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I am Aids and Aids are we…

5 November 2004 No Comment

I cannot speak more words than I can think, I can only try. So as I put this ink to paper in the hope that my thoughts will be expressed to the best of my ability, I can only wish that you will try and understand to the best of yours…

I am a global nomad. I travel to places nobody has been and unconsciously destruct things every one has seen. It is not my intention. I find myself in strange situations, incapable of choosing my own destinations. They choose me. People know me. They know me by my name, my celebrity and my demeanour. Mostly, they know me for my cause. Although some prefer not to call it that. I, prefer not to call it that. I am a fighter, stronger than any known to man but weaker than some would like to admit.

I live in houses on hills in Sandton, the extravagant side of my being, the palaces of the rich and the boardrooms of the corporate breed. Even the cloakrooms of Loftus have been graced by my presence. I fail to recall all the times for I am in many places at once. I am in the shebeens of Soweto, the sidewalks of Hillbrow and Yeoville, the shanty- towns of Alex and Guguletu. I am even in the small eloquent coffee house in Rivonia Square. I visit the clubs in Burnett Street, the bars, and all the hospitals. I am even between the sheets. I am black, I am white, I am red. My habitat has no boundaries. It does not discriminate against colour or creed although it is discriminated against. My existence is more real than you think, more real than you would like to accept. I am not a mad scientists illusion. I am a cautionary tale, born in the South African people, told only through death, but why?

” You have one wish”, said a dream to me. I wish I could learn to love myself. My vast popularity and the openness of my being, all the things people know about me have only brought me hate. I cradle it, but why? I am shy and afraid. I am insecure. I have this power, this ability to destroy; this unwanted permissiveness or is it ignorance? It haunts me. This is not who I choose to be. With all the journeys I have been on, all the places people have taken me, I still live on the inside. Afraid. Alone. Ashamed. Cloaked in garments of disgrace and prejudice, I have no hat I can wear proudly, no pat on the back, just this shelter to talk for me, to defend my being the target of discrimination and hatred, to teach me my own defence, to help me understand. I know I can. This is my cry for help! Help me calm the tides of my ocean and inhibit the waves so that they may not reach the rough shore. Let me dwell in co-existence, in peace, in understanding, in acceptance. Let me dwell in love.

I am the well- preserved manual sitting on the ivory shelves in the cosy rooms of the “educated”, waiting to be read, glanced at, taught. I spend my spare time lounging on the desks of guidance councillors and shrinks, functioning only in the domain of which I exist. Pasted on the walls of the vicinities of self- help groups accompanied by little “speaks for itself”, pictures in the hope that you may come to your own ” right” conclusion. But still, I travel. I am the poster board lining the lampposts on Lynwood road, the advert in the paper, the leaflet handed out at the robot, the dustbin on Roper Street. Sometimes you are compassionate and you put me in your wallet or your purse and carry me around, not to remember me, but just to know I am there. Other times you read between my lines and dispose of me in the back seat of your car so that your conscience is clear. Maybe it is. But does it make a difference? Because still, I will travel. It is not your fault. How can a piece of paper speak to you, serve a purpose, be a cause? It seems as though this pointless exercise implies hearing but not listening, looking but not seeing. You want something more real, more personal, more… in your face. And even if you don’t, I do!

You are lucky; your role has not been predisposed unto you. You choose it you choose your path. Mine, on the other hand, has been chosen. Some choose me, as their path, is that fair? Or don’t they? Do they just some how land here (then how is it that I travel still?), is it because they are not the chosen ones and need to be dealt with in this manner so that they can be taught to just deal? I am in the wombs of mothers, innocent. I am there before their offspring know I exist. These broods bear my stamp unknowingly. More innocent. This is the mis- education of you, or is it the mis- guidance? I was made to live in your blood, to tread the juice of your being with my tenacity and breath the air you breath; these are my superficial laurels. Every- time I travel I am born again. I have no birthright to prove. You choose your own path. Remember, you are man, if you cut, “I” will bleed. I have no secret, no password, no badge, my initials are on a branding iron, and for you there is no copy.

Several days I stand, reflection in- front of me the picture of a child of God. A unique and special snow- flake scarred by this stamp, this fake identity. My forest is dark there is no path; no sign; no signal, just the thought of going on forever, never to stop, there is no hope. Until … until there is something that stirs with- in me. Some extrinsic beckoning force, some intrinsic cry for help and some leader, some guide to hand me a source and nudge me on my way. Someone who reminds me that the gift is greater in the end than the plague that haunts it now and regardless of the future, the hope of overcoming this calamity, even slightly, is not empty, but ordained. I cannot stand still absorbed in my darkness, I must travel, and I must move or die. I must travel steadfast in my belief, grounded in my hope and sincere in my cause, I must travel beyond reason and define the conditions, never allowing the conditions to define me. So must we all. If I do not… if we do not, the risk lies in us all. I am a child of God, if you cut me I will bleed, but it is my passion that runs also through my veins, and yours, and so we must choose between two rights: liberty or death. I am Aids and aids are we…

Written By Haji Mohamed

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