Branko Rudez was 15 when he stepped off the Cogedar Line MS Aurelia on August 11 1963, through Victoria Quay and on to the Fremantle Port. He carried with him only a suitcase and a change of clothes. He took a breath of the rain-washed air, a welcome change to the salty winds that whipped past him on his month-long solo voyage that would see his life turned inside out. He crossed not just oceans but worlds of culture, chasing the promise of a better life in ‘the lucky country’. What he found on arrival was not loneliness, but reunion. His brother Blaz, who migrated five years before, welcomed him to the sunburnt country.

In the years that followed, Branko became not only an architect of the Swan Valley but one founder of the Croatian Club. A place where migrants could gather, remember, and rebuild. Brick by brick, raffle by raffle and folk dance by folk dance, he helped stitch together a pocket of home. In these halls, the ‘old country’ lived on. The smell of spit-roast lamb and the melodies of music carried generations of laughter and love.

Today, Branko walks through those same rooms with pride and a tender nostalgia. The faces have changed. The accents have faded. Songs have slowed to echoes and the tambura (a Croatian string instrument) has fallen silent.

Across Australia, ethnic clubs like Branko’s are quietly disappearing. It’s not only the Croatian Club in Perth but the Polish, Greek and Irish Clubs face similar challenges.

These are just another casualty of generational shifts in cultural identity and an erosion of memory. Empty chairs remain tucked under set tables. But the voices that once filled them are vanishing, leaving only a lingering heartbeat of a culture striving not to be forgotten.

For decades, migrant clubs across Australia were much more than just social venues. They were sanctuaries. Places where the ache of homesickness could be soothed by the familiar tastes and smells of food from ‘the old country’, and stories of similar hardships could be shared without language barriers.

The Croatian Club in the Swan Valley, built by Branko and other like-minded immigrants, did just this.

Every Sunday, Yugoslav immigrants gathered not just to share a meal, but to converge in a state of repose where language, cultural, and customary barriers didn’t exist. For them, the faint glow of the club’s lights when driving in acted as a beacon of respite in the darkness of a place that may not have been ready yet to accept foreign cultures.

The heart of these clubs was in the shared customs. The folk dances that started with tentative steps would turn into a display of celebratory laughter and cheers. The singing of songs that carried not just melodies but hurt and history – and the food. The smells of slow-cooked lambs, hearty stews and pastries carried the expatriates back across the Indian Ocean, the Atlantic, and the Mediterranean Sea – to home. It was a sacred place for memories to thrive, where every meal, every story and every dance step was a tribute to their struggles and triumphs and to those before them.

Branko Rudez says in its prime, the Croatian Club would have up to 300 people attend.

Funded largely by raffles and drink sales, clubs were often small-time affairs. These were the places that first-generation migrants, particularly from eastern European countries found refuge when Australia was still deep in the process of becoming multicultural. The language spoken wasn’t just Croatian, Greek or Polish. It was a testament to resilience.

In their heyday, ethnic clubs would go beyond serving their own communities. They acted as cultural embassies. Spaces where other Australians could come, learn and participate in cultures from around the world. Festivals were held that invited the broader community to experience the different foods, dances and music. Through these events, migrant clubs cultivated a subtle yet powerful sense of Australian identity. Not one that forced heritage but one that embraced diversity.

But it’s not just the Croatian club that is facing this slow decline. The Greek, Polish and Irish communities across Australia are still seeing their cultural clubs struggle to stay relevant. Not unlike the Croatian Club – Greek organisations were once a beating heart of culture, where migrants forged new lives, built families and kept traditions alive.

Today, these same clubs are filled with fewer and fewer patrons with older members holding on to memories of a time when every gathering was vital.

Perth’s Greek Hellenic Club has seen a steady decline in attendance over the past decade and has had to adapt to survive.

For the Zempilas family, the Greek Hellenic Club has been a part of their DNA since Jessie Zempilas (nee. Simeon) OAM arrived in Australia. They say the Greek experience with migrant clubs is different, as the culture is so closely intertwined with religion.

“The Greek Orthodox religion is heavily intertwined with Greek culture. We go to church and pay our respects, but it’s still social in the way that you see cousins and family,” Jessie’s granddaughter Jess Pritchard says.

Pritchard’s 10-year-old daughter Bianca comments on the dilution of culture, saying the church no longer takes priority in their day-to-day life.

“Church means I can see my family, but you sometimes have to miss it for other events. I guess I just have to choose what is more important to me at the time,” she says.

