.
The author is a Professor and the Director of Center on Forced Displacement at Boston University
The horror of the PIMS tragedy last week has stayed in the news for about a week – as expected – and has already started to fade in the background. Soon, in a manner not unfamiliar to us, it will get lost in the bureaucratic burden of poorly written reports and recommendations that are unlikely to be acted upon. That will follow with a collective memory loss for most, except for those who will carry that burning scar in their hearts and souls for the rest of their lives.
The Islamabad incident is unfortunately the latest episode in the long line of tragedies at our health facilities. Media tracking data indicates as many as thirty incidents in the last 16 years, and twelve incidents in the last four years alone. This is not normal and should not be acceptable in any society. I do wonder whether the slightly longer coverage and outrage (whether real or feigned) is because it happened in Islamabad. What if this was in a smaller town? A village?
There are many questions that remain unanswered from the persistent lapses in safety to the timing of the incident to the actions of the concerned authorities – and I hope before amnesia and natural interest to focus on the latest gossip takes over our time, we will get some answers about what actually happened through an honest and public inquiry. But while we wait, it is worth pondering over something else that came from the hospital staff themselves (and was reported in several domestic and international outlets) and has been bothering me: the notion that doors of these units are often locked or manned because babies are stolen from government hospitals. Many of us would acknowledge this as something that does happen, and to many this evil act would not sound unfamiliar. But let us take a minute to think a bit more deeply. What does it say about us and the society at large where little babies are stolen? How can we simply say this without really being ashamed?
Safety, quality control, risk mitigation and other similar measures are an integral part of any operation. But these do not happen in a vacuum or just occur organically. The policies, action and oversight are a deliberate matter, a choice so to speak. It is not an abstract concept – we do this every day. The concept of going through multiple security gates at the airport before you board the flight is something we accept. Of course, there is a cost associated with it. Security personnel have to be paid and scanning instruments have to be installed. But that cost is small compared to the potential risk and harm. And we recognise that security is essential. We as a society make a choice here and do this every day. An international airport of good standing is expected to have robust security systems, otherwise international airlines would refuse to do business with you. There are also other choices that the state makes. For example, keeping the inner echelons of the sensitive establishments secure, and closely guarded. Not everyone can get in there. Similar kinds of decisions and choices are made by states across the world.
Yet, for some reason, when it comes to safety of our own nameless citizens, strengthening hospitals that serve the public, revamping systems that are designed to provide care to those without big titles or prominent last names – there is absence of basic protocols of safety, no funds to refurbish ailing systems, no resources to ensure dignity of the poor person. It is seen in schools, judicial systems, infrastructure and hospitals. By letting the system rot, we actually do make a choice here too – a choice to deflect attention, a choice to bury the news, a choice to find one person who somehow is responsible for the whole crisis and a choice to not care.
