were met with suspicion by some in the village who feared that aiding Tamil refugees could invite trouble.
Meera’s safety weighed heavily on Nalin’s mind. In 1986, she made the difficult decision to join her parents in India, leaving Nalin with an ache he could not fill. Their correspondence continued, but the distance made their bond even more fragile. Nalin poured himself into teaching, hoping to inspire his students to see beyond the divisions tearing their country apart.
By the late 1980s, as the civil war raged on, Nalin made a life-altering decision to join the Sri Lankan Army as an officer. Despite his reservations about the military, he believed that he could contribute to ending the violence that had torn apart his country.
The training was gruelling, but Nalin’s resolve was unwavering. He rose through the ranks quickly, earning the respect of his peers and commanding troops in some of the war’s fiercest battles.
In the final stages of the war, Nalin was deployed to the northern provinces, leading operations in territories that had become synonymous with destruction and despair. The sight of war’s devastation haunted him: villages reduced to rubble, families torn apart, and fields left fallow. Yet, amidst the chaos, he held onto the belief that peace was within reach. His decisions on the battlefield were guided by a deep sense of responsibility, often risking his life to ensure the safety of civilians caught in the crossfire.
When the war ended in 2009, Nalin returned to Kurunduwatta a changed man. The years of conflict had taken their toll, but they had also reaffirmed his commitment to reconciliation and rebuilding. He reconnected with Meera, who had returned to Sri Lanka to assist in post-war rehabilitation efforts. Their bond, though tested by time and distance, endured, and together, they worked to heal the wounds of a divided nation.
After years of personal and political struggles, Nalin and Meera reunited, their love resilient in the face of decades of conflict and distance. The years had changed them both, yet the connection between them remained untouched by time.
They met at a quiet café in Colombo, a place far removed from the conflict that had once threatened to erase their future. Nalin watched Meera as she stirred her tea, her fingers trembling slightly. He finally broke the silence.
“I never thought I’d see you again,” he said softly.
Meera looked up, her eyes searching his face. “Neither did I. I wasn’t sure if you had made it through.”
Nalin exhaled, nodding. “Somehow, I did. But not without scars. The war took everything, Meera. Friends, family… dreams.”
She set her spoon down gently, folding her hands together. “I lost people too, Nalin. I lost my home. I lost everything I thought was certain.”
A moment of silence passed between them, heavy with unspoken words. Finally, Meera asked, “Do you think we can ever go back? To what we had before?”
Nalin leaned forward, his voice steady but filled with emotion. “We can’t go back. But maybe we can build something new. Something better.”
Meera blinked back tears and gave a small, bittersweet smile. “You always believed in hope, didn’t you?”
“It’s the only thing that kept me going,” he admitted. “And maybe—just maybe—it’s enough to bring us forward.”
As they sat there, the city moving around them, the past did not vanish, nor did it weigh them down. Instead, it lingered as a reminder of what they had endured and what they could still build together.
They married in a quiet ceremony in Kurunduwatta, attended by close family and friends. Theirs was a union that symbolized hope and reconciliation—a Sinhala man and a Tamil woman defying the odds to build a life together.
Their marriage coincided with a renewed commitment by Nalin and Meera to work toward healing their nation. Nalin took on a more prominent role in community building, while Meera used her expertise in social work to assist displaced families. Despite the lingering tensions in the country, Nalin and Meera worked tirelessly to shield their ageing families from hatred and prejudice, instead instilling in them a sense of unity and pride in their mixed heritage.
As the country transitioned to peace after the war ended in 2009, Nalin and Meera thrived in an environment that, while imperfect, held the promise of a brighter future. The Karunaratne household became a gathering place for discussions about the country’s future. Young activists, teachers, and community leaders often visited, exchanging ideas about reconciliation and development.
Through the years, the Karunaratne family became a symbol of what was possible—a microcosm of the unity and hope that Sri Lanka aspired to achieve. Their journey, marked by challenges and triumphs, stood as a testament to the enduring power of love, resilience, and the shared dream of a better future.
Nalin’s journey—from a boy in post-colonial Ceylon to a soldier and teacher in a fractured Sri Lanka—was a testament to resilience and hope. As he looked out over the paddy fields of Kurunduwatta, now vibrant with new life, he reflected on the struggles and triumphs that had shaped him and his homeland. The dream of unity and peace, though hard-won, remained a beacon for the future.
