Why I Can’t Complain
(Note: The names in this piece have been changed to protect their identities.)
When Covid19 started, I was asked by my supervisor at the United Nations Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs (OCHA) to work on staff wellbeing. I now spend several hours a day on the phone speaking with colleagues all over the world attempting to understand how to support them during the pandemic. It’s a new area of work for me. Normally I work in operations. Here my job is to assess the humanitarian needs in multiple countries and advocate for assistance as well as solutions to the causes of the underlying problems. The United Nations has never before dealt with an issue of this scale and scope, affecting the wellbeing of our staff as they in turn monitor the physical and mental health of populations in need of humanitarian assistance.
A colleague in Afghanistan tells me he and others in our field office in Kabul are okay. The biggest challenge isn’t being locked indoors on the UN compound; this, they’re used to. Staff mobility has long been curtailed by the ever-present threat of violence. At the compound, our employees have access to a gym. His biggest concern is being unable to get out for his regular break. For colleagues from countries like Madagascar, even the Malagasy aren’t allowed back into their country. “It must be harder for you in New York,” he said. “When you’re used to going out to bars and restaurants and theaters, it’s harder to cope when you are cut off overnight.”
After years of working in Sudan, South Sudan, and Sri Lanka, a part of my attraction to New York was the promise of a normal urban life for my daughter and myself. Theaters. Cafés. Restaurants. It’s strange to be here without experiencing the city, to see the Samaritan Purse Emergency Field Hospital in Central Park when I cycle by on the few occasions I leave my apartment. The music on the streets has, for the last two months, been dominated by the fortissimo of ambulance sirens.
If I had any doubts about the force of the Covid19 pandemic, they’ve been evaporated by my colleagues around the world. Normally, we at headquarters are the ones that worry about those in the field, many of whom are based in countries decimated by active conflict. Between the constant threat of terrorist attacks and abductions, my colleagues risk their lives to accomplish their missions.
Today, these same colleagues worry about me.
Every week, I have calls with my close colleagues at OCHA here at headquarters in New York. We’re a diverse group of women in our forties — single, single mother, married with and without kids. We’re from Africa, the Middle East, Europe, and North America. The calls are meant to keep us connected to each other. We’re humanitarian workers. We talk about how we’re coping with social distancing and enforced telecommuting, how we are, or are unable, to do our jobs. Our frustrations. Pen has started to bake bread; she has never been able to find the bread she likes, without sugar; Joy just ordered a large jar of Nutella on Amazon. I confess I feel daunted by those able to focus on learning new skills. All I’d like to do is sit in front of the TV catching up on all the movies I haven’t watched, or (if I’m feeling especially ambitious) catching up on my reading. Priscilla is recovering from Covid19, and now that she has had the disease she’s ready to go back to work, even travel to the frontlines to deliver humanitarian assistance. And that’s where the lighthearted moment of our call ends and we start to talk about the thing we wanted to escape for a few minutes. Covid19.
Nevertheless, we’re worried about our co-workers on the front lines continuing to run the humanitarian operations in Syria, Yemen, Somalia, Myanmar, Democratic Republic of Congo, South Sudan, Sudan. We worry how Covid19 is going to affect the 168 million vulnerable people already uprooted and in crisis. If what’s happening in New York occurs in any of these countries, a miracle will be needed to prevent mass death. For most displaced people — crammed into tents — social distancing is impossible. They’re lucky if they get clean water to drink before they can even think about water to wash their hands, before they can think about soap. The pandemic is exacerbating their suffering; most people certainly won’t have access to a ventilator. In my optimistic and perhaps naïve moments, I hoped that Covid19 would at least put violent conflicts on pause, but instead the fighting continues. Even the United Nations Secretary-General’s appeal for an immediate global ceasefire has fallen on deaf ears.
Talking about the things we miss — cafés, restaurants, Broadway, gyms — feels too wrong, too privileged, too self-involved. Social distancing seems like a small price to pay to be safe, and our conversations revolve around different iterations of how grateful we are to be here. We shelter at home, and when we go outside we maintain the appropriate social distance. We wash our hands frequently, for twenty seconds each time. We order stuff we don’t really need online. During my years in New York, I’ve never thought twice about drinking tap water.
I speak to a colleague in Sudan. She tells me she’s running out of her high-blood pressure medication. It’s not available in Sudan, and the airport in Khartoum is closed. Luke in Chad asks me about medical evacuation should he get the virus. Tamara tells me she’s desperate to get to her children who are in the lockdown in Zimbabwe with a nanny. Charles tells me he hasn’t seen his family for over four months. Evelyne is concerned about not having personal protection equipment. I listen. My daughter tells she’s tired of online schooling and misses her friends.
Ruth Mukwana is a fiction writer from Uganda. She is also an aid worker currently working for the United Nations in New York. She’s a graduate of the Bennington Writing Seminars (MFA) and holds a Bachelors degree in Law from Makerere University. Her short stories have appeared in Solstice Magazine, Black Warriors Review, Consequence Magazine, The Compassion Anthology, and Speak the Magazine.