The end of the third week of May saw an invitation for a field mission: an extended monitoring and evaluation effort in a yellow zone - my first ever.
Did I want to go?
I had to go on general principle – I'd only ever been a part of day trips, but I'd longed to spend more time in the field to speak with beneficiaries and more effectively assist with future project planning. The field agents who'd lived in that area during previous projects laughed or ruefully shook their heads when I said I'd be going, but that was nothing new.
Did I want to go?
Of course, Butters had been out a few times with his organization – he said this was because he was a man and thus better equipped to deal with... life, in general, apparently. I resisted the impulse to make vulgar remarks about body parts because this would be undignified (and because I probably wouldn't be able to squeak anything more than You're a poopy head). Besides, we both knew our female teammates regularly travelled to and between villages.
Did I want to go?
My coordinators would refuse, I was sure. Security measures had been increased in the past few months – something to do with recent deaths, a kidnapping, a ransom, a prison break involving thousands of escapees... I don't know – it's all so technical. But this was all the more reason for me to convince them; it was a question of my pride and autonomy!
Did I want to go?
I shot out of work early and raced to our head office in order to try guilt – Butters' idea – which I am more comfortable with than other forms of manipulation (though this is not saying much). The thought of the fallout if anything were to go wrong, however, allowed me to bite my tongue as Carrottop and Grandpa hemmed and hawed through this decision as though someone's life were at stake.
“Do you want to go?”
And suddenly, Carrottop's aggravatingly direct gaze – worse than any laser - was levelled on me as I was teetering on this barbed-wire fence between safety and freedom, between pretending this decision was out of my hands and committing to my work.
No – I'd rather be clean for 3 days, thanks.
Not really – I'd kick myself if something did happen.
I dunno – I was kind of hoping you'd tell me.
“Yes! I've wanted to go for months!”
And there it was.
Half-truth, part-lie, some uncertainty - all me.
It wasn't fear – at least, I don't think so, and I'm generally honest with myself. I still think that would require some experiential basis outside of movies and TV. It's that one of my teammates couldn't go due to his 'physique' – not due to any medical condition, but because he'd be identified as Banyamulenge by his countrymen, and this had consequences. It's that field missions had been curtailed by other organizations due to some ethnic conflict. It's that questions that face those left behind are more difficult than those about survival – the answer to the latter will always be yes until the decision is taken out of your hands.
If I was scared, it wasn't about dying – what's that saying about death and taxes? My faith holds me responsible for one of those, and has sort of granted me exemption from the other. No, it was the frantic life packed all around that moment: vague imaginings of psychological and physical harm, the responsibility on our leaders, the consequences for our program, team, and families, the what if, the if only...
In the end, Carrottop and Grandpa gave me a tentative yes, conditional on any new developments in our destination over the weekend. Which is when I realised I was still desperately clinging to that sharp fence.
Did I want them to hear some bad news before Monday? Would I rather they just lazily waved me out the door without a care? I certainly wouldn't want them to hear anything after Monday. But maybe that would be better – after all, ignorance is bliss. But what if if only... turns out to be a poor consolation?
After half-joking that I wouldn't want them to call me back into the city after we left (because my entire office would probably want to cradle me tenderly in their arms – in order to make themselves feel better, I assume, since this practice generally makes me want to crawl out of my skin), I resolved to talk to my mother. Not to channel Joan of Arc, but...
...it's hard to explain. To remind her that I was happy, more than anything else. (But not too happy or she'd suspect I was leaving on a suicide mission or covering up a lobotomy.) Because it all sounds so dramatic – a side effect of this self-imposed excitatory feedback loop with no end. I understand that our leaders have a responsibility towards us, our families, our organisation, and God – and I'm simultaneously disdainful of and thankful for their dedication. It's just that managing a fight-or-flight response in the absence of any immediate stimulus is proving difficult for someone who is already naturally consumed with identifying pitfalls and planning to avoid them; shifting gears to lie in wait to possibly evade the possibility of all possible disasters outside of anything I've ever experienced is likely to give me an ulcer in the safety of my own sweet home in this largely ordinary city.
Did I want to go?
To stay in a remote village? To travel on a rutted route through a jungle? To ensure maximum visibility so that we are not attacked en route? To view a level of human misery facing a staggering percentage of the world's population and evaluate it in terms of change? To process and document what I hear and see and learn and receive – both the good and the bad? To gauge whether money and the business of humanitarian aid are doing more good than harm to people in the aftermath of colonialism and war? To live as though there is something more precious than this life?
