Luca had just turned one.
Six months ago, his parents arrived in Australia full of hope—like so many others, chasing treatment, opportunity, a fresh start. But life had other plans. On 31 March, their baby boy passed away, leaving behind a shattered family and a circle of strangers who now find themselves drawn together by a story none of them asked to tell.
The family, who had moved from India and are currently on a temporary visa, were already navigating a complex system while trying to manage their son’s deteriorating health. As Luca’s condition worsened, neither parent could work. Their focus, entirely and understandably, remained on their child.
Now, they’re trying to take him home.
The campaign launched in Luca’s name is not about slogans or headlines—it’s about a body, too small for a coffin, needing to make a final journey across borders. It’s about paperwork and airfares, about last rites performed in the right soil, surrounded by the people who knew him not just as a patient or case file, but as a grandson, a nephew, a child who smiled even through the pain.
Repatriation is expensive. The cost of flying a deceased child back to India includes embalming, certification, airline protocols, and a funeral that will likely take place in a town where extended family has already started preparing. But none of this is possible without money the family doesn’t have.
A GoFundMe has been set up, quietly circulating through WhatsApp groups and Facebook pages. No flashy graphics. Just a photo of Luca, and a simple plea to help.
“We are deeply grateful for any contributions and prayers during this difficult time,” the note reads. “Your support, no matter the amount, will help ease the financial burden.”
Among those sharing the fundraiser are community leaders, temporary migrants, local Indian-Australians, and people who’ve never met the family but recognise the helplessness that illness brings. For many migrants, the story strikes a nerve—of arriving on a visa, watching your savings disappear into medical bills, and realising you’re hundreds of kilometres from the nearest relative.
There’s no insurance for heartbreak. No clause in the migration system that prepares a parent for this.
Temporary visas rarely come with full access to Medicare or public health assistance. For families in precarious visa categories, any serious medical diagnosis can trigger a cascade of debt, red tape, and emotional exhaustion. Throw grief into that equation, and it becomes hard to imagine how anything gets done.
Yet people are helping. Quietly. Generously.
One donor commented, “I don’t know the family, but I have a one-year-old too. Couldn’t scroll past without doing something.” Another simply wrote, “For Luca. Fly home, little one.”
As of this morning, the campaign is inching towards its goal. Every dollar raised helps cover the cost of the funeral, the repatriation, and the basic logistics of putting a child to rest. For the family, it also offers something else: proof that they are not alone. That even in a foreign land, amid bureaucracy and isolation, there are hands reaching out.
Luca’s parents have remained largely silent, apart from short updates shared through community channels. “He gave us so much love,” one message read. “We want to take him home so our families can say goodbye.”
There’s no template for how to mourn a child in a new country. No training for how to collapse in grief when your visa doesn’t even allow for stability. But there is community. There is compassion.
And there is Luca—one year old, loved beyond words, remembered beyond borders.
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