It's a gloomy Saturday in Melbourne and I'm driving the 2004 Toyota Echo I inherited from my dad over a decade ago. I've been driving down an unpaved road for the past hour, resulting in plenty of echoes inside the Echo.

My father was 80 years old when he had his last waking moments in this vehicle. He had a stroke, fell unconscious and passed away in hospital a few days later.

I've taken countless trips in this car, but none have been as significant as this one. I'm heading to Coleraine, a small town in western Victoria, where my grandfather once owned a milk bar. It was the first place my father lived in Australia. Growing up, I didn't know much about how my family ended up migrating to Australia from China in 1914.

One of my biggest regrets when my dad died was that I had not asked him more about his life, especially given he was 60 years old when he had me.

I didn't appreciate the fact I had access to an historic specimen who was born in 1932. The living room was his natural habitat, where he could usually be found watching the news while eating peanuts.

Instead, I mostly felt embarrassed that my dad was often mistaken as my grandpa.

To help me fill in some of the gaps, in recent years I started looking into my family history. While I am new to the endeavour, I can see why it's so appealing.

Add DNA testing kits to the mix, which are now more readily available than ever, and you start to feel like a detective cracking a cold case.

A research paper from 2020 observed that "family history research, identified as one of the top three leisure pursuits in the world, is a multi-billion dollar industry with literally millions of participants across the globe".

Researching one's origin story is no longer a hobby reserved for retirees. It's practically an extension of a person's "self-work" these days.

At some point, doing therapy isn't enough to uncover the intergenerational trauma that might be living inside your DNA. For me, looking into my family history feels like the final piece of the puzzle to answer the question I frequently find myself asking: "Why am I like this?"

Is time running out?

I conducted an interview with my father, Gung Woo Louey, only once, as part of an English language class analysing accents. I've kept the transcript — because not only did I inherit an old car, I also inherited a hoarding habit.

The transcript is something I hold onto dearly, as I have no recordings of my father’s voice and mannerisms.

In the interview I asked him what he thought of Australia. He told me it was "terrible".

"Different in Hong Kong. The building so low. I can't used to. I don't like it at all. I want to return home. My father stops me. 'Don't go. You stay here for a while. You get used to'."

I asked him why he came to Australia in the first place.

"My father had a business. A mixed business in Coleraine… My father work in the farm, grow all vegetables for a year. He say too hard work, not suitable for him. Then he sell the farm, he start the business. In Coleraine."

In need of labour to help with the shop, my grandfather sent for his 19-year-old son, my father, to come out from Hong Kong.

At the time, Chinese women were rarely allowed to enter Australia, due to the White Australia Policy. So my grandfather would leave his wife and children for years at a time, to provide for them in a foreign, faraway land.

Even though my dad was an older dad, believe it or not, my grandfather was the same.

There was a clue in my high school interview, where my dad revealed: "My father old. Very old, you see. [At the shop] they call me 'young boy', 'young fella!'"

Because of my recent digging into historic records, I have since found out that my grandfather was born in 1882. That means that I, a 1993 baby, have a grandparent who was born 144 years ago.

Finding out this fact has fast-tracked my quest to discover as much family knowledge as possible.

Could there be anyone left on the planet to give me firsthand accounts of what my grandfather was like? And what secrets might lie within this country town, waiting to be discovered?

It feels like time is running out, if it hasn't already. There might not be anyone left to talk to in Coleraine, but I have to try. After all, parts of my identity could depend on it.

Trigger points

The night before the trip, I dug out all of my dad's old photos and looked at them with fresh eyes. I hadn't seen these images for more than two years.

When my father passed away in 2023, I discovered that I had two half-sisters, a secret he never disclosed.

Growing up I was told a simple story about my father's life. He found love very late in life and married a much younger wife, my mother, from the same hometown, who gave birth to me in 1993, and my little sister in 1999.

But after his passing, I discovered documents in a briefcase that proved my dad had previously been married twice and had fathered two daughters in Australia with his first wife, back in the '60s.

