economist

When rabea, a small-time drug dealer from Tripoli in northern Lebanon, was caught with two kilos of hash in 2017, he knew what to expect. His local lock-up, Qubbah Prison, where he would spend the next five years, was already filled with men from his neighbourhood. He knew about the years-long wait to see a judge. And he had heard about the crowded cells where 60 detainees take it in turns to sleep on the floor, the gangs and the fights. But Rabea did not know that things were about to get even worse. In 2019, halfway through his sentence, Lebanon’s economy went into meltdown. The country’s economic crisis—in the course of which its gdp has contracted by almost 40%—caused havoc in its prisons. Food and medical supplies became ever scarcer and violence surged in jails that are now at 323% of capacity.Amid a multitude of crises, the welfare of Lebanon’s prisoners is not a priority. The budget for the interior ministry, which runs the prisons, has officially increased in recent years. But a collapsing currency—the lira has lost 98% of its value since 2019—and soaring annual inflation (official figures put it at over 250% in July) mean that its purchasing power has been steadily eroded.Inflation also means that families struggle to afford to buy food to supplement prisoners’ increasingly meagre rations. By the end of his sentence, Rabea says he was expected to survive on as little as a spoonful of bulgar wheat a day. Amid budget cuts, prisoners are being denied crucial medical treatment. More than 800 were taken to hospital in 2018; only 107 were taken in 2022, even as the total prison population has remained stable, according to Amnesty International, a human-rights charity. Deaths in prisons almost doubled between 2018 and 2022.Meanwhile, the vast majority of Lebanese detainees are technically not guilty—not yet at least. Some 82% of prisoners have yet to see a judge, compared with 54% in 2017. When Rabea at last had his day in court, he had already been in jail for almost three years. Budget cuts within the justice ministry are slowing the government’s ability to clear the backlog, so the proportion of detainees in pre-trial detention is expected to grow. In 2022 just 2,672 criminals were convicted compared with 4,772 in 2020. Strikes by judicial officials and shrinking resources are making the problem worse. At least one recent trial was suspended when prison wardens had insufficient petrol to transport the accused to court.Time keeps draggin’ onWhen Rabea was released in 2022 almost everyone in his cell was awaiting trial. Some had been incarcerated for ten years, he says, only to be handed a one-year sentence. He watched with envy as a lucky few took advantage of the country’s chaos to secure a quicker release. “If you’ve got money, you can pay a good lawyer and he can get your case torn up,” Rabea says. “But if you haven’t, you’re not going anywhere.”■

FEW IRANIAN acts outrage its enemies more than its taking of hostages. Foreigners are offered official visas to visit Iran and then seized on departure by the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (known as the Pasdaran), Iran’s strongest force. Iran then uses them as bargaining chips for prisoner swaps and cash, among other things. “The Islamic republic isn’t a banana republic, but…it still behaves like a mafia state,” says a Western diplomat, previously based in Iran.On September 18th Iran and America each exchanged five prisoners in a deal sweetened by America’s unfreezing of $6bn of Iranian assets—primarily oil revenues—held in South Korea. The released hostages include Siamak Namazi, an Iranian-American businessman held since 2015 (his father was detained a year later when he travelled to Iran to secure Siamak’s release and held until 2022) and Morad Tahbaz, an Iranian-American environmentalist who also holds British citizenship. But perhaps a dozen Westerners and several dozen more dual nationals remain behind bars as leverage for future deals. And on September 16th Iran arrested another dual national in Karaj, a city west of the capital, Tehran.Iranian officials claim they have no choice but to take prisoners since their adversaries also flout international law. Their ire has been stoked by America’s imposition of sanctions and by the unloading last month of Iranian oil from a tanker America had seized and taken to Texas. Over the longer run such hostage-taking cripples Iran’s hopes of developing a tourism industry and hampers foreign investment and trade. But the short-term cash it generates is tempting for a regime that faces discontent amid soaring inflation and a currency that earlier this year fell to a record low (before rebounding on hopes of a prisoner-for-cash deal). As the prisoners departed Imam Khomeini International airport under the watch of the Qatari ambassador in Tehran who helped negotiate the deal, two Korean banks transferred $6bn of Iranian funds via Switzerland to the Qatari capital, Doha. According to a mediator, the Gulf state further sweetened the deal by compensating Iran for the loss of interest worth several hundred million dollars. Under the deal America’s Treasury will monitor spending to ensure that funds are used by Iran only for humanitarian purposes. But, says Norman Roule, a former American spy in the region, the deal could free up cash for Iran’s military programmes, too. Iran could also gain a sanctions-waiver mechanism that could be reused in other financial transactions. “This could be a learning moment for future diplomacy over sanctions relief,” says Esfandyar Batmanghelidj, an Iranian economist heading a think-tank in London.The deal could lower tensions abroad. Iran’s president, Ebrahim Raisi, has just arrived in New York to address the un General Assembly in the coming days. Further talks are planned between the Iranians and their erstwhile regional foe, Saudi Arabia, together with the other five Arab states of the