Our little refuge

Jane
Aug 3
5 min read

Updated: Aug 12

3.8.25

I’ve written before about having international volunteers and long-term lodgers in my home. That all began after I separated from Ronny and needed to find creative ways to pay the bills without giving up the freedom and time I needed to continue working as an artist.

Many of the early lodgers and their guests were young Iranian men, most of them refugees. At the time, all I really knew about Iran and Israel was that they were enemies.

Two of those young men, Maz and Sadra, had fled Iran through Indonesia. Their boat sank in the Indian Ocean, and they spent eight hours clinging to wreckage. Sadra’s mother drowned before his eyes, too exhausted to hold on any longer. After being rescued by the navy, the two were imprisoned in Indonesia. They eventually escaped, and made it to Australia, where they were sent to a detention centre for six months.

We often sat together sharing stories: about their lives in Iran, their journeys, and the daily struggles they faced even after arriving here. Listening to them opened my eyes. I began to make sense of the world they had come from.

My home became their first real home in Australia. Not only did we share stories—we also shared cultural celebrations.

I discovered that the Iranian New year has many similarities to the Jewish New Year, especially in the symbolic foods eaten during the holiday.

We even joked around by dressing up as each other’s cultural ‘identity’ and sent photos to an Israeli who ran a Facebook page called We Love Iran.

Word spread through the Iranian community that my place was safe and welcoming. More young men moved in (though not all at once :- ) and many stayed for years.

When my mum came to live with me for five of those years, she became an honourable member of the household. The boys cooked traditional Iranian meals for her, and treated her like their own grandmother. I explained to them that mum was a Holocaust survivor. Most had barely heard about the Holocaust, let alone met someone who had lived through the camps. Most had never even met a Jewish person before.

It’s still interesting for me, especially given the political tensions then and now, that no one was bothered by the fact that I was Jewish or that I had family in Israel. On the contrary. To this day, Maz calls my children his 'brothers and sisters', and refers to mum as his 'grandmother'.

Over time, those early lodgers moved on—building new lives, finding partners, raising children. But we continued to stay connected, visiting each other and remaining close.

Maz and his wife's family visiting us from Japan

Then came COVID. That’s when Sisira and Bee moved in, followed later by Asmita and Lena.

Then October 7th happened. I decided to take a break from having housemates. I needed quiet. I felt shocked and overwhelmed — by the war between Israel and Gaza, by Iran and its proxies, and by worry about my family in Israel. At the same time I was trying to make sense of what felt like an explosion of antisemitism both here, in Australia, and around the world.

Three months later, in January 2024, I was ready to rent the little room again. I posted an ad on Flatmates.com.

But I knew something had changed in me. For the first time in my life I began double locking both the front and back doors. I felt vulnerable and fearful. There had been threats against Jews—warnings to ‘watch out.’ I imagined someone cruel and violent breaking in to hurt me or my family. As a second-generation Holocaust survivor, I could feel all the grim war stories my parents had told me starting to bubble up. It felt like those stories were seeping into my life - not as dark history - but something real and alive now.

Then I got a message from a young woman named Ruzul. She wanted to inspect the room. I asked her to tell me a bit about herself.

She wrote: ‘I’m from Iran.’

I froze, confused. Even though many Iranians had lived with me before, I didn’t know what her feelings might be towards Jews, especially now, in such a tense climate. At first I didn’t reply. But she messaged me again. Eventually I decided to be honest:

Hi Ruzul, I’m Jewish with family in Israel, so I’m not sure whether this would be a problem for you, considering how heated things are right now.

I added, to reaasure her:

I’ve had many Iranian guys live here over the years, and we’re still close friends.

She replied immediately:

Oh, please don’t think like that. It’s all about governments.

People of Iran love Jewish people. My best friend is Jewish too.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

Oh great, I wrote back.

My friends say the same — it’s the crazy leaders’ fault.

I’m busy tomorrow, but you could come over tonight if it’s not too late, or Tuesday morning before 11:30.

A few days later, Ruzul moved in.

I didn’t tell my family right away—neither those here in Oz, nor in Israel. I wasn’t sure how they’d feel. Our countries were at war. We were all anxious.

But there was no need to worry. Ronny and the kids were fully supportive. They understood that many Iranians were frustrated with their own government, and that while voices were often silenced, many still spoke out against the regime.

But I was still afraid after October 7.

I explained this to Ruzul—the locked doors, the fear of being attacked.

She scolded me: Don’t worry, she said. Nobody is going to break in. And anyway, I’m here now—I’ll protect you.

It was ironic. The person I had hesitated to let in became the one I felt safest with.

Over the past year and a half, Ruzul and I have grown close. When she has time (she works long hours and studies very hard) she joins us for meals, especially when Ronny visits from Israel. We take photos together, and she sends them to her family in Iran.

In late June this year, when the intense war and missile attacks began between Iran and Israel, we were both distressed and worried about our families' safety -- hers in Iran and mine in Israel. She stayed in her room, crying for three days. Ronny even called her from Israel to comfort her and ask about her family.

I started to worry about her too. After the third day I knocked on her door: You have to eat!

I had just made a big pot of hot chicken soup for Mum and persuaded Ruzul to come and have some. It’s very good for you!

And so, this is the ongoing story of my household: a small experiment in peace. People from different religions, backgrounds, and generations living together with kindness—and managing well.

The leaders of the world still haven’t figured out how to make peace.

But maybe, just maybe, we can, here in our own little refuge in Ashwood.