[EXPAT VOICE] An Ottoman village one fine morning

“I have been in Australia for 41 years. I studied in an American college in Ankara -- it was in English, so I didn't have a hard time when I came to Australia,” he explained.

“My last job was as a ticket inspector here for the Public Transport Corporation, and it was from there that I retired,” he added proudly with a grin. “I have happily paid tax to this country for over 32 years!”

Around a dozen of us were on a visit to the Ottoman Village Aged Care Center in Broadmeadows for Ramazan Bayramı -- the Turkish word for Eid al-Fitr, the religious festival marking the end of the Muslim fasting month of Ramadan. During that month, Muslims try to practice concepts of kinship and care -- so it was fitting to conclude the month by trying to alleviate the loneliness experienced by those in the nursing home, who were among the pioneers of our vibrant Turkish Australian community in Melbourne.

Our visit was an experience which transported me into a different time and place allowing us to reflect on why these people were forced to live here and why they were spending a joyous occasion like bayram far away from their loved ones.

Most of us were university students and friends who had wanted to do something rewarding for bayram, something that was small in scale to do but gave great happiness and joy.

So there we were -- eager and excited, dressed in our new bayram clothes with boxes of chocolates and plates of baklava to share. When we first came in to the home, an elderly man approached us and asked who we intended on seeing.

“We came to see you,” said one of my friends automatically, to which the man let out a humble smile. He didn't know us, nor was he expecting us. The smile turned into a grin as each of my friends kissed his hand out of respect and wished him a happy bayram.

Personal care attendant Amandeep Kaur took us around the center, along the well-lit corridors passing individual rooms with names and numbers printed on its doors.

As we turned the corner, we were greeted by Safiye Hanim, a humbly dressed woman with her arms wide open.

“Come in, come in,” she said in Turkish as she welcomed us into her room.

“I just finished my [prayer] ablutions and was just about to pray, but I heard your voices speaking in Turkish, so I quickly came to see you,” she said excitedly. We all gathered in her room and listened to her talk as she asked for each of our parents names to see whether she knew us (she didn't, but that didn't matter). Her kind and welcoming nature made us want to sit there for much longer among the many framed images of her children and grandchildren standing silently on her walls.

But we needed to move on, to the very ill cancer patient in room 24 who wanted us to fill her flower vase with water, and the elderly woman watching the Turkish matchmaking show İzdivaç and eating her lunch in room 26.

It was after this that we ended up talking in the large living area to Ergün Özöner and Zeynel Kesici, who were 75 and 73 years old, respectively. Mr. Özöner, who had worked for the Public Transport Corporation before retiring, looked quite healthy for his age and was a confident speaker. Knowing from his story that he had studied at a prestigious American school in Ankara, we all had the same question in our minds -- what was a healthy, well-educated and well-spoken gentlemen doing in an aged care center?

How long had he been here?

“I have been living in Ottoman Village for two years, and I am very happy to be here,” he said as if he knew what we were all thinking. “The coordinators here are lovely, we chat together, we eat Turkish food, we go out to the shops and we play Turkish games like isim-şehir.” It was clear, however, that underneath his eager eyes and confident tone was a hidden sorrow. “My daughter called me today from America and said, ‘Happy Bayram, Dad.' She doesn't know Turkish,” he said sadly with his eyes glued to the carpet. There was an awkward moment of silence.

My friends and I, while proud of our Australian identity, are comfortable with the Turkish backgrounds of our parents, and speak the language fluently. So we didn't know what to say. Mr. Özöner gave us some advice. “You are all like my own children,” he said. “Go out and introduce this center to others, work hard, strive harder. If you have English, use it. Let sweat trickle down your foreheads from hard work, and it is then that I will say ‘good on you!' Finally, don't ever forget the significance of your Turkish culture.”

These words were like pearls of wisdom coming from a man who had lived every word he uttered, making it powerfully influential on us, as his young listeners.

His companion, Mr. Kesici, who had difficulty speaking clearly, nodded at times when he agreed with Mr. Özöner, smiling frequently at the visitors who had come to see him.

It was time to say goodbye, but not without a photograph to capture the moment. I asked whether it was fine to take a photo together. Mr. Özöner's sense of humor was as sharp as his advice. He said no, but we could take a photo if we promised to give him a copy. As we left, he stood up from his couch and accompanied us all the way to the exit to say goodbye -- an inversion of Turkish cultural practice, whereby the young accompany the old when they leave, but not the other way around. We were filled with gratitude and respect at his kindness.

Walking outside the Ottoman Village, I stopped to reflect on how the roles between parent and child have changed -- that as parents get older, they are in a physical state of dependence like that of a newborn child. They need greater care and love, not from caretakers or strangers but from their own children. These values of love, compassion and respect for the elderly have no religion, race or background attached to them.