As much the soil of the Pitjantjatjara.

I caught a bus from Argentina to Trieste to cast a vote for YES in the Voice referendum. About twenty-six minutes in Roman peak hour. It was crowded and hot. Everything is crowded and hot in Rome at the moment, weeks after the weather should have turned towards the colder, darker edge of winter. The sun is reliably late getting up, and getting later with every day. But the days are scorching on the hot, black volcanic stones of the capitals oldest streets.

It’s almost as though something bad is happening to weather and it’s happening quickly now.

Nothing happened quickly at the Embassy, a white-washed stone fortress in a street of candy coloured villas. We arrived early, the first in line, but ceded our place to a young couple who were desperate to vote and catch their train to Milan. They looked like Yes voters, so that was an easy concession to make.

What’s hard to concede is that scale of the loss that’s coming, and what it says about us. I’ve worked hard at not following Australian news while we’ve been away, and it’s easy, because for the most part nobody gives a shit about Australia. But the one story that does leak through is the Voice.

There’ll be no pretending this didn’t happen.

There will be plenty of blame to go around. Albo can take his measure for the lazy, half-arsed arrogance of thinking he could just throw this out there and everyone would agree with him. And Dutton of course, gets his share. Not just for putting sectional and purely selfish interests ahead of principle, but for the way in which he did it, unleashing the very worst angels of our nature.

Well done, Albo. Dutts, you must be so pleased with yourself.

But neither of them could have done it without us.

From what I can tell, watching on from the other side of the world, this simple question is soon to be answered not just with a resounding No, but with a massive, bellowing roar of denial by a supermajority of voters in an almost unanimous slate of the states.

It was dismal to sit with this revelation in the small courtyard at the entrance to the Embassy in Rome. The setting was so pleasant. The unseasonal, world-breaking heat had not yet cranked up, and the garden air was perfumed ever so slightly by the large terracotta pots of fruit trees. Lemon and cumquat I think.

By law and convention, the land under our feet was Australian territory.

As much the soil of the Pitjantjatjara and the Warlpiri as it was of all the Smiths, Murphy’s, Culottas and Nguyens who came after them.

It didn’t feel that way though.

It felt like yet again we just weren’t willing to share something that wasn’t even ours to begin with.

As I said, a hard revelation to sit with, especially knowing that when my turn came to pick up the familiar little pencil and write YES as my answer, it would make no difference.

Nothing would change, or at least nothing would change for the better. I fear that if and when this referendum fails, things will change, but for the worse. It will be small at first, possibly not even noticeable if you’re not looking for it. God knows that most of those who will vote No this weekend will walk out of the ballot box and wipe their hands of the matter, giving no thought to what they have done. But there will be consequences.

I’m still thinking about my vote hours later.

I am certain I voted for a losing cause.

My vote will change nothing and in one sense then, it will mean nothing.

But it means something to me, and your vote should mean something to you too, if only the personal, moral significance of doing the right thing when so many others would not.