For decades after scientists first identified Ebolavirus in 1976, outbreaks were modest affairs, affecting a few hundred people at most. But those quaint days of contained epidemics are apparently over. Recent years have seen outbreaks infecting thousands and even tens of thousands across multiple countries. The 2014 West African outbreak infected over 28,000 people across 10 countries on three continents, while the current eruption - which began in early May and shows no signs of slowing down - has already caused 363 confirmed cases in the Democratic Republic of the Congo and has crossed into Uganda.

The usual explanation is that larger and more interconnected human populations give pathogens more opportunities to spread. But there's a more fundamental driver: the transformation of Ebola's ecology, which is being remade in part by the global hunger for minerals powering our high-tech economy.

Most of the time, viruses like Ebola live quietly in bats, causing them no harm. Bats in places like the DRC, which encompasses 60% of the world's second-largest rainforest, typically reach only a few people in remote locations, resulting in small outbreaks that quickly burn out. With repeated exposures, people living near Ebola-carrying bats acquire some immunity - one survey found nearly 20% of forest-dwelling people in Gabon had developed immune protections against Ebolavirus.

But cutting down bat-inhabited trees ruptures this delicate balance. The bats don't vanish; they squeeze into remaining forest fragments in closer proximity to humans, increasing encounters with their viral-laden blood, saliva and excreta. That's why, as a 2025 analysis found, each percentage increase in deforestation in Central Africa spikes malaria and Ebola incidence by 20% to 40%. It's why the 2014 epidemic was preceded by the loss of 85% of forest cover in Guinea's southwest corner, where the outbreak began. And the current Bundibugyo Ebola outbreak fits the pattern, preceded by a record loss of 1.5 million acres of Congo basin rainforest in 2024, according to Global Forest Watch satellite data.

Humanity's deforestation isn't new. But in the DRC, a novel driver has emerged: so-called "artisanal" mining. Local people dig for minerals like gold, coltan and cobalt to sell into the global supply chain via an informal network of smugglers and intermediaries. Artisanal mining employs an estimated 2 million people in the DRC, including over 380,000 in the eastern region. The country is the world's top cobalt producer and Africa's largest copper producer, but due to political instability and conflict, most of its mineral wealth - valued at $24 trillion - remains untapped by commercial mining. Meanwhile, global demand for the "3TG" minerals (tungsten, tin, tantalum and gold) needed for tech products from semiconductors to smartphones is expected to triple. In a race to counter China's dominance, Donald Trump suspended rules against "conflict minerals" in 2018 and last year signed an agreement with the DRC for mineral access in exchange for security.

For people living amid mineral-rich forests, the choice becomes subsistence farming - now plagued by erratic rainfall from climate change, declining soil fertility, and conflict-decimated agricultural markets - or mining. When economist Malte Ladewig surveyed local people in eastern DRC, he found artisanal mining had become a "widespread livelihood activity" involving over 30% of households.

But mineral hunting alters Ebola's ecology in peculiar ways that juice the pathogen's spread. Farmers push into forests from the edges; miners plunge deep into the core. Rising mineral prices attract people from all over, including those without the acquired immunity of regular forest dwellers. Far from settled areas, they sustain themselves by hunting, bringing human and animal bodies into intimate contact. If their prey includes Ebola-carrying animals, any pathogens picked up can easily spread in makeshift mining towns with notoriously poor sanitation and little health infrastructure.

Whether artisanal mining sparked the current epidemic is unknown. But we know the first cluster of fatal cases emerged in Mongbwalu in northeastern DRC, a swelling mining town littered with unregulated gold mining areas. Satellite data shows that last year, as the price of gold doubled in response to Trump's tariffs, the forests around Mongbwalu were sliced open, pushing a new frontier deeper into the jungle. Scientist Matthew Hansen, who tracks global forest cover using NASA and USGS satellite data, zoomed into Mongbwalu on his map of forest change from 2000-2025. Wobbly lines of bright blue indicated newly deforested areas in 2025 radiating west and south. "Wow," he said. "There is a ton of mining around here. Holy shit."

In the midst of deadly outbreaks, it's understandable that experts focus on how to respond and prepare for the next one. But for novel pathogens like Bundibugyo, which can elude standard diagnostic tests and vaccines, no level of preparedness can squash them before exponential spread. Only the third and relatively ignored pillar of pandemic policymaking can: preventing the broken ecologies that drive novel pathogens into human populations. That means paying more attention to the health of ecosystems like the Congo basin forests - and acknowledging that the minerals in your pocket's smartphone might be connected to the next outbreak.