Humanity in Aid

What does it mean to work for a humanitarian aid organization in which you constantly have to affirm your humanity?

Former International Rescue Committee Employee

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An African-American colleague introduced and reflected on the above question during a racial sensitivity training hosted by the International Rescue Committee (IRC) in the wake of the 2020 global protests for racial justice and staff demands arising from a never-ending stream of black and brown bodies sacrificed at the intersection of avarice, power, and dehumanization. The question struck a deep chord within me, and it is one that I have returned to time and time again during my tenure at IRC.

In full transparency, I have not been in the humanitarian aid space for long and spent the bulk of my employment years in non-humanitarian aid divisions of international development. I avoided the sector because as a child of the 80s and 90s, I was deeply familiar with the industry’s long-standing trope of the hopeless and ever-impoverished African child with the distended belly, the gruel running down his chin, the permanently attached buzzing fly, and the whiteness galvanizing to save him — if only, Jennifer Smith from Boise, Idaho would see this desperate toddler’s humanity and part with $0.50/ day, the price of a cup of coffee…

I think most of us from the Global South — particularly those of us who inhabit Western spaces — intimately understand this trope, its fallacies, its truth, its denigration, and its purposeful mischaracterization. It is upon this teetering bedrock of half-truths and myths that the Western conceptualization of humanitarian aid directed to the Global South was constructed.

We, who are familiar with this history, understand that the untold truth of this scene may be that the child’s belly is distended because of centuries of avaricious resource extraction that deplete and destabilize communities; his gruel encrusted face, the manifestation of predatory international trade policies that undercut local economies — making it impossible for farmers to build industry; the ever whizzing fly, a nod to the Western adulation of poverty porn as the chief vehicle through which to conceptualize the “other”; the hopelessness of Africa embodied in the physicality of a sunken-faced black child, a continuum of the infantilization of Africa and the centuries-long allegiance to domination of the continent, its resources, its possibilities, and its futures.

All that said, the “ish” is complicated. But what Jennifer Smith knows to be true is that here stands an abandoned, naked, vulnerable, and pitiable African child who, the voice-over assures us, is in desperate need of her saving. Jennifer does not have to question how the comforts of her existence may be tied to the deprivation experienced in another part of the world (or within her own country); she does not have to reflect on how singular negative narratives of the perceived other enforce dehumanizing and problematic stereotypes that foster dangerous scenarios for marginalized people; she does not need to examine her own government’s complicity in maintaining a political economy that churns out inequity; she is not required to see that in this increasingly interconnected world-system, her future is tied up with that of this nameless African child. What she knows is that she can write a check of assistance and absolve herself of any guilt or responsibility in addressing the systems of oppression that produce poverty, marginalization, discontent, violence, and instability.

In the non-profit/ international development/ humanitarian aid industries, this exchange serves as the foundational pillar upon which we are built and a core tenet of how we function. We intrinsically know the cues and roles of the sector’s cast because, for centuries, we have borne witness to and participated in the theater of white superiority and centrality. The humanitarian aid industry manifests this messaging with another trope with which we are all intimately familiar, the swashbuckling white hero with a heart of gold. This principle character is outfitted in their best khaki ensemble, complete with matching safari bucket hat — a costume as critical to character development as the whizzing fly is to the African child. In this role, he is eating amongst Africans, taking pictures with and of unknown African children, and negotiating with African warlords to broker peace. All of this boundless heroism set against the brilliant backdrop of the blood-orange African skies, a lone baobab tree, and the ever-present danger of a wildlife stampede. Cue Toto singing, “I bless the rains down in Aaaaafricaaaaa,” and the scene is impeccably set.

The myth of a singular Western conceptualization of heroism and innate goodness does not allow for adequate space to unpack how centuries of colonialism have bred peril and discontent; how unchecked capitalist extraction has fostered civil unrest and toppled legitimately elected governance structures; how tax flight and continued theft of resources funneled into off-shore accounts have depleted mineral-rich communities and contributed to ever-expanding inequality; how the aid industry is rarely ever “neutral” or “impartial”, but deeply enmeshed in politics and operates as an extension of global power and interests; how intimately connected the capitalist class is with the funding and priority setting of the non-profit sector; how using Africans as props to showcase Western goodness dehumanizes, infantilizes, and creates real danger for people; how many within the connected political elite circles of the Global South continue to serve as intermediaries of the metropole; how a singular focus on white saviorism, predicated on sidelining impacted and marginalized communities, robs us of alternate perspectives, methods of conflict resolution, and ideas around how to build a better world.

The simple truth is that the myth of white saviorism stifles us all by profoundly limiting our collective understanding and imaginings of what our futures can be.

All of that said, we, ultimately, live in a flawed world system and many people who work within the non-profit/ international development/ humanitarian aid sectors enter into these spaces to be of service to one another. That, in and of itself, is a beautiful impetus, and working at IRC has put me in touch with scores of such people. I imagine that many of us could be making significantly more money in the private sector but chose to work here for a reason. And, I fundamentally believe that the desire to build a better world is something we should enthusiastically celebrate, even as the methods to reach this better world are critically examined and continuously contextualized.

In the course of my own examination, I have been thinking a lot, of late, about what it means to have your humanity affirmed while working in organizations dedicated to humanitarianism. At IRC, we lift up the qualities of integrity, accountability, and service as the guiding principles to determine how we interact with our clients, people often placed on the outermost margins of society in every way possible. As a Black woman with a lifetime of experiences pertaining to power inequity and marginalization, I wonder what these terms mean in real-world application. Are they lofty goals inked out on paper to satisfy an innate desire to see ourselves as the righteous heroes of the story? Or do they really govern our behavior towards one another as humans?

