Hands off

Last month I was visiting a potential field site for my PhD research in Monrovia, and meeting some of the people in the area.  One of the Liberian Red Cross staff was showing me around, and he explained to people that I am a researcher from the University of Southampton, and that I will be coming to do some research in their neighbourhood.  People seemed genuinely pleased, and reassured me, “You are welcome.”  I smiled and shook their hands warmly – we shared a limited amount of language, but at least we could share that basic courtesy, a sign of friendship and respect.  In the UK we shake hands as a formality in quite specific circumstances.  In Liberia, as in many parts of Africa, it is more than that – it acknowledges a person’s value, it says, “I see you.”  After a while, my colleague quietly cautioned me, “Not too much handshaking – Ebola.” 

Of course he was right – physical contact is the way that Ebola is spread.  I don’t know if someone I meet is caring for someone who is sick at home and if we’re all going around shaking each other’s hands by the end of the day, how many people might we have infected?  Sure, it’s unlikely, but it’s not impossible, and if everyone avoids physical contact with others it will have an impact on the spread of the disease overall.  It is sensible and right to avoid too much handshaking.  But what does that mean in a culture where people value physical touch?  When I meet a person I am anxious – if I do not go for a handshake, will they think, “This person is being careful for my health,” or will they think, “This person thinks they are better than me”?  Whatever I do, I risk seeming disrespectful.  In a small, everyday way, no handshaking breaks a simple way that people treat others with dignity.

How much more acute is the rejection when a person is suffering from Ebola-like symptoms, and they are denied physical touch?  Of course this precaution is absolutely essential.  But it is also tragic.  We all know how much we need the reassurance of a kind touch when we are feeling unwell.  Something that says, I see your suffering and I am sorry for it.  Something that says, I care for you.  Something that says, you are not alone – I am here with you.  Instead, suspected Ebola-sufferers must be isolated, and are met with physical barriers that protect their love ones and other carers, but which drive home the message, you are on your own.

I wonder, if I was that sick, whether I would have the strength and grace to see those barriers to touch not as a denial of the love and care that I would crave, but as a way of me asserting my own care and respect for those around me.  Is it possible, in day-to-day life, for people to reverse every instinct and see refraining from touch as an acknowledgement of another person’s dignity, to read the message in hands withheld, “I see you”?

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