In 2020, the COVID-19 pandemic reached Sri Lanka, and the island faced unprecedented challenges. The government imposed strict lockdowns to curb the spread of the virus, and life in Kurunduwatta came to a standstill. For Nalin, now retired and spending his days tending to his garden, the pandemic was a reminder of the fragility of human life and the interconnectedness of the world. Villagers rallied together, sharing resources and looking out for one another. The temple became a hub for distributing food and medical supplies, echoing the solidarity that had once defined their community during past crises.
The economic toll of the pandemic was severe. Sri Lanka is heavily reliant on tourism and saw its economy collapse. Inflation soared, and shortages of essential goods led to widespread hardship. Despite the difficulties, Nalin’s family remained steadfast, drawing on the resilience they had cultivated through decades of struggle.
As the pandemic eased, Sri Lanka faced another trial: a deepening economic crisis. In 2022, the country declared bankruptcy, and mass protests erupted across the island. Nalin watched with a mix of sorrow and pride as people from all walks of life came together to demand change. Through it all, Nalin remained a pillar of strength for his family and his community. He often spoke of the lessons history had taught him: the importance of unity, the power of resilience, and the need to hold onto hope even in the darkest times. As Kurunduwatta slowly emerged from the twin crises of the pandemic and economic collapse, Nalin saw glimpses of renewal—in the laughter of children playing in the fields, in the efforts of young people rebuilding their village, and in the enduring spirit of a nation that had weathered countless storms.
Nalin’s story, intertwined with the history of Sri Lanka, was one of struggle, resilience, and hope. From the independence of Ceylon to the challenges of the modern era, his life was a testament to the strength of the human spirit and the enduring dream of a better tomorrow.
Arjun
The tropical sun cast long shadows over the bustling streets of Jaffna, where a young boy named Arjun grew up in the 1950s. His family lived in a modest home on a narrow lane lined with vibrant jasmine bushes, their lives deeply rooted in the traditions of Tamil culture. Arjun’s father, Mr. Sundaram, was a respected school principal, and his
mother, Lakshmi, balanced the demands of raising five children with the rituals of village life.
Born in 1954, Arjun was the third child in the Sundaram household. Jaffna, with its ancient temples and scholarly heritage, was a beacon of Tamil culture in post-colonial Ceylon. The city’s vibrant streets were lined with stately homes and bustling markets where vendors sold everything from aromatic spices to colourful sarees. The air was filled with the hum of bicycles and the faint tinkling of temple bells, mingling with the melodic strains of Carnatic music wafting from open windows. Libraries and schools dotted the town, reflecting its reputation as a centre for education and intellectual pursuit. The sprawling Nallur Kandaswamy Temple, with its towering gopuram and intricate carvings, stood as a symbol of Jaffna’s spiritual and cultural heritage, drawing devotees and scholars alike. Festivals like Thaipusam and Pongal brought the community together with vibrant processions, the scent of burning camphor, and the echo of devotional songs filling the air. Yet, even as the island celebrated independence in 1948, the seeds of discord were being sown. Arjun’s early childhood was marked by his family’s stories of a harmonious past and growing tensions as the political landscape shifted.
By the mid-1950s, changes came swiftly. The election of S.W.R.D. Bandaranaike in 1956 and the Sinhala Only Act were milestones that would forever alter Arjun’s world. At school, Tamil students like Arjun began to feel the weight of exclusion. His father’s lessons, once taught in both Tamil and English, now faced the imposition of Sinhala as the sole language of administration. Over dinner, Mr. Sundaram spoke of protests in Colombo and the rising discontent in Tamil-majority regions like Jaffna.
“Our voices must be heard,” he often said, his face a mask of quiet determination. For Arjun, these conversations were the first inklings of the divide that would shape his life.
In 1958, when Arjun was just four, communal violence erupted in several parts of the island. Although Jaffna remained relatively insulated, the Sundarams received letters from relatives in Colombo describing harrowing tales of riots and displacement. The stories painted vivid pictures of the struggles faced by Tamils in the capital. Young as he was, Arjun could sense the growing unease that crept into his home.
