art, Child Migrants, Forgotten Australians, Stolen Generations, theatre

An Ode to Lamenting Souls

admin

by Gloria Lovely (guest author) on 17 June, 2010

Here Gloria shares the speech that she wrote and performed in Memoirs of the Forgotten Ones staged in Brisbane, Queensland in March 2007.

Friends, I beckon you to come out of your darkness, your shell, your hell, no more are you there, to cower or cry.

You are alive anew with a free spirit; let it soar; soar high above the depths of despair. Take hold, have faith in what you do and what you are. You are no longer that timid little child to be used and abused.

You are strong now; you will speak up and out; you will be heard and justice ought to prevail. Keep on being strong; keep growing Friends, to the beautiful people you are now; and keep moving on.

art, Forgotten Australians, memories, poetry

Gloria’s story

admin

by Gloria Lovely (guest author) on 17 June, 2010

Gloria Lovely was taken to St Vincent’s Orphanage, Nudgee, Queensland, in 1943, when she was 18 months old. She was then sent to a foster family at the age of ten.  Here, in an excerpt from the book Lives of Uncommon Children – Reflections of Forgotten Australians (2009, Micah Projects – Queensland), and her poem A Child’s Despair (2005), Gloria writes about her experience in foster care.

He was murdering me. He was murdering me every day. I didn’t want to wake up of a morning because I knew what I might face. Another day of fear. Have to hurry, do the chores, then off to school – an escape. I’m free of fear there for a while, a positive advantage. School is the best time of day, learning to be smart and a little educated, making me feel good.

I absolutely love to learn, anything and everything, trying to fill my mind with knowledge, and remembering it all. I loved going to school; it was my sanctuary, but then I had to go back to my foster home, my home of fear and dread. And my foster parents. My foster father was a sinful man, using my body for his sexual gratification. No on else knew he was doing it on a weekly basis. It was my hell; he was destroying my spirit, and my foster mother was very cruel, punishing me for not doing the chores right. Like scorching a white shirt, peeling too much skin off the potatoes and onions.

But to the people of the community, they were such wonderful people, because they fostered other children from the orphanage as well, and going to church every Sunday, letting people know they were looking after their foster children. What wonderful people, but behind the scenes, behind closed doors, we foster children were suffering daily. What a charade. We were their slaves, and I was his bedroom slave. I was the housewife in every sense of the word.

Hence my thinking of him killing me – killing every part of my being, my soul, my all. Who can I turn to? No one. Were the other foster children feeling the same as I? Are they living in their own hell? Do they fear them as much as I do? I feel they would like to go back to the orphanage like I would. Oh, please God, help us all. This is the part of my life which I was lucky enough to survive this living hell. It is in the past now, and I thank my lucky stars that it came to an end when it did, and I grew to adulthood.

A Child’s Despair
(From Orphanage to Foster Care)

A girl-child sleeps at night
A stranger, she is not, to fright
She wakes, suddenly,
“Will he come tonight?”
This poor unfortunate, in such a plight.

To these unkind people she was sent,
No one knew, they were so bent.
Her body, he took, by force, times again
“My God, protect me”, once again.

“Our secret”, he says, “do not tell”.
His sick mind, he hid so well
And her (so cruel) she could not tell
That belt, the belting she could foretell.

She screams in her soul, no one can hear
She cannot cry out, she lives in fear.

Her body tells day by day
People do not read that way
“The child is slow,
She was born that way”.

Over the days, months and years
She carried on, despite her fears.

She now has grown to womanhood,
And all she likes to give…..is good.

Gloria (left) and Juanita with the statue of the orphan child, Brisbane 2010
art, Forgotten Australians, memories, poetry

Six institutions, six poems

admin

by Gloria Lovely (guest author) on 17 June, 2010

Barbara spent time as a child in Opal House, Opal Joyce Wilding Home, Wilson Youth Hospital, Vaughan House, The Haven and at Wolston Park Hospital (Osler House) between the years 1970 and 1979. Here are Barbara’s poems Remembering Osler House, Time, Tomorrow, Too Much!, Young and Word Games.

Remembering Osler House.

Screams echo down the hallway of my mind, as they did the cells
and hallways of that house of endless horrors, through the years.
My body still remembers all the shame of what I witnessed,
And the corrosive, all-pervasive acid-urine smell of fears.

I was thirteen years.

