Hiba Mustapha… An Egyptian Scientist Who Contributed to a Major US Experiment

Hiba Mustapha and Karen Carroll, the doctors who developed a test to diagnose the coronavirus (Johns Hopkins website)
Hiba Mustapha and Karen Carroll, the doctors who developed a test to diagnose the coronavirus (Johns Hopkins website)
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Hiba Mustapha… An Egyptian Scientist Who Contributed to a Major US Experiment

Hiba Mustapha and Karen Carroll, the doctors who developed a test to diagnose the coronavirus (Johns Hopkins website)
Hiba Mustapha and Karen Carroll, the doctors who developed a test to diagnose the coronavirus (Johns Hopkins website)

As scientists raced to confront the coronavirus, Johns Hopkins University’s name stood out as one of the most prominent sources of information on the pandemic’s spread, and the names of the scientists analyzing COVID-19 and studying its symptoms shined, as they developed one of the fastest and accurate tests to diagnose it.

Among those scientists is an Egyptian scientist who started working at Johns Hopkins University a few months ago and contributed to developing the diagnostic test that President Donald Trump considered to have “changed the rules of the game” of fighting the epidemic. Miss Mustapha and Karen Carroll, two epidemiologists at the university, developed the rapid test for detecting the coronavirus, providing a diagnosis within minutes.

Mustafa, an assistant professor of viral pathology at the Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine, spoke to Asharq Al-Awsat in an exclusive interview.

"When we started researching the novel virus, diagnostic tests were only available through the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC). It used to take a long time, as the tests had to be sent to the main laboratory or state laboratories. So we worked on developing a laboratory for analyzing samples and genetic material of the virus. We purchased the components from a pharmaceutical company and worked on developing the test until we were able to provide the test in mid-March”.

Mustapha considers that the virus spread across the world extensively and at an unexpected speed. Its symptoms resembled those of SARS, which broke out between 2002 and 2003 before research centers and universities managed to control its spread. COVID-19, on the other hand, is characterized by a more rapid spread and has infected many, especially those who have weak immune systems or other diseases that affect their respiratory system. This led some patients to need ventilators.

Dr. Mustafa emphasized that “social distancing is necessary and effective in reducing the spread of the virus and no hospital in the world is capable of providing enough ventilators for the massive number of victims at once”. She adds, “We did not expect this disease to become a pandemic, and so medical laboratories were unable to meet the increasing need for tests.

We worked for three days straight to develop a rapid test and conducted experiments in order to ensure its clinical accuracy. The test is based on a Polymerase Chain Reaction (PCR) that amplifies a small sample of genetic material obtained from the mouth or nose, and this allows the virologist to use specific computer software to determine whether the virus’s genetic material is present in the sample or not”.

The Egyptian scientist says: “On the first day we ran 50 samples, and in the following days our capacity expanded to 180 tests a day, then a thousand, and now we can run 1500 tests a day”.

Dr. Mustapha, who worked quietly alongside her colleagues to move the fight against the pandemic a step forward, comes from an Egyptian family and lived in Alexandria, where she graduated from the University of Alexandria’s Faculty of Medicine in 2004 and then went to the United States with her husband after obtaining a Ph.D. scholarship. She applied for her doctorate five years later, and then worked on "para flu" and influenza research at St. Jude Hospital, Tennessee

Later, Hiba Mustafa applied to a two-year scholarship at the University of Rochester in New York to study chemistry and microbiology and was among 12 scientists who were selected every year across the entire United States. This allowed her to earn a degree in Clinical Microbiology, and when Johns Hopkins University announced a vacancy at its Department of Microbiology, she applied for the job and was accepted in 2019.

Dr. Mustafa ruled out that the virus may evolve into a more dangerous and widespread virus while the death rate declines, but pointed out that eradicating it will not happen before reaching an effective vaccine, which is estimated to take at least one year.

She says: “The current research looks at the effect the virus has on the immune system, and the required medication to fight it, and at what part of the immune system needs to be boosted to fight the virus. We hope that the social distancing policy will continue until the rate of new cases declines and effective treatments and a vaccine are reached”.



Childhood Cancer Patients in Lebanon Must Battle Disease while Under Fire

Mohammad Mousawi, 8, a displaced boy from the southern suburb of Beirut who suffers from leukaemia, steps out the entrance of the Children's Cancer Center of Lebanon, in Beirut, Lebanon, Friday, Nov. 15, 2024. (AP Photo/Hussein Malla)
Mohammad Mousawi, 8, a displaced boy from the southern suburb of Beirut who suffers from leukaemia, steps out the entrance of the Children's Cancer Center of Lebanon, in Beirut, Lebanon, Friday, Nov. 15, 2024. (AP Photo/Hussein Malla)
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Childhood Cancer Patients in Lebanon Must Battle Disease while Under Fire

Mohammad Mousawi, 8, a displaced boy from the southern suburb of Beirut who suffers from leukaemia, steps out the entrance of the Children's Cancer Center of Lebanon, in Beirut, Lebanon, Friday, Nov. 15, 2024. (AP Photo/Hussein Malla)
Mohammad Mousawi, 8, a displaced boy from the southern suburb of Beirut who suffers from leukaemia, steps out the entrance of the Children's Cancer Center of Lebanon, in Beirut, Lebanon, Friday, Nov. 15, 2024. (AP Photo/Hussein Malla)

Carol Zeghayer gripped her IV as she hurried down the brightly lit hallway of Beirut’s children’s cancer center. The 9-year-old's face brightened when she spotted her playmates from the oncology ward.

