Basem Abdo (Calwell, Australian Labor Party) Share this | Hansard source

'Should we stay or should we go?' These were my father, Jamal's, words, spoken from the window of our apartment in Kuwait to an Iraqi soldier on the street below. My father was holding me in his arms. His words were the first I remember ever hearing. It was the beginning of the first Gulf War. In those early days of the assault there were clashes in our neighbourhood, and you could feel the buildings shake. Apparently I asked my mum, Mariam, 'Why is the kitchen walking?' It's the kind of question a child asks when his imagination is trying to make sense of something too big and too real.

I remember that time not through a series of memories but through the quiet chaos of a single day. Amidst that chaos we left for another country. We were held up at the border because the number plates on the vehicles had to be changed. Through the night we waited in the barren desert along the Jordanian border for the new plates to be sent from the capital, because that's what war looks like too—not just tanks and fear but paperwork, approvals and delays, administrative burdens and the never-ending weight of bureaucracy, even in war.

I also remember the brown gaffer tape. It lined the windows of homes in Jordan and was meant to protect us from a non-conventional attack, perhaps the supposed threat of chemical agents from the Scud missiles. The tape wasn't much protection, but using it was a ritual that made people feel a little less powerless. What else was there to do? From the moment war reached the window of our apartment, my brother, my sister and I came of age. We walked with our parents down a path that belonged to a people always forced to leave for the next place—our story of intergenerational dispossession, again and always once more, never with any certainty that this would finally be the last time. No matter how much we contributed to the countries we lived in and where we almost always excelled, no matter how long our families had called the place home, we belonged to a people who were always the first to be made strangers in their own homes simply because we were Palestinian—a suffering people, a steadfast people.

International law matters. The international rules based order matters. Human rights matter. The right to peace, justice and recognition matters, deserving of an historic commitment.

The morning war arrived my father drove to work unaware that while we slept the country had been overrun, unaware that tanks now stood between him and stable employment. My father's studies across continents, the job earnt through grit and the career in electrical engineering built to support our family were all gone, literally overnight—not just that day, but every day since. My father never complained, but I could see what it cost.

The tragedy of the human condition is that disruption and dispossession can also come through quiet everyday means, even in a peaceful country such as Australia. Every day in cities, towns and suburbs, disruption and dispossession occur through political decisions, social neglect and economic exclusion. Too often it is working people who feel the first shock, who shoulder the greatest burden and who get the least support to recover and rebuild.

I saw it in my electorate of Calwell in north-west Melbourne, once the manufacturing heartland of Australia. Families in our area helped carry the weight of Australia's post-war economy into the 21st century. Workers made things in Australia and in doing so helped make Australia on the assembly lines in Broadmeadows, in factories in Campbellfield, behind the counter and behind the wheel in our outer suburbs, on job sites in Craigieburn and in warehouses across our northern corridor, in multinationals and in local workshops.

Growing up we saw what good, secure, well-paying jobs and careers did for our community. Our area was home to industrial icons like Kraft Foods and telecommunications giant Ericsson. These were places of pride for thousands of workers. They anchored communities and projected a sense of permanence and place. Our workers didn't ask for favours, only fairness and opportunity. Living in a community built on aspiration, people believed that if they worked hard they would be rewarded with something better for their children.

The collapse of manufacturing in our area was the first real sign that this promise of social and economic mobility was broken. Factories like Ford and the vast supply chain that stretched along the Hume Highway, which once sustained thousands of families, were reduced to industrial graveyards. The decision to allow and even accelerate the demise of our automotive industry broke the social contract between government and working families in our area. It was more than economic failure. It was a failure of national self-belief. It showed what happens when governments stop valuing their own people and their vast potential. It was a failure to imagine what the future of Australian industry could look like, a failure celebrated literally with cigars on a balcony in Parliament House.

I joined the Australian Labor Party not to spoke cigars but because of my commitment to social justice and the dignity of work—a commitment to Labor as the party of workers and of industry, the party that unites workers and their unions with businesses that build and researchers who invent to drive the innovation that secures our future and to never forget not just what we fight for but who we fight for. We fight for people in places like in Calwell, because, the stronger Labor is in its purpose, the better communities like mine are able to withstand social and economic conditions.

If you look anywhere in the world, there is not one country with any weight that does not have a strong industrial base. You can still drive down Camp Road in my electorate and see places like CSL, a cornerstone of Australian ingenuity. CSL alone should have been enough to show us what's possible when Australia invests in sovereign capability, when we back our own skills, science and institutions. A resilient nation demands a strong industrial base, and sovereign capability means control over our supply chains. In an increasingly uncertain world, strategic dependency is a vulnerability Australia cannot afford. In other words, we still depend on what is made here but not enough. We still depend on what is made but not enough on what is made here.

