In a dusty treatment centre in the Democratic Republic of Congo, a British Red Cross nurse is watching history repeat itself. The Ebola virus, a familiar spectre in this region, is once again tearing through communities, leaving a trail of fear and grief in its wake. But this time, the challenges feel insurmountable.
‘We’re not just fighting a virus,’ she tells me over a crackling phone line. ‘We’re fighting distrust, misinformation and deep-seated trauma. People have seen this before. They know what it means.’
Her voice is calm, but the weight of the situation is palpable. The current outbreak, the tenth in Congo’s history, has already claimed dozens of lives. But the numbers, she says, don’t tell the full story. ‘Every death is a family torn apart. Every survivor carries scars that don’t heal.’
On the ground, the challenges are multiplying. The vast geography of North Kivu and Ituri provinces, where the outbreak is concentrated, makes containment a logistical nightmare. Roads are poor, villages remote, and the security situation volatile. Armed groups control swathes of territory, and health workers have been attacked in the past. ‘There are days when you wonder if you’re making any difference,’ the nurse admits.
But the real battle is for trust. Communities are wary of outsiders, and rumours spread faster than the virus. Some believe the disease is a fabrication, a tool for political control. Others think the vaccines are dangerous. ‘You can’t treat people if they won’t let you near them,’ she says. ‘So we spend hours talking to elders, listening to their fears, trying to find common ground.’
It’s a slow, painstaking process, and one that doesn’t always succeed. But when it does, she says, it’s worth it. ‘I remember a woman who refused treatment for her child. We visited her every day for a week. Eventually, she let us in. That child survived. That’s why we’re here.’
Yet even as the medical teams scramble, the wider world has moved on. The pandemic has absorbed global attention, leaving other crises in the shadows. Funding is tight, resources stretched, and the political will to act seems to wane. ‘We feel forgotten,’ the nurse says, a hint of frustration creeping into her voice. ‘But the people here can’t afford to be forgotten.’
As she prepares for another shift in the hot, suffocating protective suit, she offers a stark warning. ‘This outbreak isn’t over. It will not be contained by drugs alone. It needs a human response, one that recognises the pain and the complexity.’
For now, she and her colleagues will keep working, one patient, one conversation, one fragile trust at a time. Because in the end, that is what the fight against Ebola is really about: the relentless, unglamorous work of saving lives, one small victory after another.
