Rome, Remote Australia & Realities

By Malachai Clements, Global Voices Fellow, World Food Forum 2024.

World Food Forum 2024 launch event

When I attended the World Food Forum in Rome late last year, I found myself surrounded by some of the brightest minds working on the future of food security—policymakers, researchers, entrepreneurs, and activists from every corner of the globe. The language was powerful: systems change, sustainability, innovation, inclusive development.

The UN building itself towered over Rome’s ancient circus—a monument to ambition. Hundreds of brightly coloured flags draped from the ceiling. Dozens of languages blended into a passionate, purposeful hum. Two worlds collided: the polished stone floors of the UN and the red Cape York dust still clinging to my RM Williams boots. It was surreal—a kid from the bush sitting just a few rows behind the King of Lesotho. I asked for a photo. His security politely declined. I’d have to be content with a selfie taken from a distance.

But as I sat in those rooms, listening to global strategies unfold, my mind drifted home. As voices echoed through the chamber, I slipped away to a summer night, staring up at the Southern Cross. I’d lay on the roof of the car, the universe stretched above me. My mind wandered to the ancient rock that rises from the heart of the desert. To the untamed, unruly outback—and the bustling city streets. To the Australia I love. And I found myself wondering: How many of these policies actually reach the dry, red dirt of remote Australia?

Seven million rugged Australians choose not to live in the busy cities that dot our coastline. They choose instead the beauty—and the challenge—of life beyond the bitumen. But in policy? In funding? In the national conversation? They are forgotten.

These aren’t just statistics. They’re stories—real, raw and often invisible.

A mum driving four hours to buy baby formula. An elder waiting three weeks for a GP appointment. A teenage boy eating instant noodles because there’s nothing else on the shelves. A father choosing to buy chips over a $13 sweet potato.

But when it reaches the southern headlines, it’s reduced to a single phrase: ‘food insecurity’

A trendy, vote-winning term tossed around at election time—but out here, it’s not a buzzword. It’s a daily reality. Empty shelves. Sky-high prices. Sporadic freight. Limited access to fresh food. It’s not theoretical. It’s lived.

My mind floated back into the land of the living as the panel discussion turned to blockchain.

What good is blockchain when communities don’t even have stable power or mobile reception?

What does innovation mean when the road to the nearest hospital is metres under croc infested water every wet season?

Has anyone on that panel ever paid $13 for a sweet potato?

The conversation moved on to sustainable development goals. I took a deep dive back into my thoughts, searching desperately to find solutions for the country I love so deeply. The World Food Forum reminded me of the strength of global collaboration. But it also showed me—sharply—just how far-removed remote Australia is from the tables where decisions are made. Whether in Rome or Canberra, we are still on the outside, waiting to be heard. This needs to change. We don’t need special treatment. We just need a seat at the table. Remote Australia can speak with its own voice. If you’ve ever met someone from ‘up north’ or ‘out west’, you’ll know this to be true. The confident twinge of country Australia is unmistakable. 

But unless something changes, our needs will continue to be overlooked, our minerals exploited for southern profit and our communities left behind. We’ve tried waiting. We’ve tried asking. We’ve tried hoping Brisbane might notice. But Brisbane has its priorities straight—our mining money funding Olympic stadiums. Because, apparently, feeding a remote Indigenous community isn’t important. Our cries fall on deaf ears.

The solution: we need more states.

Queensland should be split in two. Western Australia, too. Because the truth is—Brisbane doesn’t understand Bamaga. Perth doesn’t understand the Pilbara. A Northern Queensland state wouldn’t just be a political shift. It would be a practical one. Leadership that understands the realities of living remote: the tyranny of distance, the crippling cost of freight, the cultural strength of First Nations communities, and the economic potential that’s too often ignored.

This isn’t just an old bush dream muttered over beers on a Saturday arvo—it’s a practical necessity. Our geography is vast. Our industries are distinct. Our challenges are fundamentally different from the southeast corner. Yet we’re governed as if Brisbane understands our world. It doesn’t. Decisions about health, infrastructure, freight, food, and education are made by people who’ve never seen a makeshift wooden bridge swallowed by crocodile-infested floodwaters—cutting off a community’s only link to healthcare. How can they serve what they do not see?

A northern state would mean leadership that lives what we live—governing with local knowledge, not distant assumptions. It would mean funding aligned with reality, not political convenience. It would mean building a future where policy actually reaches the people it’s meant to serve. Because the truth is: we cannot wait for policy to trickle down from the top floors of tall buildings in Rome—or even from Parliament House in Canberra.

The solutions we need must be built from the ground up—in the places where the roads turn to red dust, and the food truck might not come for another week. I’m deeply grateful to Global Voices and the World Food Forum for the opportunity to sit at the global table. But it reminded me of something important: You can’t feed people with words alone. And you can’t fix broken systems without including the voices of those who live with the consequences when they fail. Remote Australia doesn’t just need recognition. It needs representation. Until we build the structures that make that possible—like a State of North Queensland—these conversations will remain exactly that: conversations.

I went to Rome thinking I’d find answers. Instead, sitting in a room full of people as patriotic and eager to create change as me, I found a reminder: Real change starts at home. Not from above—but from the ground.

From red dirt and rough roads.

From the voices Australia can’t afford to leave behind.

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The views and opinions expressed by Global Voices Fellows do not necessarily reflect those of the organisation or its staff.