My community has lived through this failure to shape or even imagine Australia's industrial comeback—a failure to cushion the blow for communities such as mine, forcing countless numbers of people to take jobs that don't come close to reflecting their skills and training. We see it in young people caught in cycle after cycle of insecure work. We see it in the teenager who takes a bus, two trains and walks the highway each way just to reach precarious work, as I had to when as a teenager I walked along the Nepean Highway in Brighton, on the other side of town, to a job washing cars. We see it in those who have been retrenched in middle age, with no clear pathway back into stable employment, or in those who are told their experience doesn't count for much, as my father experienced when he came to this country and could not find work as an engineer despite all his years of experience and education.

Labor recognises through its core purpose and its policies the value of Australian manufacturing. We understand the importance of using Australia's natural advantages in a world shaped by resource security and emerging technologies and of putting industry, jobs and national direction back at the centre of our economic policy—because productivity in the economy isn't just a headline figure; it's about whether people can skill and upskill into secure, stable and growing industries. It's about ensuring emerging technologies aren't wielded as a blade against jobs but create a new area of home-grown Australian industry.

Working-class communities aren't folklore. They're not a ragged trousered throwback from industries past. They're people with aspiration and families who carry the weight of our economy, and we demand investment, dignity and a strong place in what's next for our country. Otherwise, we risk breaking Australia's social contract and unravelling our democracy's credibility with working people, something all too evident in the dangers we are witnessing in the US, in Europe and across the world.

At my first event as a candidate I received two phone calls I'll never forget. One told me my mum, Mariam, was on her way to hospital; the other told me that my mother-in-law, Jutta, had been diagnosed with breast cancer in Germany. Jutta is now in remission, but, weeks after her trip to hospital, my mum was treated for a rare and sudden illness that would take her from us so quickly. This was followed by my brave, beautiful wife, Natascha, who spent weeks in hospital and then even more weeks with our newborn son, Noah. I've spent more time in emergency wards than I ever imagined I would, all while I was running for parliament for the first time. There were days I'd rush out of the emergency ward to attend a community event and days that began with a quiet visit to my mother's grave and ended back at the hospital in the evening to be beside my wife and, later, my son.

My son, Noah, is a master of timing. He chose election day in May to come home after weeks in the neonatal unit. I want to pay tribute to the extraordinary nurses, doctors and all staff at the Northern Hospital, where Noah was born. Thank you for your care and your compassion. The work that you do as if we were your own family saves lives and holds families together in their most vulnerable moments. To the staff at Peter Mac and the Royal Melbourne Hospital, you gave my mother dignity in care and you showed me that a society that puts the health and wellbeing of its people first, no matter their income, postcode or background, is a good society.

Labor has always fought for this principle. A strong universal healthcare system is one of our enduring commitments. It means Australians can live their lives with the confidence that, if the worst happens, the country will have their back. That said, we need to get better at keeping people well before they get sick. Preventive health is essential to a fair and functioning system. We need to do more to support the allied health workforce, professionals who are so often undervalued and underpaid but play a critical role in recovery and care. Let us never forget that Labor made Medicare and we fight to protect it because it provides what Australians expect: fairness, access and security. When, as I have, you have waited in emergency wards, relied on nurses and doctors and sat beside a hospital bed, holding the hand of someone you love, you realise just how precious that health system is. It is a promise to our people that doesn't exist in many parts of the world. We must never let it slip away.

Calwell is one of the most diverse communities in the country and one of the proudest. It's a place where the world can be found and where people truly understand the world. To us who live there, it is simply 'the area'. I thank the people of Calwell for their trust and support. As a proud son of this community, I carry the honour of representing them with a deep sense of responsibility and determination to fight for them and to stand in solidarity with those communities that often feel excluded from the Australian story. Our multicultural Australia is a remarkable achievement, and it's our responsibility in this place to protect it so the promise of a fair go is real for all.

There are some people I would like to thank, starting with the Prime Minister. Thank you for the values with which you led us. We now have a parliament with an 'Albo' and an 'Abdo'! To our branchies and the incredible volunteers, who did a mountain of work, thank you, each and every one. This would not have been possible without you. To Maria Vamvakinou, the former member for Calwell, thank you for your service and contribution to our community. As a proud product of Australian multiculturalism, you carried that with purpose and we are so much better for it. To the AMWU, without your strength, we lose our industrial backbone and Australia's capacity to be self-reliant, secure and fair. Thank you to Tony Mav, Piccolo and the national office, led by Steve Murphy. Thank you to the ETU for your solidarity. Blue-collar workers help build Australia. Thank you to Paul Healy and the HACSU team and your incredible members, to the Victorian branches of the ASU and to everyone in our mighty trade union movement.

