Finally home, in a fugue state that had begun the first night that Butters had kindly woken me, I could finally begin to process everything we'd seen and heard in the course of three days.
On the way out of the city, I was surprised to see UN forces hard at work levelling dirt roads. I was happy they were doing something - my friends, on the other hand, were frustrated because it was apparently the government's responsibility and the UN was fostering dependence! It didn't seem to matter that no one else was doing the job and that moto drivers and mamans alike had to field their way through muck as high as their heads to get to and from town with small children and enormous burdens – legs akimbo to keep their balance, avoid aid vehicles, and stay alive. It was interesting to hear that both the opposition and the government had apparently fought the UN for this right; the compromise was that the UN worked on areas outside the city (with the threat of rebel activity), and the government worked at a glacial pace on one of the major routes through the city.
With this unanimous fear of armed group activity, I could understand why my coordinator and the external evaluator whispered the name of the local militia (whose name means 'The People Who Are Fighting Back' – Against Their Own Damn People seems to go unsaid) during our organizational review at 9am on a Tuesday morning in the enclosed garden of our Catholic hostel. So I was confused when the evaluator seemed determined to continue even after we'd heard of rival factions fighting close to the village we'd planned to visit. I later learned that he'd had organizations intentionally stage gunfights so that they wouldn't be assessed.
In other words, middle class, educated people had rerouted money from their rural countrymen and into their own pockets; to keep this from being discovered, they'd supplied arms to possible mercenaries or locals, who'd opened fire on the project evaluator of a major international aid organization that had donated hundreds of thousands of dollars to the goal of putting an end to poverty, corruption, and violence in the country.
Another great story he shared was about how his organization used to assign batches of proposals to their workers – one of their tasks was to inform the local NGO when it had been accepted for funding by the selection committee. After a proposal had been accepted, the worker would call the NGO in question and hem, haw, and insinuate that monetary compensation sure would help the decision-making process. And shortly after an envelope was received – lo and behold, the NGO would be informed that their proposal had been accepted. The NGO couldn't call the worker out on it because they needed funding, didn't understand the administrative chain of command, and were now complicit. So what was a little more corruption once the project actually began – in an office full of family or church members who carefully avoided any mention of their private connections?
To prevent this, the international organization now uses an entirely computerised system that automatically informs local NGOs whether their projects have been accepted. However, the evaluations must still be accomplished by a warm body, so the opportunity for bribery still remains. Thankfully, I think our evaluator was on the straight and narrow.
On the way out of the city, I was surprised to see UN forces hard at work levelling dirt roads. I was happy they were doing something - my friends, on the other hand, were frustrated because it was apparently the government's responsibility and the UN was fostering dependence! It didn't seem to matter that no one else was doing the job and that moto drivers and mamans alike had to field their way through muck as high as their heads to get to and from town with small children and enormous burdens – legs akimbo to keep their balance, avoid aid vehicles, and stay alive. It was interesting to hear that both the opposition and the government had apparently fought the UN for this right; the compromise was that the UN worked on areas outside the city (with the threat of rebel activity), and the government worked at a glacial pace on one of the major routes through the city.
With this unanimous fear of armed group activity, I could understand why my coordinator and the external evaluator whispered the name of the local militia (whose name means 'The People Who Are Fighting Back' – Against Their Own Damn People seems to go unsaid) during our organizational review at 9am on a Tuesday morning in the enclosed garden of our Catholic hostel. So I was confused when the evaluator seemed determined to continue even after we'd heard of rival factions fighting close to the village we'd planned to visit. I later learned that he'd had organizations intentionally stage gunfights so that they wouldn't be assessed.
In other words, middle class, educated people had rerouted money from their rural countrymen and into their own pockets; to keep this from being discovered, they'd supplied arms to possible mercenaries or locals, who'd opened fire on the project evaluator of a major international aid organization that had donated hundreds of thousands of dollars to the goal of putting an end to poverty, corruption, and violence in the country.
Another great story he shared was about how his organization used to assign batches of proposals to their workers – one of their tasks was to inform the local NGO when it had been accepted for funding by the selection committee. After a proposal had been accepted, the worker would call the NGO in question and hem, haw, and insinuate that monetary compensation sure would help the decision-making process. And shortly after an envelope was received – lo and behold, the NGO would be informed that their proposal had been accepted. The NGO couldn't call the worker out on it because they needed funding, didn't understand the administrative chain of command, and were now complicit. So what was a little more corruption once the project actually began – in an office full of family or church members who carefully avoided any mention of their private connections?
