Understanding the Spiritual Lives of Aid Workers

Isn’t it about time aid organisations paid more attention to the spiritual lives of their staff? After all, it is often faith of one sort or another that is guiding the work of aid professionals. With approximately 90% of the aid sector being made up of people from non-western countries, I think it is safe to say that the majority of that 90% would identify themselves with a particular faith. This is in contrast to western aid workers, where I would guess that the percentage who identify with and actively practise a particular religion is much lower. This is a fairly informed guess, given that I used to work for a large Christian charity where about half the number of its UK staff (including myself) did not identify with the Christian faith, nor any other religion.

Religion, and more broadly spirituality, has a bad press in the UK and many other western countries. We often tend to associate Christianity, for instance, with negative tropes such as power, domination (including the colonisation of countries in the global south), conflict and abuse. In the aid sector, we may work with and support faith-based organisations in our development programmes but in the workplace we shy away from discussions around faith and spirituality. The assumption seems to be that those are things for poor people in need, not for us. Development and aid programming is after all built upon rigid, rational formulas and frameworks that do not allow space for the subjective, fluid and hard-to-measure experience of what may be labelled ‘the supernatural’ or ‘occult’.

Yet by dismissing faith-based practice as something irrelevant to aid work we are overlooking the importance of these practices in guiding and supporting aid professionals in the most challenging of circumstances. From my own research in Kenya I have seen that spiritual growth and development has a major role to play in understanding why some people – European and African – overcome, or completely transcend, the challenges of their work in the aid sector.

Being religious or spiritual means many different things, and I am not simply suggesting that going to church can be a panacea for all ills, or a route out of personal suffering. What I believe is that spiritual practice, and faith, is a way in which to make sense of suffering in order to support one’s way of being in the world.

I found the way some of my Kenyan and Somali research participants talked about their faith and their work particularly informative. The Somali aid workers I met were often working in situations of heightened insecurity, where the threat of bombings or gunfire was always nearby. They believed that these were circumstances that had to be accepted as ‘God’s will’, and that rather than dwelling on the challenges it was better to appreciate the life that God had given them. It was this form of faith that enabled the Somali aid workers to laugh and joke about situations that their western counterparts balked at, such as the bombs they could hear outside their offices which the Somalis would say was the ‘popcorn’ starting again.

In a very different context, I remember the calmness and sense of acceptance that emanated from a Kenyan aid worker I spoke to in Nairobi, when she told me about her organisation’s restructuring and the likelihood that she would lose the job she’d been in for over 10 years. She felt strongly that her Christian faith would help her remain self-assured and confident of her abilities despite these circumstances.

‘My faith is more important now than anything else. Mostly because my faith helps me affirm my beliefs of who I am and what I’m capable of doing. Such that, as I step out, whether I’m stepping out or not, or as I face this matter, I face it with confidence. We always say, when one door closes another door opens. So I encourage myself with the word of God!’

Furthermore, aid work enabled some of my research participants to engage in a meaningful occupation that could give them spiritual growth. A number of Kenyan aid professionals I spoke to referred to how their work had given them a sense of purpose by making a difference to the lives of others. Working to assist victims of war, or poor communities, had also helped them to appreciate their own good fortune, in spite of the hardships they too may have experienced when growing up.

Having a sense of purpose is clearly very important for aid work. Loss of purpose, or meaning, is often what leads to disillusionment and burnout in the aid sector. And when faced with immense human suffering, along with the high expectations of aid beneficiaries, employers and donors, it isn’t hard to lose that sense of purpose, if the aid worker feels that their actions can never fully meet the needs of others. Yet faith and spiritual awareness are clearly vital elements in addressing these challenges. Reflecting on my own experience, and on the stories of some of my research participants, I can see that engaging in spiritual practice helps to build an awareness and knowledge of oneself. This may ultimately mean recognising one’s limitations as much as one’s capabilities; seeing that we cannot be all things to all people, and that we too are humans who are vulnerable and imperfect (perfectly imperfect as some spiritualists like to say). But by understanding ourselves better, we can also instil more trust in our abilities to overcome difficult situations – to respond to these situations in a way that helps us grow and learn.

Spiritual and religious practices are also a way of fostering greater connection with others. Prayer and meditation often takes place in a collective space, where people feel sufficiently safe to share their innermost feelings and vulnerabilities. These spaces are vital in the aid sector as its organisational culture so often stigmatises mental health and shuts out emotional expression. Whilst many western cultures may consider counselling and talking therapies to be the solution for mental health problems, we forget that there are other important spaces that exist in cultures different from our own. African aid workers, for instance, may feel more comfortable opening up to known and trusted faith-based or traditional healers than to a professional psychotherapist coming from a European country.

As I have said before, there can be no ‘one size fits all’ approach to staff care. But at least acknowledging and working with these alternative forms of healing and self-care could serve two related purposes: of understanding better the spiritual lives of aid workers – as multi-faceted human beings rather than mere aid delivery robots – and of providing them with support that is grounded in their own cultures and belief systems.

 

 

 

 

 

The Meaning of Commitment in Aid Work

Commitment is a key element of aid work. It is assumed, or may even be a requirement in a job description, that in order to work in this sector, one must be committed. And in aid work, the idea of commitment arguably stands out as different from many other professions because there is a very clear moral dimension to it.   The job is generally geared towards noble objectives such as ‘serving humanity’, ‘saving lives’, ‘ending poverty’. Similar to some other helping professions – doctors, carers, teachers for instance – but arguably with an even greater moral investment, due to aid work’s dedication to always supporting the less fortunate, the oppressed, the ‘victim’. It can mean that the aid worker themselves is judged according to how much they are willing to dedicate their lives to the cause, and to what extent they fail to meet the lofty ideals of ‘serving humanity.’

During my field research in Kenya, I found that national aid workers in particular could be judged negatively on these terms: they were not as committed, or motivated, as their European colleagues. As Mario*, an Italian development consultant I met in Nairobi, put it:

“It’s a job, they need it. From being Italian, I see more motivation from expats than locals. They do care up to a certain point, but there is motivation if there is the right compensation. In general, the way the expat interpret motivation, locals are less motivated.”

European expat aid workers on the other hand, attached a particular moral value to their work, which Mario summarised as: “I care for beneficiaries, I want to change their life. I want to make a difference.”

