What's it like to be a Muslim and HIV positive? Afdhere Jama recounts three personal testaments from across the Muslim world
From Iran, Jordan, and Kenya, three Muslim men and women tell their stories of rejection and new-found hope after being diagnosed HIV positive.
 Photo courtesy of Avo Tavitian and Enisen Gallery |
You are an Iranian. You are Muslim. You are infected with HIV. What do you do? "You hide it," says Saheeba Ahmed Parham, an Iranian woman who got infected five years ago. "You either hide it or you become the untouchable. No one would even talk to you anymore." For her bravery, Saheeba took the less travelled path. She came out to her community. Saheeba, a 32-year-old woman, lives in Tehran with her three children. How did she contract HIV? "From my former husband," confides Saheeba, whose T-cell count is currently normal. "He had an extra-marital affair in Europe. He didn't even know from which country he got it from. We just know it was Europe."
Seven years ago, Saheeba's late husband went to Europe, as he did many times before that, on a business trip. The couple lived in Bombay, India, at the time. No one knew he was infected. "He just got sick one week," recalls Saheeba. "And then we found out he had HIV. It was shocking to us all." Saheeba, who did not know much about the disease, initially thought all of them were going to die, including the kids, because they had touched us. "Anything that he ever came in contact with I thought would have got the disease from him." When she tested negative, Saheeba and the rest of the family could not believe it. "I asked them to do it again," she says. "So they did it again. Three times and I was negative. I started to disbelieve in the doctors at that moment."
To her surprise, Saheeba's second opinion also told her the same thing. The doctor she went to for a second opinion was a family friend. She went all the way from Bombay to Tehran just to make sure. All of them tested negative. "I trusted our doctor," says Saheeba. "He was our family doctor. He examined me even when I was a little girl. I trusted him."
But, some time after the tests, Saheeba got sick. "I knew before I even went to the hospital that I would be positive this time," she says. "Within a 24-hour period, I was given the news that I did test HIV positive." Saheeba says it would have been a lot easier if she got tested positive the first time. "They made me believe I wasn't going to die from this disease," she said. "They cited to me cases where one partner never got it. And then when I finally believed it, it hit me."
Her husband got sicker and sicker and finally died, after a few years of battling with the virus. "It was a hard time for the entire family" remembers Saheeba, who brought her husband to Iran just before he died. "We didn't know if he would survive or not. It was so sad."
After burying her husband, Saheeba left the country and went back to India for a year. "I was running away," she says. "I knew what the women said behind my back in the village. Hurtful rumours and gossip. I didn't know how to deal with that." Later she confronted her demons and decided to return to her homeland, Iran. Once there, she came out to the village and started educating. She volunteered in medical centres and begged to teach for free in some schools. She united the women of her village and taught them the basics of the HIV virus, something she wishes she had known more about when her husband was diagnosed with the disease. "I think I would have handled him a lot better," she says. "At least I would not have treated him like I did. I isolated him in bed and in life. I regret that now."
Now, Saheeba has a small class in her village. Every evening, she puts on some classical Persian music and then she lets her students 'venture into the disease'. She cuts articles out of the newspapers and translates them from Hindi and English into Farsi, Iran's most spoken language.
Everyday, in a world where a woman sometimes feels she has no purpose, Saheeba strives to make the world a better place, starting with her village.
 Photo: © Getty Images. Posed by model |
Not far from Iran, a man lights candles around an empty room in Amman, Jordan. It is 6.00pm, just after salat al maghreb (sunset prayer) and Nasir Rashedi is getting ready for his group. "Around ten people come together every Thursday night," says the 28-year-old Palestinian-born Shia Muslim. "We sit around and discuss the weekly news and gossip about HIV and Aids-related issues." Nasir, who got infected three years ago, puts ads in the newspapers asking for people with HIV who want to share their experiences to get in touch with him. "Many times, the hardest part is getting through the advertising departments," Nasir says. "Any day I have managed to get through one advertising department was a victory that called for a celebration!" he recounts.
