We as human beings have more in common than in difference
As Joyce Msuya concludes four years as one of the United Nations' most tested humanitarian voices, she departs not with exhaustion but with a deepened conviction that the world's shared longings — for peace, for safety, for the education of one's children — transcend the borders and fractures that so often dominate the headlines. Having briefed a divided Security Council more than forty times across three major wars, she leaves behind not a verdict on the system's failures but an appeal to its necessity, and a particular charge to the young: that multilateralism, however imperfect, remains the architecture through which humanity chooses solidarity over abandonment.
- Msuya arrived at her post six days before Russia invaded Ukraine, stepping into a role that would immediately demand she carry the weight of cascading, overlapping crises with no pause between them.
- Advocating for humanitarian access in Gaza before a geopolitically fractured Security Council became her most agonizing assignment — speaking for the dead, the trapped, and the aid workers who kept returning despite the cost.
- Student encounters across nearly twenty countries confronted her with the sharpest questions the institution faces: accusations of double standards, demands for accountability, and a generation skeptical of the UN's moral consistency.
- She found unexpected grounding in a displaced mother in northern Yemen whose hopes for her children — peace, education, a stable home — mirrored her own, reminding her that beneath divergent suffering lies a common human longing.
- As she prepares to leave, her message lands as both warning and invitation: without multilateral structures, the world's most vulnerable have no floor beneath them, and young people must now choose whether to hold that floor in place.
Joyce Msuya is leaving the United Nations at the end of May, closing four years as Assistant Secretary-General and Deputy Emergency Relief Coordinator — a tenure that began with almost cruel timing. She had been in her post for six days when Russia invaded Ukraine. Over the years that followed, she would witness three major wars, brief the Security Council more than forty times, and carry the weight of crises that demanded collective action from a body increasingly divided by geopolitical rivalry.
What stayed with her most was not the scale of suffering, but the resilience within it. In a displaced persons camp in northern Yemen, she met a mother of four who had never known stability, forced to uproot her children again and again by war. What Msuya encountered in that conversation was not bitterness but generosity — and a recognition that this woman's hopes for her children were identical to her own. Peace. Education. A secure home. The circumstances were different; the longing underneath was the same.
The hardest chapter was Gaza. She stood before the Security Council and spoke for the trapped, the dead, and the aid workers who kept showing up even as colleagues lost family members and international humanitarian law was violated with apparent impunity. What sustained her was that the multilateral system kept speaking anyway — kept advocating even when it was costly.
She also made a point of meeting students wherever she traveled, nearly twenty times across different countries. These conversations were harder than any Security Council briefing. Young people asked unfiltered questions about double standards, credibility, and trust. She overprepared for every one of them, because she came to see these exchanges as essential. A generation more globally connected than any before it — and more exposed to misinformation — needed someone to help them distinguish fact from fiction, and to understand why the UN, flawed as it is, still matters.
As she departs, her message is threefold: support multilateralism, because the alternative is abandonment of the world's most vulnerable; remember what service means, because the displaced families and sacrificed aid workers are why this work exists; and offer gratitude, to every government and community that made the work possible. It has been, she says, the privilege of a lifetime.
Joyce Msuya is leaving the United Nations at the end of May, and in her final weeks as Assistant Secretary-General and Deputy Emergency Relief Coordinator, she finds herself thinking about what four years in one of the world's most demanding jobs has taught her.
She arrived at the UN Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs in February 2022, six days before Russia invaded Ukraine. The timing was almost cruel—she had barely unpacked when the world seemed to fracture. Over the next four years, she would witness three major wars unfold: Ukraine, Gaza, and Iran. She briefed the Security Council more than forty times, nearly once a month, carrying the weight of crises that demanded solutions from a body increasingly divided along geopolitical lines. What struck her most was not the scale of the suffering, though that was immense, but the resilience of the people caught in it and the humanitarians who showed up every single day to help them, even when it cost them their lives.
