Andrew L. Urban
It was a hot January 26 in 1966. As I stepped off the plane in Sydney from London, my camel hair jacket suddenly felt superfluous. I took it off with ease. With greater ease than I could shake off my sense of being in a different place, a different environment with a different history. That last is the reason why I am still a permanent resident, not a citizen.
I escaped from Hungary during the Hungarian Revolution of 1956, at age 11. By then, I had been immersed in Hungarian history, not only at home but also at school. Even the Soviets who controlled the Hungarian present in the 1950s did not erase the proud history of the Magyars. I had learnt how Hungary’s military leader, Janos Hunyadi, played a crucial role in preventing the Ottoman Empire from conquering Western Europe during the 15th century, particularly through his leadership in battles such as the Battle of Nicopolis in 1396 and the Battle of Mohács in 1526. His efforts helped to fortify Hungary’s defences against Turkish advances. For a small country (current popn. <10 million, about 3 – 5 million at the time), these events are especially significant.
I learnt about the founding of the nation a thousand years before, the honourable kings who had ruled and – perhaps most significantly – the moment that our most famous poet, Sandor Petofi, had inspired the nation to rise up against Hapsburg rule, reciting On Your Feet from the steps of the Hungarian National Museum in 1848.
That (and more) in Hungarian history, is the central core of what and how I see myself.
Then came a decade in England, where I finished my schooling (not to be confused with education, at which I was rather poor). Again, it was learning British and European history that generated another layer of socio-cultural bonding. There was the history, but also there were the many entertainment menus I consumed as a teenager, from the music to the classic British radio and TV shows, especially the comedies, which oozed cultural identity.
My British passport, issued in 1960, was my first passport. It is still my only passport, and I regard it simply as a travel document, not as evidence of personal identity. I have often been asked why I haven’t been naturalised. To me, it would be hypocritical, since my sense of self is grounded in my country of birth and supported by my country of refuge. I would explain that my “terms of reference” are European, with history, architecture and social mores emanating from there. I don’t have memories of childhood barbeques and old school friends from Aussie suburbs, I stopped playing school sports well before I arrived in Sydney on that hot day.
Now that this issue of benefits that may be withdrawn from permanent residents has come up, it’s time to publicly explain. I agreed with Australia to pay ten pounds for travel from London to Sydney on the single condition that I stay in Australia for at least two years. I’ve paid taxes all these years, raised a family, run a publishing business, made a TV prime time doco series (9 years) and celebrated the prominent bits of Australian history like Australia and ANZAC Days. Indeed, I have boycotted Woolworths ever since their refusal to stock Aussie merchandise on Australia Day 2024.
So don’t ask me to get an Australian passport as meaningless, gutless insurance against losing some benefits of living here. Just make sure genuine and comprehensive Australian history is always part of the school curriculum.
