A global car-crash at our door

We felt safely distant from this year's big shitshow until US-funded public health services were shut down without warning

As the global slo-mo car-crash commands all of our attention (except for when we are panicking and stocking our bunkers), I have a front-row seat on a different way of coping with crisis: pay attention to the small things and what is happening to others.

The election action in the US was terrifying but distant until Donald Trump started shutting down foreign aid, and one of his wild shots arrived at my front door.

The Beloved works in public health for an organisation that is funded from the US. Soon after Trump ordered a suspension of foreign aid while funding and programmes are being re-evaluated, she and her 3,500-odd colleagues were told to stop work immediately, return all assets (laptops etc) and not to expect a salary for the next three months.

Damn! No income for three months. That hurts, even if you don’t have children to feed. (Spare a thought for those who do.)

The immediate suspension of pay sounds outrageous, far-fetched even, to us in South Africa, where having an employment contract usually offers protection. But it’s real, and it’s affecting thousands of people beyond The Beloved. Many South Africans are employed by NGOs and other organisations funded from the US.

Contrary to popular perception, these workers are not high-flying executives earning fat salaries while jetting between conferences around the world. The vast majority are community health workers, nurses, and moderately paid support staff in various roles from IT, finance and administration to demand creation, quality control and monitoring and evaluation.

Their jobs are demanding, their salaries are modest. They work much harder and under tougher conditions than most people I’ve encountered in many years in media and finance. They take essential services to under-served populations whose situations are dire enough to justify foreign-aided interventions.

Their work lacks all the perks of corporate life. There are no generous travel allowances, no business-class flights, no dinners with clients. Instead, they drive (or walk!) long distances on bad roads in entry-level rental cars (when a 4x4 should be the bare minimum) because every fraction of a penny must be accounted for. The accountability regime is rigorous, all spending is meticulously documented.

These are very meaningful jobs, but certainly not lovely, cushy ones. Nurses and community health workers are on the frontlines, working tirelessly under relentless pressure in a country where millions desperately need healthcare interventions. They endure because they are driven by something other than a paycheque.

Many in this sector live the truth that meaningful work is more rewarding than raking in money. But to be summarily suspended without pay from such vital, often thankless roles? That is insult piled on to injury.

Trump’s permanent USAid cuts slam humanitarian programs worldwide: ‘We are being pushed off a cliff’

Being stripped of the ability to carry out this work, and denied an income in the process, raises an important question: Can focusing on the small things sustain you when everything around you is crumbling?

I have seen no self-pity, no "woe is me" attitude. The overwhelming sentiment among those affected is not personal financial fear (though the worry, shame and probable financial ruin are real), but anguish for their clients, who will not be able to access the interventions and care they so desperately need and on which they depend.

This selflessness is what keeps these workers going, even under normal conditions of long hours, emotional strain and earnings that are not commensurate with the demands of the work, or the sacrifices required. It is also what’s helping them cope with this sudden, devastating halt in their work.

But the networks of support and delivery that they have built with the force of their shared purpose are now at risk. With no income, many are scrambling for temporary jobs and pleading with banks for leniency at month-end looms.

Hopefully, somehow, good sense will prevail.

This is just the beginning; the end has not been written.