“Kapchorwa’s a small town in East Uganda,” Charlotte said, “roughly twenty-four miles from the border with Kenya. Only a few thousand people lived in the town then, but many more from the surrounding villages visited each month for the open-air market and hospital.
“This was 1991,” she continued. “We were just realizing how bad HIV/AIDS was then. The virus had gone undetected for decades. It was spreading quickly in the late eighties and early nineties. Millions around the world were infected, most with no idea. They lived for years, often decades, without symptoms, spreading it unknowingly to their spouses and others. The virus was deadly for 99% of those who contracted it. The only available treatment merely slowed the virus’s spread within the body.
“It was very brave what Andrew was doing. Visiting these towns and villages, standing in a room, telling the people assembled that their neighbors were dying of a deadly disease—and that they might also be infected. But we had to do it. It was the only hope of stopping the pandemic.”
“You were part of the effort too?” Peyton asked.
Charlotte nodded. “I was in Kampala. Waiting for him to return.”
The video switched to a scene inside a ramshackle building. Ugandans sat on worn wooden benches, painted white walls peeling behind them. Two ceiling fans buzzed overhead, and the audience fanned themselves as they waited. It reminded Peyton of a rural church in America’s Deep South, Alabama or Mississippi perhaps. The analogy was apt; the assembled were disciples of a sort. These were community leaders—doctors, nurses, police officers, teachers, family planning association workers, resistance committee members, and village elders—gathered to hear a message that could determine whether the people who depended on them lived or died…
The Ugandan Ministry of Health had told the crowd only that they were to receive a critical announcement regarding public health and safety. Like other places Andrew had visited, the residents of Kapchorwa district had turned out en masse; over a hundred people filled the room. Those arriving late, after the benches had filled, stood at the back. Andrew waited at the front, where the collapsible lectern he carried around the country had been set up. It was his pulpit. To the credit of those assembled, not many had stared at him when they came in. Their eyes had lingered only a second or two on the tall white man, and many had averted their eyes when they saw his prosthetic left arm.
The congregation grew quiet when the district administrator cleared his throat and stepped up to the mic. His name was Akia, and he spoke in heavily accented English.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, then paused to make eye contact with as many of the assembled as he could. “Thank you for being here today. What you’re about to hear may shock you. It may… change the way you see every person around you. It will likely frighten you. I, personally, am frightened. But I want you to know that the government of Uganda is committed to fighting this deadly epidemic. We will win, and you will be a part of this great victory, which will be remembered by your children and their children. With that, I welcome our guest, Andrew Shaw of the World Health Organization.”
A few claps followed, but not many. Perhaps that was because so many held fans, or because they weren’t sure whether they should clap after such a frightening introduction.
Andrew stepped forward and began the presentation he had given a dozen times before. He spoke with a British accent he had acquired growing up in London.
“In the early eighties, the CDC, the principal disease detection agency in the United States, began tracking a very deadly, very strange disorder. It attacks the immune system. When people contract this disease, they become unable to survive common infections. This immune deficiency develops over time, but it is lethal; a person who could normally fight off a cold or diarrhea or malaria might die from it. We call this condition Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome, or AIDS. It’s the result of a virus called HIV.
“We’ve developed a test for this virus. We’ve tested blood at hospitals in Uganda as well as samples from the general population. Based on these tests, the Ugandan Ministry of Health estimates that roughly 14% of the people in this country are infected with HIV. That equates to one in every seven people—or about fifteen of the people in this room.”
The people looked around, shifting uncomfortably. Spaces were made between people in the pews. A few people held their breath. And questions erupted.
“Is there a cure?”
“A treatment?”
“A vaccine?”
Akia, the district administrator, held up his hands, and the room again fell silent.
“There’s currently no vaccine or cure,” Andrew said, “but there is a treatment that prolongs the life of those infected. It’s called AZT, and it will soon be available in Uganda and throughout Africa. In addition, the smartest researchers in the world are working on other, similar drugs, vaccines, and even a cure as we speak. I hope they’ll be available soon as well.
“But for now there’s only one certain cure for a disease with no treatment or vaccine: isolation. We must isolate the virus so that it can’t spread. If it has no place to replicate, the virus will die out. We have that power. The people in this room can stop the virus in this district. The solution is education and lifestyle changes. That’s what I’m offering you today, and that’s what we want you to teach to the people you serve.”
Akia began passing out the information packets as Andrew continued.
“First, you should know that this disease cannot be spread by sitting or standing next to someone.” The rows of worried attendees relaxed. “HIV is not an airborne infection. You also can’t get it from shaking hands or hugging or touching someone. It’s transmitted in four principal ways: birth, blood exchange, needle use, and unprotected sex. Blood and semen.