Category: memories

Forgotten Australians, memories, poetry

When a child’s home is an asylum

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by Rhonda Trivett (guest author) on 10 May, 2010

In 1967, at the age of eight, Rhonda was placed in Sandgate Home, Brisbane, while her mother tried to cope with the death of Rhonda’s father. Because Rhonda was dyslexic and became frustrated with her inability to read, she ran away from school. As a result, she was admitted to a locked ward in the Winston Noble Unit, a mental health facility attached to the Prince Charles Hospital at Chermside, Brisbane. She was later admitted to Lowson House, a mental health ward at the Royal Brisbane Hospital and then transferred to Wilston Youth Hostel. At the age of 13 she was admitted to a maximum security ward for adult female psychiatric patients (Osler House) at Wolston Park Hospital where she remained until she was 21 years of age.

Here is her poem, describing how her mother’s love helped her.

 
Rhonda’s bed in Wolston Park
art, film, Forgotten Australians, memories, music, painting, photography

Asylum

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by Bonney Djuric (guest author) on 4 May, 2010

 

Parramatta Female Factory Precinct: Girls Industrial School Gate 3

Bonney discusses the historical background to her film and the notion of “asylum”:

The Female Factory was built in 1818 adjacent to the Colonial Government domain on land bounded to the south by a curve in the Parramatta River. It was a large site over a number of hectares and had been previously owned by Bligh and Marsden. The Factory was the brainchild of Governor Macquarie who in his concerns for the safety of the women and children of the colony recommended that a place be built to provide safe refuge for them. It was not long until the idealised safe refuge of Macquarie’s vision changed into a place of detention, incarceration and punishment.

Macquarie’s Female Factory building was partly demolished in 1885, some of its structure was incorporated into the now Institute of Psychiatry building at Cumberland Hospital. The main area where it once stood is now called the Deadyard an area of land bounded by the high stone walls of the Factory. By 1848 the Factory had been declared a place for paupers and lunatics.

In 1841 an orphanage was built on the drying grounds adjacent to the Factory, in an attempt to provide safe accommodation for the factory women’s children. It became known as the Roman Catholic Orphan School (RCOS).The premises of the Roman Catholic Orphan School were resumed by the NSW Government in 1886 and it ceased to function as an orphanage. Theories emerging from the Industrial Revolution shaped attitudes of the day which lead to the establishment of a Training and Industrial School on the site.

Between 1886 and 1983 it would go through many name changes each reflecting the social policy and attitudes of the day. What did not change over this ninety seven year period was the day to day life experienced by the inmates of the institution. In 1980 management of a section of the site was transferred to the Department of Corrective Services and it continues to operate as the Norma Parker Correctional Centre for Women.

Born as a disciplinary society, Australia was colonized during the period of the Industrial Revolution. It was a place of banishment for the displaced population of an English revolution that was fought not by using the gun or guillotine, but the more insidious instrument of control, reason and its progeny, science, in the interests of economy, made animate through morality and exercised by the judiciary.

It was within this climate that Governor Macquarie commissioned Francis Greenway to build Australia’s first institution of confinement the Female Factory at Parramatta in1821. In Macquarie’s correspondence1 we can read of his genuine concern for the welfare of the women and children of the settlement and of his ambition to create a place of safety where women would not have to prostitute themselves in order to get food and a roof over their head.

The Female Factory was Australia’s first social experiment to create a self contained, self supporting institution where the values of hard work would be rewarded with liberation from penal servitude to that of social respectability. As the stone walls surrounding the site grew in height so did the attitudes to its occupants, now inmates, change. They became woman who no longer needed protection but the depraved that the emerging free settler society had to protect themselves from.  It became a place where idleness would not be tolerated. Its purpose had been endowed by the history of the institution of confinement to house the poor, unemployed, idle, criminal and mad women of the colony – a place that would shape Australian attitudes towards women as either damned whores or God’s police.

It was upon this site that the system of rewards and punishment of the institutions of confinement of the early 19th century would remain un-challenged until the early 1980’s and from where, in the Australian thought-system, cultural images and conceptions of ‘rottenness and taint’ would be associated with particular groups.

Although few remnants of the original Factory building exist, its legacy lives on in the lives of people who have experienced the so called ‘care’ of the institution. The experiences of these people, the Forgotten Australians, can be traced back to 17th century Europe, to the establishment of the Hopital General in Paris and to the workhouses of Great Britain.

From 1821 to the present day every type of institution of confinement has been located on the Factory site; an orphanage, a training school, a psychiatric hospital and a prison.

Perhaps in our current political climate, where the meaning of asylum has shifted emphasis to that of the refugee, the asylum seeker, we will come to realize that their experience of the institution of confinement- the detention centres – are no different to that of those in other institutions established to provide a place of so called sanctuary in both contemporary and historical terms.  Attention to their plight may present an opportunity to question where our attitudes and beliefs about those who we place in such institutions actually originated from and more importantly bring about a change in our thinking.

“Life is more important than art. That’s what makes art so important”.    – John Malpede.

1 Macquarie colonial papers State Library of NSW.

Further information about the site featured in the film can be found here.

Forgotten Australians, memories

Our driveway remembered

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by Pamella Vernon (guest author) on 29 April, 2010

Our Driveway Remembered
Yvonne Vernon (Dalmar 1950 – 1958)

Coming into Dalmar now is a strange experience. The imposing pillared entrance of the driveway being closed off at Marsden Road, deprives one of the most memorable experience of youth, though not the memories. The wire fencing across the entrance gives a desolate feel, yet today, driving slowly past and pointing it out to friends, forgotten feelings that I experienced every time I came back to the only place I had to call “home” emerged. For the Dally kids, the driveway was the gateway to another life, a new home, different to what we had known or expected, yes, but nonetheless “home”, and in many cases the only one that flung doors wide open to accept us.

We brought with us pain, sorrow, confusion and grief, but “old” helped “new” kids to adjust, and eased the burden. The Dalmar driveway, as were the tennis court and swimming pool, donated and built by Sir Edward Hallstrom, of the Hallstrom Electrical Goods Company, (remember the Hallstrom refrigerator ?) a great friend of Dalmar and a generous benefactor. All the “kids” were recipients of his generosity at some time over many years . My xmas stocking was heavier on many occasions because of his consideration, a watch, tennis racquet, school case for high school, apart from elocution lessons for many years with Mrs Akehurst in Epping twice a week after school, like many kind folk who gave to us, he was an unsung, unseen hero, no public demonstration of gratitude was expected, indeed it would have been rejected, being the quiet, unassuming person that he was. A simple thank you letter was always answered personally, with kind words and encouragement.

For me the driveway will always have special memories, that wide sweep of avenue, flanked by coral trees ablaze with red, interspersing the highly scented Camphorlaurel trees. The “home” vegetable gardens could be glimpsed on the right coming down, and the dense trees on the left hid the little dirt road leading to the cemetery. The end wound itself around the wide circle of manicured lawn, bounded by Matron’s roses and the flagpole dead centre, a fitting introduction to the graceful architecture of the “main building”.

