A Journey of Hope: My Arrival in Australia remembered as a 15-Year-Old Refugee

I still remember the moment as if it were yesterday. I was sitting on a plane, somewhere above the Pacific Ocean, leaving everything I had ever known behind me. The journey felt endless. I didn’t know exactly what awaited me, only that life was about to change forever.

As the sun slowly rose outside my window, a thin line of light pushed through the darkness. I watched it carefully, unsure of what I felt. That light became something important to me; I recognised it as hope. But even as the light grew brighter and stronger, I was still afraid to be sitting in that plane heading to a place I did not know. I knew that when the plane landed, I would step into a completely different world. A world that was safe, but unfamiliar. A world where I would have to start again.

Back home in El Salvador, life had been shaped by fear, violence and poverty. I had seen things no child should have to see. I remember one day when the bus I was on with my father was attacked. There were gunshots, an explosion, and confusion all around us. Somehow, we survived. That was the moment my father knew we could not stay. He wanted something better for us, for all of us to live. It was our human right to seek to be more.

So we left.

On that plane, I sat with my thoughts, caught between fear and excitement. I was leaving behind a childhood filled with struggle, but I was also leaving behind my home. I didn’t know whether to feel relief or guilt. Part of me wondered if I was being brave, or if I was simply running away like a coward that refuses to face the challenges that life brings.

But my family was with me, and that gave me strength.

When we finally arrived in Australia, everything felt new. The buildings, the streets, the people; it was unlike anything I had ever seen. There was a sense of safety that I had never experienced before. For the first time in my life, I believed that no one was going to hurt my family.

And yet, starting again was not easy.

We moved into a migrant hostel in Melbourne. It was cold, unfamiliar, and often lonely. I couldn’t understand the language. I didn’t know how things worked. Everything that had once felt normal was gone. Essential things: food, clothing, daily routines, felt different.

There were moments when I felt lost.

But there were also moments of kindness. People welcomed us, helped us, and treated us with dignity. I began to see that Australia was more than just a safe place, it was a place where I could build something new.

Through it all, my family remained my foundation. My parents had made enormous sacrifices to bring us here. I could see both hope and fear in my father’s eyes, but I also saw determination. He wanted us to have opportunities he never had.

That stayed with me.

Slowly, I realised that this journey was not just about escaping hardship because it was about creating a future. Australia gave me that chance. It gave my family safety, but it also gave us responsibility. We had to work hard, learn, adapt, and make the most of the opportunity we had been given.

Looking back now, I understand that the struggles I faced shaped who I am today. The fear, the uncertainty, the sacrifices, they became part of my strength. I carry my past with me, not as a burden, but as a reminder of how fortunate I am.

I arrived in Australia as a frightened young person, unsure of my place in the world. But I also arrived with hope.

And that hope became the beginning of everything.

One of the moments I will never forget was walking into the dining hall at the Midway Migrant Hostel in Maribyrnong for the very first time. By that stage, I had started to feel safe. I thought maybe things were going to be okay. But stepping into that room showed me just how different my new life was going to be.

The hall was full of people, hundreds of us, lining up for food, sitting together, speaking languages I had never heard before. There were long tables, trays of rice, noodles, casseroles, and sometimes strange new foods like sausage rolls and meat pies. I remember trying my first meat pie that night. It was hot in the middle, too crusty on the outside, and completely unfamiliar, but somehow, I loved it.

What stayed with me most wasn’t the food, it was the people. We were all from different parts of the world, and we could barely understand each other. Yet we shared something important. We had all left something behind. We had all come here looking for safety.

As I looked around, I realised that everyone in that room had a story like mine, stories of fear, loss, and hope. Even though we couldn’t speak to each other, I could feel it. We were strangers, but in some strange way, we were also connected and familiar.

That dining hall was where I firstly understood what multicultural Australia really meant. It wasn’t perfect. There was confusion, fear, and even mistrust. People ate quickly, as if the food might disappear. It reminded me that hunger and uncertainty were still very real for all of us. But there was also gratitude. There was generosity. And there was hope.

At the same time, I began to notice something else, trust was not easy. Even among people from my own country, there was suspicion. The war we had escaped had not stayed behind; in some ways, it travelled with us. People feared each other. They questioned identities.

I experienced moments of confusion and sadness that I didn’t expect. I saw a boy I had once known back home, someone I had shared laughter with. But when we met again, it was different. We greeted each other, and then he walked away. It felt like we had both become strangers. I realised then that even when you escape, some things are lost forever.

There were other moments that helped me grow when I arrived in our nation. I remember travelling through the city for the first time, seeing both kindness and signs of rejection. I saw graffiti that stated that some people didn’t belong here. It was confusing and I felt unsure of my place.

Slowly, I started to understand that migration is complicated. Everyone carries different hopes, different fears, and different ways of coping, despite the common elements we shared back in March of 1987. Some people wanted to go back home. Others, like me, knew there was no going back.

And yet, despite everything, life slowly began to change.

I made friends. I started learning new words. I began to laugh again. I discovered new foods, new places, and new possibilities. I was still homesick, still confused, and still unsure, but for the first time, I could see a future forming.

Looking back now, I realise that the flight here and the hostel were more than just an exciting travel across the Pacific Ocean and place where we stayed when we first arrived. It was where I began to understand the world differently. It was where I learnt that diversity is not always easy, but it is powerful. It was where I began to see myself not just as someone who had escaped, but as someone who could belong.

That is where my new life truly began.

Dr Napoleon Rodezno