Jessie Zempilas says she misses the camaraderie that came with the Greek club but understands that without adaptation, survival would not be possible. Her daughter Diane says bringing in young families is keeping the flame burning.

Similarly, Perth’s Polish Club Sikorski is trying to remain relevant but like their Greek counterparts, it’s only through adaptation that survival is possible. The Sikorski Club, established as a school in 1954, had to move with the changing tides to survive. With fewer new Polish migrants, and rising costs, the club transformed a part of its space into a restaurant.

This shift not only helped keep the club financially stable but has bucked the trend of closing clubs, creating an open and welcoming space that is thriving, with events on nearly every week. Sikorski still honours its roots, regularly hosting traditional events and cultural celebration, but has done so in a way that has encouraged a new form of cultural celebration.

Polish Club Sikorski President Vlodek Bilski says intermarriage has meant that Australian and Polish cultures have merged but that doesn’t mean that they can’t still educate people on Polish culture.

While WA’s Irish community faces similar issues, they foster a unique position in that Irish culture is naturally embraced by many – largely through Irish pubs. While they remain a staple across Australia, and often foster a cracking Saturday night, the more formal Irish clubs, which were once a hub of cultural activity, are shrinking.

Instead, they carry on their culture in subtler, less structured ways through a love of Irish music, online storytelling, sport and through private family traditions.

The problem across all these communities is not just the loss of attendance but the shift in how cultural identity is defined. It’s no longer a matter of showing up to a hall, signing up for dance class or participating in a raffle. It’s about an individual’s choice. About how each person decides to express their culture. Especially in a world that is becoming increasingly digitised and globalised. The bond remains but it’s no longer tethered to a physical space in the way it once was.

The decline of migrant clubs and physical community spaces around Western Australia is a bittersweet narrative. Almost a necessary evil.

When migrants first arrived by the shipload from Europe they faced the daunting task of assimilation. The need for a space to reconnect with one’s roots were vital. But since then, Australia has become a more integrated and multicultural society. One where cultural diversity is not just celebrated but is now a part of our what we are. The fact that the Croatian, Greek, Polish and Irish communities are no longer as reliant on these clubs to maintain their sense of identity is, in some ways, a testament to how far Australia has come.

Rather than clinging to these cultural sanctuaries, younger generations of migrants are increasingly able to integrate into the broader Australian community while still holding on to their cultural heritage . They don’t need to gather in physical clubs to remember where they came from. Instead, they carry their cultures within them – through languages spoken at home, through food shared around their dinner tables, though occasional festivals or concerts and the stories passed down from one generation to the next.

“We don’t need the physical space to keep connection anymore,” says Branko Rudez’s niece, Lana Noack.

Assimilation in this context doesn’t mean an erasing of culture but rather the evolution of it. It means finding a way to be both Australian and Croatian, Australian and Greek, Australian and Polish. The fact these communities are now so deeply integrated into the Australian psyche – whether through politics, food or everyday life – speaks to the success of multiculturalism in this country.

Perhaps, in time, the role of ethnic clubs will shift to become more about celebration than preservation. Instead of being the daily meeting places they once were, they may evolve into the event spaces where generations gather to showcase their heritage, where food, music, and dance come together not out of necessity, but out of joy.

In the quiet of the Croatian club, Branko Rudez and his brother Drago walk slowly through the hall, reminiscing about past times.

A building which used to host hundreds pouring through the door now sees a handful of the ‘old boys’ come down on a Sunday afternoon to enjoy refuge like they once did. Glasses wait behind the bar, ready to be lifted once again and the tables are set.

They pause by the window, looking out over the street outside, which has seen huge change in the last 62 years. The world outside is moving on, yet within these walls time stands still.

The memory of this club and its electric past exists now only as dusty pictures on the walls. Branko Rudez, like so many others, has become part of this ebbing tide. His generation was the only one to truly fill these halls with life. And yet, he stands, realising the life they built here. The culture they fight to keep alive has not vanished. It lives within him. Within the walls, within every meal, every song, every dance they once shared. The tambura may very well have fallen silent, but the strings of pride hum through generations. The laughter may have faded, but the heritage lives on.

Rudez steps out of the club into the warm spring sun. The weight of the past, and the promise of the future having been moved to the next generation who will shoulder it in a way that he may never have imagined. But a way that is no less real.

The Croatian Club may be quieter now but in its silence there is an ode to those who came before. A testament to a time when the world outside felt distant and new.

A time gone.