Desperate: Liberian health workers at the NGO Medecins Sans Frontieres Ebola treatment centre in Monrovia, 18 October. Photo: Getty
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Monrovia, the city at the heart of the ebola outbreak

At least 200 health workers have been infected with ebola and 90 have died, according to the latest government figures, yet pay is modest. Last week they staged a two-day strike. 

Monrovia is a city where ambulances rush back and forth and burial teams in white hazmat protective suits have become so commonplace as to arouse no more curiosity. As the clock struck midnight on 13 October, health workers planned to abandon their posts at hospitals and ebola treatment units in the Liberian capital in a pay protest. Patients infected with the deadly haemorrhagic fever and vomiting, those who were “toileting” and bleeding, would be left alone in bed without food or care.

With close to 500 infected people in treatment centres, and almost three times as many yet to access care, the strike threatened to derail efforts to contain the crisis in Monrovia, now the centre of the ebola outbreak in West Africa. Given the huge risks and sacrifices endured by local medical staff, it is not hard to understand their anger.

At least 200 health workers have been infected with ebola and 90 have died, according to the latest government figures. Yet pay is modest.

At Island Clinic, a recently refurbished hospital that had been converted by the World Health Organisation into an ebola clinic, workers said they did not have contracts and that the government was skimping on hazard pay. Nurses and other staff claimed they had been promised $750 a month, and that the government was now offering them $435.

Workers elsewhere told similar stories. “They [the patients] are our people – we have to save their lives – but the government is not treating us fair,” said Matilda Weah, a 30-year-old nurse who had worked at Redemption Hospital, a government facility where five nurses and a doctor died after being infected.

In the end, the industrial action was called off, but only after a last-minute appeal from President Ellen Johnson Sirleaf as well as desperate negotiations between the government and the workers’ union leadership. Nurse Weah said it was concern for the patients, many of whom would have died, that persuaded them not to strike.

“When you see how sick they are, you cannot leave them like that,” she said.

Monrovia has teetered on the edge of chaos in these past few months. Desperate families transported loved ones in yellow taxis to hospitals because none of the city’s dozen or so ambulances was able to pick them up. Some died in the streets outside treatment centres even before being admitted. Others were turned away, returning home to infect relatives.

Schools were shut. The economy ground to a halt. Work stalled on the Mount Coffee hydropower plant, slowly being reconstructed by Norwegians; one of the darkest cities in the world could remain so for years to come.

Chinese workers building roads across the country were suddenly nowhere to be seen. Other foreigners –NGO workers, oil and mining company staff – scrambled for flights out. Coming the other way were specialists from the Centres for Disease Control and Prevention and WHO and USAID’s disaster assistance response team, with their safari waistcoats and caps.

US troops and military personnel are also trickling in as part of Operation United Assistance, announced by President Barack Obama last month. Their mandate is to build 17 ebola treatment units across the country, though these will not be staffed by Americans.

Many people welcome the assistance but some are suspicious of the motives of the US, which is widely seen as pulling the political and economic strings in Liberia. At a recent press conference, the US ambassador, Deborah Malac, felt compelled to assure people that US troops were not here to overthrow the government.

“They are here to provide additional heft to the effort that is already ongoing to fight ebola, period,” she said.

That fight remains a big one. Outside a former cholera clinic that has been turned into an ebola treatment centre sat five people: three men in their thirties, a young woman and a five-year-old boy. They had survived the virus and were waiting to go home.

“It was hell in there,” said one man, who wished to go unnamed because of the stigma associated with the disease. “We are traumatised. People were dying all around us.”

A jolly nurse who brought food to them while they were sick arrived to greet them. This was the first time they had seen her face; before, she was merely a figure in a mask. They thanked her for her help.

Yet the boy, who had lost his parents to ebola, was not on his way home but off to a centre built to care for some of the thousands of orphans who are expected to be created by this deadly outbreak. 

This article first appeared in the 15 October 2014 issue of the New Statesman, Isis can be beaten

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In the 1980s, I went to a rally where Labour Party speakers shared the stage with men in balaclavas

The links between the Labour left and Irish republicanism are worth investigating.

A spat between Jeremy Corbyn’s henchfolk and Conor McGinn, the MP for St Helens North, caught my ear the other evening. McGinn was a guest on BBC Radio 4’s Westminster Hour, and he obligingly revisited the brouhaha for the listeners at home. Apparently, following an interview in May, in which McGinn called for Corbyn to “reach out beyond his comfort zone”, he was first threatened obliquely with the sack, then asked for a retraction (which he refused to give) and finally learned – from someone in the whips’ office – that his party leader was considering phoning up McGinn’s father to whip the errant whipper-in into line. On the programme, McGinn said: “The modus operandi that he [Corbyn] and the people around him were trying to do [sic], involving my family, was to isolate and ostracise me from them and from the community I am very proud to come from – which is an Irish nationalist community in south Armagh.”

