How far you go in life depends on your being tender with the young, compassionate with the aged, sympathetic with the striving and tolerant with the weak and strong. Because some day in life you will have been all of these.
—George Washington Carver
Left to Right: French Transport Officer, Paul Giannone, Peter (CARE Kenya), Marine Security Officer.
Climbing into the U.S. Marine Chinook helicopter headed for Fier Prefecture, a sense of déjà vu came over me. I was back in Vietnam, as an army medic hunkered down in a pit, waiting for an evacuation helicopter to save a dying, legless South Vietnamese soldier.
Then I was jolted back to the present. The smell and the tension felt the same, but I wasn’t. For one thing, I was older. I had letters after my name and a wife and a child waiting for me back home.
Was I wiser? After all, I voluntarily got on a U.N. plane and the military helicopter for a free ride to Europe, Albania and Fier Prefecture. But when the U.N. offers a free ride, the destination is usually a place that most people would not want to go.
In the belly of the helicopter, I was surrounded by heavily-armed U.S. Marines. I was entering a war zone as a humanitarian worker. I wore a bush hat, T-shirt, and blue jeans. Instead of a rifle, I carried a suitcase and a computer. We were flying south away from Tirana, the capital of Albania, to Fier Prefecture.
At first I thought the name, pronounced “fear,” was a joke. It wasn’t.
The world was on the brink of a potential major land war in Europe. Hundreds of thousands of innocent men, women and children had been violated, uprooted and displaced by a despotic ruler. I thought of my own family. What would it be like for them if someone put a gun to their heads and told them to leave their home in the middle of winter, abandoning all their belongings, and force-marched them out of their country? If this happened to Kara, or my mother-in-law, or my own aging mother, surely, they would die. And if I were not there, wouldn’t I pray that someone would be there to help them? I was that someone. That’s why I was on the helicopter.
I was joining an international CARE team supporting the U.N. refugee relief effort. As an American with both refugee and military experience, my task was to help establish Camp Hope, an American military/civilian-sponsored refugee camp.
The camp was designed to accommodate approximately 20,000 refugees. The strategy was to use camps built in the south of Albania to draw refugees away from the northern border. This would keep them out of range of Serbian artillery and make room for a NATO-led land invasion if that became necessary.
We landed in a grassy field, about a quarter-mile from the camp. The rolling hills reminded me of where I grew up in the Finger Lakes region of Upstate New York. We came down military-style—very fast. As soon as the big chopper hit the ground, the troops deployed quickly out the back ramp. Disembarking Marines joined a security cordon that was already on the ground.
I got that cold feeling in my gut. Why so much security this far south? I grabbed my computer and suitcase and headed toward the dirt road.
There was a hot, uncomfortable wind, and the air was suffused with dust that settled in my nose and throat. Heavy-construction equipment and lines of high capacity dump trucks churned up the ground. The activity was intense. Vehicles and personnel scurried about as helicopters carrying personnel and equipment buzzed overhead. The threat of a land war seemed more real each day. The camp was only fifteen percent complete, yet already filled with about 2,000 refugees. Winter was fast approaching.
Camp Hope was a major construction project: building a refugee camp is the same as building a small city. In an ideal situation, the entire infrastructure for essential services like sewage, water, and electricity should be in place before the refugees start to arrive, but I have never seen an ideal situation.
In Fier, relief workers and camp managers were juggling to meet the immediate needs of the refugees while still working on setting up infrastructure. As I walked towards Camp Hope and the hustle and bustle of equipment, I had to wonder how people were living under all that dust.
I wish I could say the construction of the camp had been done efficiently, but this was not the case. The contractor designed a military camp for refugees, but refugees do not use a camp like the military. They are not as structured. Nor are they as organized or disciplined. I immediately noticed that the tents were spaced too close together. If a fire broke out in one, it would sweep swiftly through an entire row of tents and possibly the entire camp. I had seen this happen in Vietnam.
