Behind the Eclipse

by Pramudith D. Rupasinghe

  ‘This is called PPE—Personal protection equipment. These are vital for protecting the life of those who care for the patients,’ one doctor in the ward told me.

  ‘But, unfortunately, we do not have sufficient equipment and workforce to address the epidemic as it spreads faster than we thought.’ He sighed.

  ‘We are trained by one organisation that operated in Guinea, but many health workers do not want to join as they have already heard what happened in there. Who would like to risk their lives?’ He continued.

  ‘Samuel,’ When Dr. Harris called his first name, I noticed that they knew each other before.

  ‘We have got some funds, but we are still wondering where we should deploy them? We would either start an ETU or support an ongoing hospital. Still, It is not clear to me as yet; the epidemic is limited to Lofa, and it looks that it can be contained in case the health system works properly.’ Dr. Harris verbalised his opinion without hiding as he always used to do.

  ‘Dr. Harris, the problem is more serious than we think. You and I know about the cases that are reported to be assumably the minority. In Lofa, there are many isolated villages that no one pays attention to. On top of that, there are no passable roads during the rainy seasons. Many people who contract Ebola die in the bush without being added to the count that we take. They do not know what Ebola is; probably they might call it a witchcraft or a curse as it always happens in rural villages, whenever there is an epidemic that eradicates several hundreds of human lives at a time. Also, they are not aware of preventive measures. Their primary food source is bush meat. Their traditions involve close contacts with the sick and the dead, and they believe in traditional healers than the allopathic doctor. So what can you expect in such situations? People die one after the other in remote tropical jungles. Dr. Harris, this is a dangerous thing. We need immediate attention before the same thing that happened in Guinea breaks out here.’ Dr. Samuel paused.

  ‘Well, understand the issue, and this is not my first African country. What have you identified as immediate needs?’ Dr. Harris asked.

  ‘We need to separate this place from standard wards as soon as possible. Here we do not have separate toilets; we do not have sufficient space, no adequate beds, and human resources. In reality, we risk not only our lives but also the lives of other patients. This is not how Ebola patients should be treated. The circumstances have compelled us to break ethical standards of treatments. While handling a few confirmed cases, we keep the suspected cases in an environment where they may contract the virus from the ward, and the same risk is there for the patients in other wards and the health workers who are in this small regional hospital. If you can, provide us with a few tents, a dozen of beds and few safe plastic toilets. At the same time, we do not have nurses who have proper education and will.’ Dr. Samuel looked like a red beetle caught in a cobweb.

  ‘Well, I think you may get a positive response from our headquarters. In fact, it should not be unreasonable. Do you have an approximate budget for this in case it is done using the labour in Lofa?’ Dr. Harris asked walking towards the empty land next to the hospital compound.

  ‘Here it looks ideal’ He added.

  ‘I will send it to you tomorrow itself. Probably before you go back to Monrovia, I will meet you,’ Dr. Samuel said hopefully with an enthusiastic air.

  ‘That will be great Samuel. I will look forward to it.’

  Next day morning before we left Vonjama, Dr. Samuel had come to meet Dr. Harris. They discussed for some time and greeted each other, but the usual handshake of Dr. Harris was not there to be seen.

  ‘Well, we might come again. See you then,’ he said getting into the Jeep. I noticed Dr. Samuel waiting at the gate of the hospital looking at the passing vehicle. After a few minutes, at the terminus of the straight gravel road he disappeared into the horizon. He reminded me of how I kept looking at the shore of the river while I was leaving for Monrovia. I would never forget the inexplicability of the complexity of the feeling that was a blend of hopefulness and uncertainty.

  32

  We had returned to a Monrovia which was notably different from what we left four days ago. A Monrovia that was beaten flat by two brutal civil conflicts was struggling to crawl on its knees. But unfortunately, it looked like another inevitable blow had already landed right on its centre.

  A couple of suspected cases and two deaths had been reported in Liberian capital in no time just like an eclipse that hid the sun like a bat out of hell.

  ‘Ebola here’ Aminatta said seeing me entering the fence, without greeting her husband who had been away from home for three nights.

  ‘One man died in Firestone two days ago.’ Aminatta looked like an Impala that had just escaped from a Cheetah.

  ‘I knew it was going to come to Monrovia, but I never thought this soon,’ I said what I assumed. It was a real eclipse-like situation as no one wanted Ebola or whatever they believed it to be, that was killing people in Guinea and Lofa, to come to Monrovia. They were hiding behind their pseudo-confidence and denial putting the blame on the white man for conspiracy which was not only the typical Liberian way of thinking and acting, but also of the people in many places in Africa. It was mainly because of the trust issue that we were born with as black people which was continually fertilised by our own inferiority complex that we developed through unconsciously acquired self-positioning in the modern world without coming out of the ditch of psychological enslavement. On top of that, it is always easy to blame the outsider by highlighting a conspiracy theory and escape from the responsibility of one`s own behaviour or act which was limited not only to Liberia or Africa but also many under-evolved societies. The politicians threw straw into the raging fire claiming that the white man’s soul was behind the rising flames which our people could better digest than it ought to be their own behaviour such as eating bushmeat, traditional burial practices and the lifestyle which gave rise to this killer disease.

