Lords of Poverty is a case study in betrayals of a public trust. The shortcomings of aid are numerous, and serious enough to raise questions about the viability of. Lords of Poverty () Lords of Poverty is a case study in betrayals of a public trust. Hancock’s report is thorough, deeply shocking, and certain to cause critical reevaluation—of the government’s motives in giving foreign aid, and of the true needs of our intended beneficiaries. Lords of Poverty: The Power, Prestige, and Corruption of the International Aid His book, Lords of Poverty, * is a scathing indictment of official "overseas.
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Download Lords of Poverty free ebook (pdf, epub, mobi) by Graham Hancock Synopsis book Lords of Poverty is a case study in betrayals of a. Lords of Poverty book. Read 39 reviews from the world's largest community for readers. Lords of Poverty is a case study in betrayals of a public trust. T. The Lords of Poverty: The Power, Prestige, and Corruption of the International Aid Business [Graham Hancock] on presinescinmett.ga *FREE* shipping on qualifying .
This book was so disturbing I could only read it a small slice at a time. The anger and despair it evoked in me was almost unbearbable at times. My inclination to have absolutely nothing to do with anyone who benefits from this the greatest fraud in history now feels absolute. They are for me agents of evil, simply beyond the pale without exception.
Naivete or delusion are not an excuse. Sep 27, Yanti rated it really liked it Recommends it for: UN and NGO friends. I read this book when the issue of poverty and humanitarian high on the agenda of both Africa and Asian countries - once worked for Oxfam and CARE the two NGOs mentioned in the book and also with UN that is the focus of discussion throughout the chapters within I have to admit that I'm not at all surprised on the facts that were revealed in the book.
Bureucracy, one precription fits all attitude, insensitivity, arrogance of the service providers are all common disease that we can find anywhere.
UN may have a good system but to run it effectively they need the right people and unfortunately just like in many other giant organisation, NGOs alike, right people not always sit in the right place Apr 14, Bulat rated it liked it Shelves: The book is focused on international aid industry in s. Author shows that international aid in beneficial mostly for donor-countries economies, corrupted aid industry's officials and workers and developing countries' governments, though poor people remains poor.
Though, some things have been changes, I still recommend to read this book in order to understand how it was started and be able to compare with current state. Mar 24, Brad rated it really liked it. The summary argument: I would also be interested in knowing the author's thoughts on how to redirect money from ODA into more effective humanitarian efforts Oxfam is one of his favorite NGOs to exclude.
In crisis, at a minimum, there is a need for this type of work. Additionally, an approach to weening now dependent governments from the aid spigot without setting the stage for conflict would be an interesting addition. Mar 11, Darren rated it really liked it Shelves: Really interesting book.
I never gave much thought to the Aid industry before this book, but certainly have since reading it. My only complaints are that it offers no proposed solutions and it is also somewhat out-dated, in terms of statistics. A newer edition of the book would be incredibly valuable.
Dec 25, Edy rated it really liked it. Dalam buku ini, penulis bahwa bantuan asing baik yang bersifat hibah grant dan utamanya berupa hutang loan cenderung tidak berhasil mengentaskan kemiskinan di negara ketiga, karena: Sehingga penentuan program untuk masyarakat sering bias dari kondisi lapangan.
Bantuan luar negeri sering disertai upaya untuk menjual produk-roduk dari negara pemberi bantuan, bahkan juga menciptakan ketergantungan kepada si pemberi bantuan. Akibatnya muncul banyak kegiatan charity dari mereka, yang tidak membangun keswadayaan dan potensi lokal. Dalam buku ini penulis juga mengkritik bahwa masyarakat pembayar pajak di negara maju, disedot pendapatannya untuk disalurkan sebagai bantuan ke negara miskin termasuk via PBB.
Namun selama ini tidak ada mekanisme yang transparans dan akuntabel untuk pelaporan pemanfaatan uang oleh para lembaga penyalur bantuan kepada para pembayar pajak tersebut Walau buku aslinya diterbitkan tahun namun analisis dalam buku ini sebagian besar masih kontekstual dengan kondisi sekarang.
