On the North Star

My dear friend,

The candle is shorter tonight, but the flame still holds. I want to write to you about a different kind of light — the one we follow when the sky is full of noise.

There are nights when I sit here and wonder if I am still on the right path. I have spent so many years moving, crossing borders, joining assignments, responding to emergencies, writing strategies, and speaking about hope in rooms that often forget what it costs to keep it alive. There are times when the work feels heavy, when purpose begins to sound like a slogan, and I have to ask myself if I am still walking toward what matters.

That is when I think of the North Star.

For centuries, travelers lifted their eyes to it in the dark, trusting that a single, constant light could hold them steady. It does not move, yet it keeps others moving. It does not ask for attention, yet it guides anyone willing to look up.

Someone once told me, If you look at the stars for too long, you might trip on something below. It made me smile, but it also made me think. It is important to look at the stars, but it is just as important to stay grounded. Vision and presence must walk together.

We all need a North Star, something that keeps us aligned when everything else begins to fall apart. Not a title. Not a plan. Not an organization. Not even a dream. A direction. A truth that stays still even when we are shaking.

There was a time when I nearly lost mine.

I was working through endless crises in North East Syria, the kind that arrived before the dust of the previous one had settled. There were evacuations, budget cuts, sleepless nights, and a kind of pressure that made me forget the sound of my own thoughts.

Then my body started to speak louder than my mind. I woke with sharp headaches and pain spreading through my shoulders and back. My chest felt tight. My hands sometimes shook from too much coffee and too little rest. I had not slept properly in days, and even when I closed my eyes, my mind kept running. Everything around me felt too fast, while inside me, nothing moved at all. The risks were rising. The pressure was growing. I could feel myself running on empty.

One night, without telling anyone, I went to a nearby hospital. I needed to know what was wrong. The doctor checked my blood pressure, gave me a painkiller, and asked me to sit for a while. I remember the white walls, the slow turning fan, and how heavy my body felt in the chair. My head pounded. My eyes burned. For the first time in a long time, I felt completely empty. So tired. I couldn’t even breathe properly and didn’t have energy to speak or walk home.

I called a friend. He came right away, without asking for details. He sat next to me and said softly, You have done enough for today. No questions. No advice. Just presence. He walked me home, and stayed for a few hours, then left. It meant more than he knew.

I went to my bedroom which had become more of an office. The generator kept cutting off. I had not eaten. My phone showed missed calls. My inbox was full of emails marked as urgent messages. Donors wanted numbers. A colleague needed a decision. A local partner called because trucks had not arrived. A team member waited for security approval. Another waited for an HR decision delayed for weeks.

On the mirror in my room I had once written smile. That night I could not. I stepped outside to the balcony. The city was dark with small dots of light in the distance. Generator noise echoed across rooftops. The sound of bullets came from far away. I took a breath. Then another. Then another. A tear found its way down my cheek. I looked at the sky. The stars were faint, hidden behind dust and smoke. For a moment, I felt nothing. No clarity. No faith. Only exhaustion.

Across from me, on the wall of another building, a sentence was written: I will wait my life for you. In a strange way, it felt like a message, a reminder that even goals can wait for us to return to ourselves.

That night I realized how lonely leadership can be. You are expected to stay calm when the system breaks, to find answers when you are as lost as everyone else. You are asked to inspire when you have nothing left to give. And still, somehow, you must stand.

That is when I remembered something a friend once told me: When you cannot see the North Star, trust that it is still there. Its absence is not its failure. It is only the sky that has changed.

Since then, I have carried that lesson with me. I have learned that my North Star is not about achievement or applause. It is about remembering who I am when no one is watching. It is about why I began this work in the first place.

You see, I have seen too much to stay naïve, but I have also seen too much to stop believing. I have seen projects collapse, promises break, and people leave without goodbye. I have seen politics wear the mask of principle. I have watched systems that called themselves partnerships fall apart the moment the funding ran out.

But I have also seen light.

I have seen a midwife in Afghanistan flip through a worn notebook filled with names. Each name belonged to a child she helped bring into the world or one she was still fighting to save. The clinic had no electricity, only the small circle of light from a single lamp. Supplies were low, danger was close, and yet she arrived every morning with the same quiet determination. She did not talk about bravery. She simply kept showing up. Her North Star was life itself, the belief that every child deserved a chance, even in the hardest places.

I have seen a man in Nigeria sit for days sewing a single cap. His hands were rough, the fabric patched many times, but he kept working patiently, stitch by stitch. When I asked him why he put so much time into one item, he said he would trade it for bread to feed his children. The camp was crowded and hot. Food was never enough. Yet he kept sewing, choosing persistence where others might choose despair. His North Star was survival for the ones he loved.

