My Journey Through Stigma and Discrimination
by Babi Poudel
CW: This story deals with themes of abuse. Reader discretion is advised.
Stigma is like a shadow. It follows you, creeping into every part of your life, making even the warmest places feel cold. It isolates, dehumanizes, and punishes—not for a crime, not for a wrongdoing, but simply for existing. My journey has been one of pain, rejection, and survival. I have carried wounds that are not just physical but emotional, inflicted not only by strangers but sometimes by those closest to me. But this story is not just mine; it is the story of countless transgender people, individuals living with HIV, and all those who have suffered under the silent cruelty of discrimination.
I was born in a remote, forgotten village in Nepal, a place untouched by modernity, where life itself was a battle. There were no roads, no transportation, no hospitals, and no electricity. We cooked using firewood, our nights were illuminated by the dim glow of kerosene lamps, and when someone fell sick, they were left at the mercy of fate. If you survived, you were lucky; if not, people simply moved on. But for someone like me—a transgender girl trapped in a boy’s body—life was more than just hard, it was suffocating. I was different, and in a place where tradition was law, difference was a crime. My own brothers saw my feminine mannerisms not as an innocent part of who I was, but as something to be beaten out of me. At six years old, I was abused, tormented for the way I walked, the way I spoke, the way I existed. My mother was my only protector. She suffered for me, she shielded me from as much as she could, but even her love could not erase the fear, the shame, the isolation I felt.
I spent years running, searching for a place where I could simply exist. I moved from village to village, always hoping the next one would be different, only to find the same judgment, the same whispers, the same cruel laughter. Eventually, I reached Kathmandu, thinking the city would be kinder. I survived by selling tea in the bustling, narrow streets of Asan Bazaar, surrounded by lentil shops and vegetable markets. But stigma is not something you leave behind; it follows you, clinging to your skin like an unwanted mark, visible in the eyes of everyone who looks at you.
And then, one day, I returned to my sister’s village, only to be reminded of just how powerful stigma can be. A tragedy had unfolded—my sister’s neighbors, an entire family, were gone. A husband, a wife, and their child, all dead within a week. The village had watched them suffer. They had seen the life drain from them. And then, they turned their backs. For seven days, their bodies lay untouched. No one dared to go near them. The stench of death filled the air, thick and inescapable. Yet, the people whispered amongst themselves instead of stepping forward. Fear. Shame. Silence. No one spoke of it openly, but the message was clear—they were untouchable, even in death.
I could not stand by and do nothing. Geoffrey was with me, as well as my sister’s son and my nephew. We did what no one else would. We took their bodies, and we cremated them. We did not ask for permission, we did not wait for approval—we simply did what was right. And for that, my nephew was branded an outcast. My sister became a pariah in her own home. They were no longer just people in the village—they were now tainted by their association with the dead.
This wasn’t about HIV, but it might as well have been. This is how stigma works. People turn away. They let you suffer. They pretend they do not see you. They make excuses to dehumanize you until you are no longer a person, but a punishment. Even my own mother, the woman who gave me life, was forced to make a choice. She loved me. She protected me when no one else did. But she lived in a world that made it impossible for her to stand by me without consequence. She had to choose between loving me openly and suffering alongside me, or creating distance in order to protect me in the only way she knew how. And so, she distanced herself. Not because she wanted to. Not because she stopped loving me. But because society left her no choice. Was that a sin? Or is the real sin that we live in a world where love has to be hidden to survive?
In July 2015, my life changed once again. I was diagnosed with HIV. I don’t know exactly how I got it. Maybe I was careless. Maybe I trusted the wrong person. Maybe the condom broke. Maybe it was something else entirely. But does it even matter? The moment people hear the word “HIV,” they stop caring about the details. They don’t see the person anymore, only the virus. I remember the moment I got the diagnosis. I locked myself in my room, my mind spiraling into panic. I kept thinking, “Geoff, I got your disease.” And then, I cried. The only person I told was Geoffrey Heaviside, an HIV activist who had lived with the virus since the 1980s. He did not console me with pity. Instead, he told me the truth. “We all had it. You are in the same place as me. You don’t have to worry. I am still surviving.” But then, he warned me. “Don’t tell everyone. People will judge you. People will hurt you.” And in that moment, I realized—HIV was not going to kill me. Stigma was.
I thought that maybe things would be different in Australia. The law said I didn’t have to disclose my status. There were protections in place. People were educated, or so I believed. I worked in a kitchen, a place where strict safety measures were already in place. My HIV status did not put anyone in danger. And yet, when I disclosed it, I was given a warning letter. It did not mention HIV. It did not mention the word “transgender.” But I knew. And when I went to a lawyer, they told me, “Why did you tell them? You shouldn’t have.” That is when I understood—even in a country that claimed to protect me, silence was still the safest option.
In the Western world, people say that HIV is a punishment for gay men. In religious circles, they say it is a punishment from God. But what about the wives who are infected by their husbands? What about the babies born with the virus? What about the people who were infected through blood transfusions? Did they sin? Did they deserve this? HIV is not a moral judgment. It is a virus. But stigma—that is the real disease.
I have stayed silent for too long. Stigma has taken my childhood, my safety, my dignity. But today, I refuse to be silent anymore. I am standing here to say: HIV is not a punishment. Being transgender is not a crime. Stigma is the real enemy. If you have ever judged someone, avoided someone, or believed in the stereotypes about HIV, transgender people, or anyone society has cast aside, I ask you: Think again. You have the power to end stigma. The question is—will you?
Monday 31 March is Trans Day of Visibility. Living Positive Victoria is committed to supporting and uplifting all people living with and affected by HIV in Victoria. We stand with the positive trans and gender diverse community and encourage folk to engage with our events and programs.
If this story has brought up anything for you, support is available. You can contact info@lpv.org.au and arrange to speak to a peer support worker at Living Positive Victoria. Alternatively, you can contact the organisations below.
Transgender Victoria – Support for Trans & gender diverse folk in Victoria
Safe Steps – Family violence response service for women and children
Hours: 24 hours a day, 7 days a week
Phone: 1800 015 188
Beyond Blue – Support for depression or anxiety
Hours: 24 hours a day, 7 days a week
Phone: 1300 224 636
Switchboard – Support for LGBTIQ people
Hours: 3 pm to midnight, 7 days a week
Phone: 1800 184 527
Suicide Line Victoria – Crisis Support and Suicide Prevention
Hours: 24 hours a day, 7 days a week
Phone: 1300 651 251
Men’s Line Australia – Support men with family and relationship issues
Hours: 24 hours a day, 7 days a week
Phone: 1300 789 978