Yet commitment comes in many forms, as I saw during my field research. I met many Kenyan aid workers who had, for instance, stayed in their jobs for years and were living hundreds of kilometres away from their spouse and family. Some would only get to visit their family during their R and R (rest and recuperation) every 8-10 weeks. Some of these aid workers were in ‘non-family duty stations’ or ‘unaccompanied posts’ – working in conditions such as Kakuma or Dadaab refugee camp where they were explicitly not allowed to bring their loved ones. So their commitment to their work had been written in to their contract in terms of how often and when they could actually take a break and see their family.

The commitment required in these sorts of circumstances thus has wider implications for aid workers and their personal lives. It is perhaps no surprise that many aid workers I met were struggling in their romantic lives; either remaining single for long periods or with marriages that were falling apart. Japhet, a Rwandese aid worker I spoke to explained these challenges to me in the context of working in Kakuma refugee camp in northern Kenya.

“When you come to a place like Kakuma you have been removed from your place, your normal life, where you had a life and probably where a relationship would have developed because that is where you know people, you have friends and all of that. And you are here in a sort of temporary [situation]…so I don’t deny that you could meet someone here. But in a way this never feels like home, for you to build something.”

The women I spoke to also acknowledged these challenges. How long could they remain committed to the work they were doing, when they were also keen to commit to a relationship and to having a family? The Kenyan women I spoke to who were married with children also told me of how they at times felt pressure from their husbands to not travel so much, the assumption being that commitment should be to family first. One young Kenyan woman working for an international NGO in Kakuma explained these torn commitments to me:

“As a woman, when you focused your head onto career, your goal is always to be much better, much better, much better. So you know relationships, fine it’s there but you don’t even take it seriously […] And again women with empowerment […] I don’t know if it’s all women but African women….there is nothing a man will tell. And you know our men are very, very, very…they need a woman who is submissive. So if me, I tell this guy I’m bringing 50% and you’re bringing 50% to the house and we need to respect one another […] and you also need to help out with the work. There’s no African man who will…understand that.”

Peter, a Kenyan man who has worked for the UN since the 1990s and who I met in Kakuma, claimed that most relationships in the aid sector are doomed to failure. He himself had been through two failed marriages and his family were dotted around the country so he sometimes wouldn’t see them for several months at a time. He believed that most Kenyans – both men and women – if given the choice would prioritise an income over spending time with their family. And indeed there were women I met who were doing exactly this, as well as the men. Evelyn, for instance, worked in Kakuma refugee camp and only got to see her two and a half year old child – who was staying with her mother – when she was on R and R every 10 weeks. She acknowledged she was lucky she had someone to help her with the child – her husband was studying at a university in another district – but that other women weren’t so fortunate. “Sometimes, I can see most women…if they don’t really have…the husband doesn’t really understand their work, it can cost their work,” Evelyn told me. “So the woman can really tend to resign from work, then take care of the children. Rather than letting the children to suffer.”

The concept of commitment for Kenyans – and other African expat aid workers I met in Kenya – was thus often tied to building one’s career and the need for a reliable income to support their family. This may seem at odds with the ‘commitment to the cause’ that is assumed, and pushed, by aid organisations. Does this really matter?

The idea of commitment – or motivation – in aid work is often steeped in notions of morality and humanitarian values. These may seem like noble conceptualisations of commitment, but ones which perhaps favour the western aid worker. Many aid workers from Europe or America, conscious (or perhaps not) of their privilege, are motivated to do this work by a sense of guilt or responsibility; wanting to connect with or help others less fortunate than themselves, often in communities where western countries have played a direct role in oppression. Of course Kenyans, and other national aid workers, are just as likely to be guided by specific morals and ideals as their western counterparts. But there are other equally important, and personal, factors at play – such as responsibility towards one’s extended family as the only person with a comfortable income, or being a woman who is determined to be independent and ambitious and to challenge patriarchal norms in her society. Westerners should perhaps think more carefully about different forms of commitment – particularly in the context of those whose socio-economic choices are far more limited than our own – before judging national aid workers on the basis of lofty humanitarian values.

*Names have been anonymised throughout this blog piece. 

 

 

Beyond Hope and Fear

Who out there shares my observation that there seems to be an awful lot of despair being expressed in the world at the moment, and that it’s not leading to much in the way of informed and inspiring action? Whilst I understand there have been exceptions – notably the Women’s March in the United States, UK and other parts of the world in January – I have felt that, in the UK at least, people appear to still be in a state of paralysis and shock following the tumultuous political events of 2016. And meanwhile Trump and Brexit march forward….

The discourse of fear that has apparently triumphed in both the UK and the US has prompted many to lose hope and feel powerless to change anything. The notions of ‘hope’ and ‘fear’ that guide much political change are discussed in an interesting article from the US based Berkana Institute, entitled ‘The Place Beyond Hope and Fear.’ The article was written in 2009 but is still relevant – even more so in fact – today.

One of the key messages from this article that resonates with me is that in order to resist a culture of fear we sometimes have to step back completely, so that we gain some perspective and clarity on the true nature of things – about what is going on right now, in our bodies and in our mind. This approach may be seen as a withdrawal – as the author acknowledges – but it is also a way of connecting with ourselves more deeply before responding to our environment. In doing so, there is the possibility of finding a response to events around us that is more compassionate and more understanding of what we see.

Parallels can be drawn here with the world of humanitarian and social justice activism. When faced with powerful political forces whose oppressive actions seem impossible to counteract, it is not uncommon for humanitarians to lose hope, and to withdraw. It is what I and many others have indeed done on certain occasions, and often with a heavy heart and a strong sense of guilt. This withdrawal has been called by another name – burnout.

Yet whether you are a seemingly jaded social justice activist responding to events in your own country, or a humanitarian or human rights worker responding to situations in Syria, Yemen, Nigeria, South Sudan or anywhere else, the decision to withdraw may be seen as more than just ‘giving up’, ‘shirking responsibility’, or ‘being selfish.’

As the author of ‘The Place Beyond Hope and Fear’ puts it:

I didn’t give up saving the world to protect my health. I gave it up to discover right action, what I’m supposed to be doing. Beyond hope and fear, freed from success or failure, I’m learning what right action feels like, its clarity and energy. I still get angry, enraged, and frustrated. But I no longer want my activities to be driven by these powerful, destructive emotions. I’ve learned to pause, come back to the present moment, and calm down. I take no actions until I can trust my interior state—until I become present in the moment and clarity emerges undimmed by hope and fear. Then I act, rightly, I hope.

