The "Darfuri orphans" scandal

There's a lot of sad fallout from this nasty little story about inappropriate actions by a French NGO, L'Arche de Zoé or Zoe's Ark. L'Arche de Zoé have been running an "Operation Darfour", allegedly to evacuate orphans from the war-torn region of the Sudan, to "host families" in Europe who would then fight their asylum claims for them. This is already borderline - their decision to undertake the activity they did placed them on the very edge of IHL - international humanitarian law. (They quote a bunch of legal bases on their website - it's a pity it doesn't include some of the Geneva Convention provisions).

A swoop last week by the Tchadian authorities found that they were shipping out Tchadian kids instead, without their parents' permission. When this scandal broke, we at work were immediately struck by the UN's failure to protest, by the silence of the Red Crosses and other NGOs, by the tenor of the French government's reaction. It was a clear sign that something had gone badly wrong and we were all very glad that it is not one of the NGOs we fund, although I am sure there will be corresponding political fallout.

But there are other victims of this story than the kids themselves. My heart goes out, for instance, to all the parents. First of all the parents in Tchad who were apparently told their kids would be taken to a boarding school at a town nearby in Tchad and educated. They've been sorely betrayed and are not likely to trust another Western NGO, and that's a crying shame. At the other end of the story, there are couples in Europe, the USA and Canada, possibly childless, hoping to become foster parents, ready to fight for an asylum claim for the child they'd welcome into their home. They've possibly unwittingly funded part of this shameful operation as part of a "fostering" fee, and their hopes of fostering have been, at least temporarily, dashed. I feel horribly sorry for them too.

I also feel very sorry for other NGOs working in the fraught field of rescuing children from conflict. Their work has been made no easier by this event and they'll be eyed with suspicion by third world governments for a long time to come. I feel sorry for all the kids and parents they'll not be able to help because of the mistrust this will have caused.

L'Arche de Zoé were set up during the tsunami. The end of funding of that initial crisis probably led them, like many NGOs that found themselves a bit spare at the end of the Balkans crisis, to look for activities elsewhere. If you are a small NGO, and you've had a period of success with an initial mission, you have to consider whether you want to really put in the policy and legal work you are going to need to be able to do your good work within IHL and in coordination with other agencies, or whether it would be a good idea to wind up your activities and call it a day.

It would have been better for all concerned if L'Arche de Zoé had had the sense to call it a day.

Capitalist Ball 2007

None of the following necessarily represents the views of my employer.

The more eagle-eyed of you will spot that there wasn't a Capitalist Ball review in February this year. This is because it was held in October. And yes, I did go. It was not until the later part of the next morning that I recalled with heart-squelching embarrassment a moment of behaviour which surpasses everything I've done before, and I include the day I didn't recognise Will Carling and told him I knew a rugby player (Simon Hogg) and more particularly the incident with the four Royal Navy officers in the swimming pool at 3am.

I was doubly and finely squired to this year's CNE Capitalist Ball. Held once more in the Concert Noble, it was a glittering affair honouring in first place, Jan Bielecki, who gave a very competent, witty and entertaining speech about why he wasn't in black tie (it turned out the airline had lost his luggage). Further prizes were given, each with their own interesting backstory. Dresses of various levels of appropriateness floated about. Dinner came and went. For the first time, the event was attended by a demonstration outside by a somewhat deluded group, I link only to offer you a glimpse of their website's charming dagger and hammer logo and "Our own folk first" slogan, who had convinced themselves that all Europe's economic decision-makers were inside, swilling champagne like capitalist pigs. We were indeed swilling champagne like capitalist pigs, but as for decision-makers, we only had the one MEP and he left early.

After the demonstrators got too cold and went home to their parents' nice suburban villas in the Flanders commuter belt, us champagne swillers spilled out onto the pavement and that's when I got talking to Tim Evans, who had been President-Director-General of CNE for three years. "So where do you work?" he said, and I said "Nextdoor, would you like to come and see?" and marched the poor fellow 25 meters down the pavement. "You know" I said, slurring slightly from all the capitalist champagne I'd been swilling and waving expansively at the posters of refugees we have up outside the office, "market access isn't just for big industry. It's also for these people. Norberg knows this, it's the basis of his In Defence of Global Capitalism. Amartya Sen would call lack of market access an unfreedom. Palestinian refugees, for instance and they're not alone in this regard, those in quasi-permanent camps in Jordan and Lebanon, are not granted work permits, they can't even start their own businesses within the camps, and this is a, a, a crying shame, and whilst here in this office we spend a lot on advocating their basic human rights and providing them with ways to try and secure a livelihood (giving barbers hairdessing equipment, for example) the wealthier nations among us should be doing something about advocating their rights to work and trade like any other resident in their host countries, or we should sort things out and get them home to allow them those same rights. And not enough is done, and it's not fair, and it's not even economically sensible, because they're just as valid an emerging market as any other".