Gulf Co-operation Council on the sidelines of the un meetings. There is talk of Mr Raisi addressing the Council on Foreign Relations, an American think-tank in New York, while he is there. And to coincide with the prisoner release, a mediator says senior Iranian officials and their American counterparts are also holding direct talks during Mr Raisi’s visit. Subjects on the agenda are said to include Iran’s nuclear enrichment programme, the supply of Iranian combat drones to Russia and Iranian threats against the Kurdish administration in northern Iraq.Few observers see this as the first step towards a broader deal on reviving the jcpoa, an agreement signed in 2015 that was intended to prevent Iran from enriching uranium to a level that would have put it on the “threshold” of acquiring nuclear weapons. The Trump administration subsequently withdrew from the deal in 2018, prompting Iran to ignore its key restrictions. “Iran is already a threshold state so that horse has bolted,” says a mediator. In protest at Iran’s enrichment of uranium beyond civilian levels of 60%, Britain, France and Germany all announced earlier this month that they were enshrining un sanctions in national law before they expired under the terms of the jcpoa.Still, the hostage deal continues a remarkable diplomatic offensive under Mr Raisi, a supposed clerical hardliner in a historically xenophobic regime. In recent months his administration has restored diplomatic relations with its regional competitor, Saudi Arabia, begun talks on joining the brics, a club of big emerging markets, and finally joined the Shanghai Co-operation Council of Eurasian countries. Even Iran’s most vocal adversary, the Israeli prime minister, Binyamin Netanyahu, has muted his criticism, apparently for fear of exacerbating tensions with the Biden administration and spoiling his own hopes of establishing diplomatic ties with Saudi Arabia.Driving the outreach is the regime’s need to shore up international support as the Islamic Republic grapples with plans for the succession of its 84-year-old supreme leader, Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, and tackling its greatest threat—its disgruntled population. At home and abroad in Iran the ayatollahs’ opponents have criticised the deal as a slap in the face by America, particularly since it coincides with the first anniversary of the death of Mahsa Amini, an Iranian woman detained for showing her hair. More than 500 Iranians were killed in the months of protests that followed. In Iran, riot police and bully boys on motorbikes are roaming the streets to prevent demonstrations. Ms Amini’s father is under house arrest and recently cafés across the country were closed to prevent young people from congregating. “It felt like martial law,” says a café-goer.For now the regime has the upper hand. The few small protests that have occurred in the capital, Tehran, have been dispersed within minutes. In the province of Kurdistan, where Ms Amini lived, the security forces reportedly used live ammunition. But Iranians speak of mounting tension. Many have resorted to civil disobedience. Women continue to doff their mandatory headscarves and refuse to pay fines, or cash-for-hijabs as Iranians call them, for violating the dress code. And as the gap between the regime and its people grows, security personnel wear balaclavas to hide their identities. While international opinion may be mollified, at least temporarily, in Tehran, popular anger remains unassuaged. ■

How can cotton wool help in the fight against AIDS? The answer is surprising, and illuminates how complicated it will be to beat the deadliest sexually transmitted sickness of all time. The struggle involves not only dazzling science but also old-fashioned insights into human behaviour, rational and irrational.Many people who do not have HIV, the virus that causes AIDS, know they are at risk. They can take pre-exposure prophylaxis (PrEP), a kind of drug that reduces their chance of contracting it by 99% or so. This comes as a daily pill, and is popular among gay men in rich countries.However, there is a much larger group of people at high risk, for whom a daily pill is far from ideal: heterosexual women in poor places where HIV is still very common. If their boyfriends discover they are taking the pill, they may conclude that their girlfriend does not trust them, or that she is planning to cheat on them. And a depressing number of boyfriends who suspect such things react violently.image: The EconomistA high-tech solution is on the horizon: cabotegravir, from ViiV healthcare, a single injection that lasts for two months and is much more discreet than a daily pill. Alas, it is new, costly and not yet widely available, especially in Africa, where the virus is most widespread. So Patrick Mdletshe of the KwaZulu Natal Provincial Council on AIDS in South Africa offers a low-tech fix: stuff cotton wool in the bottle so the daily pills don’t rattle and your boyfriend won’t notice that you are taking them.UNAIDS, a UN body, hopes to end AIDS as a major public-health threat by 2030, building on the staggering success of the past two decades. AIDS, which weakens the immune system, has killed about 40m people—more than covid-19. However, the pace at which people are dying of it has fallen dramatically. In the early 2000s it was 2m a year, largely in poor countries, where hardly anyone could afford $10,000 a year for life-prolonging pills. In some African countries between a fifth and quarter of the adult population was infected with HIV; nearly all were expected to die of it. Life expectancy in Zimbabwe and Eswatini fell by two decades.AIDS slaughtered adults in their productive prime—slowly. Breadwinners sickened, stopped earning and needed care. Their spouses looked after them until they, too, fell ill. Daughters dropped out of school to care for ailing parents. Families were plunged into penury.Then the price