To prevent this, the international organization now uses an entirely computerised system that automatically informs local NGOs whether their projects have been accepted. However, the evaluations must still be accomplished by a warm body, so the opportunity for bribery still remains. Thankfully, I think our evaluator was on the straight and narrow.
I think.
But even if he weren't, it seemed like every person on the field – every single person – wanted our project to be evaluated well. They all responded in a detailed and positive fashion, even when they apparently hadn't been paid a red dime to work with us – now that's high praise! Of course, they threw us under the bus immediately if there was some identified issue, but they tried to keep those occasions to a minimum. Literally the only recommendation was that the project continue.
I'd assumed that at least one recommendation might be to have more female counsellors, as I'd imagined it would be difficult to speak to a man about a rape, physical suffering, and subsequent sex life. I know from Indian culture that women can often be just as harsh or harsher than men against members of their own group in matters of domestic responsibility and sexual violence; I also know that women known to be hired by an aid organization may be targeted in the villages where we work - but you can't blame me for hoping. But as it turned out, it didn't matter if we were committed to hiring trained gibbons – the project must go on.
I didn't want to jump to unfair conclusions, but it was just so hard to discern where the truth ended and the lies began. I have no doubt that these people were answering with the cultural desire to please, to hide negatives, and to have the right answers. However, I also suspect an ulterior motive: If the project had bad outcomes or reviews, the funding would stop; if the funding stopped, everyone would lose.
This is the reason that corrupt practices outpace the anti-corruption efforts that are being put in place. Corruption has become vital to this economy because it allows more people to benefit less, and the aid machine must keep grinding – by the blood of the poor and the disregard of the less so. I have no concrete proof of these processes, but I know they exist because if I have heard of them at my level of confusion and foreignness, you'd better believe they're going on in a village only accessible by a half-hour moto ride during the dry season. If you learn nothing from this blog, you should learn that this country does not suffer because its people are stupid and don't know how to manage the immense amounts of money transferred here year after year; it's because very little of the money is used as it's intended and, ultimately, bazungu can't demand receipts, reports, and sustainability from the illiterate maman who should've received $200 but received closer to $20 because of her position in line after office workers, rebel leaders, field staff, community networks, transportation costs, inflation, taxes, etc.
One good thing did come out of all this shuttling between clinics and villages – one blessed, glorious thing: One of my friends told me that he'd begun to think about individual responsibility after a conversation we'd once had - that he couldn't expect his leaders or government to do something that he wasn't prepared to do himself.
I was frozen between screaming for joy and removing my shoes on this holy ground. We were bouncing from rut to rut at the time, so I contented myself with gripping the seat with all available limbs and gibbering mental praise to God. Because, though I am generally unable to convince anyone of anything other than that I'm a raving lunatic, sometimes people actually listen. A disturbing global trend (either due to liberal ideals or basic politesse; I wouldn't know) seems to be to avoid certain topics - especially those pertaining to culture. As though the fact of brutal colonialism has negated the West's right to have any further bright ideas about politics or justice. I will always question those who try to parrot this as a balm for centuries of suffering because, in the end, it does nothing but limit humanity's progress.
Another friend, who routinely condemns looting by national leaders, refused to accept that corruption began on a personal level. I mused that this would make him just like the government he hated; after some hesitation, he agreed to this rather than admit that even minor corruption was corruption and negatively affected the country, its people, and its image.
And this is my battleground.
I didn't come here to save a child with sad eyes. $10 or a meal or bus fare may help for a day, may even change a life, but I don't think we were meant to bear that burden. I came because I have been inspired by people whose thoughts, words, and actions were united for the glory of God and I want to share the power of that Gospel – whether it's in Africa or America.
This is why I'm scared when kind men and women say things like It was Eve who took the apple. This is why I'm scared when we excuse minor acts of manipulation or fraud. This is why I'm scared when people accept bribery as a part of life. This is why I'm scared when people joke about tribal stereotypes. This is why I'm scared when locals believe so fervently in African solidarity without having a definition of it. Because the stories we repeat daily influence action, while religion and ideology can and have stayed safely distanced – on Sundays, in essays – while we take part in genocides. I'm scared that everyday leaders with this duality of thought are glorifying values that will never be achieved on a regional, national, consistent level because they have no expectation of practicing them.
