Moving Mountains

I’ve just finished reading a fascinating book called “Moving Mountains” by Claire Bertschinger. She was an ICRC (International Committee of the Red Cross) nurse for many years, working in war zones around the world; including Ethiopia, Lebanon and Afghanistan.

It was reporter Michael Buerk’s images of her walking amongst the dying refugees of war & famine-torn Ethiopia, choosing which children would be accepted into the ICRC supplementary feeding program (& hence, invested with god-like power, which children would live & which would die) that became the inspiration for Live Aid.

As Michael himself is quoted inside the cover:

“The story of the woman who inspired Live Aid, one of the true heroines of our times. Claire is the dyslexic tomboy who grew up to spend her life patching up humanity’s self-inflicted wounds, working with the wounded, the sick and the dying, in the battlefields and famine camps of the late twentieth century; a life often lived beyond breaking point that threatened to destroy her. An ordinary woman who did extraordinary things and really did move mountains.”

I won’t say it was an enjoyable read, but it was an inspiring one. This is a woman who really did push herself to the limits. In fact, towards the end of the book she was quite broken, both physically by malaria, and mentally, finally having to recognize that everyone has a breaking point and that she had to stop & put herself first, investing in her own care. And at that time she returned to Ethiopia with Michael Buerk, and confronted the guilt that had been consuming her for twenty years about her actions there, finally reconciling her inner demons.

The rest of the world saw her as such an angel, yet she spent two decades consumed by guilt, building a distorted picture of herself as a monster for her actions in Ethiopia. It made me think about humans’ inability to comprehend lives different to our own, about how much more profound and defining any experience is for the individual(s) involved than can ever be perceived from the “outside” perspective of others.

How hard you have to listen, to really hear with your heart, to catch even a glimmer of the reality of another’s existence.

It made me wonder about all the praise and admiration I received from everyone before I came to Tanzania, and will probably continue to receive on my return. Not that I’d ever compare my relatively safe and comfortable experience here to the horrors Claire encountered, but still, I don’t get it. Why am I perceived as so “brave” and “amazing”? Is it simply because I’ve put into actions something that others would like to do but, through circumstance, choice or self doubt, have never done themselves? It makes me uncomfortable. I certainly didn’t feel brave before I left, in fact I was scared shitless, and I certainly don’t feel brave now.

The mundane reality is it’s still the same life. Yes, there are all sorts of “exotic” cultural differences to negotiate, and the ache of missing special loved ones and missing home... but I still go to work Monday to Friday, and exhausted at the end of the week I still think “TGIF” and cherish my weekends. Just like working at home, there are good days and there are bad days; days of immense frustration or challenges, and days where a simple hug, kiss or quiet moment with a child can leave me on cloud nine. I don’t really feel that I’m doing anything particularly special. In my orthotics job, I guess I’d carved out a bit of a specialist niche, and it was fulfilling to know I was doing something that not just anyone could do, and I could see the physical evidence of the improvement I was making to children’s lives. [Although I have to admit, it was easy to lose sight of that in the everyday stresses of the job.]

And I wonder: am I really making a difference here? Would it really matter if I wasn’t here; if I hadn’t come? Someone would be here looking after these children, somehow. I’m not doing anything particularly amazing – many, many people could fulfil this role. Will I go home having left any sort of lasting legacy or will I be just another forgotten face in the endless parade of faces in these children’s lives?

And what does that endless parade of faces do to these children? What effect does it have on them, the endless cycle of attachment, farewells and loss that will be the legacy of their childhood? Do we “short term” volunteers do more harm than good?

I wonder... I think I’d like to track down some reading on the topic. Someone somewhere must’ve done some research.

It’s the folks who’ve started Committee Assist, who work year after year after year, voluntarily, to run the organisation, to build Rainbow Ridge, and to raise the funds that ensure the continued care of these children who are the heroes. And the children’s “Mum” Margaret, and all the local staff “aunties”, who are here for the long haul, who are the stable presence in the children’s lives.

Finally though, my mind dredges up a quote from Mother Teresa:

“We ourselves feel that what we are doing is just a drop in the ocean.  But the ocean would be less because of that missing drop.”

Where would these children be without Committee Assist, and every person involved in Committee Assist in any way, from the founder to the smallest donation given? These children have come from tragic circumstances and horrendous backgrounds. With all the inherent inadequacies of institutional life compared to an ideal stable family, these children have so much more than they had before: they are being fed, clothed, sheltered and educated. Most importantly, they are being cared for and loved, provided a stable environment in which to grow and thrive.

To be a part of this is an immense privilege. It doesn’t matter if my individual contribution fades in the mists of time in years to come. I’ve been a part of something truly amazing, and that is enough...