Beautifully belonging

My parents, and their parents, were displaced. Forced from their Lithuanian birthplace and their homeland. A result of Germany and Russia fighting for Eastern Europe, and a long history of Russia invading Lithuania. 

My parents and their families arrived in Australia in the late 1940s, as part of a shameful immigration policy where their entry was acceptable above others, due to their skin colour and features. They boarded a cargo ship in Italy and, like cattle stock, they were measured and weighed on their arrival in Australia; processed with photographs and immigration cards before being sent to migrant camps across the country. 

After meeting many years later through the Lithuanian community in Melbourne, my parents married and settled in a Victorian country town. My father built a home for his children and dreamt of a wonderful future for each of us as we arrived, one after the other, to play in the dirt and fill the house with music and laughter.

Although my siblings and I were born in Australia, displacement remained part of our family story, part of our heritage. It wasn't that my parents laboured their struggles; they were very conscious of us being able to 'fit in'. So much so they decided, sadly, not to teach us the Lithuanian language. A decision based on their fear of us facing the same struggles and persecution they had faced on arrival, for being different.

Difference, however, was not something we could escape. There were other immigrants in our country town, particularly those of Italian heritage, but they had a large community and Australian people were, at the time, very open to trying and enjoying Italian food. By the mid to late 1970s, pasta recipes had even made it into the Country Women's Association classic cookbooks.  

Lithuania was not just a long and hard word to say, it was not part of any map. Published atlases of the time simply showed a big blob of USSR. The Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. The countries making up this so called 'union' and geographical mass were unnamed and unmarked. Territorial lines erased in an attempt to delete their cultural heritage.

"So, you are Russian" was what I was met with at primary school when I explained my heritage and my parent's journey. "A communist!" they shouted as they ran away. The Russians were the 'bad guys' of the time in films, TV shows and on the news. The threat of nuclear war ever-present, hovering as a possibility which could wipe us all out, erasing the outlines of our bodies and every line on this beautiful earth. 

We were the only Lithuanian family in the country town where I grew up. No other family celebrated Christmas on Christmas Eve. No other family ate pickled herrings or smoked eel for their Christmas meal. Even now when I share this story, people scrunch up their noses. "Who would want to eat that?" they ask in response. And so, rather than honouring and celebrating our Lithuanian culture and traditions, they layered my body with shame. To 'belong' back then, one had to be 'the same'. Difference was danger.

I carried a sense of displacement in my body during my childhood, adolescence and young adulthood. Always feeling a little different. Longing for belonging. The sadness and rejection, the fear of persecution for not being enough lodged in my bones.  

Sitting with a friend recently, enjoying a beautiful Japanese meal, we shared memories of our childhood. Enriching our friendship with the passing over of new details about ourselves not shared before. My friend comes from multiple generations of Australian born ancestors. Yet, her story, her childhood, where her parents worked hard and moved to a suburb beyond their families for a better future for her, was peppered with the same displacement, the same lack of belonging. I was reminded, as I have been before, of how universal the fear of difference is in childhood. How universal the fact of difference is in our lives. 

I have gifted my friend a copy of Anthologia, which holds space for a piece I have written on this subject. Published as Chapter 3. Titled, Belonging. A story of four generations of women. A memoir written from the body, of a journey from displacement to belonging. The book, is placed on the seat beside us packaged in bright pink cellophane. It winks at me as the light catches the creases of the reflective wrapping.

I smile as the universe winks at me, a smile which reaches deep in my bones. It fills me with light as once again I am reminded that despite our differences we are all one. I hear the words from Pat Benatar's song 'We belong' in my mind, "We belong to the light, we belong to the thunder. We belong to the sound of the words we have both fallen under".

I look into the eyes of my beautiful friend. I see her soul and I am filled with love. The words of Ram Dass find my breath.

"Souls love. That’s what souls do. Egos don’t, but souls do. Become a soul, look around, and you’ll be amazed. All the beings around you are souls. Be one, see one. When many people have this heart connection, then we will know that we are all one, we human beings all over the planet. We will be one. One love. And don’t leave out the animals, and trees, and clouds, and galaxies. It’s all one. It’s one energy." 

Anthologia is a beautiful collection of stories from 11 women, including my chapter on Belonging. 
Anthologia is the coming together of 11 women as one. As one energy. Copies are available for purchase through Booktopia. Visit The Kind Press to listen to the audio recording of my chapter. 

Image: my Duku (grandfather), my Baba (grandmother) and my mum on a boat traveling to their new place of belonging, Australia. Circa June 1949.