of antiretroviral pills plummeted, as drug firms offered steep discounts for poor countries and donors chipped in billions to pay for them. Today a year’s supply can cost a mere $45. Between 2001 and 2019 life expectancy in sub-Saharan Africa rose by 17%—and much more in the worst-affected countries (see chart). Globally, some 21m deaths have been averted, by one estimate. Today, three-quarters of those infected—roughly 30m people—are receiving treatment.image: The EconomistUnfortunately, triumph has bred complacency, argues Peter Sands, the head of the Global Fund to Fight AIDS, Tuberculosis and Malaria, a donor-financed body. “There’s a diminishing sense of urgency,” he says. Or worse. The biggest donor by far is America. Its global AIDS programme, PEPFAR, which was set up by President George W. Bush, expires on September 30th and some Republicans are trying to block its reauthorisation. A recent report from a conservative think-tank called AIDS “primarily a lifestyle disease” and griped that PEPFAR was being used to promote a “radical social agenda overseas”. (It does not bar aid recipients from talking about abortion.) Mr Bush is horrified. “To abandon our commitment now would forfeit two decades of unimaginable progress and raise further questions about the worth of America’s word,” he fumed in the Washington Post on September 13th.An estimated 39m people are HIV positive—more than half of them in Africa. All will need lifelong treatment, unless a cure is found. Meanwhile, the virus is still spreading. Some 1.3m people were freshly infected last year. In Eastern Europe and the Middle East, the numbers of new infections in 2022 were 49% and 61% higher than in 2010, albeit from low bases.There are two main approaches to tackling the virus. One is to invent new medicines: ideally a cure or an effective vaccine. The other is to reach more people with existing technology. Both approaches—in the lab and on the ground—are being pursued in tandem by governments, private companies, donors and ngos.A cure seems a long way off. A vaccine may be closer, but HIV is an elusive target. It is highly mutable, and hides its DNA inside some of the immune cells that are supposed to destroy it. Nina Russell of the Gates Foundation, who has worked on HIV vaccines for “many, many, many, many” years, is nonetheless hopeful.Past failures have taught scientists that they need to design vaccines that can teach the body to make antibodies to tackle a wide range of viral strains. They might have to create three, four or five different vaccines and jab people with all of them, in the correct order. Firms such as Moderna and BioNTech are using mRNA technology to speed up the process. However, even optimists do not expect success this decade. So hitting the 2030 target will depend largely on two things. First, finding and treating more infected people. Second, identifying those who are at risk of infection, and helping them avoid it.image: The EconomistUNAIDS urges countries to aim for “95-95-95”: where 95% of those who have the virus know they have it, 95% of those who know they have it are receiving treatment, and crucially that 95% of those in treatment are “virally suppressed”. If the drugs suppress the virus to a level where it is undetectable—and keep it there—it cannot be passed on sexually.If the world were to reach 95-95-95, the disease would be brought under control, UNAIDS reckons, though tens of millions would still be living with it. In 2022 the figures were 86-76-71, a hefty improvement on 71-48-40 in 2015. But the “last mile” will be hard. “You have to be much more creative,” says Dr Quarraisha Abdool Karim of CAPRISA, a research centre in Durban. One enormous, tricky group is men. They are less likely to get tested than women, not least because they do not get pregnant. Prenatal clinics are a wonderfully convenient place to test women who have recently had unprotected sex. If they test positive, many countries now offer them free drugs, which protect mother, child and future romantic partners.There is no male equivalent of a prenatal clinic. Also, some men have a macho reluctance to seek medical help. They “get very sick before they get tested”, says Sibongile Tshabalala, the chair of the Treatment Action Campaign, an NGO in South Africa.“As men, we’re embarrassed to go to a clinic. We’re taught we need to be strong, so we cannot be seen to be sick,” says Ronnie Sibisi, a 60-year-old from Vosloorus, a township near Johannesburg. He was “a player” with many girlfriends, he says. He knew how the virus was transmitted, but seldom used condoms. “I didn’t think about it,” he shrugs. He did not get tested until he collapsed and woke up in hospital.It is, perhaps, most crucial to reach young women and girls. In sub-Saharan Africa HIV is three times more common among females aged 15-24 than among their male peers. This is because older men often seek younger partners. There is peer pressure on young women to have trendy clothes and hairstyles, says Ms Tshabalala. These cost money, which impels some girls to sleep with older men. And only 36% of young women in eastern and southern Africa report having used a condom the last time they had sex with a casual partner. In West Africa it is only 25%.If their “sugar daddies” infect them, the girls may pass the virus to a partner of their own age. This is the most common way that HIV passes from one age cohort to the next. Breaking that link would allow the younger cohort, who are largely virus-free before they become sexually active, to stay that way. “If you can reduce [new infections among] young girls, you break the back of the pandemic in Africa,” says Dr Salim Abdool Karim, an epidemiologist (who is married to Quarraisha Abdool Karim).A tangle of social problems makes everything harder. Poverty is one. If you are poor, getting tested can be a challenge even if the test is free. A day off work and a bus fare to the