There were no spaces allocated for recreation, worship or garbage disposal. Nor had anyone yet thought about the inevitable need: a place to bury the dead.
The camp was situated in the middle of an irrigation system. It was only after the site was under construction that someone asked officials what the ditches were for. They were told that when the valves in the hills were open in late May water would stream down from the surrounding catchments and the camp would be flooded.
Drinking water was a major concern. According to U.N. guidelines, a refugee should have 15 liters of water per day. To house 20,000 refugees, Camp Hope would need 400,000 liters every day—yet the closest supply of potable water was nine miles away. Attempts at drilling wells had failed, so the contractor was bringing water in by trucks, an expensive, slow operation. Because the soil was not the right type for leach-field latrines, cement-vault latrines had to be built that could be pumped out. However, no pumping trucks were available anywhere in the country.
Therefore, trucks had to be brought in from Europe, along with more portable latrines. Although specifically requested, the portable latrines shipped in were not culturally acceptable to the refugees, nor were the designs of the showers. The refugees were accustomed to ceramic squat-style latrines, not the western toilets that had been delivered. Modesty in Muslim cultures and separation of males and females for bathing were cultural norms to be respected, yet the shower set-up consisted of a simple tent, in the middle of which someone had hung a thin plastic flimsy sheeting to separate the men’s shower from the women’s. This type of shower arrangement might be fine for a U.S. Marine but not for a 70-year-old Muslim grandmother.
Lighting in the camp was poor at best. Some areas were not lit at all. Safety and security are major concerns at refugee camps, especially for women and children. The incidence of rape is high in refugee camps, and women are most vulnerable in poorly lighted areas.
For some unknown planning reason the refugee clinic had not been accorded a high priority for construction. It was not ready when refugees arrived, forcing the NGO responsible for medical assistance to operate under makeshift conditions. No schools had been constructed, but schools are important because there is always a high percentage of children in a refugee population. They help create stability for the children, keep them busy, and distract them away from mischief that could be dangerous at this camp under construction.
And there I was, in the midst of this chaos. Refugees were streaming in. Construction on the camp was far from finished, and what had been completed was utterly inadequate. And the person responsible for modifications or changes in the construction plan was under contract to the U.S. government and was sitting in an office in Germany. This meant delay and more delay whenever we suggested a major design change.
The one saving grace was the administrative structure. The camp was run by a joint civilian/military command. The military side was led by a very competent civil affairs U.S. Army major, supported by a Marine guard detachment. CARE was chosen by the U.N. to be the administrative lead for Camp Hope.
The CARE effort was led by Carsten Völz from CARE Germany. Carsten and I would become longtime friends. He stood about 6”5’, sported a blond ponytail and had the build of an American football lineman. Although younger than I, he was one of the best managers, decision-makers and camp diplomat with whom I have ever had the privilege to work.
Camp management morning planning session in
Civilian/Miitary Operations Center.
There were three others with our CARE team: a Kenyan, a Canadian and another American. All had years of international disaster response experience. Although each of us had an assigned function, we acted as an integrated team and addressed whatever came up on any given day.
The rest of the camp functions were sub-contracted to other NGOs. Water and sanitation activities were handled by Action Against Hunger (ACF); Catholic Relief Services was in charge of food distribution; Save the Children/UK was responsible for education and social services; and health care was under the auspices of British-based Merlin. All were staffed by extremely competent professionals. Each morning at 8:00 AM, functional leaders met in the tent designated as the Civilian Military Operations Center for a briefing, led by a Civil Affairs major, to plan out the day and to discuss any problems that each group might have been experiencing. We did not always agree on issues, but these daily meetings were valuable. We would have a wrap-up at 5:00 PM to prepare for the evening and the next day.
