On Belonging

My dear friend,

The candle is somewhere in the middle of its own journey tonight — no longer new, not yet finished. That, I think, is the place I want to write from. Tonight I want to talk with you about belonging.

I want to tell you a story tonight. It is not about crisis or evacuation or war. It is about something slower. Something quiet. It is about the tired kind of loneliness that visits even when you are finally safe.

It was the first day of what I used to call my dream job, my very first assignment outside my home country after fleeing the war. I was in Turkey, standing on unfamiliar streets that already felt like a second chance. I had chased that opportunity for months—applications, interviews, endless waiting, the anxiety of visas, and the fear that I might never be chosen. The cost of reaching that moment was more than effort; it was made of sleepless nights, displacement, uncertainty, and the kind of faith that does not always make sense. I still remember the cool morning air, the sound of traffic mixing with the distant call to prayer, and the weight of both exhaustion and pride in my chest. I walked to the office with a kind of pride I could almost taste. When I reached the door, I rang the bell and said, very proudly, very officially, “I am Ali. I am the new staff.” In that moment, I felt like someone who had survived the storm and finally reached the port.

That day was beautiful. New systems. New terms. A new way of working. I filled page after page with notes. I went home thinking, this is it. This is the time to rest. This is the time to build. I even remembered something I had read on a wall in Syria on a destroyed building. It said, “From the ashes, we will build.” I thought, this is my own version of that sentence. I am out. I am in a good organization. I am in a safe place. I can rest now.

But belonging does not arrive just because safety arrived.

The months that followed were harder than I thought they would be. Not because of the work. The work I could do. I was good at work. I loved the subject. I loved the policies. I loved the mission. What I did not know how to do was belong.

I was living in a small flat with two friends. We did not have much. Two beds. One table. A television in the living room. My friend, whom I called the Pickles King, was always making pickles. The kitchen always smelled of vinegar and cucumber. He was always on the phone, always talking to cousins, friends, people in other countries. He carried his social capital with him. He knew how to belong. Even in exile, he belonged.

I could not find my way into his circle. His world already felt full, his friendships and routines tightly woven. He didn’t mean to exclude me, but there was no space left for me to fit in. When he spoke with his friends, I sat quietly nearby, half-listening, half-wishing I could join. His belonging made mine feel smaller, as if I were standing outside a window, watching life happen on the other side of the glass.

I was also sending most of my salary home, trying to support my family, and paying debts. I was always counting coins. I did not join when they ordered food. I did not go out much. I avoided the shared shopping lists, not because I did not want to help, but because I was embarrassed. My friend wrote down in his small notebook what each of us owed. I hated that notebook. It exposed me. It reminded me that even in my dream job, I was still poor.

At work it was not easier. People were kind. My manager was brilliant, calm, intelligent, and human. She respected everyone from the driver to the senior management. She once told me, “Ali, when a colleague brings tea, drink it. This is also work. This is how teams are built.”

I remember that line until today. It sounded simple, but it was about social capital. She was telling me that knowing policies was not enough. Belonging is also work.

But I struggled. Most of the staff spoke in another language. Lunch was in that language. Jokes were in that language. Plans were in that language. I sat at my desk working through lunch to avoid feeling like the reason they had to switch to English. I was the youngest. I came from a country at war. I did not know how to go to a Friday get together and act as if everything was fine. So I stayed in. I worked. I read. I watched from afar. On paper I was in the team. In reality I was orbiting around it.

This is why I want to talk about social capital tonight.

We often think of capital as money. But there is another kind. It is the network that holds you. The people who mention your name when you are not in the room. The ones who invite you, explain the jokes, translate the culture, tell you when you are doing too much, and tell you when you are silent for too long. It is the neighbor who says, come for dinner. It is the colleague who says, join us even if you cannot pay. It is the manager who says, read this and stay. It is the friend who says, I know people, I will introduce you.

I did not have that at the beginning. I had to build it. Slowly. Awkwardly. With many mistakes.

At the same time there was someone in that office who made it harder. A colleague who was older, connected, useful to the organization, and very confident. He made comments about my age, about my accent, about where I came from. He carried a kind of social capital that I did not have. His network inside Syria and inside opposition areas made him valuable. That value gave him space to misbehave. I reported him. Nothing happened. He had social capital. I did not. That is when I understood something very important.

Identity is not only about who you are. It is also about who knows you.

I tried to make friends with him for the sake of the work. I tried to do the mature leadership thing. We could deliver on targets. But I never belonged in his circle. That tension stayed with me. It made me doubt myself. It made me go home and overthink every look and every sentence. It made me question if I was too Syrian for some circles, too international for others, too serious for young people, too young for the senior ones.

