This is not a piece about localization, it is not about decolonization, and it is not about partnerships or frameworks or policy language.
This is about me, my reflections, and the Pledge For Change.
Echoing in my ears….
“People walk around pushing back their debts,
wearing paychecks like necklaces and bracelets.
People walk a tightrope on a razor edge,
carrying their hurt and hatred and weapons.
It could be a bomb or a bullet or a pen, or a thought or a word or a sentence.
But love will come set me free. I do believe. Love will come set me free. I know it will.”
My phone is playing Ain’t No Reason by Brett Dennen. It is the sixth of December 2025, and I am sitting in the coffee shop I like to call my writing spot. It is warm in that gentle winter way, where the smell of cinnamon buns softens the air, and the candle on my table glows like a small, steady sun beside my laptop.
I love sitting next to the window. Movement inspires me. I feel the early mornings are mine, shared with the mothers pushing strollers past the glass, with the couple walking their dog, and with the runner whose breath rises in a small white cloud as they pass. All I hear is the music in my ears and the soft hum of the people around me.
My coffee is cooling, and I already know it will go cold. Writing always wins that quiet argument between drinking it or writing my thoughts.
For days I have been thinking about a moment in a meeting in one of the Pledge for Change working groups. Someone asked how we can show the impact of it. People shared different versions of an answer. I had my own answer inside me, one that felt honest, maybe too honest, and I kept it to myself. I worried it might sound selfish. Still, it followed me long after the meeting ended. It followed me into this morning. Into this moment.
So I am putting my thoughts here. To understand something. To process. To ask better questions. Or simply because this is what I love on early Saturday mornings. Me, my coffee, my thoughts, and the slow unfolding of words.
My mind, in its own strange way, returns to the principles I learned as a child in that village in Syria. A place where development meant one shop on the street, one paved road, a few hours of clean water in the house every week. A place where my family lived paycheck to paycheck. Where my father’s formula for success was hard work. Where my mother’s answer to everything was learning and education. Where my grandfather, even on his deathbed, whispered the same message again and again, urging his children and grandchildren to invest in the future. Where my community lived their dreams by supporting one another, by believing in family, by finding dignity in whatever work they could hold.
Those lessons rise again this morning, uninvited but, as always, I welcome them. They are part of my answer.
I do not know if I was blessed or cursed to be born there. I always say that if I had to go back in time, I would make the same choices I made. I also say that if I had to choose where to be born, I would choose the same place, the same family, the same community, the same country.
But there were years in my life when I was in denial of that truth. It bothered me when someone asked where I was from, or when someone judged me because of the economic class of my family, or because of the country itself. It often felt like a curse. Even when I left, hardship followed me in so many ways and forms. I was stopped almost every time I passed a checkpoint in Syria because my ID said the south. I was beaten by soldiers and pushed away because my name is Ali. I was taken hostage once because my accent sounded mixed. I was stopped, checked, and interrogated for hours at airports because of my passport. I received rejection letters from international organizations telling me they could not hire me because of my nationality. They needed someone who could get visas fast.
I missed events, trainings, summits, meetings, and opportunities because I could not travel. I was bullied by internationals in a country operation because I was not white enough. I was made fun of, rejected, and silenced at headquarters when someone decided I did not belong. I heard thousands of versions of the word no, over and over, each time I tried.
For a long time, these moments felt heavy, as if everything was working against me.
I tried to break it. I spent my salaries on education from fancy and prestigious universities because internationals in NGOs, the UN, and the Red Cross Red Crescent told me that my education in my own country was not good enough to progress. In my early professional journey, I was removed by international staff from technical teams because I was not educated in a technical way they understood. I was removed from managerial roles because I did not have a master’s degree from a Western institution. I began to question the value of my country’s education, not because it lacked substance but because the NGOs system convinced me it was not enough. I paid all I had, and even borrowed money, to get a master’s degree and advance technical education.
I spent thousands of hours, no, hundreds of thousands of hours learning, trying to break that curse. And when I finally did, I realized it never mattered. It was never about education. It was about bias and rejection, not ability.