  While the rumours on the conspiracy theories were travelling across the country with their constant changes of outlook, just like the chameleon changing the colour, Ebola had silently accelerated its conquest in many close communities in Monrovia. No one noticed that until several dozens of cases started emerging out of densely populated close proximities such as Duala Market, Bushrod-Island, and Paynesville—a highly dense community located near the biggest outdoor market called Red-light. And deaths followed many reported cases hinting everyone that Ebola was real.

  ‘Papa I have got an A for Mathematics, A for Human Biology and B for French’ Princess came running after school.

  ‘Papa Papa, I also have A for English’ George II, who was running after his sister, said victoriously.

  ‘Papa papa an old man in my class jealous of me,’ George II pulled his report card and showed me.

  Even though my children had the luxury to go to school at the right age, most of the Liberians were deprived of their right to education resulting 85 percent of illiteracy rate in the whole country. Many of those who dropped out did not resume their studies even after the war was over. But some of them who had means and interest had just restarted their school life after a decade. It was normal to have twenty or thirty years old students in grade five and often parents and children studied together in the same class. Having got more marks than older pupils in the class, George II was pretty happy and motivated. As a father of three children who supported what their father believed in, I was more than glad to hear what George was telling, but simultaneously, as a Liberian, it was heart aching to see the citizens who were already in their working age going to primary school. Our poor finances deprived Aminatta’s chances to resume her studies, but when I heard the discussion between Dr. Harris and Dr. Samuel about their plans on health servants, my thoughts suddenly linked to possible chances of sending Aminatta back to school if I got a sufficient salary. And my first exposure to an Ebola treatment ward had cut down my unre
alistic fears about the disease.

  ‘The PPE protects you adequately. If you know how to wear and remove it properly there is no risk at all’ Dr. Samuel’s briefing left its stains in my mind. Whenever I thought of the opportunities in the calamity, my children and Aminatta invaded my mind and manacled my straying thoughts by caging them within iron bars called family bonds. Simultaneously, my thoughts that popped up from time to time yet constantly, just like blinking stars in the sky were to earn something more for the betterment of their lives.

  I wanted Aminatta to resume her studies in journalism which she was always dreaming of, and my daughter Princess wanted to be a nurse like her father, George II was too young to say anything concrete about his career, but he loved the job of Moto-boy. ‘They are the fastest on the road,’ he used to say. But I knew that it was just like my dream to become a soldier which I never wanted when I grew up.

  It was a Friday evening in August 2014, when the signs of fear and horror had invaded every corner of Monrovia, Dr. Harris called me into his cabin.

  ‘George’ He kept looking at my eyes for a few seconds.

  ‘Would you like to lead a team of community mobilizers and conduct sensitization programs for EVD in Monrovia?’ His question rather intimidated me than allowed me to respond as I felt I was not in a position to give him an answer right away.

  ‘Shall I let you know tomorrow morning?’

  “George, I do not expect you to reply right now. You can discuss with your wife and get back to me on Monday which is fine,’ he said smiling.

  In the evening I left the office with mixed thoughts. Like many working class Liberians, I used to take a shared taxi known as Yellow-machines, to go from Congo-town to Kakata-highway where my new house was. Usually, taxi drivers loaded the cars with more than seven passengers packing them like goats being taken to the slaughterhouse, and all the smells that human body could emit added to the dusty air in the taxi making everyone nauseated. On top of everything, women and men screamed at the top of their voice in the limited space in the passenger cabin almost tearing the ear-drums. These realities we had accepted as normal life of post-conflict Liberia, and we did not look at our neighbour with fright and paranoia as if he or she was a virus. Having someone’s sweat on hands or clothes was not something to panic.

  ‘Ebola man escaped in West-point,’ one woman said in the taxi.

  ‘It`s no true,’ the taxi driver said giving her the balance money.

  ‘True,’ she said in a high pitch.

  ‘I swear upon God. It no lie. People in West-point looted the ETU and let the patients out,’ she sounded exaggerating, but as the news would not be news if it were not inflated to meet the stimulation that humans expected from a piece of news, but it contained some truth. I could not wait to know more even though I did not usually participate in discussions.

  ‘You say what?’ A middle-aged guy sitting next to me asked in his cemented voice.

  ‘Ma man, they say they do not want Ebola, they broke into the Ebola treatment unit and chased patients away,’ she laughed as if it was an entertaining incident leaving a thought in my mind as to how ignorant my poor nation was.

  ‘Woman, that was serious,’ the guy who was next to me said.

  ‘They had looted the things in it and burnt down the centre,’ the women kept on explaining as if she was relating on an adventure story.

  ‘Our foolish people heighten the risk of transmission’ I could not resist my tongue.

  ‘Looting utensils or clothes used by Ebola suspects are not only an act of suicide but genocide.’ My anger towards my own people turned into words.

  ‘Hope no one escaping from West-point here in the taxi.’ The driver laughed aloud.