The sobbing, wailing background noise that ate away the night;
The soul-shattering, too-sudden… cessation of the screams,
These joined the tortured memories I buried in the abyss,|
To carve away my childhood, brutally, as they stole my dreams.

I was only thirteen.

The milling, naked bodies in the showers with no doors;
The excrement and sanitary pads, my first time, on the floors.
Betrayed by my own government, the state that had my care,
In an adult asylum for the criminally insane; I’d pulled out all my hair.

I was only a child.

Hollow-eyed people, shock-treatment blank, helpless,
And no longer knowing their names;
The intellectually disabled and terrified children
Still haunt in their drugged, bruised and bare-naked shame.

I was thirteen years old.

TIME

Time:
Master of Earth,
Dictator by Nature,
With Universal Power,
Sits in His Tower,
Solving all mystery,
Exposing
Success or Failure,
Truth or Lie,
By and by.
In Time you’re paid
What you’ve earned;
In Time the hands
Of clocks are turned;
In Time understand what,
With Time, you have learned.
Possessive Guard
Of Past and Future;
Undefeated, Eternal Master:
Won’t move slower,
Won’t move faster.
His Word is Law;
You can’t break away.
There’s nothing more:
There’s just Today.

Tomorrow

Tomorrow.
Always tomorrow.
Whatever it is,
it’s always left…
’til tomorrow.
Just a slight delay…
Tomorrow…
But not Today.
Today we are
too busy
Dreaming and planning
for tomorrow.
It’ll be a big day
with all that we have planned
for Tomorrow.

Too Much!

Too many thoughts
Spinning around:
Too much to think about.
Too many thoughts,
And too many thoughts
That I could do without!
Too many people
all in my thoughts:
Wish they’d all go away.
Too much can happen,
And all crammed into
A twenty-four hour day.
Too many things
that I should do
When I don’t want to do any.
Too many people;
Too many thoughts;
Enough!
Too much!
Too many!

YOUNG

You can grow old,
‘Though you were born young.
With impermanence weak,
You can be strong.
And, yes, you can walk,
‘Though you’re learning to crawl.
You have an idea,
Yet younger, saw all.
For you can eat fruit,
‘Though you suck from the nipple:
A stone’s throw’s a universe,
Seen through a ripple.
But always know this:
What you are, you can be.
You can open each door:-
Only you have the key.

WORD GAMES

I wrap words around their intent,
And knock pretext to its knees.
I push protests off their perches,
And with words, do as I please.

I pack speech with all its content,
And condemn the need to tell
With embellishment and pretence,
‘Cause exaggeration’s hell.

I write off the need for falseness,
And I verily will say
That all politic diplomacy’s
In over-use today.

I like truth without adornment,
(If the garnish leads to lies),
With no semblance of pretension,
With no mask and no disguise.

articles/lectures, documents, Forgotten Australians, memories

Steps up and steps out

admin

by Diane Tronc (guest author) on 11 June, 2010

Diane Tronc was born in 1961 and was a resident, with her five siblings, of Silky Oaks Children’s Home in Manly, Brisbane from 1962 until 1974.

Diane shares her submission to the current Senate Review of Government Compensation Payments.

To Committee Secretary
Senate Legal and Constitutional Committee
P.O. Box 6100
Parliament House
Canberra ACT 2600 Australia

Re: Review of Government Compensation Payments

Dear Committee Members

My name is Diane Tronc.  I am a Survivor of Abuse whilst in Care and I am a Forgotten Australian.

I wish to put submission into this Inquiry.

Firstly:   This year is the 10th year since the Forde Inquiry.

The last 10 years has been for a lot of Forgotten Australians a compounding and overturning painful journey of repeating our lives over and over and reliving this painful journey through Redress and still suffering today to see some form of positive outcome for all Forgotten Australians.

With services in mainstream congested and waiting lists so long we take our ticket and still stand in line waiting. We’ve walk your line for long enough.  We need ACTION, STRUCTURE, FOUNDATION, and STEPS UP AND STEPS OUT.  Support services more involved with career paths, workforce, TAFE, university.

A lot have such difficulty in filling in forms making the first step up and step out.  We need Mentors working with case workers supporting our people with visits to hospitals, appointment and home visits.

We also need a small bus e.g.: Libraries, our memorial, for events/ outings etc.

