Far from the madding crowd, a group of gogos from Worcester in the Western Cape leave their local clinic singing a verse from the song Mandizalwe Ngokutsha, Sizalwe kabusha (roughly translated as “I have been born again/given a new lease on life”) after receiving their Covid-19 vaccine.
It’s clearly a momentous day for them, particularly as they were able to get vaccinated at their local clinic rather than having to travel long distances.
They have received a new lease on life, a degree of safety from the pandemic that has cut through their community, and their fellow pensioners in particular, like a scythe.
Equally far from the madding crowd, youth activist Lehlohonolo Motloung addresses a Youth Friendly Service launch in Tlhabane in North West, pleading with his generation to help the elderly get registered for their Covid-19 vaccine.
Young residents of Tlhabane, wearing face masks and sitting 2m apart, absorb the winter sun and the message, brought to them in a combined “foot soldier” initiative involving the Solidarity Fund and the Community Constituency Covid-19 front.
These are some of the hidden stories of the Covid-19 vaccine rollout and the massive social mobilisation project that has been undertaken across SA by health workers and communication workers alike.
It’s a far cry from the frustrating — often whining — version that those in the suburbs are becoming familiar with, as minds stray towards the notion of a failed vaccine programme and possibly a failing state.
Perhaps the joy on the Worcester gogos’ faces or the commitment of the youth of Tlhabane is no big deal if you have a private health-care policy that enables you to get a new pair of spectacles every year, or to get your teeth buffed when your smile starts to fade.
But if you’re short of reliable information, don’t have access to satellite TV and are reliant on a creaking public health-care system, it’s important to know there’s a massive effort out there to bring the protection provided by a Covid-19 vaccine closer to the people.
And the response clearly shows that when you have very little, just a little bit of hope can mean a helluva lot.
That’s why it’s important not to lose sight of the fact that, while some politicians and procurement officials — not to mention the people who run Digital Vibes — seem indecisive or compromised, and there can be no question that the vaccine rollout faces some tremendous hurdles, there can be no doubting that SA’s health workers, civil society activists, and some in the private sector are increasingly focused, and working incredibly hard.
But if you’re short of reliable information, don’t have access to satellite TV and are reliant on a creaking public health-care system, it’s important to know there’s a massive effort out there to bring the protection provided by a Covid-19 vaccine closer to the people.
And the response clearly shows that when you have very little, just a little bit of hope can mean a helluva lot.
There’s a massive effort out there to bring the protection provided by a Covid-19 vaccine closer to the people
That’s why it’s important not to lose sight of the fact that, while some politicians and procurement officials — not to mention the people who run Digital Vibes — seem indecisive or compromised, and there can be no question that the vaccine rollout faces some tremendous hurdles, there can be no doubting that SA’s health workers, civil society activists, and some in the private sector are increasingly focused, and working incredibly hard.
It’s not an easy environment. The “chain of trust” that is necessary for an effective vaccine rollout programme is weak, sometimes close to broken. Every scandal about personal protective equipment, every government procurement misstep, every snout in the procurement trough undermines confidence — not only in the vaccine, but in the system that has been put in place to deal with it.
Add to that the elaborate, technology-dependent nature of the vaccine registration process, the logistical complexities of procuring and distributing the vials, and lack of a reliable national public health information system, and the battle can at times seem overwhelming.
SO WHAT IS BEING DONE?
As a start, government communicators have partnered with civil society organisations, organised labour and organised business to develop a national communications platform that ensures some degree of co-ordination and messaging. Partners meet weekly to assess impact, develop new interventions, and compare notes, with their work supplemented by a fascinating “infodemiology” project that supplies weekly feedback from social listening and community conversations and health-care workers, enabling evidence-based responses to misinformation and information gaps.
Slowly but surely the partnership is starting to work and there has been a significant ramping up of messages and information products in recent months, away from the TV cameras. The struggles continue, though, and will for a long time.
There’s the technology issue, for example, and the high cost of smartphones and data. But, increasingly, platforms like WhatsApp are helping us overcome the constraints of the lockdown and the perils of the pandemic, which inhibit the use of old-school methods like pamphlet distribution and community gatherings.
Millions of people are now able to receive short, informative and accurate messaging that doesn’t consume too much data. These clips can be shared in family WhatsApp groups, workplace groups and street groups, filling some of the information gaps.
There’s also the language issue. Until recently, most Covid-19 material was made available only in English, and in highbrow English to boot. The organisation I’m part of, Covid Comms, has put a particular emphasis on the development of plain language communications in as many South African languages as possible, to increase the impact of Covid-19 messaging, and the cause is also being taken up by others.
It’s not easy; translators are hard to find, particularly when you ask them to volunteer or work for a lot less than glossy communications agencies are able to pay. But it’s worth the effort, and really needs to be a key focus of all future communication efforts around Covid-19. We need to recognise, respect and address the fact that ours is a multilingual society and that the people who need information the most — the gogos in Worcester, the youth of Tlhabane — are generally the ones who speak English the least.
On top of that, we have to deal with the fact that SA, and communicators in particular, are still grappling with how to use communication to bring about meaningful behavioural change. It’s one thing to debunk the mythology around vaccines, but how do we get people to actually change their attitudes, and change their actual behaviour?
If we can crack this with Covid-19, we will be able to start dealing with some of the other aggressive antisocial behavioural challenges that face us as a society, whether it’s gender-based violence, xenophobia, drunk driving, school bullying or racism.
Ultimately, though, it goes back to the “chain of trust”. We can produce the most compelling, appropriate communications ever seen, delivered in your language of choice on your platform of choice. But credibility is everything, particularly during a pandemic. Every scandal, every balls-up, every misstep, undermines public confidence in the messaging, the system and the syringes.
The pandemic looters need to think about that (assuming they have a conscience) every time they rob the public purse. They’re not just stealing public money. They’re stealing public confidence — and stealing life.
• Vick is chair of Covid Comms, a network of communications professionals. Their material may be downloaded free on covidcomms.org.za
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