It recently occurred to me that:

- Soldiers and police officers get medals for valor and heroism.
- Athletes get medals for winning competitions.
- Writers and journalists get Pulitzers.
- Academics, thinkers of deep thoughts, scientists, and sometimes politicians get Nobel Peace prizes.
- Actors/Actresses, and film industry peeps get Oscars, Emmys, and Golden Globe awards.
- Singers/musicians and music industry peeps get Grammys.

But what do aid workers get?

Pins for organizational loyalty.

I’m sure many of us could go on to list many other professions where the rank and file go in and get it done, day after day, largely unacknowledged, let alone lauded or awarded. Teachers and parents, especially single parents, for example. Or bus drivers. Or construction workers. And many, many others.

Yes, the world is certainly unfair in the way that it bestows wealth and acclaim on those who are really good, say, at tossing a ball through a net, or who manage to get their lines (written by others) right in one out of 20 takes and who stay fit with the help of personal trainers and nutritionists. While ignoring or perhaps demeaning outright those who form the foundation of our collective civilization and culture. Aid workers are hardly the most marginalized or forgotten in the great, global organogram of who matters in the minds of those who apparently matter in the world.

Moreover, the vast majority of the aid workers I know would be terribly uncomfortable receiving a medal or trophy. In an imaginary aid world equivalent of The Oscars, I can picture my colleagues and friends, in their cargo pants and Beer Lao T-shirts, shuffling up to receive a little statue of Henri Dunant for “Best Logistician” or “outstanding performance as WASH cluster lead”, and babbling awkwardly about how they don’t deserve it. Most aid workers I know, whether in the field or hunkered down in the cubicles of HQ, would far rather celebrate the occasional, incremental wins by sharing a few rounds with close colleagues at the expat bar or watering hole of choice. I don’t think that many of us are in it for the acclaim or the money.

But nevertheless, it bothers me.

It bothers me that when you Google “humanitarian awards” you get pictures of Ben Affleck or Angelina Jolie. It bothers me that we cannot articulate, even to ourselves, what excellence—what award-worthy humanitarian practice looks like. It bothers me that the closest we seem to be able to come is a recognition of loyalty to a particular organization: a pin or certificate, more or less every five years, which doesn’t say much except that the recipient was neither fired nor had the wherewithal to leave.

Chasing Misery (a book review)

If you’ve been following my other projects over the past year/months, you know that I’m very much about gaining better understanding of and then explaining to those who apparently matter, this group of people we call “aid workers.” We’re understudied, usually mis-represented, too-frequently both lauded and also blamed for the wrong things. Beyond a few, frequently cringe-inducing memoirs, the voices of aid workers themselves are largely absent from the majority of current writing, analysis, critique, and other representation of the aid industry.

Depending on which numbers you choose to read and how you choose to read them, females–women–account for anywhere from one-half to two-thirds of the aid industry workforce. This means that if we are to understand the global community of people we call aid workers, we inevitably need to look specifically at the experiences of the women who go out to the front lines (including the front lines of Geneva, Brussels, DC, and NYC) to carry out relief and development work.

Chasing Misery: an anthology of essays by women in humanitarian responses is the first book that I’m aware of which shares the experience of aid work from a uniquely female perspective. As the title suggests, it’s a collection of essays and photographs, of and about aid work, by women who are aid workers.

Pageflex Persona [document: PRS0000026_00020]


This is not some dry 35,000 ft. theory debate, or boring digression into the weeds of statistical regressions. No, Chasing Misery is an engaging read that keeps you turning pages.  The chapters are short and readable, the writing is visceral and emotive. The images are strong, sometimes gritty.

I knew many of the official answers as to why it was broken—
lack of budget allocation at the national and provincial levels,
poor incentives for female doctors to stay in this remote area,
abysmal management, supervision and recognition of health staff,
low education and nutritional status of pregnant women—but
I couldn’t get my heart to understand why, with a multi-million
dollar healthcare project, there wasn’t more care for those babies,
more options for those mothers.

p. 107

Chasing Misery is not a book to read if you need a happy ending where all the grateful beneficiaries bow slightly and say ‘thank you’ before returning home, content with their bag of CSB and bottle of vegetable oil. Chasing Misery summarily dispatches the myth that aid is some romantic, soft-focus international adventure. It’s not the end-all-be-all, of course, but then it’s obvious that it’s not intended to be. Chasing Misery is an invaluable early addition to the much too small, but thankfully growing, body of writing and perspective out there by actual aid workers.

It has been years now since I last set foot in the sands of Darfur,
but the condition remains with me still. In books, in friends, in the
far corners of life, I have continued my search for the ‘why’. And I
have yet to find it.
The condition is hard to shake. Surely, there must be some
explanation. So I continue to go around and around in the
maddening cycle of my humanitarian hamster wheel of questioning,
and of all the countless sources.

p. 239


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You can find Chasing Misery online at the following places:

 Chasing Misery is available for purchase as a paperback (,, or as an ebook (

Surviving the life

This is a re-post, with some revisions, of a post that originally appeared here.

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One thing that’s too-rarely mentioned in the heated debate about how to fix aid is how to fix or at least take care of us, the humanitarian workers. I’m not sure why that is. Maybe we feel guilty worrying about ourselves while surrounded by those who we perceive to have things far worse than us. Maybe we don’t feel that we deserve help ourselves when that help is paid for by donor resources. Maybe we revel in our own personal fables of strength and stamina. Maybe we think we have to figure it all out on our own. Or maybe we’re just too busy to stop for a minute and just think about what we’re doing (with our lives). 