The 1960s brought both progress and challenges for the Sundaram family. Arjun excelled in his studies, encouraged by his father’s belief in education as a path to empowerment. The library in Jaffna became his sanctuary, where he devoured Tamil poetry, English novels, and translations of revolutionary thinkers. At home, the evenings were filled with stories from the Ramayana and Mahabharata, narrated by Lakshmi as the family gathered in the courtyard under the stars. Rituals like lighting the evening oil lamp and offering prayers to their family deity were integral to their daily lives, reinforcing their connection to their faith.
The Standardization policy, introduced in 1971, limited opportunities for Tamil students to enter universities. Arjun’s older brother, Ravi, had dreams of becoming a doctor but was devastated when his academic achievements were overshadowed by discriminatory admissions criteria.
“This is not merit,” Ravi said one evening, his voice filled with frustration. “They want to keep us in our place.”
For Arjun, Ravi’s experience became a turning point. While he continued to study diligently, a sense of injustice simmered within him. He began attending student meetings and rallies in Jaffna, where Tamil youth debated their future in a country that seemed increasingly unwilling to embrace their identity. The voices at these gatherings were a mix of hope and anger, with some advocating for peaceful resistance and others calling for more radical measures. These meetings often began with invocations to Lord Murugan, the warrior deity, symbolizing the community’s resilience and determination.
The 1970s brought profound changes. Arjun’s father retired from his role as principal, disillusioned by the erosion of the education system he had dedicated his life to. Arjun, now a university student, moved to Colombo, where he encountered the complexities of life outside Jaffna. The city’s Sinhala majority and its blend of opportunity and alienation heightened his awareness of the divide between communities.
It was during this time that Arjun met Nirmala, a fellow Tamil student with a fierce intellect and a passion for social justice. Their shared ideals brought them together, and their friendship blossomed into love. But their happiness was tempered by the rising tensions around them. The anti-Tamil riots of 1977 were a stark reminder of the fragility of their place in the capital.
“Do you ever think things will truly change?” Nirmala asked one evening as they sat beneath a banyan tree on campus.
Arjun paused, choosing his words carefully. “Change takes time. But if we don’t fight for it, who will? Our parents fought for independence, but it’s our turn to fight for dignity.”
Nirmala smiled. “That’s why I believe in you. You see the bigger picture.”
“And I believe in us,” Arjun replied, his voice steady. “Together, we’re stronger than any system that tries to suppress us.”
But their happiness was tempered by the rising tensions around them. One night, Nirmala rushed to find Arjun after her family’s home was attacked.
“They burned our house,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face. “We have to leave.”
“We’ll build something better,” Nirmala told Arjun as they parted ways. “This can’t be the end for us.”
By the 1980s, Arjun had returned to Jaffna and joined a local organization dedicated to Tamil rights. The Black July pogroms of 1983 shattered any remaining illusions he held about coexistence. The violence, which left thousands of Tamils dead and displaced, marked the beginning of the Sri Lankan Civil War. Arjun’s home became a shelter for fleeing families, their stories of loss and survival etched into his memory. It was during these years that Arjun’s resolve to fight for his people solidified.
The war brought devastation to Jaffna. Bombings, curfews, and shortages became a part of daily life. Arjun’s work shifted from advocacy to survival, helping villagers secure food and medical supplies amidst the chaos. His relationship with Nirmala endured, though their lives were constantly under threat. The once-vibrant streets of Jaffna became desolate as many families fled to India or the West. Temples like Nallur Kandaswamy became sanctuaries, not just for prayer but for solace and strength in the face of adversity.
As the conflict deepened, Nirmala’s frustration with the lack of progress drove her to join the Tamil Tigers in the late 1980s. She believed that armed resistance was the only way to achieve justice for their people. Her decision strained her relationship with Arjun, who, while supportive of Tamil rights, was wary of the violence and its consequences.
Nirmala quickly rose through the ranks, and her intelligence and determination made her a key strategist within the organization. But her involvement came at a great personal cost. In 1995, during a major military offensive in Jaffna, Nirmala was captured by government forces. The news reached Arjun through whispered accounts in the village. For days, he was consumed by fear and uncertainty, desperate for any information about her fate.
Nirmala’s capture was a turning point for both of them. She was interrogated and imprisoned in a high-security facility. Though physically unharmed, the months she spent in captivity left deep psychological scars. Arjun, using his connections with humanitarian organizations, campaigned tirelessly for her release. His efforts, combined with international pressure, eventually led to her freedom in 1997.
When Nirmala returned to Jaffna, she was a changed woman. The years of war, captivity, and loss had taken their toll, but her resolve to fight for her people’s rights remained unshaken.