There was a period of a few months after the discovery, when it felt like I was living in a soap opera with fresh family secrets emerging every day.

I felt so naïve to have believed my dad fell in love for the first time at the age of 60, and angry that no one had thought to tell me about my father's past.

From that day on, if people asked me how many siblings I had, I would often say I have one younger sister, but I also have two half-sisters "who are out there somewhere".

When I was contacted by Australian Story to be featured on an episode, I was excited by the prospect of having a research team assist me with the huge task of piecing together my family history. After all, I didn't have a clue about how to go about finding missing relatives.

Looking back with hindsight, I could not have predicted how tumultuous the journey would become.

Searching for 'the truth'

Something innate draws us to stories of searching for family, and for answers, even when they involve complete strangers.

TV director and producer Claire Foster has worked on programs including "Who Do You Think You Are?" and "Every Family Has a Secret".

Viewers are immediately hooked, Claire says, because we see people "find their identity on camera and they never thought that would be possible. It becomes a gripping ride where they learn fundamental truths".

But what is considered worthy of being a family "secret" changes from decade to decade, she tells me, usually every 20 to 30 years, and reflects societal changes.

"The truth comes through a lens of what society says at the time," she says.

Dr Ashley Barnwell, an associate professor in sociology at the University of Melbourne who has spent years researching the topic of family secrets, agrees.

She explains to me there are key times in people's lives that can trigger investigations and uncovering family secrets. They usually involve arrivals and departures: When someone dies; when someone's children or grandchildren are born and they look for a story to pass on; when people feel their own mortality and the need to divulge.

For a long time, I fantasised about alternative scenarios. If only I could go back in time and tell my dad it was okay to open up. I would show him that there was nothing to be afraid of. Or, if only I had found the briefcase earlier so it could spark a conversation with him.

But the older I get, the fewer regrets I have. I now see my dad as a human being with flaws like everyone else.

At the same time, I think a few more years of maturity and life experience would have been helpful for me to process these discoveries. In that sense, I can understand why people may be better equipped to start digging into family secrets later in life.

Barnwell also tells me that anyone who researches their family history is called a "genealogist". I'm bewildered that I've earned myself such an official title, by simply taking interest in my family.

I had made it my goal to seek out "the truth" about my family, and thought historical artefacts would hold all the "right" answers.

But Barnwell says memory rarely holds the truth of what happened.

"One of the most interesting things about memory is not the truth of what happened. You can't necessarily get that through people's memories."

"It's what they leave out as well," she says. "What people do and don't want to remember the stories they're going to tell, which is ultimately what history becomes."

Our dad must have had strong reasons to not tell us about his previous marriages and children. Perhaps it was to protect us or to uphold the image we had of him.

I asked my sister what she thought. She said, "If I could talk to him now, I would say, 'In trying to protect us, you caused more hurt. In trying to protect your reputation and attempting to keep face, it caused the opposite. Finding out the truth, on our own, obliterated who we thought you were'."

I wholeheartedly agree. Perhaps in the future I'll feel differently but for now, my feelings are complicated.

No rule book for reunions

Researchers like Barnwell are working on releasing a "best practice" guide for approaching newly discovered family members.

Until then, reuniting with family is very much a "choose your own adventure".

In my networks, I know a few people who have gone on similar journeys.

A few years ago, I was browsing a stand at Sydney Airport when Jason Om's book "All Mixed Up" caught my attention.

Jason was six years old when his mother told him he had a half-sister in Malaysia, who was 10 years older than him.

He recounts: "It was like a bomb dropped. It was confusing at the time and raised so many questions, but I didn't really absorb it."

Jason's mum, Patsy, asked if Jason and his sister Simone would like to have a connection with each other. "Absolutely," Jason replied.

The pair became pen pals. For a decade they communicated via letters. Their conversations, however, were surface-level pleasantries and they didn't discuss the "dark and traumatic" circumstances of why their mother left Malaysia.