For what it’s worth, here are three survival tips. I don’t claim that these are the end-all, be-all. There is plenty of good advice out there. But here are three things that you can do or begin immediately to increase your chances of survival in the crazy aid world:

Be yourself: It sounds really basic, but as you probably know already, aid workers can be some of the biggest poseurs on the planet. You know how it is: whether you’re preparing your CV for another job interview or sitting in the teamhouse quaffing beers with a bunch of aid workers who don’t know you at all, there’s always the temptation to Botox your own narrative. We all succumb at different times to the temptation to make it seem like we’ve had experience that we haven’t really had. An eleven-week deployment becomes 3 months, becomes “half a year” (including prep before and detox after…). Admin assistant to the VP who led the life-saving workshop becomes “executive assistant”, becomes “I co-facilitated the workshop…” And before you know it you’ve become someone you’re not, trying to live up to a manufactured past, and hoping no one blows your cover.

Take the easy way out of this situation by never getting into it. Be yourself. Don’t front. Don’t B.S. your colleagues. Don’t try to make yourself out to be more than you are. You don’t have to self-deprecate or affect a lack of confidence.

But just be yourself. You’ll live longer.

Stay healthy: You know what to do. Eat right. Exercise. Get enough sleep. Don’t drink too much. Don’t smoke. We know how it is: things get crazy in the field (and at HQ, too). When you’re on lock-down you can’t exactly go running out around the neighborhood for fitness. And using the one treadmill in the teamhouse isn’t really an attractive option when it’s in the room where everyone else sits and watches TV while smoking. Maybe you’re in a country where it’s all but impossible to find something to eat other than simple carbohydrates cooked in deep fat. Or maybe it’s just that between the grants that have to be written and the evaluation reports that have to be submitted and the field visits that have to be conducted, combined with spouse/partner/child/parent drama sucking you in from a thousand miles away, you’re too emotionally exhausted for much more than a bottle of something and a few cigarettes before crashing for the night.

Find ways to stay healthy. If you have to spend extra per diem on healthy food, do it. If you have to learn yoga and practice it in your room in order to stay fit, do it. If you need join a 12-step program in order to quit drinking or smoking, do it. If you need to declare yourself “sick” for the weekend to just sleep, do it. This is your life you’re talking about here. Save it.

Have an exit strategy: There’s a growing body of information out there (including some in this blog) about how to get in to the aid industry. But almost no one talks to aid workers about leaving. So here you go: decide now how you want your career in aid or development to end. If you plan to do this through retirement, that’s fine. Just decide now, because otherwise you will wake up one day wondering where the hell the last 12 years went…

I don’t mean to sound harsh or negative, but it has to be said: the aid world will take as much of you as you’re willing to part with, and give you precious little in return beyond a career-worth of awesome Facebook status updates. The aid world will cheerfully give you another contract and send you on another hardship deployment, all the while watching you crash and burn financially, professionally, personally. If you let it, that is.

Think now about what kinds of things would cause you to up and walk away so that you don’t spend half of your career disillusioned but unable to articulate why you’re still here/there. Think now about when, in the seasons of life cycle, you plan to hand in your aid worker credentials and switch over to running your own coffee shop (or whatever). After a life of sacrifice on behalf of the poor it may feel crass to do so, but plan now for your financial post-aid-work future and take steps to ensure it.

Aid work can be extremely rewarding and even (dare I say it?) fun. But you need to know how you plan to leave. Have an exit strategy.


I’ll be the heretic and just say straight out that I didn’t love the Al Jazeera The Stream show on something about expat aid workers and INGOs. Okay, I’ll back up and say that I normally like The Stream. I like the format, I think Malika Bilal (@mmbilal) hosts well. I like Al Jazeera’s frequent focus on international aid and development things. And to their credit, they did reach out to @ShotgunShack and me, initially to participate (but to their not credit, the producers wouldn’t roll with us because we’re pseudonymous). My reasons for not loving it did not have anything to do with Al Jazeera, necessarily.

I didn’t love it, because it was a somewhat predictable array of commenters, saying what felt to me like the Highly Predictable Things (the HPTs): Theme and variations on Locals know everything, foreigners know nothing, aid is another kind of colonialism. Yadda yadda. Yadda. It’s a song and dance that we’re all quite familiar with by now. I most enjoyed the quiet irony of the fact that the springboard for an entire discussion about foreign aid organizations and foreign aid workers apparently failing to “get it”, was a television show (“The Samaritans”), that lampoons INGOs and expat aid workers, written and produced by people who by their own rather cheerful admission have never worked for an NGO…

At least Christopher Guest actually learned to play guitar when he lampooned heavy metal music in This Is Spinal Tap.

I know this will be hugely unpopular in some corners of the aid and development world, but it is time to speak plainly: We need to move past the supposed opposing tensions of “local” and “expat.” It is an outmoded way of thinking about what we do, and it leads to totally unhelpful arguments about how we do it.

Yes, I know. We can all recite examples, both ancient and recent, where local knowledge, wisdom, know-how, whatever was what was needed to address the issue or solve the problem. And we can also all (or at least those of us who have been around a bit) think of examples of exactly the opposite. To espouse either one solely is to be naïve about the realities of the real world, now.