Walking down it alone, you could pretend you were the only person in the world. It was so quiet, the buzzing and humming of insects, the smell of flowers, trees, and rich soil wafting on the clean air was sheer heaven. It made me want to sing, and indeed I did. I used to go there to collect twigs and wood for the Newman furnace every afternoon. I would climb into the branches of a coral halfway down the drive and sing “I talk to the trees” at the top of my voice, pretending I was Doris Day (Doris Day I was definitely not). One day much to my embarrassment, halfway through I was accompanied by some of the senior boys working in the garden, with much laughter and teasing.

The same tree was a solitude place for me. I was steadily working my way through every book in the place and I would hide there to read every opportunity I could steal from chores ( and sometimes in place of) particularly on Saturdays and Sundays and visiting days. It was a meeting spot, away from people and kids, giving a sense of “secret place”, with some having their own special area. Ted Coulter (Laney) was the apple of my eye and my friend. We would meet there regularly, particularly when I had been in trouble again . He would commiserate, advise and let me get it out of the system. When he had been away for holidays with his family it was unspoken that we would meet there. He would tell me everything he had done and seen, and bring me gifts, a hanky, a bottle of perfume shaped like a crown, a little brooch, a book, all treasured for years after.

Although Ted and I shared our first childhood kiss on the steps of the kindergarten, the driveway provided the setting for my first grown up kiss, albeit innocent and clumsy. David Lambert and I got our noses in the way and ended up in stitches, but it was the basis for a long friendship, and he shared with me the long lively walk down the driveway, seeing me home each Wednesday night after youth club.

The driveway witnessed the funeral of 12 year old Julie Lloyd, a courageous , fragile, doll like child who spent her short life in bed, unable to even turn the pages of a book; loved and cherished by staff and children alike. It also saw the dying of an era. What great sorrow Dame Dorothea Barnett our beloved matron, must have felt wending her way up the leafy avenue for the last time ? She devoted her life to Dalmar and the children who were fortunate enough to pass through her care. Her life was an inspiration to all it touched, and for those left watching her disappearing among the leafy guard of honour, the atmosphere of inexpressible sadness must have been profound.

The driveway also brought merriment and fun to our door. Remember the exhilaration and sense of anticipation and excitement when the buses came down with the Jolly Revellers ? The boys would wait in relay from the top to let us know when they arrived at the entrance, Oh the joy of it, particularly the pressies and ice creams, not to mention the abandoned laughter and mirth at the concert and Nanna the clown and his mate Simple Simon.

Remember the xmas season? The buses arriving each Saturday for weeks to take us to various concerts and xmas parties at churches all over the metropolitan area. The thrill of waiting for the buses to take us to the ferry at Meadowbank for the Sunday school picnic at Parsley Bay. The contentment coming home through the gateway after a day of fun, sand, water, food and Deadmans cave, to drop weary, happy bodies into bed.

Remember the army trucks coming down one morning in convoy? They delivered tons of tinned bananas and mushroom soup that seemed to last an eternity, even with the loss of those that exploded endlessly in the servery store, with age and heat.

I recall with pleasure the cars of parishioners driving down after church at harvest festival time. They were packed with every kind of fruit, vegetable and other sundry goodies from the festival offering. I would sit in church, craning to see and count how many watermelons were there, or if the boxes had pears and peaches. How we feasted like royalty at harvest festival time!, and who could blame us if the message of thanks for all good things was lost on some of us at the time?

Do you remember “Toc H” ? sitting in rows of chairs in the dining room waiting for them to arrive with their monthly “real pictures”, the impatient fidgeting while they set up, and the disappointed collective groan when the film broke, or the agonised wait of the boy or girl chosen to say thank you, remember? “On behalf of the girls (or boys) of Dalmar I wish to thank you for coming tonight, and we look forward to you coming back again soon”! we all had it down pat for every occasion.

The driveway hosted all who came down its welcoming embrace, whether to stay, visit, give time, energy and love. Children leaving, going up for the last time to family, strangers, or out on their own with all the accompanying elation, apprehension and fears. Staff members coming to give of themselves, or leaving with regrets, some moving within the network to care for other children, some marrying to have families of their own, but all missed . Committee members to make decisions that would affect all. The sewing ladies who weekly mended and darned for hours. The weekly pick up and drop off of the shoe repairer Mr Spurway. The weekly visit of Mr Driscoll the choir master who made a pretty good show of turning us into a credible choir (except me, to be part yes but not to sing, because I put everybody off). People dropping off donations of clothes, books, toys, and money anything useful and not to forget the blue ribbon cakes donated weekly by the Blue Ribbon Cake Shop in Eastwood.

Lastly but not least, the “Old Girls and Boys yearly pilgrimage, and in particular Bob and Ruth Swanborough, for whom all the children waited to see for weeks beforehand, and crowded them when they arrived. Pied pipers, they brought down the driveway their own singular kindnesses, recognition of each, new kids sought out with a special greeting, kind words and hugs, acknowledged gratitude for serving them afternoon tea, or singing or reciting for them. Little did they know that we were honoured, and the privilege ours. So it is goodbye to the old Dalmar. Buildings that we grew up in have gone.

The loved landscape, so many years a private playground of cherished memory for so many, is in the process of mutation into urban sprawl, no doubt necessary. However, the driveway will have a new life. To those who will know it in the future it will be just a road. How could they know it as we do? They will always be unaware of the poignant role it played in the lives of thousands of children, that is historical progress, but we will know………….And we will remember………

Forgotten Australians, memories, poetry

Reflections – what I know

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by Pamella Vernon (guest author) on 29 April, 2010

I know of childhood !
I know about children
lost and vulnerable,
of anger and confusion,
torn from all, good and bad,
that represented for them
home, love and security.
I know about loneliness.
Children thrust
into an alien environment,
seeking solace for grief,
hungry for kind words,
understanding,
an embrace for sobs of need.
Children desperate for some
semblance of normality in the
‘human condition’.

I know of childhood
need for memories,
a link to a past,
with which to relate,
in an overwhelming sea of
indifference
or ignorant complacency.

I know of childhood emptiness.
A parent’s death,
the pain of unresolved grief,
separation and loss,
kept secret, unshared,
of abandonment.
Young minds and hearts in trauma,
seeking sense in their
displacement.

I know of childhood perceptions.
Emotionally sterile environment as
punishment, for perceived self-
inadequacy,
loss of love as unworthiness.

What did I do wrong?
I’m sorry….
Come and take me home,
I’ll be good,  I promise,
Please!  Please!

I know of childhood acceptance.
Submersion of needs for love,
affection, human warmth,
along with cherished memories
buried deep in the psyche,
in order to survive
in an emotional void.
I know about subterfuge!
Powerless, defenseless confusion.
A child branded and maligned,
Liar!  Bad Seed!  Scum!
because of  truth
argued on deaf ears.
Physical & emotional separation
from siblings. Punishment!
because Secrets had to be kept.
I know about insincerity,
enforced gratitude,
for the ‘right to be’
for the necessities to sustain life,
a compulsory component of
‘being needy’.

I know about Doctrine!
The ethos of
“The sins of the father
visited upon the child”.
The ripping apart of belief
in treasured memories,
in the name of
“Saving” the child.
A ‘decent God fearing upbringing’
at any cost!
I know about Religion!
of God presented as a
“God of anger” vengeful,  jealous,
the punisher of sin.
The ‘Love’ of God….
an afterthought.

