Banner by Tanvi Akunuri

Scapegoats of The Invisible: Discrimination and Viruses 

by Keya Patro

How can something invisible to the naked eye bring the world to its knees?  

Measured in nanometers, viruses are microscopic pathogens that can only survive by invading living cells. Despite their size, their impact is immeasurable. Whether it is influenza, measles, polio, HIV/AIDS, or COVID-19, viruses have shaped human history through illness, fear, and loss. They have fueled global crises: the 1918 Spanish flu, the 1976 Ebola outbreak, and the bubonic plague of the 14th century are just a few notable catastrophes of the many pandemics documented throughout history. Even with modern medicine and cutting-edge technology, we remain unable to predict which virus will emerge next, bringing in tragic loss and a scramble for solutions. With so much unknown, uncertainty breeds fear, and fear demands control. During pandemics, that need for control often manifests in dangerous ways, one being through the blaming and targeting of specific communities believed to be the “source” of the disease. Linking viruses to particular places or groups does more than misplace responsibility: it fuels discrimination, deepens social divisions, and ultimately makes survival, both biological and social, even more difficult for those affected. Pain feels easier to bear when it has a target, and fear feels more manageable when it is given a face – an illusion of control. But this illusion comes at an enormous human cost. 

In medieval Europe, disease outbreaks were frequently attributed to minority communities. During the early fourteenth century, rumors began to spread claiming that Jews and lepers (people with leprosy) were poisoning wells to destroy Christian populations. In 1321, French Jews and leprosy patients were accused of such conspiracies and faced expulsion, isolation, and execution. Whether these accusations arose from genuine panic or were opportunistically weaponized to remove marginalized groups from society, the result was the same: persecution justified by fear. 

Discrimination and scapegoating of minority communities are not just phenomenon of the past. The San Francisco plague of 1900 was first recognized when the Chinese owner of a lumberyard in Chinatown died after a failed medical intervention, subsequently leading to the ostracization of Chinatown. After identifying the lumberman's cause of death as the plague, San Francisco mayor James D. Phelan described Chinese Americans as “a constant menace to public health.” Only Chinatown was quarantined, thereby promoting the burning of properties, along with racist and outright false depictions of Chinese Americans as the carriers of disease. While White residents were allowed to relocate, everyone else was forced to stay, leaving those with jobs outside of San Francisco unable to work. The “quarantine” ended only after residents filed a lawsuit stating that if such restrictions were to be enforced, it had to be enforced on everyone regardless of their race. 

Decades worth of public misconceptions surrounding research on disease prevalence in different races have resulted in the false and discriminatory associations of certain races being carriers of disease. Race may affect vulnerability to disease in some populations, but it does not cause the disease itself. For example, research during the COVID-19 pandemic has shown that disparities in infection and mortality rates are largely tied to structural inequities: differences in housing, occupation, access to healthcare, and other social determinants of health. Communities living in multigenerational households, working public-facing jobs, or lacking consistent medical access face greater exposure risk. These are social conditions, not racial inevitabilities. 

Racism and discrimination blind our battles against disease. Racism is present even in the naming of diseases, as labels such as “Ebola” or the “Wuhan virus” tying illness to can stigmatize entire communities. Although the World Health Organization (WHO) discourages naming diseases after locations to avoid discrimination, earlier naming conventions have left lasting social consequences. The 2014 Ebola outbreak illustrates how stigma and global inequality intersect with public health response. During the largest Ebola outbreak in history, the WHO only declared a Public Health Emergency of International Concern nearly five months after Guinea and Liberia first notified it of escalating cases, further failing to help alleviate major structural barriers like underfunding and fragile healthcare in West Africa. Yet beyond logistical challenges, there was also a troubling global indifference. The crisis unfolded primarily in countries with limited economic influence, and international urgency lagged until cases threatened to spread beyond the region. While communities in Guinea, Liberia, and Sierra Leone struggled to contain a deadly virus, racism flourished elsewhere. A college in Texas sent letters declining applications from students in disease-free Nigeria, citing “confirmed Ebola cases.” In Pennsylvania, a high school soccer player was taunted with chants of “Ebola” during a match. These reactions were not grounded in epidemiology, but they were expressions of fear redirected through racial stereotypes. 

COVID-19 or, as referred to unceremoniously, the Wuhan virus, showed its first case in 2019 in Wuhan, China. Suddenly, people of Chinese, or many just of Asian descent, were victims of racism. According to the NORC Center poll in 2021, more than half of Asian Americans have stated that they felt unsafe in public because of their race or ethnicity. Mental health of the targeted group is said to have worsened after the pandemic, not just by being victims themselves, but through witnessing others in their community become victims. In February of 2020, a middle school student was told by a classmate that he was a COVID-19 carrier and should “go back to China.” After the student refused, he was punched repeatedly, leading him to the emergency room. Several of these types of incidents gave rise to the “Stop Asian American Hate” Campaign and Foundation, cofounded by Cynthia Choi, Russell Jeung, and Manjusha Kulkarni. Within a week, their website, which allowed individuals to report hate crimes, had over 100 reports. After a year, they finally received funding and started to conduct hundreds of interviews and media appearances collecting reports of crimes against Asian people. As racism increases in severity, it becomes harder to treat people medically because people become wary of trusting authority, causing a delay in or abstaining from receiving medical care. 

This year, there have been Nipah virus outbreaks reported in Bangladesh and India. So the question is, are the people from these countries going to be safe? Will their communities now become targets? Will they be mocked in classrooms, shouted at in public spaces, shoved on streets, denied opportunities, and treated as if their very existence is contagious? Will fear once again give strangers permission to humiliate, assault, or even kill in the name of “safety”? Viruses expose vulnerabilities in our immune systems. But outbreaks also expose vulnerabilities in our societies: our prejudices, our inequalities, and our willingness to let fear override evidence. In times like this, we have to remember that disease is a biological event, but the discrimination that follows is a social choice.