There is something very relevant in this for aid workers. From my own experience of working on advocacy campaigns in the aid sector, I have seen that there is a tendency to engage in an ‘us and them’ rhetoric – where ‘we’ are the righteous and heroic and ‘they’ are the evil and villainous. Certain individuals – government officials, police, insurgents, church leaders, etc. – are often labelled as ‘the perpetrator’ in one form or another. Yet this labelling imposes a very black and white narrative on what is in fact always going to be a murky, complicated situation with complex characters involved; because that is the reality of life, where nothing is ever that clear-cut. This ‘us vs them’ mentality is not all that different from the language of fear that was so successful for both Trump and the Brexiteers, and which has had such a divisive impact on our societies.

I had an interesting conversation the other day with a Kenyan guy about how we deal with the judgements we make about people we disagree with. He was giving the example of people in his workplace who he realised were corrupt and how he had concluded that, when they lost their jobs, ‘they deserved it’. This is of course a natural judgement to make of someone who has committed what we see as a moral crime of one sort or another. Yet is it always healthy to see an individual only in those terms, whether it be as a corrupt person, an abuser, a perpetrator or any other such label?

We are all born into this world without any of these labels, and even though we may embrace or be ascribed many identities throughout our lives, they still do not necessarily reflect our entire personalities. Wouldn’t it help humanity, and help our ability to dialogue and debate the moral issues of the day, if we could see people in a more holistic manner that goes beyond this rigid labelling?

If we want to move beyond hope and fear, whether as aid workers, activists, or Joe Bloggs who is trying to make sense of the political upheavals of our time, perhaps the starting point is indeed to be present with our own emotions that are arising; to not dive into worrying about or reacting to the uncertainties of the future but to see what is happening in this moment. What do our reactions tell us about ourselves, and are these reactions helpful and conducive in bringing a change in attitudes or behaviour? This is not to say that anger has no place in taking action; indeed on many occasions it is the driver of social change but anger without a pause to listen and reflect can also lead to further hostility and division (think family arguments!) We do not know what the future holds; we in fact never know for sure, and sometimes the wiser course of action may be to rest in that uncertainty before leaping into a battle against what we think is going to happen.

This leads me to the next stage in building a more compassionate response. We need to commit to actively listening to others we disagree with. This requires that we release judgements which block us from discovering and understanding the other person more fully; just banging the table and calling someone ignorant or stupid is never going to move things forward. We can instead take on an almost innocent curiosity where we ask ourselves questions of ‘the other’ from a clean slate of non-judgement. Where does what they say come from? Is it from a place of insecurity that resonates with us on some level? Can we find compassion, and even common ground, by considering that person as more than just the labels we and others have assigned to them? They, like us, are in all likelihood individuals with the same basic needs and desires as us – such as health, love, financial security and freedom. Are we able to meet and understand someone on that basic level, even if our values appear diametrically opposed?

These are just the beginning stages, I believe, of stepping into a new way of being and learning that can guide us towards eventually taking informed and compassionate action in response to current political events. It is a long journey of change we have to embark on, but if we let go of judgements and the quest for a certain outcome, perhaps we can open ourselves to more possibilities than we’d ever considered before.

 

 

 

Wild Zen and a Journey through Aid Worker Archetypes

I recently finished reading the book Wild Zen: An Inner Roadmap to Humanity by Claire Higgins, which charts the experiences of humanitarian workers, including herself, and others who have undergone – and been transformed by – trauma, violence and other forms of extreme suffering.

Claire worked for more than ten years on humanitarian and human rights programmes, and now works as an executive coach. She has tested and trained in many different therapeutic methods as a means to healing herself as well as others; and Carl Jung’s twelve archetypes, which are the guideposts for this book, is one such method. In the book we learn about archetypes such as the Caregiver, the Explorer (also known as the Adventurer or Seeker), the Warrior (also known as the Hero) and the Sage through the eyes of some of the people Clare meets. These include a humanitarian worker who was shot in Chechnya, a bowel cancer survivor, a former political prisoner and several people who now provide healing modalities such as martial arts, yoga and health coaching to others. We each have dominant archetypes in our personality, and whilst there are many positive aspects to all twelve of them, we have to be mindful of the pitfalls that exist when each archetype is in excess.

This is a book about self-development and empowerment. It wasn’t always easy to keep up with where Claire was going with her memories and accounts of her experiences; but nevertheless I felt pretty hooked in from the start, seeing immediately that here was a story – or rather, a compilation of stories with a common thread – that somehow resonated with me and that I could learn from. I am fortunate enough to have never been through anything quite as serious or heart-breaking as some of the real-life characters in this book. But there were moments I could identify with, and I imagine so could many people working in the aid sector.

For example, the propensity for many aid workers to play the role of Caregiver, one of Jung’s archetypes. Caring for others is no bad thing; but for many aid workers this often translates into an abandonment of care of the self. As we hold the space for others, we need to learn more how to hold the space for ourselves. Related to this is the need to be honest with our feelings, which is also acknowledged in the archetype of the Innocent. In Wild Zen, Claire refers to radical truth as part of the Innocent’s journey; the ongoing quest we must all go on for greater self-awareness so we can see where old habits may be damaging us and should be released. This may include unhealthy relationships, or ways of interacting in the world; to change, we may have to be more truthful to others as well as ourselves. The alternative is often to bottle up grievances – a habit which I, and I’m sure many other aid workers, are very familiar with. A lot of the lessons here – relevant to anyone in the helping or caring professions – are about maintaining healthy boundaries, about being able to recognise and respond to our own needs as much as we respond to the needs of another. Being honest with others needn’t be confrontational; it is about allowing ourselves to open our hearts and tell people how we feel.

Another familiar trait in aid workers is the Revolutionary. How many of us prioritise our work over our personal lives, and with such zeal? This is down to the passion and commitment that so many aid workers have in ending war, poverty or injustice; it is what drives their work and their determination to stick with it, no matter how many times they may be forced to question whether there is any hope left. But this commitment often comes at the price of personal relationships; whilst we focus on ending wars on a global scale, we may fail to stop the conflicts that arise under our own roof because we lose connection with those we are closest to. I have seen these problems play out among the aid workers I spoke to during my field research in Kenya, many of whom are struggling in their romantic and family relationships. As aid workers navigate a world that appears to be full of evil and enmity, the anger that forces them into action may not always be productive. We must recognise where – in our own lives and in the working environments we inhabit – we can be more compassionate and encourage dialogue and peace over division and hostility.

