Coping with curfew: How 5 expat aid workers manage their restricted lives

JUBA, South Sudan — It’s been more than four years since United Nations staffer Francesca first set foot in South Sudan. Having arrived in a country ripe with opportunity and flooded with international investment, she came at a time when the world had high hopes for its newest nation. “Life before the war is one of the reasons I stayed on this long,” Francesca said, adding that life felt “normal” to the British national. Francesca, who wished to be identified only by her given name, is one of the few “pre-2013” aid workers left in the country. Before the war, she lived in a house with roommates, and had the freedom to come and go as she pleased. “There was even good food in Juba,” she said with a nostalgic smile. But when fighting erupted in the capital in Dec. 2013, with renewed clashes in July 2016, things deteriorated rapidly in South Sudan. The combination of civil war, economic collapse, and resulting food insecurity have since displaced millions of South Sudanese. In addition to being one of the most challenging and complex contexts in which to work, South Sudan poses an extreme set of lifestyle limitations for aid workers accustomed to freedom of movement and choice. In response to the heightened security risks for aid workers, the U.N. imposed a 7 p.m. curfew on its staff as well as zone restrictions around town. The majority of aid groups followed suit. Although most people say they know what to expect when accepting a post in a conflict zone, many told Devex that the early curfew coupled with other constraints does take a toll — and requires a vast suite of coping mechanisms. Now, every day after work, Francesca has enough time to either go for a run, go to the store or meet someone for a quick drink before heading back to her compound to comply with curfew. “It’s hard to know what the impact’s been,” Francesca said of the increased constraints in the past few years. “I think you realize after a while how normal this all feels.” Her current limitations don’t fully hit her until she visits the United Kingdom and remembers what it’s like to choose where she wants to go, when, and how to get there: “I don’t really have freedom of movement here and just a very low quality of life, and no choice,” she said. Though deeply invested in efforts to aid the war-torn country, she must also consider her own happiness and mental health, and is now considering whether it’s time to look for a new post elsewhere. Life in a box Since arriving in Juba seven months ago, Sarah says one of the biggest shocks to her system is always being monitored. Sarah, a 36-year-old aid worker for an international organization who wished to be identified only by her given name, formerly ran her own business before taking on her first humanitarian mission in South Sudan. The self-described “rebel” who used to create her own hours now works for one of the strictest aid groups in the country; her organization has a daily 7 p.m. curfew. The outside gates remain locked until 6:30 a.m., and even though her compound has a rooftop terrace, those doors close at 10 p.m. “It can feel like a prison,” she said. It’s the small things — like forgetting to fill her water bottle on the terrace, and not being able to get more until it opens in the morning — that end up frustrating her the most, she said. As a smoker, Sarah makes sure she’s had her last cigarette before her own balcony is off limits after 8 p.m., a security measure since she’s located on the ground floor. Sarah’s compound is located in an area of town with a high rate of criminal activity, and she understands why management enforces these rules. Above all, she says she’s grateful for the work she’s doing, adding that it’s a “privilege to see the lives that have been changed and the impact that’s been made.” But professional passion can’t fully make up for personal limitations. With no garden, pool or other communal space, staffers in Sarah’s organization are forced to get creative if they want to keep entertained on the compound. Friday nights are “corridor cinemas,” where everyone brings a cushion and watches a movie played on a projector in the hallway. Despite these outlets, the limited movement has been a challenge, Sarah said, as you’re always “going from box to box.” “We’re either in base or in the car or at a location, and there’s no chilling and walking through the markets,” she said. For 32-year-old Mariana, who works for a large international organization and wished to be identified only by her given name, the fact that she’s only allowed to use cars and drivers who work with her group exacerbates the limited movement she experiences in Juba. Often, the wait for a car is too long, and plans are cancelled altogether. Even internet, something Mariana is accustomed to relying on elsewhere, doesn’t always work in her compound, which makes familiar escapes such as streaming a movie off limits. The silver lining, according to the Portuguese native, is that her patience and resilience have increased since arriving eight months ago. Now, when she’s