God is great, I am well now
In the forests of Ituri province, where more than 170 lives have been lost to a rare strain of Ebola, the act of a man walking out of a treatment center alive carries a weight far beyond one person's survival. Communities in northeastern Congo had long been shaped by myth, memory of past outbreaks, and a deep distrust of the very institutions meant to save them — but witnessed recoveries are slowly rewriting that story. The work of healing here is not only medical; it is a patient negotiation between science and belief, between fear and the fragile possibility of trust.
- A rare Bundibugyo strain of Ebola has killed over 170 people in Ituri province, with evidence it circulated undetected for months before authorities could respond.
- Misinformation — including a 'coffin curse' myth and memories of treatment centers being burned in a 2018 outbreak — drove people away from care, and an Ebola tent in Mongbwalu was set on fire as recently as May 21.
- The recoveries of a pastor and a subsistence farmer, both walking out of Mongbwalu hospital alive, are visibly shifting community behavior, with more residents now seeking treatment rather than turning to traditional medicine.
- A newly installed on-site laboratory has cut test result times from over a week to a single day, removing a critical window during which infected people unknowingly spread the virus.
- Health officials warn that contact tracing remains dangerously incomplete, and without finding those still unaccounted for, the cautious momentum building in these communities could quickly unravel.
In a hospital courtyard in northeastern Congo, healthcare workers broke into song as Daniel Kitambala — a 49-year-old farmer — walked free after three weeks in an Ebola treatment center. Two negative tests confirmed he was clear of the virus. He raised his hands three times. The moment was small and enormous at once.
The outbreak in Ituri province, declared just over a month ago, has killed more than 170 people — roughly one in five of those confirmed infected with the rare Bundibugyo strain. But the virus may have been spreading undetected for months before it was identified. What makes Kitambala's survival matter is not only that he lived, but that he can now tell his neighbors that living is possible.
That message has been desperately needed. Since February, when deaths from an unidentified illness began mounting, local mythology had filled the vacuum of uncertainty. A story spread that a broken and burned coffin had unleashed a curse on the community. Treatment centers were seen not as places of healing but as sources of danger. Some residents remembered the 2018–2020 outbreak in neighboring North Kivu, where centers had been attacked. The Mongbwalu treatment tent was set on fire on May 21.
Yet something has shifted. A pastor named Deogratias Kasereka was the first patient to walk out alive, and Kitambala followed. The hospital's medical director has noticed more people arriving to seek care. A new on-site laboratory — installed just a fortnight ago — now returns results within a day rather than the week-plus delay that had previously kept infected people in their communities while they waited. The mayor has been calling community leaders, explaining symptoms, urging people not to hide their illness.
At a second treatment center in Rwampara, a woman named Mireille Gahindo sits behind thick glass, separated from visitors by two meters. She brought her 11-month-old son in with fever and diarrhea; when he began bleeding from the mouth, she came to the Ebola center. Both tested positive. Both are improving. She thinks about her two older children waiting at home. At the entrance, a man named Eli Asimwe Bawere visits his sister, brother, and stepmother — all admitted. His mother and sister-in-law have already died. 'We have mourned a lot,' he said. 'We don't want to mourn any more.'
Five healthcare workers have died in this outbreak, and the recoveries, however luminous, remain fragile. The critical challenge ahead is contact tracing — reaching everyone an infected person has encountered before the virus moves further. Health officials have warned that many contacts are still unaccounted for. The hope gathering in Mongbwalu and Rwampara is real, but it is not yet safe.
In a hospital courtyard in northeastern Congo, a dozen healthcare workers in green scrubs broke into song as Daniel Kitambala walked out between lines of orange netting. The 49-year-old subsistence farmer had spent three weeks inside the Ebola treatment centre in Mongbwalu, and two negative tests meant he was free of the virus. He raised his hands in the air three times—a victory salute, a prayer of thanks. "That disease is terrible," he told the BBC, still beaming. "But God is great, I am well now."
It is an odd thing to witness celebration in a place where more than 170 people have died. The outbreak, declared just over a month ago in Ituri province, has killed roughly one in five of those confirmed infected with the rare Bundibugyo strain of Ebola. But the virus may have been circulating undetected for months before authorities recognized it. What makes Kitambala's recovery significant is not just that he survived—it is that he is alive to tell people in his community that survival is possible.
