Bello Campo of Chacao, Caracas, Venezuela, April 2025

Last night, I took a spontaneous walk through the charming streets of Bello Campo in Chacao, and to my surprise, I found myself completely enchanted. It’s remarkable how close it is to where I live—practically in my backyard—and yet, somehow, I had never properly discovered it until now. That discovery made the experience even more special.

Bello Campo is a residential neighbourhood within the municipality of Chacao in eastern Caracas. While it may not have the same level of renown as Altamira or El Rosal, it has a distinct charm that makes it worth exploring. The neighbourhood is known for its peaceful tree-lined streets, colourful houses, and a strong sense of community. One of the key features of the area is Parque Bello Campo, a green and well-kept public space that is often filled with joggers, families, and dog walkers. It serves as a sort of natural lung for the neighbourhood, offering a refreshing contrast to the busy urban life surrounding it.

Historically, Bello Campo was part of a larger rural zone in the early 20th century, characterised by agricultural activity and scattered estates. With the rapid urban development of Caracas during the mid-20th century, especially in the post-oil boom era, the area evolved into a middle-class residential enclave. Over time, it retained a quieter, more family-oriented character, even as the city around it grew more chaotic and densely built.

One of the hidden gems of the neighbourhood is its proximity to the Centro Cultural Chacao, a modern space for the arts that hosts concerts, exhibitions, and theatre performances. The cultural energy from this venue seems to spill into the streets of Bello Campo, adding a creative pulse to the otherwise calm environment.

My walk through Bello Campo last night was simply wonderful. The past week had been particularly stressful at work, filled with heavy conversations and high-stakes decisions. But as I wandered through the neighbourhood, the pressure seemed to dissolve. I found myself slowing down, breathing more deeply, and simply enjoying the surroundings. The city felt different—lighter, more human.

The streets were alive with people enjoying the evening air, dogs happily trotting beside their owners, and neighbours exchanging greetings as they passed one another. Despite the late hour, the atmosphere felt safe, open, and inviting. What struck me most were the people. I met several locals along the way, and every single one of them was friendly, curious, and welcoming. Conversations flowed easily, and there was genuine joy in sharing stories with someone from outside. It reminded me, once again, of how powerful kindness and human connection can be—even with strangers, and especially in unexpected places.

Bello Campo is now firmly on my map. I’m already looking forward to going back—this time with intention—and seeing what more this lovely little corner of Caracas has to offer.

Can We Save Humanitarianism?

I’ve just finished reading an article that stirred something deep in me:"Capitalism co-opted humanitarianism. But we can save it". It has made me pause, reflect, and weigh the path I have chosen for myself – this work that is not just a job, but the very foundation of who I am.

The author, Paul Currion, does not pull punches. He argues that humanitarianism has become entangled with capitalism to the extent that it has been fundamentally altered. Our sector, once rooted in a radical commitment to dignity and solidarity, now increasingly operates within a system driven by competition, branding, and efficiency metrics. It is a hard truth to swallow, but one that resonates. And it made me think: is this still the work I want to do?

I am proud of the work I do. Deeply proud. It has given my life purpose, anchored me in the world, and connected me to countless individuals who inspire me every single day. But I won’t deny that lately, I have also felt moments of discomfort—of shame, even. The way the world is evolving, the way power and profit seep into the spaces meant to protect and uplift the vulnerable, sometimes makes me wonder if we are losing sight of what matters most.

Currion's article challenges us to consider whether the humanitarian system, in its current form, is even salvageable. Have we become too comfortable with our own contradictions? Are we perpetuating the very systems we claim to resist? These are not easy questions. And while my instinct is to defend what we do—to point to the lives saved, the rights defended, the disasters mitigated—I also know that defensiveness cannot substitute for reflection.

Reading the article felt like holding up a mirror. It reminded me that while the principles of humanitarianism still pulse at the heart of our work, the system surrounding it is increasingly shaped by market logic, performance indicators, branding, and competition. And while some of these elements are unavoidable, even necessary, they risk crowding out the very values we set out to defend: humanity, impartiality, solidarity, and dignity.

So again: is this still the work I want to do? The answer, for now, remains a clear yes. Because despite the frustrations, despite the increasing difficulty of separating what’s good from what’s questionable, I still believe in the core of it. I still believe in the people, in the actions taken quietly in forgotten corners of the world, in the lives changed through compassion, perseverance, and presence.

But staying in this work also means a constant reckoning. It requires effort to focus on what is noble about our mission, and at the same time, to challenge what is wrong within it. To speak up when values are sidelined, to resist the temptation of cynicism, and to keep showing up with heart and integrity.

Currion ends his article with a call to reclaim humanitarianism by embracing its roots—as a political act, as a radical form of solidarity. That struck a chord. If we are to save humanitarianism from itself, we must stop pretending we are neutral technocrats and start acting like principled agents of change.

And so today, I feel both unsettled and determined. Unsettled by how fragile our principles have become in the face of power. But determined to hold onto them anyway. To defend the values that brought me into this work, and to ensure they don’t get drowned out by noise, bureaucracy, or convenience.

Perhaps this is what it means to grow in this field: not to stop believing, but to believe harder. And to keep going, especially when it is hardest to do so.