Semoga para birokrat Indonesia juga mampu bernalar jernih ketika membaca buku ini. Tidak ada makan siang gratis untuk sebuah bantuan View 1 comment. Aug 14, Aaron rated it liked it Shelves: This is a quite well-wrought screed, which highlights the problem of the global development industry. It is particularly good at explaining the grand farce that is much of the UN.
I am amazed that this book, written over twenty years ago, captures so accurately almost exactly the category of the current UN modus operandi.
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Even in the s, the book mentions, there are more expatriates in sub-Saharan Africa than there were during colonial times. Meanwhile none of the problems seem to have improv This is a quite well-wrought screed, which highlights the problem of the global development industry. Meanwhile none of the problems seem to have improved very much. I am reminded by the line from The Zanzibar Chest , where is father said, "we shouldn't have come. It appears that many of the other parts of the world, with our without aid, have managed to scrabble their way out of destitute poverty.
Yet, Africa it just seems to make things worse Will this ever change? May 05, Jon rated it really liked it. A damning tirade against the corruption and systemic flaws of the United Nations, World Bank, and other multilateral institutions that comprise the mainstream of international development.
I highly recommend this book to anyone interested in the development field; I found it very eye-opening about the realities of the business and some of the ways in which international aid is deeply flawed from the ground up or top-down, as it were.
Although the author dismisses the entire establishment as be A damning tirade against the corruption and systemic flaws of the United Nations, World Bank, and other multilateral institutions that comprise the mainstream of international development. Although the author dismisses the entire establishment as being beyond repair and better dealt with by disbanding it entirely, for me the strength of his arguments lies in the honest truth about how business gets done - and hopefully I will be able to carry this knowledge with me into the field and use it to help make some sort of positive impact on the system.
In the end, the book provides a good hearty dose of brutal truth about one of the Western world's most deceptive and harmful businesses. Painful reality presented in glaring honesty.
Even after almost three decades most of what he says still takes place in the aid-development practice. His cynicism is well justified. Apr 02, Wendy Jackson rated it did not like it Shelves: I did not actually read the entire book.
I read it about 15 years ago, and perhaps it had some value then, but definitely not now. Do not get me wrong - I do not think the Hancock is wrong about everything. Also, having worked in the UN system, I know there are deep, troublesome, systemic issues. However, I would rather have a world I did not actually read the entire book.
Let's look at it practically: Hancock's book was written in , before the Millennium Development Goals were agreed in , and before he could see the impact they had. Some stats on the goals which 'expired' in Were all goals met? Was there some waste in the system?
For sure. But would we have achieved these outcomes without the development system? Probably not. Would the 'invisible hand of the market' led to these outcomes? Highly unlikely. So yes, the system needs improvement, it can be wasteful, and there are perverse incentives; however, until someone designs something better, it is the best we have. Mar 05, Graham rated it it was amazing. A brilliant eye opening book that delves into the corrupt world international aid. I recommend it. Jan 09, Maki rated it did not like it.
Clouds were massing on the north. Overhead a few stars glittered against the black, and the angry wind had the most mournful wail I have ever heard. How the weird undertones came like the cries of a tortured child, and the loud gusts with the shriek of demons!
Do you hear anything? Do you hear any one calling for help? Is that a child crying? And the wind burst upon us again, catching my empty denial and tossing the words to upper air with eldritch laughter. Then there was a lull, and I felt rather than heard the choking back of stifled moans and knew that the man by my side, who had held iron grip of himself before other eyes, was now giving vent to grief in the blackness of night.
At last a red light gleamed from the window of [Pg 36] a low cot. That was the signal for us to turn abruptly to the left, entering the forest by a narrow bridle-path that twisted among the cedars. As if to look down in pity, the moon shone for a moment above the ragged edge of a storm cloud, and all the snow-laden evergreens stood out stately, shadowy and spectral, like mourners for the dead.
Again the road took to right-about at a sharp angle and the broad Chateau, with its noble portico and numerous windows all alight, suddenly loomed up in the center of a forest-clearing on the mountain side. Where the path to the garden crossed a frozen stream was a small open space. Here the Indians had been encamped. We hallooed for servants and by lantern light examined every square inch of the smoked snow and rubbish heaps.
Bits of tin in profusion, stones for the fire, tent canvas, ends of ropes and tattered rags lay everywhere over the black patch. Snow was beginning to fall heavily in great flakes that obscured earth and air.
