The Passport

Published in 2010 by David Kay

The Passport

Recently I became an Aussie. An official one.  The process reminded me a bit of Timor-Leste. In 2009 when I needed a work visa I filled out a form and gave my passport to someone at the Ministry of Education. They had to take my fingerprints as well.  Then I had to do it all again because the Immigration people lost my application. Then they lost it again. By now I had very inky fingertips.

It didn’t become urgent till I was planning a weekend in Bali. Then I realised that without the work visa I would spend the weekend – and probably longer – in jail in Dili. I thought Bali was a better option.

As in most international development projects there is always a fixer somewhere. Usually a driver. The Ministry of Education was no different. The project’s finance man assured me it would be no problem. This was Thursday morning when I was due to leave on Friday. One of the drivers knew someone.  So, with a $20 note now safely in his pocket I went with the driver to Immigration. Surprise, surprise, one of the officers was a relative. Come in she said, laughing. She asked what the problem was. The driver told her. Five minutes later there was my passport with work visa stamped. Why all the worry – there’s plenty of time.

Segue to Melbourne.  After 55 years in Australia I decided I should become a citizen. You cannot accuse me of being an impulsive decision maker.  For those of you who don’t know I was born in England and arrived in Australia somewhere between my second and third birthday in 1955.

Of course, becoming an Aussie meant sitting an exam. The last exam I did was in the early 1990s when I took an exam to be a Myers Briggs facilitator. Before that it would have been some time in the 1970s at university.  So, how would I cope with Mr. Howard’s citizenship test? Did I know my cricketers from my golfers?  Did I know my wattle from my waratah (or are they the same?).  Did I know the difference between my local council and my state government?  During my investigations I found tutoring agencies where people pay to prepare for the test.

So I downloaded the book and studied for hours. Well, for minutes maybe. Anyone who came to visit had to ask me questions.  I knew I was ready when I could tell someone that Western Australia was to the west of South Australia and Northern Territory was up the top. I didn’t worry about Queensland because, well why would I?

So, come the day of the test and I queued at the Citizenship office.  I anticipated the queue and took a book. After about 90 minutes I was called to a booth and handed over lots of evidence to show that I was who I said I was. They agreed that I was. So, I had passed the first test – I knew my own identity.  Then it was my turn to do the second test.

I was not nervous, because I had all those minutes of study.  Still, there were lots of other people showing signs of distress. Maybe there was something I did not know. Maybe I would get my wattles and waratahs mixed up after all. Or maybe Donald Bradman did not play in the Davis Cup. May be John Howard was not ex-deputy president of the world.

I was sent to the secure room. Banks of computers. Heart beating rapidly. Hands sweaty. Finger tips clean of ink, but shaking with nerves.  Was this going to be Howard’s revenge for voting for someone else?

My test came on the screen. I was told to start. It was multiple choice. A minute and half later I was finished. It had taken me 55 years to make a decision and 90 seconds to do the test.  Perfect score. 100%. Break out the champers. I knew my golf from my cricket and my swans from my ganders.

But the test was only the first of my trials. The little man was going to get his comeuppance after all.  After the test I spent another hour and a half waiting to fill in and present my application. I was finally called up and had to prove again that I was who I thought I was. By now even I was wondering if I really was. But it turned out that I was. Phew.

We filled out the form together. I paid the money. Things were looking good. But not really.

In Australia, to gain citizenship you have to do a whole lot of things. You have to be able to prove to someone else (a few people actually) that you know who you are. You have to answer quiz questions set by a former Prime Minster who lost his own seat at the last election. You have to pay some money. All of these things I managed. You have to have been a permanent resident for at least five years. I had been for 55 years. So far, so good. Of the last five years you have to have been resident in Australia for at least two years. Hmmm. Not so good for a boy who works on international development projects. I did some quick calculations, and discovered I made it by a few days. Of course, if I happened to go overseas again before the application was approved I would not be so OK.

I am sure the definition of bureaucracy is “make life hard for David”. It must be a conspiracy. Of those 2 years out of 5 at least 12 months must be in the last 2 years. Is this making sense? I had fallen at the last hurdle (that was before I knew about the extra hurdle that was to come a few months later). I did not qualify. It would be a couple of months before I would. But I was going to be in Samoa then, so I would not really qualify. The mathematics now got very confusing for me.  But I knew the outcome – citizenship was evading me just as another election win had evaded the ex- Prime Minster. My new best friend behind the counter told me not to despair. We’ll keep your money so your application remains active. Yeah, sure.

But miracles do happen. In Samoa the public service granted everyone an extra week’s holiday as a mark of respect for the way they bonded to help after the tsunami. That meant I had an extra week in Melbourne. It also meant I would be around for my qualifying deadline to become an Aussie. What joy! What relief!

