Migration Stories: Remembering, Reconnecting, Reflecting

by Vanessa Paciocco

Not long ago, I found myself printing photos for my young niece, arranging them into a physical album. I wanted her to experience the beauty of memory not just through a screen, but in her hands—turning pages, pausing over faces, asking questions about the who, what, where, and why. In a world where over a trillion photos are taken each year—most vanishing into the cloud—it felt radical to create something tangible. Something that says: we were here. Despite our constant digital connection, a silence is growing—una generazione silenziosa of memories unspoken, stories left behind in forgotten scrolls. The migration experiences of our parents and grandparents risk being lost in the noise.

My nonno is a great storyteller. I’ve always admired the way he brings memories to life—describing his hikes up Mount Etna from his village of Randazzo or painting scenes from the Festa della Navarre, where you wonder how they used their imagination to keep busy. It’s only in recent years that I’ve begun to understand just how precious these stories are—especially when they brush up against moments of hardship he often keeps quiet.

In 1956, he arrived in Kalgoorlie, far from home, working on the railways. When I asked him for this article, "Come facevi a trasmettere le tue storie dell’Australia al tuo paese in Sicilia?" he smiled and said, “All’inizio, nel ’56, non trovavo lavoro nel mio mestiere di falegname… Mandavo le lettere ai miei cari. Dicevo, ‘ogni due che ve ne scrivo, mandatemene una.’”

It was a clever way to save money—or maybe he was too busy to read them all! But what matters is that, even across continents, he kept telling his story. He mentioned how aerograms, then photos, and eventually phone calls became ways to show his family that he was happy—especially after marrying my nonna in 1960. Listening to him, I realised just how much he’s always found ways to share his world, and how he has passed this down to me.

In my adolescent years, as my grandparents helped raise me, nonna encouraged me to write to cousins I had never met—planting the seed of connection across oceans. It is a bit surreal to think that Melbourne is home to one of the largest Italian diasporas in the world.

At eighteen, I finally visited Sicily. I wandered those same black stone streets and embraced the relatives I’d only known through pen and paper. It was then I began to understand what terra amata truly means. That trip inspired me to study Italian at university, and later become a language teacher. Today, I encourage my students to be curious about their own family stories, too.

In Victoria, we’re fortunate—our heritage is celebrated at home, in schools, and through the events of community groups like TSAA. We now have the luxury of watching modern adaptations of Il Gattopardo to help us understand our rich cultural roots, but nothing replaces the magic of stare insieme—gathering to listen, laugh, and reflect, no matter the medium.

I owe it to my nonno, the storyteller. His words have lit a spark in me, one that continues to grow in new and unexpected ways.