Defender Day

I remember how ecstatic we were, the announcement of our Independence.  My brother and I jumping for joy and my parents smiling so wide.  Then the tanks began rolling in...

The constant phone calls to our family, the non-stop watching of news.  The weekends we would spend traveling to and from Canberra, Sydney and beyond, marching for awareness, action and respect.

The day my fathers selo evaporated of its inhabitants, sent off to holiday accommodation that had been converted to refugee hostels and homes.  Take only what you need...

I remember always being told I was not Croatian by the white people who surrounded our burbs.  They would ask what funny language we spoke, why my lunchbox smelt so funny, why we looked different and I would reply proudly, I am Croatian.  They would say, no you're not.  You're Yugoslavian.  The tiny heart of mine would break however, I always remained defiant and proud of my heritage.  Yes I am, I would say proudly.  Knowing full well, even at the youngest of ages how hard my ancestors had persevered to retain our heritage, to fly our flag even though it was illegal for so long.

There were many Croats who succumbed to the acceptance of Yugoslavian rule.  They flew the Yugo flag and learnt to kneel.  Neither sides of my bloodline did so and my family ensured we understood that standing in your truth AT ANY COST was the only way.

I think back on my younger years and am still hurt to this day by the racism and violence I experienced for being a proud sister of Croatian heritage.  They would call me a dirty wog, a pig, a Serb killer with no understanding of where our country was, no actual understanding of why we were fighting for our Independence and freedom to simply be Croatians.

The anger we felt when we were not able to have our family members come to Australia - the government had declined their attempts to migrate as refugees.  Knowing that they had to sit through the war and wait propelled our hearts into a deep and dark despair.  The men of our family on the front line fighting.  With their pregnant wives waiting, their families hanging on any type of news from them.

How ashamed I always felt to be referred to as Australian as a direct result of experiencing such trauma from these white people around me.  To this day I feel shame to call myself Australian, that it is printed on my Passport and Birth Certificate.

I will always be forever grateful for my ancestors, my blood and all of the men and women who fought for us.  I promise to continue to teach my child language from home, our traditions and ways.  Our beliefs and our history.

I dream longingly of being able to return home once again with my boy.  I'd say look Z, this is ours and he will reply, I know mama. x