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September 25th, 2008
12:52 pm - Reflections on hand-shaking
I once thought that hand-shaking is a universal symbol of warmth, welcome and friendship. So all over the world, I would offer my hand.
It was first in Afghanistan that I learnt that some men may not like to shake my hand. Because I am a woman, and contact between sexes is a no-no. So instead, those who did not want to shake my hand would put their right hand to their heart as a greeting. So it was clear who would shake my hand or not, and my hand was never left suspended mid-air in tragic rejection.
But in Somalia, there isn't a hand-on-heart practice. So recently, my hand was left in the tragic mid-air pose in Mogadishu's K50 airport. My Somali colleague rejected my handshake! I have to say, I had a surprising emotional reaction to this. I felt sub-human, unworthy and dirty. Then angry and sulky. Then guilty for being intolerant of my Muslim colleague's preferences. I was all awash with emotion!
And then I went out to Somali villages, and found that some young children and women refuse to shake my hand too! Like the kids in this photo. They stared at me for ages. And when I offered my hand in friendship, they fled in terror. Then they dared each other to shake my hand. Like a game. So now it's a game I play with children in each village I visit. In one village, the first person who dared to shake my hand was an elderly woman with a heavily lined face. She looked into my eyes and had a huge warm smile.
I asked my Somali colleagues why the kids don't want to shake my hand. I have to say I wasn't prepared for the reply. "Haven't you noticed," said my colleague, "that your skin is the colour of a dead person?".
Hmmm, no, I hadn't!
Current Location: Nairobi, Somalia
Current Mood: ![[mood icon]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/mood/growf/smileys/smile.gif) tee!
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January 23rd, 2008
11:55 pm - About letting go
A few 'aid worker' friends have recently ended their long-term deployments. Some have returned to their home countries only to find 'reintegration' into their home countries difficult. A dear friend even described her return as traumatic. And aye, traumatic it can be.
I glossed over my return in December. It was difficult, though fortunately, not traumatic.
Each night for three weeks, I dreamt of Nias. During my waking hours, I was in Australia. But as I shut my eyes, I was back in Nias. In my job, and living on the hill. Some mornings, I would even wake up to the sound of a goose honk or ducks quacking. Only to find that they were imagined. Each morning, I would wake to wonder why I was not in my home on Miga Hill. A hill we had made our home with crazed ducks and geese, and neighbours who wandered into our house at all hours of the day or night. Each morning, as I woke, I was disoriented and lost. Not knowing what to do now that there was no one to manage, no activities to coordinate, no documents to sign, no troubles to shoot, no ducks to feed.
I must have been inwardly fretting about the project I had handed over: Had I forgotten anything in my handover notes? How was my replacement doing? How was the team doing? Did they get approval for my replacement to be a bank signatory? These manifested themselves me continuing to handover my job again and again in my nocturnal sleeping hours. Again and again for three weeks.
In my waking hours, I had to resist the temptation to email my replacement to 'check in'. To ask the team daily how they were doing. To ask my neighbour/landlord (who gladly inherited the ducks and geese) how they were. I had to remind myself that we made the (very wise) decision to leave. And now I had to let go.
Alas, I was happy to 'let go' in my waking hours. Yet, in my sleep, I held on. Two months later, I no longer dream. Indeed, it is good to have found peace.
Current Location: Canberra, Australia
Current Music: Mescalito -- Rambla
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August 16th, 2007
12:53 pm - After ten years in the game
Oh dear. Fellow aid worker sort, ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) monkeygirldiva, has posted about the dilemma that faces aid workers once they have been ten years in the business:You're an aid worker with 10+ years experience under your belt. You earn a pittance but it works for you because you are non-resident at home so you don't pay tax, you are catered for on assignment so you don't pay rent, and your mortgage is covered by the people renting your place because you are never there... Eight options are outlined. None particularly enticing. But I am luckier than most of the 30-something-year-old aid worker sorts out there. As my colleagues* say to me, "You have Damian. You can start having babies. We don't even know where to begin to look for a man.". Of course, I tell them to get a blog. :P
I digress. This December marks my ten years in the game. My contract here ends on 30 November 2007. I will not extend, as I have cunning plans to 'nationalise' my position (ie., replace me with a national staff member). Plus I have become fatigued, grumpy, cynical. What next?
Damian and I will move to Brisbane for a year to start on a self-funded PhD with the Australian Centre for Peace and Conflict Studies. Something about the relationship between the lack of post-conflict economic development and resurgence in conflict. Using Timor Leste as a case study. I think. We'll see.
* Anyone looking for a love match with attractive, highly intelligent, fiercely independent women, let me know. I have several friends on the hunt. Must have valid passport.
Current Location: jogjakarta, indonesia
Current Mood: ![[mood icon]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/mood/growf/smileys/tired.gif) tired
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