Dr. Abiad Restores Some Faith in Lebanon’s Public Sector

The director of Beirut's Rafic Hariri University Hospital, Firass Abiad, speaks during an interview with AFP at his office inside the coronavirus department. AFP photo
The director of Beirut's Rafic Hariri University Hospital, Firass Abiad, speaks during an interview with AFP at his office inside the coronavirus department. AFP photo
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Dr. Abiad Restores Some Faith in Lebanon’s Public Sector

The director of Beirut's Rafic Hariri University Hospital, Firass Abiad, speaks during an interview with AFP at his office inside the coronavirus department. AFP photo
The director of Beirut's Rafic Hariri University Hospital, Firass Abiad, speaks during an interview with AFP at his office inside the coronavirus department. AFP photo

Dr. Firass Abiad was a little-known Beirut hospital director until the coronavirus pandemic propelled him into the spotlight and restored at least some faith in Lebanon's much-maligned public sector.

At a time when the country has also been mired in its deepest economic crisis in decades and rocked by runaway inflation and violent street protests, Abiad has emerged as a comforting voice of reason amid the chaos.

Before the COVID-19 crisis hit, his Rafic Hariri University Hospital was synonymous with labor strikes over unpaid wages and regarded as a last resort for the neediest patients who have no health insurance.

But since the first coronavirus case was reported in Lebanon in February, Abiad's hospital has taken center-stage in battling a disease that has infected 4,885 people and cost 62 lives across the country.

His prolific Twitter feed has since become a point of reference for Lebanese for its near daily updates and commentary on the pandemic.

On a typical recent workday, 52-year-old Abiad inspected an outdoors testing center and then checked in via video call with his staff, wearing full protective gear inside the coronavirus ward.

Playing down his newfound celebrity, a local equivalent of that surrounding US top infectious diseases specialist Anthony Fauci, the American University of Beirut (AUB) graduate spoke to AFP in measured tones.

"I'm only doing what should be expected of all public sector employees," said the gastrointestinal and bariatric surgeon, who has headed the hospital since 2015.

The spotlight should instead be on his team, he argued, and on a rare functioning institution "in a country that lacks them".

The virus struck as Lebanon is mired in its worst economic crisis since the 1975-1990 civil war and authorities appear paralyzed by endless political deadlock over ever deteriorating public services.

As power cuts peaked at around 15 hours a day in July and fuel for the hospital's generators started to run out, Abiad was forced to close down two of its six operating theatres and postpone surgeries.

But just one tweet from him was enough to spark a flurry of donations.

In a country long stymied by entrenched sectarianism and cronyism, Abiad has been held up as an example of a public sector employee who puts the interests of others first.

After images circulated online last month of a crowd of people queueing to be tested at the hospital, Abiad swiftly acknowledged the need for better social distancing.

Activist Dona Maallawi, 29, praised Abiad's no-nonsense communication style, saying "he issues near daily updates about the situation, without embellishments but rather with clear knowledge of the details".

The hospital director himself says he finds such praise "annoying" and despairs at such low expectations of the public sector.

In between his duties, Abiad takes to Twitter to dispense advice on how to avoid a worst-case scenario that would overwhelm Lebanese hospitals, correcting any misinformation with tact and diplomacy.

With little other reliable commentary available, local media scramble to translate his mostly English posts into Arabic.

Christophe Martin, head of the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) delegation in Lebanon, said Abiad had become an "influencer".

"He is today one of the very few Lebanese citizens working in the public domain that truly and honestly works for (its) best interests," he said.

"One needs to just read his threads on Twitter to realize how much intelligence, reflection he brings in his overall communication."

Abiad said his move five years ago from the prestigious and well-equipped AUB medical center to an underfunded state hospital was no easy choice.

But he saw it as his "duty" to take on the running of the ICRC-backed Rafic Hariri hospital, as it was "the main one treating the working class and the poor".

As daily cases hit a new record of 224 on Friday, even after authorities had re-instated a partial lockdown, he urged Lebanese on Twitter to take the spike "very seriously".

"Measures have to be enforced with no exceptions," he warned. "The public has to comply for its own good. If we falter, it will be a very steep fall."

Speaking to AFP, he urged better equipped and more numerous private hospitals to shoulder their share of the burden, despite their fears it might mean even more unpaid bills by the state.

The father of three fears renewed pressure on the health sector during a possible autumn rise in cases -- but remains optimistic about Lebanon pulling through if adequate measures are taken.

Until then, Abiad said, he would take comfort in the solidarity among his staff and the everyday "small wins".