In 1993, Patsy passed away and the letters from Jason's sister stopped. He describes the years where they didn't have contact as a "disconnection" or "blackout".

In the early 2000s, he reached out to a cousin to contact Simone again and discovered she was studying in Melbourne, where he was also living and studying at the time.

When they met for the first time, there was "still a disconnect because we didn't grow up together," Jason says. "We're dealing with the grief of losing our mother, with different cultures."

Jason was in his 30s when he felt a burning desire to find out his family's truth.

In 2015 he interviewed his aunt, Patsy's sister, who turned out to be the keeper of his mother's secrets.

Patsy had married a Muslim man and converted to Islam be with him. It was considered taboo in their family. Patsy's mum was a staunch Catholic.

"Under Malaysian law," he explains, "because her ex-husband was a Muslim man, he had the right to have custody of my sister."

Jason's aunt revealed Patsy's ex-husband showed up unexpectedly one day and took Simone, who was still a baby, from her mother's arms. Not long after that, Jason's mum was shuttled along by her family to Australia to start a new life.

"I don't think she came to Australia willingly. I think she did it, essentially, under duress," Jason says.

He now understands the "incident" where Patsy's child was taken from her is what "broke" his mother. Discovering this made Jason more understanding of his mother's erratic behaviour, including the breakdowns she had in the 1970s.

Nowadays, Jason is "very much at peace" with his mum's story and his sister as well. The two now share a close bond.

"It's taken decades to come to this moment. Because mum was so confusing to be with. She could be bizarre and strange and cruel, but loving at the same time," he reflects.

"I wanted to reconcile that. It made so much sense when I learnt about her trauma. Everything made sense."

'I was completely overwhelmed with emotion'

Comedian Aidan Jones was only 10 when his mum sat him down and showed him objects related to the birth father he had never known: photographs, a pan flute and a handmade rug.

"When I saw that stuff, I just looked at it, kind of detached. I was like, 'That's the guy,'" Aidan says, flatly.

While backpacking through South America in her 20s, Aiden's mum had fallen pregnant to a Colombian man, Fernando.

Aidan says it took him a long time to work out the anger he felt as a teenager was connected to a missing part of his identity.

"My stepdad's white, my mum's white. People would make comments when I was growing up about my darker skin," he says. "I didn't have an answer when I got asked, 'Where are you from?'"

When Aidan was 20, his mum found Fernando on Facebook. For Aidan, finding his birth father was more complicated than simply tracking him down.

Aidan chose not to message Fernando, out of respect for the man who had raised him, Derek, who he calls "Dad".

"I didn't want Derek to think that he wasn't enough, or that he wasn't a good father to me," he recalls.

Eventually Aidan did reach out to Fernando, who was living in Vienna, and organised a trip to visit him. But it did not go as planned.

"I was completely overwhelmed with emotion. I was just frozen the whole time," he says.

Aidan felt hurt he was unable to connect with his father on a deeper level and discuss how Fernando's absence had affected him.

He made a second visit and brought with him a letter in Spanish he had carefully written, to make sure it was exactly what he wanted to say.

"All I know is that my entire life, my skin and my history has been a constant reminder of the fact that you weren't there to teach me about the world that you brought me into, and that that has hurt me for as long as I can remember," Aidan wrote.

"But despite your absence from my life, Fernando, you will always be a part of me. While nothing will change the past, we luckily still have the future ahead of us and all the possibility to create it. I would like to create a future with you in my life. Thank you for listening."

I tear up listening to him reading the letter but am surprised to see Aidan is unmoved.

He says Fernando's reaction was emotional, but again, it wasn't the apology he was seeking. Aidan admits he was perhaps looking for a father figure that simply doesn't exist.

"Now I feel like I am that for myself," Aidan says.

"You're your own father?" I ask.

"Yes," he laughs. "I think at some point you have to, kind of, parent yourself."

I ask him what he would say to people wondering if they should reach out to estranged or newly discovered family members.

