About Irkutsk, The Plague, And The “Broken Test Tube”
- 8.10.2026, 14:38
And this is where the real conversation begins.
I’m a microbiologist. I received my certification to work with pathogens that cause particularly dangerous infections at the “Mikrob” Anti-Plague Institute in Saratov—the very same place where everyone in this country who works with the plague is trained. That’s why I’ve been reading my news feed with growing irritation over the past week.
Let me recap the facts. On the night of October 2, 28-year-old Daria Shipilova died at the Shelekhov District Hospital, an employee of the Irkutsk Scientific Research Anti-Plague Institute. Nearly two hundred people who had been in contact with her were placed under medical observation; part of the hospital was quarantined; and more than sixty institute employees were isolated right inside the building. Rospotrebnadzor, meanwhile, stated that the cause of death was pneumonia of unknown etiology—although the head of neighboring Buryatia publicly used the word “plague.”
Speculation immediately flooded the information vacuum. I’ll examine the two main ones.
Theory One: A Broken Test Tube
Telegram channels and some media outlets reported that on September 25, she allegedly broke a test tube containing the pathogen that causes pneumonic plague. Neither Rospotrebnadzor nor the institute has confirmed this theory. And here’s why I don’t believe it.
Let’s start with the wording. “Test tube containing the pathogen of pneumonic plague”—this is a phrase that no one who has worked in such a laboratory would ever use. There is only one pathogen: Yersinia pestis. The disease becomes bubonic, septic, or pneumonic depending on how the bacterium entered the body. There is no such thing as “pneumonic” plague in a test tube, just as there is no separate test tube for “bubonic” plague. This phrase alone makes it clear that this version is being passed down by people who are repeating what others have told them.
Now, about the test tube itself. In the popular imagination, it’s a thin piece of glass that shatters with a clink on the floor. In modern practice involving Group 1 pathogens, the container is most often made of plastic, with a screw-on cap—precisely because it is difficult to break and does not open on its own. This is neither a coincidence nor a cost-saving measure: the airtight screw thread and shatterproof polypropylene are part of the biosafety system. The image of “breaking a test tube” works well in a headline, but doesn’t quite match how this labware actually looks in a real laboratory.
Next—the mechanics. Work with a live culture of the plague pathogen is not conducted on an open lab bench or under a fume hood. It takes place in a sealed containment cabinet with gloves integrated into the housing: hands do not enter the interior, and materials are brought in and out only through a pass-through. Plus, an anti-plague suit. For the contents of a dropped test tube to lead to human infection, the aerosol would have to escape the enclosed space and penetrate the suit. Epidemiologist Mikhail Favorov put it bluntly: if a test tube breaks, the likelihood of infection is extremely low.
And most importantly—what happens next according to protocol. An accident in a lab like this isn’t just a matter of “oh well, I cleaned it up and went back to work.” It requires immediate decontamination, an emergency protocol, a report, isolation, and emergency antibiotic prophylaxis. If the test tube really did break and they knew about it—why was the person at home with a fever two days later, rather than under observation? And if they didn’t know about it—the question isn’t directed at her, but at why it’s possible for a facility to cover up an accident involving a pathogen of the first pathogenicity group.
Version Two: Field Infection in Buryatia
It is said that shortly before she fell ill, she was on a business trip to an area with a natural outbreak, and that infections occur more frequently in the field than in the laboratory. Historically—yes. Today—no.
Modern methods of trapping and handling rodents virtually eliminate direct contact: traps, treatment for ectoparasites, protective suits, gloves, and autopsies performed in a field laboratory rather than on one’s lap. But that’s not even the point; it’s the form of the disease.
Field infection occurs through a flea bite or contact with an animal’s blood—in other words, the infection doesn’t enter through the lungs. This is the bubonic form. It begins with a bubo—which is impossible to miss—and spreads to the lungs only through the next stage: the bacteria enter the bloodstream, a septic form develops, and the pathogen is then carried to the lungs via the bloodstream—this is called secondary pulmonary plague. This is not an instantaneous process, nor is it something that looks like “I came back from a business trip and came down with pneumonia.”
Primary pneumonic plague—the one we’re discussing here—occurs only upon inhalation of an aerosol. And there’s exactly one place in the world where an aerosol containing a viable culture in sufficient concentration can be found. A laboratory.
The same applies to theories about Thailand and other exotic locations: they do not explain the form of the disease.
What I really think.
None of the theories currently circulating online stand up to scrutiny based on an understanding of how this work is conducted. In the comments, people are even writing about “pulling something out from under the bar” and “cutting herself”—even though in a third-class boxing ring, it’s physically impossible to pull anything out from there, and the only way to cut yourself is with a scalpel, which is simply not needed for bacteriology, PCR, and RNGA simply aren’t needed.
And this is where the real conversation begins.
Each type of laboratory has its own equipment standard, and it’s regulated by law. This isn’t a matter of preference or internal culture: failure to comply results in sanctions against the laboratory. There are facilities in the provinces that are actually very well equipped. I’ll admit honestly—there aren’t many of them. I can’t say anything about Irkutsk: I haven’t been there myself and don’t know the situation regarding equipment. That’s precisely why I’m not naming a specific reason—unlike the people who managed to list them all in three days.
But while we’re discussing what an awkward move the 28-year-old employee made, we’re discussing a person who’s convenient to scapegoat. A dead person who can no longer respond. And what remains behind the scenes is what actually lies behind such events: the condition of the equipment, staffing levels, real—rather than merely on paper—compliance with protocols, and whether it’s possible to keep an accident under wraps at this facility.
Disasters in plague-control facilities almost never start with a single broken window. They begin long before that—and end with the person who was closest to the scene being blamed.
And one last point, which is essential. People who have never stood by the isolation booth are now discussing this story, and the conversation is missing someone who knows the technical details from the inside. I’m open to invitations and ready to serve as an expert on this topic. TV appearances, interviews, commentary, podcasts, consulting for editorial teams, and fact-checking—feel free to reach out. I’ll explain how working with highly dangerous infections actually works, what anti-epidemic protocols entail, and what definitely could not have happened in this story. This is too serious a topic to be left to Telegram channels.
Alisa Litovka, Facebook