You decide.
Did I want to go?
I had to go on general principle – I'd only ever been a part of day trips, but I'd longed to spend more time in the field to speak with beneficiaries and more effectively assist with future project planning. The field agents who'd lived in that area during previous projects laughed or ruefully shook their heads when I said I'd be going, but that was nothing new.
Did I want to go?
Of course, Butters had been out a few times with his organization – he said this was because he was a man and thus better equipped to deal with... life, in general, apparently. I resisted the impulse to make vulgar remarks about body parts because this would be undignified (and because I probably wouldn't be able to squeak anything more than You're a poopy head). Besides, we both knew our female teammates regularly travelled to and between villages.
Did I want to go?
My coordinators would refuse, I was sure. Security measures had been increased in the past few months – something to do with recent deaths, a kidnapping, a ransom, a prison break involving thousands of escapees... I don't know – it's all so technical. But this was all the more reason for me to convince them; it was a question of my pride and autonomy!
Did I want to go?
I shot out of work early and raced to our head office in order to try guilt – Butters' idea – which I am more comfortable with than other forms of manipulation (though this is not saying much). The thought of the fallout if anything were to go wrong, however, allowed me to bite my tongue as Carrottop and Grandpa hemmed and hawed through this decision as though someone's life were at stake.
“Do you want to go?”
And suddenly, Carrottop's aggravatingly direct gaze – worse than any laser - was levelled on me as I was teetering on this barbed-wire fence between safety and freedom, between pretending this decision was out of my hands and committing to my work.
No – I'd rather be clean for 3 days, thanks.
Not really – I'd kick myself if something did happen.
I dunno – I was kind of hoping you'd tell me.
“Yes! I've wanted to go for months!”
And there it was.
Half-truth, part-lie, some uncertainty - all me.
It wasn't fear – at least, I don't think so, and I'm generally honest with myself. I still think that would require some experiential basis outside of movies and TV. It's that one of my teammates couldn't go due to his 'physique' – not due to any medical condition, but because he'd be identified as Banyamulenge by his countrymen, and this had consequences. It's that field missions had been curtailed by other organizations due to some ethnic conflict. It's that questions that face those left behind are more difficult than those about survival – the answer to the latter will always be yes until the decision is taken out of your hands.
If I was scared, it wasn't about dying – what's that saying about death and taxes? My faith holds me responsible for one of those, and has sort of granted me exemption from the other. No, it was the frantic life packed all around that moment: vague imaginings of psychological and physical harm, the responsibility on our leaders, the consequences for our program, team, and families, the what if, the if only...
In the end, Carrottop and Grandpa gave me a tentative yes, conditional on any new developments in our destination over the weekend. Which is when I realised I was still desperately clinging to that sharp fence.
Did I want them to hear some bad news before Monday? Would I rather they just lazily waved me out the door without a care? I certainly wouldn't want them to hear anything after Monday. But maybe that would be better – after all, ignorance is bliss. But what if if only... turns out to be a poor consolation?
After half-joking that I wouldn't want them to call me back into the city after we left (because my entire office would probably want to cradle me tenderly in their arms – in order to make themselves feel better, I assume, since this practice generally makes me want to crawl out of my skin), I resolved to talk to my mother. Not to channel Joan of Arc, but...
...it's hard to explain. To remind her that I was happy, more than anything else. (But not too happy or she'd suspect I was leaving on a suicide mission or covering up a lobotomy.) Because it all sounds so dramatic – a side effect of this self-imposed excitatory feedback loop with no end. I understand that our leaders have a responsibility towards us, our families, our organisation, and God – and I'm simultaneously disdainful of and thankful for their dedication. It's just that managing a fight-or-flight response in the absence of any immediate stimulus is proving difficult for someone who is already naturally consumed with identifying pitfalls and planning to avoid them; shifting gears to lie in wait to possibly evade the possibility of all possible disasters outside of anything I've ever experienced is likely to give me an ulcer in the safety of my own sweet home in this largely ordinary city.
Did I want to go?
To stay in a remote village? To travel on a rutted route through a jungle? To ensure maximum visibility so that we are not attacked en route? To view a level of human misery facing a staggering percentage of the world's population and evaluate it in terms of change? To process and document what I hear and see and learn and receive – both the good and the bad? To gauge whether money and the business of humanitarian aid are doing more good than harm to people in the aftermath of colonialism and war? To live as though there is something more precious than this life?
You decide.
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