A Journey to Australia
A Journey to Australia
Itwas 1991. I had come from Dubai on a short holiday, with my partner and three small children, all under the age of five. We had little luggage, but much more weight in our hearts — the weight of questions, possibilities, and that subdued unease that comes with longing for something undefined.
I did not know what to expect from Australia. What met me was not spectacle or grandeur, but something gentler — a kind of unpretentious decency that felt, in its quiet way, overwhelming. The Australians were kind in a manner I had not known before. They noticed us, they smiled, and they helped us board trains with the children and the stroller. There was a graciousness in their ordinariness — not demonstrative, but instinctive.
Everything I saw felt clean calm and astonishing. The suburban air was soft and carried none of the harshness of the desert. Even the mundane had its wonder: the Woolworths ice cream aisle was a revelation. In Dubai, we had only chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry — varieties in name, but uniform in taste. Here, there were names I could not pronounce, swirls and ripples of colour and invention. I remember standing there longer than I should have, quietly amazed. Perhaps it was foolish, but I felt like the world was opening, beginning in that aisle of frozen sweetness.
We visited a local Catholic school in Quakers Hill. The principal, Mrs. Albryne, was waiting. She had an easy, welcoming smile. She walked me and my children through classrooms filled with colour and laughter and little artworks pinned neatly to corkboards. I sensed here a place where childhood was not merely supervised but nurtured. I saw something rare: a society prepared to let its children grow without fear.
In that same week, I and my partner visited Stewart and Sweeney — friends from an earlier chapter of my life. They had once shepherded me when I was young and alone, uncertain of place or purpose. I had lived among strangers then, and they were the ones who offered a kind of belonging. Now they were settled in Penrith, their children thriving, their home modest but full of certainty. I saw what they had built — not just materially, but emotionally — and I recognised in their lives a blueprint. There was no envy in me, only clarity. I wanted that for my children: not wealth, not prestige, but the quiet confidence of growing up safe, in a land where decency was unforced.
I made my decision quietly, internally. I would bring my family here. Not for prosperity — that word meant little to me by then — but for a different kind of richness. I wanted a different air for my children to breathe.
I paid fifty dollars to speak with an immigration lawyer. He studied my background and, to my surprise, said I would not need an agent. I could apply directly. He handed me no promises — only a quiet nod and a direction: “You can do this.”
I looked at house prices. With what I had saved in Dubai, I could buy a small house or perhaps build one. A tick, as I told myself — one more step forward.
I met with a bank manager in Sydney, an old friend from Dubai. We spoke over lunch in a restaurant that felt, to me, more theatre than food. He was courteous. He said there were no job guarantees and no transfer scheme from Dubai. If I wanted to come, I would have to do it without security — no sponsor, no job voucher. It would mean giving up my position, my salary, and the title I had earned over the years. But I felt no hesitation. If a man cannot walk toward the life he wants, then what is the use of standing still?
I took the train from Quakers Hill to Parramatta. In those days, there were no phones to guide you, only memory and direction. I found Jessie Street, entered the Immigration Department, and took a number. I waited. There was no anxiety. Just stillness.
The officer called my number. He was unexpectedly kind — open, curious. He invited me to a room, a plain space with two chairs and a round table. We spoke, not as supplicant and gatekeeper, but as two men considering a future. He asked questions. I answered. My English surprised him. He fetched a thick, official-looking book — the skilled migration guide, then a printed manual, not the flickering thing it has now become online.
He turned to page 60. “Data Processing Professionals.” That was the term. He explained the process: I would need to send my records and credentials to the Australian Computer Society. If approved, I could proceed. He handed me the immigration form — a thick document requiring photographs and certified declarations. He asked, gently, if I had any blood relatives in Australia. I said yes. My wife’s brother. He smiled and produced an additional form for family sponsorship that would generate 5 points to the required 60 points. He said I could qualify on my own without sponsorship because of my skills that could fetch 70 points. Totally 75 points, easy passage.
I thanked him. I remember his eyes — they had that particular Australian ease. I took the train back to Quakers Hill.
My brother-in-law signed the sponsorship form. It needed a Justice of the Peace. Here, too, the world bent in my favour. Gordon and Lillee — two Australian Sri Lankans we had known — told us that Lillee’s sister was a JP. We drove there. She signed.
I had completed Phase One of the project. That was what I had begun to call it in my mind — a project. Not a dream. Not an escape. Just something that needed doing, carefully.
We returned to Dubai — six of us now, counting Kanthi, our faithful maid. We flew via Colombo. I was no longer a tourist. I had an aim.
I visited the Australian Computer Society office on George Street before we left, to collect the proper forms. In Dubai, I went to work. I was fortunate. As a bank manager, I could access the archives, and retrieve every shred of evidence of my work: my role in setting up the first ATM network, my programming experience, and my projects across the UAE. I prepared the documents meticulously. Certificates from IBM, Novell. Memberships. Letters. I indexed them all. My operations manager, Fakhruddin Suleimanjee, a gentleman of grace, signed off the cover note.
But documents had to be certified. The UAE had no JPs. Sri Lanka did. My father had been one once. On my next trip, I visited Ranil’s father, a JP who had known me since I was a boy. He signed the stack — too many pages to do by hand — so I made him a stamp at a local press. In his house on Kandy Road, Dalugama, the signatures came one by one, inked and solemn.
I posted the bundle to George Street., Sydney. Two months later, I received word: that I had been accepted by the Australian Computer Society. I could now apply.
There was no Australian Embassy in Dubai then. None in the Middle East. I sent the completed application to Athens, Greece, paying 140 Dirhams. DHL took the papers. I waited.
Two months more. Then the letter. We were asked to do our medicals. The only acceptable clinic was the Dubai London Clinic, run by the British. We complied. An old English doctor examined me. He was precise and impersonal, and yet there was something in his manner — some recognition, perhaps — that I would be fine. My damage in medical fees Dirhams 2000.
We had expected to be summoned to Greece for an interview. I had saved 14,000 Dirhams for airfares. But the letter said there was no need. No interview. They had decided: that I was suitable. I would integrate.
By July, they asked for the passports. I sent them to Greece. We were to arrive before the 24th of October.
I resigned from the bank. My old code — D275 — was cancelled across all branches. It was an ending. But it did not feel like a loss.
We arrived in Sydney on the 14th of October, on a Qantas flight that stopped in Singapore.
And so, the project ended. Or began.
I do not know what I did to deserve such ease in a world often built on resistance. But there are moments in a man’s life when the world seems to step aside and let him pass. Australia did that for me.
And I remain, still, quietly grateful.
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