When you get to a safer place, people think your problems are over. They’re not. We have family back home who are constantly being killed, trying to escape, and pleading for help. We feel helpless, unable to do anything. We’re already struggling ourselves here. The lack of awareness about mental health when it comes to refugees and their health being neglected is huge. Every time I go to a doctor, I’m always gaslighted. When I have issues I bring up, they’re like, “It’s fine. Just drink water. Just take this medication. Don’t worry about it. You’re still young.” I had one doctor who said to me, to my face. “You’re in Australia. Why are you depressed?” Despite him knowing. Despite him knowing I’m a Rohingya and all I have experienced. I have a long, long history of persecution in my family. I’ve completely given up on going to the doctors. I see so many young people in my community struggling with their mental health. I’d say 90% of the people I know are around my age or even younger. I’ve even seen kids as young as eight or nine years old already struggling with symptoms I didn’t develop until late in high school. We experience the effects of intergenerational trauma; even my siblings who were born here after we came. They grow up in a family where everyone’s traumatised, so they observe that, they wear that. It’s in their DNA. All the young kids in my community are going to school now and can speak English much better than our parents. They can communicate much better when it comes to going to the doctors, speaking with immigration or calling Centrelink. For me, I had to start translating for my parents when I was 10 years old; legal documents, communication with the government. I barely knew English myself. I was still learning. I didn’t have any education until the last semester of year five. I lost a lot of critical years of education. But I’m still expected to help my parents because if I don’t do it, who will? We had access to interpreters when we were first getting set up. But my parents had trust issues. It’s hard to trust just anyone, out of the blue. So it fell on me. That is a big load to carry as a kid. It’s like having the responsibilities of an adult. The majority of people in my family—in my community—never had the opportunity to go to school. Because that’s how persecution works. First, they take your right to education, your right to employment, your citizenship, and your birth certificate. They strip away all your documents. After that, slowly, slowly, you lose awareness of your rights. Even if you think what’s happened to you is unfair, you don’t actually understand the extent of all those terrible things that are being done to you until you come to a place where you see everyone’s getting access to all these things, and you start to understand. You start to understand that these are the rights you should have had all along. 90 Peter McMullin Centre on Statelessness | Understanding Statelessness in Australia There are many things the Australian government could do to actually make a difference. The policies we’ve been subjected to are very inhumane. They’ve been made by people who don’t know what we’ve experienced, who don’t actually understand what is really going on. It’s like asking a doctor to make laws about gardening. It’s two different things. It’s the same with refugee health and all the issues that we’re facing, the laws. For example, I had access to education in primary and high school. That’s it. For me, many of my problems with education started in Year 12. All my friends were worried about the HSC and their ATAR scores. For me, I wasn’t just worried about my marks. I was worried about being on a temporary visa. For about 12 years, I was on temporary visas with my family. I didn’t have access to HECS loans or any support. The only way I could go to university was with a full scholarship, which is very, very hard to get. Having high grades is not enough. You have to prove that you’re worth this thing. I’ve had interviews I wasn’t well prepared for because no one really wants you until the last minute. They’re like, “Yeah, you should’ve done this. Should’ve done that.” I’m like, “Where was this advice five years ago? Why didn’t you tell me?” There were so many things I worried about in high school that my friends didn’t really have to. They weren’t taking care of their siblings, helping their parents with interviews and filling out documents, managing their emails, and cleaning up the house, while also studying and worrying about university applications, scholarships, and rejections. I missed a whole year of education after the HSC because, although I got offers for bachelor’s degrees, I didn’t have the financial part sorted out. I was getting half scholarships, which were not enough. It wouldn’t cover one semester. I emailed so many universities. I called so many people, and no one could help me. My high school career advisor was completely useless. They’re the first person you go to for guidance, but every time I told them my problems, they weren’t invested. They didn’t understand—they refused to understand my situation. They treated me the same as they did the normal students who are born here and are Australian citizens or permanent residents. They were treating me like them, but I wasn’t them. I was on a temporary visa. I’m stateless. I have no birth certificate.