unable to go somewhere or get outside for air, she has started “looking inwards.” “I’m thinking: ‘OK calm down, this is what you have to do, so deal with what you have,’” she said. Living and working in South Sudan is her choice, she reminds herself, and ultimately the experience has positively challenged her creative thinking and taught her that she can survive with much less than she thought, she added. Creating relationships Dating, or even flirting, takes far more effort in the context of South Sudan, said an aid worker who wished not to be named in order to speak more freely about his personal life. Having recently started dating someone in Juba, the staffer said the limitations of living on a compound give him plenty of incentive to do whatever it takes to see his girlfriend. Having a curfew just requires a bit more planning. “I have to make sure I finish my work with enough time to get to her compound before my gates shut and before hers shut,” he said. He’s calculated a 20-30 minute window where he “can’t make errors” in order to reach her on time. In addition to the logistical challenges of traveling across the city, when it comes to developing romantic relationships in South Sudan, it’s hard to look at things in the long term “when it’s evolving in such an unnatural setting,” he said. The aid worker said that by virtue of being “implanted” in South Sudan and having to abide by curfew, you come to understand your partner within a very limited context. Yet for many single humanitarians, finding someone to even discuss the future with is a challenge. “There’s girls I’d be interested in pursuing, but it’s just hard to say: ‘Hey do you want to grab a drink or go for dinner’ and just let it progress naturally,” said Jason Rizzo, field communications officer for Médecins Sans Frontières. Often, by the time he’s worked through the small talk and icebreakers, he has to call a car. Due to the curfew, things either don’t happen at all or are drastically accelerated, he said. Social challenges extend beyond the aid worker crowd. Due to both the curfew and the restriction of movement, many humanitarians say they feel like they haven’t been able to connect with the South Sudanese people. Mariana acknowledged that the security measures in place are a trade-off, yet said that it often makes her feel uncomfortable. “You’re so shielded that you become detached and everywhere you go, all the parties and the places, you feel like you’re living in a bubble,” said Mariana, who thinks the curfew accentuates a barrier between why people are here and what they’re meant to be doing. As someone whose role it is to share stories of the South Sudanese, Sarah says ideally she’d love to be able to spend more time with the local population and learn about their “struggles and victories and sadness and joy.” Although she can’t do that as much in Juba, she’s fortunate to take frequent trips to the field, where there are less restrictions and where she can walk around and take advantage of the time to sit with people and hear their experiences, she said. Learning to cope No matter what the struggle when it comes to the limitations, aid workers unanimously agree on a need to adopt coping strategies — which could vary from journaling, making time to stay connected and speak with friends back home, working out, reading, distance learning, and socializing with colleagues. It’s about being adaptable and flexible and ensuring that you find an aim and sense of purpose, Mariana said. Others say it’s constantly “checking in with yourself.” “You need to give time weekly to mentally and physically reorganize,” the staffer who wished not to be named said. He advises sitting down with yourself once a week to ensure you’re doing more than just existing and rather being deliberate about your choices. The staffer says he looks at whether he’s doing too much of one thing and less of another, while also making lists of things he needs to do on which day, such as grocery shopping and running other errands. It’s very easy to get stuck in a rut, Sarah said, so it’s important to always look for ways to get out and leave the compound or the office. The most important thing is to know what works for you and committing to adopting those habits and routines, she added. She also suggested reaching out to aid workers before your arrival to get their advice on best practices that worked for them. Rizzo cautions people about getting 100 percent consumed by never ending work demands, especially since so many aid professionals work, socialize, and live with their colleagues. “Be conscious of it and say something like ‘After 6 p.m., we’re not going to talk about work,’” he said. Having outlets and knowing what destresses you is key, he added. Although he used to cook before moving to South Sudan, the act of cooking has now become a life saver when he needs to relax, he said. For South Sudan veteran Francesca, what really helps is to make sure you occupy your time and your mind in those hours after curfew: “Whether it’s having drinks in the compound or exercising, have some kind of escape,” she said.