People are People, Too

As you may remember, this year's foundational purpose is part of a long-term exploration of how I can be useful in the grand scheme of things. (Ok, you can roll your eyes in a cynical fashion at this point if you would like - many people do.) There's a great deal of sadness, tragedy, and injustice in the world, and I would like to reduce this, in some way. What that will be exactly, I'm not sure - thus my search.

This week, however, I have finally met what I think will be one of my ultimate adversaries in doing this type of work: the commodification of knowledge which leads to shameful dehumanization of the people you are trying to help.

I'll explain with a story. Two nights ago, I was sitting in our common room with several other scholars, watching the Parliamentary election results on TV. Of the group, one person was an assistant professor at Cornell who does research on the campaign strategies of the Islamic Action Front, (the political party of the Jordanian Muslim Brotherhood and the only political party in Jordan - and therefore a magnet for study by political scientists and Middle East scholars.)

Several people asked the professor questions about the elections, and it soon became apparent that he was extremely knowledgeable about the political terrain in Jordan. Was the IAF a legitimate party? one person wanted to know. Is there truly political freedom in Jordan? someone else asked. He answered all of our questions with detailed, clever responses - the kind of language and intellectualization of a subject that I had learned to respect at Brown. He knew the names of all the political families in Jordan and which tribes they represented; he knew that our neighbor just over the hill was elected as a deputy for the IAF; he knew that his cousin was a major landowner in our area. In a city where it is common to have an official address written as "the building next to the Maysoon Hotel and across from the University of Jordan," it is very impressive to hear someone that is familiar with both the physical and ideological landscape of the country.

Our discussion spiraled in a flurry of questions, each of us anxious for a piece of this professor's detached and matter-of-fact certainty about this confusing nation. Something in the back of my head nagged me to be careful, but we all kept talking. The topics rolled all over the region: Iran's nuclear ambitions, the Annapolis conference next week on the Arab-Israeli confict, and of course, Iraq. The assistant professor began to spit out analysis of the situation in Iraq as if the people there were so many pawns on a chessboard whose moves he was watching.

The woman I was sitting next to, who had arrived a few days ago, had asked a few questions during the course of the evening, and she began to ask them with more emotion as we discussed Iraq. Eventually, the assistant professor asked her if she was Iraqi herself. "I was," she answered him, her mouth set in a thin line and her mind recalling who-knows-how-many terribly sad stories. I watched her face and could see a deep love for a country in ruins, destruction gone beyond her control as a mother watches a child waste away from drug addiction.

Her emotion was so obvious to me! But everyone else kept talking about the "Iraqi issue" as if she weren't there. As if Iraqis weren't people who live and love and get in their cars every day to take their children to school, even as their country is racked by turmoil. I couldn't pay full attention to the conversation anymore, as I could almost physically feel how much sadness the crisp, business-like discussion on the future of her country was bringing up for her. Finally she interrupted. "Isn't anyone going to do anything with all of this analysis? People keep learning things, and nothing is changing." She seemed to want to say more, but remained quiet.

For some reason, at this point I decided to open my big (and idealist and naive) mouth. "But there are other people who aren't just doing studies." I told her about my personal experiences with humanitarian work. There was a sort of silence after I spoke, and then the conversation continued as before. I couldn't tell whether I had helped or hurt the situation. I didn't know if she saw me as just one more person who wanted to stick her finger in the "helping pie" or if she agreed with me that it really was possible to do something worthwhile and helpful. Soon, she sighed and said to everyone but no one in particular, "Well, when I think about the country, it makes me want to cry. Goodnight, everyone." She stood up and left the room.

I looked around, waiting for the assistant professor and the others left in the room after her exit to say something, to acknowledge that they had been wrong. No such comment. After a few minutes, I excused myself and went to bed. To be honest, I cried that night. I could feel that woman's sorrow in my own heart. And I felt so ashamed for having felt respect at first for the assistant professor and his "knowledge." He didn't care about Iraqis or anyone else - this was his career, and the information that he had was a ticket to making a living, to publishing a book, to gaining prestige.

Over the next day or so, I thought about that night, trying to understand. I realized that I am going to face a great difficulty in my quest to be "useful": there will always be the temptation to use what I learn for my own benefit, to begin to see political events as puzzles to solve so that I can receive the credit. In fact, in order to rise in the ranks of many development and aid organizations (not to mention, of course, academia) this temptation is very strong, and this behavior is encouraged. I fear that if I enter this professional field, I will someday examine myself and find that I have succumbed to the pressure to commodify people's suffering for my material gain, even as I am helping them.

I imagine that the pursuit of personal success gets in the way of the spirit of many professions, not just development or conflict resolution. But I see that I am beginning a struggle between these two opposing forces that will last for many years.

Fast forward to today: After our unfortunate discussion, I wanted to talk to the Iraqi woman and apologize for the conversation, or at least acknowledge the way she had been feeling. I never saw her when there weren't other people around. Finally, this evening she spotted me as I was heating up some leftovers for dinner.

I was finally able to tell her how I felt about the first conversation. To my relief, she agreed with my thoughts on the travesty of being so far removed from a situation, and then she told me that she'd liked what I had said in response. (I wonder if she knows that she may have singlehandedly restored my faith in my future profession, which I had seriously considered abandoning after feeling so disgusted and despairing after the other night.)

Then she told me her story: she was an Iraqi from the North (this often means that someone is Kurdish, but she didn't say, and I didn't think it proper to ask) and she had moved to Canada thirty years ago, where she has been working as a conservation architect. Two years ago, the Kurdish Regional Government (KRG) called her back to work for the Ministry of Tourism and Conservation. "I gave 30 years to another country," she said, "so I can give three years to mine."

She told me that she had just come from a training in Turkey, where she had been teaching conservation techniques to people who will work on some important sites in Kurdistan and elsewhere in Iraq. In Kurdistan, there is a citadel which has 30 meters of ruins of different civilizations, one built atop of the other. Imagine.

The preservation of all this heritage is a daunting task for archaeologists. As is the restoration of the al-Askari Shi'ite shrine in Samarra, whose bombing is now infamous because it set off the majority of sectarian killing in the country. (I thought this was at least a small bit of positive symbolism - the destruction which represented such deterioration of Iraq's situation is going to be built over, renewed.)

Sometimes we forget that Iraq is home to the cradle of civilization and that it has one of the richest cultural heritages of any country. She told me of her childhood in Iraq, recounting how until the 60's and 70's, Iraq was the regional mecca of education and culture. Education was well-respected and rigorous - and free to everyone. She told me that she had three nationwide exams in 5th, 9th and 12th grade. By the time she and other students of her generation entered college, they were already knowledgeable and well-trained, ready to take on advanced studies. Every Iraqi who wanted a space in a university could have one, and if he (or she!) failed, the administrators would find him or her another discipline, perhaps more suitable, to try. Books and school supplies were all free. "Iraq had everything," she said, shaking her head. "We had a beautiful landscape (she had already told me that some people compare the North to Switzerland), high-quality education, a cultured and diverse population, and the money to pay for it all from our own natural resources (oil!). But now look at it." She shook her head again, with despair.

Most people of her age that I know are thinking about their retirement or slowing down their lives. She is traveling across the world to restore a devastated country, living away from her family and security. I'm so thankful she paused long enough to teach me a lesson as well. And I hope that however I learn to be "useful" in my life, I will remember her example along the way.