And a directory of services directing and referring our people and supporting through the process for their goals to be achieved to a comfortable area in their lives to move on….from start to finish.

Healing Journey when will that start, Family Histories, Reunions, and Bringing us all HOME.

Also like to see Legacy more involved as a lot of fathers and grandfathers/families of Forgotten Australian went to war and so did some Forgotten Australian themselves served..

We call for a Gold Card for all Forgotten Australian we should have Priority Access due to the damage inflicted upon us as innocent children now adults our needs and wants need  to be met.   Health, Dental, Housing, and Education and Training, exempt of fees.

Within our service centre I personally feel we need more steps up and step out and more support.

Foster Care/Adoption  was not part of Redress in Qld nor did it get a State Govt Apology.  We where under the STATE.

I personally would like to see a Royal Commission Inquiry into past practices and services today.

We will fight to our END to see things right for our past and for all our futures ahead.

We have a lot of strong good solid caring, compassionate and committed people amongst us all.  That should be given every opportunity to excel and be given the chance to work with services in a paid position.

A lot of us are Volunteers and put in a lot of hours and time to help our people when services are closed or to help assist within telephone support and  getting to visits, appointments or lend a hand  when needed.  I would like to see more funding given to Volunteers under some form of incentive scheme payment through Centrelink.

As a lot of our people are also on disability this would help in the transition step up 123 to TAFE, university or workforce part time or full time?

Also I have noticed a lot of people needing assistance who are in full time work area.  Some struggle to keep their jobs.  Pushing themselves to the limit all the time.

And not being able to service the services due to their working hours.

Looking for a constructive outcome for all.

And more community projects for our people.

Diane Tronc

art, Forgotten Australians, memories, poetry

Remember Them, Those Poor Souls

admin

by Sue Treweek (guest author) on 10 June, 2010

Sue Treweek was a resident of Abbortsford Convent from 1968 – 1970. At the age of 11, she was sent to Warilda, in Brisbane. She was also a resident of the Bush Children’s Home in 1973 and Nudgee Orphanage from 1978 – 1979, both in Queensland.

For the simple act of rocking herself to sleep, the nuns sent Sue, at the age of 12, to Lowson House, a mental health ward at the Royal Brisbane Hospital. Even though the psychiatric assessment stated that she was not mentally ill, no children’s homes would take her and so she was admitted to Wilson Youth Hospital. She was then transferred to Osler House, from 1980- 1988, the maximum security ward for adult female psychiatric patients at Wolston Park Hospital. A feature-length documentary film is current being made about her life: Scab Girl Asylum.

Sue has founded No-Problem Cleaning Services which provides:

  • family lifestyle coaching
  • yard clean- up and rubbish removal
  • specialised cleaning services
  • cooking and nutrition training
  • child care/supervision
  • office cleaning

Here are Sue’s poems; Remember Them, Those Poor Souls, Out of the Ashes, A Child Cries, Jesus Loves the Little Children, People of the Cloth and Those of Faith Stand Up.

 

Remember them, those poor souls

Today I sit and wonder what became of them, those poor souls I left behind.
A deep sadness fills my soul.

Their bodies racked by illnesses confusing to some.

Their pain can’t be seen only heard through their cries for help.

The uncertainty to what is real; a deep fear dismissed, no logic found by those in charge.
Still these people feel the pain no rest for them those poor souls.

An act of ignorance papers are signed another poor soul loses their rights.

Abused and dehumanized in the name of therapy their worst fears are realized.

Not knowing any different they settle in to a life of pain and uncertainty no mercy for them those poor souls.

Awake again the daily ritual begins, the turn of a key their here again, who this shift, will they be cruel or kind, showered and dressed wait to eat pills to take before you eat.

The drugs take hold the voices are silent for awhile, reality strikes as for a brief moment they remember what once was their life as the memories flood in, tears well in their eyes as they wonder what is happening  to them, and for those who have never known different they wonder why were born not right.

Cruel words spoken sink to their soul those they trust hardest of all, told they are  unacceptable till they can bear it no more succumb to the pain you know you must, sent away from societies eyes, stay away you must.

Their silent screams for understanding and acceptance fall on deaf ears only those innocents that watch their suffering yet have no power, hear their screams and remember them.
In dreams and on the wind they hear and understand those poor souls and will never forget.

The turn of a key they’re back again what today when will death come for me.

For some death does come like an angel in the night, swept away on the wings of an angel they feel no more pain.