What I found out later was there was a great deal of talk about my arrival at the camp as to the purpose of my mission. At the time I was the Deputy Director for CARE/U.S.A’s Emergency Group, probably the strongest CARE among the International CARE Federation. The CARE team at Camp Hope wondered, “Was I being sent to the camp to take over camp administration from Carsten? Was I sent to conduct an aggressive assessment?” Many thought they had no real time for this American “outsider” and an unwanted investigation. When I arrived I found the CARE administrative camp tent and walked in and introduced myself to Carsten, the sole person in the tent. He looked like a Viking about to attack a British village, and bluntly told me that he had no time for me now, he was rushing to an important meeting and would talk to me later if he had time. I asked him what I could do to help. He told me to clean the office which, I found out later, was a product of bad German humor. He noisily gathered paper and left.
I shrugged and began to clean the office by organizing paper, straightening chairs and even sweeping the sand floor. I guess my humility and my willingness to do anything, even as a CARE/U.S.A. senior staff member, made an impression with the CARE team and there were no problems after that. Realistically, I was more worried about being bogged down in office administration at CARE response headquarters in Tirana. I wanted to be in the field helping refugees—not moving paper and writing reports. I became a sort of backup for Carsten and I was very comfortable with his leadership.
And who was the primary enemy skulking along the edges of the camp and hoping to infiltrate it? Not the Serbs, nor the Kosovo Liberation Army (KLA), nor the Kosovar Freedom Fighters, but the Mafia! Rumor had it that when the Italian government cracked down hard on the Mafia in the 1980s, those who could afford it moved to the U.S. or Europe, but the lowest of the low flocked to Albania. There they joined up with the already established Albanian Mafia, which became the de facto government in many areas of Albania. And here we were in the heart of their territory.
It was obvious from the beginning that the Mafia saw a lucrative business in our camp. Women and young girls could be taken and sold into prostitution; children would bring big profits if sold to adoption agencies. Marine guards told me that mafia cars regularly drove by their posts. Men in the cars would make a fake gun with their fingers and point and shoot at the Marines to taunt them and to signify who was really in charge.
US Marine security team deploying.
Twice at night during my stay at Camp Hope, the Marine compound came under automatic weapon fire from the Mafia. Although night vision scopes revealed targets to the Marines, to their credit they did not return fire, avoiding the potential for an international incident. I had no doubt that without my Marine guardian angels, the Mafia would have swooped down, killed the NGO staff—myself included—looted the camp, and absconded with the women and children.
NGO workers were safe as long as we stayed within the Marine perimeter protecting the camp, but we had to get home at night. “Home” was an apartment we had established in the city of Fier, a 40-minute drive away, and our work often kept us in the camp long after dark.
One evening, Carsten and I were called by Marine security just before we were to leave for the day. A baby had stopped breathing. The Marine corpsman was able to get the child breathing again but we could not leave her in the camp. The nearest hospital was 40 minutes away in Fier, the sun had already set, and the Mafia was lurking.
Still, we knew that the child had to go immediately to the hospital for observation. So we filled our 4-wheel drive vehicle with parents, grandparents, extended family and an interpreter, dropped off the baby and family at a safe hospital, then drove back to the camp to bring the interpreter to his home.
The road, which was heavily rutted, was used mostly by horse-drawn farm equipment and light vehicles. For the past month, however, it had been abused by heavy earth-moving equipment that had transformed it into an obstacle course fit for a 4-wheel drive enthusiast. Bridges over irrigation canals were in danger of collapsing. The dust kicked up by traffic settled like thick fog.
Driving this road at night, my military mind saw the potential ambush points. We were carrying more than $5,000 in cash because we had not yet established a bank account. In the back of the vehicle we had computers, a photocopier, and radio equipment. The car was a brand new $40,000 Mitsubishi SUV. This would not have been a bad haul for a Mafia carjacker.
We made it through that night, but I kept thinking how I kept using more of my nine lives. I was also morbidly amused by the irony of the situation. I had lived through two tours in Vietnam, evacuations from Iran, minefields in Cambodia and Angola, refugee camps in Asia and Africa and now my life was threatened by the Mafia. What would my Sicilian ancestors think of that? I thought about scrawling “Hey, paisan!” on the dusty sides of our vehicle.