clinic can scupper your budget. Male violence is another obstacle. A study in six African countries found that women who had been physically abused in the previous year were 3.2 times more likely to have been infected with HIV recently. Women who live in fear may find it harder to say no to unprotected sex. And the first wave of AIDS, by killing so many parents, made families in some countries even poorer and more unstable than they already were. In South Africa, for example, thanks to a long tradition of migrant labour under apartheid and the recent ravages of AIDS, only a third of children live with both biological parents.Social dysfunction helps the virus spread. Thulina Moukangwe was raped by four different relatives, starting when she was 11. She does not know which one infected her. She did not get tested until she was 17, “because I was young and ignorant”, she says. She received little support from her chaotic family, and did not seek treatment for another five years.Fear of death can make bad boyfriends behave even worse. After Makhosazana Molotsane tested positive her partner was furious. For years he refused to get tested himself, drunkenly sang in the street that she was bringing disease into his home, and burned the condoms Ms Molotsane wanted to use. He seized her antiretroviral drugs and tossed them away. She hid her pills in a nappy bag. He beat her up; eventually she left him.Both women’s fortunes eventually improved. Ms Molotsane, who is 40, found a more supportive partner, who reminds her to take her drugs. Her viral load is low enough that her doctor tells her it is safe for them to have a baby. Ms Moukangwe, who is now 29, has become a “peer educator”: a volunteer who helps people make informed decisions about their health. This is one area where NGOs are especially useful. Health services are overstretched, and people often resist instructions from officials. A more effective way to persuade scared, reluctant people to take the right medicine is for them to talk to people from similar backgrounds. Ms Moukangwe, who had heard that antiretroviral drugs “made you crazy”, started taking them after she saw that a friendly volunteer, who had been taking them for years, was sane and healthy. “You can’t just tell people to go to a clinic,” says Ms Moukangwe. “I talk about myself, as a way of encouraging others.”Testing, testingPrivate companies pitch in, too. Mining firms in southern Africa saw AIDS as a huge threat two decades ago. Their workers were often migrants, who lived far from their families in hostels surrounded by prostitutes. Companies such as Anglo American started offering staff free testing and antiretroviral drugs even as South Africa’s president at the time, Thabo Mbeki, publicly questioned their efficacy. It was a delicate task, recalls Brian Brink, who used to run Anglo’s AIDS programme. Unions had to be convinced that tests would not be used to identify sick staff and fire them.Stigma lingers even in countries where nearly everyone knows someone with hiv. People worry that if they get tested near home, or pick up antiretrovirals from a pharmacy, a neighbour will spot them, says Mr Mdletshe. This makes it less likely that they will get tested in the first place, or stick to a lifelong drug regimen.Sometimes stigma is compounded by law. Some 168 governments criminalise aspects of sex work. This deters sex workers from seeking help. Nokwanda Gambushe, an activist in Durban, complains that cops search sex workers’ handbags and, if they find condoms, arrest them. This hardly encourages safe sex.In addition, 145 countries criminalise drug use and 67 criminalise gay sex. The sharp increase in infections in Eastern Europe and the Middle East is largely due to a lack of prevention services for marginalised populations, reckons UNAIDS. Uganda introduced the death penalty this year for “aggravated homosexuality”, which might make gay Ugandans think twice before walking into a clinic to get tested.Policy can make a huge difference. President Mbeki’s AIDS denialism cost an estimated 300,000 South African lives. However, when he was sacked by his party in 2008, experts persuaded a caretaker government to adopt a first-rate AIDS policy. Drugs were swiftly rolled out, and between 2009 and 2012 the proportion of children under five in South Africa who were orphans plunged from 12% to 7.3%.The best foundation for fighting AIDS is a well-functioning public health system with short queues and sensitive staff, says Mr Mdletshe. Many countries fall short. Waiting times are often long, pharmacies run out of pills, staff are sometimes judgmental. When Ms Moukangwe tested positive, a nurse shouted at her for her lax morals. Even in rich countries, governments that fail to prioritise the disease tend to deal with it badly. The proportion of infected people taking antiretroviral drugs is actually lower in Eastern Europe and central Asia than in sub-Saharan Africa.Governments do not work in a vacuum. The places that have come closest to hitting the 95-95-95 targets are typically African countries where donors are pouring in resources and expertise, such as Botswana, Rwanda, Tanzania and Zimbabwe. The second tier are often rich countries with generous public services (Denmark, Saudi Arabia) or places that developed a serious anti-AIDS strategy early on in the pandemic, such as Cambodia and Thailand.One of the biggest obstacles to curbing the spread of HIV is that the symptoms take a long time to appear. “Recently infected people have high viral loads, and are more likely to infect others. The problem is that those who have been infected don’t yet know it,” laments Dr Salim Abdool Karim. “The gap between being infected and being tested is usually years.”So he suggests something radical: offering PrEP to girls in schools. Instead of waiting for those who think they are at risk to come to a clinic, health workers should go to schools and offer