*Secret aid worker: when your dream job ends in depression/ The Guardian 19.07.16* Being a humanitarian has given me a heightened sense of loss
Secret aid worker When I left university as a young professional full of dreams and idealism, no job in the world sounded more exciting than being an aid worker. Travelling a lot, working with a team who come from all over the world and contributing to something meaningful seemed like the dream job. So after gaining some work experience in my home country, I was excited when one of the world’s biggest international aid organisations offered me a job as an adviser to a local NGO in Africa. The reality was a bit different though. I guess my troubles first began when I was interviewed for the job in my home country in the absence of the colleagues I would be working with. Indeed, if I hadn’t insisted on a Skype meeting with the director of the local NGO before accepting the job, I wouldn’t have known much about my new workplace. Information about my new home country (in terms of safety, accommodation and transport) provided by the aid organisation was also limited. The true complexities of working in this sector only dawned on me when I started the job. I was totally unprepared for trying to please two bosses, the international aid agency and the local NGO, who each interpreted my job description differently. On one hand, I was the international aid organisation’s main representative there and thus many of the local staff had high expectations of me. On the other hand, I could really only feed back any challenges the local NGO (or I) were facing to the aid agency in a monthly meeting. Trying to live up to everyone’s expectations, I often worked 60 hours a week, and then there were the NGO’s late night or weekend events to attend. On paper I was entitled to 28 days leave a year, but my hectic schedule, as well as the strict targets set by my employer, hardly ever allowed me to travel and relax. And the workload wasn’t the only battle I fought. People assume that being an international aid worker means you get a nice house with a pool in a gated community and a company car. I didn’t get such a sweet deal. Instead, over a period of two years, I had to search for new accommodation on my own five times due to corrupt landlords, safety issues and changing workplaces. I had narrow escapes from two hijackings, got mugged, lost all my documents and was left with the devastating news of the murder of a dear aid worker colleague. Except for a short security training session, I never got offered any support from my employer. I was on the road to burnout. I just didn’t know it then. Instead I pushed on. I asked myself how could I be depressed if I loved my work, my colleagues, my new home country and was doing something that mattered? But the feeling of contributing to something meaningful was challenged when, after two years, I got promoted to support the local government as an adviser and witnessed fraud and corruption on a regular basis. It was when my offer of an alternative strategy to avoid our department getting drawn into political corruption fell on deaf ears, and realising that my colleagues had no intention of even discussing the issue, that I started questioning the purpose of my job. At this time, the loneliness of being an aid worker was also starting to set in, and my solution to a constant turnover of expat and local friends was to spend more time at home. But even my home was no longer a safe space as I started developing nightmares and rarely got a good night’s sleep. Eventually I had no choice but to visit a doctor, who offered a diagnosis I no longer had energy to argue with: major depression. This should have made things easier but the diagnosis posed new challenges. Weekly sessions with a therapist and ongoing medication in the form of antidepressants weren’t in my budget, even with the private insurance my employer provided. When I had saved enough for the regular therapy, the psychologist asked me why I thought I had developed depression. I said I guessed it was the stress. But she opened my eyes to the fact that since I had started my job as an aid worker, my life had been a series of losses: the loss of my home, the loss of friends and family who I can only see once a year, the loss of security and, most importantly, the loss of a sense of purpose. The idea of moving back to my home country was put on the table when I asked how I could get better. At first I resisted – I knew leaving Africa would break my heart. She pointed out that the life I had chosen came with loss anyway. But we agreed I should hold off on making the decision straight away – sometimes the first step to getting better is to realise that you suffer from a mental illness and park a decision until you feel better. Several months later, I’m starting to feel more like myself. I cut my work hours, took a much-needed holiday and reconnected with family and friends back home. I also learned to accept my weaknesses and the fact that although I love adventure, I need stability and a connection to people who have known me for more than a few months. I’m currently looking for a job in Europe. I’m coming home. -- To post to this group, send email to [email protected] To unsubscribe from this group, send email to [email protected] Visit this group at https://groups.google.com/d/forum/southsudankob View this message at https://groups.google.com/d/msg/southsudankob/topic-id/message-id For more options, visit https://groups.google.com/d/optout --- You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google Groups "South Sudan Info - The Kob" group. To unsubscribe from this group and stop receiving emails from it, send an email to [email protected]. To post to this group, send email to [email protected]. Visit this group at https://groups.google.com/group/SouthSudanKob. To view this discussion on the web visit https://groups.google.com/d/msgid/SouthSudanKob/CAJb14or-tXGzNnB_iXHiFZhmma6hZryPqiiBhmbAuh-OKfWt1A%40mail.gmail.com. For more options, visit https://groups.google.com/d/optout.
