Debbie Rivers, 60, Perth, WA shares her story…
Rain pelted down as my brother and I huddled beneath our umbrella.
It was a chilly December afternoon in 1971. I was six and Phillip, 10, and I were trudging home from school through the cold streets of Didcot, UK. At 4pm it was already getting dark.
Inside, our mum Jackie, 35, and dad Bob, 42, were sitting at the kitchen table.
“We have some news,” Dad began with a sly grin. “We’re moving to Australia!”
Read more: My family and I have been living a lie…but now it’s time to come clean
Phillip and I were horrified. “Australia?” Phillip roared. “What about my friends? I don’t know anyone in Australia!”
“I don’t want to live away from Grandma and Grandpa,” I added, my voice wobbling.
Mum wrapped her arms around us. “We’ll write letters to everyone back home so you can stay in touch,” she said. “And I promise you’ll make new friends.”
I wasn’t convinced. England was the only home I knew.
“We want to raise you somewhere with beaches and sunshine,” Dad added.
They’d been enticed by Australia’s assisted migration program which offered British families the chance to start a new life Down Under for just £10 in fees.
I didn’t understand what that meant, all I knew was that everything was about to change.
Over the next month, Mum and Dad sold our house as we packed up our lives.
I cried on my last day of school, promising I’d write.
In January 1972, we boarded a Greek ship, The Ellinis, at Southampton with hundreds of other families.
It had a pool, large dining halls, and cabins with bunk beds. It felt like an adventure and I became excited at the prospect of six weeks at sea. But the novelty soon wore off.
Most nights, the children ate separately from the adults.
Instead of the plain meat and veg I was used to, we were served lamb koftas, souvlaki and moussaka.
“I don’t like it,” I said to Phillip. “Can’t we have mashed potatoes or chicken?”
“I know it’s different, but you still have to eat, Deb,” he said gently.
After a tiny bite, I decided to go to bed hungry.
Our cramped cabin had four bunks and barely room to move. A week into the trip, Phillip accidentally slammed the cabin door on my hand.
“Ouch!” I screamed.
Mum grabbed a towel and wrapped it around my bloody hand. “Let’s get to the medic,” she said calmly.
But when the medic removed the towel and Mum properly saw the damage, she fainted. The tip of my finger had been severed.
Seconds later, Dad rushed in, and passed out, too!
“You’ll need stitches,” the medic said. “And no swimming – the pool could cause an infection.”
Tears streamed down my face. In that moment, I desperately wanted the ship to turn around. Why are we leaving everything we know?
The weeks dragged on, broken only by brief stops in countries like Egypt and Sri Lanka. At each port, I’d fill up on as much familiar food as I could find.
Finally, in February, we arrived in Fremantle, WA.
We were taken to temporary accommodation for British migrants while families found work and housing. It was hot, stuffy and uncomfortable – very different to chilly England.
“When I’m old enough, I’m moving back home,” I vowed.
After six weeks, Dad found a job as a storeman and we moved to Lathlain in Perth.
Starting school was another shock. “Whingeing, Ten Pound Pom!” kids would yell when I spoke.
Phillip and I worked hard to soften our accents. In time, I started to fit in and make friends, but I always considered myself a Brit.
By high school, I sounded like any other Aussie kid, though at home, British traditions like Sunday roast remained non-negotiable, even on 40°C days!
Slowly, I came to love the warmer weather and the laid-back culture, but I still wrote letters back home.
When I was 21, I spent my savings on a trip to the UK.
It was great to be back, but I found myself missing the beaches and people of Perth.
“This is home, but so is Australia,” I realised.
Suddenly, I accepted that my future was Down Under.
Over the coming years, Phillip and my parents became Australian citizens, but I still resisted. I held resentment toward being taken from the UK as a child.
In time, I married and had three children, and I loved raising my kids close to the beach and nature.
Then, in 2020, having separated from my husband, I started dating Steve, 47. He shared my love of travel and after COVID, we started exploring the world together.
Each time we returned from an overseas trip, I felt proud to call Australia home and I finally let go of any bitterness I had from my childhood.
I’d watch enviously as Steve breezed through customs with his Australian passport while I lined up for a visa.
“I think I’m ready to become an Aussie,” I told him in 2024, and I began the application process.
On Australia Day 2026, I sat at a local winery in WA alongside hundreds of others excited to become Australian. Steve was also there, cheering me on.
As I walked up to receive my citizenship certificate, tears filled my eyes. It was 54 years after I’d arrived as a reluctant little girl, but I was finally, officially Australian.
Mum and Dad had since passed, but I knew they’d have been excited to see me embracing my Aussie identity.
I may have arrived kicking and screaming, but now I’m so grateful for their decision to invest that ten pounds.
This stunning, .999 silver commemorative The Bradford Mint is proud to present to its most discerning collectors, has been meticulously crafted to the highest numismatic standards, with finely etched images showing the enormity of the journey from Britain to Australia at the time and the joy of two newlyweds and their ‘permitted to enter Australia’ border stamp allowing them to joyfully embrace their new life in Paradise. Call (02 9841 3324) to buy the products.
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