Much has been and much more will be written about the looming abolition of USAID.

It’s “the removal of a huge and important tool of American global statecraft” (Konyndyk), or the wood-chipping of a “viper’s nest of radical-left marxists who hate America” (Musk) or, more reasonably, the unwarranted cancellation of an organisation that should have been reviewed and reformed.

Commentators will have a lot to say, some of it exaggerated, about the varieties of harm caused by this decision, and about its legality.

Some will welcome it from a conservative perspective, believing that USAID was either not aligned with or acting against the interests of the United States, or was proselytising wokeness, or was a criminal organisation.

Some, often more quietly, will welcome it from an anti-imperialist or “Southern” perspective, believing that the agency was at worst a blunt instrument of US hegemony or at least a bastion of Western saviourism.

I want to come at this topic from a different angle, by providing a brief personal perspective on USAID as an organisation, based on several decades of occasional interaction with it during my time as an Australian aid official.

Essentially, I view USAID as a harried, hamstrung and traumatised organisation, not as a rogue agency or finely-tuned vehicle of US statecraft.

Peer country representative
My own experience with USAID began when I participated as a peer country representative in an OECD Development Assistance Committee (DAC) peer review of the US’s foreign assistance programme in the early 1990s, which included visits to US assistance programmes in Bangladesh and the Philippines, as well as to USAID headquarters in Washington DC.

I later dealt with the agency in many other roles, including during postings to the OECD and Indonesia and through my work on global and regional climate change and health programmes, up to and including the pandemic years.

An image is firmly lodged in my mind from that DAC peer review visit to Washington. We had had days of back-to-back meetings in USAID headquarters with a series of exhausted-looking, distracted and sometimes grumpy executives who didn’t have much reason to care what the OECD thought about the US aid effort.

It was a muggy summer day. At one point a particularly grumpy meeting chair, who now rather reminds of me of Gary Oldman’s character in Slow Horses, mopped the sweat from his forehead with his necktie without appearing to be aware of what he was doing. Since then, that man has been my mental model of a USAID official.

But why so exhausted, distracted and grumpy?

Precisely because USAID is about the least freewheeling workplace one could construct. Certainly it is administratively independent, in the sense that it was created by an act of Congress, but it also receives its budget from the President and Congress — and that budget comes with so many strings attached, in the form of country- or issue-related “earmarks” or other directives that it might be logically impossible to allocate the funds as instructed.

Some of these earmarks are broad and unsurprising (for example, specific allocations for HIV/AIDS prevention and treatment under the Bush-era PEPFAR program) while others represent niche interests (Senator John McCain once ridiculed earmarks pertaining to “peanuts, orangutans, gorillas, neotropical raptors, tropical fish and exotic plants”) — but none originates within USAID.

Informal earmarks calculation
I recall seeing an informal calculation showing that one could only satisfy all the percentage-based earmarks by giving most of the dollars several quite different jobs to do. A 2002 DAC peer review noted with disapproval some 270 earmarks or other directive provisions in aid legislation; by the time of the most recent peer review in 2022, this number was more like 700.

Related in part to this congressional micro-management of its budget — along with the usual distrust of organisations that “send” money overseas — USAID labours under particularly gruelling accountability and reporting requirements.

Andew Natsios — a former USAID Administrator and lifelong Republican who has recently come to USAID’s defence (albeit with arguments that not everybody would deem helpful) — wrote about this in 2010. In terms reminiscent of current events, he described the reign of terror of Lieutenant-General Herbert Beckington, a former Marine Corps officer who led USAID‘s Office of the Inspector General (OIG) from 1977 to 1994.

