I was really intrigued by the fact that I was about to meet with an Arab AIDS patient, a case not so common in my region. AIDS is known to be very alarming in Africa, mostly, while the Arab world is concerned with different kinds of tribulations. While it is true that the AIDS pandemic does not constitute a priority concern in the Arab world as compared to its urgency in other regions, it is a fact that it is spreading, and its severity carries social and ethical dimensions. The main problem with AIDS is the shame associated with it, a fact which prevents patients from talking about it openly, and thus makes research on the virus and attempts at reversing it very complicated. I realized later that Fatima was uniquely brave to appear on TV and share her experience with so “shameful” an affliction. However, it was only when she had lost all hope of life and had nothing more to lose that she decided to expose herself and her dignity.
On the morning of July 1, I headed towards Fatima’s dwelling, a small house situated in a slum area of the capital city. I was ardent to meet a woman who had plenty to tell me about life, human nature, culture, pain, suffering and fear. I knew that it would be an incredible learning experience, a journey of discovery and passion. However, no sooner had my eyes fallen upon the dread of that wretched home with its hostess greeting me with tearful eyes, than my heart was invaded by immense consternation. I felt anguish, desperation, and moroseness. I soon realized that I was going to discover the essence of pain. It was clear at that very moment that I was starting a morbid journey, a journey into darkness.
“Welcome”, she said, with arms wide open. “I hope it wasn’t a tiring trip for you.”
“Not at all”, I answered, “I am very happy to be here.”
“Do you live alone?” I asked inquisitively.
“Yes, I do”, she uttered. She ushered me to my seat, lay down on the sofa, and resumed: “Ever since I was afflicted, my family deserted me. I used to live with my mother and two daughters. My daughters are now married, thank God, and they live abroad with their husbands. My mother left this house because she feared to catch the virus. However, she comes once a week to bring me medicine and food.”
“You mentioned daughters; this means you must have a husband. Is he around you?”
“My husband is dead”, she replied. “He died of AIDS. He gave me the disease and forsook me to my tragic fate. He left me to die alone.”
I enquired how her husband caught the virus. I wanted to know whether it was the result of a local incident or an outside factor. She explained to me that he caught it from a sexual relation that he had in one of his business trips abroad.
“He accused me, though, of giving him the virus”, she exclaimed sardonically. “He insisted I had not been faithful to him.”
“What? Why did he do that??” I asked with dismay.
“All tragedies are female generated in our society”, she replied. “No man will tolerate to admit guilt.”
I was shaken upon hearing her words, for I had always believed that cruelty and injustice are conquered by love and mercy in times of affliction and distress. In Fatima’s world, however, love and mercy have always been scarcities. Fatima had to bear the blame of a mistake she never committed. I continued though:
“So you discovered the disease together at the same time?”
“Yes, after my husband was diagnosed with AIDS, I took tests and discovered that I was also infected.”
“How did you deal with this news?” I asked interestedly.
“It was a shock to us both”, she said. “At first, I was outraged. I screamed, shrieked, broke the window glass, and I cursed him with all the passion I had in me. He denied it, of course, blamed me for it, and left the house. After three weeks, he came back imploring for help, like a bird with broken wings. There was nothing I could do. I felt powerless. However, I realized that I should stand by him, for after all, we both had to face the same fate. We agreed to support each other. Our daughters knew, but their husbands didn’t.
“What about other kin? Do you have cousins?”
“My cousins deny me. In their eyes, I am a source of shame, a symbol of sin and decadence.”
Signs of exhaustion started showing on Fatima’s pallid face. She took a deep breath and gazed at her daughters’ picture. She looked pensive and remained silent for some time. Then, she continued, with tears in her eyes:
“I have no one, no one. I have never felt so alone, lonely and forsaken.”
It was a poignant scene. The tragedy was so heartrending that I could bear no more. I stood up and walked towards the patio. I gazed at the geraniums that Fatima had planted in large jars. They were the only beautiful scenery, the only joyful note in the elegy that Fatima was singing. Then, I asked her whether she worked.
“I used to be a salesclerk at the store across the street”, she explained. “I was asked to leave after I was infected. I couldn’t hide it. I became sick and it affected my performance, so I was released from my duties.”
“Did you try to work elsewhere?”
“I did, but I couldn’t. I had to offer certified medical statements.”
“How do you survive? Do you have any income??”
“I barely do. My mother is a cook in a restaurant, and my daughter sends me some money in secret whenever she can.”
“Do you buy your medicine or is it provided by your government?”
She smiled acerbically and said: “Government? No, the government can’t afford this kind of medicine. I have to buy it, and I am not insured. I can’t afford to buy insurance. I haven’t been able to buy all the required medicine, and surely not in the amount that I need.”
“I feel powerless”, she continued, “incapable of controlling my own destiny. If something happens to my mother, I will soon die.”
I was speechless for a while. I wanted to console her, but couldn’t find the proper words. I finally asked her: “What is it that you need the most, Fatima? Is it money?”
“Of course I need money, she cried; otherwise, I couldn’t carry on. But it is more than money what I need! I need love, companionship, acceptance, support, friendship, this is what I need! This will give me a reason to fight for life. But these are luxuries I can’t afford. I can’t have love, for my closest family deserted me. I can’t have friends, for no one would want to spend time with a dangerous AIDS patient. I sure cannot be accepted, for AIDS is a taboo; I can’t talk about it openly; otherwise, I will be stigmatized for the rest of my life. While I can’t have moral support, I can’t even have financial support because my government is broke and careless.”
My encounter with Fatima lasted three hours, which seemed as long as three winters. They were fierce winters indeed, and I felt very cold, so it was time for me to retire home. On my way out, she uttered her final words: “I really hope to meet with you again. Please remember me in your days.” I said good bye promising to return, and set out.
As I drove away from the capital into the mountains, the sun was glowing magically and the cool breeze was whispering through the tree leaves. With all the glimmering sunlight that imbued space, it rained in my heart. Fatima’s words did not leave me. They were implanted in my mind. I knew that the sun would never shine again in her world. She is doomed to eternal darkness, for she is the victim of an unmerciful society; a society where human rights barely exists; where the government is corrupt and impotent; where women are blamed for all the calamities that befall mankind; and where ignorance and decadence make it impossible for human dignity to flourish. However, I made a vow to myself which brought me comfort: to visit Fatima as often as I could, to be the friend she longs for, and to be the solace she craves in the bitterness of her endless night.
« return.