Minister of Health Zweli Mkhize has repeatedly highlighted the importance of ensuring the safety and protection of healthcare workers in South Africa, as they are on the front line of the battle against Covid-19. However, pharmacists at the Charlotte Maxeke Academic Hospital in Johannesburg say they have neither been protected nor has their safety been prioritised. 

They say their pleas for the effective implementation of preventative measures have fallen on deaf ears. As a result, nine pharmacists at the hospital have contracted Covid-19. 

According to a pharmacist who wishes to remain anonymous, there was not enough personal protective equipment (PPE) for those dispensing medicines even before the first case of Covid-19 was recorded at the hospital. Although some received PPE, a request for all of them to get it was denied. “They [management] refused and said pharmacy does not need it. It’s only the nurses and doctors that need the equipment,” the pharmacist said.

Although pharmacists do not attend to patients directly, they are nevertheless at risk because medicine prescriptions are hand-delivered and they handle them without wearing gloves. “For me, management is nonexistent. Our cries have been falling on deaf ears. It’s like talking to a brick wall,” said the source. 

Pharmacists have asked management to implement a system whereby they can work in shifts “because it’s a small space and it’s hard to perform social distancing if we all come to work”. 

After learning that a staff member had Covid-19, the dispenser says they were told to come to the hospital for tests and were given some protective gear. “We didn’t understand, because why are you giving us PPE when we already have one of our members sick?”

When the pharmacists asked about the hospital’s policy to curb the spread of Covid-19 among staff members, they were told that it would be closed if infections occurred. “Also, that the whole place will be cleaned and fumigated, and those who had come into contact with the tested staff member would be quarantined for 14 days.” 

But this has not been the case, the pharmacist says. “They denied us the 14-day quarantine. They said it’s not possible.”

At present they are given better quality PPE, says the source, and other safety procedures have been put in place since the infections were confirmed. 

‘Pharmacists are not important’

One of the pharmacists who has Covid-19 blames the lack of PPE for becoming infected, saying, “It is not just the management but also the hospital’s department dealing with infection prevention and control that did not regard the pharmacy [personnel] as frontliners. They basically said, ‘You guys didn’t need these things because you are not of importance.’” 

And when they complained about this lack of PPE in light of the infections among them, the infected pharmacist says that they were told that they might have contracted the virus elsewhere. “The thing is, we’ve been on lockdown. We are not going anywhere. Personally, I haven’t been to the shops. I’ve just been going to work and coming back home. They didn’t want to take responsibility.”

Another problem is that when they fell ill, they still had to work: “They [management] threatened us. They said, ‘If you guys don’t come, you’re not going to get paid.’ And you can’t even take sick leave.” 

The pharmacist with coronavirus says the hospital initially checked temperatures. Despite a normal temperature being recorded, the pharmacist presented with flu-like symptoms. It was only after the test came back positive that the hospital granted occupational leave, which applies when an employee contracts an illness in the course of work. 

The team tracing those with whom the pharmacist had been in contact took a week to test family members. The tests were inconclusive and “They said they are coming back to retest. No one came.” 

The pharmacist has since returned to work and says the immediate family is fine, although no new tests have been done. 

Health department responds

Kwara Kekana, spokesperson for the Gauteng member of the executive committee for health, Bandile Masuku, says pharmacists at Charlotte Maxeke hospital were given adequate PPE after the facility was assessed. “The province currently has enough supply of PPE and is continuously procuring stock.” 

She says the pharmacy department has reduced its staff capacity to 41% to ensure that safety measures such as social distancing can be maintained. “The pharmacy attends to over 1 600 inpatients and 1 000 outpatients. Adequate staffing is needed to ensure there is no interruption of services,” she added.

After the pharmacy area was fogged and deep cleaned, Kekana says, those who didn’t have Covid-19 were asked to return to work. She adds that the province has a special team in each of its health districts to trace people who’ve had close contact with those diagnosed with the disease. “All positive pharmacy cases were referred to the district teams for tracing.”

Charlotte Maxeke Hospital is not the only healthcare facility where workers have been diagnosed with Covid-19. More than 100 staff members at Tygerberg Hospital in Cape Town have been infected. And it is not just public hospitals experiencing this predicament: in KwaZulu-Natal, two Netcare private hospitals in Durban, St Augustine’s and Kingsway, were temporarily closed after patients and staff members contracted Covid-19. 

On May 6, Mkhize said 511 healthcare workers had contracted Covid-19. No updated numbers were available at the time of publishing.  

The National Education, Health and Allied Workers Union has raised concern about the number of healthcare workers getting infected. The union says insufficient protective gear places workers’ health at risk. “We have pointed out on numerous occasions the dangers of lack of adequate personal protective equipment, training on the proper use of PPE for healthcare workers and general education on how to deal with the virus,” it said in a statement.

This article was first published on New Frame

COMMENT

As a Somali immigrant to America, I am expected to be grateful to be here. But have I sold my soul to the devil?

