Not part of the deal
Sacrifices a humanitarian worker should not have to make
Having my mother crying over the phone was not one of the outcomes I expected. Not at this stage of my life, not linked to my old humanitarian career, not because of something that happened almost ten years ago.
My mother always says she prefers happy children rather than successful ones. In her case a happy daughter meant one going to war-torn countries to follow a humanitarian vocation. My mum, a retired nurse, does not speak English and has not travelled much, but radiates wisdom.
When my career got serious, my destinations became countries unheard of by her, and often by me. Once posted on my mission, no skype, hardly internet access, she had to accept that my happiness meant phone calls once a month. Occasionally, I would call her from the middle of some African rural area to inform her that a humanitarian worker had been kidnapped. Nothing to worry about, I would say cheerfully, yes it happened in the same country, but I remained safe. She would choose to believe the white lie that I worked in a safe place. I remember making these phone calls with the Thuraya satellite phone. No landline or mobile phones signal, we carried satellite phones and struggled to get communication even with those high-tech devices. Nevermind, this was part of the deal.
Now, a decade after my career as a humanitarian worker has ended, my mum cries over the phone: ”I knew work got hard then, I knew you were struggling but I didn’t realize there loomed something more”. How on earth, she wonders now, she never knew I suffered sexual abuse? I never told my parents or friends what had happened during that mission. I never explained why I came home after only two months in the field, not finishing my one year contract. Why, unable to attend social events, I eventually left home to hide at my aunt’s in Sweden where she looked after me while I licked my wounds.
To my parents, brothers and friends, my profession appeared as dangerous: it came with the job I would be exposed to all sorts of hazards. And it is true, I have been through the kidnapping of colleagues and lost friends in earthquakes or killed by an armed group. I faced my sorrow often alone, weeping when receiving terrible news — this came as a price to do my precious job. But it felt unfair to my loved ones adding an extra concern:
“Do not fear war mum, fear my colleagues.”
I trusted I could face this challenge alone, I trusted part of the deal included support if I reached out for help. It resulted in an error of judgment, I did not get any support although I reported. I began getting flashbacks, my heart would stampede and panic would materialize in my throat, all my danger alerts flashing. Closing my eyes, I felt the dread down my neck when remembering the machete in our living room, his threats and perverse psychological games, the danger outside making the house an unerring trap during the night. Memories of that terrible experience hunted me.
I think it is time that you picture me. I consider myself a strong woman, loud and confident, intelligent. Not exactly the victim profile you might portray. How does a woman like me end up being harassed and sexually abused? A misbelief goes around that personal characteristics make potential victims and this constitutes a delusion — it is the context that creates vulnerability and turns people into victims.
Humanitarian work emerges as dangerous and with potential harmful psychological damage for all workers but women face additional risks linked to sexual violence. As the sector ignores the higher vulnerability of women, female employees become cannon fodder in a sexist environment. How can an entity help victims of wars and natural disasters when it does not succeed in protecting its personnel from internal harms?
Let me explain briefly how the humanitarian world works. You put a bunch of people with different nationalities, cultures, and values, together in a hazardous environment under stress, time constraints and with high team rotations. For this you need a system where trust builds rapidly, where you put your life — literally — in the hands of people you hardly know.
There prevail several cracks in the system enabling unpunished abusive behaviour — starting with the biassed assumption of high ethics on humanitarian workers. Frequently, small teams operate in isolated places where reporting becomes hard, and colleagues might work and live together, which implies the lack of a separate social setting to rely on or having a safe haven at home. Friendships build quickly, but not always solidly enough to offer support when abuse occurs. In these contexts, victims might reluctantly accept the abuse knowing in a few months the mission will be over either for them or for their tormentors. Confident their agony will be over soon, they endure hardship without confiding to anyone, maybe unaware of the devastating effect on their health.
In these extraordinary circumstances, where predators start afresh in new posts and their misdeeds do not follow them, two deterrents to reporting coexist: the threat of retaliation, plus the guilt of tarnishing the sector’s image. Despite #MeToo and its equivalent in the sector, #AidToo, the systems in place to investigate prohibited behaviours remain weak and organisations only tackle blatant cases that could end up in scandal. In consequence, as backed by a recent British parliamentary inquiry, sexual exploitation is still rife in the Aid sector.
Current ineffective measures remain dead letter. Sexism and sexual violence will not be eradicated solely by creating ombudsman's and compliance offices, especially not when investigative procedures deprive victims of agency and autonomy, and retaliation is to be feared.
Commitment to a humanitarian cause remains laudable, but stripping your sense of safety and having your mental health destroyed should not be part of the deal. Women will continue risking their lives for humanitarian causes, but they should not persist losing their personal integrity to abusive colleagues.