He was a powerful iconic figure in Washington, and his influence over the structure of the foreign aid programME remains with USAID today. … Known as “The General” at USAID, Beckington was both feared and despised by career officers. Once referred to by USAID employees as “the agency’s J. Edgar Hoover — suspicious, vindictive, eager to think the worst” …

At one point, he told the Washington Post that USAID’s white-collar crime rate was “higher than that of downtown Detroit.” … In a seminal moment in this clash between OIG and USAID, photographs were published of two senior officers who had been accused of some transgression being taken away in handcuffs by the IG investigators for prosecution, a scene that sent a broad chill through the career staff and, more than any other single event, forced a redirection of aid practice toward compliance.

Labyrinthine accountability systems
On top of the burdens of logically impossible programming and labyrinthine accountability systems is the burden of projecting American generosity. As far as humanly possible, and perhaps a little further, ways must be found of ensuring that American aid is sourced from American institutions, farms or factories and, if it is in the form of commodities, that it is transported on American vessels.

Failing that, there must be American flags. I remember a USAID officer stationed in Banda Aceh after the 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami spending a non-trivial amount of his time seeking to attach sizeable flags to the front of trucks transporting US (but also non-US) emergency supplies around the province of Aceh.

President Trump’s adviser Stephen Miller has somehow determined to his own satisfaction that the great majority (in fact 98 percent) of USAID personnel are donors to the Democratic Party. Whether or not that is true, let alone relevant, Democrat administrations have arguably been no kinder to USAID than Republican ones over the years.

Natsios, in the piece cited above, notes that The General was installed under Carter, who ran on anti-Washington ticket, and that there were savage cuts — over 400 positions — to USAID senior career service staffing under Clinton. USAID gets battered no matter which way the wind blows.

Which brings me back to necktie guy. It has always seemed to me that the platonic form of a USAID officer, while perhaps more likely than not to vote Democrat, is a tired and dispirited person, weary of politicians of all stripes, bowed under his or her burdens, bound to a desk and straitjacketed by accountability requirements, regularly buffeted by new priorities and abrupt restructures, and put upon by the ignorant and suspicious.

Radical-left Marxists and vipers probably wouldn’t tolerate such an existence for long. Who would? I guess it’s either thieves and money-launderers or battle-scarred professionals intent on doing a decent job against tall odds.

Robin Davies is an honorary professor at the Australian National University’s (ANU) Crawford School of Public Policy and managing editor of the Devpolicy Blog. He previously held senior positions at Australia’s Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade (DFAT) and AusAID.

Article by AsiaPacificReport.nz

I have a history with West Papua (here referring to the Indonesian part of the island of New Guinea, which comprises five provinces, one named “West Papua”) from my days fronting the legendary West Papuan band Black Brothers in the early 1990s.

During that time, I was exposed to stories of struggle and pride in the identity of the people of West Papua. From their declaration of self-determination and self-government and the raising of the Morning Star flag on 1 December 1961, to the so-called “Act of Free Choice” referendum in 1969 which saw the fledgling Melanesian state become part of the larger Indonesian state, to the next 40 years of struggle.

However, apart from the occasional ABC or SBS news story and the 1963 ethnographic film Dead Birds, I hadn’t seen much footage on West Papua until now.

The West Papua Mini Film Festival is a touring festival of short films organised by the West Papuan community and their allies and supporters in Australia to raise awareness of the situation in West Papua.

The four films I saw, at the first screening in Sydney, were:

My Name is Pengungsi (Refugee)
Pepera 1969, A Democratic Integration?
Papuan Hip-Hop: When the Microphone Talks
Black Pearl and General of the Field

The first two films were quite harrowing portrayals of internal displacement and coercion in West Papua. My Name is Pengungsi (Refugee) follows the lives and families of two children, both named “refugee”, born and currently being raised in parts of West Papua distant from their families’ places of origin.

Their displacement is clearly correlated with the increased presence of extractive corporate interests backed in and supported by a military presence.

In both children’s cases this has been enabled by the gradual breaking up of the region of West Papua into first two, and now five, separate provinces.

