Honduras mandates face masks again as respiratory illnesses spike
TEGUCIGALPA (Reuters) -Over five years after the COVID-19 outbreak, Honduras has reinstated mandatory mask wearing in public spaces amid a spike in respiratory illnesses and as a variant of the virus spreads through the Central American country.
Honduras' health ministry confirmed two deaths from the virus this week, among patients with underlying health conditions, bringing the country's total in 2025 to six.
"We have already surpassed last year's infection limit; there are currently five people admitted to Hospital Escuela with suspected COVID-19," said the head of Health Surveillance, Lorenzo Pavon.
Official data showed that from January to July last year, 596 COVID-19 cases were reported, while this year 654 cases have been recorded in the same period.
The temporary measures, which took effect on Thursday, make masks obligatory in hospitals, airports, shopping centers, banks, schools, public transport, and other enclosed or crowded spaces. The government also ordered temporary work-from-home for state institutions.
Authorities are urging the public to complete their COVID-19 and influenza vaccination schedules and to seek medical advice for respiratory symptoms. Frequent hand washing and the use of antibacterial gel continue to be recommended measures.
Officials also warned that they will maintain monitoring of variants and will reinforce public information campaigns. The Ministry of Health reiterated that it will continuously evaluate the epidemiological situation and warned that the measures could be expanded if the number of infections continues to rise.
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Yahoo
4 hours ago
- Yahoo
I Was Told I Might Never Walk Again—so I Hiked a Volcano in Guatemala
I didn't let my lupus diagnosis stop me from hiking one of the highest peaks in Central America. It was Christmas morning when I blinked awake to the mechanical beeping of a heart monitor. At first, I thought I was dreaming. My heart thumped loudly in my chest. I tried to roll over and orient myself, but my limbs were numb, and everything around me was a blur of pale light and quiet panic. The voices outside my hospital room faded in and out until one finally broke through the fog. A man rushed in—the one who changed everything. His face said it before his words did. 'It's lupus,' he said. I didn't know what that meant. I only knew it wasn't good. I was 22 and had just been accepted to William & Mary, a top public university in the U.S. I had been the picture of health. A hiker. A wild-hearted, barefoot-loving soul who spent her weekends chasing sunrises and meaningful conversations. I had always been a thinker—someone who mapped out dreams and imagined every possible 'what if' scenario life could throw at me. But even with all that imagination, nothing prepared me for the moment I stepped out of bed one morning and collapsed into my new reality. Lupus is a chronic autoimmune disease. A body turned against itself. In a cruel twist of irony, after years of mentally picking myself apart, now my immune system was doing it for me—attacking perfectly healthy organs like they were intruders. It was a full-on war and I was losing. I was diagnosed with the worst class of it and told multiple times I might die. I almost did. The fatigue was relentless. The joint pain, unbearable. I received over nine blood transfusions just to keep me alive. The list of symptoms and restrictions, well, they were longer than my age. Tied with IVs to the hospital bed for more than a month, I remember the doctor rattling off day in and day out what I could no longer do: no more sun exposure, swimming, hugging friends, eating at restaurants, playing with animals, gardening, and walking in dirt. Even walking unassisted, they warned, might not be in the cards. I had a compromised immune system and was supposed to live in a sanitary bubble if I was to live at all. It was like someone had compiled a list of everything that made me me, then crossed it all out. I was a girl who ran and danced toward her dreams, tripping sometimes, but never stopping. Now, I was being told to sit still. But I've never been very good at doing what I'm told. And that's how I ended up 13,000 feet in the air, climbing Volcán Acatenango, one of Central America's highest peaks. The decision made no rational sense. Just months after being told I might never walk unassisted again, I was hiking into the sky on a path of volcanic ash and cloud-thin air. At the same time, it was one of the most logical decisions I ever made. Travel is so much more than movement and cool pictures in new places. It's how we reclaim pieces of ourselves. It's how we stretch beyond discomfort and fears and find out who other people are beyond our presumptions and who we are when no one else is around to define us. I started the hike alongside a group of strangers—fellow adventurers whose names and stories I didn't know, but whose silent grit matched mine. There was something exhilarating about trekking next to people who knew nothing of my diagnosis, only my determination. After our bus dropped us off at the beginning of the trail, my heart sank. From the