There is a lot written out there about the internal conflicts that aid workers face – what it’s like to be constantly exposed to poverty, violence and injustice; how to balance professional and personal aspirations; and how to cope with the stress of being away from home so often. It can cause quite the existential crisis.
For me, though, what I have come to ask myself, especially in the often difficult first month of being deployed somewhere new, is: do I actually like being an aid worker?
I think back to a field posting in south Asia a few years ago: cheap beer, delicious street food and the beautiful temples we would visit on weekends. In my memory it’s all very positive. However, this wasn’t always the case.
That job was meant to signal the start of a fulfilling career as an aid worker on a constant roster of emergency deployments. But within my first week, I had told every single one of my family members, friends, and a man I was dating that I wanted to go home. Not in nine months, but now.
There were nights where I was ready to call quits on my budding humanitarian career for sheer frustration at the job, social setting, and – let’s be honest – crushing disappointment of the whole ordeal. I wasn’t meeting others deployed in the country, trips out to project sites were few and far between, and I found myself working long hours every day, mostly on my own. This was by no means what I had imagined. Day one in that country was day one of an ongoing debate about how best to manage such an odd career choice.
To outsiders, the decision to become an aid worker and give up on a “normal” life might seem odd. You give them the speech that we all know so well – that this type of work is important, that this career is meaningful, and that you want to live a life that is intense and where you are constantly meeting new people and going to new places, all while supposedly saving the world. The speech is meant to convince this incredulous person that although you are making sacrifices to be an aid worker, it is worth it. You never wanted to settle down anyway.
I’ve noticed that even after multiple deployments, as soon as I arrive in-country I repeat such a speech to myself. Perhaps it’s because I’ve had a frustrating day of dodging red tape at the office, I haven’t made friends as quickly as I’d expected or I’m missing loved ones back home. I’ve found those days particularly numerous during my first month of any deployment, as I get my bearings. As a coping mechanism I use those same lines to convince myself that it’s all worth it.
I should admit to myself that on some days this choice to be an aid worker (one I have studied a number of years and endured many unpaid internships for) doesn’t seem worth the sacrifice. I’ve willingly chosen to work in some of the most difficult contexts in the world. But what happens when the work doesn’t go as planned and you don’t feel you are having the impact you should?
In those dark times when I’m struggling I don’t admit there might be something wrong. Instead I play the game of rationalising. I tell myself that I’m learning new skills by working in difficult – or near impossible – operational contexts; and that I’m simply “focused on my career” on those days I wish I was out with friends. We all do it, but why? Perhaps it’s because surrendering to the unhappiness of those moments would lead us to questioning our entire lifestyle and choice of career – and that is too scary.
As aid workers, we don’t have any hesitation about spending hours complaining about X, Y, Z over one too many drinks. We commiserate together, we have deep philosophical conversations about whether or not humanitarian work is really having the impact on the world that we had hoped, but we never dare ask each other whether we are enjoying ourselves more than if we’d opted for a more traditional career path.
There is seemingly no space for such skepticism in this lifestyle. And I think that needs to change. Let’s face it, there are some really great aspects of being an aid worker – I have met some amazing people, seen places in the world I otherwise would not have, and, yes, the work is fascinating and meaningful. But there are the bad days. Each deployment will have its own mix of each, and we can quickly forget those more negative periods of time and be hard on ourselves when we are finding the first month of a new deployment miserable.
So, today, when I have one of those moments – alone in a new place, wishing I was back home – I try to cut myself a break. I’m allowed to not love this life all the time. It’s alright to question whether I want to be here, and whether I’ll still want to be an aid worker in 10 years. Despite the sales pitch for humanitarian work leading us to mistakenly believe that this job has to be worth it, it’s alright to wonder whether I even enjoy humanitarian work. That feeling eventually passes. The whole process would be a whole lot smoother if I could just admit to myself that, yes, overall I do enjoy being an aid worker. Just not all the time.
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