When Community Fails: The Deeper Issue Behind Youth Crime in Australia

The media surrounding an elderly couple being carjacked by teenagers, some as young as 13, has really troubled me.

Not because it was shocking.
But because, disturbingly, it wasn’t.

And that’s the part that worries me most.

We’re reaching a point where stories like this no longer stop us in our tracks. They barely interrupt the news cycle before the next headline takes their place. But behind every one of these incidents is a moment that should force us to pause and ask some uncomfortable questions about where we are heading as a society.

This isn’t a political statement.
It’s not about immigration, bail laws, or which side of the fence you sit on.

It’s about something far more fundamental.

Respect.

Respect for others.
Respect for boundaries.
Respect for the fact that someone else’s life, safety and property matter.

And somewhere along the way, that respect has started to erode.

Not overnight.
Not because of one decision or one policy.
But slowly, through disconnection, distraction, pressure, and a growing absence of accountability and belonging.

Let’s be clear, behaviour like this is not acceptable.
But if we stop at condemnation alone, we miss the bigger picture.

Young people don’t wake up one day and decide to harm others for no reason. These behaviours are usually the end result of a long chain of missed opportunities, missed connection, missed guidance, missed intervention.

That doesn’t excuse it.
But it does explain why simply reacting harder every time something goes wrong isn’t working.

We are very good at responding to crisis.
We are far less effective at preventing it.

We talk about crime after it happens.
We debate punishment once the damage is done.
We argue over systems when people are already hurting.

What we don’t do enough of is ask:
What happened before this?
Who was missing?
Where did the support break down?
Who noticed and who didn’t?

Because real community safety doesn’t start in courtrooms or headlines.
It starts much earlier.

It starts in homes where kids feel seen.
In schools where boundaries are clear and consistent.
In communities where people know each other’s names.
In environments where respect is modelled, not demanded.

And this is where the conversation gets uncomfortable.

We can’t keep outsourcing responsibility to “the system” and hoping someone else fixes it. Systems matter, but they are built on people. And when connection weakens, systems strain.

What we’re seeing more of now is the result of a slow erosion of community fabric.

Less face-to-face connection.
Less shared responsibility.
More isolation.
More anger.
More people falling through the cracks.

And when that happens, behaviour follows.

This is why I speak so often about capacity before crisis.

Because once we’re reacting to tragedy, we’re already behind.

Capacity is built when people feel they belong.
When they feel accountable to something bigger than themselves.
When they have adults in their lives who set boundaries and also care enough to stay involved.

It’s built in sporting clubs, schools, workplaces, families, and local communities.
It’s built through conversation, consistency and connection, not outrage.

We don’t fix this by shouting louder or pointing fingers.
We fix it by rebuilding what’s been slowly worn away.

That means harder conversations.
It means showing up when it’s inconvenient.
It means taking responsibility not just for our own behaviour, but for the culture we’re part of creating.

Because strong communities don’t appear by accident.

They’re built deliberately.
They’re maintained intentionally.
And they require all of us, not just when something goes wrong, when news break, but long before it does.

I don’t have all the answers.

But I do know this:
If we keep waiting for tragedy to force the conversation, we’ll keep having the same conversation over and over again.

And the cost will keep rising.

The real question is this:

Are we willing to do the work before the next crisis, or only after?