start, it was a slow, burning, upward climb. I am so glad I had no idea what lay ahead because I might have turned around right then and there. We passed through five microclimates in a day—humid jungle, alpine forest, wind-swept ridges, dry volcanic fields, and a cloud-pierced summit. Each shift was like stepping into another world entirely. As we climbed, Acatenango's landscape shifted beneath our feet. The farmlands gave way to dense forests. The air thinned. My legs burned. My lungs ached. I slowed. And slowed again. I was often last in line, stopping frequently to rest, my legs almost crumbling under me. And yet, I was still moving. Stray dogs are abundant in the farmland, and a beautiful chocolate shepherd shared the journey with us. I soon realized what I hadn't shared with anyone, he probably knew. Out of the 20 of us, he stuck by my side, stopping when I paused and walking together with me when I began again. When we reached base camp at 12,000 feet, I was shaking. My body throbbed. The trail narrowed and a dark windy fog quickly set in. I was surprised when our guide said our camp was just ahead because I could see nothing, not even a glowing light. It was icy cold. Where was Fuego, the elusive pillar of angry fire? We had been told there would be accommodations at the top. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry when I saw a stack of used mattresses, box springs, and shared sleeping bags. There was nothing sanitary about it, but it felt more healing than the hospital bed. We sipped hot chocolate around a flicker of a flame. I had come to see lava and was shivering around fading coals. But our guide was confident and told us we should wake up at 4 a.m. if we wanted to hike the remainder of the way to see Fuego up close and active. I had plenty of experience staying awake through the night from my weeks in the hospital. I had no idea how I would pull myself out of bed this time. Luckily, I didn't even have to set an alarm. At 2 a.m, I awoke to cold, wet slobber. The puppy that walked with me had curled up on my pillow. Having shared the trek, he wanted to share the warmth, too. I was more than a little annoyed and sat straight up, trying to drag him off my corner of the mattress. I kicked open the wooden door of our makeshift hut to shove him out and came face-to-face with Fuego. In the deep mist of the night, I had no idea our camp was clinging to a slab of cliff right in front of the summit. The earth growled and Acatenango's fiery twin erupted in the distance. It was bright and brilliant and alive and somehow almost outdone by the thousands of shimmering stars framing it. The deep fog that had suffocated everything was peeled back like a curtain and I realized all the beauty that had been hiding underneath. We rose for the summit. The final push. The hardest part. What seemed so close was a full three hours away still. A pillar of lava burst into the sky, glowing against the dusk. Around me, others gasped. Many reached for their phones and cameras. I stood in stunned silence. I wanted this image and memory etched in my mind before I tainted it with a camera lens. The eruption lit up the sky again and again throughout the night and early morning. I had barely slept. It was pitch black, and we were pushing through heavy sand and ash now. Two steps forward, a half step back. Mounds of crumbling dirt rose on either side, forming a slithering trail as we dipped down into the ravine and steadily rose up the other side. There was a moment, somewhere above the clouds, when I paused and turned around. The mountain where we camped, Acatenango, towered behind me, massive and ancient. Beneath its surface were deep, dark scars—grooves cut through the rock by old lava flows, now overgrown with stubborn green. I stood there, breathless from exertion and awe, already dripping sweat. I realized something that made me pause: The looming walls of dirt both engulfing me and forming my own path were the same. From the fog of sickness and the sting of IV needles, I was now coursing through the hazy vein of the mountain. The same burning force that had once destroyed this path had also shaped it—created it, even. And now, I traced it. My own body, too, bore scars—seen and unseen. Pain had carved through me, but it had also made this journey possible. I wasn't walking despite my pain. I was walking with it and becoming something through it. I was, by every definition, weak. But I was so strong. I was breathing hard—nearly wheezing—as the icy wind whipped against my face. My legs were leaden. My fingers were stiff and swollen. I stopped more than I moved. But I wasn't alone. Step by step, I made it to the top. There—at 13,045 feet—the sun rose above the world in every color imaginable—and some not even the most creative mind could fathom. We stood in silence as clouds drifted below us and light spilled across the neighboring volcanic ridges—Agua Volcano to the left, Pacaya to the right. I was standing on Fuego in the shadow of Acatenango. Ironically, the name means 'Walled Place,' and here, I felt the walls placed around me come crumbling down. All I kept thinking was how everyone told me I couldn't—and how they weren't here to see this view. I