They Fled War in Sudan. But they Haven't Been Able to Flee the Hunger

Sudanese refugees arrive in Acre, Chad, Sunday, Oct 6. 2024. (AP Photo/Sam Mednick)
Sudanese refugees arrive in Acre, Chad, Sunday, Oct 6. 2024. (AP Photo/Sam Mednick)
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They Fled War in Sudan. But they Haven't Been Able to Flee the Hunger

Sudanese refugees arrive in Acre, Chad, Sunday, Oct 6. 2024. (AP Photo/Sam Mednick)
Sudanese refugees arrive in Acre, Chad, Sunday, Oct 6. 2024. (AP Photo/Sam Mednick)

For months, Aziza Abrahim fled from one village in Sudan to the next as people were slaughtered. Yet the killing of relatives and her husband's disappearance aren't what forced the 23-year-old to leave the country for good. It was hunger, she said.
“We don’t have anything to eat because of the war,” Abrahim said, cradling her 1-year-old daughter under the sheet where she now shelters, days after crossing into Chad, The Associated Press reported.
The war in Sudan has created vast hunger, including famine. It has pushed people off their farms. Food in the markets is sparse, prices have spiked and aid groups say they’re struggling to reach the most vulnerable as warring parties limit access.
Some 24,000 people have been killed and millions displaced during the war that erupted in April 2023, sparked by tensions between the military and the Rapid Support Forces. Global experts confirmed famine in the Zamzam displacement camp in July. They warn that some 25 million people — more than half of Sudan’s population — are expected to face acute hunger this year.
“People are starving to death at the moment ... It’s man-made. It’s these men with guns and power who deny women and children food,” Jan Egeland, head of the Norwegian Refugee Council, told AP. Warring parties on both sides are blocking assistance and delaying authorization for aid groups, he said.
Between May and September, there were seven malnutrition-related deaths among children in one hospital at a displacement site in Chad run by Doctors Without Borders, known by its French acronym MSF. Such deaths can be from disease in hunger-weakened bodies.
In September, MSF was forced to stop caring for 5,000 malnourished children in North Darfur for several weeks, citing repeated, deliberate obstructions and blockades. US President Joe Biden has called on both sides to allow unhindered access and stop killing civilians.
But the fighting shows no signs of slowing. More than 2,600 people were killed across the country in October, according to the Armed Conflict Location & Event Data Project, which called it the bloodiest month of the war.
Violence is intensifying around North Darfur's capital, El Fasher, the only capital in the vast western Darfur region that the RSF doesn't hold. Darfur has experienced some of the war's worst atrocities, and the International Criminal Court prosecutor has said there are grounds to believe both sides may be committing war crimes, crimes against humanity or genocide.
Abrahim escaped her village in West Darfur and sought refuge for more than a year in nearby towns with friends and relatives. Her husband had left home to find work before the war, and she hasn’t heard from him since.
She struggled to eat and feed their daughter. Unable to farm, she cut wood and sold it in Chad, traveling eight hours by donkey there and back every few days, earning enough to buy grain. But after a few months the wood ran out, forcing her to leave for good.
Others who have fled to Chad described food prices spiking three-fold and stocks dwindling in the market. There were no vegetables, just grains and nuts.
Awatif Adam came to Chad in October. Her husband wasn't making enough transporting people with his donkey cart, and it was too risky to farm, she said. Her 6-year-old twin girls and 3-year-old son lost weight and were always hungry.
“My children were saying all the time, ‘Mom, give us food’,” she said. Their cries drove her to leave.
As more people stream into Chad, aid groups worry about supporting them.
Some 700,000 Sudanese have entered since the war began. Many live in squalid refugee camps or shelter at the border in makeshift displacement sites. And the number of arrivals at the Adre crossing between August and October jumped from 6,100 to 14,800, according to government and UN data., though it was not clear whether some people entered multiple times.
Earlier this year, the World Food Program cut rations by roughly half in Chad, citing a lack of funding.
While there's now enough money to return to full rations until the start of next year, more arrivals will strain the system and more hunger will result if funding doesn't keep pace, said Ramazani Karabaye, head of the World Food Program's operations in Adre.
During an AP visit to Adre in October, some people who fled Sudan at the start of the war said they were still struggling.
Khadiga Omer Adam said she doesn't have enough aid or money to eat regularly, which has complicated breastfeeding her already malnourished daughter, Salma Issa. The 35-year-old gave birth during the war's initial days, delivering alone in West Darfur. It was too dangerous for a midwife to reach her.
Adam had clutched the baby as she fled through villages, begging for food. More than a year later, she sat on a hospital bed holding a bag of fluid above her daughter, who was fed through a tube in her nose.
“I have confidence in the doctors ... I believe she'll improve, I don't think she'll die," she said.
The MSF-run clinic in the Aboutengue camp admitted more than 340 cases of severely malnourished children in August and September. Staff fear that number could rise. The arid climate in Chad south of the Sahara Desert means it's hard to farm, and there's little food variety, health workers said.
People are fleeing Sudan into difficult conditions, said Dr. Oula Dramane Ouattara, head of MSF's medical activities in the camp.
”If things go on like this, I’m afraid the situation will get out of control," he said.