In a very short amount of time, Camp Hope was filled to capacity in the sections that were complete. Refugees in the north heard of the camp and either paid out of pocket for buses or drove their cars to the camp. One teenage girl told me that she had come to Camp Hope because she knew that the Americans would protect her. She had heard that there had been rapes in the camps to the north.
With the unfinished camp overflowing, CARE appealed for help from the Prefecture of Fier, and the local government graciously made space available in empty warehouses. We supported these satellite camps by providing food, blankets, cooking utensils and lamps to make conditions at least somewhat livable.
French military vehicles delivering refugee families
from train station to Camp Hope.
Meanwhile, construction continued at a feverish pace, even as CARE received a difficult order from the United Nations High Commission for Refugees (UNHCR). Camp Hope was to accept only refugees arriving from the north on specially ordered U.N. trains. These trains were to be escorted to Fier by French troops. French military vehicles would move them from the train station to the camp. We were not to admit any spontaneous arrivals nor were we to take any refugees out of the temporary accommodations in the Fier warehouses.
This turned out to be a catastrophe of the highest order. UNHCR is the agency mandated by the U.N. to take responsibility for the health, welfare and security of refugees worldwide. In other words, they are in charge of all refugee camps. When Carsten told me this, I envisioned some bureaucratic logistician in a small corner office in Geneva or New York thinking that this would be an excellent way to systematize refugee movements, as if refugees were lifeless dolls on a conveyor belt.
But what do you tell a refugee who makes it to your doorstep and is seeking your protection? “Sorry, you are not U.N.-designated?” Or simply, “The U.N. hotel is full”? And what about the Fier government that trusted us and helped by temporarily taking the spillover population of refugees into their warehouses? How would they feel about the logic of the UNHCR orders?
The local UNHCR representative stood his ground. In return, we did what humanitarians always do; we ignored him. I learned this in the military, too: take the direct order, smile, salute and then do what makes sense. Fortunately for us, the U.N. never seemed to be able to live up to its own program goals. The trains of refugees that arrived were never full and as camp construction slowly added more tent space we were able to accommodate refugees arriving by train and car, as well as those housed by the local government.
The next logic-defying UNHCR-issued edict concerned protection. The officer in charge of the Marine guard privately told us that if war broke out in Kosovo, the Marines would be deployed from the camp to the front lines within eight hours. There would be little warning. That would leave the camp completely at the mercy of the Mafia. I felt very close to the captain of the Marine guard and I have always had a warm spot in my heart for the U.S. Marine Corps. Still, they have to obey orders.
The captain and I had several conversations. While he understood my view, the Marines are essentially an assault force and his orders were clear. I knew he was extending me the courtesy of a heads-up in case the war flared again, as everyone expected at the time.
We began to make contingency plans to protect the camp population and ourselves in case the Marines were pulled out. A privately trained Albanian security force that guarded nearby oil fields was available at reasonable cost and the U.S. government was willing to pay for their service. They could seamlessly replace our Marines if needed. This private force was registered with the Albanian government to carry weapons, and they had been well-trained by ex-British Special Forces personnel.
This group also knew the language, politics and culture of the area. We felt that we had solved our problem—until we presented the plan to UNHCR. It was rejected on the grounds that the U.N. was “responsible for the protection of refugees.” We were told that the U.N. was training its own security force that would arrive in three months, or maybe four—or maybe more. They couldn’t be sure. Regardless, the UNHCR forbade the use of private security forces. This would infringe on the U.N. security mandate. If the Marines pulled out, we were to leave the camp unprotected.
The U.N. seemed more concerned with making a point than protecting refugees. We decided that if those under our care needed protection, we would ignore the U.N. again.