By the same token, I think we can all recall examples of times where highly qualified local people took menial positions, compared to–or perhaps even supervised by–expats who were in every way their junior. That is something for which those of us in the aid industry should (and among those with whom I am close, do) feel acutely ashamed, and make daily effort to redress. Yet at the same time, I can also think of examples of the exact opposite. Examples of times where conscious decisions were made to advertise and recruit good, prestigious, well-compensated positions as “local”, only to have those same positions lie vacant, month after month, the much-touted local capacity not pitching up for whatever reason. Platitudes about what should be done are easy to voice. Doing what should be done, and making happen what should be made to happen, are tough in the real world.

Speaking to aid industry insiders of all stripes, now: If want to turn it up to “11”—that is, if we want to take our game to the next level—we have got to stop fixating on who is from or not from someplace. We have got to expel this emotional blockage about expats versus locals. We have got to begin from the assumption that both have contributions to make, every bit as much as both have limitations and blind spots. We—all of us, expat and local alike—have got to let go of antiquated notions of what an expat is, how he or she looks. An expat aid worker in today’s world can be from anywhere. And she or he might have been a local aid worker, only last week. It’s about gaps and capacities, not what logo is one someone’s passport. We have got to get past the opposing tensions of “one size fits all”, and “no size fits us.”

No, it will not be easy. Different salary and benefits packages is an explosive issue, and one which I do not see an easy way around. We just have to muscle through, in good faith, equally honest about benefits as about costs. Whose voice matters, and the extent to which we privilege local or outside, or vice versa, will also be potentially explosive, and never resolved globally. It’s highly contextual. Working through these intensely cerebral and also intensely emotional issues, finding resolve, then the context changes, and we have to work through them all, laboriously, again—this is fundamental to the commitment that being an aid worker requires, more so, even, than willingness to eat strange food, endure harsh climates or illnesses, or work in the face of the threat of violence. This is what makes aid work difficult. If you think of aid work as a calling, then this is the call. Anyone can learn to behave properly in checkpoints, remember to take their Malarone every day, or use radio call signs. But comparatively few have the ability to navigate the wilds of culture and ethnicity and emotion. But this is the requirement for aid workers, regardless of where they sit, their origin, or color.

This is “11.”

Why Expats?

It’s not really possible to think for very long about the problems inherent in seeing the aid world through a “the field”, versus “everywhere else that’s not the field” lens, without at some point also having an honest conversation about expats. The whole notion of there being this place called “the field” as the place where aid supposedly happens, to the exclusion of pretty much anything else that goes on anywhere else, is intrinsically tied to the idea of expats; specifically, the idea or the belief that the aid endeavor somehow needs expats at all.

It’s an explosive topic. I’m not sure I know of a better way to make tempers flare at the project site or in a team house than to suggest either of the opposite ends of the possible spectrum on this is issue.

The idea that somehow there is an inherent and specific need for a foreigner—me, perhaps, or maybe you—to go to another country to do something to help the local people there is seductive and intoxicating. It feels natural and logical. There is obvious need. We can see it. There is a deficit of response. No one else is stepping up (or at least not enough are)—ergo, I have a role to play in implementing a solution. For Americans, at least (and probably plenty of others), the ideas that “you can be special”, and that you, armed with nothing more than a can-do attitude and a passion for change, “can make a difference”, are all but mainlined to us in utero. For all of our emotional attention to all things “local” (empowering, facilitating, capacity-building, and on, and on), and despite occasional expressions to the contrary, I have yet to meet an aid or development worker who truly questions her or his relevance and potential contribution to relief aid or poverty reduction. Of course I’m relevant. Of course we’re relevant. Of course we have something to add. And once you agree that you’re relevant and have a contribution to make in general, it is only a very small logical step to the belief that you’re specifically relevant over there, in “The Field”, if you will.

The idea that aid (including development, relief, and poverty-reduction programmes) is a thing which at some level requires a foreigner, an expat, to leave here and go there to do is one of the Great Unquestioned Assumptions of the aid industry as we currently know it. Openly doubt the need for expats, and you can expect a stream of self-righteous, self-preservationist, maybe technocratic, and surely emotional reaction.

Paradoxically, this emotional need for and/or to be expats runs directly against the grain of aid and development doctrine that local knowledge, local wisdom, above all local people are already sufficient raw material to solve their own problems. This also–the intrinsic, superseding-all-things-external quality of “local”–is seductive and intoxicating. It feels like a self-evident truth. We want it to be true. I don’t think I can think of another single element of aid industry thinking that gets more lip-service than the importance of local. No article of faith in the Church of Aid is drummed into our skulls with more fervent regularity, from our first 101 class on global citizenship, clear on through to retirement, than, well, you know, local. It feels ethnocentric to question it even in the silence of our own heads. And just like real doctrine in a real religion, anyone foolish to speak up with an opinion to the contrary, may be granted an initial period of grace, but will eventually be cast as a heretic.

The Church of Aid doesn’t burn its heretics at the stake (thankfully), but make no mistake: the stink of “ethnocentric”—of questioning too loudly or for too long the omnipotent value of everything “local”—is not easily shed, and carries with it some sometimes harsh real-world consequences.

The facts and our own eyes tell us that neither of these doctrines is true. There are plenty of concrete examples of times and places where all things local, in fact, were not sufficient. Moreover, if you want to participate in this industry, in my opinion you have to, at some stage, come to the place where you make peace with the reality that your job is somehow about causing change to happen—which inherently implies a value judgment. Something in or about a local context somewhere, has to change.

By the same token, we can all recite examples of instances, some of them famous, where outside “assistance” made things worse. Many have written, repeatedly, about how deeply wanting to help, and embarking on a course of action intended to help, in no way predetermine help actually happening. It is factually inaccurate to think that foreigners—expats—somehow add value by definition.

