The Day I Kissed the Ground:
A Story of Immigration and Resilience
As we landed in Sydney, Australia, I felt a surge of emotions. I looked at my family: my cheerful daughters, seven and five, my playful son, three, and my then partner expecting our fourth child. Joyful tears swelled my eyes. I gazed out of the window and saw the land that would be our new home. I wished I could touch the ground and thank it for welcoming us. But I knew I was not allowed to go on the tarmac. So, I gave it a tender kiss in my thoughts.
It was a challenge to manage everything at the airport. I filled out five cards for our arrival. I grabbed five big suitcases, five carry-ons and five passports. I kept an eye on my kids, who were full of energy. I hoped my son wouldn’t wander off in the crowd. I waited surrounded by bags, trolleys, my three little ones and my wife, who could not help much.
Melly, my brother-in-law, his wife Pam and their daughter Melliza were waiting for us at the arrival lounge. Pam came forward with a bouquet of flowers. We hugged and greeted each other. The kids were happy to see their cousin. My son tried to climb on a trolley. Pam said, “Let’s go home”. Home — I had been virtually homeless for a year, dismantling our lives in Dubai. My kids were virtual refugees in Sri Lanka in unfamiliar surroundings.
But we had made it. My children would never suffer again. They would never wake up at five for school or face harsh teachers. They would not be criticised for being playful kids. They would always be joyful, even if I weren’t there.
I thought of the past year, the storm I had weathered. I wore a smile and shed tears in my soul.
Today, I recall that first day in Australia as an immigrant at the airport when Pam said, “Let’s go home.”
And home meant hope for me. Home meant I would never, ever run again. My kids would never, ever run again.
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