It was my first day at work and the office is in the Diplomatic Enclave, so it is barred off from the rest of the world. No one can enter without special permission and when I arrived in the morning the permission had not arrived so I kicked my heels for about half an hour, sitting at the gate with the head of security, who was rather suspicious and had lots of questions. Eventually someone puffed up to hand-deliver my permit and I went in.
It’s about a 10 minute walk from the gate to the office (there is a short cut but it appeared closed), along the enclave’s startlingly quiet streets. Perhaps because it is barred off, the trees are wild and very large, and because it’s full of international and diplomatic offices the structures are large and well-kept, with lovely flowers and bushes since there is no worry about cars deciding to park there.
The office was — much the same as it was the last time I was there, a few years ago. Many of the people there remembered me, including the security guards and cleaners. Among those I’ll be working with more directly, as well, there were many, many familiar faces. People don’t really move on from this sort of organisation, at least if they are local staff, unless they are propelled to become international staff. A few had, but most were still there, bound by family and other ties.
I did get a horrible sinking feeling on my way there – my previous experiences doing this work came as close to leaving me with PTSD as anything ever has – but this time I think it should be less fraught. For one, I am coming in as an old hand, known and respected. I realised, startled, that despite the longevity of most of the staff, I am actually one who has been around very long indeed. One of the conference rooms is named after someone I knew and liked very much, who was killed in a suicide attack. I doubt there are many others left who knew that person – even the name is misspelled on the door.