AFP, Monrovia :
Heavily pregnant when she died, Fatimah Jakemah is lifted unceremoniously by experts in biohazard suits and zipped into a body bag, another practically anonymous victim of the world’s worst ever Ebola outbreak.
There isn’t time to ask about her life story or reflect on the family she may have left behind as the Red Cross team disinfects everything she might have touched and moves onto the next house.
“She was 20 years old and this was her first time getting pregnant,” says Gaimu Paul, one of Fatimah’s neighbours in Banjor, a slum on the outskirts of Liberia’s capital, Monrovia.
“When she got sick, the neighbours fled the area and no one knows where they have gone.”
Paul says Fatimah spent days shouting for help before her cries eventually went silent.
“She wanted drink, food, but we were afraid to go closer. Whenever you go close to an Ebola patient to help, the community rejects you.” In the centre of the west African Ebola outbreak, there is no dignity in death, no farewell, no funeral ; just body bags, biohazard suits and millions of gallons of disinfectant.
The tropical virus, transmitted through contact with infected bodily fluids, has killed 2,100 people in four countries since the start of the year, more than half of them in Liberia.
Amid fears that the country’s already weak healthcare system could be close to collapse, teams of Red Cross workers have taken on the grim task of going door-to-door, picking up
victims and sterilising their homes. The Red Cross medical team has come to Banjor to collect two bodies, but it is soon apparent that there are more. Community chief John Yarngroble shows team leader Kiyea Friday to the next tin and wood hut after they have bagged up Fatimah.
Fatoma Amadu, who is sick but not yet dead, is sprawled across the doorway in the entrance porch, his breathing laboured. Two nurses in biohazard suits step over him to get into the house, where they are expecting to find an old woman’s body.
But they come out after a few minutes and tell their boss that she too is still alive.
“We are here only to pick up bodies. Before you call us make sure the person is dead. Those who are responsible for the sick people are different,” Friday chides Yarngroble.
Yarngroble is trying to be polite and professional but tears run down his cheeks as he responds.
“OK, sir. When they die we will call you again. Thank you for coming.”
Heavily pregnant when she died, Fatimah Jakemah is lifted unceremoniously by experts in biohazard suits and zipped into a body bag, another practically anonymous victim of the world’s worst ever Ebola outbreak.
There isn’t time to ask about her life story or reflect on the family she may have left behind as the Red Cross team disinfects everything she might have touched and moves onto the next house.
“She was 20 years old and this was her first time getting pregnant,” says Gaimu Paul, one of Fatimah’s neighbours in Banjor, a slum on the outskirts of Liberia’s capital, Monrovia.
“When she got sick, the neighbours fled the area and no one knows where they have gone.”
Paul says Fatimah spent days shouting for help before her cries eventually went silent.
“She wanted drink, food, but we were afraid to go closer. Whenever you go close to an Ebola patient to help, the community rejects you.” In the centre of the west African Ebola outbreak, there is no dignity in death, no farewell, no funeral ; just body bags, biohazard suits and millions of gallons of disinfectant.
The tropical virus, transmitted through contact with infected bodily fluids, has killed 2,100 people in four countries since the start of the year, more than half of them in Liberia.
Amid fears that the country’s already weak healthcare system could be close to collapse, teams of Red Cross workers have taken on the grim task of going door-to-door, picking up
victims and sterilising their homes. The Red Cross medical team has come to Banjor to collect two bodies, but it is soon apparent that there are more. Community chief John Yarngroble shows team leader Kiyea Friday to the next tin and wood hut after they have bagged up Fatimah.
Fatoma Amadu, who is sick but not yet dead, is sprawled across the doorway in the entrance porch, his breathing laboured. Two nurses in biohazard suits step over him to get into the house, where they are expecting to find an old woman’s body.
But they come out after a few minutes and tell their boss that she too is still alive.
“We are here only to pick up bodies. Before you call us make sure the person is dead. Those who are responsible for the sick people are different,” Friday chides Yarngroble.
Yarngroble is trying to be polite and professional but tears run down his cheeks as he responds.
“OK, sir. When they die we will call you again. Thank you for coming.”