I was also told I needed another nationality. I watched young people and families in my country risk their lives chasing a better future wrapped in a passport. I never had that desire. I paid thousands of dollars every two years to extend my Syrian passport, and that alone made others think I should get a new one. Many advised me how. But I could never explain why it was not part of my vision. Instead, I did everything I could to secure residency somewhere, to open a bank account, especially when some international organizations rejected me because I could not open one because so many banks flagged Syrians as high risk. And later, after living and working in more than twenty countries, I realized something. My passport came with hardship, yes. But it did not stop me from flying across the world.
For years, when someone asked about my age, I had to calculate. I avoided answering it directly so many times, always trying to find an indirect way to say it, that the avoidance itself became a habit, almost a memory. I downplayed my youth because I was moving into leadership roles, and I knew the rooms I entered were not ready to see someone my age in those positions. I was rejected for being too young, told I had not lived enough. I was bullied and discriminated against, and I learned how to perform being older.
I wore shirts.
I wore glasses.
I chose dark colors.
I stopped dancing.
I stopped listening to techno and rock and replaced them with jazz.
I stopped wearing T shirts and replaced them with button downs.
Suddenly I knew how to be old, but not how to be young. I lived my twenties as if I was thirty. I lived my thirties as if I was forty. Now even AI and my Spotify tell me I listen like a seventy six year old man and some of my friends say I have an old man brain. Some call me professor. And others say I look vintage.
But later in my life I realized that age did not matter. I had seen more, done more, worked more, lived more than many people twice my age. I hated my age because of how they treated me, until I realized it was just a number.
People talk about culture and cultural differences. I think my culture is a blend of how countries shaped me and how people influenced me. Some countries carved their lessons into me. Some people and communities changed the way I see the world.
When I started taking deployments and assignments overseas, I realized that to network, to do my job, I needed to adapt. So I did. In some places I was the spirit of the party. In others I was the one who killed the buzz. In some places I was social and surrounded by people. In others I stayed with small groups. In some places I looked like a traditional Eastern man. In others I looked like a Western hipster. Sometimes I spoke with confidence and dominance. Sometimes with shyness and quiet.
I nodded yes too many times. I let others influence how I behaved too many times.
I wanted to be allowed into the spaces where decisions were made, so I adapted and changed my behavior in ways that slowly erased parts of me. Some internationals carried toxic behaviors, and I shaped myself around their expectations because I believed that was the only way to enter the rooms where influence lived. But over time I learned something important. Not everyone in this sector is values driven. Many chase fun, adrenaline, money, or a title. Not humanity.
That was the moment I realized I needed to identify my own principles, values, and vision. Lock them. Hold them. And adapt only on the rest.
Living and working in Asia, the Middle East, Africa, and Europe gave me many lessons. Leading in these places gave me a window to see beyond the job, to understand people more deeply, to see how cultures interact, how countries shape communities, and how communities shape hearts. It showed me the quiet resilience people carry in their daily lives, the way they rebuild after loss, the way they hold hope even when the world gives them every reason to let it go. It showed me that strength is not always loud, that dignity lives in the smallest choices, and that the true architecture of any society is built by the people who wake up every day and keep going.
Someone once asked me about the top skill I gained in this journey. I said the ability to deal with the unexpected. When he asked again what helped me navigate that, I said adaptation.
Of course, I am resilient. Productivity is in my nature. I am self motivated. I do not need videos or books or speech to energize me. But I also know that my risks taking and dreams came with danger. I have been kidnapped. Held hostage. A bullet away from death. An explosion away from losing part of myself. I have had my heart broken by people and sometimes by my own expectations.
This journey in the sector was rewarding in many ways. The people I met. The leaders I worked with. The life experience I gained. If I died in this moment, I would die knowing I saw a lot, did a lot, learned a lot, and left a legacy in the way I wanted. Of course, I would still have the same thought I had every time death looked at me. That I never had the chance to tell my story. But maybe my story lives out there already, in the places I touched, the people I knew, the work I did, and the words I wrote.
The idea of death does not bother me. What bothers me is the idea of not doing something about the pain I felt, the suffering I saw, and the defeats I witnessed.
I cannot let go of that. I do not want to.
The way many international organizational systems operate often harms the people working inside them. They build glass ceilings that feel more like heavy metal plates with iron thorns on top.
