I ONCE KNEW A YOUNG MAN with HIV-AIDS. I no longer hear from him. He’s dead. The first and last time I saw him, it was evident that he wouldn’t be around for very long, but he was still fighting. I met him on the radio, he a caller, me the talk-host. He spoke in a high-register voice and for a while I responded to him as a girl, which he found amusing. We became on-air friends. I also communicated with him off-air.

We talked of many things – how hard it was to live a lie. He resided with his grandmother, having been thrown out of his parents’ home when they found out that he wasn’t what they wanted him to be. Grandma wasn’t supposed to know either, but she knew. They played a good game of “See no evil, speak no evil”. She was aware that his body was diminished but she made no comment. “She love me. She treat me good. She don’t have plenty but she see that I get food and medicine sometimes.”

The day he came to see me, I thought I was prepared. After all, I’m a big girl now. When he entered my office, I’d like to believe that I didn’t betray the shock I felt at his slight frame. Instead, I wanted him to accept my smile as genuine. When he put out his hand for a greeting, I put out mine, but not fast enough. The pause was only for a nano-second but it was enough to raise doubts about acceptance.

The look on his face changed ever so slightly but when our hands made contact, the awkward moment passed immediately and we both laughed. He asked if he could sit down. Without the pause this time, I said yes. So, he sat down and we talked like old friends – about our lives, where we’d come from, where we wanted to go. When he got up to leave, I came round the desk and hugged him. His body temperature was very hot. I could feel his bones. He cried. I cried. He left. I never saw him again.

Our meeting took place at a time when the phenomenon of HIV-AIDS was relatively new to us. Nobody was quite sure what it all meant. The people who are always right, who are convinced that only they know what God is thinking, were sure that the disease was a new plague on the earth, that the Almighty was afflicting the wicked, especially homosexuals. Most persons associated the disease with “them”, the people who are not as pure and spotless as “us”. Many of the “them” died lonely and scorned. Some of the “us” also died.

A priest who was a hospital chaplain told me about his first encounter with a dying AIDS patient. When the medical staff had to approach the man, they wrapped themselves from head to toe in protective gear. Most avoided any contact at all. When his time came, he went on his way – alone. The funeral was awkward and cold. The rites were rushed and got over with as quickly as possible, so everyone could get away before they caught anything.

THIS WEEK TUESDAY, we marked World HIV-AIDS Day. We’ve come a long way since the start of the epidemic. Through the combined effort of persons and organisations around the world, through medical research, the scorn has been lessened, but it has not gone away. People still fear HIV-AIDS and the persons who have it. The taint of sexual misdemeanour, of whatever kind, hangs like a bad odour over persons who carry the mark.

Although there is more compassion than there used to be, although the discovery of new drugs offers a chance for more years of life, although there are laws passed in some countries forbidding discrimination against the afflicted, HIV and AIDS are still regarded as early warning of the Apocalypse, of judgement to come.

Of the dedicated persons who fight for the right of others to live, our Dr Peter Figueroa is an outstanding example. He would be embarrassed to think of anyone regarding him as some saint, but like it or not, he has been remarkable in his relentless, untiring campaign as a physician, not only to see the disease eradicated, if at all possible. In another side of the equation, he campaigns relentlessly to ensure that the victims are given a chance to live as free of stigma as possible.

People do not always understand, but Dr Figueroa recognises the taboos and the responses – against the b-men and the prostitutes and the outcasts. He knows our philosophy that “dem fi dead”. He has seen many of the people, whom we thought to be without fault, laid low by something we never thought possible. He knows about the wives who died because their loving husbands brought home the disease and vice versa.

He knows about the babies who didn’t ask to get HIV and AIDS as part of their birthright but have come into the world with it. He knows all about the creative talent wasted because of this strange duppy-maker. He has flown more aeroplane miles than most of us ever will, attending endless meetings, lobbying to get the funds to carry on the work of enlightenment, from which he doesn’t spare himself. By his example, he has inspired professionals and volunteers to rally to the cause, to put a human face on this tragedy, to rescue the perishing, care for the dying and alert the living to hope over despair.

THE BATTLE, though brought under a measure of control, is not yet over. On World HIV-AIDS day, two of the persons here living with the disease, stepped into the limelight to let others know that they’re willing to be identified and even ostracised, if it comes to that, in the cause of tolerance. The primeval fear still prevails. Children, who didn’t ask to be infected, face discrimination from teachers who are supposed to know better but cannot free themselves of the attitude of our society which is nowhere happier than when we can scorn someone else, even a child.

Thanks to those who have the conviction enough to fight for the future of the unwanted children, persons like the priests (Ramkissoon, Ho Lung, et al) and the band of good people who give time and love to the cause… Thanks to volunteers and all the team of Jamaica AIDS Support for Life who fought long and hard to save the hospice which used to provide shelter and food but eventually closed, not so much from lack of cash but a sparsity of caring. The work continues…

Remember kindly the artists, like Joseph Robinson who used the group ASHE to dramatise the crusade through art and imagination. He died. We are diminished by every talent lost. Why should it matter to us? Because it is closer than we’re willing to admit, that’s why… The time bomb ticks on.

gloudonb@yahoo.com