Outside work it was not better. With Syrians, the talk was always about war, death, migration, visas, Europe, harsh opinions on women, harsh opinions on life. I disagreed with much of it. With the Turkish and international circles, the talk was about parties, drinks, light things. I carried war in my chest. I felt guilty having fun when my friends were still under barrel bombs. I did not belong there either. I was in all rooms and in none.

This is the experience of many people who cross borders, who change classes, who move from field to headquarters, from camp to policy table, from local to international. You can progress faster than your belonging.

That creates identity fatigue.

I spent many nights sitting alone in that small room, surrounded by books. Books never made me feel poor. Books never made me feel like the odd one out. I read about culture, psychology, leadership, civility, diplomacy. I watched videos about belonging. I tried to observe how my manager spoke to people, how she gave people space. I learned that belonging is a practice, not a gift.

Social capital is built, not given.

I began to do small things. I said yes to coffee even when I could not pay and found a way to pay later. I joined one lunch a week. I asked colleagues about their families. I tried to remember birthdays. I tried to learn two sentences in their language. I made myself visible without being noisy. I began to give what I did not yet receive. I connected people to each other. I shared resources. I sent articles that could help a colleague. I celebrated successes that were not mine.

I had to teach myself something very important. If you only wait to be included, you will always be the guest. If you start including others, you start belonging.

During that time I was also confused about my personal life. I had just lost a relationship because I was still in survival mode even though I was physically safe. I had a crush on a colleague who was kind and brilliant and beautiful. I did not know how to talk to her because all my conversations were about humanitarians, crisis, budgets, staff care, evacuations. She laughed and said I was shy. In reality, I did not know how to show any other version of myself. Years of war made me present myself as useful, not as lovable.

This too is part of social capital. Can you allow people to know you outside your function.

There was a moment that changed something in me. My manager noticed my struggle and handed me a book and said, “Read this.” I had told her I was thinking of leaving. She did not argue. She did not defend the organization. She gave me knowledge. I read that report three times. Suddenly I felt proud to be there. What she did was important. She connected my identity to the mission. She linked me to something larger than my salary. That is how institutions create belonging.

We talk a lot in humanitarian work about localisation, inclusion, accountability. Underneath all of it is one question. Do people feel that this space is also theirs.

I also remember a sentence from a friend who told me something like, “Ali, you live in your own atmosphere.” At first it hurt. Later I understood. I was present, but I was not open. People cannot connect to someone who is always in leadership mode. Social capital requires vulnerability. It requires saying, I cannot pay for this dinner. It requires saying, I do not understand this joke. It requires saying, I grew up in a house where I was not allowed to go out, so I do not know how to do this social thing yet. It requires saying, I miss home.

Belonging is not pretending to be from somewhere. It is allowing people to meet you where you truly are.

If you are reading this and you are in a new country, or in a new job, or at a level where everyone seems older, richer, more connected, let me tell you what I wish someone told me then.

Start where you are. Invest in people. Not just in tasks. Learn their names. Learn their stories. Share yours. Give more than you receive at the beginning. It will look unbalanced, but it will pay you back later. Show up for people when they present. Congratulate them when they get promoted. Remember who is fasting. Remember who has a sick child. Curiosity is a form of love.

Do not let insecurity isolate you. I did that. It delayed my belonging.

Do not underestimate the power of social capital. In our sector it can open doors that qualifications cannot. It can protect you when someone bullies you. It can defend you when you are not in the room. It can bring you into conversations you did not know were happening. It can give you identity beyond your passport.

And remember, identity is not either or. You can be Syrian, and European, and humanitarian, and global, and tired, and young, and old in spirit. You can be all of it. You belong in every room where you bring truth.

As I write this, the candle has sunk a little deeper into its own pool of wax. The light is smaller but warmer. That is what belonging feels like. At first it is bright and wide. Later it is quieter, but it warms more deeply.

Social capital is not about being popular. It is about being rooted. It is about knowing that if you lose your job tomorrow, there will be five people who will call you. It is about knowing that if you disappear, someone will notice. It is about knowing that your story has a place to land.

So, my friend, build your circle. Be intentional. Invite, even when you cannot host. Share, even when you are still healing. Speak to the people in front of you, not only to the people above you. Let people love the real version of you. That is where identity stops being a question and becomes a home.

Until tomorrow, stay open, stay kind, and let your light be part of other people’s light.

With belonging and gratitude,

Ali Al Mokdad