At this point, my kind escorts broke us up (apparently they'd seen it coming) and I was led away to a warm ballroom and handed more champagne. The memory of lecturing a senior market economist on market access surfaced at about 12pm the next day with the thickening sud of a flooding soap powder factory. I wonder whether I'll be allowed back next year.

OK. I know you're all waiting. Piccie of frock.

About bloody time

The UN should have sent a UN, not AU, peacekeeper force in YEARS AGO, 2003 would have not been too soon. There may not be enough of them, either.

HELP!

My interview for Delegation has been set for 20th July.

I now have 10 days to learn how to talk intelligently about financing procedures in countries being encouraged towards regional integration processes, the reduction of vulnerability to natural disasters, the reduction in economic inequalities, through several budgetary mechanisms ranging from budgetary support to development projects, in Spanish as well as ye olde English and French, for at least half an hour.

I may have bitten off more than I can chew.

Excuse me, I have to go and swot.

William Kamkwamba

Via Worstall, a young lad making his own homemade windmills in Malawi. V. Cool if you ask me.

Heads down over the books

Scouse Doris and I are both slaving away over hot paper. The Mistress of Chocolate has a significant exam to take in the coming weeks and must hone her skills to their utmost. I, on the other hand, may soon be expected to justify at interview why I want to go and work in the five countries I named earlier. You'll note, Mutley, that Burkina Faso is not one of them, but actually if it was offered I might not say no. It's landlocked and poor but there are richer seaside places much worse than Burkina Faso, such as, just an example off the top of my head, Gaza.

No, if I'm going to be shot dead, I'd rather it was because my work was having an effect and perhaps unsettling entrenched interests, as I have been warned several of my colleagues have met their nemesis, rather than by some random, stray, ricocheting, paramilitary bullet. Of course one can always be stabbed to death by a random burglar, but to be honest I nearly got run over on a pedestrian crossing ten years ago here in Belgium on rue Joseph II by the now outgoing Prime Minister Guy Verhofstadt at the wheel of his ministerial BMW, so there's danger everywhere really.


Caption: "Right flustered she was, George, bosom heaving, scurrying across like a startled hedgehog!"

Embarrassment ahoy

You won't hear from me for a couple of days. I am going to a certain English city by the name of St*ke-*n-Tr*nt for May 9th, to speak to 250 university students and a school. Apparently they'd like to know why we celebrate the 9th of May in Brussels, and what the European Commission is, and what the EU does in the way of external/development/humanitarian aid. Yeah, right. I bet they've been waiting for this day all sixteen-seventeen years of their lives.

I've never addressed 25 people, much less 250. I have to admit to having no idea whether I can do this or not.

On the bright side, if I make a COMPLETE fool of myself, no-one will ever know.

Speaking of Queens....

I have just met the Queen. Of Belgium that is. I was doing my annual stint on the ECHO stand at the Berlaymont for Open Day, which I always enjoy, when along come a six-camera media circus, a flash of photographers, and an assortment of large men in dark suits milling around our Commissioner, Louis Michel, and her Majesty Queen Paola of the Belgians. Sans tiara, in case you're wondering.

My fellow Brit colleague S and I, trained (in my case from my earliest youth by my Hyacinth Bucket of a mother) for the elaborate protocol of dealing with the doyenne of all monarchs, our Second Elizabeth, stood to attention and smiled tightly. When you are British, you do not speak to royalty unless they speak to you first, you do not offer a hand to shake unless theirs is extended. If invited to shake hands, one rips off a small bow or half-curtsey, which I had been a bit nervous about as my balance is still a little unreliable and I had worries of keeling over and bringing down the whole stand, pamphlets and postcards fountaining up and out in a mushroom cloud of information, which would not have been very elegant, would have shamed my mother forever, and furthermore would almost certainly have violated protocol.

Our non-Brit colleague Su, though, seemed unaware of such restrictions. She launched into an explanation of our activities, repeatedly calling the Queen's attention back for a further sentence or two (unbidden! the horror! we Brits curled into small mummified versions of ourselves), and then presented her Majesty with one of our rather classy jute rucksack bags, stuffed with pamphlets featuring our most photogenic beneficiairies and all in her native Italian. Her Majesty was somewhat nonplussed at being offered such an item, which apparently no other stand had had the gall to try doing. She turned to her retinue and made a help! gesture, whereupon the Commissioner scooped it up and handed it to a senior official. We have no idea where it went, but at least it didn't come back.

All I can say is it's a good thing we weren't all Brits behind that stand, otherwise the Belgian Queen would have thought Europe's entire humanitarian aid effort was staffed by wan, tight-smiled mutes.

Alea iacta est

I sent my application for Delegation today. The final shortlist featured

Managua, Nicaragua (twice)
Bogota, Colombia
Delhi, India
Jakarta, Indonesia
Suva, Fiji

I clicked the 'send' button and within about 10 minutes got a case of the shakes. I have to say I also felt completely euphoric. It was the wierdest combination of fear and thrill...

Now there'll be a couple of interviews or so over the next three months, and then in September we'll all be told where we're going. I'll keep you posted... as to where I'll be posted...