Outsiders

My inner peace wavered with the idea that I no longer belonged to the humanitarian world. I was being interviewed about my struggles reporting sexual abuse and, despite good will, I became somewhat uncomfortable. 

I had enjoyed the happiness that a glimmer of hope brings: as a whistle-blower, I had managed to attract enough attention to provoke a certain change. But then what? If, as the victim who spoke up, I was not reinstated or offered a role in a committee, or whatever mechanism put in place, I was, yet again, left out. I felt I had to move on  and forget about it all, or persist as an external activist. Either way, I didn’t feel welcome.   

I was speaking with experts in the prevention of sexual exploitation and abuse who had a keen interest in learning from my point of view as a victim/survivor, yet I felt like a stranger. My involvement in the change they try to promote was limited. Although they seized the opportunity to engage with me, created by my insistence on providing feedback, a systematic approach to dialogue and learning with victims was missing.

They said not to hope for personal gain, such as the chance to examine my case. They acknowledged that things were dealt worse then, “then” meaning the time I reported, but they stayed firm in shielding the organisation from any responsibility. Attempting a no-harm approach, they pointed out I could stop participating at any time. However, how can they ask me not to expect anything when I have suffered through their past wrongdoing? To anticipate a meaningful outcome such as a mere apology seems reasonable. I felt that although my voice remained valid, I was perceived as an outsider while sharing my insight. Therefore, no matter the well-intentioned and victim-focused approach, I felt disposable. 

Voices that emphasize system failures, such as my own, seem like a threat. We therefore receive very little space, particularly when we have been ejected as a result of sexual abuse. From the inside, we find it hard to identify the toxic environment we live immersed in. Failing to see the betrayals of our peers is a survival mechanism, therefore we falter in detecting wrongs from within. Does it take to become a victim or to leave the clan to open our eyes? For instance, only in hindsight, I saw how I benefited from the pervading racism. 

Do I see these failings of the aid world now because I became an underdog? Can one engage in humanitarian action, even if its shortcomings are undeniable today? 

I feel a cognitive dissonance as I despise many aspects of the humanitarian world, but I still care and I still long to belong. I want to participate in this necessary change towards a system with real gender equality, anti-racist practices and enhanced diversity. I would love to feel accepted and have my voice recognised, but I am not sure there is room for people like me in the formal structures. 

The aid sector needs to include the views of victims who have come forward with their stories. Victims, particularly those who belong to the assisted population, appear as external actors with a passive role, therefore, organisations currently deprive them of agency when, instead, they should fully incorporate them into the fight against sexual abuse. It may seem unnecessary at first, but —not only is it the right thing to do— but it will also protect organisations from greater future liabilities. Because either as insiders —hand in hand with institutions— or as outsiders —throwing stones at them, we will persist in voicing that we deserve better.