Accepted now for who they are at peace within no fear, the confusion is gone.

Shame on those trusted to care, forget them not, those poor souls.

 

Out of the ashes

Out of the ashes we walk alone charred from the flames of a childhood
Spent in care,

Still we live luckier than some, are we.

In shock we wander through life wondering what could have been, had we been dealt a different hand.

Each day a challenge just to stay,  still we stand alone,

The beginning of new, for some bring life to our world, a child to love maybe a spouse
Feelings of joy replaced by pain, the battle begins, learn the mistakes of those who had the
power, don’t repeat, or the next generation will walk alone from out of the ashes they to will
stand.

Packaged now, for justice and change, not with out more pain to come for those who speak out,
we watch as one by one our generations fade no justice found; finally, now they listen to those
who walked alone.

United we stand, now our voice is strong and clear, grouped together for effect and support,
some sink deep from the weight of their past others wander in shock yet again, a few move on
and realize their dreams.

The fight renewed society screams out in anger as more with power are exposed, fear have some
who carry their guilt, with the knowledge they failed their duty of care.

To the top they walk together, on common ground that binds them all.
Their voice is loud, all can hear; people with position back them in their fight.

In disbelief they watch society and government react with guilt and remorse
Promises made that have no truth, reports and recommendations gather dust.

Too late for some the changes come rest in peace with the knowledge your fight is over. For those
left behind the fight continues till no other will suffer as they did and history will show that those
who had the courage tasted victory and realized their dreams.

 A child cries;

A child of 13 sits waiting to be judged, two sisters of god sit either side.
A woman in white flanked by two men, approach the child, and lead her to hell.
The lift rises from floor to floor the sound of screams shoots fear to her core.

A child cries.

A woman screams for help no one listens the child listens and wants to help.
A naked woman sees the child looking through the small holes into the cell.
Help me child tell someone. The child tells but no mercy to be found for her.
A woman yells as her delusions take hold you child you are the one,
my children are dead, you the devils child you must be punished.
Punched in the head as another patient act’s out her delusions, many more to come, weakest are you.
Confusion sets in. 

A child cries.

A woman quenches her thirst; cup of urine in her hand, down it goes no thought of what.
She turns on the child and it starts again more abuse, no escape to be found,
she can’t help it she’s sick is the reply.
The child protests and is punished, labelled, drugged and isolated now she knows she is in hell.

 A child cries

Another day passes in hell assessed and processed yet again no illnesses found.
Frustration by all at no illness found labels are many. The child is confused,
words slice deep into the child as her soul dies, fear is overcome by rage.

A child cries

This child learns fast the hell she is in.
Punished for differences that make her stand out told she must change she wonders into what.
Caught again banging her head no harm has she done, remove her pillow see if she stops
Taunted and teased by staff, who must make this child conform it is their job.

A child cries

The child fights to change without knowing into what.
Hides her head banging by rocking side to side with care not to be caught.
Not acceptable was this, manipulative is she
Punished again for inappropriate behaviour and dress, back in the cell.

 A child cries

 Another Dr out of bed another needle in her leg, Striped naked and left in this cold dark cell,
Drugs take hold to cold to sleep, sat on the floor back to the wall,
rocking front to back the only comfort to be found,
prayed for sleep my only friend or death, either will do.
Awake again in this cold dark hell as the child fights her body’s pain.
Fear of death, her screams are now ignored by those who care.
Her pleas to be let out are dismissed as attention seeking, don’t listen or it could reinforce,
teach her a lesson, more time for her in that cold hard hell.
Pain shoots through her body as she holds in the wee, mustn’t have an accident no toilet to use.
A puddle in the corner sometimes more to be punished for, shame, shame on you, you dirty girl.
Judgement is made out of ignorance and frustration, trapped in hell.

A child cries as her childhood dies.

Jesus loves the little children

 A child sits cold and terrified by those charged to care
No thought of the future the child will conform
Break its spirit destroy its faith make it take the pain
It cries for mercy none to be found

 Abused and left in that cold hard cell, their guilt is hidden deep in their souls
Mistakes are many the child waits, and rebels the pain enforced
By those charged to care, in the depths of hell the child remembers the song once heard which comforted her before.

