Point of view from those effected by Ebola
By: Wendy Samayoa
Kya's Journal Entry's
By: Wendy Samayoa
November 11, 2014
The sudden growing crisis has spread to most Western African nations. It’s getting closer and closer to us. We have refrained from our usual greetings and engaged in sheer awkwardness with our friends. Even though we have been told that the Ebola virus is not airborne, the presence of its existence threatens our very sanity. My family and I have been avoiding coughs or signs of sickness for months now. It’s harder now that Ebola is said to have been “officially” spread to our country. It’s harder not to panic, harder to suppress the fear. I hear the rumors that Ebola is a trick from the government to steal blood from people. This notion frightens me further; not because I believe it, but because less people will now take it seriously. My neighbors and I have shortened our greeting to a smile and ,on good days, a wave. I hope the doctors can soon find a cure so I can be me again.
November 16, 2014
I have begun coughing and have extreme headaches every now and then. It is most likely a simple cold that can be treated with time. I have protected myself so thoroughly from the virus and become a complete germaphobe, there is no possible way I could have Ebola. My family has fed me and cleansed me for I have become too weak. My family and I know that with a single touch they could become infected, but that's for Ebola I only have a cold.
November 18, 2014
The World Health Organization came earlier this morning. They came due to the suspicion of our discreet neighbors. I hid in the small closet hidden at the back of our home. I withheld my throat's exasperated cry as the men asked my family of anyone that has shown any signs of sickness. The men were sent away promptly with the credence that everyone was fine.
November 19, 2014
They've come for me; I've traveled to the treatment center and am now waiting for treatment. My body is racked with pain; death is coming, but it seems already upon me. This notebook is all I have from home, my notebook and the infected clothes on my back. Victims they call us, of an unfortunate situation; with pain we can barely endure, and others can not fathom. My family is at home, I have probably infected them when they so dearly tried to care for my innocent cold. I am writing for no purpose now, for when I die they’ll burn this journal and every contaminant it has. My words will not comfort my children, this I fear is worst of all.
The Last Time
By: Sarah Humphery
My eyes flew open at the sound of painful heaving in the next room. My eyes blinked away the sleep as I slowly scanned my room for any signs of something out of the ordinary. It didn't look like there was anything wrong, but I knew in my heart that this day would not be a good one. The sun was shining through the spaces in my torn shades. Their once blue hue turned grey and brown form their years of abuse. If the sun was up that meant I was late for my morning chores. It was my turn to fetch water from the well in our little wooden pail. Momma and Papa always made sure I was up before the sun, but they were no where to be seen. Something had to be off. I rose sluggishly from my straw bed and trudged across the dirt floor of the bedroom I shared with my five siblings. When I reached my destination I retrieved some relatively fresh cloths from the drawer we all shared. None of the others had awaken yet, so I took it upon myself to locate Momma and Papa.
I followed the sound of heaving and what I thought was vomiting for a short time. It was easy to find its origins in my family’s little shack. I crept up to the bedroom door and peered inside to see what was the matter, but what I saw then was the most horrendous scene I had ever seen. Pools of what looked like blackened blood lay strewn across the floor and the smell of death wafted from the room. I couldn't figure out what was going on. Did someone die? I kept asking that question to myself praying no one did when I saw a sickly and feeble women lurch forward on her sickbed. She leaned over the side of her bed and tried to aim for a plastic bag, but missed horribly as she began coughing in the most terrible way. It sounded try and painful, like it had been overused and could no longer function properly. Then the sound changed to something more dreadful, like a lethal gush of water and the splattering of a large puddle. The woman began vomiting what I decided was pools of blood across the floor. There were people in the room trying to help her, but even I knew there was no hope. Not only was her vomit blood, but it was a black blood, a sign of certain death. She held her head in her hands when she had a long enough pause between her fits and cried out in pain with each breath she took. I felt like I knew the woman, she seems eerily familiar, but I couldn’t figure out where from. That’s when I saw Papa at her bedside, holding the woman’s hand in his own. I’d never seen him look so fragile, as if his whole world was crumbling around him. That’s when it finally hit me.
“Mamma!” I yelled, running across the room to her side. People tried to stop me, but I was able to easily maneuver around them.
“Sanje no!” My father screamed at me, but it was too late. I had already taken mother’s hand and placed it in my own, blood splatters and all.
“Mamma! What happened Mamma?” I began to cry into her hands, unable to control be gripping fears that I may lose her. “Will you get better?”
“Shh. Hush now baby, Mamma’s going to be alright now, she just has to go away for a little while so she can get better, that’s all. Now listen here son, you be good for your father, you hear? He’s going to need your help while I’m away okay? I may not be able to come back for a while sweetie, look after your brothers and sisters while I’m gone, okay?” She smiled a weak smile and laid her body back down on the bed.
I couldn’t control it any more, tears streamed down my face and went to give Mamma a hug, but I was stopped abruptly. Someone was holding me back. I twisted around enough in their grip so that I could see their face, but they had none. They wore goggles and abnormal suits and masks. It didn’t know what these creatures were, but I knew they frightened me. I watched in horror as these strange beings carried Mamma out of the room. She gave me one last, painful look as she was carried out of her home.
“Mamma!” I screamed, calling her name with all my might. I twisted out of the frightening man’s grip and began running towards the door, but ran into Papa instead. He embraced me and I slumped against his shoulders as he kneeled in front of me.
“It’ll be alright Sanje, she’ll be back, I promise. She’s just sick, that’s all. These men will make her all better and then she can come home.”
I loved Papa for being so brave, but I knew Mamma would not get better. That was the last time I would see her alive, I knew, and I didn't even get to hold her one last time.
A Burial Worker
By: Lindsey Mapes
We are called the burial boys. We are covered head to toe in plastic, if we are lucky. Other times we only have gloves to protect ourselves from the wretched virus. We have to stuff, shove and wrap the bodies in sheets and plastic body bags and put them on the stretcher. Next we have to take the corpse to a nearby clearing and begin to dig. We must do this quickly because some of the villagers get angry with us. Since we took away their family members and they wanted to do a traditional funeral for them, sadly they can not because during our funerals we touch the body which will only spread the virus more.Often villagers will follow us and begin to yell at us and threaten us. We have to continue with the burial because we know it will benefit everyone in the end.
We are a group of men trying to help our country , but we hardly ever receive appreciation from anyone. We have been abandoned by our families because they believe that the virus is a hoax and is just a way for Doctors to get our blood. We continue on though , for our country. Hopefully one day after the virus has been conquered, people will realize what we have done for them and finally we can be appreciated for what we have done.