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鈥淢y brother is gone.鈥�

Just after 11 p.m. on a Sunday in early May, this message signaled the end of a frantic 48-hour-long search for medical help for a friend鈥檚 brother in New Delhi, India. My partner and I had called dozens of phone numbers gleaned from Twitter threads and WhatsApp shares, and DMed strangers, trying to locate an oxygen cylinder or ICU bed.

When our friend first asked for help on the Friday, she had wanted information about funeral requirements for a COVID-19 death. At that time, her 69-year-old brother鈥檚 oxygen saturation level was around 40 (), and given that the country鈥檚 health care system had buckled, she was prepared for the worst. Her brother was cremated according to COVID protocols two days later, but with his test results still buried in the overtaxed system, it 飞补蝉苍鈥檛 recorded as a pandemic death.

But make no mistake, this 飞补蝉苍鈥檛 a death caused solely by COVID; the death was because of the of the central government. My friend鈥檚 brother died because he was unable to access basic health care in the wake of an absent government. Had he been able to reach a hospital in time, had help from the right channels been available, he might well be alive today.

鈥淭witter becomes platform of hope amid the despair of India鈥檚 COVID crisis,鈥� read the headline of a report on April 27. For weeks, a casual perusal of social media timelines in India has thrown up a litany of cries for help鈥攃rises ranging from watching loved ones gasping for breath on scorching hot summer days (above 104潞F in many places), to a critical lack of hospital beds, ICU access, oxygen, medication, and even food and shelter. Social media, often derided as a voyeuristic distraction, is now a lifeline in India.

Twitter in particular is where civil society鈥攊ndividuals, organizations, and nongovernmental organizations鈥攎eets those in need. The network is powered through intersecting timelines, a system of forwarding and amplifying, and SOS hashtags, along with mutual support and on-the-ground work of volunteers. In addition to finding, verifying, and posting information about where and how to access resources, these volunteers are also running helplines and arranging and distributing critical care and infrastructure that the government has failed to鈥攕uch as oxygen cylinders, ambulance services, medication, and food and shelter. Others are setting up  campaigns to procure equipment that would ordinarily be the state鈥檚 responsibility.

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鈥淚鈥檝e used Twitter to find leads [for] oxygen cylinders or ICU beds,鈥� says Apekshita Varshney, an urban development professional in Mumbai. She is in multiple WhatsApp groups that forward SOS messages to the right channels. Though the kindness of strangers keeps the network going, it is hardly a replacement for an absent health care system. 鈥淚t鈥檚 frustrating,鈥� Varshney adds. 鈥淵ou don鈥檛 know if the leads are verified, you don鈥檛 know if the person is out there to scam you.鈥� Those who want to help are doing whatever they can, 鈥渂ut filtering through these leads is extremely strenuous, especially for somebody who is dealing with a patient in their own family.鈥�

Journalist Deepika Gumaste also has social media to thank. In between looking after her parents who had tested COVID-positive鈥攈er mother having serious co-morbidities鈥攁nd helping friends access help, she also wrote about . Twitter, she says, helped her 鈥渋dentify and get in touch with local [bureaucrats] and volunteers [which] allowed us to get help for critical patients.鈥�

Enterprising IT folks have also created dynamic, searchable databases of the available aid in the form of websites and apps. is a simple search engine to scour Twitter for COVID-related resources in different cities, while is an open, searchable database run by a team of volunteers from partner organizations. offers another database of statewide resources, run by a volunteer 鈥渢eam of strangers鈥� brought together by the common goal of helping India through the crisis. is a self-described 鈥渞agtag鈥� group of 30-odd volunteers amplifying fundraisers and other mutual aid.

Many of these efforts to provide aid are localized. They focus on providing direct support, including cooking meals for affected families in the neighborhood, or and providing food, shelter, and in some cases . Some NGOs and civil society organizations (CSOs) have leveraged their own networks to offer support on a wider scale, using to amplify their reach.

in Bangalore is a collective of more than 20 NGOs that came together in March 2020 after seeing horrifying videos from the U.S. and Europe. 鈥淲e [didn鈥檛] know what was coming, but if it [came] to India, [we knew] it鈥檚 going to be bad,鈥� says founder Ali Shariff. Mercy Mission鈥檚 youth-driven volunteer force run a citywide helpline, an with paramedics, a , and also help with oxygen procurement. While organizers are confident they are making a difference, there is no consolidated public data about the scale of aid being raised by NGOs, CSOs, and individuals, says Shariff.

In a country so large, and so socioeconomically and culturally diverse, there can never be a single model of crisis intervention or solution. A social media-fueled emergency response system can only be a stopgap measure, which Twitter user @pseudo_sapiens : 鈥淚f you think that the chaos & COVID-related requests on Twitter given you an idea about the actual COVID situation; please remember that Twitter is only representative of a fraction [of Indians], it by no means provides any insight about the situation of those who are underprivileged.鈥�

The lack of resources is most acutely felt by marginalized populations. Kalaimagal Arumugam of the , a nonprofit funded by members of the Indian diaspora in the U.S., which works on the ground in rural south India, says, 鈥淔ear rules in every sense, and COVID has made it worse.鈥� The communities around her, she adds, are 鈥渓ike frightened lambs who are bleating, but there is no one to hear them.鈥� The medical care provided by the government in the wake of the pandemic is substandard, she says, coupled with an absence of awareness and education for people to make informed decisions. As infections rise, 鈥淒alits are being called upon to handle the bodies of those who have died of COVID-19 and provide cremation services鈥� [without] being provided either money or food.鈥�

, an activist from the central state of Chhattisgarh who works with tribal communities (), says that communities have been left unmoored. Migrant workers, who suffered in the first wave, are once again facing hunger and destitution, more so in Dalit and Adivasi communities. 

鈥淵ou鈥檇 think that living in the 21st century, global supply chains are fairly efficient, and we can get anything from any part of the world in two days, but it鈥檚 been 25 days and we鈥檝e not managed to solve鈥� critical problems,鈥� says Shariff, of Mercy Mission. 鈥淭he lack of oxygen, lack of medicines, [shortage of] staff and resources鈥� are really infrastructure challenges.鈥�

As citizens, we are doing all we can, he adds, with aid pouring in from individuals, CSO funds from industries, and so on. But bureaucratic and legal challenges abound, and there is zero clarity from the government for citizens hoping to overcome those hurdles. Moreover, the public nature of asking for and providing help on public platforms has allowed existing scammers and black marketeers to of the crisis.

Even so, right now it is the only system that seems to be working in India. 鈥淸Our work is] in response to the need of the hour鈥� as a reaction or response,鈥� says Shariff. Many of these volunteer-driven, ad hoc efforts are unlikely to remain sustainable in the long run, but 鈥渨hat is more important is that by working together, civil society is forging ties鈥� hopefully leading towards a better future.鈥