After he finished his high school exams, he got into RMIT University to study computer science on a scholarship. He didn’t know where his family was or if they were alive, so there was a lot of sadness.

I had to drag him out of bed. I taught him to swim, made him meditate – I had him doing everything, poor man. There were plenty of arguments. Time is not a thing in Afghan culture. If someone says they’re coming, they might not come for three days. His lack of punctuality annoys me.

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Around 2006, Ross talked to a senior Hazara [Jafar’s ethnic group] man in Melbourne who found Jafar’s family in Afghanistan through the bush telegraph. They got a satellite phone to his mother and Jafar was just lying on the carpet crying and talking to her. He told her there were washing machines here and she said, “Could there be such a thing?”

Jafar went to Afghanistan to visit and I couldn’t sleep; I was worried he’d be killed. His family married him off over there; Jafar didn’t know the woman or that it was going to happen, he just went with it. I was so upset because I wanted to be at the wedding. He’s like my son! Asma [Jafar’s wife] came out here and she’s amazing. We’re very close. His parents and five siblings moved here, too.

I was involved with the Royal Commission [into Institutional Responses to Child Sexual Abuse] because a Catholic priest molested me when I was 10, and I started suffering post-traumatic stress. Jafar didn’t know about my childhood experiences until I told him a couple of years ago. After that, he rang me a lot and would come over and just hang out. I’ve given him unconditional love and he’s given me the same.

He lived here for about 16 years and our two girls have grown up with him. He’s there for them 100 per cent; he’s their brother. He’s taught me to see life as sacred and to enjoy the simple things. I want him to be at the girls’ big birthdays and weddings. He’s part of the family.

JAFAR: I grew up in the mountainous Baba area of Afghanistan on an almond farm. I’m Hazara. In 1999 the Taliban took over and called Hazaras “infidels”; they killed them and took their property. Some of my brothers disappeared. My parents made me leave: I was about 17 and had no idea what would happen to me next.

I came through smugglers, by truck, train and plane, then a boat from Indonesia. Oh man, it was so dangerous. I was in Woomera [detention centre] for eight months. When I met Natalie, Bella was just a baby. In my village, there were always babies around. It had been a long time since I’d met good people. Everybody just called me, “Boat people”, which meant, “You’re an outsider.”

When they asked me to move in, I didn’t think twice because I was so lonely. Who offers such a huge thing to someone they’ve never met? It was like a fairy tale. I was in a four-poster bed like you see in the movies. If you live in commission housing, it can take an hour to get to the eighth floor because people put a bag of potatoes down to block the lift doors; you can’t go outside at night because men come at you with a syringe and say, “Give me $20.”

At Natalie’s house, when I got sad I’d play with Bella. I’d take her to school and she’d call me her “brother”. When she was with me, I felt like I was at home.

“What I’ve learnt and what I actually am, it all belongs to Natalie. She’s like my mother, my sister, my good friend.”

I’d never had proper teeth – they were chipped because we used to crack nuts with them – but Natalie got them fixed. They’ve done so much for me. They’ve probably never thought about it, but I feel I need to pay it back.

If you go to the mountains and there is no moon at night, you have no idea where you are going, you can fall or the wolf can take you away; in a new environment you don’t know which people are genuine.

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But Natalie protected me. She treated me like a son. She taught me how to behave, especially with ladies. I never used to make eye contact because in my country it’s very rude. Natalie would say, “Why do you put your eyes down?” She used to get upset with me.

We argue about punctuality. Time doesn’t matter in Afghanistan. Most people have no idea when they were born; I don’t know exactly how old I am. I’d forget Natalie’s birthday and she’d get upset. Until she told me, I didn’t know what she went through as a child. It is very, very sad. The more you suffer, the stronger you get, and that’s what happened to her.

What I’ve learnt and what I actually am, it all belongs to Natalie. She’s like my mother, my sister, my good friend. Without her I would have destroyed myself because I was almost broken. She gave me a family.

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