Episode #359: No Neutral Ground
RELEASE DATE: JULY 1, 2025
“It is an accident of history, why I am here,” Duncan McArthur reflects, a sentiment that underpins his three decades of immersion along the Thai-Burma border, a region that has long been marked by displacement. What began as a brief stop to teach English as a backpacker in a Karen refugee camp some years back has morphed into a lifelong commitment.
This camp, nestled deep within the forest on the Thai border, was devoid of electricity as well as piped water. “It was a little bit of ‘romantic poverty’ about it,” McArthur recalls, “then getting to know the people, and learning Karen language; and then hearing the stories that people are telling and making those human connections with communities.”
This immersive experience led him to re-evaluate a host of commonly used terms in the aid world. For example, he “hates the word ‘resilience;’ it is so overused in international circles.” At the same time, McArthur admits that it is precisely this quality that he found most inspiring in the communities he served. He speaks of refugees and migrants who, under constant threat, were still contributing as teachers or camp committee members. Beyond resilience, what struck McArthur most was the humility of the people he worked with. He encountered community members who have done great things for their people, and yet they were happy to remain anonymous about their contributions. This stands in stark contrast to what he has observed over the years on the part of some international actors, where he has observed a kind of self-congratulatory nature. He believes that “the big challenge is, and perhaps the way that we can show the most respect for people as international aid workers, is to get in touch with our own humility as well.”
McArthur believes that the nature of aid should be reciprocal, a dynamic often lost in the one-way traffic mindset of some organizations. “I certainly feel like I learned and grew more as a person than what I have been able to offer,” he confesses. The true impact of his work, he believes, wasn't found in sitting at a computer behind the desk but in human relations created through actual interpersonal encounters. And so for him, genuine aid is not merely about giving, but about a mutual exchange where both giver and receiver are transformed in the process. This deep, personal learning, more than any formal education, has shaped his understanding of human rights and the dynamics of conflict.
McArthur’s shift from an informal human rights educator to a formal role with The Border Consortium (TBC) in 2003 gave him a distinctive vantage point to witness the evolution of humanitarian aid along the Thai-Burma border. TBC itself emerged as a response to Thailand’s refusal to host a large, UN-managed refugee caseload from Myanmar. Instead, the Thai government permitted a network of faith-based organizations to quietly address basic humanitarian needs, allowing assistance to be delivered discreetly and with minimal international visibility. This led to TBC, which started out as a Christian organization, but has since become the primary channel for foreign governments to support a refugee population that peaked at 150,000 on the border with Thailand.
The democratic transition era, marked by a wave of international optimism and increased foreign aid, brought new challenges. While bilateral ceasefires offered a glimmer of hope, McArthur observed a worrying trend. “The number of international agencies providing funding that went into the ‘peace industry,’ well, it was kind of sickening,” he says, adding how some development workers seemed more interested in seeking career advancement than making a genuine impact.
Another challenge at this time was how, in his mind,“they tried to put a lot of effort and energy into a ceasefire agreement before tackling the causes of conflict.” This premature push for formal agreements, often lacking a robust enough enforcement mechanism or genuine political settlement, ultimately proved fragile. He reflects on the dilemma of being labeled a “peace spoiler” simply for pointing out critical flaws—concerns that stemmed not from pessimism, but from a grounded understanding of the deeper structural problems at hand. “The international community set this whole peace architecture up, and then they did not follow through on actually ensuring that it got implemented,” he states, adding that a rush to witness and formalize these ceasefire agreements often overlooked the critical need for a military code of conduct and accountability for violations.
A central theme in McArthur’s reflection is the tension between traditional humanitarian principles and the harsh realities of conflict. He traces the evolution of humanitarianism since World War II, underscoring the ongoing struggle between the sovereignty of nation-states and the protection of fundamental human rights within institutions like the United Nations. In cases like Myanmar, where state authorities are often the main perpetrators of violence, McArthur argues that the Responsibility to Protect (R2P) doctrine has largely failed to be meaningfully applied in practice.
This leads to the concept of humanitarian resistance, a philosophy championed by Hugo Slim (a British academic who researches the ethics of war and humanitarian aid) that challenges the traditional minimalist approach to humanitarianism. The core principles of humanity and impartiality, McArthur explains, are aspirational. However, the procedural principles of independence and neutrality in humanitarian aid, which dictate not choosing sides, often clash with the grim realities on the ground.
To McArthur, “in some cases, choosing sides is actually essential in order to reduce suffering.” This is especially true in Myanmar, where the military junta’s Four Cuts Policy deliberately blocks access to vulnerable populations. He argues that for humanitarian actors to truly reach those most in need, some degree of collaboration, coordination, and information sharing with opposition armed groups is necessary. This isn’t just a logistical requirement—it also carries political significance, aligning with the aspirations of these groups for freedom, dignity, liberty, and equality. By working through local community organizations and ethnic service providers that are politically aligned with opposition forces—while still maintaining independence in identifying and prioritizing aid recipients—McArthur believes a more effective and principled humanitarian response is possible.
McArthur contrasts two primary approaches used by large international organizations: direct implementation and partnership-based models. The former struggled during COVID and the coup, hampered by travel restrictions and limited access, while the latter—rooted in local networks—proved more adaptable, able to pivot and scale up assistance effectively. He acknowledges the frustration felt by smaller organizations that, despite limited resources, successfully deliver aid through trusted local partners, while larger agencies often seem either incapable or disinterested. McArthur emphasizes that intermediary NGOs must take on the responsibility of negotiating exceptions to rigid financial protocols—such as accepting soft-copy receipts or waiving the requirement for every beneficiary’s signature—in order to protect both aid workers and recipients in high-risk environments.
McArthur doesn't shy away from critiquing the United Nations' presence in Myanmar, particularly since the coup. He describes the UN's approach as technocratic, lacking the political gravitas to effectively engage with the military junta. The absence of a resident coordinator and the reliance on interim appointments, he argues, has undermined the UN's ability to exert meaningful influence. While acknowledging the personal commitment of individuals within the UN, he observes that “too many UN agencies are staying but not delivering.” He identifies a significant problem in the UN's reluctance to publicly name the perpetrators of violence that creates a perception of complicity. Essentially, while McArthur appreciates the institutional self-interest of protecting nation-states and upholding national sovereignty, he questions the effectiveness of what he sees as a “meaningless United Nations presence” that often prioritizes technical collaboration over direct political engagement.
At the same time, he also acknowledges the existential importance of the UN. “The aspirations and goals of the United Nations Charter are worth hanging on to,” he affirms, advocating for a framework that holds nation-states accountable to international law. He suggests that the UN could become more effective by exploring satellite offices or parallel systems, mechanisms in neighboring countries that could be supporting sub-national authorities.
McArthur’s insights point to moving beyond a state-centric framework to embrace a more diverse range of partners. For him, it requires understanding the realpolitik approach and the self-interests of all actors, and finding ways to align those interests with humanitarian goals. Therefore, he feels that it is not about finding a single solution, but rather about strengthening platforms that raise the voices of the oppressed and the marginalized, thus allowing them to better advocate for their own needs.
McArthur’s journey, from a curious backpacker to a seasoned aid worker, is a reminder that true impact emerges from deep humility, a commitment to human dignity, and a willingness to navigate the complex, often messy, realities of a world in crisis. The challenge for everyone, from villagers to bureaucrats, is, he believes, to “take each day as it comes and see what good we can do today, and increasingly in this polarized aid world, look at how we can make the most of not only what we offer - but also do no harm.”