This also relates to another archetype, the Ruler, because ultimately we have to decide how we are to live our lives in an authentic way and become masters of our own destiny. This is crucial for aid workers because our professional lives can be so caught up in the expectations of others; whether this be the admiration of our family and friends, the pressures of our employers, or the needs of aid beneficiaries. Amidst all this, aid workers often lose sight of who they really want to be and instead struggle to act out whatever image they think is worthy and honourable. The Ruler archetype helps us to find our place and purpose in life and stick to it. For many aid workers, this may result in leaving the sector altogether, or finding new ways of engaging with it more compassionately.

I see this journey play out in my own life, as I seek to find a role for myself within the aid sector. My new role, yet to be fully defined, may no longer be on the frontline among the populations who are suffering or within the corridors of government power, but will be articulated from a place of deeper inner wisdom, self-acceptance and trust. As Claire says in Wild Zen:

What all this means is that only we can set the standards for our lives. Only we can determine what is good enough in each moment and phase of our journey. We cannot keep measuring ourselves by benchmarks set in place by others who do not know us like we know ourselves. The Ruler understands that he must set his own standards and criteria for living. It isn’t the right or role of others to do that for him.

Wild Zen contains many reflections and lessons for anyone who has struggled to break free of inner suffering as much as for those who have experienced suffering at the hands of others. Ultimately its stories tell us that we are not alone in these experiences. And it also teaches us how storytelling can be healing and transformative.

As I read the book, I took the Pearson-Marr Archetype Indicator (PMAI) test, the instrument used to identify which of Carl Jung’s twelve archetypes are most dominant in your personality. I’ve learned a lot from that process too, and it’s a helpful way of understanding a little more about the value of this tried and tested psychological modality applied in Wild Zen. The PMAI is also used in psychotherapy and life-coaching, and for some people it may well be better to use it with the support of a therapist rather than taking the test alone.

The PMAI, and Claire Higgins’ book Wild Zen, are not to be taken lightly. Both reveal some of the darker places we all inhabit as human beings, but they also offer hope and tools with which to navigate our way through those places and emerge more courageous and true to ourselves.

The Ethnographer’s Angst (and how it differs from the Aid Worker’s)

In my last blog post, I talked about some of the shared experiences of aid workers and doctoral researchers, particularly in relation to returning home from field work. Today I am reflecting on some of the challenges that I faced as a researcher – and as an ethnographer – which I found to be quite different from my time doing NGO field work.

First a few words about ethnography. It comprises what might be called a ‘toolkit’ of methods, primarily qualitative, and is used in anthropological studies. An ethnographer generally spends 6 months to a year in the field, immersing themselves in the population they are studying – through activities such as participant observation, where they partake in and observe the everyday lives of their research subjects. They seek to gain an insider perspective of local life, and this is seen as a unique element of anthropology.

One-to-one interviews with research participants are also part of ethnography; but tend to be semi-structured or unstructured – often more like a conversation, without too many set questions. For me, this meant being very general about my research topic when I was interviewing aid workers, and just seeing where the conversation took us; then encouraging my informants to expand upon topics that I thought were particularly relevant or interesting in relation to stress, burnout and the emotional challenges of aid work.

This method is in itself very different from the qualitative research techniques I’d become accustomed to in my career working with human rights and development NGOs; there, the approach was far more direct and with a clearer agenda – there was rarely time to just hang out with the community one was assisting for weeks on end in order to fully grasp their everyday lives. This is one reason why NGOs are often criticised for imposing projects on local communities without a full understanding of their needs; but that is a topic for another blog post.

The unstructured approach taken in ethnography means that you can spend days, maybe weeks on end, feeling like your research is lacking much focus or direction; not knowing where each conversation will lead you, or what sort of data you’re likely to gather from each interview or interaction.

It is perhaps no surprise then that self-doubt was a recurring condition throughout my field research. And, unlike NGO workers who usually have some supervision or support from their colleagues, doctoral researchers receive very little guidance and hence, very little reassurance; it is really up to us to identify what we think is important and find ways of pursuing those areas further.

A number of people I talked to about my research in Kenya didn’t understand this very organic approach. ‘What, you don’t have a specific definition of stress?’ they asked. No, I’d say: I’m more interested in how people define and talk about stress in their own way, which may lead me to a definition.

One person who I was having a casual conversation with about my research, wondered why I’m not asking more direct questions about people’s experiences of trauma or stress. Here is what I documented in my diary that day:

“He continued to look at me doubtfully as we spoke, and I found myself feeling full of doubt. The more he talked and questioned me, the more I began to quietly panic that I’m not going to find anything meaningful out of all this disparate data I’ve collected. I wondered if I’ve really got anything that ‘meaty’ that I can really do something with.”

I wasn’t taking a more direct approach because for ethnographers, interviews and what informants choose to talk about should not be too forced. As such, what is left unsaid can be as meaningful as what comes up in the conversation. Again, this is very different from my days working with human rights NGOs, where it’s perfectly acceptable in interviews to dive straight in with sensitive questions.

But the ethnographic approach certainly left me full of uncertainty a lot of the time. Was I getting the information I was looking for or expecting? Was I asking the right questions? It is still too early to judge – the next year is all about sifting through my data to see what themes and patterns, and eventually conclusions, emerge. All that I know is that there were many moments where I wondered whether I was successfully getting to the heart of someone’s experience, whether I’d built the trust with them sufficiently in order for this to happen, and whether ultimately I was doing good research.  

In many ways with doctoral research it is only we, the researcher, who can judge whether we did enough, and did it well. And as for so many of us – whatever our profession – it is extremely easy for the inner critic to take over. Sometimes I laugh at this whole experience as a doctoral researcher, because we spend so much time beating ourselves up over not doing enough, when there is actually nobody (at least, not in my case, as I have pretty sympathetic supervisors) telling us we should be doing more.

But that is an experience shared with aid workers too; we all feel we should be doing more, and often leave the field with some regrets that we didn’t achieve all that we had hoped. Both aid workers and researchers also question the value of their actions – whether their work will actually have any meaningful impact. My intentions with my research go beyond academia, so it is my hope that the conclusions I reach from it – when those do finally become clear – will indeed be meaningful to the aid sector in the longer term, after thesis completion.