I know about “Good People”!
Who could never stay……
I know about lies,
even where truth was irrefutable,
about smothered individualism,
initiative and spirit,
under the guise of ‘benevolence’.
I know about the few good people
who could never stay,
they managed the fine balance of
‘job’ with personal humility,
They made a difference in our
bereft childhoods,
however slight they may think,
in a system that enshrined a
religious and caring ethos,
but functioned
in a separatist ideology.
The “needy” poor,
seen as the agents
of their own destiny,
socially and morally bankrupt.

I know about adulthood!
I understand emotional survival
techniques,
adopted by children under threat,
to survive pain, trauma,
abandonment and displacement.
I know about ‘Growing up’!
The pain of being invisible,
unwanted & used
the constraints of life fulfillment,
of self-responsibility for life choices,
the futility of emotional baggage,
as an excuse or crutch.
I am the product of Nature
I am the product of lack of Nurture.
I take responsibility for me,
my actions, my thoughts,
my space.
I know pain of failure,
elation in triumph,
regret for lost opportunities.
I accept the myriad facets
of my character.

I know about Reflections!
Contemplation of childhood
can be a painful, funny journey
and illuminates
the dichotomy for all
Forgotten Australian’s childhoods.
Our sharing of stories
and memories,
the sadness, the pain,
the suffering,
the isolation, the abuse
I know about the fun, gaiety,
merriment and pleasures,
we the Forgotten Children,
We the Forgotten Australians
derived from each other
and shared in the reconstructed
families We created
amongst ourselves.
That ensures the balance
is not lost in the dross.

I know about indebtedness! we all
bring to each other today,
not only our personal experiences
of childhood,
but also our adult acceptance,
maturity and diversity.
We share the need for roots
firmly anchored in a sense
of family ties and traditions,
that we the unwanted,
the unloved
and the forgotten
can only truly understand.

Thank you my fellow
Forgotten Australians
for being the catalyst for
“The spirit of the extended
family”
we never had”

© 2000 Yvonne Vernon – all rights reserved

Yvonne Vernon was a resident of Dalmar Children’s Home, New South Wales, from 1950 to 1958. This poem, posted by her sister, was read by Jim Luthy and Pamella Vernon at the New South Wales Government’s Healing Service and Memorial Unveiling, for those who grew up in institutions, orphanages, children’s homes and foster homes, in the Royal Botanic Gardens, Sydney, on 19 September 2009.

art, documents, drawing, Forgotten Australians, memories

A tormented life

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by Warren Porter (guest author) on 28 April, 2010

Warren and his younger brother Graham were placed in their first institution when they were 4 and 2 years old. They endured the next decade and a half in various institutions, training farms and – despite being under age – jail.

In telling their story, Warren includes evidence such as photographs and documents, as well as vivid descriptions and drawings such as the following:

It was around June 1959 when my mate Charlie and I were making plans to p*** off from the Brook but made the mistake of telling this new boy who wanted to come with us about what we were going to do.

To read more of Warren’s story, download the extract from his illustrated book (PDF 1.8mb). The book is now in the National Library of Australia.

Forgotten Australians, memories, poetry

When a boy cried

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by Wayne Miller (guest author) on 23 April, 2010

WHEN A BOY CRIED

When a boy cried, no one listened,
When a boy cried, no one gave him succor,
When a boy cried, no one gave him peace,
When a boy cried, no one saw the pain,
When a boy cried, there was no saviour
When a boy cried, there was no God.

In bliss he was borne, in hell he was delivered,
In innocence he came, in damnation he left,
His protectors were revered, his tormentors were spared,
His world was his hatred, his reality his fantasy,
His torture his brother, his rape his sister,
In dreams he sought comfort, but only found horror,

He read with fear, of catholic inquisition,
He lived with dread, its inception,
This boy, this survivor, of Christian Brother fervor.
When this man cried, in agony of his memories,
Still nobody listened to his tale of horror,
Who could hear his muted brain, screaming,
Save me from this living hell, you evil men in black!

When the boy in the man cried, they looked the other way!?

 

THE CORRIDORS

The sands my feet touch, as I stroll
Along the lonely beach of life
Have been finely ground, over countless centuries
Yet
The echoing corridors of my mind, were created over
Decades.
It is an endless walk, this stroll through time
And as you hear the echoes, and feel the fear
Even as you suffer the loneliness, the pain, the sadness
You keep searching,
Endlessly,
for you.

Is there a chance there is a you in everyone
Can you touch your very soul as you shake hands
With life
Or
Does your soul cringe, at the very thought of strolling through
Life’s corridors,
As you turn each corner, enter each room of your experiences
are you scared of your own
Confrontations, the reality, that yes,
That is really you.

If so, be not afraid,
for it is you who makes the difference
between the knowledge that you are an individual
and
the knowledge that who you are will never change
and it is this very essence that makes life so interesting
so abundantly clear to all who perceive you.
So as you stroll through those corridors, let the pain be eased
By the memories of the good times,
Those precious moments in time when you could laugh and cry
With happiness.
For it is in these memories that you will find you.

Wayne Miller
2003

Forgotten Australians, memories

More about Nudgee Orphanage

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by Nikki Daniels (guest author) on 22 April, 2010

I really don’t like the label forgotten. forgotten would be to me – that when i was a child calling asking for help – there was none. I was drugged on nuelactyl (heavy tranquiliser)at 5 years of age for 6 solid weeks locked in a child’s hospital/ orphanage . They shipped me around from one paedophile family to the next. The doctor report says.. she denies her anus is sore… i think i would like to know.. 2 things actually. why was my anus sore.. and why was the doctor looking at my anus ? i have been a mother for over 22 years and never has a doctor ever looked at my child’s anus.. It was so easy for paedophiles to get acess into orphanages and group homes because it wasn’t actually his job. his wife was employed and he was just her husband. the new house father. they changed every couple of years. Because the husband was not actually employed by the state or the church – it makes an open case for anyone wanting to press charges upon that particular perpetrator. Paedophiles seem to do life long damage to children into adulthood and even elderly have hidden it all their life. most children asked for help and were denied the basic right of a human being. We had noone to turn to, the children that is. Most of the boys at a certain age were shipped out to prison youth farms westbrook and boystown.. what kind of a start to life is that. one would have thought that the government should have been educating these children properly as her own children. Would have made the country half a million people smarter and the rest of the generations there after. The government again i feel apologised only to protect their own ass. not that true care and concern was shown – after it was too late. the damage done. i have had the prime minister apologise to me and half a million other people. but the prime minister does not know who i am.. so facts are what i am saying is correct. i am still that little girl.. money does not and will not fix peoples problems. it gives them a moment .. of freedom. i have a lot of things i can say about this topic being a forgotten australian … The way that i was treated has had much impact on the way i approach society and how i involve myself in society. I don’t and i wonder sometimes would i be a different person if the abuse had never happened and i had a normal family. Finding my mother 41 years later – did not fix the problem. more it was a disappointment that i waited my whole life for what.. i cannot enjoy to be a child in her mothers arms. i cannot enjoy my mother showing me how to cook and wash my hands sing me songs or kiss me goodnight. . i cannot show my mother my first day at school . i was robbed of all these normal… things that any child should have. things that even a child in a third world nation does have. meeting my mother was like another slap in the face.. to meet a woman whom i should be attached but we are complete strangers.. an emptiness .. that cup will never be full. there lingers the scent only a hint.. of what should have been or could of been if it would have been.

who decides what goes into this book..?? more government officials ? more people paid a government grant for fundings? or do the actual people who are the forgotten australians get a choice..??? or is that right going to be taken as well.???. just like the unsigned federal apology…

Child Migrants, memories, objects, photos

Belongings

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by Adele on 30 March, 2010

See personal objects and find out what they mean to former Child Migrants Eddie Baker, Jan Barby, David Hill, Ian Bayliff and Gwen Cole via the Migration Heritage Centre’s Belongings website.

