Which type of an aid worker am I? I was in a visioning meeting, for a new and growing NGO, and one of the presenters said that there are two types of aid workers- the emotionally invested and the professional. The professionals are the MSW's (Masters in Social Work degree holders) and the PhD's. The emotionally invested are the ones who have been victims of the issue that they are working against or at times people who are just incredibly passionate about the issue (empathy dragons).
So which one am I? I would like to answer that question a little later. At first I would like to look at the advantages and disadvantages of being one or the other. The professional has many advantages, because being dispassionate has its perks. In the hindi movie 'Munna Bhai MBBS' Boman Irani plays a professor who tells his students something like- "it is better not to have an emotionally connect with the patient. I have performed thousands of surgeries and never have my hands shivered. But if I were to operate on my daughter, will my hands be steady?"
In other words, he is making a plea- do not get close to your patient. This is especially required in an aid worker's world because it can be increasingly frustrating when the people we work for tend to continue down their downward spiral, regardless of the aid workers so called 'implementation'. Children go missing in a community where the aid worker has diligently set up a 'Child Protection Unit.' After all the awareness programs and nutritional supplements distributions- children continue to be malnourished. And in my case...
Being dispassionate also mean that the aid worker will have a work life balance. In a country like India, where the population is very high- the 'beneficiaries' or the 'clients' just keep coming. The queue is always long. It is better to shut shop after 6pm and leave even if some things remain unresolved. This view is like a double edged sword- one end the aid worker will get blamed for becoming numb and callous, yet at the other end is physical and psychological burn out. You rev an engine too much without giving it rest and without oiling - the engine will break. What use is a broken engine?
At this juncture I would like to talk about Sharmila (name changed). Sharmila is living with HIV and has been an advocate for women and children who are living with HIV, for many years now. She is incredibly dedicated and hard working. Even though she needs medical attention herself, she has never let that be an excuse. Her drive propels her to give solidarity to people living with HIV regardless of the distances and time involved. But I have seen her visible drained at times and frustrated more than once. To the casual observer she may seem like a loose cannon who erupts in anger and lets off steam by ranting about obscure and irrelevant things. She is always questioning the dedication of the professional social worker.
Can there be a middle ground? A bit of emotional investment and passion is good. Too much of it and you lose moral high ground in many arguments and people will think you are not professional enough to make sane and unbiased decisions. Too little of it- and I have seen people like that, people who work for a promotion and a raise- too little of it, and you become a robot who lacks empathy. The humanity in you is lost to the hustle of a material life. Just another beneficiary, just another OVC (orphan and vulnerable child)...
So which type am I? That is an article for another day.
Wednesday, November 11, 2015
Sunday, November 1, 2015
The end of the bullet chronicles
I once joked to my wife, that I love her the most in this world... second only to my Bullet (classic 500 motor bike). Today I am selling that bike and I am breathing a bit hard.
When I told the buyer- I would sell it to him and I left for home, the speedometer went haywire and rotated in fast clockwise circular motions- almost as though I was on a time machine rewinding time.
In a day and age when materialism has become a philosophical topic accessible to the masses, in a passé conversational way, the phrase 'do not get attached to material things' rings about like a siren, almost in a mad, pointless counter noise to the bombardment of commercials in mediums all around us- our smartphones, our tv's, our newspapers, our webpages, ringing again and again with images and sounds of thing we may need and should want.
The nausea that is generated, by purchasing these objects, gives me a headache and angst that can be described shabbily like this- I bought the damn thing, the novelty wore out, now I want something better.
Yet somehow- my Bullet was the one expensive piece of material that vapourised all the angst- made me forget, that I am a slowly wasting biological mass.
I had bought this bullet even though many people, some whose opinion I really valued, suggested that I do not pay all that money for a bullet 500cc.
"The 350cc is a lot cheaper and will have a better resale value."
"The bullet 50 years ago had the same vibrations. They have not made any major advancements on the new bike. So buy an old bullet."
