by Kathleen Foley (guest author) on 4 May, 2011
Kathleen Foley, a former resident of St Vincent’s Orphanage, Nudgee, kindly shared this photo. Kathleen is in the back row, third from the right.
Nudgee photo
Tag: Nudgee
Fifth generation in the ‘care’ of the state
by Katie-Maree Sibraa (guest author) on 15 November, 2010
Transcript
My name is Katie-Maree Sibraa. I went into care at three months of age, in foster care. With my story it’s the fifth generation in state care. My dad, my grandparents and my great-grandparents all in state care. Myself, I was in care under the minister right up until I was 18 in two separate foster families and also in an institution as well. My experience from the age of seven through to 12 being sexually assaulted by seven different men in the first foster family while under the minister or Children’s Services in Queensland. Then I ran away and when I ran away they put me in an institution for running away and I was only 12. So, yeah, it’s been pretty tough.
Life in an institution when I first arrived I arrived in the back of a paddy wagon, and it was in Wilson in Queensland. They had to hold you down. You weren’t allowed near anybody, unless they had doctors at you. You were totally humiliated. I was only young and frightened because I had already experienced years of abuse – sexual abuse, physical abuse – in the family I was in and I felt like I was being re-tormented, re-punished again. And no-one believed me – no-one. I mean, it was just something that you lived with and had to accept.
Life in the institution, I closed off and was very disassociate. I was very tiny and I never ate, maybe because I fretted or there was no love. There was one person who was a couple of years old who I have only just recently met here, and she used to be my protector. She’d say, ‘It’s OK, it’s OK, don’t cry, they’ll send you into isolation.’ I felt like she was sticking up for me, then she’d get punished and I felt really bad for that.
There was no privacy and it was just – your whole identity was stripped. You had no self-esteem, it was just nothing, no visitors, and it was hard seeing others getting visitors. And when you didn’t have anyone visiting you and you’d just see these gates, it was – not good.
I had met my natural father, my dad, when I was eight in the foster family. I did not know that I was Aboriginal, Indigenous. They brought me up from the back yard playing and they said, ‘Oh, Katie, this is your real dad’. And my reaction to that was: ‘He can’t be, he’s black and I’m white’. I didn’t know. But then he was stopped visiting me. He used to visit me in holidays, but then no.
My natural mother I didn’t know because she had left me at three months on a railway line so I never knew where she was or anything. No, I didn’t have any family.
Being in a relationship or even entering a relationship I find, because I suffered the sexual abuse as a young child and the emotional and physical, I don’t trust very easy. You lose that and sometimes you look for love in the wrong areas and you think it’s going to be OK, but it’s very difficult because you don’t have that trust. And you don’t want to get close because you think, ‘Am I going to get hurt again?’
In Canberra here today, it’s very significant as I hold this piece of paper, hearing Mr Kevin Rudd’s apology to us Forgotten Australians. I find it difficult just holding this to know that my family’s fifth generation in the care of the state – it is very emotional. But as I’ve got here – this is my father’s great-grandfather, so that’s my great-great-grandfather who was in institutions and orphanages and on working farms in Queensland.
I am from the Stolen Generation. I am Indigenous. This is my father, who passed away last year, and these were his grandparents. Two months after this was taken he was taken into care at Nudgee orphanage because he, they said, wasn’t being looked after and cared for. So they were his grandparents.
Then another article last year when my son Adam came down, he was chosen from the Central Coast to come to Canberra for the Stolen Generation for our family representing. My father was dying of lung cancer at the time. He was very proud that his grandson was here representing. It’s so true what it says: ‘Portrait of an injustice’. For him to stand tall down here last year, and I was back in Sydney crying, to know the Stolen Generation and that it was generation after generation. The portrait of an injustice of knowing each generation, not one or two but five generations of our family have been in state care, how many more is going to be in state care?
Juanita’s photos
by Juanita Burr (guest author) on 16 September, 2010
Juanita Burr, nee Broderick, was a resident of Nudgee Orphanage, Queensland, from 1944 (the year of her birth) to 1961. Here she shares her photos of her work as a current member of the Historical Abuse Network, Queensland.
The story of the nun I kept meeting on the bus
by Lana Syed (guest author) on 9 July, 2010
Lana was a resident of St Vincent’s Orphanage, Nudgee, QLD, from the age of six months to 11 years. Here, in an excerpt from the book Lives of Uncommon Children – Reflections of Forgotten Australians (2009, Micah Projects – Queensland), Lana shares her memory of her reunion with one of the nuns who used to care for her at St Vincent’s.
