The World Health Organisation, that merry band of clipboard-wielding soothsayers who have predicted 47 of the last 3 apocalypses, has once again donned the sackcloth and ashes. This time, they warn that Ebola and conflict in the Democratic Republic of Congo pose a risk of 'catastrophic humanitarian collapse'. Which is WHO-speak for 'things are about to get very, very messy.'
Let us cast our minds back to the last time the WHO promised us a blood-soaked, feverish end of days. Congo, 2018. The outbreak was contained. The world moved on. The WHO, however, did not move on. They simply dusted off the same press release, replaced '2018' with '2025', and sent it out again. It's like Groundhog Day, but with more haemorrhagic fevers.
But wait. This time it's different. This time we have conflict. Because nothing says 'humanitarian collapse' quite like armed militias interrupting the painstaking work of contact tracing with RPGs. The WHO is essentially saying: 'Ebola is bad. Guns are worse. Both together? That's a Tuesday in the DRC.'
The good people at the WHO have a curious talent for stating the bleedin' obvious with the gravitas of a Shakespearean tragedy. 'People are dying,' they declare. Yes, thank you, Captain Obvious. In other news, water is wet, politicians lie, and airport gin costs a kidney and a half.
But let's not be flippant. This is serious. The DRC has been a petri dish of plague and violence for decades. The real scandal is not that the WHO is warning us now. The real scandal is that we are surprised. We sit in our air-conditioned newsrooms sipping fair-trade coffee, tutting at the latest disaster, and then we change the channel. We are desensitised. We are a nation of voyeurs watching a genocide in slow motion, commenting on the cinematography.
The WHO, for all its bureaucratic bloat, is trying to shout into the void. But the void is full of politicians arguing over border walls and trade tariffs. The void does not care about Ebola. The void has Brexit to worry about.
So here is my proposal: a reality television show called 'WHO: Uncensored'. Every week, a different disease hotspot. Live coverage of field hospitals. Celebrity doctors performing dangerous procedures. The audience votes on which outbreak gets funding. It would be monstrous. It would be crass. It would probably raise more money than the current system.
Until then, we shall continue to receive these press releases. We shall keep the gin cabinet stocked. And we shall pray that the WHO is wrong. Again. Because the alternative is too horrific to contemplate. And too inconvenient to act upon.
So raise a glass, dear reader. To the WHO. To the DRC. To the fine line between warning and crying wolf. And to the eternal hope that tomorrow's news will be about something less soul-crushingly terrible. Like a minor celebrity's wardrobe malfunction.