Well, I went ahead and bought the 500cc anyway, a good 30k more than the 350cc at that time.
The first memory of sheer ecstasy that I remember very clearly was when I had to visit a friend in Kelambakkam. The bike was not very old, so I had to ride at 50km/hour or less and I remember that in open roads- it felt like a train.
I felt like I was on a cloud that somehow developed a drum for a body, that pounded out velocity in a consistent manner- relentless, powerful.
I have had virtually no complaints in the past five years. The one series of annoyances I had was with a battery that leaked and melted its terminals, once a week for three weeks. In search of a remedy (for battery retained its power and so the mechanics recommended that I do not change it) I changed all the wires ... till finally everyone including me realised that it was the damn battery.
I have made many solo trips to Bangalore and back. A half a dozen trips to Mahabs and Pondy with my wife- who was my girlfriend back in the day, so you can see why that would have been extra great. Where ever I went the bike stood out. It looked majestic and it made me look like a king.
Then why am I selling it?
I have been joking to my wife that my life has a new motto now- dream small. This may sound depressing at first but the name is more about 'utility' and 'practicality.' This shit about aim for the stars and at least land on the moon, just creates unrealistic expectations and pain. Aim for the moon and land on the moon- dream small!
So this new motor scooter I plan to buy is a part of this initiative. When my grandma wants bread and eggs, I will not have to worry about where it will go, on a scooter. The footrest, the area below the seat- so many places where the damn egg can go without breaking.
I hated riding the clutch for four kilometres, in a stop and go, bumber to bumper traffic, on a 500cc bullet that is meant for an open highway.
The buyer I was selling to, brought his wife to show her the bike he was going to purchase. I told her she will love the long rides with her husband and recount our (Shru and I) experience of driving to Coorg from Chennai.
"She took the Shatabdi (a train) to Mysore and I rode till Mysore on my bike... Cause her back will hurt if she rode on the pillion all the way... Then we both rode together to Coorg..."
As I tell her, my voice breaks and I felt a bit of breathlessness. It is really happening- I am selling my bike.
When I told the buyer- I would sell it to him and I left for home, the speedometer went haywire and rotated in fast clockwise circular motions- almost as though I was on a time machine rewinding time.
In a day and age when materialism has become a philosophical topic accessible to the masses, in a passé conversational way, the phrase 'do not get attached to material things' rings about like a siren, almost in a mad, pointless counter noise to the bombardment of commercials in mediums all around us- our smartphones, our tv's, our newspapers, our webpages, ringing again and again with images and sounds of thing we may need and should want.
The nausea that is generated, by purchasing these objects, gives me a headache and angst that can be described shabbily like this- I bought the damn thing, the novelty wore out, now I want something better.
Yet somehow- my Bullet was the one expensive piece of material that vapourised all the angst- made me forget, that I am a slowly wasting biological mass.
I had bought this bullet even though many people, some whose opinion I really valued, suggested that I do not pay all that money for a bullet 500cc.
"The 350cc is a lot cheaper and will have a better resale value."
"The bullet 50 years ago had the same vibrations. They have not made any major advancements on the new bike. So buy an old bullet."
Well, I went ahead and bought the 500cc anyway, a good 30k more than the 350cc at that time.
The first memory of sheer ecstasy that I remember very clearly was when I had to visit a friend in Kelambakkam. The bike was not very old, so I had to ride at 50km/hour or less and I remember that in open roads- it felt like a train.
I felt like I was on a cloud that somehow developed a drum for a body, that pounded out velocity in a consistent manner- relentless, powerful.
I have had virtually no complaints in the past five years. The one series of annoyances I had was with a battery that leaked and melted its terminals, once a week for three weeks. In search of a remedy (for battery retained its power and so the mechanics recommended that I do not change it) I changed all the wires ... till finally everyone including me realised that it was the damn battery.
I have made many solo trips to Bangalore and back. A half a dozen trips to Mahabs and Pondy with my wife- who was my girlfriend back in the day, so you can see why that would have been extra great. Where ever I went the bike stood out. It looked majestic and it made me look like a king.