Arjun met her at the small community hall where survivors gathered to reconnect with loved ones.
As she stepped into the room, their eyes met. Arjun hesitated for a moment, unsure if the woman before him was the same Nirmala he had loved.
“You came back,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Nirmala nodded, a faint smile on her lips. “I told you we would build something better. I just didn’t know how much we would have to lose first.”
Arjun exhaled and stepped closer. “I tried to find you. I didn’t know if… if you were still—”
She reached for his hand, her grip firm despite the weight of the years between them. “I never stopped thinking about you. About Jaffna. About everything we dreamed of.”
Arjun swallowed hard, blinking back the emotions welling in his eyes. “We still have work to do, Nirmala. The war took so much from us, but we can still give back.”
Nirmala nodded, her gaze steady. “Then let’s do it together. This time, we rebuild— not just homes, but hope.”
Together, she and Arjun recommitted themselves to rebuilding their community, focusing on education and reconciliation. Though their paths had diverged, their shared vision for a better future brought them back together.
As the war displaced thousands of Tamils, a significant diaspora began to form across the globe, particularly in countries like Canada, the United Kingdom, Australia, and India. This diaspora became an influential force, both in advocating for Tamil rights internationally and in supporting communities back in Sri Lanka. Arjun observed how remittances from the diaspora sustained many families in Jaffna, funding education, rebuilding homes, and even supporting local businesses. Tamil cultural associations abroad also worked tirelessly to preserve their heritage, hosting events that celebrated Tamil art, music, and literature.
Nirmala often corresponded with members of the diaspora, forging connections that brought much-needed resources to their projects in Jaffna. During the civil war, diaspora organizations lobbied foreign governments to intervene and raise awareness of the Tamil plight. After the war, these same networks became instrumental in funding schools, healthcare facilities, and trauma recovery programs.
For Arjun, the diaspora represented both hope and loss. While their contributions were invaluable, he lamented the exodus of so many talented individuals who might have helped rebuild the homeland. Yet, their continued engagement offered a lifeline to Jaffna, bridging the gap between past struggles and future aspirations.
In 2020, the COVID-19 pandemic brought new challenges. Lockdowns and economic hardships tested the limits of the already fragile community. Yet, Jaffna’s spirit endured. Arjun’s school became a distribution centre for food and supplies, a beacon of hope in uncertain times. Nirmala led efforts to provide healthcare and support to families struggling to make ends meet.
As the pandemic eased, Sri Lanka faced an economic crisis that plunged the nation into turmoil. Arjun watched with cautious optimism as people across ethnic and social divides came together to demand change. His children, now adults, participated in peaceful protests, their voices carrying forward the dream of a united and just Sri Lanka.
In his twilight years, Arjun often sat beneath the banyan tree outside his school, watching children laugh and play. Despite the scars of the past, he felt a deep sense of pride in the resilience of his people. Nirmala sat beside him, her hands folded in quiet contemplation. Together, they had witnessed the worst of humanity and the enduring strength of hope. The dream of peace and unity, though distant, remained alive in their hearts, a testament to the sacrifices and struggles that had shaped their lives and the future of their homeland.
Faizal
The call to prayer echoed through the narrow streets of Beruwala, a small coastal town where the turquoise waters of the Indian Ocean kissed the golden sands of Sri Lanka. Born in 1956, Faizal Ismail was the third child in a family of merchants who had lived in Beruwala for generations. The Ismail family’s roots stretched back to the Arab traders who first arrived on the island centuries ago, bringing not only their goods but also Islam, which took root among a segment of the population. Over time, Sri Lankan Muslims developed their own identity, blending Arab, Indian, and local Sinhala and Tamil influences into a vibrant culture.
Beruwala was a bustling town known for its centuries-old Kechimalai Mosque, which overlooked the sea. The whitewashed walls of the mosque gleamed in the sun, a symbol of faith and community. For Faizal, the mosque was more than a place of worship; it was the heart of their lives. Every Friday, he accompanied his father, Idris, to the mosque for Jummah prayers. The congregation, clad in white sarongs and skullcaps, listened intently to the sermons, their voices later rising in unison as they recited verses from the Ǫuran.
