...I Don’t Know...

The Set-Up:  A long-standing partnership is straining at the seams due to the local organisation’s inability to find sufficient additional funding.  It is debatable whether this is due to shady business practices or a true inability to generate overseas interest in a vital peacebuilding effort. 

The Argument:  “But I don’t want to be the one to end this relationship.  If we pull funding, local employees will be laid off and we will break ties with a hardworking community unique in its field.  Anyway, we’ve been close to them too long to back out now.  Besides, maybe this time will be different; they’ve been going through a difficult socio-economic situation.  What more can you expect?”

The Counter-Argument:  You can expect that if this happened in your home country, the organisation would be shelved pending a restructuring and clarification of its practices, mission, and strategic plan.  You can expect to be regretful, but hopeful that this focus on the proper means to achieve realistic goals will result in more effective future intervention - which will better serve vulnerable populations – rather than continuing on a tightrope of polite omissions and great expectations.  

The Problem Is...

The most distressing facet of humanitarian aid in developing countries is its attitude towards recipient people and cultures.  This insidious whisper of Well, what more can you expect?  It’s never spoken out loud, of course.

That would be racist. 

On Making Sense Of It All

Last week began with ice cream - which is a good way to begin any Herculean effort - because Grandma and Grandpa are beautiful people who redo kitchens and share homemade peanut butter ice cream like it ain’t no thang. 

Personally, this was not an ideal time of the month to be around innocent members of the human species not armed with silver bullets, but I managed to chat with our team (give or take a few members) through the sparkling cloud of a devastating sugar high.

Towards Understanding

I stared at them.

There is no reason to call me a masseur.  Is this a kind term for prostitute?  What about a floor-length beige skirt and a thigh-length salwaar kameez top screams ‘Strip and lie facedown on the table while I warm the oils’? 

Why does this always happen to me.

Seeking Good

This is in commemoration of Obama’s presidency. 

Of the leadership of an intelligent, charismatic, well-spoken – frankly, damn hot – man of colour with an intelligent, charismatic, well-spoken wife and two daughters of whom I know nothing. 

I didn’t always agree with him, but I had the strange sort of confidence that even if he were a Muslim jihadist who secretly (very secretly) wanted America to burn, at least he’d do it with some level-headed thought and planning.  Heck, with his tactful drawl, I might even be convinced of the idea myself. 

Shake it Off

Life over the past few months has been like being run over.  Usually gently.  But repeatedly. 

Only when it almost physically happened did I really protest. 

That’s right – the inevitable almost happened last week:  I thought I could make it across the street before a moto got me.

I was wrong. 

How Novel

I am always reminded that I don’t belong in the culture in which I currently find myself.  Always.  Sometimes I make the mistake of thinking I am more or less Western until I am forcibly disabused of this notion as well.  The most recent occasion was staring out at the view of our city through the as-yet unfinished third floor of our apartment building.  Foreigners, of whom I am one, seem to take one look at it and fall in love with the apartment.  Immigrants, of whom I am also one, would glance out the window, ask the price, the relative accessibility to resources (like, oh, let’s just choose one at random - water), and evaluate whether a move would be worth it in terms of cold, hard benefit.  Foreigners, from which class my international organization prefers to disassociate itself, seek privacy, security in separation.  Immigrants tend to seek others of their kind, others who understand, and congregate in families – with a preference for an inner sanctum that only real family can access, because blood is thicker even than patriotism. 

I fall on the immigrant side of this more than the foreign.

The reason for today’s rambling is this tension.