I'm Sorry

Last Thursday I did something I said I would never ever do.

Once upon a time in northern Afghanistan a group of elderly men knocked on our compound door. They had arrived on donkeys from a village a long ways off and wanted assistance in their village. Because they were Hazara, and perhaps because they lived in the middle of nowhere (even by Afghani standards), they had received no outside assistance. So I checked with our team leader and we put together an assessment team. The village was dirt poor, with several easily identifiable health problems (and a few not-so identifiable) a mobile medical team could solve. They were remarkably hospitable. In the morning we woke up to a dusting of snow; I considered it a sign of sorts.

I spent another day in and around the village organizing the logistics for a mobile medical team and was ready to bring them in when my boss called and told me to drop everything and return to the office. The project was off—the village would receive nothing from us. Back in Mazar a few NGOs had divided up the map and the village would now fall into another agencies territory. We were to share our assessment data, but given the village's remote location I knew it would take them months to get there—if at all. I was irate, but that was that. Stop what you're doing and leave. I called the village Shura together and explained the situation through my translator—whom I'd intentionally not briefed beforehand. Like me, he had grown attached to the village, and as he mumbled through my speech, eyes cast downwards, I resolved to never leave anyone working beneath me hung out to dry. When I got back to the base my country director offered no explanation. He just sat me down and apologized. I seethed for a while. Of course now, looking back, I get it.

For much of last week WFP was under intense pressure. They had dozens and dozens of NGOs, some small with little capacity, coming to them asking for food to distribute. I made friends with one of the officers and he took me with him on his rounds to distribute to orphanages. He had only been with WFP for a few months—before that he was an financial advisor from Marseilles I believe. He lost two colleagues in the earthquake, as well as his driver, whom he had personally asked to go into his house and fetch a document. Then the earthquake struck and he watched the house come down. His story wasn't unique—a lot of staff were traumatized. So, on the one hand I was sympathetic to WFP. On the other hand, well, people wanted food and WFP seemed paralyzed. A few frustrating days after meeting him I got a call: “your release note is ready—we can helicopter it in if it'd be quicker.” Then I knew something had switched. Helicopters were unnecessary, but they would look good on camera—which is why WFP offered them. Thanks but no thanks.

So we began and things were going well. Then it all changed again. Someone new came in to take over WFP and their solution was to divide up all of PaP into 16 or 17 zones (don't have my notes in front of me). One of the major NGOs would take over a zone or two or four. I was told to halt all distributions—so as to prevent overlap. I didn't have any choice and knew it. But for my distribution team it was another matter—in particular the one person I wrote about earlier and who I had relied on so much. Now I had to tell her to stop, pack up her stuff, and leave. “No, we won't be distributing anymore food.” She protested more than I did back in Afghanistan. So I took her with me to the food cluster meeting and she got to see the politics first hand. That might have been a mistake. She shook her head at the situation: Haiti has enough problems. I winced, knowing she's the one —not me— who had to go back into her community and tell her neighbours the news.

Now, I suppose if I were totally honest I would admit to you this: I suspected it would play out exactly as it did. But I judged that risk to be worth taking in order to position the agency for a future role in programming food. Why? Because future food programming is a better foot forward to future funding. Funding drives projects, projects bring aid. I rationalized it by saying that if it paid off then her community would receive more assistance. But I'm probably the only one who believes that. I mean, my bosses certainly didn't ask me to do it. So perhaps I'm just overly ambitious, perhaps I think I know better... Whatever the case, in the end I got out in front of WFP and was run over.

PS -
Afterwards we sit down and I ask her what she thinks.
Sur quoi?
About what happened, about the meeting and stopping and everything.
She has a tendency of avoiding my eyes— a deferential gesture I dislike. Now I can't tell if its just habit or intentional.
In Creol we say, 'kreyon pep la pa gen gonm.' It means, 'the people's pencil has no eraser.'
The other distribution staff look serious. They've come to respect her. Everyone is quiet. I fumble with my words.
I know. I understand. I mean, don't worry.
She still won't meet my eyes. I realize its past dinnertime and they want to go home. I want to say I'm sorry, but I know its too late.