It is the first day of Ramadan. “I'm thirsty,” my friend says. He checks his watch. It is 9:30 in the morning.
We are in the office of the NGO where he works. Assessment interviews with Syrian household heads are scheduled to begin in half an hour. “Are you fasting?” he asks me. “Oh please, you won't eat in front of us. That would fuck us.” Certainly not, of course not, you don't need to worry.
Anyone familiar with Islam knows that Ramadan's long, challenging days, contraposed with festive late nights with family, result in a good-natured tension with office life. For one month of the year, family and faith take center stage, making reduced working hours and short tempers an accepted part of the holiday.
In the regional offices of Jordan's aid agencies, this tension takes on a more sombre tone. The first of Mohammad's “cases” step in, an elderly man, white hair, white beard, thin glasses, traditional garb. He cuts a figure of dignity that stands out amongst the western collars in the office. Mohammad shows him his seat and stifles a yawn, then catches himself, embarrassed, as the interview begins.
Judging from casual conversations and initial interviews with Syrians living here in Irbid, there seems to be a standing communication gap between NGOs and their “beneficiaries”. Syrians speak of family members in seemingly comparable situations—brothers, daughters—receiving aid packages, while their own claims were denied. One-time emergency cash support can run anywhere from 80JD to 400JD. Staff can explain that various aid packages trickle down to specific portfolios thanks to funding earmarked to donor interests, but logic of the underlying bureaucracy does not ease the impotent frustration of a family head sent home short. People speak of the “eye-iris” like a talisman: the monthly UNHCR support that is administered securely via an iris scan. “If I could get the 'eye-iris', my life would be much better.” How do you get that? Nobody knows. The only sure thing is that some get it and some don't.
Misinformation reigns supreme, and suspicion breeds in its wake. Rumours swirl about which agencies are looking for what stories, and people rationally attempt to feed their narratives through the criteria. Western donor-states can emphasize the importance of making an honest claim, but the unflinching, brutal truth is that this demand is out of step with the needs of parents feeding their children. When support fails to arrive, often with little to no explanation, stories fill the gaps: money follows traditional bloodlines, staff favour family, the only way to secure aid is to employ networks of influence known as “wasta”. While such suggestions are not outlandish, they are certainly embellished; nevertheless, widespread perception of corruption can be as destructive as corruption itself.
More communication, it seems, is needed here. The best-laid aid project will come to pieces if those who are to be served are not kept informed. In an urban context, this is no small task—refugees are difficult to find and word of mouth is often relied upon as a dissemination tool. Far-reaching communication campaigns in municipalities would ensure that information remains accurate and isolated households—often the most vulnerable—are included. Not insignificantly, incidentally exposing hosts to accurate information could improve relations between the displaced and their hosts.
And, today, Mohammad is only half-here. Half his mind, half his heart rests with this elderly man from south Syria; he struggles to keep eye contact. But the rest of his thoughts are on home, on his growling stomach and his mother's cooking, on the first Ramadan he is sharing with his fiancée, even on the Algeria match to be watched with the nephews. This Syrian man can see it, and he, fasting as well, bristles slightly.. But it is hard to find fault—after all, Ramadan is a time for celebration, and he is celebrating exactly what his “cases” are struggling to rebuild in exile.
We are in the office of the NGO where he works. Assessment interviews with Syrian household heads are scheduled to begin in half an hour. “Are you fasting?” he asks me. “Oh please, you won't eat in front of us. That would fuck us.” Certainly not, of course not, you don't need to worry.
Anyone familiar with Islam knows that Ramadan's long, challenging days, contraposed with festive late nights with family, result in a good-natured tension with office life. For one month of the year, family and faith take center stage, making reduced working hours and short tempers an accepted part of the holiday.
In the regional offices of Jordan's aid agencies, this tension takes on a more sombre tone. The first of Mohammad's “cases” step in, an elderly man, white hair, white beard, thin glasses, traditional garb. He cuts a figure of dignity that stands out amongst the western collars in the office. Mohammad shows him his seat and stifles a yawn, then catches himself, embarrassed, as the interview begins.
Judging from casual conversations and initial interviews with Syrians living here in Irbid, there seems to be a standing communication gap between NGOs and their “beneficiaries”. Syrians speak of family members in seemingly comparable situations—brothers, daughters—receiving aid packages, while their own claims were denied. One-time emergency cash support can run anywhere from 80JD to 400JD. Staff can explain that various aid packages trickle down to specific portfolios thanks to funding earmarked to donor interests, but logic of the underlying bureaucracy does not ease the impotent frustration of a family head sent home short. People speak of the “eye-iris” like a talisman: the monthly UNHCR support that is administered securely via an iris scan. “If I could get the 'eye-iris', my life would be much better.” How do you get that? Nobody knows. The only sure thing is that some get it and some don't.
Misinformation reigns supreme, and suspicion breeds in its wake. Rumours swirl about which agencies are looking for what stories, and people rationally attempt to feed their narratives through the criteria. Western donor-states can emphasize the importance of making an honest claim, but the unflinching, brutal truth is that this demand is out of step with the needs of parents feeding their children. When support fails to arrive, often with little to no explanation, stories fill the gaps: money follows traditional bloodlines, staff favour family, the only way to secure aid is to employ networks of influence known as “wasta”. While such suggestions are not outlandish, they are certainly embellished; nevertheless, widespread perception of corruption can be as destructive as corruption itself.
More communication, it seems, is needed here. The best-laid aid project will come to pieces if those who are to be served are not kept informed. In an urban context, this is no small task—refugees are difficult to find and word of mouth is often relied upon as a dissemination tool. Far-reaching communication campaigns in municipalities would ensure that information remains accurate and isolated households—often the most vulnerable—are included. Not insignificantly, incidentally exposing hosts to accurate information could improve relations between the displaced and their hosts.
And, today, Mohammad is only half-here. Half his mind, half his heart rests with this elderly man from south Syria; he struggles to keep eye contact. But the rest of his thoughts are on home, on his growling stomach and his mother's cooking, on the first Ramadan he is sharing with his fiancée, even on the Algeria match to be watched with the nephews. This Syrian man can see it, and he, fasting as well, bristles slightly.. But it is hard to find fault—after all, Ramadan is a time for celebration, and he is celebrating exactly what his “cases” are struggling to rebuild in exile.