Not a thing had we found to indicate any trace of the lost woman and child, until I caught sight of a tiny, blue string beneath a piece of rusty metal. Kicking the tin aside, I caught the ribbon up. When I saw on the lower end a child's finely beaded moccasin, I confess I had rather felt the point of Le Grand Diable's dagger at my own heart than have shown that simple thing to Hamilton.
Then the snow-storm broke upon us in white billows blotting out everything. We spread a [Pg 37] sheet on the ground to preserve any marks of the campers, but the drifting wind drove us indoors and we were compelled to cease searching. All night long Eric and I sat before the roaring grate fire of the hunting-room, he leaning forward with chin in his palms and saying few words, I offering futile suggestions and uttering mad threats, but both utterly at a loss what to do.
We knew enough of Indian character to know what not to do. That was, raise an outcry, which might hasten the cruelty of Le Grand Diable. Though many years have passed since that dismal storm in the spring of , when Hamilton and I spent a long disconsolate night of enforced waiting, I still hear the roaring of the northern gale, driving round the house-corners as if it would wrench all eaves from the roof.
It shrieked across the garden like malignant furies, rushed with the boom of a sea through the cedars and pines, and tore up the mountain slope till all the many voices of the forest were echoing back a thousand tumultuous discords. Again, I see Hamilton gazing at the leaping flames of the log fire, as if their frenzied motion reflected something of his own burning grief.
Then, the agony of our utter helplessness, as long as the storm raged, would prove too great for his self-control. Rising, he would pace back and forward the full length of the hunting-room till his eye would be caught by some object with which the boy had played. He would put this carefully away, as one lays aside the belongings of the dead. Afterwards, lanterns, which we had placed on the oak center table on coming in, began to smoke and give out a pungent, burning smell, and each of us involuntarily walked [Pg 39] across to a window and drew aside the curtains to see how daylight was coming on.
The white glare of early morning flooded the room, but the snow-storm had changed to driving sleet and the panes were iced from corner to corner with frozen rain-drift. How we dragged through two more days, while the gale raved with unabated fury, I do not know. Poor Eric was for rushing into the blinding whirl, that turned earth and air into one white tornado; but he could not see twice the length of his own arm, and we prevailed on him to come back.
On the third night, the wind fell like a thing that had fretted out its strength. Morning revealed an ocean of billowy drifts, crusted over by the frozen sleet and reflecting a white dazzle that made one's eyes blink. Great icicles hung from the naked branches of the sheeted pines and snow was wreathed in fantastic forms among the cedars. We had laid our plans while we waited.
After lifting the canvas from the camping-ground and seeking in vain for more trace of the fugitives, we despatched a dozen different search-parties that very morning, Eric leading those who were to go on the river-side of the Chateau, and I some well-trained bushrangers picked from the habitants of the hillside, who could track the forest to every Indian haunt within a week's march of the city.
After putting my men on a trail with instructions to send back an Indian courier to report each night, I hunted up an old habitant guide, named Paul Larocque, who had often helped me to thread the woods of Quebec after big game.
Now [Pg 40] Paul was habitually as silent as a dumb animal, and sportsmen had nicknamed him The Mute; but what he lacked in speech he made up like other wild creatures in a wonderful acuteness of eye and ear. Indeed, it was commonly believed among trappers that Paul possessed some nameless sense by which he could actually feel the presence of an enemy before ordinary men could either see, or hear.
For my part, I would be willing to pit that "feel" of Paul's against the nose of any hound that dog-fanciers could back. Grizzled, stunted and chunky, he was not at all the picturesque figure which fancy has painted of his class. Instead of the red toque, which artists place on the heads of habitants, he wore a cloth cap with ear flaps coming down to be tied under his chin. His jacket was an ill-fitting garment, the cast-off coat of some well-to-do man, and his trousers slouched in ample folds above brightly beaded moccasins.
When I paused, Paul fixed his eyes on an invisible spot in the snow and ruminated. Then he hitched the baggy trousers [Pg 41] up, pulled the red scarf, that held them to his waist, tighter, and, taking his eyes off the snow, looked up for me to go on.
