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Tuesday, March 24, 2015 9:45:50 PM
Letter from West Africa When the Fever Breaks
Government measures have proved inadequate, but communities in Liberia and Sierra Leone are coming up with ways to battle the Ebola virus.
By Luke Mogelson January 19, 2015 Issue
An isolation ward in a former classroom in Monrovia. The World Health Organization has documented eight
thousand deaths in Liberia and neighboring countries, and the actual toll is almost certainly much higher.
Credit Photograph by John Moore / Getty
Robertsport, the capital of Grand Cape Mount County, in northern Liberia, lies at the remote end of a long peninsula, between Lake Piso and the sea. Even during the dry season, the road that leads to it is punishing. In late July, Omu Fahnbulleh made the trip on the back of a motorcycle, in the rain. She was returning home after burying her younger brother, who had died from a brief, intense illness in another district. Fahnbulleh, who is thirty years old, knew that Ebola had recently spread to parts of Liberia, but, so far, no one from Grand Cape Mount had become infected. When she arrived at the small beachside house she shared with her husband, Abraham, their three children, and Abraham’s family, Fahnbulleh’s body ached and she had a fever; she attributed her condition to the hard journey and to the fact that she was three months pregnant.
Over the next couple of days, her condition worsened, and she asked Abraham to take her to St. Timothy, a rudimentary hospital on a steep hill above their home. There she miscarried. In the morning, a doctor collected a blood sample and put her in isolation. Later, when Abraham visited, he was not allowed to enter the room. After a harrowing week of sharp internal pain and constant vomiting and diarrhea, Fahnbulleh was told that she had tested positive for Ebola. An ambulance van arrived to take her to the country’s capital, Monrovia. By then, Abraham was also sick. They were loaded into the back of the ambulance, on stretchers side by side.
Fahnbulleh and her husband believed that they were going to a hospital. Instead, several hours later, the ambulance turned onto a narrow lane that ran past low-slung shops and shanties. Fahnbulleh realized that they were in West Point, Monrovia’s largest slum. A police officer opened a metal gate, and the ambulance stopped inside a compound enclosed by tall walls. In the middle of the compound stood a schoolhouse. The driver helped Fahnbulleh and Abraham through a door, down a hall, and into a classroom. A smeared chalkboard hung on one of the walls, which were painted dark blue. Dim light filtered through a latticed window. On the concrete floor, ailing people were lying on soiled mattresses. When Fahnbulleh lay down, she saw that the two men beside her were dead.
That night, a man in a biohazard suit appeared. On his back, he wore a rectangular tank, filled with chlorine, connected by tubing to a black wand. He moved deliberately through the room, spraying the floor and walls, the patients, the two dead men. He was about to spray Abraham, but Fahnbulleh told him not to.
The next morning, another suited man brought cornmeal. Neither Fahnbulleh nor her husband could eat. Abraham told her that he felt that he would die; Fahnbulleh decided that they needed to get away from the dead men. She dragged her mattress to the hall and found an empty classroom. When she returned to fetch Abraham, he was lying on the concrete. The man in the suit was spraying him. He told Fahnbulleh that Abraham had fainted while trying to walk.
Fahnbulleh sat beside her husband and waited for him to wake up. She understood that he had wanted to follow her. After a while, she touched his mouth and felt no breath. She touched his chest and felt no heartbeat. She raised his arm, and it was limp. Eventually, she unfolded an extra shawl that she had brought with her from Robertsport and covered his face.
At daybreak, after spending the night in the other classroom, she walked out of the school. Policemen loitered in the yard. When Fahnbulleh reached the gate, they let her pass, afraid to touch her.
Her ankles had grown progressively inflamed since her miscarriage. Every step was painful as she made her way through West Point, past video clubs, fufu shops, and tables of dried fish. She headed to Clara Town, a mile away, where Abraham’s sister lived, but when she arrived her sister-in-law, who had heard that Fahnbulleh was infected, refused to let her in. Unsure where to go, Fahnbulleh found a carpenter’s shop and curled up amid the lumber scraps and tools. The next day, someone discovered her and called an ambulance. This time, she was taken to an Ebola Treatment Unit at a government hospital. After two weeks, she was discharged and went to a safe house in Robertsport to recover for a month before returning home. In her absence, the virus had killed others, including her father, mother, sister, and twelve-year-old daughter, Mariama.