A scene from My Name is Pengungsi (Refugee)

My Name is Pengungsi (Refugee).   Video trailer: Jubi TV

The second film, Pepera 1969, A Democratic Integration, deals with the history of oppression and coercion under Indonesian rule and the absurdity of the rubber-stamping process undertaken by Indonesia (the Act of Free Choice, the Indonesian acronym for which is Pepera) which enabled it to annex West Papua under the impotent gaze of the United Nations and the complicit support of countries including the US and Australia.

The film documents the process leading into decolonisation and West Papua’s short-lived period of self-rule.

The second two films were insightful celebrations of Papuan identity in the arts, through hip-hop artists like Ukam Maran and the earlier musical group Mambesak, and in sport, with the incredible story of the Persipura football club of Jayapura.

The latter’s achievements as a football team and subsequent discrimination and suppression in the racially charged Indonesian football league provide an allegory of West Papuan identity.

In both cases, the strength and resilience of West Papuan identity, and West Papuans’ pride in their ancient ties to land and culture, are palpable.

A scene from Papua Hip-Hop: When the microphone talks.

What I liked about the four films was that they presented a montage of West Papua from rural to urban, from the everyday life of internally displaced people to the exciting work of hip-hop artists with their songs of protest; from the big picture and history of West Papua to the smaller microcosm of the Persipura football team and supporters.

All in all, I was surprised how much I came out of the festival better informed about a place, its history and current developments. And this despite having the privilege of knowing more about West Papua than many Australians.

For those who don’t know much about West Papua and would like to know more, attending the West Papua Mini Film Festival is a must. It is on at various locations around Australia until 21 April 2024, with details here.

And to end on a happy note, my evening of film appreciation included meeting one of the festival’s organisers, Victor Mambor. Victor is the nephew of the late Steve Mambor, drummer for the Black Brothers!

• West Papua Mini Film Festival 2024, 9-21 April 2024, Wollongong, Sydney, Canberra, Adelaide, Brisbane, Lismore, Hobart, Melbourne, and Darwin.
• The films are also available to view with English and Indonesian subtitles on the Jubi TV Youtube channel.

Article by AsiaPacificReport.nz

I was born in Gulka (Kimil), one of the remotest villages in Papua New Guinea’s Jiwaka province.

Gulka is situated between Jiwaka and Western Highlands province, so as I grew up I learned the cultures and lifestyles of both provinces.

I was the third-born child of Simon and Polti Mek and I have three younger siblings. My dad and mum are subsistence farmers. They sell ripe bananas, greens, peanuts, red pandanus and pigs to raise money.

Dad dropped out of school in grade four. Mum has never been to school.

We have no access to proper roads and electricity. The rugged terrain, jungle, valleys and big rivers in the Highlands region make access to basic services a difficult task.

Illiteracy and birth rates are very high, and some mothers die trying to give birth. We often have shortages in drugs and medical facilities in our community health centre. Growing up in such an unfavourable environment made it extremely hard to access education.

Despite that, I made up my mind to go to school.

Four sweet potatoes a day
In 2007, I was enrolled to do kindergarten (prep) at Gulka Elementary School. I used to wake up at around 4am to prepare for school. My mum would cook four sweet potatoes: one for breakfast, one for lunch and two for afternoon dinner.

The distance from home to school is about five kilometres. Because of the distance and frequent bad weather, no one else was interested in going to school.

I used to walk back and forth by myself. I was often late for class. I sometimes missed classes due to heavy rain, floods and landslides.

For grade three, I went to Kimil Primary School, a Catholic mission school. When I first went there, I could not cope with its tough rules and regulations.

I had no friends to share all my problems with. I did not understand anything I learnt in class. When a teacher asked me a question, everyone laughed because my answers were always wrong.

At the end of the term, my report card ranked last. My parents could not read the comment on the report, they thought everything went well.

I literally lost tears but I did not give up easily. Apart from helping my mum in the farm garden, I committed all my remaining time to studies. I read a lot of textbooks. I consulted my teachers for help after hours.

