Each night, after reading bedtime stories, my daughter asks “Sing me your song mama.” These are traditional hymns – the kinds of spiritual and psychological memories that are often the only things a refugee safely carries out of their former home.
I am struck by my daughter’s choice of words: “Sing me your songs, Mama.” Born and raised here, she already has an emerging sense of what is hers and what is mine. And this includes her own sense of those things that define her identity, and to me, that extends to her own sense of home. I know that neither my ‘Sudaneseness’ or my ‘Australianness’ are transferable to her.
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