by Lisa
McKay '03M.A.
I expected to lose some weight on this trip, I thought grimly,
kneeling on the cold cement floor of the dorm's bathroom. Just
not all at once. I blinked the sweat out of my eyes and tried
to read my watch. It was hard to focus. Three hours since it had
started. I'd given up trying to figure out whether it could be
malaria, hepatitis or dengue fever. Deciding whether I was actually
on the right continent for dengue fever, or whether that was only
Asia, kept me entertained for at least 10 minutes. But by 3 a.m.
I was past that. I was just sure that whatever it was, I'd probably
be dead by dawn.
I was not dead by dawn, something I was not feeling well enough
to celebrate with anything but a trace of disappointed resignation.
At 6:30 on a chilly Kenyan morning I faced the fact that I would
probably live, and that in exactly two hours I was scheduled to
be standing in front of 20 people on the last day of a four-day
conference, teaching about peer support after trauma to humanitarian
workers from Rwanda, Ethiopia, Nigeria, Uganda and Kenya.
The first three days of training had been . . . character building.
Character building, as usual, being code for "experiences that
suck so much while you're going through them that the most effective
solace available is the firm belief in future noble and virtuous
personal benefits." One good thing, though, was the location.
Back in Africa for the first time in 11 years, I'd recognized
the shape of the trees, flat against the horizon. The red dirt,
the taste of warm Sprite from a dusty glass bottle, clouds of
pollution billowing darkly from every second vehicle, the awareness
that I was a white walking dollar sign: All were familiar from
spending my teenage years in Zimbabwe.
What was not so familiar was the role I now wore like an uncomfortable
suit -- a forensic psychologist and an expert in stress and trauma
management. As an Australian, being an expert in anything doesn't
sit well. And I find the ironies inherent in being a supposed
expert in this particular field at the ripe old age of 28 difficult
to ignore. But this year I've been relearning that important lesson
I first grasped at 16 when we moved back to the United States
and I convinced my entire class that in Zimbabwe we occasionally
rode elephants to school and summered in a giant treehouse. Other
people will believe almost anything if you say it with enough
confidence and conviction. It's just that I thought being a "grown-up"
would mean actually feeling that confidence. Now I'm
starting to think it just means being better at pretending a lot
of the time.
At least I must be getting better at the pretending. Moses,
one of the participants from Kenya, stopped me as I was locking
up the conference room one night. "Can you ever turn it off, the
psychology, when you're with your friends?" he wanted to know.
"Or do you think like that all the time?" I knew what he was asking.
During the past couple of years I've encountered this over and
over again at dinner parties, in airplanes, basically anytime
I introduce myself and explain what I do. It usually boils down
to one basic question -- can you read my mind? And one basic fear
-- can you see my secret shame?
My standard response is to tell people that my psychology specialty
is forensics, so unless they have criminal tendencies they're
safe from my powers. When I really want to freak someone out I'll
pause after that piece of lighthearted banter, narrow my eyes
and look at them speculatively. Moses, however, was without guile,
and I didn't have the heart to try that on him. I paused, searching
for a way to reassure him that his innermost thoughts were safer
than he could imagine, without making me sound completely
clueless. He didn't wait for my answer though. "I think it must
be very uncomfortable to be around you," the 6-foot-3, muscle-bound
giant beamed at me without malice, white teeth flashing.
I walked away from him 10 minutes later both flattered and disturbed.
Flattered because someone, at least, thinks I have some answers.
To life. Disturbed because someone thinks I have some answers.
To life.
This latest trip to Kenya threw this paradox into sharp relief
for me. I am the director of training and education for a nonprofit
organization that provides psychological and spiritual support
to relief and development personnel around the world. It's my
job to understand how difficult, how dangerous and how incredibly
enriching international humanitarian work can prove. It's my job
to convince humanitarian workers that unless they consistently
pay attention to caring for themselves while they're working to
care for others, they will be lucky to last for three years before
returning home spent, disillusioned and possibly traumatized.
It's my job to know that approximately 25 percent of humanitarians
working in such places as Afghanistan and the Democratic Republic
of the Congo can expect to undergo a potentially life-threatening
experience during their assignment. And it's my job to know what
will help when these most horrendous events -- the carjackings,
kidnappings, land mines, shootings and tsunamis of life -- blindside
us on a pedestrian Tuesday afternoon.
On one level I can do this. I have lived in eight countries.
A passion for international humanitarian work was born the year
my family moved to Bangladesh and I asked, with the innocence
of a sheltered 7-year-old, whether God had run out of money half
way around the world. The allure of that promising partnership
between helping to serve others and adventure is in my blood.
I can help you discover what self-care strategies will and won't
help sustain you in the face of the loneliness that can come with
being far away from family and home, the weariness that attends
constant exposure to disaster, and the mental pressure of making
decisions that mean some people receive life-saving aid while
others do not. I also can tell you what sort of reactions to expect
and danger signs to watch out for following a traumatic event.
Most of it is not rocket science. I sometimes feel
ridiculous facing some of the most intelligent, dedicated and
passionate individuals I have ever met, and reminding them that
drinking too much is not an incredibly helpful self-care strategy
and that they might want to consider journaling instead. But this
is the sort of message humanitarian workers need to hear on a
regular basis. Most start out in this field young, idealistic
and vulnerable. When they find themselves working in an understaffed
and undersupplied refugee camp facing more desperate people than
they can possibly hope to help, it doesn't take long before far
too many take refuge themselves in alcohol, risk-taking, promiscuity
or cynicism in an effort to cope.
On a personal level, however, I find myself wanting much more
than this. What I really want to know is, why? Why is there so
much suffering in this world? Why do humans have such a talent
for violence? What does God think when he sees the tears and pain
and incomprehension of those who have had their lives torn apart
by an earthquake . . . a famine . . . a tsunami . . . other people?
How do I reconcile omnipotence with such devastation and anguish?
Why does He often seem so slow to act, and so silent? And, why
have I been given so much, while others have so little?
But while I want the answers to these questions of meaning,
they are the very answers I'm most keenly aware that I do not
have. Not in the way that will ever let me start a sentence with
the word "because" and feel any degree of certainty in the answer.
In fact, most people I know who believe they have "those answers"
are far more annoying than inspiring or comforting. Perhaps it's
more about understanding the questions that are raised than knowing
"the answers." Do you think? Perhaps one of these days I'll say
that, and it won't feel like a cop-out.
Despite philosophical musings, food poisoning, eight days with
no food and organizational politics that meant training this particular
group was like trying to herd a group of turtles in a direction
they didn't want to go, it was a good trip. Day by day I'm getting
better at understanding the questions and realizing that I have
answers for fewer and fewer of them. At this rate I reckon I'll
have no answers at all in approximately one year, four months
and three days. Then I'll be really good at my job.
Lisa McKay works for the Headington Institute in Pasadena,
California.
(October 2005)
