I ARRIVED WITH CONFIDENCE, KNOWING I HAD A COMMUNITY TO RETURN TO.
The morning I left my home in the Philippines, the only island I’d lived on for 30 years, a van full of family members took me to the airport. My aunt hugs me and says, ‘Labyu, inday. ’ Love you, little girl. Days before that, friends sent me off with a despedida, a party, where they lent winter clothes, messaged people on their contact lists, and even bought me luggage. When I arrived in Melbourne, a driver, a Nepalese immigrant of 30 years, was already waiting at the car park. He points at the city’s Victorian spires, laneways, and gardens and makes a quick forecast, ‘Siri says Melbourne is the 4th most livable city in the world, so you’ll be fine.’ He was right. In my year-long hiatus here, I never felt alone. Never lost, nor displaced, nor alienated. I arrived with confidence, knowing I had a community to return to.
I STRUGGLED TO GRASP THE WEIGHT OF THIS – THAT THE ACT OF MAKING YOURSELF SEEN CAN BE DENIED
This sentiment isn’t universal, I will soon find out. It comes from a place of privilege, one I was neglectfully unaware of until I interned for Space2b. I had never been privy to the diasporic, refugee, or asylum experience before. Perhaps I even romanticised it, reading accounts by authors like Andre Aciman and Orhan Pamuk. One had been forced to flee Egypt at 14, and the other had willfully isolated from Turkey. They transformed their pain into a worthy read. One Tuesday at Space2b, I was taking photos of a woman who fled her country to escape an abusive partner. She softly requested not to take a snapshot of her face, ‘The partner might see,’ was all she said. I struggled to grasp the weight of this: that the act of making yourself seen can be denied. I’ve had many awakening moments like this throughout my time at Space2b. I am a bystander to the resolve of women creators, crafters, lawyers, homemakers, educators, as they reclaim their agency and negotiate with identities that they may no longer recognise. They lug their sewing machines to finish a craft project, while offering empanadas, plantains, and house wine. And over the communal table, we’d trade stories of our lives in Mozambique, Ethiopia, Japan, Venezuela, you name it.
I FIND THE COMMUNAL TABLE AT SPACE2B SYMBOLIC OF ITS QUIET ROLE AS A REFUGE, not only for those who long to escape, but more so for those in search of a new beginning, everyone is welcome to a seat at the table. Whether you’re a newcomer or a long-time member, there’s comfort in knowing you can just gather and feel like you belong. Whatever state you’re in, there’s always something to share. A listening ear. A skillset. Time to make someone feel noticed. To hold their image up to the light without apology. These are invisible affects, hard to measure in any impact report. But it’s there. That lived belonging. Like sitting quietly with a van full of your family, and nothing more is asked.
