Oooh-rah

It’s that time of year again. Nope – I don’t mean Christmas.

It’s time for employee performance evaluations.

And in keeping with an essentially liberal field of work in a postmodern age, a key part of employee performance in a humanitarian aid agency is the "employee self-appraisal." It is important, we tell ourselves, to internally apply those same principles of community development that we apply in the field. Just as we go to lengths to work with “our” beneficiary communities to ensure that program goals and objectives make sense in the local context and to confirm that strategies for achieving these goals are culturally appropriate, so we must define and measure progress among ourselves (as individuals) in individual terms.

So, last week I found myself an empowered co-owner/stakeholder in a dialogic and participatory process, designed to establish mutually acceptable and intelligible indicators of achievement against concrete benchmarks. Basically, my employer wanted to know how many grant proposals I’d had a part in writing during the past year, and of that, how many had received funding. But there were other categories of interest as well.

In particular I was piqued by the category entitled: Work/Life Balance.”

It is good and well and appropriate for humanitarian aid agencies to care about the personal well-being of their staff. And on good days I genuinely believe that they do care – at least most of them (even though they do not always act as if they do). After having been a hiring manager in more than one previous position, I can attest personally to having cared deeply for the well-being of my staff, to genuinely wanting the best for them (not in a paternalistic way), and to going to some trouble on their behalf.

But I am struck by the paradox of the work/life balance for aid workers.

Looking down the lists of contacts in Facebook or Skype, I see name after name of aid worker friends and acquaintances who have made significant personal sacrifice to do the work that they do. I see people who have, in many cases permanently, given up the option for a life that most people back home would would associate with the term "balanced."

For most of us, aid work is not a job that we can leave at the office after 5:00. This is true regardless of where we might be based or what our exact job is. Thanks to iPhones and Blackberrys, it doesn’t really matter where I am physically, whether I’m at the office or watching my child’s Christmas Pageant: I’m am connected and in touch and engaged with what is going on out in “the field.” Whether I am polishing up my Harley out in the garage or watching “Survivor” (my favorite TV drama) with my wife, glass of wine in-hand, I’m never too far – at least mentally – from what is going on in Iraq or Dafur or…. (INSERT NAME OF CURRENT CRISIS).

As I reflect on that list of aid-worker friends – people that I have argued with over budgets, huddled with in the cold of high-desert winter, or with whom I have slogged through mosquito-infested monsoons – I think of another paradox: These have got to be some of the most intense and opinionated, while at the same time the most laid-back, mellow and open-minded people I’ve ever come across. On one hand totally unassuming and unglamorous and, well, nerdy. You won’t recognize them in airports, unless is by their inch-thick, tattered passports. But then you get to know them and they can be the most engaging and interesting and totally over-the-top crowd you’ll ever roll with: aid workers partying in a relief zone makes state university fraternities seem contemplative by comparison.

Often very fun, rarely boring. But definitely not what most “normal” folk would call “balanced.” And it is probably not a life that many would define as “having quality of life.” Living in or frequent travel to unstable places; constant exposure to dangers ranging from violent attack (either as a direct target or as “collateral damage”) to disease or infection, to simply an extreme environment where excesses of various kinds is frequently the norm (“social drinking among diplomats and aid workers is comparable to full-on alcoholism back home” – expat proverb); months or years away from one’s family and social support; days on the road, living out of a suitcase and eating street food.

For as much as we talk about improving the “quality of life” for our beneficiaries, we seem to be incapable of managing our own work/life balance. Far too often we simply neglect our own quality of life. It’s a tough situation to think one’s way out of.

Some burn out. Some fade away. But most of us wouldn't dream of doing anything else. And we simply redefine "quality of life" to reflect the reality of the moment: A night with air-conditioning. A secluded corner of the airport to curl up in for part of an 18-hour layover. A ride in an enclosed vehicle. The withdrawal of rebel troops from a relief zone. Internet that works ten hours per day. An unexpected upgrade.

* * *

As the humanitarian aid industry becomes increasingly professional, I find myself more and more often trying to fit into a for-profit professional paradigm elements of this life and work (if the two are even separable) that resist a natural fit. And so, as I clicked my way through the “Work/Life Balance” section of my online self-appraisal form, I couldn’t help but chuckle and wonder if the authors of that form actually knew what I do for a living. While I might be harder on myself in some of the other sections - sections that correspond to areas where I want to grow professionally - in the "Work/Life Balance" section I totally confident. The grading scale went from 1 to 5 (5 = “excellent”). I gave myself a “5” for every category and in the comment box simply wrote that classic line from Jarhead:

“I. Love. This. Job. Oooh-rah!”