PrEP to all the girls above a certain age, along with testing, contraception and other healthcare services. This could meet stiff resistance from traditionalists who think it would encourage promiscuity. Also, “[it] is only feasible if you have a PrEP that lasts six months,” says Dr Salim Abdool Karim. “You can’t keep going to the schools more than…once every six months. It’s not practical.”Longer-lasting drugs are in the pipeline, and could “change the trajectory” of the disease, says Deborah Waterhouse, the boss of Viiv. The first not-for-profit delivery of Viiv’s two-month injection, to PEPFAR, will be in October. It has regulatory approval in four southern African countries, and has been licensed to cheap generic manufacturers. Gilead, an American firm, has a drug called lenacapavir, which is already used as a treatment, and which breaks down so slowly that it might work as a prophylaxis for six months. It is in clinical trials among girls in South Africa and Uganda.Rolling out new drugs would cost a lot. Roughly $21bn was spent on fighting HIV in poor and middle-income countries in 2022, with slightly less than half coming from donors; UNAIDS thinks $29bn will be needed in 2025. To those who would penny-pinch, Mr Sands retorts that it is “rational to hit this thing hard and fast”. Fighting AIDS slowly would be “much more expensive…If you don’t reduce the number of new infections, every new infection is translating into a lifetime of antiretroviral treatments...and complications.”A lifetime of treating someone with HIV in a poor country costs around $5,000, by one estimate; in rich countries, it is $380,000. By comparison, the cost of averting an infection in Zambia or South Africa is $2,000-$3,000, according to a different study published in the Lancet in 2021. And so long as the virus is circulating somewhere, nowhere is safe. ■

How can cotton wool help in the fight against AIDS? The answer is surprising, and illuminates how complicated it will be to beat the deadliest sexually transmitted sickness of all time. The struggle involves not only dazzling science but also old-fashioned insights into human behaviour, rational and irrational.Many people who do not have HIV, the virus that causes AIDS, know they are at risk. They can take pre-exposure prophylaxis (PrEP), a kind of drug that reduces their chance of contracting it by 99% or so. This comes as a daily pill, and is popular among gay men in rich countries.However, there is a much larger group of people at high risk, for whom a daily pill is far from ideal: heterosexual women in poor places where HIV is still very common. If their boyfriends discover they are taking the pill, they may conclude that their girlfriend does not trust them, or that she is planning to cheat on them. And a depressing number of boyfriends who suspect such things react violently.image: The EconomistA high-tech solution is on the horizon: cabotegravir, from ViiV Healthcare, a single injection that lasts for two months and is much more discreet than a daily pill. Alas, it is new, costly and not yet widely available, especially in Africa, where the virus is most widespread. So Patrick Mdletshe of the KwaZulu Natal Provincial Council on AIDS in South Africa offers a low-tech fix: stuff cotton wool in the bottle so the daily pills don’t rattle and your boyfriend won’t notice that you are taking them.UNAIDS, a UN body, hopes to end AIDS as a major public-health threat by 2030, building on the staggering success of the past two decades. AIDS, which weakens the immune system, has killed about 40m people—more than covid-19. However, the pace at which people are dying of it has fallen dramatically. In the early 2000s it was 2m a year, largely in poor countries, where hardly anyone could afford $10,000 a year for life-prolonging pills. In some African countries between a fifth and quarter of the adult population was infected with HIV; nearly all were expected to die of it. Life expectancy in Zimbabwe and Eswatini fell by two decades.AIDS slaughtered adults in their productive prime—slowly. Breadwinners sickened, stopped earning and needed care. Their spouses looked after them until they, too, fell ill. Daughters dropped out of school to care for ailing parents. Families were plunged into penury.Then the price of antiretroviral pills plummeted, as drug firms offered steep discounts for poor countries and donors chipped in billions to pay for them. Today a year’s supply can cost a mere $45. Between 2001 and 2019 life expectancy in sub-Saharan Africa rose by 17%—and much more in the worst-affected countries (see chart). Globally, some 21m deaths have been averted, by one estimate. Today, three-quarters of those infected—roughly 30m people—are receiving treatment.image: The EconomistUnfortunately, triumph has bred complacency, argues Peter Sands, the head of the Global Fund to Fight AIDS, Tuberculosis and Malaria, a donor-financed body. “There’s a diminishing sense of urgency,” he says. Or worse. The biggest donor by far is America. Its global AIDS programme, PEPFAR, which was set up by President George W. Bush, expires on September 30th and some Republicans are trying to block its reauthorisation. A recent report from a conservative think-tank called AIDS “primarily a lifestyle disease” and griped that PEPFAR was being used to promote a “radical social agenda overseas”. (It does not bar aid recipients from talking about abortion.) Mr Bush is horrified. “To abandon our commitment now would forfeit two decades of unimaginable progress and raise further questions about the worth of America’s word,” he fumed in the Washington Post on September 13th.An estimated 39m people are HIV positive—more than half of them in Africa. All will need lifelong treatment, unless a cure is found. Meanwhile, the virus is still spreading. Some 1.3m people were freshly infected last year. In Eastern Europe and the Middle East, the numbers of new