 A deep breath the pain subdued, as the child remembers the words through her drugged state,
they tell her to shut up and stop those words she struggles to stand as they knock her down again,
still she sings that song from deep inside her soul, the words strike hard the consciences of them all,
in their sleep they can’t escape, these words haunt them and always will as they remember the child they continued to abuse in that cold dark hell

Her only weapon the verse of a song called Jesus loves the little children; all the children of the world, red and yellow black and white, all are precious in his sight.

 Fury spurred by their guilt, they attack the child no thought for her,
Shut her up she must not sing, this song is an attack we must, stop, how dare she sing this song.

 The despair is relieved by the words she sings, her pain is comforted by the one she can’t see, but sing his name, louder now for all to hear
She gathers strength from the words she sings, with the knowledge she is loved by one who cares.

 With her faith she takes it all, sometimes wondering if she will finally die and meet her friend, the one who stood by her side through all the pain and suffering, he was there,
He sacrificed his life to save our souls, now he stands beside this child,
She feels his presence in that cell, fear subsides, she is not alone.
Til the next wave of pain in the name of therapy and discipline, is enforced upon the child, til
she can take no more, again Jesus stands by her side and shares her pain.

 The lord watches the struggle, as the child fights to hold on to her faith,
The lord steps in and takes her soul, wraps it in his arms protect it he can, what’s left will survive or join her soul.
Grown now is the child, survived the past her soul intact, an act of mercy from the lord he saved her soul, only now she sees the truth and knows she must never forget.
The love of the lord out lives it all.

What’s left of shattered dreams

 As a child we dream of years to come with innocence and a sense we can.
An astronaut will I be, a doctor, nurse, teacher, I’ll climb the highest mountains.
Or a general in charge of a war
Or a ballerina a great dancer or maybe a mother that cares

 All to soon we learn we can’t, as our dreams are stripped from us one by one,
Left with what could have been if dealt a different lot.
Trying to dream the child has forgotten how,
What a shame is what we hear, that child could have been.

 The ones who lived there dreams are now the ones who destroy,
Feeding on the child as does the ravenous beast to its prey,
As dignity and innocence are replaced by fear and humility,
The child learns from those told to care, how worthless they truly are
As they endure the horrors dealt out to them their soul shudders at more to come and their dreams turn into nightmares relived day after day
No harm done the child will forget, we will rehabilitate it

As they rehabilitate what they cannot see and fear to be to be true.
More dreams die, till soon the child fears to dream and is lost,
As those who have the power wonder why.

The child grows and wonders what could have been.
Now an adult their dreams are new but tainted by the child within.
They dream of simple things now, like getting through one more day.

Nothing soothes there soul as they prey for death their only friend.
Some did not give in, they still struggle to dream, only now there dreams are of a better life, a life of peace and fullness they have never known,
They refuse to give in fighting for their lives they believe they can.
To their graves they take there dreams some never knowing how close they came.

 Forgotten by those who stole their dreams, passed of as a mistake made so many years before by those told to care
No remorse for the devastation caused.

PEOPLE OF THE CLOTH

Care for those unfortunate kids, sent to you with no place to call home
Treat them well for judgment day will come for you all
The lord watches on as you do your best to uphold his word
Remember well he sees it all

 As he watches the evil take hold of his people as they hide behind his name, they turn away from him and act out their evil on those defenseless souls,
Not a thought for judgment day.

 The children sent to his house, betrayed and abused they stand in line,
Jesus came he loves them all his sacrifice was for them,

 The lord his son by his side, watches as more souls are damaged by his people.
They are turned by evil yet preach his name
They use his name to justify their evil, first to the children then their peers,
All listen to them powerful are they.

The lord is saddened by the pain of his children, he watches and remembers them.
Those who came to him for sanctuary, now turn away thinking he has forgotten them
They can not see the sadness in his soul.

 He sends a message only headed by some, those of the cloth fear me now for your judgment day will come, no mercy will I have, on those who abused my children from
behind the cloth.

 People of the cloth chosen by him, to care for the children, our future cloth,
Those, whose faith is strong, separate the lord from the evil ones,
They stand by their faith to the end and the lord welcomes them
His arms open, they are home.

One by one the evil ones draw close to their end.
The lord waits with his son by his side, to pass judgment on them

 As the day draws closer panic sets in, no more can they hide behind the cloth
The time has come for those of the cloth, to answer for their sins.

 Brutal is the lord on those of the cloth, they betrayed him from within.