And perhaps the larger point is really that no matter your perspective on the expats versus local issue, there is plenty of evidence out there, both historical and as recent as last week, to support your position. Just as there is evidence out there to support the opposing position.

So where does that leave us? In my opinion it leaves us at the beginning of what will almost certainly be a difficult, emotional, and also absolutely necessary conversation. Of course I cannot claim to know all the outcomes or revelations along the way. But from where I sit right now, the following feel, well, self-evident:

(For goodness sake) We have to talk about it: We have to talk about this tension between the need for expats and the value of all things local. We cannot afford to leave un-discussed our attitudes, beliefs, values, and assumptions about both of these opposing doctrines. We have to find ways to talk about these things that are productive. We need to find ways and forums for talking about these things other than (equally) either attacking those who see it differently, or finding justification to revel in ethnocentrism (speaking to both sides on this). Both sides have to be willing to give—neither is 100% correct. There are exceptions to both. As Aid Leap so aptly put it in reference to “evidence”, so here, too, we all need to come to the conversation assuming the good faith of the other.

No one-size-fits-all. I do not see an in-principle universal stance on this issue. There are times when “local” is absolutely the only path that makes sense. There are times when bringing in a foreigner really, truly is the best option. There are instance where local very obviously has to change. There are cases where there is no conceivable good reason to send an expat. It’s case-by-case. We have to use both factual knowledge and also wisdom. We’re looking for guiding principles, but not universal statements.

We have to recognize the reality that aid is an interconnected, global enterprise. We can no longer isolate what happens in a village in Mozambique (or wherever) from what happens in a conference room in Brussels (or wherever). They’re interconnected, and not just in some sort of nebulous “we are the world” way, but often and increasingly literally. As in, there’s an open Skype chat or Google Hangout happening between the two. Discussion about the relative contributions of people from there and  people not from there, and where they are all located geographically as they make their respective contributions, has to happen in the context of this understanding.

We have to separate thinking of individuals from thinking about systems and structures. To me, this is basic. As individuals, we are not the structures that we’re part of.

We have to separate the expat experience from the expat contribution. I loved my own experience of being an expat in this place called the field. It was fun and exotic. I was special. I got all sorts of formal and informal perks, just by virtue of being foreign. I had all the classic epiphanies, the moving conversations, the realizations. I felt close to the action. Felt like I was “actually doing it”, while all my colleagues in HQ just “supported” the real work that I was doing. There is no question that I benefited, at least professionally, from “The Field.”

And more than anything else, the tenor of reactions against “The Field” seemed to beat this same drum. People clearly enjoy being in the field, wherever that is. But that all as may be, it is simply far past time to have an open conversation about actual contribution. I realize this is difficult for expats. Our own relevance comes naturally to us. The field is good for us, but are we good for the field?

We have to find ways to articulate the need for change in ways that do work, but that also do not unnecessarily demean or disrespect. This is the classic post-postmodern aid industry conundrum. Regardless of where we’re from and where we’re looking, we see things that have very obviously have to change. Yet out of some too-vaguely defined sense of “respect culture and custom”, we don’t speak up or act. Or we speak up or act only partially. Tom Paulson had a great piece on exactly this issue, here. This is a major part of what I was getting at, a long time ago, here.

This is in no way license to be ethnocentric. The preferred option, obviously, is for strong leaders to speak up and enable action within their own communities (whether we’re talking about Afghanistan or New Jersey). But this is not always feasible or even possible. We need to get our heads around how to think and talk about what we do in those kinds of situations.

The Myth of “The Field”

Many thanks to my friends over at for publishing the original version of this post, a few hours ago: Read the original!

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The myth of “the field”

A few months ago I wrote a little rant about “the field.” Continuing that train of thought, now…

There are few fixtures of the aid industry which hold as much mystique and show as much staying power as the concept and romance of “the field.” No other grail is so fervently sought among the bright-eyed, hopeful students and newbies as the field. The field, they believe, is where the action is, where they’re actually doing it, whatever “it” is. The harder or more exotic the field location, the better. Cubicles and conferences room in, say DC, are a necessary evil to be put up with until such time as one can escape to the field. There is no aspect of a young aid professional’s experience so frequently inflated or over-stated on resumes or at happy hour as time in the field. “Nearly one year” is always better than ten and a half months, and so on.

By the same token, there is no other trump card played with more authority and self-assurance, whether to put upstart newbs in their places or to establish one’s own silverback status, as years in the field. Years in Kabul or Huambo or San Salvador (and, for reasons I fail to grasp in 2014, Cambodia) make you a hardcore, front-line badass who makes things happen. Years in Brussels or Singapore or DC (the latter, at least as dangerous as Phnom Penh) makes you a pansy cubicle-farmer who goes to a lot of meetings and writes papers that no one in the field will ever read.

Some of you will call me an aid world heretic for this, but it’s got to be said: It’s time to recognize that “the field” is a relic from a previous era in aid history. Like VHS tapes and personal CD players, “the field” is an artifact left over from a time when white guys in khakis and untucked shirts (or maybe white women in sexy, black tanktops) left someplace comfortable and civilized to go someplace difficult and dangerous, where they would do aid to beneficiaries.

dressed for action in “the field”

I can think of few aspects of the culture of the aid industry which are more counterproductive to what we say we’re trying to accomplish, than to keep alive this notion of this mythical place called “the field.”

