Blue helmets, blue ball caps, blue turbans

Yesterday was another field mission. This time we visited a number of communities that had recently returned to their villages after months or years of displacement. We were there to do a bit of monitoring, to ask some questions about the assistance they received from us a month ago and find out whether it really met their needs. It was a good mission. Maybe I’m just getting used to being in the field, but I was far more at ease this time than I have been previously. To date I have always felt awkward and voyeuristic, whereas this time I felt like I belonged there, like I was serving a purpose. I’m feeling that in general now. My leather boots and suit jackets have been replaced by hiking boots and logo T-shirts, and instead of my blackberry I have the comforting weight of my radio handset hanging from my jeans at the small of my back.

Of course, the experiences are still new and frequently bizarre. The road yesterday was long and tortuously bumpy, as they always are. About an hour or so into the ride we were met by our military escort, the Pakistani brigade of MONUC. They came more lightly equipped than is sometimes the case; only three jeeps, one with a mounted gun. That’s a lot less cumbersome than the four or five armoured personnel carriers that we sometimes get saddled with. Still, hooking up with them occasioned a visible change in the reception we were met with on the road. Traveling in our original convoy of two, our passing was acknowledged as though we were floats in a parade: a constant chorus of cheering and waving children and adults, many of them calling out the name of our agency (though quite a few stick to “Muzungu!” – white people.) Once we joined up with MONUC, the atmosphere changed. The children were still excited, but there was something noticeably aggressive about their behaviour, especially among the boys. A lot of them mimed shooting or fist-fighting as we passed, which I suppose is natural for little boys seeing soldiers, but is not exactly the kind of greeting humanitarians are accustomed to receiving.

That’s why our NGO partner, catching up with us on the road, was so quick to skirt around our convoy and keep going. It wouldn’t do for them to be seen in the middle of a MONUC convoy. The peacekeepers support the FARDC, the Congolese national army. That means that the rebels (the ones MONUC are protecting us against) perceive them as supporting the enemy, which means that anyone seen riding with them could be guilty by association. Our NGO partner raced ahead to preserve what’s known as “humanitarian space” – the perceived neutrality that is crucial to effective humanitarian work.

I might have had a good day, but the peacekeepers were visibly bored, loitering around their vehicles while they waited for us to finish on site. But it was our turn to wait on the route back; the soldiers decided to stop in the shade of a mango tree on the roadside to have lunch, a feast of heavenly smelling Pakistani food. They invited us to join, and I could see that my colleagues were hesitant – humanitarian space and all that. But sod it – they had naan. I climbed into the back of the truck to break bread with the sergeant, trailed by the others who seemed visibly relieved that someone had given in to temptation before they did. (Apparently the humanitarians cave in more often than not; the sergeant told me that “Whenever I am doing escort, I am making picnic!”) The lunch was as tasty as it smelled, and the sergeant amiably invited us by the base should we ever have a craving for more.

The peacekeepers are a fascinating phenomenon. One of the favorite pastimes here is to compare and contrast the various brigades – their habits, talents and drawbacks. The Indians are spotlessly professional, impressive in their blue turbans and immaculate beards with curled-up mustaches, each one a virtual clone of every other. They stand ram-rod straight with their feet shoulder-width apart and their hands folded behind their backs, and they invariably serve you tea. The Pakistanis are slightly scruffier but clearly disciplined, and also fond of tea. The Nepalis labour under a cloud of shame after the conviction and imprisonment of some of their soldiers following a sex abuse scandal, and have brought in their most rigid and rule-abiding officers as a result. The Moroccans are known for excellent food and heavy military escorts. The South Africans blend in very well with the locals (black and white soldiers alike), learning the language and making an effort to understand local customs – in contrast to the South Asians who are criticized for their disdainful distance (and who for their part scorn the professionalism of the South Africans). I haven’t got the Uruguayans or the Bengalis pegged yet, although I reckon the latter can be added to the “fond of tea” list.

Blue helmets, blue ball caps, blue turbans – MONUC is a microcosm of the UN in general. A slightly uncomfortable confederacy of well-meaning entities who have very different visions of the Right Thing, each of whom has a unique cultural perspective that brings benefits and drawbacks. And like the UN in general, the failings of a few tarnish the reputation of the many, and the organization itself bears the brunt of criticism for things over which it actually has no control – like the behaviour of its Member States’ soldiers. Just as “the UN” is blamed when France and the US and the UK can’t get China to change its Darfur policy, MONUC is tarred and feathered when soldiers in an army serving on its behalf (but over which it does not have command) do something shameful.

Not that MONUC, or the UN, is flawless. It’s a cumbersome and frequently annoying bureaucracy that regularly has its head where the sun doesn’t shine. Still, it does a lot of good.

Let me stop here before I go off on another rant about UN-bashing.