Again he stood thinking, then darted off into the forest like a hare; but I knew his strange, silent ways, and confidently awaited his return. How he could get two pair of snow-shoes and two poles inside of five minutes, I do not attempt to explain, unless some of his numerous half-breed youngsters were at hand in the woods; but he was back again all equipped for a long tramp, and as soon as I had laced on the racquets, we were skimming over the drift like a boat on billows.
In the mazy confusion of snow and underbrush, no one but Paul would have found and kept that tangled, forest path. Where great trunks had fallen across the way, Paul planted his pole and [Pg 42] took the barrier at a bound.
Then he raced on at a gait which was neither a run nor a walk, but an easy trot common to the coureurs-des-bois. The encased branches snapped like glass when we brushed past, and so heavily were snow and icicles frozen to the trees we might have been in some grotesque crystal-walled cavern. The habitant spoke not a word, but on we pressed over the brushwood, now so packed with snow and crusted ice, our snow-shoes were not once tripped by loose branches, and we glided from drift to drift.
In vain I tried to discern a trail by the broken thicket on either side, and I noticed that my guide was keeping his course by following the marks blazed on trees. At one place we came to a steep, clear slope, where the earth had fallen sheer away from the hillside and snow had filled the incline.
First prodding forward to feel if the snow-bank were solid, Paul promptly sat down on the rear end of his snow-shoes, and, quicker than I can tell it, tobogganed down to the valley.
I came leaping clumsily from point to point with my pole, like a ski-jumping Norwegian, risking my neck at every bound. Then we coursed along the valley, the habitant's eyes still on the trees, and once he stopped to emit a gurgling laugh at a badly hacked trunk, beneath which was a snowed-up sap trough; but I could not divine whether Paul's mirth were over a prospect of sugaring-off in the maple-woods, or at some foolish habitant who had tapped the maple too early.
How often had I known my guide to exhaust [Pg 43] city athletes in these swift marches of his! But I had been schooled to his pace from boyhood and kept up with him at every step, though we were going so fast I lost all track of my bearings. In the gorge we stopped to take a light meal of gingerbread horses—a cake that is the peculiar glory of the habitant—dried herrings and sea biscuits.
By the sun, I knew it was long past noon and that we had been traveling northwest. I also vaguely guessed that Paul's object was to intercept the North-West trappers, if they had planned to slip away from the St. Lawrence through the bush to the Upper Ottawa, where they could meet north-bound boats.
But not one syllable had my taciturn guide uttered. Clambering up the steep, snowy banks of the gorge, we found ourselves in the upper reaches of a mountain, where the trees fell away in scraggy clumps and the snow stretched up clear and unbroken to the hill-crest. Paul grunted, licked his pipe-stem significantly and pointed his pole to the hill-top. The dark peak of a solitary wigwam appeared above the snow.
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He pointed again to the fringe of woods below us. A dozen wigwams were visible among the [Pg 44] trees and smoke curled up from a central camp-fire. The Mute then fell to my rear and we first approached the general camp. The campers were evidently thieves as well as hunters; for frozen pork hung with venison from the branches of several trees. The sap trough might also have belonged to them, which would explain Paul's laugh, as the whole paraphernalia of a sugaring-off was on the outskirts of the encampment.
Strangely enough, as I looked over my shoulder to the guide, I caught sight of an Indian figure climbing up the bank in our very tracks. The significance of this incident was to reveal itself later.
As usual, a pack of savage dogs flew out to announce our coming with furious barking. But I declare the habitant was so much like any ragged Indian, the creatures recognized him and left off their vicious snarl. Only the shrill-voiced children, who rushed from the wigwams; evinced either surprise or interest in our arrival. Men and women were haunched about the fire, above which simmered several pots with the savory odor of cooking meat.
I do not think a soul of the company as much as turned a head on our approach. Some of the squaws and half-breed women were heaping bark on the fire.
Indians sat straight-backed round the circle. White men, vagabond trappers from anywhere and everywhere, lay in all variety of lazy attitudes on buffalo robes and caribou skins.
I had known, as every one familiar with Quebec's family histories must know, that the sons of old seigneurs sometimes inherited the adventurous spirit, which led their ancestors of three centuries ago to exchange the gayeties of the French court for the wild life of the new world.