One memory has stayed with her more than others. She was in a displaced persons camp in northern Yemen when she met a woman in her thirties, a mother of four who had never known stability. War had forced her to move constantly, to uproot her children again and again. Yet when Msuya spoke with her, what she encountered was not bitterness but kindness—a generosity of spirit that seemed impossible given what this woman had endured. In that conversation, Msuya realized something fundamental: the mother's hopes for her children—peace, education, a secure home—were identical to her own. The suffering was different, the circumstances were different, but the human longing underneath was the same. It was a lesson she carried with her, and one she believes the world needs to hear.
The hardest part of her job was advocating for humanitarian access in Gaza. She stood before the Security Council and spoke for the people trapped there, for the aid workers who had died trying to reach them, for the families torn apart by violence. She spoke for the OCHA staff, many of them from the region itself, who had lost family members and yet returned to work the next day. She spoke into a chamber fractured by great power competition, where the usual consensus had shattered. What haunted her was not just the failure to reach everyone who needed help, but the apparent impunity with which international humanitarian law was violated. Yet what gave her hope was that the multilateral system itself—the UN and its partners—kept speaking up anyway, kept advocating even when it was costly to do so.
She made a point of meeting with students wherever she traveled, nearly twenty times across different countries. These encounters were harder than any Security Council briefing. Students asked uncomfortable questions: Why should we trust the UN when you spoke out on one war but stayed silent on another? How do you stay grounded? How did you get here? The questions were sharp and unfiltered, untainted by the institutional thinking that shapes older diplomats. She overprepared for every student meeting because she never knew what they would ask. But she came to see these conversations as essential. Young people, she realized, are more globally connected than previous generations—linked by social media and news networks that span continents. They see the same images from Tokyo to Mozambique to Kenya. They are also more vulnerable to misinformation. Her role, she decided, was to help them distinguish fact from fiction, to show them that the UN, flawed as it is, matters.
As she prepares to leave, Msuya has three messages. First: support multilateralism. The UN is imperfect, but consider what would happen without it—in Gaza, in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, in Sudan, in Yemen, in Syria. The power of collective action, of nations working together, is irreplaceable. Second: remember what service means. The internally displaced people she has met, the families separated by war, the aid workers who sacrifice everything—they are why this work exists. It is a noble cause, and she hopes the young generation will answer that call. Third: gratitude. To every government, every community, every stranger who prayed for her or supported the work. It has been, she says, the privilege of a lifetime to serve humanity.
Citas Notables
It has been the privilege of a lifetime to serve humanity— Joyce Msuya
What has kept me grounded is to always think about the internally displaced people, the persons we are trying to serve. And that is a very noble cause—a gift of service to humanity that I hope especially the young generation will aspire to do.— Joyce Msuya
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
You briefed the Security Council over forty times in four years. What changed in that room over that period?
The fracture deepened. When I started, there were still moments of consensus. By Gaza, the big powers had split so completely that even basic humanitarian principles became contested. I was advocating for access to civilians while the chamber itself was divided on whether those civilians deserved protection.
That sounds exhausting. Did you ever consider that your voice wasn't making a difference?
Every day. But then I'd remember the staff who showed up after losing family members. The humanitarians who died trying to help. If they could keep going, I could keep speaking, even into a fractured room.
You met with students nearly twenty times. What did they teach you that your colleagues in the UN couldn't?
They asked why we were hypocrites. They didn't accept the diplomatic language. They wanted to know why we spoke up in one crisis and not another. That honesty was uncomfortable, but it was necessary. It reminded me that the UN only survives if young people believe in it.
Do you think they do? Believe in it?
Some do. But many are skeptical, and rightfully so. Our job now is to show them that multilateralism, despite everything, is still the only tool we have to prevent worse outcomes. It's not perfect. But the alternative is chaos.
What will you carry with you most from this work?
A woman in Yemen who had nothing but kindness despite losing everything. She wanted the same things for her children that I want for mine. That's what I'll remember—that beneath all the politics and the wars and the divisions, we're all the same.