The Return Home: The Shared Experiences of Aid Workers and Researchers

It is nearly two weeks since I left Kenya. The feelings I have as I readjust to UK life are very similar to what I’ve been through before when I’ve returned from mission, only this time I’m returning as a doctoral researcher who has just completed her field research. This fuzzy-headedness, lack of clarity, depletion of energy. Wanting to be alone, not finding the words to express how I’m feeling about being back. Questioning whether anyone would understand, or does anyone really care anyway? And also just feeling too tired, confused and disorientated to engage in that conversation.

Tiredness – or what I would actually describe as inertia – is a familiar feeling to me post-mission or field trip. It’s that feeling of returning home where there are lots of things you need to get done, but where there is an inability to move forward. For a while the tasks pile up, and all you can do is sit there and watch it happen as you feel powerless to do anything about it. Much of the time you just want to be somewhere on your own, doing nothing. This state of inertia is usually short-lived, and I’ve learned that I just have to accept it, and all the complicated feelings wrapped up with it, whilst also remaining present to those feelings. Writing often helps in those moments too.

Aid workers and academic researchers share other experiences too. There is that same emotional attachment to friendships and experiences in the field that seemed unique and intense and unlikely to be replicated in any way back home. Perhaps this is part of just being an expat in foreign lands; the friendships we make tend to be of a quality and intensity that is quite different from the steady development of relationships in our home country. And perhaps it is also linked to the nature of our experiences in a country that is so different from our own. Both aid workers and academic researchers are exposed to communities who, in development studies-speak, are seen as ‘subaltern’ – outside of and excluded from the hegemonic power structures of the global north, often rendering them disenfranchised, disempowered and underprivileged. My actual research subjects – unlike those of many anthropologists and ethnographers – do not necessarily fit this category as in many respects they were seen as the elite. Even a Kenyan aid worker from a poor background – and many I spoke to related to me an upbringing of struggle and hardship – is seen as part of the elite as the NGO sector is perceived by the average Kenyan as pretty lucrative; although many I spoke challenged this assumption.

The point is that, whether as a researcher or an aid worker, we are forced to often step way beyond our comfort zone into a world that is unfamiliar to us, where we have to work hard at understanding different social or cultural norms, and where we are often exposed to poverty and suffering on a daily basis of a kind most people in the UK or other wealthy countries could not comprehend. Such moments of exposure – which so quickly become normalised, for both the aid worker and the researcher – nevertheless leave an indelible mark on one’s memory. And such memories are very hard to communicate to others or even make personal sense of back in the comforts of everyday life in the UK. This is partly why the friendships we make in the field are so meaningful, because of that shared, complex experience.

So I find myself, as a researcher, in that strange transient zone I’ve grown familiar with as an aid worker; where I’m here in the UK, walking through the streets of London or Brighton or sitting at home, but much of the time my mind is elsewhere. It’s with the four year old child that was tugging at my sleeve and begging me for money as I bought groceries in Kakuma town. Or with the young Somali incentive worker (refugees who volunteer for the aid agencies and are paid a stipend) who walked me around Kakuma camp, telling me his life story and how since fleeing Somalia as a young child in 1992 he had grown up in Kenya’s refugee camps. Or with the friends I made in Nairobi, many of whom were aid workers themselves, who were there for me when I felt lonely and isolated. Who I felt so touched by when they opened up to me with such trust, telling me the personal challenges they’ve gone through with their work, and who I hope I helped in some way by just being there for them, listening to their doubts, fears, angers and anxieties.

It won’t be long before I immerse myself fully again in UK life and in the next stages of my Phd – the daunting phase of data analysis and thesis writing. But for now the same rules apply as I have taught myself as an aid worker, and which helped me so much in recent years. Stay present to your feelings. Be gentle on yourself. Spend time doing what you love. And find healthy and nurturing ways to reconnect with friends and family.

We are ultimately so lucky to have these experiences, whether as aid workers or academic researchers, as they enable us to broaden our perspectives and connect with a humanity that is far beyond the limited world view of our upbringing. And there are many ways we can put those experiences to good use, both at home and abroad.

 

What do Stress and Wellbeing mean to Aid Workers?

In the last few weeks I’ve been engaging in discussions that have put the question of how aid workers interpret stress and wellbeing at centre stage. In August I ran a stress management workshop with an Italian NGO in Kenya which was attended by Kenyan, Somali and European staff. Aside from that, I’ve been talking to various people who have an interest in or are working on providing stress relief for aid workers and social change makers.

The question of how stress and wellbeing is understood by different people is important because in a world that is flooded with information about ‘alternative therapies’ such as yoga and meditation, as well as the western psychotherapy models, we can forget the hundreds of cultural traditions around the world that have handled emotional difficulties and mental health problems in their own, localised way. We can also forget that what works for one culture or society may not work for another. And in the aid sector, where the majority of staff are nationals from the southern hemisphere, we perhaps therefore still have a lot to learn about what interventions (if any) are appropriate for dealing with work-related stress.

The tendency is to assume that standard psycho-social models are a sufficient mechanism for addressing staff mental health. But there is a counter-argument that suggests that Western models of trauma healing are not always appropriate, nor healing, for some individuals from post-conflict countries. This has been argued in various literature (for instance, here) and was a point made by an Italian doctor I met recently who was conducting a training for humanitarian workers in body, mind and spirit practices for stress, trauma and compassion fatigue. During the training she related how in previous trainings in Rwanda and Burundi, some of the participants had commented how traumatising they had found the counselling given by Western psychotherapists.

’Stress’ and ’counselling’ are pretty familiar terms in European and American societies. Whilst there is still stigma around issues of mental health – people don’t talk openly about their depression, for instance –  there is an assumption that stress is part of everyday life, and that chronic forms of stress affect some of us and require clinical intervention in the form of one-to-one counselling.

The personal perception of stress and the way one deals with it is, in many ways, culturally and socially rooted. Whilst many NGOs provide some form of counselling for their staff, it would seem that ‘talking therapies’ are not necessarily the answer for a lot of aid workers.

Here are a couple of quotes from my data:

“There are those of us like me who come from nomadic background which thinks that talking about it is…is being a bit of a sissy. But, there are those of us that come from that culture of expressing yourself and you can see that people do grieve with each other, with different cultures.”

Somali UN worker (male)

“They pay for our counselling…but since it’s not so African to go for such things, most people don’t go for…debriefing. You can go during your R and R but nobody seems to ever get to it […] We as Africans we handle our stress differently – everyone has their own issues so why do you think yours is bigger? […] I think people just learn to handle their stress on their own, in case it’s there. Because for one we don’t open up that much, and especially here in Kakuma who would you open up to, especially if stress is work-related [….] basically you have to learn to handle your stress by yourself.”

