Omika Upadhayay

My name is Omika Upadhayay, and this is the story of how I left behind my home, my family in Nepal, and a budding career in agricultural research to become one of over half a million people who migrated to Australia last year—and eventually found myself working in the WAFarmers office.

I grew up in the heart of Kathmandu—a city of 1.4 million—surrounded by the noise, hustle, and rapid pace of urban life. Far removed from the rural rhythm that still defines much of Nepal, I was nevertheless shaped by agriculture and strong family values. My father, the CEO of a financial institution, and my mother, a former teacher, were determined I pursue a higher education. So, I studied agriculture.

Unlike in Australia, where agricultural science education focuses heavily on broadacre livestock and crop production, degrees in Nepal, India, and China cover a broader spectrum—everything from horticulture and intensive livestock to rural development and extension services for the hundreds of millions of smallholder farmers producing food on less than two hectares of land. I studied at the Himalayan College of Agricultural Sciences and Technology—one of six dedicated ag universities in Nepal, a country of 30 million.

Cross the border into India, and the scale is even more staggering: 75 state agricultural universities enrol 35,000 undergraduate students in agriculture each year. Together, India and Nepal support around 150 million family farms. Agriculture makes up 24–27 per cent of Nepal’s GDP and employs 60–65 per cent of the population. In India, the sector contributes 15–18 per cent of GDP and employs 40–45 per cent of workers.

In contrast, Australia’s farming sector is vast—but lean. While India and Nepal produce 329 million tonnes of grain from 146 million farms—averaging just 2.25 tonnes per farm—Australia produces 55 million tonnes from just 18,000 grain farms, averaging over 3,000 tonnes each. A thousand-fold difference in scale.

I didn’t study agriculture because I came off a farm, but because I wanted to contribute to a vital sector through a modern, global lens. During my degree, I worked as a content writer and later as an Agri-research Analyst at Kisan Care, a respected agricultural research firm in Nepal. It was there I saw how data and IT could shape agriculture’s future.

As my professional journey took shape, so did my personal one. My husband—also from Nepal—was part of the wave of international students drawn to Australia. He came to Perth to study IT, specialising in networking and cybersecurity. After finishing his degree, he returned briefly for our wedding before heading back to continue his studies and seek work.

Interestingly, international education generates $36 billion for the Australian economy—roughly 2.68 per cent of GDP, almost equivalent to the value of Australia’s entire grain industry. Yet the education sector employs ten times more people: around 250,000 in tertiary education compared to just over 25,000 in grain production. It may explain why the education sector gets its own section in The Australian, while agriculture is lucky to get a mention.

Before I could join my husband in Australia, I had to navigate the visa system—a process that took nearly a year, despite having a degree, English fluency, and a highly qualified spouse. When I finally arrived in Perth last December, the culture shock was real. Having never left Nepal before, it felt like stepping into another world.

Settling into life in Australia brought fresh challenges. Despite my qualifications, finding a job in WA’s agricultural sector was far tougher than expected. The promises of foreign education agents—of plentiful, well-paid jobs—were far from the truth. Every job application seemed to vanish into thin air, and rejections arrived steadily. I realised the labour shortages I had read about were often limited to trades and medical fields—jobs requiring very specific, in-demand skills.

More importantly, I began to understand just how hard it is for newcomers to navigate Australia’s job market—especially without local networks or cultural understanding.

As a result, many skilled migrants—or rather, those with qualifications in the “wrong” areas—end up underemployed. You’ve probably met them as Uber drivers or in hospitality, despite them holding degrees from Australian universities. It’s a disconnect Australia must address. The skills shortage is real, but the system seems more focused on filling university seats than filling actual gaps in the workforce.

After two months of frustration, I turned to networking. I had followed Trevor Whittington from WAFarmers on social media while still in Nepal, reading what he wrote about agricultural policy in Australia. To say it was different from how people talk about government in Nepal is an understatement.

Eventually, I reached out to him via LinkedIn and Facebook. As a millennial and a newcomer, I didn’t even know what Farm Weekly or Countryman were—those came later. Understanding where to look, and who to talk to, is a major barrier when starting fresh in a new country and industry.

Trevor and I first spoke while I was still in Nepal, and his advice helped me rethink how to present myself. After a few follow-ups, I received an invitation to meet in person. Four weeks later, a door opened, and I found myself working on contract as the Admin and Policy Support Officer—helping review industry policy while learning the ropes of the sector.

Attending the Wagin Woolorama was another eye-opener. I was struck by the scale and sophistication on display—giant machinery, livestock auctions, clean exhibits. What surprised me most, though, was the quietness. A similar event in Nepal or India would have drawn tens of thousands more people.

In South Asia, farming is hyper-local and labour-intensive. In Australia, it’s capital-intensive, tech-driven, and vast. Globally, 84 per cent of the world’s 608 million farms are under two hectares, producing 35 per cent of the food. And yet, even these farms are modernising. India now has 9.7 million tractors, up from just two million in 2000. Mahindra, India’s top manufacturer, produces over a million tractors a year. So, when I saw Mahindra-branded at Wagin, I smiled with familiarity.

Combine harvesters are also common in South Asia, though smaller than the massive 775hp New Holland CR11s here. A “big” harvester in India might be a New Holland TC5.30 (138hp, 15ft cut), which costs about AU$50,000—but there are also plenty of cheaper, local versions.

There are key policy differences too. Australia has no tariffs or taxes on grain. India, by contrast, imposes a 40 per cent duty on imports and guarantees a minimum price of 2425 rupees per 100kg (about AU$440/tonne). That can change overnight—especially now that Trump is back in the White House. Subsidies in India support local production but also make imported Australian wheat too expensive for many. It’s a trade-off that America may soon face if it leaves Trump’s tariffs in place.

To me, Western Australia’s farming sector is both exhilarating and intimidating. Its proximity to South Asia offers enormous untapped potential. India, Nepal, Bangladesh, and Pakistan represent huge markets. If their tariffs and regulations fall away, WA stands to benefit enormously. And yet, very few in Australia seem to be talking about India.

For someone like me—who understands the culture, language, and consumer mindset—it’s an opportunity worth watching.

Finding my first job in Australia wasn’t just about qualifications. It was about understanding invisible systems, reading between the lines, and building relationships. Whether it’s finding employment or opening export markets, success hinges on trust, persistence, and connection.

This journey of adaptation isn’t unique to me. Many migrants arrive with skills and aspirations, only to wait for opportunity to knock—when really, they need to go knocking.

So, as I sit at my desk at WAFarmers, helping members and reviewing policy, I often wonder: how many other migrants could thrive in Australia if given the right guidance?

There are jobs out there—but many of them aren’t in Sydney or Melbourne. They’re in the very regions that drive the Australian economy: mining and agriculture. Neither my husband nor I knew that when we arrived. And that’s a failure of both government and the university sector to be honest about where the opportunities actually lie.

For now, our future is here in Perth. But one day, it might be in Esperance, Northam, Kalgoorlie, or Karratha—places I suspect many new migrants have never heard of. Just as they don’t yet know about Australia’s sheep and grain farms, or its iron ore and gold mines. But the opportunities are there. They just need a nudge in the right direction.

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