Faizal’s childhood was steeped in tradition and family. His mother, Amina, managed their bustling household with unwavering efficiency. The Ismail home was a hive of activity, filled with the aroma of spiced biryanis and samosas, the laughter of siblings, and the chatter of visiting relatives. Their livelihood depended on the family’s spice trade, a legacy passed down through generations. Idris often spoke of his ancestors who had traded cinnamon, cloves, and cardamom, connecting Sri Lanka to the Middle East and beyond.
Cultural life revolved around festivals and community gatherings. Eid al-Fitr, marking the end of Ramadan, was a time of joy and generosity. The Ismail family’s home became a hub of activity as neighbours and relatives arrived to share lavish meals of mutton curry, ghee rice, and watalappan, a rich coconut milk pudding infused with jaggery and spices. Faizal and his siblings received new clothes and small gifts, their laughter echoing through the house. Eid al-Adha brought similar festivities but with the solemnity of animal sacrifice, symbolizing devotion and charity.
The town’s Muslim community maintained strong ties to its cultural heritage. Arabic calligraphy adorned the walls of homes and mosques, and the rhythms of traditional qasida songs echoed during weddings and celebrations. Faizal’s grandmother, who had memorized countless folktales and stories of Islamic heroes, often shared them during the quiet evenings. These tales instilled in Faizal a sense of pride in his faith and ancestry.
Education played a central role in Faizal’s upbringing. Idris, though a traditionalist, was forward-thinking when it came to his children’s schooling. Faizal attended the local Muslim school, where he learned both secular subjects and Arabic. The Ǫuranic classes in the mornings were followed by lessons in history, mathematics, and English. His teachers emphasized the importance of balancing religious devotion with modern knowledge, preparing students to navigate a changing world.
By the 1960s, as Faizal entered his teenage years, the political landscape of Sri Lanka was undergoing significant change. The Sinhala Only Act of 1956 had already begun to reshape the country’s linguistic and cultural dynamics. Though the Muslim community primarily spoke Tamil, they saw themselves as distinct, maintaining a neutral position in the growing tensions between the Sinhala and Tamil populations. Idris often reminded his children of the importance of harmony, saying, “Our strength lies in bridging divides, not widening them.”
However, neutrality did not shield the Muslim community from challenges. The emphasis on Sinhala as the national language complicated commerce and education for Tamil-speaking Muslims. Faizal’s father, who spoke fluent Arabic and Tamil but limited Sinhala, faced difficulties in expanding their trade beyond Beruwala. Despite these challenges, Idris remained optimistic, adapting by hiring Sinhala-speaking workers and encouraging Faizal to master the language.
The 1970s brought both opportunities and trials. Faizal, now a young man, had taken on greater responsibilities in the family business. Beruwala’s bustling market was a kaleidoscope of activity: merchants haggled over prices, women in colourful sarees examined spices, and fishermen unloaded their catches. Faizal thrived in this environment, building connections with Sinhala and Tamil traders alike. It was during
one of his frequent trips to Colombo to procure goods for the family business that Faizal first met Shireen. She was the daughter of a textile merchant in Pettah, known for her sharp intellect and confident demeanour. Their first encounter began with a lively debate over the quality of silk fabric.
“This weave is too coarse to be premium quality,” Faizal remarked, running his fingers over the fabric.
Shireen was quick to respond and raised an eyebrow. “And yet it’s one of our bestsellers. Maybe it’s not the weave, but the merchant who knows how to sell it,” she quipped with a slight smile.
The exchange left Faizal both impressed and intrigued, and he found himself returning to her father’s shop more often. Shireen, managing the shop’s accounts and inventory, quickly grew fond of his polite humour and genuine curiosity about her work. Their shared love of literature and culture deepened their bond, often leading to exchanges of books.
“Have you read this?” Shireen asked one day, handing him a worn copy of a poetry anthology.
“Not yet,” Faizal replied, taking the book. “But I’ll read it and tell you which one I like best. Only if you promise to do the same for my favourite novel.”
Their conversations extended beyond business, evolving into long discussions about life, faith, and aspirations. However, their budding relationship faced significant challenges.
Over the next few months, Faizal found reasons to visit her father’s shop more often. Shireen, who managed the shop’s accounts, quickly grew fond of his polite humour and genuine curiosity about her work. Soon, they were exchanging books and letters.
However, their budding relationship was not without its challenges.
Shireen’s family, though respected in the Muslim community, was cautious about allowing their daughter to marry someone outside of Colombo’s mercantile elite.