Fahnbulleh told me this story in November, on the porch of her house. Her two remaining children chased mangy chickens through the grass. A breeze moved the palms. Nearby, one of Abraham’s brothers boiled water on a fire. At several points—while explaining how the police officers at the gate of the schoolhouse had been unwilling to stop her, and how she’d walked through West Point with badly swollen ankles—Fahnbulleh grinned, rocked forward, and laughed.
[...]
The epidemic began in December of 2013, in a small village in Guinea
[...]
The W.H.O. did not declare a global emergency and call for a coördinated international response until August, and by then a thousand people had died. In October, the United States allocated seven hundred and fifty million dollars and began deploying soldiers to the region to construct Ebola Treatment Units, or E.T.U.s, set up mobile laboratories, provide logistical support, and train local medical staff. Twenty-eight hundred U.S. troops eventually arrived, following advisers from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. The Americans were joined by hundreds of British military personnel, hundreds of Chinese and Cuban nurses and physicians, and aid workers from international nonprofit organizations. Even so, the epidemic continues. Last month, Doctors Without Borders, which has been in the forefront of treating Ebola patients and sounded the earliest and loudest alarms for aggressive foreign intervention, published an assessment warning that efforts by donor countries “have been sluggish and patchy, falling dangerously short of expectations.”
[...]
Gbessay gestured at the nurses, all of whom were from West Point, and all of whom were volunteers. “It is because of love we are in the field,” he said. “It is because of love they are here, they are working, and have not gotten a dime.” Gbessay peered at me. He wished the outsider to see. “Just because of love.”
[...]
Many politicians had criticized President Obama for deploying troops in West Africa, and Pentagon officials had emphasized that no military doctors or medics would provide treatment.
Much more .. http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2015/01/19/when-fever-breaks
.. it's sad, but the general local population's efforts, once they understand what the situation is, is uplifting ..
Government measures have proved inadequate, but communities in Liberia and Sierra Leone are coming up with ways to battle the Ebola virus.
By Luke Mogelson January 19, 2015 Issue
An isolation ward in a former classroom in Monrovia. The World Health Organization has documented eight
thousand deaths in Liberia and neighboring countries, and the actual toll is almost certainly much higher.
Credit Photograph by John Moore / Getty
Robertsport, the capital of Grand Cape Mount County, in northern Liberia, lies at the remote end of a long peninsula, between Lake Piso and the sea. Even during the dry season, the road that leads to it is punishing. In late July, Omu Fahnbulleh made the trip on the back of a motorcycle, in the rain. She was returning home after burying her younger brother, who had died from a brief, intense illness in another district. Fahnbulleh, who is thirty years old, knew that Ebola had recently spread to parts of Liberia, but, so far, no one from Grand Cape Mount had become infected. When she arrived at the small beachside house she shared with her husband, Abraham, their three children, and Abraham’s family, Fahnbulleh’s body ached and she had a fever; she attributed her condition to the hard journey and to the fact that she was three months pregnant.
Over the next couple of days, her condition worsened, and she asked Abraham to take her to St. Timothy, a rudimentary hospital on a steep hill above their home. There she miscarried. In the morning, a doctor collected a blood sample and put her in isolation. Later, when Abraham visited, he was not allowed to enter the room. After a harrowing week of sharp internal pain and constant vomiting and diarrhea, Fahnbulleh was told that she had tested positive for Ebola. An ambulance van arrived to take her to the country’s capital, Monrovia. By then, Abraham was also sick. They were loaded into the back of the ambulance, on stretchers side by side.
Fahnbulleh and her husband believed that they were going to a hospital. Instead, several hours later, the ambulance turned onto a narrow lane that ran past low-slung shops and shanties. Fahnbulleh realized that they were in West Point, Monrovia’s largest slum. A police officer opened a metal gate, and the ambulance stopped inside a compound enclosed by tall walls. In the middle of the compound stood a schoolhouse. The driver helped Fahnbulleh and Abraham through a door, down a hall, and into a classroom. A smeared chalkboard hung on one of the walls, which were painted dark blue. Dim light filtered through a latticed window. On the concrete floor, ailing people were lying on soiled mattresses. When Fahnbulleh lay down, she saw that the two men beside her were dead.
