The Foreigner’s Lament

I came to Australia to escape what had already been lost. I had watched my homeland—once rich with promise, now barren—choke on the consequences of its own folly. The men in suits, speaking in the hollow tongues of politicians, had stripped it of its wealth, its dignity, its future. They sold our resources to foreign interests, drowned our economy in debt, and crushed dissent beneath laws designed to silence opposition.

And here, in Australia, I see it happening again.

The first time I noticed was at the supermarket. A simple bag of rice, the kind that fed my family for weeks back home, had tripled in price in just two years. The cost of bread, meat, and vegetables spiraled. It was not scarcity; it was policy. Energy prices soared because the government chased impossible environmental targets while shutting down coal plants that once made power cheap. The land of abundance was becoming a land of rationing, where the working class paid for the ideology of the elite.

Then came the housing crisis. I watched as homes became castles for the rich while my fellow laborers—those who built the roads, cleaned the hospitals, drove the taxis—were forced into overcrowded rooms, paying rent that swallowed their wages whole. Back home, I had seen this pattern before: foreign investors buying up entire neighborhoods while locals were pushed out. Now, the same was happening here, yet the people refused to see it.

And still, they voted for the same kind of men who destroyed my country.

The prime minister, a man whose wealth insulated him from the decisions he made, told the people they must “tighten their belts.” They obeyed, as if suffering was a virtue. Meanwhile, taxes rose, and the public sector swelled with bureaucrats who dictated how businesses should run and how people should live. Those who resisted were branded extremists. It was all so familiar.

The government borrowed more, spent more, printed more. Inflation ate wages faster than they could be earned, and yet the leaders blamed the people for not spending enough to “stimulate the economy.” The media parroted their words, just as they had back home, where the press had once assured us that poverty was progress.

Then came the final sign: the restrictions. The surveillance. The slow erosion of freedoms under the guise of safety.

In my homeland, we were told to register for identification numbers to access banking, transport, and employment. It was for our protection, they said. Then one day, accounts were frozen, mobility was restricted, and all that remained was submission or exile. In Australia, they called it a Digital ID. The pieces were all falling into place.

I tried to warn them, my neighbors, my coworkers. But they laughed, telling me I was paranoid, that Australia was different. They refused to believe their leaders could betray them, that their country could fail. They did not understand that the same sickness had already taken hold. That by the time they saw it, it would be too late.

And so, I work. I send my money back to those I left behind. I watch the cracks widen in a nation that should have known better. And I wonder: will they wake up in time, or will they, too, become refugees of their own making?

This is a fictional written a story from the perspective of an immigrant laborer witnessing Australia repeat the same mistakes that led to the collapse of his homeland.