All my life, imposter syndrome has lived in my head rent-free like the kind of roommate who never contributes to rent but always has something negative to say. I’ve grown up believing that there are spaces I will never step into, people whose numbers I dare not save, offices I’ll only ever see in documentaries, and clothes I’d admire from behind glass. You name it, if it was beautiful, expensive, or empowering, I convinced myself I wasn’t supposed to have it. Why? I honestly can’t tell you. But I do know that growing up constantly hearing things like, “Pascaliah, don’t aim too high, you’ll just be disappointed,” or “No one in our family has ever done this,” or “We don’t know people in high places to open doors for you,” carved those doubts deep into my skull. Even now, when something good happens, like receiving an acceptance email, I read it a hundred times. I’ll delete every other email in my inbox, but that one becomes scripture—a digital memory verse.
I’ve sold myself short for years, shrinking myself into the boxes others built for me. So when I got the chance to attend this year’s Amnesty International Global Assembly, I packed not just my bags, but also my fear, self-doubt, and that persistent imposter syndrome, all squished tightly in the side pockets.
The Global Assembly is not just a meeting; it’s the meeting. It’s the highest decision-making space in the entire Amnesty movement. And for the first time, every Amnesty section was required to bring at least one youth delegate. A motion passed last year made that happen, and wow, did the youths show up like shooting stars! They shone so brightly my eyes were burning! Before the assembly even started, I joined a working group to support the incoming youth delegates. We held two webinars, one before the regional forums and one just weeks before the assembly. It was beautiful chaos. Youths signed up to moderate plenaries, co-create breakout sessions, and offer solutions that made even the seasoned human rights experts take notes.
On Youth Day, traditionally held before the official assembly begins, the energy was electric. You’d have thought we were hosting a drama festival. We bonded, laughed, debated, and broke down the assembly agenda with focus. I kid you not, whenever a youth raised their hand to speak, they spat facts! At some point, the directors in the other room asked us to “keep it down.” One of them even sighed, “Maybe we’re the ones who are too old.”
The highlight for me was working in the Global Governance Review Working Group. At first, the reading materials looked like someone had downloaded the entire internet and emailed it to us. But being part of that space gave me three key things: First, I finally understood Amnesty’s complex governance system, a network of policies and principles that shapes how the movement runs. Second, I got to work alongside sharp legal minds, seasoned board chairs, the head of governance at Amnesty, the Deputy Secretary General, and people whose email signatures had more academic titles than a university brochure. And lastly, perhaps most importantly, there was no exam! Imagine learning all that without worrying about grades.
Now let’s talk about the real heartbreak: the food. I didn’t see ugali-managu or chapo-beans on those trays. And when people say “hakuna mkate ngumu mbele ya chai”, I now know they haven’t been to Prague because of the bread. It could break a window! I genuinely missed Kenyan food. But hey, that’s just on a light note.
Back to the main dish, the sessions were powerful. From climate justice and rising authoritarianism to governance reform and solidarity with prisoners of conscience, every session felt like fuel for a movement hungry for change. One speaker, unjustly imprisoned for four years, stood on stage and still spoke about hope, dignity, and the urgency of human rights. And when the UN Secretary General Antonio Guterres reminded us that “You are often called troublemakers, but this is the right kind of trouble. Human rights activism is necessary trouble,” I felt seen. That line? That was for us, or every youth who’s been told they’re too loud, too radical, too emotional. Because in a world full of injustice, silence is complicity. Speaking up is the most powerful kind of resistance.
Yet, even with all this inspiration, imposter syndrome didn’t exactly evaporate. Every time I raised my hand to speak, I battled the fear of fumbling, of saying something too simple, or not being taken seriously. And when someone said, “You did great, Pascaliah,” I’d smile, nod politely, but inside I’d think, They’re just being kind. I could have done better. If our group received praise for a presentation, I’d tell myself they carried it, not me.
But here’s what I’ve learned: that tiny voice in your head telling you “you don’t belong here” is lying. You applied. You were selected. You were trusted to represent your section and your country. That is not luck. That is earned. And you deserve to be there.
The Global Assembly showed me that youth are not the future; we are the now. We are the ones asking difficult questions, challenging outdated systems, and demanding accountability. We are also the ones dancing, laughing, learning, and daring to dream in rooms where our presence was once unimaginable.
To every young person who thinks they don’t belong in those spaces, trust me, I get it. I’ve been there, sitting in a room full of experts with butterflies trying to stage a protest in my stomach. But let this be your reminder: the revolution needs your voice. The movement needs your energy. And the world needs your courage. So the next time opportunity knocks, don’t just open the door, kick it down if you have to.
Because in this fight for freedom, dignity, and justice, Humanity Must Win. And it can’t win without you.