Q: Aanya, thank you for taking the time to speak with us. To begin, can you share how your journey into social activism started?

Aanya: Thank you for inviting me—it’s a privilege to share this space. To be honest, it feels a bit surreal to call it a “journey” because for the longest time, I didn’t think of myself as an activist. I wasn’t out there leading protests or being featured in the media. I was just someone who couldn’t unsee the inequality around me.

I grew up in Dandenong, in a working-class immigrant family. My parents fled Sri Lanka during the war. We didn’t have much financially, but we had strength in our community—neighbours looking out for each other, women pooling together resources to help someone get through the week. But from a young age, I saw how systems treated people like us—as if we were invisible or disposable. It wasn’t just that the system was failing us—it was doing exactly what it was built to do: exclude, silence, and marginalise.

One moment I always come back to was in 2018. I was volunteering at a local food bank and met a woman—single mother of three—who had just been evicted for falling behind on rent. Her Centrelink appeal hadn’t been processed, and she had no family to turn to. She told me she’d been sleeping in her car with her kids. I remember how calm she was about it, like she’d accepted this as her new normal. That haunted me. I went home that night and couldn’t sleep. I just kept thinking, “How are we okay with this? How is this allowed to happen in a country like ours?”

That was the moment I stopped waiting for someone else to fix it. I started asking how I could show up—not perfectly, but consistently.

Q: That’s incredibly powerful. In your experience, what do you think is the most misunderstood aspect of community activism?

Aanya: I think a lot of people assume activism is loud and confrontational—that it only happens in protests or on social media with big slogans and placards. And while that visibility is important, there’s this entire ecosystem of care and resistance that happens quietly and behind the scenes.

Some of the most radical acts I’ve seen happen in everyday places: an aunty cooking extra meals to feed neighbours who are doing it tough, young people running peer-to-peer mental health circles, people translating government forms for elderly migrants who’ve been ignored by the system. These aren’t glamorous moments. They’re not always celebrated. But they are deeply political. They say: “We see you. We’re not giving up on each other.”

We need organisers, writers, carers, translators, lawyers, counsellors. Not everyone has to be a spokesperson. Change needs all of us.

Q: You often talk about "radical listening." What does that look like in your day-to-day work?

Aanya: For me, radical listening means suspending the urge to fix or speak. It’s about arriving without an agenda. When I step into a space—especially one where I’m not part of the affected community—I remind myself: “You’re here to listen, not to lead.”

There’s a tendency in activism, especially among well-intentioned allies, to assume we know what’s best. But true solidarity begins with humility. Listening—really listening—creates trust. It allows people to set the terms of their own liberation.

When you sit with someone’s pain or frustration without trying to rush them to hope, that’s where real connection happens. And from that connection, real solutions start to grow.

Q: What has been one of the most difficult moments you’ve experienced through this work?

Aanya: Burnout, without a doubt. You carry so many stories, and not all of them have happy endings. During the 2021 lockdowns, I was helping coordinate food deliveries for families in public housing who’d been completely locked down. Some of those residents had no internet, no translators, no clear communication about what was happening. They were scared. And at the same time, I was attending funerals for people we’d lost to COVID or suicide.

It got to a point where I felt like I was constantly grieving while the world kept spinning. That kind of grief builds up in your body. I started having panic attacks. I wasn’t sleeping. Eventually, I had to step back and relearn what boundaries looked like. I had to accept that I couldn’t pour from an empty cup.

Now, I build rest into my work. I’ve learned to say no. I’ve learned to hand over the mic. That’s not weakness—it’s survival. And survival is resistance too.

Q: On the other hand, what sustains you? What gives you hope when things feel heavy?

Aanya: Young people. Every single time. The way they show up—with courage, clarity, and an unapologetic refusal to accept the status quo—it’s electrifying. I mentor a few high school students out west who started their own mental health collective after losing a friend to suicide. They weren’t waiting for approval or permission. They just saw a need and filled it.

Also, the small wins. A housing application approved. A family reunited. A school finally listening to a First Nations parent. Those things matter. They remind me that we’re not working in vain.

Hope isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s a quiet moment of solidarity. Sometimes it’s someone saying, “I didn’t think anyone cared—but you did.” That’s enough to keep going.

Q: Final question, Aanya. What advice would you give to someone who feels overwhelmed but wants to make a difference?

Aanya: Start with what breaks your heart. That’s your compass. Then look around—there’s almost always someone already doing the work. Join them. Support them. Learn from them. You don’t need to have all the answers, and you don’t have to do it alone.

You won’t change the whole world. None of us will. But if you can change something in your corner of it—with love, with consistency, with integrity—that’s more than enough. That’s how real change begins.

Editor’s Note:
Aanya Ramanathan is the founder of Shared Ground Collective, a grassroots initiative dedicated to community-led advocacy, resource access, and wellbeing for marginalised groups in Melbourne’s west. Her work has been featured by SBS, Pro Bono News, and The Guardian. In 2023, she was named a VicHealth Local Hero.