It also bothers me because it is personal, in ways that shaped not only my career but the person I became. I have lived the moments when the system falls short. I know what it feels like to be overlooked, to be pushed aside, to be spoken over. I know what it feels like to do the work and still be told you do not quite fit. I know the sting of being let go without reason, the silence of being left out, the weight of being judged before you have even opened your mouth.
And sometimes the harm was sharper than that. There were moments of discrimination, moments of exclusion, moments when the hostility had nothing to do with my performance and everything to do with where I came from. These things leave a mark. They stay with me.
But here is the truth. It was never only happening to me.
I saw it happening to others. Colleagues who were brilliant, capable, dedicated. Leaders from the Global South who knew their communities better than anyone, and yet were asked to prove themselves again and again and again. Local organizations that carried the heart of the work, but were treated as contractors instead of partners. People delivering real impact, but receiving little recognition because the system was not built to honor their contribution.
These patterns were not isolated. They were structural. And once you see them, you cannot unsee them.
It cost me time. It cost me opportunities. It cost me friendships and energy I never got back. It pushed me to chase assumptions that were never mine. It made me work twice as hard to earn half the trust.
And yes, it bothered me every time I raised a real risk and watched it unfold months later. It bothered me when ideas I had shared quietly became major investments without my name attached. It bothered me when opportunities I helped build turned into success stories for someone else.
Because the system did not see people with my background as central to the conversation. We were invited to deliver, but rarely invited to design. Trusted to implement, but shut out from shaping the blueprint. Welcomed to carry the load, but not welcomed to influence the direction.
And I learned something important. Every leader I met from the Global South carried a version of the same story. They had to work harder, longer, with less support, just to be heard and seen. And when they did break through, their achievements were reframed. Their stories were narrated by someone else.
I saw it happen to individuals, and I saw it happen to organizations. I saw resilience mistaken for compliance, and innovation mistaken for risk. I saw excellence overshadowed by bias.
And that is why this is personal. Because I have lived it. Because I have watched it repeat itself across borders and institutions.
Yet every day, we break something. A ceiling here, a box there. A small rule that never served us. A quiet assumption that kept us small. A barrier that was not built for us but still tried to contain us. And each time we push through, even in small ways, we widen the path for those who will come after.
Witnessing all of this gives me a sense of responsibility to do something. And for the past few years I have invested my time, effort, and money raising my voice and sharing a message. Telling the sector that we can do better. That small steps can become something bigger. That change is possible.
This year was a mixture of grief, hope, opportunity, challenge, possibility, resilience, and so much more. I wanted to explore new ways to advocate. To do something meaningful about the harm I saw. Earlier this year, I realized I could step into platforms with people who were also trying to change things. So I looked for these networks and joined them, in the Global North and in the Global South.
One of them is the Pledge for Change.
Before I ever joined the Pledge, my relationship with it started with curiosity. I would come across its name in conversations or meetings, and something in me would pause. I found myself going to the website from time to time, not for any specific reason, just to see what it was about. I read the descriptions, looked at the commitments, and tried to understand the spirit behind it.
Then I started downloading some of the documents. I read them slowly, sometimes late at night, sometimes early in the morning before work. I would finish reading, close the files, and go back to my day. But the words stayed with me. The idea of the Pledge stayed with me. There was a feeling that this was something important, something trying to move the sector toward a better direction.
So when I finally sat down and read the main document in full, sentence by sentence, my reaction was mixed. Part of me felt encouraged. Part of me felt hopeful. And another part of me felt something else entirely.
Something like, hmmm. Good. But not enough. Something here could be clearer. Something could be stronger. Something could be sharper.
My mind always does this. It looks for potential. It sees what could be improved. It imagines what the next version of an idea could be. After so many years inside systems that were not designed for people like me, that instinct has become part of me.
So the feeling that stayed with me was not satisfaction. It was responsibility. As if the document itself was saying: if you want this to be better, then do something about it.
And because action is in my nature, I reached out and asked if I could join. I did not come with a plan or a strategy. I simply asked.
I joined one call. I listened. I tried to feel the rhythm of the group, the personalities, the energy. And then I learned that the co-lead of the Influencing the Wider Sector Working Group was leaving and that the position was open.
There was a silence in the room and later in the emails. Inside that silence I felt the same pull I have felt so many times in my life. The pull that tells me to step in, to carry something, to contribute, to give my energy and time to a space that is trying.