THOSE OF FAITH STAND UP

Unite as one within his sight.

Send a message to all who have faith to join as one, unite your souls to right the wrongs and embrace a future free of shattered children.

Welcome home his lost souls those who suffered a childhood shattered by those of twisted faith.
Only then can future generations of our faith be freed from those who betrayed the lord from within, cleanse his house renew the faith and trust lost by so many.

Heal the wounds of past injustices embrace the children past present and future, make a difference their will be no more evil within his house , gather strength from those who suffered in his house for only they hold the key and know the way, it is within they must see.

Remain united till the end the lord will see and join the fight together we will rejoice cleansing the cancer which threatens our faith.
The sky will open the earth renewed from his tears of joy
Remember well the lord sees it all.

articles/lectures, film, Forgotten Australians, memories, Stolen Generations

Video: Wake-up call from the stolen and forgotten

admin

by Rhonda Trivett (guest author) on 28 May, 2010

Rhonda Trivett, at the age of 13, from 1974 – 1981, was locked in the maximum security adult ward (Osler House), in Wolston Park Hospital, Brisbane. In her video, Rhonda talks about her experiences and the need for redress.

Wakeup call from the stolen and forgotten
articles/lectures, Forgotten Australians, Stolen Generations

It’s about time we make things right

admin

by Rhonda Trivett (guest author) on 26 May, 2010


It’s about time we make things right

I believe it’s time to be responsible and say, “OK what has happened in the past was wrong. It should never have happened and it’s time to make it as right as we possibly can”.
Until now the government always has turned a blind eye to the real bad inhumane things that have happened.
We all live in this world and to make it a better kinder and peaceful place is what I hear people keep saying but really not all that much gets done.
If one person helps another or even has the guts to stand up for trying to make a good right caring change and really believe in what they are doing in a nice decent way, well that’s how good things happen.
I believe one person can make a difference as long as they don’t give up. Everybody’s got feeling and good in them sometimes you just need to look deep down into the real person.
There’s too much giving up, fighting, hate and war when there shouldn’t be. In the 1970s children were apart of an Australian inhumane war in a hospital Wolston Park. They were killed, bashed and raped, stripped of everything by the so called nurses that were supposed to be looking after us. It went on. My god, how did this happen? We need to try to help the ones that survived. There’s not many left. Please help me do this. Some of us still have shell shock and some just trying to get it all right. We are all wrongly labelled because of the past. It must stop, OK? How can we even try to make a life for ourselves? Let our suffering stop. Think. That could have been your child.
Help me and others make things right. We can’t wait for another 3 to 30 years. Some of us could be dead.
I need to do this now because people are starting to listen at last. We can learn from each other. Let’s clean up our Australian health and government acts.

art, Forgotten Australians, memories, poetry, Stolen Generations

Then came my son

admin

by Rhonda Trivett (guest author) on 26 May, 2010

Rhonda Trivett’s poem describes the importance of her son in her life.

THEN CAME MY SON

So God in six days did set the world in place
when He made the stars, land, ocean and the seas
the plan was, that He saw things to be as they should
He created me and I really used to wonder and don’t know why
to be hurt, sad and raped see my friends killed as a child
to lose it all was that his love for me
why couldn’t I just smile and have fun as a child
to make a jail as a home is a bad sick joke
to teach and guide me with cons and lies
with no-one on my side to understand
through all my pain, strife, my life no helping hand
I had to be the strength to stand
No-one listening no-one cared
no encouragement just told I wont succeed
lean on what, with no boundaries
I had no love no life no beginning and it looks like no end.

But then came my son who I’m proud of A part of him I’ll always see and be
I learnt to understand his tears,
And also calm all of his fears.
I see my sons laugh, his smile, his touch
He always brightened up my days
for each truth his has helped me see
the heartaches and the joys that we shared
And when I go Please do not forget me son,
for you are always in my heart, thoughts and my mind
The values you’ve taught me you made me a mum
and the wonderful love that you made me see in me
will always be there no matter what
the sparkling joy in your baby happy loving eyes
We never needed or wanted just gave and had we all ways had enough
our Special Love we shared
we share the joy our dreams were real
our confidence from day to day so easy
You set me free from all my fears
And when you were at school In spirit I was never alone
you were the best challenge of life 24 hours a day
It’s great and fun loving my son. Lets keep it up
I have a life, a beginning and a great loving end
I’m proud to be a mother and I’m proud to be able to love.