We, too, are interested in any objects that help to relate personal experiences of life in a children’s home. If you have an object that you would like to lend or donate to the Museum for our pending exhibition, then please contact us.

Forgotten Australians, memories

One-way ticket

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by Graham Evans (guest author) on 26 March, 2010

The Journey

Here it is – 1958 – my first experience away from home, the big adventure into the wide-open spaces of life itself.

I was seven years old then; it was a glorious day, early morning sun shining brightly through the side window of my Dad’s old Plymouth, the sounds of birds whistling in the trees, and the sweet scent of wild country flowers.

I sat there pondering; it seemed like ages, wondering where this journey was taking me. We drove on when suddenly I realised something was wrong, then Mum said, “We won’t be long, we will pull over and have a picnic lunch”.

We had our lunch, it was by a stream, such beauty I’ve never seen. I suddenly thought, “Where was Dad?” Mum said, “Don’t worry son, you’re just a lad, and one day when you’re big and strong, I’ll tell you of things that went wrong”.

We sat there having this picnic lunch under a tall chestnut tree, I suddenly looked up and there was Mum, staring at me with tears I’d never seen, such beauty and radiance, just like a queen.

I ran to her side and embraced her tight, when she whispered “Son, it will be all right”. I looked again, and said, “I love you Mum”. She replied, “I hope so, you’re my youngest son”.

I couldn’t stop wondering, “Where was Dad?” It seemed a lifetime and I began to grow sad. So weary my eyes became, I fell asleep.

When I awoke, much to my dismay, we had entered this large school where children played. There were hundreds of them, women in black. My heart told me, I want to go back; to that country town by the dust track, to the place that I loved, to the fields and the trees and most of all to the birds that talked to me.

I stood there so scared and embraced my Mum, when suddenly this woman said, “Come here son, your Mother has to leave on her journey again”. My eyes filled with tears and I started to cry. As she drove off, I heard her say, “I love you son, I’ll be back one day, to take you out in the glorious sun, we’ll have a picnic and have lots of fun”.

As time went by my eyes still filled with tears, here it is now three long years. “I’m never going to see her again”, I said, when Sister Anne called, “It’s time for bed!”

Here is another day, a little schools and lots of play. With the friends that I made, time soon flew by, those tears I cried were deep inside, my heart grew strong, for that place that I loved, the trees, the birds and the stars above, to that country place I once called home, with my Mum and Dad, I was never alone.

As these lonely years rolled over again, I suddenly thought I’m nearly ten, those junior days will soon be gone, to another school, where I had to belong. Four years had gone by, and not once did I see the parents I loved, what was to be.

Sister Anne cried out, “Come have a feed”, then it’s off to the new school they called ‘Westmead”. This school was so different, there was no love, do this, come here, and given a shove, bend over and touch your toes, a whack with a stick or a hit on the nose.

Those Brothers I really started to hate, and they had the audacity to call me ‘mate’.

I never learnt much in all those years, but to stand up for your rights and show no tears.

It was not like the Nuns, I was the teacher’s pet and the love they showed, I soon had to forget. In this school, it was do or die, there was moments I remember I had to cry, to myself you see, that’s the way it had to be.

As time went on I joined the band, to do something to forget, if you could understand. The drums I played to my heart was content, I feel this time was worthwhile spent.

At times I wondered why these Brothers were so cruel, there was something not seen, hidden within this school. A brother of mine was expelled, he stood up for his rights, but didn’t tell, we all punished it was like a living hell.

It went on for years, no one could see, for this brother of mine, they punished me. He did not know, for he’d already gone, away from this place, where no one belonged.

It was 1966, and I loved to run, when all of a sudden this man said, “Son, we’re looking for a child around your size, we’ve been looking for ages, if you can’t realise. His name is Graham, and this is his Mum, if you know him, can you tell son?”

Briefly my heart stopped, much to my dismay. This couldn’t be the woman who put me away. When I turned around she was gone. But I heard her say, she won’t be long. I’ll be away next week, you won’t be alone. I will be back soon, I’m taking you home. Away from this school and their punishing eyes. I’m sorry son I never realised.

I was fourteen when I left and couldn’t look back. The man who spoke to me, his name was Jack. He was to replace the father I never had. I soon became to call him Dad.

As I grew older, we grew apart, but I loved that man with all my heart. He was always there to teach me right, and give me a hug and say goodnight. You know I loved this man called ‘Jack’.

I soon forgot that dusty track, the fields and the tress, and most of all, the birds that talked to me, and the scented breeze.

I went to a new school at Lithgow High, got into some fights, but didn’t cry. They said I was new in town, for this they tried to put me down.

They called me names, but they did not know the troubles I’ve seen down below. I got back up and stood my ground, they tried no more to push me around.

I’m almost twenty-one now and out of play. I got a new job to pay my way. I stayed at Woolies for a couple of years, ‘til I met a girl, who brought me tears.

We all make mistakes, it happened to me. We had a baby and named her Sherie. This woman I love, but it wasn’t to be, a crucial mistake, what is happening to me.

I stayed in touch because I loved the girl, she didn’t want to go out into the great big world. She stayed with her Mum, something I never had, if I took her away, she would only be sad.

So off I went again, to sort out my feelings and get in touch with my brain. I knew I had done wrong, but what could it be, and couldn’t stop thinking of our daughter ‘Sherie’.

Almost twenty-two and I’ve travelled around trying to make ends and settle down. I bought a guitar and I sang around, here and there in these country towns. I was offered a job to pay my way, and this place I thought I’d stay. At least for a while ‘til I got my grips, I played for the love of it and got some tips.

I wrote songs from the heart, you know, and lots of feelings from down below.

I sit here in the loneliness of this room, a vision unveils itself from the gloom. Long red hair, a pretty face, skin as soft as lace. I recognised her instantly. She was a girl so dear to me but she would go and I would know. Yes! She’s gone and left me to the loneliness of this room.

Life goes on, and so must I, it sees the birth of a thousand unwanted lies, but she would stay embedded in my mind, so I could never forget her, and the loneliness of this room. Words like this stuck in my mind, I’d knew I’d forget, but it would take time.

Here it is now nearly December, you know these words I still remember. Now I’m twenty-two and life’s still cruel, I thought: ‘Why did Mum ever choose this school’. I had no friends, they were too far away, no one to talk to and too old to play. What did I do that was so bad, why do I feel empty and sad.

The big twenty-two, it’s a bright new day, I packed my things and on my way. I went back home to Mum and Jack, they were so pleased to see me back.

It was that very night that I had a drink, and I had some more, ‘til I couldn’t think. I started home ‘cause it was so far, in those days I never owned a car, and as I wandered down the lonely road, someone came by in a very slow mode. A cry called out, “Would you like a ride?” I said yes thanks and swallowed my pride. For there was not many people I really knew, you could count them on one hand, there was just a few.

