Climate change. Political violence. Coups. Protests. Famine. Wars.

No matter how big the crisis, people should aways come first. It might sound obvious, a cliché even. But in our age of instant news coverage of everything, everywhere all at once, the second-by-second bombardment of headlines declaring yet another crisis, more misery and more death often leaves out the real people they happen to.

In today’s news and commentary, people have become afterthoughts, statistics on the margins of collateral damage. The catastrophe or controversy of the moment is THE main event designed to grab our attention for a second, perhaps two, before the App refreshes with a new doom-laden headline. In short, we have headlines without humanity.

It is why we are all burnt out on news—and why we increasingly feel helpless, unable to shape our own destinies or slow the next incoming disaster.

My approach is different. I focus on ordinary people in extraordinary times. When possible, I lean towards credible hope.

Whether it is a Tunisian farmer in a village running dry or a single mother searching for shelter in an urban battlefield in Gaza, I aim to put readers in the shoes and sandals of people facing impossible choices and follow their steps as they navigate upheaval.  

There is a practical reason for this approach: weaving personal narratives with analysis and reporting helps make geopolitical events and trends tangible to readers. We don’t just know something is happening, but we feel it.

But there is a deeper purpose for humanity-driven reporting. More than just news of the day, a story can become an exploration of shared universal values, our common struggles and search for hope, stability and progress in this increasingly uncertain world.

In a globalized 21st century where we all face similar challenges—drought, forest-fires, far-right extremism, pandemics, populism, inflation—there is much we can learn from other people’s experiences elsewhere in the world.

We could learn from a local solution in climate change adaptation in Sub-Sahara Africa or a tool to battle misinformation from East Asia, and apply it in our own community. Or, perhaps, we simply find inspiration in others’ refusal to give in to division and hatred, providing badly-needed encouragement to go on.

This approach may not lead to positive news, but it never leans into cynicism. It isn’t always kind, but it is always empathetic. We may not arrive at solutions, but at the very least we can understand, learn about an issue, its real-world impact on society and, perhaps, about ourselves in the process.

This ethos drives my writing from Middle East news coverage to long-form essays to geopolitical analyses. It is also my conviction: to better understand our rapidly-changing world, we must better understand each other and ourselves.

Otherwise, we risk being reduced to reactions, at the mercy of the next unseen crisis, robbed of agency and direction. There is so much more to the human experience—why not fit a little more humanity into the next headline?

To read more, check out my Sawaleef Blog or subscribe to my monthly newsletter.

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