Seyed completed his MSc in Environment and Development from the London School of Economics, and is the Lead, Country Transition at Oxfam, UK.

--

Could you tell us a bit about the work you do as Lead of Country Transition at Oxfam?

At Oxfam, I sit at the epicentre of strategic change—helping reshape how one of the world’s largest NGOs operates across geographies to stay effective in an increasingly volatile and unequal world. As Lead for Country Transitions, I guide how Oxfam exits, adapts, or reimagines its presence in countries—often amidst complex humanitarian crises, political fragility, and a shrinking space for civil society.

My role bridges the operational and the transformational—from navigating operational challenges in countries like Kenya, Rwanda or the Occupied Palestinian Territories (OPTI) to enabling more locally rooted, resilient models of institutional presence in Southeast Asia. I’m privileged to be steering this shift at a time when the international aid sector is under immense pressure—from funding uncertainties to rising climate disasters, conflicts, and the enduring impacts on women, minorities, and the most marginalized. It’s not just about closing chapters—it’s about writing new ones with equity and sustainability at their core.

What have been your greatest learnings over two decades of working as a humanitarian?

Over the past 20+ years, what I’ve come to realise is that being a humanitarian is less about “delivering aid” and more about listening, unlearning, and building together. For example, one powerful lesson came from my work on recognising the economic contribution of women’s unpaid care work—something often invisible in national policies or from fostering inclusive governance models of WASH (Water, Sanitation, and Hygiene) in the remotest regions of central Asia. Through this experience, I saw how lasting change requires not just compassion, but bold advocacy and evidence-led persuasion. It’s not enough to do good; we must also influence systems.

Another learning is that partnership isn’t a buzzword—it’s the engine of real transformation. Whether working with a grassroots women’s collective in India or a local legal aid group in Tajikistan, I’ve seen that solutions that stick are the ones led by those closest to the problem.

This work has also taught me how fluid and fast-changing the humanitarian context has become—climate change, inequality, and conflict now overlap in ways we hadn’t imagined two decades ago. As practitioners, we must evolve—not just in our tools, but in how we see power, voice, and accountability.

What are some things you wish young people knew about pursuing a career in development?

I wish more young people knew that development work isn’t always the glamorous field trips or feel-good impact stories you see on websites. It’s also long nights of building community driven programme strategies, drafting policy and advocacy briefs, weeks in remote areas with no signal, tough decisions, and moral dilemmas. You may find yourself in harsh, remote terrain or wrestling with ethical questions in a boardroom in Oxford.

But if you're driven by purpose—if helping the world bend a little more toward justice excites you—then this career offers experiences no other profession can. You get to immerse yourself in different cultures, understand resilience in its truest form, and build lifelong bonds with people who are fighting every day to improve their communities. The satisfaction is slow-burning, but incredibly fulfilling. Also, know that your empathy, your curiosity, and your integrity are your strongest assets—not just your degrees.

In a line of work where issues often seem insurmountable, what keeps you going?

What keeps me going is the quiet, human-scale moments—those unexpected flashes of dignity, hope, and resilience in places where the world often only sees despair. I still vividly remember a chance interview deep in the forests of central India. I met two young boys and two girls who had been left behind in their village while their parents went away for weeks to gather minor forest produce. I asked, "Weren’t you scared being alone?" One of them looked at me and said, almost matter-of-factly, "Yes, we were. But not anymore." That moment stayed with me. It wasn’t just about survival—it was about adapting, growing stronger, and finding courage in the face of abandonment. That’s resilience in its most raw and pure form.

Years later, while working on a Safe Sex Worker programme in the streets of Bangalore, I was welcomed with warmth I didn’t expect. A group of women—vulnerable, often invisible to society—invited me to sit and eat with them. They had little to spare, yet they offered me a lovingly prepared lunch with such grace and affection that I was deeply moved. That meal is etched in my memory more strongly than any conference I’ve attended.

These are the reasons I continue. Because for every headline about conflict or crisis, there are people—strong, dignified, and quietly heroic—who refuse to be defined by their circumstances. They remind me that change is not only possible—it is already happening in the smallest of places, often far from the spotlight. Hope, in this line of work, is not naïve. It’s an act of resistance. And resilience, I’ve learned, is not loud. It’s a quiet, determined refusal to give up.