Once Samah Shda had navigated Australia’s baffling humanitarian resettlement programme, after the Islamic State insurgency forced her family to flee Iraq, she faced a new challenge: how to navigate Australia’s baffling higher education system.
“I felt like a detective. I didn’t know how to apply. I didn’t have any university contacts. No one in my community had done graduate school,” she recalled.
Ms Shda had traversed higher education in the US, during undergraduate studies in less tumultuous times. Her experience in Australia seemed different. “Australia felt very multicultural, but when I sought information from universities, my case seemed too complex,” she continued.
“I asked about scholarships for refugee students. By refugee, I don’t mean someone with an international visa. I’m a domestic student because I came in through the humanitarian programme. What are my options? What supports are available? I would get this look of confusion. I realised that university staff just didn’t have enough information or resources to interact with someone who had been displaced, with more unique needs than regular international or domestic students.”
Now undertaking a master’s by research programme at UNSW Sydney, Ms Shda has helped establish a support programme for fellow students with similar experiences. , or “Jina” – a Kurdish woman’s name meaning “life” – offers career advice, mentorship, networking and access to services that other students often take for granted.
In the first instance, the programme is quizzing women from forced migration backgrounds about their practical needs. Its organisers want to develop a “ground-up” approach run by people from the target community, in a model for other universities to emulate.
“The initial journey is really understanding the problem,” said co-founder Parisa Glass, who fled Iran in the 1980s and now heads operations at UNSW’s clinical research unit.
“It’s an evolving model. It could take five years to become comprehensive. We don’t want a separate structure. We want the structures of university to accommodate it.”
UNSW law and justice PhD student Sherine Al Shallah said the centralised support services in most Australian universities primarily served a “homogeneous” student body. “The literature points to the need for tailored guidance and support for students from forced migrant backgrounds,” said Ms Al Shallah, who left war-torn Lebanon 12 years ago.
Ms Al Shallah received a one-day extension to a juris doctor assignment when her son was in hospital. “There’s no recognition that someone like me has no network at all. If anything happens with your children, you have to deal with it yourself.”
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On another occasion, when her mother’s Beirut street became a battleground, she received an extension only because her lecturer was sympathetic. “We were on the phone to her all night. There was no button I could click to say it was impossible for me to submit a paper.”
Many of Ms Shda’s difficulties concern access to information. She learned through a sympathetic academic that research master’s students paid no fees and earned stipends, making higher study possible for a recent arrival on social security benefits.
She said university support services failed to acknowledge a state of mind common to many forced migrants. “When you are displaced for many years on a resettlement journey, you can’t plan because your future is not in your hands. Any day, you could get a call saying your visa’s here; you can leave the country in two weeks,” she said.
“It’s hard to leave that mentality behind. It took a lot of work and counselling to get me to a place where I accept that no one is going to take my scholarship away from me; I can finish my degree and stay in the country. The anxiety is born in circumstance. A lot of people – my sisters, my family, my community – think that way.”
The anxiety can be particularly acute for women who faced additional dangers in conflict zones. Female refugees also shoulder a disproportionate share of caring work, including for parents who often do not speak English.
During the Covid pandemic, Ms Shda left her university accommodation and spent three months locked down in western Sydney. “I had to be with my parents. I couldn’t just leave them alone. It’s a balancing act. The whole family needs to thrive – not just you.”
Dr Glass said students from displaced backgrounds often felt so grateful for their safety that they were ashamed to seek support. “Women with this much resilience and experience can make things happen. We want them to be part of the community that helps Australia thrive.
“The role of universities is to create future leaders. People from forced migration backgrounds should be part of that. They’re never going to be part of it if they don’t feel included.”