reached my grimy, dirt-covered hand down to pet the dog in blatant defiance of my instructions not to be around or touch animals. I didn't ever want to descend. The way down was almost harder than the trail up. I was slipping, sliding, and tumbling, joy erupting inside me. Whether or not we realize it, we each travel every day—through grief, joy, and fire. We each have our own personal Fuegos and Acatenangos to face. Mine just happened to be a real one. When I returned from Guatemala, my lupus didn't vanish. But I proved that 'can't' is just a word. Acatenango didn't cure me, but it reminded me my journey didn't end in a hospital bed. It started there. It was Christmas morning when I blinked awake to the beeping of a heart monitor, my body a battlefield and my future a blur. But it was through the mist of the mountain where I really opened my eyes. They told me I'd never hike again. That I might never walk unassisted. That I would have to live a smaller life, if I lived at all. But they weren't there when the sky split open and fire danced across it. They didn't see me rise through ash and altitude, gasping and shaking, clinging to a mountain that had known its own share of eruptions. They didn't see the girl with IV scars, windburned cheeks, and dirt under her fingernails reach the summit with a dog by her side and a defiant heart in her chest. I didn't conquer the mountain—I bled into it. Walking on the wounds it once carried, I learned how to live with mine. And when Fuego erupted, lighting the sky like a pulse, I knew I would never be the same. Not because I reached the summit, but because I learned I could keep rising—even while breaking. Read the original article on Travel & Leisure Solve the daily Crossword


NBC News
a day ago
- NBC News
Israel kills dozens in Gaza amid growing famine fueled by restricted aid flow
Israeli gunfire and airstrikes killed more than 50 Palestinians in Gaza on Saturday, including some who were waiting overnight for aid, according to local health officials, continuing a pattern that has drawn international criticism as the country's 'drip-feeding of aid' into the enclave continues to claim lives. Dr. Khalil Al-Daqran, a spokesperson for Gaza's Health Ministry, said at least 52 people were killed in Gaza so far this weekend, including those waiting in line for aid at the Zikim crossing with Israel, 'a number of starving children' and a group recovered in southern Khan Younis. In the Zikim area, at least a dozen were killed as they waited for aid trucks, according to The Associated Press. The Israel Defense Forces did not immediately respond to a request for comment. The latest killings near an aid distribution site come amid what many have described as Israel's 'drip-feeding of aid' into Gaza, a tactic that has contributed to more than 120 deaths from malnutrition and left a third of the population on the brink of starvation. The criticism is disputed by the Israeli military, which says it has allowed in an average of 70 trucks a day since May. But aid agencies say hundreds more trucks a day are necessary to feed Gaza's starving population. Five deaths due to malnutrition were recorded in Gaza in the last 24 hours, the Palestinian Health Ministry in the territory said on Saturday. At least 127 people, including 85 children, have died as a result of hunger in the enclave since Oct. 7, 2023, according to the ministry. Earlier this week, 25 countries, including Britain, Japan and a host of European nations, issued a joint statement insisting that the war in Gaza 'must end now.' The foreign ministers of the nations called the recent killings of Palestinians seeking aid 'horrific,' which Gaza's Health Ministry and the U.N. human rights office estimate to be over 800. The latest prior instance involved the killing of at least 67 people as they waited for U.N. aid trucks in northern Gaza on Sunday. Israel said its military had fired warning shots into the crowd to remove 'an immediate threat,' adding that casualty reports were inflated. The Israeli military, which controls the entry of all aid into the besieged enclave, blames the U.N. and other aid agencies for failing to distribute the supplies. U.N. spokesperson Stéphane Dujarric told reporters this week that there was 'a lack of willingness' from Israel to allow them to distribute aid. Israel has accused Hamas of stealing U.S.-funded aid, citing that as a main rationale, along with the U.S., for proposing a new armed, private aid operation. But an investigation by the U.S. Agency for International Development found ' no reports alleging Hamas ' benefited from U.S.-funded supplies. In a statement, the IDF said USAID's report ignores 'clear and explicit evidence that Hamas exploits humanitarian aid to sustain its fighting capabilities,' and criticizes the military 'for routing decisions made specifically to protect humanitarian staff and shipments.' 'The USAID report represents a striking example of biased framing,' the IDF said. 'Instead of holding Hamas and other terror groups accountable for looting and obstructing aid from reaching the population, it assigns 'indirect responsibility' to Israel for the actions of armed militants and terror organizations.'