The reality of the aid industry today is that it no longer (if it ever did) conforms to a field/everywhere else way of thinking. It is far too common, even now in 2014, to think and say that there’s this place called the field where aid actually happens, and then there’s everywhere else—HQ, maybe—where other things get discussed or done, but what does not happen in the field is not really aid.

It’s time to recognize that this is just plain incorrect. Make fun, if you will, of what goes on in well-lit UN conference rooms in Geneva, or at the global HQs in Washington, DC, Oxford, New York or Singapore (I certainly have and sometimes still do). But it’s important to understand that those things are not just “support” or “fundraising.” They may not be particularly Facebook- or edgy memoir-worthy, but the workshops, meetings, strategy sessions in the humanitarian capitals are every bit as much aid work as are running cholera clinics in Port-au-Prince, getting a truckload of non-food items across the Acekele border crossing, or being the accountability officer in Goma.

More specifically, to see the field as the place where aid really happens, as compared to everywhere else, is to also miss a basic reality that the decisions which truly make the most difference are not made in this alleged place called the field. Implementation and technical teams at or very near the point of delivery need to be staffed by competent practitioners, and they need to be well-led, of course. It’s important to have solid people there. But look at what gets decided where:

At the project site, or at the country office you get to decide things like the training schedule for the nurse/midwives. Or maybe you get to decide on the wording of the questions in the household survey instrument. You get to decide which trucking company to go with for next month’s shelter kit delivery. Those are all important, of course, and they must be decided well.

But in the everywhere else, you decide or participate in decisions about where the funding goes. This region gets 2/3, that region gets 1/3. You decide which countries get funding. You decide what sectors get prioritized. These places, more than those. These people, not those. Maternal Child Health, but not harm reduction. At the project site, you basically implement the decisions made by those who are elsewhere. When I was a country director (during my own years in this alleged place called the field), I tried repeatedly to articulate and implement a strategy which focused on particular sectors in particular parts of the country where I worked (Vietnam). But at the end of the day, aid industry Darwinism took over and I implemented the grants I could win—which were not necessarily in my sectors or geographic areas of preference. I might have been on the so-called front lines, but the real decisions about where and who and what had been made elsewhere.

To use another example, in the early weeks of the Haiti earthquake response, World Food Programme (WFP) provided nearly 50 metric tonnes of food for earthquake survivors. The decision to make this amount of food available was made in Rome. The decision about how the food was to be divided up was made—well—globally, via email and internet, by the heads of relief and food programming of the various INGO partners (several INGOs did the distribution for WFP). The decisions about targeting (they targeted women on behalf of households) and ration size (50 kg. bags) were made by WFP with some input from NGOs, again more or less globally.

In the end, the relief operations teams in “the field” got to decide things like how to divide the tonnage and territory among themselves, where the distribution sites would be, exactly, and to some extent their own individual modes of beneficiary registration. I was in Port-au-Prince at this time, working for one of the INGOs tasked with distributing that WFP food, and I remember that period very well as a time of crazy ‘round-the-clock work. But in the end, we were implementing decisions made by others who, in some cases were thousands of miles away.

Beyond the basic, structural realities of the aid industry, there is also a deeper, darker problem perpetuated by the field versus everywhere else thinking. Our continued fixation with the field crystalizes residual, essentially ethnocentric notions about those who need help, and about those who do the helping. No matter how much lip service and maybe even real effort we devote to valuing all things “local”, to local capacity building, or local empowerment, to trying to break down the divide(s) between expats and non-expats, we re-cement the divide between “us” and “them” every time we refer to the place where aid supposedly happens as the field.

Speaking to the empowered, globally-minded Westerners now, we might say that we want Ugandans or Indonesians or Bolivians or whomever else to be empowered owners of their own development, but every time we refer to where they are as “the field”, we underscore our perhaps unconscious views that they are undeveloped, while we are, well, developed. By continually invoking this notion of the field we reinforce the very divides we say we want to bridge; we further solidify the very inequities we insist we want to eradicate. Inevitably “the field” becomes an even more deeply entrenched separation between “us” and “them”, whether the “them” is those we claim our projects and programs help, our local colleagues with whom we like to say we’re so close, or our colleagues hunched over desks in nice offices, writing the grants which keep our salaries flowing, and the position papers which (hopefully) keep our employing agencies credible.

Yes, the field sounds exciting. The field sounds romantic. Set in UN cubicles of New York or Geneva, Emergency Sex would hardly be worth reading (although I think it’s safe to say that more or less the same shenanigans go on there, too). But set in the field, it feels like a furtive peek through the locker-room door into a world that seems both exotic and foreboding. But the romance and the exotic factor of the field are chimera. The number of places in the world where you truly cannot get good internet or a cappuccino become fewer and farther between by the day. And in this context, the field becomes a huge distraction.

I can’t say I have the answer to the question of, “if not the field, then what?” I do know that how we think and speak (or write) about aid matters. I prefer to think about what I do and how that fits into the overall picture more than the where I do it. How does what I do today fit into the grand scheme of aid somehow making it into the hands of those who need it most? How does what I do today contribute to improved efficiency and effectiveness of the machine intended to make the world better? It’s not about the where: I know people living in places which, if I was to name them, would make anyone’s list of places in “the field”, but who cannot articulate a straight line of logic between what they spend their days doing and the amount of poverty in the world becoming somehow less.

And so, if I could be indulged to deliver one bit of unsolicited advice, it would be simply this: Understand and be honest about your motivations—the “why” matters. Find your spot in the overall scheme of what needs to be done.

