We Got Lost on the Way Home
Forty years ago, my parents secretly sold our apartment, holiday home, and my mother’s Volkswagen Beetle; carefully stashed prized possessions with trusted friends; gave away anything we didn’t need; and packed up everything we needed to “live” in my father’s car.
It was summer holidays, and we were going camping in Austria! My first time out of Hungary. I was so excited.
But the border crossing was terrifying.
So many men carrying rifles.
Approaching cars.
Cars being pulled over and contents being thrown across the ground.
I sensed something uncomfortable that I didn’t understand. My mother turned around and sternly told us to keep quiet and not speak until they tell us it’s okay to.
Some men with rifles came over to our car too. Peering inside. Using their rifles to lift blankets and poke around our belongings. Words were exchanged. I do not recall what.
They waived us through.
We went camping in Austria. It was magical. I formed a friendship with a girl I could only communicate with through hand gestures, nodding, and shaking my head.
Our holiday ended. But we didn’t return to Budapest.
We “got lost” and found ourselves in Italy.
For four months we travelled around this magical country. We sheltered in a convent, motels, and the quirkiest terraced house in a seaside village in the heart of a Mafia community.
I remember being told that we were never going back home. That I will never see my grandparents or friends or beloved dance teacher again. The finality of this I didn’t understand at the time.
I was only seven years old, but I have so many fond memories of our time in Italy. And I’m not just talking about the cities and landmarks; it was the time we spent together as a family. I learned to play poker and in the heat of the summer we would play cards late into the night; sleep a few hours; head out for pizza (dough with just a smearing of tomato sauce on top) fresh out of the oven, whose aromas filled the streets; and spent our days sight-seeing or playing on the beach before heading inside for siesta.
It was as if time stood still. And my parents were fully present, day in, day out. Bliss.
We had family living in America, Canada, and New Zealand. My parents chose New Zealand as the safest country for our family to live in. But at the eleventh hour, immigration declined our visa. Then just as we had resigned ourselves to staying in Italy, we got the call to say immigration accepted us as political refugees after all.
Forty years ago today, my family arrived in Aotearoa New Zealand. I am grateful to have been able to call this beautiful country home. Yet I haven’t always been welcomed. As a child, I was different and othered. I was made to change the pronunciation of my name to make it easier for Kiwis. And I became embarrassed of all my qualities that made me different.
For the majority of my life, my nationality has been New Zealander. But I will always be a Hungarian at heart; and my soul is drawn back to Italy. This year i was officially given back my Hungarian nationality.