Some time ago, I had an interaction with a high-ranking staff member of my organization while working on an initiative with a number of colleagues to address inequality within the organization. The specifics of the exchange are not as important, but the overall tone of the interaction was characterized by belittlement, derision, and a hefty dose of mansplaining in reference to the organizing work that I and many other colleagues were embarking upon to create an IRC committed to anti-racism and decoloniality.

Now, as a student of history, I understand that power often reacts in this way when challenged and that this response is generally a mask for fear of losing control and the unknown. Intellectually, I understand this. Emotionally, it is still unnerving to have position and privilege used as tools to quell expressions of alternate points of view, particularly in a space meant to foster inclusive engagement. The exchange also made me reflect on how power is often weaponized to discredit voices contradictory to the status quo and those deemed unworthy of taking up space. It is, in fact, these small acts of diminishment that, once ratcheted up, create the environments of danger that IRC’s displaced clients are forced to flee for safer harbor… to seek out spaces of refuge where their humanity may be affirmed.

This interaction also made me reflect on how much language matters. Oftentimes, the beginning seeds of discontent that eventually lead to strife and conflict commence with the weaponization of language to marginalize and illustrate who should have a voice and who should not, who is deserving of decision-making power and who is not, who is worthy of safety and who is not, who matters in this world and who does not. Where my understanding of self challenges these deeply-entrenched beliefs is that the confines of IRC’s hierarchies do not dictate how I move, how I speak, or the space I take up. I genuinely speak to everyone in the same manner. I do not code-switch between how I engage with a member of the janitorial staff, the CEO, or a program manager. My life philosophy is that no one is more or less deserving of care, respect, and honest engagement. Or as I have been known to say, we all s#@t the same, so…

And on the surface, this may seem crude, but it is also bodily excrement that taught me one of my most profound lessons about race. During one of my epic 1st-grade sleepovers, my friend, who is of a different race than me, used the restroom and forgot to flush. I entered after her, and after being momentarily aghast, I realized that I had gotten it all wrong. Up to this point, my 7-year-old mind had assumed that the color of our excrement was connected to the color of our skin. And at this moment, I realized that although our skin tones may be different, our internal makeup, and output (lol), are essentially the same.

As crass as speaking of bodily functions may seem, it is also illustrative of the essential nature that the physical being plays in enforcing a race-based caste system predicated on the systematic dehumanization of the “other.” As critical race expert, Sonya Renee Taylor asserts the myth of racial categorization is that the body dictates one’s relative access to power. The physical being matters. White supremacy mandates that the most privileged and sacred of human bodies is that of rich, white, able-bodied, cis-gender, non-neurodivergent, heterosexual men; and all others experience varying levels of access to power, safety, and respect dependent upon their proximity to the set ideal. In a world system based on white supremacy, our latitude to exist as full human beings — and not primarily as marginalized caricatures — is deeply intertwined with our physicality.

The racial caste system of today, which also clearly exists within IRC and the vast majority of iNGOs, dictates that my melanin-rich, black, female body stands in diametrical opposition to the bodies of those in leadership. My body is quite far from the manifested ideal that has been upheld for centuries by white supremacy. Indeed, my body is more akin to those of the clients whom we are employed to serve, but, who they, themselves, rarely inhabit spaces of leadership at IRC and many organizations like it.

My body can be an object to be counted in statistics of human suffering or pitied by the global elite but not one to boldly take up space and assert my views. My body is the one that the swashbuckling white rescuer takes bare-breasted photos of for the March edition of National Geographic or as a memento to recall his resplendent adventures and good deeds in jolly old Africa. In the grand narrative of power and placement, our script says that I have a body and positioning that should be acted upon, rather than one that should be self-possessed enough to call out and fight power inequity when I see it.

It is an interesting dilemma to take up space in a system not built for marginalized people — particularly those not sanctioned by empowered actors — to comfortably do so. I have recently learned that the angst, tension, and anxiety that I — and many others — feel as a result of working and living within such systems is, in fact, trauma. A word that we more readily associate with people on the receiving end of our services and not so much with those who work in these organizations. Having language to describe the panoply of emotions that engaging in this space brings forth is helpful and affirming.

But, ultimately, we exist in systems that, by their nature, are not meant to serve as places of refuge for people like me — even when we work for these institutions. This is not a problem unique to the IRC, but rather, a stark and painful industry-wide reality. We are part of a society and work in organizations that make clear distinctions about who can lay claim to their full humanity and who cannot, who counts and who doesn’t, whose body is represented in spaces of leadership and whose isn’t, who gets to have space to speak without derision at a meeting of colleagues discussing inclusivity and who doesn’t, who is deserving of respect and who isn’t. These problematic and oppressive behaviors are even more jarring when they are perpetuated in spaces mandated to serve and uplift marginalized communities who have experienced the dire effects of systematic dehumanization.

After the above-mentioned incident, many colleagues reached out to me with compassion, care, and comfort in ways that give me hope for a more inclusive future at IRC. Indeed, there is much work to be done, but there are also many people beginning to engage and organize around issues pertaining to racism, systemic oppression, and coloniality. I would offer that as we are working towards this more inclusive and just future, it is important to consider the ways in which the varying levels of power and privilege that we possess can be used to silence and marginalize or amplify and uplift.

Ultimately, if we cannot honor the humanity in one another as colleagues, how do we begin to work towards creating a world system that honors the full humanity of the people we serve?