Kenyan humanitarian NGO worker (male) (Kakuma)

Stress is not only culturally rooted; it is a gendered concept too. In the stress management workshop I recently ran, the Kenyan women remarked that stress in their society is largely seen as a women’s issue and associated with marital pressures, and with being of the ‘weaker sex’. This not only denigrates stress to the female experience, it also sends out the message that men do not suffer from stress, and therefore should certainly not talk about it.

I have been wondering about self-care practices too. ‘Self-care’ is in itself a dirty word for some aid workers. If it’s not seen as a bit ’new age’ or ‘hippy’, it’s seen as self-indulgent and completely at odds with a sector supposedly focused solely on helping others, not oneself.

There is a growing interest in yoga, meditation and similar self-care practices as a means to relieve stress, build resilience and encourage deeper self-awareness and compassion among aid workers and other social change makers. Regular yoga and mindfulness practices have certainly helped me in the last few years; the way I approach my work as a human rights defender has been transformed by following a daily practice that cultivates presence and a more mindful response to my own emotions and to the challenges around me.  And I continue to explore these further as a means to engage more fully in the world as well as to bring inner wellbeing.

But can these sorts of practices be adapted, and adopted, in African cultures? Are there traditions within African cultures which in fact use some of these practices already but give them a different name? I’m conscious that here in Kenya, for instance, trying to impose yoga or mindfulness as a stress relief tool may be seen as an effort to convert people to Hindu or Buddhist religions. Yet some of the techniques used in both these practices can probably be found in many other ancient cultures, including in Africa.

There are examples where the use of yoga and mindfulness have been introduced in different cultures, among aid workers and the communities they serve, with positive results – as this video from a woman who worked in Afghanistan suggests. Capacitar training also uses yoga, tai chi and other practices for trauma healing in communities that may be otherwise unaware of these traditions.

Self-care needn’t require a commitment to these increasingly popular practices however. As this blog by an Afrofeminist writer eloquently describes, there are many ways of practising self-care without having to devote oneself to yoga, and without necessarily having to completely change one’s lifestyle. Spending more time with family and loved ones is  important for aid workers and any other social change makers; because one of the big symptoms of stress and burnout is social detachment and disengagement, triggered by repeated exposure to the brutality and injustice that represent the darkest elements of human behaviour.  After such exposure, it is vital to seek out community and friendship. This can restore one’s faith in humanity and help cultivate compassion in a working environment that can be susceptible to ‘compassion fatigue.’ This video by the Headington Institute provides some advice to aid workers on how to maintain relationships with loved ones as a means of self-care.

Stress and how one responds to it is in some ways a complex matter. In the aid sector, both the individual and the organisation need to listen more – to themselves, to their staff, and what forms of support and healing are appropriate. It could take some time before aid agencies  go beyond a ‘one size fits all’ approach to staff care, but in the meantime there is a lot aid workers can do to help themselves. The starting point is that old adage, ‘Know Thyself’. What is your body trying to tell you and are you willing to stop and listen?

 

 

Who is the Aid Worker?

This is a question that has sprung up once again in aid/development debates, and one recent blog post arguing for ‘new words’ captures the issue very well. I have also been considering this question as I conduct research in Kenya. I have used the term aid worker in my research as I wanted to find an expression that could capture the diversity of people I was researching. To me it was the best term available to encapsulate all my research subjects – people working for international development, humanitarian and human rights organisations. But this by no means implies the term is sufficient; in fact it leads to a lot of confusion, for myself and others.

‘Aid worker’ is actually often associated purely with those involved in humanitarian interventions. So people have assumed that I am only interested in staff working for humanitarian organisations such as Medecins Sans Frontieres or the International Committee of the Red Cross. I’ve found myself having to explain that actually I’m just as interested in investigating the challenges of working on long-term development interventions; in talking to individuals who work on water and sanitation programmes or micro-credit schemes in rural settings, for instance. As what I wish to argue is that chronic stress may arise just as much from working in these sorts of settings as with short-term emergency operations in disaster areas.

But how can a human rights defender be considered an aid worker, some may ask? Well, as someone who has worked for both national and international human rights organisations, as well as development/humanitarian organisations, the easiest way to describe myself, when explaining what I do to people outside the sector altogether, is ‘aid worker’.

But of course this leads to huge misperceptions about what I do. The image of the heroic aid worker feeding a sick child or providing first aid to people fleeing war or violence is what everybody knows; yet I have never been directly involved in these sorts of operations, and in fact when working for human rights organisations there is often no assistance given whatsoever – it’s all about advocacy and raising awareness. But explaining that to an ‘outsider’ sometimes feels too clunky, too tiring….and sometimes one wonders, are they really that interested anyway in these finer details?

Furthermore, when we look at the actual job descriptions of aid workers, many are less on the operational side and more on the systems side of things – whether this be fundraising, M and E or strategy development. They are rarely doing the frontline work of regularly interacting and assisting ‘aid beneficiaries’ (another term that needs a serious overhaul). Yet as I’ve gone about my field research in Kenya I’ve been introduced to and interviewed a range of people who have offered themselves up as ‘aid workers’, who probably spend most weeks and months at their desks in an office in Nairobi, but who have a story to tell about stress and the challenges of the work.

This prompts a relevant question for my research; one which I feel inclined to ask my informants in the ensuing weeks – what does ‘the typical aid worker’ actually mean to people doing aid work?

This could be further expanded to ask more probing questions, like: What is the popular image they have in mind, and what is the real image that resonates more for them? At what point do people who enter the aid sector start describing themselves as an ‘aid worker’? And at what point does this concept of themselves get challenged by the reality they find?

The dissonance between the romantic image of the aid worker and the harsh reality of office politics, donor demands, unethical approaches and ineffective interventions can be a major challenge for people in the sector and, I think, a source of stress and contributing factor for those who burn out. This relates to a previous blog post I wrote about ‘moral injury’. The Headington Institute have a neat definition for this term and of another similar one, ‘wounds of the soul’:

They result from violations of deeply held beliefs about what is right […] when one must choose among “bad” options, [which] may force people to act contrary to their beliefs.

The writer at Headington Institute goes on to give other examples of moral injury within the context of humanitarian aid:

Inability to stop others from committing atrocities; carrying out management directives that violate personal values; witnessing random suffering caused by natural disasters; tolerating overwhelming injustice.