It is on this battleground – where we are armed with love and our acts are witness – that we must honestly discuss the 'ideals' of equality and leadership, of solidarity and justice. Only when we admit that we, individually, have failed to live them will we see the rising of the Son and His Kingdom.
Part I
Part II
Part III
But even if he weren't, it seemed like every person on the field – every single person – wanted our project to be evaluated well. They all responded in a detailed and positive fashion, even when they apparently hadn't been paid a red dime to work with us – now that's high praise! Of course, they threw us under the bus immediately if there was some identified issue, but they tried to keep those occasions to a minimum. Literally the only recommendation was that the project continue.
I'd assumed that at least one recommendation might be to have more female counsellors, as I'd imagined it would be difficult to speak to a man about a rape, physical suffering, and subsequent sex life. I know from Indian culture that women can often be just as harsh or harsher than men against members of their own group in matters of domestic responsibility and sexual violence; I also know that women known to be hired by an aid organization may be targeted in the villages where we work - but you can't blame me for hoping. But as it turned out, it didn't matter if we were committed to hiring trained gibbons – the project must go on.
I didn't want to jump to unfair conclusions, but it was just so hard to discern where the truth ended and the lies began. I have no doubt that these people were answering with the cultural desire to please, to hide negatives, and to have the right answers. However, I also suspect an ulterior motive: If the project had bad outcomes or reviews, the funding would stop; if the funding stopped, everyone would lose.
This is the reason that corrupt practices outpace the anti-corruption efforts that are being put in place. Corruption has become vital to this economy because it allows more people to benefit less, and the aid machine must keep grinding – by the blood of the poor and the disregard of the less so. I have no concrete proof of these processes, but I know they exist because if I have heard of them at my level of confusion and foreignness, you'd better believe they're going on in a village only accessible by a half-hour moto ride during the dry season. If you learn nothing from this blog, you should learn that this country does not suffer because its people are stupid and don't know how to manage the immense amounts of money transferred here year after year; it's because very little of the money is used as it's intended and, ultimately, bazungu can't demand receipts, reports, and sustainability from the illiterate maman who should've received $200 but received closer to $20 because of her position in line after office workers, rebel leaders, field staff, community networks, transportation costs, inflation, taxes, etc.
One good thing did come out of all this shuttling between clinics and villages – one blessed, glorious thing: One of my friends told me that he'd begun to think about individual responsibility after a conversation we'd once had - that he couldn't expect his leaders or government to do something that he wasn't prepared to do himself.
I was frozen between screaming for joy and removing my shoes on this holy ground. We were bouncing from rut to rut at the time, so I contented myself with gripping the seat with all available limbs and gibbering mental praise to God. Because, though I am generally unable to convince anyone of anything other than that I'm a raving lunatic, sometimes people actually listen. A disturbing global trend (either due to liberal ideals or basic politesse; I wouldn't know) seems to be to avoid certain topics - especially those pertaining to culture. As though the fact of brutal colonialism has negated the West's right to have any further bright ideas about politics or justice. I will always question those who try to parrot this as a balm for centuries of suffering because, in the end, it does nothing but limit humanity's progress.
Another friend, who routinely condemns looting by national leaders, refused to accept that corruption began on a personal level. I mused that this would make him just like the government he hated; after some hesitation, he agreed to this rather than admit that even minor corruption was corruption and negatively affected the country, its people, and its image.
And this is my battleground.
I didn't come here to save a child with sad eyes. $10 or a meal or bus fare may help for a day, may even change a life, but I don't think we were meant to bear that burden. I came because I have been inspired by people whose thoughts, words, and actions were united for the glory of God and I want to share the power of that Gospel – whether it's in Africa or America.
This is why I'm scared when kind men and women say things like It was Eve who took the apple. This is why I'm scared when we excuse minor acts of manipulation or fraud. This is why I'm scared when people accept bribery as a part of life. This is why I'm scared when people joke about tribal stereotypes. This is why I'm scared when locals believe so fervently in African solidarity without having a definition of it. Because the stories we repeat daily influence action, while religion and ideology can and have stayed safely distanced – on Sundays, in essays – while we take part in genocides. I'm scared that everyday leaders with this duality of thought are glorifying values that will never be achieved on a regional, national, consistent level because they have no expectation of practicing them.
It is on this battleground – where we are armed with love and our acts are witness – that we must honestly discuss the 'ideals' of equality and leadership, of solidarity and justice. Only when we admit that we, individually, have failed to live them will we see the rising of the Son and His Kingdom.
Part I
Part II
Part III
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