Meanwhile, Faizal’s family in Beruwala was initially hesitant about the match, fearing that the cultural differences between bustling city life and their quieter coastal existence might strain the relationship. The growing ethnic and political tensions in the country also added a layer of uncertainty to their union.
Despite these obstacles, Faizal and Shireen’s determination won over their families.
Their nikah ceremony was a grand affair held at the Grand Mosque of Colombo, attended by relatives and friends from both Beruwala and Colombo. The event blended the best of their shared heritage, with qasida singers performing traditional songs and a lavish feast featuring biryanis, kebabs, and Malay-inspired desserts. Shireen’s parents, who had initially expressed reservations, grew to admire Faizal’s integrity and the respect he showed their daughter.
Settling into married life, Faizal and Shireen faced the challenge of bridging their different worlds. While Faizal managed the family spice trade in Beruwala, Shireen introduced new ideas for expanding the business, drawing on her experience in textile commerce. Together, they built a partnership founded on mutual respect and shared goals, balancing tradition with innovation. Shireen’s influence extended beyond the business; she became an active member of the community, organizing educational programs for young girls and spearheading initiatives at the mosque to support displaced families during the civil war.
Through the ups and downs of life, Faizal and Shireen’s bond remained steadfast. Their love story became a symbol of resilience and unity, demonstrating that even in a divided world, relationships built on understanding and respect could overcome the greatest challenges.
The couple was blessed with three children—two sons, Imran and Sameer, and a daughter, Amina. Faizal and Shireen were deeply committed to instilling in their children the values of faith, education, and compassion. The children grew up in a household where the aroma of traditional meals mingled with lively discussions about business, culture, and community service.
Imran, the eldest, followed in his father’s footsteps, taking an active role in managing the family spice trade. Sameer, with his love for books and history, pursued higher education in Colombo and later became a teacher, dedicating his career to uplifting underprivileged students. Amina, named after her grandmother, was passionate about social work and often accompanied her mother to community programs at the mosque. Together, the siblings embodied the principles of harmony and service that their parents had cherished.
Faizal and Shireen’s family became a beacon of hope in Beruwala, demonstrating how tradition and modernity could coexist to nurture a better future.
When the 1971 Janatha Vimukthi Peramuna (JVP) insurrection erupted, Faizal witnessed firsthand the fragility of peace. Though the rebellion primarily affected rural Sinhala areas, the government’s response—a military crackdown—led to widespread unrest. Beruwala’s market saw fewer customers, and rumours of violence created an atmosphere of fear. Faizal’s father ensured that the family stayed united, reinforcing their values of mutual respect and resilience.
The 1980s brought the onset of the Sri Lankan Civil War, and Faizal’s community faced new challenges. As the conflict between the Sinhala government and Tamil separatists escalated, Muslims in the Eastern Province became targets of violence and displacement. Though Beruwala was spared the worst of the conflict, the Ismail family’s sense of security was shaken. Relatives who had fled Batticaloa arrived at their doorstep with harrowing tales of loss, deepening Faizal’s awareness of the war’s human toll.
Faizal and his wife, Shireen, dedicated themselves to supporting displaced families. The mosque became a hub for relief efforts, collecting donations and organizing shelter for those in need. Faizal often accompanied his father to distribute food and supplies, and his belief in the principles of zakat—charitable giving—guided his actions. These efforts strengthened his faith and reaffirmed the importance of community.
In the 1990s, as the war raged on, the Muslim community’s neutrality was tested. The 1990 expulsion of Muslims from the Northern Province by the LTTE left thousands homeless. Beruwala became a refuge for many of these displaced families. Faizal opened his home to several relatives, and his children grew up listening to stories of resilience and survival. The expulsion deepened the Muslim community’s resolve to preserve their identity while fostering peace.
Despite the challenges, Beruwala remained a bastion of cultural and religious vibrancy. Meanwhile, in Colombo, the Muslim community played a significant role in shaping the city’s cultural and economic landscape. Pettah, the bustling market district, was a testament to this influence, with its labyrinth of streets filled with shops owned by Muslim merchants who traded textiles, spices, and jewellery. The azan from the Grand Mosque of Colombo echoed through the area, serving as a reminder of the community’s deep-rooted presence in the capital.