infections in 2022 were 49% and 61% higher than in 2010, albeit from low bases.There are two main approaches to tackling the virus. One is to invent new medicines: ideally a cure or an effective vaccine. The other is to reach more people with existing technology. Both approaches—in the lab and on the ground—are being pursued in tandem by governments, private companies, donors and ngos.A cure seems a long way off. A vaccine may be closer, but HIV is an elusive target. It is highly mutable, and hides its DNA inside some of the immune cells that are supposed to destroy it. Nina Russell of the Gates Foundation, who has worked on HIV vaccines for “many, many, many, many” years, is nonetheless hopeful.Past failures have taught scientists that they need to design vaccines that can teach the body to make antibodies to tackle a wide range of viral strains. They might have to create three, four or five different vaccines and jab people with all of them, in the correct order. Firms such as Moderna and BioNTech are using mRNA technology to speed up the process. However, even optimists do not expect success this decade. So hitting the 2030 target will depend largely on two things. First, finding and treating more infected people. Second, identifying those who are at risk of infection, and helping them avoid it.image: The EconomistUNAIDS urges countries to aim for “95-95-95”: where 95% of those who have the virus know they have it, 95% of those who know they have it are receiving treatment, and crucially that 95% of those in treatment are “virally suppressed”. If the drugs suppress the virus to a level where it is undetectable—and keep it there—it cannot be passed on sexually.If the world were to reach 95-95-95, the disease would be brought under control, UNAIDS reckons, though tens of millions would still be living with it. In 2022 the figures were 86-76-71, a hefty improvement on 71-48-40 in 2015. But the “last mile” will be hard. “You have to be much more creative,” says Dr Quarraisha Abdool Karim of CAPRISA, a research centre in Durban. One enormous, tricky group is men. They are less likely to get tested than women, not least because they do not get pregnant. Prenatal clinics are a wonderfully convenient place to test women who have recently had unprotected sex. If they test positive, many countries now offer them free drugs, which protect mother, child and future romantic partners.There is no male equivalent of a prenatal clinic. Also, some men have a macho reluctance to seek medical help. They “get very sick before they get tested”, says Sibongile Tshabalala, the chair of the Treatment Action Campaign, an NGO in South Africa.“As men, we’re embarrassed to go to a clinic. We’re taught we need to be strong, so we cannot be seen to be sick,” says Ronnie Sibisi, a 60-year-old from Vosloorus, a township near Johannesburg. He was “a player” with many girlfriends, he says. He knew how the virus was transmitted, but seldom used condoms. “I didn’t think about it,” he shrugs. He did not get tested until he collapsed and woke up in hospital.It is, perhaps, most crucial to reach young women and girls. In sub-Saharan Africa HIV is three times more common among females aged 15-24 than among their male peers. This is because older men often seek younger partners. There is peer pressure on young women to have trendy clothes and hairstyles, says Ms Tshabalala. These cost money, which impels some girls to sleep with older men. And only 36% of young women in eastern and southern Africa report having used a condom the last time they had sex with a casual partner. In West Africa it is only 25%.If their “sugar daddies” infect them, the girls may pass the virus to a partner of their own age. This is the most common way that HIV passes from one age cohort to the next. Breaking that link would allow the younger cohort, who are largely virus-free before they become sexually active, to stay that way. “If you can reduce [new infections among] young girls, you break the back of the pandemic in Africa,” says Dr Salim Abdool Karim, an epidemiologist (who is married to Quarraisha Abdool Karim).A tangle of social problems makes everything harder. Poverty is one. If you are poor, getting tested can be a challenge even if the test is free. A day off work and a bus fare to the clinic can scupper your budget. Male violence is another obstacle. A study in six African countries found that women who had been physically abused in the previous year were 3.2 times more likely to have been infected with HIV recently. Women who live in fear may find it harder to say no to unprotected sex. And the first wave of AIDS, by killing so many parents, made families in some countries even poorer and more unstable than they already were. In South Africa, for example, thanks to a long tradition of migrant labour under apartheid and the recent ravages of AIDS, only a third of children live with both biological parents.Social dysfunction helps the virus spread. Thulina Moukangwe was raped by four different relatives, starting when she was 11. She does not know which one infected her. She did not get tested until she was 17, “because I was young and ignorant”, she says. She received little support from her chaotic family, and did not seek treatment for another five years.Fear of death can make bad boyfriends behave even worse. After Makhosazana Molotsane tested positive her partner was furious. For years he refused to get tested himself, drunkenly sang in the street that she was bringing disease into his home, and burned the condoms Ms Molotsane wanted to use. He seized her antiretroviral drugs and tossed them away. She hid her pills in a nappy bag. He beat her up; eventually she left him.Both women’s fortunes eventually improved. Ms Molotsane, who is 40, found a more supportive partner, who reminds her to take her drugs. Her viral load is low enough that her doctor tells her it is safe for them to have a baby. Ms