There is a moment, during our celebrations, when something shifts in the atmosphere. As soon as the first notes of Mille lire al mese, Tintarella di luna or Che sarà begin to play, faces soften and eyes drift elsewhere. Some smile, some grow emotional. It is not simply nostalgia — it is an emotional return, an instant journey back to the Italy we left behind, yet never truly lost.

We experienced this powerfully during the NIAWA 40th Anniversary celebrations. When those songs filled the room, they became more than just music: they became a shared language. Women who arrived in Australia after the war, in the 1950s, 60s and 70s, sang alongside their daughters and granddaughters. Different accents, different lives — yet the same emotions.

For those who crossed the ocean with little more than hope and courage, these songs marked every stage of life. They were the soundtrack of youth, heard on kitchen radios, at village dances, at early community gatherings when Australia still felt unfamiliar and distant. Yet those melodies made this new country feel warmer, less foreign.

Over time, this music became part of life here too: weddings, christenings, anniversaries, Sunday lunches. It became a bridge between two worlds, between the homeland left behind and the new home built in Australia. Even today, when we hear those songs, we recognise ourselves in their words, their stories, their dreams.

For younger generations, these tunes might sound old-fashioned, belonging to another era. But this is precisely their greatest value. They tell a story that must not be forgotten. Because music is not only entertainment: it is living memory, it is identity passed down, it is an invisible thread connecting who we were with who we have become.

And so, every time those songs rise again at our gatherings, we are not just singing. We are remembering. And, in doing so, we are also quietly celebrating our journey.

Nadia Fronteddu