Needless to say, the Labour leader’s office has continued to deny any such thing, but while we may nurture some suspicions about his behaviour, McGinn was also indulging in a little airbrushing when he described south Armagh as an “Irish ­nationalist community”. In the most recent elections, Newry and Armagh returned three Sinn Fein members to the Northern Ireland Assembly (as against one Social Democratic and Labour Party member) and one Sinn Fein MP to Westminster. When I last looked, Sinn Fein was still a republican, rather than a nationalist, party – something that McGinn should only be too well aware of, as the paternal hand that was putatively to have been lain on him belongs to Pat McGinn, the former Sinn Fein mayor of Newry and Armagh.

According to the Irish News, a “close friend” of the McGinns poured this cold water on the mini-conflagration: “Anybody who knows the McGinn family knows that Pat is very proud of Conor and that they remain very close.” The friend went on to opine: “He [Pat McGinn] found the whole notion of Corbyn phoning him totally ridiculous – as if Pat is going to criticise his son to save Jeremy Corbyn’s face. They would laugh about it were it not so sinister.”

“Sinister” does seem the mot juste. McGinn, Jr grew up in Bessbrook during the Troubles. I visited the village in the early 1990s on assignment. The skies were full of the chattering of British army Chinooks, and there were fake road signs in the hedgerows bearing pictograms of rifles and captioned: “Sniper at work”. South Armagh had been known for years as “bandit country”. There were army watchtowers standing sentinel in the dinky, green fields and checkpoints everywhere, manned by some of the thousands of the troops who had been deployed to fight what was, in effect, a low-level counter-insurgency war. Nationalist community, my foot.

What lies beneath the Corbyn-McGinn spat is the queered problematics of the ­relationship between the far left wing of the Labour Party and physical-force Irish republicanism. I also recall, during the hunger strikes of the early 1980s, going to a “Smash the H-Blocks” rally in Kilburn, north London, at which Labour Party speakers shared the stage with representatives from Sinn Fein, some of whom wore balaclavas and dark glasses to evade the telephoto lenses of the Met’s anti-terrorist squad.

The shape-shifting relationship between the “political wing” of the IRA and the men with sniper rifles in the south Armagh bocage was always of the essence of the conflict, allowing both sides a convenient fiction around which to posture publicly and privately negotiate. In choosing to appear on platforms with people who might or might not be terrorists, Labour leftists also sprinkled a little of their stardust on themselves: the “stardust” being the implication that they, too, under the right circumstances, might be capable of violence in pursuit of their political ends.

On the far right of British politics, Her Majesty’s Government and its apparatus are referred to derisively as “state”. There were various attempts in the 1970s and 1980s by far-right groupuscules to link up with the Ulster Freedom Fighters and other loyalist paramilitary organisations in their battle against “state”. All foundered on the obvious incompetence of the fascists. The situation on the far left was different. The socialist credentials of Sinn Fein/IRA were too threadbare for genuine expressions of solidarity, but there was a sort of tacit confidence-and-supply arrangement between these factions. The Labour far left provided the republicans with the confidence that, should an appropriately radical government be elected to Westminster, “state” would withdraw from Northern Ireland. What the republicans did for the mainland militants was to cloak them in their penumbra of darkness: without needing to call down on themselves the armed might of “state”, they could imply that they were willing to take it on, should the opportunity arise.

I don’t for a second believe that Corbyn was summoning up these ghosts of the insurrectionary dead when he either did or did not threaten to phone McGinn, Sr. But his supporters need to ask themselves what they’re getting into. Their leader, if he was to have remained true to the positions that he has espoused over many years, should have refused to sit as privy counsellor upon assuming his party office, and refused all the other mummery associated with the monarchical “state”. That he didn’t do so was surely a strategic decision. Such a position would make him utterly unelectable.

The snipers may not be at work in south Armagh just now – but there are rifles out there that could yet be dug up. I wouldn’t be surprised if some in Sinn Fein knew where they are, but one thing’s for certain: Corbyn hasn’t got a clue, bloody or otherwise. 

Will Self is an author and journalist. His books include Umbrella, Shark, The Book of Dave and The Butt. He writes the Madness of Crowds and Real Meals columns for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 25 August 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Cameron: the legacy of a loser