Moukangwe, who is now 29, has become a “peer educator”: a volunteer who helps people make informed decisions about their health. This is one area where NGOs are especially useful. Health services are overstretched, and people often resist instructions from officials. A more effective way to persuade scared, reluctant people to take the right medicine is for them to talk to people from similar backgrounds. Ms Moukangwe, who had heard that antiretroviral drugs “made you crazy”, started taking them after she saw that a friendly volunteer, who had been taking them for years, was sane and healthy. “You can’t just tell people to go to a clinic,” says Ms Moukangwe. “I talk about myself, as a way of encouraging others.”Testing, testingPrivate companies pitch in, too. Mining firms in southern Africa saw AIDS as a huge threat two decades ago. Their workers were often migrants, who lived far from their families in hostels surrounded by prostitutes. Companies such as Anglo American started offering staff free testing and antiretroviral drugs even as South Africa’s president at the time, Thabo Mbeki, publicly questioned their efficacy. It was a delicate task, recalls Brian Brink, who used to run Anglo’s AIDS programme. Unions had to be convinced that tests would not be used to identify sick staff and fire them.Stigma lingers even in countries where nearly everyone knows someone with hiv. People worry that if they get tested near home, or pick up antiretrovirals from a pharmacy, a neighbour will spot them, says Mr Mdletshe. This makes it less likely that they will get tested in the first place, or stick to a lifelong drug regimen.Sometimes stigma is compounded by law. Some 168 governments criminalise aspects of sex work. This deters sex workers from seeking help. Nokwanda Gambushe, an activist in Durban, complains that cops search sex workers’ handbags and, if they find condoms, arrest them. This hardly encourages safe sex.In addition, 145 countries criminalise drug use and 67 criminalise gay sex. The sharp increase in infections in Eastern Europe and the Middle East is largely due to a lack of prevention services for marginalised populations, reckons UNAIDS. Uganda introduced the death penalty this year for “aggravated homosexuality”, which might make gay Ugandans think twice before walking into a clinic to get tested.Policy can make a huge difference. President Mbeki’s AIDS denialism cost an estimated 300,000 South African lives. However, when he was sacked by his party in 2008, experts persuaded a caretaker government to adopt a first-rate AIDS policy. Drugs were swiftly rolled out, and between 2009 and 2012 the proportion of children under five in South Africa who were orphans plunged from 12% to 7.3%.The best foundation for fighting AIDS is a well-functioning public health system with short queues and sensitive staff, says Mr Mdletshe. Many countries fall short. Waiting times are often long, pharmacies run out of pills, staff are sometimes judgmental. When Ms Moukangwe tested positive, a nurse shouted at her for her lax morals. Even in rich countries, governments that fail to prioritise the disease tend to deal with it badly. The proportion of infected people taking antiretroviral drugs is actually lower in Eastern Europe and central Asia than in sub-Saharan Africa.Governments do not work in a vacuum. The places that have come closest to hitting the 95-95-95 targets are typically African countries where donors are pouring in resources and expertise, such as Botswana, Rwanda, Tanzania and Zimbabwe. The second tier are often rich countries with generous public services (Denmark, Saudi Arabia) or places that developed a serious anti-AIDS strategy early on in the pandemic, such as Cambodia and Thailand.One of the biggest obstacles to curbing the spread of HIV is that the symptoms take a long time to appear. “Recently infected people have high viral loads, and are more likely to infect others. The problem is that those who have been infected don’t yet know it,” laments Dr Salim Abdool Karim. “The gap between being infected and being tested is usually years.”So he suggests something radical: offering PrEP to girls in schools. Instead of waiting for those who think they are at risk to come to a clinic, health workers should go to schools and offer PrEP to all the girls above a certain age, along with testing, contraception and other healthcare services. This could meet stiff resistance from traditionalists who think it would encourage promiscuity. Also, “[it] is only feasible if you have a PrEP that lasts six months,” says Dr Salim Abdool Karim. “You can’t keep going to the schools more than…once every six months. It’s not practical.”Longer-lasting drugs are in the pipeline, and could “change the trajectory” of the disease, says Deborah Waterhouse, the boss of Viiv. The first not-for-profit delivery of Viiv’s two-month injection, to PEPFAR, will be in October. It has regulatory approval in four southern African countries, and has been licensed to cheap generic manufacturers. Gilead, an American firm, has a drug called lenacapavir, which is already used as a treatment, and which breaks down so slowly that it might work as a prophylaxis for six months. It is in clinical trials among girls in South Africa and Uganda.Rolling out new drugs would cost a lot. Roughly $21bn was spent on fighting HIV in poor and middle-income countries in 2022, with slightly less than half coming from donors; UNAIDS thinks $29bn will be needed in 2025. To those who would penny-pinch, Mr Sands retorts that it is “rational to hit this thing hard and fast”. Fighting AIDS slowly would be “much more expensive…If you don’t reduce the number of new infections, every new infection is translating into a lifetime of antiretroviral treatments...and complications.”A lifetime of treating someone with HIV in a poor country costs around $5,000, by one estimate; in rich countries, it is $380,000. By comparison, the cost of averting an infection in Zambia or South Africa is $2,000-$3,000, according to a different study published in the Lancet in 2021. And so long as the virus is circulating somewhere, nowhere is safe. ■