But stop fixating on the where. There is no field.

What Aid Workers Want

I love our friends over at The Guardian’s Global Development Professionals Network. Seriously, I do. But their December 6 piece about “what to give the aid worker in your life” this Christmas felt rather like an early draft of the screenplay for really, really bad Mel Gibson movie.

a journalist who really “gets” aid workers…

I won’t exhaustively disassemble their recommendations, but there are a few things Gemma, Eliza, and Samantha have yet to learn about aid workers. For example:

After two decades in the industry, I’m still waiting to meet a real aid worker who truly wants to read the memoir of another aid worker. I don’t. See, we’ve all been there, in many instances literally. We all think our own stories are more interesting, farther off-the-chain, steamier, etc. Emergency Sex is for newbs and—apparently—writers at The Guardian. Unless it’s given ironically (see below).

There are few more sure ways to demonstrate one’s poseur status in the relief zone team house or coordination meeting than to sport jewelry made from cell-phones (local jewelry is status-proving gold; local tattoos, platinum), or goofy travel gadgets that look like they came from an in-flight magazine (most real aid workers either a) travel so light that a pocket luggage scale is irrelevant; b) have so many air miles that they automatically get three 70 lb. bags checked in at no additional cost).

I can’t remember the last time I gave someone a greeting card.

A book on craftivism?! Whiskey, tango

On the other hand, I would seriously enjoy receiving a KONY 2012 T-shirt. I would wear it with smug, sarcastic pride to the DFID or OFDA partners meeting, and inter-agency happy hours, alike (there’s nothing better than going to the pub and getting a little out of hand while wearing the T-shirt of another organization). If I can shuffle up ironically in a pair of TOMS shoes, so much the better. (I got my copy of Emergency Sex as a gag gift at an aid worker Christmas party a few years ago…)

And while I won’t confess to anything specific, I may or may not have at one point bought a goat for an aid worker friend (as a joke, of course). The same may or may not go for a bought-in-Hong Kong pirated version of Beyond Borders


By way of this post, I’d like to call on real aid workers everywhere to help give our friends over at The Guardian a tiny peek into your world. What would you like for Christmas? Be as serious or as snarkastic as you like. Or be both, if you want. Make your list a short or as long as you like. Post your answers in the comments beneath this post, beneath the original, on the AidSource Facebook page, or in the discussion, here. We’ll RT the most amusing ones.

*  *  *  *  *

This post originally appeared at AidSource: The Humanitarian Social Network.

By AidSource co-founder, J.

The Philippines is not Haiti

A month in, more or less, and we’re now to the point in the Typhoon Haiyan response when the initial surges of various kinds are over. Fundraising has slowed. Major donors like OFDA and the EC have mostly spent what they have to spend. The initial relief effort—certainly the majority of what anyone could honestly describe as “life-saving”—is basically over, and cluster meeting rhetoric has shifted to “early recovery.”

Per what has become the norm following large, high-visibility disasters, aid pundits of all stripes are now looking for angles, desperate to say something poignant and/or wise. One angle getting a fair amount of airplay that sounds poignant and wise but actually isn’t, is the whole “Let’s not let the Philippines turn into another Haiti,” bit. I’ve lost track of all the places where I’ve seen this one, so here I’ll just link two of (in my opinion) the most important ones:

This article on Alertnet.

This blog post from the Center for Global Development.

Let’s be clear. The Philippines Typhoon Haiyan response is a universe apart from the Haiti Earthquake Response. This is true for a large number of reasons. I’ll focus on what I see as the four primary ones:

Port-au-Prince, earthquake + 10 days. (Photo by J.)

Scale. The death toll of the Haiti earthquake was somewhere between 100,000 and 230,000, depending whether you choose to believe Wikipedia, The Huffington Post, the UN, or the government of Haiti. By contrast, the most aggressive death toll estimates for the Philippines following Typhoon Haiyan are still well below 6,000. Sure, there will be a few more dead found in the rubble over the next few months. But even so, I think we can safely say that the combined death toll in the Philippines will remain below 10,000. Even one person dead is already too many. But by this important measure alone, the disaster in the Philippines is a small fraction of the size of what we all saw in Haiti, back in January of 2010.

Death toll is but one measure. Of course there are other measures, too. The number of houses, hospitals, and schools destroyed, the number of people displaced over the long term, etc. There, similarly, in nearly all cases, the devastation caused by the earthquake was orders of magnitude larger than that caused by the typhoon.

In many ways Typhoon Haiyan, much like the Haiti Earthquake, seemed ready-made for media coverage. The devastation looks terrible. It’s the right combination of strong, dramatic visuals and basically easy access. This is not at all to diminish the real suffering and loss happening in the Philippines even now, but even now the aftermath of Typhoon Haiyan is not even the largest humanitarian crisis currently. But ask Anderson Cooper to choose between Tacloban and al Raqqa, and, well, we all know what the answer would be. And back to comparisons with Haiti, when you get past heart-wrenching images and look at the actual numbers you begin to see that Typhoon Haiyan can hardly be considered even the same category as the Haiti Earthquake.

Pre-disaster conditions. We need to remember that in pre-earthquake Haiti about 67% of the population existed on less than US $2 per day, compared to about 40% in the Philippines. In context, this means that Haiti was (and remains, according to an oft-touted factoid), by a very wide margin the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere. By contrast, the Philippines is ranked as the fourth wealthiest nation in Southeast Asia, ahead of both Hong Kong and Singapore, based on Purchasing Power Parity (PPP). It’s important to understand what this means in terms of the Philippines’ own ability to self-help from a purely economic perspective. Irrespective of whatever help might come in from outside in one form or another, the Philippines is now embarking on post-typhoon recovery exponentially better able to take care of itself than Haiti is or was or has ever been in modern memory. It is hard to overstate this kind of advantage, devastating as Typhoon Haiyan very clearly was to those affected directly by it.