I was aware this spirit frequently transformed seigneurs into bush-rangers and descendants of the royal blood into coureurs-des-bois. But it is one thing to know a fact, another to see that fact in living embodiment; and in this case, the living embodiment was Louis Laplante, a school-fellow of Laval, whom, to my amazement, I now saw, with a beard of some months' growth and clad in buckskin, lying at full length on his back among that villainous band of nondescript trappers.
Something of the surprise I felt must have shown on my face, for as Louis recognized me he uttered a shout of laughter. Now, what the devil," he asked as I surveyed the motley throng of fat, coarse-faced squaws and hard-looking men who surrounded him, "now, what the devil's brought you here? He laughed the merry, heedless laugh that had been the distraction of the class-room. The creature was one to command attention. She might have been a great, bronze statue, a type of some ancient goddess, a symbol of fury, or cruelty.
Her eyes fastened themselves on mine and held me, whether I would or no, while her whole face darkened. At that the woman flinched and looked to Laplante. There was a vindictive flash across her face, then the usual impenetrable expression of the Indian came over her features. I noticed that her cheeks and forehead were scarred, and a cut had laid open her upper lip from nose to teeth. I might have known she was above common rank from the extraordinary number of trinkets she wore. Pendants hung from her ears like the pendulum of a clock.
She had a double necklace of polished bear's claws and around her waist was a girdle of agates, which to me proclaimed that she was of a far-western tribe. In the girdle was an ivory-handled knife, which had doubtless given as many scars as its owner displayed. Louis jerked back from me, as if I might try to read the soiled note in his hand, and in raising the paper displayed on the back the stamp of the commissariat department from Quebec Citadel. Neither Laplante's suppressed surprise, nor my observations of his movement, escaped the big squaw.
She came quickly round the fire to us both. Half in jest, half in earnest, just as Louis used to be punished at the seminary, she gave him a prompt box on the ear. He took it in perfect good-nature. And the whole encampment laughed. The squaw went back to the other side of the fire. Laplante leaned forward and threw the paper towards the flames; but without his knowledge, he overshot the mark; and when the trader was looking elsewhere the big squaw stooped, picked up the coveted note and slipped it into her skirt pocket.
I told him my errand, and that I wished to search every wigwam for trace of the lost woman and child. He listened with shut eyes.
Go ahead! What do you want of me? I thought at least a spark of the man would suggest that without my speaking," I broke out hotly. He was on his feet with an alacrity that brought old Paul Larocque round to my side and the squaw to his.
For a moment I was uncertain whether he were addressing the woman or myself. Here, Gillespie, I'll do the tents with you. Get off with you," he muttered at the squaw, rumbling out a lingo of persuasive expletives; and he led the way to the first wigwam.
But the squaw was not to be dismissed; for when I followed the Frenchman, she closed in behind looking thunder, not at her abuser, but at me; and The Mute, fearing foul play and pole in hand, loyally brought up the rear of our strange procession. I shall not retail that search through robes and skins and blankets and boxes, in foul-smelling, vermin-infested wigwams. It was fruitless. I only recall the lowering face of the big [Pg 50] squaw looking over my shoulder at every turn, with heavy brows contracted and gashed lips grinning an evil, malicious challenge.
I thought she kept her hands uncomfortably near the ivory handle in the agate belt; but Larocque, good fellow, never took his beady eyes off those same hands and kept a grip of the leaping pole. Thus we examined the tents and made a circuit of the people round the fire, but found nothing to reveal the whereabouts of Miriam and the child. Laplante and I were on one side of the robe, Larocque and the squaw on the other. The fire cracked so loudly I became aware there was ominous silence among the loungers of the camp.
They were listening as well as watching. Up to this time I had not thought they were paying the slightest attention to us.
Laplante was not answering, and when I faced him suddenly I found the squaw's eyes fastened on his, holding them whether he would or no, just as she had mine. He turned to me nonchalantly, as he used to face accusers in the school-days of long ago, and spoke almost gently, with downcast eyes, and a quiet, deprecating smile. But remember we didn't invite you here. We didn't lead you into it.
That, in fact, is why we're all here. You must go. It is not safe. Now, in these days of health officers and vaccination, people can have no idea of the terrors of a smallpox scourge at the beginning of this century. The habitant is as indifferent to smallpox as to measles, and accepts both as dispensations of Providence by exposing his children to the contagion as early as possible; but I was not so minded, and hurried down the gorge as fast as my snow-shoes would carry me.