Three and a half years ago, Nasir was on vacation to the United Arab Emirates when he met a man he calls 'Jabber'. Jabber, an HIV positive gay Arab man, did not disclose his HIV status to Nasir. "You are afraid to ask them," explains Nasir, who says he knew he himself was gay ever since he was five. "You don't want them to think you doubt their purity. No, an Arab may not even have sex with you then." Nasir talks about the problem with condoms. "If you want to use a condom, the other person assumes you have a disease," he adds. "No, you must trust your partner. Otherwise no sex." No sex! However, Nasir admits he wishes he didn't have sex that night. It is in that regret that he finds his 'mission in life.' The mission to educate others that it is okay to ask for condoms and to use condoms. "My main goal is to teach as many Arab young people as possible that using condoms is only preventative, not an accusation or an act of disclosing a disease you have," stresses Nasir. "If I get that to at least 100 kids, then I will feel like I have paid my dues." Nasir gives his prevention lessons in a rented room in case some kid hears about them, decides the place is teaching evil and burns it down in the middle of the night. "That has happened in some Arab countries," says Nasir, laughing. "I'm not taking any more chances. I have taken enough already."
Nasir displays a picture on the wall of his rented room that he received in the mail; it's a picture of a late victim of HIV. "Knowledge is good. It frees your mind from self-doubt." Nasir's new boyfriend comes to the meetings every week ever since the couple met. Since April last year, Nasir has received grants from the Jordanian government to support his education work. He hopes to open a centre soon. In the mean time, this one room, lighted with candles and lamps, will do for now.
In Mombasa, Kenya, A A Kasim makes a visit to the beach daily. He lives a five-minutes drive from the beach. He also works for a waterfront resort. Every morning when he goes to work, he gets there twenty minutes earlier. Sits by the sea. Thinks and breathes. "It is the most peaceful time of my day," says Kasim, a 23-year-old Indian-born Muslim. "It really soothes my head. My conflicted feelings with HIV and my life as a Muslim."
Kasim, who is engaged to be married to a positive woman he met through a support programme, says his life has changed ever since he was diagnosed with the disease six years ago. "I just notice the little things now. I forget nothing. Everything is more precious. I'm becoming more and more positive, no pun intended."
Six years ago, he met a woman in a party and the couple had sex. The woman, who was drunk when the two met, left him a note in the morning, informing him that she had HIV. "It wasn't a big deal," says Kasim, who got himself tested a week later. "I just thought 'if it happens, it happens.'" Well, it happened alright. Six months later when he re-tested, he was positive. He didn't even know the woman's last name. She was drunk. He was horny. She came onto him. Well, you get the picture. "I could say I regret it," says Kasim, laughing. "But I don't. I used to say I did regret it. Now I accept the fact that it was in my destiny to get it. What I do with it is the question."
So what does he do with it? "I'm kinder, intentionally, to the world," he says. "I'm just being the 'me' I always should have been. That is what diseases do to you, they confront you with the real you." Kasim goes to school part-time because he's training to become a psychologist. "When I become a psychologist, I hope to heal those who can't afford mental health. I expect to throw myself into the communities that need me without reservation." Kasim says he doesn't party anymore. And he goes to the clubs but only to drop off condoms. "It is important to have condoms available," he says, remembering he wanted to use one that fateful night. "It is just that sometimes it is not available when you really need it. And then what? Your genitals corrupt you to make hasty decisions!"
Inspired by a recent Aids conference in South Africa he attended, Kasim now also volunteers part-time for an HIV organisation in Mombasa. "I give my time. That is all I can afford now." For the moment, his T-cells remain at a healthy count and he finds peace in the sun and sea.
The Naz Project provides information and support to Muslims in the UK with or affected by HIV. Contact Naz at 020 8741 1879 or email naz@naz.org.uk
Afdhere Jama is the editor of Huriyah, the magazine for LGBT Muslims. Visit: www.huriyahmag.com He can be reached at Afdhere@hotmail.com
The names of people interviewed in this article have been changed.
