Your contentOn January 19, 2025, my life changed forever. I was diagnosed with HIV at the age of 22. I live in North Africa, where stigma is stronger than science, and the weight of this diagnosis feels heavier than it should. I am a medical student, dreaming of becoming a cardiologist — of healing people, of making my family proud, of leading a meaningful life.
And now, I have to navigate this journey carrying something I never thought would be a part of my story. Maybe this is a sign to leave everything behind and start anew in Germany.
I’m adeemed, and this is my story.
What was the very first thought that crossed your mind when you saw the confirmatory test result?
The moment I saw the confirmatory test result, I was frozen. I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. It was as if my body had shut down completely, as if my mind refused to process what my eyes were seeing. But once the paralysis subsided, my first thought was my parents.
My mother and father, like so many parents, take pride in their son. They love to brag about me to relatives and friends, about how I am on my way to becoming a doctor, about how they have raised a son to be proud of. And in that moment, all I could think about was how I had failed them. How, in their eyes, I would never be the same again. How, if they ever found out, that pride might turn into shame.
What was the hardest part about looking at yourself in the mirror after the diagnosis?
It wasn’t just the diagnosis that changed things. It was the symptoms. The oral thrush, the sore throat, the fatigue — they all made the virus feel real, made it impossible to ignore. Looking at myself in the mirror became a painful experience. The reflection staring back at me wasn’t just me anymore; it was a version of me that had something I never asked for, something I never expected.
I felt confused, lost. The person I used to be felt distant, unreachable.
How do you feel about the surgeon now?
Hate. Betrayal. Anger. Disgust.
I trusted him. Maybe that was my mistake. He was my boyfriend, a surgeon, someone I believed was honest with me. Maybe he lied about his status. Maybe he knew and didn’t care. Maybe he just didn’t think it mattered. But it matters. It matters more than anything.
I gave him so much. I bought him avocado socks because I knew he’d find them funny. I got him an Italian sweater because I wanted him to feel good. I brought a cake to his clinic to celebrate him getting his PhD because I was proud of him. And in return, he gave me this.
I hate him. Every cell in my body hates him. I hope he never sees brightness again.
If you could have one conversation with him, what would you say?
I don’t even know if I could get the words out. But if I could, I would tell him exactly how much I despise him. I would ask him why. Why he did this. Why he didn’t tell me. Why he thought so little of me that he could do this and move on like nothing happened.
I would remind him of the small things. The socks. The sweater. The cake. The moments when I was there for him, when I cared for him, when I believed in him. And then I would ask him: Did any of it mean anything to you?
And then I would leave.
What scares you the most about relationships moving forward?
Right now, I don’t even have time to think about relationships. My career, my future — those are the only things that matter. Love? Affection? Trust? I can’t afford to think about any of that.
But I do feel something. Anger. He’s been busy in his clinic, moving forward like nothing ever happened, like I don’t even exist. Meanwhile, I’m left here, dealing with this, carrying the weight of his lies.
Are you afraid that your status will limit your opportunities in the medical field?
Very much. The country I live in requires mandatory disclosure, even when the procedures aren’t invasive. And the people here? They aren’t kind. They aren’t understanding. They aren’t forgiving. Even those who are guilty of worse will judge you the moment they have something to use against you.
I know what kind of place I live in. I know how cruel people can be. And I know that, in their eyes, I will always be something to hunt down.
If you had the chance to work in Germany right now, would you leave everything behind?
Yes. Without a second thought. I wouldn’t hesitate. I would pack my bags, book the flight, and leave.
What’s the biggest stigma about HIV that you’ve faced so far?
I told my best friend. The one person I trusted, the one person I thought would stand by me no matter what. We tried new restaurants together, we shared everything. I would have taken a knife for him.
And then I told him. And he disappeared.
He didn’t answer my messages. He didn’t pick up my calls. I went to his house, desperate to see him, to talk to him, to understand why he was acting this way. His brother answered the door and told me he wasn’t there.
I knew he was lying.
And that was it. A friendship I thought would last forever, gone in an instant.
How do you want to be remembered — not as someone with HIV, but as a person?
I don’t want to be remembered as the guy with HIV. I want to be remembered as the cool, chill, hot, sexy man with a huge stethoscope around his neck. The one my sister bought for me as a gift. The one that represents my dream, my passion, my future.
I want to be remembered as someone who was kind. As someone who loved others. As someone who lived.
If someone else in your shoes read your story, what do you want them to take from it?
I don’t know, man. It’s complicated.
But if I had to say something, I would say this: The hardest part isn’t the virus. It’s the way people look at you.
My mother doesn’t know. She has no idea. And when she looks at me, she still sees the son she’s proud of, the son she believes in. She smiles at me with so much love, so much joy, so much warmth.
But one day, she might find out. And when that happens, that light in her eyes will dim. Forever.
And that? That’s what hurts the most.
This diagnosis changed everything for me, but it didn’t change me. I am still the same person I was before that test result — ambitious, passionate, someone who dreams of healing others. But now, I carry something extra. Not just the virus, but the weight of betrayal, the loss of trust, the burden of stigma.
People love to talk about resilience, about how humans have an incredible ability to adapt and survive. And maybe that’s true. Maybe I will find a way to make peace with this, to move forward, to keep chasing my dream of becoming a cardiologist. Maybe one day, I will find myself in a place where I am not defined by this diagnosis but by my work, my kindness, my impact on others.
But right now, I am still processing. Still hurting. Still figuring out what this all means for me. I know I have to keep moving forward. I know I have to build a life that isn’t shaped by what was done to me but by what I choose to do next. And if that means leaving everything behind and starting over in Germany, so be it.
Because at the end of the day, my life is still mine. My future is still mine. No one—not him, not the people who abandoned me, not the ones who will judge me — gets to decide what comes next. Only I do. And I will keep fighting for the life I want, no matter what.