The events filling a single day at Camp Hope serve as an example of what managing a refugee camp entails. One day, Carsten had to attend a day-long meeting with the local government, which left me in charge of camp management.
The day started with the usual planning session at the Civilian-Military Operations Center. At the meeting, we had talks with the construction crew on the need for firebreaks between the tents, and the rapid construction of schools, health and religious centers. Discussions were held on the latest food ration and the breakdowns in the poorly constructed water system.
At the end of the meeting we were informed that a NATO helicopter would bring 22 refugees down from the northern border area, even though a U.N. refugee train had arrived that morning. Flying refugees into Camp Hope could only mean one thing: the refugees on the helicopter were too sick to be put on the train. The British NGO responsible for the camp medical care was notified and began to prepare for whatever and whomever the helicopter brought.
The morning gained momentum as various NGOs worked on registering and settling in the newly arrived refugees from the train. By noon I was in high gear—and covered head-to-toe with a layer of dust. We kept checking with the military communications unit about the NATO helicopter. No one seemed to know where it was, the status of those on board or if it even was in the air.
Shortly after noon, I received a visit from several representatives from the U.N. World Food Program (WFP) which was responsible for supplying the camp with food. The WFP representatives had been told that the NGO responsible for food distribution was not doing the job properly, and they wanted him replaced. While it was true that this NGO had problems in start-up, as we all did, their food distribution system was now working very well. To release this group from its duties at this point would cause a breakdown. It could also have a serious impact on morale among the other NGOs working in the camp. I was able to convince the WFP representatives that all was well in food distribution and I was able to turn to my next problem.
As the WFP representatives were leaving my office tent, in came several officials from the British government. They were investigating the U.N. management of Camp Hope, but I was not about to get in the middle of a political dispute between the British government and UNHCR. We talked candidly, but I did not have to say much. They could see for themselves there was not a U.N. representative to be found at Camp Hope and that the administrative tent set aside for the U.N., looked like it had never been occupied. I referred them to my higher-ups in Tirana.
It was now 1:30 P.M. and I got a call from the Marine guard. They had a problem at one of their outposts. A mentally ill man, whom they knew was an Albanian citizen, was trying to get into the camp as a Kosovar refugee. I dispatched an interpreter to handle the problem.
The Coca Cola representative for Albania showed up next. Coca Cola is a big sponsor for CARE. Both the national headquarters for CARE U.S.A and for Coca Cola are in Atlanta, Georgia. In Albania, Coca Cola was providing much-needed water and funds for refugees. This man deserved my attention. I gave him a quick briefing on the situation of the camp and arranged for an interpreter to take him on a tour.
At 1:55 P.M., we heard the twin rotor blades of an army CH-47 Chinook helicopter. It was the NATO helicopter. I hurried the Coke rep out of my tent to begin his tour, ran to my vehicle, and headed to the helicopter landing pad. I got there just as the Chinook was lifting off.
By the look on the nurses’ faces I knew this was trouble. All of the 22 refugees disembarking were invalids. Most could hardly walk. The camp dispensary was partially built and could handle only the most basic of medical problems. A refugee camp is not a nursing home or a long-term critical care facility. One nurse complained to me that, “They just dropped these people off like pieces of furniture; they didn’t even consult with us.”
In true military fashion, the NATO helicopter had orders to drop off 22 items (I doubt it mattered if they were people) and they did just that.
Three people in the group could not walk at all. The medical team quickly discerned that some were shell-shocked and tortured former POWs. Several of the refugees had chronic illnesses. The worst case was a 300-pound woman. It took five NATO troops just to carry her off the helicopter. It was obvious she would not fit onto any of the available cots. She would not fit through the door of the latrines. The nurses had to use a wheelbarrow to transport her into the camp. Once there, the only place for her to rest was on a mat on the floor.
The medical team had received no information about any of these arrivals. I looked at the nurse and she looked at me. Nothing was spoken but I knew that she would do what she had to do to get these people through the night. We would work things out in the morning on where and how to relocate the worst of the cases.