Colombo’s Muslim population was diverse, including both Arab-descended Moors and Malays, who had seamlessly integrated into the city’s cosmopolitan fabric. The Grand Mosque, with its striking minarets and intricate Moorish design, was not only a place of worship but also a hub for social gatherings and charitable activities. During Ramadan, the mosque’s courtyard became a centre for distributing iftar meals to the less fortunate, a tradition that drew people from all walks of life.
Muslim neighbourhoods in Colombo, such as Maradana and Wellawatte, were known for their vibrant culture and culinary delights. Restaurants and food stalls offered an array of dishes, from fragrant biryanis to Malay-inspired satays and sambals. The community’s emphasis on education was evident in the prominence of Muslim schools like Zahira College, which produced generations of scholars and professionals who contributed significantly to Sri Lankan society.
While the Muslim community in Colombo thrived, it also faced challenges, particularly during periods of political and social unrest. However, their resilience and ability to foster relationships with Sinhala and Tamil communities ensured their continued influence and integration within the capital’s dynamic environment.
Another fascinating layer of Sri Lanka’s Muslim heritage was its Malay community, whose influence on the country was both subtle and profound. While the Arab- descended Muslims like Faizal’s family traced their roots to centuries of trade and religious scholarship, the Malays—descendants of soldiers, officials, and settlers brought to Ceylon during Dutch and British rule—forged a unique identity rooted in Southeast Asian traditions.
The distinction between these groups lay not only in their origins but also in their cultural expressions. Arab-descended Muslims, such as the Ismails, placed great emphasis on preserving Islamic scholarship, Ǫuranic education, and the culinary legacy of the Middle East and the Indian Ocean trade. Their homes often displayed Arabic calligraphy, and the rhythms of qasida songs echoed through wedding ceremonies. Meanwhile, the Malays brought a vibrant Southeast Asian flair to their traditions, incorporating colourful rituals, distinctive culinary practices, and martial arts into their daily lives.
Malay dishes like sambal, nasi goreng, and satay became beloved staples in Sri Lankan Muslim households. The fiery sambal, made with crushed chillies, lime, and shrimp paste, added zest to even the simplest meals, while fragrant nasi goreng brought the essence of Malay kitchens to Sri Lankan homes. Faizal’s mother, Amina, often exchanged recipes with Malay friends, creating a delightful fusion of culinary traditions. In contrast, the Ismail family specialized in spiced biryanis, mutton curries, and watalappan, emphasizing the rich, layered flavours of the Indian Ocean region.
Malay martial arts, such as silat, gained admiration for their grace and strength, often showcased during cultural festivals and weddings. These vibrant Malay weddings blended Islamic rituals with traditions like the berinai ceremony, where brides and grooms were adorned with intricate henna designs amidst music and dancing. On the other hand, Arab-descended Muslim weddings often emphasized Ǫuranic recitations, the signing of the nikah contract, and feasts that celebrated shared heritage with subtle opulence.
The Malays also enriched Sri Lanka’s linguistic tapestry with words and phrases that found their way into Sinhala, Tamil, and even colloquial English. Their contributions to governance and education were notable, with Malays excelling in administrative roles and fostering bridges between communities. The Malay Regiment, a legacy of their military origins, contributed to Sri Lanka’s defence and earned respect for their discipline and loyalty.
Despite their differences, the Arabs and Malays shared a deep commitment to Islam, which united them in faith. Together, these communities enriched the cultural mosaic of Sri Lanka, demonstrating the strength of diversity within the Muslim population.
Faizal’s father often highlighted these contributions, saying, “We are stronger because of our differences; they remind us that unity comes not from sameness, but from shared purpose.” Weddings were grand affairs, blending traditional customs with modern influences. The bride, adorned in intricate gold jewellery, would sit beneath a canopy as qasida singers performed songs praising love and faith.
When the war ended in 2009, Faizal, now a grandfather, reflected on the resilience of his community. Beruwala had weathered decades of change and conflict, yet its spirit endured. Faizal’s grandchildren attended the same school he had, learning the Ǫuran alongside science and mathematics. The family business continued to thrive, adapting to the modern economy while honouring its traditions.
In 2004, the Boxing Day tsunami struck Sri Lanka with devastating force, forever altering the landscape of coastal towns like Beruwala. Faizal had just returned from the morning prayer at the Kechimalai Mosque when he heard the distant roar of the approaching waves. Within minutes, the ocean surged inland, flooding homes, shops, and streets. The destruction was swift and merciless, leaving behind a trail of shattered lives and livelihoods.