So I fronted up again and made a new best friend at another counter after another 90 minute wait.  This time everything was in order. I knew who I was and so did my new new best friend. I had my qualifying period. Lead me to the passport I said. Not so quick said my new new best friend. Had I been tod about police reports. No. I don’t need those. Yes I did. I needed a report from the police in any country I had spend an accumulation of more than three months in the last ten years. That meant Papua New Guinea, Sri Lanka and Samoa. I pointed out that Sri Lanka was in the last months of a twenty odd year civil war and that my whereabouts in 2002 – 2004 were of little interest to the Sri Lankans. I pointed out that the only way to get anything in PNG was to bribe someone and did they really want me to do that. I thought that Samoa might be OK.  So I told them it was all too much trouble. Could I get my money back please? Oh, don’t give up. Give it a try my new new best friend implored. So, against my better judgement I said OK.

After I came home I had second thoughts. It was all just too complicated. More forms to fill out. Information from the web. It would just take too much time and effort. I had to go to Samoa the next week and then prepare for seven months in East Timor.

So I wrote a letter to my local member. Not to ask for help, just to let him know what was happening.  Here is an extract from that letter

“.....I arrived in Australia from England as a two year old in 1955. Mainly through laziness I neglected to apply for Australian citizenship, even though my parents became citizens in the mid 1980s. My British passport afforded me all the rights of an Australian citizen other than standing for Parliament.

“Feeling especially buoyed after the election of the Rudd Government I decided it was time to apply for citizenship. I successfully completed the test in November 2008, but would not qualify for the 12 months in 2 years residency until January 2009.

“After reapplying in late January I was told that I did qualify but would require police checks from PNG, Sri Lanka and Samoa. If I was in the country, had plenty of time and was willing to offer the necessary bribes, I could perhaps get something from PNG and Sri Lanka. Although even then it is doubtful.  Samoa requires a certified copy of my birth certificate. I quite simply do not have time for that......

“I do understand the Australian Government’s desire for police checks on intending citizens. However, in practice it is merely placing an insurmountable bureaucratic barrier in front of someone who has lived 54 of his 56 years in Australia, paying taxes, employing others and being exported as part of Australia’s “Knowledge Economy”, as an Australian consultant. 

“I think in this case, it is an example of bureaucracy taking primacy over common sense......” 

So, off I went to Samoa. I did not really expect a response from the member.  As soon as I returned to Melbourne my phone ran hot. First it was immigration. Don’t give up – keep going. Do all you can and we will see if there is the possibility of an exemption. Then the member’s office. Has immigration called you yet? Did they tell you to keep going? Make sure you do what they say. So I did. I contacted a mate in Port Moresby and another in Colombo. I filled out forms and sent them on. I knew I had to return to Samoa a few weeks after going to Dili so I filled out a form in readiness. And off I went to Dili. 

To my surprise I eventually had a reply from Sri Lanka saying I was not a fugitive from justice. My friend paid the 10 Kina fee in PNG.  I knew Samoa would be OK.  But there was just one problem. PNG wanted fingerprints on an official form. They very kindly said I could scan them by email. What did they want? Should I cut off my fingertips and send them in a post bag? That would not work any way because there is no postal service in East Timor. I tried scanning them but my fingers kept getting stuck to the scanning machine. I must have been doing something wrong. I have never been good with technology. Anyway, there was no way I could get official finger prints from Dili to Port Moresby.

So I sent everything I had off to Melbourne. I had no problems with Samoa. All that was not happening was PNG. I let the member’s office know all about it. By now the member’s office manager had become one of my new best email mates.

By September (nearly a year after the saga started) I wrote to some senior person at immigration and said to call it all off. It was just too hard. This was after they had the bad manners to write to me telling me to hurry up. Once again I was told to hang on and call when I got to Melbourne. So when I returned in October 2009 I did call. Immigration said they would investigate an exemption for PNG. The next day the called again. When was I due to travel next? In about 4 weeks. OK, you can attend a citizenship ceremony the day before you leave.

So I called the member’s office to thank them for all their help. Come in they said and we’ll counter-sign your forms. That was because I had to prove yet again that I was really who I thought I was. So I popped in and for a chat and to fill out the forms. Everything was in readiness. The office manager told me she had a contact in immigration that could help make sure I had a passport the same day.

And it all worked. Ceremony, followed by passport application followed by passport. So, I could travel on my new Aussie passport.  

I now had proof of my citizenship. They gave me a wattle pin. That night we had a celebration at home with some friends. I was finally an Aussie.  I could proudly present my new passport in Dili when I returned the next day.

Wrong again!

My East Timor work permit was in my British passport so I had to enter with that. Then when I was getting my UN visa I discovered my contract had me as a British citizen. Australia’s Immigration Department has nothing on UN bureaucracy, so I decided to stay a Brit for just a little while longer.

At least I have a wattle pin (or is it a waratah) and plenty of Aussie flag stubby holders that my friends gave me. Oh, and a nice clean passport.