For many second-generation Arab Australians, university is more than just education. It’s proof. Proof that our parents didn’t survive war, sanctions and displacement for nothing. Proof that the sacrifice was worth it. And proof to ourselves that we belong in a system and a country that was never built with us in mind.
Our parents didn’t arrive in Australia in search of opportunity; they were forced out of their homelands long before we were born. Uprooted by wars they didn’t start. Dispossessed by sanctions they didn’t choose. Exiled by policies written in distant capitals that continue to shape our lives. The West carved up their countries, propped up dictators, armed militias, and drained economies. When things collapsed, they fled—not out of desire, but with force.
We were born here. Raised here. This is the only home many of us have ever known. And yet, we are constantly reminded that we don’t really belong. We’re asked where we’re really from. We’re treated as outsiders in our own country, as if our Australian-ness is conditional tested, questioned, and often rejected.
Our parents weren’t met with compassion. They were given mop handles, factory gloves, and construction gear. They took the jobs no one else wanted, the jobs that keep cities running but made workers invisible. Double shifts, overnight hours, low wages. They stayed quiet not because they were comfortable, but because they had no choice. And while they kept the system afloat, they were never truly welcomed into it.
The West benefited twice by destabilising their homelands, and again by harvesting their labour here.
But they did it all so their kids could have a different future. That’s us. But what looks like success, a graduation photo, a scholarship, a job interview often hides the pressure bubbling underneath. While some of our peers focus on career fairs and semester breaks, we’re balancing study with paid work, family obligations, cultural expectations, and the silent responsibility to make our parents’ sacrifice count.
We are often the first in our families to attend university. That pride is real. But so is the pressure. Every distinction is a way of saying thank you. Every missed deadline feels like failure on a generational scale. Every time we fall behind, it feels like we’re risking more than just a grade.
Yet the university system rarely makes space for that truth. It's built for a fictional "average" student, one with financial stability, family support, cultural familiarity, and time to spare. It doesn’t account for the student who is translating Medicare paperwork for their parents in between tutorials. Or the one working night shifts to pay rent. Or the one showing up to class carrying the trauma of inherited exile.
Worse still, many of us are only seen when it suits an institution’s agenda. Universities love to centre us in diversity brochures. A brown face on a poster. A hijabi on the homepage. But once the campaign ends, so does the visibility. There’s no mentorship. No structured support. No career guidance. Just the illusion of inclusion.
Even when we are noticed, it’s often transactional. Bilingual? Great help with the "community engagement" strategy. Bring your culture but leave your criticism. Translate this, appear in that, but don’t ask for credit. Our identities are used to build the image of diversity, but we’re rarely paid or supported in return. And when we enter job markets, our names alone can be enough to push our resumes to the bottom of the pile.
It’s a different kind of exile—not from a land, but from the structures that claim to represent us. The constant push and pull of being Australian enough to work for free when it suits an institution, but never quite Australian enough to be trusted, celebrated, or truly heard.
We are not asking for applause. We are not chasing pity. We are asking to be seen beyond the photo op, the performance, the policy paper. Our families helped build this country, literally. And yet, we’re still asked to prove we belong. Every time we tick a box, apply for an internship, or walk into a lecture hall.
Our degrees carry the weight of more than just personal ambition. They carry legacy, grief, resistance, and love. They are not simply credentials, they are quiet acts of defiance. Of presence. Of permanence.
We belong here. Not because we’ve earned it twice over, but because this is our home whether this country chooses to see us or not.
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