I Hate Myself for Loving You

I'm not sure what I think of Geneva. In some ways, it feels like a typical European city. There's the lovely old historic areas where the elite go to dine on fondue and chocolate; the rows of trendy designer stores with names I don't recognize because "these designers are so exceptionally funky their names are uncommon" (little ole me didn't know you could purchase a mini-skirt for a mere $40K); and right outside my shitty little hotel, the red light district with it's late night brawls, scantily clad hustlers and blank-eyed druggies. This part of Geneva I understand. This part of Geneva I embrace.


But from my office window at WHO, the view is somewhat different. Here I am perched high above the city, amidst gently rolling hills and forests of vibrant green. From here Geneva looks very much like Vancouver. Scrubbed clean and shiny for the endless stream of world leaders and diplomats who sweep in to visit the UN offices on a daily basis.

I am disturbed by it all. Here on the outskirts of one of the world's most expensive cities are the spoils of international unity - the United Nations and it's band of self-righteous brothers. I can see crowds of tourists walking around the Palais des Nations... black suited bankers bustling in and out of the International Monetary Fund... middle-aged feminists emerging from the International Labour Organization. Here on the very edge of the city, the organizations that set the course for the world perch on their high hill staring loftily down at the people in the city below. The people working street corners and emptying dumpsters. Total disconnect is one of the best ways I can think of to describe Geneva.

The WHO itself is a museum of artifacts and antiques, most bestowed on the UN by visiting leaders. From the elevator to my office doorway I pass a chinese living room set, gifted to the WHO by some long-dead Chinese Emporer, a painting presented to the Director General from an Israeli president, the bust of a doctor in Nigeria. The artifacts are slowly taking over the office space, crowding out the shelves that I foolishly expected to be filled with earth-shattering research and plans of healthcare renewal for those who suffer the most.

I wish I was more surprised. I wish I had come to Geneva believing that the bright blue flag that so proudly flies in front of these buildings had a magical, overarching power to bring out the best in people, in leaders and in countries. But bureaucracy is bureaucracy, no matter what colour of flag is flying in front of the building. There are people here who want to do good. Who will do good. But there are a lot of people who are here for the prestige, the money, the lifestyle. Who will never touch a foot in any of these countries whose future they are supposedly directing. Who will never experience starvation, desperation, war.

In the words of the immortal Joan Jett, "I know who you are, and I'm not impressed."