Graffiti scrawled above a bed in Room 13 at Mauritania’s only psychiatric hospital reads, “Stress kills your neurons.” This stark message underscores the dire state of mental healthcare in a nation of 5 million, where resources are as sparse as the desert landscapes.
The Nouakchott Centre for Specialised Medicine, home to the country’s lone psychiatric ward, accommodates only 20 beds. Among the patients is 22-year-old Sidi, admitted with psychosis after a failed attempt to emigrate to the United States. His father, Mohamed Lemine, attributes his son’s troubles to dashed dreams and subsequent drug use. With no options left, Lemine, a retired army officer, brought his son to the facility, where he now sleeps on a mat in Sidi’s room to monitor him.
The hospital’s capacity is stretched thin. “We need more beds,” said Dr. Mohamed Lemine Abeidi, a psychiatrist at the center. “Patients travel long distances, and there’s no other psychiatric infrastructure.” Despite these limitations, the ward is a hive of activity, with relatives bringing meals, visitors offering support, and patients sharing their concerns, ranging from personal struggles to hallucinations.
Non-violent patients are allowed to walk the halls with family members, reflecting a cultural norm in Mauritania where relatives play a central role in caregiving. Outside, families gather to make tea as they wait, a testament to the collective approach to healthcare in this arid, predominantly Muslim nation.
Mental healthcare in Mauritania began in the 1970s, spearheaded by Dr. Dia Al Housseynou. After studying abroad, Housseynou introduced psychiatric care by setting up desert tents, or khaimas, at the national hospital. These open, communal spaces were later replaced with the current facility, inaugurated in 1990. Now 83, Housseynou remains nostalgic for the tents, believing that Western-style psychiatry, with its closed wards, feels more like imprisonment than healing.
Cultural traditions still shape mental healthcare. Many patients first seek help from marabouts, traditional religious figures. Hospitalization becomes a last resort when spiritual remedies fail. Chaining violent patients to their beds, though not official policy, is often done at the discretion of families.
Despite the challenges, Abeidi remains optimistic. “There’s been progress since the 1970s,” he said, his office bustling with patients. Mauritania’s mental health system continues to evolve, balancing limited resources with deeply rooted cultural practices.
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