There’s a complicated feeling that always creeps in when I see international NGOs’ social media posts about Syria — or other countries in the Global South.
Part of me feels a deep appreciation. I know that many of these posts come from a place of care. From people who genuinely want to raise awareness, mobilize support, and do something good. I see the effort. I see the intention. And I’m grateful — truly — whenever the focus is on advocacy, dignity, and keeping the story of my country alive in a world that so easily forgets.
But… there’s also the other part. The part that feels… heavy. Tired. Sometimes angry. Sometimes quietly sad.
It’s when the stories flatten us into victims. When the images are curated to evoke pity, not solidarity. When the complexity of survival is erased — and the only version left is one of despair.
When I Google my country’s name… or the story of my community… or even the word “refugee” — I see so many images of suffering, despair, and loss. I see the headlines. The broken faces. The endless stream of emergencies. And many of those posts are from NGOs, UN agencies, and media outlets.
Rarely — so rarely — do I see the stories of strength, of rebuilding, of resistance, of survival.
I’ve spent years — many years — trying to shift that narrative. Whether about Syria, Afghanistan, Nigeria, Iraq, Lebanon, Bangladesh, South Sudan — especially the countries I’ve lived and worked in.
I’ve sat in rooms, written papers, joined panels, spoken to donors — repeating the same plea over and over again: “Can we stop only telling stories of suffering? Can we show strength? Can we show the dignity, the survival, the agency?”
Because every time I say “I’m Syrian,” the room changes. Faces shift. The image people project onto me isn’t me — it isn’t my present, and it certainly isn’t my future. It’s a collage of war, displacement, tents, broken headlines — a thousand photos that never asked for my permission, or the permission of my community.
And yes — I lived in a camp. Yes — I’ve faced things no one should have to. Yes — I’ve carried what it means to be displaced, to be reduced to a label. But I survived. I rebuilt. I led. I built from there — from the rubble, from the waiting lines, from the tents, from the uncertainty.
I became something through it — not despite it. And that story deserves to be told, too.
Sometimes the headlines and stories from INGOs made me feel small. Victim. Reduced to tragedy.
Other times, it made me furious , because I know we – as displaced people- are more than what the world chooses to see. And other times, I just felt… tired. Disconnected.
Wishing I didn’t have to explain — again — that we are not just the aftermath of someone else’s foreign policy… Not the backdrop for a fundraising campaign.
But always — always — there was pride in where I come from. In who I am. In who we are. In a resilience that doesn’t fit into a 60-second video, a statement, a tweet, or a LinkedIn post.
I often describe myself as a global citizen. But that doesn’t mean my roots aren’t real. It doesn’t mean I wasn’t born in one of the most beautiful countries on earth. And it doesn’t mean my home isn’t also in the mountains of Kandahar in Afghanistan… Or somewhere among the trees of Aburoch in South Sudan… Or in the dusty resilience of Maiduguri in Nigeria… Or the warm streets of Mosul in Iraq.
It doesn’t erase my connection to the crowded alleys of Beirut… The hills of Amman… The vibrant coastline of Hatay… The bustling tea shops of Cox’s Bazar… The endless skyline of Dubai… Or the cozy corners and harbor sunsets of Copenhagen — where life slows down just enough for coffee, conversations, and a little bit of dreaming.
This post — and this reflection on storytelling and advocacy in the aid sector — isn’t just about Syria. I’ve felt the same ache when I hear stories told about Afghanistan. About Ukraine. About Nigeria. About Yemen. About Sudan.
The same patterns. The same flattening. The same tension between visibility and misrepresentation.
And I don’t write this to blame. I write this as someone who has worked inside this system. Someone who has led teams, designed programs, and managed operations across four continents.
I know how hard it is to get attention for crises the world wants to forget.
I know — painfully well — that sometimes, yes, pain feels like the only language that moves donors.
But I also know this: every time we center pity instead of power, we plant seeds — seeds that grow into misunderstanding, into stereotypes, into harm.
We shape how the public sees entire peoples. We shape policies. We shape borders.
This reflection comes from deep love for this sector. I’ve given my life to it. And I believe — truly believe — in our collective power to do better.
Because this isn’t about shaming INGOs or the sector. It’s about holding ourselves to the standard we claim to stand for. This is a call to strengthen our sector, not to criticize those working hard within it.
To my friends and colleagues working in communications, storytelling, and fundraising — this is not a criticism of your work. I see how hard it is. I know the pressures. I know the intentions are good.
This is simply an invitation — a plea — to remember that dignity is as urgent as aid itself.
So here’s my ask — to myself, to all of us who care, who work in this space, who tell these stories: Let’s do better.
Let’s hold the dignity line — even when it’s hard. Even when the algorithm demands tragedy. Even when the donor wants heartbreak.
Tell stories that show strength — not just suffering.
- Show the rebuilding, not just the rubble.
- Show the leadership of communities, not just their crises.
- Center the voices of those living the story — not just those delivering the aid.
When you post — ask yourself:
- Does this image honor the dignity of the people in it?
- Am I showing survival, resistance, and rebuilding — or just pain?
- Is this story about what was done to people, or what they are doing for themselves?
Highlight:
- Acts of courage.
- Stories of local leadership.
- Stories of recovery, creativity, and solutions — even in the middle of crisis.
Because Syrians are not victims. Afghans are not victims. Nigerians are not victims. Neither are Rohingyas, South Sudanese, Iraqis — or any community whose story has been reduced to war, displacement, and suffering.
We are survivors. Builders. Dreamers. Leaders. And we deserve — we demand — to be seen as such.
Ali Al Mokdad
