Mariela Espino Zuppa

LM: Hi there. My name is Luisa Mitchell and I’m a Nyungar woman. 

Today we present to you Backyard Truthtelling: stories from Indigenous and non-Indigenous Australians that were shared in local resident’s backyards all around Walyalup.  

Walyalup is the Nyungar name for Fremantle, located on the southern end of what is now called Western Australia. Just like the rest of Australia, Walyalup is an ancient country and belongs to one of the world’s oldest surviving cultures, the Whadjuk Nyungar people.  

In this collection, you’re about to hear live recordings from people who spoke about difficult truths, hidden histories and reimagined futures, all reflections of their lived experiences of colonisation in Walyalup and Australia.  

In partnership with the City of Fremantle and produced by Centre for Stories, these stories were captured on Whadjuk Nyungar boodjar. We pay our respect to Whadjuk Elders, and all Aboriginal people from the beginning, who are the knowledge-keepers and custodians of this place. 

And, before we get started, a brief disclaimer. This story may contain references to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander cultures, histories and practices. It may also include language that some individuals may find distressing or triggering. We acknowledge the ongoing impact of colonisation and the importance of truth telling and respecting Indigenous perspectives and experiences. We also know that these stories may be most triggering for mob, for Aboriginal and Torres strait islander people. So, if you’re struggling while listening to this story, please don’t hesitate to connect with 13 YARN on 13 92 76 and talk with an Aboriginal or Torres Strait Islander crisis supporter. 

In this episode, you will hear Mariela Espino Zuppa’s story. Mariela lives in Walyalup but is originally from Mexico. Her work aims to bridge divides—between ‘here’ and ‘there’, and ‘us’ and ‘them’—fostering curiosity, connection, and systems of reciprocal care. This is Mariela. 

MEZ: My mother’s name is Veronica Ruizela Superfragoso. I don’t expect you to remember that or to want to roll those words off your tongue. But why not?  

Last year, a good friend shared a beautiful lesson with me. He said you start where we are, work your way back to the beginning and then find a good way to move forward. I wrote these words down, unsure I knew what he meant at the time, but they stayed with me. I wrote them down and I thought about them often.  

So let us start where we are on beautiful, unceded Noongar country. If you don’t know me, and if my skin didn’t give it away, or unless you listened with very close attention to the way I speak, you may think I am Australian, that I sound Australian, whatever that means. 

I’m not. I came to this country ten years ago. I came to this country knowing nothing about its history, about its stories. I still know nothing really. 

Speaking of stories, do you all remember your first loves? You can smile if you do. They make us feel like anything in the world is possible. Like changing your world. Moving across the world. My first love grew up in Western Australia, and I so vividly remember calling my parents to say, I am in love and I’m moving to Australia. 

My dad laughed, as you do now. He laughed until I got a job. He laughed until I saved enough money to get a one-way ticket. And then I tried again. I’m in love and I am moving to Australia. I was holding my ticket at this point. They supported me. My parents. They trusted my love and curiosity for the world. 

As naive as it was or still is. I remember being on the plane, about to land. Looking out of the window and thinking, where am I? I’ve just traveled to the edge of the earth. I was crying and feeling like I had taken myself, perhaps too far away from home. Ten years later and we’re here today. But to understand, today, perhaps we have to go back to the beginning, if only for a moment. 

How many of you have crossed the border? And can you recall what it felt like? I remember I was 14 years old about this big, about to cross the border from Mexico to the United States. I couldn’t see anything from where I was sitting. I wasn’t tall enough, but my mother was sitting next to me. A particular moment from that day left an imprint, at 14 years of age I saw a woman with her two daughters be told that they were not welcome. Be told that I had to turn around and come back where they had come from. To my 14-year-old self, it was fairly obvious they did not want to go back to where they had come from. To my 14-year-old self, someone had just been told that they did not belong, that they were not welcome. 

My mother, brother and I were next in line. We had been practicing the story we would tell to hopefully get us across the border. They believed us, not her. They led us across the border, not her and her children. Well, they didn’t know, but I knew that we were no different. So we made it to our new home. 

An apartment block full of others like us. Others who did not belong, or rather, were told they did not belong. We believed it. During our time living there, my mother had to go by a different name other than her beautiful name. 

We were surrounded by people like us. That was perhaps the best thing about it. 

I learned quite quickly to make up stories of who we were, where we had come from, and what we were doing there. I spent Monday through Friday at school pretending to understand what was going on. If people laughed, I laughed, even when I didn’t know what had just been said. I remember stepping into the cafeteria for the first time. 

And I was looking a little bit like this. Completely shocked. Completely faithful. The color of your skin determined where you would be sitting. I remember the feeling of discomfort in my body that such obvious separation caused. I remember contemplating the room of people, noticing how some were so comfortable taking up space, while others wanted so desperately to be invisible. 

During this time, assimilation swallowed me completely. It swallowed me whole. I learned English so well that my accent almost disappeared completely. I learned how to behave, dress, and speak in a way that would help me make sure no one would ever tell me to go back where I had come from. 

Ten years and we’re here today. There is so much I’ve had to learn and unlearn. Ten years. And we’re here today in a backyard with a group of people who think everyone should belong. Everyone should be considered and have refuge.  

Also, I thought, a year ago the majority of Australians voted no to reconciliation. On the morning of the news, my body took me back to being 14 years old. Watching someone be told that I did not belong or put simply, that they don’t matter enough. Not as much as someone else does. 

60,000 years have so much to teach us, yet 200 years of colonialism have us completely fixed in changing our surroundings and changing what’s outside us so much that we are ever so rarely brave enough to change what’s within, what’s inside us. Ten years of living and learning in this country have completely changed me. Completely. 

Now I’m standing here, and any day the Australian government could send a letter that says you officially belong to this country. You really belong now. You’re one of us. I should feel elated. I should feel thrilled to be one. One of us. Right? I don’t, I’m rather grappling with what it means to belong somewhere. 

I’m grappling with what it means to belong to a place that chooses to tell others that they don’t belong. 

So, we have started where we are, and we have done our best to work our way back to the beginning, even if that looks different for all of us. The question now is how do we move forward? How do we move forward alone, and how do we move forward together? Thank you.