Marks slowly improved
My marks and academic performance slowly improved. I completed grade eight in 2015 with good grades on my certificate. Many people did not believe my academic performance for I was a village kid. They thought I would not get a secondary school offer.

But never at any point in time did my parents let me down. They had greater hope for me. They continued to motivate me when I lacked motivation, and pushed me forward when I fell back.

Waghi Valley Secondary School was far away from my village. I walked to catch the bus and the trip took around three hours. When I had no bus fare, I took the shortest route through the bush.

The bush track was not in good condition. It took me around six hours to reach school when I travelled by foot. During the highest rainfall around June, July and August, I had the most difficulties going to school. But I still managed to overcome them.

I successfully completed grade nine.

I thought I would do the same in the next academic year. Unfortunately, an election-related fight broke out. Some of our classrooms were burnt down. In fear, the teachers left school.

I was unable to go to school because the school was on my enemy’s land. The fight continued for two months, until the police came to solve it. Classes recommenced, but we had lost so much of our precious time to prepare for exams.

Piles of handouts, books
Our teachers squeezed up everything. They gave us piles of handouts, old exam papers and reference books.

When I went home, I had no time for my friends and family. I sat in my room and studied. I had no proper light at night and used the old torch that my grandmother gave me.

In January 2018, the selection lists for grade eleven in various secondary schools in Jiwaka were posted at our district office. I checked for my name, but I couldn’t find it. My parents shared my pain.

A few days later, however, I received a phone call from my uncle in Port Moresby who told me I had been selected to do grade eleven at Sogeri National High School. It was one of the most exciting moments in my life. Everyone in my clan and tribe was so proud of me.

At Sogeri National High School I met new friends from across the nation. Some people were dark in colour (especially from the Autonomous Region of Bougainville), some were brown, others were white. Their cultures and lifestyles were so different and unique.

I faced many challenges academically and socially. Studying in a very demanding and competitive institution was the greatest challenge. Many students came from international and private schools with better grades. I was the smallest fish in a big ocean full of whales.

As the time went by, I started to make friends with everyone. I found that people were so kind, loving and caring. We built an unbreakable bond.

Scored high grades
As a result, my mind settled. I fully focused on school. Suddenly my marks improved. I scored very high grades which boosted me to study extra hard. Unexpectedly, I secured the top placing across all subjects.

At the end of the year, I topped the school. I was awarded the dux of humanities and social sciences. It was something beyond my expectation.

I was accepted to study business management and accounting at the University of Papua New Guinea (UPNG) — it is what my parents dreamed of and wanted for me. I’m now grateful to be a final year economics student here at the university.

If it wasn’t for the commitment, sacrifices, courage and priceless advice of my beloved parents, I would not have come this far. I owe the greatest debt of gratitude to my parents.

If I’m lucky enough to become successful with riches one day, I will establish a school back in my remote village to make sure my younger siblings and those generations that will come may not face the problems I once faced.

Robert Mek is a final year economics undergraduate at the University of Papua New Guinea. This article was first published on the Australian National University’s DevPolicy Blog and is republished under a Creative Commons licence. The writing was undertaken with the support of the ANU-UPNG Partnership, an initiative of the PNG-Australia Partnership, funded by the Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade.

Article by AsiaPacificReport.nz

In Papua New Guinea, some already disenfranchised women have to face an added burden of sorcery accusation-related violence (SARV). However, a global initiative by the United Nations with support from the European Union has recently conducted a consultation on a proposed Human Rights Defenders Protection bill aimed at supporting groups and community leaders in ending this violence.

SARV cases remain high in the highland provinces of PNG despite a national action plan intended to eradicate the crime. Most victims of SARV are women elders in poor communities who are blamed for practising sorcery as the cause of the mysterious illness or death of a family member.

SARV cases rose during the pandemic, which reflects the lack of information about the coronavirus.

SARV was tackled by PNG legislators during a Special Parliamentary Committee in August 2021. The committee report was explicit in condemning SARV:

“This type of violence is absolutely unacceptable: it is not excusable as part of PNG’s culture but rather, arises from the misunderstanding (and sometimes the deliberate manipulation) of traditions and religion to harm innocent people, in particular women and children.