"What have you got to lose?," he says. "They could be a dick, but they might be great."

Jason is more cautious: "People need to decide if they want to go through with that and be careful, because who knows what you might uncover."

On that ominous note, I pack my bags for the weekend and head to Coleraine.

In the footsteps of my grandfather

My maps app pipes up: "You have arrived". I turn the Echo's engine off and step outside.

The air is crisp and the street is incredibly quiet. It's definitely not the type of country town that's buzzing with tourists on the weekend.

Coleraine is four hours from Melbourne and has a population of 1,000 people. I've arranged to meet a small group of locals along the town's main strip.

I head to where my grandfather's shop, "Louey Sing", used to be. It was named after the original founder who passed the shop onto our family.

Our storefront is long gone. What remains is a patch of land with several mismatched, partially collapsed fences, a rusty gate and a large "No Entry" sign.

The building next door was once known as "Louey On" and occupied by our close family friends with the same surname (but no blood relation). The two families were the only Chinese people in town.

That building remains standing, providing some small insight into the time my family lived in Coleraine.

From the street I can see one window has a strange assortment of knick-knacks on display, while the other features a floor-to-ceiling curtain of weeds that have taken over.

Despite the building's eerie look, I felt a warm connection being able to stand where my grandfather once stood — a man who died long before I was born.

This was where my grandfather would have socialised with his friends and the townsfolk, as I was doing now.

"I remember going in there and your grandfather Peter would be smoking a very long pipe. It didn't look like anything I had seen before," says Coleraine resident Ian Brown, as he recalls some of his childhood memories of our family store.

I hang off every word as I hear descriptions of my grandfather that bring him to life, for the very first time.

"They would sit on the floor at the back of the shop, with their legs crossed, around the fire," Ian says.

"Yow Kee Louey", or "Peter Louey", is no longer just a name I had seen on a page but a real person. Maybe he was a person who smoked opium? Or it could have just been tobacco. That we'll never know for sure.

What Ian is certain of though, is that my father "wasn't very tall but your grandfather was".

A small crowd has now gathered on the quiet main street.

There are the four locals I had invited to meet me — Ian and his wife, Heather Brown, Noel Munro and John Nepean — but other passers-by also join in, to see what all the fuss is about.

"The thing that most kids would remember about these two shops is Guy Fawkes night," Ian says, referring to the British tradition of letting off fireworks and building bonfires, to commemorate a failed 1605 plot to blow up the Houses of Parliament.

The townspeople would buy the fireworks from the Chinese shopkeepers.

I quickly realise the town's fondest memories of the shops are almost entirely related to fireworks, which were legal back in the day.

I'm amused that my family played a part in providing the town with so much joy.

I invite the locals to have a coffee with me at "Cambo's Takeaway", a shop owned by Heng "Cambo" Ly.

"Cambo" was given the nickname inspired by his Cambodian background, which he has affectionately adopted.

It's a full circle moment, being able to see the next generation of Asian-Australian business owners in the town.

I feel a sense of pride seeing how supportive the locals were towards Cambo and his family business.

We have only just met but I know, without saying, our families have many things in common: the resilience to be able to survive and thrive as a minority in a small town, and a desire to be part of a community.

Why did no one support him? 

While I am having a lovely time getting to know the town, I still want to find out more about the realities of being Chinese at a time when the White Australia Policy was in place.

After all, some of the best kept-information about my family is a result of laws that discriminated against immigrants in Australia.

In my research, I found my grandfather's name in several records mapping out his movements back and forth between Victoria and Hong Kong, over the course of half a century.

This is because until 1958, non-citizens of Australia (specifically non-Europeans) who were returning from overseas were required to take a dictation test.

They risked deportation if they failed to write out a 50-word passage in any European language chosen by an immigration official.

Over the years, my grandfather applied for exemptions from the test, which is why his name and travels have been thoroughly documented in several registers.