I got into my vehicle and headed back to the NGO compound. As I crossed the dirt road near the main gate I noticed six Roman Catholic nuns in gray habits entering the compound in single file. From my Catholic-school past, I wondered if all nuns walked this way. Normally, the Marines stop everyone at the checkpoint entrance unless they had either a refugee identification tag or were carrying either NGO or government ID cards.
“Now what?” I wondered.
We met up at the entrance to my administrative tent. I looked back at the trailing Marine sergeant and said, smiling, “A little lax in security, are we?” The sergeant’s only reply, “They’re nuns, sir.”
Luckily, one young nun was American and, ironically, grew up near my home town in Upstate New York.
This was a Belgian order. Most of them were nurses and health care workers, and they had come to see if they could help. Knowing how busy the medical staff was with the newly arrived refugees, now was not the time to introduce our new volunteers to the medical team. I also did not know if Merlin could accept support from a religious order, since part of Merlin’s mission involved reproductive health and family planning—a no-no in the Catholic Church.
I told the nuns that I would arrange for a meeting with the medical team the next morning. This would give everyone time to factor in where their very much needed services could best be used. They also requested a visit inside the camp as they had the names of some friends who were refugees. I arranged another tour.
As the nuns disappeared down the camp road, I became aware of a disturbance somewhere else in the camp. Conflicts often arose among the refugees, generally over food, clothing distribution or living space. Marines were dispatched to deal with the situation.
Moments later, several large trucks pulled into the camp. They were delivering furniture and stoves, much-needed supplies for the newly arriving refugees. Men jumped down from the trucks and began dumping their cargo off on the NGO compound. It was now 2:45 P.M. We shared the compound with French troops who were responsible for moving refugees from the train station. They were an extremely friendly and helpful bunch. I ran to their senior officer, a lieutenant, and asked if we could use his vehicles and soldiers to move the newly arrived supplies to where the newly arrived refugees were being billeted. With a smile that warmed my day, he gladly consented.
It was now 3:00 P.M. Someone called to me, “Sir, are you responsible for camp management?” I considered saying “No.” I turned to the man who had spoken. He told me he represented “Clowns Without Borders,” and wanted to know if he could help in the camp. I bit my lip. I didn’t want to laugh, but at that point in my day, I’d just about had it. Yet it somehow fit. I wanted to ask if he’d like to be my deputy.
“Clowns Without Borders” is probably a good idea and a worthy organization. Helping children and adults too traumatized by war to laugh had immense value. But I couldn’t handle it at that moment, nor were the people he needed to talk to available. Save the Children ran the school and social services. They were the logical people for him to coordinate with but they were off-site at a meeting.
I suggested that he return the next day. I could see I was filling up my next day schedule, as I now had returning clowns and nuns and had to figure out where to locate patients we could not medically handle. And, of course, there was the crazy Albanian at the gate trying to impersonate a refugee. I was sure he would be back tomorrow.
Things continued to roll at me for the rest of the day. Before I knew it, it was 7:30 P.M. and the sun had set. Carsten returned from his meetings and the CARE team got together to head back to our apartment in Fier. As always, we traveled cautiously, fearing ambush as we drove through the darkness.
We stopped at a restaurant in the city for a beer and some food. By the time we got to our small apartment, it was 10:00 P.M. All of us were covered in dust and sweat. As usual, there was no running water. We would go to bed dirty and hope that water would be flowing in the morning.
Finally, we began our evening routine. Equipment was put away. Batteries for the handheld radios were placed in their chargers. I crawled into a bed that was inches from the bed of my Kenyan team member and friend, Peter. It was 11:00 P.M., everything hurt on my body and my eyelids scraped with sand underneath them. I could hear my Kenyan friend praying as I began to drift off, knowing that 6:00 A.M. and the start of another workday at Camp Hope would arrive soon enough.