There’s also the fact that the Haiti Earthquake decimated the capital city, Port-au-Prince, effectively crippling the central government infrastructure. Whereas Typhoon Haiyan struck mostly remote parts of a remote province, leaving the central government apparatus fully functional.

Here, once again, it is hard to overstate the kind of advantage this gave the Philippines in terms of quick response and transition to recovery, compared with Haiti. ABC Newsand The Washington Post seem keen to discuss local corruption or incompetence (A: not news. B: Two words—“Hurricane”, “Katrina”) as factors in vulnerability and a supposedly slow response. But simply the fact that Filipino army, navy and air force deployed as part of the domestic relief mission the very next day is already light years ahead of anything we saw in Haiti. Corruption and incompetence notwithstanding (every government is vulnerable on these points), the central government capacity and will of the Philippines to respond to its own disaster is by itself enough to say, flatly, that there’s no real chance of the Philippines “being another Haiti.”

Land rights. When the Haiti Earthquake hit, the majority of those displaced did not own the land they lived on pre-earthquake. This was and continues to be a major issue for the displaced, and it’s why there are still displacement camps, including de factopermanent ones, like Corail.

Land is always a central issue in disaster response (which is why resilience and DRR should include focus on land tenure). It remains to be seen how the land issue will play out in the Philippines, but given the pre-disaster history, it seems safe at this stage to make the call that we will not see anything anywhere near the scale of long term, massive permanent displacement that persists since the Earthquake in Haiti.

post-typhoon Philippines (photo: Baltimore Sun)

Disaster response evolves. After Hurricane Mitch we all sat around in meetings in various humanitarian capitals, agreeing amongst ourselves that “we could never do it this way again.” And coordination was born. After Rwanda/Goma, we all sat around agreeing that we could never do it this way again. And Humanitarian Accountability was born. After the Tsunamis, we all agreed on things we’d need to do differently next time. And then after Cyclones Sidr and Nargis, and after the earthquakes in Bam and Gujarat, and—yes—even after Haiti. We’re now seeing some of the lessons-learned in Haiti being applied, for the better across the interagency response in the Philippines.

Haiti was one of our first chances to test cash-transfer programing in an intensively urban context. In Haiti we used for the first time technologies that are now more or less commonplace in the industry. Interactive mapping, for example. Fundraising—both the ways that NGOs do it, as well as the ways in which major donor institutions make grants—has changed. And aid transparency, in all of its various forms, and while perhaps still a very long way from where it all needs to be, is now more or less a commonplace discussion. And we see all of these advances, such as they are, in the interagency response in the Philippines.

All to say that, much as I respect the intellect of people like Vijay Ramachandran and Owen Barder, I think some of the worry is a bit misplaced. They make good points, and I, for one, don’t mind being kept honest. But the context is different. The issues are different. And the aid world has changed quite a lot in the past three years.

I’m not saying that everything has or will continue to go swimmingly in the Typhoon Haiyan response. I’m not saying that everything’s awesome. Certainly, there are issues in the Philippines, too, and I’m sure that in six months or a year or two years, we’ll all individually and collectively come up with things to improve on next time. But for the reasons above and many more, I don’t think there’s much chance of the Philippines being anything at all like another Haiti.

[This post first appeared on AidSource: The Humanitarian Social Network]


Anyone who’s been even intermittently checking in with the aid Twitterverse over the past few weeks knows that cash-based programming (technical aid term for “just give people money”) is the aid world equivalent of the “song of the summer.” Which is to say that it is the latest “OMG, fixing world poverty really is easy” fad for journalists and undergrads alike to get all breathless over. Last year it was water. Before that it was some combination of adolescent girls and mobile phones. Before that it was accountability, or maybe innovation. I get my aid fads mixed up.

Then last week NPR featured a hitherto unknown organization called GiveDirectly, sending every amateur do-gooder with a Facebook page into a tizzy.

Imagine. Just give poor people money, no strings attached. They can use for whatever they like. They don’t have to pay it back. So easy.

I’ll be honest: I like cash-based programming (sometimes called “cash transfer programming”, or just “cash”).  I think there is a lot of wisdom in just giving people money. From the perspective of respect and empowerment, cash transfer—just giving away money—makes a lot of sense, as well: give people a valuable, flexible resource, and then let them use it as they will, don’t micromanage them, don’t judge them for any choices they might make in the course of using that resource. And finally, many recent studies seem to indicate that just giving people money actually works quite well (depending, of course, on what we anticipated would happen…).

"Yay... we're making poverty history!"

“Yay… we’re making poverty history!”

But we should remember:

There is no magic bullet. In 22 years, now of experience as a practitioner in the aid/development sector, I can say this unequivocally. There’s no one-size-fits-all, there is no one single intervention that fixes everything. Fixing (or eradicating or reducing or whatever term you prefer) poverty is difficult and takes time. There’s no easy solution. Even if it’s on NPR or in the Huffington Post.

There is a right way to do cash programming. Just like everything else in aid, there is a wrong way to give cash away. If you do it the wrong, you can be ineffective, or even cause harm. It’s nowhere near as simple as just walking into a poor community and passing out rolls of money.