There wasn’t a day that never went by that I didn’t stop and have a cry, or at least a tear, but what could you expect after seven long years. People would say ‘stop’ and ‘don’t be a fool’. I’d like to see them, just one day in that school.

I tried to look back on some good days we had, there wasn’t too many, which was rather sad. We were fostered out on weekends a lot, to different families, whether you liked it or not. I’ll go back to Westmead School and find out why they were so cruel, and why they treated us they like they did, because after all we were only kids. I’d like to see them do it in this day and age, I know you parents would put up a rage.

I’ve seen psychiatrists ‘cause I felt the need, something that was caused by that school ‘Westmead’. I’ve often thought; ‘what was in their mind? To treat us like they did most of the time. What benefit did they really get, to leave us with memories we can’t forget? I am not the only one who is in need, there were lots of us from that school ‘Westmead’.

art, Forgotten Australians, memories, poetry

Finding the answer

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by Leigh Westin (guest author) on 25 March, 2010

Mummy passed away when I was four
Sent to Scarba where they closed the door.
My family was taken
My heart is breaking
Too young to know WHY!!!
Mummy is in heaven, so high in the sky.
Not given a chance to say good-bye.
Through a thick glass wall,
I could see my sisters.
I try to reach them, my hands have blisters.
Daddy brought my brothers to see us,
Then they were gone
Blown away like dust.
No-one to talk to about my pain,
wanting my family back to-gether again.
Little birds flying high in the sky,
‘Send Mummy back, I don’t want her to die’
The birds flew up and flew so high,
Mummy didn’t come back
I don’t know why!!

I’m older now and understand,
why god took my mum to live in the sky.
She’s an angel and watching over me
easing the pain so I can get by.

Forgotten Australians, memories

Our story

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by Carmel Durant (guest author) on 5 March, 2010

LOST CHILDHOOD

The Great Depression of the late 1920s–1930s not only deprived hundreds out of work but also redundancy. This had a flow on effect of poverty and sickness.

Both our parents were very sick, due to poverty and malnutrition. To help out families with children, soup kitchens were established at the schools.

Indelibly etched in my memory was seeing my Mother very sick in hospital. Within a few days of this visit, my two sisters and myself and a very small suitcase were put on a train with woman we did not know, nor did we know where we were going, and that would be the last we would ever see of our home for life. We were now ‘STATE WARDS’. I was eleven years old.

We arrived at ‘Bidura’Home in Glebe. It was all so different, as we had never been to the City or away from our country town. On arrival our small suitcase was taken, were issued with blue uniforms and black stockings. We were chastised for not saying ‘thank you’ to the person in charge when we received our outfits. Most embarrassing, was having to strip in front of at least six complete strangers … walk up three steps to the bath and, as a matter of routine, having your head ‘treated’, no matter what your age.

Within a week or so we were taken to Camperdown Hospital to have our Tonsils and Adenoids removed.

Chores were allocated in the Home. My job was to make numerous beds in the dormitory, sweep and scrub the floor, then asked the supervisor to inspect it and if passed then you could go to ‘SCHOOL’. This was one room in the grounds with no qualified teacher. We did craft, mainly puppets.

Saturday came and we would be fitted out from the ‘clothes cupboard’, containing frocks, shoes etc. What looked OK, is what you wore to Church on Sunday. Another child would have that outfit next Sunday. We were marched in line to the church, then back to the Home and back in uniform.

We hadn’t been in the Home very long when our Dad came, and talking us onto the Black and White tiled verandah, at the front of the Home, he told us our Mum had died. She was only thirty six. There was no support or gentleness from those in charge!

Came the day and down to the ‘store room’ we went to be fitted out with a new set of clothing and off to our ‘Guardian’ [or ‘foster mother’]. She was a lady with her grown son, at Waverley. Her husband was a train driver up Newcastle way.

We three shared a double bed and on Saturdays we would spend the day burning the bed bugs with a lighted candle. We did not sit at the dining table; we sat at a small table in the laundry. The drink that we had was made from discarded tea leaves with hot water poured over them.

I remember the cases of tomatoes kept under the bed. They were kept so long they were unfit for consumption, but they were good enough as far as our Guardian was concerned to be put in our sandwiches for school. The Nuns, at Holy Cross, noticed that we were not eating lunch and throwing the sandwiches in the garbage. They gave me money to buy either a pie or a sandwich, which I broke in three and shared with my sister, so that we all had a small amount to sustain us. The episode was reported to the then called Child Welfare, with the result that we were returned to ‘Bidura’.

My next job at the Home was to help in the kitchen. I spread bread with Golden syrup (no butter) for the children coming back from ‘School’, help prepare meals, help feed the small children, help prepare the food and to do the washing up.

It was time to go back to the ‘store room’ for a new set of clothing. This time we were headed off to Mittagong. Our ‘Guardian’ this time, in my opinion, was a very caring person. We all worked together in our little garden. She took us up to see our Dad, who was in Randwick Hospital. We could only see him from a distance as he had a contagious disease.  She let us be children. However, this was short-lived. I came home from school one afternoon to find her lying on the bedroom floor, she had had a Stroke and later passed away.

Back to ‘Bidura’ … we knew the routine by now. My allocated work at this time was, wake up at 5.30 am and wake the staff with their morning tea. 6am, set the table in their dining room, bring their meals, clear the tables, clear the dining room and wash their dishes. Then there was the Black and White tiled verandah out in front to be scrubbed. This was the daily routine, then go to the ‘School’.

Back to the ‘store room’ for another outfit, this time we were off to Mascot.

We were not allowed to go inside the house only for meals and to sleep. We spent the majority of our time in a little tin shed in the backyard that had a piece of hessian covering the entrance. We were there even when it was raining. We occupied ourselves by making small craft. My youngest sister had been given a small toy which she loved, she dressed it. One afternoon after arriving back from school we were devastated to find the toy and the little bits of craft had been burnt or thrown away. You daren’t ask ‘why?’.

Saturdays were spent cutting the lawn down on our hands and knees, as all we had to cut it with was a pair of hand shears and scissors. Also down on our knees we swept the kitchen floor with a dust pan and brush, and then we had to scrub it. We also had to make sure there was enough coal inside for a fire.

Our Dad, who was ill in Randwick, sent us lollies from time to time. These would be rationed out to us; also the letters he wrote would be opened and censored. Then came the day when the ‘Guardian’ told us there would be no more sweets or letters as our Father had died … There were no hugs or soothing words.

On my sister’s tenth birthday we were sent out to the Cemetery, out Malabar way, to place on our ‘Guardian’s’ husband’s grave. He had passed away three weeks after we arrived. While we were there the wild yellow flowers were out, so we picked some and went around putting them on other graves. What child has ever spent a birthday like that?

During all these years we were not encouraged to have friends around or go to anyone else’s place. No one to play with nor did have any celebrations such as birthdays or Christmas. We were at ‘Bidura’ for one Christmas and we were given two boiled lollies … no toys or anything we could cherish.

Our younger brother was placed in a different Home; he was only five years old. Then he was placed in a Remand Home (only five) … he had not done anything wrong.  He was then place in the care of a very wealthy family in Bellevue Hill. We did not see him for some years. At this family home (who entertained a lot) he was expected to carry chairs and down flights of stairs. He had contracted TB of the ankle and had one leg in a caliper, so this was difficult for him. Our Grandmother who came down from the country to see him was horrified and eventually gained ‘Guardianship’ of him and took him back to our country town. He was now seven years old.

