The woes of the people of Afghanistan get worse and worse even as we watch in frustration.  But does the petty bureaucracy of our humanitarian system conduct itself with thoughtful compassion even as they berate the Taliban?  On reading one of my previous articles on aid to Afghanistan,  an experienced humanitarian working was moved to share his own experience.

Guest article by Anonymous Aid Worker – 26 April  2023

I went recently to a humanitarian cash aid distribution site in Kabul. We arrived in an armoured vehicle and drove up a muddy, snow-laden path where people wandered up and down in sub-zero temperatures. Scores lined up in an orderly manner in the compound. They looked glum, scared, and were shivering. Women to the left, men on the right.

I stepped out of my vehicle and immediately felt the piercing cold rip through me, despite my many layers. My arrival momentarily piqued people’s interest away from huddling on top of each other to keep warm. I tried to avert my gaze away from them. On reflection, this was due to a mix of shame and guilt. I wondered why they had to be standing there for hours in such thin clothing. My feet, in new shoes, had already frozen within minutes. But here, people stood in the snow in nothing more than sandals.

My colleagues walked me through the site, explaining how the process worked to disburse the monthly cash allowance. Once the recipient reached the front of the queue, they had their fingerprints taken and ID matched against a database. Then, if everything checked out, they were sent back outside to another line to await entering the cash room. A handful of people were declined; they had come on the wrong day.

Outside, a thick layer of black ice had formed over the exit. A woman in hijab slipped over and crashed into the ground, hitting her head. Before anyone could help, she bounced back up and took off. I wondered how she did that given the force of the impact.

IDs were checked again for those who made it to the cash dispensing room, and if everything was still ok, tattered afghani bills were carefully counted and handed over. Approximately US$ 60 for a month for a family of seven. A glimmer of hope shone through people’s faces for the first time. Then they hurried out into the cold. I dreaded to think what their commute home consisted of, knowing that temperatures were to plummet further later that day.

Outside, I saw my home country’s logo as one of the site’s sponsors. I felt a small moment of pride, followed by extreme guilt that the process I had observed felt so inhumane. “Why could we not even clear the ice from the exit where mothers were carrying tiny babies?” I wondered, as one mother hurried by, carrying her six-month old. Both had tears in their eyes. We instantly connected, without needing to say anything.  This was just not good enough.

.Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the Taliban had arrived, strutting menacingly through the site. “’Keeping it secure”, I was told. I was glad to get into my warm vehicle and, as we drove off, I noticed a young boy sitting alone, begging. His glazed stare spoke volumes about his stolen childhood. I left with a heavy heart, confronting my own personal privileges and professional inadequacies.

While I’ve been in the humanitarian sector for several years, this is the first time I’ve seen so much suffering so close. It’s taken me some time to find the words to express my feelings.  While this has galvanized me to work harder than ever to ease the suffering of Afghans, it has also made me think how we dole out aid, so mechanically.

Our beneficiaries should not have to shed tears while receiving the help that is surely their basic right as dignified human beings.