Rose Costandi Issa

Story

Rose El Abbassy (nee Costandi Issa) June 26 1923

My mother, Rose Costandi Issa, June 26, 1923, was one of six children, and was a qualified schoolteacher, married to my father, Sobhy El Abbassy. They were both born in Egypt. After managing the Berkeley\’s Bank in Cairo, Egypt for 25 years, management had changed and overnight, so did my father\’s future. He walked in to find the clerk he had been dutifully training had been given his job, and that the clerk\’s job was his. The decision was made to immigrate to Australia where my parents hoped they could provide better opportunities for my sister, brother and I.

Once the decision to immigrate was made, my father wanted to leave as soon as possible. The inner city apartment we grew up in was sold for a meagre amount of 1000 Egyptian pounds in 1970. All was set for us to fly out December 1970.

Mum had beautifully furnished our apartment with Persian rugs and rosewood lined mahogany furniture. Mum was overwhelmed by sorrow, by her own beloved mother\’s recent death, she desperately needed to be surrounded by family. Instead, she began the endless task of packing our lives into suitcases. She gave away her precious knick-knacks and keepsakes that she had gathered in her lifetime to her friends and family as she tried in vain to talk my father into going by ship.

Upon our arrival, my father went for a walk to familiarise himself with the area and came back proclaiming to us that we should remember the first two things about Australia. The first one is to always say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and the second, to cross at the white painted strips on the road….the crossings.

My parents attended many interviews only to be told that their qualifications were not recognised. They had to find work in order to support three kids and be able to pay rent. So, my father Sobhy, worked as a Tram conductor, a cheese maker at Kraft, and finally for the Railways. I recall my father telling us stories about how he often experienced being called names and told to go back where he came from, quickly followed by an explanation why we should never speak to others in this way and to always respect all people. In those days we all experienced a lot of racial discrimination and vilification. Especially at school and it was very hard on three children aged seven, ten and twelve that had to attend a place day after day where there was constant anguish and anxiety.

My father didn\’t have the opportunity to get the appropriate qualifications to resume his profession because he was caught up in day to day requirements of our life. This left him feeling inadequate as a provider and a failure as a man. In my mind\’s eye, a poignant expression on my father\’s face is a permanent etching.

My father Sobhy Boctor El Abbassy passed away March 5, 1979, aged 54. Merely nine years after he reached the land of opportunity for our betterment. The one person that made us all feel safe and could always make everything right… was gone. What can I say about that time in our lives….extreme sadness and lots of tears. We were all distraught and devastated.

We lived at the Housing Commission Flats in Flemington, where there were people from all corners of the world in all shapes and sizes. We got to know some of our neighbours and they were very nice people. What was distressing for three young people growing up there, were the fights, beatings, vandalism and filth. Car tyres would be slashed and bonnets scratched in the car park at regular intervals. Some residents would throw their rubbish out the window or over the balcony.

My mother, who in Egypt was qualified to teach all subjects (Maths, Geography Science etc) in French, worked as a cook and cleaner at a local Kindergarten for a long while. Then, she worked in an auto parts factory where she was verbally abused by the foreman if she did not produce 1000 pieces per day. She also could not pursue her recognised qualifications because the family needed the money she earned to live

My mother, Rose was diagnosed with aggressive breast cancer in 1993. She began the arduous journey of chemotherapy treatment, mostly on her own because our 4 boys were quite little then. She would get a taxi to the hospital; sit in a chair, probably praying, while the chemotherapy was injected into her body…her image brings a tear to my eye to this day. After chemotherapy my mother would spend two or three days with us, I\’m not sure whether she rested or got thoroughly exhausted with the boys, but she loved being with them. To see my mother get sicker and weaker each day was too much to bear. My mother went into hospital and never came out.

My mother, Rose Constandi Issa passed away in the early hours of July 18, 1998…..that was the saddest day of my life.

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