For me, all this Trauma came to an end the day I turned eighteen, but my two sisters remained on for a while. My second sister went back to ‘Bidura’ and my youngest sister entered the Convent.

Through our adversities, we all achieved our ambitions. My second sister and I became Trained Nurses and our youngest sister became a Teacher, also helping out the homeless and a mentor to many. Myself, I became an In-charge Nurse of the Operating Theatres and Emergency Department for many years. Our youngest brother became a Motor Mechanic.

Our Parents would have been proud of what we achieved.

I am now Eighty-Two years old and these memories remain very clear. What happened to our Childhood?

My young brother was fortunate enough to go to the Apology given by the Prime Minister Mr Kevin Rudd.

These are not just stories, they are FACT and now all of these events will be believed!

Written by Carmel Durant (nee Green) January 2010

Child Migrants, memories, photos

Dhurringile boys

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by Hugh McGowan (guest author) on 2 March, 2010

Dhurringile Rural Training Farm for Boys opened in Tatura, Victoria, in 1947. The photograph below, taken on 12 September 1961, depicts five boys from the Quarriers Home near Glasgow, Scotland, leaving to travel to London on the “Flying Scotsman” where they boarded the SS Orion to travel to Australia. The boys are saying farewell to their cottage mothers and the superintendent who were responsible for their care in Quarriers Homes.

The boys arrived in Australia on 15 October 1961 and were taken to Dhurringile Rural Training Farm for Boys until it closed in 1964. Those who were left were transferred to Kilmany Park Home for Boys in 1964. Hugh McGowan stayed there until early 1966 when he left the institution system for good.

Robert Galt (top left), Richard McAllister (top centre), Edward Curran (top right), Hugh McGowan (bottom left) and Matthew Robert Smith (deceased) (bottom right)
Forgotten Australians, memories, photos

Winlaton file photos

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by Lynn Meyers (guest author) on 1 March, 2010

I was admitted to Winlaton on the 14th of Sept 1959. I was on remand for a few months in Goonyah – the lock up block at Winlaton. I travelled to Bendigo court a few times, then I was made a ward of the state until I turned 18. I was committed under my stepfather’s name which was Koplick. I only found out when I went to court that my real name (birth certificate) is Meyers. I was there until 3/2/1962 when I was sent to QLD to my stepfather, who was deemed unsuitable in my files. I still do not know why they sent me to him. All the reports about him including the accommodation were unsuitable. I was given a tiny room at the back of his farm house, it did not have a real bed only boards supported by small stumps of wood. For bed covers he gave me an old army great coat. In fact he did not pick me up from the airport, he sent the local publican to get me. I had to stay with them at their hotel until he picked me up.

I ran away to find my mother who was living about 80 km away at Parckridge. I hitchhiked to her place and when I got there she was not there, so I waited in her house until she finely came home. She was amazed to see me. She did not want me to stay with her as she said she had made a new life and family. So she and Bob took me back to Waterford to my stepfather. I was not there long when I hitched back to Melbourne, to girls I really did know from the home. It did not take long for the police to pick me up and I was back in Winlaton again in 1963. I can not remember how long, but I am sure it was only for a few months, then off to Fairlea Women’s Prison. Another revolving door, for the next few years.

Goonyah is the first block that I was sent to in Winlaton, it was the secure lock up block. We never went outside from this block until we were deemed fit and behaving to the screws’ liking, and then we would earn the privilige to be transferred to Warrina, the second block. There we were always locked in at night. However we were allowed to go to school or do chores during the day. The next block was Karingal, this was the last block that we went to if we were behaving at Warrina. This was called the open block,where we were groomed to be sent home or to Leawarra hostel or foster parents.

I was sent to Leawarra twice, but I absconded with 3 other girls.We were caught at Wodonga and sent back to Goonyah.

Forgotten Australians, memories

A chilling account

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by Junita Lyon (guest author) on 1 March, 2010

Junita Lyon, a resident of  Parramatta Girls Home in 1970–71, remembers her time in the institution.

During my childhood I was committed to Parramatta Girls Training School where many degrading acts were part of Policy and Procedures.

On arriving at Parramatta I was held for hours in a holding room. Taken away and given a number and fitted for various types of clothing such as shoes, twinsets tartan skirts, underwear smocks and socks. My long hair was cut like a page boy, it devastated me and I was taken to dormitory 2 to start my 12 months committal period.

Every morning we were woken early and had to stand at the end of our beds and display our sheets to an officer, to make sure that we had not soiled or wet them. We would then make the bed to procedure and head of to our pre breakfast work.

We started our hard working day early, some went off to yard duty to pick up rubbish or sweep, others cleaned and scrubbed the dormitories before breakfast muster.

We would muster each time the bell rang and would stand to attention while being yelled at or belittled. Left Right Left Right Left Right we marched, we didn’t go anywhere with out some officer marking time.

In the morning we would be marched to breakfast to porridge with weevils, sweet warm white tea and white bread that every one said was made at the prison next door and they had ejaculated in it.

If we needed medical assistance or had our periods and wanted a pad, we would have to wait for help then it was a public ordeal, having to show the pads to prove if we were having a heavy period or not. There was no privacy at all.

After breakfast and a quick recreation break we were assigned to a variety of Jobs a few were able to continue their education but nearly all were trundled off to the kitchen sewing room or laundry to Iron, wash, scrub or fold, a thankless task as was anything we did at Parramatta, I never heard praise for a job well done.

The laundry was a hard place to work we worked at the same pace as adults, it was hard on your legs and back and the temperature was unbearable, if you behaved you could get the opportunity to change jobs. Generally most of the girls were standing at ironing boards ironing from morning till late afternoon the work was repetitive and caused aches and pains to the body.

While in the laundry the job that I aspired to was to use the large industrial washing machines as I was bad at ironing, this was also hard work lifting heavy bundles of clothes.

After my time in the laundry I got a job painting the dormitories and other areas of the home, we worked in a small group and I painted one dormitory after another. It was sad to have to paint over the written history the girls had scratched on to the dungeon walls.

The painting job saved me from more trouble as I had to behave to keep the job and the officer that was with us was a very old lady who gave us a bit more freedom to talk, than anyone else there.

We were given chocolate cake and milk to absorb the lead paint we used.

I often heard my name called “under the bell” that would mean punishment either Isolation or scrubbing.

I spent time in Isolation; I actually liked the 24 hour stint, time to be on my own, I vented my anger, pain, frustration and confusion in written form on a blackboard which was the only thing in the room.

It was during these times I would think about the events that lead me to Parramatta and my drug addiction, why after so much pain, why more was being inflicted, Isolation was where I cried.

Scrubbing was the most common punishment and we often scrubbed the pigeon loft or cover way in groups called scrubbing parties.

The pigeon loft and I were common companions I remember the bird poo running down my arms and upsetting my eyes, kneeling scrubbing boards then standing scrubbing rafters, till my knees were raw for days on end from early morning till late at night depending on which officer I upset. Often we were set to work scrubbing the cover way with a scrubbing brush or toothbrush.