On September 3rd William Ruto drove himself to a curtain-raiser for the Africa Climate Summit in a small yellow electric car, flanked by bodyguards riding electric motorbikes. Mr Ruto, Kenya’s president, sees climate diplomacy as a way of burnishing his reputation in the West. But during the summit—the first dedicated to Africa’s response to the warming planet—the motorcades of visiting presidents had a more familiar look. While the politicians talked green inside the venue in Nairobi, Kenya’s capital, outside were rows of petrol-guzzling SUVs.A gap between symbol and substance is common when it comes to Africa and climate change. Foreign politicians often nod to how the continent that has contributed least to warming the planet will be hurt the most. Africa, with 18% of the global population, is responsible for less than 4% of historic carbon-dioxide emissions, but has 16 of the 20 countries most vulnerable to climate change, according to the Notre Dame Global Adaptation Initiative, an American research project. Investors in carbon markets marvel at the Congo basin; renewable-energy types hail the potential of Africa’s sun, wind and rivers. Yet neither governments nor money men have matched rhetoric with resources. Meanwhile Africans worry that global efforts to combat climate change will come at the cost of their own economic development.The summit aimed to change that by looking at what the rest of the world should do for Africa, as well as what Africa can do for the world. African leaders called on rich countries to belatedly fulfil the pledge they made in 2009 to spend $100bn annually by 2020 to help developing countries with climate change, as well as a promise made at the COP summit last year for a fund for “loss and damage”. The declaration at the Nairobi summit noted that an “incipient debt crisis” made it hard for Africa to deal with climate change. Some 21 sub-Saharan African states are in debt distress or at high risk of it, according to the IMF. Inflation has led central banks to raise interest rates, raising the cost of capital.It is not just a lack of cash that irks Africans; they fret about Western policies, too. The IMF reckons that sub-Saharan Africa is the region most at risk from the decoupling of the West from China, since it is relatively reliant on trade with both. African economists worry that American subsidies for renewable energy will make African firms less competitive and raise import costs. The EU’s Carbon Border Adjustment Mechanism, which in effect taxes carbon-intensive imports, is seen in some quarters as a brake on African industrialisation. A recent study said that it might reduce African exports to the EU by 6%. “The EU and US are seeking to destroy our export potential,” says Mohammed Amin Adam, Ghana’s minister of state for finance.Some African leaders know they must do more than complain. “African countries have a choice,” argues William Asiko, a vice-president for Africa at the Rockefeller Foundation, an American philanthropic outfit. “They can focus on things that others are in charge of—or they can focus on the things they can control.”One such is the investment climate. Just $60bn, or 2%, of the $3trn globally invested in renewable energy in the past decade, went to Africa. “We cannot rightfully say there has been a success in attracting climate finance in the continent,” says Bogolo Kenewendo, a Botswanan former cabinet minister who is now at the UN. Clean, green and keenKenya hopes to change that, while using climate-related investments to industrialise. It has signed a deal with an Australian firm for a geothermal station that would power the making of “green” fertiliser. In July it amended its climate-change act, Africa’s first when it was passed in 2016, to regulate carbon markets. In February the government ended a moratorium on renewables deals and promised an auction system for new projects. In all, Kenya hopes that carbon credits can become a significant source of export earnings.Kenya’s embrace of the market and “green industrialisation” has its critics. African activists worry it takes attention away from calls for “climate justice”. Other African leaders mutter that Kenya is an unusually natural fit for green schemes. It generates nearly all its grid electricity from renewables, especially geothermal stations (pictured). Officials from Senegal and Mozambique, say, want to ensure they can develop both gas and renewable sources. Other countries have neither the capacity nor the inclination to overhaul their creaking power utilities.Yet African leaders ought to be able to have their geothermally heated cake and eat it. Private foreign investment in oil and gas is still flowing into Africa, as Namibia’s recent discoveries exemplify. At the same time countries with the right market-friendly policies—such as, notably, Namibia—can still attract investment in green-hydrogen and other projects.At the summit John Kerry, Joe Biden’s climate envoy, backed African efforts to develop carbon markets. Ursula von der Leyen, the president of the European Commission, pledged EU funds for a green hydrogen project in Kenya.America and Europe hope that other African countries will copy Kenya’s efforts to use clean energy and climate finance for industrialisation. Yet Africa’s test bed for climate policies is not representative of the wider continent. Many of Mr Ruto’s peers still question why they cannot use fossil fuels to get rich—as many others have. The world still owes them an answer.  ■For more coverage of climate change, sign up for the Climate Issue, our fortnightly subscriber-only newsletter, or visit our climate-change hub.

Listen to this story. Enjoy more audio and podcasts on