That night, a man in a biohazard suit appeared. On his back, he wore a rectangular tank, filled with chlorine, connected by tubing to a black wand. He moved deliberately through the room, spraying the floor and walls, the patients, the two dead men. He was about to spray Abraham, but Fahnbulleh told him not to.
The next morning, another suited man brought cornmeal. Neither Fahnbulleh nor her husband could eat. Abraham told her that he felt that he would die; Fahnbulleh decided that they needed to get away from the dead men. She dragged her mattress to the hall and found an empty classroom. When she returned to fetch Abraham, he was lying on the concrete. The man in the suit was spraying him. He told Fahnbulleh that Abraham had fainted while trying to walk.
Fahnbulleh sat beside her husband and waited for him to wake up. She understood that he had wanted to follow her. After a while, she touched his mouth and felt no breath. She touched his chest and felt no heartbeat. She raised his arm, and it was limp. Eventually, she unfolded an extra shawl that she had brought with her from Robertsport and covered his face.
At daybreak, after spending the night in the other classroom, she walked out of the school. Policemen loitered in the yard. When Fahnbulleh reached the gate, they let her pass, afraid to touch her.
Her ankles had grown progressively inflamed since her miscarriage. Every step was painful as she made her way through West Point, past video clubs, fufu shops, and tables of dried fish. She headed to Clara Town, a mile away, where Abraham’s sister lived, but when she arrived her sister-in-law, who had heard that Fahnbulleh was infected, refused to let her in. Unsure where to go, Fahnbulleh found a carpenter’s shop and curled up amid the lumber scraps and tools. The next day, someone discovered her and called an ambulance. This time, she was taken to an Ebola Treatment Unit at a government hospital. After two weeks, she was discharged and went to a safe house in Robertsport to recover for a month before returning home. In her absence, the virus had killed others, including her father, mother, sister, and twelve-year-old daughter, Mariama.
Fahnbulleh told me this story in November, on the porch of her house. Her two remaining children chased mangy chickens through the grass. A breeze moved the palms. Nearby, one of Abraham’s brothers boiled water on a fire. At several points—while explaining how the police officers at the gate of the schoolhouse had been unwilling to stop her, and how she’d walked through West Point with badly swollen ankles—Fahnbulleh grinned, rocked forward, and laughed.
[...]
The epidemic began in December of 2013, in a small village in Guinea
[...]
The W.H.O. did not declare a global emergency and call for a coördinated international response until August, and by then a thousand people had died. In October, the United States allocated seven hundred and fifty million dollars and began deploying soldiers to the region to construct Ebola Treatment Units, or E.T.U.s, set up mobile laboratories, provide logistical support, and train local medical staff. Twenty-eight hundred U.S. troops eventually arrived, following advisers from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. The Americans were joined by hundreds of British military personnel, hundreds of Chinese and Cuban nurses and physicians, and aid workers from international nonprofit organizations. Even so, the epidemic continues. Last month, Doctors Without Borders, which has been in the forefront of treating Ebola patients and sounded the earliest and loudest alarms for aggressive foreign intervention, published an assessment warning that efforts by donor countries “have been sluggish and patchy, falling dangerously short of expectations.”
[...]
Gbessay gestured at the nurses, all of whom were from West Point, and all of whom were volunteers. “It is because of love we are in the field,” he said. “It is because of love they are here, they are working, and have not gotten a dime.” Gbessay peered at me. He wished the outsider to see. “Just because of love.”
[...]
Many politicians had criticized President Obama for deploying troops in West Africa, and Pentagon officials had emphasized that no military doctors or medics would provide treatment.
Much more .. http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2015/01/19/when-fever-breaks
.. it's sad, but the general local population's efforts, once they understand what the situation is, is uplifting ..
It was Plato who said, “He, O men, is the wisest, who like Socrates, knows that his wisdom is in truth worth nothing”
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