This cold lonely punishment was quite frightening at night for a 14-15 year old; often a girl could be left there scrubbing and almost forgotten about.

Punishment seemed to be given out at random, one time I spent 3 days with steel wool shining a rubbish bin with no cover during winter and another time I had to stand face to face with another girl and not smile or laugh for a whole day.

One time I was grabbed by the ears and my head was bashed up against a wall, this was a regular occurrence for many of us girls.

One cold night I was scrubbing on my own on the cover way and was called into the office I then had my head bashed into the wall till I cried.

That night I decided I wasn’t going to be bashed again so set up a devious plan.
The first chance I got I found a rock and smashed my head with it, so there was blood dripping down my face, I screamed and yelled, that It was caused by the bashing.
I had been pushed too far and my time as a street kid had taught me to protect myself.

I get sad when I think of this moment the fact, that I had to inflict self harm to myself to protect myself from my carer still gives me a chill to this day.

We lacked any privacy to undergo personal hygiene the toilets had no doors and we were given only a few sheets of toilet paper, a humiliating event.

I also remember the fear that welled up, during the time we would stand naked in a cubicle and an officer would walk around and have us drop our towels and inspect our naked bodies for tattoos, scratching and pins.

Some officers were creepier than others in the way they did this task and made you feel very uncomfortable or quite terrified.

Before we had a shower of an evening we also had to scrub the crutch of our underwear and show it to an officer.

All these sanctioned acts were degrading and have haunted me all my life…

Our escape from misery and brutality as young girls was to each other; our friendships were often intense and emotional. We crocheted hankies and wrapped soap in them as gifts to our special friends.

During our short recreation time, records and dancing under the cover way was how we spent our time, being careful not to be caught doing anything against the rules.
We danced the Parramatta Jive to songs such as blue angel and band of gold.
During this time we almost felt normal.

During dinner if you dropped your peas off your plate, talked or did anything menial you washed all the dishes, when everyone had finished.

There was always an officer on the prowl to look for someone to punish.

After dinner, if a dormitory had behaved overall 1 to 5, except 3, were able to use the recreation or TV room sitting on cold hard metal chairs in a cold hall watching a show that you never got to see the end. Usually dormitory 3 were standing at the end of their beds; during my time there this was the group punishment.

I only got to go in the rec room once, so we lost privileges easy.

Not many girls had visitors as many girls had spent there lives institutionalised or in foster care.

Those that did have visitors would meet them, on the cover way on a Sunday and many girls were randomly body searched after the visit.

There were certain girls that officers would take a dislike too, if you were singled out for punishment you would most likely end up at Hay. So the threat of more brutality was always hanging over our heads.

During my stay I spent time in  dormitory’s  2,4,3,5,6 I saw  a lot of injustice.

We as children needed protection and nurturing we were not given that protection and were often abused and degraded by the officers and treated like hardened criminals. Most girls in Parramatta were committed because they were neglected, abused or unloved.

The courts would then charge the girls with exposed to moral danger and commit them to a 3,6,9 or 12 months committal period. I saw many girls return after a few weeks of being let out as they were sent back to their abusers and didn’t cope. Life was tough and unjust for a Parragirl.

On the 16th of November Prime Minister Kevin Rudd made an apology to the “Forgotten Australians”

I welcomed this apology as my time in care has haunted me my whole life.
For me this apology is life changing, it validates the abuses of my child rights that occurred and gives me back my self worth.

I was a small child subjected to harsh punishment; criticism and lack of nurturing that affected my development and sent me spiralling into despair for many years.

It created family disengagement, lack of education and left me with low self esteem, and the inability to feel any belonging.

It created in me an outcast a loner, hiding in shame that did not fit in with others.
An apology cannot fix the damage already done but it creates in me a feeling of relief because it removes the feeling of guilt and shame I have lived with.

Forgotten Australians, memories

Britain apologises to former child migrants

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by Adele on 1 March, 2010

On February 24, 2010, at a reception in Westminster Britain’s Prime Minister Gordon Brown apologised on behalf of the nation for Britain’s role in sending thousands of children overseas until the late 1960s.

Child Migrant Apology

Mr Harold Haig, the secretary of the International Child Migrants Association, responded to the Prime Minister’s apology on behalf of child migrants and their families.

Child Migrant Apology – Response
Forgotten Australians, memories, poetry

Memories

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by Beth Pinkerton (guest author) on 22 February, 2010

I didn’t really have any memories until I saw the ad in the paper for the Parragirls Reunion and Hay trip.
I wasn’t in Hay, but I went.
Sitting in that bus with all the women, was the first time I have ever felt I fit in.
I remember the girls coming back from Hay.
The way they came to attention and the way they looked at the floor.

The Hay girls were the best bit of advertising Parramatta ever did.
Their behaviour terrified me.
What had happened to them to make them like that?

I kept that in mind when I was sent out to work from Bethal.
I had seen the superintendent so many times ‘visiting’ a girl in Bethal.
So when I refused to go back out to work, because the man I worked for was assaulting me. Our superintendent made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.
Either go back out to work and let that man have sex with me, or, go to Hay.
I took the first option.

I came out of that place broken.
I stayed that way until I gave up using when I was 48.
I am now 58.
My life only really started when I turned 50.
All those years wasted in violent relationships and addiction.

I went to the apology on the bus with the Parragirls.
I cried because I saw so many men and women like me, broken and ill.
I cried because finally we had been acknowledged.
But for me sorry isn’t enough.

But it’s a start.

art, Forgotten Australians, memories, painting

Bonney’s paintings

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by Bonney Djuric (guest author) on 20 January, 2010

Bonney Djuric  is the Founder of Parragirls – Parramatta Female Factory Precinct Inc. Parragirls is a contact register and support group for Forgotten Australians committed to State Welfare Institutions.

Born in Victoria, Bonney spent her childhood years in rural Gippsland. She is the second eldest of six siblings and divorced mother/foster mother of five children.

By the time she was 9 her father had deserted the family leaving them in poverty and driven by shame and desperation her mother relocated the family in Sydney. In those days women’s wages were low and government benefits were well below the poverty line. Evicted from their home help came in the form of public housing in Sydney’s far western suburbs. Bonney continued at school until 14 leaving to take work as a junior office assistant. Again tragedy struck when she was picked up on her way to work one morning and raped. A court hearing ensued and the offenders were exonerated. For months following the case Bonney and her family were harassed by the offenders and others and in desperation she ran away trying to make her way back to her grandmother in Victoria. Eventually picked up by the welfare she was charged with Exposed to Moral Danger and committed to Parramatta Girls Home by the time she was 15.

Married at 20, her life settled and she became a mother of two, however the legacy of her childhood remained unresolved and her marriage broke down in her mid thirties. A decade later she lost two sisters, one of whom was a single parent of three. Taking the children, Bonney once again became involved with the welfare system. Facing an uncertain future Bonney was determined to make changes and it was from this that her engagement with other Forgotten Australians began.

Bonney’s reflections on the federal apology to the Forgotten Australians and Lost Innocents

What does it mean to be a Forgotten Australian?

