By: Veronica White3rd Jun 2025 12:18AMI was four years old when my family arrived at the Westbridge Migrant Hostel in November 1978. Though I was young, I still carry vague but fond memories of our time there, shaped further by the stories told over the years by my parents and the old photos we’ve kept.

We arrived late at night — it was dark, quiet, and everyone was asleep. Ours was a small group of families, perhaps six in total, from Argentina, Uruguay, and Chile — likely among the final wave of arrivals from that part of the world. When my mum opened the curtains the next morning, she saw Vietnamese people doing group exercises on the lawn and thought, “Where am I?” At that time, I believe we were the only non-Vietnamese families at Westbridge. Though there were waves of Lebanese and Cambodian migrants too, my parents never mentioned interacting with or noticing them during our stay.

Despite the challenges, I remember the apartment being quite modern, clean, and comfortable. But the lack of cooking facilities was hard, especially for my mum — and for my brother (6) and I (4), who struggled with the canteen food. Like most kids, we found joy in play — we’d explore the grounds and make friends easily. I still remember the man with the trailer who’d occasionally go around inspecting units for banned cooking appliances. Us kids were the unofficial early-warning system — we'd race to alert our mums when we saw him coming. Our electric frying pan was eventually confiscated, and I clearly remember going with my parents to retrieve it when we left. There was a locked shed full of cooking appliances sitting on shelves, each with its own story.

My dad found work almost immediately. Mum started English classes, and I have vivid memories of her ESL workbooks. One page stands out even now — it showed a woman knocking on her friend’s door:
"Hi Carol, can I come in?"
"Yes Betty, I’m just finishing getting ready. There are cigarettes on the coffee table — help yourself.”

We spent our first Christmas at Westbridge. By January, we’d moved to Cabramatta, where I started kindergarten at Cabramatta Public School — without knowing a word of English. My mum tells me I developed a stutter as I tried to navigate two languages at once, but within six months I was fluent. Kids don’t "learn" language — they absorb it.

Like so many migrant families, us children quickly became our parents’ translators. We handled everything from government appointments and doctor visits to the chemist, the real estate agent, school events, and even writing our own sick notes.

I also remember the hostel's iconic cups — those Fire King Peach Luster mugs — and the classic cafeteria trays. When we left, we took our trays with us and used them for decades. I’m sure my brother still has one!

We were the Rebollo family. I’m Veronica, and my brother is Bernardo. The photo attached is my family and the neighbourhood kids, posing in front of our new 'used' car, with the hostel units in the background. We’re the two taller kids standing in front of our dad, Greg (known as Goyo), with our mum Berta crouching down, holding some of the other children. I’d love to know if anyone recognises themselves in that photo — if you were there, you’d be around 48 to 55 years old now (2025).