Diagnosed with cancer just months before the conflict between Hezbollah and Israel erupted in October 2023, Carol relies on weekly trips to the center in the Lebanese capital for treatment.

But what used to be a 90-minute drive, now takes up to three hours on a mountainous road to skirt the heavy bombardment in south Lebanon, but still not without danger from Israeli airstrikes. The family is just one among many across Lebanon now grappling with the hardships of both illness and war.

“She’s just a child. When they strike, she asks me, ‘Mama, was that far?’” said her mother, Sindus Hamra, The AP reported.

The family lives in Hasbaya, a province in southeastern Lebanon where the rumble of Israeli airstrikes has become part of daily life. Just 15 minutes away from their home, in the front-line town of Khiam, Israeli troops and Hezbollah fighters clash amidst relentless bombardments.

On the morning of a recent trip to Beirut for her treatment, the family heard a rocket roar and its deafening impact as they left their home. Israeli airstrikes have also hit vehicles along the Damascus-Beirut highway, which Carol and her mother have to cross.

The bombardment hasn’t let up even as hopes grew in recent days that a ceasefire might soon be agreed.

More than war, Hamra fears that Carol will miss chemotherapy.

“Her situation is very tricky — her cancer can spread to her head,” Hamra said, her eyes filling with tears. Her daughter, diagnosed first with cancer of the lymph nodes and later leukemia, has completed a third of her treatment, with many months still ahead.

While Carol's family remains in their home, many in Lebanon have been displaced by an intensified Israeli bombardment that began in late September. Tens of thousands fled their homes in southern and eastern Lebanon, as well as Beirut’s southern suburbs — among them were families with children battling cancer.

The Children’s Cancer Center of Lebanon quickly identified each patient’s location to ensure treatments remained uninterrupted, sometimes facilitating them at hospitals closer to the families' new locations, said Zeina El Chami, the center’s fundraising and events executive.

During the first days of the escalation, the center admitted some patients for emergency care and kept them there as it was unsafe to send them home, said Dolly Noun, a pediatric hematologist and oncologist.

“They had no place to go,” she added. "We’ve had patients getting admitted for panic attacks. It has not been easy.”

The war has not only deepened the struggles of young patients.

“Many physicians have had to relocate,” Noun said. “I know physicians, who work here, who haven’t seen their parents in like six weeks because the roads are very dangerous.”

Since 2019, Lebanon has been battered by cascading crises — economic collapse, the devastating Beirut port explosion in 2020, and now a relentless war — leaving institutions like the cancer center struggling to secure the funds needed to save lives.

“Cancer waits for no one,” Chami said. The crises have affected the center’s ability to hold fundraising events in recent years, leaving it in urgent need of donations, she added.

The facility is currently treating more than 400 patients aged from few days to 18 years old, Chami said. It treats around 60% of children with cancer in Lebanon.

For Carol, the war is sometimes a topic of conversation with her friends at the cancer center. Her mother hears her recount hearing the booms and how the house shook.

For others, the moments with their friends in the center's playroom provide a brief escape from the grim reality outside.

Eight-year-old Mohammad Mousawi darts around the playroom, giggling as he hides objects and books for his playmate to find. Too absorbed by the game, he barely answers questions, before the nurse calls him for his weekly chemotherapy treatment.

His family lived in Ghobeiry, a neighborhood in Beirut’s southern suburbs. Their house was marked for destruction in an Israeli evacuation warning weeks ago, his mother said.

“But till now, they haven’t struck it,” said his mother, Suzan Mousawi. “They have hit (buildings) around it — two behind it and two in front of it.”

The family has relocated three times. They first moved to the mountains, but the bitter cold weakened Mohammad’s already fragile immune system.

Now they’ve settled in Ain el-Rummaneh, not far from their home in the southern Beirut suburbs known as Dahiyeh, which has come under significant bombardment. As the Israeli military widened the radius of its bombardment, some buildings hit were less than 500 meters (yards) from their current home.

The Mousawis have lived their entire lives in Dahiyeh, Suzan Mousawi said, until the war uprooted them. Her parents’ home was bombed. “All our memories are gone,” she said.

Mohammad has 15 weeks of treatment left, and his family is praying it will be successful. But the war has stolen some of their dreams.

“When Mohammad fell ill, we bought a house,” she said. “It wasn’t big, but it was something. I bought him an electric scooter and set up a pool, telling myself we’d take him there once he finishes treatment.”

She fears the house, bought with every penny she had saved, could be lost at any moment.

For some families, this kind of conflict is not new. Asinat Al Lahham, a 9-year-old patient of the cancer center, is a refugee whose family fled Syria.

“We escaped one war to another,” Asinat’s mother, Fatima, added.

As her father, Aouni, drove home from her chemotherapy treatment weeks ago, an airstrike happened. He cranked up the music in the car, trying to drown out the deafening sound of the attack.

Asinat sat in the back seat, clutching her favorite toy. “I wanted to distract her, to make her hear less of it,” he said.

In the medical ward on a recent day, Asinat sat in a chair hooked to an IV drip, negotiating with her doctor. “Just two or three small pinches,” she pleaded, asking for flavoring for her instant noodles that she is not supposed to have.

“I don’t feel safe ... nowhere is safe ... not Lebanon, not Syria, not Palestine,” Asinat said. “The sonic booms are scary, but the noodles make it better,” she added with a mischievous grin.

The family has no choice but to stay in Lebanon. Returning to Syria, where their home is gone, would mean giving up Asinat’s treatment.

“We can’t leave here,” her mother said. “This war, her illness ... it’s like there’s no escape.”