  No one seemed to be serious in the taxi, but it was just a sample of the majority of Liberians who either denied the existence of Ebola, blamed the white man for conspiracy of eradicating the black population or believed in the power of wizards or God for keeping them safe from the disease. Being an ex-churchman, I believed in God but I always made sure as a human being with a civic mind to take practical steps in protecting my family, myself and people around me. Nonetheless, many people did not stop eating bush-meat, and some people publicly ate bush meat to show that it was not bush meat which transmitted the disease but the white man and the non-governmental organisations. Some groups spread rumours that the United Nations Mission in Liberia wanted to extend their mandate and was trying to fake an epidemic of Ebola in Liberia to stay longer in the country. Some said that it was the government of Liberia that had strategized to postpone the senatorial elections faking an unprecedented epidemic of Ebola.

  When I reached home, Aminatta came running towards me. Her face said what her mouth could not tell. She looked worried and frightened.

  ‘George, we got to go to see the doctor. Princess is hot like fire,’ she did not even allow me to enter the room.

  ‘Le-go!’ She yelled. The news she broke even before I entered home, froze me. Having high fever in time of Ebola was not like on other occasions when the blame used to go to the mosquitoes. We called a taxi, but the driver did not allow us in immediately after he had noticed the girl was sick.

  ‘My man, Ebola here,’ he accelerated his Yellow-machine.

  After a couple of refusals, we managed to get into an empty taxi wondering for clients and the driver demanded us to pay for five seats which we could not refuse.

  We rushed to a clinic in Congo town where we used to go whenever children fell sick.

  ‘What is your sickness?’ the security guard who was standing near a newly placed chlorine bucket grumbled.

  ‘Wash your hands!’ He opened the faucet fixed to the bucket while taking the temperature of Princess using a gun-type thermometer which was used to take the temperature without having contacts with the patient.

  ‘Oh 38.8, high temperature, please take her to somewhere else,’ he did not allow us in.

  ‘Can you call the Doctors, I know them,’ I pleaded.

  ‘My man they do not want Ebola here. Go, please I beg you!’ He turned us away.

  Immediately after the temperature monitoring, we were turned back from a few other places we went seeking for help, and finally, we ended up in John F Kennedy Hospital in Monrovia - the national hospital in Liberia which was the final hope of every single acute patient.

  ‘Wash your hands first,’ the security officer raised his voice, pulled his thermometer and took the temperature of the girl. It looked like he was about to shoot her head.

  ‘Oh, my man 38.9 degrees. She has to go to quarantine ward for Ebola,’ Security officer said. Reverend Phillip`s words came to my mind; ‘Life is an obit where light and darkness follow each other in a mercurial cycle, Just like every night is followed by a day and the every day is followed a night.’

  We did not have any other option as many private clinics had already stopped their operations due to the fear. No clinics which were open wanted a patient who had high fever. We were taken to a ward outside the main hospital building that was fenced with a red colour plastic net. ‘Danger, do not enter!’ We were stopped again and asked to follow the same hand-washing and temperature monitoring which had become rather a rule than a regulation not only in health centres but also in offices, schools, supermarkets and every place where visitors came.

  ‘Oh girl sick, 39.0 degrees.’ Security officer looked at Aminatta who was already tired and hopeless.

  ‘Girl, you sit here, I will call the doctor,’ the security officer went inside.

  Princess could not sit on the chair anymore. It looked like her head was too heavy on her weak neck. She was lying down on the gravel floor, and Aminatta was trying to give her some water that she could not push down her throat and she threw up everything including what she had eaten in the afternoon.

  In a few minutes, the security officer came with a nurse and a doctor.
The doctor looked at her and said. ‘We are extremely sorry; we can’t accommodate patients anymore, but you …’

  The doctor could not finish what he wanted to say Aminatta fell on the ground just like a banana tree caught in high winds. She couldn’t` further withstand what her child was going through. My head started spinning. I could not respond to them verbally, and I felt numb and paralysed. I was lost in the crepuscule in the nethermost point of the trench of hopelessness. I saw the doctor and the nurse walking inside the office through the curtain of hot tears in my eyes and they blurred into the darkness as I closed my eyes and hit my head on the metal post in the waiting room.

  ‘Take this medication and rest at home; we will let you know in case we would have space.’ I heard someone saying. It was the nurse who had come back with medication. I took them and turned back towards the taxi.

  ‘Sorry, my man sorry,’ driver said empathically.

  ‘Let`s take the woman and the girl and go home,’ I said desperately.

  I was just one father whose child was turned back by the clinics as they did not want to treat anyone who manifested fever which could be a symptom of any infection and especially Malaria which was the most common killer in Africa. Due to such circumstances, many people died of easily treatable diseases such as Malaria, Typhoid and sometimes with phenomena caused by untreated common cold. And I was not the only father whose child was turned back from Ebola ward of John F. Kennedy Hospital or any ETU due to lack of beds or any other logistical reasons.

  The villagers did not want the Ebola suspected cases and those who took care of them to be in their neighbourhood and tended to commit atrocities such as setting fire to their properties and trying to chase them away using any form of violence. Stigma born out of fear and ignorance induced violence and discrimination against the Ebola suspect cases, survivors and their relatives in many localities.