The story of the nun I kept meeting on the bus
About five years ago, I used to go to West End, walk in, and take the bus to the city or from the city to West End. Each and every time I kept bumping into a SRM Mercy nun. First I saw SRM coming on the bus, I would say, “can I help you sister?” (she was loaded up with some packages). She would say, ‘no, thankyou!’ Okay another time in comes this Sister in the bus again and sits close to me, this time says nothing, just a smile. Third time she is loaded again with shopping I ran to help her, she says “thankyou” and sits right in front of me, I said “hello Sister, hang on”.
She says, “I know that voice, I never forget a voice”. She suddenly turns around to me, and pauses for a moment, “I know you. You’re not Lana are you?”
Oh! My god I was shocked, my face went red, I thought, I did something wrong, my mind froze then! How does she know my name? She said, “I know you, she said. “you are my little baby”.
She had never forgotten me – isn’t that just lovely. So she asked me to come over to the Mater Hospital to meet up with her, which I did. I thought I would die back then. Wow – I couldn’t believe my luck! I rang my friend Gloria up, and told her of my encounter, of SRM from Nudgee that used to look after us little tots and babies and little girls. The next thing she says, “Lana, I have got some photos to give to you, it is a picture of you and your twin sister”. My own family did not have a picture of the twin, but SRM did, she said she was cleaning out the photo she’s had, and were destroying them but will keep the two photos of me and my sister Lena – Lana. The rest went in the shredder.
My great Aunty Anne Remanous, was Archdishop Duhig’s personal secretary. She was a lovely great Aunty; though I never got to meet her. I have photos of her, and of the shop at West End in Hardgrave road, the shop called “Saint Veronicas”, which used to belong to her. She also adopted a son, from Papua New Guinea, she paid his way to become a priest, though they never knew I was in the orphanage. It was one of the biggest secrets. My mother never told anyone in the family that we were in there. If Aunty Anne knew, she might have adopted us – being family. Although Aunt Anne was my great Aunty, because my grand mother Renee, Aunty Theresa, Uncle Mick, Aunty Rose were all family and cousins to Aunty Anne.
Being at the centre of Lotus Place: we sit around having a yarn, with like-minded people, and we have a cuppa, and talk about things, like, what we saw on TV…Like last night, about the three dogs (two were dead) because the owner had to go to jail, the police did not pass the information to the RSPCA. As a result, the dogs had to die, (the third dog) got lucky, he had a fit, then they found a chip in his neck and rang the owners, and found out that the dog was stolen two years ago and was in luck as the RSPCA had rung up the owner. The dog had a lucky happy ending and went home with his owner and some medication to make him better. Wow, what an ending. How it touches my heart.
Sorry
by Peter Knight (guest author) on 7 July, 2010
Lana Syed forwarded this poem, written by fellow resident of Nudgee Orphanage, Peter Knight who died earlier this year:
Sorry
Please help me, a faint childlike voice calls.
Please help me, I am scared and lost in this
strange misty world.
I don’t know for sure, but I think it’s because
I am a welfare child.
Please help me, don’t let me die in this isolated
state of mind.
Believe me, please, I am sorry my mother was too
ill to take good care of us, and I am also very sorry
that my dad died.
I am very, very sorry for that time when I came to you
and begged for food, but I was so very hungry and
didn’t know what else to do.
I know that the tiny morsels of food that you gave us, so
you have often enough said, would feed an African family
for a week, so even if I’m hungry, I promise not to ask for
more, and I’m sorry I never look neat enough, and for the
way my clothes seem to fall apart at will.
I know that you are kind, kind people, so I have been told, work
your fingers to the bone to care for the likes of us welfare
kids. All I can say is that I’m sorry for being such an
ungrateful welfare child, and I promise to take the shame
and guilt you laid on me, to the grave.
© 2000 Peter Knight
Juanita’s photos
by Juanita Burr (guest author) on 29 June, 2010
Juanita Burr, nee Broderick, was a resident of Nudgee Orphanage, Queensland, from 1944 (the year of her birth) to 1961. These photos were taken because Juanita wanted to document the events surrounding the Queensland Forde Inquiry into the abuse of children in Queensland institutions. Juanita says, “These homes were hell-holes for thousands of children. They killed our dreams. They prevented us from being who we could have been”.
Gloria’s story
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.
Remember Them, Those Poor Souls
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.
More about Nudgee Orphanage
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…
Nudgee Orphanage
by Juanita Burr, nee Broderick (guest author) on 17 March, 2010
Juanita Burr, nee Broderick, was a resident of Nudgee Orphanage, Queensland, from 1944 (the year of her birth) to 1961.
