I began reading Anh Do’s The Happiest Refugee yesterday. Anh
and his family came here as boat people from Vietnam in 1980. It wasn’t long
before the tears came. Not just because of the intensely emotional circumstances
surrounding their gruelling boat journey away from Vietnam, but because of what
Australia has lost as a nation.
Found in the South China Sea, Anh’s family were ferried to
Malaysia and after time in a refugee camp they were resettled in Australia. Anh
writes that for some years his family used to thank Bob Hawke in their nightly
prayers for letting them come and live in his country! In fact, the number of
times Anh recounts outpourings of gratitude from his family towards Australia is
disarming. I cried because I felt enormous pride that we were once a nation
that took in refugees and gave them shelter. I was proud to be part of that
Australia. I cried too because our more recent policy towards refugees sees
them languishing in a stateless limbo for years. I cried because I’m embarrassed
that we have become so mean-spirited to those in dire need.
Anh Do’s story is full of references to decent human behaviour
from average Australians helping newcomers adjust to life here. On the
personal level, when you do someone a good deed it generally makes you feel
good. And when you receive sincere gratitude in return you feel even better.
Imagine all the cases in those times when Australians helped out newly arrived
migrants and were bestowed with kindness and gratitude in return. What an enormous
well of karma and wellbeing must have been built up from all of this selfless
giving. On the collective level we can think of it as a vast store of social
capital: it made the country feel good about itself. Societies with deep reserves of social capital exhibit effective
functioning of social groups through interpersonal relationships, and a shared
sense of identity. And not only did this result in a large number of people
feeling good about themselves and the society they belonged to, but we also
benefited from having wonderful people like Anh Do becoming part of our culture.
In contrast, what we
have now is a policy that turns refugees away or keeps them locked up in off-shore
detention indefinitely. There is no opportunity for Australians to demonstrate
their generosity to newcomers; no opportunity to feel good about helping others who come from far away;
no opportunity to gain invaluable social capital and feelings of wellbeing on an
individual or collective level. Instead, we have become a nation that turns its
back on those who ask for our help. How many Anh Dos have we turned away or confined
to offshore detention? We will never know. Instead, we are left with the
self-satisfaction that we have denied access to those in need; a strange and empty
feeling that we have somehow protected and preserved our way of life. All I
feel are awkward feelings of guilt and sadness – sadness that we have squandered
a golden opportunity to simultaneously help others, nurture a national identity
that is proud of its willingness and ability to welcome those in need, and
improve the diversity and richness of our communities.
What a sad and shallow nation
we’ve become. I’m glad that we did at least once upon a time accept the likes
of Anh Do and his family into our lives.