The Ismail family’s home, situated slightly inland, was spared the worst of the damage. Still, many of their neighbours were not as fortunate. The market, a cornerstone of Beruwala’s economy, was reduced to rubble. Families who had lived along the coastline for generations were left homeless, their belongings swept away by the unforgiving sea.
Faizal and Shireen, along with their children, immediately joined relief efforts. The mosque became a refuge for those who had lost everything, its courtyard filled with families seeking shelter and comfort. Faizal coordinated with local leaders to distribute food, clothing, and medical supplies. Shireen organized women in the community to prepare meals for the displaced. At the same time, their eldest son, Imran, used the family’s trade connections to source essential goods from unaffected areas.
The tragedy brought out both the best and the worst in people. Faizal witnessed acts of extraordinary kindness—neighbours sharing what little they had with strangers—but also moments of desperation and anger as resources grew scarce. Despite the challenges, Beruwala’s community spirit shone through. Volunteers from across Sri Lanka, regardless of religion or ethnicity, arrived to assist in rebuilding homes and livelihoods.
The tsunami also strengthened interfaith bonds in Beruwala. The local Buddhist temple and Hindu kovil joined the mosque in organizing relief efforts, creating a rare and powerful sense of unity amidst the devastation. Faizal often spoke of how this cooperation reminded him of his father’s words: “In times of need, we are not divided by faith; we are united by humanity.”
Over the following years, Beruwala slowly rebuilt itself. The market was restored, homes were reconstructed with sturdier materials and new systems were put in place to warn of future disasters. For Faizal, the tsunami became a defining moment in his life, reinforcing the values of resilience, faith, and community that had guided him through decades of challenges.
In 2020, the COVID-19 pandemic brought new challenges. Beruwala’s market, once bustling with activity, became eerily quiet during lockdowns. Faizal’s family turned to their faith for strength, organizing food distributions through the mosque for those in need. As the economic crisis of 2022 deepened, the community’s solidarity shone through. The mosque’s courtyard became a place of hope, where families shared what little they had and supported one another.
Faizal’s journey, intertwined with the history of Sri Lanka, was one of faith, resilience, and community. From the bustling spice markets of his youth to the challenges of war and economic hardship, his life reflected the enduring strength of the Muslim community in Sri Lanka. As he stood on the steps of the Kechimalai Mosque, watching the waves crash against the shore, Faizal felt a deep sense of gratitude for the traditions and values that had guided his family through generations.
THE END
RODERIC GRIGSON BIO
Roderic is a published author whose works seamlessly blend adventure, history, and cultural exploration. Born in Ceylon (now Sri Lanka) with British heritage tracing back to the colonial administration, Rod’s early years were marked by a deep curiosity for reading and travel. His journey has taken him across continents, from working at the United Nations in New York to peacekeeping missions in the Middle East, experiences that have profoundly shaped his narratives.
During his tenure at the UN, including two years with the Peacekeeping Forces in Egypt, Israel, and Lebanon—where he earned the prestigious UN Peace Medal—Rod witnessed the intricacies of global affairs firsthand. His return to New York in 1980 saw him pioneering foreign language development in computing at the UN Technology Innovations Programme, an early glimpse into his ability to translate complex solutions into engaging processes.
After migrating to Australia in 1986 and serving in senior executive roles across the Asia-Pacific, Rod eventually embraced his true passion—writing. His debut novel in 2013, Sacred Tears, a thrilling adventure spanning the war-torn city of Beirut to the jungles of Sri Lanka, set the tone for his literary journey. His subsequent works, including After The Flames, The Sullen Hills and, more recently, The Governor’s Lover, reflect his deep-rooted love for history and intrigue, weaving gripping tales that transport readers across time and place. All his books are available for sale on Amazon in paperback and Kindle format.
Based in Melbourne, Rod continues to write while dedicating his time to mentoring aspiring authors through the Scribe Tribe Writing Group at the Balla Balla Community Centre. He also teaches Creative Writing Courses and empowers seniors and new migrants in the City of Casey with essential technology skills.
With four published books and a fifth in the works, Rod remains committed to storytelling, ensuring that every new chapter he writes captures the imagination and spirit of adventure that have defined his life.
Visit www.rodericgrigson.com to explore his books and latest projects.