So I stepped in. Not because I was ready. Not because I had answers. Not because I believed I could fix something. And definitely not because I had free time in my calendar.
I stepped in because something inside me said this is a place where action matters. This is a space where voice matters. This is a moment where you can bring what you know, what you lived, and what you carry.
It has been several months now since the beginning of this year, and this journey with the working group has surprised me in ways I did not expect. It challenged me. It softened me. It made me hold my anger differently. It made me hold my hope more gently. It made me see that change is not always a loud declaration or a big reform. Sometimes change is a small room, a simple call, a handful of people who refuse to give up on a better sector.
And I think that is what kept me showing up and trying to contribute. The belief that even if the Pledge could be stronger, even if the structure and the strategy could be clearer, even if the movement could be louder, the intention is real. The desire is real. The effort is real. And that is enough to start. That is enough to build something worth holding.
What surprised me the most once I joined was the people. The honesty. The humility. The way every person who showed up was carrying their own battle to make things better. I realized quickly that the people in this working group were not here for titles or visibility. They were here because something in their own lives had cracked, something in the system had hurt them or frustrated them or pushed them to ask for better.
I saw leaders who carried the work with sincerity, who were not afraid to admit the limits of their organizations, who tried to balance ambition with realism, and who held the group with a quiet steadiness. I saw people joining calls from offices, kitchens, airports, corners of the world I have lived in and loved, each one bringing their own story of why this matters.
Staying focused was not always easy. We are all stretched, all busy, all pulled by pressures inside our organizations. But what kept the focus alive was the shared understanding that we were fighting for something deeper than a deliverable. We were fighting for the pains I felt when I was told I did not belong. For the pains so many of us carry when systems ignore our voices. For the frustration we witnessed in our colleagues from the Global South. For every person who works twice as hard just to be seen as equal.
We were fighting for better partnerships.
Better narratives.
Better power.
Better futures.
And what moved me most was realizing that every person on that call had their own version of the same story. Different countries, different lives, different identities, different organizations but the same insistence: we have seen enough harm. We want something better.
And in that shared refusal to stay silent, something powerful began to take shape.
I started noticing the small things first, the gentle signals of commitment that appear when people care. One person offering a thoughtful comment. Another sharing a suggestion. Someone posting a resource they found useful. A donor coming to give insights and thoughts. An organization share best practices and lessons. A quiet voice asking a question they had been afraid to raise. A tired colleague still showing up, still giving what they could.
And somehow all of these tiny actions, scattered across time zones and laptops, create a peer support network that I did not expect. A network of people who care about influence, about voice, about fairness, about shifting something in a system that has been heavy for too long.
The value of the Pledge is not only in the documents or the indicators. It is in the conversations that hold us. The places where someone says something honest and everyone nods in quiet recognition. The places where people share their frustrations without being judged, because everyone understands why those frustrations exist.
Before some calls, I feel a kind of heaviness. A question inside me asking whether we will make progress today or whether we will get lost in the usual challenges. Sometimes I sit there thinking about everything the sector needs and wondering if this small group can hold any part of that weight.
But after the calls, something shifts. A small movement inside me. A sense of clarity. A sense of connection. A feeling that even if we are far from the finish line, we are at least walking in the right direction. Together.
I see people reacting in different ways. Sometimes the calls are almost silent, as if everyone is thinking deeply, trying to find the right words. Other times they are crowded with thoughts, voices overlapping, people typing in the chat, ideas bouncing in every direction. I have learned that both moments matter. Silence can be the place where something is forming. Noise can be the moment where something breaks open.
And then there is frustration.
Frustration visits our calls like an old friend who knocks on the door every now and then.
Sometimes it arrives quietly. Other times loudly. But it always arrives.
It is a healthy kind of frustration, the kind that comes from caring. It pushes us to think harder, to refine our approach, to move past safe language and into real questions. But it is tiring too. It wears on the heart. It reminds us of every barrier we have seen in our careers. It carries the weight of past disappointments.
There are other emotions as well. Moments of hope. Moments of doubt. Moments of laughter. Moments of deep, grounding honesty.
And through all of it, I keep reminding myself of something important.
We are not a speedboat. We are a ship.
