Why Odyssey? A Founders Story
- Bain Dohne
- Nov 30, 2025
- 6 min read
There’s a set of questions I hear over and over again. They don’t come from doubt about young people or what The Odyssey Leadership Foundation is trying to achieve. They come from curiosity about why I, personally, have chosen this path.
Why the Foundation?
Why “Odyssey” Leadership?
Isn’t that a massive, impossible task?
What’s civics, really?
Aren’t there already other organisations doing this?
What’s in it for me if I donate or get involved?
How do you not lose your fire, given everything that’s happening in the world?
What’s in it for you?
What’s your story?
This is the beginning of that story. The extended version probably needs its own book. But this is enough to understand why Odyssey exists and why I care so deeply about youth leadership and civics.
Growing up in South Africa
I grew up in South Africa during the final stages of Apartheid. On the surface, for a white South African boy, life could look almost “normal” – even fortunate. But beneath the surface, the reality was far darker.
Apartheid was not a “difficult time”. It was a system that caused deep harm to millions of people. There are whole libraries of history books on this period, and this is not the place to retell them all. What matters for this story is that I grew up watching a country wrestle with questions of power, justice, and who gets a voice.
In the early 1990s, under President F.W. de Klerk, the government began freeing political prisoners and unbanning political organisations. These decisions opened the door to a different future – and with it came enormous change and unrest. You didn’t have to be a political scientist to feel that the ground was shifting.
At the same time, everyday life was being squeezed. The Rand, South Africa’s currency, lost significant value. Crime surged. My parents, like many others, had to make a difficult decision: stay and hope things stabilised, or leave and start again overseas.
They chose to migrate to Australia.
Starting again in a new country
Migration sounds tidy in a sentence. It isn’t. It means leaving behind family, language patterns, familiar streets, and the invisible rules you’ve grown up with. It means starting again in a country where you’re not fully “from here” yet.
In South Africa, I’d always wanted to join the Air Force and fly. Moving countries put that dream on hold. In Australia, I had to finish school, attempt university, and work the usual jobs that many young people cycle through. All the while, there was this gap between what I wanted to do and what I was allowed to do as a non-citizen.
Eventually, I became a Permanent Resident. The day that happened, a door opened. I applied to the Australian Defence Force and joined the Royal Australian Air Force (RAAF) as an Airfield Defence Guard (Airfield Ground Defence).
What followed was 14 years and 9 months of service: multiple specialisations, a commission as an officer, and more units and roles than I have fingers. I learned leadership where it matters – on the ground, under pressure, responsible for other people’s wellbeing and for missions that couldn’t fail.
When the uniform comes off
Service ended abruptly. I was medically discharged in 2021, days before ANZAC Day.
Anyone who’s left the military – especially not entirely by choice – will understand the strange emptiness that can follow. For years, your identity has been wrapped around rank, role, uniform, and a clear purpose. Then the uniform comes off, and the question becomes: now what?
I spent several years rehabilitating – physically, mentally, and professionally – before I could properly collect my thoughts and decide what “the next chapter” might be. That pause, as uncomfortable as it was, forced me to step back and look at the bigger picture:
What have I seen about how power is used – well and badly?
What kind of citizens and leaders will our kids need to be in 20–30 years’ time?
What responsibility do those of us who’ve seen systems up close have to the next generation?
Those questions didn’t go away. They grew louder.
A question from my son
The turning point came in a simple, honest question from my son.
“Why Odyssey? Could you tell me what I really gain from this?”
He wasn’t asking about branding or tax status. He was asking, quite reasonably: What’s the point? Why does this matter to me and to other young people?
My answer was simple and complicated – which, as those who know me will tell you, is rather typical.
“You gain nothing… and everything.”
Nothing, in the sense that Odyssey isn’t a vending machine. You don’t put in a coin and get a guaranteed job, or a fancy title, or a shortcut to influence.
Everything, in the sense that leadership, civics, knowing how to speak up, listen well, and handle power responsibly are the foundations for almost any future you might want to build.
I don’t run The Odyssey Leadership Foundation for recognition or praise. I don’t do it for money or fame. I do it because I am deeply concerned that too many older people in positions of influence (not all, but enough) are still willing to trade long-term wellbeing for short-term gain – whether that gain is fame, fortune, or simply the comfort of not having to change.
The result is the same: we risk handing our children an existential headache – polluted water, unstable climates, weakened institutions, and communities that struggle to trust each other.
Why youth? Why civics? Why now?
If Odyssey “gets it right”, everyone benefits. Communities, workplaces, and public life become stronger when more young people know how to:
think critically
speak with confidence and respect
understand how decisions are made
recognise when power is being misused
step up, even when it’s uncomfortable
But the youth benefit most.
They are the ones with the longest to live on this planet. They are the longest-term residents of the systems we’re building or eroding now. If we fail to equip them, they will also carry the consequences for the longest time.
If we get this wrong, they could become one of the shortest-lived generations in human history – not because they’re weak or apathetic, but because we handed them a world depleted of options.
That is why Odyssey exists. It’s why our mission is to help young Australians speak with confidence and lead with integrity. It is my answer to the question: What do I owe the next generation, given everything I’ve seen?
What this means for young leaders, educators, and supporters
For young people, my story isn’t a blueprint. It’s a reminder that:
You don’t have to come from a perfect background to lead.
You can grow up inside a failing system and still choose to build something better.
Your voice, your judgment, and your courage will matter more than you realise.
For teachers, coaches, and educators, it’s a recognition that you are already doing quiet, crucial leadership work every day. Odyssey wants to stand alongside you—offering talks, resources, and support that help your students become thoughtful, ethical leaders in their own right.
For parents, carers, and community members, it’s an invitation to see youth leadership and civics not as “nice to have” extras, but as core survival skills for the next 50 years.
For philanthropic, business, and civic leaders, it’s a simple proposition: if we invest in young people’s ability to lead with integrity now, we reduce the cost of crisis management later.
Supporting youth leadership and civics isn’t charity at the edges; it’s infrastructure for a healthier future Australia, and by extension, our global village.
In the end, Odyssey is not about me. But it does start with my story – a boy in South Africa watching a country wrestle with justice, a migrant finding his footing in a new land, a veteran learning what leadership really costs, and a father answering his son’s question with as much honesty as he can.
Why Odyssey? Because our young people deserve more than an existential headache. They deserve tools, mentors, and opportunities to become the kind of leaders we wish we’d had.
And that’s what I’ve committed the next chapter of my life to building.
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