To walk the path of a true humanitarian is to walk alone.
Not always in body — for there are onlookers who admire from afar, kind souls who offer words of encouragement, and dreamers who wish they had the strength to act. But in the trenches of despair, in the unrelenting war against apathy and injustice, one often finds themselves profoundly alone.
Alone — not because there is no one else who cares, but because so few are willing to act. Because when the screams of the forsaken echo through ruined streets, when the cries of hungry children pierce the silence of political chambers, too many turn their backs. Too many say, “It’s not my problem.” Too many are too comfortable to care.
From the broken alleys of Gaza to the frigid displacement camps of Ukraine, from forgotten villages in Ghana to the flood-scarred plains of South Sudan, I have walked into suffering with nothing but my heart and my hands. I have given and given — my time, my sleep, my soul — to those the world has cast aside. To children left behind by governments sworn to shield them. To innocents who have never known peace, only the endless thunder of bombs and the gnawing ache of hunger.
I have stood among the rubble of collapsed homes and cradled children who’ve lost everything — and everyone. I have knelt beside graves dug too early and held trembling hands in the dark. I did not do these things because I thought I could save the world. I did them because, in that moment, I could change their world. Because even one life touched by kindness is a light in the night.
And still — still — I have faced the coldest cruelty not from warlords or gunmen, but from those in suits and ties. From those in gleaming offices, whose pens sign the fate of nations.
They ask me, with unsettling detachment, “What’s the point of saving 30 or 40 people?”
As if lives are items on a spreadsheet. As if a child’s heartbeat is a footnote in some grand geopolitical strategy.
When I tell them, “They are your citizens,” they look away. When I plead, “They are human beings,” they remain unmoved. When I say, “They are children,” their silence is louder than any bomb.
Why do I keep going? Why do I give when the need is endless, when the fight feels unwinnable? Because one child saved from the grip of death is enough. Because one spark of hope in a heart once consumed by fear is worth every tear I’ve shed, every battle I’ve fought.
Because the greatest tragedy is not the suffering itself — it is the indifference that allows it to persist.
The tragedy is in the leaders who see numbers instead of names. In the policymakers who weigh lives against politics. In the systems that label compassion as naïveté, and sacrifice as a waste.
But I refuse to become like them. I will not let their indifference dim the fire in my soul.
If there is a child crying in the dark, I will be the one to answer. If there is a soul drowning in sorrow, I will reach into the abyss. If the world looks away, I will look closer.
I may be only one — but I am not nothing. I may be tired, but I am not finished. I may be alone, but I am not afraid.
Because this work is not about numbers. It is not about praise or recognition. It is about the sacred truth that every life matters — not in theory, but in the aching, undeniable reality of flesh and blood.
So, if I must be the one who stands for the voiceless, then I will stand. If I must be the one who loves when others cannot, then I will love.
I will fight.
I will give.
I will care.
Because someone has to. And I will never stop believing that someone can change everything — even if that someone is just me.
Vincent Lyn CEO/Founder at We can Save Children
Deputy Ambassador at International Human Rights Commission (IHRC)
Director of Creative Development at African Views Organization
Economic & Social Council at United Nations (ECOSOC)
Chief International Director at 365 Security Services