A ship moves slowly. A ship takes time to turn. A ship carries weight, stories, histories, and people. A ship cannot jump forward, but it can cross an ocean if it keeps moving.
This work feels like that. Slow, steady, deliberate.
A ship that takes effort to steer, but one that can reach the farthest places if we keep our hands on the wheel, keep our eyes on the horizon, and keep believing that the journey is worth it.
And sometimes, when the calls end and the screen goes dark,
I find myself speaking to someone I have carried for years.
Not to the group.
Not to the sector.
To myself.
To the young provincial me, the boy who thought the world was too big and he was too small.
To the me leading a local organization, trying to keep the lights on and carrying decisions that felt heavier than my own shoulders.
To the me stepping into international roles, learning the accents of power and the language of rooms that never expected me to enter.
To the me in headquarters, navigating politics, structures, invisible walls, and quiet dismissals.
To the me standing on stages, wearing confidence like armor, hoping it would protect a heart that had already been bruised too many times.
To the me in board meetings, watching ideas travel differently depending on who said them.
To the me in investment conversations, offering truth and hoping it would land in rooms not always ready to hear it.
And to the me now, writing these words, holding all these versions together with a little more clarity and a lot more strength.
I speak to all of them. Because they are all part of why I am here.
Every version of me held a different piece of this story. Every version of me carried a wound and a wisdom. Every version of me would have wished that something like the Pledge existed long before I ever opened the document.
And maybe that is why I stay.
Because I am not only joining this journey for the sector.
I am joining it for all the versions of myself who needed a movement like this. Who needed a space where voices like ours were not only heard but valued. Who needed a place where action mattered more than accent, where courage mattered more than passport, where lived experience was not something to hide but something to bring fully into the room.
And I think this is what the Pledge and the other platforms that want to make a change in the sector has become for me. A conversation with my past. A responsibility in my present. And a promise to the future versions of me and others who will come after.
And when I speak to all these versions of myself, I realize something simple and honest. We do not need to fix everything instantly. No generation has ever done that. But we do have an obligation to leave things a little better than we found them.
Change only happens when people believe improvement is possible and choose to take action. That is the heart of every movement. A belief. A decision. A step forward even when the path is uneven.
And every person who shows up to the Pledge, or to any network trying to move this sector forward, is taking that step. Some join the calls quietly. Some bring bold ideas. Some offer encouragement. Some raise questions that make us rethink everything. Some share the weight.
None of these actions are small. They are acts of change. Acts of resistance. Acts of belief.
There will be others who come after us. They will bring their own courage, their own worries, their own way of doing things. They may agree with our approach or disagree with every part of it, but they will pick up the baton because they, too, believe things can get better.
So yes, we aim for perfection. But better is still a victory. Better is how progress survives across generations. Better is how we honor the people who came before us and those who will come after.
Because the truth is this. It is hard not to be romantic about civil society leaders and local organizations. This year’s challenges gave us undeniable evidence of how resilient, capable, and dedicated they are in every single corner of the world.
And it is hard not to be inspired by those working within the Pledge or any other platform working for fairness, dignity, and real partnership. They come with the quiet and steady courage to make something better than what they were given.
I feel privileged to meet them. To work with them. To learn from them. Every day they give me a front row view of impact and purpose. They remind me why this matters.
Our problems are human made. Therefore they can be solved by men and women, by communities, and by collective effort. I have faith, and full confidence in these leaders. I salute them for being a voice for change. For making things better step by step, even on the days when hope feels heavy.
And now the café is crowded. People are coming in and out, looking for a warm place to sit. The candle beside me is almost gone. My coffee is completely cold, sitting there untouched.
The morning noise is growing, and my meetings for the day will start soon.
I feel that there was a weight on my shoulders, and suddenly it is lighter. These words needed to be written today, and I am glad I gave them space.
And as I close my laptop, I am reminded of something I hold deeply. My commitment to public service and social impact has never been tied to a title or a role. The most important office any of us will ever hold is not president, or secretary general, or chief executive. It is the office of citizenship.
I carry that office with me wherever I go. Not as a passport, not as a job description, but as a way of being in the world. A global citizen who believes that our shared responsibility is to make things better, even in small ways, even when no one is watching.