Firstly, it gives me a sense of belonging – this may seem rather strange – but for me like so many others we’ve had to grapple with a sense of being invisible and also a sense of powerlessness. In practical terms this affects all aspects of our lives and presents difficulties in expressing our needs to authority figures such as doctors, Centrelink, legal people, police etc.. for instance when my sister died back in 2000 I took care of her 3 young children, twins aged 9 and elder boy 10 years. This brought me in contact with the “WELFARE” department for the first time since 1970 when I left Parramatta Girls Home where I had been thoroughly convinced that I was worthless – and worse that I had a criminal record which of course I didn’t.

As I had always worked I had no experience in dealing with Centrelink and after 18 months of supporting the children I was informed by a Children’s Court solicitor that from the outset I was entitled to a foster carer’s allowance.

Irrational as it seems,  I also feared that the welfare would take the kids if they knew who I really was and as a result I was reluctant to ask DoCs for the help and support needed. This fear is shared by many Forgotten Australians who learnt at a young age that there were always consequences if you dared to ask. Rather like Oliver Twist’s request for more porridge!

With my new circumstances came a resolve that I would do everything I could to break the cycle that had been my experience, my mother’s and those of my sister and her children. I began to examine my past, ask questions and confront my fears. My first point of call was Parramatta Girls Home – now the Norma Parker Detention centre for Women. Now many years later I no longer have a sense of fear and apprehension when visiting the site and through personal experience have learnt a way to dispel the ghosts of the past.

Throughout the years I’ve engaged with the issues facing many Forgotten Australians and in 2006 formalised my activities in forming Parragirls.

What does the apology mean to me?

Really there’s no easy answer but I can say that for some it has brought a sense of closure and increased awareness of a ‘hidden’ history in Australia. It’s one step in what I feel will be a long journey to an unknown destination. On a personal level I was touched by Kevin Rudd’s acknowledgment  that many Forgotten Australians did not survive to see this day – those who had died ‘forgotten’ or by their own hand like my sister.

The apology brought together so many people in one place, yet each of us was in that very ‘alone’ place – the place of a child’s nightmare with our memories and those of all who we remember. I recall Kevin Rudd saying “today you are no longer the forgotten Australians but rather the remembered Australians”,  and perhaps just for that moment we were.

But what of the future?

However well intentioned or well received the apology may be it does not equate to forgiveness – that is a side of the equation which each of us must find alone.

I’ve learnt that I have to be the change I want and will continue to lobby for the preservation and dedication of Parramatta Girls Home and the adjacent Female Factory as a Living Memorial to the Forgotten Australians and others who have been marginalised by society.

Bonney Djuric
November 2009

Forgotten Australians, memories

Just a day in Adelaide

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by Sconey (guest author) on 20 January, 2010

It was one of those days when I didn’t want to talk to people. I just wanted to be left alone. It was a grey cold day in the city of churches. I walked down Hindley Street. The place has changed. It has been many years since I said I would never come here again. All my old squats are gone. New shops are everywhere; all the old hang outs are long gone, just their shells remain with different faces. But the memories are so strong. It feels like the street is still a part off my blood. The doorways I used to sleep in, the smells and aromas set off flashbacks and instincts in my brain. I felt like a homing pigeon coming home. I had a lot of good times living here as a kid and many bad times. I was a ward of the State, on the run most of the time and in those days I was not the only kid hanging out there. Many kids were there. All surviving in one street, living any way they could. We were there through family and systems abuse.

We all had our tricks to getting money to survive. Begging was one of them. A pie or pasty was under a dollar then. Some nights the street had kids on every corner begging for food, cigarettes, drugs or money. Many kids sold their souls there as well. The street was a meat market for the predators and pimps.

The things we did to survive! We were so young. We did not know how we were being abused by those who so cunningly took advantage of our situation. We could not even fathom how it would leave scars so deep in us; that the nightmares and memories would last a life time. This street had all of the seven deadly sins in it. It took many lives in many ways.

Strolling past the big M on corner of Hindley and Bank Streets, I turned towards the railway station and an old friend walked past. This blew me away. He was still walking the street after thirty plus years and going through bins. He was hanging out in town many years before my time in the street. This just saddened me even more. I walked up to him and called his name. I was one of only a few that this person ever spoke to. No one ever knew his name except me. He turned and looked shocked that someone recognized him. He realized who I was after a good long stare at me. The feelings were racing through my mind. I quickly opened my wallet and said to him, ‘My friend, the system is still failing you. You can have what ever is in my wallet’. I had two fifty dollar notes. He took both of them. Immediately after that my eyes hit the ground. I was in tears and I couldn’t even look him in the face as I did not want him to see my tears running down my face. I mumbled, ‘Take care of yourself, my friend’, and turned towards the railway station.

The day rapidly went from grey to very dark after that. I walked over the River Torrens bridge on King William Road and looked at the toilet block in Jolley’s Lane. Many kids hung around there in the old days, trying find places to sleep late at night. This was a dangerous place to sleep. You were often woken by men playing with themselves, enticing you with money to come with them to their houses and with cold frozen backs most of us went with them.

Well, with all those old memories I really needed something I gave away a long time ago – alcohol. So I quickly found the nearest pub with an auto teller machine and started drinking heavily. I found the need to gamble and sat at a poker machine and a started playing. However, losing was more like it.

Sitting besides me were three old fellows yakking away. I have big ears and don’t mind old fellow stories, so I listened to what they were saying. The subject was the Mullighan Inquiry and the wards of the State. They were also talking about things that happened to them in the past. Their stories were not too bad. They had homes and families in their day, whereas we did not. Some of their comments were along the lines of, ‘They expect us tax payers to pay for those rotten criminal kids; I would have snotted my kids if they were like that; They’re still alive today so they must have been treated all right; The joke of it!’ This subject went for another ten minutes with them knocking us wards. The last comment was, ‘I reckon they are all liars!’

After this I was boiling. I had to say something to these silly old fools and I had to keep my cool in my intoxicated state. Still I stood up proudly and said, ‘I am one of the Forgotten Australians you are talking about. You think because of what happened to you, we do not deserve retribution or compensation some how. Well let me tell you something fellows? Your generation denied what was happening to us; you closed your eyes and let it happen and you say you are not to blame as well. You are idiots and you should be ashamed. Until you have walked in our shoes and walked down our paths, you know little about us and our lives. You are here in the pub spending your government pension, with obviously not a worry in the world, knocking the disadvantaged and underprivileged’, I went on to tell them, ‘It was in papers many times back then and in your face, when you could have done something about it. But what did most of the public do? They closed their eyes and looked the other way or abused us. Yes old fellows, you are to blame too, along with the Government’.

That shut them up.

Forgotten Australians, memories

Cold grey orphanage in Goulburn

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by Fran Yule (guest author) on 20 January, 2010

In 1947, Fran, aged three and her sister, aged five, were taken to St Joseph’s Orphanage, Goulburn.

It was a cold grey building run by cold grey nuns who mercilessly controlled the children in their care. When a child cried, or laughed out of turn, or stumbled over their prayers, or wet their bed, they were punished. Children in the orphanage were not allowed to be children. There was no compassion, no love, no nurturing. The rage I feel when I recall my time there is also cold and grey. How could human beings treat innocent children as if they were criminals? These women were “brides of Christ” dedicated to serving Him through good charitable works?!! I remember one particular nun, Sister M, who looked after the under-5 children. She was cruel. There will never be another way of describing her. It was as if she hated children. She hated their neediness. I hope she went to hell. I hope Christ turned His face from her.