As the writer notes, these experiences can leave aid workers feeling full of guilt, shame and disillusionment – some of the hallmarks also of burnout.

So I feel it is true to say we must consider this term ‘aid worker’ and how we use it. Not just in the intellectual sense, but on a personal level too. Those working within the humanitarian/development/human rights sphere need to reflect on how they wish to see, and be, themselves. The narratives they, and their colleagues and organisations, build around their work may be serving to damage their own sense of self. What is needed in this work is not an inflated or exaggerated image of what one is expected to achieve in a world of extreme poverty and immense suffering, but confidence in the small and modest, but perhaps meaningful role, one can play in challenging opinions and changing lives.

 

 

 

Finding Purpose and Managing Expectations in Aid Work

There’s been a fair amount of debate recently regarding people from the western world who travel to the developing world (particularly Africa) with high ideals of saving lives and leave feeling disappointed or worse, depressed. First there was the ‘Linton Lies’ debacle where a white British woman’s published book describing her experiences as a volunteer in Zambia, and the neo-colonial language she used in the book, were challenged through the social media hashtag #LintonLies.

Then this week an anonymous aid worker wrote about the depression they suffered after working for an international NGO in an unnamed African country. Both individuals have drawn criticism for having white saviour complexes. Their stories also raise important issues about whether aid organisations – working with volunteers or paid professionals – make the appropriate decisions in who they send on these ‘missions’ and whether the people sent are sufficiently prepared for the working environment they will find themselves in. The criticisms levelled at these individuals, and the concerns their stories prompt about institutional responsibilities – whilst certainly worthy of attention – are not the focus of this blog post.

There is an overriding theme that emerges from the stories of these individuals which I find particularly interesting right now, and that is expectations. How do personal, organisational and societal expectations feed into aid workers’ sense of, or indeed loss of, purpose? This question is as legitimate for national aid workers from developing countries as it is for western aid workers from privileged backgrounds.

Aid workers often enter the sector with high morals and ideals about saving the world or humanity. And there is certainly nothing wrong with wanting to play a role in improving the lives of others, or ending social or economic injustices. The reality of the work though can be far from what aid workers had in mind. Not only this, but aid workers are often juggling the huge expectations from their organisation, from their organisation’s donors, and from the populations receiving the organisation’s assistance. Feelings of guilt and shame arise when as an aid worker you realise that organisational policies, poor management or insufficient – or worse, wasted – resources, mean that some of the communities you are assisting will not actually receive the help that is so urgently needed, and their lives will not change for the better through your interventions. Under these circumstances it is not difficult to wonder whether your efforts were worth it, or even necessary in the first place.

Kenyan aid workers I’ve spoken to have told me of how one of their major challenges is responding to the expectations of the communities they are assisting, particularly in poorer regions such as Turkana in northern Kenya where the needs are greater.  An organisation’s mandate to work solely on human rights protection, for instance, means little to someone in urgent need of food and water.The chances are that as an aid worker you will have to get used to saying no to requests for help far more than you can say yes. And the justification for saying no can at times seen unethical, unfair or unjust.

As noted in the Guardian’s Secret Aid Worker article, there are also work pressures that are not envisaged when entering into this sector; tasks and responsibilities that go beyond your job description. This includes the unspoken expectation that you will check your e-mails regularly outside working hours, including weekends. Or being told that it would be better if you delay your R and R (rest and recuperation) because you’re needed in the office, thereby resulting in you not seeing your family for another few weeks after having already been away for 2 months.

Much of what I’m talking about here has nothing to do with western aid workers with white saviour complexes. National aid workers are just as likely to have these same challenges; indeed many Kenyan aid workers I’ve spoken to have referred to them. One Kenyan female humanitarian worker told me how she travelled to Dadaab to conduct a training in the camp, 33 weeks pregnant and on a bumpy and unsafe road, because the colleague who was meant to be going had fallen sick and couldn’t make it. Another Kenyan woman working for an international humanitarian agency told me that she had to work over much of the Christmas period in response to a string of natural disasters and conflicts occurring in the region, requiring an urgent response. Her exhaustion from this episode resulted in what she called a ‘burnout’. This was dealt with partly by establishing a more disciplined working pattern, where at a certain time outside working hours she would stop checking and responding to e-mails and be called by phone only in an emergency.

But what I find particularly relevant for aid workers – and perhaps this is also the case for others in the ‘helping professions’ – is the role of personal expectations in one’s experiences. Many aid workers are driven by a shared experience of injustice, or by a desire to help others less fortunate than themselves. Their expectation is that they can make a tangible difference to people’s lives. Indeed this is also backed up by the agendas of their organisations, so often popularised through the media images of aid workers feeding hungry children or building shelters for refugees.

There is thus an emotional investment; a sense of responsibility – rightly or wrongly – for the wellbeing and survival of others who are suffering. There is also an expectation – again at times reinforced by one’s employers – that this responsibility towards others comes before responsibility to oneself. One Ethiopian UN worker I spoke to went as far as to say, ‘if I don’t go through what I’m going through, some boy or girl somewhere will either miss their meal….or some boy or girl somewhere would not have education…or kids will miss their vaccination or immunisation and these are the vital services that children need….’

Perhaps what is important in all of this, if aid workers are to continue their efforts without burning out, is for them to find purpose in what they do. The recent Secret Aid Worker’s story, along with many others from aid workers, highlight that loss of purpose is often a trigger for depression and burnout. But what is also important is having realistic expectations about one’s purpose in the first place. This requires aid workers to engage in some self-reflection about their role in helping others – and this should certainly include a willingness to recognise their privileged position and skewed view point in relation to the populations they are assisting, something that Louise Linton in particular was accused of failing to do. But aid workers should also acknowledge, accept and work within their limitations – whether these are down to organisational policies, the environmental context or simply being human.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Aid Workers in Turkana: Outsider Lives and Compound Lifestyles

For the last couple of weeks, I’ve been up in Turkana county, in northern Kenya. This is one of Kenya’s poorest counties; dry, arid and hot, it is not an easy life up here. Rural and pastoralist communities are spread out throughout the county, struggling to survive with a scarcity of water and relying on their cattle, goats and camels and various Food for Assets and Credit Transfer programmes; since the devolution process started in 2013, the county government is now leading many of these development initiatives in the area. Meanwhile, the refugee community in Kakuma in Turkana West sub-county is struggling to survive on the handouts of humanitarian agencies, with everyone waiting to find out if the camp – home to around 185000 refugees – will be closed following the Kenyan government’s announcement to this effect a few weeks ago.

