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A few days before Australia’s population ticked over 28 million, a neighbour and regular cricket mate invited me along to his citizenship ceremony. We arrived early, a little unsure of what the morning would hold.

For him, it had been a long road. More than four years of forms, waiting, interviews, setbacks and that quiet, stubborn kind of hope you don’t always talk about. Back in his home country he’d been educated and settled. Here life had taken on a different shape, driving a cab by day before night shifts on a forklift in a factory, trying to piece together something steady.

Sitting near us were an Afghan Hazara family. Two young girls were watching their father closely, their faces lit up in a way that only children can manage. He was speaking softly in Hazaragi, explaining things as they happened. I caught fragments: Aao Stralia keshwar-e hama-gi maasta ke enje zindagi moonem … enje kas ba kas gharaz nadra … (Australia is the home of everyone who lives here … People here mind their own business). He spoke simply, almost casually, but there was something careful in the way he chose his words. On his hand, a turquoise stone set in a silver ring caught the light every time he moved.

The venue was Bunjil Place in Melbourne’s south-east. The foyer, shaped like a great eagle, was flooded with morning sunlight pouring through the glass walls. The whole place felt alive. I could hear English, Hindi, Mandarin, Persian, Pashto, Punjabi. It felt less like a formal event and more like a gathering of the world in one room.

I recognised a few faces from around the neighbourhood. But today was different. Everyone had dressed up. There was a quiet pride in the way people carried themselves, even in the small things: how they stood and spoke, how they waited for their turn.

My friend said little. I couldn’t quite read what was going through his mind. Was it nerves or something heavier? Maybe he was just trying to hold the moment steady, to not let it spill over too quickly.

When the ceremony began, names were called one by one. Some were stumbled over, then repeated more carefully. Each time the room responded with applause and a kind of shared patience that didn’t need to be explained.

When my friend’s name was called, I saw something shift in him. It wasn’t quite happiness and not quite disbelief, but something in between. He walked up, took the certificate and held on to the small Australian flag, almost as though it was something solid he could anchor himself to.

For many in that room, especially communities like the Hazara, shaped by years of displacement and uncertainty, Australia means something that doesn’t always make it into political debates. It’s not just opportunity. It’s safety and a sense of dignity. It’s the ability to finally exist without constantly looking over your shoulder.

You can see what that has built over time. Small shops, restaurants and trade businesses. Kids going to school, then on to university or Tafe. Parents settling into routines that once felt out of reach, like smooth school dropoffs, grocery runs, weekend sport on ovals whose names they’re still learning to pronounce properly.

Later, the Hazara family moved toward a group of local politicians taking photos with the new citizens. The setup felt formal, almost routine, but to me it looked as though each interaction carried something more personal.

That, more than anything, stayed with me. The ceremony didn’t suddenly turn people into Australians. It simply recognised what had already been lived, the years of building a life, quietly and steadily. Belonging hadn’t started that day – it just became easier to name and label.

But, stepping outside, that feeling didn’t sit so neatly.

Beyond the walls of the building named after Bunjil, the creator figure in Wurundjeri tradition, the idea of belonging feels more contested. The conversation about migration has sharpened. Cost-of-living pressures, housing, wages and public services – these are real concerns. But too often migrants end up carrying the blame.

Political rhetoric hasn’t helped. At times it circles back to the same quiet question: who gets to belong and who doesn’t quite fit. Debates about welfare, rights, even taking part in local democracy carry that undercurrent, whether it’s spoken or not.

As people began to leave the hall, certificates tucked carefully into folders, small flags passed to children or held loosely in hand, I kept thinking about the man with the turquoise ring.

• Shadi Khan Saif is an editor, producer and journalist who has worked in Afghanistan, Pakistan, Germany and Australia