The Center for Disease Control started out as the malaria war

The words of Bill Gates — “The Center for Disease Control started out as the malaria war control board based in Atlanta. Partly because the head of Coke had some people out to his plantation, and they got infected with malaria, and partly 'cause all the military recruits were coming down and having a higher fatality rate from malaria while training than in the field.” — remind us that even the greatest institutions often spring not from lofty ideals alone, but from urgent necessity, from pain, and from the cry of suffering. Here he speaks of the origins of the mighty CDC, born not as a vast citadel of science, but as a modest board fighting a single scourge: the ancient disease of malaria.

In this telling, we see that the roots of great change are often tangled in the affairs of both the powerful and the humble. A Coca-Cola executive, concerned for his guests on a plantation, felt the sting of malaria’s reach. At the same time, the soldiers of the United States, training for war, fell in alarming numbers to the same invisible foe. What bullets and bombs could not accomplish, the mosquito achieved with ease. Thus malaria humbled both the titan of industry and the defender of nations, proving that disease is no respecter of wealth or might. Out of this humiliation was born resolve: the need for an organized, scientific war against the carrier of death.

The founding of the CDC in Atlanta was no accident. It was a land haunted by the buzzing swarms of mosquitoes, where wetlands bred plague and soldiers weakened before they could march to battle. The choice of location was symbolic: the fight must begin where the suffering was greatest. Thus, the Malaria Control in War Areas program was established, laying the foundations for what would become the global sentinel of public health. Out of local crisis came universal vision.

History offers many such lessons. Consider how the great fire of London in 1666 destroyed homes and lives, yet led to new codes of building, sanitation, and order that protected generations to come. In the same way, malaria’s devastation in the American South did not end with sorrow, but gave rise to the discipline and institutions that now protect billions. The cries of the afflicted became the seed of salvation, and the sting of the mosquito became the spark for one of humanity’s greatest defenses.

The deeper meaning of Gates’s words lies in this: human progress is often born from tragedy. We imagine our great institutions as born of foresight, but more often they are forged in the crucible of crisis. Disease strikes, famine spreads, disaster erupts — and in the ashes, humanity builds walls against future suffering. The CDC itself stands as a reminder that vigilance against disease is not optional; it is the price of survival.

The lesson for us is clear: we must not wait for disaster before we act. Just as malaria forced the birth of an institution, so too today’s threats — pandemics, climate change, hunger — cry out for preparation before catastrophe. If we ignore them, we shall pay the cost in lives. If we heed them, we can transform danger into strength. To prepare is wisdom; to delay is folly.

What then should we do? Each of us, in our lives and communities, must learn from the origins of the CDC. We must recognize that even small beginnings — a board in Atlanta, a gathering of scientists, a single act of compassion — can grow into bulwarks of protection for generations. Support institutions that defend life, honor the lessons of history, and be willing to act not only when crisis strikes, but before it does. For the greatest legacy we can leave is not only in how we respond to suffering, but in how we prevent it.

Thus, Gates’s words stand as both remembrance and command: disease is a universal foe, and only vigilance, compassion, and science can defeat it. Out of the sting of malaria rose the CDC; out of today’s struggles may rise the safeguards of tomorrow, if only we have the courage to act.