We have to be careful. We have to use wisdom and exercise good judgment. We have to understand and accept, as with any other aid or development intervention, with cash, we’re introducing a valuable resource into resource-deficit contexts, and that that puts recipients at increased risk. It puts us and our staff at increased risk, too. The amount of guidance out there (see the links bullet-pointed above) just on how to distribute cash and keep recipients safe at the same time, is impressive. Selecting the proper mode for delivery (there are many), the time, the location, the amount (What’s the right amount to be useful? What’s the threshold for personal safety of the recipient?); determining how to communicate delivery time and location within the community; explaining to the larger community how targeting has been decided (presumably not everyone gets cash), all have to be done carefully and properly.

There is no such thing as “no strings attached.” Sorry, even GiveDirectly attaches strings. Not just any poor person is eligible for a GiveDirectly gift: they have to live in Kenya (not even the poorest country in Africa). And not just any Kenyan person, but one with a cell phone, and who is sufficiently competent with that cell phone to use it for financial transfer…

Not to pick on GiveDirectly. They’re one example. The larger point is that even by simply targeting a cash transfer activity, strings are already attached. By deciding this country, not that one, this district and this village (not those others), men not women (or vise versa), people who meet the particular definition of sufficiently “poor” that we’re going with at the time, or perhaps some other criteria, we’re attaching conditions.

We may not try to manage the manner in which recipients use a cash transfer after they’ve received it, but we surely do all we can to guarantee a “good” outcome in the way that we target. If we didn’t, we’d simply leave a pile of cash in the village center for people to just come and get on a first-come-first-serve basis. Or maybe we could just fly over at low altitude and scatter loose bills and change down onto a community.

But no, we typically have an opinion about (and try to control through targeting) who should and should not receive a cash transfer, based on our beliefs about the likely eventual outcome. Give to another category and the outcome is different. We want poor Afghan women—for example—to receive cash, not the resident warlords, because we assume the outcomes will be different. We want the one outcome, but not the other.

String. Attached.

The Field

I just have to get this out: “The Field” is overrated.

I’m not saying that I don’t enjoy “the field” (whatever that even means–I take it to mean someplace with no metered taxis, where street food is less likely to make you sick than restaurant food, the local beer is marginal, and the internet is slow/non-available. In other words, rural Michigan, Saskatchewan, huge swaths of Australia, and pretty much all of Scotland. But I digress). I do enjoy the field. But I still think it’s overrated.


Well, for starters, no one ever means the same thing when they say “the field.” “The field”, or “worked in the field”, or “when I was in the field”, and a thousand variants thereof all can and do mean vastly different things, depending on who’s doing the talking (or blogging). Working as the chief logistician at the UN facility in Dubai, being senior programme officer for GOAL in Darfur, being the accompanying spouse hospitality coordinator at a church mission outreach project in Costa Rica, or working on your research in Cambodia (while consulting for “various NGOs”) are universes apart from each other. And yet, they’re all articulated as “the field.”

I’ve met people who, after twenty years of expat life still cannot speak another language, and who cannot truly claim to have a close personal friend from even of the countries where they’ve worked. On the other hand, I know people who know multiple languages, and who have deep relationships with “local people” with whom they very intentionally keep in contact, but who, years later, and despite repeated, continuous travel, bemoan the fact that they have “no field experience.”

Years of “field experience” on your CV or in your Twitter profile don’t really tell me much more than how long you’ve needed a passport and visa in order to get to work.

It creates a false vibe of competence. It’s just time to dispel the aid industry myth that living and working in another country somehow imbues one with some kind of special wisdom and knowledge and ability. It doesn’t. Field experience does not mean you have a clue. Having lived and worked in the field, even for years and years, doesn’t mean that you’re good at aid work.

This quote is the money:

He had no genius for organizing, for initiative, or for order even. That was evident in such things as the deplorable state of the station. He had no learning, and no intelligence. His position had come to him—why? Perhaps because he was never ill… He had served three terms of three years out there… Because triumphant health in the general rout of constitutions is a kind of power in itself. When he went home on leave he rioted on a large scale—pompously.

Heart of Darkness, Joseph Conrad

Some of you expats are in your jobs, basically, because you don’t get sick often. You know who you are.

Oprah Winfrey holds hands with actor Sean Penn at a refugee camp in Haiti.

field-based aid workers

It creates a false vibe of “actually doing it.” The vast majority of what’s done in the field is exactly the same as what’s done… er… somewhere else?

  • Work in HQ: Go to meetings. Stare at a computer screen. Send email messages. Occasionally visit project sites and talk to beneficiaries. Be responsive to the needs of donors.
  • Work in “The Field”: Go to meetings. Stare at a computer screen. Send email messages. Occasionally visit project sites and talk to beneficiaries. Be responsive to the needs of donors. Have a housing allowance. Awesome Facebook updates.

To-date my career has been divided approximately 50-50 between “field” and “HQ” roles. And in terms of day-to-day tasks, the work has been almost identical. More to the point, in an industry where the bulk of the actual work is increasingly around ensuring and accounting for the flow of resources between wealthy nations and less wealthy nations, the “actually doing it” is more about boring office-y things. Sure, “the field” is fun. I certainly prefer Southeast Asia to North America. But in terms of the “doing it” that makes the resources flow and keeps the warehouses filled and, by extension, the babies more plump and the adolescent girls flush with ICT4D project-provided cell phones… The decisions that matter are made elsewhere. Brussels, maybe, or Rome, or Washington D.C.

Just saying.

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