13 August 2003

art, Forgotten Australians, memories, poetry, Stolen Generations

Raped and bashed

admin

by Rhonda Trivett (guest author) on 25 May, 2010

Rhonda shares one of poems about life as a teenager, in the adult maximum security ward (Osler House) in Wolston Park Hospital, Queensland.

Raped and Bashed, Now D Day, It’s Time to Fight Back, you Hurt Me and Made Me this Way

I live in fear of what you did to me
You made me cry you hurt and bashed me
I thought I was going to die many times
In the dark I’m scarred for life
And I kicked and I stirred
But no-one heard me and no-one cared
And it’s hard but I tried to be strong
you done this deed why me I was just a child
I did nothing for this hell treatment
I was a lost child wanting her mother
and I stole a push bike and That was my only crime
what a price I paid what really did I do
I don’t understand and I never will
With a label I try to survive, which I can’t
stop the label then I will be able, OK

I’ve been silent too long, no more playing the nice life games
You hurt me too many times, made me like a wounded animal
Just waiting for my next feed to come along
Stripped of everything and without a choice
I used to be clean now just dirty and unclean
bad and just a piece of rubbish
the guilt is just killing me in so many ways
no-one ever listened it was very wrong
Just looked me up with a needle, stripped me of my clothes
I’m still to this day confused getting silly as ever
With a hurtful rage of hate just waiting to explode
Wanting to hurt back with all I’ve got waiting for the kill
I didn’t start this, but I can assure you all that I will finish it
I’ve, now, got nothing to lose so it’s time to gain
I’ve been waiting for this moment every day of my life
I’m on my own, it’s time to pay,
it’s time for sorry Rhonda all the way.

Blood on the bathroom wall at Osler House

The next stanza in Rhonda’s poem explicitly describes an act of serious assault.

Forgotten Australians, memories, photography

Hay Institution for Girls

admin

by Wilma Robb (guest author) on 20 May, 2010

 

Senator Andrew Murray

Former resident of Hay, Wilma Robb, shares her photographs taken at the Hay Girls reunion in 2007.

The Hay Institution for Girls was opened in 1961 as a maximum security institution for girls, aged 13 to 18, from the Parramatta Girls Home. Girls were sent to Hay despite their having committed no crime and without a legal trial. Girls were not permitted to speak, without permission, or to establish eye contact with anyone. This rule was enforced despite the fact that the “silent system” was outlawed in NSW in the late 1800s. Girls endured a regime of hard labour without school education.

Further information and historical photographs about life at Hay can be read at the website concerning Sharyn Killens’ book An Inconvenient Child.

Commerative Plaque which was unveiled at the Hay Girls Reunion 2007

Wilma’s painting Black, Blue and Raw was hung in an exhibition “Forgotten Australians” at NSW Parliament house from 11 April-28 April 2005. Supported and Arranged by Forgotten Australians Jools Graeme, Melody Mandena, John Murray.

Black, Blue and Raw depicts my time in Parramatta and Hay.

At Hay, I experienced a sadistic, martial discipline the (Silent Treatment outlawed in the late 1800s) designed to break the human spirit. These days we would describe it as a form of ‘programming’. At Parramatta, I experienced psychological abuse, rape, neglect and other forms of violent torture at the hands of state employees.

My torso
No-one sees what is hidden inside me. Here are the memories I have tried to suppress. Here is the sub-conscious record of life-destroying events, festering.
The little girl at the centre is me. The eyes overseeing the evil are those of one of my abusers, captured by camera from a television screen.

My baby
When I was 18, my baby was taken from me by Welfare, within minutes of his birth.

The colours
To me, yellow and purple signalled hope. At Hay, we experienced regular solitary confinement, enforced silence and regimentation. Also, they took our eyes.

The mask
At Hay, they tried to turn us into unthinking robots by brainwashing and deprivation. The Hay mask has a robotic expression and a head that has been messed with severely. My memory of Parramatta is dominated by the violence of the staff – I lost my teeth and had my face smashed. The mask has had its features flattened and is flesh softened by fists.
Wilma Robb (Cassidy) 2005

Black, Blue and Raw

Forgotten Australians, memories, poetry

When a child’s home is an asylum

admin

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

admin

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

admin

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

admin

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

admin

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

admin

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

admin

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…