Then why am I selling it?
I have been joking to my wife that my life has a new motto now- dream small. This may sound depressing at first but the name is more about 'utility' and 'practicality.' This shit about aim for the stars and at least land on the moon, just creates unrealistic expectations and pain. Aim for the moon and land on the moon- dream small!
So this new motor scooter I plan to buy is a part of this initiative. When my grandma wants bread and eggs, I will not have to worry about where it will go, on a scooter. The footrest, the area below the seat- so many places where the damn egg can go without breaking.
I hated riding the clutch for four kilometres, in a stop and go, bumber to bumper traffic, on a 500cc bullet that is meant for an open highway.
The buyer I was selling to, brought his wife to show her the bike he was going to purchase. I told her she will love the long rides with her husband and recount our (Shru and I) experience of driving to Coorg from Chennai.
"She took the Shatabdi (a train) to Mysore and I rode till Mysore on my bike... Cause her back will hurt if she rode on the pillion all the way... Then we both rode together to Coorg..."
As I tell her, my voice breaks and I felt a bit of breathlessness. It is really happening- I am selling my bike.
Friday, July 24, 2015
Speeding train, stationary universe
I stood there at the edge
The train pounding on the circumference
Distance fading at the horizon
Stars stationary like the eyes of heaven
I held the door’s railings
The wheels clanging on the lines
Lights, outlines, flashes, lives
Orchestra begins in my head
My head is banging into the wind
The stars stood still, the fire flies went right
The red signal to the left
Lives reflected on paddy fields stagnant
My feet planted to the steel floor
I felt the big booming drums
Then the slow violin and instruments unknown
A station comes and goes
I imagine jumping off and running fast
I am close to death, yet increasingly alive
Imagination becomes real
A vendor with his wares, jumps off
He catches momentum with his feet
The impossible becomes real
The stars, the fire flies, the fading lights
I say aloud- speak, your servant listens
The train pounding on the circumference
Distance fading at the horizon
Stars stationary like the eyes of heaven
I held the door’s railings
The wheels clanging on the lines
Lights, outlines, flashes, lives
Orchestra begins in my head
My head is banging into the wind
The stars stood still, the fire flies went right
The red signal to the left
Lives reflected on paddy fields stagnant
My feet planted to the steel floor
I felt the big booming drums
Then the slow violin and instruments unknown
A station comes and goes
I imagine jumping off and running fast
I am close to death, yet increasingly alive
Imagination becomes real
A vendor with his wares, jumps off
He catches momentum with his feet
The impossible becomes real
The stars, the fire flies, the fading lights
I say aloud- speak, your servant listens
Friday, July 17, 2015
Who can be considered an adult in India?
Being an adult in India is a tedious business and I will discuss three aspects of all the juggling this business requires.
Firstly, you must have hit puberty and if you are a girl child, this private metamorphosis is usually celebrated in a thoroughly public and embarrassing manner. For those not familiar with India and her cultural traditions, the public ceremony involves bright serial lights and invitations to near and far relatives, not unlike a birthday celebration. I am pretty certain that a cake is not involved in the celebration, but food and music maybe expected. Alas, being a girl you will never get to be an adult, because your father takes all your decisions for you, even the decision about who you ought to marry. After you get married, your husband becomes your protector and keen decision maker, regardless of whether you are more educated than the idiotic man.
Does a girl in India ever become an adult? The answer to that question leads us to the second point. A woman or a child can indeed become an adult, if they are able to manipulate the elders in the family into making decisions that are favourable to the woman or child in question. Some may say that this is rubbish and that my argument is as weak as a balding man's last strand of hair. But consider my argument; assuming that respect and independence are the marks of an adult, a woman or a child who can cry and sneak some influence on idiotic men are indeed adults.
