What I've learned about Ebola - Part 1

          When trying to understand the complexity of the spread of Ebola in Sierra Leone, it is a grave mistake to downplay the importance of cultural and social behavior. The tragic reality of Ebola was that it targeted the very fabric of social and cultural life in Sierra Leone. The mechanisms that communities would normally use to confront hardship and death, such as visiting the house of mourning families or just spending time with friends on a daily basis, were now a threat to one's life. Ebola spreads by direct physical contact with the bodily fluids of a symptomatic infected person. So, any behavior that involves touching an infected person, such as shaking hands, a mother caring for her sick child, or an extended family washing a loved ones dead body, carries high risk of death. In a society where every one relies on each other, people were forced to fend for themselves.

            In the beginning of the outbreak, a myriad rumors swirled around the country, both denying Ebola's existence, and questioning its origins. Sometimes rumors took on a political form – some said the ruling APC government wanted to suppress the SLPP party supporters who formed a majority in Kailahun District, where the disease began. Concurrently, the disease was attributed to deeply held beliefs of witchcraft. These beliefs were a barrier to the behavioral changes that needed to occur to combat the disease. The changes that needed to be put in place to fight Ebola were numerous, and directly conflicted with deeply held cultural practices. As every parent, teacher, and international development worker knows, behavior change is hard, but in this situation, with so many lives at risk, the stakes couldn’t have been higher. Even though there were numerous cultural, social and political barriers to widespread acceptance of Ebola's threat, gradually, communities like Bauya began to take up the fight.

            In Kongbora Chiefdom, where Bauya is located, community leaders organized a task force to restrict the movement of people in and out of the Chiefdom. No one was allowed to sleep in Bauya. If you left the community, you weren't allowed back, punishable by a 500,000 Leone fine. Select people were chosen to monitor the checkpoints to ensure that there was no movement in or out. Due to the hard work of many community leaders, Bauya and all of Kongbora Chiefdom did not have a single case of Ebola, even as every bordering Chiefdom had registered cases.

            My friend Joseph recounted a story to me of a time during the height of the Ebola epidemic when fear was at its highest. Joseph was invited to give eulogy at the local church for a person who had not died from Ebola. While reading from the bible, word got out that two of the attendees of the funeral had just come from another funeral in Moyamba. When people began to find out where they had come from, everyone quickly evacuated the church. Apparently, before church started, the men had touched the same bible Joseph was reading from. After the crowd dispersed, he was left with the sinking uncertainty that he may have now contracted Ebola. At home, with a heavy heart, he shared the news with his wife.  With each passing day, he marked his calendar, quietly waiting for the end of the 21-day incubation period. Every day he awoke with the belief that the disease could take hold. Could the itch in the back of his throat be the beginning of a cough? Was the pain in his stomach just from the food he ate the day before or could it be something more? On the 21^st day with no symptoms, he could finally breathe a sigh of relief. It was a blessing during a time when many families weren't so fortunate.

            This story was a grave reminder to me that while, on the surface, so many aspects of my visit back to Bauya were familiar, everything was not the same. Imagine being afraid for your life and the social structures that would normally comfort you have all been dismantled. Imagine being afraid to go to a funeral of a friend because their death could have been from Ebola. Imagine not being able to hug your friend's mother because she could also have Ebola. Imagine living every day with that uncertainty. Another close friend confided in me that Ebola was worse than the civil war because at least then you could go with your family and hide in the bush. With Ebola, there was nowhere to hide.

            For me, Ebola was a dire lesson in the importance of cross-cultural understanding and the value of human connection. When I returned home from America after being evacuated I was hit by a wave of ignorance. I could not watch the news. Headlines of death and disease whipped up a frenzy of fear that implied Ebola might be coming to America. The message seemed to be, “let's just quarantine West Africa to protect the lives that matter in America”. While some news outlets eventually told stories of the human impact of Ebola, most stories I encountered at first spoke in terms of numbers and vague details of some faraway land. Having spent a year developing professional and personal relationships in Sierra Leone, for me, those statistics were not just numbers. Each number on the death tally could have been a friend, colleague, or student of mine. My intention is not to blame anyone for their ignorance; three short years ago I had to look for Sierra Leone on Google Maps. Instead, I want to propose an antidote to ignorance – compassion.

            The impediments to true cross-cultural understanding take on many forms – racism, fear, class divides, language barriers, unchecked nationalism – but each of these challenges can be overcome with a person-to-person conversation. The more connections we have with people who appear different on the surface, the more we will realize that, when we dig a little deeper, those differences vanish. Walls, whether physical barriers that divide countries, or walls of ignorance that divide cultures, are not the answer to the threats we face. To overcome the global challenges of the 21^st century we need a greater understanding of the qualities that unite us. We need to recognize that what we have in common with our neighbors greatly exceeds what divides us. I'm not claiming that this process is easy, or that it will happen without effort. This is not the path of least resistance. It involves uncomfortable silences and misunderstandings, fumbled handshakes, and mistranslations. Ebola will not be the last crisis that shines light on the critical importance of cross-cultural understanding. Therefore, let us as a global society learn from our missteps in our response to the Ebola crisis. Compassion starts at the individual level. Begin the process by starting one conversation with someone different than you. 

