DR Congo: “That tiny pink coffin stayed with me”

The other day, while we were driving, my eyes fell upon a tiny, pink coffin. Here, you often see coffins on the side of the road, displayed side by side, in all colors and sizes. Large, small, plain, colorful. Ready to be sold.  

It was so small it almost looked like a toy. I thought that, sooner or later, a child would lie in it. That little pink coffin has stayed with me ever since. 

Not numbers but people 

It has been more than 3 months since the Ebola outbreak was declared in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. More than 6,000 confirmed cases. Over 3,000 people have died. Figures that, read like this, seem almost unreal and risk becoming mere statistic. But behind every number there is a name. A home. A mother. A father. A child. A family waiting for someone who will never return. 

We carry on washing our hands. Once. Twice. Ten times. Countless times. Before going in, after coming out, after touching something, after speaking to someone. And yet, even when our hands are clean, the feeling remains that we are still stained. 

Stained with fear, with what we have seen, with the realization that all it takes is one mistake, one touch, one moment of distraction for the virus to enter our lives. 

Inside the yellow protective suit, you sweat – a lot. The heat becomes stifling, breathing feels hard, the gloves stick to your hands until they become like a second skin. Every gesture must be precise; every movement controlled. Every time we enter the high-risk area, we know that we aren’t simply wearing protective gear: we’re trying to protect ourselves whilst trying to save someone else. 

The real meaning of Ebola disease 

It’s hard to put into words what Ebola disease really means. What I do know is that it’s not just a virus. It’s the terror in the eyes of a sick person. It’s the distance that suddenly becomes necessary, even between a mother and her child. It’s a family that can no longer embrace their loved ones. It’s a phone call made knowing it might be the last. 

Jean Louis was 64 years old; he was a teacher and had a beautiful family. 

His wife died first; the virus passed on to him and their two daughters. Then came the days of illness: diarrhea, weakness, his body slowly giving way and, finally: bleeding. 

By then, Jean Louis realized he was going to die. 

He asked for his phone to be charged. He wanted to say goodbye to his family, put his affairs in order, and say the things he’d perhaps never thought he’d have to say so soon. 

Then he called his granddaughters. They had also tested positive and were in the next room. He said goodbye. A few hours later, he died. 

A few days later, his youngest daughter died too. She was only 20 years old. Twenty years. 

At that age life should be about dreams and love and plans for the future. 

Ebola disease kills about half of those who contract it. Among the most vulnerable are young people, the elderly and pregnant women.  

When you see a young girl die, collapsing to the ground, every statistic vanishes. It happened a few days ago: she was young, far too young. At that moment, there were no more percentages, numbers, graphs or press releases – just a life coming to an end. 

Life does not stop during an epidemic 

Whilst we try to contain the virus, people continue to live – accompanied by the fear of the virus. You carry on moving about, working, going to the market, taking the children to school, and taking care of food and water. 

Because even during an epidemic, life does not stop. And from afar that is perhaps the hardest thing to understand. 

The Democratic Republic of the Congo is not just about Ebola disease. It is a vast country, with communities that have already endured years of violence, instability and hardship. In many areas, trust is fragile and fear can turn into suspicion rather fast. 

Trust is key 

Convincing someone to go to a treatment centre, to be isolated, to let themselves be cared for by someone wearing a yellow protective suit and a mask – a figure that barely looks human, is no easy task. 

That is why the response to an epidemic cannot be purely medical. We need people, resources, a willingness to listen, and trust. We need teams capable of entering communities and standing by the people. We need facilities, supplies, training, psychological support, prevention and communication. 

We at Médecins Sans Frontières are here for this very reason: to treat, protect, train, support and help contain this epidemic. 

But no organization can do this alone. 

The whole world should be talking about the Democratic Republic of the Congo. 

The whole world should be talking about this Ebola outbreak. Not to fuel panic, but to raise awareness. Not to turn suffering into images to be consumed quickly, but to inspire empathy and solidarity with the people who are living through this outbreak. 

We need funds and resources to continue treating the sick, protecting healthcare workers, preventing new infections, and reaching the most remote communities. 

Let’s not let them become mere numbers 

Those more than 6,000 confirmed cases are more than 6.000 individual stories. Those more than 2,900 deaths are more than 3,000 people who are missed: people who loved, worked, felt fear and joy, made plans, raised children and imagined the future. 

Let’s not let them become mere numbers. 

I carry on washing my hands, putting on gloves, and sweating inside that yellow protective suit. I keep feeling that, however much I protect myself, I’m never quite safe enough. 

And I keep thinking about that little pink coffin by the roadside. 

I wonder how many more we’ll see. 

How many children. 

How many mothers. 

How many fathers. 

How many Jean Louis. 

How many girls far too young. 

More than three months since the of Ebola outbreak is already too long. And this epidemic cannot be just the problem of those of us here. 

An international collective response is needed. We’re all needed. Now.