Thirdly and lastly, anyone who earns enough money to show the metaphoric middle finger to existing power structures in India, can also be considered an adult. Back in the day, the caste system in India confined individuals to one particular trade and destined them to poverty or riches. Nowadays, western education has crept its way into urban middle class life. If you do well in school and college, then regardless of sex, sexual orientation, marital status, caste and religion you can be considered a full grown human.
So hit puberty, manipulate the elderly men and get an education if you want to be stamped a certified adult.
Firstly, you must have hit puberty and if you are a girl child, this private metamorphosis is usually celebrated in a thoroughly public and embarrassing manner. For those not familiar with India and her cultural traditions, the public ceremony involves bright serial lights and invitations to near and far relatives, not unlike a birthday celebration. I am pretty certain that a cake is not involved in the celebration, but food and music maybe expected. Alas, being a girl you will never get to be an adult, because your father takes all your decisions for you, even the decision about who you ought to marry. After you get married, your husband becomes your protector and keen decision maker, regardless of whether you are more educated than the idiotic man.
Does a girl in India ever become an adult? The answer to that question leads us to the second point. A woman or a child can indeed become an adult, if they are able to manipulate the elders in the family into making decisions that are favourable to the woman or child in question. Some may say that this is rubbish and that my argument is as weak as a balding man's last strand of hair. But consider my argument; assuming that respect and independence are the marks of an adult, a woman or a child who can cry and sneak some influence on idiotic men are indeed adults.
Thirdly and lastly, anyone who earns enough money to show the metaphoric middle finger to existing power structures in India, can also be considered an adult. Back in the day, the caste system in India confined individuals to one particular trade and destined them to poverty or riches. Nowadays, western education has crept its way into urban middle class life. If you do well in school and college, then regardless of sex, sexual orientation, marital status, caste and religion you can be considered a full grown human.
So hit puberty, manipulate the elderly men and get an education if you want to be stamped a certified adult.
Sunday, June 14, 2015
My name is 'Kaaka Muttai'
I saw the movie Kaaka Muttai last night and I was reminded of an incident from my college years.
I was working part time in pizza corner, as a waiter. On one particular day the dine in was not very busy, but the delivery guys were all out and they needed an extra hand.
"I do not know how to drive that geared scooter," I told my manager.
"Take your kinetic honda, I will pay for the petrol," he said.
I threw my apron into my tiny green locker, grabbed my helmet and the red bag with the pizzas and zoomed out. I had two deliveries to make.
The first delivery led me into, smaller and smaller lanes till I reached a slum dwellers settlement. I had to ask the route several times and I finally reached a tiny cement house with an asbestos roof. Wondering if I had indeed reached the right place, I asked around and a father with two very excited kids called me over to the tiny house.
The door was fully open and I was engaged in two conversations at the same time.
"Did you find the place easily?" the father asked.
"How did you get here?" the little boy asked. The boy was with his sister and they had a constant smile. They were delighted that I had arrived.
"I had to ask for directions several times (I told the father)... I came here on my kinetic honda", I told the kids.
"How much for the pizza," asked the father.
"Why did you not come in the delivery scooter," asked the son.
"350Rs..." Then I looked at the kids and I did not know what to say. It was almost as though they wanted to see me arrive in the colourful delivery scooter and it was more important than enjoying the pizza. For the kids, the arrival of the pizza was as important as- batman arriving in the batmobile. What is batman without his batmobile!
The father tipped me well and I am a bit ashamed to say that I was very surprised. I was not expecting a tip from a family that lived in a small house and an asbestos roof.
Strangely I experienced this one other time when I was at the restaurant and a man in a lungi (traditional Indian clothing) walked in and ordered three large pizza's to take away. It was a busy day and I was running around minding a lot of tables. He called me all of a sudden and in a very pleasant manner asked me- "Are you ignoring my order because I am in a lungi? Do you think I will not tip you?"
He had a smile on his face and his question was in no way a rant or a jibe. He was smiling and I smiled back. "No such thing sir," I told him. "Your three large pizza's will be ready soon." True to his words he did tip me well.
