Tag Archives: lame attempts at humor

Aid marketing I’d love to see…

29 Aug

Aid marketing I’d love to see in real life:

“Your $20 won’t end hunger. Heck, you know what? You could give even a million dollars and it wouldn’t end hunger. You know why? Because the causes of hunger are systemic and structural, not financial. There is enough food in the world right now for everyone, but unfortunately most of it is owned by people who won’t share with the rest. Will they ever share? No one knows. But your $20 helps us continue to try to take care of those with too little. Until those with too much decide to share (if they ever do).”

“You don’t have to like talking about condoms. They’re not really our favorite topic either. But talking about condoms is a whole hell of a lot better than talking about a lot of dead people who died of HIV/AIDS. It’s been proven time and again that the most effective means of preventing HIV transmission is consistent, correct condom use. Nope – promoting abstinence doesn’t work. We’ve tried it. It doesn’t work (seriously, did it work in your high school? No? Didn’t think so. Don’t know why you’d think it would work anywhere else). No, you don’t have to like talking about condoms, but you’d better understand that condoms save lives. Simple as that. What more reason do you need to get behind this program?”

“We seriously messed up. More than once, actually. All the time, actually. Disaster response is impossible to get 100% right 100% of the time. You know how it is from watching TV: it’s a disaster. We go in, the power doesn’t work, we can’t communicate, it’s chaotic, logistics are impossible… Sometimes it’s dangerous. Sometimes our own people get sick. There’s never enough of the right information for making good decisions. Sometimes we get it wrong. So why should you keep supporting us? Because no matter how bad the situation is, we will still go there and help as many people as we possibly can. And we will always be straight with you about how we’ve messed up. And we will learn from our mistakes so that we don’t repeat them next time.”

“Your donation may go towards helping terrorists. That is a reality that we live with out in the field every single day. How? Maybe they’ll steal it from us. Maybe they’ll steal it from ‘our beneficiaries’. Maybe the host government will confiscate it from us and then give it to them. Or maybe we’ll just give it to them because they might just be legitimate beneficiaries, too. Just because someone thinks they hate you doesn’t mean you can’t help them if you’re able and they need it.”

“No, you won’t get your name on a plaque in the entrance to the clinic. You won’t get a picture of ‘your’ cow or goat or duck or whatever. You won’t get a heart-warming letter from a kid in an impoverished third-world village. Your name won’t be called at a fancy gala. We won’t have a special fundraising rep assigned just to you, who has you on speed-dial and who will scramble to find answers to your random, off-the-wall questions. Sorry. That’s not what we’re about.”

“Three years from now this place is still gonna suck. It sucked before the disaster, and it’s gonna suck even more for a very long time after. Honest-to-god, if we could change that reality we would. But we can’t. It takes a long time to recover from a big disaster. And during that long time that it takes to recover, people are going to need shelter, water, sanitation, health care, food. Yep, we know: it looks really bad. It looks like nothing’s changed in the six months since the disaster. And while we can’t exactly measure the number of people who didn’t die of dysentery or cholera or the number of people who didn’t starve to death or become malnourished, we can tell you that things would be a lot worse had we not been here doing our job with your generous support. Thank you for that. And just so that you know, three years from now it’ll still suck, and we’ll still be here.

“Only about half of your donation goes ‘directly to beneficiaries.’ Maybe even less than that if you only count our cash transfer programs. Why so little? Well, first, just so you know, 50% is a pretty average actual overhead rate. And second, we’d love to give more, but we can’t. Did you donate online? It costs us money to maintain a website and the bank charges us for electronic transactions. Did you send a check? Yep, costs us money to receive those, too. You say you chose us because we provided the best information about our programs? You would not believe how much work it is to put those reports together (we had to pay someone to do it!). Costs a lot to publish them, too. Love those photographs? They cost extra. You say you like us because we work in the most difficult places? Hard to find people to work there (even the locals are dying to leave), and you know the saying, ‘Pay peanuts, get monkeys…’ Or you like us because we ‘build local capacity’? Our own local staff need salaries, too.”

“There’s no happy ending here. If we told you otherwise we’d be lying. These people were suffering before we came, and they’ll be suffering long after we’re gone. The causes of their suffering – the real, big picture causes – are beyond most anyone’s control. Certainly beyond our control. All we can do, really, is bring a little humanity into a situation that should never have existed in the first place. We can make things a little better, a little more bearable for a few of them for a short period. Is it enough? No. The need is far beyond what we can address. Will our help last? No. By next week or next month we’ll be back to square one. Or maybe they’ll all be dead by then. We sure hope not. But either way, our relief effort is still worth doing because they are our fellow humans and they’re suffering and we have the ability to do something about it. Even if it’s only a little.”

* * * * * * * * *

See also: #epicFail

Power

3 Feb

Power can sometimes be a difficult concept for us (humanitarian aid workers) to wrap our heads around in the context of some of the local communities where we work. The fact that things often look “impoverished” or like a disaster zone can mess with our minds. We assume that people are more powerless, in general, than they are in fact. When dealing with individuals, we often make unconscious (and ethnocentric) snap judgements about who has power and how powerful they are. We get distracted by their clothes, which may be ragged or out-of-fashion by our home country standards, or by their surroundings which we are often ill-prepared to read. In short, we often look at the wrong things – at least at first – in our assessment of who is powerful at the community level.

