The girl from Oro – Part 1

41This blog was initially created to share my story which is by no means close to being finished. My story is still coming into being, but I figured before I get rich and famous I better start writing my story now. The aim is to write something about my life once a week and the other days just write whatever I’m inspired by.

I’ve met some amazing people and heard so many amazing testimonies that have literally brought me to tears and I’ve often thought God they have been through worse than me or gee their story is better than mine.

So often we discredit what we’ve been through, down play it or not share parts of it as not to scare other people. We may even worry that our story or past will make it hard for people to love us, well that is not true.

I was born in a town called Popondetta in the Oro Province of Papua New Guinea in a village called Gona. Apparently I was born under some coconut trees near the beach. We have black shiny, sparkly fine sand. It’s beautiful, the sand is so fine that it sticks into all the wrinkles and crevices of your feet and skin and is hard to wash off. When I was last in the village I was shown the spot where my mother gave birth to me, which is now a vegetable garden. I kind of giggle at the thought.

In the wet season my village is beautiful, hot, humid, hot, sticky, hot, sweaty, green, lush jungle with abundant greenery everywhere. The soil is so amazing and anything can grow. The plants are ones you don’t see in Australia. Some of the plants will cut you open if you’re not careful and leave blisters and sores that will take weeks to heal. Mango, banana, papaya, coconut trees are in abundance but when there is not much food then the trees are pretty bare of course.

My fathers name is Moses Kororo and my mother is Lashmar Kororo. They are the most sweetest, humble, gentle, soft and loving people ever. I have not had the joy of growing up with them or fighting and arguing with them or I don’t even know how they are as parents. All I know is I love them and they love me and they want the best for me and were willing to let me go to come and live in Australia.

I was adopted and came to live in Australia In 1989 at around the age of 5. I am an Australian Citizen and have been since my adoption when I came out on my adopted dad’s visa. How I came to meet my adopted dad will be shared another time.

My story is one that I don’t fully understand myself but God knows all things and I rest that He turns everything to good for those that love Him and are walking according to His purpose. Everything I’ve lost God has replaced and not all of it has manifested yet, there are still promises and prayers for my life which I’m still yet to see but God all knowing and I can rest that where I’ve come from and where I’ve been God will use it as part of my story and testimony.

It’s a long time being away from my people, my family and from my country, my culture and what I see is a simple and stress free life. My heart sinks and there is an emptiness and sadness which I can’t explain that comes from being adopted but that’s my story, I can’t change my past, it is what it is and it’s what has shaped me into the person I am today.

I hate thinking about my parents and being back home but I also feel guilty when I’m not thinking about them. My Aussie parents never ask me if I am okay or if I miss my family back home, in fact they don’t ask much questions these days and I try not to take that to heart but It would be nice if they asked once in a while. I don’t ever remember them asking me, certainly not in my adult life.

So, as we go about our lives, take a moment to reflect on how we got here. Many of us have some amazing stories about how we came to Australia, this great southern land. Some of us came here illegally, on boat, plane, via family, immigration, marriage, or just came on a holiday and never left or in my case you came here due to adoption and possibly in more painful ways.

However the case may have been for you, don’t discredit your story, share it, write about it, tell your children, sing about it, express it. Our stories are the very thing that can unlock something in someone else, it may even comfort someone and you may be able to share in someone else’s joy or pain.

Back home in my village we don’t have any of the technology we have in the western and developed world so at night time we sit in the RaRa (communal hut) we eat and talk and share stories, this is where stories of our ancestors and grandparents are passed from one generation to another, it’s a very beautiful and old tradition that is fading away.

Someone is waiting to hear your story. Will you be brave enough to share it?

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