The humanitarian sector in 2025: what this year taught me about holding the line

As 2025 draws to a close, I find myself reflecting on a year that has tested the humanitarian sector like few others.

It’s been a year of difficult conversations, shrinking resources, and moments where the gap between what we say and stand for and what we’re able to deliver has felt unbearably wide.

But it’s also been a year that has clarified, for me at least, what this work is really about—and what it demands of us.

The conversations we needed to have

This year, Bond’s Humanitarian Working Group convened a series of deep dives bringing together NGOs and government officials to grapple with what’s being called the “humanitarian reset.” The UK’s move to 0.3% ODA, compounded by the collapse of US funding, has sent shockwaves through the sector. Programmes have been cut mid-cycle. Staff have been let go. Partners on the ground have been left scrambling.

These weren’t comfortable conversations. There was frank acknowledgment that the system is broken—too centralised, too competitive, too slow to shift power to those closest to crises. But there was also something valuable in the honesty. For perhaps the first time, I sensed a genuine openness to questioning assumptions that have shaped humanitarian action for decades.

What struck me most, though, wasn’t the policy discussion. It was hearing how, in one context, a national women’s rights organisation had taken on a co-lead role in gender-based violence coordination, mentoring other local women-led groups to do the same. Here was localisation not as rhetoric, but as practice—happening not because of the funding crunch, but in spite of it. These are the stories that remind me why we do this work.

The voices that stayed with me

Throughout the year, we’ve heard directly from colleagues working in Gaza, Sudan, and other crisis contexts. Their testimony has been unflinching. One colleague described protection not as a technical sector but as a lifeline—one that’s being marginalised precisely when it’s needed most. Another spoke of communities caught between warring parties, organising their own protection through mutual aid networks because the formal humanitarian system cannot reach them.

“We talk to communities,” they said, “but we are not really listening to what they need. And then we wonder why our advocacy doesn’t land.”

That observation has stayed with me. It speaks to a deeper problem: the distance between those making decisions and those living with the consequences. Bridging that gap—ensuring frontline voices shape policy, not just illustrate it—has become central to how I understand my role.

The tension I’m learning to hold

These experiences have made me question what we’re really doing when we produce policy recommendations, convene working groups, and negotiate with government. Are we making a difference? Or are we keeping ourselves busy while the foundations crumble?

I don’t have a clean answer. But I’ve come to believe that the work of convening—of creating space for frontline voices to reach decision-makers—matters more than ever. Not because it’s sufficient, but because it’s necessary. The alternative is a policy world that talks about “humanitarian reform” in the abstract while people are denied food, bombed while seeking aid, and left to organise their own survival.

Last year, the Humanitarian Working Group contributed recommendations to the UK’s Development Review. This year, we’ve watched to see which of those messages landed. Some did. Many didn’t

What gives me hope—and what worries me

Hope comes from unexpected places: the resilience of local actors who continue to deliver when international systems fail; the willingness of some within government to engage honestly about what’s broken; the growing recognition that a humanitarian system built around a handful of wealthy donors and large agencies is neither sustainable nor legitimate. There’s an opportunity in this crisis—not to tinker at the edges, but to build something more equitable, more responsive, and more accountable to the people it’s meant to serve.

But I’m also worried. Worried that we’ll waste this moment. That the funding crunch will justify abandoning the hardest places and the most marginalised people. That protection will be deprioritised precisely when violations are mounting. That we’ll talk about localisation while continuing to cut the local organisations doing the work.

Carrying it forward

As I look ahead to 2026, I’m holding onto a few things: the importance of listening before speaking, the necessity of political courage alongside humanitarian principle, and the reminder that behind every statistic is a person whose dignity demands our attention.

This work is hard. The sector is under pressure. But the people we serve don’t have the option of stepping back. Neither do we.