Back to Bauya

            When we reached Moyamba Junction, I started to believe. A bustling, rumbling, colorful place, this junction was my connection point to the rest of Sierra Leone – west to Freetown and the North and east to Bo and the South. Seeing the familiar sites of traders selling vegetables, fruits, and basic wares brought to me a sense of familiarity. Interestingly, this was a place I didn't used to like to linger because of the hustle, but this time I felt an urge to get out and greet.

            We passed without stopping and turned south off the paved highway, that connects the major cities of the country, and continued on the dirt road leading to Moyamba town. The first several miles are maintained by a mining company located many miles away, near the coast. Daring okada (motorcycle taxi) riders and taxi drivers whiz their passengers down this stretch, knowing a snails pace will resume once they reach the un-maintained part. Thankfully, this is the end of the dry season, so the car deep potholes that dot the road are not filled with water. Like an expert mogul skier scouting his line, we snaked our way around the holes following the path of least resistance until we reached the old colonial iron bridge marking the beginning of town.

            Moyamba was as I left it, a small town on the cusp of something more. Familiar faces still manned the shops I used to patrol. The woman at the junction where I would go to buy raw eggs, my Fullah friend Mohamed who sells school supplies, Abubakar, the shoe seller with his infectious grin and boisterous laugh, all greeted me warmly as an old friend. I stepped out of IB Jalloh's big corner shop right into the arms of a sister of a former teacher. We greeted with a big smile and assured each other of our family's health. Seconds later a former student, astride an okada as usual, sent his greetings as he passed. It was almost as if I hadn't left...almost.

            Before heading to Bauya, I went to greet my old neighbors who have a house in Moyamba. I stepped out of the car and was immediately met with a big group hug and loud cheers. The kids were all grown and anxious to hear stories from America. Magdalene, who was a new born when I arrived, was walking and talking like a pro. After a few hours keeping time we waved goodbye and made our way out of town. Old memories flooded back as we crawled along the Bauya road. Memories of biking and pondering, of long views and throngs of excited kids, of the feeling of returning home. Each passing view, drenched in nostalgia, tugged at the knot in my chest.

            As we crossed the last bridge and started climbing the hill leading into Bauya a big grin peeled my cheeks wide. After almost twenty months of uncertainty, worrying, and waiting, I had finally made it back to Bauya. My neighborhood bobos cheered and swarmed me as I got out of the car. Mohamed and Granny, hand in hand with matching grins, ran up to me and gave me a big hug. I could barely hold it together. My heart was full.

            I dropped my bags off and walked to go greet the chief with my friend Joseph and acting principal, Mr Blango. In Sierra Leone it is customary to greet the elders of the village when you visit after an extended period of being away. First on the list was my Paramount Chief, the head of Kongbora Chiefdom, of which Bauya is the headquarter town. He was asleep so we continued our rounds, greeting the Reverend and other members of the community connected with the school. As we walked I heard continuous calls of “Balayma, buwa!” from each house. By the end of the rounds a typical posse of kids had formed to accompany us along our way.

            At Joseph's house, the warm afternoon hours drifted by in a hammock, under the mango tree, poyo (palm wine) glass in hand. The conversation ebbed and flowed with the breeze, trading stories of my time in Bauya and the time since I left. As the dry season dusk descended the western sky turned a surreal burnt orange. The heat of the day lingered into the night. Old friends and neighbors gathered on Joseph’s veranda to enjoy cassava leaf plassas (sauce) over rice, new Salone beats, and of course poyo - from God to Man. We laughed and danced together into the night as if no time had passed.

            The next morning we greeted the Paramount Chief and the Chiefdom Imam (local Muslim leader). They spoke highly of our time together and expressed their gratitude for my return visit. We parted ways with the promise of a continued connection. Later, I met with the principal and stakeholders in the school to discuss the future of the school. All were enthusiastic about continuing to work with Peace Corps.

            From there a typical Bauya day unfolded. I strolled around the neighborhood, greeting old friends, a growing throng of children multiplying around me. After making my rounds, I posted up under the mango tree again to keep time with Joseph. The conversation inevitably shifted to time we'd been apart. He spoke candidly and bravely about the hardships of Ebola and how the threat of the disease constantly had loomed over everyday life. He shared with me stories of uncertainty and fear that reminded me, while on the surface, life in Bauya appeared to be back to normal, a great trauma had taken place in Sierra Leone.

            That evening we took a walk down to the watasay (creek), greeting old friends along the way. I was reminded of the times I crossed the foot bridge to go help my friends in the fields. When we took time in the evening to cool down in the stream after a long days work. At the height of the dry season, the water was at its lowest level. I looked upstream and imagined the banks swelling with the coming rains and the kids who would come to play in the deep pools. I admired the large cotton trees that still lined the bank, holding the erosion back. A chain saw buzzed in the distance, reminding me that the the future of this tranquil place was not guaranteed. Later we returned to Joseph's house, ate pepe (pepper) soup with goat meat, and drank a few more cups of poyo.

            I left the next morning feeling completely content. I was thankful that my friends and family were safe. The fragile belief that I would return, the belief that I had nursed for so many months, had finally come true. In a small way I felt I lived up to my name, Balayma – Don't forget. Ngelema - I will not forget.