The world stands at a crossroads in global health governance. This week, the World Health Assembly will debate and possibly adopt the long-awaited Pandemic Agreement. For many global health professionals, especially across Africa, this moment is charged with both promise and frustration. 

At first glance, the treaty seems to address the deep structural failures that the COVID-19 pandemic exposed. A closer look, though, reveals a familiar trap: lofty declarations without legal obligations or financial guarantees. Worse, the current geopolitical climate threatens to sap the treaty's legitimacy and effectiveness before it even comes into force. 

Nations are not merely negotiating the mechanics of disease surveillance or vaccine sharing; they are negotiating the very meaning of global solidarity in an era when nationalism, anti-globalization sentiment, and financial retrenchment are reshaping international cooperation. 

From an African perspective, the weaknesses in the treaty are not just procedural; they are existential. 

Our continent bears a disproportionate burden of infectious disease outbreaks, from Ebola and Marburg to cholera, Rift Valley fever, and Lassa fever. We are often last to receive critical medical supplies and first to suffer the economic consequences of border closures and travel bans. Further, we cannot "self-insure" against pandemics; no matter how strong our domestic systems, pathogens do not respect borders. 

From an African perspective, the weaknesses in the treaty are not just procedural; they are existential

A pandemic treaty that fails to guarantee equitable access to countermeasures or compel rapid data sharing will leave African countries—and indeed all economically constrained nations—exposed again. Worse, it risks reinforcing a system that enables wealthier nations to buy their way out of trouble and leaves the rest of the world waiting for crumbs. 

At the same time, the financial and political withdrawal of major powers such as the United States poses a direct threat to the sustainability of any global agreement. Without reliable financing, the World Health Organization (WHO) will be crippled in its ability to coordinate treaty implementation. Without political backing from the world's largest economies, the treaty and its legitimacy will be open to constant challenge. 

A Fractured Landscape 

As an African global health professional, I view this treaty against a backdrop of painful realities. COVID-19 upended lives across the world, but its inequities hit Africa with particular force. High-income countries hoarded vaccines, tests, and therapeutics, which trickled to African nations only after their immediate utility waned. Intellectual property rights, tightly held by pharmaceutical companies and shielded by wealthy governments, constrained the continent's capacity to produce its own supplies—despite the long, contested TRIPS waiver debate under the World Trade Organization. Global financing mechanisms such as COVAX, though noble in design, stumbled under competition, underfunding, and nationalist pressures. 

Now, in 2025, the global health landscape is even more fragmented. The United States—historically WHO's largest funder—has formally withdrawn under a new administration, followed by Argentina. U.S. withdrawal had cut billions from WHO's already strained budget, undermining its ability to function as a neutral arbiter in health crises. Rising nationalist and populist governments in Europe, Asia, and the Americas are pushing back against global agreements they perceive as infringing on national sovereignty. 

Against this backdrop, treaty negotiators from member states—at the WHO's invitation—have produced a draft agreement that attempts to walk a very fine line: satisfy demands for global coordination without triggering political backlash from powerful states. The result, unfortunately, is a document that too often prioritizes diplomatic survival over meaningful action, leaving the more challenging decisions deferred to annexes yet to be developed.  

Weak Clauses, Unfulfilled Lessons 

To be fair, the draft contains some important provisions. It calls for improved data sharing on emerging pathogens, stronger support for local manufacturing capacities in low- and middle-income countries, and the creation of a global supply chain and logistics network to distribute medical countermeasures during emergencies. 

But too many of these clauses lack teeth. 

For example, Article 12, in addressing the sharing of genetic sequence data and biological samples, stops short of making this sharing mandatory. Instead, it couches obligations in terms of voluntary commitments "consistent with national laws." As a result, countries could still invoke sovereignty or security concerns to withhold critical information in the early days of an outbreak—the exact problem seen with delayed disclosures during COVID-19. 

Article 12 also promises "equitable access" to vaccines, diagnostics, and therapeutics. The draft endorses a pathogen access and benefit-sharing (PABS) system but leaves key terms—including whether intellectual property rights will be waived, how pricing will be set, and how benefits will be shared—undefined. As several African negotiators have noted, this vagueness reflects the resistance of major pharmaceutical powers and their allies, who fear that firm commitments would erode commercial incentives and market dominance. 

The treaty also proposes establishing a compliance committee (Article 19), but its powers would be limited to "reviewing progress" and offering "recommendations." It would have no authority to sanction or penalize states that fail to meet obligations. Without enforcement mechanisms, even the best commitments risk becoming little more than moral aspirations. 

What Should Change? 

To avoid these outcomes, negotiators need to strengthen the treaty in several key ways. 

First, data-sharing obligations should be binding and include clear timelines and penalties for noncompliance. Global health security depends on early warning; countries should not be allowed to hide behind vague exemptions. 

Second, the treaty should specify mechanisms for ensuring equitable access to medical products—including firm commitments on technology transfer, licensing, and pricing. The mRNA vaccine experience, when technology remained concentrated in a handful of companies and countries, demonstrates the dangers of relying on goodwill alone. 

Third, the treaty should include independent compliance and enforcement mechanisms. Soft recommendations are not enough. An empowered monitoring body, potentially with the ability to trigger trade or financing consequences, would give the treaty the credibility it currently lacks. 

Forth, global health financing needs urgent repair. The pandemic treaty should be paired with renewed efforts to secure predictable, long-term financing for pandemic preparedness—including new contributions from rising powers and regional blocs. Africa, through the African Union and the Africa Centres for Disease Control and Prevention, is ready to be part of that conversation—but we cannot carry the burden alone.