I had also found an article from the local newspaper at the time, the "Coleraine Albion" about my grandfather's citizenship ceremony. At the age of 78, he was "the oldest person to receive naturalisation papers in the Shire", meaning he gave up his Chinese citizenship and became Australian.

The article also documented a small controversy. One of the councillors took issue with the fact no one from the town, including other business owners, had come to support my grandfather at the ceremony.

The article reads: "There had not been one representative of Coleraine's business houses present to see a fellow business man in Mr Yow Kee Louey receive his citizenship certificate and take the oath of allegiance."

I make a mental note to ask the locals tomorrow about some more serious matters.

As night falls, I head to my accommodation inside an old pub.

From the first storey window I stare at the car that once belonged to my dad, now parked outside Cambo's. I am filled with the feeling that there is nothing to fear on this trip. Instead it feels like I've docked the vehicle, symbolic of my dad and his spirit, back in the place where he spent some of his most formative years.

Before the drama of marriages, divorces — and nosy children who try to dig up the past.

Some stories remained a mystery

After a restful night, I meet up with John Nepean, who takes me to the town's small cemetery where he volunteers as a grounds keeper. There are some curious sights, including the headstone for "Coleraine's First White Baby Boy".

I cheekily ask John, "Where's the plaque for first White Baby Girl? Or any other ethnicities?"

He chuckles and says, "Good question."

I am reminded of what Bramwell told me. "What's not said" is just as important as what is.

I then pay a visit to the Coleraine Historical Society. There are items I see for the first time, including more photographs and even promotional calendars advertising "Louey Sing and Co.".

Businesses around town would provide wall calendars to their customers.

After taking photos of the artefacts and perusing original copies of the Coleraine Albion, I ask John about my grandfather's citizenship ceremony.

I hand him a copy of the article, which he reads out loud.

At the end, John pauses and reflects.

"I really can't understand why people wouldn't show up for that," he says, frowning.

We discuss possible theories, including whether the location or the time of day or week could have affected the turnout.

We also don't know why he chose to become an Australian so late in life. We can only speculate. Perhaps he was sick of the prospect of being deported every time he returned from overseas?

With no one from the era left to talk to, I conclude there are some things I will never be able to answer.

I end the trip by meeting up with Noel Munro again, one of the locals I saw the day before.

As the oldest member of the group, he has taken on the task of helping me match up photographs to their exact locations in town. There are some images he can't place but I'm surprised at how little it bothers me.

Instead, I find myself incredibly grateful for the insights Noel and the other residents have been able to provide.

This trip has changed me

Even though I will never know exactly how my grandfather felt during his time in Coleraine, small nuggets of information ended up having a big effect on me. People who knew my family said they had a strong sense of civic duty, were entrepreneurial and part of the fabric of the town.

The experience of delving into my family's history in the town helped me heal in a way I didn't know I needed and changed how I see myself and interact with the world.

Perhaps I'm not a black sheep by being a freelancing comedian, after all. Maybe it's the entrepreneurial streak that has been handed down to me.

Perhaps I'm not naive in wanting to make society a better place — whether it's through comedy, writing or volunteering. Maybe civic duty is just in my blood.

Thanks to this trip, I even have something to blame for my sweet tooth. Apparently my grandfather loved having a sweet treat every afternoon at the local bakery. My dad also had a penchant for afternoon tea and cake. Perhaps my sugar addiction isn't my fault after all!

As Jason Om told me, making discoveries about your family "changes your life. Nothing is the same as before."

My grandad and I didn't cross paths in the same lifetime, but I am lucky enough to be alive at the same time as some of the residents who remember him.

I arrived in Coleraine a stranger and I walked away feeling like I had a second home. It's a fitting reminder: if you do choose to embark on a journey of looking into the past, remember not to lose sight of the present.

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Credits

Words: Annie Louey 

Illustrations: Kylie Silvester

Editor: Catherine Taylor

Photographs: Coleraine Historical Society, Annie Louey, Jason Om, Aiden Jones

Related topics

Coleraine

Genealogy and Ancestry

History

Migration Policy