Los Angeles Times
a day ago
- Los Angeles Times
The latest child to starve to death in Gaza weighed less than when she was born
KHAN YUNIS, Gaza Strip — A mother pressed a final kiss to what remained of her 5-month-old daughter and wept. Esraa Abu Halib's baby now weighed less than when she was born. On a sunny street in shattered Gaza, the bundle containing Zainab Abu Halib represented the latest death from starvation after 21 months of war and Israeli restrictions on aid. The baby was brought to the pediatric department of Nasser Hospital on Friday. She was already dead. A worker at the morgue carefully removed her Mickey Mouse-printed shirt, pulling it over her sunken, open eyes. He pulled up the hems of her pants to show her knobby knees. His thumb was wider than her ankle. He could count the bones of her chest. The girl had weighed more than 3 kilograms — 6.6 pounds — when she was born, her mother said. When she died, she weighed less than 2 kilograms, or 4.4 pounds. A doctor said it was a case of 'severe, severe starvation.' She was wrapped in a white sheet for burial and placed on the sandy ground for prayers. The bundle was barely wider than the imam's stance. He raised his open hands and invoked Allah once more. Zainab was one of 85 children to die of malnutrition-related causes in the Gaza Strip in the last three weeks, according to the latest toll released by the territory's Health Ministry on Saturday. In addition, 42 adults died of malnutrition-related causes in the same period, it said. 'She needed a special baby formula which did not exist in Gaza,' Zainab's father, Ahmed Abu Halib, told the Associated Press as he prepared for her funeral prayers in the hospital's courtyard in the southern city of Khan Yunis. Dr. Ahmed al-Farah, head of the pediatric department, said the girl had needed a special type of formula that helps with babies allergic to cow's milk. He said she hadn't suffered from any diseases, but the lack of the formula led to chronic diarrhea and vomiting. She wasn't able to swallow as her weakened immune system led to a bacterial infection and sepsis, and quickly lost more weight. The child's family, like many of Gaza's Palestinians, is displaced and lives in a tent. Her mother, who also has suffered from malnutrition, said she breastfed the girl for only six weeks before trying to feed her formula. 'With my daughter's death, many will follow,' she said. 'Their names are on a list that no one looks at. They are just names and numbers. We are just numbers. Our children, whom we carried for nine months and then gave birth to, have become just numbers.' Her loose robe hid her own weight loss. The arrival of children suffering from malnutrition has surged in recent weeks, Al-Farah said. His department, with a capacity of eight beds, has been treating about 60 cases of acute malnutrition. They have placed additional mattresses on the ground. Another malnutrition clinic, affiliated with the hospital, receives an average of 40 cases weekly, he said. 'Unless the crossings are opened and food and baby formula are allowed in for this vulnerable segment of Palestinian society, we will witness unprecedented numbers of deaths,' he warned. Doctors and aid workers in Gaza blame Israel's restrictions on the entry of aid and medical supplies. Food security experts warn of famine in the territory of more than 2 million people. After ending the latest ceasefire in March, Israel cut off the entry of food, medicine, fuel and other supplies completely to Gaza for 2½ months, saying it aimed to pressure Hamas to release hostages. Under international pressure, Israel slightly eased the blockade in May. Since then, it has allowed in around 4,500 trucks for the United Nations and other aid groups to distribute, including 2,500 tons of baby food, formula and high-calorie special food for children, Israel's Foreign Ministry said last week. The average of 69 trucks a day, however, is far below the 500 to 600 trucks a day the U.N. says are needed for Gaza. The U.N. says it has been unable to distribute much of the aid because hungry crowds and gangs take most of it from its arriving trucks. Separately, Israel has backed the U.S.-registered Gaza Humanitarian Foundation, which in May opened four centers distributing boxes of food supplies. More than 1,000 Palestinians have been killed by Israeli forces since May while trying to get food, mostly near those new aid sites, the U.N. human rights office says. Much of Gaza's population now relies on aid. 'There was a shortage of everything,' the mother of Zainab said as she grieved. 'How can a girl like her recover?' Magdy and Dagga write for the Associated Press and reported from Khan Yunis and Cairo, respectively.