I don’t know exactly when I was infected with Ebola. As a doctor in a treatment center in Guinea in 2014, I faced hundreds of potential exposures during the outbreak there.
If I had to guess, the virus probably breached my protective gear while my colleagues and I cared for a young woman in the final moments of her battle with the disease. Each time she vomited or soiled herself, we changed her linens, gently laying her listless body back onto clean, burgundy floral sheets. I knew this ritual wouldn’t save her life. I also knew it carried substantial personal risk. But I refused to let her die without dignity. I know there are many who would do the same.
You may never find yourself in a treatment center halfway across the world, but when suffering is close enough to touch, most of us feel the same human instinct to offer a helping hand, to not turn away.
America’s leaders are increasingly casting aside empathy and compassionate care as dangerous liabilities. Elon Musk has called empathy “the fundamental weakness of Western civilization,” and the Trump administration governs as if that is a guiding principle. The growing philosophical backlash against empathy overlooks a deeper truth: America’s strength has never come from isolation or indifference, but from an instinct to care beyond our borders. If we allow the Trump administration’s assault on empathy to define our global health agenda, or ourselves, we won’t just be turning away from the world — we’ll be turning away from who we are. The belief that we have a responsibility to others isn’t shortsighted sentimentalism; it’s the moral foundation of a meaningful life.
Historically, the United States has strongly supported — strategically, financially and philosophically — the individuals and organizations carrying out this kind of care. I’ve worked alongside health care providers responding to crises abroad because they recognize it’s where their skills are most meaningful and others who do it because of a spiritual duty to serve the suffering and uphold human dignity. Collectively, we were driven by the conviction that it was the morally right thing to do.
The United States government, and perhaps many Americans, no longer view global health in the same way. This is despite the fact that American involvement has helped eradicate smallpox, halved malaria deaths in many countries and prevented an estimated 26 million deaths through the President’s Emergency Plan for AIDS Relief, or PEPFAR. All told, U.S. global health support saves 3.3 million lives a year — or at least did, before its recent and rapid dismantling.
Virtually overnight and all around the world, lifesaving care has vanished. H.I.V. medications have become inaccessible for millions, newborn care has halted in many war zones, and communal kitchens feeding Sudanese civilians amid conflict have closed. These weren’t just administrative cuts — they were moral betrayals. The justification was purportedly fiscal responsibility. Yet the entire U.S. foreign aid budget was 1 percent of federal spending, with global health assistance a mere fraction of that. Our global health withdrawal also gave political cover for other countries to follow our lead: Britain, Belgium, France and the Netherlands announced cuts to foreign aid, in some cases redistributing those funds into military budgets.
There are plenty of compelling arguments that this is bad for our health, national security and global stability — and I wholeheartedly agree. But we cannot abandon the moral argument, because it’s one of the strongest we have and it still resonates. Despite deep political divides, eight in 10 Americans still believe the United States “should provide medicine and medical supplies, as well as food” to people in developing countries.
Hyper-individualism may have thrived during the pandemic, but it’s a flimsy foundation for our future. The saying “America is great because America is good, and if America ever ceases to be good, she will no longer be great” has been heard in campaign speeches for both parties. It endures as a political talking point because Americans expect moral purpose from our political leaders, a purpose that has been long embodied in our global health commitments.
Casting empathy aside won’t just tarnish America’s reputation; it will set global health back decades, costing millions of lives. Empathy is not idealism; it articulates a pragmatic vision of our shared fate. In a world defined by worsening pandemics, climate instability and global interdependence, empathy is a necessity. Politicians may slash budgets and dismantle institutions, but they cannot erase the principle that built them: that caring for others is a moral obligation, not a partisan position. We must not allow that foundational impulse to become collateral damage.
Less than a week after returning from Guinea, I became New York’s first and last Ebola patient. When I was at my sickest, my phone rang. It was an Ebola survivor I had cared for just weeks before. She saw my photo on the news in Guinea and called to thank me — for treating her at her worst, for showing up. Moments later, my nurse came in. Feeling weak, I asked for help getting into a chair. She then quietly and carefully changed my sheets. When she finished, she helped me up from the chair and laid me down gently into the freshly made bed.
Craig Spencer is an emergency medicine physician and an associate professor of the practice of health services, policy and practice at Brown University School of Public Health. He serves on the advisory board for Doctors Without Borders USA.
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