People wearing lungies, people living in small houses... they tip more. Is it a prestige thing? 'Look at me I can afford to tip big?'In the case of the guy wearing the Lungi maybe... but the family in the tiny house, were by themselves- they had nothing to prove to anyone.
They were happy to see me. Batman, although he was without the batmobile, brought a tiny piece of joy.
What they did not realise was that their joy was not from the tiny cardboard box that contained the pizza. It was from having a dad that cared.
I read a passage in a book called the 'Art of Loving' by Eric Fromm who says that a human being's most fundamental desire is a longing for transcendence and unity. When we do not attain this we try to overcome this unconscious despair by the routine of amusement, the passive consumption of sounds and sights offered by the amusement industry, further more by the satisfaction of buying new things and soon exchanging them for others (OLX anyone?).
"Modern man is actually close to the picture Huxley describes in his Brave New World- well fed, well clad, satisfied sexually, yet without self, without any except the most superficial contact with fellow men... Huxley formulated the crowning statement- everyone is happy nowadays."
A lungi is a sign of being- ill clad. Having pizza only once a year is a sign of being - ill fed. I was reminded of the time in my 7th grade when I was in the lift of a tall multistorey building (I happened to live in that building). A lady walks in and looks at my rubber slippers, my old and slightly oversized cloths and she asked me- "In which house do you work in?" I was indignant, but I smiled and I told her- "I do not work here, I live here."
I walked out that evening to play football and noticed that all the kids in my gated apartment complex wore Nike's and Adidas. I was a hurt that day. But today- I am proud to say - my name is Kaaka Muttai.
(For those of my friends who do not know about Kaaka Muttai - literally translated as Crow's egg- it is a national award winning Tamil film about two kids from a slum who want to have a slice of pizza. Poignantly beautiful, stunningly simple, heart wrenching yet fun- the best Tamil movie I have seen in a very very long time. It is out now and playing in most cities with english subtitles)
I was working part time in pizza corner, as a waiter. On one particular day the dine in was not very busy, but the delivery guys were all out and they needed an extra hand.
"I do not know how to drive that geared scooter," I told my manager.
"Take your kinetic honda, I will pay for the petrol," he said.
I threw my apron into my tiny green locker, grabbed my helmet and the red bag with the pizzas and zoomed out. I had two deliveries to make.
The first delivery led me into, smaller and smaller lanes till I reached a slum dwellers settlement. I had to ask the route several times and I finally reached a tiny cement house with an asbestos roof. Wondering if I had indeed reached the right place, I asked around and a father with two very excited kids called me over to the tiny house.
The door was fully open and I was engaged in two conversations at the same time.
"Did you find the place easily?" the father asked.
"How did you get here?" the little boy asked. The boy was with his sister and they had a constant smile. They were delighted that I had arrived.
"I had to ask for directions several times (I told the father)... I came here on my kinetic honda", I told the kids.
"How much for the pizza," asked the father.
"Why did you not come in the delivery scooter," asked the son.
"350Rs..." Then I looked at the kids and I did not know what to say. It was almost as though they wanted to see me arrive in the colourful delivery scooter and it was more important than enjoying the pizza. For the kids, the arrival of the pizza was as important as- batman arriving in the batmobile. What is batman without his batmobile!
The father tipped me well and I am a bit ashamed to say that I was very surprised. I was not expecting a tip from a family that lived in a small house and an asbestos roof.
Strangely I experienced this one other time when I was at the restaurant and a man in a lungi (traditional Indian clothing) walked in and ordered three large pizza's to take away. It was a busy day and I was running around minding a lot of tables. He called me all of a sudden and in a very pleasant manner asked me- "Are you ignoring my order because I am in a lungi? Do you think I will not tip you?"
He had a smile on his face and his question was in no way a rant or a jibe. He was smiling and I smiled back. "No such thing sir," I told him. "Your three large pizza's will be ready soon." True to his words he did tip me well.