Moreover, it is very easy to fall into the trap of incorrectly and perhaps unconsciously assuming that because the material conditions are simple, therefore the political structure in that locale is also simple; or that if the immediate context appears chaotic, that the power relations in that place are correspondingly unclear.

Understanding who has power in a community is vital to doing good aid. And yet we very frequently get it wrong. We miss the cues. Local power often hides in plain sight in the eyes of outsiders.

* * * * *

So, today I was climbing through the maze of tarpaulin shelters that is camp “Acra Nord” with a couple of colleagues, making a routine follow-up visit on a few things. It was hot and dusty. Our blood sugar was dropping and we were ready to leave. And as we began to do so, some skinny teenager with a UNICEF notepad began following us, demanding that we make a stop to visit with the camp “boss.” We’d already gone through the usual formalities with the camp liaison that we go through when visiting the camps in and around Port-au-Prince, and so to our thinking visiting with the “boss” was not necessary, strictly speaking. We basically blew the kid off, and began walking back down the hill towards where our car was waiting.

About half way down, the teenager reappeared with the “boss” and one of the “boss’” minions. They demanded that we stop and talk with them, and after a brief exchange we did. The “boss” was an unimposing figure. But he surely wanted to talk to us about our plans for the future of “his” camp. He was very stern and very animated, waving his hands in the air, speaking out stridently. Clearly the “boss” had some strong opinions.

And it was at about that time that one of my colleagues – an American woman – and I couldn’t help but notice that the “boss’” zipper was all the way open.

And somehow in the heat of the day, absorbing a stern talking to in Kreole, feeling mildly impatient… my colleague and I made eye contact… and had to stifle giggles. The teenager and the minion saw what we were trying not to laugh about. Then, the teenager… casually reached over…

and zipped up the “boss’” zipper.

The “boss” didn’t miss a beat. He kept right on lecturing for another five minutes. My colleague and I barely kept it together until we were safely in the car.

* * *

I’ve been a few places and seen some weird things. But today was the first time I’ve ever seen a guy zip up another guy’s pants. In public, no less.

And as I think about it, not just anybody gets their pants zipped up for them. Note to self: That has got to be an  indicator of some serious local power.

Never mind…

23 Jan

So, this one time (Oct. 1998) I was riding across southern Yemen in a white Landcruiser. We were on the road from Aden to Sana’a.  It was, like, 11:00 PM – well after dark. And suddenly, from out of nowhere, there was a loud burst of automatic gunfire and streams of tracer flashing across the road right in front of us.

The driver slammed on the brakes and everyone else (there were three of us) hugged the floor.

We were in a part of Yemen that, at least at the time, was famous for kidnapping foreigners for ransom.

I remember thinking, “oh crap, I’m totally about to be abducted right now…”

* * *

So, here I am in a remote part of the Philippines. It’s been a disastrous trip. Almost nothing has gone as planned.

What was supposed to be a milk-run life-saving monitoring visit has turned into a situation that is best described in Vietnamese as “phuc tap.” Or perhaps even more apt, in Tok Piksin as “allbuggeredup.”

I was supposed to be having deep, melancholy-impulse-triggering conversations under mango trees with gaunt-but-grateful “beneficiaries.” But instead, I’m in a seemingly never-ending series of nine-hour rides that were only supposed to be four hours, in a van the looks like prisoner transport. It’s been three and a half days and I’ve done almost nothing but ride in the car with occasional breaks for greasy food.

My colleague who suffers a bit from motion sickness did a few stretches up in front with the driver, listening to Lionel Richie, Celine Dione and miscellaneous Pinoy mixes. He says it’s another world – seeing what’s coming. Seeing calamities narrowly averted: small children darting into the road to retrieve runaway toys, escaping messy deaths by tiny margins; slow-moving tricycles (motorcycles with sidecars) almost run down, but veered away from at the last possible second; oncoming 18-wheel trucks barreling around corners blind, missing our van by centimeters…

He says that the phrase in his head for the last day + has been: “oh crap! We’re gonna die… wait, I guess not. Never mind.”

And as I think about it, that may actually be one of the most apt phrases in an aid worker’s repertoire:

Oh crap! I’m gonna die… wait, never mind.

Oh crap! I’ve got dengue… again.. wait, it’s just a virus… never mind.

Oh crap! I’m gonna miss this flight… and.. sure enough.. missed it. Never mind.

Oh crap! I don’t have enough cash to pay the bar tab… oh wait, I’m in Cambodia now… never mind.

Oh crap! [BIG INSTITUTIONAL DONOR] is not gonna give us this grant. Wait, we just won.. never mind.

Oh crap! They’re playing “Don’t Speak” by No Doubt.. again. Wait, it’s Mariah Carey… never mind.

Oh crap! I have to go back to Haiti… Oh, it’s only for two weeks. Never mind.

Oh crap! I’m not accomplishing a thing on this trip… never mind.

Oh crap! [Fill in your own personal catastrophe]… never mind.

* * *

As it turns out, the gunfire and tracer across the road in southern Yemen was from a wedding.

You know. Everyone in that region packs an AK. And at the right moment, everyone fires randomly into the desert.

We totally did not get abducted that night.

Never mind.

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