“SARV against women is often particularly brutal and sexualised, with the violent acts specifically targeting the victim’s womanhood.”

‘388 people’ accused of sorcery each year
The committee also tried to ascertain the number of SARV cases while noting that the incidents could be higher since many victims are reluctant to file a legal action against family members:

“An average of 388 people are accused of sorcery each year in the 4 provinces combined. A third of these led to physical violence or property damage. Amongst those accused, 65 were killed, 86 suffered permanent injury and 141 survived other serious assault and harm, such as burning, cutting, tying or being forced into water. Overall, 93 cases involved torture: 20 lasted several days and 10 lasted a week or even longer. The submission used that data to estimate the number of violent SARV incidents between the year 2000 and June 2020 to be over 6,000, resulting in an estimated 3,000 deaths nationally.”

PNG doctors call for compulsory post-mortems to stem sorcery killings – Asia Pacific Report https://t.co/C1YgZakANu pic.twitter.com/lYSfrkPp0M

— Trupla PNG (@truplapng) January 30, 2018

Writing for the DevPolicy blog, Anton Lutz and Miranda Forsyth highlighted the long-term impact of SARV on survivors, especially women and children:

“In our 4-year study, we found that only 15% of victims die, leaving more than enough scarred, traumatised, unsupported, fearful people to seek redress in court. But they don’t. They move away. They go into hiding. They bounce around from safe house to safe house. They wait. They hope they don’t get attacked again.”

SARV cases were still being recorded even after a nationwide campaign was launched against the crime. In an editorial published in January, the Post-Courier pressed for urgent action:

“Is murder and terrorism crippling society that we blame sorcery as the easy way out and ignore it?

“This matter has been raised before.

“But no one is changing because lives are being lost or ruined and no one seems to care.

“Women especially are being targeted so there must be people who have deep hatred for women.

“They could be sick in the head.

“It would also appear that tribal enmity is creeping into the so-called sorcery killings and it is a payback in disguise.

“Payback killings are well known in PNG so why are we naive about it?”

Call for better government response
Father Giorgio Licini of the Catholic Bishops Conference echoed the call for better government response to this complex social problem: “The traditional reaction to sorcery in old Europe and current PNG appears to be largely irrational, based on suspicion and fear, retaliation and pay-back, opportunism, lies and business. The legislation is poor, insufficient, practically inexistent for an issue that is complex. It involves murder but is more than common criminal behaviour.”

Dominic Kanea, a SARV survivor, asked for tougher penalties against those who commit SARV:

“We need the MPs from the upper Highlands region to work in unity to fight against sorcery accusation-related violence.

“Introduce tougher penalties for the cowards who prey on innocent people and go on the spree of destroying properties worth millions of kina [PNG currency] and killing of innocent people.”

Women’s rights advocate Dame Carol Kidu insists that SARV is a recent phenomenon and cautions against associating it with any PNG traditions or history:

“In no anthropological writings have I seen reference to anything barbaric as this. This is not part of the ancestry of PNG as we are far more a caring society. I do not know why it has emerged like this, because we know that sorcery is part of PNG’s society, but SARV is not part of the society. SARV killings are premeditated murder and encouraged by friends and relatives.”

Fiona Hukula of the PNG National Research Institute warns about how the ongoing pandemic is fueling fear and even increasing instances of SARV:

“…there is a risk that the health crisis posed by COVID-19 has the potential to precipitate economic and social crisis. This in turn may well involve violence, as people look to allocate blame and find protection in uncertain times by scapegoating others.

The government and society at large needs to act fast to prevent the spread of fear that is a catalyst for violence and social unrest.”

• Watch this video on how the proposed Human Rights Defenders Protection bill can boost the work of women community leaders in fighting SARV in PNG:

Article by AsiaPacificReport.nz