Then I remembered that the Indian population of the north had been reduced to a skeleton of its former numbers by the pestilence in , and recalled that my Uncle Jack had said the native's superstitious dread of this disease knew no bounds. That recollection checked my sudden flight.
If the Indians had [Pg 52] such fear, why had this band camped within a mile of the pest tent?
It would be more like Indian character to reverse Samaritan practises and leave the victim to die. This man might, of course, be a French-Canadian trapper, but I would take no risks of a trick, so I ordered Paul to lead me back to that tepee.
The Mute seemed to understand I had no wish to be seen by the campers. He skirted round the base of the hill till we were on the side remote from the tribe. Then he motioned me to remain in the gorge while he scrambled up the cliff to reconnoitre. I knew he received a surprise as soon as his head was on a level with the top of the bank; for he curled himself up behind a snow-pile and gave a low whistle for me.
I was beside him with one bound. We were not twenty pole-lengths from the wigwam. There was no appearance of life.
The tent flaps had been laced up and a solitary watch-dog was tied to a stake before the entrance. Down the valley the setting sun shone through the naked trees like a wall of fire, and dyed all the glistening snow-drifts primrose and opal.
At one place in the forest the red light burst through and struck against the tent on the hill-top, giving the skins a peculiar appearance of being streaked with blood.
The faintest breath of wind, a mere sigh of moving air-currents peculiar to snow-padded areas, came up from the woods with far-away echoes of the trappers' voices. Perhaps this was heard by the watch-dog, or it may have felt the disturbing presence of my half-wild [Pg 53] habitant guide; for it sat back on its haunches and throwing up its head, let out the most doleful howlings imaginable.
Monsieur," shuddered out the superstitious habitant shivering like an aspen leaf, "sick man moan,—moan,—moan hard! He die, Monsieur, he die, he die now when dog cry lak dat," and full of fear he scrambled down into the gorge, making silent gestures for me to follow. For a time—but not long, I must acknowledge—I lay there alone, watching and listening.
Paul's ears might hear the moans of a sick man, mine could not: nor would I return to the Chateau without ascertaining for a certainty what was in that wigwam. Unfortunately, there are people who so cling to their pleasures and luxuries that they have decided that anything that interferes with their lifestyles is going to get little to no attention. Q: What, then, are Jesus, his apostles and the Church promoting?
That is why it is written. The full answer is beautiful. However, let me give one simple answer, though there are many others. It is easy for you and me to say, "Of course I love my neighbor as myself," and then turn around and treat myself far better than I treat the family next door or the pitiful slum dwellers in Haiti or Calcutta.
Consider fiery John the Baptist preparing the way for the Lord and making plain the facts of sincere repentance: "Brood of vipers His answer is plain: "If anyone has two tunics, he must share with the man who has none, and the one with something to eat must do the same. To live it requires radical conversion. Q: How can we open people's minds to what love is all about? How do we sound the wake-up call?
Father Dubay: Feodor Dostoyevsky, perhaps the best novelist in the 19th century, wrote brilliantly about the question of God and atheism. In one spot, he put on the lips of a character the fact that if a person does not worship the real God, he will bend his knees before things created and finite. That, of course, is true. Everyone has one or more consuming concerns. It's either the real God or money, power, pleasures, lust, pride in its various forms and so on.
One or more of these latter becomes idols, as the man who rejects the only God centers his thoughts, desires, aspirations, worries and concerns on his idol. They are gods to him. How is Gospel poverty related to true freedom? Father Dubay: Freedom and love are probably the least understood of common words in our contemporary world.Laplante leaned forward and threw the paper towards the flames; but without his knowledge, he overshot the mark; and when the trader was looking elsewhere the big squaw stooped, picked up the coveted note and slipped it into her skirt pocket.
But a little more gentle irony and a lot less outraged hectoring would make the same point more enjoyably. That was the signal for us to turn abruptly to the left, entering the forest by a narrow bridle-path that twisted among the cedars. Then came the Conquest, with the downfall of French trade in the north country.
Q: How should the terrorist attacks of Sept. Is that a child crying?
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