Black mothers have much to fear when it comes to their children. American soil is saturated with the blood of black people: slavery, Jim Crow, mass incarceration and the war on drugs, and police brutality have ensured that black people know pain and loss intimately.

Black mothers see their children in Trayvon Martin, who was just buying candy for his little brother, when he was killed by self-appointed neighborhood watchman, George Zimmerman. The police let Zimmerman go home after questioning him at a police station, and he was later acquitted by a jury of his peers. He would later post pictures of Trayvon’s dead body on the internet.

Tamir Rice was only 12 years old, a year younger than my own son, when he was shot by a police officer. He was playing with a toy gun.

Black moms know it doesn’t matter whether their kids are good kids; whether they are polite and respectful kids. Martese Johnson, a black student at the University of Virginia — an excellent student, spoken of highly by both students and teachers — was aggressively detained by police one evening as he was partying with friends. Before restraining him, police hit his head on the pavement. You can find the bloodied pictures on the internet.  

It doesn’t even matter whether they are actually innocent. Emmett Till was killed because a white woman accused him of grabbing her and being sexually crude towards her. The two white men who murdered him were acquitted by an all-white, all-male jury and could never be retried. His accuser later admits that she fabricated that story. He was just 14 years old — a year older than my son.

So, where does that leave me, an African immigrant, born in Somalia? I am black. My son — ethnically both Somali and African-American — is a black boy, growing taller by the day, and is already mistaken for a 15-year-old because of his height and deep voice. Each passing day brings the realisation that soon, if not already, he will go from being seen as cute to being seen as threatening. And my heart breaks for his innocence.

I find myself in an odd position. As an immigrant from what was considered (and still is, some would argue) a war-torn country, I am expected to be grateful to be in the United States, grateful for a second chance at life. But I ask myself: have I sold my soul to the devil?

This has been my home for more than 20 years. I came here as a 12-year-old child, fleeing the civil war. But this is negligible when compared to the 400 years that black Americans have been on American soil, treated first as property and then as second-class citizens.

As the mother of a black boy, I obviously share the same anxieties as all black mothers across America.

I can’t breathe. I constantly worry about my black son. My black son who, when lying on the couch, nearly covers it with his length. My black son who is growing out his afro, his crown and glory. My black son whose roaring laughter fills up our home with warmth and love; music to my ears. My black son who loves spicy tortilla chips, and playing Rocket League on the Xbox. Together we play Monopoly, Sorry! and Connect 4, and he beats me every time in all those games, relishing in his victory.  

My black son, so polite that teachers and store clerks and strangers regularly compliment me on it. My black son, whose peers say he gives good advice, and who may want to become a counsellor in the future. My black son, who says he is going to get a master’s degree one day because he saw his mother work so hard for hers.  My black son, who promises to take care of me when he gets older; who tells me, whenever I complain about how expensive something is, that it won’t be long before I can afford anything I want. My black son who I’ve named Qalbi (my heart) Deeq (complete) because he completes my heart.

It wasn’t too long ago when I had to tell him about Trayvon Martin, about Tamir Rice, about Amadou Diallo, about Ahmaud Arberry, and others. The list is so long. Every discussion about racism and police brutality feels like a betrayal on my part, as though I am the one that is cutting short his childhood, his innocence.  But I know I have to have these conversations with him, for his safety. This past week, I told him about George Floyd. He saw the video of George’s death on the internet. Knowing that George called out for his mother during his murder sends chills down my spine. I can’t help but think of my own son in that situation.

How do I prevent that from happening? What can I exactly do? As black mothers, we live with this dread and helplessness.

We. Can’t. Breathe.

We don’t see just a man in a single moment when we look at George Floyd. We see America’s entire racial history culminating into that one moment. George’s anguished last moments, so similar to the lynchings Billie Holiday described in “Strange Fruit … hanging from poplar trees.”

There is no separating George Floyd’s killing from the struggles black people have faced ever since the first slave ships landed on these shores. That is America’s past and present. 

As black people, when we see George, we see ourselves. We see our friends, our loved ones. We see our children.

We see more than just a man in a state of distress. We see our collective history as black people in the United States — a constant state of distress. George Floyd is us, and Derek Chauvin’s knee is the oppressive racist system that’s built this country on the blood, sweat, and tears of black people — all the while denying us life, liberty and our own pursuit of happiness in the land of the “free”.

As we grieve George, we mourn and grieve our children’s innocence as once again we have to explain how this country’s racism has taken yet another black person’s life. We have to drill our youth with information on how to behave when they are confronted with police, while fearing deep down that even that may not be enough to save them from a racism that is intent on killing them anyway.

We love our children. We love them now, and tomorrow. We want to see them grow up, realise their dreams, have families of their own, and lead fulfilling lives.

So, we hold our breath each time they walk out the door, and we hope and pray that they always come back to us safe and sound.

But while they are away, we can’t breathe.

 Ifrah Udgoon is a high-school science teacher based in Columbus, Ohio in the United States