When I was 16, a friend came to me with the news that she had contracted HIV from her boyfriend. She confided in the wrong person in school and the news spread like wildfire. Teachers and schoolmates ostracized her, teased her, and bullied her. Even her own mother abandoned the family. Wanting to get away from all that and to start anew, she moved to UK with her father.
Even when she was there, where nobody knew of her story, she didn't feel safe. She refused to go to school, she refused to receive proper medical treatment for her condition, and she refused to talk to anyone about HIV except for her father and myself.
Thankfully, after a year or so, she learnt to open up. She trusted in people again, was keen on making new friends, resumed school, and most importantly, she began to have ambitions. She became a different person, much like who she was before she discovered her illness. She was joyful, optimistic and full of zest. I almost, almost stopped worrying about her.
Unfortunately, in the month of March this year, she passed away. Her schoolmates in UK found out about her HIV status and the same thing happened all over. Once again, she was forced to stay at home, away from the hundreds of people who were judging her for being HIV positive. Some were afraid of her, some despised her, and some merely joined in the bullying for the fun of it.
The very last time we spoke, she asked me a question that broke my heart. "When will this end?" she asked, "When can I stop hiding? Where can I go now?" I didn't know how to answer her, and I still don't know. Two days later, she committed suicide. Just like that, the world lost a wonderful girl; a girl who might have gone on to do great things in life.
Halfway through the interview, Ah Dong stopped me and probed me to share a more relatable and intimate side of the story, because I was too "conceptual". I knew I was doing that, but I just couldn't bring myself to delve into details; I didn't want to remember the things she said to me, the way she spoke to me, because I didn't want to break down and cry in front of a complete stranger. I didn't realize, until today, just how painful it is to talk about this incident.
Ever since I started volunteering at Action for AIDS 3 years ago, I have had this pressing but unanswered question: When will people learn to stop discriminating?
Everybody has a hard enough time trying to figure out who they are, what they want to be, and what they can do. Who are we, to give them an even harder time? Why do we assume we are entitled to criticize the person they have established to be?
Do we not have flaws of our own? Does it make us feel better to demean the others around us? Are we so insecure about ourselves that we have to seek confidence in someone else' torment?
When I was a child, I would pray very simply, for world peace and for people of the world to be happy. As I grew a little older, I started praying for stigma to end; stigma against those who have AIDS, those who are gay, those who are fat, those who are anorexic, those who are poor, and so much more. I pray for all these to end, so that people won't have to feel the need to hide themselves anymore, to shield their true identity behind a facade.
What is one word that best describes your insecurity? What is one thing you will never let anyone else know about, because you are too embarrassed/humiliated/ashamed of it? The next time you exploit someone's vulnerability, think of that word and remember, everybody else around you have a word of their own too.
Felt like this song was appropriate-
How Much It Hurts by Just Off Turner
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