People wearing lungies, people living in small houses... they tip more. Is it a prestige thing? 'Look at me I can afford to tip big?'In the case of the guy wearing the Lungi maybe... but the family in the tiny house, were by themselves- they had nothing to prove to anyone.
They were happy to see me. Batman, although he was without the batmobile, brought a tiny piece of joy.
What they did not realise was that their joy was not from the tiny cardboard box that contained the pizza. It was from having a dad that cared.
I read a passage in a book called the 'Art of Loving' by Eric Fromm who says that a human being's most fundamental desire is a longing for transcendence and unity. When we do not attain this we try to overcome this unconscious despair by the routine of amusement, the passive consumption of sounds and sights offered by the amusement industry, further more by the satisfaction of buying new things and soon exchanging them for others (OLX anyone?).
"Modern man is actually close to the picture Huxley describes in his Brave New World- well fed, well clad, satisfied sexually, yet without self, without any except the most superficial contact with fellow men... Huxley formulated the crowning statement- everyone is happy nowadays."
A lungi is a sign of being- ill clad. Having pizza only once a year is a sign of being - ill fed. I was reminded of the time in my 7th grade when I was in the lift of a tall multistorey building (I happened to live in that building). A lady walks in and looks at my rubber slippers, my old and slightly oversized cloths and she asked me- "In which house do you work in?" I was indignant, but I smiled and I told her- "I do not work here, I live here."
I walked out that evening to play football and noticed that all the kids in my gated apartment complex wore Nike's and Adidas. I was a hurt that day. But today- I am proud to say - my name is Kaaka Muttai.
(For those of my friends who do not know about Kaaka Muttai - literally translated as Crow's egg- it is a national award winning Tamil film about two kids from a slum who want to have a slice of pizza. Poignantly beautiful, stunningly simple, heart wrenching yet fun- the best Tamil movie I have seen in a very very long time. It is out now and playing in most cities with english subtitles)
Tuesday, March 10, 2015
Pieces of ten rupee notes
The ninety eight pieces of ten rupee notes
As crisp and new as they feel
Made me feel rich
Like I owned the world
And nothing seemed expensive
The ninety eight pieces of ten rupee notes
Their value may not be real
Yet in a make believe world
If I could feel rich
Everything within reach, I would feel
The ninety eight pieces of ten rupee notes
Took my mind off of all my dreams
Thoughts that did pass
Of things I did not have
Vanished in the moment I believed
The ninety eight pieces of ten rupee notes
I give to my love my life
Let her feel what is real
Have a moment of clear
A day with a lot of cheer
As crisp and new as they feel
Made me feel rich
Like I owned the world
And nothing seemed expensive
The ninety eight pieces of ten rupee notes
Their value may not be real
Yet in a make believe world
If I could feel rich
Everything within reach, I would feel
The ninety eight pieces of ten rupee notes
Took my mind off of all my dreams
Thoughts that did pass
Of things I did not have
Vanished in the moment I believed
The ninety eight pieces of ten rupee notes
I give to my love my life
Let her feel what is real
Have a moment of clear
A day with a lot of cheer
Friday, February 27, 2015
Aidworker strategy- A pointless parable
“Why are we having a strategy meeting again? Did we not work on a three year strategy, just last year?,” said Aidworker One.
“Our priorities have changed,” said Aidworker Two.
“Our Aid Agency's priorities have changed,” said Aidworker Three.
“Ok,” said Aidworker Four.
So the four of them sat in a meeting room, in a decent hotel with buffet lunch and centralised AC. One was a sectoral specialist in Malnutrition, Two a specialist in livelihoods, Three in Child Participation and Four was a DM and E guy. (Design, Monitor and say ok to Everything guy).
Since they were passionate in their own area of expertise, the meeting lasted forever. For none wanted the priorities to change from what they specialise in. Well, the meeting did not last forever, but for a few months because the budget for the meeting almost ran out. On the last day the Child Participation expert had a brain wave-
“We must invite a child who faces the issue. The child must suffer from the issue 'Climate Change' because the Aid agency wants us to focus on that. The child will give special inputs to this meeting. Hell! we may use it as a justification to extent the meeting for another month,” said Aid Worker Three.
