My Office in Panama City, Panama, June 2024

As 19 August approaches, I find myself pausing more than usual, reflecting on what it truly means to mark World Humanitarian Day.

This year feels different — heavier, perhaps. The humanitarian needs across the world are staggering, overwhelming in their scale and urgency. From conflict zones to climate disasters, millions are left without safety, food, or shelter. And yet, as these needs grow, the world seems to lag ever further behind in its response.

For many of us who work in this space, it’s not just about underfunded appeals or dwindling resources — it’s the quiet, corrosive shift in how humanitarianism itself is treated. Too often, aid is manipulated for political gain, instrumentalised to serve agendas that have little to do with saving lives. Worse still, we see attempts to criminalise humanitarian action, to make compassion suspect, to brand the act of offering a helping hand as something to fear or punish.

What cuts deepest is that sometimes, these pressures and abuses come not from hostile regimes but from governments and countries often perceived as open, democratic, and supportive of humanitarian principles — places once seen as allies of humanitarianism. It’s painful. It shakes the very foundations of what drew many of us to this work — the belief that solidarity transcends borders, politics, and prejudice.

Even more heartbreaking is how often we see human suffering deliberately used as a weapon. Starvation, displacement, and the denial of medical care are tactics in conflicts around the world. They are not accidents of war; they are strategies — ones that leave civilians trapped, suffering, and voiceless.

All of this goes hand in hand with an increasing lack of respect for International Humanitarian Law (IHL). In simple terms, IHL is a set of rules designed to limit the horrors of war: to protect civilians, hospitals, schools, and aid workers; to ensure that even in conflict, some lines must not be crossed. It exists not as lofty theory but as a hard-earned safeguard, built on the lessons of unimaginable past atrocities.

I cannot stress enough that upholding IHL is everyone’s business. We are all responsible for demanding accountability from those who violate it. Because when these protections collapse, it is not abstract ideals that suffer — it is people.

I’ve seen it repeatedly: places that seemed prosperous and safe, where life felt unshakably normal, suddenly plunged into crisis, into war. Entire societies that believed “this cannot happen here” found themselves dependent on humanitarian aid, clinging to the protections of IHL.

This is why World Humanitarian Day matters. It is not just a date on a calendar but a quiet act of defiance — a reminder to ourselves and to the world that compassion cannot be outlawed, that humanity cannot be politicised away, and that even when institutions falter, individual acts of solidarity still matter.