We are facing a double war: one of weapons and another of disease
In the eastern Democratic Republic of Congo, a seventeenth Ebola outbreak has taken hold under conditions that seem designed to defeat any response — a rare strain without approved treatment, hospitals stripped of isolation capacity, and communities caught between armed militants and a virus that kills with terrifying efficiency. The outbreak is not merely a medical emergency but a convergence of war, poverty, cultural rupture, and institutional abandonment, unfolding in a region where the infrastructure of survival has already been dismantled. As cases approach 750 and the virus crosses into Uganda, the world is once again confronted with the question of whether global solidarity can outpace the compounding failures that allow such crises to spiral beyond reach.
- A rare Bundibugyo strain — with no approved vaccine or treatment — is spreading through a region where more than half of health facilities have been damaged by years of armed conflict.
- Hospitals have run out of isolation beds entirely, and eighteen suspected Ebola patients are now missing after residents attacked and burned part of a treatment center in Mongbwalu, driven by fear and resentment of burial restrictions.
- Cultural funeral practices and the simple act of a handshake have become vectors of transmission, while authorities struggle to enforce protocols that feel, to many residents, like an assault on their identity and grief.
- The outbreak has already crossed into Uganda, with contact tracing underway for patients who may have fled across the border, as aid organizations warn that international intervention is the only thing that can prevent wider regional spread.
- Funding cuts to U.S. foreign aid have left organizations like Alima and Mercy Corps severely under-resourced, and field coordinators are saying plainly that the situation is far from under control.
The Democratic Republic of Congo is enduring its seventeenth Ebola outbreak, and it is deteriorating faster than any response can match. Suspected cases have climbed toward 750, isolation beds have been exhausted, and patients are fleeing treatment centers in fear. Rose Tchwenko of Mercy Corps has described the pace as deeply worrying, warning that without urgent international action, the virus will push beyond Congo's borders — and it already has, reaching Uganda.
The strain driving the outbreak is Bundibugyo, for which no approved vaccine or treatment exists. The eastern DRC, where cases are concentrated, offers no buffer against this: more than half of health facilities in North and South Kivu have been damaged or destroyed by years of conflict, and a recent Allied Democratic Forces attack in Ituri province killed at least seventeen people. One resident, Zawadi Jeanne, who lost her brother and uncle to earlier violence, put it plainly: "We are facing a double war: one of weapons and another of disease outbreak."
Containment efforts have collided with deep cultural resistance. Authorities have banned traditional funeral practices and limited gatherings to fifty people, but the restrictions have bred suspicion. In Mongbwalu, residents attacked and burned part of an Ebola treatment center — the second such attack in a week — and eighteen suspected patients fled into surrounding communities. They remain missing. Even the handshake, a gesture of respect woven into daily life, has become a source of anxiety. Jackson Lubula, a resident of Bunia, now washes his hands with soap after every greeting. "A small mistake can cost you dearly," he said.
Behind all of this is a funding crisis. Cuts to U.S. foreign aid have left organizations severely under-resourced. Hama Amado of the Alima aid group has said the situation is far from under control. With fatality rates ranging from twenty-five to ninety percent, and with hospitals damaged, staff depleted, and patients afraid to seek care, the trajectory is grim. This outbreak is still in its early weeks, but without a rapid shift in resources, security, and community trust, it will not be contained.
The Democratic Republic of Congo is in the grip of its seventeenth Ebola outbreak, and the situation is deteriorating faster than health systems can respond. As of late May, suspected cases had climbed toward 750, hospitals had exhausted their isolation beds, and patients were abandoning treatment centers in fear and confusion. The speed of the spread has alarmed aid organizations working on the ground. Rose Tchwenko of Mercy Corps described the outbreak's pace as deeply worrying, emphasizing that without urgent international intervention, the virus would likely push across borders and into neighboring countries.