“Ok,” said Aidworker Four.
They went and they looked for a child who was facing the issue of 'Climate Change.' They found a child who was given an umbrella by their organization. They flew the child in, Aidworker Four 'Okayed' the cost by doing some magic in the design document.
“So give us your inputs,” said Aidworker Three.
“The umbrella you gave me was made of metal, and I was hit by lightening in the first thunderstorm to ever hit my village,” said the little girl, who we will refer to as- beneficiary.
“Well don't blame me! It was idea of Aidworker Two. 'Give umbrellas to all beneficiaries'- he clearly said in the last strategy meeting,” said Aidworker Three.
A blame game ensued and none of the Aidworkers admitted to coming up with the idea to distribute umbrellas.
The child was a smart little beneficiary. She knew that there a was a good 'need story' in the 'first thunderstorm to ever hit her village' so she applied for the climate change grant. Now everyone in her village has an umbrellas for the rainstorms. The umbrellas were made of plastic, an innovation for which the Aid Agency took credit as it raised funds in the EU. Innovation was an important buzzword in the EU. They planned to improve Greece through innovation and of course- 'Climate Change Grants'.
The rainstorms did not come, but the DM and E guy made it look like the umbrellas were for the hot sun. 'A hot sun because of climate change', he wrote, in the semi annual report. The first year of the three year grant was a huge success.
The second year, though, was another story.
For the Aid Agency insisted on a strategy meeting.
“Our priorities have changed,” said Aidworker Two.
“Our Aid Agency's priorities have changed,” said Aidworker Three.
“Ok,” said Aidworker Four.
So the four of them sat in a meeting room, in a decent hotel with buffet lunch and centralised AC. One was a sectoral specialist in Malnutrition, Two a specialist in livelihoods, Three in Child Participation and Four was a DM and E guy. (Design, Monitor and say ok to Everything guy).
Since they were passionate in their own area of expertise, the meeting lasted forever. For none wanted the priorities to change from what they specialise in. Well, the meeting did not last forever, but for a few months because the budget for the meeting almost ran out. On the last day the Child Participation expert had a brain wave-
“We must invite a child who faces the issue. The child must suffer from the issue 'Climate Change' because the Aid agency wants us to focus on that. The child will give special inputs to this meeting. Hell! we may use it as a justification to extent the meeting for another month,” said Aid Worker Three.
“Ok,” said Aidworker Four.
They went and they looked for a child who was facing the issue of 'Climate Change.' They found a child who was given an umbrella by their organization. They flew the child in, Aidworker Four 'Okayed' the cost by doing some magic in the design document.
“So give us your inputs,” said Aidworker Three.
“The umbrella you gave me was made of metal, and I was hit by lightening in the first thunderstorm to ever hit my village,” said the little girl, who we will refer to as- beneficiary.
“Well don't blame me! It was idea of Aidworker Two. 'Give umbrellas to all beneficiaries'- he clearly said in the last strategy meeting,” said Aidworker Three.
A blame game ensued and none of the Aidworkers admitted to coming up with the idea to distribute umbrellas.
The child was a smart little beneficiary. She knew that there a was a good 'need story' in the 'first thunderstorm to ever hit her village' so she applied for the climate change grant. Now everyone in her village has an umbrellas for the rainstorms. The umbrellas were made of plastic, an innovation for which the Aid Agency took credit as it raised funds in the EU. Innovation was an important buzzword in the EU. They planned to improve Greece through innovation and of course- 'Climate Change Grants'.
The rainstorms did not come, but the DM and E guy made it look like the umbrellas were for the hot sun. 'A hot sun because of climate change', he wrote, in the semi annual report. The first year of the three year grant was a huge success.
The second year, though, was another story.
For the Aid Agency insisted on a strategy meeting.
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