Wednesday April 09, Kindu. The polio vaccination campaign has just started, to the great satisfaction of the local authorities. Mussa Kabwankubi, the governor of the Maniema province, shows almost contagious faith in the future of the youngest, promising to immunize more than 400,000 children. On paper, it’s pretty: a motorized caravan, a small show of mobilization. But below the surface, the burning question remains: why are only six zones out of the 18 of the province affected by this campaign? Strangely, this dissonance between the displayed ambition and the reality on the ground deserves to dwell on it.
The governor fervently urges parents to prepare their children to receive this saving vaccine, brandishing the future of the next generation as an unshakable promise. However, in this beautiful declaration of intentions, one cannot help discern a subtext. Who exactly will this door to door pass? Vaccinators who, despite good will, are often plagued by insufficient resources, or, worse, logistical challenges that are similar to a crossing of the desert?
The tragedy of eradication of preventable diseases by vaccination is not simply limited to the act of injecting a serum. It is a constant fight – a fight against mistrust, ignorance, and the weight of traditions. In 2023, it seems that we still have to justify the importance of vaccination, a subject that is debated in different corners of the world, not only in Kinshasa, but also in the more global debates of a society where conspiracy and disinformation swarm. Moreover, despite the goodwill of the authorities, part of the population still seems hesitant, with parents who, rightly or wrongly, fear for the health of their children, influenced by rumors of side effects or by distrust of health services.
Does the motorized caravan, symbol of the commitment of the authorities, really has the desired scope? In other words, will that be enough to convince skeptics to get out of their home and open their doors to vaccinators and vaccinators who, too, need to feel supported and not as messengers of a barely audible message? A barely veiled reality, like a mute cry in the dusty alleys of Kindu.
And then there is this persistent question of development partners. Yes, they are there, we need it, but for how long? Could their promises of support be as present as ephemeral? Why does this support seem as random as a coin launched in a fountain? The results of the commitment of international partners remains mixed, oscillating between optimism and a latent disenchantment. Can we really rely on this external aid to have public health in local practices permanently, and therefore, perpetuate a vital initiative like this?
There is a paradox to elucidate. While we take care to recall the importance of the eradication of polio, we often come to a bitter observation: the fight also involves continuous alert on prevention, education of communities and the establishment of perennial structures. Combating polio is also to stop tenacious myths and institutional inertia which sometimes suffocate any initiative on the ground.
Finally, this vaccination campaign, which could be your heroic act of everyday life, is not just a simple administrative gesture, it is the echo of hope, but also the heartbeat of a health system in search of rehabilitation. 80 years after the appearance of the antipoliomyelitic vaccine, here in Kindu, everything remains to be proven in the face of the rough realities of a world which sometimes seems to ignore the fragile balance of fulfillment and survival. Children deserve a chance; It’s up to us to live up to this challenge.