Our Story

From Survival to Belonging

The story behind Christiaan McCann and Food Not Bombs Hobart

My early relationship with food

I’ve spent much of my life learning about food, not just as something we need to survive, but as something that can bring people together, provide safety and create a sense of belonging.

My involvement in community food work didn’t begin with Food Not Bombs. In many ways, it began in childhood.

My parents divorced when I was about five. My mother remarried, and my stepfather was violent. Mealtimes were often the most difficult and frightening part of the day. Food, which should have been a source of comfort and family connection, became associated with fear.

At 16, I found a girlfriend and began staying at her home. I would sometimes come home in the morning for dinner. Eventually, I left home altogether and spent years drifting.

I learned how to eat cheaply and make do with very little.

Between approximately 1997 and 2000, I experienced homelessness in Tasmania. During that period, food insecurity was a constant reality. Finding somewhere to eat wasn’t simply about satisfying hunger. It was also about finding somewhere safe to be.

Finding Food Not Bombs

For around 18 months, beginning around 2000, I visited Bethlehem House in Hobart every day for lunch. It was a men’s accommodation service with a drop-in area where lunch could be purchased. That daily routine became an important part of my life.

I also became familiar with another side of community food through the psychosocial clubhouse movement.

In my thirties, I cooked Wednesday roasts at Eureka Clubhouse. I was involved with the psychosocial centre for around ten years. Food was at the centre of clubhouse life. There were difficulties and tensions in the wider environment, but I often found the kitchen to be a relatively safe place.

Looking back, I can see that I was learning something important: food creates opportunities for people to sit together, participate and form relationships, even when other parts of their lives are difficult.

In 2015, I was studying social work and looking for practical experience. I was volunteering in different places, wanting to learn about community work beyond the classroom.

Someone introduced me to Food Not Bombs Hobart and took me along to eat at Frankie’s Empire.

I lived in Hobart’s CBD at the time, within walking distance of the project. I started attending, getting to know people and becoming more involved.

One person in particular, known as Lucky, changed everything for me.

Lucky was an extraordinary communicator. I used to describe him as a master communicator. He understood the people, the personalities, the relationships and the history of the place. While we ate together, he would explain what was happening around us. He knew the stories behind the relationships and understood the real character of the organisation.

Stepping into leadership

He helped me see its heart and soul.

I began spending more time there, building a relationship with Lucky and other participants. We laughed, sat together and talked about what could be done.

I could see the potential, but I could also see how fragile the organisation was. There was little leadership, considerable conflict and a growing sense that the project might fall apart.

Lucky had warned me that people would leave.

He was right.

I became increasingly convinced that something needed to change. I wanted to create a place that was fairer, where people could participate without being dominated by others.

The existing groups were divided. Older participants and younger participants tended to operate separately, and there were tensions between different personalities and factions.

Learning to see people differently

By the time I started studying social work in 2015, I’d already spent much of my life around people who were doing it tough. I’d experienced homelessness myself, I’d known what it was like to struggle for food, and I’d spent years in places where a meal could make the difference between having somewhere to be and having nowhere to go.

Studying social work gave me another way of looking at things, but much of what mattered most I had learned through experience.

I became interested in what actually helps people. Not just giving someone a meal, but making it possible for them to come back tomorrow. To know someone, to have a conversation, to be recognised, to have something useful to do.

I understood that people don’t always need someone to manage their lives. Sometimes they need an opportunity, a bit of trust and a place where they can be themselves.

That became increasingly important to me at Food Not Bombs. I wanted people to have a say, to participate and to feel that the place belonged to them too.

I wasn’t interested in creating a service where some people gave and other people simply received. I wanted to create a community where everyone had something to offer.

The difficult years

I started working towards a different approach, based on relationships, participation and a shared sense of responsibility.

There was considerable organisational upheaval. People left, numbers dropped dramatically, and there were disagreements about governance and leadership. Eventually, constitutional and organisational changes enabled me to become the official coordinator and grant-holder.

It was not a straightforward transition. There were disputes, competing approaches and difficult decisions. Eventually, the previous management arrangements came to an end.

The organisation became much smaller.

At one point, participation had fallen to around a quarter of its previous level.

But we kept going.

One of the most important developments was securing a more reliable food supply.

Something begins to change

Tim played an important role in reorganising the situation and helping secure my leadership. We established a Woolworths arrangement to collect cold-store waste, and Glen committed to collecting and rescuing that food for us.

That relationship became fundamental to our ability to continue.

For around eight years, Food Not Bombs Hobart operated at a relatively small scale. There was no dramatic growth or widespread recognition. We simply kept showing up.

Pete has also been alongside me for around five of those years, through both the difficult periods and the better ones.

There were other relationships and commitments I refused to abandon. Some took years to develop. I had unfinished work with people, and I believed those relationships were worth the patience and effort.

I also needed to finish my social work studies and deal with other demands in my life.

I could see the potential of Food Not Bombs, but I couldn’t have predicted what it would eventually become.

What it has come to mean

In 2026, things began to move in a new direction.

Our media presence expanded. Social media became more active. Our work started reaching a much wider audience, and our relationship with Foodbank opened new possibilities.

We developed stronger partnerships, expanded food rescue and began reaching more people.

The Shared Table continued to grow. New volunteers arrived, new relationships formed, and projects began developing around the original meal.

What had once been a fragile, relatively small operation was becoming a much broader community response.

The work now includes rescued food, community meals, material assistance, outreach, volunteers, partnerships and opportunities for people to contribute their skills.

The relationship with Eamonn and the development of Broke-Ass Brunch are among the fruits of those earlier relationships and years of groundwork.

We are now doing more than I ever imagined when I first walked into Frankie’s Empire.

I sometimes think about the different places food has occupied in my life.

No one eats alone. No one is turned away.

As a child, mealtimes could be frightening.

As a young man, food was something I had to find, often without security or certainty.

When I was homeless, a daily lunch at Bethlehem House provided a routine and somewhere to go.

In the clubhouse kitchen, I discovered that cooking could create a safer place for people to connect.

And eventually, at Food Not Bombs Hobart, I found an opportunity to help create that kind of place for others.

I don’t think our work is simply about feeding people. Of course, the food matters enormously. But what happens around the food matters too.

People need somewhere they can sit without being judged. Somewhere they can contribute, make friends, be useful and feel part of something.

I wanted to create something fair. Something where people could belong rather than simply receive assistance.

Today, our Shared Table is built around a simple idea:

I couldn’t have predicted this journey. I didn’t set out to build a large organisation or become a public spokesperson for food insecurity.

I started by sitting with people, listening, building relationships and recognising that something needed to be done.

It has taken years. There have been difficult times, conflict, uncertainty and plenty of moments when the future wasn’t clear.

But I didn’t give up.

And now, looking at what Food Not Bombs Hobart has become, I feel something I didn’t quite know how to imagine back then.

Excitement.

It feels like something worth waiting for.