More Than Just a Building
A USAID civil servant reflects on the shuttering of USAID headquarters
For many USAID staff, the Ronald Reagan Building (RRB) wasn’t just an office—it was a cornerstone of their careers, their community, and their shared mission.
DOGE officials abruptly closed the building on February 3, 2025. Staff were permitted to return to the building on February 27 and 28, in 15-minute slots, to retrieve their personal belongings. For those who had spent years, even decades, working within its walls, packing up an entire career in a quarter of an hour was a stark and unceremonious goodbye.
This is a guest post by “K,” a civil servant in the Bureau for Inclusive Growth, Partnerships, and Innovation who worked for USAID for nearly 15 years. This is their personal reflection on what the RRB symbolized—not just as a workplace, but as a space where careers, friendships, and a shared mission took shape.
The shuttering of the Ronald Reagan Building to USAID staff must really have them shaking their heads. Did I come home from work every day exclaiming, “wow, I love the RRB!” Absolutely not. In fact, I’d remark to colleagues how odd it seemed that people would have their weddings in the atrium - ew, who would want to marry here in a workplace?
The RRB was a hodgepodge of office environments, given how long it took to do any sort of rearranging or modernizing of workspace. There was the dreaded original Bureau for Food Security and later Center for Democracy, Human Rights and Governance ‘call center’ set-up, where no call was private, colleagues' papers and messy desks harassing your eyes. There were the coffee stains on the floors and walls (how?) everywhere. The poor building, treated so poorly by its inhabitants, as evident in a legendary email scolding us all to avoid flushing mops and baby diapers down the toilets. So why, when we were told we could not come in, and eventually, that our lease was canceled, did we collectively cry?
It was never just a building…It was there in that building, that every time you scanned your badge, you were reminded you were doing something worth protecting.
It was never just a building. It was there in that space that we built our careers and expected to end them. It was there in that space that we built our community. It was there in that space that we mourned the loss of loved ones, celebrated births and marriages, and feted colleagues who completed decades of service. It was there in that building where we dove under our desks assuming we were under attack, only to find it was a small but rare earthquake. It was there in that building that we felt the significance of the moment when Secretary Clinton announced diplomatic re-engagement with Myanmar. It was there in that building where we entered rooms dedicated to heroes like Xulhaz Mannan and Nelson Mandela. It was there that we walked by a memorial to the 99 USAID staff who had given their lives for their country. It was there in those filing cabinets where once in a while you would come across a withering piece of paper from another time that tied you and your work to a decades-long legacy of the beacon on a Hill. It was there in that building where we met world leaders in a room named after the first act of foreign assistance, a simple fourth point on foreign policy in Harry Truman’s 1949 inaugural address. It was there in that building, that every time you scanned your badge, you were reminded you were doing something worth protecting.
We don’t cry over the coffee-stained walls. We cry because that space meant something, and for the moments we’ll never have in it. We were given no warning that those were taken away from us. When I close my eyes, I am there. I see smiling faces.
She quite literally gave her life to the work, to making sure Congress’s intention for our funds was followed, to honor the US taxpayer. I don’t like her picture sitting there alone. She belongs with us.
I also keep fixating on one photograph. It’s a headshot of a dear colleague, sitting atop our makeshift memorial. She passed suddenly in 2023, in the throws of the most intense work week of the year - the final week of the fiscal year. She quite literally gave her life to the work, to making sure Congress’s intention for our funds was followed, to honor the US taxpayer. I don’t like her picture sitting there alone. She belongs with us.
Even as I write this, it hasn’t fully hit me that I won’t be there again, with those people, creating those memories. It’s like a house fire that has taken everything away, but the very large house was home to thousands. It’s hitting me how hard it is going to be every time I pass by that building. It will hurt; the memories will resurface. Because it, and all the memories we were going to create there together, were taken from us.
To our cousins in Customs and Border Protection: be kind to that imperfect space. Honor the memories we’ve created there, and cherish your own, as you never know when they will be ripped away.
Do you have a story to share about your work at the Ronald Reagan Building? Leave a comment sharing your proudest moments with USAID.
@Friends of USAID sadly, I saw the scroll of items that Fox News is sharing about supposed USAID expenditures—during the Carville interview—that is riling up the conservatives. Do we have a similar list that shows all of the positive impact USAID has had and/or the waste that comes with the dismantling of the agency? I need to get that in front of my Fox-watching family members. Thank you!!
I didn't work there, so this is simply to tell you about my reaction to the shut down of USAID. I don't think I had ever heard of the department before, but after finding out what things that you all did, I find I'm devastated that it's being stopped. Your work is vital for so many reasons! I truly don't have the words to express how deeply I feel about this, and so many other things going on right now. My tears, and hugs, to you, even though they must be cold comfort.