The outbreak is being driven by a particularly difficult strain—Bundibugyo—for which no approved vaccine or treatment exists. This alone would be catastrophic in a well-resourced setting. But the eastern Democratic Republic of Congo, where the outbreak is concentrated, is neither well-resourced nor stable. The region has been ravaged by armed conflict for years. More than half of health facilities in North and South Kivu have been damaged or destroyed. Nearly half of the remaining facilities are operating with severe staff shortages, a crisis that deepened after January 2025 as violence intensified. In Ituri province, a recent attack by the Allied Democratic Forces, a militant group originally from Uganda, killed at least seventeen people and further destabilized the region. For residents caught between these two catastrophes, the experience is surreal and unbearable. Zawadi Jeanne, who lost her brother and uncle in an earlier attack, told journalists: "We are facing a double war: one of weapons and another of disease outbreak."
Cultural practices are making containment nearly impossible. Families in the region have long prepared their dead for burial themselves and held funeral wakes as part of their mourning rituals. Authorities, trying to prevent transmission through contaminated bodies, have banned these practices entirely and ordered that only specialist teams handle burials. They have also limited public gatherings to fifty people. But these restrictions have bred resentment and suspicion. In Mongbwalu, angry residents attacked and burned part of an Ebola treatment center—the second such attack in a week. During the chaos, eighteen patients with suspected Ebola fled. They are now missing, and health officials fear they will spread the virus further as they move through communities seeking shelter and care elsewhere.
The outbreak has already crossed into Uganda. Officials in Rwampara are now working to trace patients who may have fled across the border and to identify anyone they may have contacted. A local chief blamed the resistance on young people who do not understand the disease's danger, but the problem runs deeper. Handshakes are woven into the fabric of local culture—a gesture of respect and connection. Jackson Lubula, a resident of Bunia, has begun washing his hands with soap after every greeting, acutely aware that a single lapse could be fatal. "A small mistake can cost you dearly," he said. For a population asked to abandon fundamental social rituals in the name of survival, compliance is fragile.
Funding has become another critical constraint. International aid organizations are operating with major shortages, largely because of cuts to U.S. foreign aid. Hama Amado, a field coordinator for the Alima aid group in Bunia, has said plainly that much more action is needed and that the situation remains far from under control. The Ebola virus itself is unforgiving—fatality rates range from twenty-five to ninety percent depending on the strain and access to care. In a region where isolation beds are gone, where hospitals are damaged, where staff are fleeing, and where patients are afraid to seek treatment, those odds are grim. The outbreak is still in its early weeks, but the trajectory is clear: without a rapid shift in resources, security, and community trust, this outbreak will not be contained to the Democratic Republic of Congo.
Citas Notables
The speed of this Ebola outbreak is deeply worrying, and urgent international support is needed.— Rose Tchwenko, Mercy Corps
We are facing a double war: one of weapons and another of disease outbreak.— Zawadi Jeanne, DRC resident
A small mistake can cost you dearly.— Jackson Lubula, Bunia resident
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why are people fleeing treatment centers if Ebola is so deadly? Shouldn't they want to be there?
They're fleeing because the centers feel like traps. Authorities are also controlling burials—families can't prepare bodies the way they've always done. When you add that to armed conflict in the same region, people lose faith that any institution can help them. Fear of the disease gets tangled up with fear of authority.
The Bundibugyo strain has no vaccine. How do you even fight that?
Right now, you don't fight it with medicine. You fight it with isolation, careful handling of the dead, and preventing contact between sick and healthy people. But all of that requires trust, resources, and stability. This region has none of those things.
The article mentions a "double war." What does that mean exactly?
Armed groups like the ADF are actively killing people in the same areas where Ebola is spreading. So a family might lose someone to gunfire one week and to Ebola the next. The conflict has also destroyed hospitals and scattered health workers. You can't contain a disease when the infrastructure that contains it is in ruins.
Why does the U.S. foreign aid cut matter so much here?
Because the organizations actually on the ground—Mercy Corps, Alima, the Red Cross—depend on that funding to operate. Without it, they can't hire enough staff, can't buy enough supplies, can't reach enough people. A funding shortage in Washington becomes a shortage of isolation beds in Bunia.
The handshake detail—is that really a major factor in spread?
It's one of many. But yes, if handshakes are how you greet someone, and you're being told not to touch anyone, you're being asked to stop being yourself. That creates resistance. People will shake hands anyway, or they'll avoid health workers entirely because the whole thing feels unnatural and threatening.