It goes without saying that this is a very different context for aid interventions than Nairobi, where I’ve been most of the time whilst conducting field research in Kenya. In Nairobi aid workers are either based in national offices where they travel out to the field every few weeks, to their programmes dotted around the country (this of course includes Somalia for a lot of organisations, who cannot be based in the country permanently due to security risks); or they are based in the regional offices where they may be travelling even less, playing an administrative or supportive role to the staff based in countries such as South Sudan or Uganda.

Here in Turkana you can find aid and development workers who have barely travelled to Nairobi; some who are from Turkana and have rarely left the county. The air conditioned, bustling offices and plywood desks and swivel chairs of the INGO national headquarters in Nairobi are a long long way away. Here in Turkana most INGO offices are on sandy, dusty compounds with few trees or foliage, and a slow, sleepy atmosphere permeates with only fans and an occasional breeze to cool people down in temperatures of 35 to 40 degrees.

Most of the people I’ve spoken to here, whether programme directors or field officers, are Kenyans. This would not have been the case 10 or 20 years ago. The expat aid worker presence, both here and in Nairobi, is falling year by year as Kenyan expertise increase and the restructuring of INGOs leads to more operations being managed and implemented at local and national level rather than from Europe. This reality, which can be seen across the globe as well as in Kenya, makes the need for greater recognition of the specific challenges faced by national aid workers even more crucial if we are to fully understand aid practice.

And here I outline some of those challenges that I’ve noticed as I spend time in Lodwar, the main city in Turkana and the local base for development INGOs including Oxfam, World Vision, Child Fund and Save the Children among others; and Kakuma, the base for humanitarian INGOs and UN agencies providing assistance to the refugee camp.

  • Many of the Kenyans I’ve spoken to are not from Turkana; their families are in another part of the country and they are visiting them every 2 or 3 months when they are on R and R (rest and recuperation). This is not the sort of place to bring your family, I’ve heard a few people say. So they must make do with speaking to their loved ones on the phone – provided they are not right out in the rural areas, where phone network may not work – or on skype – provided there is internet network, which is very intermittent here. And after 2 months, they spend what can be a day or more travelling to their family homes, for what may only be 5 days if they stick solely to the R and R they’re entitled to.
  • For most of Turkana county, you can find aid workers staying in guest houses or local accommodation, some in remote villages with no electricity or internet, and some in Lodwar and other large towns. In Kakuma, you can find them in one of the UN or INGO compounds. These are self-contained areas housing offices and staff accommodation, some of them small prefab units for people passing through for a short period of time. When not in the camp, humanitarian workers are confined to these compounds – it is where they work, eat and socialise – and are expected to return there when the curfew begins in the refugee camp at 6pm. Whether in Kakuma or other towns and villages in Turkana, there is not much to do outside office hours. None of the fancy restaurants found in Nairobi. No yoga classes or parks to walk around. And no supermarkets selling luxury items. In these circumstances, the social structure of one’s organisation is often all that exists in terms of support and social interaction. But on some weekends people travel out of town, to their homes or on R and R. So the humanitarian compound can be a quiet, uneventful place. Although some compounds, particularly those housing the UN staff, are better than others – one here has a gym and tennis court as well as cafeteria and bar.
  • One is very aware here of being seen as an outsider. In Lodwar, aid workers from outside Turkana told me of how they find the culture very different from their own; characterised by the diet – a lot of meat, mainly goat – or by the perceptions of women, for instance. One African expat in a senior position at an INGO told me of how she found the local authorities very reluctant to meet her when she arrived to introduce herself and make herself known to the community. She suspected there would have been a very different welcome if she’d been a man. Several others I spoke to in Lodwar commented on how the local community had seemed very suspicious towards them at first. This is partly a throwback to the derogatory treatment they were subjected to in colonial times, I was told; but also part of their guarded attitude as pastoralists defending their small communities and livestock, and their disillusionment with INGOs coming and going with endless surveys and overambitious or unfulfilled promises of development assistance.
  • In Kakuma, mistrust plays out in a different way. There is hostility particularly from the host community, who are tired of seeing the plethora of aid agencies turning up in their four wheel drives, hiding behind huge compounds just beside the refugee camp, and assisting the refugee community whilst apparently ignoring the abject poverty of the local population; although a number of organisations are trying to address this disparity with development interventions with the host community as well. One American expat told me of how she’d been attacked twice whilst going for a run in the area outside her compound, although she escaped largely unharmed on both occasions. Refugees too are also at times unhappy with the insufficient assistance received from the aid agencies here, occasionally protesting outside the agency compounds.

What is important to most aid workers I speak to in Turkana is having some form of social support network to turn to. Sometimes this may only be friends and family back home. For others, who are stuck up in a remote village for two months, it may be just one other colleague who is there with them. And for the expat humanitarian workers here in Kakuma, friendships are challenged by the continuing turnover of staff, as people finish one humanitarian posting and move on to another.

Life isn’t all bad of course. Staying in a quiet town with few ways to pass one’s time means money is saved, and for Kenyans this is particularly important when there are likely to be several relatives from the extended family expecting support. Expat aid workers have their supplies of luxury items such as olive oil, muesli, cheese and wine they’ve brought with them from Nairobi to keep them happy. And in the humanitarian compounds there is usually a party or gathering to go to at a neighbour’s house; one aid worker described his life there as ‘a bit like summer camp’.

Few aid workers have complained directly about their work with the communities. Those that have refer to the difficulties of meeting people’s expectations, particularly in what is often referred to as a very aid-dependent community. Most love the work they do, and feel a sense of fulfilment from the impact it has. The greater challenges often relate to what can at times be unbearable heat; the rough terrain throughout Turkana which can halt transport plans, particularly in the rainy season, leaving aid workers stranded in one place with few provisions; and the insecurity in certain areas – particularly on the borders with West Pokot county, where cattle rustling occurs between the Pokot and the Turkana pastoralists.

It has been an insightful time up here, exposing me far more directly to the realities of aid and development work than what I’ve witnessed so far in Nairobi. No doubt what I have described is familiar for many development and humanitarian workers. But outside the sector, these small but significant nuances are not always acknowledged in debates and analysis of what ‘aid work’ entails.

With only a few months left of my field research, it will soon be time to make sense of all of this and draw some conclusions, which I hope will be of value to the aid sector and to the many and diverse professionals working within it.