I’ve always been aware that the affliction to the Food Not Bombs name — the assumption that this is “just Food Not Bombs” — doesn’t actually represent who we are. It was never meant to be a static label or a tidy brand. It was meant to be a gathering — a shared meal, a shared table, a shared community.
This thought has been quietly in the back of my mind for years, because the history of this event isn’t a straight line. When I took on the coordination of Food Not Bombs Hobart, most of the volunteers fled. The labour of setting up, cooking, serving, talking, and cleaning fell mostly on me — though some people whose titles sounded like leaders stayed. They held onto the rules in name only, while a few others who kept working actually shaped what the event became.
From that mess of expectations and departures, we all took power — not leadership in the traditional sense, but responsibility for what actually needed to happen. And from there came change.
The old version was a hall spread: many tables, a public feel, and a lot of physical labour to arrange and then clean up. But without steady volunteers, that labour burned people out fast and invited the idea that “this is what Food Not Bombs should look like” — a big room, many tables, formal setup. In reality, that version trapped us more than it helped us.
So we changed it. We consolidated the labour. We shortened the event. We moved out of the large hall into the smaller kitchen-adjacent space. Now there’s one long dining table — up to 15 people together — one shared experience, where labour is manageable and connection feels organic.
This isn’t a regression. This is response. It’s about reshaping the event so it can survive and be abundant for the people who come here — not because the name sounds nice, but because the meal and the fellowship feel welcoming and real.
This was brought into focus for me last weekend when a woman arrived and asked, “Where’s the old Food Not Bombs?” Before I could explain, she said, “This is not for me,” and walked away in protest.
I understand her confusion — the name carries expectation. But what we offer now is different, not lesser. It’s honest. It’s sustainable. And it’s built on the labour of people who stayed — not the memory of what used to be.
Food Not Bombs was never meant to be a museum piece. It was meant to be a space where people can eat, belong, and connect with each other without hierarchy or theatre. It’s not about nostalgia. It’s about nourishment — for body and community.
And that hasn’t changed. It has only found a form that can last.
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