In no particular order, and by no means complete, I say thank you to the campaign team. Julijana Todorovic, thank you for stepping up with such energy. I appreciate all your efforts and support. Dylan Mckenna, Stephanie Thuesen, Molly Pilson, Matt Fanning, Tony Piccolo, Michalis Michael, Kos Samaras, Stephen Fodrocy and Asif Naeem, thank you. To Kos Samaras and Ros Spence, thank you for all your support, solidarity and commitment to our area. To doctor, comrade and, at heart, artist Michalis Michael, thank you for all the support along this journey. Thank you, Member for Scullin, Andrew Giles, for your friendship and solidarity and the supportive reminders to focus on what matters.

To the member for Bruce, Julian Hill, and the former member, Alan Griffin: thank you for the unfiltered advice—not for the Hansard! Thank you to Senators Jess Walsh and Lisa Darmanin, Kate Thwaites, Ged Kearney and Rob Mitchell. To Kim Carr: thank you for your service and all you've given to advance Australian manufacturing and industry. Thank you to local state colleagues, Ros Spence, Kathleen Matthews-Ward, Iwan Walters, Sheena Watt, Enver Erdogan and Josh Bull. Thank you to Michael Watson, Dylan Wight, Kat Hardy, Mat Hilakari, Cassie Farley, Gab Williams, Bronwyn Halfpenny, Vicki Ward and Pauline Richards. To Ramy, Monika, Riley, Cat, Ella, Samet, Kerim and Mikaela: thank you. I'll never forget the solidarity and support I received from my Calwell community and from across our labour movement. I know I've failed to name so many of you, people without whose support I wouldn't be here. But I will always carry your support with me into this chamber.

I want to pay tribute to my siblings, Wasim, Asil and Aaya; to your partners who have become our own, Tarek, Saja and Abed; and to my nieces and nephews, some now adults—Jannah, Daniya, Jamal, Salma, Omar and Zain.

To my beautiful wife, Natascha: you are the strongest, kindest and most extraordinary woman—always getting things done for us with such quiet power. You've changed my life in ways beyond words and made me appreciate the beauty in the everyday. Thank you for dropping everything to be with me on the other end of the world. You left your home in Germany's Bavaria; your parents, even as their only child; your work; and the life you knew. You did it all so we could build our life together. I am here today only through your support. I love you so much, my heart.

To my beautiful and blessed son, Noah: your mother and I love you. I hope I can help build a world that you will be proud of. To my in-laws I say: liebste Jutta und liebster Reinhold, danke fur alles. Fur eure liebe und unterstutzung. Dafur, dass ihr mich als sohn willkommen geheissen habt und fur das grosste geschenk, das ich mir je wunschen konnte—Natascha. Wir lieben und vermissen euch. I promise that was all parliamentary and within standing orders—I hope!

Above all, thanks to my parents. To my father, Jamal: I watched you, and I watched how the world tested you. I watched your strength and your quiet resolve. You taught us, without ever needing to say much, how to be better human beings. You taught me the quiet dignity that a man must carry in pursuit of doing everything he can for his family and to use that dignity and self-respect to contribute to the world. There is nothing I've achieved without your example, and today belongs to you. I hope you're proud, Dad. I hope today shows you that every sacrifice was worth something, that none of it was in vain. And in Australia, Dad, you should never again have to ask that question, 'Should we stay, or should we go?' In this Australia, we stay.

To my beautiful mother, Mariam, so stunning and so full of life: there is a boysenberry plant in our garden, waiting to fruit. It has your name on it, as I promised you. There is Noah, the grandson you were just weeks away from meeting. He's exactly as you imagined him. And here is your son, standing in our nation's parliament, representing the very same community you raised us in. On my first day of school, you walked me into a room full of children whose language I didn't speak. I remember the yellow coat I wore and the little moustache you drew on me for the school concert when we sang 'Singin' in the Rain'. Decades later, you'd still break into that song for me. You'd rise before the sun to get me ready for the day, always with a cup of that proper tea and that plate of olives, cucumber, tomato and bread by my bedside, ready as soon as I opened my eyes.

I'd ask you to pray for me before every big moment, as if I needed to ask. You rose before dawn without fail to pray for your family while we slept. During lockdown, you would walk the unusually quiet streets of Roxburgh Park collecting bird of paradise flowers because you knew how much Natascha loved them. Our joy always mattered to you. You were the ultimate devil's advocate, always defending people because you believed there was something better in all of us. I will carry that with me always as I come to the defence of my own community. I simply would not be here without you, which is why it hurts me so much that you're not here with me. But know this: anything good I achieve will be your good deeds. I carry your hopes with me, and I hope I have made you proud. May God have mercy on your soul, my beautiful mother. I love you and I miss you, Mama.

When the Prime Minister stood before the Australian people announcing the election and holding up a Medicare card, my mind immediately went to my mother. I thought of her words to me: 'Look at the dignity in the way we are treated'—the dignity of our healthcare system; the dignity that Medicare affords patients and their families; the dignity of work, and the strength of secure, stable employment; the dignity of child care and of aged care; and the dignity of our community and our area. Strength and dignity—this is the Australia I want to help build. This is what I am here to fight for. Thank you.

Debate adjourned.

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