I have seen teachers in Syria stand inside tents rewriting lessons from memory after the school and the books were gone. They used broken chalk and pieces of cardboard as boards. Outside, the wind shook the fabric walls, and dust blew through the seams, but the children still came. The teachers smiled as they taught, even when their own homes had been destroyed. They told me, “We cannot lose both our schools and our minds.” Their North Star was learning, the belief that knowledge would keep their community standing even when everything around them was falling apart.

I have seen drivers in South Sudan become medics when no doctors were available, logisticians become diplomats when talks were needed, and entire communities become their own first responders when help could not reach them. They fixed cars in the mud, shared medicine between villages, built small roads after floods, and kept going even when they were scared. They looked at the reality in front of them, yet still held onto something higher inside them: the belief that they could help, that they could matter, that they could carry their people through another day. That was their North Star.

They are the reason I keep breathing through the difficult days. They are my North Star.

It is not easy to stay aligned. Some days I move on instinct alone, trying to rebuild a purpose that bends under the weight of bureaucracy and fatigue. Some mornings I wake up wondering if anything we do still matters. I think of the people who left, the systems that failed, and the friends I could not keep.

But then something small happens, something quiet yet steady enough to bring me back to myself. A colleague from West Africa writes to say my words helped them remember why they started. An operations team in East Africa sends a photo of a new well built in a place we once thought was lost. A field officer from the Sahel messages to say they used one of my tools to calm a tense situation. A young staff member from the Horn of Africa tells me that a conversation we had helped them lead with more confidence. A partner in the Middle East shares that a document I prepared is now guiding volunteers who are guiding others. A colleague in South Asia tells me that a leadership note I once wrote helped them face a hard decision. A manager in Europe says a sentence from a meeting stayed with them for months. Even a driver in Central Africa tells me he still follows a routine I taught him at dawn. These small echoes from West Africa, East Africa, the Sahel, the Horn of Africa, Central Africa, South Asia, and Europe remind me that the work, however fragile, still leaves traces of good behind, and that purpose often returns in the softest ways. That is when I find my direction again. My star.

We speak often about leadership, but I have learned that leadership is not about power or certainty. It is about direction and care. Every leader is, in some way, an ambassador of hope. Not loud hope. Not naïve hope. The quiet kind that helps people stand when they can no longer see their own light.

Hope is not a speech. It is a posture.

It is the way you sit beside someone who is breaking and do not rush to fix them. It is the way you stay honest when everyone else wants comfort instead. It is the way you keep walking toward what is right, even when the reward is only integrity.

There are nights when I still doubt myself. When I look back and wonder if I could have done more, said more, or stopped sooner. There are mornings when I wake with the weight of unfinished work pressing against my chest. But then I remind myself that the North Star does not measure speed. It measures direction.

To lead is not to never stumble. To lead is to return, again and again, to what is true.

The North Star is not found once. It is chosen daily. It is the act of remembering when forgetting would be easier.

So tonight, as I sit by this small candle, I think of all of us who are still walking. The tired. The hopeful. The stubborn. The kind. The ones who keep showing up even when the applause or salary or title is gone. We are the quiet architects of something that lasts.

And if you are one of them, my friend, then hear me when I say this: your light matters. Your North Star matters. Even when no one says it. Even when the system forgets you. Even when it feels like you are walking alone.

Do not let the noise make you small. Do not let fatigue convince you that direction is gone. Look up. The North Star is still there. Waiting to be remembered.

You may not reach it, but you were never meant to. You were meant to walk by it, to carry its reflection in your choices, to let it shape how you lead, how you listen, and how you love.

If you ever lose sight of it, pause. Rest. Breathe. The star has not moved. The clouds will pass.

What defines us is not how perfectly we follow the map, but how faithfully we return to our light.

As I finish this letter, the candle has softened for the night. The flame leans slightly, but it still burns with quiet determination. Its light feels gentler now, as if it knows it has done enough.

I think of you, and of all the people still holding on in small corners of the world. The ones doing their work quietly, refusing to give up. That is what hope looks like, not brightness, but endurance.

The world will always need processes, structures, money, and plans. But above all, it needs people who remember where their light comes from.

So keep yours steady. Keep your compass honest. Keep your eyes lifted, even when the horizon feels uncertain.

Every leader is a keeper of direction, a guardian of meaning, and an ambassador of hope. If you stay true to that, even in the darkest night, then you are already walking by your North Star.

Until tomorrow, my friend, keep walking. Look up. The sky is still full of light.

With steadiness, hope and faith,

Ali Al Mokdad