Let me tell you about a place where the future of a school hinges on the availability of a house. Picture this: a remote farming town in Western Australia with 140 residents, a population so small it could fit into the back seat of a pickup truck. At its heart is a primary school with 12 students, yet the community’s survival depends on keeping that school open. But here’s the kicker—without stable housing for teachers, the school’s fate is hanging by a thread. This isn’t just about education; it’s a microcosm of the larger battle between rural communities and the systems that are supposed to support them.
What makes this particularly fascinating is how a single school becomes a litmus test for the viability of an entire town. Matt Bell, a local farmer and parent, puts it plainly: ‘One of the things potential workers want to know is, is there a school and is it good for my kids?’ That’s not just a question—it’s a demand. In places like Munglinup, schools are the glue that holds communities together. When teachers can’t find homes, the glue cracks. And right now, the cracks are getting wider. The town has two GROH houses, but one is reserved for the principal, leaving teachers to fend for themselves. One teacher lives 40km away, another commutes along a highway where road trains and sun glare make every morning and evening a gamble with safety. It’s not just inconvenient—it’s a systemic failure.
In my opinion, this isn’t just about housing. It’s about respect. When a government program like GROH exists, it’s supposed to be a lifeline for remote workers. Yet here, the ‘lifeline’ feels more like a bureaucratic afterthought. The town once had more GROH units, but as the school shrank, so did the investment. That’s a dangerous precedent. If a school’s size determines its access to infrastructure, what happens when the next crisis hits? What if the school closes? Suddenly, the town’s population plummets, and the cycle continues. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy that’s been playing out in rural Australia for decades.
What many people don’t realize is that this isn’t an isolated incident. Jasmyn Allen, president of the Isolated Children’s and Parents Association, says similar stories are echoing across the state. The problem isn’t just Munglinup—it’s a pattern. Communities are begging for stability, but they’re met with short-term fixes. ‘If you’ve got a staff member traveling extreme distances every day, it doesn’t make for a very stable work-life balance,’ Allen says. And why should it? Teachers aren’t robots. They’re human beings who deserve to live in places where their commute doesn’t feel like a daily risk. Yet the system treats them as if they’re disposable.
A detail that I find especially interesting is how the government’s response has been to increase GROH units to two in 2026. That’s a year from now. But for a school with 12 kids, a year is an eternity. What happens in the interim? How many more teachers leave? How many more children face the trauma of changing teachers multiple times a year? The Bell family’s daughter has already had three teachers in her first semester of kindy. Imagine the confusion, the loss of trust, the emotional toll. And this is happening in a town where the population is smaller than the number of students in a typical suburban classroom. It’s a cruel irony.
This raises a deeper question: What does it mean to ‘support’ rural communities if the support only comes when the community is on the brink of collapse? The parents of Munglinup have been fighting for years, writing letters to parliament, lobbying politicians. Yet the solution feels perpetually out of reach. The government’s spokesperson says there’s no plan to close the school, but that’s not the same as having a plan to keep it open. A school needs more than a promise—it needs resources, infrastructure, and a commitment to the people who live there.
If you take a step back and think about it, this isn’t just about education. It’s about identity. Rural communities are defined by their connection to land, to each other, to the institutions that anchor them. When a school closes, it’s not just a building that disappears—it’s a piece of the community’s soul. And yet, the system keeps treating these places as afterthoughts. What this really suggests is that rural Australia is being sacrificed on the altar of urban convenience. The government talks about ‘regional growth,’ but the reality is that growth is only possible if people can live there, and people can’t live there without basic services like housing.
So here’s the thing: Munglinup isn’t just a town. It’s a warning. It’s a glimpse into what happens when we ignore the needs of our most vulnerable communities. The school’s survival isn’t just about 12 kids—it’s about the future of rural Australia itself. And if we don’t act soon, the next town to face this crisis might be yours.
