Aid work is bizarre, to
say the least. We are good at trashing it. we should be. Critical and self
critical personalities are not only useful but a necessity. To survive, to stay relevant.
But maybe sometimes we
should also highlight "the other" side. The one most of us signed up
for.
Yesterday was one of those
such days. I woke at dawn, compliments of a massive jetlag that keeps me half
a day ahead of the people I love. With my brain and my heart in different time zones, it is sometimes difficult to keep track of
which day I'm in. I had breakfast in an empty lobby next to a pool I'll never use, and then headed off to the "office"
First stop, I found myself
surrounded by 20 imams. 20 male religious leaders of a faith I barely know. we
spoke of child marriage and of dowries. They ate grapes while I munched on
almonds.
Second stop a support
center for people living with HIV aids to see a group of courageous women survivors of violence. They told me their stories. we smiled
and talked while some of the children slept on the mat. Women who's own
families won't allow them to sit on the same sofas they use, who won't feed
them. One, just a child, had joined their ranks at the age of nine. All
fighters. I felt proud to sit side by side with them, and embarrassed when they
presented me a gift, a gift they can ill afford. They asked me to come visit
them again.
"I cannot" I excuse my self "I live far and
I have left small children behind to come meet you"
then comes the translation of their response
"she says she too has
children, but she has to die and leave them"
slapping me back to my
place. that of a stranger that can barely touch any of their lives. I leave humbled and
embarrassed.
Third stop a training center for
women who have chosen to leave all they know in search of money. Most of them headed for Saudi
Arabia to work as domestics. Here they are taught to make beds, how to use machines
that you and me take for granted, like the toaster or the vacuum
cleaner. A small mannequin of a child stares back at me. A buggy next to it. These are the things they must come familiar with for their new
life.
Then the airport. Children
smile as I photograph them through the glass barrier that divides our
worlds: that of those sipping tea while waiting to board a plane from those begging for food.
"at least you made them
smile" replies a little voice
inside me. I feel smaller than the voice.