Our Lucky Land
How can I write anything meaningful about Christmas when thirty desperate people have lost their lives trying to come to our so-called lucky land.
A land that unlike most places that these people have escaped from is peaceful, prosperous and supposedly welcoming and inclusive.
How have we so easily forgotten that we all came to this country as refugees or even prisoners and occasionally free settlers but usually escaping from persecution, or class hatred or poverty or the harsh winters of Britain or Europe in which our babies died.
As I walk along my street in Leichhardt I often pass a woman on her way back from the shops. She walks lopsided, gripping plastic shopping bags and I notice her unsuitable shoes, her sad eyes, her dropped face and her thinning dyed black hair, and I wonder about her.
I usually try to make eye contact and say Hello, but mostly she does not see me, or if she does she gives a hardly perceptible nod of her head.
A part of my professional mind thinks she must be depressed, another part of me gets annoyed at her avoidance and concerned that she doesn’t seem to know how to look after herself, or as I think she should, by using a trolley, or wearing a hat and more suitable shoes for her shopping trip.
Last week I looked towards her house to see if she was coming down the street.
I could see her outside her gate because she was wearing a bright orange pants suit so different from her usual dark attire. As I approached her, I smiled and said, ‘I love your orange pants suit, the colour really suits you.’
Her face lit up like she was a young woman again, standing in the moonlight with her sweetheart, and she smiled at me.
‘I bought it at Millers. I buy all my clothes there..so cheap.. my daughter buys me other things not necessary…
And so she started to talk and tell me her story.
‘ We came here from Italy in the 50’s, a village north of Roma, 
my husband he was a good man, he worked for the big builders
in the city, he built Australia Square, we had a good life here,
then he has the head thing and he nearly died, he was only 45,
I nursed him for ten years but he was good man,
and the neighbours here very kind people, I have lived here 50 years,
I have two daughters they work in the city they do well,
we very lucky, I have been robbed three times in this street,
once they knocked me down and took my bag,
and I fell on my leg, I’m ok now, I have a 26 year old grandson, Village in Italy
I say to him you can put me in the place in Marion St but he says no,
you don’t need that, Nona, I’m lucky I know people here,
the woman in your house was my friend she died of cancer long time ago….’
The rain is starting to spot her lovely orange jacket but still she continues to talk.
So much history and so much to be thankful for despite all she has gone through.
No wonder some days she looks grim and does not see me. Now, however she will see me, I know her name and I have welcomed her into my world without judgment. And we can at last be true neighbours.
What a pity we don’t do this more often.
My Bella in Tuscan Village
Athenapallas's Blog 