Yesterday when I took Noonie in for a couple of overdue booster shots the doctor could only give her one of them. The less important one.
“Most vaccines are unavailable right now in Lebanon,” he told us.
As I looked at him with my face in its customary
what-kind-of-bloody-country-is-this expression, he explained.
“All the vaccines are being shunted to the Syrian refugees. I can’t get my
hands on them. I had the father of a two-month-old infant in here yesterday
shouting at me because I can’t vaccinate his child. What can I do? I called the
ministry of health and they told me it’s not their problem.”
His soft voice hardened as he continued. “I said to the man on the phone, ‘If
vaccines are not the responsibility of the ministry of health, who can we turn
to?”
“But this doesn’t make any sense,” I said (I’m always saying that sentence in
Lebanon. I should just make a button to pin on my sweater). “Doesn’t the Lebanese
government have the authority to dictate where vaccines are being directed in
its own country? On whose authority are the vaccines going to the refugees?”
“I don’t know exactly,” he said. “I believe the UN’s. But I’m afraid I don’t
understand precisely how it is decided.”
“So. . . we’ll just wait and do the DPT shot when it becomes available? And
what about the hepatitis B shots my son needs -- are you able to get those?”
“No,” he said. “No hepatitis B, either. And I recommend a typhoid booster and
meningococcal booster for both of your children as well but they are also
unavailable right now.”
“I guess we’ll have to try to get them when we’re in Dubai or Canada,” I said
after a long pause in which I attempted to wrap my cerebrum around this latest
glimpse of what a shambles is Lebanon.
He nodded. “That would be the best idea. I don’t know when I’ll be able to get
them. The other thing you can try is if you know someone – you know, important – you can try to source the vaccines yourself.”
I stared. “You mean, use wasta to get my kids vaccinated?” (Wasta
is an Arabic word that translates roughly as ‘conduit’. In Lebanon it means
preferential treatment.)
He smiled. “Yes, wasta, if you like. There isn’t much choice, I’m
afraid.”
“And what about the parents of the two-month-old baby?” I said. “What are they
going to do?”
“Ah,” he said, his face falling. “Those people have no wasta.
Nor do they travel outside Lebanon. They’ll just have to wait and hope their
child doesn’t get sick.”