When Kitambala first fell ill, he did what many people in Congo do: he tried traditional medicine. He had visited a sick neighbor to pray for him, and shortly afterward developed symptoms himself. Only when his condition worsened did he go to the hospital. His recovery matters because it contradicts a narrative that has been poisoning the outbreak response since February, when deaths from an unidentified illness began mounting. Local mythology blamed the deaths on a "coffin curse"—a story that began when a family transporting a body from the provincial capital broke their coffin on the road, then burned it. The community decided the burning had unleashed something terrible. When treatment centres were built, many people believed they were the problem, not the solution. Some remembered the 2018-2020 outbreak in neighboring North Kivu, where treatment centres had been attacked and burned. Why would they trust these places now?
On May 21, the tent set up to treat Ebola patients at Mongbwalu hospital was set on fire. But the hospital's medical director, Dr. Richard Lukodu, has seen something shift since the first patient recovered a week before Kitambala. "More people are coming here now seeking treatment," Lukodu said. A pastor named Deogratias Kasereka was the first to walk out alive. His recovery, and now Kitambala's, are slowly eroding the distrust that misinformation had built.
The hospital's new laboratory, installed a fortnight ago, has helped. Before, suspected cases had to be sent to Bunia, the provincial capital two and a half hours away, and results took more than a week. The delay meant people stayed in the community, potentially spreading the virus, while waiting to know if they were infected. Now results come back within a day. The mayor of Mongbwalu, Sesereki Mandro Israel, has been calling community leaders to explain symptoms and encourage people to seek treatment rather than hide their illness. At the worst point, seven to ten people were dying daily. The pace has slowed.
At the treatment centre in Rwampara, a second town at the outbreak's heart, a woman named Mireille Gahindo sits behind thick glass, speaking to visitors across a two-meter barrier. She brought her 11-month-old child to a local hospital with fever and diarrhea. When he began bleeding from the mouth, she brought him to the Ebola centre. Both tested positive. Both are improving. She cannot leave yet—Ebola patients must test negative twice before discharge—but she is thinking about her two older children waiting at home, aged five and two and a half. "I feel very happy," she said. "I'm looking forward to going back home."
At the entrance, a man named Eli Asimwe Bawere stood visiting his older sister and brother, both admitted. His stepmother was there too. "We have already lost our mother and sister-in-law," he told the BBC. "We have mourned a lot. We don't want to mourn any more." So many people in Ituri know someone who has died. Videos and photographs circulate on social media showing families torn apart.
But the recoveries are fragile hope. Five healthcare workers have died here, and several more infected are still being treated. The real test ahead is contact tracing—finding everyone an infected person has been near and testing them before the virus spreads further. Health officials have warned that many contacts are still being missed. Until they are found, the optimism building in Mongbwalu and Rwampara may not last.
Notable Quotes
More people are coming here now seeking treatment after witnessing the first patient recovered and returned home— Dr. Richard Lukodu, medical director of Mongbwalu hospital
We have already lost our mother and sister-in-law. We have mourned a lot. We don't want to mourn any more— Eli Asimwe Bawere, visiting family members at the treatment centre
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why does one person walking out of a hospital matter so much in an outbreak that has killed over 170?
Because in a place where people believe treatment centres are cursed, where they've been burned before, a living survivor is the most powerful argument you can make. Kitambala didn't just recover—he recovered publicly, in front of his community. That changes what people believe is possible.
The "coffin curse" sounds like something from another era. How did that myth take hold so quickly?
It started with a real event—a broken coffin, a body being transported home. But the community had already been dying from something they didn't understand for months before anyone identified it as Ebola. Fear fills the gaps where information should be. A burned coffin became an explanation that made sense to them.
The hospital got a laboratory two weeks ago. That seems like a small thing.
It's not small at all. Before, people waited over a week for test results while potentially spreading the virus. Now it's a day. That's the difference between people hiding their symptoms and people coming forward. It's the difference between control and chaos.
What happens to someone like Mireille Gahindo after she leaves? Does she go back to normal?
She goes back to her children, but she's survived something that killed one in five people who caught it. Her community will see her alive. That matters. But she also has to live knowing her 11-month-old was that close to death. That doesn't disappear.
The article ends on a warning about contact tracing. Why is that the real problem now?
Because you can celebrate recoveries, you can build trust, you can get people to come to hospitals—but if you don't find everyone who's been exposed, the virus keeps spreading in the background. All the progress becomes temporary.